Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"No, no." Bellatrix flicks her wrist in disapproval. She fidgets with the neckline of her well-finished dress, smoothing out the wrinkles as she flattens her unruly hair. Nothing less of the star of the show. 

Draco watches his aunt nearby, his fingers digging into his own robes. He's simply a background character for Bellatrix, as is the rest of the family. She's become the natural star of the Malfoy theater, though many may argue she's past her prime. Her hair is unkempt as usual when she's not performing, but flawless the second she hits the stage. Luna; his cousin, stands beside him, wearing a ballerina's dress robes. The two children have always been close. Even though Luna's father had not always been very accepted in the status of his family, he had given up his daughter to lead a more prosperous life than his. 

She was only accepted by Draco's family. Narcissa let her in with open arms. Draco was just happy to not be alone. Lucius was more than furious about it. The thought that she would taint their reputation and bloodline lingered whenever he was around Luna. 

The thought was cut short, as Draco’s father had died around ten years ago in a horrible accident involving a loose batten. It had been cut and had promptly crushed Draco’s father. 

As rigid and cold as his father was, he had always told Draco: 

“When I pass, an angel of music shall watch over you. I should hope it will serve to teach and protect you.” 

In return Draco had asked: 

“Teach me what?” 

“Music, Draco. You must keep the family legacy strong. You are my only heir. My only son.” 

They’re in the middle of a rehearsal for Il Mont. It’s a full theater tonight, and they can’t mess it up. Draco naturally sways to the music once he runs onto stage to join Bellatrix as she sings and dances in the middle, surrounded by faux animals, wrapped in cardboard and shaped perfectly. Bellatrix sings - or at least tries to - and the actors move around her in formations. 

Bellatrix cannot act nor can she sing. However, nobody dares to point out this observation, for they fear they may get trampled on. Once she was chosen as the star, there was no backing out. The position had been filled and continued to be filled for the next few years. Even the workers wince in pain as the wretched noise of her wailing enters their ear ducts. They cover their ears in distress, before running out of the theater, mop in hand. Draco holds in his laugh upon learning this observation. 

The maestro cringes, his face contorting into disdain as he continues to conduct the orchestra. 

As the song comes to an end, Bellatrix turns on her feet sharply. 

“You! You were stepping on my dress! And you. ” She points at Luna. “You filthy half-blood. You should be grateful that you’re even allowed to be graced by my presence. You must fix your filthy dance skills.” She spits, her teeth glaring at her as she flashes a sneer. 

Luna nods softly, her daft appearance just a facade for the shame she feels within. Draco knows she’s hurt by the insinuation. 

“I hate to interrupt, but the new owners have decided to greet us and wish us luck on our performance tonight.” 

Il Mont is one of the most prominent plays right now, and Malfoy Theater had taken on the burden of performing the opening night for it. It’s a full theater, with Bellatrix being the star of the show. 

The theater has been under Narcissa’s leadership ever since Lucius’s death. Yet, as of recently, the ownership was stolen by Lucius’s two sisters - Cressida Gomeisa Malfoy and Belladonna Malfoy. Draco has only met them once when he was a child. Needless to say - they were insufferable. They gloated about their blood status even more so than Lucius ever did. 

As the two women enter the theater - the chatter halts immediately. Their dress robes are perfectly tailored and it’s clear they hold themselves quite highly. They stick their noses up in disgust upon meeting the performing crew. 

“Hello. It’s quite an honor to finally be a part of something our brother had so carefully shut us out of.” Cressida - who Draco had only met once - exclaims. She’s the strapping image of his father, they have the same nose and the same eyes, the same sneer when they talk. Draco tightens his glare at the foul mentions of his father’s name. Typically, Draco would defend his father’s honor, as he’s the heir of the Malfoy name, not these two women. 

However, he holds no power in this situation. He sits silently. 

“As for our arrival, we are also deeply honored to introduce our new patron: Sir Theodore Nott” 

The two ladies step aside to reveal a well dressed figure, his suit dark and tailored to fit his frame perfectly. His hair is quite long, and as he rids himself of his hat, his hair cascades down his nape and lifts when he raises a hand to fix it. A small mole on the side of his neck catches Draco’s attention. 

It’s then that he is suddenly reminded of why the name rings so familiar in his ears. 

“I know him.” Draco whispers to Luna. “Once we spent a summer together at father’s beach house when we were children.” He reminiscences. 

“Really? He’s quite charming.” Luna comments. 

“Of course.” Draco stares at Theodore as he goes to greet the other members of the crew, shaking hands with Draco’s other relatives. “I knew him quite well, matter of fact. I guess you could say we were a summer fling of sorts.” Draco snorts. 

“I do apologize. I wish I could stay longer to watch your rehearsal. Yet, I’m afraid that will have to wait for tonight. I wish you much luck.” He smiles and Draco’s heart catches in his chest. He makes a move to leave, heading for the exit that lies behind Draco. He shoots up in his seat, watching as he passes by. 

Theodore doesn’t share a glance as he walks by. Draco’s heart drops to his chest. 

“He probably doesn’t even recognise me.” Draco sighs.

“I’m sure he would, he barely even looked at you.” Luna supplies. 

In a matter of seconds, Bellatrix is screeching at the cast to get their act together. In a moment Draco is on stage with Luna, dancing side by side. 

“Lady Bellatrix is the leading role tonight?” Cressida comments, nose wrinkling up in disdain as she starts singing. 

“Yes.” Narcissa confirms. “She’s the most famous face around here. The audience loves her.” 

“How plain .” Belladonna clicks her tongue. 

“Who is this?” 

“Luna Lovegood. My niece that I’m currently caring for. She’s Pandora’s young daughter.” 

“Disgusting that she took the name of that disgraceful man. Xenophilius is a fool. My sister was an even bigger fool to disgrace her family by following love instead of her duty .” 

“Of course.” Narcissa supplies. Draco knows it’s just a facade to appease her. Narcissa is never one to follow such traditions, Draco knows this. 

“And this charming young man?” Cressida questions, pointing her gloved finger towards Draco’s figure as he catches himself on a jump, a perfect sauté. 

“Draco.” She smiles fondly at him. 

“The young heir? He’s quite beautiful.” 

“Yes.” Narcissa confirms, though with much more emotion to her voice this time. Draco looks up at her and smiles softly. She grins back. 

“No! This is awful! ” Bellatrix screeches, pausing the rehearsal. “This headdress is horrid, nothing is going right! You best bet this is my last straw! I will not put up with such ridiculous sentiments. ” 

“You.” She snarls, a finger at Narcissa’s face. “You may be my sister, but you’re wretched. Giving up ownership to let these two buffoons from Lucius’s family run this place. It’s doomed, I tell you! Doomed! I have daft dimbos in place of trained dancers! There’s just no order!” Bellatrix complains, yelling wildly in Narcissa’s face. She paces around the stage, her arms flailing about. 

“The primadonna is going off once more.” Sirius snickers in Draco’s ear. Draco huffs a laugh at his uncle’s sentiments. 

There’s a wisp of cold drafty air from the ceiling, and Draco glances up, seeing nothing but the same wooden batten that crushed his father. 

In a moment, the batten falls, and Draco jumps and pulls Sirius away with him. It falls with a sharp creak, and a short yelp as Bellatrix is hit with the edge of the batten. Draco’s heart beats wildly. Bellatrix whines in pain as she pulls her leg from the wreckage. 

“Lady Lestrange!” Some of the servants exclaim in worry as they clamour around her. She slaps a few hands away from her, complaining something about their dirty hands tarnishing her skin. It’s nothing, really. Compared to what Draco’s father had gotten; Bellatrix’s leg is only a bit torn from the wood. However, she whines and cries, making a show of the pain by gripping her leg tightly. 

“It’s the Phantom of the opera!” Luna exclaims, leaning into Draco as they look down at Bellatrix. The legend that a Phantom lives in the halls of the opera house is powerful as ever. Narcissa, for years, had complied with the mysterious letters she had received from the man, never questioning it, for she had wanted no one to be at risk of harm. 

“The what ?” Belladonna raises an eyebrow.

The second Narcissa comes into view, Bellatrix nearly implodes with anger. 

“You! It’s all your fault!” Bellatrix grits out, face red as she gets up to stomp angrily off stage. Her mother looks positively put off, yet she just furrows her eyebrow in worry as Bellatrix storms away. 

“A letter has come for you.” Narcissa bends over to pick up a piece of parchment that has landed on the floor. It’s a small envelope, with a red skull wax melt sealing the letter. The back reads: 

‘To: Cressida and Belladonna’

‘From: The Phantom of The Opera’

Narcissa rips the envelope open. 

“He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due.”

“This is ridiculous. Stop this nonsense.” Cressida grits out, crumbling the envelope in her hand. “This is preposterous! Who dares to defy our power?” Cressida yells as she raises her hand to the ceiling, looking for a sign of who could’ve committed such a heinous act. Cressida turns to Belladonna. 

“No… we must cancel.” Cressida worrily whimpers, biting her nail. 

“No, sister, we can’t possibly.” 

“Unless you find another lead vocalist for us in the next few hours, we must refund the tickets of a full house .” The two sisters argue.

“Draco can sing.” Narcissa pipes up. The two sisters snap their head at her, before turning their gaze to him. 

“What? A feeble dancer can sing the lead? Don’t be ridiculous, Narcissa.” 

“He can. He’s been taking lessons from a great tutor for quite some time now.” Narcissa comments, grabbing Draco by the shoulder and leading him to the center of the stage. “Just listen to him sing.” 

“Tell me, boy. Who is your tutor?” Belladonna questions, suspicious. 

“I- I don’t know his name.” Draco simply replies. 

“Well, I highly doubt that you were taught from any figure that aligns with our standar-” 

Draco begins singing before she can finish her sentence. His voice carries softly and he sings along to the song he’s heard countless times come from the mouth of his aunt. It feels like second nature, singing. He’s done it all his life with the expectation that someday he may be more than just a dancer at Malfoy Theater. 

Think of me. 

Think of me fondly. 

He sings, hands on his stomach as the air rises in and out of the oracle. His throat stretches with the notes. His singing is soft spoken, just as he’s been taught. 

In a moment he’s on the stage, and the lights come onto him. The crowd is  leaning in to hear his voice. He preens at the attention. His dress robes are perfectly tailored for him. A bright blue color striking the tails of his coat, tie perfectly resting on his neck. He raises his hand to the audience to sing higher and higher as the notes increase in octaves. For a man, he has an unexpectedly high voice, and he sings a women’s register. It must have raptured the audience how a young man could possibly fill for a role usually  taken by women. 

His voice must look impossibly white under the bright stage lights. He lets the opera guide his voice, as if carrying through his throat and to the audience. 

He looks at Box Five. He sees Theodore in the stands, staring down at him with rapt attention. He smiles to himself. In a moment, he ends the song with a high note, and watches as the crowd erupts in cheers, roses are thrown onto the stage and whistles can be heard echoing across the theater. 

Theodore can not believe his eyes. Is it really him? 

Can it be? 

Can it be Draco? 

Draco runs off stage the second he’s finished his song, and Theodore chases after him. 

Draco hugs Luna as he runs off stage. He knows where to go. He sneaks down to the basement. A photo of his father lays there, a few candlesticks sit on the windowsill, and he lights each one piece by piece. 

Bravi. Bravi. Bravissimi. 

A voice echoes across the room. It comes from the ceiling, or perhaps from under him. He doesn’t quite know. He recognises the voice all too well. It’s the angel. 

“Draco? What are you doing down here?” His uncle, Regulus, enters the chamber. He immediately takes notice of Lucius’s portrait hung up on the wall. His expression softens as he takes a seat down next to Draco. “You’ve done well tonight. He would have been proud.” 

“My father was rarely proud.” Draco sighs. He lights another candle. 

“He would’ve been.” Regulus persists, a hand on Draco’s shoulder. Draco offers a weak smile. “Who is this great tutor you speak of?”  

“My father said that when he died, an angel of music would watch over me. Guide me, teach me.” Draco looks over at Regulus. “And he did. He taught me everything about music. He tutored me so gracefully.” Draco gazes up at Regulus, who only stares back at him, puzzled. 

“That’s… wonderful, Draco. Are you sure such things exist?” 

“Father once spoke of an angel. Now as I sing I can sense him and I know he's here. Here in this room, he calls me softly.” Draco explains, hand on Regulus’s shoulder as he looks up. 

“Draco, you must’ve been dreaming. Stories like this can’t come true.” Regulus looks positively concerned. His uncle leads him out into the hallway. 

“Your face, Draco. It’s positively white. Your hands are cold. It frightens me. Are you sure you’re alright? You haven’t gone mad, have you?” Regulus places the back of his hand against Draco’s forehead. 

“I’m alright, Uncle Regulus. Please.” Draco swats Regulus’s hand away. The elder man smiles at seeing his typical attitude back. 

“They’re all waiting for you upstairs. You should greet everyone. Including the young patron, Theodore Nott.” 

Draco suddenly remembers Theodore. He follows Regulus upstairs, immediately greeted with the site of loyal contributors to the theater, as well as some of his relatives. He bows and greets everyone, letting the compliments flourish around him. He leaves with a final bow, heading towards his room. 

As he sits down on his bed - ridding himself of his tie - a knock resounds from his door. As the door opens, a bed of flowers emerges from the door, Theodore’s lovely face peering over the flowers. 

“Draco!” He exclaims, placing the bundle of flowers down on the nearby table. Draco snickers when Theodore struggles to place the flowers properly on the granite table. “My, I haven’t seen you since the beach house.” He smiles softly at Draco. 

“Where our fathers would chatter away about theater.” 

“And we would lay in the sand together.” 

“No doubt having some crazy picnic.” Draco chuckles. Theodore makes his way closer to Draco. 

“You were positively amazing tonight. I’ve never heard you sing like that.” Theodore comes to his knees in front of Draco, his hands finding Draco’s own. 

“Thank you. I’ve had some lessons of sorts.” Draco huffs, face pink. Theodore brings a hand to his cheek, brushing a hair past it. 

“I guess you retired the old slick back you used to wear. Pity. You looked cute.” 

“You want me to bring it back?” Draco raises an eyebrow. Theodore laughs, his head falling forward into Draco’s lap. He can feel Theodore’s laugh erupt in his chest as he huffs a breath on Draco’s knee. He can feel the warmth of it despite the layer of fabric separating the two. 

“No, no. Don’t mind me, just reminiscing.” 

Draco tangles his fingers into Theodore’s locks. His pale fingers disappear then reappear through Theodore’s brown locs. The brunet peers up at him. 

“Let me take you to dinner. I’ll prepare a carriage and whatnot.” He suggests getting to his feet to turn towards the door. 

“My apologies, but I can’t. The angel of music demands that I sleep. He’s very strict, I do hope you understand.” 

“Ah, yes. The angel of music can wait, can he not?” Theodore jests as he doesn’t stop his leisure stroll to the door. 

“Theodore, I cannot!” Draco exclaims, which pauses Theodore’s ministrations. He turns around to face Draco, perplexed. “L-let me sleep.” 

“I shall come up to fetch you in a few minutes. Worry not, Draco.” Theodore comments, slipping out of the door swiftly. Draco collapses to his bed. He rids himself of his tie and vest. Now he lies, clad in his lacy dress shirt and slacks. 

All at once, the candles in his room go out, and Draco is springing up in his bed, looking around him. A chill comes with the sudden darkness in his room. He shivers and whips his head to scan his surroundings. The angel speaks. 

Insolent boy, this slave of fashion

Basking in your glory

Ignorant fool, this brave young suitor

Sharing in my triumph

“Angel, I hear you. My soul was weak. Forgive me.” Draco whispers, his eyes searching for him. 

“I hear you. I hide in the shadows away from the world. Look into your mirror, Draco. I am there.” the voice bellows. Draco snaps his head towards the mirror at the end of his bed, he stands up. 

A man stands in the mirror, a man whose right eye is half-concealed by a white mask. His suit is fitted and his hair is slicked back. He inches his gloved hand out, towards Draco. He watched with rapt attention. His green eyes are watching Draco, and his attractive jawline traces the sides of his face. A long cloak follows his suit as he moves, wind rustling the fabric, yet, there’s no wind in his room. 

He stands, feet making their way towards the man. He feels as if he’s gliding, for he doesn’t even recognise his movement. He stares into the green eyes that bore into his own grey ones. He whispers towards him. He feels as if he’s falling, falling into a dark hole. Instead, he’s walking. He’s walking towards the mirror. 

“Angel of music, guide me to glory.” He whispers. 

“Come.” He commands, his hand extended for Draco to take. He finds himself reaching into the mirror, and his hand disappears into the glass. He distantly hears a banging on the door, the call of his name from Theodore’s faint voice. It feels all too muddled. He whips his head to look at the Angel. His hand touches the Angel’s and he feels himself pulled into him. It feels foreign, for he’s never felt a yearning quite like this. It’s a yearning akin to hunger and dark curiosity. 

Draco steps through the mirror, his hand in the Angel’s.

Chapter Text

Draco steps into the mirror, immediately leading down a passageway Draco had never seen before. There’s candlesticks floating in the air and he lets the angel’s hand lead him away. Draco feels as though he's in a trance. 

In sleep he sang to me

In dreams he came

That voice which calls to me

And speaks my name

Draco watches the back of the angel’s head. His hand is firm and warm against Draco’s smaller one. He’s actually a bit taller than the angel. His gaze follows the walls around him, candlesticks chasing after him. 

He’s dizzy as he steps onto a small rowboat. The angel rows the boat, and looks down at Draco with the mask that lays over his face. 

Sing once again with me

Our strange duet

My power over you

Grows stronger yet

His green eyes hypnotize Draco. 

The angel grabs Draco’s lithe hand, leading him to step onto a concrete platform. It leads to a small bedroom, a beautiful bed with linen sheets. It’s quite beautiful, even comparable to Draco’s own bedroom with expensive sheets and silk draped over his mattress. Yet, the walls are made of stone, and it’s humid down here in the sewers. He turns to face the angel, and his hands trace over the cheek that is not covered by the white mask. 

Those who have seen your face

Draw back in fear

I am the mask you wear

It's me they hear

“Your mask.” Draco comments. “Why do you wear one, sir?” 

“I conceal what needs to be concealed.” 

“I think you’re handsome.” Draco supplies, leaning a bit closer to the figure. The man’s eyes are dangerously alluring, his presence a strong yet terrifying one. It thrills Draco. 

“You think that now.” The man coldly replies. He brings his hands down to Draco’s midriff, turning him around. Draco’s back collides with the man’s front. His hands wander down his waist. 

“Are you human?” 

“Yes.” He replies. 

“You’re not just in my head?” Draco questions. He turns his head to the side, resting it on the man’s shoulders. 

“No.” 

“Are you an angel?” 

“No, I’m a phantom.” 

“What does that mean?” Draco turns to face the man more clearly. The man shrugs. His cold demeanor creates an itch in Draco’s head. He wants to see the man crack. Laugh, smile, yell. 

“I live here, away from the world. I’m a phantom of a person.” He pushes his face into Draco’s neck, breathing him in. Draco shivers. 

“How do you know me?” 

“I’ve seen you. I hear you. I watch from the vents.” 

“You’ve been watching me?” Draco shivers. It’s weird. It’s strange. He should be scared. He’s not. 

“Always.” The man grins into his skin, and it’s the first time he elicits a reaction from him. He pushes back into the man’s embrace and sighs into it. His heart races in an exhilarating way. The man’s hungry hands press into his skin and undo the buttons of his dress shirt. He’s older than him, that much he can tell. It makes Draco hum in delight. 

“Call me Harry.” the man - Harry - whispers. “You’re beautiful.” He kisses the side of Draco’s neck, and his hands slip under his dress shirt to pinch the skin at his waist. He’s wrinkling the pristine fabric of his shirt, and it delights him. “Come. I have something to show you.” Harry leads Draco away by his waist, forcing him to look behind a purple curtain in his room. A statue of himself, dressed in white with a veil over his head. Draco pales. It’s a perfect depiction of himself, and it nearly steals his breath away. In a way, he feels prized and treasured. At the same time, he feels like prey. Harry’s hands are still on his waist, pinching and teasing. 

“It’s you.” Harry supplies, as if Draco can’t already see that. “You’re my bride.” Harry states, not asking, but simply stating . Harry hums a simple tune into Draco’s neck. 

Slowly, gently night unfurls its splendor

Grasp it, sense it, tremulous and tender

Turn your face away from the garish light of day

Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light

And listen to the music of the night

He sways Draco alongside him, dancing in a simple rhythm. Draco tips his head back. Harry’s hands dip lower and tease his abdomen. Draco falls onto the soft bed, and Harry pins his arms to the bedding. 

He leans down to lick down his throat, teeth digging in gently. Draco whines. Harry’s green eyes watch Draco’s own. His fingers fiddle with Draco’s buckle, the one keeping his slacks up, before unzipping the front. Draco gasps when Harry’s hands come into contact with his wet prick. His fingers trace around the waistband of his pants, lowering the fabric further down his thighs. His legs come up and a wetness encloses around his taint. 

Draco whines and grips the sheets around his head. He’s never been touched by anyone else, and he’s never touched himself. He moans softly, as Harry’s tongue licks up his taint to his prick. Draco yelps when a finger traces his hole. A finger slides in at the same time Harry sucks a harsh breath in. Draco’s head tips back, and Harry is properly ravishing him. He clenches down on the finger inside of him, and it jostles the appendage. 

Draco whimpers as Harry increases the suction around his prick, and his finger inside of him twists and turns, and in a second Draco comes undone. 

He’s slipping into slumber the second he lets out a final moan of Harry’s name. 

Once he wakes, he feels as if last night was a hazy dream. 

Yet when his eyes land on Harry’s head, the familiar curve of his slicked back hair, he knows it wasn’t. 

“Sir Harry.” Draco whispers as he steps out of the bed. Harry stares into a mirror, catching Draco’s gaze. His eyes are as green as ever, and his face still handsome as ever despite the mask decorating it. 

“Good morning.” He doesn’t stand up to greet him. Draco hopes he hasn’t lost interest in him yet. He glides down the stairs, walking towards Harry. His hands come to his shoulders, draping them over the man. 

“Hello.” Draco huffs, demanding a better answer. 

“Did you sleep well?” Harry asks again, his hands coming to Draco’s own. A bright green ring blares back at him. It’s beautiful and rests quite largely on Harry’s pointer finger. Harry’s eyes follow Draco’s fingertips as they trace over the ring. 

“Do you like it?” He rumbles. Draco nods gently. 

“It’s beautiful.” He compliments. 

He looks up at Draco from where he’s sat down in a chair. Draco smiles, his hand coming to Harry’s face. His fingers drift over the mask. It’s leather. He doesn’t think before he slowly lifts the accessory. Harry’s hands slap Draco’s away, jumping out of the chair as the mask goes flying to the ground. He grips his right eye firmly as he glares at Draco. 

“How dare you.” He grits. “Is that what you’ve been wanting this whole time? You little minx.” Harry shouts at Draco, who just jumps in surprise at the sudden change in tone. 

“N-no I-” Draco stamers. 

“You’re so desperate to see how ugly I am.” 

“No. You could never be ugly.” Draco supplies. 

“After all I’ve done for you, this is how you repay me?” The man stares at Draco, his eyes rid of anger, but replaced with fear. Draco can spot it if he looks close enough. He bites his lip, creeping over to where the mask has dropped, and bringing it to Harry’s hand. The man takes the mask gracefully, bringing it to his eye to cover. 

“Leave now. Your family will be worrying.” Harry coldly replies. Draco nods his head, turning his head down to walk back towards the little row boat that led him here. He retraces his steps, walking through brick lined hallways, floating candlesticks nowhere to be found. 

Bellatrix is fussing once again. The primadonna of the theater has returned and is demanding that she gets the main role tonight. Draco slips to his room unnoticed. 

“Where is the Malfoy boy?” Cressida wails, frantically turning corners around the theater. 

“He wasn’t in his sleeping chambers last time I checked.” Narcissa supplies. 

“Well.” Cressida huffs, her expression positively mad. “First Bellatrix, and now Draco. Our two stars are missing.”  

“Perhaps it is the Phantom.” Belladonna bites her lip in worry. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Such things do not exist.” 

“Perhaps you should read this.” Narcissa brings another sealed envelope to Cressida’s face, and the woman snatches it from her hands. It’s another one of the Phantom’s letters. 

“You’ve received one as well?” Belladonna pulls a similar envelope from her handbag. The red wax seal glares at them menacingly as they rip open the parchment. 

"Dear Belladonna, what a charming gala!

Draco enjoyed a great success

We were hardly bereft when Bellatrix left

Otherwise, the chorus was entrancing

But the dancing was a lamentable mess"

"Dear Cressida, just a brief reminder

My salary has not been paid

Send it care of the Ghost by return of post

P.T.O. No one likes a debtor

So it's better if my orders are obeyed!"

Their faces pale in tandem as they read the letter out loud. 

“W-who would have the gall to send this?” Cressida demands, her face pale as she reads the letter. “Who dares to threaten the noble name of Malfoy?” She shouts, the letter crumpling in her palm. 

“Someone with a puerile brain.” Belladonna murmurs. 

“It’s the Phantom.” Narcissa supplies, her tone as even as ever. Cressida marches over to her sister-in-law, gripping her by the collar of her dress. 

“You.” She snarls. “You sent this to kick us out of the family.” She accuses, pushing Narcissa back until her back collides with the railing of the stairs. Her face is red and she huffs in Narcissa’s face, who stares back, emotionless. 

“I would never.” 

“Don’t lie!” Cressida shouts, spitting at Narcissa. 

“Sister, I doubt Lucius’s passive wife would ever do such a thing. She doesn’t have the guts to.” Belladonna chimes in, snorting. Cressida snaps her head towards her, huffing as she lets go of Narcissa. 

“Yes… yes you’re very right, sister. It must be the work of that crooked man, the Phantom.” 

The door to the theater slams open, and Theodore Nott comes running in. 

“I take it that you sent me this note?” He holds up the open envelope, glaring at the two women. 

“What note?” Belladonna shakes her head. 

“ This.” He snarls. 

The two sisters exchange glances. 

“And what is it that we're meant to have wrote?”

“Written.” Cressida corrects. 

Theodore reads: 

"Do not fear for Mister Malfoy

The Angel of Music has him under his wing

Make no attempt to see him again."

The two women appear mystified. 

“If you didn’t write this, then who did?” Theodore demands. 

Bellatrix slams the door open, letter in hand. 

“Where is he? Your patron, where is he ?” 

“Miss Lestrange! You’ve returned!” Cressida welcomes her. She pushes past Cressida, pointing a finger at Theodore. 

“I have a letter from you. A letter I rather resent. ” 

Bellatrix has Theodore backed into the stairs, and he stares at the finger she’s pointed at his face, face pale, a stark contrast to Bellatrix’s red and furious one. 

“And what is it that I'm meant to have sent?” Theodore questions. 

Bellatrix clears her throat: 

"Your days at the Malfoy Theater are numbered

Draco Malfoy will be singing on your behalf tonight

Be prepared for a great misfortune

Should you attempt to take his place."

“There are far too many notes about Draco for my taste.” Cressida clicks her tongue. “Could this be the work of the young heir?” 

“Absolutely not. Draco would never do such a thing. He’s been out all night!” Sirius interjects, now standing in the doorway with his brother, Regulus. Bellatrix narrows her eyes. 

“Off with you!” 

The two men scramble away to the foyer. Narcissa appears suddenly around the corner. The two sisters raise an eyebrow, not having noticed she had left at all. 

“Draco has returned.” 

“Well, where is he?” Belladonna coughs. 

“He’s gone to rest, he’s been out all night after all.” 

Bellatrix scrambles over the railing of the stairway, staring down at Narcissa. 

“Will he sing tonight? Will he?!” Her eyes are wide, and it surprises Narcissa a bit, the woman stepping back a bit at the sudden proximity. 

“Here, I have a note.” Narcissa up an envelope beside her face. 

"Gentlewomen, 

I have now sent you several notes of the most amiable nature 

Detailing how my theater is to be run. 

You have not followed my instructions...

I shall give you one last chance

Draco Malfoy has returned to you

And I am anxious his career should progress

In the new production of Il Muto

You will therefore cast Bellatrix as the pageboy

And put Mister Malfoy in the role of Count(ess)

The role which Mister Malfoy plays

Calls for charm and appeal

The role of the pageboy is silent which makes

My casting, in a word, ideal

I shall watch the performance from my normal seat in box 5

Which will be kept empty for me. 

Should these commands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur

I remain, gentlemen, your obedient servant

O.G."

“Draco!” 

“It’s all a ploy to help Draco!” The two sisters screech. Bellatrix screams in anger, running down the stairway, pushing off the servants that desperately try to keep her there. Cressida and Belladonna make an effort to pull Bellatrix pleading with her. 

“M-miss Lestrange! Please! Mister Malfoy will play the silent role - the pageboy. You shall play the lead!” Belladonna calls after Bellatrix, who halts at the announcement. She turns to look at  the two with a dumb expression, eyes wild and desperate. 

“It’s useless trying to appease me. You’re only trying to please me.” She says softly, her expression mad. 

She slams the doors of the theater open, only to find a large crowd standing outside. Once the doors reveal Bellatrix and the others, millions of reporters reach out for her, shouting her name. 

“Is it true that Mister Malfoy will be playing the lead tonight?” 

“Is it true that you have retired, ma’am?” 

“Over here, Miss Lestrange!” 

The doors slam in an instant. Cressida has shut the door and now stares at Bellatrix with a nervous smile. 

“Please, Miss Lestrange.” Cressida begs Bellatrix, cupping her hands in her own. “The people request you. They need you. Your excellency is unmatched.” 

“Those people out there, they’re all for you.” Belladonna breathes. Bellatrix’s gaze flickers between the two sisters, eyes wide. 

“Perhaps.” She whispers. She marches over to the theater, making her way backstage as they follow. The two sisters follow elatedly. 

Prima donna, the world is at your feet!

A nation waits

And how it hates to be cheated!

They march down the halls, trailing after Bellatrix who makes her way backstage to be fitted into her dress. She’s smiling all the while, basking in the attention of servants and fellow crew members alike. She sings and giggles through the hallways. Her dress is already waiting to be worn in her dressing room. 

The stress that falls upon a famous prima donna!

Terrible diseases, coughs and colds and sneezes!

Still, the dryest throat will reach the highest note

In search of perfect opera!

“Draco plays the silent pageboy, Bellatrix plays the countess!” The crew appeases. Bellatrix preens at the attention. 

“I shall take my seat in Box Five once more tonight.” Theodore chuckles as he watches the team fuss over Bellatrix.” 

Overhead, the Phantom watches with dark eyes. 

So, it is a war between us.

If these demands are not met 

A disaster beyond your imagination will occur.

A voice echoes through the chamber. His gloved hands grip the curtains tight before he disappears behind it. Narcissa’s eyes follow the movement.

As the night emerges and the seats in the theater fill to the brim, Bellatrix performs perfectly; albeit, a bit pitchy, but her acting is not terrible. Draco watches from his post, fiddling with his dress robes. He’s wearing a rather embarrassing get-up. Of course, the role of the paperboy has him in quite frilly undergarments. 

He holds a rose in his hand, wrapped at the stem with a black ribbon. There holds a ring, the same ring that Draco had grazed his hand over. The one over Harry’s hand this morning. It’s a dark green crystal encompassed in a delicate diamond casing. It’s beautiful and the green is oddly reminiscent of Harry’s green eyes. He carefully places the rose in his pocket. 

“Regulus, go keep watch on the batten. Wouldn’t want it falling down again.” Cressida suggests, gesturing upwards. Regulus nods and makes his way up to the batten. 

His cue arrives, and he jumps onto stage to silently perform side by side with Luna, who plays another pageboy. He jumps onto the stage, performing colorfully - as his character does not have any speaking lines. He fakes a shocked expression when the man playing the count playfully slaps him over the head. 

The play goes exactly as planned, and Draco is surprised the Phantom has not made a move yet. Considering what he knows of the man, he doesn’t put it past him to try and obliterate the stage just for Draco. It makes him wonder if everything that had happened with the Phantom was a dream. 

In a sudden moment; the batten creaks from above Draco, and he can’t help but feel alarmed. He looks up and feels a cold gust of wind. There’s nothing there. 

A loud bellowing fills the theater. A hooded figure standing at the top balcony of the theater. 

“I thought I had made it clear to leave Box Five empty.” The voice is firm and serious. In a moment, Draco knows that the Phantom wasn’t a dream. He could recognise that voice anywhere. The audience gasps and looks around, as if to find where the voice is emerging from. Green eyes meet grey ones and Draco grins up at the figure. 

He disappears through the doorway. The crowd is still murmuring, and Bellatrix looks positively furious, her face fuming as she sits crossly on the bed at the center of the stage. The batten creaks again, and again, and again. Draco feels a haze of uneasiness make its way into his stomach. 

The batten creaks a final time, and it finally forces Draco’s gaze upwards. 

A rope, a body. It comes falling down the batten, and there it is. 

The body. A body that Draco knows well, hanging by a thread. 

Regulus. Uncle Regulus is hanging by his throat from the wooden batten, rope snug around his windpipes as his face pales, eyes glassy. The crowd screeches, and many are making a bee line for the exit. Draco pales staring up. He starts to feel his eyes water. The way the rope digs into his skin and irritates it makes Draco suck in a harsh breath. A cloaked figure makes its way down the batten, and it creaks under its weight. 

It was Harry. Draco feels his heart clench in his chest, and this time it’s not in the exhilarating way it was in Harry’s chambers underground; when the man said he would do anything for him. He hadn’t truly believed it - or, he did, but he never assumed it would be to this extent. To the extent that he would murder a truly innocent man out of his anger. Draco had loved Uncle Regulus, cherished his company, even. He can’t move past this. He slowly backs off the stage. 

His back hits something firm. 

“Draco! Are you alright?” Theodore’s voice calls from behind him, hands grabbing Draco’s shoulders firmly as he turns him around. His face is cinched with worry, and he checks all around Draco to make sure he isn’t harmed. He feels a wave of relief crash over him at the endearing action. 

“W-we have to get out of here.” Draco mutters, face still pale as he grabs a hold of Theodore’s hand to whisk him to safety. Theodore’s questioning Draco all the while, but never tries to pull away from Draco’s leading hand. He lets himself be pulled away by Draco. The blond doesn’t know where to go, but he makes his way up the stairs backstage, hoping to find a way to get out where Harry won’t be able to find him. He needs to get away. 

He feels like he’s being watched - and not in a good way. Perhaps, he was always being watched, he’s just suddenly more aware of it now. 

He pushes through a glass door, panting as he tries to reflect on everything that’s happened in the last five minutes. As he catches his breath, Theodore shuts the door behind them. They’re out on the rooftop, having clambering all the way up here. It’s snowing a bit, and Draco can feel the cold tickle the tip of his nose. Theodore turns to him, still wearing a worried expression. He steps closer to Draco.

“What’s going on? Tell me.” 

“It’s- the Phantom he-” Draco catches his breath. Theodore sends a reassuring hand down his spine. 

No more talk of darkness,

forget these wide-eyed fears;

I'm here, nothing can harm you,

my words will warm and calm you.

Theodore assures him.

“Let me be your freedom,let daylight dry your tears; I'm here, with you, beside you, to guard you and to guide you.” Theodore stares into Draco’s eyes, and the snow falls around him gently, collecting in his light brown hair. He smiles gently and brings a hand to stroke Draco’s cheek. “Draco, I love you.” He admits quietly, leaning in to gaze into Draco’s eyes. 

He’s never had somebody tell him that they love him. It’s not a usual thing that his family says to each other. He finds himself tearing up at the admission. Oh, how he would’ve adored this confession years ago when he was a child. He still does, he cherishes it so much. 

“Promise me. Say you love me every waking moment. Turn my head with talks of summertime. Say you need me now and always.” He breathes out, staring up at Theodore, his hands coming to Theodore’s own to link them together. 

“Let me be your shelter, let me be your light. You’re safe, and your fears are far behind you.” He strokes down Draco’s head. His heart leaps in his throat. He’s never felt so loved. The way Harry loves him is deep and all consuming, but the way Theodore loves him is soft and forgiving. It’s gentle and warm like the sun on a gentle autumn day. He’s infatuated by the sight of Theodore's soft smile. 

“All I want is freedom, a world with no more night; and you, always beside me, to hold me and to hide me.” He takes Theodore’s hand and lets the man hold him close, hugging him from behind. He gently rocks the two, dancing gently under the pale moonlight.

“Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime; let me lead you from your solitude.” Theodore kisses his ear. 

“Anywhere you go, let me go too. Draco, that's all I ask of you.” He grins into Draco’s skin, and suddenly he finds himself being turned on his feet to face Theodore. 

“Say you love me.” Draco whispers in the space between them. 

“You know I do.” He whispers back. 

In a moment, the distance between the two is shortening. Their lips meet, and Draco clenches a fist into Theodore’s dress robes, a fine suit. Theodore pulls Draco close by the waist, grazing over the soft fabric of his costume. It’s a gentle kiss, and so full of emotion that Draco can’t help but melt into it. It’s like the world goes silent. Suddenly the galloping of the carriages below them don’t make any sound, and the only one they can hear is the sound of their footsteps crunching in the snow that’s gathered below them. 

“Order your finest horses. Be there with them at the door. I’ll meet you.” Draco grins up at Theodore as they separate. Theodore grins back, just as elated. He kisses the crown of Draco’s forehead as he leaves. 

As Draco makes his way to the glass door, the rose drops from his pocket. The same one with Harry’s ring on it, the red rose contrasting the white snow around it. He feels his heart prick with pain and a strange sensation of yearning . How could he miss something he never had? There was no love for Harry. Just unhealthy infatuation. The rose sits on the ground, the ring still tied to the stem with the black ribbon. 

He walks away. 

He doesn’t notice the hooded figure hiding behind a stone statue, watching the whole time before Draco leaves. 

He makes himself clear once the door has shut, and walks over to pick up the rose, holding it carefully in between his fingers. 

“I gave you my music, made your song take wing. And now, how you've repaid me: denied me and betrayed me.” He laments. His voice is gentle and soft. Harry removes his hood. His eyes narrowed with sadness and betrayal. 

“He was bound to fall in love with you once he heard you sing. Anybody would.” He brings the rose up to his face, inhaling the aroma of the flower. He crushes the rose in his fist. 

“You will curse the day you did not do all that the Phantom asked of you!” He grits out. In a moment, he’s gone.