Chapter 1: Autumn 1989

For the patrons of Kings Cross Station, the only thing pleasant about the morning of September the first was the weather. Every year without fail, families dressed in odd clothes, pushing trolleys laden with old steamer trunks and caged animals converged on Platforms Nine and Ten, and 1989 was proving to be no different. One group in particular, a messy-haired father with his equally scruffy sons wound their way through the late morning commuters at a leisurely pace, eliciting disapproving looks from the businessmen and women who were forced to dodge around them. Their tattered friend even had the audacity to let his bear-like black dog run free off of a lead. But eleven-year-old Harry Potter couldn't bring himself to care too much about the spectacle his family made, for one very thrilling reason: he was finally going to Hogwarts.

From its ever-changing floor plan to its magnificent library, Harry had listened with rapt attention to the tales his father and uncles had told him of their school days: stories of scouring the ancient corridors for secret passages, adventures (and misadventures) around the moonlit castle grounds, and quiet moments spent lounging in their cosy common room. It was where his father met his three best friends, the men Harry grew to know as uncles. It was where Harry's mother and father met and fell in love. Hogwarts was not just a school for magic, but a magical school.

His father came to a stop and pointed at a brick wall. "It's right through there."

Harry shot his father a suspicious look, trying to decide if he was having him on. It would be rather like his father to tell Harry to run at a solid barrier for a laugh. Then again, magic was odd and wizards didn't always put entrances in convenient locations (Harry shuddered and tried not to think about the time he had to step into the toilet to get to the ministry). He glanced over at his Uncle Remus nodded, a kind smile on his lips.

Deciding that the worst that could happen was that his family teased him for falling for such a silly prank (he was certain somebody would cast a softening charm if his judgement turned out to be wrong), Harry angled his trolley at the barrier between Platforms Nine and Ten, and took off at a brisk walk. Hedwig, his new snowy owl, hooted in alarm as they approached the seemingly solid wall and Harry found his body tensing as it braced for impact.

He had worried for no reason, though, because moments later Harry found himself standing before a scarlet steam engine, the words Hogwarts Express embossed in glittering gold on the front. All around him, students raced back and forth, calling out to their friends; owls hooted in their cages; one particularly disgruntled cat yowled in anger when its owner managed to stop an escape attempt; a red-faced man shouted at his son, who soared soaring above the station on his sister's stolen broom, cackling in glee. The station was absolute chaos and Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

"Noisy, isn't it?" Uncle Sirius asked, appearing beside him, a nostalgic expression on his face. He wrapped an arm around Harry's shoulders, giving him a small squeeze. "You're going to love it."

Harry let out a shaky breath and nodded. True, he would be learning loads of magic and make lifelong friends, but he would be leaving the familiar surroundings of home behind: he'd be away from the safety of his father and uncles. There would be no familiar faces at the breakfast table to ask him how he slept, no house elves to sneak him snacks between meals. He wasn't even permitted to bring his broomstick with him. His heart pounded against his rib cage and Harry wasn't quite sure if it was because of anxiety or excitement.

"You'll be brilliant, love," his godfather said in a low voice before pressing a kiss to his temple. "Don't let people talk over you. You have a voice; don't be afraid to use it."

Harry nodded again. Uncle Sirius levitated Harry's trunk with a wave of his wand and the two clambered aboard the train. The carriages were less crowded than the platform, but it still took several minutes of searching to find an empty compartment, Hedwig nipping at Harry's fingers whenever he jostled her cage too much. When they finally stepped back onto the platform and re-joined the rest of the Potter family, they found John in the midst of whinging to his father. The topic was one that John had complained about since the arrival of Harry's Hogwarts acceptance letter in early July.

"Why can't I go?"

"You're not old enough," James responded in an even tone. "It will be your time soon enough."

"Two years!" John replied. "That's ages away!"

"I'll write," Harry promised, his voice just loud enough to be heard over the din of the platform. A nasty feeling rose up in his stomach and he had to swallow several times to force it down. Harry had never been separated from his younger brother for any real length of time before and the idea made his stomach ache. "I'll tell you all about the castle and what I'm learning in classes."

John was only slightly appeased by this promise, but threw himself at his brother anyway, winding his arms around his waist. "I don't want you to leave," John said, his voice muffled by Harry's robes. Harry carded his fingers through his brother's unruly black hair and said nothing. It was only when the warning whistle blew that the brothers were forced to separate. John stumbled over to Uncle Remus, who scooped him up and rested him on his hip, and Harry had to look away to avoid meeting John's doleful gaze.

"Remember," his father said, kneeling before him to straighten his robes. "Keep your head down around Professor Snape. Don't give him any reasons to antagonise you. Talk to Professor McGonagall if you are having any problems."

"What if she isn't my head of house?" Harry whispered. The 'what if I'm not in Gryffindor,' was left unspoken between them. Harry didn't know how new students were sorted into the different houses, but he highly doubted that he would be selected for Gryffindor as his parents and uncles had been. They were brave and Harry… Harry was just Harry. He was bookish and cautious and didn't fill the boisterous Gryffindor stereotype as his father and Uncle Sirius seemed to.

And then there was his voice. Physically, there was nothing wrong with his throat, the healers at St Mungo's Hospital had explained. His vocal cords were all in working order and diagnostic charms showed that there was nothing wrong with his brain. And yet, for reasons nobody could quite explain, Harry's voice had the unfortunate habit of abandoning him when he needed it most. Strangers were the most difficult to communicate with, but sometimes when Uncle Remus asked him a question during magic lessons, or when his father scolded him for some wrongdoing, the words Harry desperately wanted to say would get lodged in his throat, and no amount of coughing could clear it.

It was difficult to be brave and chivalrous when you couldn't even speak.

His father raised his wand to tap the frame of Harry's glasses, leaving them shiny and clean. "She will still be one of your teachers," he pointed out. "Houses are just support systems. They don't define you."

Harry wanted to point out that his father must be one of the only people to actually believe it, but he couldn't force the words out. He settled for a nod and stepped forward, wrapping his arms around his neck. His father's arms encircled him, and Harry let himself sink into his father's warm embrace, inhaling the warm scent of his cologne.

"I love you, Harry," his father murmured in his ear. "We'll see you at Christmas."

Harry nodded in understanding, clinging to his father for a moment longer. "I love you too," he replied. If his father heard Harry's voice wavering, he was kind enough not to point it out.

The train's whistle sounded once more, and his father nudged him towards the train, closing the carriage door behind him when he was safely aboard. The train bleched more steam into the air and Harry could barely make out John as he ran alongside the train, waving.

The ride to Hogwarts was uneventful. Harry sat alone in his compartment, annotating his charms book with questions he wanted to ask and dog-earing pages with spells he wanted to try once he got to school. When he got up to fetch a new book from his trunk, he noticed that he had been joined by an older student, a boy with curly red hair, horn-rimmed glasses, and red lined robes that were slightly too short for him.

"You missed the food trolley," the boy said in a bossy sort of voice.

Harry nodded and buried himself in Magical Draughts and Potions. He wasn't very hungry anyway.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in front of the Sorting Hat, which had concluded its song, and Professor McGonagall was reading off names. One by one, the crowd of first years around him thinned, the students sitting at the long tables on either side of him applauding for those who joined their ranks. Finally, "Potter, Harry!" was called, and he floated forward as if in a dream and climbed onto the wooden stool. The thick fabric obscured his vision of the Great Hall but did little to muffle the sibilant whispers ("Potter?" "As in John Potter?") of the other students.

Hmmm…

Harry had to resist the urge to jump at the quiet voice that wormed its way into his head.

Very interesting, very interesting… A good mind I see… yes, very interesting, indeed.

Ravenclaw, please, Harry thought at the hat.

The hat gave him what could only be described as a chuckle. My friend, it wheezed, you are the least suited for Ravenclaw than any other house.

Harry baulked at that. He liked to think he was rather intelligent.

Tell me, what do you know about Ravenclaw?

Uncle Sirius described them as a bunch of swotty bookworms. Uncle Remus had glared at Uncle Sirius' response and told Harry in a stern voice that the brightest students often came from Ravenclaw.

They prefer learning knowledge for knowledge's sake, the hat chided. They learn to satisfy their own curiosity. They don't seek to use their knowledge as a means to an end.

Harry didn't know how to respond to that.

No comment? Well then, it better be "SLYTHERIN!"

There were no cheers from the table beneath the green and silver banner, no polite claps from any other students. Just silence.

A Potter in Slytherin. It almost sounded like the set up to a cruel joke. But no, the Sorting Hat was removed from his head and Professor McGonagall nudged him off the little wooden stool. He took his place at the end of the Slytherin table and perched on the edge of the bench, his back ramrod straight, waiting for the sorting to conclude. Professor Dumbledore stood and addressed the school. Food appeared on the gold platters in front of him and conversations sprang up around him. Harry might need glasses to see but he wasn't blind to the fact the closest student sat several seats away from him. That was fine. He wasn't sure he would be able to speak anyway— his throat was too dry.

When the Welcoming Feast was over, he followed a fifth-year prefect down to the dungeons. The common room was dim and cold and the roaring fire did little besides casting eerie shadows against the walls. Older students had already claimed the elegant furniture by the time first-years arrived and paid no attention to the new Slytherins as they filtered up the stone steps to their respective dormitories. Harry was the last one up and the other boys turned towards him when he entered. He swallowed hard and tried to force something out of his mouth, anything that could be construed as an introduction- some sort of greeting to assure them that he came in peace.

Silence. Well, Harry was no stranger to silence. He hoped that his new dorm mates wouldn't be either.

Genius Fratris

It started off harmless enough: whispers, asking what the brother of the Boy-Who-Lived is doing in the house of snakes. Some asked if they had heard Harry Potter speak yet and wondered what his voice sounded like. In Potions, Professor Snape's oily voice asked him difficult questions that Harry would have had no way of knowing if he hadn't already read the book. Harry had, of course, read the text and knew the answers, but when he opened his mouth to reply, no sound came out. The other students giggled behind their hands and Professor Snape fixed him with a calculating glare. Harry's cheeks burned with shame and he had the inexplicable feeling that he had failed a test.

The next week, Atticus Nettles sat next to him in Transfiguration and asked to borrow a quill. Surprised that someone from his house was speaking to him, Harry nodded and handed the item over. When the bell rang at the end of the class, Atticus bolted out the door before Harry had the chance to face him. On the table rested Harry's quill, mangled and broken beyond repair.

"Is everything alright, Mr Potter?" Professor McGonagall asked when he didn't move, her stern voice belying her concern.

Harry glanced out the door where he could still see Nettles, standing with the other first-year Slytherins. They were watching him with narrowed eyes, waiting to see how he would react. Harry didn't understand the purpose of destroying his property. He wondered if it was a Slytherin thing— a power play, perhaps. Or maybe it was an eleven-year-old boy thing. Aside from his brother, Harry never spent much time with boys his age before his arrival at Hogwarts, so it was difficult to know what was normal behaviour.

In the end, he shook his head and gathered his belongings, broken quill and all, and fled the room.

Harry skipped dinner that night. He told himself it was because he wanted to finish a Charms essay and not because he didn't want to interact with the boys in his dorm. He tucked himself away in the farthest recesses of the library and surrounded himself with textbooks, his fingers growing stained with ink as he painstakingly copied the diagrams and illustrations the authors provided. He practised wand movements with a quill, unwilling to pull out his wand and attract the ire of the sour-looking librarian, Madam Pince. She still scowled at him when she stumbled across him a few hours later and shooed him out of the library, claiming it was time to close.

Harry made it back to the Slytherin common room before curfew with only moments to spare. He ducked behind a group of older students to avoid his year mates, who were huddled around a table in the corner, laughing raucously. He sneaked up to the dormitory, and the source of the other first years' laughter soon became apparent: the entire contents on his trunk had been dumped on the floor.

"Oops," Edmund Sparrow said, not sounding very sorry at all when he kicked Harry's copy of Hogwarts: A History under Adrian Pucey's bed.

It only got worse from there. The next morning, Harry found his shoes spelled to the floor, causing him to miss breakfast. A week later, he was hit with no less than nineteen stinging hexes in a single day. By the time October rolled around, the other first-year Slytherins had graduated from minor annoyances to nasty jinxes, including one spell that switched his knees backwards and required an overnight stay in the Hospital Wing.

Harry tried to not let it bother him.

It says far more about their character than it does your own, Harry. Uncle Remus wrote him in one letter.

His father encouraged him to speak with Professor McGonagall about the bullying. I'd tell you to talk to your Head of House about it, but, well…

Uncle Sirius sent him a spellbook called Saucy Tricks for Tricky Sorts, which Harry shoved in his bag after opening.

(Later that night, he stayed up far past midnight, the curtains on his four-poster drawn tightly as he studied the book by wand light.)

Unsure of what to do, Harry kept his head down and ignored the other Slytherin first years, hoping that they would get bored of him if he didn't react. He became rather adept at dodging leg locker curses and ducking under jinxes that otherwise would have caused leeks to sprout from his ears. He learned to sit by the fire in the common room and ignore the hissed conversations about him. He focused on memorising dates for goblin rebellions and how to recognise vampires, and he excelled in his classes. When he overheard that Cordelia Gamp received a twenty per cent for her Herbology essay about puffapods, he held onto the knowledge that he had received an eighty-four per cent when she later taunted him for being a dummy.

Of course, it was much easier to do well in classes when they were only studying magical theory. By the end of October, however, this changed. It started out with a rumour that the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws got to perform real magic in Charms. It was confirmed the next day by Fred and George Weasley, who took advantage of their new knowledge and used Wingardium Leviosa to pelt the Slytherins with dragon dung during Herbology. The Slytherins, who didn't have Charms until the end of the week, scowled at the two redheaded menaces and grumbled under their breath as they tended to their wormwood.

The announcement sent alternating thrills of excitement and fear through Harry's veins. On one hand, he had practised Wingardium Leviosa during the many hours he spent in the library. He knew the incantation, the wand movement, the purpose of the spell and how intent factored into casting it. He knew he could cast it and was eager to prove to everyone that he could do it. On the other hand, Harry was terrified that his voice would leave him again, as it had done hundreds of times since the start of term.

He sent his father a letter expressing his concerns and asked for his opinion on the matter. His father had been sympathetic to Harry's plight and offered him advice to the best of his abilities, though he admitted that the advice could only go so far if Harry was unable to speak in public.

A calming draught would work, I suppose, James had written in his most recent letter. Though it would be a short term solution at best. Calming draughts aren't made for repeated doses; taking more than a few a month causes sluggish movement and ravenous hunger.

Harry sighed and refolded the letter before sticking it between the pages of The Whistling Syllabus: Spells and Enchantments That Cause a Ruckus. If only there were a way to cast spells without speaking… Harry froze in realisation, and Hedwig, whom he had been petting, ruffled her wings and nipped at his fingers. Harry had seen his father and Uncle Remus do magic silently before, and Uncle Sirius rarely ever used incantations. It had to be possible to do magic without speaking.

Tossing Hedwig a piece of bacon, Harry rose from the Slytherin table and raced out of the Great Hall. Without making a conscious decision, he found himself outside the Transfiguration classroom, where Professor McGonagall was setting out teapots for her first class of the day. After catching his breath (and gathering his nerve), Harry knocked on the door and slid into the room at the Deputy Headmistress' invitation.

"Potter," she greeted, tapping her wand against the tray she had been carrying, sending it zooming back to her desk. "What can I do for you?"

Harry grinned pointing at her wand, then motioning to her mouth.

Minerva had heard of Harry's proclivity for miming things (both from her fellow professors and from the letters she had exchanged with James) though she had yet to experience it first-hand. It was just as vague and frustrating as the others had described, and Minerva had to remind herself not to become impatient with the shy eleven-year-old. "You would like to know which spell I used?" she guessed.

Harry shook his head, frustration flashing across his face.

Minerva could relate.

"You didn't use an incantation," Harry said, and it took everything in Minerva not to jump like a spooked cat at the unexpected noise. It was deeper than she imagined it would be, yet less rough. None of her colleagues had heard his voice, and many of them had a bet running to see who could get him to speak first. Severus would be furious to learn that he lost. "How?"

Minerva considered the boy in front of her. His green eyes sparkled with curiosity, much like his mother's used to and the sight made her smile. "It's called non-verbal spell casting," she explained patiently. "As the name suggests, it allows the witch or wizard to cast spells without the need to speak an incantation. It requires a great deal of mental discipline and practice to be able to do it."

"Can you teach me?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Mr Potter," she said, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "I understand why non-verbal spell casting would appeal to you. But it is difficult magic and something we only expect from NEWT students. It would be beyond the capabilities of a first-year, I'm afraid to say."

He nodded slowly, his eyes dimming. Minerva felt her heart jolt in pain at the sight. Still, it would be no use trying to get the boy's hopes up in learning a magical feat many grown wizards had difficulties with. Harry retreated from the classroom soon after, his head hanging low in defeat, and Minerva was left with that hot, shameful knowledge that she had failed her student.

Harry wandered dejectedly to Charms, the corridors still empty with the rest of the school finishing up breakfast. He tried to remind himself that he already knew how to perform the Levitation Charm, so there was no need to be nervous about performing it. Besides, the Charms classroom was often noisy so nobody would be paying him much attention anyway. He just needed to focus on the spell and relax.

"… honestly, I don't know why he's even still here." The unmistakable drawl of Atticus Nettles reached his ears, and Harry had just enough time to slip behind a suit of armour as his dorm mates passed by. Nettles appeared to be holding court amongst the first-years, not only surrounded by his usual posse of boys, but several of the girls had joined him as well.

"He can't even cast spells," Mulciber agreed. "What sort of a wizard can't cast spells?"

"Is he even a wizard?" Beatrice Trouche pondered aloud.

Nettles snorted. "Potter's as good as a squib if you ask me."

They continued around the corner, but the sound of their laughter continued to ring in Harry's ears long after they had drifted out of earshot. When he finally emerged from his hiding spot, Harry did so in an almost dissociated state that left his brain feeling hazy and his fingers cold. It was only when an older student bumped into him, grumbling about 'dumb firsties' blocking the corridor, did Harry begin to move. He dragged himself to the Charms classroom, sliding into a seat near the back at the last possible moment. The dark-haired Hufflepuff in the chair next to him gave him a nod, but Harry couldn't bring himself to reciprocate.

Harry tried to remind himself that their words weren't true, that he was a proper wizard, who knew how to cast proper spells, and his inability to always speak didn't make him any less deserving of an education. If Uncle Remus were with him, he would say that the other students teased him because they didn't understand him. Uncle Sirius would say that the Slytherins were dull and had nothing better to do with their time than to gossip about someone they didn't know. His father would say that the bullies were mean because they felt like they were missing something in their own lives, and it had nothing to do with Harry. Still, it didn't stop Harry from feeling mortified that his peers saw him in such a negative light.

It was quite fortunate that Harry had already studied the levitation charm because he didn't hear a word of Professor Flitwick's lecture. When Harry didn't move, the Hufflepuff nudged him and repeated Flitwick's order to practice Wingardium Leviosa on their quills. Withdrawing his wand, Harry glared at his quill, which lay in deceptive innocence on top of his unopened spellbook as if it were mocking him.

Wingardium Leviosa. Two words. Just two simple, blooming words. His lips formed the syllables, he could almost taste the incantation on his tongue. Only, to absolutely nobody's surprise, no sound came out of his mouth. He glared harder at the quill and tried again. And again. All around him, quills were beginning to take off. A girl squealed in delight when her turkey feather quill did an elegant loop-de-loop at her command.

Harry felt dizzy from the effort, but the feather remained stubbornly on the table. It wasn't fair. Why couldn't he say the words? He knew them. He could pronounce them just fine. So why couldn't he make the stupid feather move now like he had every other time he had practised it? Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa. Wingardium Leviosa.

Nothing.

Harry cast a dark look at the feather and considered setting it on fire. Words shouldn't matter, he thought. He was still a wizard whether he used his voice or not. His father didn't need words to make things float in the air, so why should Harry? What was the difference between his magic and his fathers? (Seventeen more years of experience, Harry supposed.)

Harry glared at the feather, imagined the feather shooting two, five, ten feet up into the air. He pointed his holly wand at it and in his head screamed the incantation. Screamed it as loud as possible, with all the desperation he felt and the power he knew his voice could possess if only sound would just come out of his mouth when he needed it. This feather would move. He wasn't stupid. He wasn't worthless.

There was a bang and the next thing Harry knew, his quill was embedded in the ceiling.

"Well done, Mr Potter!" Professor Flitwick cheered, bustling over to him. He summoned Harry's errant quill with a flick of his wand and handed it back to Harry, a large smile on his face. "Ten points to Slytherin. Keep practising, but perhaps with less gusto this time!"

Harry couldn't keep the blush or the grin off his face.

The Hufflepuff sitting next to him watched him, his grey eyes wide with shock. "How did you do that?"

Harry shrugged and pointed his copy of Standard Book of Spells, Grade One.

The boy shook his head. "No, I mean, without speaking. How did you do that? I can't even make it move with the incantation." To prove his point, he swished and flicked his wand and intoned, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Harry watched several more failed attempts by the boy, who was indeed saying the incantation and executing the movements correctly except… Harry grabbed his partner's quill (his own being too bent to write with after its encounter with the ceiling) and scribbled a note in the corner of the Hufflepuff's textbook.

You're left-handed.

"What's that got to do with anything?"

It's backwards, I think.

Harry couldn't be certain, of course, but his father was left-handed, and he had noticed that most of his spells looked different than Uncle Sirius'.

The Hufflepuff glanced between Harry and the notes, a dubious expression on his face. After a moment, he must have figured he had nothing to lose by following Harry's suggestion and pointed his wand at Harry's crumpled feather. He reversed the movements of the spell, taking extra care to pronounce the words. Then, as if an invisible string was attached to the quill, it lifted a few inches off the desk and hovered between the two boys.

"Potter, isn't it?" When Harry nodded, the Hufflepuff stuck out his hand for him to shake, a grin splitting across his face. "Cedric Diggory. It's nice to meet you."

Harry's newfound friendship didn't stop his dorm mates from harassing him and damaging his belongings. It didn't stop Professor Snape from singling Harry out and asking him difficult questions that were unrelated to the potion they were learning that day or belittling him when he was unable to respond. It didn't stop him from eating alone at the Slytherin table every meal or from that awful third-year Terrence Higgs from casting switching spells on the salt shaker and the sugar bowl whenever Harry reached for one.

But that was okay. Because when the weather was nice, they would walk around the Black Lake and Cedric would chatter for hours about whatever crossed his mind. And when they had classes together, Cedric would read Harry's written questions and ask the professor for him. After dinner, the two would sit together in the library and do their homework together. Cedric never asked Harry why he didn't speak or pressure him to talk. (Cedric talked enough for the two people, anyway.) He appreciated Harry for his silence and his intellect instead.

And for the first time since arriving at Hogwarts, Harry didn't feel so alone.

"Silence make the real conversations between friends. Not the saying, but the never needing to say that counts." ―Margaret Lee Runbeck

A/N: Yes hello. Not dead. Depressed perhaps. But this story has not been abandoned. Let me know what you thought of it! -CA