Chapter 4: Raising Power

Wizarding instruments were much, much more complex than muggle ones. Harry had been practicing with renewed dedication for six months after he'd gotten the initial invitation from Mark, but even so he felt unaccountably nervous as he followed the rest of the band to the stage at the Three Broomsticks. In the crowd near the front he could see Hermione and Ron, and he felt a burst of satisfaction as their eyes initially passed over him, not recognizing either his face or his magical presence.

At least that worked, he thought smugly to himself. Knowing that he could now pass unnoticed in the magical world relieved him more than he could possibly express; it felt like true freedom, like a daring broom ride on a cloudless day in an empty landscape. A burst of confidence followed his discovery, and he winked at Hermione and Ron, who otherwise wouldn't know who he was, as they weren't familiar with any of the other band members and had never seen this glamor.

The band Mark had gathered together two years ago when the other man had moved to Britain was an odd mix. Most wizarding musicians held themselves aloof from muggle music of the day, preferring odd blends of ancient Celtic sounds with more modern jazz infrequently thrown in. Mark's band was different. Raised as a squib in wizarding household, the muggle world had often been Marks sanctuary when things in his life had felt overwhelming. He had thrown himself into music at a young age the way a starving man would throw himself into a pit at the promise of food; desperately and with complete abandon.

The other man had spent years studying both muggle and magical instruments and styles, and could play any string instrument expertly. His sound had been influenced by the Norse magical community, which still had the best drum-styles Harry had ever heard; muggle Germany metal music, which Harry could see his younger self loving but couldn't properly get behind now; and flamenco music—which, if being honest, Harry was hard pressed to explain. The odd combination of style worked for Mark, though, and the band he'd assembled clearly jived.

As the band started warming up, Harry looked around at the other members and grinned, feeling the rise in excitement and determination that he always felt when performing a hard-won skill in front of a crowd. The lights dimmed as the band grew ready to start the first set, and he could see Ron and Hermione had been joined by several other Weasleys and a few others he didn't recognize.

Mark started them off slowly, plucking notes on his guitar that sent shivers through the crowd with their haunting sound. It was a wizarding guitar, and only Marks ancestry allowed him to access the single drop of power needed to make it work. As it did, impossible notes layered upon one another in a way a muggle guitar never could; it would have taken several to make the sounds Mark was expertly drawing out from this one. The haunting and lonely plucking brought to mind frozen earth on a desert night, and a vault of stars above.

The drums came in then, soft and slow at first. The drummer was an oddity; a muggle woman named Sara, playing a muggle instrument. No one would have guessed; at the first kick of the bass drum the power in the room seemed to rise another level and the last bit of muffled conversation trailed off. Their audience was truly giving them their full attention. Sarah was an expert, the cymbals came in like a soft, shaking rain, underlined by the steady thrum of the kick drum. It wove expertly into Marks increased plucking, creating a chilly, almost gothic mood.

Harry was so wrapped up in what the other two were making between them that he nearly missed his queue to count-in, but he got it and several seconds later he was joining their play, adding color and fire to the landscape; increasing the pace and throwing an almost industrial sound in. A few seconds later, Mark switched to strumming and the pace kicked up another notch, going from a dreamy haze to an almost manic feeling as they progressed, reaching towards the climax.

The power levels in the room were glorious. This is why Harry had agreed to play in the band, besides the obvious anyway. The way witches and wizards reacted to music was extraordinary. Unconsciously, their power signatures blended together, became a shared experience that wasn't easy to replicate. Combined, those powers increased, showing rising tension and a build of power that Harry hadn't seen done in tandem outside of a musical scene. The audience was smiling now, talking to one another excitedly and cheering, calling out encouragement. Their visible signatures—currently combined—showed their enthusiasm, rising with the music towards a dizzying peak.

Harry could feel his own magic and the magic of their singer, Nate, reach out and engage with that power, both feeding it and drawing it inwards. When Nate joined in with his siren-song voice, Harry felt the exact moment the crowd was hooked. Now, they would play through their set with a rapt and attentive audience; everyone had been won over to the music they hadn't known they wanted to hear, and when the night was over they'd wait eagerly for me.

Harry caught his friend's eyes and smiled hugely, enjoying himself more than he had in a long time. Ron looked like he was cheering himself hoarse, and Hermione wasn't far behind. He had to look away from them and concentrate, otherwise he was going to lose his place in the mad medley.

Feeling a rush of exhilaration, he threw himself back into the music and lost himself utterly, reveling in the anonymity as much as in the power they were raising. For the first time in a long while, he found himself utterly content.

Once again, Minerva had barged her way into his home. This time, however, he didn't really mind. In the four years since the news of Potter's disquieting power, he'd managed to work through and resolve a number of issues relating to his past. He had come back to Wizarding Britain because the mystery of Harry Potter had finally called him home, but he had retuned as a mellower version of his former self.

That was not to say he didn't bear his share of scars; he merely bore them better. That was why, this time, he graced Minerva with a rare smile and invited her to sit, summoning tea as she did so. Once they had caught up with one another and there was a comfortable lull in conversation, Minvera breached the silence with a cautious look on her face.

"Severus, I was hoping you'd accompany me this weekend on a night out," she tentatively suggested, utterly shocked when he inclined his head without even a token protest.

"I'd be happy to, Minerva, as long as you do not oppose my wearing a glamor. Was it my services as what they call a wing man you were hoping to engage?" a wicked gleam entered his eye as Minerva spluttered into her tea.

"Severus! That is highly inappropriate," she declared, smoothing her skirt and purposefully not meeting his eye.

"Nothing better than a bent man to help a cat on the prowl, I imagine," he said blithely, sipping his tea to hide his smirk as she started and glared at him. Her face melted into a genuine smile after a few moments, looking at him with fond asperity.

"Clearly, all that travel was good for you Severus." She observed, and he inclined his head once more in agreement. "I must however insist that you keep an eye out only for other…cats…if you intend to be of any help whatsoever." It was her turn to smirk at him as he took in her meaning with slightly widened eyes.

"It seems we understand each other very well," Severus said at last, and sharing a conspiratorial smile with Minerva, asked, "where did you have in mind?"

The bar Minvera had chosen was an excellent venue to Snapes practiced eye. It was well spaced, with higher ceilings and an open floor plan. Dark, polished wood shined under the candlelight, and the band setting up at the far end would not be deafening to them as the place was quite large. Looking around, he spotted Miss Granger—or rather, he supposed with a moue of distaste—Mrs. Weasley. Her husband was there, coming back to join her from the bar with drinks, but it seemed they hadn't brought along the entire Weasley family.

It was no matter to him, he reminded himself, for he did not appear like himself tonight and thus could ignore them with absolute impunity. Unless of course they decided to come speak with Minerva, and even then he did not have to pretend to care about them one jot more than any other stranger would. Although he had requested the assistance of Miss Weasley on his Lycanthropy project, he had no great tolerance for her husband or for the polite chit-chat that old war acquaintances must give one another, and he felt a liberating sense of carelessness as he reminded himself it was not his world anymore.

Minerva and he got their drinks and chose a table along the back wall, talking quietly and even laughing as the band warmed up. When he had inquired about the band, Minerva had an odd look in her eye as she responded.

"Oh, they're a fairly new group. They don't play anything like other wizarding musicians, I find them quite lovely even though they are a bit too…hard rock, I suppose, for me. Something about their music is…entrancing," Severus was intrigued by this description. Minerva had never approved of rock music when he had been in school, and it seemed little had changed. Whenever he caught her listening to the wireless or a record, it was always smoky jazz, or soulful blues that he heard, despite her Scottish ancestry. For her to enjoy a group labeled as 'hard rock', it must be something unique indeed.

Once the band began to play, Severus was deeply surprised to see the entire bar go quiet as the power in the room began to build. This wasn't like any other wizarding band he had heard, of that Minerva had been absolutely right. The energy levels in the room rose and fell with the pace of the music, and Severus was sure he could almost see it. The music moved through him in waves, captivating him in a way he had never experienced; he might have lost hours or days just listening to the group play.

When the set ended and the players had made their bow, Severus let out a deep breath.

"That was..." he trailed off, shaking his head slightly as though coming back to himself.

"Incredible. Even better than I remember," Minerva finished for him, and he nodded in mute agreement. He could see the musicians putting away their instruments and drawing a ward around their things, then all four of them walked over to join the table that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were sitting at. It was only then that Severus realized the two Weasleys had been sitting at an empty table in the midst of a packed and crowded tavern, so clearly the meeting had been arranged beforehand, those seats being reserved for the musicians.

The young man that Severus recognized as the bass player was grabbed in an undignified hug by Mrs. Weasley, but he laughingly returned it before sitting down. The whole table was angled such that Severus could see all of their faces with great clarity, his eyes lingering on the lithe form of the bassist as he took them all in.

"Someone catch your eye, Severus?" Minerva teased, "I always wondered what your type was."

"My dear woman, I am not nearly deep enough in my cups to be confiding in you on such a level," he said airily, finishing the last of his ale.

"Do not challenge a Scot to a drinking contest, Severus, for you will lose," Minerva warned him with a wicked look in her eye as she flagged down a server. Severus harrumphed; he had not been challenging her, but to say as much now would be petulant and undignified in the extreme. He suspected she knew he wouldn't be able to bring himself to protest, either—she'd tied him into this contest as surely and easily as Dumbledore had tied him into any number of things, so long ago.

"Here, cheers—to old friends and good scotch," Minerva clinked the glass of her new drink against his and tossed it back. Following suite, he shrugged off the constant paranoia that has been his companion for some thirty years; after all this time, he lectured himself internally, he could finally relax.

Severus had been deep in his cups several cups ago, but the restorative potion he took during a visit to the loo had sobered him up enough to easily navigate back to the table where Minerva sat. The Weasleys had already paid their respects to the Headmistress, giving nothing more than polite greetings to her friend 'Silas', and now the woman was eyeing him suspiciously as he reclaimed his seat.

"You took a potion, didn' you," she accused, only slurring slightly. He was rather impressed as she had downed far more alcohol than he, and yet she still seemed to be able to see straight. He would have wondered if she had her own restorative potion but for the slurred speech, which belied her lack of any such thing.

"Never compete with Slytherins, Minerva," he said smugly, his eyes once again catching those of the bass player. The young man was shorter than he by nearly a head, but the dark hair and blue eyes were a strikingly beautiful contrast, and from what expanse of skin was currently on display, there was nothing lacking there, either. Severus narrowed his eyes, watching as the entire table darted looks towards him, clearly talking about either himself or Minerva and laughing. He looked over at the Headmistress of Hogwarts for her opinion, but that odd look was back and she was smirking in a decidedly Slytherin type of way.

Returning his attention to the riveting young man, he noticed that Granger seemed to be asking the bassist a question. The man in question shrugged self-deprecatingly and smiled at her, tossing his head as if to say, I suppose it couldn't hurt. To Severus' surprise and mild alarm, the man was soon moving towards their table—towards him.

"Hey," the aformentioned bassist was now standing beside an empty chair at their table. Oddly, he appeared both casual and uncertain. "Would you mind if I sat with you?" The man didn't wait for an answer before taking a seat and saying easily, "my friends over there are being bloody pushy with me, so I thought I'd hide out over here. My name's Henry—what's yours?"

"This is Silas," Minerva cut in before he could respond, perhaps thinking he would react with his signature sarcasm, "and I'm Minerva,"

"Pleased to meet you both," Henry grinned, but his eyes lingered on 'Silas' and Severus couldn't seem to pull his eyes away. Something about the other man was pulling at his senses in a familiar way, and he was too tossed to figure out what it was. That was enough to send a familiar spike of panic through him; in the old days, something as innocuous as a half-familiar, half-remembered feeling could be deadly if he didn't recall it quickly.

"So how did you like the show?" Henry asked slyly, as though knowing the answer already. He would have to, of course, as the entire place had been cheering wildly between numbers and giving rapt, silent attention as the music played.

"I found it most intriguing," Severus responded honestly, wondering how to down a sober-up potion without Henry noticing so he could examine that sense of familiarity more thoroughly. The restorative potion had merely pushed him back from the other side of 'too sloshed to walk', and now he had a distinct desire to be completely sober and present.

"Do you like the current music scene?" Henry asked, and Severus realized his responses were forcing the conversation to be awkwardly one-sided, giving an impression of disinterest he did not at all intend to give. While he hadn't quiet been promiscuous since the end of the war, he'd certainly filled the lonely days with pleasant company whenever the mood had struck him. It was unfortunate that his true appearance and snarky demeanor were so off-putting, and thus he could not maintain anything other than short-lived flings, but now was not the time to be lamenting the fact, or perusing a nigglingly familiar memory he was sure would come back to him in time.

"I'm rather unfamiliar with it, to be honest, as I've just returned from several years of travel. Tonight being my first reintroduction to wizarding society, I have to say I am thoroughly pleased with the experience," Severus finally responded, several heartbeats late. Luckily, Henry seemed to be able to tell that he was now fully present and not uninterested in distraction, and they launched into a discussion of his travels.

Severus learned that Henry had also been traveling, and while listening to the other man speak the elusive memory finally returned to him. He was lucky that Henry—or should he say, Harry?—needed very little from him by way of response to continue his description of his trials, for Severus was struck absolutely dumb by the revelation that the pleasant conversationalist and incredibly attractive bassist he'd been trying to pick up was none other than Harry Potter.

"What is it? You look a bit distracted, and I know you must not have been listening because that story makes everyone laugh," Potter had the gall to ask. Overwhelmed and determined not to show it, Snape deliberately shook himself.

"Forgive me, it has been a long day and I have drank much more than I am accustomed to doing, tonight," he said. Glancing at Minerva, he saw the other woman was asleep with her head pillowed on her arm, and took the easy out. "I should be getting my friend home, but I would like to continue this at a later date, perhaps when I'm more able to give you my full attention," he said, thinking quickly. "When and where is your next performance? If it's not too presumptuous of me, perhaps we can meet and speak then," Severus was surprised to see Harry's face light up with a warm smile, and even more surprised at the strange lurch his pulse gave at the sight.

"That's brilliant yeah, I should be getting back to my friends myself," at that they both glanced across the room to see the Weasleys falling over in their seats from exhaustion, huge yawns not-quite-hidden behind polite hands. With a start, they both seemed to realize it was nearly closing time. "We'll be performing in Edinburgh next, at the Lumos Lyre—do you know it?"

It was only one of the biggest and most expensive tavern/inn combination in wizarding Edinburgh.

"I believe I am acquainted with it," Severus said dryly.

"Great! It's next Saturday, and the music starts at nine," 'Henry' said enthusiastically, getting up. "I'll see you then," he said in parting, waving and retreating. Snape stared after him a moment, conflicting thoughts pouring through his mind. Sighing, he grabbed Minerva and apparated them both back to Prince Manor.

"Drink this," he ordered Minerva, handing her a combined pepper-up/sober-up potion. He crossed his arms and stood in front of her, frowning. She grumbled, but did so, and when she was looking livelier he handed her a glass of water.

"Why is Harry Potter masquerading as a bassist in a wizarding band?" He demanded without preamble once she had drank half the glass.

"Noticed that, did you?" She asked wryly. Despite the pepper-up, she yawned hugely.

"I almost didn't," he snapped, angry at her deception, "If it hadn't been for all the years I spent in that boys head, I would never have felt his magical signature, it was incredibly faint and I've never been very well practiced in reading them. Why in the blazes didn't you warn me?"

"Harry has asked us all not to. In fact, I only learned of it from him after nearly interrogating him the first time I saw him play. I suppose having your old Head of House questioning your origins is bound to make you feel a tad squeamish, and Harry never was very good at deceiving those he cares for."

"And you thought it was fine to watch Harry Potter try to pick me up? That is disgusting! He's—he's a child!" Severus began pacing, unable to keep himself from motion as the maelstrom within him intensified. Although he had returned to Britain in part to learn how powerful Potter really was, as well as discover how the younger man had been able to avoid summoning him—if that was indeed the case—he was still deeply unnerved to have found himself in so close proximity with Potter without the slightest knowledge. And to think he'd been considering shagging him! It was simply repulsive.

"You didn't seem to mind it until you figured out who he was, Severus, so clearly you have no objection to his age or figure." Minerva said slyly. He turned on her with a flash of true rage.

"You should have told me," he said, low and dangerous, "I do not appreciate your deception, and it is clear to me now that you've been trying to get me to speak to Potter for the better part of four years. Well—I will be seeing him again and he is not to know who I am. If you break that trust with me, Minerva, our long friendship will truly be through." Seeing that she was taking him seriously, he ushered her to the fire. "As it is, it will be quite some time before I find myself free. I've discovered a sudden distaste for…cats. Good night, Minerva."

With that, he shoved her through the fire to her own sitting room, and once the green fire had gone, he removed her from the approved list on both the floo and the wards. Still fuming, he went to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy, taking it onto the balcony that overlooked the small lake.

After staring so long at the moon that he was certain the after-image was forever branded upon his eyes, he heaved a deep sigh.

Harry Potter. It was honestly a better opportunity than he had thought to have, to ferret out the mystery that had brought him back. While he still harbored resentment against the younger man's father and friends, he could no longer bring up to usual rancor when he considered Potter. The man had been a child in his care; all the harm he had caused Severus had been the unwitting motions of a young boy, and the absurdity of needing that boy to vanquish the Dark Lord quite outweighed the rest.

Severus still felt almost guilty for the way the adults in Potters life had used him; in part he knew that was the root of his usual ire. Potter had been so trusting, so starved for affection and so lonely. If it had been the Dark Lord that had taken him in as opposed to Albus, Severus had no doubt that Potter would have just as easily become Voldemort's weapon instead. That sheer naivety and desperation for affection had struck too close to home for Severus, especially during a time when he was paying the piper twice for his own youthful mistakes, which had risen out of something quite similar.

If he was being particularly honest with himself—which only happened when the brandy was flowing this freely—he had punished Potter for that very inclination to trust those who gave him the affection he craved, as though by doing so he could punish his younger self for the same.

It was time, and past, to lay that anger to rest. His and Potters situations had been different enough; those who had given Potter affection had been genuine, whereas Severus had been duped. Admitting that, and admitting that affection or care was not always followed by betrayal, was something he appeared to need to learn again and again.

Disgusted with himself, he turned his thoughts deliberately to their next meeting, considering how tonights had gone for comparison. Potters power signature had been subdued, which is why it had taken him so long to suss him. Normally, witches and wizards couldn't control the signatures their power made; for those powerful enough to read or see them, they became transparent and gave one all manner of useful insight. Potter had somehow managed to dampen his, almost to the point of hiding it completely. His glamor had been expertly done. It had for the most part conformed to his usual features, changing only a few things; masking the scar, elongating the face, changing the color of his eyes. Knowing now that he had been looking at Harry Potter, it was a wonder he hadn't noticed the resemblance immediately.

What was Potter doing, back in Wizarding Britain and playing in a band, of all things? Granted, he had clearly picked up more than just magical skills on his travels, and Severus was glad he was to have another chance to learn more for it was frankly intriguing to see what someone so powerful would choose to do when having already shunned world dominion.

The most disquieting thing he needed to decide upon was how far to take this deceit. He didn't feel squeamish about continuing to deceive Potter to get his answers—if he did, he would hardly have made a good spy. He did however feel strange when considering the obvious sexual tension that had risen between him. Potter had clearly been interested in him, and when he was being honest with himself he had felt the same attraction. There was something a bit too Lucius Malfoy about the idea of fucking Potter senseless while masquerading as someone else, even if Potter was doing the same. His mouth twisted in distaste at the thought.

Perhaps this is irrelevant, he thought to himself wryly. You can't even think of the man by his first name.

Deciding it was more than past time for bed, he left his things where they were and retired, determine to come up with a plan to get Potter to spill his secrets without having to bugger the man.