Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter and The Phantom of the Opera. I'm just writing this for my own amusement. Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling & The Phantom of the Opera © Gaston Leroux
Prologue
-London, England 1919-
An elderly man, who looks to be in his late 60s, steps toward the leaf strewn entrance of the deteriorated opera house. This place holds all kinds of memory – some good, some bad, but precious memories nonetheless. After all, for many, many years this place had been his home. And to think that this once magnificent building is now where the public auction is being held….
The Hogwarts Opera has now long past its prime – a mere ghost of itself. And yet this was the place where it all began.
He can still remember so clearly the splendor of Hogwarts that it now vaguely resembles: the grand staircase, the velvet carpet, the sparkling chandelier, the excited faces of the ladies and gentlemen as the lights dimmed and the music began… and the stage. Such a bittersweet memory this place holds.
Although the opera house is dirtied by time and blackened of the decades gone fire, oh, how it calls to him! Never does it fail to always take him back to that very night.
Everything seemed to occur so suddenly, but it had been such a breathtaking moment – almost magical.
"Harry, are you alright?"
His just as elderly companion broke him out of his reverie by tapping him on the shoulder. He turns his head and looks at his friend expectantly with his startling green eyes.
"The auction is starting soon. We should head to our seats."
"Yes, of course, Neville."
The auctioneer, a plump middle-aged man (who to Harry's amusement, vaguely resembles his whale of an uncle who died years ago from a heart failure due to his obesity), bangs his gavel and begins to list off the items.
"Lot 664: a wooden pistol and three human skulls from the 1831 production of 'Robert le Diable' by Meyerbeer."
Harry drowns out the sound of the words from the auctioneer, once again lost in his own memory until he heard the next auction that caught his attention.
"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: A papier-mâché music box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, is the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, is still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."
The porter held it up for all the people present to see. He then turned the knob on the side of the box with some effort. It had not been used for many years. A haunting melody slowly sounded from the small box and soon echoed across the walls of the opera house.
Harry's eyes widened slightly as he stared at the music box. A gleam of recognition shined in his eyes as he takes in the details.
"May I commence at fifteen pounds. Fifteen thank you."
After a few moment, Harry lifted his arm to signal his bid.
"Yes twenty from you, sir. Thank you very much."
An elderly woman decided at that moment to bid the music box for twenty-five. Well, Harry thought. That just won't do. He raised his arm again.
"Thirty! And thirty five?" the auctioneer looked at the women to see if she'll make another bid. She shook her head, not believing it was worth bidding more for. If she only knew.
"Selling for thirty pounds, then. Thirty once… thirty twice… sold for thirty pounds to Mister Potter. Thank you, sir."
Harry took the music box gingerly as the porter passed it to him. He twisted the knob and let the little box play its sad music; the music that held so much of his past, so much of his joys and sorrows.
"That's a pretty music box, Harry. A collector's item I think I've heard. I've never seen one like it," Neville spoke in a soft voice.
Harry smiled wryly. A collector's piece, indeed.
He examines it carefully. Every detail on it was exactly as he recalled. He'd often thought of it even after all these years. His finger ran over the velvet lining, the lead figurine.
"Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?" he whispered softly, half to himself, half to the box. He clutched it to his stomach protectively.
"Lot 666, then."
His attention returns to the auctioneer as he resumes, when he reveals the next item that is a large object under a dust cloth.
"A chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera: a mystery never fully explained. We are told ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and rewired parts of it for the new electric light so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when reassembled. Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination."
He turns his head and gestures to the workers. "Gentlemen?"
Harry gasps as the cloth lifted and the chandelier is switched on with an enormous flash, echoing the reminiscence of its former glory. As the men pulled on the attached ropes and the chandelier rose to the ceiling, his mind began to travel back, nearly 50 years. Back when Hogwarts was at its earlier grandeur, the chandelier immense and glittering, hovering high above the stalls. Back when his hair was once black as midnight and himself a youthful innocent of 18.
It had all started with the rehearsal for Hannibal. And he remembers how it had been particularly long and tedious that day.