A/N: So this thing is back, god knows why. I actually watched LND, and since I know the legit plot, I decided to make this a little more legit. However, since some parts of it I know from the OLC (from listening to the music before seeing the show), there are still a few things that were cut out of the original show. For instance: Heaven By The Sea is included and Fleck, Squelch, and Gangle have their original costumes. And I also changed a name. Because of reasons.
Shit started to go down when the letter arrived.
It was not, as Lysandre had hoped, a Pottermore welcome letter, but a note that was apparently from a Mr Oscar Hammerstein. He had apparently heard about her extraordinary fame in Europe, which didn't surprise Lysandre in the least—her voice was pretty rad, and over the years she had become a prima-frickin'-donna, makin' ze monay and all that jazz.
She read through the letter quickly, deciding right away that they would take up his offer of seventy-five billion dollars if she were to come and sing when he opened a new Opera house in New York City. Nodding absently at the paper in her hand, she turned to her husband of ten years, Raoul de Chagny, who was snoozing on the table using a keg as a pillow. Wrinkling her nose at him, she stood and smacked him on the back of the head.
"Hey Haymitch, wake up," she said. Raoul grunted and peered at her through one eye.
"Whut."
"We got a letter."
"What?"
Lysandre snorted. "Do you want me to fucking sing it out to you?" She held the letter in front of Raoul's face and sang the well-loved Blue's Clues Song Of Our Childhoods, "We just gotta let-ter, we just gotta let-ter, we just gotta let-ter, WONDER WHO IT'S FROM?"
Raoul was quiet for a moment. Then, "Well, who's it from?"
"Oscar Mothafuckin' Hammerstein. Yeah."
"Will there be hot dogs?"
"God, I hope not," said Lysandre with a shudder.
"Yeah, cos you know those are made out of pig dick, right?" Lysandre nodded, and then took one of Raoul's bottles of Jack.
"Bee-ar-bee, gonna go brush my teeth with this," she drawled, heading upstairs. She was not, in fact, going to brush her teeth with a bottle of Jack Daniel's, because she reserved that kind of thing for when she woke up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy. Instead, she crossed the hall into the bedroom of her ten-year-old son, who was quietly playing the lute. Oh yeah, her kid was one of those musically-talented kiddos. You might wanna pay attention to that.
"Benedict Cumberbatch Jr, dear, I've got news for you," she crooned.
The boy looked curiously at her. "But Mama, I thought Papa said I was called Gustave?"
"Yeah, well, that's a stupid name. You're Benedict Cumberbatch Jr, and that's that. Anyway, pack up your shit. We're going to New York."
She left Gustave/Benedict Cumberbatch Jr to his music, and went into her room to get her shit together. She pulled out her trunk and tossed in some clothes and toiletries, and of course her handy-dandy parasol, to use as a weapon if needed. Returning to the kitchen, she saw that Raoul had begun his daily activity of yelling at his Smirnoff bottles. Lysandre frowned. Maybe she could toss him off the ship and blame Wrackspurts…
Meanwhile, in New York, the douchebag known as Mr. Y; known to Lysandre as Erik, and known to Raoul as the Skidmark on the Underpants of France, was twisting his hypothetical mustache in cunning delight. It was, of course, he who had sent Lysandre the invitation to New York, and how, after ten years of being apart from her, he would finally get her back! He was still cross with himself for falling for her little "I'm-a-lesbian" charade a decade ago, and damn it, he wasn't gonna get over it no matter what his therapist said.
Somehow, someway, he would hear her sing once more!
A/N: Kinda short as fuq, but you get the idea. Sort of a prologue-y exposition-y…thing.