#soundlesspells

☎ Roommates AU

             He had woken with two cases. A hangover, and the             symptoms of what had seemed to be senioritis. The             day of graduation from this hole of jaded youth and              large-font essays  was soon over. Lupin ran rough             hands through his hair, padding through the meti-             culous kitchen they had conspired in making. He              leaned against the wall that led to this small area of             cooking. A place he never used. 

             'Hardly, my dear friend.'

     He does not see the rot in death, besides the loss of life.     It’s a peace. A gift he should have long since been gran-     ted. By way, he thinks, of divine right. A scoff escapes his lips. 

    Divinity was never on his side. GOD, was never on his side. He was not at all a religous man, and nor was he a foolish man. He blames no one for his misfortunes, only he; you write your own fate. But the days are long and the nights are longer. He finds it quite sad, Remus does, that his wolfsbane is stale. Tasteless. He'sbeen drinking it most his life, never a chance for anything else. He fears if he lets it go now, nothing will taste the same. His brandy, a meal, the air. Everything he is has been so...temporary. As if he were meant to die long before.

She does not speak, and therefore he has to assume her curiosities by ways of her eyes.

                            Was it not his turn?

It wasn’t uncommon for people to be confused with what she had said. Translation from her signing to the paper that recorded it was never completely accurate – both a blessing and a demon.

   Two fingers came to move to her deaf ears, then to circle around her face, before gesturing to her throat with two fingers, lining it, gently. She held one hand slightly higher than the other, before indicating a drop, then gesturing towards the other before taking her pinkies, crossing them together and, with her face very cross, brushing them apart, continuing that sign, admist others, as her quill and scroll followed her hands, for many moments, until she completed her task and stopped, staring at him in question, hands coming to rest in her lap as she watched him. 

For a Deaf person, the face is the voice. And your voice is very deep. Very serious, if I can say so. Deeper and more serious than the other’s. So… what is it? Why is your face so deep?

   It was the classic syndrome of backus turnedus. The mute button of the television that was her life. Indeed, Angel was… quite unsure of her surroundings, but when she turned, giving up on the direction she was presently pursuing, to find another person behind her, she knocked him over, surprised at his presence without hearing to alert her to his existence.

   His face, while relatively empty, was not hard to read – it was waiting for an answer to a question. At first she nodded – then she shook her head, then she shrugged, hopeless, helplessly lost in a conversation she hadn’t started before she searched for her quill and scroll that would animate on her signing. 

   Angel began rubbing her chest, over and over, in apology, before tapping her ear with two fingers before using those same two fingers to point to the other shaking forward.

   I’m sorry, I’m Deaf. I didn’t hear you. Can you repeat that? 

         It seemed to take her a while to understand him, but then       she pulled out a quill and parchment, which only served to       confuse him too. But then it clicked — as she began to      motion to him, words appeared on the paper, and he flicked      his eyes between both as she responded.

        There was a slight pause before he said anything. Would      she be able to read his lips? Harry didn’t know any sign       language at all, and he didn’t want to mess something up      by trying. But he still wanted to help her.

          “Oh, er, sorry. I asked if you were lost?”

        He spoke slowly, inadvertently raising his voice, even      though, obviously, she couldn’t hear him.