A/N - I considered not posting this, because it didn't seem fair to start something new when I have several stories yet to be completed. I couldn't resist, however. I'm sure you all understand. When the creative bug bites.. well...

At any rate, I'm not going to give a big synopsis on this. I realized that in fanfiction we know what's going to happen before it does, usually, because of the plot we explain in the beginning! Anything that happens in this story will have to be a surprise, so I hope you enjoy!

Please review. And be patient, this is very much an introductory chapter. More will follow, hopefully another today to look deeper at Erik.

February 22, 1846

"Again, Christine.." the melodic voice demanded gently. The trembling child of a girl obeyed, pink lips parting to emit a lovely sound. Unseen by such innocent eyes, the beast behind the walls reveled in the melody produced. His lovely protege was progressing rather well, and each time she succeeded he felt as though something brilliant had emerged in his dark, dark world.

"Angel," came her sweet voice, beckoning from his reverie into the world of the living with her.

"Yes, child?" He replied, attempting to sound as paternal and comforting as he could manage. The poor girl was still frail, mourning the loss of her father. She was scarcely ten and had already been within his realm for nearly three years. The pain was still etched so freshly within her delicate heart, however, and he reminded himself to be very tender with her.

"Is my father in heaven?" Came the innocent query, her big doe eyes alight with both hope and trepidation – as though she feared the answer would not be the one she sought.

For a moment the man felt a sliver of guilt. Guilt for manipulating and fooling such an innocent in this way, for twisting her most precious hopes and beliefs to suit his whim and earn her trust. Guilt for being so damned dark, and guilt for basking so freely in her glorious light.

That moment passed quickly, however. He had learned many years ago to suppress such emotion, and today was no exception.

"Of course, Christine.." he answered smoothly. Before she had even a moment to reply, he began to sing. His soft voice weaved about her mind, entrancing her. The words were unimportant and scarcely recognized by either. The man could only stand, transfixed, as the worries of her world of light faded from her pretty features, replaced with the numb look of bliss he imparted to her. At least he could provide her with that, this escape from the pain.

The man felt compelled as he watched the child relax within the control of his voice, longing to protect her from all harm. To ease the burden upon her heart, to make her smile always. This man would never be a father, but as he observed this wisp of a girl with chocolate curls, he longed for that connection. For family. For love.

June 7, 1852

"Christine! Christine!" He could hear her precious name upon the lips of others, yet he could not find the soft voice that moved his heart. He moved quickly within his secret passages, ignoring the errant whispers of the ballet rats. He had no interest at all in their frivolties. He was searching for his pupil, his companion. His Christine.

At last he came upon the apartment home of the ballet Mistress, and found inside a gathering of the irritating little rats, all clustered together in ribbons and curls. They were giggling and chatting behind their hands, faking self-restraint as they obviously waited for someone.

At last the door opened, and the face of his beloved came into view. Little Meg was clutching her arm, face abeam in a brilliant smile. She was obviously proud of herself for delivering Christine to the event, and all of the other girls screamed in unison. The shout was enough to make him cringe.

"Christine!"

The slender token of their affection went white, her face ashen and frightened for a moment. The man stifled a sigh and longed to reach out to her. To comfort her. Could those who called themselves her friend know so little about her? Did they not realize how easily frightened she was, or how much she detested being startled? Worse yet, did they not know that she despised her very own birthday? All it brought to his little angel was a reminder that her father was no longer with her. It was on this very day that he had left her, alone in the world.

Alone no more, the man mused, as he watched her recover as gracefully as she could and force a smile to her companions. She appreciated their gesture and would never reproach them for their thoughtlessness. Once she stepped into the room and began to murmur thanks, they all stood on slender legs and encompassed her with hugs and laughter. They each attempted to pull her in one direction or another, and finally amidst all the chaos someone had to step in.

"Enough!" Margeurite called over them, and they instantly stilled. Leaning heavily upon her cane, she strode forward into the midst of the room – the little ballerinas parting like the sea before her. She came to stand before Christine, and the dark observer held his breath.

The two stood before one another, eyes locked. A sad understanding passed between them. With a sorrowful expression, Margeurite apologized to Christine, and with a tilt of her head and a bit of a smile Christine forgave her.

"Happy birthday, Christine.." she finally stated, reaching to hug the child who had somehow grown into a woman. Christine had become like a daughter to Margeurite, as much as to the man within the walls watching the scene unfold. As Christine had developed into a young woman, leaving behind the awkwardness of childhood and embracing the fullness of her beauty as a lady, Margeurite could only watch with a bit of satisfaction and a hint of sadness. It was terrible that her father or mother could not be here to see what a lovely person she had become, but she felt pleased to have had a hand in the rearing that produced such a good person.

For the dark shadow that lurked, uninvited, the transition did not bring such simple emotions about. When Christine had arrived as a tiny girl he had imagined himself as her father. He had protected her from the pranks of the older girls, coddled and coached her, and been everything he could be in that role. He could not ascertain when the change had occurred, but at some point he found himself staring at his student with entirely different motivations. He would daydream about what her hair would feel like within his fingers or upon his cheek, or worse yet – what those sweet, moist, pink lips must taste like! He struggled with it for a considerable amount of time, attempting to purge himself of such lustful thoughts. He was a dark beast, and had no right to as much as desire an angel such as herself. Their encounters had been strained, several leaving Christine weeping and distraught. She worried over disappointing him, her angel. He attempted to comfort her, and when it only fed the needs within him he could do naught but turn away and escape her fierce beauty and appeal.

Today his precious turned sixteen, all but a woman now. Suitors had already begun to call upon her, and though she was always polite she declined each of them. He knew Margeurite worried that Christine was too quick in her rejections of them, She needed to find an affluent man who would care for her, make her his bride. The frail and ever-so-sweet Christine would only smile at the only mother she had ever really known, and dismiss her worries with a gentle shrug. He secretly thrilled at her disinterest and hoped he would never have to share her affections with anyone. That would never do.

Amidst all of the noise within the small, overcrowded room, it was a soft sigh that brought the man out of his reverie. His angel was perched upon a footstool and was carefully opening packages wrapped in colorful tissue. Hair ribbons, a broach, and even a soft pair of gloves lay in the pile of opened gifts. Though he had been paying little attention, he was sure Christine exuded gratitude as she opened each and moved on to the next only when the girls insisted.

Now, however, she held a book within her hands. It was bound with leather and the title was embossed so neatly upon the cover. She ran her little fingers over it again and again, and he could see the crystalline tears that trembled upon her lashes.

"Tales of the North" the book said, and though the onlookers did not understand it's significance Christine did, and so did her angel. She opened it finally, reading the inscription time and again.

"Never stop dreaming, Christine. Never stop believing." The ink was blood-red, and the print was a bit scrawling. Again those precious fingers traced each letter, leaving the man behind the gift breathless with the thought of what they would feel like upon his cold flesh. She looked up toward the ceiling, and smiled a special smile. It was his thank you, the man knew it, and in his heart he thrilled at the look upon her face. Above all of the other gifts, he had pleased her.

Margeurite, who had watched this exchanged with a worried expression, cleared her throat to break the tension. Immediately the girls, who had been silenced by Christine's display, began to chat and giggle again. The moment had passed. Margeurite stared rather intensely at Christine, and she just blushed and lowered her pretty head so as to avoid the Madame's gaze.

The party had concluded without any more dramatics, and the hours had passed painfully slow. The angel of music had busied himself with rather simple tasks, nothing heavenly or holy on his agenda until the appointed hour in which he would meet with Christine. He had sent above for provisions, worked a bit on his composition, and then taken a long, scalding bath. It did not matter that his body had been frigid for many, many years now – he still attempted in vain to find solace from the bitter chill. His alabaster flesh was a raging pink by the time he emerged, but he had long since accustomed himself to this familiar ache. It was better to be in pain than to not feel at all. He had dressed meticulously, a fact that he mocked himself over. The precious girl would never see him, so why did it matter how he appeared?

That question could not be answered, at least not logically, but it was his ritual. He would always prepare for her as though she were an Empress. Though she may never know or appreciate the gesture, he still believed she deserved no less.

The man arrived at the mirror just in time to see her burst into the room. Her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was a bit labored. She must have been alarmed at the thought of being late, and ran to her room from her dinner.

"Angel," she gasped softly – and all of the composure he had built around himself crumbled. This was no longer the little girl he had pretended was his own. There was no blood relation between them, and he desired her fiercely. It would be so easy to simply take her. He could do it simply enough. Chain her to him forever. But the precious light that lit her soul would flicker, and eventually die. All of his darkness would dispel the light within her and he could never live with such a heinous act. He had killed more people than he cared to recall, and it was an easy enough task. Routine, really. But this one simple female had brought the terrible beast to his knees. He responded the only way he knew how.

"Oh, Christine.."