MUSIC OF THE NIGHT (T; Romance/ Drama/ Mystery; HP/SS)
Warnings: see Prologue. Additional: Someone reminded me to mention that there was a slight Weasley bashing in Chapter 1. Sorry, forgot about it. It was just tiny anyway, not enough to cause alarm. And why am I warning you here, now? Carry on…
Disclaimer: see Prologue
A/N: Thank you for your kind words of encouragement. Can we make a deal though? 10 REVIEWS =1 CHAPTER. Can we try that if it works? I hope it isn't too much to ask seeing as there are currently about twenty of you who follow this story. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter.
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Music of the Night
By C.M. Oliver
©2013
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Chapter 2: Phantom
It was after dinner of Harry's first day at teaching. He had just downed his sixth vial of headache potion. If it continued on the way that it did, he'd have to brew a cauldron more of it, just for his personal use.
Merlin, were those first years ever that draining back in his time? It was only the first day in the lab, a day of introductions, and Harry had already had to prevent an innocent, bystander cauldron from being knocked over and exploding in their faces. Harry sighed as he slumped down in one of the armchairs by the fireplace in his private office. Aside from requesting a three-seater sofa, he hadn't had anything changed in the room. Even the desk he was using, which was now run over by parchment and quills, was still the original desk that had been there before.
"Odin?" Harry called. A tiny, ancient-looking house elf appeared.
"Odin in here sir. Master Professor Potter called. What Master Professor be needing?" Odin bowed deeply. No matter how he tried, the elves could never be goaded into calling him just 'Harry'. The new Potions Master smiled at the house elf who seemed to be a strange cross between Kreacher (at his best) and Dobby (at his tamest).
"Just a bottle of scotch please, Odin. Thank you."
The little elf popped out and back with a handsome crystal decanter and a wide shot glass, "Anything else, Master Professor Sir?" Harry shook his head wordlessly and Odin was gone. He then poured a good two fingers of the amber liquid into the glass and downed it in one go. The burn it had caused his throat was a pleasant one, a welcomed warmth in contrast to the coldness of the dungeon air. He helped himself to another glass… and then another… and another. It had been a habit he had developed just right after the war – a coping mechanism that kept him sane amidst all the hype and the controversies that being the Vanquisher of Voldemort entailed. It was not a good practice, Harry knew, but it helped nonetheless. Not half an hour later, he was half-way through the bottle without realizing it…
Wait, was that movement in the corner of his eye? Harry frowned. Was he already starting to see things? It usually took him longer than this to get drunk. Was it because of stress? He could swear he saw that tapestry to his right flutter. Was it the wind perhaps?
'Okay, I'm drunk.' Harry declared to himself as he shook his head. 'Wind? In the dungeons? It must have really been a strong scotch.' He stood up from his seat, aiming to reach his bedroom perhaps, but a couple of steps later, and he was already passed out on the cold dungeon floor.
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Harry woke up a few hours later with a sore neck and a hell-raising headache. A quick glance around and he had pronounced himself relatively safe and unharmed in his private office. He must have passed out on the floor –but wait a minute, he was on the sofa now? He rubbed the back of his head as he decided to sleep off the rest of his apparent drunkenness in the comforts of his four-poster bed. Good thing he could sleep in as he had no morning classes the following day…
Wait, there it was again. He was pretty sure that the tapestry moved this time –just right before he turned to head for his bedroom. It can't be the wind, this was the dungeons for Circe's sake! A ghost then? A poltergeist? No, these rooms were warded against them… Harry felt the beginnings of a full-blown headache coming on. It hadn't been this bad since the day the Wizarding World found out he was gay.
Okay, that sleep could wait no longer. The emerald-eyed man decided to just forget his mind's hallucinations –after all, it must have been a mere trick of the light. And right now, he needed his sleep if he were to survive another day teaching dunderheads.
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The man was cloaked in shadows, his face, seemingly perpetually obscured by a mask of light… and yet his dark eyes still managed to pierce right through. For so long, he existed in solitude; his night was their day, and in the embrace of nothing but moonlight, he had became what he had so longed to be. For so long, all was well –the world turned without him, but it did not concern him one bit. As long as they left him alone, he was okay. But of course, that blasted Harry Potter had to come in and change all that. The emerald-eyed young man had invaded his space, his domain, his sanctuary…
The masked man smiled to himself. Potter had even gone to the extent of warding it against ghosts. Getting past the brat's defenses would be all too easy –after all, had he not taught the young man himself? He would just have to be patient. The supply of scotch had already been dealt with… he snorted. What Potions Master does not recognize a Sleeping Draught? And that password was, although peculiar for Potter, hardly a challenge for him.
And the anti-ghost wards? It does not exactly work against the living now, does it? No, Potter would not take his final resting place away from him. He would not let it happen. Potter wanted his sanctuary for himself? He will not give it up without a fight.
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Harry's second day of teaching did not fare any better. The second and third years were as bad as the firsties. Seriously, could it get any worse than this?
"Hey Harry, are you okay?" Harry met the concerned face of his pregnant best friend. "Are the students as horrible in Transfiguration as they are in Potions, Mione? I'm seriously considering blasting the whole lot if as so much as another idle cauldron explodes." The two former Gryffindors were walking towards the Great Hall right after their final classes for that day. The bushy-haired witch gave him a comforting smile. "You'll get used to it, Harry. You're a great teacher. Remember DA? All of us there passed our NEWTS in DADA, Charms and even Transfiguration in flying colors –"
"Whoever thought that teaching Potions to a bunch of overly-excited, hormonal teenagers is a sound idea ought to be shot in the head. I don't know what I was thinking. This is pure madness! I've just barely grasped the concept, maybe –"
"Don't say it, Harry! You're rather brilliant when you apply yourself to something and you know it!" Hermione admonished him. "I'm sure Professor Snape would be proud of your accomplishments if he could see you now."
"Want to be on that?" Harry snorted. "I'll put my Firebolt Infinity on the line that he's laughing his ass off in some Potions after-life at my expense." Then, his face fell. "I'd much rather have him laughing to my face though." He shook his head. He stopped walking and began to turn towards the direction he came from. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mione. I have a stack of papers on my desk that won't grade themselves –"
"Aren't you coming to dinner at least? You already skipped lunch and –"
"Nah, I'll just have food sent downstairs," he lied to her. "Say hello to the Ferret for me. I haven't seen him all day."
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Harry was pinching the bridge of his nose, ten minutes into grading his first year's essays: 'Describe the ways in which poor preparation of ingredients could lead to disastrous results in Potions-Making.' The last one had garnered a resounding 'P'. Even Grawp could write better than the twerp. Was his own handwriting ever this atrocious? He had requested for a 12-inch essay on the topic. So far, none of his firsties had even managed to hold his attention for the first three inches. He discarded the parchment in his hand and eyed his still tall stack of papers rather warily –he'd never assign another essay ever again. As he reached for the next 'torture text' by one Melissa Avery, he thought he'd seen it…
Was that a billow of black robes? Harry rubbed his eyes. He hadn't been drinking, so he couldn't plead drunkenness. He fingered the wand he kept holstered in his left arm, no matter what –an old throwback from the Second War, a habit he had developed. No one should be able to breach his wards, alive or dead –more like no one would dare –but one can never be too sure. As the late Alastor Moody would say, 'Constant Vigilance!' Harry decided to resume his grading, but kept an alert stance nevertheless.
But a lot could be said about attempting to read and grading senseless chicken scrawls though, as minutes later, the ever-vigilant Professor Potter was nodding off to sleep. He did not see anything that might've resembled black robes until he finally drifted off to dreamland.
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The man smirked to himself. Sometimes, Potter was just too predictable; He did bypass the alcohol that night, but a little reading and he was out like the light. The man quietly glanced around the space: Potter hardly changed a thing, which relieved him, for although he had stayed elsewhere during the day, he was still attached to the Spartan space. At least the Gryffindor did not dare mess with his aesthetics.
Said emerald-eyed Lion was now deeply slumbering on his old desk; Potter's delicate arms served as cushion to his mop top head. A pile of graded homework was scattered to his right; a much larger of ungraded ones got knocked over by a haphazard elbow onto the stone floor at some point. The man snorted. Judging by the impossible handwriting, it had to be first years. All of a sudden, he felt sorry for the young man. Quietly, he gathered the fallen pieces of parchment and replaced them on the desk. He glanced at a clock that now resided on the once-bare mantelpiece. He had a few hours to spare. His dark eyes then fell back onto the stack of ungraded homework…
An hour later, all of Professor Potter's first year essays were neatly stacked in a single pile to his right –all graded. An amused, dark-eyed man left the room, headed towards the birch tapestry, quite pleased with himself.
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"MALFOY! I NEED A WORD!" A visibly upset Harry Potter stormed all the way up to the Staff Table in the Great Hall, early the following morning. Curious looks followed him. The Potter-Malfoy school rivalry was legendary back in the day. Could this be a possible reprise? Many held their breaths as Harry finally rounded on Draco.
"Professor Potter, is something the matter?" Draco asked, looking genuinely surprised and at the same time, concerned. Harry maintained his rather impressive glare though as he tossed a roll of parchment towards his blonde colleague. "Read the one on top." He said stiffly. Draco gave him an inquisitive glare as Hermione looked on at them.
"What's going on, Harry? Draco?"
"You want me to read your student's essay?" Asked Draco, still sounding unsure. He unrolled the parchment and grimaced. "First year essays? There's a reason why I never assign them." Harry rolled his eyes. "Jus read the comments on the margin, Ferret," he breathed heavily. The blonde DADA Master frowned but did as he was told. Moments later, his pale face was indescribable. He gave Harry an awed look.
"Merlin, Harry! You're going to make this little girl cry! I did not know that you had it in you –"
"WHAT!" Harry scowled. "Give me that! I did not do this, okay? I fell asleep halfway through grading last night and woke up this morning with the rest of the papers done. When I checked the rest, they all had those nasty comments in the margins –tell me you did it as a prank, Malfoy –"
"What? No!" Draco exclaimed. "I haven't even been to your quarters yet! Why are you even thinking that it was me?" The blonde turned to his wife. "I didn't do it, Mione, I swear!" The bushy-haired witch sighed and took the liberty of reading the essay for herself. She grabbed it from Harry and began reading.
"Miss Dove, if your handwriting would be the reflection of your mental capacity, then I would say that it is a very accurate depiction. Your essay had the substance of a black hole, the grammar of a first-grader from a third-world country, and the sense of a Gryffindor charging head first to battling a 60-foot Basilisk armed with nothing but his wand…"
"Oh my," the pregnant witch exclaimed. "Are all of them this nasty?" Harry threw Draco a look as he spoke next. "Stupid Gryffindor jibes ring a bell?" Draco threw his hands up in a gesture of surrender and shook his head. "I do think that you Lions could be foolishly brave, but I'd never go as far as insulting the mental capacity and penmanship of a little firstie, Potter. I'm way past that." Harry sighed. "Well, if it isn't you, then who?" Thee two wizards had blank looks on their faces. Hermione on the other hand, had a thoughtful frown.
"That condescending tone sounded rather familiar. I would understand why Draco wouldn't possibly… I think he hardly got bad grades for his essays. But of all people, Harry, you should know." Draco sniggered at his wife's words. Harry frowned.
"What are you going on about, Hermione? My essays weren't that bad! You helped me with them!" Hermione glared at him. "Of course they were good! But your handwriting was certainly atrocious. Think, Harry. Who spent half the time commenting on your essays, criticizing the penmanship? Who?"
It was Harry's face's turn to be indescribable.
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It was Friday night. Harry had finally invited Draco and Hermione to his quarters. The Transfiguration Mistress immediately took to the neatly arranged bookshelves. The DADA Professor on the other hand gave his friend a look.
"Are you sure you aren't just channeling his ghost or something, Potter? This was his room for many years after all."
"If Severus Snape did have a ghost roaming around somewhere, he wouldn't be busy grading first-year essays." Harry said matter-of-factly.
"You'll never know," said Draco, looking around. "Merlin, this looks almost exactly like it did when he last lived here. By the way, I still think you've gone completely mental for choosing to room here."
"I like it simple," Harry reasoned. "And everything was just in fine working order –it would be senseless to change or throw anything out. The lab down here is superb. The desk is rather nice. The bed is huge –"
"You sleep in HIS bed?" Draco exclaimed, to which Harry gave him a blank look. The blonde sighed. "No wonder –" he then shook his head. "Never mind. Just a piece of advice, Potter. Refrain from wearing black. It's enough that you make a uniform of dark green. But one day, it's subconsciously writing nasty comments on essays –the next thing you know, you'll perpetually be garbed in black and your robes will begin to billow like bat wings in flight –and then your Dungeon Git persona is complete."
"Ha, bloody ha, Malfoy," Harry muttered through gritted teeth.
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The Malfoys had to leave early. As in Hermione's condition, she couldn't very well stay up much later. Harry was left with nothing to do that night. He did refrain from assigning essays, and there were no requests yet from the Hospital Wing. He glanced at the scotch. Draco thought he was already going mental; Hermione thought he was undergoing depression –alcohol would only worsen things. He vanished the whole decanter. His eyes then rested on the lone tapestry in his room. Perhaps tonight, he could devote time to music…
The room was always lit up, either with a Perma-charm on the candles, or the Castle's magic itself, Harry was unsure. He spared no second admiring the gleaming keys before sitting down. He loosened his cuffs and rolled up the sleeves of his bottle-green silk shirt up to the elbows. He racked his head for the opening notes to 'Phantom of the Opera', the song that carried the same title as the musical itself. He closed his eyes and listened to the melody in his head.
The first few bars were commanding, haunting and otherworldly. It carries the same air of mystifying allure as did the rest of the songs from the musical. For reasons that Harry could not bring himself to fathom, it greatly appealed to him –maybe it was the songs themselves… Or maybe, it was the story behind them…
It was about a mystical, spectral 'Angel of Music', a passionate maestro of musical theatre –and his rather charming but naïve protégé. This half-masked and mysterious cloaked man would appear to his unaware student in the dead of the night and teach her all that he knew about his craft. They would rendezvous amongst the shadows and make sweet, haunting music in the dark. Eventually, the teacher falls in love with his protégé. Sadly, it was unrequited. His student chooses another, leaving the masked Phantom solitary and heart-broken until the very end.
Harry found himself watching the muggle play in London's West End, the very first chance he got. He immediately fell in love with the dark and brooding masked 'angel' Erik –even though his costume reminded him rather startlingly of Death Eater garbs, the white mask especially. To date, he had seen the play nine times. He had even seen the movie adaptation a couple of time.
He felt for the Phantom. How hard must it have been to exist in the shadows, when the love of your life was constantly basking in the limelight? How hard must it have been to hide your true self, behind a mask –literally and figuratively –for all eternity? To deny your heart's desire? Your passion? Your purpose?
Harry felt the tears coming. He did not know why he became emotional whenever it came to that subject. A small voice fro the depths of his consciousness would argue: Erik reminded Harry of another dark, brooding and secluded man. He was unsure, truly, and yet he kept on playing. His fingers effortlessly gliding across the keyboard, surfing on long-held sentiments and unacknowledged emotions that ran deeper than the Marianas Trench. He kept his emerald orbs hidden, in an attempt to stave off the otherwise inevitable. He was lost in another world at that point in time –a world of dreams, regrets and make-believe.
It was a reality, Harry thought, that could never come true. And yet, had he stopped to open his eyes and wipe the tears away that very moment, he might've believed that fantasies were nothing but overrated realities waiting to happen. He might've believed that he had stepped into the Twilight Zone…
For there, by the concealed doorway leading to the very room he was in, was the Phantom if his very own dreams, dark eyes clouded in both wonderment and confusion at the image of the protégé that forever plagued his own reveries.
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The masked man stopped dead in his tracks.
Was that music? Coming from his secret room? Rage filled his senses. He would tolerate an invasion of his space, his domain… but no one would take his one true passion away from him, mock it, and get away with bloody murder… especially not Harry Bloody Potter. Who else would it be? He should have warded the damned thing in the first place. What was he thinking? Of course Potter would find out eventually. If there was anyone who would, it would be that nosy Gryffindor brat!
It began with a gift from his mother. When she had to give up magic in favor of keeping the peace in their household, she took up her side-hobby and turned it into her life-long passion. An unknown, warded room in their humble house's basement served as her music room. She would escape there with her then five-year old only son whenever her husband would turn violent from too much alcohol. The little boy was her only willing audience –and eventually, student. On the sly, she would teach him draughts and notes, elixirs and sharps, concoctions and measures… at seven, he was brewing potions and antidotes, performing sonatas and etudes on his own. It was a safe haven he had shared with her until tragedy struck when he was fifteen…
His mother had died a violent death in her own house, by her own husband's hands –the same man that had perished not long after in his sleep –at least according to the muggle police. The summer of the young man's sixth year, he stopped coming to that house; he stopped coming to that secret room in the basement. The darkest days of his life had begun shortly thereafter and that safe haven was momentarily forgotten. Only when the First War subsided did he find the time and urge to tap back into that hidden part of his earlier years. There was only one soul alive that knew of his other passion aside from Potions –and he'd rather have it that way.
But of course, Fate had other plans for its whipping boy.
What to do now? He can't very well murder the brat, could he? He made a promise in exchange for being left alone. But this breach wasn't part of that deal. And can corporeal –supposedly –ghosts even commit homicide? No, probably not, but there would have to be another way that he could keep the blasted Gryffindor away from his prized possession without bloodshed.
The masked man's pale hands plunged deep into his robes' pockets.
'A Stunner? Should I Obliviate him?'
His long fingers were tightly wrapped around an unregistered ebony wand on one hand, the other, on the decorative fringes edging the birch tapestry. He swiftly lifted it up, exposing the plain wooden door that lay behind it. He raised his wand, ready to hex the man on the other side of it even before he could see him, The door opened soundlessly…
The haunting melody froze him in both time and space.
Potter was playing 'Phantom of the Opera.'
What? How?
Harry Bloody Potter was playing 'Phantom of the Opera' with his blasted emerald eyes closed. The masked man could only stare in awe, murderous thoughts completely departing him, Harry, foolish, idiotic Gryffindor brat, Potter was caressing the keys of the masked man's precious grand piano like he had been born to do so –it was the last thing he had expected to see. His wand arm listlessly dropped to his side, his eyes never leaving the rather mesmerizing image.
The enthralling music suddenly stopped. The masked man held his breath.
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-END OF CHAPTER 2-
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A/N: Up next: Chapter 3: Down Once More. We get to see the beginnings of our dear Harry's personal encounters with our bemasked Phantom. And just as a reminder of our little deal: 10 REVIEWS =1 CHAPTER. I do it for my other Snarry story too… but let's try it in this one. See you in the following social media platforms as well:
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WANTED followers who won't mind me posting about LOL MIARREN. LOL CHILL, LOL CHILLARREN and personal rants. But to be fair, I'd love to here about your rants about the general unfairness of life as well. Let us be miserable together. I'm a very good listener (reader).
Until next time –C.