I had a dream about this last night and thought it would make a great Phantom story. Most of this is the original Leroux, except for the half-mask, which is definitely ALW. I think it has better meaning, with the whole duality thing. However, I've decided to make Christine with brown hair and eyes, simply because my mind has been warped to see her that way. The original Christine was blonde.

My Dracula story isn't dead either! I just don't know where to go from here…I have a couple ideas, but I'm a little stuck for the moment. Please enjoy this story just as much!

Erik sat in his lair beneath the penitentiary, adjusting his video cameras that were currently monitoring a trial. A very important trial. One that, if the verdict went according to plan, would change his life forever.

Nervously, he knotted his fingers together as he watched the proceedings unfold. Part of him felt slightly guilty about the act he had committed. The other part was desperate for the verdict to come through so she could be within his reach.

Erik sighed, and sat back in his chair, rubbing his eyes. It had been days since he had last slept, eagerly preparing his abode for her arrival. His piano and organ had been restored to their full glory. Beautiful wall hangings draped around the carvings of rock. Candles glowed from every surface imaginable, and behind a door was her room.

He had made special efforts to make that room perfect. Original, it was his workroom, where he had composed his music and designed more jails. Soon, it would be the home of an angel.

Erik smiled at that thought, and with a swirl of his dark clothing, left the surveillance and control room. He strode swiftly around the underground lake to where his piano lay, waiting.

After Erik had finished designing some underground lairs for very wealthy terrorists in the Middle East, he had decided to come to America, where his real talents for mazes and impenetrable fortresses could be put to use. They needed larger jails, ones that were impossible to break out of, with designers that could get into the minds of criminals.

Erik was not foreign to criminal activity. After producing his portfolio and plans for an all-women penitentiary, the government had been eager to hire him. They had asked very few questions about his background. They didn't care if he was a criminal or not, as long as he designed the perfect jail.

He had decided to begin, and end, that career with a women's prison. A man's power lay mainly in his strength. A woman's power lay mainly in her charms. They had been having difficulties lately with inmates seducing guards and persuading them to show them how to escape.

Erik knew how to combat that. He had designed the perfect system, based on mainly automated, with a few wardens to monitor the automatic systems. They still had cafeteria staff, and some supervisors, but the amount of personnel had been greatly reduced. The government was thrilled about what that would mean for extra money. They had tried to find Erik again to make more of these Super-Jails.

But Erik had disappeared. Little did the government know, but at night, Erik had hired some shifty contractors to build a catacomb system beneath the jail. They had discovered the lake beneath the ground, sheltered in an ancient cave, and he took it as a divine omen. The cave, from what he could determine, was an abandoned gem mine, forgotten by time. Happily, he transformed it into his lair.

He had needed a lair of some sort, to figure out what he would do from that point on. Living beneath a building of his own design seemed like the perfect solution. He lived peacefully, occasionally surfacing to cause a little bit of mayhem style fun, composing his music and creating more architectural designs.

Then she had come into the picture. The state had hired local opera artists to come in and given the women some Christmas spirit. They re-enacted "Hannibal," just the three of them, to the enthralled women. Erik had watched in the air-ducts, wincing as the soprano named Carlotta butchered the notes.

Suddenly, like an angel, she had appeared, singing a soft aria entitled "Think of Me." She was beautiful, that was to be sure, but there was an aura of innocence that encircled her, that made him want to weep with its splendour. As she sang for those inmates, her compassion for them had made her soul sweep to new heights, and he had seen the surprise in her face as she heard her true voice for the first time.

Instantly, Erik was obsessed. He had to have her. He needed her. For the first time in his wretched life, he had glimpsed heaven. But how could he trap her? How could he capture such a beautiful songbird and keep her?

The answer was surprisingly simple. He had built a jail, right? And what better place could he keep a constant eye on her? He was sure that eventually, she would be overcome by her loneliness and turn to him for love and support; that he would eagerly supply.

Now, all he needed was a crime. He left the jail only to install cameras and phone taps in her home, which he had traced through the opera. Finally, he had it. It was perfect. She wouldn't even need to commit the crime. Her soul could remain untainted.

His eye was drawn to the flurry of movement before him. It was time for her testimony. Already, he could see the judge mouthing her name…

"Christine Daaé, please rise to give your testimony."

Rising soprano and state star Christine stood, trembling, and made her way to the witness stand, her fingers shaking and contorting.

She looked at her attorney, Raoul de Chagny, who was also her fiancé. He smiled reassuringly back at her. She tried to, but her throat seized up and she was frozen solid.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" Came the warden's voice.

"I…I swear," Christine stuttered meekly.

Raoul brushed a strand of his dark hair back, a piece that had come loose from his ponytail. He was at home here in the courtroom, and he walked around with confident ease. It was pure luck that Raoul had just finished his law practice when the murder happened. He provided his services to her for free, considering their recent engagement.

"How are you feeling, Christine?" He asked casually.

"Very frightened," she admitted, trying not to cry. She heard people shift in their seats around her. She knew she didn't look like a criminal, although she was the main suspect.

"That's completely normal," Raoul continued. "Can you tell us what happened the night that Joseph Buquet was murdered?"

Instantly, Christine was transported back in time to that horrible night.

She had arrived home from a long day of rehearsal for Il Muto. She and Carlotta had been at each other's throats the entire time, and Mr. Reyer, the conductor, kept lashing out at her for no reason. She had been exhausted and in desperate need of a shower.

When she arrived home, however, her father wasn't around. She remembered he was the guest of honour at a Cancer benefit concert. Charles's Daaé's full-time caretaker, Joe, was supposed to be doing a little housework that evening, while Charles wasn't there to fuss at him. In the later stages of his cancer, Charles had become more and more irritated by the simplest of things.

"Joe?" She had called out, wondering where her father's caretaker and friend had gone. She had hired him because she was gone at the opera all day, and was living partially with Raoul. She wouldn't have been able to take care of him. Joe's smiling demeanour, grizzled beard and kind face made him seem like a skinnier Santa Claus. He had been perfect.
Unfortunately, the previous night, they had quarrelled. Joe had made a comment about making arrangements for her father's funeral and estate soon. Christine hadn't wanted to hear it. She didn't want to acknowledge that her father was on death's door. So, to make up for it, she had brought a box of his favourite chocolates with her as a token of her appreciation for him.

"Joe? Where are you? Do you need help with anything?" She had just taken off her coat and had stepped into the living room, when a shape emerged from the shadows, bunched her hands behind her and stuck a fowl smelling cloth on her face.

She had struggled and tried to scream, but the fumes of the cloth were getting to her. As she collapsed on the rug, her last thoughts were of her father, Joe, and confusion as to why the man had smelt her hair.

"So, what you're saying is, is that you were knocked unconscious?" Came Raoul's voice. Christine jumped at his interruption.

"Yes," she answered.

"Do you have any idea who may have done this to you."

She shook her head.

"You'll need to answer verbally," he reproached her gently. "Just for the record."

"No."

"Thank you. So what happened when you woke up?"

Blood. There had been blood everywhere; on her hands, in her hair, on the walls. Immediately, she checked herself to make sure it hadn't come from her. She was untouched, thank God, but that left two frightening alternatives.

"Joe? Daddy?" She had screamed, running around the main floor. There was even more blood all around her, soaking into the walls and floors.

By now, she was hysterical. "Can anybody hear me?" She dashed up to the second floor, and looked in her room.

There was Joe, completely gutted, lying on her bed. Written on her walls, were the words "HE HAD IT COMING."

Christine had fainted.

When she woke up, her father was peering over her, and red and blue siren lights were blinking through the windows.

"Christine? Christine, thank God you're all right!"

He pressed her limp body to him, sobbing into her shoulder, ignorant of the blood soaking through his clothing. He helped her to her feet.

Police officers were all over the place, taking DNA samples and removing the body.

"Excuse me, miss," said one officer, taking her fingers and pressing them into blue ink. He then pushed them down on a page.

"Thank you." He walked away.

They had crawled all over the house that night, dusting and taking pictures. They received Christine's testimony, but they could find no sign of break and entry. At first they were confused, and then things started to make sense.

There was no sign of break and entry. Christine had been under a severe amount of stress lately, from the opera and with her dying father. She and his caretaker had fought the night before. Her fingerprints were on the blood on the walls, on Joe, everywhere.

The police concluded that Christine Daaé had snapped. They arrested her that night and brought her in for questioning.

When her testimony had brought in no more new information, and seemed to confirm that she had gone insane.

The next day, the papers heralded her arrest. Her reputation was ruined.

Tears had begun to leak down Christine's face. She knew she was innocent, but how could she tell the courts that?

"So you were unconscious the entire murder of Joseph Buquet?"

"Yes."

"You don't remember anything?"

"No."

"Defence rests, Your Honour."

Raoul sat down, looking very pleased with himself.

"Does the prosecution wish to cross-examine the witness?" The judge asked.

"We do," said the prosecution, standing.

He stood, and paced in front of Christine like a hungry lion.

"Miss Daaé, you are aware that your fingerprints were found everywhere, and it was determined by forensic labs that it was indeed your hand that put it on the walls?"

She looked up angrily. "I know that's what they found, but I swear, I didn't do it! I couldn't have done that!"

"Perhaps not consciously," he said, with strange emphasis on the last word. "You have been under a great amount of stress lately, yes?"

"Yes," said Christine.

"Have you had a history of psychological malfunctions?"

Christine looked guiltily into her lap. "When my mother died, I became depressed. I attempted suicide once, by trying to take too many pills. My father found me and saved my life."

"So the answer is yes?"

Christine exhaled sharply. "Yes."

"Had you gotten into a fight with Joseph lately?"

"Yes. He thought it might be time for me to start making arrangements for my father's estate. He implied my father would die soon. I didn't want to hear it. We fought bitterly, and I ended up walking away."

"Ah, so you were angry at him. This added to your stress too, didn't it?"

"Yes. But I didn't want to be angry with him anymore! So I brought his favourite chocolates to say I was sorry."

The prosecutor smirked. "Ah, yes, chocolate will make it all go away. Yes, the police did find that box of chocolate on the ground, unopened. That part of your story fits. The rest…doesn't.

"Miss Daaé, if someone had broken into your home that night, we would have found evidence. We didn't. It was somebody who had access, somebody who lived there. I don't believe that you killed him consciously, but maybe, this caused your already frail mind to snap and commit this heinous crime…"

"Objection!" Raoul stood sharply. "The prosecution is badgering the witness."

"Sustained," said the judge. "Mr. Willoughby, are you finished?"

The prosecutor stood, knowing that he had already done the damage needed to get a guilty verdict. "Yes," he said. "I have finished questioning the witness."

It had been Erik's concept to take Christine's fingerprints. The day he had bugged her house, he saw fingerprints on the piano's glossy top. By their size, they had to belong to her. He had returned another day with the appropriate equipment, and lifted them carefully off. In his lab, he created a glove with Christine's fingerprints on it. It was perfect.

He watched on the screen as a psychiatrist came up to testify about Christine's state of mind.

"She is a very fragile, gentle lady, but her mind is completely exhausted. In a state of unconsciousness, she may have dreamt up this imaginary burglar, committed the crime and fainted afterwards, not remembering a thing. When I met with her, I was struck by how sweet and innocent she was, but the deeper I delved into her mind, the more I was convinced of her frailty. It is completely possible that she murdered Joseph Buquet. Completely possible. However, Christine's nature is a slight paradox to that. So, I conclude that whatever she may have done was against her conscious will."

"Thank you, doctor. You may step down."

Excellent, Erik thought, scrubbing at his unmasked left side of his handsome face. Insanity was even better. Perhaps she would be kept in solitary confinement, to be monitored for psychological health. Erik had had the concept to build in a psychiatric ward to the prison as well. Now, it was coming in extremely handy.

He turned his attention back to the court. Soon, the jury would deliver its verdict. Not a problem. He had taken some of his vast fortune and promised it anonymously to the jury members, as long as they delivered a guilty verdict. He had even given half of it straight up. It would not be a long adjournment.

Christine sat behind the defence's desk, nervously playing with a chocolate curl. Her eyes were red and frightened, and her father murmured his encouragement over her shoulder. Even though he was slowly slipping away, he had enough strength to come to this trial.

"Don't you worry, Christine. I know you didn't do it. Your father knows you didn't do it. We'll always be here for you."

She looked up at him and tried to smile, but couldn't. Over the past few weeks of the trial, as evidence slowly mounted against her, she saw the doubt building in his eyes. She knew that whatever the jury decided, that would decide for Raoul as well.

Meanwhile, the jury had slowly filed back in.

"Would you, Christine Daaé, please rise?"

She stood, praying that her legs would not give out beneath her.

"Has the jury reached their verdict?"

"We have," said a man, standing near the front. "Guilty."

"Guilty!" Cried Christine, sinking to her knees in despair.

"Guilty!" Shouted Erik happily, standing in victory.
The courtroom was in shock. The judge pounded her gavel.

"Christine Daaé, because of the implications of your psychological state, you are sentenced to go to Brentwood Penitentiary. You will remain in solitary confinement, under complete psychological care and watch, until it is confirmed that you are in a healthy mental state. Once you have reached that state, you will then serve an additional five years, to serve as a reminder for what you have done. May God have mercy upon your soul." She pounded her gavel. "Case over."

Christine collapsed in her chair, sobbing. Charles was in complete shock, and Raoul seemed to have decided that Christine was insane as well.

"Don't you worry," he said. "Once you're healthy again, we'll make an appeal."

"I'm not crazy!" Christine whispered amidst her tears. "Raoul, I'm fine! I didn't do it!"

"The Angel will look after you, child," came Charles's voice suddenly. "The Angel of Music won't let anything happen to his favourite singer. You'll always be safe, my dearest, even when I'm gone."

"Miss Daaé?" A sharp voice interrupted. She looked over to see two burly guards holding handcuffs. "Please come with us."

She clung to her father. "I love you," she sobbed, as they took her hands away and cuffed them. She stiff kept her cheek against his.

"I love you too. I promise, we'll visit once your confinement is over!"

Christine nodded weakly, and allowed herself to be escorted out of the building, to a waiting car. Meanwhile, the press thrived as the star was taken down the steps. They snapped pictures of her beautiful and tragic face, excited for tomorrow's headline of "Opera Angel goes Insane."

Erik now felt the blood pumping in his veins. She was coming to Brentwood, the jail he had designed. She would be here within twenty-four hours. He had to sleep, to prepare himself for this grand event.

He stalked into his room, lifted the lid of the coffin and sunk inside. He fell asleep almost instantly, dreaming of a girl with the face of a goddess and the soul of pure light.

This is my first phantom phic, so please tell me how you like it! I promise that it only gets better! If anything has confused you, just let me know. Yay! New story!