A/N: And I'm back, after a severe case of writer's block. For those of you following Let It Go or The Dragons' Song, don't worry. I'm blocked right now on LIT and I told myself that maybe I need to work on something else for a while, but I promise it will be finished someday, and, since my POV as a writer/phan has changed a bit, I want to go back and re-write certain things in it. For TDS, it's on hiatus. I'm going to do a drastic re-write of the chapters published until now, since I am definitely not satisfied about them. And here I am with this new story, since that plot bunny refused to let go of me. I'll say right now that it is very, very, VERY AU, and it's going to be a big mishmash of Kay and ALW universes. Be braced, and I'll answer all questions if there are any confusions, so feedback is of course appreciated. This story comes from a mix of "Why on Earth aren't there any Erik/Meg-in-Persia-AUs while there are some Erik/Christine and Erik/OC ones" and also, a big little something that is a spoiler in this story and that I just can't tell right away.

Also – I hate to say this, but I'll do my very best to have regular updates. College is a b*****, it gobbles up my time, and so does Tumblr and watching musical theatre bootlegs. I'll do my very best to give more of my time to writing, but please remember that my education is very important and always goes first. Reviews might help me to update more, though. *I'm not begging for reviews you are*

Chapter 1

He had to admit it had been quite easy to recognize her.

She hadn't changed much. Perhaps her face was more stern and a bit wrinkled around the eyes. But there wasn't a single touch of grey in her ebony hair, now pulled in a tight bun, and to his eyes, despite the fact that the average Frenchman could assume there was Spanish or Romani blood running in her veins, she seemed oh so very Persian.

She had chosen her refuge quite well: a runaway Persian spy was someone you were quite unlikely to encounter even in the very cosmopolite city of Paris. And especially in such a place like the Opera Populaire, and with such a function.

Then again, it wasn't too surprising. Anouar had been one of the finest dancers of the Persian court, not to say the finest, forming quite the contrast with her brother: Nadir, even as a very young man, was the very image of austerity and order, while Anouar, as light as a feather, almost flying around with grace and ease, always smiling, could point to a man one night and by that simple gesture provoke his death barely a few hours later.

She had run away with that Frenchman and to this day, no one knew why. The Daroga had repeated again and again that it was like her. But she had carried with her secrets – secrets so great her sudden escape seemed like some sort of treason, made worse by the fact that she had run away with a foreigner.

Nadir had of course joined the hunt for his sister. If he didn't, he would automatically be considered her accomplice and get beheaded. His search had been unsuccessful, and the only thing that managed to save his life, though he had never totally come back in grace, was that the Angel of Doom had assisted him in his hunt.

And to escape even the Angel of Doom's chasing, one had to be either protected by Allah… or by demons.

Selim had succeeded where Nadir Khan and the Angel of Doom had failed, and would definitely supplant Nadir's very shaky position as Daroga. As for the Angel of Doom, probably only the Khanum's protection could protect him in some way… but that would only mean that she could definitely from then on manipulate him like a puppet.

On his side, even almost twenty years after her flight, he hadn't given up. It did provide him a good reason to travel the world. With all those ambassadors who had come to the Persian court, his curiosity had been piqued, and the young man he was only dreamed now of all those cities and their wonders: Budapest, Vienna, Berlin, Rome, Venice, Paris, London… Selim had even considered, for a while, travelling to America. But Paris somewhat had a special charm for him, and so he had come back, today visiting the Paris Opera house and managing to find a way to enter in box 5, and being able to enjoy a ballet rehearsal without being seen from the stage. And thankfully so.

He was pulled out of his thoughts when he heard the manager calling Anouar, interrupting the corps de ballet's stage rehearsal, and smiled as he recognized every single one of her mannerisms. Those were the things you couldn't change, not even with the best of disguises.

He then paid more attention to the rest of the corps de ballet, and then went to observe the prima ballerina as she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms and listened to the manager's rambling. But he was quickly distracted by a small silhouette, her head covered in a mass of blonde curls, suddenly coming out of the group of dancers to rush towards the ballet mistress.

Both of them were like night and day. But there was something in their features – perhaps their eyes' shape, or the way they seemed to slick the left side of their hair every thirty seconds or so, or perhaps their turned-up nose – which undeniably proved that they were mother and daughter.

Selim smiled. Now there was a twist he hadn't expected.

A stranger would probably say that Madame Giry looked like the kind of mother who would sternly tell her chatterbox of a daughter to keep quiet, and especially after a day of hard work. On the contrary, it was one of the rare joys Mme Giry still had. To this point, her daughter was the only light in her life, and it was her who kept her going with that sort of dark sense of humor which showed that, beneath that hard shell, Antoinette Giry was still able to laugh. In her own way, of course.

"Do you think we'll get to perform a ballet instead of an opera for Christmas, this year, maman? Monsieur Lefebvre has hinted that we may. It would be great since we did an opera in the last three years for Christmas. Christine should really audition this year for the production we'll do in autumn for the new season. You should, really! Hannibal is a really big production, and maybe we'll do something less demanding!" she insisted, seeing her friend's shaking her head. "You'd really need a good singing teacher. It's hard to believe we're not able to find one, especially with a city as big as Paris! Well, maybe when we will find one, lessons will be expensive – but maman, I promised Christine I would help her. I don't mind, maman, really! You know how much Christine loves to sing…"

To this statement, Madame Giry couldn't help but shrug. The only reason why Christine Daaé had managed to make it in the renowned Opera Populaire was thanks to her deceased father's connections. At his death, not only the admirers of the great violinist Gustave Daaé had provided him a grand tomb, but they even had enough consideration to provide his orphaned daughter a future. And so Christine found herself at the Opera Populaire, and went from the ranks of the ballet rats to the corps de ballet, causing much tension for her privilege. In consequence, she had been rejected by the other ballerinas – all of them except Meg, of course, whose favorite occupation, Madame Giry thought with an inner smirk, was to play guardian angel with every helpless stray kitten she would find. Not that she minded: not at all, actually. She hoped that Meg's vivacity would give Christine that fire she lacked but which seemed, to Mme Giry, not inexistent and probably buried deep somewhere; and on the other side, Christine's serenity and timidity would perhaps temperate Meg's spunk and give her a more ladylike demeanor. It would all be for the better: Mme Giry had been quite the fiery girl herself, and she had been thoughtless too often for a lifetime. She wouldn't let Meg do the same mistakes she had done.

Meg's innocent chatter was suddenly interrupted by a knock at the door. Madame Giry got up, frowning, especially that at such an hour, most of the ballerinas and staff were out, to return at a very late hour of the night, or at their homes, if they didn't reside at the Opera Populaire. Her confusion only increased when she saw a police officer standing there.

"May I know your inquiry, monsieur?" she asked sternly. "I suppose a dancer got in trouble and that she requires some assistance?"

"I am not allowed to say more, madame," he answered. "I will simply ask you and your daughter to follow me. I suppose it's the… brunette one, right here?"

Christine's panicked gaze didn't help to clear the confusion, as she clung Meg's hand desperately. While Meg was glancing with curiosity to the police officer, then to her mother, Madame Giry was the only one who kept some sort of composure.

"What does my daughter have to do with this, monsieur, if this business concerns me and only me? I can assure to you she has done nothing wrong. Unless you're saying I'm not keeping her well and that she is a loose girl behind my back?"

"I can assure to you it is not the case, madame," the police officer replied, but his annoyance became obvious. "I simply follow orders, and I am not allowed to give you any kind of reason. I do not want to call for reinforcements, so I will simply again that you and your daughter follow me."

Madame Giry finally turned towards Meg, who had to force herself out of Christine's grasp, but not without muttering a word of reassurance to her friend. Christine nodded, but the trembling in her hands was still very present.

Their heads high, the Girys followed the officer through the corridors and out of the Opera house. But as both of them were about to climb in the carriage waiting for them in front of the building, they suddenly felt an arm circling their throat and, before they even had time to react, a cloth was pressed to their mouths.

It didn't take long for them to faint despite their desperate attempt to stay conscious.

Meg finally woke up, caught in a pitch black darkness, sitting uncomfortably, shaking with the carriage's rolling towards an unknown destination and feeling the presence of two people on each of her sides. In a strike of panic, she lifted her arms in order to try and grasp something around her to convince her that she was in the real world… to suddenly realize that she was handcuffed.

She heard throaty laughs all around her, and as her panic rose, her eyes finally settled to the darkness. She saw foreign-looking men all around her, no trace of the police officer who had ordered both her mother and herself to follow him, probably a few hours ago, certainly, and among them, her mother, still in a state of unconsciousness. It was only Madame Giry's regular breathing that convinced Meg that her mother was still alive, and reassured her, though, of course, not completely.

One of the foreigners, dressed in a more occidental matter, gave a curt nod to Meg, but which stung to her as a cruel mockery, and took away any sort of hope she could have formed by a familiar element as insignificant as clothing. She turned around, closing her eyes, trying to repeat to herself that this was just a dream and that she would wake up to see Christine in the bed just beside her, but provoking only even more laughs. She retained a sob, to open her eyes and get painfully used to the realization that she was in solid, harsh reality.

Her mother had finally awoken, blinking quite a bit before looking around her, puzzled, and her eyes finally settling on each of the men surrounding her and to stop on Meg. The young girl saw her mother's lower lip quiver slightly. A shiver ran up her spine. Maman never quivered for anything. This could only mean no good.

"You have quite a lovely daughter, Madame Giry," the man in occidental clothing finally said, insisting with arrogant irony on Giry's name. "I would have had trouble seeing you as a mother… but here it is."

"How dare you speak this way!" Madame Giry finally shouted, having fully regained her composure. "I am a respectable woman, monsieur, who's been the ballet mistress at the Opera Populaire for more than fifteen years, and I want to know the meaning of this!"

"It is useless to keep on lying, though I know you're a master in the subject," the man continued. "Aren't you… Anouar?"

Meg frowned at her mother, her mouth slightly opened in disbelief, hoping to see her straighten up as she always did and call the man a liar.

But the quivering of her mother's lip had come back, more present than before. She ignored that that simple name had made a small crack in Antoinette Giry's shell, built throughout the years, filling her with a frightful coldness which ripped off from her any kind of stoic confidence she would have had within her.

After all, the last person to have called her Anouar was no other than her late husband.

A/N: Yep. Madame Giry is Persian.

I just want to say that the idea doesn't belong to me – it's first of all PeekabooFang's idea, and I have her permission to run with it. All credit goes to her. And also – go and read her phanfiction, Yellow Rose. It's TOTALLY worth your time.

Reviews, por favor?