Philippe barely waited until a reasonable hour the next morning to head to the opera house. He missed the way that the work women on the main staircase rolled their eyes at his appearance and didn't even seem to hear their frustrated cries of, "Monsieur!" when he came close to overturning some of their washing buckets in his haste.

He came close to groaning, however, when he found Madame Giry on the stage yet again. She was guiding a young dancer—a rather pretty brunette—through a series of elaborate steps with her own daughter stepping in every so often to make a slight adjustment here or there.

There was a boy standing a little ways off, watching them with a fond sort of look, and even from a distance Philippe could tell he bore a striking resemblance to the lead soprano. Perhaps he was a visiting relative of Mademoiselle Porter's?

Still, Philippe was more inclined to seek out the managers then to subject himself to anymore of Madame Giry's cryptic commentary, but he barely even got the chance to turn around before her voice rang out.

"I presume you have come here in search of Ron?"

Philippe drew in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as he turned back around. "He disappeared into a carriage with an unknown companion last night. I wanted to make sure he had arrived home safely." He had tried to do it the night before only to find the doors locked tight.

"Such concern is understandable," Madame Giry said, "but I promise there is no need to be so worried." Philippe found himself already suspecting the words she would say next and he was proved right. "It was merely Ron's teacher who came to collect him. He will keep Ron in safer care than any other."

If safe meant locked up like a cursed princess in a fairy tale than, yes, Madame Giry's assumption was quite appropriate. It was what accounted for the resigned note in Philippe's voice when he said, "Which I suppose means I'm not allowed to see him?"

"That shouldn't surprise you." It was the young ballerina who was speaking now. "Ron hasn't had much of a chance to focus on preparing for the next performance with you dragging him all over Paris. He had to make time for his art at some point. Besides—" She crossed her arms over her chest. "After what you put him through last night I'm surprised you even expect him to want to see you."

"So you're on his side," Philippe said.

"Of course!" the girl said. "Any sensible person would be."

Philippe grit his teeth together, refraining from pointing out that it was an issue of class—she was closer to Ron's than his after all—not sense at play when it came to what she said.

"Especially us." The boy raised his eyebrows when Philippe stared up at him blankly. "You don't even know who we are, do you?"

"Well in fairness," Meg piped up, "when he has seen you it's been—" She was cut off by a sharp look from her mother, however, dropping her gaze to the floor.

"I'm Harry Potter." The boy gestured over to the young dancer. "And that's Hermione Granger. We're Ron's friends." The corners of his mouth turned up just a little. "Actually, we're kind of like family."

"Which was why," Hermione said, "we were fairly appalled to hear that you had berated him for standing up for himself and his family."

"I didn't berate him," Philippe said. "I only wanted to bring to his attention that there was no reason for him to have to do such a thing."

"You're really not helping yourself here," Harry said flatly. He shook his head, holding up a hand when Philippe's mouth dropped open again. "Ron, not to mention his family, has had to deal with people looking down their noses at him his whole life. So you can't expect him to brush it off like it's nothing. In fact, if that's what you expect him to do then it sounds you don't actually know him that well at all."

"Not at all," Hermione said. "Moreover, what would you do if it was your own family that was being insulted? Would you have just sat there and let them say whatever they want?"

Philippe could easily remember some of the nasty, throwaway remarks his peers would make about his mother when he was younger, right up until he had managed to set them right. "Well, no, I would…" He didn't realize his slip until the words were already out of his mouth and then he was left to flush under the weight of far to many smug stares.

"There you have it then," Hermione said. "Perhaps you should see what your parents think of your behavior. You might be surprised. Meanwhile, though, those of us who actually work here need to practice."

She turned away from him before he could say another word, the gracefulness of her footwork never faltering, even when Philippe slammed the doors shut behind him.

Ron was somewhere in the middle of the heartbreaking tenor solo from Pagliacci when the gondola began to approach. He was too lost in the music, ears deaf to anything that wasn't that rise and fall of his voice or the thrum of the organ.

Erik's senses, however, had always been sharp, so the waters had hardly stopped lapping before he abruptly stopped playing to turn around in his seat. "Is such interruption truly necessary, Madame?" he asked. "We have a great deal of ground to cover in a relatively short amount of time as I'm sure you are aware."

"Indeed I am," Madame Giry said, "which is why I apologize for the interruption. But the ballet dormitories were put into quite a fuss when an owl came swooping in, apparently with correspondence for Ron. Our English visitors assure me it was quite normal where they're from."

"It is," Ron said. "Well not in all of England, but where we're from…or at least our type of people…" He trailed off, realizing he was babbling when he caught sight of the fond expressions sent his way. He took the letters from Madame Giry along with the stack of bound books that she had to hoist out of the gondola.

"Letters from home perhaps?" Erik had risen from his seat at the organ by now, running a curious finger down the spines of the books. "But what are these books about? Music?"

"Uh…no." Ron had completely forgotten about the owl he had sent off to Hogwarts after having become so consumed with the mess he had made of things here. He hadn't even had the chance to broach the subject with Erik, although, if he were being honest, he had meant to hide any response he got instead of showing it to his teacher right away.

The last thing he wanted to do was to get Erik's hopes up for nothing.

"Thank you, Madame," he said. "I just need a chance to review the responses."

Madame Giry dipped her head. "Of course." It wasn't difficult to figure out that, whatever the correspondence related to, it was of a personal matter. "I wish you good fortune with whatever it is." She reached out to squeeze his shoulder before stepping back into the gondola, Erik holding her hand as she did so.

Ron waited until she had begun to row out of sight to meet Erik's curious gaze. "Do you remember when you asked me about magic and you're…well…about helping your…"

"You said it couldn't be done," Erik said, taking pity on the boy in his floundering, "although I suppose what you're holding now may suggest otherwise."

"I just wanted to see if I had missed something," Ron said. "I didn't give away any details—there's no way for anyone to know it was about you—but I had to at least try."

"You are too kindhearted for anything else," Erik said. It was the truth, even if Ron flushed at hearing it. Ron had proven it countless times already under the opera house's roof, along with his loyalty. Once you gained his friendship, Ron would fight your corner until the very end, that much was assured.

Ron set the books down on the organ, opening the first of the letters. "Madam Pince—that's the librarian—says she's actually impressed I'm interested in something so advanced." He huffed. "Never thought she'd be directing that at me." He looked down at the other two letters, placed on top of the stack of books. "She reached out to Madam Pomfrey and Professor Slughorn to help me out." He was tearing into the other letters before Erik could even ask who exactly these two new people were. "They're going to help too! Some of the books are even ones they've suggested!"

"So…there's a cure?" Erik wasn't sure what to think of that. He was still trying to sort out what precisely he should be feeling when Ron's face fell.

"Well no…not exactly," he said, "but there are things that could be done to make things easier. Something that could help you get some more heft to your body through nutrients—" The way that Erik picked at his food more often than not hadn't gone unnoticed by Ron. "—and even bring a bit of flesh to your cheeks." He raised his hand up, brushing his fingers across Erik's cheekbones. He sucked in a sharp breath when his fingers grew closer to the hole in the center of Erik's face. "There isn't a way to force the nose to grow, though. Having to regrow a part of your body is a nasty process—all sorts of pain—and you can only do it if…I mean if…"

"If it had been there to begin with." Erik reached up to capture Ron's hand, squeezing it gently. "Ron, it's alright. I wasn't expecting a miracle cure, not truly, and even this is far more than I had hoped for."

"Really?" Ron beamed, the warmth in his eyes spreading outward into Erik's chest until the man couldn't help smiling back at him. "Then I can start reading up on how to make the potions. There has to be a place somewhere in Paris where I can gather ingredients."

"If you say so," Erik said, "but, even with this, your lessons must come first."

The way Ron slumped down was almost enough to convince his teacher to think again, but a mischievous glint came into his eyes before long. "What if I manage to stick the final note?" he asked. "Then can I look over the books?"

Erik did his best to hide his look of warm amusement as he sat back down on the bench, but he was rather certain it bled into his voice. "Perhaps if you can land the final line of the performance as well?"

Ron was already sliding his body into the proper position, grin at full force. "Deal," he said.

Christine had been surprised to find Philippe sipping bitterly on tea in the parlor, as though he wished it were something stronger. He had bounded out the night before with so much excitement—as he had every night that week. It took hardly any coaxing on her part to get him to explain all that had happened as he put together the fixings for her own cup of tea.

She had already finished most of that cup by the time he was done. She paused before she spoke, regretting already that she would have to smash his expectant face, but it had to be done. "Darling, I know your father and I sheltered you a good deal more than most parents do, but…you didn't really think that Ron wouldn't defend himself, do you? Especially not when his family was being insulted as well?"

"Not you too!" Philippe blurted out.

Christine frowned. "Yes, me too," she said. "And why should that surprise you? I had to suffer through many of the engagements that you dragged Ron to and there was always at least one person there that was determined to find a way to snub me. I wasn't always brave enough to defend myself so vocally, so I'm proud that Ron knew when to put a stop to it."

"But it was only one person," Philippe said. "Surely—"

"It will never only be one person," Christine cut in. "It's not as though Bridgette's companion tried to stop her, although I am grateful for Sebastian and his dear cousin for trying to shield Ron from them. There will always be those kind people like Sebastian or Violet who will value those that deserve it, regardless of class, but those people are few and far between among the aristocracy."

"You make it sound like I'm putting Ron in danger," Philippe said, "just by enjoying his company."

"You are." Christine hadn't meant to be so blunt, but there was no stopping it now. "People are already gossiping over what marked favor you show him and the papers are just waiting to get a solid enough story to pounce on. I imagine stories about him having loose behavior would already be running were he of the lighter sex."

"They would not!" Philippe said. "Nor will they now. I won't allow it!"

"You can't stop it," Christine said. "Paying off the papers will only be more suspicious and you can't reach them all. You will simply have to be more careful with how you carry out your friendship from now on." If it still remained a mere friendship, that was, for she could still remember the blatant affection that showed in Philippe whenever Ron was near.

"If he even allows that to continue," Philippe said, "instead of casting me aside for his teacher."

Christine drew in a breath, eyebrows lifting. "His teacher?" she said.

"Yes!" Philippe bushed up from the table, narrowly avoiding upsetting the tea fixings. "He all but threw himself into the man's carriage last night and now that same man has him locked away from the rest of society. That man certainly has no care for propriety!"

"Are you suggesting that his motives towards Ron are…untoward?" Christine asked, not that she could believe such a thing. Even when Erik had been courting her in his own confusing way in his underground home, he had remained the constant gentleman, except for the moments when his temper was aroused. But if Ron had been able to face down titled ladies with such easy candor, she wondered whether he had not been able to treat Erik in the same manner.

"I'm not sure," Philippe said. "It's only that there's something in the way Ron reacts to him with such…with such devotion. It makes me think of what Madame Giry once said."

"Oh?" Christine said. "And what is that?"

"She claimed that no great singer is ever really free because their music will always have to come first and that, in a life like that…" Philippe swallowed hard. "Their strongest tie is to their teacher—their master."

Christine dug her fingers into the lacy covering of the table. She hadn't expected that at all, yet it still rung true, somewhere in the parts of her that still burst with the promise of song. "She surely didn't mean any harm by such a thing," she said, "but…"

"But it's true." Philippe's tone sounded bleak and he sunk wearily back down into his seat. "So long as Ron sings the music will always come first, and that means that his teacher will always be placed above me." He dropped his face down into his hands. "I didn't realize I'd love him so much. And now it's all gone wrong."

Christine flew up then, uncaring of the rapidly spreading dampness from her overturned cup or how it might leave a stain on the tablecloth, as she threw her arms around her son, holding him tight. "There's still a chance," she murmured, easing a hand over Philippe's shaking shoulders. "There's always a chance."