Chapter Text
When Draco wakes hours later, it's a dull silence that greets him. He's gotten used to the ringing or difficulty hearing after dozens of Crucios wracking through his body, but this? Complete, utter silence as if someone cast a Muffiato over his ears. Mother leans over, soft hand caressing his cheek. She says something, but Draco's can't focus enough to read her lips, eyes swollen and head fuzzy.
"I can't hear you, Maman" he mouths, though no sound reaches his ears.
A single tear stains her cheek as the world blurs into nothingness again.
𓇢𓆸
His hearing doesn't come back.
He's pushed aside from action - a deaf soldier deemed useless to the cause. They delegate him to strategizing - in eyes of most, an ungreatful, degrading task - but Draco doesn't mind. At least the Crucios stopped. And they don't call upon him to carry out punishments. He's left to ghost the Manor most days. He finds he prefers it that way.
He gets summoned only once. New prisoners to identify. Aunt Bella drags him toward the figures. His mind casts a mirage, as if his hearing has come back to make him listen to her sickly sweet voice, ordering him to sentence them to death. He feels her Legillimens spell scratch at his careful wards. 'Is this Harry Potter?' He glances back at her. Her mouth is in rapid movement. Ah. They're trying to keep up the pretenses. He focuses back on the man in front of him.
Occlumency shields snap back into place so fiercly he almost winces.
A glittering ocean. Waves lazily washing onto the shore. The sand is golden. It gleams in the sun, an infinity of miniscule crystals. There's an empty boat. Push everything onto it and release it into the expanse.
"What's wrong with his face?" the air around him moves, as if Bellatrix has resumed her speech.
The ocean the ocean the ocean.
He remains staring into the unmistakable emerald eyes until a sharp nail digs into his back. Time to speak.
"I can't be sure"
'Come on Draco, darling, look again, look closely and say, Is this Harry Potter?' The claws dig deeper into his walls. Draco bets she regrets making him her Occlumency practise dummy now.
"No" he's jerked back out of the room, losing sight of Potter and his gang.
Good luck.
𓇢𓆸
Now that he's not included in most meetings anymore - What benefit of finding an interpreter for a mere strategist? He'll just read over the report, is his guess at their logic - Draco splits his days between practising wordless magic and the dungeons. Ollivander avoids him most times - aside from when he brings aid - he supposes he can't blame the man, not really. Luna, ever the sweet soul, is more chatty. She's the first outsider he confides in about his deafness. In turn, she makes sure to speak slow and enunciate her words so he can catch them. She doesn't know sign language, but vows to learn it after the war. Sweet, sweet soul. He wishes he could offer more than occasional food and conversation. He's tempted to bring them potions or tend to their wounds - though other spells still require quite a bit of work, he's always been particularly skilled at healing magic, spoken or not. But that would be too risky for the captives - if they were found to have been healed, the next strike would've been a thousand times worse. Yet he can't leave them like this, with dirty, scabbed wounds, threatening an infection at every turn. So he settles on casting small cleansing and healing charms, not noticeable enough to draw the untrained eye, but enough to alleviate some of the pain.
He leaves the Manor only once - sneaks off on a particular busy morning, clad in a Disillusionment charm. He visits a single store, a piece of parchment in hand, just in case.
"Do you have any books on Sign Language?"
𓇢𓆸
Draco isn't there when Vincent Crabbe dies. It was a logical decision - with no means of proper communication, he's the only one skilled enough in Legillimency after all, his presence would only cause more chaos.
Still, he can't help blaming himself for the death of his friend.
𓇢𓆸
Draco doesn't take much part in the battle - left to his own devices, in a dark cloak, he sneaks around healing as many people as he can reach. Death Eaters don't pay him much mind - why bother worrying about the sidelined soldier when the battle roars on?
𓇢𓆸
When Hagrid comes carrying Potters' lifeless body, time stops. Draco desperately tries to mend the redheads' mangled limbs, when he feels everything around him still. He looks up. Nearly drops to the ground. He hides in the crowd, just enough to maintain a clear view. The Dark Lord gesticulates wildly.
A movement. Light stir. Subtle enough to miss. Harry Potter lives.
Now or never.
"POTTER!" he bellows, with all the air in his lungs. "CATCH!"
The rest is a blur. A clash of red and green. Voldemort is dead. Harry Potter wins.