Music Of The Night

by C.M. Oliver is eastwoodgirl

In Harry's 6th year, he discovers a side to Severus Snape that he never expected. Six years after that fateful night, the now-Professor Potter is back in the dungeons to learn of magic beyond what they do at Hogwarts... and perhaps fall in love as well... with a ghost of his former Potions Master? What illusion is showing in the stillness of the night? Post-DH. EWE. Snarry slash.

4. Down Once More

MUSIC OF THE NIGHT (T; Romance/ Drama/ Mystery; HP/SS)

Warnings: see Prologue.

Disclaimer: see Prologue

A/N: Thanks for the reviews/ follows/ favorites. Reminder my lovely readers: 10 REVIEWS =1 CHAPTER for my next update. Anyway, please enjoy this chapter. To those who are wondering when Snarry would begin… we get a tiny glimmer here. I will be pacing this story as naturally as I would do the others… slowly, then it suddenly hits you. This chapter will give us a bit more back story, then a preview of our beloved pair. Thank you for your patience. (See end notes).

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Music of the Night

By C.M. Oliver

©2013

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Chapter 3: Down Once More

Potter's rendition of 'Phantom of the Opera' suddenly stopped. The masked man held his breath as soft, agile fingers wiped –wait, were those tears escaping the young man's closed eyes? His almost non-existent heart started beating madly. Should the brat open his eyes and look his way…

Potter didn't. He sighed in relief. He had just gone down from the unexpected surprise, when the masked man found his breath hitching again –the emerald eyed professor finally spoke.

"It was many years ago, in this very room, when I had accidentally found out,' the soft voice echoed perfectly in the small space. It seemed like he was addressing an invisible confessor. The emerald eyes remained hidden, as if opening them would break whatever enchantment he was under in. The masked man found himself drawn to listen to Potter for the very first time.

"He was always so harsh and cold, to me, especially –but that night –that night made me see the real him for the very first time. For the very first time, I saw him without his mask on." A small smile graced the young man's face, making him look more like his age of twenty-three. "Had he known that I was there, I know he wouldn't even think twice and cart me off to Voldemort." A shaky laugh escaped the young man's lips. The masked man frowned. Potter had found out about his secret long ago and kept it? If he found out that Potter had told anyone… a resurrected Voldemort would be the least of the brat's problems.

"It doesn't matter," Potter was now saying, as if in response to the masked man's unvoiced threat. "Sometimes I could not help but wish that he'd just caught me back then… then maybe, I could ask him, and maybe I could ask what his secret was –what fired his passion. Maybe he'd tell me, maybe not. But at least I asked. At least I wouldn't feel as lost as I am right now…"

'Lost?' The masked man wondered. More tears came, but Potter made no move to wipe them off. Nonetheless, his monologue continued.

"He's saved me countless times before. He never knew how thankful I am. I never told him…" A quiet sigh. "Bloody git. Even from the grave he still manages to save me. I doubt I'd still be breathing if not for him." A snort. "if he could see me now, he'd flay my skin off and deep fry it in boiling oil –then he'd lecture me for being an idiotic, self-centered Gryffindor. He'd tell me –" Potter paused again, this time his fingers flying up to wipe away the tears. The masked man's lips tightened. What would HE tell Potter? He waited for the young man to recover, all the while, conflicting thoughts swimming around his head. 'This is preposterous –'

"He'd tell me it's not my fault he's dead," came the almost breathless conclusion. Potter was evidently fighting a sob and losing the battle. 'Potter is baling himself?' The masked man's ears perked up. 'Bloody Gryffindor –'

"I'd rather have him laugh at my face for thinking stupid thoughts. I'd rather have him playing here and catching me trying to listen outside his secret door… I'd much rather have him alive…"

A loud 'CLANG' sounded as Potter's arms dropped onto the keyboard. The young man then finally opened his eyes and looked around him… no that he would see anything out of the ordinary there. For the Phantom of his dreams had already left, the moment that last word fell from his lips; The one cloaked in darkness clutched the mask stuck to his face as he hastily departed, his racing heart ensconced in the other hand.

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Harry decided to go to Hogsmeade the following afternoon after turning down an invite to eat lunch with the Malfoys at Diagon Alley. Students weren't scheduled to visit the village yet, so the young professor almost had the place to himself. The midday shopper's rush already abated. The emerald-eyed man found himself walking past the colorful shop displays, all the way to the end of the high street, past the edge of the village's main thoroughfare. All the while, he kept his head down, his gaze never leaving the dirt-laden ground. A looming shadow crossed his path eventually. He stopped to look up.

'It's still here… After all these years… I can't believe it's still standing…'

The dilapidate structure called out to him from a distance; like a good-old scarecrow, it drove away anybody else that would dare try to approach and disturb the secrets it concealed –but not to Harry. To him, it served as a beacon. The Ministry had condemned the building for demolition just right after the war. However, it took only one impassioned plea from the Vanquisher of Voldemort to let it remain as a 'historical marker'.

The rusty hinges were barely holding the rotting front door up. There were gaping holes in the badly-boarded up windows. A large portion of the walls had noticeable smoke damage. A part of the roof had even caved in near the back. It was the first time in five years that Harry was stepping inside the Shrieking Shack.

The rumor mills have been busy in the last five years. Since during the time of the Marauders when Remus used to escape there for his monthly transformations, stories of 'violent' ghost sightings have never been more rampant as it were right after the Second Wizarding War, There were villagers who claimed to have seen the flicker of candle lights coming from the abandoned building, some even reckon that they have seen moving shadows through the windows, usually right before dawn and right after dusk. Still, many others claimed as far as to having seen a masked ghoul, floating through the Shack's rundown walls.

But no matter what the unassuming villagers would see, their stories always come together on what they would hear during these apparitions: Everyone who had something to say about these 'Shrieking Shack Ghost Encounters' would tell you about the smooth and low haunting baritone that they would sometimes hear singing just as the sun rose, or set, as the case maybe.

Despite the rumors that the ghost, who consensus would claim as a man, was a malevolent spirit, none have actually ever encountered his wrath in the last five years –In fact, it appeared to just keep to the shack, singing with that enthralling, otherworldly voice of his.

Harry Potter had never heard of these stories, surprisingly.

A gentle push, and the door opened to let the young professor in. His eyes immediately took in the familiar surrounding, and at once, it all came rushing back to him…

He remembered coming back here alone that day, fresh from killing the darkest wizard to have ever lived. He remembered being covered head to foot with blood and muck. He remembered running blindly towards the old rundown building with one thing, and only one thing in his mind:

'I need to get him back,'

There was no body there when he had arrived. Harry feared for the worst. Voldemort's defeat did not necessarily mean that all of his followers were caught or killed as well. Up to now, there were the likes of Rosier and Avery who were still on the loose. What horrible things could they have done to the dead body of a well-known traitor? Severus Snape had immediately pardoned and absolved of all the criminal charges against him after Harry had decided to release the man's memories to the DMLE. He was sure that had Snape been alive, the man would've killed him for doing so, but it was a risk well worth it. Severus Snape was now truly a free man even in death.

There had been no body, but a funeral was arranged. Snape's marker was laid to rest amongst the fallen heroes in Godric's Hollow. He was laid to rest next to the only woman he'd ever loved, Lily Evans-Potter. Harry thought it prudent that the two once-friends be reconciled even in death. Snape had more than made up for the 'mudblood incident' in their fifth year, Harry reckoned, as well as revealing Trelawney's damned prophecy to Voldemort. It had been paid more than tiwce over, in Harry's opinion.

When Harry's memories brought him back to the present, he found himself staring at a dark space. He casted a softly-whispered 'Lumos'. The walls were grimy, although the floor was less dusty than what he would have expected. Cobwebs dotted every nook and cranny, every crevice in the exposed ceiling. His feet made a hollow sound as he took thrifty steps towards that all-too familiar corner by the back. The floor boards creaked as he knelt reverently on that spot.

There had been so much blood –so, so much blood. He could almost still feel the crimson liquid staining his hands, directly pouring out of the man's neck. 'Look at me,' he had said, and Harry did.

He had 'Scourgified' himself hundreds of times that day –he had even stood under a piping-hot shower for hours… But no matter what he did, he could not help but feel those eyes still on him, the voce beckoning him to see, the warm blood still on his hands…

And all he did was look…

He had been too shocked to speak that day. He wasn't ready for Snape to die. He'd never be ready to have the man die in his arms –how was he to know? What was he supposed to have said?

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered to the now, blood-free wall. "Thank you." Tears began welling up his eyes. Harry brushed them away and smiled. "You'd kill me for saying this, but I miss you, I really do." That sentiment lingered in the silence that permeated the dimly-lit Shack next. It lasted until Harry felt his knees go numb. The sun was about to set when he stood up from his spot, brushed the dust that had accumulated in his robes away and took a final look around him. He gently closed the rotting door as he left. He'd be missing dinner in the Great Hall once more. Hermione would kill him.

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Just as the front door of the Shrieking Shack had been closed for the second time in five years, its often-used cellar door opened. A tall, dark figure emerged from its shadows and on to the rapidly darkening room above. The man was cloaked in shadows, masked in light, and in that room, he was hidden from the rest of the world. He took out his own wand and cast a weak 'Lumos' –just enough to see a few inches in front of his face, but not beyond. His dark eyes pierced through his mask, glowing in the bluish-white light, coming from the tip of his wand. He had seen Potter come by. He heard every whispered word that came from the young man's lips. He had now just began to piece together the puzzle that had been plaguing his mind since last night…

'Potter, you will be the death of me. Why? Why can't you just let it go?'

The light emitted by his spell work began to falter as the moon rose. The masked man sighed as his wand arm dropped to his side. He promised. He made a promise to leave him alone… but how could he let Potter, for the very life of him, waste away? How could he not save the Savior from his very own ghost? His guilt? His memory?

'I'm long dead –why should I care? Why should I continue to care?'

All he wanted was a quiet life –death –was that too much to ask? He knew he should just leave the young man alone; if he was to peacefully exist in the safety and solitude of the shadows, he should stay away. Let Potter wallow in his guilt and throw away his life. But would that do anything good for his conscience? Contrary to popular belief, he did have one. It wasn't just guilt or a favor for a dear friend that moved him to help the Gryffindor, no. There was an honest-to-goodness, living, breathing conscience residing within the depths of his soul… and maybe a tiny bit of concern too, for the boy who's life mirrored his, in more ways than one.

Should he risk his life –death –to save Potter again? Yes, there were risks, and they far outweigh all that he cared about right now, if he was to be honest with himself. A pale hand reached up to touch his bemasked face. Maybe there was a way this could work. Yes, there was a way to deliver his final 'hurrah' for the Boy-Who-Lived-To-Defeat-The-Dark-Lord –and still hold on to his peaceful afterlife and his sanity.

'All the trouble I go into for you, Potter… you ought to be building shrines for me, not following my footsteps to your imminent doom,'

A plan formed in the masked man's mind: he would resurrect the Savior back to life, rescue him from the shadows and reinstate him in the light where he truly belonged. It should be easy, shouldn't it? Then, after it all, he could finally enjoy the rest of his death in peace and quiet as he should… easy.

That is, if it all went according to plan. There is still something to be said about Harry Potter and the best-laid plans not going together. The man grimaced. If Fate should ever decide to help him, now would be the best time,

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Harry bypassed the Great Hall wherein dinner was still in full swing. He'd deal with Hermione tomorrow. Right now, he just wanted to sleep. He felt tired, way too tired –like he'd been all his life. The walled entrance to his quarters greeted him. He caressed the wall like usual and whispered: "phantom." This time however, the stoned refused to budge. The young professor frowned.

"Hey –What's the matter with –Phantom!" said Harry, a little more forcefully. However, the wall remained as still as ever. With a glare, he raised his wand and pointed it at the stones guarding the entrance to his rooms.

"I, Harry James Potter, Master of this School, demand that you grant me entrance to the rooms beyond!" The stone touching the tip of his wand glowed, as spidery lines began to emerge from it and formed into words:

Only a true Potions Master is worthy of entrance to the secrets I conceal. Speak if you wish to know what I may reveal.

"What –" The wall was glowing with the gleaming words etched into it by unseen hands. Harry furrowed his brows. But before he could react further, more words appeared to join the rest:

I am useless when alone, only danger rouses me; Forgotten on my own, heralded when the Dead beckons thee.

The young professor's mouth was agape. "Are you seriously asking me to answer that?" More words appeared on the wall:

The next words you say out loud shall be your answer. Think hard.

Harry shook his head. What was this day coming to? How o earth did someone manage to break into the enchantments of his room? Sure, he wasn't a spell-crafter or and expert warder like Bill Weasley, but he did learn a lot about the art, thanks to the scribbled-in margins of the Half-Blood Prince's book that he had recovered, miraculously in one piece, inside the charred Room of Requirement. He was certain that nobody else aside from him had discovered the wealth of warding spells and hexes from the much-maligned Potions book of Severus Snape –so, how indeed was this happening? Harry stared at the wall thoughtfully. The spidery scrawl looked familiar, but the rough surface of the stones distorted it enough for him not to get a clear identification of the hand writing. This looked bad. It reminded him of that Chamber of Secrets fiasco in his second year.

Should he cast a 'Revealio?' That would probably be a bad idea. No, Harry doubted that would work. Whoever did this would have to have been smart enough not to leave a magical signature… He sighed. The words glowed an eerie green, almost mockingly. It seemed that there was no other way through it –he was answering the damned riddle.

'Okay, useless when alone, only needed when in danger?' Harry mused in his head. 'That's easy… an antidote. But what about that second line? A potion that's forgotten unless the Dead is calling? Wait, but 'Dead' is capitalized… could it mean a potion called "Dead?' But –as far as I know, there's only one called as such –and the potion, of course, a spell could be used in its stead. As far as antidotes go, however –but of course! The antidote top the Draught of the Living Dead is…'

"THE WIDE-AWAKE POTION!" Harry exclaimed. "The Wide-Awake Potion is deemed useless since there are other concoctions that are easier to make that produces the same effect. However, it is the only known antidote to the Draught of the Living Dead. And without it, it's practically forgotten by brewers!"

The wall in front of Harry melted away. He walked towards the entrance to his rooms with a satisfied smirk on his face.

"Hah! Take that, you stupid wall –"

But apparently, the stone wall did not like being called stupid. As soon as Harry breached the threshold, he was hit and knocked out by an unseen force filed of some sort. The poor young professor was caught unaware and unguarded. He slumped down on to the cold stone floor beneath his feet, completely passed out.

As soon as he did, a shadowed figure emerged from just right behind him, The cloaked man's face was half-hidden by his white mask, but a smile could be seen forming in his pale, exposed lips. He knelt down next to Professor Potter's slumbering form, and with one cold hand, brushed a few stray hairs covering the young Potions Master's handsome face. A long finger traced the infamous scar on the Wizarding Savior's forehead.

"I missed you too, Potter –and I'd kill my own ghost first before saying that to your face." He smirked. "Now what did I tell you about using my own creations against me? I have to admit that it took me longer than I had anticipated to break the enchantments you've put in. But really, your choice of password put me off. It was almost of no challenge." The masked man sighed. "I'd love to stay out here and reminisce with you, but something tells me that your position down here isn't quite comfortable as it looks." He lifted the prone form into his arms. "Now let's get you inside so we could properly catch up, shall we? We have a lot to discuss, starting with how on earth did you manage your Potions Mastery. Inspired guessing by the way. Worry not though, you don't have to answer riddles each time you require passage to my, -fine –your quarters. What on earth moved you to room down here anyway, other than the obvious fact that you are a down right masochist? What am I saying? Oh well, we shall learn of it later. We'll see if yo can really fill in the 'dungeon bat' shoes my death has left behind."

As soon as the masked man entered the private space with Harry in his arms, the wall behind them solidified once more.

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When Harry woke up, bright lights immediately assaulted his vision. Had he forgotten to 'Nox' the candles out? Was it morning already? He shook his head/ He tried to think back to the last thing he could remember: Somebody had charmed his entrance wall, he answered the bloody riddle… and the rest was blank. He sat up in his bead, apparently he had made it there for some reason. Why couldn't he remember anything else? Was he in danger? He checked the wand strapped to his left arm –it was still there though. Should he inform the Headmistress of the break in? What were the odds of it being all a dream though? They would think him crazy. Great, another scandal involving the Brave and Eternally Might Gay Savior. Bad idea. And besides, he can protect himself from anything. If there was indeed someone who wished to do him harm, it should be of no concern… now how the heck did he get into his bed? He checked himself. All his body parts seemed to be complete and able… where did he get the black silk pajamas he was wearing? They looked practically ancient! He'd never own such a thing… wait, what was that? Was that music he was hearing?

He threw the covers off himself, jumped from the four-poster bed and ran.

Someone was in the hidden piano room!

Harry was almost out of breath when he reached his destination. With a shaky hand, he hurriedly lifted the old birch tapestry up, his wand gripped tightly in the other. He readied himself to curse whoever managed to intrude inside his rooms. But when harry pushed the plain wooden door open, he froze at what he saw.

It was a case of déjà vu: candles, shadows, dark hair, dark robes… it had to be a dream, Harry thought. There was no way… He moved as slowly as he could manage, as if any sudden gestures would disturb the mirage –had it been one.

'Snape?' It was the first thing that came to Harry's mind. But the apparition he was seeing did not seem to be a ghost, and the man had died in his arms, Then, who was this? The man wore a mask, covering most of his face with the exception of his thin lips. His longish, brushed back ebony hair served as the perfect foil for the stark-white covering his true identity. Through the holes of the mask, Harry could tell that the man's eyes were closed. The man was deeply entrenched in playing 'Phantom of the Opera'. Harry stared in awe as realization suddenly hit him, full force.

"Phantom," Harry whispered. The music stopped.

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-END OF CHAPTER 3-

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A/N: Up next: Chapter 4: Angel of Music. Harry finally meets the elusive masked man. 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:

FACEBOOK: C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl (#cmoliverfanfiction)

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Until next time –C.