MUSIC OF THE NIGHT (T; Romance/ Drama/ Mystery; HP/SS)
Warnings: see Prologue.
Disclaimer: see Prologue.
A/N: Thanks for the reviews/ follows/ favorites. I love all of you. Keep them coming. I try to reply to your questions whenever I can, but I read all of your kind words religiously. Reminder my lovely readers: 10 REVIEWS =1 CHAPTER for my next update if you may. Please? I didn't get 10 last time , I got 8 I think, but I updated EARLIER anyway, so please be nice :). Anyway, please enjoy this chapter. Snarry begins. (OMFG –FINALLY!) (See end notes).
Additional: Introspection. This story deals with the development of human emotions rather than the actual emotions playing out themselves, so if you have no patience, this might unsettle you. However, if you like that kind of plot, then sit back, relax and enjoy the show. If you want something more action-packed, try my story, THE LAST PRINCE. If you want something a little darker, try ASHES. –C.
01010101010101010101010101010
Music of the Night
By C.M. Oliver
©2013
01010101010101010101010101010
Chapter 4: Angel of Music
"Phantom," Harry found himself whispering loudly before he could even stop himself. As soon as the word left his lips though, he almost wished that it didn't.
The man stopped playing and looked at him, dark eyes piercing through the stark-white half mask. He smiled a pleasant but ghastly smile and Harry could not help but shiver. He gripped his wand tighter.
"Who –who are you?"
The man's smile widened.
"I believe you called me Phantom," he said in a modulated voice, that seemed to have come from deep below the ground. Harry found himself almost trembling at the ethereal baritone. He raised his wand higher. "I don't believe you."
"What is it that you are finding hard to accept, that I exist, or that I had managed to breach your wards and enter this hidden chamber?" the man asked him. "But you are right. Phantom is not my name, but it will have to do. That is all you will ever need to address me," He stood up from the low bench he was sitting on and walked towards Harry. The masked man's steps were fluid and graceful –he moved almost like a dancer. Harry found his breath hitching when the man stopped about a foot away from him. The Phantom was easily taller than him. In his wonderment, he had not noticed his wand arm drop to his side,
"You are certainly not a ghost… Are –are you a dream?" Harry asked quietly. The Phantom reached out and let one long white finger brush the young professor's cheek. "I am as real as you make me, Harry." He said. "But it matters not. IN this room, there are no dreams, no realities, only possibilities." The Phantom turned away and made a move to sit back in front of the piano, looking very much at home. Harry found himself watching the mysterious man, transfixed. The masked man noticed this, and motioned for the young professor to join him on the bench. As soon as Harry was beside him, the Phantom resumed his playing. The emerald-eyed man could not help but be mesmerized by the way those fingers glided across the intermittent ebony and ivory. He wondered if he could ever play that well.
"It is not the hands that create the music," the Phantom said, as if reading Harry's thoughts. "You can see my fingers moving the keys, but that is just your eyes. Music encompasses all five senses –at times, it even transcends what is tangible, what is perceived by your basic senses. Most of the time, that, which is essential, is seen only by closing your eyes and heeding the beating of your heart. Do remember that." The man stopped playing and met Harry's contemplative gaze. "Would you like to learn, Harry?"
The emerald-eyed man looked taken aback, surprised at the Phantom's offer. "You would teach me, to play like you do, I mean?" The masked man shook his head.
"You are only as great as you allow yourself to be. It is well and good to learn from another's shadow, but a true maestro teachers you to cast your own. I will not teach you to play like me, or anybody else. I will help you discover your own music –the song of your soul –only then will you understand what I truly mean." The Phantom reached for Harry's hands –they were cold like his own –and placed them on the piano keys. The young professor stared at him.
"Is this really happening? Am I really going to be coached by a spectral maestro? Should I start calling you *Erik?" The Phantom laughed at Harry's awed state –even his laughter sounded surreal,, as if he rarely did it, Harry mused.
"This isn't exactly an opera house, but I am aware of what you are pertaining to," said the masked maestro. "Well, my dear protégé, do you think I should be christened 'Erik'?" Harry looked thoughtful for a few seconds before sighing. "No, Your name is not Erik. But if you are indeed a specter –a mere pigment of my imagination –maybe I could give you a name?" The Phantom paused, his dark eyes clouding as if in deep thought. "If you make it through all of your lessons, I shall give you leave to name me," He gestured at Harry's hands. "Now I need to assess your ability –"
"I can't read notes," Harry admitted sheepishly. "I don't have any formal training whatsoever. I had a madman out to kill me for most of my life –you don't have any idea how much time that takes away from piano lessons. I play by the ear –"
"Fascinating," the Phantom gave him a small smile. "You never seem to follow the norm now, do you? Well, it may be a little too ambitious to start now, but you don't need me for basic music lessons. I'm here to test your ability to follow directions, Harry. A good protégé knows how to heed his master's words." He glanced at Harry's hands on the keyboard before facing him again. "Close your eyes." Harry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing as he did as told. The Phantom grinned. 'The brat may not be hopeless at all.' he stood up from his seat and took up the space behind his now, protégé. "Play. I do not care what it is that you perform. Play the first thing that comes to mind –"
"With my eyes closed?"
"Remember," the Phantom smirked. "That which is essential, cannot be seen by the naked eye.
"You are quoting the Little Prince," said Harry despite himself.
"Paraphrasing," the Phantom corrected him. "You are getting way off-tangent, Harry. Let me remind you that this is a test of obedience, not musical prowess –"
"Fine," Harry sighed. "Sorry, but don't blame me if your ears start to bleed." The Phantom gently touched his shoulder. "I doubt that a specter such as I could bleed. But I appreciate the sentiment. Now begin, before I change my mind and take back my offer." Harry need no further admonishing. He wasn't going to turn down a chance to learn from a maestro –spectral or not. He racked his brain for the opening notes top the one song that was constantly playing in his mind…
"Play for me, Harry. Do not worry about your fingers. Play from the heart. Show me what is inside your soul…"
Harry found himself obeying the Phantom, his very own version of the spectral maestro. The man's voice was enough to put him in a trance. There were questions in his head, doubts in his heart –but all those melted away the moment his hands came to life. Why should he care who, or what the Phantom was? Or where he came from, or how he came to be? Here he was, living his life-long fantasy. It may not have been the same man under the mask, but did that matter now? This illusion was as closest as he could get to being thought by Severus Snape on his one true, albeit hidden, passion.
Was it a dream? A drug-induced illusion? Harry pushed all the thoughts plaguing his head away –there was time for those later. Right now, he wanted to prove to his maestro that he was worth the time and effort –just like he had wanted to prove himself to Snape all those years. He pulled forth all the emotions that defined the very core of his soul. His fingers began moving on their own accord. The young professor knew he was playing something, 'Music of The Night' supposedly, but for some reason, he could not hear a thing. He wanted to open his eyes badly and see why, but the haunting voice came back whispering, as if right next to his ear.
"Keep playing, Harry. Do not strain to hear it. Let it run over you. Let it go… Do not hold back. Let it go, Harry…"
Those softly- spoken words emboldened the new Potions Master; he was hitting the keys harder in rapid succession. The tempo was increasing… It felt angry –the song from within him was hard and rough –was that how he truly felt?
"Let it go… Let it fall… Do it Harry…"
The delicate fingers were now moving feverishly. His tempo was impossibly increasing still. Each key stroke was becoming more deliberate; Harry did not expect this at all. Was the song of his soul this angry? Violent? Aggressive? Was he keeping that all inside of him? He felt the climax building. His fingers were starting to hurt, and he knew he should stop –but he found himself seemingly unable to… However, just when Harry thought that he would already explode from the mounting emotions running through him, he heard the soft whisper once more.
"Stop."
Harry's hands were still, his eyes remained closed. He was almost too afraid to open them.
"Well done, Harry. Now, open your eyes."
Slowly, Harry complied. The moment he did, tears began to flow soundlessly. While he was playing in that trance, it felt rather heavy, somewhat contrived. His fingers moved angrily and his tempo ran like crazy. But now, after it all, somehow as the tears fell, it felt like he was also washing away a large portion of that heaviness. A small smile found its way to his lips, a sigh of relief. He then turned to his maestro. "I wish –"
But he found himself talking to nothing but air. Harry blinked as he was abruptly brought back to reality.
The Phantom of his dreams had just done its disappearing act.
01010101010101010101010101010
He'd have to be careful. He'd have to be really careful for this act to work. He did not expect Potter –he though he knew the young man through and through –he was wrong. Completely wrong.
For one, Potter had been quick to accept his existence: the emerald-eyed professor latched on to his spectral Phantom persona easily. If it was because the Gryffindor was a gullible mess or because he was immensely convincing, the masked Phantom did not bother to discern. Maybe Potter was just a hopeless fanatic of his own favorite musical. Something, however, burrowed into his musings and grabbed a hold of them, Maybe there was a deeper reason to Harry Potter agreeing to be his protégé.
For someone who could not read notes, someone with no formal training whatsoever, the young man was beyond passable. He had heard Potter play the night before, and it was brilliant; seeing him perform however, had been –there was no other word for it –consuming. Yes, Potter's rendition was violent, bitter, angry –regretful, even –but there was no denying the Lion's talent. Given enough time and proper direction, he could be a virtuoso…
But the bitterness had to go, the regret, the remorse. The Phantom sighed. Potter was so much like him that it was scary. The masked man sat in the darkness of the Shrieking Shack's cellar alone in his thoughts. He'd have to maintain the mirage, the illusion, the mystery of the Phantom. He'd have to discover how to get Potter to open up and trust him. He'd have to make the young man see the light behind the shadow of living for a dead man's memory. It was tall order. He shook his head. "What have I gotten myself into, Potter? Forget the shrine. You ought to be sacrificing virgins for me," The Phantom mused. "Death must have addled my brains somehow… that should be it. Not even Lily Potter's ghost can force me to do the things I do for you." Moonlight streamed through the large cracks on the floor, illuminating the masked man's partially concealed face. "Loath I am to admit Potter, but I actually might be caring for you."
01010101010101010101010101010
The next morning flew by in haste and soon Harry found himself sitting behind his private office desk, later that night. He was torn between wanting to stay awake, and willing for sleep to come and take him.
Had it been all a dream? It all felt too real though… the rush of playing for the Phantom, the relief he felt after releasing those pent up emotions, the awe of realizing that the man had managed to leave unnoticed… No, the right word would have to be surreal…
But was it really and elaborate illusion? The Phantom touched him; he felt the man right next to him. Can dreams even be tangible like that? What about the man's words? Did he exist in that room, and that room alone? Did it really matter if he was real or not? If it was Snape's ghost or a superb illusion of a deprived fantasy? If last night happened, or not? Harry felt a monster of a headache coming. It was all too confusing. If only he could see the man gain… He will, won't he? The Phantom promised to teach him. He promised. Harry shook his head. He was holding onto the word of an illusion. He was really… losing it. He got off his desk and almost rushed towards the hidden door. It was just as he had left it last night: empty.
Harry sighed as he took a spot on the bench. He stared at the gleaming polished keys as if willing them to give an answer to the puzzle in his head. After a few minutes though, the emerald-eyed man decided that waiting for piano keys to talk was futile. He did the next best thing though. He played them. Remembering the Phantom's words last night, he closed his eyes and let the emotions run through him: confusion, yearning, desire hesitance, guilt and sorrow. His fingers were deliberate and gentle; they were exacting and unsure at the same time, But unlike last night, Harry could hear the melody he was playing now: Music of The Night. He stopped upon realizing what he was doing.
"Pity, I was beginning to enjoy that," a deep voice to his right said. Harry's eyes flew open, and found himself eye-to-eye with none other than the Phantom. The man was staring at him in fascination. "Why did you stop, Harry?"
"How –what –where did you come from?" Harry stammered. The masked man smiled as he walked towards the stunned professor and sat beside him. Harry found his breath hitching as he felt the warm, familiar presence once more. "You tell me, Harry. Where do Phantoms go when they are not seeing to young and naïve protégés in the dead of the night?" The Phantom asked him right back. Harry stared at him.
"You mean to tell me that you have a super-secret lair somewhere below the dungeons?"
"Something like that," the masked man sighed. "Why did you stop playing a while ago?" A frown crossed Harry's face. He stood up and walked towards the far side of the room, away from the Phantom. "I –It didn't sound right –it didn't feel right," he said scornfully. The Phantom watched his young protégé from his spot on the bench. Despite the dislike evident in the emerald-eyed professor's tone, he still had a wistful look on his prematurely aged face. The maestro frowned. "Why is that?" he asked. The protégé met the dark, inquiring gaze and let out a deep breath.
"No matter what I do, something always feels missing for me when I try to play that song –"
"Music of The Night?"
Harry nodded. The masked man paused. "Just that song in particular?" he clarified. Harry nodded again. "It was the song I had wanted to play last night, but apparently, my soul had another melody in mind. I don't know, it's weird. It's as if I'll never get it right –" he shook his head. "I'll never do it justice."
"Your soul is angry, remorseful –lost." The Phantom looked at him thoughtfully. "You have so much regret and bitterness, sorrow and confusion… until you know what holds you back, what pulls you down…" The masked man gestured next to himself. "Come and sit next to me, Harry. We'll figure this out together. Sit with me and close your eyes while –"
"If you disappear on me –"
"I won't," the spectral maestro assured him with a smile. Harry found his protests melting at that. He sighed and closed his eyes. HE could still feel the Phantom's warmth against his side. He relaxed considerably. He then felt the Phantom's arm brush against his. Harry cold not help but shiver in anticipation of what was to be his second lesson with his masked maestro. In his mind's eye, he imagined how the man looked –as he was wont to do for another, many years ago.
"I will play Music of The Night. I want you to empty your mind of everything else and listen to me –to my voice. I want you to tell me the first thing you see in your mind's eye at any given point you hear me say your name. Understood?" Harry nodded wordlessly, and the musical trance began. The familiar melody commenced and the younger man suddenly found himself bombarded by all sorts of images in his head. Together, they formed a massive grey cloud that seemingly boded quite a heavy thunderstorm. Soon enough, he heard his master's soft whisper against the commanding music.
"Harry."
From within the unidentifiable mass of images, one emerged –one that had constantly plagued Harry ever since. "Candles," he replied. The music swelled. The picture in his mind's eye began to change back into grey shadows. Harry felt an inexplicable unease when the candles disappeared, but he held on.
"Harry," came the whisper once more. A different vision came forth this time.
"Shadows," Harry said, almost automatically. They were more prominent than the candles, crowding his mind. The unease graduated into dread. He had a feeling of how this would progress. The melody seemed faster, much more aggressive as the seconds ticked by. But just when the shadows had faded into the background once more, the new Potions Master heard his name again.
"Harry." The Phantom's voice seemed much softer, but closer –more intimate now. It was as if the masked man was speaking right next to his ear. Harry could not help but tremble in a weird combination of anticipation and apprehension. The unexpected effect of the man's ethereal voice pulled another image out of the storm cloud in Harry's head. With it came a permeating sense of coldness and despair.
"D –Darkness." Harry found himself unable to see a thing, but he knew that the abyss he was witnessing was not an absence of an image. There was something within the pitch-blackness –something horrible yet familiar. He had wanted to close his mind's eye –if only that was possible… Was this the very thing that held him back? Why? How? To Harry's right, the Phantom too, was sensing his protégé's discomfort. He kept playing, but his dark eyes maintained a sideway glance towards the young man. Harry's eyes were tightly closed, his lips were drawn into a thin line. Deep creases lined his face. The masked man felt a pang of worry cross his guts, seriously contemplating if he should pull the young man out of the musically-induced trance. However, a quiet sob escaping the said man's lips sealed the masked man's decision. He stopped playing, his hands gently landing on his protégé's now shaking shoulders. "Harry –"
Harry heard the call, but did not feel the restraining hand on him. His mind automatically called forth the next image in his head. Harry felt torn. He knew he should say it, but for some reason, he could not bring himself to acknowledge what he saw. An internal struggle ensued: Harry was caught in between denial and terror. He began to tremble violently, his lips opened in a silent scream.
The Phantom's eyes widened. How was this happening? Potter was supposed to go in a deep trance to open up his subconscious –not like this. The young man was obviously going into shock. "Harry!" The man's baritone rose into a panic. Harry was now shaking madly in his seat, cold sweat breaking upon his brows –his lips were still moving soundlessly. The Phantom wasted no further time. He had forgone shaking his protégé awake; instead, he took a more direct approach. Harry's body was becoming dangerously pale and cold now, his eyes flickering rapidly under the closed lids. His skin was starting to show bluish tinges.
'SLAP!'
Harry's eyes flew open upon impact. The shakes departed him and warmth began to seep back into his pale form. His breathing was still labored however, and his mind was still hazy. When his vision cleared, he found himself staring at the darkest pair of obsidian eyes, looking at him in genuine concern. Harry frowned. That shade looked familiar. Was this still a part of his vision? The eyes in front of him hovered closer… was he looking up… at the ceiling? His other senses came back next. His back appeared to be cradled in something sturdy… was that a pair of arms supporting him? He tried to switch to a more comfortable position as those dark eyes followed his every move. It did not hurt; sure, his left cheek stung as if he'd been slapped, but his body felt surprisingly fine. He tried to lean forward, as if to sit up, but found his vision spinning as he did so.
"Harry, don't move." A deep baritone told him softly. It had the same ethereal quality of the Phantom's voice… but what about that inflection? Had he not heard that before? Harry scrunched up his face in an attempt to clear the cobwebs in his head away. He closed his eyes before taking a deep breath. Something… something from the depths of his mind was trying to claw towards the surface… what was it? He tried to sit up again, in vain.
"Harry, stop –"
There it was again. Whenever he heard his name, he felt an inexplicable jolt in his consciousness. His vision kept clouding up until he could see no more. But when his name was spoken, a certain image would come up from the chaotic mess… blood, there was so much blood… memories –silvery, swirling memories in a pensieve –were they his? Eyes –the darkest he'd ever seen –so much fire, so much passion… Then death, tears of despair, darkness… Harry felt his heart beating wildly. He then remembered the Phantom, the trance, and what his last vision had been. Looking into the eyes on him, he minded not whatever reality he was in: trance, dream, illusion… he shook his head and softly spoke of the image in his mind's eye, before passing out completely.
"Se –Severus,"
01010101010101010101010101010
-END OF CHAPTER 4-
01010101010101010101010101010
A/N: Up next: Chapter 5: Learn to Be Lonely –where we get more of the Phantom's POV regarding our beloved Harry's distress, and our new Potions Master gets an unexpected gift from an apparent admirer. See you in the following social media platforms as well:
FACEBOOK: C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl (#cmoliverfanfiction)
FFNet: C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl
Twitter: C.M. Oliver (a.t.)heyitschesca (#cmoliverfanfiction)
Tumblr: klaineloveandsnarrydreams (#cmoliverfanfiction)
Until next time –C.