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Hermione does not know what to make of her new brother. He is small, shorter than her even, but she thinks that might be because she is older than him.
His hair is ruffled, a bird’s nest almost, and the length of it almost hides the gleam of metal hooked to his ears. He has bright green eyes, so wide that they look like they might roll of their sockets as he looks arounds the house, stares at their hands as they sign instead of forcing him to read lips.
Not that Hermione would’ve spoken anyway, but semantics.
He is all skin and bones, even if said bones were likely to be made of steel because Hermione doesn’t know how he is as scarcely injured as he is when he looks like a gust of wind would make him topple over. His leg is in a cast as he is in a wheelchair, buried under a mound of blankets.
From what Hermione heard from her eavesdropping in the conversation between her parents and the social worker— she shouldn’t have, but Harry won’t sign back to her and she wants to know something about her brother other than that he is deaf— apparently, Harry got his leg broken by his Uncle. Hermione thinks that is not very nice of his Uncle and wonders if his Uncle didn’t like Harry because his skin is dark, the same way a lot of people didn’t like her or her parents.
His broken leg was the only… overt injury he displayed, though there were faded bruises peeking out from the collar of his shirt, dark spots just barely hidden by his skin wrapped around his arms. Hermione has had a few siblings, none permanent, because they were always a foster home, but never did they get the chance to adopt another kid yet.
She shuffles in place, in her spot behind the entry way of his room, and mulls it over. Her parents are fostering to adopt this time, especially since Harry seems to be rather appreciative of their signing, even if he never signs back. That is a tick in their favor, meaning there is less of a chance he’ll be taken from them.
Hermione takes a deep breath and comes forward, stomping her foot on the ground hard twice. The vibrations shake the hollowed wooden floor of Harry’s room, making him look up as he feels them. “HI,” she signs excitedly, a smile on her face. “MY NAME H-E-R-M-I-O-N-E. I YOUR SISTER!”
Harry blinks at her slowly, before he bites his lip. He nods hesitantly, a slight curve to his lips. Hermione almost vibrates with excitement when he lifts his hands, though he pauses, staring at her with an unreadable expression. Whatever he’s looking for he must not find— or maybe he did find it if it was good thing he was looking for— because he signs, “HI. I H-A-R-R-Y. NICE MEET YOU.”
His fingers are crooked, as if they’d been broken multiple times and healed incorrectly, but Hermione steadfastly ignores that as she beams at him. “HOT CHOCOLATE YOU WANT?” she asks, trying to think of things that she could do with him. “BUILD BLANKET CASTLE?”
A blank stare is what she gets for about 10 seconds, in which Hermione’s excitement slowly dims, before he nods again. A smile is curling at his lips when Hermione all but shouts in excitement, throwing her hands up in the air with a wide grin stretching across her face.
“WAIT. I BACK SOON,” she signs quickly, arms going wide with her joy, before she races out of his room. She runs as quickly as possible to the kitchen, waving excitedly at her parents in the living room, and sets the kettle on the stove. She sets the hot cocoa mix to the side and turns the hob on to a low heat so that it doesn’t over heat the cream, before bolting out of the kitchen.
The blankets in the linen closet are bundled and Hermione grabs the two largest quilts, piling another blanket in her arms, before making her way to Harry’s room. She relies mostly on memory and hoping she doesn’t hit the wall because the mound of blankets in her arms is bigger than her and she can’t see.
She stumbles into Harry’s room, having made it the entire journey without hitting a wall, and then dumps the blankets on the floor. Harry’s green eyes are wide as he stares at the pile, then he glances down at his leg and subsequently, his wheelchair.
Hermione pays it no mind as she grabs a packet of wall tacks from her room, races back, and then hauls the blankets to the corner of his room. She eyes the space, eyes the size of the quilts, and then nods.
With the lightest quilt, she stretches it as much as she can, as high as she can with her stool, and then tacks it to the wall. She tacks it at multiple places so that it doesn’t droop, and making sure that it’s high enough for Harry to enter with his wheelchair if he wanted to.
“Mia? What are you— Ah.” Hermione turns at the sound of her mother’s voice, who is staring at her with amusement and fondness on her face. She sighs and shakes her head. “I BRING CHAIRS,” her mum signs smoothly, her hands moving like water with her years of practice underneath her belt, and Hermione nods in acknowledgement.
She glances to the side at Harry, and he blinking at her mum— their mum really— with a dewy look in his eyes. Hermione goes to say something, her fingers itching, except then she catches the sound of a whistling kettle.
The hot cocoa.
Bolting to the kitchen like her arse is on fire, she slides into the kitchen with her fluffy, ninja socks, and takes the kettle off the hob. She grabs her two favorite mugs, pours the cream into them, and then adds the cocoa. She stays safe by not adding any cinnamon in Harry’s mug because she’s not sure if he’s allergic to it or not, and she doesn’t feel willing to find out through trial and error. She makes up for it though by adding loads of whip and marshmallows on top, sprinkling some chocolate sprinkles on top of Harry’s whip.
She balances the full cups carefully as she walks back to Harry’s bedroom, holding them tightly to her as she walks back to the room. When Hermione enters, the entrance to the blanket fort is being held up higher by two chairs, and Harry is being helped inside by their dad.
Harry smiles when he sees her, beckoning her over with a shy, but excited, look on his face. Hermione hands him his chocolate once he’s settled into a giant mound of pillows in the center, and their mum hands them a tray.
“CAREFUL,” she signs, seeing the overflow of whip and marshmallows on Harry’s.
Hermione nods, blowing on her cup a little bit, staring at Harry as he sucks all the whip off the top of his hot chocolate. “HOT,” she tells him firmly as he reaches the liquid portion of his drink. He freezes, staring at her with his head half tilted down, lips puckered slightly, as the cup is tilted toward his face. “HOT,” Hermione tells him again, much more firmly and with more emphasis, trying to make sure he understands that he could burn his tongue. “YOUR TONGUE BURN. HOT.”
Harry nods, gripping his mug with his crooked fingers, and shifts his legs. He frowns at his broken one, letting out a few noises as he moves, before settling back down again. Hermione blinks at the odd noises that sound more like half of the beginning of words.
“WE PLAY WHAT?” Hermione asks him, bringing her legs up so that she can balance her mug on her knees. “YOU CHOOSE?”
Harry chooses a simple deck of cards, a shy look on his face that melts into more of a pleased one as she begins shuffling them.
Hermione cannot wait to teach him how to play spades and card counting. He’ll be a whiz at it, she knows it for sure.