Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The dark carriage did little to insulate the cold, but it wasn’t until its occupants stepped out into the drizzly courtyard of the Palais Garnier that they realized how miserable the weather was. One of the riders, a curly-haired woman clad in a grey dress, stepped out of the compartment. She held her arm out for the other rider, an older man with greying red curls, and helped him to his feet. With the help of the coachman, she managed to lift the heavy wheelchair from the back and lower the older man into it.

“Are you comfortable, papa?” asked the woman, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

“Yes, Molly,” said the older man. He turned his attention to the coachman and gave a small nod, dismissing him. “Merci, Beaufoy.”

Monsieur Beaufoy, the coachman, bowed. “I will be here for your return, Lord Percival.”

As the carriage pulled out of the courtyard, Viscount Percival “Percy” Weasley de Chagny turned his attention towards the looming building in front of him. Even though his dark glasses were covered with raindrops that obscured his vision, the disrepair of the once grand opera house was visible to anyone.

Molly pushed her father’s wheelchair towards the large wooden plank on the old stone steps. Lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating the cloth banner hanging over the archway. Vente publique aux enchères, it read, with the words “Public Auction Today” underneath. Two children ran past the father-daughter pair as they crossed the threshold, using the old building as a playground.

Birds, pigeons if he had to guess, took flight as soon as Molly opened the heavy doors, sending a shower of dust down on the dirty tile floors. The once magnificent staircase was falling apart. The statues that once shone in the sunlight flooded through the windows now were covered in a layer of dirt and grime that no amount of washing and scrubbing would get rid of.

Nothing was as he remembered. But perhaps that was a good thing.

“Sold!” A man’s voice echoed through the otherwise silent building. “Your number, sir? Thank you. Lot six-six-three, then, ladies and gentlemen.”

Molly pushed the wheelchair into the large, rounded room that once held the opera house’s grand stage. A small gathering of people stood around a man standing behind a podium, each and every one dressed in their finest clothes. It was a stark contrast to the slum around them.

We shouldn’t be here, Percy thought. No one should be here. No one should even touch this place.

“A poster from this house’s production of Hannibal by Chalumeau.” The man behind the podium tilted his dark tophat towards Percy in greeting. “Do I have 10 francs?”

Percy looked around the theater, taking in the sight. It was so different from the last time he was here. The golden and red opera boxes were in various states of disrepair. The sea of chairs which once sat royalty were now the homes of birds and mice. The Hanibal poster depicting Pearl Gaunt was the only source of color and warmth visible.

“Five, then. Five I am bid.” Molly placed her hand on Percy’s shoulder as the auctioneer broke the silence, her hand gently squeezing his shoulder. He placed one of his hands over hers, taking comfort in the feeling of warmth she brought. Just like her mother did. “Six.”

Percy gently tapped Molly’s hand. She raised the sign. “Seven.”

“Against you, sir, seven.” the auctioneer pointed to another well-dressed man, who held up his own sign. “Eight?” he looked back at Percy, who shook his head. “Eight once. Selling twice. Sold!” the auctioneer slapped the gravel against the podium, sending more birds flying. “To Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much, sir.”

Two handlers moved the large poster out of view and placed it behind Monsieur Deferre. Percy didn’t feel any disappointment towards not getting the piece. Pearl was a horrid woman anyway. He looked back at the auctioneer, curious about what piece would be next.

“Lot six-six-four, a wooden pistol and three human skulls—” Molly wrinkled her nose, making Percy softly chuckle “—from the 1831 production of Robert le diable by Meyerbeer.”

Having no interest in the piece or production, Percy let his eyes wander to the people around him. There was no one he recognized until he glanced at the patron on his right.

Well-dressed fully in blue was a man who looked almost ageless. His long, auburn hair showed no signs of greying. His tanned, freckled skin was smooth and held no wrinkles. Percy would almost think that this man was actually younger than him if it weren’t for his ancient and dark brown eyes, partially covered by the black veil coming down from his hat.

It had been thirty five years since he last saw Augustine Saphiris and he somehow managed to make it look like he hadn’t aged a day. Everything else had moved on, but he remained frozen in time. It was almost poetic.

They made eye contact, Augustine’s brown eyes meeting Percy’s navy ones, for the first time in over a quarter of a century. Almost right down to the day. Percy remembered the last time he was this close to him. Augustine gave him cryptic advice that he didn’t know what to do with at the moment.

“Keep your hand at the level of your eyes.”

Was Augustine thinking of that night too? The night that everything changed?

Molly tapped Percy’s shoulder, bringing him back from his trip of remembrance. He heard the smack of the gavel, making him jump slightly.

“Lot six-six-five, ladies and gentlemen. A papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel organ.” Percy shook his head as the auctioneer spoke, looking towards him. “Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals.”

One of the handlers stepped in front of the auctioneer, holding said music box in front of him. The handler turned the crank on the side as the auctioneer continued to speak. “This item, discovered in the vaults of the theater, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen. Observe.”

A sweet melody came from the box, not unlike one commonly heard in children’s bedtime songs. It was accompanied by the sound of cymbals crashing together in the monkey’s hands. With every tap of the cymbals, the monkey’s legs raised slightly, bouncing in their crossed position. The tassels on its hat moved slightly as the handler held out the toy for all to see.

After all this time, he was finally seeing it.

The song finished, followed by the auctioneer's voice echoing through the theater. “May I commence at fifteen francs? Fifteen, thank you Monsieur Saphiris.”

Augustine raised his sign, sending a small jolt of irritation down Percy’s spine. He knew how important this box was, and yet here he was trying to take it from Percy.

He wouldn’t let it slip through his fingers.

Percy tapped Molly’s hand, signaling for her to raise her sign. The auctioneer looked at the two. “Yes, twenty from you sir. Thank you very much sir. Twenty-five from Monsieur Saphiris. Thank you, monsieur.” Percy shot a glare in Augustine’s direction. “Twenty-five I am bid. Do I hear thirty?” Percy tapped Molly’s hand again, signifying for her to raise the sign once more. “And thirty-five?”

Augustine looked away from the auctioneer at Percy once more. Then, he shook his head, bringing down his sign. Was it sympathy in his eyes? Percy did not know.

“Selling at thirty francs, then. Thirty once, thirty twice.” The gravel hit the podium, producing such a sweet sound. “Sold for thirty francs to the Viscount de Chagny. Thank you sir.”

The handler started to walk away with the box, but Percy placed a hand on his arm.

“Boy,” he said, his voice soft. The handler stopped and held out the monkey in front of him. Perfectly preserved, just like Augustine. “A collector’s piece, indeed. Every detail exactly as she said.” Victoria’s face flashed across his eyes, only for a moment. “She often spoke of you, my friend. Your velvet lining and your figurine of lead.” Percy gently brushed the monkey’s face before it was taken by the handler. “Will you still play, when all the rest of us are dead?”

Molly squeezed Percy’s shoulder once more, her other hand gently rubbing his back. Molly, with her mother’s cocoa eyes.

“Lot six-six-six then, a chandelier in pieces,” the auctioneer said. Percy couldn’t help but feel that the number was fitting for this particular piece. “Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera. A mystery never fully explained.”

The sound of cloth shifting was a subtle thing, but Percy picked up on it. Everyone was turning to look at the green cloth covering an object with the numbers 666 on it, written in black. Molly’s grip tightened on Percy’s shoulder, her red curls brushing against Percy’s ear as she leaned down.

“I am here, papa,” whispered Molly. “I am here.”

Here he was, being comforted by his daughter that he had always protected ever since she was born. She was protecting him. Remaining a light in the darkness.

Just like Victoria.

“We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier that figures in that famous disaster.” the auctioneer cleared his throat. “Our workshops have restored it, and fitted parts of it with wiring for the new electric light so that we may get a hint of how it may look when reassembled.” he chuckled, his voice taking a darker turn. A teasing smile was on his face. “Perhaps we may even frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little… illumination.”

There was a second of silence, before his voice became a shout. “GENTLEMEN!”

The cloth flew off, revealing the broken chandelier underneath it. Percy’s heart began to race as a gust of wind picked up, sending dust and birds and cobwebs around him. He watched as the fixture began to rise towards its former place in the ceiling, drawn up by a man pulling backwards on a rope. 

Molly’s grip became almost painful as the sparks began to fly off of it, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice Augustine’s look of satisfaction or the gasps of the others attending the auction. 

The chandelier went higher and higher. The auction faded around Percy. The world faded around Percy. 

And he suddenly found himself thirty-five years in the past, back in the year 1870. 

Chapter Text

“This tro-o-o-ophy, from our saviors, from our sa-a-a-aviors!” Pearl Gaunt, the leading soprano of the Paris Opera House, sang so loud and so high that two of the women in the seats cleaning dropped their supplies to cover their ears. They were new, as no one listened to Pearl without earplugs unless they were on stage. “From the enslaving force of Ro-o-o-ome!”

She lowered her hands, tossing the fabric head she was holding to the side at an unprepared attendant, who nearly dropped it. At Monsieur Flitwick’s command, the orchestra started playing once more from their spot in the pit. That was the cue for the rest of the company to come in through the left.

Clad in red and gold like Pearl, though in less grand fashion, came the first half of the chorus group. Some carried golden staffs with cutout candles on top while others came with nothing but their voices.

The dress rehearsal was going along smoothly. There had not been any meltdowns from any of the cast members (Pearl) which meant there was very little time wasted.

For this, the twenty year old Victoria Daaé was very grateful.

She shifted from foot to foot, the chains rattling from her wrists as she moved. The second part of the chorus group, which she was a part of, wouldn’t come in until later. This was something she was not grateful for. Even though the chains were fake, she didn’t like the feeling of her wrists being restrained. If there was one thing she didn’t like, it was her movement being restricted.

At least she wasn’t restrained and alone.

“Just think. At one point, Pearl was in the same place as us.” said Juliet Saphiris, Victoria’s closest friend since she moved to the Palais Garnier when she was just seven years old.

“Slaves of Rome?” Victoria asked, dipping the tip of her tan ballet slippers in the tray of rosier on the ground.

“No! A chorus girl!”

Seeing Pearl in any position other than leading soprano was difficult for Victoria to imagine. It seemed as if she was always front and center, even though she had only been in the role for four years. She commanded everyone and everything around her. Everyone had to bend to her will in order to avoid the inevitable meltdown that would arise. Yes, it was difficult to say the least.

But not impossible.

That all-familiar feeling of hope began to rise in Victoria’s chest. Pearl lacked emotion when she sang and was rather terrible to be around when she was in one of her (daily) moods. Perhaps some day Victoria, who sang with her heart on her sleeve, would be able to…

No. She couldn’t think like that. Unless something drastic happened, Pearl wasn’t going anywhere. Victoria would be a chorus girl until the soprano retired, which wasn’t happening anytime soon. Her career was just kicking off.

Victoria looked up as the lead male tenor, Regulus Black, playing the role of Hannibal, was cut off by Monsieur Flitwick’s rapid tapping of his conducting baton.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen…” The pale, very short man protested towards the three men who walked right in the middle of the stage.

“Rehearsals, as you can see, are under way for a new production of Chalumeau’s Hannibal,” said the older man dressed in purple leading the other two, completely ignoring Flitwick.

“Monsieur Dumbledore, I am rehearsing!” shouted Flitwick.

Monsieur Albus Dumbledore held up his hands to the shorter man, gesturing for him to calm down, his white beard trailing on his arm. “Monsieur Flitwick, Monsieur Saphiris. Ladies and gentlemen, please, if I could have your attention.”

At the mention of Monsieur Saphiris, Victoria glanced farther down the stage. Dressed in dark blue and black was Juliet’s father, Augustine Saphiris, leaning against a wooden railing and appearing as if he had a headache. He looked up when Dumbledore said his name, a look of barely masked annoyance on his face.

The opera company quieted, all conversations halting in order to hear what the Palais Garnier’s owner had to say. Victoria did her best not to rattle the chains as she stood on her toes to see past Juliet’s head.

“As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement,” continued Monsieur Dumbledore once all was silent, aside from the snap of Pearl’s fan that she decided to bring out at that moment. “I can now tell you that these rumors are true —” whispers broke out amongst the chorus group, though none were quite as loud as Pearl making a noise of ridiculing directed towards Regulus “— and it is my pleasure to introduce you to the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire.”

“Monsieur Richard Firmin—” Dumbledore pointed to the taller of the two men, a smiling brunette with a mustache dressed in a maroon suit, “— and Monsieur Gilles André.” Dumbledore motioned with his hand to the shorter of the men, who had unkempt grey hair and a plum colored suit. Monsieur André waved frantically.

The company began to clap, including Victoria. She knew that many of the performers reacting enthusiastically were tired of Dumbledore’s lack of action towards the Paris Opera House’s little “Infestation Problem,” as her friend Prachi Jammes had put it.

The enthusiasm for his departure did not seem to unnerve Dumbledore. In fact, he looked rather happy as he continued to speak, based off of the twinkle in his blue eyes. “I’m sure you have read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business.”

“Scrap metal, actually.” Monsieur André interrupted, his tone as short as his stature. Victoria heard Juliet mutter something about garbage.

“And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron, the Viscount Weasley de Chagny!” Dumbledore continued, unnerved.

The clapping and chattering faded around Victoria as she heard that name. She felt a rush of bliss in her chest, one even more powerful than the hope she had in her heart.

She was familiar with Viscount William Weasley de Chagny. Even though they had only met briefly, he had treated her with kindness and respect despite being ten years older than her. But he wasn’t why she felt joy.

If William was here, then his younger brother, Percy, might be as well. It had been so many years since she last saw him, but she still recalled their relationship fondly. Whenever she was feeling sad, she simply had to remember that trip to the beach when she was six years old and met him.

Victoria stood on her toes as the Viscount entered. Her heart began to race even faster.

It wasn’t William who was here.

Clad in black and dark green came a man with ivory skin only slightly darker than a piano key. His red curls shone in the candlelight, making them look as if they were on fire. He was tall, taller than Monsieur Firmin, and walked with confidence in his stride.

No, the Viscount wasn’t William.

It was—

“Percy.” The word came from Victoria’s lips as a whisper, the name as sweet as Saint-Honoré. Juliet turned to Victoria, but she barely registered it. “Before my father died, at the house by the sea…” Victoria smiled, a feeling of melancholy mixing in with her joy. “I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts.”

She remembered everything about him. Almost every night when she went to sleep, she dreamed of seeing him again. Of him calling her “Little Lotte” once more.

Juliet grasped onto Victoria’s arm, staring at the Viscount. “Victoria, he’s so handsome.”

Victoria didn’t even hear her. She felt as if she was in one of her dreams.

“My siblings and I are honored to support all the arts,” said Percy, and Victoria felt as if she had heard no sweeter sound than his voice, “Especially the world-renowned Opera Populaire.”

Pearl made her way across the stage to Percy, holding her arm out in front of her as the metal on her dress clinked together with every step. The smile on her lips made Victoria think of an ape she had seen at a sideshow; all teeth on display as well as gums. Percy politely took her hand with his fingertips, though he didn’t kiss it.

“Viscount, gentlemen. This is Signora Pearl Gaunt,” Dumbledore introduced. “She has been our leading soprano for the past five seasons.”

“Its a pleasure,” Percy said, his tone polite.

Regulus loudly cleared his throat. Dumbledore sighed, motioning towards him with his arm. “Signore Regulus Black.”

There was a polite clapping among the company, though not nearly as loud as the one that followed Dumbledore’s retirement announcement. They were quiet enough that Victoria was able to hear Percy’s words as clear as a lark’s song in a forest.

“It’s an honor signore, but I believe I am keeping you from your rehearsal.” Percy held his arm over his waist and gave a small bow towards Monsieur Flitwick. “I will be here this evening to share your great triumph. My apologies, Monsieur.”

“Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte.” Flitwick impatiently tapped his baton on the stand again. He pointed at Regulus. “Once more if you please, signore.”

Everyone began to go back to their places before the interruption with much more chattering amongst themselves than before. Percy started to make his way off the stage, but every few steps another person would try to speak to him. Everyone wanted to meet the Viscount.

Victoria didn’t blame them. Percy had always been attractive in her opinion, but he had grown even more handsome than the last time she saw him when he was nine years old.

When he started to walk towards her, in her direction, she felt as if her heart skipped a beat. He was going to see her. After all these years, they were finally going to be reunited—

And Percy walked straight past her.

Victoria forced her face to remain neutral, but she knew it would be in vain. Juliet would see the subtle changes in her face, as she could read her like a book.

“He wouldn’t recognize me,” she said quietly. Victoria really hoped she was doing a better job of keeping the disappointment out of her voice than she thought she was.

“He didn’t see you.” insisted Juliet.

Before she could respond, Victoria heard the chords of her cue and her body began to move without her even needing to think of it. She had done this dance so many times before that her body reacted on its own accord.

“We take particular pride in the excellence of our ballet, Monsieur,” Augustine said as he led Monsieur André and Monsieur Firmin around the stage while Victoria and the rest of the second half of the chorus group made their way onto the stage to do their routine.

“I see why,” André commented. He looked towards Juliet. “Especially that little brunette angel—”

Augustine slammed his cane onto the ground next to André’s foot, the tip inches from his toes. The older man stumbled backwards. “My daughter,” Augustine said in a tone that could have been conversational if his gaze wasn’t so cold. “Juliet Saphiris.”

Firmin cleared his throat as André wiped his brow with a handkerchief. He pointed to Victoria with his cane as she leapt over Prachi, just as she practiced. “And that exceptional beauty, no relation I trust?”

“Victoria Daaé, promising talent Monsieur Firmin. Very promising.” 

“Daaé, did you say?” André asked, recovering enough from his small scare to speak once more. “N-No relation to the famous Swedish violinist?”

“His only child. Orphaned at seven when she came to live and train in the ballet dormitories.”

“An orphan you say?” Firmin asked, staring at the young woman in a way that made Victoria’s skin crawl.

Augustine looked at the man with a glare that was as cold as a frigid lake in the midst of winter. It was not unlike the one he gave André moments earlier. “I think of her as a daughter also.” He directed them towards the front of the stage rather forcefully. “Gentlemen, if you would kindly stand to one side.” 

As the two managers moved to the side of the stage with Dumbledore, the chorus group’s number came to a close. Victoria moved back to the wings out of sight with the rest of the group to watch the finale. However, she hardly focused on the dress rehearsal and instead thought about Percy.

If he was the Viscount, that must have meant William had passed and that Charles rejected the title. She couldn’t even begin to imagine how terribly it must have felt to suddenly take on the weight of managing an estate and the responsibility of taking care of his younger siblings, both at once.

She felt so childish for thinking he would even care about that summer they spent together when he already had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“Why are they moving to act three?” Prachi asked, abruptly drawing Victoria away from her thoughts.

“Pearl is throwing a fit again,” said Juliet.

“Ah.”

Victoria watched as the company moved backwards to give Pearl the center stage and to put away the props. Dress rehearsal was going off schedule once more because of Pearl’s temper, but this was nothing unusual. Victoria and Juliet moved to the side in order to give them room to bring back the large papier-mâché elephants.

“Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goo-o-o-odbye!” Pearl sang, causing André to wince as she hit a particularly high note. “Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try-y-y-y!”

Victoria winced as well, feeling the smallest pain in the back of her head. Juliet glanced back at her and gently rubbed her shoulder.

“Tori—?”

“Shh!” One of the chorus girls hissed.

“When you find, that once again you long, to take your heart back and be free—”

Pearl was cut off by the sound of screaming. Victoria, and the rest of the company watched in horror as the fabric background of the set came undone and started to fall. The rod hit her in the back of her dress and knocked her to the ground as she screamed as well.

“Oh, my God, signora!” Flitwick shouted from the pit.

“Lift it up! Lift it up!”

“He’s here! The Phantom of the Opera!” screamed Prachi.

Juliet grasped onto Victoria’s arm tightly at Prachi’s words as if it were a life preserver in the middle of a stormy sea. Victoria held onto her as the stage erupted into chaos. Some members of the company rushed forward to help Pearl while others tried to make a break for the doors.

No one noticed the dark figure in the rafters leaving just as quickly as it came.

Regulus and Dumbledore helped Pearl to her feet while a few of the stagehands rolled back up the large background.

“Buquet!” Dumbledore shouted up towards the rafters. “For God’s sake, man, what’s going on up there?”

“Please monsieur, don’t look at me!” shouted Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand of the Opera Populaire, from the rafters. He made a frantic gesture to his subordinates as they pulled on the ropes to bring the background back up. “As God’s my judge I wasn’t at my post.” He took a swig from his flask while pulling a lever with the other hand. “There’s no one there.” A frightened cry cut through the Opera. Buquet grinned. “Or if there is, it must have been a ghost.”

He laughed as the company started to mumble amongst themselves. André tried to ease the tension, despite knowing nothing of the situation.

“Signora, these things do happen.” said André to Pearl.

His words, however, had the opposite effect than desired. “For the past three years these things do happen!” Pearl shouted, her voice shrill. She pointed to Dumbledore, her face becoming more red with every passing second. “And did you stop them from happening? No!”

“And you two!” Pearl turned to Firmin and André, now pointing at them. “You are as bad as him! ‘These things do happen’?” she mimicked. “Until you stop these things from happening, this thing—” she pointed at herself “—does not happen!”

Pearl took her large headdress off, throwing the large golden crown with yellow feathers onto the ground. She shouted something in Italian before storming off the stage. Regulus walked up to the two managers and shook his head. “Amateurs.”

Pearl walked off the stage with the eyes of the entire company on her. Her attendants and Regulus followed suit, making it look like a very strange processional. With the final slam of the doors, Dumbledore turned to the two new managers.

“And with that, good luck gentlemen.” He made his way towards the exit, smiling. “If you need me, I shall be in Australia.”

André watched Dumbledore walk off until the doors slammed shut before turning to Flitwick. “S-She will be coming back, won’t she?”

Flitwick threw his hands up in uncertainty. With Pearl, things were always a guessing game.

Augustine made his way back onto the stage, holding a white letter and envelope in his hand. The red seal was broken, but it appeared to have been in the shape of a skull. He looked almost smug as he held the letter up.

“I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost,” he said.

“Oh, God in Heaven, you’re all obsessed!” Firmin shouted.

Augustine continued, ignoring him. “He welcomes you to his opera house—”

“His opera house?”

“—And commands that you continue to leave box five empty—” Augustine pointed at the box with his cane “—for his use. And reminds you that his salary is due.” He handed the letter over to André with a snap of his wrist.

“His salary?” shouted Firmin.

“Well,” Augustine looked at Firmin, resting his chin on his silver rings, “Monsieur Dumbledore used to give him 20,000 francs a month.” He flipped his red hair back, holding his head high. “Perhaps you can afford more, with the Viscount as your patron?”

Augustine made his way back over to Juliet and Victoria as Firmin ripped the letter from André’s hands. He read over everything in the scrabbly handwriting, his face becoming more and more heated after every passing second. Then, he began to tear it up.

“Monsieur, I had hoped to make that announcement public tonight when the Viscount was to join us for the gala.” Firmin threw the shreds of the letter to the ground, his voice rising to a shout. “But obviously we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have now lost our star! A full house, Gilles, we have to refund a full house!”

Murmurs broke out between the company. Cancelling a show on the day of would put a huge tear in the Opera Populaire’s pristine reputation. That would mean less shows, which would lead to less money, and eventually cutoffs. That couldn’t happen.

Victoria felt her throat tighten. What would happen to her if the Opera shut down? Madame Valerius wouldn’t be able to care for her. She would have to go to the streets—

“Victoria Daaé could sing it, sir.” Augustine said.

Victoria looked up, her heart racing.

Monsieur André scoffed. “A chorus girl? Don’t be silly—”

“She has been taking lessons from a great teacher.” interrupted Augustine.

“Who?”

Victoria stepped forward after Juliet’s small push on the small of her back. “I-I don’t know his name, Monsieur.”

Augustine stepped next to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. He held the confidence she didn’t have. “Just let her sing for you, sir. She has been well taught.”

Juliet rubbed her arm encouragingly as Victoria stepped forward towards André She stood in the middle of the stage, trying to ignore the stares of the company around her.

She just prayed she wouldn’t fail.

“From the beginning of the aria then, please, mademoiselle.” Flitwick instructed.

Victoria could hear Firmin and André mumbling to each other right beside her. The vague sound of chattering amongst the company didn’t go unnoticed either.

But then, she heard the opening, and all of her fears became obsolete.

This was what she had been training to do.

“Think of me, think of me fondly when we’ve said goodbye,” Victoria sang, her voice quiet and soft. A stark contrast to Pearl’s. “Remember me, once in a while, please promise me you’ll try.”

Firmin and André went silent. The company went silent. The only sound came from the orchestra and Victoria’s voice.

“When you find, that once again you long,” Victoria looked back at Augustine, who practically beamed at her as he motioned for her to look forward. She took a step, her confidence growing, “to take your heart back and be free. If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me…”

It was as if the hours had passed in seconds. Victoria found herself standing alone on the stage in front of a full house, wearing Pearl’s costume and singing what used to be her part. The full orchestra took over, playing a melody that made her heart melt.

Every minute, Victoria had to remind herself that this was real. She was the lead in a production, not just a chorus girl.

“We never said, our love was evergreen or as unchanging as the sea. But if you can still remember, stop and think of me.” Victoria lifted the sheer red and green scarf above her head. She found her mind wandering to that day by the sea as her brown eyes sparkled in the spotlight. “Think of all the things we’ve shared and seen. Don’t think about the way things might have been.”

“Think of me, think of me waking, silent and resigned. Imagine me, trying too hard to put you from my mind. Recall those days, look back on all those times, think of the things we’ll never do.” She clasped her hands together and held them over her chest, smiling. “There will never be a day when I won’t think of you!”

Victoria’s voice flowed into the small grate in the orchestra pit, going down, down, down into every floor in the opera. Even in the Catacombs, where a man hiding in shadow overheard her.

And he smiled.

Over in box seven, Viscount Percival Weasley de Chagny sat with his four younger siblings; three brothers, one sister, and watched with great interest. The suspicion he had in the back of his head about the identity of the singer was answered when he saw the way she held the scarf.

“Can it be?” asked Percy, his voice quiet, “Can it be Victoria?”

She turned her head to the side, a single blonde ringlet falling down her shoulder. It was.

As the orchestra picked up, he got to his feet, clapping. “Bravo!”

Without waiting for the finale, he started to make his way out of the box, much to the confusion of his siblings.

Long ago, it seems so long ago, how young and innocent we were, he thought, before speaking aloud. “She may not remember me, but I remember her.”

“Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade, they have their seasons, so do we!” Another headache began to form in the back of Victoria’s head, but she pushed through and ignored it. “But please promise me that sometimes, you will think…”

It was when she started to vocalize that the headache became even worse. Victoria grasped onto her hands, still clasped, as she tried to finish. Just a few more moments—

“O-o-o-o-o-of—” the orchestra picked up once more “—me!”

The audience erupted into thunderous applause, even going as far to give her a standing ovation. Victoria’s smile remained on her face as the crowd threw red and white roses on the stage and she saw stars in her eyes as she bowed once, twice, three times.

But as soon as the curtain fell, so did her smile.

What was going on with her?