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Resonant Dissonance	By : Ataraxia Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Snape Views: 3547 -:- 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
- 4
- 5
Chapter 5: Unison

Sweat dripped down his brow and onto the collar of his loose, silk shirt as he made his way to the small flat he was renting in Mumbai. Although India hadn’t been number one on his list of places to work, the debacle in Canada had instilled in Severus a desperate need to get away from anywhere that was prone to snow. He had originally got work in Switzerland, but the rocky, pine-dotted landscape had reminded him too much of his time in Ontario, and he almost expected to see a rusty, GMC pickup around every turn in the road.

So, at the next available opportunity, he looked for work in Asia. But now that he was here, settling his sweat-soaked body into the wooden chair in his small kitchen, he remembered why he preferred the northern part of Europe, and wished he had opted to stay a little closer to home.

Sighing, he cracked the seal on his bottle of iced tea (an abomination, but the idea of hot tea made him perspire even more), and flipped the lid on his laptop to check his email.

After sifting through the advertisements for online pharmaceuticals and promises to increase his manhood, Severus stumbled upon an email from someone named Kristin Rainaud. Furrowing his brow in confusion, he tried to place the familiar name before clicking on the email. The letterhead was from the Elkhurst Resort and Conference Centre in Ontario.

Ah, yes. Kristin the light board operator, stage manager, accomplice of Harry-Fucking-Potter. Grimacing, he scrolled down the page.

Dear Mr. Snape,

I found this article in Symphonic Quarterly and thought you may be interested. There is a lovely photo of you that you may wish to add to your portfolio of publicity shots.

Furthermore, the owner of the Elkhurst Resort and Conference Centre was dismayed to hear of your fall at our facility, and would like to offer you a free, 7-night stay, including coverage of your airfare costs.

Thank-you again for staying with us, and we hope to see you soon!

Kristin Rainaud

Entertainment Coordinator

Elkhurst Conference Centre and Resort

“Promoted again, I see, Miss Rainaud,” Severus mused aloud as he opened the file she had attached.

A large, full-colour photo assaulted him as soon as the file finished downloading, and Severus was left breathless at the image. It was him, in profile, playing his beautiful, glossy Penelope. It must have been during the middle of his solo, for his eyes were closed and he was lost in the music.

The second subject in the photo was the tousled, black-haired conductor, a look of awe and reverence plastered across his handsome, young features.

It was Harry, of course.

The sight of him made Severus’ stomach churn, and he very nearly sicked up what little iced tea he had drank. In that moment, Severus was glad he had played the solo with his eyes closed, because if he had seen that look on Harry’s face – the look that had been directed at him – he surely wouldn’t have made it through the piece.

The article that followed the photo was an interview with James Evans, composer extraordinaire. Despite his better judgement, Severus began to read.

SQ: Mr. Evans, rumour has it that this isn’t your real name.

JE: It’s real enough, I suppose. No, it’s not what it says on my birth certificate or my driver’s registration, but James Evans is the composer, the man in the public eye.

SQ: Why not just go by your real name?

JE: I’m not interested in that kind of attention. Not that composers get a lot of attention or anything, really. I mean, symphonic music certainly doesn’t have the audience it used to. That being said, I want to be able to write my pieces and send them off into the world, while keeping my life at home quiet. My music took off unexpectedly, and I was glad for the nom de plume because it gave me a break from that life. I could sit at home and just be me, if I wanted, not James Evans, the composer.

SQ: Surely people must have figured out who you are by now…

JE: Yes, well, you can’t keep a secret like that forever. A few people know, surely. Unfortunately, some found out the hard way, before I had the chance to tell them myself.

Severus snorted in disdain. ‘The hard way’ indeed.

SQ: So, Mr. Evans, tell me about the piece you premiered at the White North music festival last month.

JE: Well, that piece was rather special to me. It’s called “Devotion in Black” and I wrote it specifically for a French Horn player I had heard in Berlin.

Severus felt his heart stutter a beat in recognition, but simply cleared his throat and continued reading, brushing it off as a ridiculous coincidence.

SQ: Do you mean Mr. Severus Snape, the soloist from this year’s festival?

JE: Yes, Mr. Snape. I can’t really explain it, and it may seem silly to anyone who hasn’t heard the man play, but once I had the opportunity to hear him in Berlin, I knew I had to write something for him. He has this tone, it’s gorgeous and rich, almost velvety. He plays with a raw sensuality that touches you to your very core. He’s an incredibly complex player, and I wanted to write him a similarly complex piece. Something resonant, and dissonant. Something that would complement him perfectly and showcase his talent.

Severus’ jaw dropped. It couldn’t be possible. When the score had arrived on his doorstep in Germany, he hadn’t even questioned who would hire him for that particular gig. He was so besotted with the music, he had been perfectly willing to up and travel halfway across the globe without so much as a second thought.

It made sense, in a strange way. No wonder the solo had resonated so deeply within him, had felt as if it had been written specifically for him – it had been. Shaking his head in bewilderment, he continued to read the article.

SQ: I’ve heard your next work also features French Horn. Will Mr. Snape be premiering this piece as well?

JE: I don’t think Mr. Snape is particularly interested in playing another one of my pieces at the moment.

SQ: Well, was the score written with anyone in mind?

JE: Oh, yes. This particular score was written for a very special girl.

A sickening crunch broke the silence as Severus’ laptop connected with the wall, sending keys flying everywhere. A girl? Harry-Fucking-Potter slash James-Goddamned-Evans had written his next piece for a girl? Well wasn’t that just sodding perfect!

Picking up his bottle of iced tea, he flung the plastic vessel against the wall as well, causing the liquid to drip down and seep across the broken remnants of his computer.

It was ridiculous, really, to assume that Harry would still think about him. He was a handsome young man; no doubt one with more than a few admirers. In fact, he had probably already bent Kristin over her light board before Severus was even on his plane home. Trying to shake the painful images from his head, he began to pace his small flat in irritation.

A knock at the door prevented him from wearing a trench right through the bamboo floors, and reluctantly, he ceased his pacing to answer it.

A young man in a courier’s uniform stood in the hallway, a clipboard in one hand and a small parcel in the other.

“Severus Snape?” the courier asked in heavily accented English.

Severus merely glowered in reply, scribbling his name on the clipboard and snatching the box away before slamming the door in the courier’s face.

~*~*~

Upon seeing the parcel marked with a return address of Elkhurst, Ontario, Severus promptly dropped it on his coffee table and let it sit for three days. It was only after he grew tired of staring at the plain, brown paper-wrapped parcel that he finally deigned to open it.

Inside was a thick stack of papers bound together in a cardboard cover.

Curiously, he folded back the cover to reveal a myriad of handwritten notes gracing staff paper. It was a symphonic score, and included in the manuscript was a part for French Horn – another solo, in fact. The piece was entitled, “Reflections in Penelope,” and the composer had written his name in a familiar, cramped hand.

Harry Potter.

Not James Evans. Harry Potter.

Tracing the paper with a lone finger, Severus felt the indentation of each handwritten note. Each bar line, each rest, each key signature had been inked by Harry’s own hand, and despite himself, Severus was soon humming the tune out loud.

It was only a matter of time before he found himself running to his instrument case and settling Penelope against his lips to play the haunting melody.

Not surprisingly, it was beautiful.

When the song was done, he rested the horn in his lap, her flared bell cradling his thigh. Absently, he stroked the smooth brass, as he was wont to do when lost in thought. He startled slightly when his finger felt a slight change in texture – the place where Harry had re-lacquered it months ago. Frowning, he peered down at the almost-invisible repair and caught his own reflection.

And remembered the day when a pair of startlingly green eyes had also stared back at him.

Harry.

~*~*~

He rapped on the heavy, oak door, cursing himself for not thinking to wear a parka. Footsteps from inside the small dwelling grew louder until the door swung open to reveal its dishevelled resident.

“Harry,” Severus began, hoping that Harry would attribute the tremor in his voice to the extreme cold, and nothing else.

Harry just stared at him, his face splashed with a variety of emotions. “You came,” he whispered.

Rubbing his arms roughly, Severus nodded. “Straight from India, where I hadn’t exactly packed for a Canadian winter.”

“You came,” Harry repeated, hope blooming on his face.

Severus shrugged. “I received your message.” He reached into his shoulder bag and retrieved the small, cardboard box. Lifting the manuscript, he pulled out the carved, wooden case that had been nestled in packing materials underneath it, and opened it slowly, revealing the sixteen-inch baton and the small note that said, simply, “I’m sorry.”

Delight in his eyes, Harry pulled Severus into a searing kiss and dragged him through the front door of his small cottage. “I thought you’ve never come,” he moaned breathlessly between kisses.

Fumbling with a familiar plaid shirt, Severus growled into Harry’s mouth, “I nearly didn’t.”

“Then what–?”

Toppling Harry onto the worn sofa, Severus smirked as he sat astride him. “Penelope insisted. You’ve gone and spoiled her now, and she simply refuses to perform for anyone else.”

Harry grinned and pulled Severus’ head down towards his lips. “Wait ‘til she meets George.”
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Resonant Dissonance