Mute Harry
Inspired by the fantastic comic collection by @nebulaparis
I am someone who has/goes through periods of selective mutism, so this sort of representation is really touching to see, and very personal to create. I tried to convey that going mute really isn't a decision but more of a subconscious compulsion. Being unable to speak doesn't equate to a disinterest in communication, and I think the most frustrating part about selective mutism (for me) is that it really stems from the intense desire to be heard mixed with an environment that refuses to listen. Being ignored or purposefully misunderstood over and over signals that speaking is really useless which creates this wall. So even when Harry wants to talk, or defend himself, or open up, that preestablished compulsion of silence prevents it.
This is why I really really enjoy that in Nebula's comics Harry writes on a notepad, or sticky note, or nods and shakes his head, and is overall extremely expressive in ways other than speech. I just think its extremely realistic and, like i said, fantastic representation.
So enjoy! These drabbles are slowly getting longer, so i suppose they're working. I'll be updating my chemistry fic sometime this weekend so stay tuned <33
2 weeks-ish into Hogwarts year 1, young Harry, early 30s Sev, selectively mute Harry, past dursley mistreatment
word count: 1,730
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It's not like Harry couldn't talk. He knew, physically, that he was capable. That he had spoken, and does speak on occasion. He can almost always talk to Hermione and Ron. He can talk to Luna, but she has this weird way of knowing when he can't speak. Or doesn't want to? She likes to talk when he doesn't.
Harry can talk. Except right now he actually can't.
It's like theres this wall that's been built in his throat. Even if he thinks about the words he wants to say, or the words that are expected of him. His throat closes around the wall, and he swallows down his speech.
Right now, Professor Snape is looking down at him with a vengeance.
"Well, boy?" He snaps, and Harry knows he's in for it.
Don't call me boy. Rises in his throat. What he wants to say, shout, more than anything in the world.
My name is Harry Potter, use it. Use it. I am a person with a name.
But his throat closes, and no words come out. Harry shakes his head, unwilling—unable—to respond.
Until then, Harry had gotten away with being quiet. Not many people actually wanted to hear from him. They all had these preconceived ideas about him and his personality, how his life was, his accomplishments. If they were put off by his silence, they chalked it up to being humble. He could simply nod along.
When Professor McGonagall dragged him into her office after the stunt he pulled in their first Flying lesson, she put him on the Quidditch team. She went on and on about how much he was like his father, how talented a flier, how his relatives must've known to put him in sports early on.
Harry didn't say a single word, didn't correct a single idea, and yet he knew she must've thought they had an entire conversation.
Now he was on the Quidditch team.
Things have always just happened to Harry, and going to Hogwarts was no exception. People spoke at him. He didn't raise his hand in class, and for the most-part he could cast spells non-verbally.
Ron gaped at him whenever he did, but Harry didn't think it was that big of a deal. He just thought very hard, as he was sure all of his peers did, and the spells happened as he intended.
His teachers were equally impressed, but they simultaneously expected nothing less from The-Boy-Who-Lived.
Everything had been going just fine. Until they began brewing in potions. Snape was prowling around the room, inspecting the process and their work. When he started asking questions to each pair of students, a pit of anxiety formed in his gut.
Snape, thus far, had been merciless when disparaging Harry's character, for seemingly no reason. He knows Snape must've hated his father. Or, more reasonably, still hated his father. Comments about Harry being just like the man now felt quite sour.
Arrogant. Athletic. Ladies man. Pompous. Rich.
The comments all sting something fierce. But Harry takes them lying down, quiet.
"Potter," he snapped, stopping Harry's next step from progressing. "At which point are porcupine quills to be added?"
Harry had just been about to add the porcupine quills, they were in his hand.
Harry reaches for a sheet of parchment, he knows the answer, and quite wants to show the Professor up for trying to humiliate him yet again. He had been paying attention, his cauldron taken off of the open flame. Now. The answer is now.
"Ah ah ah," the man stops him again. "No use checking your textbook, Potter. You should know the answer by now."
Harry stares up at the man, heat rising to his face. Harry wasn't even reaching for his textbook! But that didn't stop Malfoy from snickering in the background. Or Neville's pitying eyes from boring holes into him, as if they shared an understanding. But Harry knew!
"Well, boy?" Harry wants to scream. "Too good to answer?"
Harry swallows, cursing whatever force prevented him from speaking. Don't call me boy.
"Arrogant, just like your father."
Snape visibly grits his teeth as Harry's silence continues. "Detention, Potter. Seven o'clock." He announces for the whole class to hear. They were all listening in anyway.
Harry adds the porcupine quills and knows he will likely get marks taken for cheating despite having a perfect potion.
Then there was detention.
Harry slinks into the dungeons, absently wondering why on earth classes are held somewhere so dark and isolated, knowing full well he will not be able to nod his way through whatever this was.
A part of him hoped he might just be given a task as punishment and then told to leave. But the more rational parts of him dissuaded the notion.
Harry enters the classroom as quietly as he can, and approaches Snape where he sits at the front of room. He feels quite lost without anything to fiddle with. He stupidly left his rucksack in Gryffindor tower, thinking he wouldn't need it.
Snape has visibly deflated since class, Harry gets the idea that he's very tired, weary. That, or his angry tirades are a facade to maintain some sort of image in class. Which Harry would believe besides the genuine distaste he seems to have for Harry.
But Snape looks at Harry for a very long moment.
Harry tries not to squirm under the attention.
"At what point do you add porcupine quills while brewing the cure for boils?"
Harry blinks. It's the same question from class earlier.
Harry opens his mouth—after adding the stewed horned slugs and taking the cauldron off of the heat—and closes it.
The words will not come.
Harry is so frustrated with himself, with the stupid class, the stupid professor, stupid everyone pretending to know him. The unfairness of it is blinding, constantly misunderstood with no way to fix it.
He shuts his eyes, breathing harshly, and thinks very hard about a sheet of parchment. He will answer, even if it drains his magic.
Within the next few seconds, a piece of parchment and ballpoint pen fly into the room.
Harry perches on Snape's desk to write the answer, uncaring of the man's likely protests. Already pent up, he slams the paper in front of the man and waits for him to read it.
If Snape is surprised by Harry's display of wordless magic, or frantic, frustrated writing, he doesn't show it.
It seems to hit him, however, that Harry had known the answer. In class, and now. That his intention was always to write what he knew.
"So what is this?" Snape asks. "Have you been cursed?"
Slowly, the man pushes the same piece of parchment back towards Harry, expecting another written answer.
I can't speak, sir. Harry obliges, again pushing over the sheet of parchment for his professor to read.
He watches the man's expression pinch.
"Yes, you can, Potter. I've seen you speak with your friends." But Snape begins to look uncertain.
Harry knows for a fact he's never spoken a word in the Great Hall, or between classes. There's just so many people around all the time— and everyone stares like manners suddenly stopped applying to them. He knows it was drilled into him that staring is rude, but Harry seems to be the exception to every rule nowadays.
Though he failed to see the point of talking in such bustling places when theres a high chance to be misunderstood amid all the noise. Half the time Hermione's ramblings are swallowed by the surrounding chatter, and everyone's distracted by their meals. Pointless.
Harry shakes his head at the man.
"We are nearly two weeks into term," Snape continues, almost to himself. "No one has realized?"
Harry makes a face at the man. Clearly not.
Ron and Hermione knew Harry was different. They weren't stupid. They saw how he only spoke when no one else was around. Hermione tried to ask him about it, but Harry couldn't tell her. Partially because he didn't exactly understand himself, but mostly because it embarrassed him.
He didn't know what was wrong with him. Why he just— stopped one day. Stopped talking, stopped indulging this narrative about who he was. A freak. Lazy, good for nothing, miscreant.
"Why?" Snape asks. "Has something happened?"
Harry hates that question. He knows he can't answer. But he can see a terrible earnest feature to the mans expression. It's something despondent, so different to the hateful gaze Harry is used to. He looks at Harry differently. It isn't pity, no, it's lost.
As if the ground has been taken from under his feet.
All Harry can do is shrug.
I just can't.
He waits for the mans anger to return. For his own frustration to boil over. For shouting of some kind, some kind of punishment, some kind of tactic to get Harry to talk.
He suddenly remembers the first time he couldn't respond to his Aunt Petunia. When was the last time you weeded, boy? She was terribly proud of the flower beds he tended to.
Harry had shrugged then, also. She screamed her voice hoarse trying to get an answer out of him, soaped his mouth trying to pry a single sound out of him.
Harry cried, he threw up, he struggled in her iron grip, but he did not speak.
He expects Snape to react similarly and readies himself to flee.
But before he can run out of the room, Snape speaks.
"In the future, you may write out your answers to questions in class. Don't hesitate to raise your hand if you have any questions of your own, Mr. Potter." He pauses for a second before adding, "You brewed a fine potion this afternoon."
Harry gapes at the man.
This is a trick.
Is it?
The fight has drained out of Harry. His magic really had tired him, and theres something content in him. The idea that someone knows now. Someone who did not take it as further excuse to hurl insults at him. To demand more of him.
He figures this is as close to an apology he's going to get.
But the man complimented his work, and an unwilling swell of pride clouds his mistrust.
Harry scribbles one last thing, a lump in his throat for an entirely different reason now.
Thank you, sir.
fin.
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This is the first drabble written with the intention of at least a second part! just since the severitus isn't exactly established in this, i maybe want to write something from Snape's POV, lmk what y'all think!! <33
