Chapter 2: Skipping Ahead

After dinner was Severus Snape's free time, the one portion of the day when he was neither teaching nor working. Usually, he spent it in his office anyway, reading or doing potions investigations. Today, though, he found his feet taking him towards the hospital wing.

Honestly, Severus, do show some common sense. Poppy Pomfrey will have taken care of the boy, and he will be asleep by now, which means that neither he nor you will derive anything of value from you coming to visit him.

By the time he had come to this conclusion, however, he was already most of the way there.

Very well. I will look at him, feel stupid and sentimental for a moment, and return to my work.

Poppy looked up at his footsteps, quiet as they were. "Hello, Severus, come to see Mr. Malfoy?"

"Yes," Severus said, feeling like a fool already for admitting it. "I assume he is asleep."

"Indeed. I took a quick look at him about ten minutes after he came in – the potion had already taken effect, of course, he was fast asleep – so I've left him alone since then. The bed at the end of the ward, the screened one."

"Thank you." Severus walked quickly down the aisle between the beds and around the screen.

Draco Malfoy lay in the bed, covers pulled up around him, eyes closed. The cup that had held his potion sat on the small table beside the bed. Something about the drops of potion left in the cup looked vaguely wrong, Severus noted.

But something about Malfoy looked far more wrong. His eyes were moving underneath their lids. If Severus remembered correctly, that was a sign of dreaming, something the young man should not be doing…

"Poppy," he called quietly. Madame Pomfrey was there in a moment. "Did you by any chance alter the potion I sent with Mr. Malfoy?"

"No, of course not, why would you – oh my!" Her nurse's eyes noticed in an instant what Severus had taken a bit longer to see. "Whatever could have caused that?"

Severus looked again at the goblet holding the dregs of potion. It is the wrong color. That is what caught my eye. Delicately, he dipped the tip of one finger into the potion and tasted it.

Reversed. Reversed, so as to induce dream-filled rather than dreamless sleep. I could not have done better myself.

And Draco, one of my most promising students ever, would have noticed had someone done this to him. The only logical conclusion is that he did it to himself.

But why?

"How is he?" Severus asked, surprised by something in his voice. It sounded like concern. But that was normal, he told himself – he should be concerned about a member of his House, a student under his care…

"In no danger," Poppy said absently, taking Draco's pulse, "but in quite a deep sleep. No surprise. I assume the potion was altered?"

"Indeed, and by Mr. Malfoy himself, I would assume. I suggest you check your stocks of Reversing Potion."

"Reversing Potion. Yes, that would explain it." Poppy looked up at him. "You said, in your note, that he had been having trouble sleeping. Are his dreams troubling him?"

"I believe so."

"Well, troubling or not, he's trapped in them now. There's nothing I can do – he'll have to sleep himself out. And I dosed him to sleep until tomorrow morning. So if he's been having nightmares, he's condemned himself to a full night of them." Her face was a mixture of worry and exasperation. "Idiot."

I concur, Snape thought, but very carefully did not say it aloud.

Draco Malfoy sat still and endured Meghan Black's skillful transformation of his face. He wanted to run, but knew it wouldn't do him any good – this was, after all, a dream. And not one he was in charge of.

I hate you, he thought towards Draco Black, wherever the little sod was.

This is something new? Black's voice answered cheerfully.

I really hate you.

I'd gotten that impression.

I really, really –

Have no imagination? Black interrupted.

Did NOT ask for this, Draco finished firmly.

Oh? Who doctored that potion again? Wasn't me.

Shut up.

Someone knocked on the dressing room door.

"Come in!" Meghan called.

The door opened. Draco saw a made-up face appear over a rather interestingly scanty costume. "Someone looks good tonight," he said appreciatively.

Then he got a better look at the features on the face and almost screamed.

I just complimented Lovegood?

Ah, why don't we just skip this part, Black said, sounding slightly flustered, as Lovegood smiled and came all the way into the room. Moving on…

Draco blinked. Lovegood was gone, and Meghan was fussing around him.

"Messed up your lipstick," she was muttering. "Ruined your hair…"

Draco blanched. What do you see in her? he demanded of Black.

An open mind, complete honesty, willingness to listen, and common interests. Not to mention she has quite a lot of talent in several relevant areas.

Draco let that one slide. I assume she's part of this madhouse, or does she just walk around dressed like that all the time in your world?

Don't I wish. No, she's playing Meg Giry, a ballet girl and a friend of Christine.

Who?

The female lead. Your protégée, your angel of music, your sort-of love interest –

Oh, wonderful. Don't tell me. The Weasley girl.

Got it in one.

Where does Potter come into this?

He's playing the male romantic lead, Raoul, who also loves Christine, and to whom you finally give her up after she kisses you.

Draco closed his eyes in horror, earning a rap on the top of the head from Meghan. "Hold still!"

No. No. Bloody hell no. I. Am. NOT. Kissing. A. Weasley.

Oh, don't be such a crybaby. It's just a stage kiss. And it could always be worse.

HOW?

You could be kissing a male Weasley.

Draco lost all powers of conscious thought for two full seconds at that image.

"All done," Meghan said briskly as he regained coherency.

Draco looked in the mirror and shuddered. "Is that me?"

"The Phantom arises," Meghan said, picking up her wand from the table. "Hold still, I have to set it." She waved her wand around his head, and Draco felt the brush of a charm against his skin. "There, now it won't come off on the mask. Which is right here – " She handed it to him. "Get it on, we're almost to go time."

Draco regarded the mask dubiously. It looked back at him innocently with its one eyehole.

Fair warning, Black said in his mind. If you don't do it, I'll just put this thing on autopilot.

Auto-what?

Muggle term. You'll be a passenger in the body, unable to control anything. I didn't think you'd care for that – I sure as hell wouldn't – so I'm giving you the option. If you cooperate, you'll do just fine. If you don't, you'll have something like a cross between the ultimate front-row seat and the ultimate "my body isn't mine" nightmare.

So I get a choice between doing it on my own and getting it done to me?

Inelegant, but accurate.

Draco hesitated one second longer. Then he turned the mask around and lifted it to his face.

It fit and clung, as it had earlier, but this time nothing else changed.

Nothing? Are you sure?

Draco looked down at himself. Oh. His clothes were now the jet-black ones he had worn in the earlier dream. I meant, no music, no fog, no Potter and Weasley.

No, of course not. That comes later.

Great.

Oh, get ready…

For what?

A crash echoed in through the open door. Draco jumped. "What was that?"

"Sounds like someone tripped on something," Meghan said, turning toward the door. "Five, four, three, two…"

"Meghan!"

"Right on cue," Meghan said, making a face.

She hurried out the door. Draco watched her go, more confused than ever.

What's with the counting?

Whenever anyone gets hurt around here, someone calls for Meg. It's only a matter of time. And she's gotten good at figuring out how much time, precisely.

Why?

Why has she gotten good at it?

No, why do they call her if someone gets hurt?

Because she's a Healer-in-training.

Oh yeah. There had been bits in the dreams about Meghan hanging around the hospital wing, helping Madame Pomfrey – Draco frowned. Some of those memories seemed odd, as if he wasn't quite seeing the whole picture…

Yeah, sorry about that. I can't tell you everything. Security issues and all.

Your sister's career choice is a security issue?

Yes. The tone was flat and final.

Why?

Black laughed. Can't tell you that, either.

Draco shook his head. Just so you know, this makes absolutely no sense.

I know. Why don't you wander out in the hall and see what happened?

Draco delayed a moment, not wanting to go tamely where someone told him, but finally decided he had nothing better to do, and meandered out.

Just in time to see Meghan Black comfortably ensconced in the lap of Neville Longbottom, gazing adoringly into one another's eyes. And then following up on said gazes.

Oh. Oh, that's not right. That's just… NOT right. Draco turned away.

This from a guy whose girlfriend resembles a lapdog.

Oh yeah? Who wants to marry the Ravenclaw owl?

She's a very cute… Ravenclaw?

Yes. Ravenclaw. Her House. Right?

Whatever you say. Black sounded… unconvinced was the word Draco came up with. So why is it not right that my little sister and her mate are kissing?

Her mate, Draco repeated slowly. Please, please, please tell me that doesn't mean what it sounds like. I do not need… that kind of image of Longbottom in my head.

Well, someone has a dirty mind. In "normal" terms, Meghan and Neville are engaged. The sneer quotes were audible. Nothing more.

Draco sagged in relief. Thank you. He looked back at the two, who were now separated, Neville heading off to the right and Meghan watching him go. Isn't she a little young?

I dare you to ask her that question.

Er, no. That was one memory the dreams had been very clear on. Meghan Black was quite touchy about the three-year age difference between herself and her older siblings. She had what had once been referred to as "an extreme anything-you-can-do-I-can-do-better mentality". The frightening part was how often she was right.

She was ticked when we got to go to Hogwarts and she had to stay home.

I remember that too. Draco smiled. She threatened to hex my flute to make me sneeze every time I practiced if I didn't owl her every week…

He froze.

Something wrong?

No. Nothing. Go away. He paused, then added, painfully, Please.

All right. I'll be back in a minute.

Something seemed to alter in Draco's head. He stepped quickly back into the dressing room and shut the door.

Are you gone?

No answer.

Good.

Draco leaned against the door and silently recited every curse he knew. And there were quite a lot.

I thought of him as me. I thought of his memories as my own. I'm getting us mixed up. I'm losing myself.

He closed his eyes and thought about himself. I'm Draco Malfoy, only son of Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. I live at Malfoy Manor in Wiltshire. I'm a Slytherin. I don't have a sister, and I don't play the flute. I am a pureblood and proud of it. I would never mix with scum like Potter or the Weasleys, and I would never – EVER – consider even getting CLOSE to a freak like Lovegood. Much less asking her to marry me…

With a jerk like a Portkey, a memory engulfed him –

Dark blonde hair cascaded through his hands, crackling softly with static as he ran the comb deftly through it. "Your turn," he said, quietly so he wouldn't wake everyone else.

"Truth or dare?" her voice answered.

"Truth."

"What do you want to name our first son?"

"Hmm." He thought for a moment, savoring the surety with which she asked about something which was so far in the future. Not even married yet, and she wants to talk about our son. Our first son. Because there will be others. "Not Lucius," he said with certainty, making her clap her hands over her mouth and double over with laughter. "What do you think of John?" he asked once she'd recovered.

"It's very simple. Very strong." She tapped her finger against her mouth, thinking. "A little boring."

"So our first boy will be boring. Every family has a boring one."

She nodded soberly. "Hermione can be boring sometimes."

"If sometimes means ninety-five to ninety-nine percent of the time, then yes, she can," he said dryly, sending her off again. I love watching her laugh. She doesn't care if anyone else thinks it's funny – if she likes it, she laughs. "Your turn now," he said when she was finished. "Truth or dare?"

"Truth."

"Have you ever regretted this?" He waved his hand around the room where they sat, taking in its padded octagonal floor, the eight carved wooden doors (one in each stone wall), and the six other people, all of whom were asleep or faking it extremely well, lying secure by the sides of their mates, to whom they had sworn their oath a second time and for whom they would wait.

"No," she said simply. "Never."

Looking into her eyes, wide and uncomplicated and the same silver-grey as his own, he believed her. He leaned forward, only to find she had decided to meet him halfway.

"Oops."

Draco rubbed his nose. "Let's try that again, and this time, you go right and I'll go left."

Luna smiled. "All right."

The second attempt was more successful than the first had been.

Draco jerked himself out of the memory. "No," he said aloud, shakily, discovering that he was sweating. "No. That wasn't me. That's not my memory. I don't want that. I never want that." He frowned. Where was that, anyway? I've never been there.

It's a room in the castle we hang around in a lot, Black's voice answered. And to tell the truth, I'm just as glad you don't want her. She's mine.

And that means you comb her hair for her? Draco sighed. There's a word for men like you.

You don't have to say it, I know it already. And it doesn't matter. She helps me when I need it, and I return the favor. And besides, grooming's one of our usual ways of showing affection. But only in private, of course. People tend to react – well, a lot like you are – if we do things like that in public.

Yes, well, have you ever considered that there might be a reason for that? Like the fact that it's not normal to comb your girlfriend's hair for her?

No, of course it's not normal to comb your girlfriend's hair. I've never done that.

Pardon me? What was I just doing/seeing/living through?

Luna's not my girlfriend. She's my mate.

Oh, excuse me, Draco sneered. Your mate. Like that makes it so much better.

Not better. Just different. We relate to each other differently, because we're mates, than we would if we were boyfriend and girlfriend. We even think about each other differently. Or at least Harry says he does. I wouldn't know.

Draco snorted. Oh, enlighten me. What does Potter have to do with this?

Well, he's the only one of us with girlfriend experience. That was before his Choosing, obviously.

Obviously. If I knew what a Choosing was, and what it meant –

"Places!" a voice called from outside the door. "The call is places! Come on, people, let's get this thing moving!"

You'd better get going, Black said. You're not in the first few scenes, but you should be ready anyway.

Draco felt his stomach lurch. Where do I go?

I told you. Just relax. It'll happen on its own. Opening night went just fine in real life, so it should go fine in recollection.

Opening night? This is the first time you've ever done this?

Well, the first time with an audience. We've been rehearsing for months and in dress rehearsals for a week.

Still. Draco swallowed hard. All right. Fine. I'll do it.

I think you'll like it.

I think you're out of your mind.

Of course I am. You're in it, and there wasn't room for both of us.

Very funny.

Thank you.

Shut up. Draco pressed his lips together and forced himself to calm. Ice. A mountain of ice. Nothing in his mind, nothing in his heart, but ice.

When he opened his eyes, he was already moving.

"Lot 666, then," a stentorian voice announced on the stage as he arrived at what appeared to be his post backstage. "A chandelier in pieces."

Draco peered around the curtain, careful not to be seen. The auctioneer, who looked vaguely like a Hufflepuff he knew slightly, was standing center stage. The chandelier, or something else very large and covered with a sheet, sat beside him.

"Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera…" the auctioneer continued. Downstage of him were several people, one in a wheelchair.

Potter – and he looks terrible. What's going on?

This is the prologue, Black explained. It's supposed to be fifty years in the future. So he has to look old. Don't worry, he'll be young again in three minutes.

Trust me, I wasn't worried.

"Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago," the auctioneer concluded, his voice rising, "with a little illumination… GENTLEMEN?"

The sheet flew off the chandelier, which lit up immediately.

A huge chord blasted through the Great Hall, making the audience – and Draco – gasp.

This is it. This is the music in my dream.

It's the Overture, Black said as the chandelier rose slowly from the stage to hang in the rafters of the Hall, above the heads of the amazed audience. We're traveling back in time fifty years. Back to the time when the story actually happened.

Everyone on stage had vanished. The stage itself seemed to be undergoing a transformation. Carvings along the top and sides of the stage were being revealed from under their shroudings of cloth. Set pieces were arriving on stage – Draco saw several students all in black, some of whom he recognized, directing them with their wands.

The stage crew. Just as important as the actors, but less appreciated.

Actors were now running out onto the stage. Draco spotted Lovegood in her rather skimpy costume – Black gave an appreciative whistle – and Ginny Weasley beside her, among eight or ten other girls similarly garbed. An equal number of boys in armor were forming up around them. In front of them was –

Pansy?

Draco gawked. It was, indeed, his Slytherin girlfriend. She was wearing something shiny and astounding, and her hair was dyed a violent red and twisted up on the top of her head.

Playing the prima donna, Carlotta. Black snickered. Perfect role for her.

Next to her stood a rather fat boy Draco didn't know. As the Overture ended, the lights came up on them, and they all began to sing.

It's a rehearsal for an opera about Hannibal.

Who?

Never mind. Just watch.

The old head of the Paris Opera announced that he was leaving, and introduced the new owners of the company – Ron Weasley and Neville Longbottom. Madame Giry, the ballet director, was called forward, and proved to be Hermione Granger. Or is that Granger-Lupin?

Either will do, but the second one's more correct, Black said. Not to mention legal.

The new owners admired the ballet girls, one of whom – Lovegood – was Madame Giry's daughter, and another – Weasley – who was named Christine Die-ay –

Daae.

Like I really needed to know how to spell it?

The owners asked Carlotta to sing for them, something they regretted almost immediately. Luckily, before she got too far into her song, a backdrop fell and almost crushed her. She became enraged at their explanation – "These things happen" – and stormed out, saying, "As long as these things happen, this thing does not happen!" and indicating her throat. The chorus whispered among themselves – it was the Phantom of the Opera, they said, he was the one who had cut the rope holding up the backdrop.

The owners were beside themselves – what would they do for a soprano? Madame Giry revealed that Christine Daae was a soprano, and that she had been taking singing lessons from "a great teacher", but one whose name she did not know. The owners grudgingly agreed to listen to her sing.

The accompaniment to the piece Carlotta had been singing began. It was delicate and somewhat complex, flowing up and down through the intervals smoothly. Then Christine began to sing, and the owners were enraptured. She was hired to take Carlotta's place on the spot.

The Weasley girl can sing, Draco noted a bit grudgingly.

She wouldn't have been cast if she couldn't.

The Opera's patron, a Viscount, was in the audience that night, and hearing Christine, was reminded of a girl he had played with as a child. He wondered if she could be the same one, and hoped that she remembered him.

That's really Potter singing?

Nobody else.

Draco gritted his teeth and thought it very quietly, at the back of his mind. He's good.

Don't worry, I won't tell anyone you think so.

Thanks ever so.

Ginny Weasley's voice went through some astounding acrobatics, then flew to an almost unbelievably high note and hovered there for about five seconds before descending to finish the piece.

Get ready, Black warned. Your first entrance is soon.

So what do I have to do?

Scare the daylights out of Christine, enchant and half-seduce her, and carry her away to your domain deep in the bowels of the Opera House.

Fine. Great. And I do this while singing?

This is an opera, or very close to one. You do everything while singing.

Draco leaned his head against the wall he was next to. It was a really, really bad idea to mess with that potion, wasn't it.

Probably. But you did, and here you are, and you can't get away from it, so you might as well enjoy yourself.

Draco sighed. There's something disturbing about that logic, but I can't put my finger on it…

"You ready?" asked Potter's voice from beside him.

Draco forced himself to smile, reminding himself that he was playing a part now just as much as onstage. "Yeah. I guess."

"Oh, you're going to be great," Potter said with certainty. "You were fine yesterday at the rehearsal. Just do it like you did it then."

I wish I could. "All right. Good luck…"

Ah-ah-ah. Don't say that backstage. It's "break a leg".

"I mean, break a leg… Harry."

"You too, Fox."

And Potter was gone.

You could always call him Wolf, if using his name's going to kill you.

Wolf?

Black Wolf, if you're going to be formal. Wolf for casual use.

Do I even want to know?

Same reason as me. Same reason as everyone, for that matter.

You mean you're all…

Yep. Even Meghan. She's the youngest ever, as far as anyone knows.

Draco stared out onto the stage, where Potter was telling Weasley what a wonderful job she'd done.

Will you go away for a second?

Only a second. You need me here for your part.

I know. I just need a second alone.

Fine.

Draco shut his eyes and thought his private, secret, never-to-be-repeated-to-anyone thought.

His life seems like more fun than mine…

Potter left the room where Weasley was brushing her hair.

That's our cue, Black said. You ready?

No.

Here we go anyway.

How did I know you were going to say that.

You must have read my mind.

Draco took a deep breath for his first line of song.

(A/N: No, it's not a one-shot, nor is it abandoned. Your author is merely busy. VERY busy. Darn classes.

MAndrews: No, I think he's a lonely kid in an "I'm-so-much-better-than-everyone" mask. And he may not even be aware it's a mask anymore.

Dreaming One: As you see, Draco's interest hasn't changed. Only the situations have.

Everyone else (draco's girl, emikae, Aprilise, rose, Mooncheese, Tombadgerlock, JD Phoenix): Thanks for reviewing! Hope you keep reading!)