Author's Note: Hi, everyone! Just a few quick things I'd like to get out of the way before we begin. First off, I'd like to say that this fic is based on the 2004 film version, so the Phantom is Gerard Butler's version. I understand why some people are not particularly fond of his portrayal of the character (he's not ugly enough), but I feel like Gerry's version is very human in his emotions. If you don't like this version of Phantom, please do not bash my story. Second, while I prefer Christine with Erik, I also find Raoul a likeable character, so I will not be doing any deliberate Raoul-bashing. Finally, as you all know, The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher, NOT me. This is my first "phanfic," so I'm really excited to see what you guys think! Please R&R and enjoy! :)

~CaptainHooksGirl~

Chapter One: Death of an Angel

Christine gazed out the window of the third-story guest bedroom at the de Changy mansion. It was late December, and the beautiful snow which had blanketed the ground the night before was slowly dissolving with every icy drop of rain that fell from the bleak gray sky. It wasn't quite cold enough to freeze yet, just cold enough to make a walk outside wet and miserable. It would likely freeze over in the night, making a journey into town nearly impossible. Christine sighed softly and watched as the Parisian winter wonderland before her melted into a heap of mush, the frigid drops of water sliding down the window pane like tears, as if the sky itself was mourning its destruction of such beauty. She lifted a hand to her face, which was suddenly wet, and was surprised to find that she herself had been crying. She quickly brushed away the tears and returned her hand to her lap, unconsciously fidgeting with the diamond studded golden band that encircled her left ring finger. It had become a habit lately. Already the skin was nearly rubbed raw from the repeated twisting and twirling of the metal about her finger.

"…And of course, we'll have to decide on the flower arrangements, though it may be a bit difficult to find exactly what we want this time of year. Do you prefer roses or lilies, Christine?" The young vicomte paused in his anxious pacing and turned to glance at his fiancé, a concerned look on his face. He gently placed a hand on her shoulder. "Christine? Christine, are you even listening to me?"

Startled out of her reverie, the girl jumped, yanking the ring a bit harder than she intended. It fell to the ground, bouncing off the marble floor with a metallic clink where it landed at the vicomte's feet.

Christine lifted her gaze from the window to her future husband's worried face. "I'm sorry, Raoul. My mind was elsewhere. I was just…thinking…"

Without a word, he knelt to pick up the ring and, taking her hand in his, slipped it back into place. He allowed his hand to linger for a moment, looking up into her eyes. "Christine, what's troubling you? Are you still thinking of the phantom? You know he can no longer do anything to harm us. We are free from his grasp."

Christine bit her lip. "It is not that which concerns me. Raoul, what if he's out there – in this storm? He has nowhere to go now. The opera house is in ruins and all of Paris is searching for him."

"He brought that upon himself, Christine. It was his choice to destroy the opera house, his choice to commit those crimes."

She looked down at their hands, unable to meet his eyes. She remembered when another man had held her hand, when another ring was on her finger. Her voice was scarcely a whisper. "I do not think he ever intended things to end that way."

The vicomte lifted her chin so that he could once again look into her troubled brown eyes. "Christine, he set you free – set us free. He would not want you to worry over such things. Besides," his voice softened, "our wedding day is nearly upon us. You should be happy."

Christine felt another involuntary tear slip down her cheek. Yes, she thought, I should be happy. So why do I feel as though I've left a piece of my heart at the Opera Populaire? I do not love him as I love Raoul, but…

"But what if he is out there, Raoul? What if he's cold and alone? Or even worse, what if he's in some jail cell, being treated like some kind of animal, awaiting execution?" She raised a hand to her face as if attempting to ward off a massive headache. "Oh, this is all my fault! I broke his heart…"

Raoul gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "You did what you had to do, Christine. You did the right thing."

The former singer shook her head, dark curls bouncing against her shoulders. "When I went back to give him the ring, to say goodbye, the way he looked at me…You should have seen his face."

The vicomte's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, believe me, I saw his face…"

"Raoul!" Christine scolded sharply.

"I'm sorry, Christine, but you must admit he does have a face that's hard to forget."

"Yes...He does…" Her eyes were distant, as if she could still see the opera ghost's unmasked features, though there was neither horror nor disgust evident in her gaze. She shook herself from thoughts of the mysterious Angel of Music and turned back to her betrothed. "I know you do not understand my feelings for him, Raoul, nor do I expect you to. I'm not even certain I understand them myself. But he was my teacher – my friend, my guardian angel – for nearly ten years growing up at the opera house, though I only knew him as a voice at the time. I know that he deceived me. I know that he has done horrible things, but I cannot bring myself to hate him. Nor, after seeing him for what he truly is – a broken man with a broken heart brought on by the callousness of the world – can I truly fear him any longer."

Raoul's warm grasp on her hand slackened. "Christine…What exactly are your feelings for him? For me? Are you having second thoughts about the wedding?"

"I…I don't know…I know that I love you, Raoul, but…but everything has happened so quickly these past few days. I think perhaps I need a bit of time to think…to find closure for one chapter of my life before another begins."

Raoul nodded. "That's understandable. You've been through quite a lot lately, Little Lotte."

Christine bit her lip again, unsure of how to ask the question that was on her mind. "Raoul, when we left, we went in such a hurry that I never really got the chance to say goodbye to Meg. She was like a sister to me, Raoul, and Madame Giry like a mother. They were the closest thing to family I had after my father died." She could feel the tears stinging the back of her eyes again, but she quickly forced them back, willing herself to be happy for Raoul's sake. He had done so much for her, it was the least she could do. "Ever since I was seven years old, the opera house has been the only home I've known, with occasional trips to the Girys' house during the summertime." She licked her lips and took a deep breath. "I was wondering whether it might be possible for me to go back and visit them for a few days. Just until I can sort things out."

Raoul smiled gently. "Of course. Take as long as you need." He stood, still holding her hand and pulling her up into a standing position. Leaning down, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "I'll still be here waiting for you when you get back."

Christine pulled back and looked up into his eyes, her own dark gaze filled with emotion. "Thank you for understanding."

The carriage ride to the Giry residence was long and wet. Believing it would be safer for her to leave before the roads and bridges became impassible with ice, Raoul had sent her off in the first carriage available, hoping she would arrive at her destination before nightfall when the temperature would start to drop. At first, Christine had nearly objected, fearing for the health of the coachman and the horses responsible for taking her out in the storm, but when she realized that it might be several days before she could leave if she waited until morning, she reconsidered, making a mental note to leave the driver an extra large tip and stuffing a few sugar cubes into her pocket to give the horses upon their arrival.

As they plodded down the muddy, slushy road, Christine again turned her head to look out the window. Already the puddles were beginning to show signs of freezing over, and the clouds that blanketed the French sky were turning a dark slate gray. An icy gust of wind blew in the open window and she shuddered, wrapping the wool cloak more tightly around her shoulders and silently cursing herself for not thinking to grab some of her warmer clothing from the opera house before leaving, though she supposed it wouldn't have mattered. Most likely her dressing room and the dorms had been destroyed by the fire.

Thinking of the opera house again, she frowned. She wondered if he was still there. Would it be possible for her to go back and see him one last time? Did she even want to see him again? Would he still want to see her, or would she just be another painful reminder of what the world told him he could want but never have? It was, she reluctantly admitted, unlikely that he would have returned to his underground lair after the mob had discovered it, and yet, where else would he go? Ordinarily, he would have been able to outwit the police with ease, and this thought brought some comfort to her. Perhaps he had managed to escape. But, given his emotional state at the time, she wondered whether he might not have willingly given himself up.

There was only one way to find out. She would have to go back to the opera house, back to the dungeons in that underground lair, back to the darkness of that strange world where day and night seemed to merge, where she first saw that hideous face, where she had first heard the siren's call of his music in all of its glory. She shivered, unsure of whether it was from the cold or the dark thoughts that haunted her mind. He had a powerful hold on her thoughts even now, even this far away. Had she condemned a man to death, a man who, though a murderer himself, had loved her with an intensity and passion she had never known before? It had frightened her to feel with such heightened senses, such strength, such power even more than the man himself had frightened her with his murderous acts. Truth be told, his face was probably the feature that frightened her the least.

And now she was afraid to find the answer to her question. It was dangerous, she knew, to return to the opera house. The fire had likely ruined the place to the point where it would be hazardous to walk in and out of the building, much less to go beneath the foundation, and if she found him in one of his deranged states, her life would certainly be in danger. But finding the place empty would be ten times worse…To know that he had been captured because of her would make her blood run cold. He was a murderer, and yet, she had led the police right to him, had exposed him before all of Paris so that he was not only humiliated but also made unmistakable if he were to be found. If he turned himself in because of her…if he was executed because of her…did that not make her a murderer as well?

She had to know. It was against her better judgment, she knew, but she just had to know. Just like she had to know the man behind the voice. Just like she had to know what lay beneath the mask. That burning curiosity had gotten her into a lot of trouble before, and it likely would again. Perhaps it would be safer, more comfortable, not knowing, but she would always wonder if she never even tried to find out. And if there was one thing her father had taught her, it was that taking the easy way out was usually not the best option.

She frowned again. It had been easy, she mused, to fall in love with Raoul. He was her childhood sweetheart, her best friend during those carefree days when they had lived by the sea. He was handsome. He was wealthy. He had a title. He was loyal and kind and caring. He had been willing to die for her. It was easy to love someone who had it all. It was much more difficult to love an angel with broken wings, to love a man who believed he was a monster. He was the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, the Angel of Music who had turned out to be nothing more than a man. He was deformed. He was a liar, a killer. He had no title, no family. Not even a real name – at least, not to her knowledge. He was temperamental and obsessive and perhaps even a bit mentally unstable. BUT he had let them go. Even when his heart was breaking, even when he could have taken his enemy's life and taken her against her will. Raoul had been willing to die for her in the name of love, but he had been willing to die of love to make her happy. That surely meant something.

Sighing, she dropped her head to her hands and rubbed her temples. All of this deep thinking was giving her a headache! Thankfully, she was interrupted from further thoughts of this nature when the carriage came to a sudden halt in front of a small brick cottage. Grabbing the small bag of possessions which she'd brought with her from the de Changy house, Christine hurriedly paid the coachman, thanking him for his time and passing along the sugar cubes for him to give the horses. Then, running as quickly as she could, made a mad dash for the front door, hoping desperately that they were at home. She rapped gently on the door. When there was no response, she tried again, this time knocking a bit harder. Still no response. At this point, she was fairly banging on the door.

"Madame Giry?" she shouted. "Meg? Are you home?" Sighing in defeat, she had just turned to go back to the carriage when she heard the faint shouting of a rather irritated Madame Giry.

"I am coming! I am coming! There is no need to break down the door! Who in their right mind would be out in this weather and at this time of – " There was the click of a doorknob, and the ballet instructor's hand flew to her heart. "Oh! Christine! Good heavens, child, you are soaked! Come in! Come in!"

Sometime later that evening, Christine found herself wrapped in a quilt, sitting on a comfortable silk sofa in front of a blazing fire. In her lap a small gray cat was curled up in a ball, purring contentedly. Christine took a small sip from the steaming cup of tea in her right hand and smiled at the memory of when she had first met the cat. Shortly after her arrival at the opera house, when she still knew very few people, she and Meg had come across a tiny gray kitten wandering around inside the chapel. For awhile they kept it a secret, hiding it as best they could and sneaking it scraps of food from their plates. Inevitably, Madame Giry eventually found out and scolded them for keeping a cat in the dormitories. But, unable to turn away a creature in need, she finally gave in to their pleas and agreed to speak with the managers about the benefits of having a cat around to eliminate some of the rats known to wander about the opera house. Ever since then, the cat had lived at the opera. Of course, all the ballet girls made a fuss over her, but no one ever questioned that the cat belonged to Meg and her. At the time, she had believed the kitten to be a miracle, a companion sent straight from heaven to ease her loneliness in a new place full of strangers. How else did a cat get that far into the opera house? Thinking back on it now, she realized that her less-than-heavenly tutor had likely overheard her prayers, and she wondered now whether he had been the one to slip the tiny ball of fur into the chapel. She smiled at the thought, stroking the cat's silky fur and feeling the rumble of her purr against her hand. Miracle or not, it was still, she decided, an answer to prayer. Perhaps the Opera Ghost was more of an angel than he realized.

She took another sip of her tea as Madame Giry took a seat beside her on the couch. The older woman smiled. "I see Élise has not forgotten you."

"He put her there, didn't he? In the church?"

There was no need for her to specify to whom she was referring.

Madame Giry shook her head and sighed, as if reproving a stubborn child, her long braid sweeping against the lacy fringe of the pillows. "Yes. I told him I could not keep her in the opera house, but he insisted on giving her to you, giving the excuse that he could not care for her himself." She smiled sadly. "Strange, that he could kill a man without a second thought, and yet he could not leave a starving kitten on the streets. I know he can be…" She struggled for the right word. "…difficult…but he really does have a good heart. He has just forgotten how to use it."

Christine frowned guiltily and stared into the teacup as if somehow its contents would reveal the answers to all of her questions. She wanted to ask why the woman who had become a second mother to her had allowed her to be deceived in such a way. She wanted to know how she knew so much about the Opera Ghost, why she was on such good terms with him. She wanted to ask a thousand questions, but instead, she asked only one. "How…how is he?"
The ballet mistress bowed her head. "No one has seen him since the night of the fire."

Christine looked hopeful. "Then he escaped?"

"It is…possible…yes…"

Christine looked worried. "But?"

"They found a body, Christine."

The former opera star slowly returned the teacup, which had been halfway to her lips, to the saucer, hands trembling. "What?"

Madame Giry folded her hands in her lap and stared into the flames. "When we arrived, it looked as though he had vanished. Meg found a secret tunnel behind some curtains, so we followed it until we reached a fork in the path. One route led to the streets of Paris, but the other…" She hesitated, glancing at her student. "The other led to the passage connected to the mirror in your dressing room."

Christine gasped.

"The smoke was too thick for us to see through, and we dared not go back in, but after the firemen arrived they reported that a body had been found. It was too badly burned to identify by the features, but it satisfied the police, if for no other reason than to placate the public. Here." She produced a folded piece of paper from her pocket and held it out to her pupil. "See for yourself."

Carefully, Christine unfolded the paper to reveal a newspaper clipping. The letters glared up at her in big, bold print: FIRE DESTROYS OPERA HOUSE, "PHANTOM" DIES IN THE FLAMES [1]. Numbly, she set the paper aside, unable to read any further. She looked as though all the blood had been drained from her face. "No," she whispered. A few silent tears slipped down her cheeks. "Do…do you believe that it was him?"

The older woman thought for a moment before responding. "He left his mask in the dungeons."

The girl could feel the tremble in her voice, the stinging in her eyes. "B-but he never goes anywhere without his mask."

Madame Giry smiled sadly, the orange glow of the firelight reflecting off the tears pooling in her own eyes. "I know."

[1] My idea for the newspaper article announcing the phantom's death is based very loosely on the original novel by Gaston Leroux in which the paper publishes a simple, one-sentence obituary notice: "Erik is dead." Also, I think it should be noted that there actually was a fire that destroyed the Paris Opera House in October of 1873, so while it doesn't exactly match up with the date given in the film (1870), it's fairly close. I'm not certain if the film-makers tried to tie in this historical event on purpose, or if it was merely coincidental (the book has a chandelier crash but no fire, if I recall correctly). Additionally, the chandelier crash was based on a real incident that occurred in the 1890s, though the crash only resulted in the death of one person. Anyway, I just thought that was interesting and wanted to share it. Wow! World's longest footnote EVER! XD