The Caitlin which Sabrina remembered at Hogwarts had been a much different witch than the one who now sat at the table, her hands wrapped about the slowly cooling cup of tea. That Caitlin had merely had an altercation with an older student which had led to various levels of teen drama. That Caitlin had still believed herself to be a strong woman who could face hardship with a laugh and a stubborn tilt of her chin. But the years had moved onward from her fifth year and she had found that fears once unfounded were demons only waiting on the right moment to get her. And they had. She had no proof of her attacker - in fact, she knew she hadn't recognized anyone - but she felt, deep in her gut, that this had been a very personal attack. And the only person she knew who had a truly personal vendetta against her...

She gave a shake of her head, looking up at Sabrina and doing her best to be interested in the idea of working up some sorts of hand signals, but those couldn't express what she needed words for. She had tried to write things out, but it was a slow and she had never been good at expressing herself in the written word. But Sabrina's own energy pulled energy from somewhere in the depths of Caitlin and, before she knew it, she was responding to Sabrina's enthusiasm and copying the gestures which the other girl was giving to her. 

But, once she had used the various gestures, she felt a bit lost. She had been a witch of words. Many words. According to people, like Nat, she didn't know how to anything other than talk. Talk and never listen. Well, she'd been learning how to listen now and it had made her less prone to want to talk. To a degree. Or maybe, despite her Gryffindor courage, she was afraid of failing to learn a new way to talk.