Hi all. :D Though I've written POTO fanfiction before, I left my old account and started anew about a year later. So yeah, enjoy. As of now I have a short first chapter but it'll be pretty longer in the next few. Have fun.

Disclaimer: A B C D E F G, Phantom does not belong to me.

The Flames

Jeremie scowled as he trudged down the alleyway, the horizon clouded in fog and the ground blanketed in puddles. It had been an intensely busy day, and he couldn't wait to get all his work done before retiring at the city church's homeless shelter and abusing their provisions. Layer upon layer of old threadbare coats kept his short grubby little body warm in these days creeping before winter, but his face was frozen as the air, drained of color and coated in dirt and grit. He clenched his fists hidden by stolen sleeves that were too long, which, he realized, proved to be extremely helpful.

Only a few people were left strolling about at this hour, mostly stumbling sick drunks and street children with nowhere better to go. Two whores stood shivering in their torn up revealing dresses, still desperate to earn a little more money.

Dimness fell through the buildings as the clouds covered the moon, worsening Jeremie's sight. He needed light for his work to be fast, to find what he had to find. But fate simply decided to act against his favor once again. Frustrated, he rubbed his rough old sleeves against his face, granting it temporary warmth, then wiping it against his dripping nose. He smelled disgusting. Folded, crumpled wads of money shifted in his pockets, hitting his side as he walked every now and then. A comforting reminder of what he would be swimming in once he grew older, or at least he hoped.

Somewhere, faintly, he could see through Paris' abundant fog – a figure. It sat on the side of the street, a strange blackish mass. It didn't puzzle him much; he figured it was either the bumbling street police or some dignified politician secretly searching late at night for a prostitute. But in his twelve years spent living in the world, he had never seen a citizen as peculiar looking as this one.

As he made his way closer to the stranger, he could make out different features, blurry and strange but definitely noticeable against the plain others still around him. He was tall, almost towering (it was so obvious he could tell even as he sat there), with broad shoulders and a deep black coat that nearly swallowed him in it. He wore a hat, almost a little too big that it tipped down forwards and covered his face. Jeremie strained his eyes to make something out of the swirled shadows, to see something remotely human, but he failed. Soon he was standing right beside the sitting figure, Jeremie frowning and primitively scratching his backside.

"Jeremie La Barré?" it spoke, with a voice deep and rumbling.

"Yeah, me. Who the fuck are you?" Jeremie answered, grumpily. He didn't need another request to finish.

"I hear you are the best."

"I know the sewers like no one else," he answered cockily, crossing his arms. "The mains, the smallers, the shortcuts."

"I find that fantastic."

"Yeah, well, it's mostly getting' through the shit and tryin' to hear what the hell people are sayin' up there." He was starting to grow impatient. What was this, an interrogation? He was about to step to the side and continue his walk, but the tall dark man pushed him back into place with a single hand. Angrily, Jeremie was about to shout something at him, but the stranger spoke first.

"I have a job for you. Quite like your usual work, I am sure. 'Getting through shit'."

Jeremie closed his mouth, and glared at him in hostility. "I got enough t'do today. One long line of customers. I dun need no more screwin' round to find your lost pocket watch or shit."

"I promise it will earn you a million more coats to pile on top of yourself."

Jeremie raised an eyebrow. "How much?"

"One thousand francs."

The boy's eyes bulged out of his sockets, his scowl disappearing as he allowed the number to whirl through his head. One thousand? That was more than the rest of the money he'd earned today put together.

"You fuckin' serious?"

"Your mother should have told you not to curse like a drunkard."

"She ain't tell me enough. Why the hell a fortune, mister? You lost a house in the sewers or shit?"

The figure shook what was supposedly its head. "Only something very important."

"Well, then," Jeremie said, less shocked. He was not willing to seem like a child in awe of a shiny piece of glass, not in front of this freak. "I want my francs now, so I knows you ain't fuckin' wit me."

The figure nodded, and it slowly pulled out a thick sheaf of crisp bills from its deep black pocket. The sight made Jeremie forget the weak winter air around them. He'd already decided he would take this order, no matter how difficult.

"What ya need?"

"Search the sewers, try near the opera house. Look for a lasso, a music box, and a ring."

"That stuff? What the hell are you, a magician?"

"Possibly. Do you want those francs or not?" As soon as the boy fell silent, the shadow continued. "After that, go to the sewers directly under the opera. Listen. Listen for the workers or dancers. Tell me whatever they say. All the rumors, the stories."

"Rumors, mister? None them murder plots or passwords?"

"Rumors," it said, firmly. It held the money out a bit closer to Jeremie, who snatched it quickly and stuffed it into one of his many pockets. It was a deal. "How long will you take?"

"Unless it's knee-deep in shit, an hour." The shadowy stranger's request was now his priority. It stood in front of everything else.

"Adequate. If you accomplish it faster, I will add another half."

"You fuckin' serious?" Jeremie said again. He could no longer hide his amazement.

"Yes, I am. Now go to the sewers beneath the Opera House, near Rue d'Alembert," the figure slowly stood up from its perch on the side of the street, towering darkly over the boy. "I will be needing my belongings soon."

Without another word, Jeremie dashed off into the Paris fog, eager for the scent of newly earned francs and willing to endure the scent of waste for just that. The homeless shelter could wait another hour. Lasso, music box, ring.

Silently, Erik watched him disappear, his filthy old coats flapping behind him with one thousand francs in one of their pockets. He did not care much for money – he couldn't go out in daylight to buy anything; at night he had no desire for the orgies at the brothels. He only used it to manipulate.

For a few moments Erik almost felt sorry for the boy, for the fact that as soon as he got what he needed he would have to throw the lasso around his neck and pull it forcibly, so that he wouldn't spread what he had heard or seen. But feeling sympathy was only for those who received plenty. For him, warm love was as thin and faint as the mist.