Hello, world!

I realize it's been a while...a long while...at least for my followers/readers who are on this website...but I'm back! I'm back with new fandoms, this time Phantom of the Opera. Charles Dance Phantom of the Opera, to be exact.

Before starting, a few quick notes on the story itself:

The title is French. It's a phrase which literally means "a bad quarter of an hour". Its more general meaning is "a short period of time which is extremely unpleasant/mortifying/shaming"

Inspiration for this story comes from a lovely tumblr user who goes by ladycavalier. They had the idea of a "Smol Cherik", and my mind ran away with their idea. Thank you, ladycavalier, and you all should check them out. They've written a couple PoTO one-shots, and each one is a treasure.

I would also like to thank pippa-writes, who is another writer on this site. They wrote a one-shot based on the same "Smol Cherik" concept. Her writing is beautiful, short, and sweet (unlike mine). I highly recommend checking her out either via fanfiction or tumblr.

Now, with all that out of the way, let's get on with the story, shall we?

Whether it was thick-headed stubbornness, the nightmares, or an endless list of projects which consumed his time and attention, Erik and sleep were never close. If he had been a true Opera Ghost, this wouldn't have mattered. As it stood, though, Erik was a creature of flesh and blood. His running record was several days' worth of activity without even an hour of respite, and he jumped at every opportunity to push his limits further. This ultimately meant that when exhaustion finally took hold, it was with unexpected power and unusual timing.

While the Opera Garnier hummed with life up above, joining the rest of Paris in greeting a new day, Erik was sprawled across a writing desk in his study, dreaming deeply. It was a rare moment of peace, one in which sleep drew the phantom far from solitude, from bleak, empty moments that filled his waking hours. If it had been his bed – rather, the coffin which served (in his mind) as a perfectly acceptable substitution for a bed – he could have passed a day or so in this death-like state. However, perhaps because of his uncomfortable position, or simply because of his body's aversion to sleep, the phantom's nap was short-lived.

Erik blinked groggily and a yawn escaped his lips. Despite his stiff joints, he lay still for several moments, allowing himself adequate time to reach some state of wakefulness. The entire sleep cycle – one which he avoided whenever possible – was a disorienting process, and each stage required some adjustment on his part. However, Erik was soon sitting up, stretching his arms over his head and shaking some feeling back into his wrists, arms, and neck. Another yawn, accompanied by a low, growling "hum" in the back of his throat, and his hands went to his face of their own accord. The mask was still in place. With the after-nap routine completed, Erik pulled himself to his feet. Now, if he recalled correctly, he had a composition to edit, followed by opera rounds and a bite of dinner squeezed somewhere in the late evening hours.

His piano music, then, was the next matter of importance. There were several pages in desperate need of changes, and he'd laid them out on his desk before sleep overtook him. Erik strode across the smooth, brown floorboards, only to be halted quite suddenly when the ground dropped out before him. It simply stopped, forming a clean-cut cliff.

Erik blinked once, twice. If he peered over this newly-discovered ledge, he could see, far below, what appeared to be a wide canyon of white stone. As far as Erik was concerned, however, there was no such canyon anywhere in his Domain; certainly not one in his private study! He paced back and paused to gather himself. From what he could remember, he had gone to his private study to write the next few measures of a short composition. He was certain of not going anywhere else before falling asleep. Unless he had just now diagnosed himself with sleepwalking, then he should, for all intents and purposes, be seated at what he nicknamed his "composing desk". The sheet music would be sitting in front of him, waiting for his pen…

…And then Erik realized that he hadn't seen his sheet music.

Confusion slowly gave way to concern as Erik hunted for his papers. In fact, the more he searched, the more bizarre his situation became. It was as if some force had plucked him up as he slept and carried him to some strange land made of polished wood, surrounded on all sides by an arid stone cavern. He considered whether or not he was still dreaming.

Erik began to pace around the diameter of the wooden platform. His shoes click-clacked a comforting rhythm as he moved, though this comforting sound gave way to the strangest crackling and scuffling, which prompted Erik to look at the ground. What he saw was white, papery carpeting covered in black dots of various sizes and patterns criss-crossing through thin lines. In some places, a large splatter of black – much like an ink stain – bled onto the white surface. As Erik stared, the floorplan began to shape into bars and measures; the black blotches were music notes, the lines marked their position on the keyboard.

Erik bent down and ran one hand across a music note. His palm came up stained black. He sniffed, crinkling his nose at the pungent scent of ink which filled his nostrils. Erik followed the music until they gave way to a single line of text; a short title which told him at once that he was standing upon a nocturne. What made him freeze from head to toe was how the words of the title were printed. Years of tedious practice had merited rather graceful lettering, a skill which he cherished and flounced whenever possible. And now the words "nocturne", "Opus", and even the numbers which scrolled across the top of the page – for a page it must be – he recognized as his own.

If this, then, was where his nocturne had disappeared to, the only puzzle left to solve was how it had become large enough to serve as full-floor carpeting. This must be, he reasoned, some bizarre, life-like dream or…perhaps…but he couldn't be hallucinating…?

Erik turned from the music to survey his surroundings. With his nocturne identified, the rest of the room began to take shape. Familiar objects, such as the desk chair, the candelabra resting on a stand by the study door, his quill and ink pot which waited on the left ledge of the desk; he slowly began to realize that each one was exactly where he'd placed it in his study the night before. The difference now was that they had grown to massive proportions. If he looked over desk's edge, then, he could see that the white canyon he'd seen earlier was the stone floor of his house.

Too confused to formulate words, Erik made his way to the ink well, which stood a little taller than himself. He made to slump against its side when he caught his reflection in the smooth, black-tinted glass. A wondering gaze stared back, and a terrifying thought wormed its way to the forefront of his mind. Until that moment, it seemed that the rest of his world had grown to disproportionally-gargantuan sizes.

Now another possibility presented itself, and would that he could dismiss it, forget it, banish it to whatever dark corner of his mind from which it had sprung!

Either his study had grown or the Phantom had shrunk, and neither option offered assurance.