Hullo all. This us a fic, the idea for which began is I was writing some head canon on one of my tumblogs: cynicinafishbowl . tumblr . com

Remove the spaces.

And enjoy.

Dominique was running late.

This was less than ideal when the fact that she really needed to rehearse with a pianist before her performance assessment the next day was taken into account. It was one of the moments when she asked herself why she hadn't listened to her aunt Caitlin's entreaties not to under any circumstance study music at university because she would end up hating her life. And there she had been thinking that Caitlin was just being adorably muggle again. After all, she had also said not to study pure maths under any circumstance, but Dominique was having a ball.

It was just the wretched bi-monthly performance assessments which bugged her. After all, all the other kids could toddle off on their own, learn a piece, perform and be happy. But she, as a singer, had to learn a piece, find an accompanist who was available (apparently they didn't do standing arrangements... bastards), make sure they had the music at least two weeks ahead (which was an issue because that necessitated her knowing what she'd be singing two weeks in advance), perform, pay them, and immediately begin stressing about the next performance assessment.

She was heading to the music building where she had booked one of the soundproofed performance rooms (the girls sharing her college had made it clear that whilst she was a delightful singer, there was only so much Rossini one could take at seven in the morning), but if she wasn't there within five minutes, it went back on the market. And rooms never stayed available for long.

As it was, she had seven minutes to make it the three hundred metres and four flights of stairs to the room, but she was cutting it fine. That was why when her phone vibrated with a text message, she pulled it out as she continued to powerstride through the quad, dodging people as she went, and read as she walked, simultaneously making an exceedingly rude hand gesture at the socialists whose protest blocked her path.

By the time she'd opened the message, she was free of the unwashed leftist mass (she had nothing against socialism per se – merely the students who practised it at university), which was lucky, because upon reading it, she stopped dead in her tracks, and let off a string of profanities she had picked up off of her numerous elder relatives, but had never had cause to use.

Because the message read as follows:

Dominique,

Have shingles, cannot play.

Sorry

Violet.

Violet Evans was a twenty-six year old concert pianist, who after carpal tunnel surgery had been getting herself back up to scratch. She'd been Dominique's regular accompanist for the past two months, and had even been charging half rate since she remembered her days as a music student, and all the stress involved without even having a combined degree or the need to work in order to pay for pianists. And now, Vi had shingles.

Fan(expletiving)tastic. And then someone collided with her from behind, causing her to fall forward and (more irritatingly in the short run) drop her music. Suffice to say there was Verdi everywhere.

The person who had collided with her began apologising profusely, and offered a hand to help her up. Dominique took the proffered appendage, and promptly reiterated her earlier onscenities when pressure was applied to her hand, which she had clearly damaged in some fashion as she fell. It wasn't an issue, she could fix it herself once she was somewhere secluded, but it was an annoyance. Because it was making her later. Luckily for her, the guy she had collided with was picking up the fallen sheet music, because the library employees at Oxford made Madam Pince look like a fluffy bunny. Dominique took the time to get up without aggravating her damaged hand, and almost collided with the guys again.

"I'm so sorry about that." Said the young man, who was of Yorkshire descent. "We need to get you to campus medical."

"Thankyou but no." Said Dominique, reaching for her music, all too aware of the fact that her window of booking was shrinking.

"I'm sorry but yes." Disagreed Yorkshire boy. "Your wrist is at the very least sprained, and judging by the colour it's turning I'd venture to guess that it's broken, and more importantly, I have your music. And I don't think you're going anywhere without it."

Blast it. He was a clever bugger. Dominique decided to use what Victoire tended to refer to as her 'feminine wiles'. She batted her eyelids and looked all sweet and adorable for a moment, before cutting to an almost whisper coupled with a death glare.

"Listen. I have three minutes to claim my rehearsal room before my booking becomes void, I have a performance assessment tomorrow, and my pianist just told me she has shingles and can't come. Now please give me my music."

Yorkshire boy merely smirked, relieved her of her bookbag, which contained a not small amount of maths book, and enquired as to whether he would have to call in one of his friends in order to carry her there against her will. Dominique noticed said friends standing a little while away, decided she didn't want to take her chances, gritted her teeth and said she would go willingly.

They were halfway there when Yorkshire boy spoke again. "Do you have a backup accompanist?"

Dominique glared at him momentarily. "Who organises backup accompanist?"

"What's the piece?" He asked, already leafing through the music.

"The one with all the post-it notes sticking out of it." She responded a touch testily. In her defence, her wrist was getting really painful.

Yorkshire boy looked at it for a moment, then shrugged and said that he could play it. Dominique stopped in her tracks. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. You know Simon, the delightful gay kid who organises the rehearsal room bookings with the efficiency of a communist dictator?"

"The counter tenor?" Dominique had run into him a couple of times in the music library, but had always been too busy with coursework to strike up a real conversation.

"Yeah. He's one of my friends from school. If you want, after you've been all fixed up I can get him to find us a piano and I'll show you that I can play it."

"You'd do that?"

"Why not?"

"Let's think... because we met a couple of minutes ago via a forceful collision and we don't even know each other's names?"

"Jamie Phillips. And I would shake your hand, but I don't know what's wrong with it and won't risk it."

Dominique smiled slightly. "Dominique Weasley."