Author's Note: This AU has been bothering me for two years now. I do not think I will be continuing it, but I wanted to publish what I had all the same. Enjoy!

It was a wonder he heard the noise at all. For the past weeks, Erik had been absorbed in the anticipation of his greatest work come to light—Christine. Under his guidance, her voice had become a divine instrument, soaring only in the secrecy of their lessons. Now, at last, she was ready to shine on the stage. It had taken much work on his part, but everything was as it should be: the first showing of Hannibal was mere hours away, and soon the world would be graced with the best performance it could ask for. She was so close to the triumph she deserved.

These were tantalizing thoughts, but even so, Erik was not so distracted that he did not notice the sound of disturbed water. He scowled, mood darkening. There was only one idiot who would be traipsing about down here.

He pushed the boat onto the water and started off; a few strokes had him moving purposefully in the direction of the noise. As he had predicted, he shortly encountered a familiar figure swimming in the lake.

"Stop splashing around," Erik said coldly.

Sopping wet and exasperated, Raoul took his hand and hauled himself into the boat. It had been a long time since Erik had seen him up close, and Raoul had grown. He was as disgustingly handsome as Erik had feared. Raoul ran both hands over his face. "Well, if you would get another boat…"

"I won't have you pestering me." Erik began propelling them back toward the docks, where Raoul had likely come from. The boy could march himself right back to the surface.

"I just returned to Paris," Raoul continued, oblivious. Erik already knew it, of course, especially with the uproar of his becoming the Opera Garnier's new patron. At first he had wondered what Raoul was playing at, but Raoul did not have the necessary cunning for subtle plans. "I thought I would check in on you—at least, when I heard all the ghost stories, I knew it had to be you. I would have announced myself, but I don't see how."

"My apologies for not having a butler," Erik growled.

Raoul pushed his hair back with a childish frown. "That's not what I meant. You knew I was at the opera; you could have made it easier to get down here."

Erik barked out a laugh. "Why, so the masses can find me? So Father can come tell me personally what a freakish disappointment I am?"

Raoul reddened. "Father's dead, Erik."

"Good riddance."

Raoul looked deeply hurt, but Erik turned his back and tied the boat up at the dock. He could not feel remorse for his lack of grieving; Raoul should have been grateful he was not inclined to say worse about the man. A realization left him vaguely nauseated. "So Philippe is the count now."

"Yes."

Erik pulled at the rope with vicious, unnecessary force. "Just as he always wanted," he sneered. To hell with Philippe. "Get out of the boat." When Raoul started to say something, he repeated, "Get out."

Raoul hopped onto the dock. "But he's not interested in coming to the opera," he continued. He reached down to pick up a bundle of cloth; his jacket, at least, had managed to stay out of the lake. "He has become cold lately. The way he talks, you would think I was a wild hooligan."

Cold was in Philippe's nature, and he had made certain it became part of Erik's. Raoul was thicker than Erik had thought if it had taken him this long to notice their brother's cruelty. Erik did snort at the boy's last observation, though. "You were never skilled at being a conscientious noble."

Raoul grinned. "Thank you."

Erik did not smile, but it was a near thing. Instead, he made a sardonically grandiose gesture toward the stairs. "I expect you can find your way back up."

"I haven't seen you in over ten years," Raoul stated, disregarding him as usual. That had not changed, then. He had also not lost the ability to look unabashedly innocuous even in the face of Erik's most cantankerous glower. "When I returned from abroad, you were gone."

Erik gave up the glare with a stifled exhalation. "I know. It was best." It had been a choice of escaping that hell or finally killing them. There was no point in asking, but he did so anyway. "What do you want?"

"To talk to my brother." Raoul gave a winning smile, the one he knew Erik hated. "I know you won't throw me out."

"You think not?" Erik retorted dryly. "Observe." He pointed firmly to the stairs. He saw Raoul working up a maudlin speech and cut the boy off before he could begin. "I have work to do. I will find you in a week, if you insist on a reunion." His lips twitched in a smirk. "And if you promise not to make a mess of things."

"When do I ever make a mess of things?" Raoul protested. He laughed impudently at Erik's scowl and started up the stairs.

"Raoul—do not speak a word of this to anyone."

"Of course."

It was as reassuring as a vow from his brother could ever be. "As far as everyone knows, I am a ghost." Erik strode toward the boat with a bitter smirk. "I finally have a reputation to uphold."

Erik had been the talk of Paris since birth, but decades ago it had been in a very different fashion. It was such a shame, everyone said, that an upstanding family like the de Chagnys had an invalid child. No one ever saw their sickly son, but no one cared to; he was present only in gossip, and they were content with that. He must have quite the weak constitution, they said, for the count and countess to keep him confined to the estate. It was a good thing they had a healthy young man like Philippe to make up for it.

Nothing could make up for Erik's inconvenient existence, but Philippe came the closest. He was handsome, charming, and cordial to everyone. He moved gracefully about the upper circles of Paris without incident or enemies. He respected his elders and did nothing unseemly. He was, in short, everything that Erik was not; he was perfect.

Raoul, too, had a fine face and an aristocratic air of command even as a child. But he was most certainly not Philippe.

"I found a bug," said a small voice behind Erik.

Erik continued to pick at the violin, ignoring his brother. This had been happening with annoying frequency of late. As long as he was confined to this area of the house, he declared it his—his domain, the only space he was allowed. Granted, no one was eager to come near him anyway—except his younger brother. Despite Father's and Philippe's disapproval and Erik's caustic remarks, Raoul was continuously wandering in here for no good reason. Erik had once locked him out only to be forced to listen to the boy's ramblings through the door. He doubted ignoring Raoul would come to much better results this time, but he would try.

His reservations were correct, of course. He got an insect shoved under his nose for his troubles. "What is it?"

"It's a grasshopper." He shoved Raoul's hand away. "Why do you keep asking me all your stupid questions?"

"'Cause you know things," Raoul replied as sagely as any four-year-old could. "Does it bite?"

"Has it bitten you?" Erik asked in return, sarcasm dripping off every word. Raoul shook his head. "No, then."

"Can I keep it? What does it eat?"

Erik threw his hands in the air with an exclamation he was not really supposed to know at his age and station, and stalked over to the bookshelf. He pulled the relevant volume of the encyclopedia onto the floor and opened it to the page he needed. "There," he told Raoul. "Everything you could possibly want to know."

Raoul peered at the pages. "I can't read," he said plaintively.

"Look," Erik said irritably, "it's not hard." He pointed to the text at the top of the page. "'Grasshopper. Orthoptera, Caelifera.' See?"

Erik tried to be patient. Raoul paid attention for almost half the page before becoming distracted by the grasshopper itself. Erik gave up with a huff and returned to his violin. However, despite the fact that Erik's usefulness had ended, Raoul remained in the corner of the room, repeatedly letting the grasshopper go and catching it again. Erik could not fathom it. Eventually, he snapped, "If you lose that, you'll never be allowed in here again!"

Raoul looked absolutely stricken. He clutched the grasshopper to his chest, eyes wide. "I won't."

And he did not. Erik soon found that one of the only ways to control Raoul's behavior was to threaten the loss of his company. It was surreal after spending so long threatening the rest of his family with the opposite. Father and Philippe wanted nothing more than to pretend he did not exist, to keep him out of the sight of the rest of the world. To that end, they kept him in his own set of rooms and did not allow him outside. This was not to say that Erik never went out; no lock could keep him for long, not since he had taken one apart at a young age. He did his exploring at night, once everyone was asleep. Access to the rest of the estate gave him power; and there was no better assertion of this power than to move things, small things, during the night.

Erik never threw anything in disarray. He was not so obvious. He would only relocate one or two items, just enough so that others noticed, and would wonder. It could be their imagination. Philippe suspected Erik, but of course the lock on the door to his rooms was secure and there was no other way for him to escape. After a few months of this, Erik could hear his father bellowing angrily, questioning the servants, demanding to know who was responsible. It was deeply satisfying.

Later, when he was a little older and had experimented more thoroughly, he made the game more interesting. He stayed by his locked door until past dawn and was rewarded by a muffled yell downstairs. This time, the voices of his father and Philippe were quieter, but much more frantic. Erik found he liked this game better.

Father had a habit of dragging him down to dine with everyone else at least once a week, when the servants were out, though even then he had to wear his mask. After that trick, Erik went gladly. It was worth it to see the drawn expression on Father's face and the hateful but powerless looks Philippe kept shooting his way. Dinner was silent except for a few terse exchanges, only one of which involved him.

"Why was Marie going on about ghosts?" Raoul asked. "Do ghosts move things?"

"Because she's a fanciful girl," Father snapped. "Think no more of it."

"There's no such thing as ghosts," Philippe put in.

"Must have been demons, then," Erik said softly.

The ensuing silence was filled with dread. Erik reveled in it. Afterward, he went back to his rooms without protest.

He was not allowed to relish his victory for long, though. Raoul—now a bit taller but still not past Erik's shoulder—appeared a few minutes later, bouncing. "How did you make the pen float like that?" he demanded. "I thought Philippe was going to faint!"

"Quiet," Erik commanded, but he let Raoul stay while he shut the door behind him. "Why do you think I'm responsible?"

"Because you can do magic," Raoul affirmed. "I saw the mirror box you were making. It's brilliant!"

Erik smiled a little. "The pen was a good trick, wasn't it?" Raoul nodded. "Okay. Do you promise not to tell anyone?"

"Promise," Raoul told him confidently.

Erik gazed down at him solemnly. "I don't mean how you promised to stop bothering me if I made you a toy. You have to mean it."

Raoul considered this before nodding and saying, "I give my word."

Thus satisfied, Erik reached into his pocket and took out a string, so thin as to be veritably invisible. "It was easy. I strung this up so when he opened the door, it would pick up the pen. But then, well…" He pulled on the weak fiber and it snapped. Presumably it dropped the pen back to the desk.

Raoul crowed with laughter. "Philippe's going to be looking over his shoulder for days. That's brilliant!"

From then on, Raoul's enthusiasm and questions tripled. He wanted to know how everything worked, and tried to replicate each trick himself. He was a terrible student, all energy and no focus. His attention span wandered before he could figure much out, but his excitement never dimmed. It was annoying, certainly, and Erik found he could not get as much done as he would have liked with the boy bouncing about his rooms, but he did not mind as much as he felt he should have. At least Raoul made an appreciative audience.

On one day in particular, Raoul was unusually quiet. Erik ought to have been relieved, but he only felt unnerved. Raoul was always picking up his things, asking questions, running around. Today, however, he only sat slightly askew on a chair in the corner and let Erik experiment with knots in peace. Ridiculous as it was, Erik felt better when the boy finally spoke up.

"What was Mother like?"

His relief was short-lived. "Why?" Erik returned suspiciously. True, she had not lived long after Raoul was born, but he had never asked before.

Raoul shrugged and kicked his leg a bit. "Father took us to visit her grave today."

Erik's face burned—but of course they could never have taken him along. They had not wanted him near her while she was alive; why would that change now?

"Was she pretty?" Raoul asked.

"Yes." Making his own existence a complete mystery.

"Was she nice?"

Erik hummed noncommittally. She had tried to be, perhaps. He did not remember enough of her to guess at her true feelings. She had made him a new mask every year, and he was almost certain it was she who had had the piano moved to his rooms. The only thing he recalled clearly was sneaking downstairs to see her one evening.

She had stood as soon as she had noticed him. "Erik," she had said—hesitantly, but not unkindly, "what are you doing down here?"

Erik had heard the heavy footsteps of his father and known he had but a little time. "Mother, may I have a kiss?"

She had started trembling and remained where she was, wringing her hands. "Oh…"

But by then, it had been too late. Father had appeared in the doorway, and before he could form the scolding his furious expression had threatened, Erik had fled.

Raoul was still watching him expectantly. "I would not know," Erik answered gruffly. His mouth twisted. "Why don't you ask Philippe?"

Raoul shrugged and mumbled incoherently. Erik felt a stab of something unfamiliar and unwelcome. Raoul likely could not remember anything of their mother. Erik recalled a bit of her pregnancy. She had been even more pale and anxious than usual. Now he wondered whether she had been afraid she would have another child like him. It was reasonable, and it explained how utterly delighted she had been with her youngest, perfectly healthy son. It was the only thing he could tell Raoul. Erik stared down at the rope in his hands. "She loved you. Very much."

When he looked back up, Raoul was beaming, somberness gone. "Really?"

"Really." He tossed the rope at his brother. "Now see whether you can untie that."

Raoul less caught the rope than allowed it to land on him. He began fiddling with it, still smiling. "You always test your tricks on me," he complained.

"You are the minimum, Raoul," Erik retorted loftily. He stretched out his fingers and reached for a book. "If you can figure it out, then I know any idiot can do it." The rope hit him in the side of the head. He examined it critically and smirked at Raoul. "I notice you didn't undo the knot."

Raoul made a face in lieu of a reply and got to his feet to return to his usual habit of wandering about and bothering whatever he came across. Erik rather preferred it that way.

But of course it was too much to ask for it to continue forever. The more time Raoul spent with Erik, the angrier Father came. He tried forbidding the boy from Erik's suite, but though Raoul was obedient in most things, he continued to show up at Erik's door. Whatever secret contentment Erik found in his brother's company was tripled by the knowledge that it upset the rest of the family. It was so satisfying to watch Father and Philippe's increasing frustration. Erik did not have the opportunity to converse with them often, but when he did, he was smug.

He enjoyed that game for a long time before it finally turned on him. It was not unusual for Raoul to be busy for a few days at a time, but when an entire week passed without so much as a single knock on the door, Erik noticed. He did not want to betray himself to Father, but the next time he was brought down to dinner, there was one less place set at the table, and an unfamiliar dread gripped him. The mask hid his face, and his voice was entirely under control when he asked, "Where is Raoul?"

"He went abroad," Philippe answered with the same smugness Erik had been using on him these past months.

Erik's jaw clenched. "Abroad?"

"In Sweden," Philippe continued smoothly. "We thought it would better his education to be sent to such beautiful country."

"How long will he be away?"

Philippe smiled. "Some time, I expect."

Erik knew what that meant. As long as it takes. As long as it took to make his brother forget him. As long as it took to get rid of his influence so Raoul would become a proper deChagny. He was too angry, too hurt, to speak.

Philippe met his gaze with honest defiance. "It's for his own good."

If Erik's life at the estate had been miserable before, it was now a living hell. He spent his days alone in his rooms. All he had was his music, and even that was taken away by degrees—he was forbidden from playing while guests were present, and as Philippe grew older, they became more frequent. He was surrounded by books and sheet music and inventions, but being confined to it was suddenly more than he could bear. He still roamed the estate at night, but now bitter anger drove his wandering, and he did not find so much joy in it as temptation to take vengeance on his father and brother.

There was nothing left for him. And so one night, taking what he could, he left the rest—the estate, his family, any belongings he could not carry. Perhaps when Raoul returned he would become the young viscount they wanted; or perhaps he would remain a stubbornly cheerful boy unfit for his station. It hardly mattered now, he supposed.

Either way, Erik had no intention of returning.