Conversation in Silence

It was a bad day. The voices had woken Alina. With sighs that only she could hear. Often, they faded when she brushed her teeth. That day, they didn't.

Throughout her lessons, she could hear them. Groaning and moaning, reverberating inside her skull. She could have asked to leave, gone to the Room of Requirement and asked Woodstock to sing for her. She even could have begged the teacher to allow the phoenix to sing right there and then. But she didn't want to. She wanted to pay attention in class. She wanted to eat lunch with her friends, watch the Quidditch training of Gryffindor House in the afternoon (Myrrdin was on the team), do her homework, and enjoy a quiet snog with Cato on the Astronomy Tower before dinner.

What she got was the voices of dying people inside her head and the increasing urge to smash her skull against the nearest hard surface just to make the voices stop. A desire that instantly elicited feelings of shame and guilt. Those voices belonged to people. Muggles, witches and wizards, men, women, children. And they were dying. It wasn't right to feel annoyed because their pain, their last sighs, sobs and words interfered with her plans for the day.

Professor Weasley kept glancing at her throughout the lesson. Luckily it was the weekly lecture on DADA theory; she'd never have lasted through a practical period. But Alina refused to meet his gaze. Instead she kept silently squirming on her chair, shaking her head from time to time in a futile effort to dislodge the voices.

Good thing I'm mute, too, she thought when she escaped from the classroom. I think I'm close to moaning myself right now.

She skipped lunch and went to Hagrid instead. She sat on a tree trunk and watched him inoculate a boogle of muscaliets. The squirrel-y creatures, and how they jumped about in their huge cage, were funny – and distracting. They were minuscule in Hagrid's shovel-like hands. Yet he caught them with ease and held them as gently as if they were made of precious porcelain.

Suddenly she saw something blink into existence at the periphery of her vision, beyond the rose garden – at the hidden Apparition point just outside the gardens of Hogwarts. A tall black scarecrow of a man, stooping wearily, who supported a slight figure in dark green.

Alina jumped up. Hagrid squinted his eyes at her. He had never managed to levitate a parchment or charm a Dictaquill to communicate with Alina. And she couldn't read his handwriting at all. But he'd started shaving, just for her, so she'd be better able to read his lips.

"Went to St. Mungo's. Check-up."

"Oh," her lips formed silently.

Sorry, have to run, Hagrid, her quill scratched on the parchment. Thanks for having mm…

And off she was, running for the castle and the dungeons.

oooOooo

Alina was allowed to visit her Head of House and his wife whenever the wards of their personal quarters admitted her. So far, she'd never found them locked. It was a special privilege, and she rarely made use of it. Private lessons with her Head of House, her floating parchment and the phoenix on her shoulder made her more than special enough already.

But today she was inescapably pulled towards the private quarters of the Snapes.

Alina raced into the castle, passed the kitchen, skidded through the entrance hall, and sped down the stairs. She imagined the sounds of her feet on the steps. A hearting clatter of hard leather soles. Then she stood in front of the entrance to Professor Snape's and Hermione's quarters and wondered if it was a good idea to visit right now.

But Woodstock rubbed her beak against her earlobe encouragingly. So Alina took a deep breath and pressed her hand against the painting.

Obediently it swung open.

oooOooo

She found them in the living room. Professor Snape stood near the fire place, his shadow flickering rhythmically along with the dancing flames. Hermione crouched in the middle of the sagging leather sofa, her arms curled around her legs.

Alina hesitated outside the door. But Professor Snape nodded when he noticed her and Hermione raised her head. She attempted a smile and failed. She looked smaller than Alina was. Certainly thinner. That didn't seem right. Alina crossed the room and settled down to Hermione's right. Her weight made Hermione shift slightly towards her.

Hermione and Alina sat, Professor Snape stood.

Time passed.

Professor Snape bent down and added more wood to the fire. Alina watched how his shadow followed each of his movements. Next to her, Hermione was watching him, too. When he straightened up, Alina's lips opened in a soundless sigh. She allowed her head to tilt sideways, until it rested on Hermione's bony shoulder, her cheek nestled into Hermione's soft curls.

Professor Snape turned and stared at them. Alina wondered what he was thinking. But it couldn't be all bad. He frowned, but he didn't scowl. Suddenly he shook his head and walked towards them. He sat down on Hermione's other side and pulled her gently into the crook of his arm. Because Alina was leaning against Hermione, she found herself included in the embrace.

At first Alina stiffened, shocked –

… and embarrassed. (Did Professor Snape know that she'd nursed a crush on him a year ago? Of course he knew, he was Head of Slytherin House. He knew everything. Oh God, she might just die of shame!)

But then Alina realised that she didn't feel anything untoward –

… only another wave of acute embarrassment (how fickle were her feelings?), the warmth of Hermione's body at her side, and the light touch of Professor Snape's hand on her shoulder.

Alina relaxed.

She inhaled deeply.
Exhaled.

Closed her eyes.

They didn't speak or write. They just sat there, leaning against each other. They stared into the fire. They breathed in the silence of the room.

And then, very softly, Woodstock the phoenix began to croon.

oooOooo

A/N: The title refers to the quote "Silences make the real conversations between friends." from Margaret Lee Runbeck.

Muscaliets are from the Bestiaire of Pierre de Beauvais. They have a body like a hare, legs and tail like a squirrel, ears like a weasel, a muzzle like a mole, hair like a pig and teeth like a boar.