The Mute
"No! No, please!"
Tiny fists hammered at anything the six year old could reach. High-pitched screams layered over low, furious grunts.
Strong, meaty fingers pried open the child's jaw and grabbed onto his slippery tongue. His pleas for mercy turned to incoherent yells dotted with lisped S's and bursts of spittle. The massive man gave a demented grin.
"Didn't I warn you, boy? Stay quiet!" But the boy in question struggled harder and gave another heart-wrenching yell.
"Never could hold your tongue, couldn't you? Ah, well…" He raised his free hand to the child's mouth.
Snip.
Mute
The golden light from the setting sun filtered through the large, arched windows of the Headmaster's office, casting long shadows across the room. The desk was stacked with rolls of parchment, ink bottles, and quills, but Minerva McGonagall was focused solely on the great tome that lay open before her. The Hogwarts admissions book—the enchanted record that inscribed the names of every magical child eligible for enrollment—was large and heavy, its pages thick with age. She carefully turned each one, her eyes scanning the lines of neat, magically-inscribed names.
"Potter... Potter..." she murmured to herself, brows furrowed with concentration.
Harry Potter's name should have appeared here years ago, right after that dreadful Halloween night in Godric's Hollow. But today, as she had done for days on end, she found herself searching, half-wondering whether the name had somehow escaped her, or whether the boy had vanished into thin air like so many feared.
A sharp, grating sound broke her reverie, the unmistakable sound of the office door scraping open. Without even looking up, Minerva knew who it was. The air had thickened with a sort of disdainful tension only one person could carry with them.
"Minerva," came Severus Snape's voice, cool and cutting. "Busy as ever, I see."
McGonagall straightened, shutting the tome closed with a sigh. "Severus."
He stood by the door, his long black robes billowing slightly as though caught by some invisible wind.
I wonder what charm he uses.
His dark eyes darted to the book on her desk, narrowing with suspicion. "What could possibly be so important that you'd spend hours pouring over that blasted book?"
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "I'm looking for someone."
Snape's eyebrow lifted. "And who might that be?" In a moment of clarity, his brow fell into position, "Ah, allow me to guess..."
"Harry Potter."
At the mention of the name, Snape's face twisted into something between a sneer and a frown, his lips hatefully curling back. "Ah, of course. The famous Potter. I'm sure you've been counting down the days to welcome him into your fold—another arrogant little toerag, no doubt, just like his father."
Minerva's knuckles tightened around the edge of the desk, but she held her tongue. She knew better than to rise to his bait, no matter how tempting it was to remind him of the sacrifices Lily had made for her son, sacrifices Snape himself had begged for.
"I've expected you to understand, Severus," she replied coolly, meeting his gaze without flinching. "Harry Potter is not James Potter. He never even knew his parents. Something you're intimately familiar with, given what Albus told me on his deathbed."
Snape's face darkened at the words. For a brief moment, something flickered in his expression—pain, perhaps? Regret? But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by a scowl.
"Perhaps he didn't. But blood is blood, Minerva. He'll be just as insufferable as his father, you'll see."
Without waiting for her response, Snape turned on his heel, his robes sweeping dramatically behind him as he stormed out of the office, leaving the door ajar in his wake. Minerva exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders releasing as the silence of the room returned. She glanced back at the admissions book, her fingers beating a well-practiced rhythm on its worn cover.
Where are you, Harry?
Mute
The days leading up to her trip to Privet Drive were fraught with an ever-growing sense of dread. The boy had been left in the care of his aunt and uncle, Muggles of the most wretched sort. Minerva had always felt uneasy about the decision, but it had been made in the name of safety—blood magic, Dumbledore had insisted, would protect Harry from the dark forces still searching for him.
But now, after years of silence, neglect and regret, she could no longer stay on the sidelines. Something was wrong.
And so, one unseasonably warm afternoon, she found herself standing before the neat, ordinary house at Number Four, Privet Drive. The garden was pristine, the grass neatly trimmed, the flowers blooming in perfect, artificial symmetry. It was the sort of place that screamed of normalcy, and yet, as Minerva stepped closer, she felt an overwhelming sense of wrongness.
She knocked firmly on the front door, her jaw set in a determined line.
It opened a crack, just enough for Petunia Dursley's long, horse-like face to appear in the gap. The woman's eyes were cold and suspicious, her mouth set in a tight, disapproving frown.
"You," Petunia spat, venom lacing her voice. "I don't know what you think you're doing here, but we don't want any more of your freakish kind's interference. Now leave before I—"
"Where is he?" Minerva cut in, her voice sharp and commanding.
Petunia's eyes flickered, her lips thinning even more. "Who?"
"You know exactly who," McGonagall said, stepping forward. Petunia recoiled slightly but did not budge. "Where is Harry Potter?"
Petunia's eyes darted nervously, her hands trembling as they clutched the door tighter. "He's... He's not here. You'll have to—"
Minerva didn't wait for an excuse. With a flick of her wand, she sent the door flying open with a weak but effective banishing charm. Petunia stumbled back, eyes wide in shock.
"You—you can't—"
"Enough!" Minerva barked. She stepped into the house, her eyes immediately searching the dark corners. "Homenum Revelio."
A faint, shimmering outline appeared at the far end of the hallway, beneath the staircase. Minerva's heart clenched.
The cupboard.
Ignoring Petunia's increasingly frantic protests, McGonagall marched over to the small door and threw it open. Her breath caught in her throat.
Harry was there, huddled in the dark, his small frame curled up tightly. His clothes were ragged and far too large for his frail body. He was pale, almost sickly looking, with dark circles under his eyes. But what struck Minerva the most was the emptiness in his gaze—the hollow, distant look of a child long accustomed to suffering.
"Oh, Harry..." she whispered, her voice breaking.
She crouched down, reaching out a hand to him, but he didn't move. He didn't even look at her properly, just kept staring at the far wall as though he wasn't really there at all.
Minerva turned sharply towards Petunia, her face flushed with fury. "What have you done to him?"
Petunia tried to back away, but McGonagall was too fast. "Petrificus Totalus!" Petunia's limbs locked in place, her eyes wide with terror as she stood frozen in the corner.
Minerva turned back to Harry, her hands trembling as she reached out to gently touch his shoulder. "Harry, dear, it's all right now. I'm here to take you away from this place. You're safe. You're... you're a wizard, Harry, just like me. Like your parents."
But there was no response. Not even a flicker of recognition in his eyes. McGonagall's heart sank deeper into her chest.
"Harry," she tried again, softer this time. "Why won't you talk to me?"
Still, no answer. Just silence.
Something was terribly, terribly wrong.
With a growing sense of horror, Minerva gently took hold of Harry's chin and tilted his face upwards. "Please, Harry, say something."
She pulled his lips apart, searching for words she feared would never come. And then she saw it.
His tongue was gone.
Her heart lurched.
For a moment, she could hardly breathe. The room spun around her as the full weight of what she was seeing crashed down on her like a tidal wave of grief and rage. She let go of Harry's face, stumbling back, her hand flying to her mouth in shock.
And then the scream tore from her throat—a scream of anger, of heartbreak, of utter devastation. Her wand snapped up, and before she knew what she was doing, she had turned on the petrified figure of Petunia Dursley, unleashing a flurry of bludgeoning curses. Each one hit with a sickening crunch, shaking the walls, as McGonagall's tears streamed down her face, her sobs echoing through the house.
How could they? How could anyone do this to a child? To Lily's child?
Mute
The train rattled along the tracks, the rhythmic clatter filling the compartment with a dull, almost soothing sound. Harry sat by the window, his forehead pressed against the cool glass, watching the blurred countryside rush by. He hadn't moved since he'd boarded the Hogwarts Express, hadn't spoken a word. Not that he could.
The door to the compartment slid open with a loud screech, and a red-headed boy poked his head in.
"Mind if I sit here?" the boy asked, though he was already stepping inside without waiting for a reply. He dropped down onto the bench across from Harry, his face bright with the excitement of the new school year.
"I'm Ron, by the way. Ron Weasley." He grinned, clearly expecting some sort of introduction in return.
When none came, Ron's smile faltered slightly. He shifted awkwardly in his seat, glancing around as if trying to find something to talk about. "So... you excited about Hogwarts, mate? I mean, mad, isn't it? Magic and all."
Silence.
Ron cleared his throat,
his smile fading completely now. "Er... okay, well, I guess I'll just, uh, see you around then."
He stood up and left the compartment, muttering of slimy Slytherins under his breath.
Harry barely noticed. His reflection in the window stared back at him, hollow and empty, just like it had been for as long as he could remember.
A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn't move to wipe it away. There was no point.
And so, Harry Potter—the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the child of destiny—sat alone in silence, his hands clenched tightly in his lap, trembling, as the train carried him towards a future he couldn't even begin to understand.