WHERE THE FIRE SUBSIDES BUT STILL GLOWS

I have been meaning to write this for quite a while now, and I can probably thank the movie for finally inspiring me to sit down and actually start writing it.

Engllish is not my first language and I am hoping it's not too painfully obvious. I have no illusions that the grammar is perfect, far from it. But I hope that the story is readable still.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of the character (unfortunately), because then I would certainly not sit here and write imaginary stories about them.

"What are you doing here?"

She jumped at the sound of his voice coming out of nowhere. Turning around quickly with the small silver jewellery box she had been looking at still in her arms, she now stood face to face with the source of the voice. It was him. She could feel her legs go weak by the sight of him standing there before here, dressed all in black and the white mask covering his eyes and the lower portion of his face. Must be another one, she thought remembering the other mask lying in a drawer in her room.

"Forgive me, monsieur," she began, "I didn't mean --"

"Didn't mean what, mademoiselle? Didn't mean to sneak down here where you are not wanted? Or didn't mean for me to catch you? Come to steal my silver?"

She shook her head, horrified at the accusation. "Oh no, monsieur, never!

She saw him raise his left eyebrow and followed the path of his eyes to her hands. That's when she realised that she was still holding the jewellery box in her hands. Oh God, she silently moaned and hurriedly set it down at the table behind her.

"I wasn't going to steal it..." she quickly said, turning around again to face him and meeting his eyes with a steadiness that surprised her. He didn't believe her, she could tell as much.

"Then, pray tell, just exactly what are you doing here," he slowly moved towards her as he spoke, "in my home…uninvited I might add?" His voice was filled with bitterness at the words "my home" and looking around she could understand why. The mob had destroyed most of the things in the room, and she felt a wave of sadness wash over her. This was part her fault. She had been in that mob. Granted, she had regretted her actions immediately when she had arrived down here, and she had not been a part of the smashing of his possessions, but she was the one responsible for this.

She sighed as she looked around; she had been the one leading them down here. Her fear for what he might do to Christine had made her forget her mother's warnings about this man. And here she was, once again ignoring her mother, and for what? To tell him she was sorry? That had been her plan, but now looking at his smashed belongings she knew that her meagre apology would not change a thing.

"I don't…really know, monsieur…" she mumbled, suddenly very much aware of how close he was standing, blocking her way out of the room.

"You expect me to believe that you came down here on a whim?" His voice was impatient as he turned away from her and walked towards the door, stopping abruptly just before it and turning around again.

"People do not come down here because they feel like it. I have neither the time nor the patience for your games, mademoiselle Giry." Her eyes flew to his by the mention of her name. "Yes," he continued, "I know perfectly well who you are."

It was stupid she knew that, but some part of her brain had actually thought, or maybe hoped, he might not recognise her. How very silly of me, she banned herself. Of course he would know who she was. It wouldn't surprise her if he knew who everyone who worked at the Opera was.

"Now, little Giry, tell me the truth. Why are you here?"

His voice changed to a very low and almost seductive tone and she couldn't help but being mesmerized by it. She could definitely understand why Christine had believed him to be her angel of music. He drew closer to her while speaking and when she finally gathered her wits, he was standing a foot away from her, which made her slightly more uncomfortable.

Her eyes cast down at her hands, trying to think of what to tell him. How could she explain to him the reason for her invading his privacy. It had only been a week since the mob had destroyed his home and Christine left with Raoul. She shouldn't have come here so soon, but the guilt had been overwhelming and she had to know. Was he still alive? What if he had been hurt and was lying down here in need of help? Her mother held the deepest respect for this…man, and even though Meg knew very little of their dealings with each other, she knew that he had helped them a great deal here at the Opera and this was maybe the chance for her to give something back.

"Mademoiselle…?" he demanded.

"I wanted to... to see if you were alright, monsieur…" she whispered fidgeting with her hands in front of her.

He laughed then. Not a joyous laugh, but a sarcastic and bitter one. She could se his eyes narrowing behind the mask and knew he didn't believe a word she said. Sighing, she closed her eyes.

"You don't believe me…do you?" she asked, her voice trembling a little. Leaning against the table behind her, her hand was gripping the edges tightly. She had come here, uninvited and unwanted, invading his privacy and without any reasonable explanation. Fear was beginning to rise in her thinking about what he would do with her. He had killed people for less, and she really didn't think that her being the daughter of Madame Giry would make any difference.

"I can't say that I do…" he hissed, narrowing his eyes.

She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly feeling too tight.

"It was my fault," she whispered. She raised her eyes. "I led them down here…the mob. I am so terribly sorry. I don't --"

"Little Giry," he interrupted. "I highly doubt that their march down here depended on you. They would have found their way with our without you. Now, go home to your mother, you have made your apologies." He dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

"But --"

"No buts," he snapped. "Be a good girl now and leave me."

He sounded so tired, Meg noticed. It was as if something had drained the life out of him. He was only a shadow of the powerful man she had seen on stage that night, singing with Christine. It was the departure of Christine that was the cause, she knew as much and wondered for a moment if he really had loved her after all. The gossip still flowed freely upstairs about the opera diva and her dealings with the infamous Opera Ghost. They called him a maniac, crazy with his obsession for Christine, but now standing face to face with the same man, she couldn't help but wonder if there wasn't more to the story.

She turned and left him standing there, shoulders slumped and head hanging. She slowed her steps when reaching the door and hesitantly turned around to cast a last glance at the broken man. Her heart filled with sorrow and pity for him.

"Uhm...is… is there anything I can do?" she asked, her voice low and hoarse. He raised his eyes to hers and she could see all the tiredness and sadness reflected there.

"Go home, Giry," he shook his head and sighed deeply. "Go home to your mother."

She nodded and turned around. When having closed the door behind her she leaned against it for a moment, letting out a breath of relief. Mother will not be pleased about this, she thought as she made her way up to the dressing rooms.

I have not yet decided whether this is a one shot or not. I have some ideas and I might continue the story. Thank you for reading it, reviews are always appreciated and very much welcome.