Disclaimer: I do not own either Phantom of the Opera or Harry Potter.

Warnings: Slightly dark, underage (but nothing explicit)

Notices: This is not quite a cross-over, but certainly based on the story of Phantom of the Opera as well as inspired by some of the songs, (although again, not quite a song-fic though close—you'll note snippets of lyrics that most fit with the general mood/message of the chapter).

This piece is completed in three chapters.

I recommend, if you have it, listen to the soundtrack to Phantom of the Opera while you read this.

"Angel of Music, guide and guardian

Grant to me your glory!

Angel of Music, hide no longer

Secret and strange angel…"

I was, perhaps, the first one to notice their curious connection.

I know what you're thinking. Draco Malfoy, observant? Merlin will sprout orange hair and play for the Chudley Cannons first! Well, granted. I am not particularly observant, not the way Slytherins are meant to be. I never claimed to be either. Noticing things was always…Snape's…forte. Besides, you didn't really think that all of us Slytherins were sneaky snakes? We encourage that kind of thinking because it keeps others distanced from us. Better than being swarmed by idiots and imbeciles. Most intelligent folk—usually the Ravenclaws first—realize this by the time they hit seventh year. I suppose I shouldn't have expected that much out of you though, Potter.

Fine, fine, back to the story. My confession, as it were.

I was the first to notice their strange, unlikely, unearthly connection.

It wasn't anything so obvious. It started in her third year at Hogwarts. She seemed breathless and tired all the time, and grumpier because of it. Snappier. I didn't notice anything much past that, except for when she took a bit of teasing badly and the next thing I knew, I had to rely on Crabbe to heal my unfortunate bruising from her right hook.

Now, the Granger I know is above all, hard to provoke because she is entirely too logical and factual. If the facts are wrong, she corrects you with that cool, snooty voice of hers before flouncing away. She does not deign to squabbling like…well, like you and Weasley, Potter. So when she did something so uncharacteristic, she become Something of Import on my radar, so to speak. She became a priority to investigate.

Did you know, she was exceptionally violent that year? Of course you don't. You were too busy thinking about your own problems as usual. What was it that year, a basilisk? No, no, that was second year, with your little red-headed piece of fluff being possessed by a diary. I swear, I had no idea my father would do such a thing. It's not exactly something you tell you twelve-year-old son—"Hey, Son, have a good year and school and oh, by the way, expect Ginny Weasley to be possessed by a book and letting out a giant snake that kills people with a look." Yeah, that'd go over well. I'd have thought my father was loony.

So, third year must have been when your godfather broke out of Azkaban and tried to kill you multiple times. Oh, and that nasty hippogriff tried to kill me. Yes, that was the year. She was extremely frazzled that year, but you didn't notice as usual—to worried about your own hide, I guess. You see, that was the year she realized that her parents didn't love her—or worse, that she doesn't love them. That's right. Your precious mu—er, Muggleborn friend hated her parents. Good, fine, upstanding people in their profession and their social circle, but they'd never had time to spend with her. Even less when her eleventh birthday proved beyond a fault just how different she was from them. Not that they ever said as much to her, and I didn't learn all of this until later, but…for all intents and purposes, she was a stranger in the family. They hadn't bothered to hang around to watch her grow up, and she in turn hadn't bothered to let them know what was going on in the world she lived in for the better part of each year. Emotional neglect, the Muggles call it. Honestly, Potter, just because I choose not to associate with dirt doesn't mean I haven't learnt about them. Know thy enemy and all that.

Fourth year, of course, was the Triwizard Tournament and I have to say, Potter, you did a fabulous job of helping Granger cover up any evidence of the other life she was already starting to lead. With your petty little worries about winning and Weasley's petty little jealous rages about her, no wonder she went to the Yule Ball with someone from an entirely different school. Viktor Krum provided something no one else could: support without strings attached. They had a purely contractual exchange—he got a girl who wouldn't fawn and pander to him because of his fame, and she got a date who wouldn't complain about every little problem and expect her to solve all of them. The perfect arrangement. And still the Weasel managed to ruin it for her…

Still, it was that year I first actually observed anything solid between them. They'd been too discreet before, but that year, I found out that he'd begun to tutor her.

No, I don't know exactly what. If I did, I'd most likely be as dead as Dumbledore—ow! My, Potter, I didn't know you had a thing for physical violence. How…common. If you will let me continue without these unpleasant interruptions…

Very well. As I was saying, that year I realized that Snape was tutoring your…friend…very discreetly indeed, although I have no doubt with the permission of Dumbledore. They met at irregular hours and days, and Snape was always too paranoid for me to do as much as eavesdrop a little at the door. Whatever happened during those 'lessons,' Potter, will remain a mystery to all but to people—them. They continued, oh yes they continued throughout fifth year and Umbridge's unfortunate installment at Hogwarts. Perhaps you noticed her rather ingenious plan in leading the Pink Toad to the Forbidden Forest and then to the centaurs? Did you know that the High Inquisitor was never heard off again? She knew exactly how unforgiving centaurs are, she'd read enough about them, and she planned it deliberately. She'd learnt her lessons well from my Head of House.

Sixth year was a pivotal year, in more than one way. It was, of course, the year I was tasked with the impossible task of killing the Headmaster. Not a good year for me, I'm afraid. It was, ironically enough, the year he too began to crack around the edges. He'd been lurking in the dungeons, cold and impersonal and ghostlike for longer than I can remember. My father used to warn me not to get on his bad side. Even crazy aunt Bellatrix was wary of him. That should tell you something if you had an ounce of brains in your oversized head, Potter. They were afraid of him.

But sixth year…I believe that he fell in love with her that year. That year, I caught the tiniest glimpses of an intensity between them. It was the oddest thing—just looking at them look at each other, it was like hearing this strange, sweet sound that wasn't audible to anyone but themselves. And me, of course, probably because I was paying closer attention than anyone else. Years passed between them in a single glance, Potter. It was…inexplicable. Now, I'd laugh myself silly if anyone ever referred to anything Snape-related as sweet, but it's true. Around her, it was like the sweetness of…molten lava, perhaps, the way it moves like poetry down the rock. It was a strange duet between soul mates, and once or twice they would catch each other's eyes and it was as if there was music, the purest, most frightening crash of pouring liquid notes I have ever heard, to this day.

And if you ever repeat that, Potter, so help me Merlin I will hunt you down and kill you, even if it puts me back in Azkaban again.

Where was I? Oh, yes. Of course, it wasn't easy as singing a song. She was getting more and more frightened by the minute by his startling possessiveness, I could tell. It was haunting her, and she couldn't get out and probably the worst thing was, she wasn't sure she wanted to get out. Shut up, Potter! I mean it! You have no idea, you with your high-and-mighty shining suit of armor, you've never had to make a choice that was ambiguous. You've never had to deal with walking a line between light and dark. You've never had people you love seeking to imprison you in a gilded cage that really is just as small and as soul-stealing as a plain one. A prison. You, Potter, had it easy. It was always Golden Boy Gryffindor for you, except for the brief stint where you were apparently the heir of Slytherin. And even then, it was just whispers and your friends stood by you. We had no one. No one who understood…

She…she knew that the Potions book belonged to him, by the way. That's why she tried to persuade you to leave it. She recognized the handwriting, the nickname, and she was deathly afraid of what he could do to you. That he would imprison you too in a cage of your own devising. But you played oh so well into his plans, Potter. He knew you better than you know yourself. It was the Sectumsempra you cast at me in the bathroom that told him—and her—for sure just how much sway the Half-blood Prince had on you. It was then that he knew he would win.

The rest is, shall we say, history. You played right into his hands. I let the Death Eaters in, he killed Dumbledore—and then he went to her and asked her to come.

It still sticks in your throat and rankles in your stomach, doesn't it? That she, Hermione Granger, sidekick and brains of your pitiful little 'Trio' would, without hesitation, go to the man you'd just denounced a murderer and traitor of the worst kind. You can't avoid it, Potter. Yes, she went without even the briefest pause, and took his arm and they disappeared, and to this day they have not been seen, not even by the Dark Lord, not even by me…

You wanted the truth, Potter. The truth is that she loved him, loved him in a strange way that went against the rules of nature. She was scared of him, but in the end…well, fear, shall we say, turned to love. I don't know how, don't ask me. Do I look like I know all the answers? I'm just offering you my thoughts on the subject matter, and I think that she loved him with her entire soul, that it consumed her whole, that that which she feared became that which she desired. And in a twisted, warped way—he loved her too. She was his obsession. When she went to him that night, it was the point of no return for both of him. No matter what you do now, Potter, the truth is that they will have always won. He will have always won, because they love each other when none other would love them.

Why did he kill Dumbledore? It's simple, really. He'd taken the Unbreakable Vow with my mother, of course, but he had been willing to die…that is, until he fell in love and Granger loved him back. No man, be he phantom or flesh, will let anything stand between him and his beloved. He killed Dumbledore so that he could be with her, and she left you so that she could be with him. But that's just my best, smart, well-informed guess.

A love story, Potter. I thought Gryffindors enjoyed those sorts of stories, love covering a multitude of sins and all that. No one will ever know what exactly happened in those years that they learned each other and loved. I don't think anyone will ever find them. But wherever they are, those strange angels, I have no doubt that they will remain together until death finally separates them. And, just a little rival-to-rival secret, Potter—I think they're truly happy. Of course, we'll never know and I think it unlikely any of us shall ever find out the real truth, and the whole story, of what happened in those dungeons between Severus Snape and Hermione Granger.

I hope so, though. That they are happy. Away from the people, the masks, the fear—I'd like to think that they are somewhere out there together, creating their own music free from an audience.

But that's all speculation. I wouldn't know, and neither will you. But I do recall that you promised to get me out of this bloody prison in return for my full confession on the relationship between Granger and Snape. I expect to be removed from Azkaban within three days, Potter. I have more important business to attend to than hanging around a dank little cell and listening the snatches of songs that haunt me in the night, when I sleep.

"Child of the wilderness

Born into emptiness

Learn to be lonely

Learn to find your way in the darkness…"

A.N.: Please, let me know what you think!