Even after eleven years of performing, Hermione still hated the curtain calls. "When the play is running, the audience doesn't see me as me," she would insist, usually preaching to her manager, "they see my character. By coming out at the end just as ourselves to take bows…well, it ruins the magic! Why not just leave them with a powerful last scene or musical number, and keep the image of the characters untarnished by the mundane nature of the actors?"

"I don't know," her manager would reply dryly. "You should suggest that to the director for the next performance. For now, though, you'd better get back onstage or it'll be both of our asses on the line."

And so, no matter how much Hermione despised the fruitless and stupid gestures of curtain call – walking up, bowing, waving, bowing again, leaving, then returning on stage to bow one last time – she had never missed a single curtain call in her entire career. True, she could have pitched her idea to the directors, and she knew that all of them would have listened to her, but that just seemed so prima-donna-ish, and Hermione hoped that no one would ever refer to her as a prima donna.

She acted and sang because she loved it, and it just so happened that the industry paid her well. Every high note sent a buzz through her spine, the sound echoing and spinning around the old theaters; those moments when actors spoke volumes through total silence thrilled her, even if she was just watching from backstage; applause at the end of a dance made her feel like she had the energy to run the whole number again, just for fun. Despite the horrid curtain calls, temperamental co-stars, and ridiculous paparazzi that came with the job, Hermione was in love with the theater.

Hermione was being very careful about her bows tonight, taking great care to ensure that they were more like curtseys and less like masculine, typical bows. Some eccentric costume designer had decided that her dress for the last scenes should have a ridiculous plunging neckline, and Hermione was worried that if she were to bow properly she might end up falling out of the fabric's feeble confines. Cursing under her breath while still maintaining her smile, Hermione waved and bowed again.

Just as she was about to dip down for her final curtsey, a flash of colour from the audience caught her eye. A moment later, a beautiful red rose landed just in front of her feet, a single black ribbon tied around the thorny stem. Grinning from ear to ear, Hermione stooped down and picked up the gorgeous bloom. She held it to her nose and inhaled the delicate aroma, wondering how he could have found a pristine flower in the dead of December.

When she looked up from her rose, Hermione realized that the stage had mostly cleared; it was only her and the other two main actors left. Just as he did every night, the man on the left stepped forward first to thunderous applause. Hermione and the other male star held out their left arms in order to draw more attention to their waving, bowing co-star. Then, Hermione switched her arms and gestured as the man on her right stepped forward. The applause swelled, a bit louder for this man than the other, but this was always the case. Some characters are just more appreciated than others, Hermione thought.

When the applause died down slightly, the man on her right stepped back and gave her a wink. Hermione smiled, stepped forward, and was nearly knocked backwards by the force of the applause. It was true that she usually got a notable amount of applause, and Hermione appreciated every single moment of it – but tonight was her last night performing in this show, and it appeared that she had quite a few fans in the audience.

This appreciation was overwhelming, and quite unexpected from Hermione's perspective, but it became a bit problematic when the audience simply would not sit down or stop clapping. "It appears that you'll be missed," the man on Hermione's right said, the mask covering half of his face slightly slurring his words.

"I doubt that Justin," Hermione whispered, trying to keep waving and smiling. "You're still here to carry the show – I really didn't do much."

Justin Finch-Fletchly, known to the audience as the elusive, deadly, and tragically misunderstood Phantom of the Paris Opera House, snorted. "Yeah, Christine Daae doesn't do much in the Phantom of the Opera. Sometimes you're too modest, Hermione."

The blonde on Hermione's left interrupted her muffled conversation with Justin. "It doesn't seem like they're going to stop anytime soon," he whispered. "Should we just head off?"

"Shut up Cormac," Justin snapped a bit too loudly. "This is Hermione's moment, don't take it from her."

"I wasn't!" Cormac protested, still smiling at the audience despite the tone of his voice. "I just thought -"

"You two should head out," Hermione interrupted softly. "Justin, your family's probably waiting up for you, and Cormac….I'm sure you've got plans. We're running late already, you two can get a move on."

"You're okay out here?" Justin said, a bit concerned.

"I'm just fine," Hermione insisted. "Now go, otherwise Padma will have your head."

Hermione didn't have to turn around to know that Justin was grinning, and she listened as his footsteps slowly disappeared backstage. "Cormac," she whispered. "You can go too."

"What, and leave you out here all alone?"

"…you really should go, Cormac."

She heard her co-star sigh. "Well, shouldn't we give the audience one last spectacle?" he said, the aggressive tone in his voice making Hermione uneasy. "It is your last night, after all."

"They've already seen everything they've paid for," she said coolly.

Cormac laughed quietly. "Well, Raoul and Christine are supposed to be madly in love," he said slowly. "Wouldn't a last, passionate kiss shared between two lovers be a great theatrical bonus?"

Hermione's blood turned to ice in her veins, and she was sure that her smile hardened slightly. "No, I don't," she said slowly. "Have you ever heard of Love Never Dies, Cormac?"

"…I can't say that I have," he replied, sounding confused.

Hermione resisted the impulse to roll her eyes. What. An. Idiot. "It's the sequel to Phantom," she said shortly. "In that musical, it turns out that Raoul is a drunk and an ass and has condemned Christine to an unhappy life. If you really wanted to show the audience the direction that this fictional relationship goes, you'd hit me and then walk away to drown your sorrows in some bar." Silence from behind her. "I don't think you want to go there, Cormac."

More silence. Then, "No," he said shortly. "I don't. Good evening, Hermione."

"Good evening," she said lightly, turning her head slightly to smile at her angry co-star. "I hope you enjoy whatever brothel you're heading towards."

That seemed to be the last nail in the coffin, as Cormac walked off stage as quickly as his feet could carry him. Hermione smiled smugly, then returned her gaze to the audience. They obviously hadn't heard a single word of this exchange, and everyone was still cheering her on enthusiastically. Her smile switched from an ingenuous, pleasant one, to a genuine ear-to-ear grin.

She may hate curtain calls, but Hermione loved to know that she had made people happy.

HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM HGDM

"Seven minutes of applause!" Hermione's manager exclaimed, ecstatic. "Seven glorious minutes! That's huge, 'Mione, huge."

She laughed, closing her dressing room door and shutting out the overly noisy world outside. "It's pretty fantastic, yes…" – she walked over to her vanity and placed her rose on the table – "but honestly Remus, you're the one who convinced me to take this role. I should be the one giving you seven minutes of applause."

In the mirror Hermione could see Remus Lupin's eyes go a little wide, hunching his shoulders to make himself look like he was shorter, his mouse-brown, too-long hair falling into his eyes. He never does take well to compliments, Hermione thought.

"Nonsense," Remus insisted, brushing his hair out of his eyes, and standing back up to his full six-feet-three-inches. "It's not like I get out there eight times a week and hit those high notes."

Both of them laughed, Hermione pulling out her earrings and meeting Remus' eyes in the mirror. "Did you see him out there?" she asked, nodding her chin towards the rose in front of her.

A smile played across Remus' lips as his eyes flicked up and down the exquisite flower. "No, I didn't," he answered slowly. "Given the evidence, I assume that he must be out there, but I haven't seen him yet."

"Hmm," Hermione said noncommittally, her mind already elsewhere. She lowered her arms to put her earrings into the jewelry box, but as she did so her dress dropped even lower. "Oh bloody hell!" she exclaimed, throwing the earrings into the box a bit too forcefully.

Remus just raised an eyebrow, his head tilting in an almost canine manner. "It's this goddamn dress," Hermione huffed, pulling up the shoulders. "Who was the genius that decided I had to wear something with a décolletage this bloody low?"

Chuckling, Remus shrugged. "If I told you their name they'd be dead within a week," he said, his smirk indicating that he was joking. "Why would I want to wish that much harm upon the poor soul?"

"Oh God." Hermione froze, all the blood draining from her face. "This wasn't….isn't….this isn't Nymphadora's design, is it?"

Nymphadora Lupin – affectionately called Tonks by those who knew her well –was Remus' wife of five years, and the mother to his child. She was also a rather accomplished West End costume designer who had worked on pieces like Next to Normal, We Will Rock You, and Oliver. Hermione had only met her on a handful of occasions, but she seemed like a nice lady despite her often eccentrically dyed hair.

Hermione watched Remus' face carefully, prepared to run for the door if he answered in the affirmative. He was very…possessive about his younger wife, and Hermione knew that Remus was stronger and faster than he looked; he easily challenged anyone who insulted the love of his life.

To her relief, Remus' shaggy hair swayed back and forth as he shook his head. "No, this wasn't Tonks," he said, sighing. "I tried to get her interested – it wasn't an insignificant paycheck – but she was all excited about some piece at the National Theater. The designer of that," – he gestured to Hermione's ridiculously revealing ensemble – "is someone that Tonks particularly hates. Whoever it is, they've been married and divorced at least three times, apparently."

"Obviously one's character comes through in their designs," Hermione said, gesturing to the ridiculous cleavage. "She can't have even seen me," she continued to protest, flinging open her wardrobe. "I mean, I have nothing to show off even with a neckline this low!"

Remus started laughing. "You do yourself an injustice, Hermione."

She whirled around, the dress slipping a little more. "Don't patronize me, Remus Lupin," she threatened jokingly, pointing a clothes hangar at him. "I know what I have and what I don't have, and I definitely don't have those."

Shrugging, Remus averted his eyes as Hermione slipped out of her costume. This was a regular routine for them, this post-performance chat-and-change, but neither of them really cared about decency too much anymore. After working with each other for six years, they pretty much knew each other inside-out.

Remus knew that Hermione was terrified of becoming a 'diva', hated curtain calls, and was the kindest and most selfless human being he had ever met. She was genuinely modest, a very hard-worker, and had little-to-no time for her personal life. Most of the money she earned was sent to charities, and the relatively little that she kept for herself was put to good, practical use. She drove a Volkswagen Beetle and owned a very empty-looking flat. She sent him and Tonks and Teddy presents every Christmas, and never missed Teddy's birthday even if it meant flying in from where she was performing in New York or on tour.

Hermione knew that Remus was shy, cerebral, and incredibly intelligent. He could've gone to Oxford or Cambridge on scholarship easily, but his troubled parents and lifestyle had pushed him into drugs and gang membership. Hermione knew that he still had a wolf tattoo on his left shoulder as an unwelcome reminder of those days. When he'd gotten charged with possession at age 19, he'd gone to jail and cleaned himself up. After he was released, however, no one wanted to hire an ex-con, ex-druggie who looked tired and really needed a haircut…well, no one but Hermione. She saw the good in him that few people wanted to see, and despite her friends' protestations she had hired him. It had been one of the best decisions of her life.

At first Remus had been pretty uncomfortable around her, always on tenterhooks, afraid that one false move would get him back onto the streets. Whenever Hermione came offstage he would quickly discuss her performance, options, and plans, then slip out and let her change in peace. One night, however, after a particularly harsh critic had been in the audience and had stressed Hermione out beyond belief, she had started to change in front of him, talking about important staging decisions as she did so. Remus had sputtered and closed his eyes, terrified of offending his new boss by watching her change, but equally terrified of walking out while she was discussing such important factors of the show. Hermione, however, had continued on like she didn't care, and eventually Lupin had the courage to open his eyes.

Pretty quickly after that their relationship loosened up, both of them becoming more comfortable around each other. Talks about business turned into talks about this cool girl he'd met at the pub, then about how he should propose to Tonks, then into conversations about cold feet and age differences, then into baby formulae and diapers. Hermione was brilliant at giving advice and making Lupin feel at ease, and more than once Remus wished that he could provide the same services to her. Unfortunately, however, it seemed that Hermione didn't have a social life at all, let alone one that required her to ask for advice.

"So, you look like you're bursting to say something," Hermione commented, her words muffled by an old Manchester United sweatshirt that she was slipping over her head.

"How could you tell?" Remus asked, smiling.

Hermione shrugged as she pulled on a pair of battered, well-loved jeans. "You're fiddling with your hair more than normal." Remus' hand immediately froze, mid-way across his forehead. Hermione grinned. "Never play poker," she advised. "You'd have a horrible tell."

"My hair?!"

"Your eyes. I can always tell when you're worried or happy or anxious. Now out with it!"

Remus cleared his throat. "Well, honestly Hermione, it's not my news to give…"

"Oh?" She was obviously intrigued. "Then whose is it?"

Remus' eyes flickered to the low-cut dress, pooled in a heap of shimmering fabric on the floor, then quickly up to Hermione's eyes. "Give him a minute," Remus said softly. "He'll be here soon."

Hermione's eyes lit up. "Is it -"

"Goddamn Londoners!" A loud, male voice echoed throughout the small dressing room. "Does no one have any respect for personal space?!"

"Harry!" Hermione shrieked, running across the room and wrapping her friend in a hug.

The dark-haired, green-eyed, thin young man let out a huff of breath as a ball of brown hair and excitement crashed into him, covering his suit jacket in stage makeup and almost knocking him back out the door. Remus rushed over and closed the dressing room door before any excited fans could follow the esteemed director into Hermione's room. It wouldn't do to have photographs of them all over the newspapers, what with Harry's recent marriage and all. Tongues would wag. Incorrectly, of course, but nevertheless…one couldn't be too careful.

"I didn't know you were coming!" Hermione said excitedly, speaking into Harry's shoulder as he was at least half-a-foot taller than her. "This is such a lovely surprise!"

"I'd never miss the chance to see a show starring you, Mia," Harry said, hugging his friend back. "You were fantastic, by the way. Absolutely stunning. Nice costumes, too."

"You aren't eating enough," she mumbled, changing the topic. "I thought your project ended, shouldn't the stress be gone?"

Harry nodded, pulling back from Hermione. "Yeah, Reflections in Sunshine closed two weeks ago. But I've….I've found something else."

"Already?" Hermione seemed skeptical. "What happened to your honeymoon with Ginny?"

Harry blushed. "That – that happened," he stammered. "In Brighton."

"…Brighton," Hermione said dryly. "The best director in London marries a world-famous football player, and they cheap out on the honeymoon and go to Brighton."

"We were both busy!" Harry protested, running a hand through his uncontrollable hair. He was always fiddling with it in an attempt to cover a rather prominent scar that he'd gotten on his forehead as a child, but was usually unsuccessful. The scar was quite iconic, though, and served as a pretty recognizable feature with which to recognize the brilliant director.

"Rubbish," Hermione insisted, turning around and walking back to her vanity. "Too busy for love and marriage? Ridiculous."

"I don't see you spending too much of your free time with blokes, Mia," Harry said, teasing. "How ridiculous of you."

"I'm just always busy," Hermione replied, pulling her hair up into a ponytail. Harry opened his mouth, as if he was about to say more, when she jumped in again. "Thank you for the rose, by the way," she said. "It's really beautiful."

Harry smiled. "Well, I didn't think that I could top the Les Mis rose, but Phantom offers a convenient theme."

"Thank you again for everything," Hermione repeated, slipping on a very worn pair of winter boots. "Even coming here is incredibly thoughtful, you don't have to keep giving me flowers."

"I want to," Harry insisted. "Besides, I was hoping that the pretty flower might woo you over…it's something that you and the character of my show have in common."

"A love for plants?" Hermione asked, puzzled. "Oh god, Harry, don't tell me you've signed on to do Little Shop of Horrors." She looked genuinely terrified at the thought.

The director laughed, putting a reassuring hand on Hermione's shoulders. "No," he confirmed, "I'd never be so crazy at to attempt that. The musical that I'm taking on is much more….refined."

"I give up," Hermione said, exasperated. As much as she loved Harry, she really did want to go home and sleep. Performing was tiring. "Spill."

"That quickly?" Harry seemed outraged. "No, no no, you can't just give up. I'll give you some hints, okay?" Hermione just glared at him, raising one eyebrow. Harry, however, was unfazed. "This musical is all I want…." Silence. "Do you want me to just show you?" Silence. "C'mon, I know you want to get home, but I just want to head out to the club and dance all night."

"No!" Hermione gasped, her eyes wide and unblinking. "You…you're directing a revival of My Fair Lady?"

Harry nodded. "Opening in June of next year."

"That's fantastic!" Hermione exclaimed, looking around the room and focusing on Remus. "Did you know about this?" she asked her manager.

Remus raised his hands and shook his head. "He told me he had news, but not any specifics," Remus insisted.

The smile on Hermione's face was earth-shattering. "This is brilliant Harry, I'll be so excited to see it!"

Harry's green eyes quickly flashed to Remus, then to the ground. "Well, uh," he stuttered, obviously unsure of what he wanted to say. "I was, um, well, uh, I…I had hoped that you might want to be involved."

"….define involved."

"Oh, nothing too demanding…just…Eliza."

"Eliza Doolitle?!" Hermione shrieked. "The main bloody character?! You're out of your mind, Harry Potter, I swear to you!"

"Well, I -"

"I told you that I planned to take time off after Phantom, and that if I worked I wanted it to be in New York!" Hermione's emotions were spiking dangerously. "It's not that you're not a fantastic director, Harry – god knows that Macbeth and A Little Night Music were the best shows of my career – but I just…I just can't. Don't you get it?"

Harry looked crestfallen. "Sorry Mia," he said, his voice low. "I didn't mean to upset you. I…I only thought that you'd be perfect." Hermione knew that he was going to try to reel her in, make her change her mind. She was determined not to be swayed. "I mean, it's right in your range, and Eliza is spunky and stubborn just like you, and, I mean, you both love flowers…"

"Not working," Hermione said flatly. "You're going to have to do better than that."

"Neville's agreed to be Freddie."

Hermione felt a flush of warmth fill her body. "Neville? Really?" she was surprised. He'd worked with her in both Macbeth and A Little Night Music - both shows directed by Harry - and Neville Longbottom had proved to be a brilliant and gentle actor. Everyone was incredibly surprised that he hadn't won the Critic's Circle Award that he'd been nominated for with his moving and subtle performance as Banquo. He'd be perfect for the role of Freddie, Eliza Doolittle's smitten (albeit ultimately unsuccessful) admirer. No, no NO, Hermione thought. You will not be swayed.

"Minerva McGonagall is planning to audition for Mrs Higgins."

The Olivier-winning, fantastic Minerva McGonagall, working in the same show. Now that's appealing. Hermione shook her head. No, NO! You're going to NEW YORK, you're TAKING A BREAK!

"Who's playing Higgins?" she asked bluntly. "He's the most important person in the whole show, you have to have some ideas."

"Some, but none are concrete," Harry replied.

Hermione sighed. "I'm sorry Harry, but I just can't. You have to understand."

Rubbing his hands over his face, Harry seemed to be wracking his brain. Then, it was as if a lightbulb went off. "This is my last pitch, alright?" he said, too cheery.

Uh oh.

"After this, if you say no, I'll be okay with it and walk out,okay?"

"…what's the catch?" she asked, hesitant.

"No catch. Just listen to this last point."

Hermione flicked her gaze to Remus, who shrugged. "…..I'm listening," she sighed.

"So," Harry started, already enthusiastic. "This isn't just a run-of-the-mill revival. There's something…special about it. We're…we're adding a song."

Hermione was silent. "….adding a song? Where? What's the point? Critics will have a field day with that, you know."

Waving his hand frantically, Harry got Hermione to shut up. "The song is going to be a duet between Higgins and Eliza," he explained. "It's going to happen right at the end, after she gives him his slippers, and it's going to be the ending and the love-link that's always been missing from the show."

A new song. A duet. In my range. This sounds good…but NO!

"And the composer is Filius Flitwick."

….goddamn bugger bloody hell shit. Now I have to do it. Filius? A duet, written for me, by FILIUS FLITWICK, the most esteemed composer on the West End circuit! Damn it.

Harry could read Hermione's reactions in her face, apparently, because he was grinning from ear-to-ear. "Soooo," he said, drawing out the word ridiculously, "What do you think?"

"Remus?" Hermione asked, hoping for a lifeline.

Say that I can't do it, that I need the rest, that I'm too busy.

"Well," Remus started slowly, "it'd be a pretty dramatic career booster – not that you need it, 'Mione – and it is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity….you could go over to New York after the run."

Glaring pointedly at her manager, Hermione mouthed the word "traitor" before walking across the room. She sat down on the chair in front of her vanity with a thud, resting her head in her hands. "Harry, you're a manipulative, horrid spoilsport who's just ruined my vacation," she said bitterly. "….but, you do know how to make a pitch."

"You'll do it?" Harry asked, clenching and unclenching his fists eagerly.

Hermione sighed and lifted her head. Brown eyes locked on hopeful green ones, invisible electricity filling the air. "Fine, I'll do it you bloody tosser."

Crowing in delight, Harry jumped across the room and gave Hermione a massive hug. "Thank you Mia!" he said, leaping up and running across the room to hug Lupin. "And thank you Remus, for allowing your star to take some time off from her vacation."

Remus looked incredibly overwhelmed to get a hug from the director, and he awkwardly returned it as best as he could. "We have to meet to discuss salaries and such," he stuttered, eyes wide.

Pulling back, Harry waved his hand. "I'm sure that'll be no problem. I'm sparing no expense for this show" – he threw a pointed glance at the still-hesitant-looking star – "and Hermione will be perfect."

"When are you holding auditions?" Remus asked, brushing off the lapels of his jacket as if Harry had rumpled them with his bear-hug.

"In two weeks," the director supplied. "Hermione can come if she'd like – we're trying a new technique this time."

"Oh god," Hermione moaned. "Blind auditions?!"

"There's some merit to them, Mia!" Harry protested, defending his position. "You can hear the voice, but you aren't influenced by names, their physical appearance, or what designer they're wearing. That's how you landed the role for Phantom."

"But it was so uncomfortable," Hermione insisted, shaking her head. "It's like you're in one of those soap-opera police rooms, the ones with the two-way mirrors and the cameras."

"…well…that is the basic set-up," Lupin pointed out, practical as always.

Just as Harry was about to protest again, Hermione raised her hands. She wasn't a demanding or eccentric actress, but when she had something to say people had bloody well better let her say it. Neither of the men in the room spoke. "It's fine," she said firmly, looking at Remus and Harry in turn. "I'm sorry I brought it up." Both of the men looked at each other apologetically. "Now," Hermione continued, bringing her hands together. "When and where are the auditions, exactly?"

"They start at eight o'clock in the morning on the thirteenth of January," Harry replied. "Everyone will be coming to that new rehearsal studio in the East."

"Crawley Rehearsal Hall?" Remus asked, obviously adding these details into his Blackberry planner.

"The very same," Harry confirmed. "We'd like to hold all of our rehearsals there, since those are some of the best facilities in London."

"Do you have a producer?" Remus asked pragmatically. Hermione gave a short nod, looking at Harry.

"We have four, actually," the director answered a bit smugly. It was difficult to get producers for revivals, but obviously the new song by Flitwick had swayed some people with big wallets. "There's myself, of course, then Sir Sirius Black -"

"Holy God," Lupin breathed, recognizing the name instantly. "You got multi-billionaire Sir Sirius Black to sign to this?!"

Harry smiled and shrugged. "We became friends during Reflections in Sunshine since he was producing the show at the theater next door. He seemed really interested in Lady, and agreed to back us."

"Who are the other two producers?" Hermione asked, sparing a concerned glance for her obviously shocked manager.

"Professor Severus Snape has agreed to co-produce," Harry said, "but that's to be expected, what with Flitwick's contribution." Hermione nodded. Professor Snape was a wealthy man who used to play cello in the London Philharmonic, but was now teaching at the Royal Conservatory in London. He was an anti-social, somewhat brooding man, but he had inherited quite the fortune and knew how to recognize and appreciate good music. Hermione had only ever seen him on a handful of occasions. "And, finally," Harry said dramatically, "we have Weasley's Works and Wonders' backing."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Genuinely? Again!?" she said, throwing her hands up. "That family isn't made of money, yet they keep finding ways to support your hare-brained productions."

Shrugging, Harry lifted up his hands in a defensive gesture. "Maybe Ron is planning to audition," Harry suggested. "If they're sponsors, he has more of a chance of getting a role."

"But really," she huffed, obviously flustered. "I'm worried about back-room deals going on in that place. Honestly, how much money can one make running a joke shop and a magic show?"

"I've heard they're doing kids' birthday parties now," Remus interjected, looking up from his Blackberry where he was still rapidly typing. "That's supposed to be profitable."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Not that profitable," she insisted, glaring at Harry.

"I have producers, though," Harry insisted. "Good ones, who'll stick with us if we can put on something worthwhile! And with you, Hermione, we're bound to produce something great."

Sighing, Hermione gave Harry a tired smile. "You have far too much confidence in me," she insisted, standing up and giving her friend another hug.

"I really don't think so," Harry insisted, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. He suddenly jumped back, his hand springing to his front pocket. Lifting out a ringing smartphone, Harry grimaced. "Is it that late already?" he asked, his face going pale.

Remus checked his Blackberry one last time before putting it into his pocket. "It's around eleven-thirty, yes," he answered calmly. "Did you have another engagement?"

Harry was staring at his phone and holding it as far away from himself as possible, like it would suddenly grow fangs and attack him. "I promised Ginny that I'd be home by now," he said, his voice a bit shaky.

Hermione smirked, knowing that the fiery red-headed woman would give her husband a talking-to when he got home. "Better get a move on then," she suggested. "Otherwise you'll be dead, and even you can't direct a play from beyond the grave."

Remus laughed, and Harry cracked a pained smile. He was obviously terrified of his wife's rage. "Thanks again, Mia," he said, putting the phone tentatively back into his pocket. "You really are the best."

Hermione shook her head and smiled. "Thank you Harry," she said genuinely. "See you in a couple weeks."

"We'll be in touch," Remus supplied, shaking Harry's hand stiffly. He was obviously trying to indicate that hugs should not become normal between the two of them.

Harry left the small dressing room, and suddenly the air felt clearer and light. "Thank you Remus," Hermione said, giving her manager a small hug.

Remus returned the action enthusiastically, and Hermione smiled; obviously hugs between herself and her manager were still okay. "I think you'll love this, 'Mione," he said, pulling away from her. "It's a great opportunity."

"That's why I agreed to do it," she said, sighing. "Hopefully they cast a good Higgins. Is it wrong that I'm a tad excited for the auditions?"

Remus gave a bark-like laugh and shook his head, his hair swaying in time with his motions. "It'll be fun for you to be on the other side of the glass," he insisted. "But, for now I must be getting off."

"Of course," Hermione said, feeling silly that she'd kept the family-oriented-man so late. "Will Teddy be in bed by now?"

"He should be," Remus said, his brow furrowing slightly. "His mother has been known to be….lenient about bed-times."

Hermione laughed lightly and opened the door. "Have a nice night Remus, I'll call you tomorrow okay?"

"Looking forward to it," Remus promised, smiling as he walked out the door.

When her manager left, Hermione felt suddenly very alone and empty. She picked up the horrid dress that she'd – thankfully – never have to wear again, and hung it up next to her other costumes. Her shoes were lined up neatly on the floor of the closet, the jewellery stored in organized compartments inside of her jewellery box. None of this is mine anymore, she thought sadly. Well, none of it was really mine to begin with…but I'll still miss it.

Hermione picked up Harry's rose and placed it delicately in her bag, so that the bloom and most of the stem were still exposed to the air. Looking around the room one last time, she felt a peculiar melancholy sweep over her. Lavender Brown would be coming in tomorrow to take her place as Christine, and all these costumes would be re-sized and transferred to her. At least she'll fill that stupid dress, Hermione thought to herself, laughing at the image.

And, even though she told herself that she wouldn't, not this time, Hermione walked over to her closet and riffled through her dresses, just like she did on her last night of every show. Flipping to the gorgeous, sequined dress that she wore for the "Think of Me" number, Hermione lifted it to the light. She dug her nails underneath a mid-sized, red, multi-faceted sequin, and it popped off the costume with little resistance. It had no real value, and would probably not even be missed, but Hermione wanted to remember her experience at Phantom. She curled her hand around the cheap sequin, feeling the small ridges digging into her palm. This is perfect, she thought. A beautiful way to end such a beautiful experience.

On that note, Hermione closed up her closet, slung her purse over her shoulder, and – still holding the sequin in her hand – turned off the lights in the dressing room and closed the door.

Goodbye Christine….and hello Eliza.

A/N: So, it begins again. :) This plot bunny came to me in the middle of the night, and I felt that I just had to get it out there ...so please, R&R and tell me what you think! Just as a note:

My Fair Lady is based on the play Pygmalion, written by George Bernard Shaw, which was converted into a musical written by Alan Jay Lerner (book & lyrics) and Frederick Loewe (music & score). None of the characters mentioned (Eliza, Freddie, Henry Higgens, etc.) belong to me, same with the music and lyrics. I'm just an excited theater-goer who appreciates the wonderful world that Lerner, Loewe, and Shaw have created.
Also, works mentioned in this chapter that do not belong to me are:

The Phantom of the Opera (Andrew Lloyd Webber & Tim Rice)

A Little Night Music (Stephen Sondheim & Hugh Wheeler)

Les Miserables (Victor Hugo & Clade-Michel Schonberg)

Macbeth (William Shakespeare)

Next to Normal (Brian Yorkey & Tom Kitt)

We Will Rock You (Queen & Ben Elton)

Oliver (Charles Dickens & Lionel Bart)

The play Reflections in Sunshine is my own creation though, and doesn't exist. :) Any and all of the above-mentioned plays and musicals are fantastic, and I'd recommend that you check them out! But, once again, I must emphasize that they do NOT belong to me. THANKS!

~sneakyslytherin