Chapter Text
At the tender age of 11, all Harry ever learned from his family was that he was a puppet, tied by a string to the hands of people who controlled him, the puppeteers. His bound hands will be led to the kitchen to cook their meals and leave him with nothing, then force his knees onto the ground to weed the garden without a single ounce of care as to whether the boy had energy when his stomach was empty.
They decided whether he existed or not, forcing him to act the way they wanted. In the case of a puppet, it is stored in a box when it is not needed. Like Harry, he is locked in a cupboard under the stairs when his so-called 'family' feels the slightest bit of irritation towards his presence.
The worst part of it all? Puppets never speak.
It's either the puppeteer speaks for them, or they don't speak at all.
It started with frequent visits from Child Services where Harry learned those first four words.
"Don't say a word. Let me handle it."
Let me handle you.
You can just imagine how that went as he grew up.
His primary school teachers often marked him with a big, red 'FAIL' for not completing his tasks at school that required verbal performances. He could only shake his head when asked a question as to why he could not speak. It bemused the teachers, for they knew Harry loved to read, and the boy's written works highly surpass his cousin's vastly disappointing ones.
However, in the end, it was always the same words.
To nice people, it was, "Oh, he's just very shy." But to people who think Harry was as disobedient and misbehaved just as much as the Dursleys think, it was, "He's always like that. Think he's so superior that he can't speak to his elders. Well, what can we expect from the son of people who got themselves drunk enough to get into a car crash?"
You made me like this. he thinks to comfort himself. It was unfair, it wasn't his fault he was forced to be like this. It wasn't his fault strange things kept happening around him that they got so pissed and forced him to just shut his trap and not waste his breath explaining.
After that, he would be forced to speak so he wouldn't be too prideful and for once, so he would be respectful, only for his voice to come out cracked and hoarse that he couldn't form words. Petunia and Vernon should have expected that way too many "Don't say a word"s would lead to Harry not developing his vocal cords properly.
"I'm not paying some shrink just to teach this boy how to talk!" Vernon had yelled that day when they visited the local clinic for a checkup regarding Harry's voice.
"And we can't do it for him either, we're too busy," Petunia added.
The doctor sighed. "Well then, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, I suggest your nephew should learn sign language if he is unable to talk."
Petunia sighed, wary. "Fine, I guess we can do that much for the boy."
Harry learned sign language from the age of 5.
The Dursleys? Of course, they didn't. They thought they could just get by and go with the flow.
Learning British Sign Language wasn't actually a problem for Harry, he was a fast learner and he loved books. He often made visits to the local library when the Dursleys would go on vacation and leave him alone in their house. When the librarian saw how much he went just to read, she gave her a card so that he could take home any books he wanted and return them the following week.
The only problem was, if he was ever caught reading books instead of doing his 'chores', he would either get hit by the said books or he would come crying to the library the next week, returning a torn-out book and begging the librarian not to make him pay anything because he truly had nothing. The librarian was kind enough to let it go, reminding him to never forget to do his chores and always obey his parents. He never told her that he never knew his parents, nor was it his parents that he defied.
All of that was before his disability, but even then he never really spoke. It was always a shake of a head or a nod, adding to one of the reasons why he needed to learn sign language.
He brought home a book regarding BSL and started from letters to phrases then to sentences until he started to use it with the Dursleys and, if there ever were, just other people in his daily life.
And there he was during Dudley's birthday, leaning on the metal railing as he looked at the boa constrictor in the zoo.
"It's scales are beautiful," Harry thought.
"Why, thank you, dear one," the snake, very uncharacteristically, replied. Its body was held up high as it stared at Harry's eyes.
Harry was shocked. He never opened his mouth to speak, he was sure of that. How come the snake could hear him? Then again, he was a freak who does freakish things, he shouldn't be so flabbergasted by this.
Harry stepped off the railings. "Did you just... talk to me?" He asked through his thoughts, using his hands to sign as well. “But how? I can’t speak. I only think.”
”You think as if you’re speaking, darling. And that’s enough for creatures like me,” it replied.
The snake then chuckled before slithering its way back into what Harry could tell was the snake's sleeping area. He couldn't believe his ears, the snake chuckled! And just from that, Harry could sense that the snake was a male.
Before Harry could come up with a response, he felt someone push him before he landed on the cold ground.
"Out of my way, freak! It doesn't wanna see what your stupid hands are doing," The annoying voice of his cousin, Dudley, spat at him. "Mum, look at this! You won't believe what this snake is doing!"
Dudley leaned over the railings and touched the glass, then Vernon followed and rapped his knuckles on it.
“Hey!” Vernon called.
"Move!" Dudley yelled.
Harry stood up and made Dudley face him. "He's asleep!" He signed.
Dudley rolled his eyes and pushed him back on the ground again. "What a freak," he muttered.
Harry could feel anger fill his veins, and before he knew it, the glass disappeared and Dudley fell through it as he yelped in shock, getting drenched by the water inside the tank. The snake woke up and, taking the chance, slithered his way out of the tank to escape.
"Thanks," he said, winking at Harry.
Harry held up his fist, facing the snake, then his two hands, making a 'come' motion which meant, "You're welcome." After, he winked back.
Dudley stood up and tried to get out, only to find himself enclosed by the glass that was just gone earlier. The sound of Dudley knocking on the glass made Harry grin.
From the distance, he heard a snarl. Harry met the eyes of his Uncle Vernon, and his smile immediately fell.
"WHAT HAPPENED?!" Vernon Dursley bellowed, holding Harry by the hair as the latter was pushed onto the door of his cupboard. Dudley and Petunia passed by before going upstairs, the former wrapped with a towel while the latter rubbed her hands down his arms to keep her son warm.
Harry frantically used his hands to explain, gesturing to his head with a panicked shrug to indicate that he didn't know. "I swear, I don't know!" Harry signed.
"Something must have happened and you had something to do with it! What did you do to Dudley?!"
Harry's eyes were filled with tears, his hands became shaky. "One minute the glass was there and then it was gone, it was just like magic!" Once Harry finished signing, his uncle reached into his pocket and oulled out his notepad.
“Write it down, boy!”
With blurry eyes and shaky hands, Harry tried to write what he had just signed and showed it to his uncle as he breathed heavily.
But his uncle just snarled, and Harry knew from that moment that nothing could ever go his way. The door of his cupboard was opened and he prepared himself for the worst.
Harry was pushed to his small cot in the cupboard, his small toys rattling from the force of the shove. "There's no such thing as magic! You will stay there. No meals!"
A few days later while the Dursleys were having their breakfast that Harry had cooked that morning, the latter was just in his cupboard and playing with his soldier toys.
Suddenly, he heard pieces of paper slip under the door. It must be the mail, Harry had thought. He creaked his cupboard door open, trying to be as quiet as possible and act like he didn't exist.
He gathered the letters and walked to the kitchen to give them to the Dursleys until something caught his eye.
MR. H. POTTER,
The Cupboard under the Stairs,
4 Privet Drive,
Little Whinging,
SURREY
Harry knew from that moment that he had such rotten luck when Dudley chose that time to barge and see him going through his letter.
"Dad, look! Harry's got a letter!" Dudley exclaimed, snatching Harry's letter and throwing it up in the air, out of the latter's reach.
Harry desperately tried to grasp it, only for the letter to end up in his uncle's hands.
"Such bollocks. Who'd be writing to you?" Vernon said pointedly to Harry.
"Please give it back. It's mine," Harry signed multiple times to the point it would be considered begging.
He expected to be yelled at, slapped, or even sent away. However, what he didn't expect was Vernon and Petunia looking at him. Was it fear? Was it anger? Or was it both? He didn't know. He never really knows. He didn't know why he was treated this way, he didn't know if the letter was a prank.
And what is most different about him: he didn't know how to speak.