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Resonant Dissonance	By : Ataraxia Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3548 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Harry Potter franchise and do not profit from this story.

Chapter List
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Chapter 2: Repair and a Cup of Tea

The drive to Harry’s workshop – which was attached to his home – had been a relatively quick one, only thirty minutes. Then again, after the fifteen or so hours Severus had spent travelling the day before, anything would have seemed quick to him.

Gravel from the driveway crunched under the tires of Harry’s slightly rusty GMC pickup as they pulled up to the small, wood-paneled bungalow. It was seated on the edge of a small, placid lake, a near-forest of majestic evergreens circling the far boundary. Bypassing the cottage itself, Harry led Severus around the back to a large, heated workshop where he immediately set to work on his ‘patient’.

Harry hummed to himself as his compact, yet nimble hands worked the crumpled brass of the horn over the roller. Lovingly, caressingly, he smoothed it out to its original curved form, pausing occasionally to run his fingers across its shiny surface.   A smile flicked across his face and he nodded to himself, content that the work was true.

Severus watched the master with rapt attention from his seat across the workbench. Observing this man had given him new appreciation for the art that was instrument repair – and it was truly an art.   The term “technician” could not have described Harry as he took the horn over to a buffing wheel and ran it across the polishing surface. Those deft hands held the instrument firmly, but gently, as he slowly turned it and erased any evidence of damage.

Holding the bell to the light, Harry scrutinized his work before giving a final nod of satisfaction, then turned back to his client. “I’ll have to apply a new coat of lacquer to her, but once it cures, you shouldn’t even notice the repair. I suppose if you look really hard, you’ll be able to see a slight difference between the factory lacquer and what I’m going to do, but short of stripping it down to raw brass and taking it somewhere to be electrostatically coated, it’s the best I can do.”

Severus nodded slowly as he stood and walked towards Harry, his eyes on the horn.   That instrument had been his one true companion for most of his life, and the relief that swept through him was beyond tangible. Reaching out a long, pale finger, he traced the newly-repaired bell with awe.

“Careful, she’s hot,” Harry warned him, his voice soft.

Severus’ fingers moved to the un-lacquered portion of the horn. The friction of the buffer had left the metal quite warm to the touch, and the instrument felt almost alive.   Severus didn’t even notice that a small smile had formed on his lips as he admired the workmanship, and he was shocked when a reflection in the brass smiled back at him.

Two reflections, actually.

The green of Harry’s eyes was still obvious in the mirror of the yellow brass. In the reflection, their glances met. “What’s her name?” Harry asked quietly.

Severus started momentarily. How had Harry known he’d named the horn? A quick rush of embarrassment flushed his pale cheeks.

Harry chuckled softly. “Don’t be embarrassed. Mine are Sophia, Leslie, Grace and George.”

Severus’ eyebrow shot up as he turned his head. “George?”

Potter laughed outright. “George is a big bastard. You’ll understand when you see him.” His eyes twinkled as his mouth broke into a lopsided grin. “Let’s get this girl lacquered up, shall we? She’s going to need at least twenty-four hours to cure.”

“Penelope.” Severus said, almost under his breath.

Harry smiled warmly. “Penelope. Pretty name.”

~*~*~

Penelope was in the workshop, curing, while her owner was settled comfortably on a worn sofa in Harry’s living room. A fire burned brightly in the stone-lined fireplace.

“I always like to have the fire going,” Harry had explained. “Canada is beautiful but it’s a good deal colder than England.”

That was half an hour ago, and as if to prove his point, the heavens had opened and began to drop an alarming amount of snow. Seeing that a trip back to the resort was unwise at this time, Harry had shrugged and offered Severus a cup of tea.

“You’re a man of simple comforts, aren’t you, Mr. Potter?”

“Oh, God, call me Harry, please.” He scowled good-naturedly as he marched back into the living room holding two steaming cups. “Nobody’s called me ‘Mr. Potter’ since I was in boarding school. It always reminds me of being rapped across the knuckles with a ruler.” He shuddered slightly as he handed Severus the mug of rooibos.

Smirking, Severus accepted the cup. “Troublemaker, were we?” he asked, taking a sip.

Harry grinned. “I’d like to think I still am, frankly. Makes me feel young.”

Severus rolled his eyes. Harry couldn’t have been a day over thirty to look at him, but of course, he could be wrong. The young man had certainly lived a lot in the years he’d spent on this Earth; it was obvious in everything from his comportment to his living arrangements. A mishmash of travel photos lined every available shelf and surface of his living room, images of Harry in various cities around the world.   Severus recognized London (of course), Prague, Belfast, Tokyo, New York and Sydney, to name a few. There were dozens of them, all showing Harry with his casual smile and his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Severus’ eyes flicked to what he assumed was the most recent photo, a picture of Harry looking much as he did now, standing on the Toronto waterfront with the CN Tower visible in the background. “You’re a wanderer, I see.”

Harry smiled. “Not all those who wander are lost,” he said, shrugging. “Just looking for a place to call home, I s’pose. I left the UK at seventeen and never looked back.” His eyes took on a vacant, wistful expression as he sipped his tea carefully.   The firelight danced off his features, warming the tone of his skin and highlighting his dishevelled hair.

“What of your family?” Severus asked.

“Haven’t any. I was an only child, parents died when I was a baby. The boarding school was my home until I graduated. Then I just... left.”

“I’m sorry.” Severus wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for the boy’s unfortunate-sounding childhood or the fact what that he, an utter stranger, had asked him to divulge such information. Severus liked to avoid personal conversations, usually for this very reason.

Harry shook his head as if the two simple words had broken a trance. He glanced up at Severus and smiled. “No need to be sorry. That school is the reason I found music, my calling. This,” – he swept his arm towards the picture frames – “this is just what became of it. I went everywhere to study and apprentice. I repaired with the best in Tokyo, France, the US, you name it; opportunities I never would have had if something had tied me to one place.” He stood up and crossed the room, returning with a worn frame.   Inside was a Polaroid of Harry as a teenager, holding a small rucksack in one hand and what looked like a plane ticket in the other. The white frame of the picture had the word “Freedom – 1998” scrawled across the bottom in what Severus could only assume was Harry’s own hand.

“That,” Harry said triumphantly, “was the day I graduated. Just me, two changes of clothes and Sophia and I were off to Japan.”

“George must have been very jealous,” Severus deadpanned.

Harry laughed. “He’s not the jealous type. Besides, I didn’t get George until I was twenty-one.” He reached down to take the picture frame back from Severus, who had unknowingly been gripping it tightly.

Their fingertips brushed, and both men drew a sharp in-take of breath at the electricity it shot up their arms. Regaining his composure first, Harry simply grinned curiously and plopped himself on the sofa next to his guest.

Turning so that his back was against the armrest, Harry took a sip of his tea before asking, “So, tell me about this solo of yours.”

Severus blinked at the abrupt change of topic, his mind still focused on the tingling sensation their brief contact had left in his hand. Not wanting to seem too affected by it, however, he cleared his throat and began his tale.
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Resonant Dissonance