Author's Notes: Hello everyone, and welcome to my first fanfic on this site! First off, you can guess it…

Disclaimer:

I don't own ANYTHING. Copyrights to Leroux, Lloyd Webber, and everyone else who deserves it. However, Danielle is my character and I would appreciate that she stays that way. My fierce little doggies are prepared to help me with that matter.

In this first chapter is part of a song from Offenbach's opera "Les Contes d'Hoffman." He, obviously, owns that. The song is really quite beautiful, and I would suggest listening to it for yourself.

Well, with that out of the way, on to the phic! This is, by now you've probably all realized, a phanfic for Phantom of the Opera. It is mainly based on the 2004 movie, and kind of AU. Ages don't matter much to me, but I'll go more into that when I have to.

Now, without further ado, please read!

Chapter 1 – Through the Looking Glass

The Rue Scribe ran behind the Paris Opera House, horse and buggies trafficking past the front, hooves clacking loudly on the cobblestones. The mist from the Seine still clung to the ground, hiding from the early morning sun. Few people were out in the cool autumn morning, and those that were focused on their destination. No one bothered to notice the young woman walking unobtrusively down the road, hugging close to the wall. Her blue cloak fluttered behind her as she kicked at her full black skirts. Taking one glance around, Danielle tucked stray strands of her sandy hair behind her ear and crouched down by the wall of the theater.

The little grille set into the wall creaked quietly as she pulled it open. It was one of the first passageways the girl had ever found, her own back entrance into the Opera. She smiled at the very thought of her secret, just one of many hidden hallways and doors she had discovered over the years. She glanced around once more and dropped through the opening.

The short alley was dimly lit, the only light coming from the street behind and the still waxing daylight high above. She strode confidently now, relaxed in her own domain. The Opera flowed in her veins. Hidden in her secret passages, Danielle Daae de Chagny was the ruler of the theater, knowing it like only a creature born to the place could. She was a faery queen in her world of mist, flitting silently from one corner of the house to the other without a soul seeing her she did not wish. She stopped in front of a stained glass window that alternated blue and violet colored panes. The thick lead was a familiar, firm feeling as she traced her hand over it and found the slim handle. The window opened silently at her bidding, and she slipped unnoticed into the empty chapel.

As she eased the window shut behind her, her hand paused. There was something different about her Opera today. She was always one of the first here, definitely before any of the musicians, yet soft strains of music whispered through the vaults. It coaxed her towards the door, out into the corridor. She kept her footsteps quiet as she strained to listen. The soft sound floated weakly down the hallway, as if it had risen from far beneath the floor. Danielle paused again, her hand on the stony wall. It was barely audible, but her musician's ear reached harder for it.

Whoever was playing, or singing – it was hard for her to discern even that – the music was so…sad. The noted ran weakly in the hall, rising from the depth of some tormented soul, and, by some luck of the wind, she snatched the bare words "…angel in hell…"

Her young heart skipped a beat in her chest, and her loud pulse suddenly in her ears drowned out anything else. She couldn't have heard what she had just heard. Could she?

Snatching her hand away from the wall, Danielle hurried up into the theater to escape her haunting fantasy. The theater quickly took shape as she rose, turning from the cold stone of foundations to the warm wood and paint of the grand foyer. Gilt and friezes decorated the magnificent lobby, the marble staircase sweeping grandly through the red velvet. Dutifully, she unlocked the main doors and slipped into the just-awakening backstage. Her footsteps carried her swiftly past the props-masters, through the miniature forest of bright scenery, up into the catwalks. She hung to the shadows, quietly climbing higher and higher through the house until she reached a small concealed door. It eased open quietly for her, and she slipped in, unnoticed at her great height.

The room inside was small and unfurnished. A small round window peered down at the stage, occupying most of the room's space, rising in the middle of the room from a waist-high box that threw light into the room from far below. A small staircase, two more doors, and a cramped nook that led into a separate hall surrounded the lithe room like a crossroads. Danielle pulled off her cloak and stepped down the stairs from her door. She hummed softly to herself, trying to puzzle out what she had heard below. For a moment her hand rested on a worn leather binder, filled with loose sheets of music paper covered in her ink. She thoughtfully stared at it, her mind still lost to that strange, haunting melody, and the small three words that had risen with it.

Shaking her head free, the young woman dropped to a seat on the floor and grabbed the thick book lying by her feet. Her legs crossed, her back against the window-box, she let the memorandum-book fall open in her lap and started leafing through it randomly. She scanned it lazily, unimpressed. She wasn't even sure why she had picked it up in the first place. It had been thrown haphazardly into a waste bin outside the managers' office. What had caught Danielle's eye, though, was how relieved the two Opera managers had appeared when it fell, looking as if they had expected it to rise back out of the bin and attack them where they stood. With a laugh of forced bravado, MM. Moncharmin and Richard had walked back into their office, leaving Danielle and the secretary looking rather bewildered.

She perused the book with a curious eye, wondering why they had been so relieved to finally dispose of the dreaded manuscript. It had been printed nearly twenty years ago, but the rules and regulations that ran the theater had changed little since then, even with the need to rebuild part of it after the fire. So why had they gotten rid of it?

Her hand suddenly paused, along with her musings, half way through turning a page. At the bottom of the page, written with red ink in a strange script, read the words, "Box Five on the grand tier shall be placed at the disposal of the Opera ghost for every performance."

The simple words took her by such shock that she took a third glance and finally jumped to her feet to see in the better light of the window for the third time. She frowned down at them, touching the ink in disbelief. "I don't believe it…" she muttered quietly, but a small smile of wonder was stealing over her face. Tales of the Opera ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, had haunted the young woman's mind for years. People in the Opera were always whispering about him, laughing and pointing at shadows. But whenever Danielle de Chagny came near they would fall silent. Her parents always cut conversations off whenever it somehow veered to close to how they had met, to the great tragedy that their daughter had only managed to glean scraps of in all her eighteen years. And, oh, how hungrily she searched for them. All of her passageways had been once been his, she had told herself, all of the secrets of the Opera house laid out in plain sight before him. How she yearned for that knowledge.

Actually, any knowledge, any hint of that mysterious shadow of a man would be welcome.

But now there was proof before her young eyes. Here was proof that the Opera ghost had existed, and apparently claimed rights to Box Five twenty years ago, the same box that was now reserved for the Chagnys. She skimmed eagerly through the rest of the book until she reached the last page. Beneath the conditions by which a manger could be removed, the very last thing in that boring, tedious book, was the same enigmatic red ink that was at such odds with the rest of it.

"Twenty thousand francs?" Danielle scoffed, her dark brown eyes wide. "What would a ghost want with twenty thousand francs a month?"

"Danielle!" someone's voice suddenly called from the house, cutting off her thoughts. She regretfully tore her eyes away from the book and glanced out the little window. People were by now gathered on the stage, ready to start the rehearsal. Frowning, she turned and grabbed the doorknob to one of the doors. A small slit of shadow appeared on the slim balcony surrounding the chandelier as she cracked it open to peer out. A man was striding down the aisles toward the foyer, calling her name. Wit a small sigh, she shut the door and hurried out of the room, leaving the book and folder by the windowsill.

Backstage had woken up while she was reading. People rushed around as Danielle trotted by them. She was suddenly halted by a tall young man grabbing her arm. "Danni!" Jacques cried with a smile. Her older brother's gray eyes were bright, so like his father's. The thick, curly hair that was nevertheless trimmed and tamed was so like his mother's, though. He pulled her out of the way of a man burdened with an armful of props. "They're looking for you."

"I heard," she said, twitching her skirts aside as he started guiding her around sets and props. He didn't even bother to ask where she had been; he was used to it by now. "Why?"

"One of the sopranos is sick, and they want you to sing her part," he said with a shrug. His younger sister's steps faltered.

"Me? But they…I…" He didn't miss a beat in dragging her on. The young woman's mind spun. They wanted her to sing? But she played piano! The most she had done was play organ for a few performances. She would have gratefully played piano except that it wasn't part of the orchestra. They wanted her to sing. A soprano part!

They broke free of the clutter of backstage and into the house before she had a chance to even fully wrap her mind around the idea. The stage itself was crowded with dancers and singers; props masters adjusting costumes; Madame Giry, the ballet instructor, looking over her charges with an acute eye. Christine Daae beamed at her children as Danielle finally freed her grip from Jacques. Her hair was already done up, her rich curls falling down her back and studded with tiny jewels and a gold circlet. She lifted up her heavy skirts and took her daughter's hand warmly, pecking her forehead with a kiss.

"Mama, what's going on?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle Daae!" the maestro suddenly cried in relief. Mercier's normally optimistic smile was strained slightly as he waved to her. "Come, come, Miss Daae. Your mother tells us you are familiar with the score for Les Contes d'Hoffman?" Her eyes went wide and flew to her mother. Christine's smile was warm and encouraging as she rested a hand on her shoulder. Danielle finally recognized her dress as Guilietta's, the rich fabric belaying the Italian woman's role.

"As well as Offenbach himself," Christine said. "Danielle, would you sing

Antonia's part for tonight's performance? Theresa's come down with a cold, and I know you can sing it." Even knowing it would be a soprano's part, Danielle wasn't ready for the shock of singing a leading role. Antonia, the young, sick singer, was the young, infirmed woman Hoffman fell in love with in the opera. She blinked away her glazed expression, her young gaze flicking up to where her father sat. Christine watched him give a small, encouraging smile. Danielle licked her lips, took a long calming breath. Finally she nodded.

Mercier cried again with relief and clapped his hands together. "Wonderful, wonderful, mademoiselle. Shall we take it from Act III, then, the final scene?" He tapped his baton conclusively. Danielle seemed to get a hold of herself again and walked over to the mark on the stage. Her anxiousness faded as she listened to Crespel sing and took up her own part. The orchestration rang in her ears the loudest, guided her. Most of the performers fell quiet as they watched the young singer, raising her voice to the trio.

Jacques hid a smile and walked up the aisle to climb through the corridors to Box Five. He opened the door and found Nicola waiting to kiss him warmly. She was beautiful, pushing back her golden hair to peer up at him with loving eyes the color of sapphires. Jacques took her hand in his just to feel his ring on her finger. He was about to say how glorious, radiant she looked, but she rested a finger on his lips.

"I didn't want to disturb him," she whispered, rising on her tiptoes to breathe in his ear. He followed her gaze to the seat at the front of the box, and gently kissed her palm before moving to stand behind the seat. Raoul de Chagny sat watching the stage, a light of pride and joy in his eyes. A small smile lit his features, the papers in his hands forgotten. His son and soon-to-be daughter-in-law stood unnoticed over him, he was so absorbed in the music.

Nicola squeezed her fiancée around the waist. "Do you think we'll look that proud one day?" she asked with a small, secret grin. Jacques' heart quickened, and he said, a little too loudly, "Of course!"

The vicomte shifted and glanced behind him. His shoulder length hair had more gray in it, but his blue eyes were as bright as ever. "What, 'of course,' Jacques?"

"Ah, nothing, father," the son stammered, and Nicola suppressed a laugh. The vicomte glanced between them, and that same small smile crept onto his face again. "I was just saying," Jacques retorted, "that Danielle will impress herself tonight." Raoul nodded and chuckled, looking back at the stage. Mercier was contentedly keeping time with his baton while Antonia, her mother, and Dr. Miracle swept on with the trio.

"Of course she will."

Je cede au transport qui m'enivre.

Quelle flamme eblouit mes yeux?

Un seul moment encoure a vivre!

Et que mon ame vole aux cieux!

The painting fell still again as Antonia collapsed onto the stage. Crespel was over her in an instant, gathering her in his arms and crying aloud, "My child! My daughter! Antonia!"

"A love song!" Danielle panted as she sang. "Qui s'envole, triste ou folle…C'est une chanson d'amour!" As she went limp in his arms in death, he shouted for a doctor. Danielle obediently dropped her hand when Dr. Miracle lifted it up.

"She's dead!" Hoffman rushed over, pushing past the deceitful doctor.

"Antonia!" And the curtain fell to the wave of applause. The lead male smiled and offered Danielle a hand up. "Marvelous, mademoiselle!" She smiled, her cheeks flushed rosy red as Crespel and she hurried off the stage. Her back thudded against the wood as she caught her breath in the wings.

All of that couldn't be applause. It must have been the blood rushing in her ears. She hadn't known she could immerse herself so totally in a role. It was exhilarating! Certainly at the piano she could lose herself in her own composing and sit for hours before the keys, but she had been Antonia out there. She had felt like a young woman frail with sickness, singing for her dead mother until she herself had died from the strain…

A hand clapped her on the shoulder as one of the actors brushed past her and onto the stage. She desperately hoped that her cheeks weren't still red as she pressed herself against the wall, letting the other singers past. Pulleys creaked as the sets were changed. Danielle found herself watching the ropes as she let her blood settle. Something suddenly caught her eye in the catwalks, what looked like a pale face high, so high above. She squinted up at it, and thought she saw for a moment a darker shadow, like a thick cloak, twitch aside beneath the face. It gave her a small bow, inclining its brow. A set suddenly passed in front of it, and Danielle gave a small gasp of surprise. When it finally settled to the stage, the face was gone.

At the end of the performance, Jacques was proven right. The applause for Daae, mother and daughter, rang from the rafters. The loudest praise came, of course, from Box Five. Raoul swept out of the box when the curtain finally fell and headed towards the dressing rooms. People clapped him on the back and shouted congratulations as he passed, but he managed to escape with only a few words. He pushed his way through the crowd and finally pushed open the door to the dressing room Christine had whisked their daughter off to. He notices with a wisp of nostalgia that it was the same room he had first seen Christine in after her own debut.

At the quiet click of the door shutting, Danielle leapt to her feet. Her cheeks were flushed pink with excitement. "Do you see all of these, Papa?" she exclaimed breathlessly, gesturing around at all the flowers strewn through the room. Christine came to stand beside her husband, still resplendent in Guilietta's magnificent gown. He turned his head to kiss her kindly before looking back at Danielle.

"You were marvelous, Danielle," Raoul said, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek like she were a little girl. He smiled and pushed her hair out of her face, chuckling at her blush. "You sang like an angel. Just like your mother." His daughter's smile brightened: she knew what a compliment that was coming from her father. "Come, get dressed and we'll all go to dinner." He pulled Christine towards the door, who paused long enough to kiss Danielle on the forehead.

"We're so proud of you, dear." She squeezed her shoulder endearingly, and Danielle hugged her tight before she and Raoul disappeared into the crowd outside the door.

In the sudden silence, Danielle sighed and breathed in deeply. The smell of flowers was intoxicating. As she grabbed her blue black dress and stepped behind the screen to change, she shut her eyes and reveled in the afterglow of her parent's pride. The rush of performing was more overwhelming than she'd thought. Your parents always tell you that you're the best at whatever small endeavor you undertake, but to have a house full of people applauding you was a little different. She pressed her nose into a bushel of lilies for a long moment, breathing in the calming scent. She resignedly leaned back for a fresh breath, holding the scent in for as long as she could.

Her cloak was draped over the back of the chair. Danielle paused over it, tucking stray locks of her thick hair behind her ears, and turned to the dresser to check herself. Something suddenly caught her eye. A single red rose sat on the desk, standing off from all the other flowers by a black, silk ribbon tied around its stem. She picked it up carefully, running the smooth length of the ribbon through her fingers. She didn't know why, but something about its simplicity was alluring. It was like the essence of the night captured in a strip of fabric, dark and soft. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught its gleam in the reflection in the full length mirror. Her dark blue cloak hung elegantly from her shoulders in the mirror, and her slender fingers looked pale against the dark shade of the rose. Something strange flickered behind it though, and Danielle stalked forward carefully as she frowned at it. Behind her image, almost in it in the flat image of the mirror, was a shadow of bricks. As she paused in front of it, a draft stirred her hair. She raised her hand and felt along the glass as she tried to peer through it.

Her fingers suddenly caught in a crack along the frame. The whole mirror slid as she worked her fingers beneath it. Danielle forgot the absurdity of a door secreted in her dressing room mirror as her excitement began to build. The glass slid just enough for her to peak past it. A single flame danced in a candelabra, barely illuminating a hallway stretching away beyond the light. It flickered in the breeze that snuck into her room, blowing air that smelt damp and cool with water…

The dressing room door suddenly opened behind her, accompanied by a rush of the noise outside. Danielle hurriedly spun around, the rose clasped behind her back as she tried to cover the crack in the mirror. Jacques stuck his head in. "Come on, Danni, the coach is waiting." She should have said something, but her mind was so full of her discovery that no words came out. Jacques gaze moved to her shifting hands beneath her cloak. "What's that?"

"Just a ribbon for my hair," she started, quickly untying it from the stem and dropping the rose. Her hands deftly pulled it into a bow around her hair, and her brother shrugged and gestured for her to hurry up. Danielle followed behind him, but even after she had turned away, the image of the red rose sitting before the mirror and the candle flickering faintly behind it stuck in her head.

The next day there was no performance at the Opera. Danielle stole out of the house after breakfast and walked through the crisp Paris morning to the Rue Scribe. She slipped in her backdoor into the theater. As she slipped through the chapel, she had to pause at the door into the hallway. As hard as she listened, no music floated her way this morning. The only sound was her breathing, and she passed on with a small feeling of disappointment.

The silence in her kingdom was pristine. Instead of heading for the piano like she usually would or up to her window-room, her footsteps padded quietly trough the Opera to her dressing room. When she opened the door, the image from last night leapt back to her, the rose still sitting on the floor in front of the mirror. She draped her cloak over the same chair and knelt down to pick it up.

Her reflection in the mirror was no different from before. It stared back, an exact imitation of her as she ran her thumb over one of the petals. Its long, pale brown hair was tied back in the black ribbon, its slender arms poking out of its rolled up white sleeves on its hips, leather boots peeking out beneath its dark red skirt. Exactly the same, down to he determined set of Danielle's jaw and the undimmed light of curiosity in her dark chocolate eyes. Biting the inside of her lip, she set down the flower and worked her hands beneath the frame.

The glass ground through its runner grudgingly as she leaned her full weight against it, gritting her teeth. The cool air from the corridor beyond seeped into the room when she finally shoved the mirror far enough to stumble past it. Her footsteps echoed down the rock walls that vanished into blackness as she caught herself from tripping. The wind that threw her hair back made her gasp. It tasted wet and damp, rich like only underground could be. She smiled conspiratorially and grabbed a small lantern, her pulse rising in her ears. With one last glance at the light of her dressing room, she turned and plunged into the darkness.

The steps were slippery as she followed the way farther and deeper into the Opera. Her little sphere of light floated past empty candelabras and rock walls, shallow steps falling away beneath her feet. It all was shrouded in a silence that sent an excited shiver over Danielle, penetrated by the drip of water and her own footsteps. Pale light began to grow as she descended, a watery blue light that shimmered over the walls. And then she found the lake.

The water lapped quietly against the stone as she crouched down and dipped her fingers in it, amazed. Of course she had heard of the lake beneath the Paris Opera, but she had given up finding it. Their were passageways that led to every corner of the theater, springs that let her through locked doors and walls that shouldn't have had a door. But none of them had ever led down for her. She had never smelt this wind before, this magnificently mysterious dampness that soaked into her, brushed her skin like rich fur. She lifted her lantern to look down the waterway, and the light fell on the black hull of a little boat tied up to a ring in the wall. Walking over, she pressed her hand against the black wood. A lantern hung from the prow, and as she looked she found a pole leaning against the wall. Danielle lifted her skirts and stepped into the boat, reaching out for the pole and pulling cobwebs off of it. As she pushed the boat out over the water, she started as a little silver skull looked up at her from the prow, set into a bundle of metallic roses.

The silence was almost oppressive here, a dangerous beast that had slumbered in these waterways for decades, and woe to the one who disturbed it. Danielle found herself holding her breath anxiously as she poled across the lake. The hull eventually bumped against the shallow ground of a cove, and the light from her lantern fell upon dozens of unlit candles rising from the water in wax-covered stands. She wrenched one off and held it to her lantern's flame, passing the light from wick to wick. It was a challenge, lighting them from her carefully-balanced boat. Danielle lit as far as she could stretch, and then she finally looked around.

"Mere de Dieux…" she breathed in wonder. The cove was covered with candelabras and statues, draped in curtains and guilt frames. A little Louis-Philippe room was set back above the water, and a studio was strewn with papers. Danielle stepped out of the boat feeling like she was in some chapel dedicated to art. Broken glass crunched under her boots as she climbed the hewn steps, and she lifted her eyes to see the flames of the candles refracted in shattered mirrors. Soot rippled over parts of the glass as if a flame had been held to close to it. Cracks spider-webbed over the mirrors, and Danielle briefly touched the place where the glass had completely fallen away. Her foot kicked at a candlestick as she turned back around.

Her eyes fell on a magnificent organ against the wall. It was beautiful. The pipes were pierced with intricate little designs, and the backboard was painted with scrollwork. But as the young woman stepped closer, she saw that it was covered with the same cracks as the mirrors. Soot stained the grand pipes, and a few of the keys were cracked, but it was still seemed to work. She almost prayed that it would work. Her fingers brushed over music sheets resting on the keyboard. Hand printed notes were inked on the staffs lining the paper, and she sat down lightly on the bench as she read them. Hesitantly, she arranged her hands on the keys, and the music issued forth a long, sorrowful sigh of chords that echoed off the stone. As she played, the notes sang the purest of human sorrows that it nearly brought a tear to her eye. Her fingers tripped the last lilting notes as a forlorn sigh of regret. What tortured soul had written this down? Danielle had to blink to clear her eyes as she leaned forward to touch the letters scrawled at the bottom of the page, smudged with the damp of tears. "Pitiful creature of darkness," she read softly. "An Angel in Hell," she added quietly as she stared at the words.

The soft sound of cloth swinging whispered behind her, and Danielle's fingers froze against the paper. A cold grip tightened her stomach as she heard the sound of an intake of breath, and she slowly turned her head with a feeling of dread.

The first thing she saw were his dusty, black dress shoes standing on the cracked glass. She raised her eyes to follow the fall of his thick, lined cloak, the shape of his shoulder. Twisted around on the piano bench, she finally met his eye, a beautifully luminous thing that watched her cat's eye.

"Welcome, little Angel of Music," he said. His voice left her speechless as she stared up at him. It was the most beautiful voice Danielle had ever heard, sending a shiver through her breath. She couldn't even blink as his eye and his voice captured her. He was tall, staring down at her with one pale blue eye, but he stood as if he had carried a burden on his shoulders for many years. The other half of his face was hidden behind the hand clasped over it. He took a deep, tremulous breath as he studied her.

"Fo-forgive me, monsieur," she cried, breaking the pensive silence. She started up and pressed her back against the keyboard, still unable to tear her eyes from his. How he watched her, as if he could see into her soul and tell her everything… "I didn't know anyone…I though…I'm so sorry, monsieur…"

"Please," he broke in, forestalling her with a raised hand. "S'il vous plait, mademoiselle, don't apologize." He seemed afraid she would be frightened and bolt like a timid deer; he awkwardly pulled off his cape with one hand while keeping the other over his face. It dropped over an empty candle stand, and he held his hand out disarmingly. "Be at ease, little Angel."

But Danielle couldn't stop her racing heart. Every legend of the Opera, every fragmented detail she had managed to pry from her parents, flew through her mind. She couldn't help but think she had finally stumbled too far into her secret world of the theater, too close to the shadow that hung ominously over each shred of story she had collected.

"Who..." she had to lick her lips as he turned away, letting her breathe as he took his eyes with him. "Who are you?" He picked up something white from beside his cape. When he turned back, Danielle found herself staring at the half-moon face from the night before, bowing to her from the rafters. His face was hidden behind a pale mask, his bright eye the only thing moving behind it. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. "You…!" she whispered fearfully, her eyes wide.

The expression that fell over the phantom's face paralyzed any other words. He opened his mouth and raised his hands again, his eyes flooding with a long-borne sorrow that nearly choked him. He stopped with his arms outstretched to her, as if he suddenly found himself anathema, and dropped them back to his side in shame. His face set in a grim cast hard and distant enough to match the unmoving mask, and he spun on his heel to snatch up his cloak before the young woman could realize what she had done. Two strides brought him back to the velvet draped frame with the broken glass before it. "Wait!" Danielle called, "please, don't go."

The phantom paused, shrouded like a shade in his black cloak, and turned to look at her from behind his mask. He slowly, painfully brought his eye to meet her. "What do you want of me?" he asked, the angelic cadence of his voice dissolved into a throat tight with tears.

Danielle's words were lost as she watched him. She stood in silence beside the organ, staring down at him as e hulked against the frame. Everything she had heard of him had illustrated a monster, a horrid demon of darkness that would kill as soon as look at you. But the man she saw standing before her was no more than a man, a tortured soul, shunned by the world and wary of the light which had so badly burned him before.

He blinked, and she realized with a start that she still hadn't answered him. What could she ask a man so plagued by sorrow?

"What's your name?" she finally asked.

The phantom blinked in surprise and drew back from the frame. He studied her eyes intently, and she knew that he could somehow see straight into her soul. "My name?" he repeated in a low tone. "That is what you want to know, Danielle Daae de Chagny? The phantom's name?" He laughed quietly under his breath, but when she did nothing, he stopped, perplexed. A strange glimmer came into his eyes as he considered her, an unexpected softness melting his features. Danielle waited expectantly, relaxing away from the keyboard. He finally averted his eyes and in a soft, cracked voice, said, "Erik."

"Erik…" she repeated. Danielle rested her hand on the sheets of music. "And these…these are yours?" Erik's gaze shifted to the papers, and he nodded. Slowly, warily, he came up the steps to stand on the other side of the instrument.

"My Don Juan," he said. The young woman stepped back, letting him closer to the bench, inviting him to play. Watching her, he cautiously sat and began to play. Under the hands of its composer, Erik's music was as terrible and beautiful as a storm. It shook the very heavens. Danielle found herself drawn forward to perch on the edge of the bench. Such power flowed through the music that she felt it tugging at her own soul, urging her to play. The music was more intoxicating than the flowers from the night before, and her hands lifted of their own accord to echo Erik's notes. She was so engrossed with it that she barely realized that he had surrendered the top part to her, drawn away to the edge of the bench as she leaned over to play both parts. He subtly pulled away, watching her still. His eyes traced the line of her neck until they rested on the black ribbon hanging over her shoulder.

"You found my rose," he murmured, and abruptly rose from the bench. Danielle's fingers faltered as he disappeared, and she stopped to twist around on the bench. The last strains of the music died away so quickly they left an uneasy silence in their place. "You should not have come here," he growled angrily. "You must go back." He snatched up the pole and leapt into the boat, turning back to fix her with a hard gaze. "Come." When she did not rise, he added ominously, "or I will make you."

She stared at him in confusion, strangely rooted to her seat on the bench. When she failed to move, he suddenly jumped back out of the boat and up the steps. He caught her arm in a painful grip and pulled her to the water mercilessly. Startled by his wildly shifting mood, Danielle dug her heels in. "Let me go!" she cried out, trying to free her arm from him.

And he did. Erik let go of her as if suddenly burned, so quickly that Danielle staggered back and fell on the steps. He gasped and leaned heavily against the wall. The girl watched in growing confusion as he shuddered with a terrible sob and growled at her over his shoulder. "Are you here to torment me, child? Have you been sent to exact a more painful revenge than Christine and Raoul have already laid on me? To haunt me like I have this Opera for so long?" His eyes blazed when he turned to look at her. "Well!" he shouted, yet even as he did, he shied against the wall as if afraid to touch her.

What has happened to you? Danielle thought as she stood up. "None of that, Erik," she said. What else could she say? He sighed and placed his head in his hand, sliding it over the porcelain of his mask. Danielle couldn't seem to help but reach out a tremulous hand to it. "Why…" she began.

"Don't," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. Such sorrow was in his eyes when he looked up at her that her hand paused, wavering uncertainty. "No matter how curious you may be, child, you must not truly wish to see what lies behind this mask." He took her hand and folded it in his own. "Please, Angel, believe at least that."

His plea caught her unawares, froze her to floor. In her hesitation, Erik looked away and walked past her. She heard him get into the boat again, the hull bobbing gently in the waters, but all she could manage was to turn her head and look at him. All of his rage was gone. He stood waiting for her without even acknowledging her presence, and she could do nothing but follow him. She sat quietly in the prow and anxiously listened for any sound from the silent figure behind her, but he seemed barely to breathe.

At the edge of the water, he stepped out and took the lantern from the prow, holding it aloft to light the darkness. He held out his hand to her silently. Hesitantly, Danielle rested her fingers lightly in his gloved palm, and he seemed to take her hand without ever truly touching it.

The climb was a world apart from her descent, now led by the solemn figure of the phantom ahead of her. "You live down here, all alone?" she finally asked in a hushed voice, glancing around in the darkness. Only his pale mask appeared over the high collar of his cape as he looked back at her. "For how long?"

"Longer than you have been alive," he replied distantly. "It is a phantom's place to live alone, isn't it?" In the darkness she couldn't see his face, but she felt the underlying resignation in his words, the acceptance of his dark fate. She cast one despairing glance back at the darkness they were climbing from. A shiver climbed her spine, imagining a life completely alone in the depths, shunned from the world. Erik glanced back at her, and his hand tightened on her briefly.

The light of her dressing room was blinding after the darkness of the cellars. The moment her feet touched the floor she heard the glass begin to slide shut behind her. "Wait," she said, spinning around. Erik paused, truly a phantom in the blackness of the corridor. Danielle suddenly felt an undeniable need to keep him out of the suffocating dark he was returning to. As she searched for an excuse, she remembered the music he had played. "Practice with me."

For the second time he blinked at her in surprise. A strange expression crossed his face, an almost imperceptible smile. Danielle waited anxiously, and with a flourish of his cloak he drew retreated into the corridor. "Meet me there." She smiled and grabbed her cloak. The corps de ballet was gone today, but Danielle raced to the stage, still silent as a wraith.

Inside the house, she stalked down the aisles and leapt nimbly into the orchestral pit. The score for Hannibal lay on the piano's keyboard, the performance for the next night. Danielle did not have a part in the opera, but she was always the one to help in rehearsals at the piano. She looked around, back into the house, but no one was there.

Her ears pricked at the sound of a soft creak and hush of shoes. The girl turned around and started to see Erik standing on the stage. Not even realizing it, she stepped onto the piano bench and boosted herself onto the stage, scrutinizing the floor. "The trap-doors lead to the passageway behind the mirror?" He was silent for a long time, and Danielle blushed when she looked up and found him with a bemused expression on his face. He swept past her into the pit, turning back and putting his hands on her waist to lift her down. He guided her to rest on the bench. "Play for me, Angel."

Her fingers moved deftly over the keys. After about five minutes, he motioned for her to stop. "You don't need my help child," he said simply. "You have a great gift. The talent of your mother shines in you. And your father's courage runs in your veins." Color climbed in her cheeks, but Erik graciously ignored it. "You do not need my help to sing, either. Your breathing needs some work, and you sound more a mezzo-soprano than a soprano, but you can sing with a passion that took your mother months to discover. There is nothing you need me for." He turned away, and his fingers brushed over the neck of a violin. He picked up the bow for a moment, studying it. Danielle regarded him, wondering what drove this strange man. He had been listening that closely to her the night before? For a moment, he looked about to play the violin, but with a humorless laugh, he drew back from the instrument.

"Can you play?" Danielle asked from the piano. When Erik's gaze fell on her, she had to lick her lips it was so intense. "My grandfather played the fiddle."

"I know." She frowned in surprise, yet he said nothing. Instead, he picked up the violin and walked up to the stage, setting the bow to the strings.

All thought of her singing, of her grandfather she had never met, vanished as he pulled the bow. Christine's daughter watched in awe as the strains of the 'Resurrection of Lazarus' floated from the instrument. Erik shut his eyes against the memory of Christine listening with the same expression of rapture on her young face so many years ago as he played for her on her father's violin. In spite of his efforts, images of the graveyard rose unwanted in his mind, haunting him, taunting him. He heard the child step up onto the stage, in his mind saw Christine by her father's grave, the Vicomte following her through the snow. Just as the chords of Lazarus opening his eyes would have played, Erik stopped, the bow suspended in his quivering hand. With a ragged breath, he shook his head, fighting to free it from his memories.

Danielle reached out a hand to touch his shoulder at his obvious pain. "I can't," he said. "I can't. Oh, Christi—"

The door to the front of the Opera shut with a loud thud. The two on the stage froze. With a single flourish of his cape, the phantom stepped to the trap-door and was gone, leaving Danielle alone. She started and turned back to the theater as the house door creaked open.

Madame Giry stood silhouetted against the bright daylight before the door shut behind her. She and Danielle stared at each other suspiciously, neither expecting to find another in the Opera. The ballet instructor recovered her composure and gathered her shawl closer as she glided briskly down the deserted aisle.

"What are you doing here today, Mlle Daae?" she asked in her lilting accent. Danielle shifted and clasped her hands behind her back out of habit.

"Nothing, Madame Giry," she said obsequiously. "I though you were out wit the corps de ballet today. Where's Maurice?" At the edge of her vision, she thought she glimpsed a shadow slip onto the high balcony encircling the chandelier.

"I returned for the afternoon," she said, indignant at explaining herself to Danielle. The instructor gained the stage and lifted her chin to stare the girl in he eye. "My grandson is with Meg. The corps does not require my constant attention." Her tone made it all too obvious that the same did not apply to Mlle Daae. "I overheard voices. Are you here with someone, Miss Danielle?"

The young woman hesitated, her eyes flicking to the balcony. Madame Giry caught the direction of her gaze and turned to look herself, but the entire theater was deserted, silent as a grave. It must have been Danielle's imagination that she heard the faint sound of a violin still playing far off.

"Be careful alone in this Opera house, child," the dame said at last. She turned away and walked across the stage into the wings, her footsteps clicking faintly. "More dangerous things than shadows and legends have haunted this stage." And she disappeared without ever looking back.

Danielle released her breath gratefully. She was alone in the house again, but there was no sound of music anymore. She sent one fleeting look at the door hidden in the balcony before returning to the piano.

High above, Erik crouched in the shadow of the unlit chandelier. He held his mask in his hands, following the smooth contours with his fingertips. The phantom frowned faintly at the slight quiver in his hand. It was her, Danielle. Something about her made him feel strange, as if she were forcing him to look into a mirror at himself. At Erik, the features of his greatest, irreparable failure. She was like a ghost from his past, conjuring images of Christine and that great tragedy. The child didn't even know what had happened between her parents and the phantom

He had thought she was Christine. When he first came through the broken frame in his home and saw her sitting at the organ, he had thought it was Christine. He had been surprised when a feeling more of dread than joy had come over him. But then something about her hair, the way she sat, made him think of the vicomte. Her eyes, when she had finally turned to look at him, had been all together different. They held a curiosity, a knowledge and quiet comfort that he had never seen before. The feel of her fingers in his lingered on his palm. It felt like comfort after a nightmare that wakes you in the middle of the night. But Erik had never had that reassurance. This felt familiar, almost poignant. The small, delicate feeling of remorse and pity that he had felt in her hand when he told her lived there was more than he had ever felt before.

Clutching his mask, Erik stood and disappeared back into the shadows of his domain.