Nailed It, James.

Nailed it, James.

Lily: No one likes to be on the ground floor of a scandal like Sirius Black

Sirius: I am a bitch when I wanna be

god i hate you (affectionately)

McGonagall: In less than three minutes, James Potter has lost all the Gryffindor house points.

James: Is that a record?

James and Lily❤️

5/10 Valentines Day ships

You Can Hear It In The Silence

A/N: I was going to wait until tomorrow to post this, but it’s going to be a pretty busy day for me, so have it a day early! Please note that this is written by a verbal, hearing person, who saw the prompt and wanted to attempt it, so everything may not be completely accurate. Also big shoutout to @women-inthe-sequel for editing this monster. 

Summary: Lily is non-verbal and deaf in a world where the things your soulmate says about you end up written on your skin. She has known about her soulmate since she was seven, but knows they don’t have a clue she exists and possibly never will.

Ao3

The world around Lily is quiet.

Not that this is particularly concerning to her. It’s not. She’s lived in silence her whole life, for as far back as she can possibly remember. She wouldn’t know what to do in a world with so much noise anyway, she thinks, as she rides the train and watches as people talk to one another. 

She does wonder what that is like, however. Being able to talk to another person without the use of her hands. 

She knows other people like her — people that are deaf — can talk with their voices, but Lily’s has never worked. She has tried. She has gone to years of speech therapy to get her vocal cords working, but they just… don’t. 

She could tell by the way her speech therapist hadn’t been able to hide his disappointed look when she tried. 

Which is fine, honestly. 

It isn’t as if she can’t communicate at all. 

She has her hands, and the people closest to her know how to sign. She can read lips and write out on a notebook for personal requests or conversation. 

But there’s one person who she isn’t able to talk to because her voice doesn’t work. 

One person who she desperately, miserably has wanted to talk to since she was seven and had first noticed the scrawl of their words across her arm. 

She looks down, seeing them now, knowing that they’re still out there. Somewhere. 

Waiting for her.

I hope you’re out there, the words on her forearm read. I know by this point, it’s pretty unlikely, but I still hope you are.  

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