Title: Mending Hearts and Sealing Fates
Author: Losille2000
Pairing: Phantom (Erik)/ OFC. Would have loved to see Christine and Erik together, but she's just a little too whiny and innocent for my tastes.
Rating: Now, PG-13. Possibly R later on.
WARNING: This is a Phantom/Original Character story. Based off of play/movie. May slip a few things from the book in. There are so few things one can write about in this fandom when doing a romance, so I hope not to step on anyone's toes while writing story. I am trying to make this as original as possible so bear with me.

Disclaimer: I do not own the book by Gaston Leroux, or the play by ALW, or the movie by ALW and Joel Schumacher. Wish I owned the Opera Populaire, and Erik, but alas that would only happen in my dreams. Some very good dreams, I might add. Gerard Butler's Phantom is my favorite thus far, and he is the one I am modeling this Erik after.
Feedback: Please drop a note and let me know how this is going! Used to Lord of the Rings Fanfic, so want to know how my leap to Phantom Phanphic is being received!
Summary/Notes: A young widow, now living with her brother's family, has always had a love for mystery, magic and intrigue. The stories surrounding the strange happenings of the Paris Opera open up a world of interest and rekindle a fire in her she has forgotten in the past years after losing her beloved husband.

Thank you to Mandy the O for the go ahead to post this!

A/N: Period of mourning in Victorian culture was 2 ½ years. Women did not wear black for the entire time, it was a personal choice if they did or not.

Words to know:

Tantine- Auntie

Duc- Duke

Marchioness- Female title for one married to a Marquess (Marquis) in England

Chapter 1- L'Opera

Constance had forgotten just how dreary and dirty Paris could be. She sat in front of the of the large windowpane, looking out on the damp cobblestone streets of Paris. It was a particularly busy day despite the horrid weather that had hammered the city since the earlier morning hours, only relenting the past hour or so to a light, semi-livable drizzle. The only true cheerfulness present this day was the children dressed in their play clothes jumping about, splashing and kicking water at each other in the large puddles. Adults tried to dodge these oncoming sprays of water as they walked by, some not so lucky and their trousers were more often than not doused with the dirty water. The heavily-bustled women gathered their skirts in vain trying to keep them from dragging along on the ground. Polite men, that she had noticed Paris was never in lack of, offered their services to the women with holding the bustles as they got into carriages. Some of the women's dresses were so colorful and intricate… so unlike her own.

It would definitely be odd to wear a bright dress again, after so long without.

She glanced down at her dress, and sighed tiredly, noting glumly that this shade of black had turned grey over the past years in mourning and it's many washings. Perhaps it was only her dour mood, and wearing this dress that made this afternoon so dreary. It would be two and a half years in only a days time, and still she could not come to terms with the fact that she was alone and that her husband was gone. She wondered if she would ever forget him, or the joy he brought to her life… the energetic music swirling through the hallways of their home, from the grand piano in the parlor. Or those times in the evening she was weary and he would play her a soft tune to ease her mind into another, calmer place. Or his spontaneous bouts of energy that often had him talking her into accompanying him on trips all over Europe. As infectious as his smile was, she knew it would be his full laugh (that had first drawn her to him) and resulting reddened cheeks that she would miss most.

Their marriage was one of the few of true love matches amongst the French and English society men and women riddled with arranged marriages only for monetary and status gain. They were shunned by the others most of the time, society thinking that their level of gaiety and love for each other was beyond respectable, if not downright offensive for such high-borne persons. And she knew they gossiped and laughed about them when they learned of her husband's passing in a horrible riding accident. Sometime she wondered what the women specifically whispered about, especially since the women were more vocal about the distastefulness of their relationship, but she had a strong sense that it had to do with her now being unable to shove the happy life together with her husband in the others' faces. Only slightly displeased about the way they acted back in England, she knew that had they been in France and in France's rapidly declining nobility, the snobbery could have been much worse.

A crack of thunder shook the windowpane, and interrupted her sad thoughts. She jumped back from her window seat taking a few deep, calming breaths. It really was fright to be interrupted like that when one was in such a deep state of thought. Soon the sound of small shoes on the wooden floor found her ears, and the door was cast open with a loud bang against the wall. In ran her young nephew, Alexandre, his dark floppy hair falling in his eyes. She smiled softly and bent down to scoop him up into her arms, knowing his utter fright of thunderstorms.

"Tantine will you come sit with me while I do my lessons?" he asked, holding onto her neck for dear life. "The thunder scared me."

She smiled and brushed a piece of his dark hair out of his eyes, "That would depend entirely on what lessons you are doing. If it happens to be arithmetic, you best wait for your father to come home."

"No, it is writing," he said.

"Well then," she said, placing him back on the ground, "let us get to your lessons."

"Do you know where Mama and Papa are?" he questioned, walking beside her toward his designated play and lesson room.

Constance glanced down at him, "I do not know. Your father said he had business today about an acquisition of property, and your mother must have some important tea to take because she would not leave the house in this weather otherwise."

"Papa said he was going to L'Opera today, but that was in the morning," Alexandre said.

She had heard nothing of that. Her brother was to go to the Opera Populaire? To do what exactly? Granted, she had only just come back to France to live with her brother Olivier and his family, and was not yet familiar with the day to day pursuits of Olivier's business matters, but she had heard the rumors of a ghost and of the tragedy that had occurred there not a year earlier that shut it down. What was his interest in the Opera coming from? He had never been exceptionally enthralled by the arts, least of all music, dancing and singing. Perhaps he was buying it to turn it into something else, though she hoped he did not do that. She had seen the opera house in all of it's elegant glory when it was first constructed and would consider it sacrilege to harm such a marvelous structure even with it's checkered past.

"I am sure that whatever he is doing, we will find out soon enough," Constance finally replied, looking down at him. Soon they were deeply embroiled in the learning of the correct way to form the alphabet in lowercase letters. Alexandre was such a bright child for his age, and she could see quite a future ahead of him especially since his parents had the ways and means to give him the best education and attention France had to offer. But he was always a delight to speak to, always the most gracious and soft-spoken boy she had ever met. That was a great testament to his parents' skills and own manners, being sure not to bring him up as a spoiled brat, like most of the children she had met going about in these circles.

"Now, how do you make a letter 'D'?" he questioned. She smiled and leaned over him, taking his hand and guiding him along.

A few hours passed quickly, but she had not noticed just how involved they were until hearing the door to the room creaked menacingly open. Alexandre wasted no time in dropping his pen and running for his mother who now stood at the door. "He was worried you would not make it home, Joséphine."

The blonde woman laughed, her blue eyes lighting up, "Because of the thunder?"

"Yes," Constance said with a nod, noting the new diamond-encrusted brooch resting just below the low neckline of Joséphine's pale pink evening dress. She must have gone out with Olivier, or she would not have acquired the large, yet tasteful pin.

Joséphine smiled, and turned back to Alexandre, "Let us get you down to the bath Danielle was preparing for you when I came in a few minutes ago."

With a resigned sigh, she went to cleaning up Alexandre's mess after watching them leave the doorway. Constance sat on her cushioned stool, collecting the book of blank pages and various writing utensils into one small pile, paying special reverence to these artifacts, her preferred mode of expression. Some people had their music, some their dance, or art, but she had her writing. That was until her husband had passed on. She had not picked up a pen with more than an intent to write short correspondences in the past years, and she never knew if she would do so again. Only if her mind could be set free from this torture, would she ever be able to write well.

"How long has it been, Connie?" came the rough, deep voice from behind her.

She jumped and swiveled around quickly, finding her brother's dark shadow leaning against the door jam. "You scared me!"

He chuckled, "I am quite sorry, I did not mean to give you a fright."

"I do not believe that, Oli," she pursed her lips together and turned back, finishing her task hastily. "You always did that on purpose when we were children, why would you change now?"

"This is a good question," he said. "But then I have to ask, why does it still bother you? I would think you to be conditioned to it by now."

Constance shook her head and rolled her eyes, "No one would ever get used to it."

Olivier nodded his head and removed himself from the door jam, walking into the soft lamp light in the darkened room. He looked around briefly, unbuttoning the buttons of his frock coat and smoothing back his black hair. She watched him as he carefully sat in a small seat across from her, smiling softly, "How long has it been?"

"How long has what been?" she questioned.

"Since you wrote anything," he replied.

Constance sighed and looked away from him, "Why do you ask?"

"You must think me a fool Connie," he said. "I know well the look of detached sadness your faces takes when you are thinking about something like this."

"I did not know I was so obvious," she said and stood up, walking to the window and looking out on the darkening city. The sound of Olivier's hard-soled shoes shuffling on the wood floor alerted her to the fact that he was joining her, but she did not feel like bothering to turn around. She sighed, "I see no use in writing of far-off places and fanciful sword fights and magic any longer, Olivier. And least of all do I see a reason to writing of fantastical love story, when I know now that nothing like that could ever last."

He let out a long breath and did not deign to reply for quite a long while, seemingly quite hesitant as though he were trying to think of the best way to phrase what he was about to say. "It has been two and half years, Connie. I cannot bear to see you continue on in this pattern. This is not you, moping about all day in black and thinking there is no more reason to life than just to be miserable. You are a Marchioness in Britain. Your husband left you such a great amount of wealth… You could do so much. And besides that, you are the beloved sister of a Duc of France. I would see to it you had a wonderful life if you let me."

"Your title does not necessarily mean what it used to with the revolutions, dear brother," she remarked.

"No, it does not," he nodded his head in agreement, "but we still have privileges others do not."

Constance watched as curtains of rain fell outside the window onto the street two stories below. "It seems that the weather mirrors my mood."

"It does not have to," he said. "Please, Connie, William would have wanted you to move on. It is the only thing you can do to keep on living a decent life. You will go mad soon enough if you have nothing to occupy your time."

"I know," she replied, feeling tears prick at the back of her eyes. Crying had become a daily occurrence for her, and she hated letting the grief overcome her so much that she had to let it out somehow. It truly was not like her… she was the least likely woman to cry over anything. "I was just that William was my reason for living for so long, I feel as though I cannot, or will not, ever find that again."

He sighed softly and took her into his arms. Olivier was never one for outright affection, but he was always there for moments when she needed his support the most. As quickly as he embraced her, though, he set her free and turned to walk toward the door. However, he stopped at the straight-back chair an sat down. "I have a business proposition for you."

"Business proposition, Olivier? You would let a woman speak her mind on such matters?" she questioned chidingly, brushing away the tears that never quite spilled over, and cleared her throat.

He scoffed, "You know that I value your advice, even though it is often ill-guided."

Constance rolled her eyes and walked to the chair opposite him, sitting carefully down so as not to smash her bustle. She sighed, "What is it? A way to get me thinking of other things again?"

"In a way, yes," he nodded.

"Well, do not keep in suspense," she replied.

"You were probably wondering where Joséphine and I were for such a long while," he began.

Constance shrugged, "Alexandre said you had plans at the Opera Populaire today."

Olivier chuckled and shook his head, "He can run his mouth sometimes."

"Like his father," she remarked.

"But yes, we both went to the Palais Garnier today," he said. "I had not realized the devastation of the auditorium left after the chandelier falling and the subsequent fire. My point for visiting, though, was that the managers wish to sell it. After their rather discouraging beginning in the arts, they have taken the past year to decide what they wish to do with it. Remodel it and open the doors again, or unload it and the stories surrounding it from their worries. They have finally decided that their talents are better used in their scrap metal business, which I would tend to agree with."

"I see," she said.

"We know your love for music, Connie, and how well you can run such a large household in England. I know running an opera house has little to do with running a household, but your skill in delegating tasks and making tough decisions would make you the perfect manager of our newly purchased Opera House…"

---

"I do hope that they agree to buy," said Firmin, brushing the dust covered seat in the long-abandoned manager's office. "I would so much like to be rid of this horror."

Erik could not help but laugh at the remark from the rather foolhardy manager. He had warned them well that tragedy would befall them if they did not do as he said, and yet they still chose to do everything against his wishes. It would have been quite simple for them to cast Christine, give him his box and his stipend. They could have had quite a peaceful coexistence in this opera house if they had seen the genius in his casting and in his work. And yet, he was glad that they had not… he had put so much work into helping Christine, only for her to step on it in the end. She did not deserve his mentorship after going off with that whiny excuse of a Vicomte.

But then, who was he to rule over love? The powerful Phantom? The evil Opera Ghost? Those meant nothing in the realm of love. No, he was just Erik, a man who had never really felt loved in his life. No, now that recalled, no one ever truly loved him. He had only ever poured his deepest and most sincere love onto others, and found himself hurt every single time he had let his heart out of it's cage, trusting that they would return it. There was no other like Christine, and he was very sure there never would be; there would never be another woman of such sweet innocence and ungratefulness. And while there was a faint glimmer of hope with her for a stretch of time that she could change and see past his problems, he was quickly replaced when the Vicomte was named Patron.

It was obvious that Christine and the Vicomte had fallen so deeply in love after that performance of Il Muto, and it was his jealousy that flared toward the Vicomte that night that he could not control and had led to everything else. That was what had ruled his actions in the long run… his jealousy, not his pure love for Christine. In a way, he knew that Christine deserved much better than him, and that he had grasped at straws for such a long time trying to keep her with him against her will, but it hurt no less to see her kissing that man and professing her love to him. What it had damaged most was his hope, the only thing good he had left in his mind. Hope that one day he would be loved and accepted like a regular person. There was always a good amount of it until that night.

The kiss de Changy shared with her was nothing like the one Christine had given him in a moment of desperation. In her kiss, before he let them escape, he had sensed something odd. She had, for a time, held a respect for him that could have been love, but he was the one responsible for changing that, not the Vicomte. Even though she may have held that affection for him at one point, there was something quite unmistakable missing from the passion in her kiss. At the time he had not been able to place exactly what it was lacking, but after a few moments ofthought, he knew she would never be able to give him her complete surrender of heart. He would never have her true love. As much as she kissed him with as much affection as she could manage, it was evident fear and pity were the only things there. He would not be able to live with that for the rest of his life.

Ultimately, it was his jealousy and his rage that had caused that fear and pity, and placed her in between two men dueling for her love. Aye, it was entirely his fault for what had happened.

And yet, he knew he would always love her, perhaps more than the one she was wed to, but he had never been able to truly show that to her, not with all the sordid happenings of L'Opera and his blind greed.

He sighed heavily, adjusting his black cloak on his shoulders, peering down from the tall rafters in the ceiling. Everything seemed to remind him of Christine, even the simple drafts blowing across the unmasked portion of his face, always spurring these thoughts.

The other, slightly less dense manager, André, now glanced up from the paper he was looking over, "Are we sure we wish to sell it for this little?"

"No one will buy it, if we do not keep it this low, André," Firmin replied.

"There is considerable work to be done, and then with the worries of the Ghost, I do agree," André said

Firmin rolled his eyes, "Do you really think he stayed here after what happened? It would be most unwise."

"I just cannot get over the feeling that his presence is still here," André sighed. He had always been the more intuitive of the two.

"Why do you worry? It will not be one of our worries if the Duc de Louvois takes it," Firmin said.

The other nodded and placed the paper back down on the dust-covered desk, "I feel it immoral."

"Now you are going to start worrying about morals? You should have worried about that a long time ago, messieurs," Erik found himself remarking under his breath.

"As I continue to say, he is not here. There is no music or beautiful women to keep him here," Firmin laughed and stood from his seat.

Now that was uncalled for. Granted, he always found Christine to be special among all of the chorus girls, but it was not her doe eyes or her soft smile that had truly attracted him. After all, she had been very young when they started with their lessons. It would have been wrong for him to think of her in that way, however much time passed and he began to realize that she was grown and exceptionally gorgeous. Which often made him wonder why he thought he had ever had a chance with her to begin with, even with his element of control of her mind.

Nay, it was the instant she opened her mouth and spoke with the soft, smooth voice that was a strong characteristic of a possible singing ability. It was the instant he realized that she was a lost lamb, searching for someone to take her and guide her along to become the best she could be. It was the instant she consented to him, allowing him to teach her.

He bit his lip. He was doing it again. Thinking of her again. At least he was getting better at stopping himself before the thoughts completely took over and plunged him to a greater state of depression than he was already experiencing.

"I still think we should warn him," André replied. "It is the only respectable thing to do."

"No, André," Firmin responded resolutely. "We will not, besides, he still seemed quite keen on buying it anyway. I want this worry off of my back. Besides, he said it was just to be a hobby for his daughter or sister or something. Some relation. They will be here tomorrow to make a final decision."

Erik perked up at that. The Opera was an awfully expensive gift to give to a distant relation for a hobby, even if the business partners below were selling it for dirt. What kind of person would buy this masterpiece of a theatre and turn it over to some woman who probably knew nothing about the opera and ballet to begin with? But it was not his lot to stop it now. He would wait to see if they sold it. At least André and Firmin would be gone.

"Come, André, old chap," Firmin said. "We have a dinner party to attend."

He waited until the lamps were snuffed out and the friends left the room. Now to prepare for his guests.