A/N: So, I've been sitting on this one for... oh, two years now? And I've finally gotten around to actually finding the time to sitting down and writing it, so we'll see how that goes. I have a bit of information as far as this story goes, though.

It's a mix of both Leroux and ALW, which I know sounds pretty cray but trust me it works. The plot follows more of the events in ALW, and it's more of an ALW Erik (with Leroux-y tidbits as far as history and all), but Carlotta, Christine, and Raoul are 100% Leroux. Also the Persian might make an appearance because I love me some Daroga.

Also yes this is kind of a resubmission because my writing now my writing two years ago.

Confessions of a Prima Donna: The Carlotta Chronicles

He's here, the Phantom of the Opera...

I seemed to be cursed. Every time that name was mentioned, every time those words were spoken, it only meant that something had happened moments before that caused me some sort of harm. Like, for example, a fallen backdrop that had threatened to knock me unconcious. Fed up with the Phantom's tricks, I stormed toward my dressing room, screaming and cursing every soul inside the Opéra, especially the damned Phantom. Once I made it to my sanctuary, slamming the door behind me in a seething rage, I finally allowed myself to give my voice a rest and stop yelling. How dare he! He humiliated me in front of the entire cast and crew, and for no good reason! Sighing in defeated despair I sat on the small sofa, my head bent, refusing to cry.

"Well, well, is La Carlotta showing some emotion for once in her life?" Asked an all-too-familiar voice. I looked up and scowled at the masked man grinning triumphantly before me, and stood up.

"Go away!" I screeched, "I told you I don't ever want to see you again - I hate you..." Tears threatened to spill over as I sat down once again, hating myself for giving him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. Stupid Hannibal... stupid aria... stupid Christine! The little tramp had ruined everything! I noticed that the dear old Opera Ghost was still standing there, and I held my head in my hands. "Go away," I said again, my voice low and dejected, "Leave me. You're wicked." I heard his approach, and felt a cool hand on my glitter-covered shoulder. "Don't touch me!" I hissed, jerking it from his touch. He seemed to repress a sigh, and I heard him walk through the mirror back to his cellars below.

I was young when I began my career at the Opéra. Maybe not as young as some of the other singers, but twenty-three was still youthful enough for the stage. Of course, even then there were rumours of a ghost who skulked about below, demanding a large sum of money from the managers, Debienne and Poligny. He didn't hurt anyone, oh no; he merely made small threats if his box was sold for a performance or played tricks on the stage crew, namely the Buquet siblings, Joseph and Maddie. He really was harmless, at least in my opinion. The ballerinas, little rats that they were, liked to gossip about his shenanigans, and their whispers about how he made blood run down the walls in the ladies dressing rooms soon reached the ears of everyone in the Opéra.

At the time, I wasn't La Carlotta, famous prima donna and hated diva. No, then I was merely Charlotte Arroyo, a pretty young thing hailing from Spain. I wasn't necessarily liked by anyone either. While all of the other singers concerned themselves with the Opera Ghost, I was scorning them for not focusing on why they were even at the Opéra in the first place! I wanted a career in singing, I was focused on becoming a better performer. I wanted to be a star, to be adored by all of Paris. My peers found something wrong with being driven. I daresay it was jealousy, as my tutor at the time noticed my talent, and the other girls were none too thrilled with the chip on my shoulder.

One night, I had decided to stay a few extra hours at the Opéra. I was having trouble singing the beginning of O Mio Babbino Caro from Pucinni's Gianni Schicci. Lauretta's song of love for her father was beautiful, but there was that one note that I always got wrong; when she sang "Mi piace, è bello", I either went too high or too low. It was late, and I was quite frustrated to the point of crying. How on earth was I supposed to become the best if I could not sing an aria correctly and on-key?

Glancing over my sheet music for the umpteenth time, I began again.

"O mio babbino caro, Mi piace, è bello, è bello Vo' andare in Porta Rossa a comperar l'anello!" When I sang the last note, I opened my arms wide as if I could embrace my invisible audience. I had done it! Smiling widely and entirely satisfied with myself, I turned around to collect my belongings, ready to go home and rest peacefully knowing I had accomplished something. I nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw a shadow on the wall in the shape of a man.

He was there for a few precious seconds, and then he was gone in the blink of an eye. Opera Ghost floated through my mind, but I quickly put such nonsense to the back of my mind and set on my way. I went to leave out the back and thought to myself how happy I was that I had put in a good day's work. I had already reached the door when I remembered suddenly that I had left my notebook containing all of my singing notes and pieces of sheet music in the prima donna's dressingroom. I often spoke to La Theodora about how to make it to the top, and what she did to become as famous as she was. She had told me plenty of practise and skill went a long way, as did motivation and committment. I had all of that, but... well, I firmly believed that when you stop striving for perfection, you might as well be dead. A little extreme, I know. But I couldn't help being overly-ambitious.

I made it to La Theodora's dressing room and quickly spotted my notebook. I made to get it, and caught my reflection in the large mirror. I normally didn't like preening and gazing at myself, but tonight I decided to indulge myself a bit. I had a certain sparkle in my dark brown eyes tonight, presumably from the excitement of my small triumph. Frowning a little, I noticed that a lock of dark, curly hair had fallen out of place, and went to tuck it back inside the bow that was supposed to be holding it.

There. Better. Tonight, I was plain, but in a lovely way. Smiling proudly, I turned from the mirror and grabbed my notebook and headed toward the door. My hand reached for the handle and I froze.

Something was reflected in the shiny brass knob. Startled, I whirled around, but it was gone.

Taking deep, shaking breaths, I reached behind me for the handle again and pressed my back against it so it would open. First shadows, then reflections... it was frighteningly mind-boggling. As I fled from the room, clutching my notebook to my chest, I could have sworn I heard an angelic voice trailing behind me...

Brava, brava, bravisimma...