Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

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 4: The Solo

Severus was distracted. His bowtie felt altogether too tight and the tuxedo he wore was making him sweat profusely. Nervously, he ran his fingers over Penelope’s freshly repaired bell and waited to take the stage he had once longed for.

Now the only place he wanted to be was back in bed with Harry Potter.

The freak snowstorm had left Severus and Harry in close quarters for two glorious days. Harry did eventually show Severus the bedroom, but they left it only to shower (together), relieve themselves (alone), and eat (together).

Now pacing backstage, his muscles complained loudly from their forty-eight hours of use, while his mind dreaded the thought of boarding a plane and heading back across the ocean.

Away from Harry.

“Five minutes to curtain, Mr. Snape,” a familiar voice informed him.

He turned to see Kristin smiling at him encouragingly. He was about to ask why she wasn’t in the light booth when he noticed her lanyard now had a peel-and-stick label that covered the area below her name. It read: ‘Stage Director’.

“Promoted so soon?” he drawled, and she shrugged with a sheepish grin.

~*~*~

The conductor turned on his podium to address the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, the next piece you are about to hear is possibly one of the most beautiful and unique symphonic works I have ever had the pleasure of conducting. The solo was written for French Horn, which will be performed by the Berlin Symphony’s own Mr. Severus Snape.”

At this, Severus stood, taking a curt bow before settling himself back in his seat. He was grateful that the bright stage lights hid the audience from him, since there was no way he would be able to hide from them; as much as he enjoyed this solo, he preferred the anonymity of just being another voice in the ensemble.

The conductor’s speech was perplexing. Severus was unused to being introduced before a piece, and frowned in confusion. Why was the conductor speaking at all? Did the audience not have programmes, or was this just some strange Canadian practice?

“I have just been informed,” the conductor continued, “that the composer of this work is in the audience with us tonight, and I would ask that he grace us by conducting his piece. Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. James Evans.”

The thundering applause was no match for the pounding of Severus’ heart. James Evans was here, in Canada, hours away from anything that could be called a city. His throat dried and his lips parted as he scoured the bright lights to get a glimpse of the man he had been nearly worshipping for months. Squinting, he saw a man in a tuxedo sheepishly walk to the front of the stage, climb the stairs and graciously accept the baton.

Severus’ guts lurched as his eyes rested on a very familiar mop of black hair and sparkling green eyes.

Harry gave the audience a quick bow before turning to the orchestra. His eyes went directly to Severus, and with a slight shrug and a chagrined smile, he silently mouthed the word, “Hi.”

~*~*~

James Evans.

Harry Potter was James-Fucking-Evans.

Bile and betrayal rose in Severus’ throat as he silently begged the room to stop spinning. The heat from the stage lights seemed to sear his skin as his mind frantically tore through the events of the past forty-eight hours.

How could Harry not have told him? How could he have allowed Severus to fairly swoon over the mystery composer, without once letting on that it was in fact he, Harry, who had written those scores?

Flexing his fingers in an effort to prevent them from shaking any further, Severus stood, raised his horn to his lips, and waited for Harry’s downbeat. Throughout the entire solo, Severus never once met the man’s eyes.

~*~*~

“Severus, wait!” Harry called, his voice frantic.

Severus ignored him and threw open the stage door, storming out into the cold, late-autumn night.

“Severus, please, wait!”

The sound of someone running through the fresh, fallen snow was followed by a hand grabbing his shoulder, causing him to spin around.

“What do you want, Potter? Or should I say, Evans?” he snarled, clutching Penelope protectively to his thin chest.

“It’s Potter,” Harry said softly. “Harry Potter. James Evans is just my nom de plume. Please let me explain,” he begged.

Severus snorted. “Explain what? That I spent two days with my cock up your arse and you didn’t even have the decency to tell me who you were? You knew I was hired to play that solo, your solo, and you allowed me to prattle on about how marvellous it was without batting an eye!”

“No, you don’t underst–”

“I understand perfectly fine. You are just like every other composer I have ever dealt with: conceited, self-righteous and obsessed with praise! You think the sun shines out your bloody arse, don’t you, Evans? Just another fucking celebrity!” He spun on his heel, careful to not let his leather-soled dress shoes slide beneath him as he trudged towards his waiting taxi.

“No, Severus, please...” Harry’s voice was thick with emotion as he reached out to grasp the hem of the retreating wool coat. His fingers barely grazed it as Severus flung open the taxi door, settled himself inside, and promptly informed the driver to head back to Pearson Airport. It sped off before Harry could stop it, Severus offering nary a look behind.
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