quite a few details have been changed. based predominantly on the 2004 movie.

i am in love with POTO and erik. nuff said.

please review and ENJOY!!!!

YOU ALONE CAN MAKE MY SONG TAKE FLIGHT

At seven years of age, only one aspect of my life mattered: the music. I aspired to become the most sensational opera singer to ever cross the great and prestigious stages of Paris. So my father, after weeks of my persistant begging, sent me off to school at the opera. I was beyond thrilled at the wonders that I was certain would find me there.

Once I had arrived, along with eight other girls like myself, at the opera house, I couldn't speak. Such majesty, such beauty! I was ready for my chance to become whom i was sure I would be. Everyone would know me as Christine Daae, the best opera singer in France! Maybe even the world!

I quickly become close friends with a girl named Meg, who was only a few months older than I.

"I want to become a ballet dancer," she informed me immediately. "My mother is in charge of ballet here at the opera house."

"Really? My father is involved in music like me. He plays the violin extradonarily well." I boasted, my head held high.

And then it was time for our first lesson.

Days passed quickly at the opera house. Soon they turned into weeks, and weeks to months.

In December, I learned that my sickly father had passed away. I mourned him profusely. I was devestated, for only two weeks before, when I had traveled to see him, he had told me that the angel of music would watch over me. No such angel had ever appeared to me.

Years passed, and all too soon I was fifteen.

A little less than a month after my birthday, a sideshow fair came to Paris, near to the opera house. We students entreated our teachers to allow us to journey there for an evening, a request which was quickly agreed to. Grinning at our success, we grabbed our coin-purses and headed out into the streets of Paris with Madame Giry, Meg's mother and our ballet instructor. Meg, unfortunately, was sick in bed and could not attend the fair.

We roamed in a group, gawking at each attraction with appropriate "ooo's" and "ah's". Then we approached a large, black banner with "The Devil's Child" written upon it in dripping crimson letters. We hustled into the small tent, anticipating what was to come.

A small cage, covered with a gray shroud, sat in the middle of the area. The owner of the fair, an enormous, red-faced man who scared most of the littler ones, followed us in, booming, "Step right up! Come this way, ladies and gentlemen, to see the one and only Devil's Child!!!" He pushed past the crowd to stand beside the cage, and then slowly, with a dramatic flourish, swept off the cloth covering it.

There, behind the cold metal bars, lay a thin boy who appeared a bit older than I. He wore only torn breeches, his head covered with a woven sack. Growling with frustration, the owner forced open the cage door and sent a flying kick towards the boy, who crawled to the corner of the cage. He held his arms up to shield his face from the owner's vivious blows. Furious, his face beet-red, the owner overpowered the weak, bruised boy and pulled the sack off his head. An audible gasp rose from the crowd as the "Devil's child"'s face was revealed.

It was ghastly, without a doubt hideous. The skin on the left side of his face was an angry, twisted red; hopelessly deformed. Yet I felt nothing but compassion for him as he attempted to shield himself from the world.The owner gripped the boy's dark brown hair and yanked his head back. The ladies present shrieked and the men winced. Coins were thrown into the cage, and the crowd dispersed.

My group was leaving, but I lingered, staying at the edge of the curtained entrance. Yes, I felt moving pity deep in my stomach, but also something else that I could not identify.

The owner continuied beating the boy, calling him the most malignant and awful names I had ever heard. Before I could stop to think, I quickly moved to the cage, banging on the bars, screaming, "Stop it! Please stop it!" I ran into the cage and hit his back with my insistant fists. The gigantic man whirled to slap me across the face, and I landed against the bars and sagged, stunned. Eventually, he grew bored from hurting his main attraction and greedily crouched on his hands and knees to collect the money strewn about.

Suddenly the boy was on top of him, a stray piece of rope wrapped around the heavy man's neck. i could only watch, amazed, as the owner wheezed and gasped for breath, and collasped to the ground, unmoving.

For a moments there was shocked silence. Then the boy looked up into my brown eyes with his wide amber ones, and before either of us could move, Madame Giry was there. "Dear God," she inhaled sharply.

"Madame!" I cried, coming to my senses. "You have to help us! We can't let him be taken! Please, Madame!"

She hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Take the boy to the opera catacombs, through the grated entrance on the street. Hurry!"

I heard voices outside, and I nodded fervently. "Yes, Madame, thank you!" I grabbed his hand, hissing "Follow me!" in his ear. Together we fled into the darkness.

Hand in hand, we raced down the dreary nighttime streets of Paris, leaving the outraged crys of the fairfolk far behind. As we turned the corner, the opera house stood right in front of me. The boy silently and quickly followed me to the wide, barred grate on the side of the opera building. I opened it and beckoned for him to follow me inside, and once we were both in I shut the gate behind us.

I led the boy through the damp tunnel, feeling my way through. "Just a bit farther," I panted as a faint yellow glow greeted us from the opening.

And we emerged, grimy and blinking, into the area by the undergrond lake he would later call home.

Alright, first chappie, not by far my best.

oh and I don't own phantom of the opera. at all.