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PART THREE: ILLUSIONS
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In Muggle London, he enjoys a few treasured hours of anonymity, where he can be 'just Harry.' NO expectations, no pressure. Just a man going about his day, and going through life like the rest of the world are.
His boot-clad feet carry him to a foreign place; the sun goes down as he stops in his tracks. Bright neon lights dance across his face as he makes his way inside a cavernous but dark sanctuary. The sound of mindless chatter and soft background music usher him in. He makes his way to the bar where a blonde asks him what he's drinking. He settles for a pint of Heineken –he's never had it before. The barman disappears to fetch his order. He relaxes his back against the ledge and surveys the scene with silent, wandering eyes.
The cold bottle gets plunked down behind him even before he could start looking around. He turns, thanks the blonde and takes a swig of the bitter brew before he resumes his watch.
The chatter subsides when he turns around again. The lights dim –all except for one; the spotlight on the nearby makeshift stage. He grimaces. He's always hated the spotlight. The soft music in the background ceases completely and his emerald eyes turn towards the barman in an unuttered question. The blonde smiles at him.
"Open-mic Friday, do you sing?"
He shakes his head and turns his attention back at the stage. Anyone who would dare sing in public, he would hold in high regard.
A man strides towards the platform as the beginning bars of an unfamiliar song reaches his ears. From where he was standing, he could not see the man's face that well, but the performer exuded confidence in his steps –and the way he gripped the microphone –this was no amateur, he could tell. The spotlight garzed the performer's pale face, covered partly by large aviator sunglasses; his hair was inky black and cropped neatly. The rest of his outfit was a forgettable black ensemble: black leather jacket, black tuxedo shirt, black denim trousers, black leather boots –something artists of those days would wear.
He takes another swig of his beer and closes his eyes as the man on the stage begins to sing.
Take me as you are
Push me off the road
The sadness,
I need this time to be with you
I'm freezing in the sun
I'm burning in the rain
The silence
I'm screaming,
Calling out your name
And I do reside in your light
That puts up the fire with me and find
Yeah you'll lose the side of your circles
That's what I'll do if we say goodbye
Emerald eyes fly open as tears begin to fall soundlessly. He fixes his blurry gaze on the singer's strange, covered face.
Only, it wasn't coveredanymore.
Nor is it strange to him anymore.
He drops the bottle of beer he is holding, but no one even notices. They all seemed to be entrances by the deep, smooth baritone issuing from those thin, pale lips by the microphone. Onyx eyes stare back at him from behind long lashes. The rest of him were alien to his sight, but there was no doubting those eyes.
Eyes that haunted him even in his waking moments.
To be is all I got to be
And all that I see
And all that I need this time
To me the life you gave me
The day you said goodnight.
He wanted to stand up and walk towards the spotlight –like a moth drawn towards the flame. But his legs refuse to cooperate. Instead, he stays in his stool, eyes wide and lips moving soundlessly. He tries hard not to blink, for he knew that if he did, this illusion would surely disappear forever.
If you could only know me like your prayers at night
Then everything between you and me will be alright.
He must've looked stupid, sitting by the bar, tears flowing freely from his eyes…
But there was no stopping them.
Then, everything starts to fade: the lights, the smell of stale beer, pot and smoke, the warmth of the wooden counter against his cloaked back, the bitter aftertaste of Heineken –now unappreciated in his mouth… the velvety voice that used to make him tingle and moan in excitement and anticipation.
A shadow crosses his tear-stricken face. And suddenly, he collapses in his seat, cold and oblivious to the chaos of the world around him.
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"Wake up,"
A feather-light tap on his left cheek ignites his nerves.
"I know it's really comfortable down there with all the gum, dried beer and used tissues, but you really must get up now –"
The sarcastic quip forces his lids open. And just for a second there, he thought that he had died and gone to –wherever dead wizards go to when they pass on.
His hazy emerald eyes refuse to see anything beyond those obsidian orbs.
"Se-Severus?"
The onyx eyes roll exasperatedly just like they were meant to –like they used to.
"Hardly, sir. You must've hit your head too hard." The familiar baritone sighed. "I'd tell you my name if you'd get up off the floor –people are staring."
He shakes his head twice in an attempt to clear off the cobwebs in the crevices of his brain. He begins to push himself off the ground, deliberately ignoring pairs of eyes other than the one directly in front of him. A pale hand extends towards him. He grabs it, and for a moment, he is transported yet again through space and time. He feels himself being pulled forward. He does not fight the sensation.
"Nicholas,"
He swivels his head looking for the source of that foreign-sounding utterance. When he fails to locate it, he gives up and looks on straight ahead. The familiar eyes remain trained on him.
"I said, my name is Nicholas. Are you really that slow or are you just rude?"
There, that biting tone again.
"Ha-Harry," he manages to croak out, still unsure of what Fate and Chance have decided to throw upon him yet again. The grip on his hand tightens and he realizes he hasn't let go yet.
"Well, Harry, I suggest you get going. If you tend to collapse in the most peculiar and uncomfortable of places, then I suggest you go home and see a doctor in the morning."
The man pulls his hand from his grip and begins to walk away. It took three seconds before the sight of the black-clad man's retreating back registered in his mind.
"Wait!"
The man does not hear him against the noise of the crowd.
"Severus!"
Not even a glance in his direction. He takes a deep breath. He would rather not, but he cannot let this chance get away. There was no way in Circe's nine circles of hell that he would let go…
"NICHOLAS!"
A twist, and an eyebrow was raised and directed at him. For a second, he is once again back in the Potions classroom of his 5th year, trying to explain why supposedly navy blue potion turned out to be a violent shade of magenta –simply, he was at a loss for words.
With a deep sigh, he walks towards the questioning glance. He stops at about a foot away. He wants to be closer to him, but just in case…
He stares into the fathomless onyxes and begins to muddle through memories, hoping to find anything that made sense, anything that was familiar, anything that could confirm his suspicions and soothe his doubts…
But five, ten years back into the man's mind, he gave up.
Nicholas was just that –Nicholas. He was not Severus. He never was and never would be his Severus.
He pulls back from the mind assault and sighs yet again. A confused yet familiar (or unfamiliar) face questions him.
"Well, what is it that you need? I haven't got all night."
Suddenly, that biting, sarcastic tone is no longer similar to what has always haunted his reveries. He stares at the man in front of him and for once, looks at him –really looks at him. The eyes remain the same, but the rest becomes strange to his gaze. He then realizes that he was just seeing what his mind had wanted him to see.
There were differences. Subtle, but it was enough. The man he had wanted to see was dead. The one in front of him was just an elaborate illusion –smoke and mirrors.
He forces a smile at the now, strange man.
"I want to apologize for the ruckus I've caused –and thank you."
The man's glare softens.
"Don't mention it," the lips curve into a barely-there smile. "Goodnight, Harry." The man walks away.
For one last time, he lets himself believe that he is hearing those words come out of his beloved's lips. He closes his emerald eyes. The illusions depart him.
"Goodnight, Severus."
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FIN
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