MUSIC OF THE NIGHT (T; Romance/ Drama/ Mystery; HP/SS)
Warnings: see Prologue. Additional: No Beta. All typos are my keyboard's fault.
Disclaimer: see Prologue
A/N: Another update! Huzzah! I love all of you. Please don't forget to leave me a review! –C.
LEGEND:
"Dialogue/ speech" 'Thoughts'Notes/ flashback
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Music of the Night
By C.M. Oliver
©2013
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Chapter 5: Learn to Be Lonely
"Sev –Severus," Harry had managed to say before going completely limp in the Phantom's arms. The masked man froze. Could the young professor have managed to fund out? He shook his head inwardly. The Gryffindor kept surprising him. At first, it was finding his secret passion out; then, it was the young man's musical inclination –and now, this? How was he to know that Potter would react this unstably after being put into a trance? Candles, shadows, darkness… he did not need to be a genius to know how those three came together and what picture they painted. It was Harry's last word that unnerved him. He shifted the weight in his arms and stood up. He needed to get the emerald-eyed professor into a much more comfortable position. He headed for the man's –his old –bedroom.
Was it still a part of the images the trance had unearthed? He knew that Potter blamed himself for his death, but he had no idea it was this debilitating to the young man. It wasn't just a mere 'survivor's' guilt that Potter was suffering from; it was something deeper, something raw, something much more complex than he had expected. He gently deposited his burden on the king-sized, four-poster bed –the same bed that had been his for so long. Who knew the brat was a sentimental loon? The Phantom glanced around the darkened room. A whispered 'Lumos' lent a small glimmer of light in it. The masked man's eyes travelled back towards the pale, slumbering face of his student, and now, protégé. Five years had changed a lot, he mused. The once youthfully handsome face had put on a few more lines. A darker shadow was under his eyes and a ghost of a stubble graced the twenty-three year old's jaw line; He was looking at a man who was forced to grow up at warp-speed.
'Severus' he had said. The Gryffindor called him 'Severus'. When did the brat start calling him that? Certainly it wasn't when he was still alive, and certainly not to his face… What was he missing here? He stared intently at the man, who until recently, he had not realized, that he would do anything for. General consensus might claim that the son looked like the father, but really, in the absence of the tell-tale, round-rimmed spectacles –that did not go unnoticed to the Phantom –the similarities weren't that obvious; Potter Sr., despite his tragic and untimely death, had lived a happy life, surrounded by family and friends, growing up to his full potential –everything Potter Jr. missed out on in his early years. Waxing sentimental neither was he like his mother. Sure, they shared the same eyes and fierce loyalty to those they care about, but that was where the differences began. Lily Evans was fiery, driven and full of life. She, like her husband, lived a life worth living, no matter the morbid ending. Her son, while passionate and purposeful, had an angry, jaded soul =he lived for others and their expectations of him his whole life. It was a mystery how he had managed for so long.
The masked man found himself gently caressing the young professor's cheek. Potter had immaculately smooth skin, long thick lashes, and a perfectly-pouted, rose-hued lips. He wasn't conventionally handsome, neither was he unattractive. If he would be pressed to describe the young man, the Phantom reckoned, the word that he would use to do so would be appealing. Even a man like he was would not be able to deny Potter's attractiveness. Despite the hardships he had been through, it was undeniable –although rather ironic –that Potter remained delicately beautiful. The maestro shook his head. He was lauding the Gryffindor's positive traits… where was this coming from? Sympathy? Loyalty? Concern? What was he missing in this picture?
A soft whimper escaping Harry's lips brought the Phantom back to reality. He wished he could see into Potter's subconscious –so that he may finally figure out what was causing the young man's distress, but a Legilimency would be too risky. He had taught the brat before, and gullible or not, Potter would certainly recognize his magical signature and piece everything together. He doubted that the young man would let him off the hook when that happens… he can then say goodbye to a peaceful afterlife.
There was more to this… the dungeons, the shadows, Music of The Night. There was more to the Potions Mastery, the guilt, the wanting to walk in a dead man's shoes. But what was it? What was causing Harry Potter such despair?
"Sev'rus…" Was Potter dreaming about the dead now? How often did nightmares plague his subconscious? A gentle hand brushed against the rather clammy forehead of the slumbering man. Thick covers were drawn up to the exposed chin, then a soft 'Nox', and Harry Potter lay comfortably in the darkness of the night, alone once more.
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The next morning, Harry was having his worst Monday as of yet. His first class was right after breakfast. He woke up half-way through the morning meal and barely made it in time to meet with his second-year Gryffindor and Slytherins. As expected, Red and Green were always an explosive combination. He had missed his morning coffee, and ten minutes into his students brewing a burn salve, three sabotaged cauldrons already erupted. He took 50 points –a piece –from the six that were involved and dismissed the class before he lost it and took off more. Draco and Hermione will not be above killing him if he made them lose the House Cup.
By lunch time however, he had taken a record-breaking total of 885 points from all four Houses. A snickering Aurora Sinistra told him that the last time things were this bad was during Snape's first year of teaching –all four Houses were sporting negative figures by the end of the former Headmaster's first week of teaching; well, the dour man was responsible for Ravenclaw's Hufflepuff's and Gryffindor's points being taken off. Slytherin's negative scores were a combined effort of McGonagall, Sprout and Flitwick. Harry groaned and excused himself from the table. He had a class right after and he did not want to throw up all over his OWL students.
Said OWL students fared slightly better. Harry had only had to scream once –when they wouldn't shut up while gathering ingredients. At least no more points were taken. All eight cauldrons of the Draught of Peace were successfully bottled and labeled. Harry thought that he might need a vial soon, side effects of nausea, be damned.
He had a free period next, which he thought he could spend in peace, when a scowling Hermione and Draco dropped by his classroom to complain about the points taken off their Houses (375 and 330 respectively). He had spent the required 30 minutes listening to a pregnant witch rant, before making a show of sighing resignedly and reinstating half of what he took from Gryffindor. When Draco expectedly protested how unfair it was that Harry should only give points back to his former House, the emerald-eyed man said something that sounded awfully a lot like 'payback' under his breath, before politely feigning the need to pee and running towards the nearest bathroom. Good thing the blonde Defense Master took the hint and did not follow him in there. Friend or not, Harry would have hexed him, had he been that insistent.
His last class that day was just right before dinner, 4th year Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Harry decided that he did not want to clean up after exploding and or botched up cauldrons anymore that day, so he had them review chapters on restorative potions and summarize them. Despite his earlier misgivings on assigning essays, he had thought that in that situation, a headache would be much preferable than a lost limb. At least his 4th years had passable handwriting. He decided to skip dinner and go straight ahead to grading in his private office.
The fire was crackling when he arrived. There was no riddle on his entrance wall this time, thankfully. His standard password –which he had not thought of changing, surprisingly –had worked. He dumped the scrolls on top of his desk and got settled behind it. He took out a quill, a jar of red ink, and began the mammoth task.
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Harry was lightly snoring in his desk when the Phantom arrived that night. The masked man carefully approached the slumbering professor. All papers on the table this time, had been graded. He took one and read the written comments on the margins. He cold not help but smile:
Mr. Atkins, I commend your use of block letters in writing your essay. It does not make much sense, and your information on the Mandrake is completely wrong, but at least I do not get a blinding headache from reading your work. Next time, try to borrow some common sense from your girlfriend, Miss Harper –maybe her notes too –and you may just get an 'A'. Good luck.
"How… politely rude." The Phantom replaced the essay back on the table, his dark eyes now resting on the man slumped on it. The young professor looked like he could use the sleep. The masked man sighed. His increasing concern for Potter's welfare was becoming alarming. He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece once, before deciding to meet his protégé for another night. His questions would have to remain unanswered until then. A wave of an ebony wand conjured a single thorn-less rose in full bloom –his own 'I was here' note. A thin black ribbon was tied around its stem. The Phantom carefully placed it next to the sleeping man. Then, he was off.
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The chilly night air caressed the Phantom's half-bare face as he traversed the shadowed grounds of Hogwarts.
"Se-Severus…"
It was barely a whisper, but it held so much emotion, so much question, so much confusion behind it. When was the last time he had heard the same plea?
"Professor –please…"
Her remembered looking into those startlingly emerald eyes. How could he not? They were the last thing he saw…
"You –you have your mother's eyes…"
"Profes –Severus –no! Don't leave me!"
The Phantom froze in his steps. Did he hear that right? They say that on one's death bed, the last to go was one's hearing. That part of his former life's memory had always been hazy. Was it but his mind playing tricks on him? Did it really happen? Why was it all becoming clearer just now?
"Severus, don't go! I –I need you, please!"
He felt his knees go weak. A dead oak tree broke his fall as his strength left him all of a sudden. A frigid breeze played with the inky strands of hair covering his bemasked face as he fell forward. Did the trance affect not only Potter, but him as well? The ground had met his hands and knees with a force enough to dislodge his stark-white mask, but he made no move to secure it… How did it escape him? How did he miss the despair and agony in the young man's voice? Since last night he had been wondering non-stop… Was this it? Was this finally the cause of his protégé's despair? His guilt? His anger? His… loneliness? Another calm breeze blew as the mask came off. The Phantom's pallid face met the cold, dark night head on. The moon hid behind thick, gray clouds, as did most of the stars. He stared at the fallen mask on the damp grass. Why did it unnerve him? Yes, it had been one of those episodes in his life that he did not quite remember right away, but why shold it matter to him? Images of that day came rushing back. He felt the pain, he'd witnessed the shakes and trembles, he'd heard the anguish…
How did he miss that look in Potter's eyes?
"Severus, please –"
Longing, regret, betrayal? Was that remorse he felt? No, he did not owe the brat a thing. But why did it feel that way? He picked up the mask and replaced it on his face. He thought back to the rose he had left on the young professor's desk. Suddenly, 'regret' had a whole new meaning to him.
Swiftly, he righted himself. And as the moon eventually emerged from behind the dark clouds, the masked Phantom made himself blend into the shadows yet again, alone in his confused thoughts.
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Harry woke up the following morning with a serious crick in his neck. It was just his luck that the first day he had managed a full 8 hours of sleep since coming to Hogwarts, and it had to be slumped atop his desk. He dutifully stretched his sore muscles. When his mind and vision finally cleared, the first thing he did was check his graded papers. Okay, no rude comments this time –so far, so good. He really hadn't gotten the time to investigate on that incident, nor the breach in his security… Surely, they could be just harmless pranks, but one can never be too sure. And besides, he'd want to know who'd dare –and managed to –prank him. He'd give them a pat on their back for their efforts and guts –before hexing them to oblivion… if only he had the time to spare. Ever since the Phantom however…
Harry straightened himself up like a jack knife. He slept soundly all through the night –he missed meeting with his maestro! Did the man come by to see him? What would he say? Wold he still come back? Should he check the piano room? Such thoughts ran through Harry's head –until he saw what else was on his desk.
With wide-awake eyes and slightly trembling hands, he picked up the rose. Reflex made him bring the still-fresh bloom to his nose and inhale its sweet aroma. He had had his fair share of admirers –of both sexes –and he'd, in the past, received bouquets. But somehow, this particular solitary rose appealed to him in a much deeper, more personal level –even before he had noticed the black satin ribbon tied around its thorn-less stem.
Harry's breathing hastened as he felt his pulse quicken. The rose was not from a mere admirer –and the meaning it carried was far from admiration –or was it? He knew exactly where it came from, and if he was right, what it meant. He would be seeing more of his masked maestro. His own spectral 'Angel of Music' had just left Harry his own version of a calling card.
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Harry was still toying with the thorn-less rose at the breakfast table when Hermione approached him with a huge smile on her blissfully-plumped face. Pregnancy really suited her, in Harry's opinion.
"This early in the year, and you already have an admirer?" She gestured towards the flower in Harry's hand. "A little firstie perhaps?" She teased him. Harry frowned a bit at her before eying the rose in his hand. 'So Hermione could see it too?' He shrugged and thought no more of his spectral maestro's seemingly tangible calling card. His mind was too dazed to process things logically at that moment. Harry rolled his eyes and showed her the rose for closer inspection.
"Draco's practicing with the Slytherins then?" he asked. Hermione nodded. "He beat me for booking schedules." She took the rose from Harry and gave it a customary sniff. "Next weekend though, the pitch is all yours. You'd better whip that team into –" she frowned all of a sudden. She stared at the flower warily before turning back to her best friend. "But Harry, this –I mean, who –"
With a sigh, Harry took the rose from the flustered-looking witch. Hermione's mouth was agape. "Merlin, Harry, who gave this to you? Are you aware of the symbolism? You're a 'Phantom' fan, right? Surely you must know what this means –"
"Yes, Mione. I am," Harry breathed, now staring at the red bloom he held tightly in one hand. His other hand was absently toying with the black satin bow. "As from whom this is, I assure you, it's no little firstie." He then gently laid it down before reaching for his cup of Earl Grey. He took a sip. Hermione looked like she had wanted to push the topic further. Harry was almost like a brother to her –he rarely kept secrets. But when he actually did, she knew that he had his reasons. And whatever those were, it was always bets to just wait until Harry was ready to tell her. Prying would just make him clam up the more. She sighed. Harry seemed okay –a little stressed maybe, but otherwise fine. Her friend did not exactly grow up ideally, but she knew Harry was strong. Whatever it was, he'll get through it.
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Harry sat on the low piano bench later that night, the single red rose in one hand, his holly and phoenix feather wand in another. He seemed to be staring off into space with his arms to his sides, when suddenly, his whole body tensed. His grip on the wand tightened. He held the rose up to his eye level as if inspecting it.
"What is it that you regret?" He asked the unmoving shadow to his right.
"Everybody has regrets, Harry." It was the Phantom. "Why do you ask?" He inquired back. Harry gripped his wand until his knuckles were already white. He then whipped it and pointed it directly at the masked man's heart. "Give me one reason to trust you after what you did the other night."
The Phantom eyed the wand before looking directly into his protégé's blazing emerald eyes. "I have disappointed you greatly." It wasn't a question.
"What are you going on about?" Harry asked, looking confused. The masked man reached for the rose in Harry's other hand, completely ignoring the wand that was still trained on him.
"I regret disappointing you," the Phantom took the rose, and with a wave of his hand, made it disappear into thin air. Harry blinked and lowered his wand with a disappointed sigh. "I was wanting to keep that." The maestro looked at his protégé curiously. "A bit sentimental, are we?" Harry sighed once more.
"Pathetic as it may sound, it is the first time flowers actually meant something to me," he admitted, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. "It might've meant 'regret' to you, but –" he shook his head. "Never mind." The young man then stood up from the bench and turned his back on the Phantom. "You won't understand. Just go –like you always do. Go. Leave." A few seconds of silence ensued before the emerald-eyed man heard the rustle of clothing –a cloak falling on the stone floor. Then, footsteps approaching. A pale hand gently touched Harry's shoulder.
"Look at me, Harry."
'Look… at… me…"
Harry felt himself wanting to heed what the ethereal voice was bidding him to do, but he fought hard to hold his ground. The Phantom sensed the conflict in his protégé. He moved closer until their bodies almost touched, and tightened his grip on the young man's shoulder.
'Look… at… me…"
"Look at me, Harry," a little louder, more forceful now. Harry had no other option this time. He turned to face his maestro. The heat the masked man radiated contrasted greatly to the cold dungeon air. It made him feel heady for some reason… Harry shook his head inwardly. How could an illusion, a specter, have such a profound effect on him? He couldn't very well call the man an illusion now, could he? He saw him, heard him, felt him… Harry felt his whole body flush as he ,et the Phantom's face. The man still had his mask on, but the emotions coming from those dark eyes more than made up for half of his face that Harry could not see. The deep, fathomless pools of obsidian latched onto his own emerald ones like Devil's Snare in the absence of light. It grabbed onto him, onto his very heart and soul, held onto his very essence, his very core, with a promise to never let go… 'What is happening?' Harry thought amidst the brewing emotions inside him –the very mere thought of it floored him. 'How can he affect me like this?'
To Harry's unawareness, the intense struggle within him was reciprocated by the very cause of it. The Phantom felt the inexplicable effect of the young professor's gaze and presence on him.
'How… it was never like this, never. Why –why is it happening now?' For some reason, he could not take his eyes off of the Gryffindor, not when for what seemed like the first time, he could finally see through those brilliant green orbs… the spark in them, the flame that threatened to consume every part of his dark soul and shroud it in burning, blinding light… Why had he not seen this before?
"Severus, don't go! I –I need you, please!"
Did he cause this? Was he the reason for this young man's fire? Did he take that away from him when he had died? Was his death the very cause of the despair of Harry Potter's soul?
"I need you, please!"
Did Potter really –heaven forbid –need him? Looking into the young man's eyes now gave him his dreaded answer. The question was, would he be willing to do it? The Phantom sighed inwardly.
"I am here, Harry," the deep baritone whispered, inadvertently breaking the spell between them two. The masked man took a step backward, as if to assess his protégé. The young Potions Master's eyes were still shining, but a little less so –now that the enchantment had been broken. The Phantom replaced his hand on Harry's cheek and gently cupped it.
"I am here until you no longer need me."
The words flowed effortlessly from the pale, thin lips –like they were meant to. Harry's countenance visibly relaxed after hearing them, The Phantom noticed this and breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe there was a way to do this… to bring back that spark, that life in those eyes. Wordlessly, the masked man guided the young professor back to the bench. He sat down and motioned for his protégé to do the same.
"Do you know the difference between a dream and an illusion, Harry?"
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-END OF CHAPTER 5-
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A/N: Okay, no cliffie this time! Don't you guys love me? Up next: Chapter 6: Wandering Child will be up sometime next week. See you in the following social media platforms as well:
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