Disclaimer; I am neither Andrew Lloyd Webber nor Gaston Leroux.

Author Note: Hello all! I hope you all had an amazing Christmas- mine was brilliant, as somehow nearly every gift I received was Phantom related, so I was continually squealing throughout the day, as you do. This update is not the start of my new story, but a one-shot that came to me and, as it is set around this time of year, I thought it appropriate to upload it. If you dislike how it ends, do what I did and think of it as a prequel to Someone Worth Living For :-).

My new story will be the amnesia idea, and I am writing it at the moment with the hope to start updating relatively soon, though I can make no certain promises. Also, the fic might have to be postponed when my scary exams start to bring tonnes of revision down upon me nearing late spring.

The name of this fic comes from a poem 'The Hour and the Ghost' by Christina Rossetti. Whenever I read it, I immediately think 'Phantom!' See what you think! Do you agree? I do urge you to read the poem- it's brilliant.

Enough of me now, onto the one-shot.

The Hour and the Ghost

After the disaster of the Il Muto production, Christine Daae and Raoul fled to the rooftop and confessed their love, breaking the heart of the Phantom who stood listening, hidden from their sight. It has been almost 6 months since that night, and Christine has not seen or heard from her Angel since. It is nearing the Masquerade Ball to celebrate the New Year, and Christine makes a decision to take matters into her own hands, making a deal with her Angel that has the potential to restore or ruin them completely...

The cavernous expanse of the empty dressing room seemed to sum up the feelings stirring within Christine Daae exactly. Her hand lingered on the cold door handle, wincing as it gave a small creak of protest as her shaking hand eased it down, pushing the door open and immediately closing her eyes as the tumult of emotions spiralled through her, making her feel suddenly small and worthless stood in that cold, empty room.

She ignored the dust and the long-forgotten bouquets, whose petals were now withered and delicate as tissue paper. She did not care for the red scarf that was abandoned on the chair of the dressing table, or the cloak that hung quietly from the door. If she had allowed herself to stop and stare, she would have come to terms with the horrifying fact that she had not been in this room for 6 months now; 6 months of separation, of hurtful avoidance, of deliberate attempts to shy from all contact, all meetings- if Christine had let that sink into her cowering mind, she would have surely fled the room and once again refused to enter.

You are a monster, she told herself harshly as her eyes opened and met with the mirror, you are a foolish child who does not know what she wants. The words, though silently tumbling through her mind and her own creation, burned her like hot coals and before she understood what she was doing, her feet were moving; crossing the carpeted floor of the dressing room, propelling her forwards to meet her fate- a fate that rested in the shape and form of a mirror.

There was something shattering about viewing your own reflection. It was a cold truth that seemed to throw up the very things you did not want to see, forcing you to accept their existence, destroying all your hopes that your happiness and attempts to leave the past behind were working at last. Christine forced herself to stare at the glass- she trembled to see how exhausted she looked, how truly sad her eyes were. Surely she should be blooming, smiling, sparkling with the joys of being free from dark shadows stalking behind her though the opera house corridors?

She had cried the insults; distorted, deformed, eyes that burn, hardly a face, cruel words that had made her feel strong and capable as she declared them, but words that had the awful power to haunt her dreams and cause her to wake herself with her own screaming. She had ripped away the mask meant to protect her from the truth. She had fled from him, into the arms of another, and avoided this room for 6 achingly long months and refusing to be alone at any time in this place of shadows and lurking mysteries, and yet she was the first to crumble. Standing before a mirror with a truly pitiful expression, stupidly raising one tentative hand to touch the glass and feeling the serene cool beneath her fingertips, curling against the smooth surface and wishing, oh wishing, that someone might be on the other side of the glass, mimicking her with his own elegant fingers pressed desperately against this cruel glass barrier-

Oh, you stupid girl! You- you foolish, selfish, repulsive child! Christine tore her hand back from the mirror surface, a guilty child with stolen sweets, cradling the offending hand to her chest as she hiccupped a sob and thought of Raoul- darling Raoul, who had been a constant support these last few months, fighting off the gossips and the jealous hate of that conniving diva La Carlotta only to be met with her unease and increasing silence. As his doting paternal care had progressed, she had seized the chance and simply slunk further and further behind him, allowing him to make the decisions and to pull her through alongside him, a reluctant puppeteer. She was reliant on him to keep her afloat in this ever growing spiral of misery- and was this because her heart was forever destined to exist entwined with his? Was it because she yearned for his touch and his gentle kisses, as a moth yearns for a flame?

No. As much as she wished for it, of course it was not such a mundane, acceptable, normal reason for a young woman to rely so desperately- and even pathetically- upon a handsome, chivalrous young man. It was far worse than that, a matter that Christine would have never dared to accept had she not been so tormented by it that she was growing further and further away from her true self each lingering, painful day that she continued to ignore it.

The truth was that ever since the chandelier had crashed down and landed at her feet, dressed as the Countess having just kissed Raoul over and over upon the rooftop of the opera house, destroying her ties with Erik completely...she had been defunct. Useless. Paralysed with guilt and shame and such self loathing that what little independence and strength she possessed had disintegrated into nothingness. Her shame had made her ignorant, her scared state telling her that if she avoided this room, the mirror and anything at all that connected her with the Opera Ghost, she would be fine. But what a lie, what a cruel torturous lie, that had been.

With a frustrated sob and a strangled howl, Christine let out her pent up anger and self-hate onto the mirror, beating it with her fists over and over until the glass caved in, cracking and finally shattering in one location as she continued to pound it without mercy. The shards of glass that exploded from the mirror made several deep incisions in her lily white hands, weeping streams of red that dripped and flowed silently. The sickening iron stench that came with the sinister red was so potent that a metallic taste danced on the tip of her tongue.

She suddenly realised what she had done, feeling her heart contract with misery and shatter much like the abused mirror, oblivious to the searing pain of her now stained hands as she stared in utter horror at what she had done. Erik, her mind wept pitifully, oh Erik. Her misery at not seeing him for so long was taking hold of her and scaring her with its fierce consequences. But still it burned inside her chest as she bent over, clutching her hands to the place that ached with each miserable throb- she had inflicted this upon herself. She had caused this pain, this suffering.

Christine Daae fell to her knees at the foot of the mirror, her dress billowing out around her- it would have been pretty, had she not been sobbing and covered in blood. With her choking, gasping tears came the acceptance of the pain and the blood; the salty tears that dripped onto the self inflicted wounds made her bow her head and wince as each cut seemed to scream and burn with nauseating pain.

But that pain was nothing compared to the pain in her heart. Heartbroken, she thought numbly, that is what I am. An odd conclusion, considering that Raoul, the man she was supposed to love, had not broken it...

On the other side of the mirror and down in the catacombs, where the walls glistened with damp and the rats scurried on various urgent missions to scavenge for morsels to stuff into their greedy faces, two men where storming along one particular corridor in angry silence. Their faces mirrored each other; both murderously angry, both a strange strangled colour of purple and both looking strained, as if one more insulting hiss from the other would be enough to spark a fully blown fist fight. Erik, in his usual melancholy dress of pure black and with a burning look in his odd yellow eyes, was about to be the one to utter the malicious comment when suddenly both he and Nadir were shocked out of their refusal to speak by the faint yet certain sound of a crash. It filled the eerie darkness, fitting the macabre setting and not unnerving Erik in the slightest.

He was still fuming over a conversation that had spiralled into a heated argument between himself and Nadir earlier that evening- Nadir, ever the patronising bigot, had taken it upon himself to object heartily to Erik's plans for the New Year. Nadir loathed Erik's decision to force the incompetent management to place his opera, Don Juan Triumphant, on stage so that he might be able to sing with Christine once more before falling back into his pit of depression and animosity to the living world. The idea that Erik wanted to wallow in self-hate and despair had vexed him to the point of shouting, but Erik had been angered too by Nadir's constant righteousness that he did not care to listen to.

Nadir had then declared a disliking for vicious weaklings who 'despaired over one particular brick-headed ninny', ending the perfectly amiable conversation and Nadir's visit to the house across the lake altogether.

The unexplained sound and the uncomfortably chilling atmosphere of the tunnels was apparently enough to bring Nadir out of his silent sulk.

"Dear God, what was that?" he asked in an uneasy voice, his eyes darting about the gloomy tunnel, causing Erik to raise the eyebrow that wasn't concealed behind the white mask upon his face. "I thought that no-one else knew about, or entered, these tunnels. The noise came from within the tunnel, Erik, I am sure of it."

"Yes, yes, stop fussing like an old woman, Khan!" Erik snapped in reply, still fuming due to Nadir's feeble and aggravating attempts to act as his moral compass. He didn't want Nadir to constantly bombard him with jargon that made no sense; he didn't want to hear that he was 'lashing out to compensate for his own pain' or that he was 'twisted by previous events'. How could the Persian ever make such claims to understand the reasons or the roots of such acts or emotions, when Erik didn't understand them himself?

The old fool could criticise, pick faults and analyse him until he died, but Erik would never be moved by the meaningless words; the only opinions he cared to hear were those from Christine, and as her focus was currently fixated on a rich pansy, he did not even care that much for her words- not that she would ever bless him with them, anyway. No- at the present time, he was far too cynical and broken to care for calm, rational actions. He wanted to demand that his opera was performed, to sing in duet with the woman who had stolen and crushed his heart one last time and then to die, peacefully, and to escape this tortuous existence that he was currently suffering through.

Of course the stoic Saint Nadir and his irritating optimism would fight bitterly against Erik's dismissal of hope, but again Erik found himself morbidly wondering if Nadir appreciated how much easier his life would be if Erik were in fact dead. In fact, how easy it would be for both of them.

"Erik?" Nadir prompted again, receiving a heartfelt death glare and swallowing nervously in the darkness, trying to block out the steady metronome dripping of water onto the stone flooring- a sound straight from a nightmare that sent cold shivers running down his spine.

"Look, Khan, I know that you are absolutely terrified of what is likely to be a rat scurrying about in its own filth, but you need not stress like an old woman! These are the tunnels below an opera house, not a den of thieves where a cut throat is likely to jump out of the shadows and massacre us both in the bloodiest fashion possible!" Erik snapped again, irritated and finding cruel delight in how Nadir's eyeballs seemed to bulge at the mention of bloody massacres. "I am the only thing to fear in these dank catacombs, so stop fretting, else I will give you a real reason to be terrified!"

"I'm not terrified, blockhead." Nadir shot back, sounding wounded, so Erik resisted the urge to retort with several other insults that would highlight his cowardice. "I only meant to point out the fact that we are in a tunnel built by yourself- no one else knows of its existence, which makes the sound worrying. And...well, I suppose it makes no difference that at the end of this particular passage is the brick-heads dressing room?"

Erik would have normally started a verbal, or perhaps physical, fight in retaliation to Nadir using his favourite new term for Christine, as he resented the Persian's method of dumping all the blame upon her innocent shoulders. But he could not force himself to think of an insulting term, not when the source of the odd noise could have come from Christine's dressing room. Before he had fully made the decision to investigate, his legs were propelling him onwards and his mind was plagued with worry. As he started to run, his mind dreaming up all kinds of sources for that odd crashing noise, he idly wondered how the girl was going to react if she saw him again, after so long. He still regretted dropping the damned chandelier and ruining their fragile relationship, and it suddenly occurred to him as his fingers brushed the damp walls that Christine was likely to be thrown into even deeper terror rather than relief if he came barging into her dressing room to save her from the various catastrophes his sub-conscious was dreaming up.

He didn't care enough to stop and balance the argument out- he was now fretting in a manner he despised, and was glad that the puffing Nadir was trailing miserably behind, for he would delight in teasing him about this stupid frenzy he had worked himself into.

He did not pause in his run through the gothic tunnels, the goal of the dressing room and the mirror separating him from her his only focus- it struck him again; a dressing room that she had not entered for any length of time ever since the disastrous production of Il Muto and his pea brained chandelier stunt.

It was bittersweet when Erik finally made it to the mirror at the end of the passageway, stopping at the glass barrier and putting his hands against his side of the cool glass, staring through to the room on the other side with frantic eyes and swearing in a low voice as he took in the scene- Christine, kneeling at the foot of the mirror, sobbing and covered in blood. The glass of her side of the mirror was smashed in one area of impact, as if hit with something very hard and heavy with great force and in his maddened state Erik suddenly had visions of an unknown attacker throwing Christine against the mirror. He could not help it- he had to ignore the breathless plea of crimson cheeked Nadir, who had just caught up with him, opening the mirror with a dizzying surge of adrenaline to his already pounding head and gazing down upon her where she sobbed by his feet.

He waited, for what dragged like an hour, for her to notice him and to look up, anticipating her scream or gasp of horror.

Christine heard the mirror open and frantic breathing, and her heart throbbed as if trying to tell her that her demented wishes were coming true in a dreamlike manner, but her mind and the sense she clung too refused to allow her to believe that Erik could possibly be standing before her as she had craved for so long- feeling once again that ache for something she refused to comprehend, she looked up and immediately burst into yet another flood of ridiculous tears to see him, Erik, standing before her.

The once frightening mask, his guarded expression, his odd yellow eyes- they were all glorious memories turned to reality, and with the sudden relief that came to her Christine could not stop her immediate reaction. She stood up, forgetting in that moment that her hands were screaming out in pain from all the lacerations the broken mirror had caused or that her gown resembled that of a murder victim, and threw her arms around him with a euphoric cry.

"It is you! Oh- I can't believe that you're here!"

Nadir, standing a few paces behind Erik and concealed in the gloomy shadow of the passageway, took a moment to recover from his shock, watching as Erik recovered himself and then gasping as he saw his friend slip his arms around the girl, clinging to her and savouring the moment he had dreamt of for so long. He disagreed with it entirely- the brick-headed ninny would only break his heart again and cause yet more destruction, but even Nadir was not foolish enough to end this moment. He knew that the pair of them were probably going to have a talk that neither had anticipated, and that many tears would be shed before the night was out, and sensing that it was best to leave them alone he turned and quietly went back to the lair, wondering what state Erik was going to be in when he finally came staggering home.

Christine, from somewhere amid the joy and the warmth of the embrace, realised that she was clinging onto Erik with such force that her grip was probably hurting him, and that she should not be engaging in such things when she was practically promised to another man. Reluctant yet mortified, she hastily managed to disentangle herself and spring backwards, wishing that the red blush dusted across her cheekbones would fade before Erik could notice. When she stole glance at him again, peeking through the veil of her hair, she saw that Erik looked disappointed and awkward, his arms hanging limply by their sides, as if wrenched from their rightful place around her.

Before she could speak, or he could try to stammer some reason for barging in like this, his mind suddenly recalled that she was covered in the sinister paint of blood; he could smell it now his face was no longer buried in her hair, the sickly iron tang detected on the tip of his tongue and making him screw up his face slightly in disgust at the unpleasant smell. He shifted his eyes carefully from her face, his gaze falling upon the bits of her clothing that were saturated with blood and instantly filling him with horror. She stared confusedly back at him until it finally dawned upon her that his sudden horror and the look of terror in his eyes was centred on her rather horrific state. She blushed again, the red burning on her cheeks, and she very nearly giggled in hysteria.

"What happened to you?" he demanded hoarsely, forgetting his awkwardness at their reunion after 6 tortuous months of separation as he gazed upon her bloody, dishevelled state. "Why...why is there so much blood? Who did this to you?!"

Christine reacted to the building fury in his voice immediately, as if attuned to his voice. What a heavenly, euphoric and yet cruelly unrealistic fantasy, Erik considered drily as she fumbled to yank back the pointlessly frilly sleeves of her dress to reveal cuts on her hands and wrists, before gesturing to the mirror and the shattered glass. Erik's mind instantly conjured up the images of some thug, maybe even the repugnant fop, throwing her into the glass, but those runaway thoughts were soon mollified by her stammered explanation that made little to no sense, but seemed so silly that it had to be true.

"I- I did this." She trembled- afraid of him? Or just in shock? Erik could not decipher a thing in his own dazed confusion. "I cut myself when... when I hit the mirror."

"But...why?" Erik asked in a whisper, seeing her shrug in a pitiful way and instantly wondering if she was as crazed as he due to this drawn out separation. But soon the shock of the situation and his relief that she was not as badly injured as previously thought, his romanticised thoughts began to anger him and his tone became sharp and rude. "Why are you even in here? Shouldn't you be out and about on your Vicomte's arm, at a party or something else as equally as ridiculous?"

"Why would I be doing that?"

Her eyes were guilty, pooled with remorse and wide in silent plea, almost begging him to understand, to not condemn her- Erik shuddered a little, already disgusted with himself. He was almost praying that she might scream and run from the room and him, for at least then he would be able to be sure of her emotions and then cope with them accordingly. But this...it was hellish, pure torture, searching her face with frantic eyes and desperately trying to fathom what she was feeling. But his search of her face, as cryptic as it was beautiful, was futile; all he could truly understand was that there was guilt and awe mingled in her eyes- something he placed due to shock, or a confused haze at this seemingly random meeting. What else could it be?

"Oh, it is December, is it not?" he asked wearily, exhausted by his own inconsolable mind. "Is this not the party season for all the Ladies and Gentlemen?"

"I'm not a lady."

"Oh!" Erik instantly sounded murderous again, cracking his knuckles in an ominous manner. "So your little Vicomte won't take you out as his companion to whatever snobbish rendezvous he is gorging himself at tonight, hm? If he cannot see the lady before his eyes when gazing upon you, then he is- God, I could wring his scrawny neck for such blatant ignorance!"

"No, Erik!" Christine burst out and both of them froze for a second, shocked that she had used his name so freely, as if nothing had occurred between them. "I didn't want to go! I was invited, I promise you, but I...I am in no mood to socialise."

"But why? Surely with the joys of Christmas and New Year looming, you are happy?" he prompted, his voice clearly scorning the 'joys' he had missed out on so often in his own life, and well aware that the conversation was soon going to turn to a subject he dreaded. His stomach churned and clenched as if in sympathy.

"Because...because I... because I feel broken for all that I have done to you." she finally whispered in a very matter of fact voice, and Erik stiffened, as if he had just been hit with a tonne of bricks and not a soft, calm whisper. His breathing became shallow, and he found himself leaning forward slightly to catch her quiet words. "I feel broken, Erik, and I...I don't know how to stop feeling like that."

And with that final sentence, uttered in that same soft tone as before, the calm exterior crumbled and she began to cry; real tears, like an abandoned little girl again, sobbing noisily and pulling on Erik's very soul with each pitiful hiccup and sob. He didn't understand why she was so upset- surely she hated him, blamed him for everything?

"Christine..." he said helplessly, unable to say or do anything to help her, for once entirely useless.

"I feel so tired and shattered and guilty- dear God, Erik, if only you knew how I felt!" she hiccupped again, bordering hysteria. "I am constantly reminded of how childishly I fled from you, and called you such horrid things to Raoul- whenever I sing, I remember your lessons and your kind words of wisdom and support and I feel so wretched I could just forget everything and hide away from the world- it is unbearable! All I want, Erik, is to return to how we used to be; you, a guardian, me an adoring student- or just friends! Oh, to be on good terms with you once again Erik, that would be so...oh, I cannot describe how wondrous that would be! Dear God..."

Erik gently helped her to sit down on the stool of the dressing table and he knelt in front of her, taking her bloodied hands and cleaning them gently with a handkerchief, silent. He could not even bear to think that her words could ever be true- to hope that she would mean it and they would be true friends again would result in the ultimate loss of hope and light if she then went back on her word. The crushing feeling from losing such hope would surely turn him insane and kill him. And how could she even think that a friendship would work- what about her fop? Could she even cope with his apparent hideousness? So many obstacles that seemed to stand in the way; Erik was almost glad for it was better to be realistic now than to hope and then be crushed again.

"Christine, you're exhausted and you're hurt. You need to go home." He said gently, in a soft voice that had not been used in quite some time. The soft, caring tone made her blink at him through her tears in astonishment. "And...and don't feel guilty for what has happened between us. The fault is entirely mine, and I will not hear and argument to suggest otherwise."

"So, you do not wish to see me, to be my friend?" she asked, suddenly a child, innocent, easily hurt by trivial matters. His heart squeezed painfully, too tight to breathe with comfort.

"Did I say that?" he corrected her in a warm whisper, a voice that he had assuredly never used before in his life. "But I do know what is best, which is worth far more than what we both desire- and that is for you to go home and rest and me... and me to never torment you again."

"I'm not asking you to torment me!" she replied forcefully, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that made Erik want nothing more than to drop this attempt at being gentlemanly and to just fall and beg at her feet to never leave her company again. He fought to contain it, scared that an outburst would create far worse things than never seeing her again. "I'm simply asking you to allow me to repair what I have broken- to be your friend, Erik! No pretence, no false motive! We should be able to be friends, after all that we have been-"

"Christine, no." He choked, the words contrary to the plea of his heart, tasting bitter and repugnant in his throat, making him tremble and quake as he tried to stop the pathetic waves of hysteria that threatened to overcome him and focus instead on her hands rather than her eyes. "It is best if I leave you alone, and so that is what I am going to do."

Christine suddenly reached out and cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her and into the fury of her eyes. He fell silent in his horror, both in ecstasy and torture to feel her hands on his face.

"Best for who? For me?" she spat, the words sparks from a violent blaze rather than from a gentle, timid young woman. "Look at me Erik! LOOK AT ME! Do I look as if I am better for being without you these last horrid 6 months? Do I appear to you as improved, glowing, radiant with joy?! Look at the heart broken wretch the separation has created; a girl who knows she ought to loathe you from the depth of her soul, and yet she cannot! I have tried- oh, I have tried with all my heart! But I cannot force it, Erik- I am unable to despise you when my feelings are so contrary to hate!"

Erik could feel his heart smashing against his ribcage, racing and juddering and spluttering inside him, suddenly freeze as if stabbed with a shard of ice. Her words were like the shard of his imagination, petrifying him into this motionless state of bittersweet anguish. His eyes watched hers, locked onto those brown orbs of beauty that seemed to cry out for his touch, his kiss, his love and at the same time made him want to leap up and run from her, protecting both her and himself from the havoc his tainted mind was capable of. She moved her hands from his face to his own hands, clasping them and shocking him with the tenderness and warmth of the gesture, her eyes so full of anger falling back into a tearful wreck, with the offending tears gathering at the corners of each eye like glittering jewels.

"I cannot live happily unless I can sustain a friendship with you, Erik." She spoke desperately. "Say that you will not push me away- say that we can forge this friendship again and that we will be returned to the days of conversation and singing and an alliance between us two."

"Don't do this to me, Christine." Erik began to cry, feeling his calm shatter. "Don't do such a cruel thing to me if you care as you say you do. You cannot mean to raise me up to such hopes and then throw me down into the depths of despair again when fate decides to end this- don't do this to me! I beg you!"

"But I mean this!" she said urgently, squeezing his hands tightly. "I promise that ours will be the truest of friendships- I will visit this dressing room every single day for us to laugh and talk and sing and- just say that you will end this suffering, Erik, don't abandon me!"

"No, no." Erik hiccupped, choking on the words that he both wanted and loathed to say. "You do not understand- to promise me such a thing when I am so terribly in love with you – it will break me! Christine, you will marry your Vicomte or find me terrifying once again when my hideous nature or face ruins everything, and I can promise you that the fall from such hopes will break me and turn me to insanity! I cannot know what I would do in such a state- oh God, Christine, do not be so cruel as to give me such hopes!"

Christine did not hesitate; she leant forward and pressed her lips onto Erik's, wrapping her arms around his neck, falling to the floor beside him. He began to cry as he melted against her, tasting the honey sweetness and feeling the soft warmth, fisting her hair with trembling hands and tasting salt as his tears met their joined lips. It was enough to make him want to die, to end his horrific life on such a beautiful moment so that nothing could ruin or destroy such wonder. He clung to Christine after he started to cry too much to continue the kiss, and he felt her tremble in his embrace like a small animal. Then, he wanted nothing more than to protect her- he would do anything she asked of him.

"Believe me Erik, I will never be so stupid as to break you again." She whispered into his chest.

"Christine..." he sighed into her hair, submitting to her wishes and at once beginning the euphoric climb back to hope and happiness, ever aware of his perilous position on that glorious road to a happier life.

Christine did keep her promise for several nights, coming to him after rehearsal. They would talk, laugh, sing and even once ventured out into the Parisian streets to walk along the river in the cold December air, Christine giggling about the upcoming Christmas and New Year celebrations, and Erik content to share in her happiness, savouring each smile and feeling the shattered shards of his heart slowly start to rebuild themselves.

But neither could have predicted what would end the promise and the happiness that was blooming between them, for neither of them had any say in it- it was Raoul de Chagny, taking Christine aside on Christmas Eve and slipping down onto one knee as he produced a ring encrusted with the most beautiful diamond one could ever imagine that broke the dream. Christine, delighted, of course accepted his proposal and the happy couple went out to dinner that night- Erik sat waiting for her to come to the mirror, but she never did.

The next night he waited, and the next, and the next but still she never came; Erik did not know that she was out and about Paris on her new fiancé's arm, how could he know? But Nadir waited with him every single night and watched as the fall from the euphoria made him lament and cry and fall into such an angry rage that he very nearly shattered the newly mended mirror completely. And Christine, lost in the heady bliss of young love and the adoration that was poured upon her by Raoul and Raoul's company, completely forgot about her promise to Erik and the friendship they had restored.

When the night of the New Year's celebrations, in the form of a Masquerade Ball, came about Erik was crushed, broken and a seething mess of anger, rejection and sadness. Nadir watched with eyes ancient with sadness as Erik silently donned the Red Death costume and left the house without a word, leaving for the Masquerade Ball, not knowing quite what he wanted to do yet but certain that it was going to inflict the misery he had been dragged through upon all the dumb, oblivious Parisians whom, at that moment, he loathed. He tucked the score for Don Juan Triumphant under his arm and made his way to the Masquerade Ball, leaving Nadir to sit and worry and to honestly fear that his friend might not return to him alive.

Christine first caught sight of him on the crowded stairs. She was being whirled round by a smiling Raoul at the time, breathless and dizzy with excitement and joy to see all those around her so happy and smiling. The New Year was bright and honey sweet on their lips- even more so for the young couple as they danced, lost in one another's eyes, for Christine had a ring hidden on a necklace. They were at last engaged, and so immersed in their shining, exciting new love that they could be flying up and away and not care for the menial life around them- it was as if they were surrounded by golden light; pure, elite, untouchable.

It was odd to catch sight of Erik amongst the colour and vibrancy. She saw him on a spin, her eyes catching his and immediately her heart pounded in her chest. On the next spin, she fixed eye contact and she could tell by the faint sparkle in his yellow orbs that he had seen the odd smile on her face, and was ecstatic that she might be pleased to see him.

They engaged in eye contact throughout the next few dances, stealing looks at one another, Christine peeking enthusiastically over Raoul's shoulder and smiling even broader each time, even giggling the last few times like a child- Erik's face soon broke into a smile, and he beckoned her over with those deep eyes of his. As Erik watched her, and saw her honest happiness at seeing him, the intense hatred and murderous intentions bubbling within began to fade. Perhaps she had been busy- he convinced himself of it, now sure that she had wanted to visit him after rehearsal but had been called away for dress fittings, or to comfort a friend who was upset. Yes, that had to be it. She wouldn't have forgotten him, not with a smile like that.

She saw, with each delighted gaze, that he was progressively moving away from them, into a darker, hidden corner of the otherwise bright party and she knew, with a bubble of gleeful anticipation, that he wanted to speak to her. She knew, from the erratic thud of her heart and how her head felt heavy and unwieldy on her shoulders as she missed a beat and staggered a little, that she craved this conversation too. But the extent to which she craved it startled her and she stumbled again and again until Raoul, laughingly, helped her to the side and dashed off somewhere on a gentlemanly mission to locate a beverage to cool her down. Christine could feel the world spinning, and seeing that Raoul had been waylaid by Monsieur Firmin, she staggered up and dashed across the room to the secluded corner, grinning at Erik foolishly.

He smiled back at her, his eyes warm and glowing, but then in an instant they seemed to harden, ice forming on top of a pond on a winters morning. The ice in those smouldering eyes, however, was not enough to disguise the first emotion that pooled in them- Christine gasped a little to see the hurt and crushing realisation that filled those odd, yet beautiful eyes. At once she knew what had caused it, how could she not? But still she hoped as her hand crept to her chest that she would not feel the hard, cold texture of her ring beneath her finger tips. With a nauseated gasp, she felt the ring under her fingertips and she immediately shoved it down her dress, out of sight, unable to look into those accusing, hurt eyes of his that bored into her own with icy fire. Her skin was flushing red, and creeping on her arms, and she felt silly little girls tears spring up and collect in the corner of each eye. She was delighted to be engaged to Raoul- she loved him! So why did she feel so guilty, so awful, that Erik now knew? She would have had to let him know at some point...Christine cringed a little as she thought about her earlier plans, to run away and never to tell. At least, this way, it was out and admitted.

"Erik." She whispered, forcing her eyes upwards and recoiling a little as she met the unspeakable rage gathered into his own. "Erik, please, let me explain-"

"Oh, Christine, there is nothing to explain." He snapped, the melodic whisper that was so often enchanting now cold, direct and stinging like acid on her skin. "I should have expected nothing else from you. I suppose that you have forgotten the promise you made to me, that winters night you begged me to return to the old days? I had hoped, foolishly I now see, that we really might have been able to put everything behind us and return to being friends of an odd, beastly thought. I even believed you. But no, as soon as your darling Vicomte comes in, gushing meaningless drivel and brandishing a big shiny rock you forget me? I should have expected nothing less from you!"

Christine nearly sobbed. It all came flooding back- the promise in the dark of the dressing room, how she had begged Erik to not turn her away, promising that she would come to see him regularly and sing with him and wait for him each night in her dressing room again, just as they had before...

"Oh dear God, Erik I-!" she tried to burst out, but he stopped her with a look.

"No, no, Christine I fully understand." He hissed maliciously, his tone at odds with his words. "But I understand on the basis that you can accept that I am...I am mad! The jealously, the RAGE in me now as I stand here and look down upon you in disgust and horror at myself for believing you...the things I am thinking of doing, the disasters I can cause- my dear, dear Christine, I don't know what my insanity will cause now, but you should pray that the Daroga is not in my home, for if he is gone, I will return there and kill myself now. But if he is present...that rage, that fury, will materialise itself in the form of a nightmare- a living nightmare! You have crushed me, Christine, CRUSHED ME!"

"Erik, stop it!" she begged, aware that they were not alone, and that Raoul would soon be trying to find her. "Please..."

"Erik hopes that Christine knows that anything Erik does will be because of her and her ghastly little fop!" Erik hissed, still unable to disguise the quiver of hurt in his voice, or the shattered pain in his eyes. "Now dance with me, Christine. Dance with Erik. One last time, mon ange, mon amour...make up for the damage you have done."

Christine allowed herself to be tugged onto the dance floor, numb and broken. Her heart felt dead and cold, a weight inside her chest, and she sobbed silently into Erik's chest as they danced silently amongst the noise and joy of the other partygoers.

The feel of his arms, warm around her and holding her as if he were laying his life down for her, reminded her only of that night, that night that felt so terribly long ago even now...she remembered how they had talked, poured their hearts out, cried together and how she had kissed him and he- he had kissed her back, with true feeling and longing and fear. For what reason could she pinpoint on this terrifying heartache she felt, whirling in his arms? Why did her heart speed up to see him- why did her cheeks turn pink, or her mind dissolve into senselessness?

She knew that this was love of a kind- a dark kind, a fearful kind, a kind that good little girls were not meant to tolerate, or understand and least of all return.

"Erik, let go of me." She said quietly, feeling his response through the tightening of his arms.

"Christine." He whispered, his voice cracking and the sob audible. She pulled away from him in surprise, seeing the anger had crumbled and the tear tracks gleaming on his skin and mask as he shoved her away from him, turning with an angry yell towards the crowd. "Why so silent?!" he taunted them as they gazed on in stricken, silent fear. "Go on- stare upon the ugly beast as he drags the innocent girl around the dance floor. Why else would the beauty dance with the beast?"

He grabbed Christine's arm, pulling her back to him, holding her around the waist and spinning in a slow, deliberate circle before pulling her along with him to the staircase, the sobs growing louder and angrier as the few stood on the grand, imposing staircase shuffled aside. He reached out, touched her face and then stepped away from her- as if distancing himself, knowing that his words were going to hurt her; he, even in his crazed anger, was trying to stop himself from causing her pain. Christine felt numb, trying to reach out to him, to lead him away from this crowded ballroom before someone realised that he was the Phantom- but then she saw the opera score under his arm, and knew that it was over.

"If you do not wish to suffer the endless, breaking torture that I have endured, you will do as I say!" he shouted at them, his voice cracking and becoming hysterical. They all knew as they heard the words then that he was the Phantom- Christine saw Monsieur Firmin grab Raoul's arm, his face bone white behind his mask. "I bring you the finished score of my opera- Don Juan Triumphant! If you perform this opera as I instruct, I will leave you all to continue with your miserable lives, unchallenged and free! But if you dare to disobey me again...I cannot tell you how you will suffer! A chandelier fall is nothing! NOTHING!"

He turned, his eyes blazing with fury and insanity. Christine did not cower, despite the shout from Raoul from across the room. She tried to tell him with her eyes, tried to apologise and explain and convey to him that she was frightened, God she was frightened, but that she understood now what she must do- that she must stop hiding from her true emotions, that she must tell him...tell him that she- that she loved him.

"And you...you!" he barked at her, the words falling and crumbling into a sob. No matter how hurtful the words, or how vicious the tone of his voice, Christine could not be scared or believe his evil intent, for his eyes were filled with tears and looked exactly as they had the night he had begged her not to make such promises to him- she knew, with a sickening throb of her heart, that this was her doing. Just as he had said it was. "Your chains are mine! You will belong...belong to...to...me!" Oh Christine, why?! WHY?!"

She reached out with one hand, desperate to make contact, but then in an explosion that threw her backwards and sprawling on the floor, he was gone again. Lost to her. Hurting. Crying. Her heart ached and she fought back the tears as she staggered up.

"Christine? Christine!" Raoul sounded frantic as he gripped her hands, his eyes wild and furious as he scanned the startled crowd of stunned onlookers. "Where did he go? Where did that monster run off to?! I will slay him- I will run him through and watch as he dies for causing you such discomfort and pain! Oh Christine, forgive me, I would have slain him then and there had I known..."

Christine felt numb as she nodded and refused to crumble. Raoul was desperate, frantic even, but there was still that boyish thrill glinting in his eyes behind the initial shock and fear. She could tell, with a certainty that sickened her, that Raoul was like any other young man; he was excited by the prospect of fighting for what he had claimed, thrilled to think that someone might wish to challenge him and that he might get to prove his superior skills as a result. She could not begrudge him for a fault all the young, excitable men held, but still it made her want to turn her head and run form the room without a second glance back at him and his poised stance, hand creeping ever closer to the sword at his belt.

As Raoul was swarmed by other men and women from the party, all excitably chattering away and reminding her of gulls crowing a rotting fish, Christine decided to flee from the ball. She ran as fast as she could, grabbing her skirts and hoisting them up further that what would be deemed appropriate, but she didn't care. All she knew, in that maddened run as she tried to ignore the desperate, accusing throb of her shattered heart, was that she needed to find Erik- she needed to explain to him that it was a mistake, a huge mistake, that she could never forget and loathe him-

Oh God, she thought as she came to a sudden and painful stop outside the door as tears sprung into her eyes, I do love Erik. I love Erik so much, yet not enough- or is it enough?! Christine could not bear to dwell or loiter, so wrenching the door open she stormed across the silent darkness and began to beat upon the newly repaired mirror, trying to open it herself, failing, so resuming her frantic screaming and beating upon the glass.

"Erik!" she screamed out, her voice cracking and burning as she tried to project her voice, tears exploding down her face as he curled fists pounded the innocent yet taunting glass. "Erik, please! Let me explain- please, I beg you! Just listen to me, I beg of you, please!"

She ended up in a crumpled, dishevelled heap at the base of the mirror, her cheek pressed against the cool glass as she cried like a child, desperate and hoarse from her continual begging for him to come and speak with her.

"I'm sorry, Erik, I'm sorry." She whispered, the tears fading to silent trickles of sadness as she closed her eyes against the hurt and the truth of what she had done, how she had failed- what a fool she truly was.

From behind the mirror, Erik fell to his knees and sat beside her, sobbing. Their cheeks were pressed against the glass in the exact place- they would have been touching, huddled together to brave the onslaught of their tears. The only thing that separated them was the glass of a mirror.