Author's Note: I felt a random hankering to watch the Phantom of the Opera, then to read a Hellsing fanfic about it. When I saw that there were no complete Hellsing / Phantom of the Opera crossovers… I was stunned, to say the least. You would think the two would go together like red and blood. I'll only be covering Andrew-Lloyd Webber's musical and Joel Schumacker's 2004 film. Furthermore, I retooled the story to take place in London since most of Hellsing's cast is British and it suited the overall story better.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement here. If I made money off this, I could live off it instead of having to find time to write between university, homework, and a job to pay my bills.

It was 1919 in London, in front of Her Majesty's (Former) Theatre. Industrial smog filled the air, and black automobiles puttered along the streets alongside the increasingly superfluous horse-drawn carriages. It was a chilly autumn morning, with dust and fallen leaves swirled around the former opera house to show its decline and neglect. Most homeless and working class filled the streets, going about their work and business. Many young urchins tried to sell newspapers, polish shoes, vendors tried to sell little odds and ends, etc. A few smartly dressed rich folks walked in and out of the now-abandoned opera house.

An old man with straggled white hair and wrinkled, botched skin exited his taxi, and slowly approached. He was called back and testily paid the taxi man—charlatan!—and then once more regarded the opera house. The years had not been kind to it, but then neither had they been kind to him. He was painfully old, arthritic, and hobbled. He could no longer stand up straight, nor walk without a cane. His joints were gnarled and knobby, and his skin was spotted and sallow, and hung like limp cloths around his eyes, cheeks, jowls, and… everything. He imagined he looked like his grandpa had looked; that proud old soldier that died so long ago.

He glared at the smartly dressed aristocracy that walked easily up the very same steps that were giving him so much trouble—and, worse, that one smooth-faced old codger that could afford servants and nurses to push him up the steps in his wheelchair. Not all of us could afford such assistances, you fat old larva!

Not that he would have accepted help even if offered, as he gruffly waved away a footman that offered to take his arm. He wasn't that old yet, thank you very much!

And so he grumbled to himself as he made his way up the stairs, as grumpy old men are wont to do, and he made his way into the rundown old theatre, that had served Her Majesty faithfully for nearly a century before her untimely end half a century before. Journalist Malcolm from Old and New London had described it as, "fronted by a stone basement in rustic work, with the commencement of a very superb building of the Doric order, consisting of three pillars, two windows, an entablature, pediment, and balustrade. This, if it had been continued, would have contributed considerably to the splendour of London; but the unlucky fragment is fated to stand as a foil to the vile and absurd edifice of brick pieced to it, which I have not patience to describe."

So much for that! Didn't they pay these journalists by the word? Why couldn't he be bothered to describe it!

Over the front entrance hung a great banner announcing: "PUBLIC AUCTION TODAY."

About time they cleared all this rubbish from this dusty old rubble-they'd certainly waited long enough for it!

The antechamber inside was even more dusty, leaf-filled, and cobweb-ridden than outside. It looked like the scene described in a Gothic novel—an old stone building that was once grand and beautiful, now full of death, decay, and disrepair; with nothing but ghosts and shadows to tell its history.

He could hear the auctioneer go on with the proceedings further along inside, as he hobbled his way in. Pompous, self-centered British men, all of them.

"… Sold. Your number, sir? Thank you. Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen. A poster from this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumau."

"Showing here," the porter announced, holding up the poster.

"Do I have ten pounds?" the auctioneer proceeded, in his brisk, posh, professional voice. "Five then. Five I am bid. Six. Seven. Against you sir, seven. Eight? Eight once. Selling twice." The gavel banged. "Sold to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much sir."

The two porters walked the painting off the stage, to be given to its new owner.

Our dear old man scowled. It was even worse than he'd thought. The inside of the place looked terribled—everything was covered with a layer of dust an inch thick, with webs so huge they could trap a small pigeon in them. There were certainly plenty of pigeons about, fluttering between the dust-covered rafters and scaffolding. The high stone windows (with intricately carved frames, of course) were loosely boarded up with plywood, which allowed pillars of light to shine in—the only source of light in the dead old place. The auctioneer stood on a makeshift stage of crude wood. The only clean items in the entire opera house were the people and the large collection of furniture and other junk they'd pilfered.

"Like vultures," the old man thought. This whole place was like a giant corpse, and they'd come in and picked at every scrap and organ they could get their flabby little jowls on, hoping to gorge themselves on every last scrap they make a penny on.

Then again, thought the old man with a snort, he was just like them. He was the oldest and meanest vulture of them all.

"Lot 664," the auctioneer continued, "a wooden pistol and three human skulls... From the 1831 production of Robert le Diable by Meyerbeer. Ten pounds for this. Ten, thank you. Ten still. 15, thank you. I5 I'm bid. Going at 15. Your number, sir?"

The old man showed his auction number to show that he was supposed to be here.

"Lot 665 ladies and gentlemen."

As this was going on, the old man caught sight of what looked like an aristocratic woman. This old bag was tall, thin, and long-limbed, and smartly dressed in a conservatively cut but still lacy black dress, with a black hat and veil over her face as though in mourning. The aristocratic lady had long, straight yellow hair, which had been pulled up into a fashionable loose curled bun, wherein her hat was pinned. She had slightly wrinkled and swarthy skin, and sharp blue eyes framed in round spectacles. The old man snorted. All those years of chain-smoking fancy cigars, and this old biddy looked like a smooth, only slightly frayed papier mache doll, while he looked like a weathered old scarecrow beaten with a stick? Life wasn't fair.

The noblewoman stood tall and rigid, with that same old air of iron dignity and propriety. Those hard blue eyes, unsoftened and unchanged with age, were fixed on the auctioneer as he prattled away; that stern mouth set in a frown.

The noblewoman's eyes then lingered over the old man, and then fixed his eyes in a piercing gaze. Their eyes remained locked for several heartbeats—though it felt like a lifetime. A lifetime had passed between them in that held gaze, a secret and a history that only they shared, that the rest of the world could not know, and thus was excluded and blurred to only semi-existence.

A porter pulled out Lot 665.

"A papier mache musical box in the shape of a barrel organ," the auctioneer said. "Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes playing the cymbals."

The old Brit and the old Parisian slowly pulled their eyes away from each other, and looked instead toward the item in question.

"This item," the auctioneer continued, "discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

"Showing here," the porter announced, holding up the music box.

The little unassuming monkey banged two little cymbals that never touched over and over as the music box played a slow, soft, sad, tinkling little melody. Masquerade.

The old man's stern countenance melted for the first time. His face was no longer set in a hard scowl, but drooped into one of deep sorrow and awe. His hard eyes no longer pierced in anger. Tears pooled around them, and they looked lost in nostalgia and longing. It was impossible to read the expression of the noblewoman, but it was impossible to call said expression indifferent as well.

The auctioneer announced, "May I commence at 15 pounds?"

Lady Hellsing raised a gloved hand.

"15, thank you."

The old man jabbed his hand in the air.

"Yes, 20 from you, sir."

Lady Hellsing raised a delicate hand again.

"Thank you very much. Sir Hellsing 25. Thank you, Sir." The auctioneer looked to the auctioneers. "25 I'm bid. Do I hear 30?"

The old man looked desperate as he raised his hand. This was all he could afford. Damn, he didn't think it'd raise this high, this fast.

"30. And do I hear 35?" the auctioneer asked as he leaned toward Lady Hellsing.

Her eyes flashed back at the old man. They both knew she could keep bidding higher if she wanted to, but the bid he just made was the highest he could go. If she put in another bid, the music box would be hers. She wanted it—but he wanted it more. She had more money, though, so she could have it if she chose. Her decision would determine the outcome.

She looked at the auctioneer.

The auctioneer looked at her.

Slowly, she lowered her eyes, and shook her head.

"Selling at 30 shillings then," the auctioneer said. "30 once. 30 twice." The gavel banged. "Sold, for 30 pounds to a Monsieur Pippen de Bernadotte."

He nearly collapsed from relief.

"Thank you, sir," the auctioneer said, nodding toward him.

The porter stepped off the stage and handed the music box to the old man. Though grumpy and worse for wear, he accepted it and held it as gently as though it were a newborn child.

Pools teared around his eyes as he gazed at it lovingly. "A collector's piece indeed..." he thought, "Every detail exactly as she said... She often spoke of you, my friend... Your velvet lining and you figurine of lead..."

It wasn't fair. She'd always been so spry and healthy. She used to chastise him about smoking and drinking - and he would laugh and pull her into his lap if he happened to be sitting, kiss her if he happened to be standing. He gave up soldiering and whoring when he met her - but he could never resist a pint with the boys down at the pub, or a good smoke after a long day's work. He'd sooner give up breathing than a good smoke. Yet... all his bad habits, and she went first. All that beauty and health and talent, all robbed from the world. She'd left him all alone, yet he suspected he would join her soon.

He gazed sadly at the little monkey, who alone remained unchanged after all these years.

"Will you still play," he thought, "when all the rest of us are dead...?"

Unaware of his pain, the auctioneer continued, brisk and businesslike, "Lot 666, then: a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera, a mystery never fully explained."

Sir Hellsing's and Monsieur Bernadotte's eyes said otherwise.

"We are told, ladies and gentlemen," the auctioneer continued, "that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it and wired parts of it for the new electric light," he gave a little smile, "Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen!"

The great white drape flew off the chandelier. It was indeed bent and broken, with several bulbs still smashed. The devilish electric lights flickered on, and shined on that ancient and beautiful opera house that only ever knew light from the heavens, candles, or whale oil lamps. Seeing it light up for the first time after all these years, the old Persian and Parisian could almost hear the organ blare, a phantom sound that only they could hear, that had once been heard by all in this opera house so long ago. A few porters from up in a balcony pulled a chain attached to a pully, and the chandelier is raised, bringing new light and new life to the opera house that had been dead and dusty for so long. The light from the revived chandelier seemed to revive the opera house, and Pip Bernadotte and Integra Hellsing could almost see the opera as it had been when it had been new and colorful and vibrant and full of life, almost fifty years ago.

In the minds of their memory and nostalgia, the opera house became restored as they went back in time to the year 1867.