A/N: Yes, the prologue has been updated. It's been changed quite a bit, actually.

Paris, 1909

Gaston Leroux was staring out the window at the rickety carriage that had rolled up to his house's front door.

While he had been watching it pull up, he had seen it wobble from side to side on its broken down wheels. The sides were scuffed and dirty, with chunks of wood missing in some parts. The coat of arms on the door was faded. The side facing his window lacked a handle on the door, and it was pulled by a mangy… mule?

Leroux chuckled to himself. Certainly, this was the man he had been told about. It was widely known that the de Chagnys had gone practically bankrupt a long time ago. Now as to why that had happened… Leroux's eyes wandered to a section of wallpaper that was slightly out of alignment with the surrounding paper. The Vicomte's version would be very interesting indeed…

Picking up his notebook, Ledoux settled down in his favorite chair and awaited his guest.

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"Mind my legs, you idiot! Just get me into the damn contraption already!" Raoul snarled at his servant. The man hurriedly shifted his employer into the awaiting wheelchair, careful not to injure him in the process. Raoul grunted his approval and squirmed a bit before tapping his cane against the wheel in annoyance for having to wait even a fraction of a second. Sighing in relief at having avoided the vengeful wrath of his employer's cane, the servant began to push the wheelchair up towards the entrance.

Raoul's eyes shifted about nervously. Something didn't seem quite right. His eyes scoured the area for any sign of danger, but seeing none, he chastised himself. Of course nothing was wrong. There never was, yet he had lived in such paranoia for so long that suspicion had become second nature.

The wheelchair bounced over rocks as the pair rolled up to the front door. A shiny silver plaque hung on the right wall, bearing the name Gaston Leroux. Raoul squinted. There was something strange about the 'r' in the name: there were faint traces in the surrounding area that didn't match the rest of the plate. Before he had a chance to examine the sign more closely, the front door swung open before him and he was pushed inside.

Across the room from his, a well dressed gentleman arose from his chair and spread his arms in welcome. "Hello! Welcome to my humble abode. It's such a pleasure to meet you at last, Vicomte de Chagny." There was a slight pause as their host's smile grew wider. "I've heard such wonderful things about the things you did. I'm sure that your knowledge will help my book so much."

Raoul cleared his throat nervously and scratched at his face in discomfort. "Ah, well, yes… I did do some great things in my youth… But, um, about that money I was promised, Monsieur…?"

The man's smile grew wider again. "Oh! Of course! How silly of me, I have it right over here," he gestured to a table where bills of francs were stacked high. Raoul's eyes popped open. "I'm sure that will be enough, yes?" A vigorous nod was answer enough for him. "Perfect! I'm Monsieur Leroux, by the way. Come, let's sit by my chair."

When they were settled, Leroux opened his notebook and picked up a pen; turning to Raoul, he simply stared at his for a few moments. Prior to requesting the Vicomte's presence, Leroux had searched for all the information he could find about him. He knew that the Vicomte had been a handsome man in his youth, but his appearance now was astounding for a man of his age. While there did appear to be some wrinkles, the face had remained relatively youthful and unchanged. And, well… waxy and large.

De Chagny's head was clearly oversized. His skin was pale and had a distinct waxy shine to it. Leroux was taken aback –none of the pictures he had seen of the Vicomte had suggested his head was this disproportional to the rest of his body. The rest of his body clearly displayed signs of age: his hands were crooked and arthritic, his torso was slumped, and his leg muscles were too shriveled to be used often, hence the wheelchair.

"Um… wow… your face looks exactly like all of the old pictures of you I've seen. Do you mind sharing a few tips on retaining youthfulness before we begin? From one middle aged man to another, eh?" A dark chuckle echoed around the room; Raoul's pupils noticeably dilated.

"Did… did you hear that?'

Leroux put on his best poker face. "Hear what? I heard nothing. Anyways… how about we begin your story? I'd like to get this started as fast as possible."

The Vicomte de Chagny perked up noticeably. "Well, it all began when I was generous enough to become a patron of the Palais Garnier. I was –and am- very influential in Parisian society, you see. Now, after I began supporting the opera house…"

Leroux leaned back in his chair and worked his hardest not to roll his eyes at the huge ego Raoul had. Paying little attention to Raoul's pompous story, Leroux lost himself in memories of the true tale…

Prologue

A little girl knelt at the side of a newly covered grave.

The center of her world, the one who gave her the love of music, the one who played violin while she sang, the only person she had left. Her father. And now even he had left her, carried off by tuberculosis. She was unable to save her father from this dreadful fate; Christine could not fight the infection that took his lungs; Christine could not do anything but hold her father's head in her lap as he breathed his last.

It made her feel so weak to have so little control over her life. She was only ten, but she had always had a lot of freedom to make her own decisions, as her father was often occupied with practicing and the arduous task of keeping the two of them alive. Ever since her mother had died in childbirth, Christine became the focal point of his life, and he did everything in his power to make her happy, keep her belly full, and her body warm. He worked hard as a farmhand, and any other odd jobs he could pick up to make some extra pocket money. There was always so much they had to buy, and so little extra money they had left over.

Charles Daae had been a hard worker, expert violinist, loving father, and whole hearted provider. He had given Christine everything that he could, and every moment he had spent with her had been full of adoring smiles and musical delight. She was his protégé, he had spent countless hours accompanying her on his violin, as he professed in utter conviction that the only way to sing well was to give her whole heart to the music.

In his final days this conviction had become forceful; he knew the end was approaching, and felt that he had to make sure his message had been solidly implanted in Christine's heart. Then he told her the story. He shared that when she had followed his instructions, when she had given her whole heart to the music, then the angel of music would come. The angel of music had come to him a long time ago, and had instilled in him the vigorous love and appreciation of violin that had led him to such nirvana in his playing. The musical love he fed Christine was not the only sustenance the violin provided; it also made him the majority of their money from weddings or parties.

She longed for such an angel, to give her a means of livelihood through music, to fill the hole that her father had left. She wanted the sweet love and adoration that music brings.

But now he was gone, and for the first time she felt the whole burden her father had been forced to bear come crashing down on her. How was she supposed to keep herself alive? All of her mother's family hated her and her father: the relatives believed they were the reason her mother was gone, and Christine would never be forgiven, much less welcomed into their homes. No, she would have to find her own way.

The only question was, how? What could she possibly do to provide for herself? She had no talents that were marketable per se, the only thing she could do well was sing, and nobody would want to hire a young girl with a sweet voice when there were so many other more experienced and more well-known singers.

However, that was the only idea she had, and she latched onto it tightly. She turned her head to the side and gazed in the direction of Paris. Yes, that was the only place left for her to go. She knew of the famous opera house, her father had always dreamed of saving enough to go there and find a place for him and Christine in the orchestra and the choir. He dreamed that one day, he would watch from the best seat in the house as his daughter, the Prima Donna, would walk across the stage singing so beautifully that everyone would fall in love with the music that had already claimed him.

Turning for one last look at his grave, she put her flowers on top and started her trek to the great city.