Harry Potter 1. Prologue

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

_**Summary: **__Six years ago, current Hogwarts Potions Professor, Harry Potter, discovers a dark man's secret passion. What can one vivid memory do to inspire one light hero to live a life within the depths of the dungeons? Five years after leaving school, Harry finds himself back in that shrouded, secret room, learning about music, life and love… from a spectral master? Post-DH. AU. Slash._

_**Warnings**__: Slash. Out-of-Character situations, Post- Deathly Hallows. Ignores the Epilogue, '19 Years Later'. Spoilers for all seven books. Draws inspiration heavily from the musical Phantom of the Opera but does not follow the sequence of events. No need to be familiar with the aforementioned work of fiction to understand this story. This fic has not been beta-ed._

_**Disclaimer**__: Harry Potter and all related registered trademarks belong to J.K. Rowling, et. Al. Phantom of the Opera is the genius of Sir Andrew Lloyd Weber. Any other recognizable elements belong to their respective owners. No copyright infringement intended._

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_**Author's Notes: This story is completed as of 12/19/12. I am aware that I have a lot in progress when it comes to stories but this one had been sitting long enough for me not to put it out. Worry not. Writing for me is a continuous process. I will never abandon anything. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well as the others to follow. Questions and clarifications as well as suggestions are most welcome. Feel free to contact me in any way possible (see end note) including smoke signals and astral projections.**_

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_OUTLINE:_

Prologue: **The Memory of a Secret**

Chapter 1: **Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again**

Chapter 2: **Phantom**

Chapter 3: **Down Once More**

Chapter 4: **Angel of Music**

Chapter 5: **Learn to be Lonely**

Chapter 6: **Wandering Child**

Chapter 7: **All I Ask of You**

Chapter 8: **Past the Point of No Return**

Chapter 9: **We Have All Been Blind**

Chapter 10: **Stranger Than You Dreamt It**

Epilogue: **The Maestro's Reprise**

_**LEGEND:**_

"Dialogue/ speech" _'Thoughts' _**"Singing" **_**Notes/ flashback**_

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**Music of the Night**

**By C.M. Oliver**

**©2013**

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_For my very own __**Phantom**__ who never sees the light of day, but shines as brightly as the sun in summertime... I owe you my sanity. – Your __**Protégé**__._

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**PROLOGUE: The Memory of a Secret**

The beginning of the end.

Severus Snape knew it was fast approaching, the moment he had agreed to yet again another of Albus –too many middle names –Dumbledore's hair-brained scheme.

The dungeons held many secrets, some of which would forever be shrouded in mystery and darkness –others would become known only to a select few –a few, that included the dour Potions Master.

The dungeons were his refuge –had been his refuge since he was a little boy of no more than eleven. Hogwarts was truly a majestic place, but none held as much allure and magic as the cold, dark and damp walls of the level below the Great Lake as it did to Severus. Here, he was free of those blasted Gryffindors –their straight-as-a-rod ideals; free from taunts, jeers and pranks; free from their judgment –their stereotyping. Here, he can escape his 'dungeon bat' persona and be himself: a secret known to none but himself; none but the four walls of his chambers.

Only a few have ever been in Severus Snape's chambers; and still even fewer have been in, let alone, knew of the existence of, that hidden room to the right of his private office' fireplace, obscured by an unassuming 17th century tapestry of a birch tree –in fact, if you ask the Potions Master, he would confidently tell you then that only he, knew of what lay behind that secret door. He preferred for it to be that way, hopefully, until the very end of time…

But, it was not to remain as such for eternity.

That one chilly night of February '96 became the beginning of the end for his secret. Another soul would learn of the existence of the other side to Severus Snape.

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Harry sighed. He thought that when he had failed to get that 'O' in Potions, that he would already forever be free of his 'most-hated' Potions (the Ultimate Most-Hated title being bestowed upon a certain centaur-hating, toad-like lady named –cough- Umbridge –cough-) Professor, Greasy Dungeon Bat from Hell, Severus Snape. But no, of course the git had to get the DADA position, which Harry expectedly got the highest recorded OWL in recent history for. Now, he saw the bastard thrice a week for at least two hours a day –more, if the sodding Head of Slytherin managed to find reason to give him detention, which was almost a daily occurrence. In Harry's humble opinion, he could use a day without seeing the man glare at him with those fathomless onyx irises. In his mind, whenever he got the urge to hex the man into oblivion, his only consolation was the thought that no DADA Professor had lasted for more than a year since Ol' Voldie put a curse on the said position. Harry's 7th year, if he managed to survive for that long, should relatively be Snape-free.

But that was still half a year away, and Harry still had to endure the Potions master for a few more months –or in that day's case, a few more hours. It was Friday, he did not have DADA classes with Snape, and yet somehow, he had managed to land himself a detention with the man.

Okay, so the detention was supposed to be with Slughorn. It all started when Harry had mislaid the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book. Hermione still thought of the vandalized copy of Libatius Borage's Advanced Potions-Making as sheer evil, so she wouldn't help him at all. The walrus-like professor had run out of excuses to give his 'star pupil's' recently less-than-stellar performance –'being pressured' just did not quite add up anymore when your supposed –Amortentia started to emit noxious fumes and ended up burning the nose hairs of anyone who got a whiff of it. Half of Harry's class ended up in the Hospital Wing in various stages of disarray; and with a shake of his head, Professor Slughorn had assigned the Boy-Who-Lived detention, in hopes of 'getting him back in the game.'

For some reason though, Slughorn got off seeing to the said detention (whether it was because THE Gwenog Jones was supposedly visiting him or he had gotten his fat hand stuck in his box of crystallized pineapples, it was unclear) and thought it prudent to pass the Chosen One's punishment to his nastiest colleague who simply hated Harry Potter with passion, Severus Snape.

Based on the instructions taped on to Slughorn's office door, Harry was to report to Snape's private office, which was surprisingly (or not) still in the dungeons, at precisely 8 o'clock that night, for a productive evening of not-so surprisingly, scrubbing cauldrons; The stoic, ebony-haired man may have relinquished the Potions Professorship to Slughorn, but he was still the Potions Master of the school and still brewed the necessary concoctions for the Hospital Wing and the Castle's inhabitants upon request.

A quick 'Tempus' told Harry that it was already '8:05 p.m.' _'Oh joy,'_ the emerald-eyed young man thought as he madly dashed towards the direction of Snape's chambers in the appointed Defense corridor down the dungeons. _'Snape is going to skin me alive.'_

An out-of-breath Harry Potter made it to his dreaded destination, five minutes later. Without further ado, he raised his hand and knocked.

"Professor? It's Harry Potter. I'm here for my detention."

No scathing remark came. No condescending comment on Potters being above and beyond the courtesy of punctuality and wasting other people's time –neither did a polite response. Harry frowned. Was Snape in his lab, brewing? Did Slughorn forget to tell him about Harry's detention?

"Professor Snape? Professor Slughorn told me to come here to serve my detention. May I come in?"

Still no response. Harry purposely pressed his ear against the door. Not a whisper could be heard from inside. Not even the crackling of a log on fire. Was the man busy? Away? Should he just come back another night? But what if he did not show up tonight, will Snape just use that as an excuse to give him more detention? The young man shrugged. Knowing Snape, he probably will. Maybe he should leave a note on his door.

'_Wait a minute, if Snape was indeed away, he would've left a note on the door himself,' _Harry mused. _'He's that kind of man. I doubt he'd forget to do so even if Voldemort had called for him… What if something had happened? Maybe the git got hurt on a raid, or he got exploded on by one of his many experiments… Maybe he's passed out on his office floor, bleeding to death!'_

Such were the thoughts running through Harry's head as he paced in front of the DADA Professor's office door. IT was in a rather deserted part of the dungeons, remotely away from the Slytherin Dormitories and Snape's old Potions classroom. Harry doubted that many ever came this way unless they had to –or they wished to die a grisly death.

Should he call the attention of another professor regarding his worries on Snape? What if it was all for naught? Harry shuddered to think what the stern wizard would do to him if Harry brought half the Hogwarts staff down to Snape's quarters because of an embarrassingly false alarm.

'_Why am I caring anyway?'_ Harry thought ruefully. _'Why should I care what happens to that git? Dumbledore trusts him, but…'_ He shook his head. The sensible thing for him to do would be to leave his note taped onto the door and head for Gryffindor Tower. That was what he should do. But when was Harry Potter ever sensible?

Harry gently nudged the closed door, half-hoping, half-expecting to find it locked.

It wasn't. Dread and confusion flooded him. Since when did Snape leave his door unwarded? The man was a very private and paranoid person if there was any that Harry knew. With a deep breath, he pushed it open. He had anticipated blaring sirens and flashing lights to come as he crossed the threshold of Snape's private domain. But three steps later, with both his eyes half-closed, he surmised that he wasn't going to be attacked. He opened his emerald eyes. If it was his Gryffindor bravado, or his innate curiosity that drew Harry towards sticky and -most of the time –dangerous situations that made him think it was a good idea to enter the surprisingly unguarded office to find out what had happened to his most-hated Potions Professor, it was unclear. What had he learned from his trip there in his fifth year? The jar of cockroaches hitting his head must've addled his brains somehow.

'_That was different,'_ his mind reasoned out. He just wanted to see if Snape was still snarky and alive…

Snape wasn't there. The fire was burning merrily in the hearth though, but there was no sign of the man in his outer office. Harry surveyed the rather familiar area –he had been there one too many times, and in those times he'd been there, nothing had changed at all.

The walls were made of stone; tidy bookshelves lined almost every part of the room, Oriental rugs in earthen colors covered patches of the paved floor. A simple yet functional desk stood in the middle of the dimly-lit space, as did a couple of thinly-padded armchairs by the hearth. There were two doors adjacent to each other. One, Harry knew, led to Snape's private laboratory; the other, most probably to the man's bed chambers. There were no portraits, no sculptures… nothing but a single tapestry of a birch tree to the right of the fireplace –not even a single Slytherin banner was present, which was quite surprising. All in all, that particular space had the feeling of being unlived in, as cold as the man who resided within those walls.

"Professor?" Harry had suddenly remembered his purpose for coming there. There was no reply, no hex that came his way. He glanced at the two doors. He shook his head again. He wasn't completely suicidal. It was enough that he came into Snape's office unannounced. He had done his duty. The man wasn't there. As Harry decided on what to write on his 'I-was-here' note to Snape though, something caught his attention on his way out.

'_Was that –music?'_ Harry scowled. _'Music? In Snape's quarters?'_ He looked around. He could not see anything that cold produce such a sound. They say that without one's vision, one's hearing was heightened. He closed his eyes and listened. _'A –piano?'_ He was not very well-versed in any kind of music, but he knew enough to know that the piano music he was hearing was not of the recorded type that his Aunt Petunia listened to on the classical music radio station. Harry blindly turned to one direction. His ears perked up.

'_Whatever it is that is creating the sound seems to come… from here.'_ He approached the fireplace. The mantelpiece was bare. In fact, aside from the burning logs, there was nothing else in that general direction other than the hanging birch tapestry. Harry furrowed his brows. The sound was louder near the tapestry.

'_A musical tapestry?'_ Having been given a crash course at all things magical at the age of eleven, Harry had long learned to expect the unexpected… but a tapestry that played classical piano music? He leaned in for a closer inspection.

He could hear it even clearer now that he was standing right next to the 17th century heirloom piece. The melody seemed quite familiar, now that he thought about it –it was definitely something he had heard before, but for the life of him, he could not identify the title for. He closed his eyes once more, his ears beckoning him to move closer…

The melody was hauntingly beautiful –it was slow and sensual, almost like a lover's gentle caress, a promise of eternity and romance like no other. It called out to him, reached into his heart and grabbed the beating organ by its sinews. Harry all of a sudden caught himself in an otherworldly trance. His hands began moving on their own accord, reaching for, and lifting the plain birch tapestry up. A carefully concealed, plain wooden door greeted the emerald-eyed young man's sight.

Logical reasoning and self-preservation be damned. There were many things that could go wrong when one dares to open hidden doors –they were hidden for some reason now, weren't they? Harry's adventures with the three-headed dog, Fluffy and the 60-ft. long basilisk come to mind. But the pull of the mesmerizing tune, Harry found, was stronger than anything else that made sense, never mind the fact that he was trespassing in a teacher's private quarters.

With the seemingly surrealistic sound over powering his thoughts and senses, Harry found himself gently pushing the door open.

"**Night time, sharpens, heightens each sensation/ Darkness stirs and wakes imagination/ Silently the senses abandon their defenses…"**

The low, velvety voice that rose above the melody assaulted his ears like a honeyed poison, almost making him forget his surprise at finally seeing what, or rather who, was creating that rather enchanting music.

"**Slowly, gently, night unfurls its splendor/ Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender/ Turn your face away, from the garish light of day/ Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light/ And listen to the music of the night…"**

The small, otherwise cold room was lit up with numerous burning candles –a striking contrast to the one before it. Shadows on the walls danced to the tune of the flickering orange tongues aflame. The sound was greatly magnified in the concealed space. It was like listening to a concerto in an auditorium.

"**Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams/ Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before…"**

Severus Snape's eyes were closed. His long, ebony hair that did not appear to be as greasy as it did when the man taught Potions day in and day out, was tied loosely by his nape with a thin leather cord; a few strands escaped though, and was framing his pale but striking face. Off were his death black robes, gracefully discarded over one end of the low bench he was sitting on like a puddle of crumpled silk. What he had on instead was a stark-white button-down shirt with the top two buttons undone; what looked like a gold chain hung from the man's neck, its pendant concealed by the rest of the shirt/ The sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. It looked quite rumpled. But what made that already unusual scene even more arresting were those that Harry could not plainly see from his vantage point, partially obstructed by the grand piano, by the doorway.

"**Close your eyes, let your spirit start to soar/ And live as you have never lived before…"**

Possessed. There was no other word to describe the way the dark-haired man was playing that evocative melody. His enthralling voice rose to every hill and dipped to every valley of his accompaniment. His long, elegant fingers softly caressed every key, made love to every note. Harry remembered seeing the man brew during detentions when it was just the two of them alone. Severus Snape loved his craft to the ends of the earth, but it was certainly of no comparison as to how the Potions Master was now making beautiful music in that very room –He was moving like a man consumed with raging passion –a man whose true purpose and reason, he's finally realized.

It was hard to reconcile the image of the cold, heartless git to that of this impassioned virtuoso; But Harry knew deep within him that no matter how improbable it may seem, they were one and the same. The emerald-eyed young man felt himself drawn to that tableau before his very eyes; he was drowning in sensations he could not even begin to describe. What was it that made this man hide this part of him from the world? Was it his loss, or theirs? How could a man like Severus Snape, a man who seemed so jaded and frigid, exude such warmth and vibrancy in a cold, dark and desolate room like this? What was his secret? His Holy Grail?

The song seemed to be approaching the ending. Harry knew he should do something. He was torn between announcing his presence (and thus ending his peaceful existence) and walking away unscathed (or at the very least attempting to). In the end of the split-second debate in his head, he decided that it was a mortal sin to disturb Severus Snape in the middle of a rousing performance.

Harry considered himself lucky as he backed away, unnoticed, from that once-concealed door; not only because he was not caught intruding at possibly one of his most-hated (a little nudge from the back of his mind was enough for him to question that now) Potions Professor's most private moments. No, Harry thought, it would not have mattered to him if Snape caught him and cursed him to oblivion for having walked in on that rather passionate scene. It would not even have mattered to him had Snape decided to turncoat and take him directly to Voldemort to be slaughtered. No, Harry thought, it would not have mattered at all. Anything would have been worth that small glimpse of the dark wizard's humanity. Harry quietly exited the way he came in. He would have to give up another night –or two, most likely –to serve this detention.

As he wordlessly climbed into his four-poster bed much later that night, he paused a moment to clear his mind of the rest of that particular day's humdrums. He knew that he was forever hopeless at the Art of Occlumency, but if only to commit that one vivid image to his memory, he would try to empty his head of all other thoughts.

The man's face… his eyes… he had not seen the man's eyes as he had played and sang, but Harry's imagination more than made up for what he had failed to see. He knew, had he glimpsed into those fathomless pools of obsidian, in that specific instance, he would have not been frozen by that normally ice-cold glare, but consumed –by the burning flames of passion in them, fire that reflected the one from deep within the dark wizard's soul –one that few would ever get the chance to see. Never again would Harry judge the man as cold and unfeeling.

'_What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever truly find out?'_

As the young Gryffindor finally closed his emerald eyes to rest that night, his mind held nothing but visions of dark eyes, candles… and music that spoke directly to his heart and soul.

The beginning… of the end.

The memory of a secret.

'_Will I ever truly find out?'_

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-END of PROLOGUE-

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**A/N:** I hope you liked that. As you can see, in my hiatus, I have been tinkering with improving the length of my chapters. This one's around 3,150 words –and that's only the prologue. Up next: **Chapter 1**: **Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again** –where our story proper begins. And in case you aren't familiar with **Phantom of the Opera (POTO)** yes, the chapter titles are songs from the movie –musical, crafted to suit that specific chapter. Worry not, not all chapters have songs in them. And you do not need to be familiar with POTO to get this story.

In the mean time, feel free to send a review/ comment my way. I love them. Like seriously LOVE them. See you in the following social media platforms as well:

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

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If you want to follow me, please don't be shy. Warning though: I talk mostly about Klaine and Snarry and Glee and Harry Potter and Music and Movies and Pop Culture and about the general unfairness of life (yeah, a lot of those things).

Anyhow, I'm glad you took time to read this. Again, please don't forget to drop me a review! They fuel my desire to post. And thanks in advance. Until next time. Love, C.


	2. Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again

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

_**Warnings**__: see Prologue_

_**Disclaimer**__: see Prologue_

_**A/N: **__Thank you for your kind words of encouragement. Please enjoy this chapter. Note: The Song featured is __**Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again**__ from POTO. Words were altered to suit this story, however. I do recommend that you listen to it, it's a great song to set the mood for this chapter._

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**Music of the Night**

**By C.M. Oliver**

**©2013**

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**Chapter 1: Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again**

"I can't believe I'm saying this to you right now, of all people, but Welcome back to Hogwarts for us both." A smiling Draco Malfoy said, gesturing his arms widely. He was standing by the entrance to the Great Hall. An amused-looking , dark-haired, emerald-eyed man who stood beside him, snorted.

"Yeah, who would've thought? Last time we were both here, we were trying to kill each other."

"Oh no, not that," the blonde laughed. "It's just one hilarious twist of fate in my opinion that we should both find ourselves back here, teaching, no less."

The dark-haired man had a wistful look on his prematurely aged face. "Five years ago –"

"We were so sure of what we'd become." Draco cut him off with a grin. "There I was, so certain that by the end of the war, I'd be locked up tight in an Azkaban cell next to my father –"

"And I was so sure that I'd end up putting you in there." The dark-haired man finished for him with a smile. "Those were the good old days, Malfoy." Draco raised an immaculate eyebrow.

"If you call them good, then you are seriously depraved, Potter."

"That's Professor Potter to you, Malfoy."

Draco snorted himself.

"Then it's Professor Malfoy to you, Professor Potter." The two young men shared a light-hearted laugh. Draco suddenly turned serious and patted his colleague's arm gently.

"We've really come a long way, Harry. I mean, just look at us –we're managing a polite conversation for about four minutes now." Harry raised an inquiring eyebrow of his own before uncharacteristically smirking and brushing Draco's hands away.

"Get your hands off f me, Ferret."

"Gladly, Scarhead." Draco rolled his eyes. "Seriously. There goes my image of an upstanding citizen of Wizarding Britain. I can't go around calling the Vanquisher of Voldemort all sorts of rude names."

"What image, Draco Malfoy? The 'I-am-a-stuck-up-prick-of-a-pureblood-fanatic slash Death-Eater-spawn-in-the-making' image? Sorry to burst your bubble, but you've kind of lost that label when you decided to marry my muggleborn best friend and get a Mastery in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I, on the other hand, have the image to maintain. I can't go around being highly critical of my fellowmen." Harry then pretended to brush off an invisible peck of lint on his dark green robes. Draco smirked.

"You're one to talk. If you're pertaining to your 'I-am-Saint-Potter-Protector-of-the-Oppressed, Defender-of-the-Light, and Every-Witch's-Dream-Boy' façade, then I am doubly sorry if you missed the memo, but you've lost that when you decided not to become an Auror, break up with that redhead slut and become a Potions Master."

Harry gave his contemporary a smug smile. "You forgot to mention hitting my prick of an ex-best friend in public, square in the jaw, after he called me a man-whore pouf." He then sighed. "I guess we're both for breaking stereotypes, my friend."

"Friend?" Draco echoed him, teasingly. I know I can't complain after you've spoken for me at my trial. But I still have a reputation to uphold amongst the students. Professor Potter. After all, I'm the new Head of Slytherin."

"What, so all Slytherin Heads have to be mean and nasty to Gryffindors? I thought that we Potions Masters have the monopoly of being mean. I mean, I even requested quarters in the dungeons to complete my cold and dark persona."

"Harry Potter, cold and dark?" Draco shook his head. "And you do know that the dungeons are still honorary Snake territory, right?"

"I'm not Head of Gryffindor, Malfoy, your wife is. Nothing in the school rules says that I have to live near the Tower. Besides, the quarters I've requested for are conveniently next to the Potions Corridor –"

"No excuse to be late then," Draco snickered. Harry gave him a half-hearted glare. "I need the anonymity, peace and quiet it offers. The dungeons have that right 'leave me alone' vibe to them. I'd like to see any giggling first year try and annoy me down there."

"And the upper years?" Draco asked. Harry gave him a knowing smile. "By the end of the year, they'd know well enough not to even think about it,' his emerald eyes glinted mischievously.

"Damn," His blonde colleague whistled. "You sure do have your evil git persona planned out. 'Guess I'll have to lay it off the snot-nosed prats or we won't have any students left by the end of the year."

"That, and your wife will kill you if you terrorize any of the children. Especially her Lions." Harry teased. "And besides, Defense Professors are supposed to be nice."

"Like the Carrows?" Draco challenged him. "Quirrell? Umbridge? Fake Moody?"

"Hey at least the guy had a sense of humor!" Harry protested with a grin. Draco glared at him that had the Vanquisher of Voldemort laughing hard.

"Fine, we didn't have the best track record of DADA teachers. But you have to admit, Remus was the nicest. Lockhart may be incompetent, but at least he dressed nicely. Just ask Mione. I don't think she got over her crush on him –"

"I dress nicer than that pouf." Draco sneered haughtily. Harry grinned. "Whatever you say, dear old chum." Suddenly the pleasant look on the emerald-eyed man's face faded. Draco noticed. The blonde knew too well where this conversation was going. "Harry –"

"Snape. He was the bloody bravest of them all." Harry said in an almost-whisper. Draco placed a comforting hand on his once-nemesis' shoulder. He knew how his now-friend blamed himself for the dark wizard's death.

"He was, Potter. No one would forget that." Harry met the silver eyes briefly before looking away.

"He was the hero, not me. I just –I just wish that there had been a body to bury…" He shook his head as if trying to clear it off those exact thoughts that have been haunting him since the Final Battle. "We should set up our stuff. The Hogwarts express will be here soon. Where are you rooming anyway?"

"Base of the new Slytherin Tower. Alternate nights with Mione in Gryffindor Tower. I'd miss the old common room below the Lake, but the newly-constructed tower is rather nice –has a great view of the Quidditch Pitch too. Hey, you're coaching Gryffindor Team, right?" Harry chuckled.

"If I left it to your wife, you wouldn't have any real competition now, would you?"

"True," Draco agreed before he could filter his thoughts. Then upon realizing what he had just admitted to, he scowled. "Don't tell my wife I said that!" Harry resumed laughing as he left for his rooms.

"My lips are sealed."

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The Second Wizarding War changed a lot of things, and Hogwarts Castle herself was not spared. The Battle for Hogwarts left the main structure in ruins. And it, being a heavily warded and highly magical building, took five years to reconstruct. The lower levels comprised of the basement kitchens and the dungeons took most of the chore of being rebuilt as the anchor stones of the castle wards were located near them. In the end, it was decided to have the lower levels closed off to students. The new wards needed time to get stabilized and way too much noise and magical interference could affect them. The Slytherins got a new dormitory in their own tower, as did the Hufflepuffs. The kitchens were moved to a room just behind the Great Hall. The basement was left bare and uninhabited. The same was to be done for the dungeons… until the Headmistress offered the Potions Professorship to Harry Potter.

The end of the war saw to a rise of students taking up masteries in Defense, even Charms and Transfiguration, mostly to become Aurors, Ministry Workers or private experts. But the same thing could not be said, sadly, for the exact art and subtle science that was Potions-Making. In fact, in the last five years, only four in the whole of Britain took their Potions NEWTS further. Of those four, only one chose to remain in England –the rest received and accepted job offers abroad. But there wasn't a shortage of Potions Masters, actually, quite the contrary. Though, truth be told, not many would give up a lucrative career in brewing or managing an apothecary in favor of teaching hordes of 'dunderheads'. Really, who in their right minds would?

Standard fees, Saturdays off, no press, no Gryffindor Headship and most importantly the seclusion of the dungeons… When Harry stated his demands in exchange for accepting Minerva's offer of a job, he had half-hoped, half-expected her to say no. Now here he was, walking to his dungeon quarters. There were no portraits, no walking suits of armor, no living or sentient beings for what seemed like miles around him. The Headmistress must be really that desperate to hire him for Hogwarts' reopening, five years after the war.

He wasn't the best of the best, that, harry would gladly admit; case in point, his higher studies took him three years, instead of the usual two, to get to where he was right now. Some would say that he was already a master of his craft after five years, but he knew better. His skills were nowhere near that of the caliber of the **real** master.

Severus Snape.

The misunderstood spy had been his inspiration, his hero, in so many ways –to him, the ebony-haired, onyx-eyed man's passion was of no comparison to any other –be it Potions or anything else. (Too bad not many would agree to Harry's observation.) So, here he was, five years later, Professor Harry James Potter, Potions Master, International Potions Guild Member level 8 (only two points below his idol). Many thought that this move was done solely to break away from the mold the adoring public had created for their Savior. Only a few would ever see it as an ode to an unsung hero.

Nothing much had changed in the dungeons amidst all of the repairs. The walls were still made out of damp and at times, even mossy stones. Darkness was still constant, enveloping everything in shadows, no matter what time of the day it was. The air was still eerie with silence, shrouded with mystery, cold with solitude… and yet, Harry knew it hadn't been always like that.

That one night in February, six years ago, was repeated well until the night of Dumbledore's death –but not even the old man's horrific final moments could erase that startlingly vivid scene in Harry's mind: Candles, shadows, long potions-stained fingers… midnight hair, rumpled shirt, those dark eyes that would haunt him forever… But what his mind saw, what had allowed him to finally learn Occlumency, paled in comparison to the music that was constant in his nightly reveries…

The man lay dying in his arms; it was only then that harry realized –no matter what had happened between the two of them in the past –he could never properly hate the Severus Snape, ultimate spy and once-thought of traitor.

"_**Look at me…"**_

He saw the man's best kept memories; but beyond what lay waiting for him in that cracked stone pensieve that was now his, he saw, he finally saw that coveted fire within the dark wizard's fathomless eyes –fire that he had resorted to only imagining whenever he had secretly witnessed the man and his secret passion. That fleeting spark, a little too late in coming in Harry's opinion was more than enough on its own to ignite his own flickering wick. The death of Severus Snape, and the life he had lived leading up to it, become one Harry Potter's purpose.

'_**What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever find out?'**_

If there was one thing Harry regretted the most was that his questions remained in his mind alone. He had finally reached the entrance to his quarters, an obscured and heavily fortified stone wall; He remembered that night clearly in his head, when the wall was just a plain office door, unwarded and unlocked. It was now flanked by two perpetually-lit torches. His hands caressed the cold surface as he reverently whispered his password.

"Phantom" the wall melted into an illusion. The room that lay before him was like a blast from the past. It had been untouched since its last occupant left it a little over five years ago –the repairs seemed to have missed or more likely avoided tampering with this particular space. Had there been no preservation charms, Harry thought, the room would have been knee-deep in dust and grime. The emerald-eyed man gave a whispered thanks to the thoughtfulness of house elves. The fire in the grate had been burning merrily for hours, but aside fro that, there was no sign that anyone had ever been into the private room, The old Spartan desk was still in the middle, though void of any clutter. The pair of padded armchairs was still facing the hearth. The two doors, leading to the bedroom and the laboratory were still closed –no doubt, Harry mused, that they too, remained untouched. There was still that feeling of that space as being unlived in. There was still that lone tapestry of a birch tree, off to the right side of the fire place. Harry stopped his exploration…

Could it be?

With clammy, shaky hands, he lifted the edge of the large, fringed rug that hung against the stone wall…

The familiar hidden door was still there. Images of many sleepless nights just sitting outside it, listening, flashed back to the new Potions Master's consciousness. 'Music of the Night', it was called, the first song he had heard and seen performed in this very room. He had even resorted to singing a few lines of it to Hermione just to find out. The muggleborn witch then introduced him to 'Phantom of the Opera' and the world of musical theater. Harry bought the record via Owl Order and listened to it using one of Fred and George's magical music player inventions. A week later, he was back in the dungeons, well-versed in Andrew Lloyd Weber's ultimate masterpiece.

Snape would change up the pieces he would play at night, but 'Music of the Night' remained Harry's favorite. The dark wizard would play other musicians' compositions, but to Harry, it seemed that 'Phantom' was the man's favorite musical –as it would eventually become his.

The ivory and ebony keys still gleamed in the soft orange glow of the candlelight. Harry could feel the ghost of that haunting melody calling out to him now, as it did that first night, many years ago. He sat on the low bench. Over the years, he had learned to appreciate music more, alongside Potions, Earl Grey and star-gazing. But sadly, being a war veteran and a Potions apprentice at the same time took much chance away from him ever learning to play with the level of mastery and finesse his former Potions Professor had –a feat that would take even the dedicated many years to develop.

He couldn't bring himself to learn reading notes, and until now, he had played by his ear –he'd listen to a song, commit it to memory and attempt t translate it onto the keyboard. He learned quite a few songs in this manner, but for some reason, he could not get himself to play 'Music of The Night.' He'd begin the piece but never did he get the chance to finish it. Not once. For some reason, it did not feel right whenever he'd attempt it –there was always something wrong, something lacking… it was like he was missing in on one big secret…

'_**What is your secret? Will you tell me? Will you teach me? Will I ever find out?'**_

No, he thought, he could never play that song, not the way Severus Snape did. Harry poised his hands over the keys. He'd have to make do with another song he knew by heart.

"**You were once my unknown champion/ Your reputation battered/ You were once a reluctant friend/ Then my world was shattered/ Wishing you were somehow here again/ Wishing you were somehow near/ Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed/ Somehow you would be here."**

Harry's voice began to falter, but he trudged on.

"**Wishing I could hear your voice again/ Knowing that I never would/ Dreaming of you won't help me to do/ All that you dreamed I could/ Whispered spells, I could tell/ Would just do me no good/ I have lost you in every manner/ Where once a brave man stood."**

He did not even know how his robes came undone, but they did. His glasses, now more for show, after the permanent Sight-Correcting potion he had invented in his Mastery, were askew.

"**Too many years, fighting back tears/ Can I let the past just die/ Wishing you were somehow here again/ Really must we say 'goodbye'/ Try to forgive, teach me to live/ Give me the strength to try/ No more memories, no more silent tears/ No more gazing across the wasted years/ Must we say goodbye? Must we say goodbye?"**

As it did many nights ago, he became lost in haunting tune of that well-hidden secret, that spell-binding sound of Severus Snape's one true passion aside from Potions. The man's low and smooth baritone complemented the grand piano then as Harry's soft and melodious voice did now. The tempo rose, and the young man found himself going along with the flow. The thrill of flying never came close to this. Now, in this room, playing the very instrument that inspired him to learn this art, Harry had finally understood how Snape felt.

He was a solitary man, a true loner. Sure, there were people around him, but nobody really understood him. Beyond the reputation, nobody knew the real him. And dare he choose to reveal the truth, life as it existed would cease. Harry knew too well how perceptions could rule and even ruin one man's life. People forgave him for not being an Auror. People forgave him for being gay. Would they be as forgiving if they knew that he was living his life for a dead man's memory?

The aria ended as Harry's nimble but calloused fingers finally left the polished keys. Only then had he realized that he had his eyes closed, the whole time he was playing. When he had finally opened them, tears began to flow soundlessly. Now that he thought about it, he'd never seen Snape open his eyes while playing –Harry would arrive each night with the man already in the middle of his runs and would leave, just right before the private concerto ended. Was Severus Snape keeping his tears at bay too?

A loud toiling of bells broke into Harry's reveries –the Hogwarts Express had arrived. The newly-appointed Potions Professor sighed as he left the secret room. There would be other nights to leisurely spend in there, now that he would no longer be wary of getting caught sneaking into a Professor's private chambers. As he redid the buttons of his dark green robes, harry could not help but think. He'd much rather have it that Snape caught him that night –and all the other nights that came after. Maybe if the man did, harry wouldn't have grown to love music as much; maybe he wouldn't have grown to love the darkness and solitude of the dungeons as much; maybe he wouldn't have grown to love the memory of the dark wizard as much… Maybe the man would still be alive. Maybe Harry could ask and finally learn of his secret…

There were so many possibilities that would never see the light of day.

The emerald-eyed man took one last glance at the birch tapestry before heading for the Great Hall.

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From a far, Hogwarts Castle at night looked like a birthday cake, with its candles aflame on top –especially tonight. A pair of dark eyes gazed longingly at this once, thought-of home.

'_It still is, nothing can ever change that.'_

A spray of stars dotted the clear autumn sky. Fleets of lit lanterns glowed like St. Elmo's fire across the blackness of the Great Lake –the traditional ferrying of little first years to get their first glimpse of Hogwarts; a truly majestic experience for anyone, including those dark eyes, many years ago.

He was torn. At one end, he was happy to see Her come back to life once more, with Her halls filled with learning and knowledge, camaraderie and competition, as it should. Loath he was to admit, but it was those things that truly made the place special.

On the other hand, he knew this boded the end for him. His peaceful existence in the plane of shadows and isolation, which had lasted for five years were soon to be no more. He grimaced.

'_I can't. I can't let anything –or anyone, for that matter –'_

A soft sigh escaped his lips. But he made a promise to leave **him** alone in exchange for a promise that he too would be left alone. If he was to continue seeing to his one true passion…

'_I have to find a way. No one can know. Especially not… him. Especially not Potter.'_

He'd have to be creative. Hogwarts was and will always be his one true home, his refuge, his safe haven.

A patch of stark white pierced through the darkness and hovered by the equally dark eyes, covering the area immediately surrounding it. Then, as quickly as it came on, it melted into the abyss.

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-END OF CHAPTER 1-

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**A/N: **Up next: Chapter 2: Phantom. In the mean time, feel free to send a review/ comment my way. I love them. Like seriously LOVE them. See you in the following social media platforms as well:

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	3. Phantom

**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:

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

FFNet: **C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl**

Twitter: **C.M. Oliver** (a.t.)heyitschesca (#cmoliverfanfiction)

Tumblr: **klaineloveandsnarrydreams **(#cmoliverfanfiction)

**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.


	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)

FFNet: **C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl**

Twitter: **C.M. Oliver** (a.t.)heyitschesca (#cmoliverfanfiction)

Tumblr: **klaineloveandsnarrydreams **(#cmoliverfanfiction)

Until next time –C.


	5. Angel Of Music

**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._

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** Music of the Night **

**By C.M. Oliver**

**©2013**

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**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.

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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."

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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," 

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-END OF CHAPTER 4-

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**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.


	6. Learn To Be Lonely

**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:

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

FFNet: **C.M. Oliver is Eastwoodgirl**

Twitter: **C.M. Oliver** (a.t.)heyitschesca (#cmoliverfanfiction)


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Harry Potter, Drama, Romance