Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to The Phantom of the Opera. It all belongs to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and whoever else has taken over.

Author's Note: I'm still as yet unsure of whether this is finished or not. Depending on the response, I may be interested in making this a longer fic. shrugs We'll see.

A Dancer's Secret

I had tried to hold them back. I truly had. But a petite ballet dancer is no match for an angry mob. I was suddenly being swept down to the cellars in a wave of furious people, opera staff and patrons alike. I am still unsure of whether I was simply pushed along, or if some of my unconscious, youthful curiosity got the better of me as well.

Traveling down through the dank cellars of the opera house, I began to regret my decision to join the raiding party. The fire of their torches kept swinging close to my face, making my pale cheeks burn pink. I finally noticed what was in the hands not holding the torches; pistols, daggers, makeshift clubs made of dressing room stool legs.

They were going to kill him.

Maman had only hinted at what lived in the cellars. I knew she had been hiding something. Gossip was one of the greatest talents of ballet rats, but whenever one of us brought up the Opera Ghost in my mother's presence, she would bang her heavy walking stick on the floor warningly, giving the unfortunate speaker one of her signature icy glares. Maman had never been superstitious enough to believe in ghosts. She knew what was really haunting our beloved opera.

A man.

I had discovered that our very-much-human Phantom of the Opera lived below the many floors of the opera house on my own. Anything below the ground floor was absolutely forbidden, which was the first clue that there was something of great interest down there. And sometimes, on quiet nights when all of the other dancers had gone home, I could swear I heard low, soft organ music coming from somewhere below ground.

Ghosts don't play organs.

One of the rioter's shouts broke my nostalgic reverie as we reached the shallow lake that stretched through the seventh cellar of the opera house, the results of building the enormous structure over an undetected, underground spring. I frowned as I forced myself into the murky water; my satin toe shoes would never survive this.

A hush fell over the crowd of rioters as the voices of those we were following echoed through the labyrinthine cellar. I heard Christine first, her usually sweet voice shrill and panicky. Then Raoul, her suitor, sounding strained, as if he couldn't breathe properly. Then I heard him.

I'd never heard a voice like that. I had heard many people cry and yell when they were hurt, but this voice sounded like a man having his heart torn out and offered to him, still beating. So much emotion, and so many of them, tied into two simple words.

"Why, Christine?"

The crowd remained still. Perhaps they realized that they had been rather hasty in their lynching spree, but I felt no apprehension now. My friend was down there. She was scared. But what truly rang in my mind was that voice, and a sudden urge to see the man it came from. I continued to wade through the lake, my tulle skirt soaking with dingy water. I was at least a hundred feet ahead when the crowd decided to cautiously follow me in my newfound determination.

I saw light around the corner. I heard glass break and the voice again. No words this time. Just a muffled, anguished cry. My thighs burned with the effort of walking through the waist-high water, but I doubled my efforts. I had to reach them before the overly-gallant crowd. Vengeful blood was the last thing this situation needed.

I stopped in shock upon turning the corner. The corridor ended in a cavernous room, decorated with what seemed to be two decades' worth of long-forgotten set pieces from retired operas. At the center of the room was an immense organ, its golden pipes irregular and hauntingly bright against the drab background of the stone wall behind it. Multiple mirrors surrounded the room, or what was left of them. They were all shattered, with only fragments of glass left stuck in the ornamentally carved frames.

I slowly climbed up the steps and out of the water, transfixed by my new surroundings. The mob had now caught up with me, and seemed as intrigued as I was by this secret room. They remained in the water, apparently content with me risking my slippered feet among the shards of glass. There was no one there besides us. No Christine. No Raoul. No Opera Ghost. I turned to tell the crowd when it caught my eye. It was a stark flash of white among the dreary debris, and I don't know I had missed it when I first walked past. It was a mask, white and pristine, sitting in the seat of an ornate, dark, throne-like chair. I knelt and picked it up. It was lightweight, made of leather. It must have been his. I stood up, looking at the mob.

"There's no one here," I announced.

"He must be hiding somewhere," said a stagehand. I gave him a discrediting look.

"Where do you supposed he would do that?" I asked, gesturing grandly around the room. It was true. There weren't any closets or doors to be found. Everything was in plain sight.

"They must be somewhere else," I said, hoping that I sounded believable. I glanced down another corridor leading farther into the cellar's maze. "Let's go that way."

Luckily for me, our stagehands and beloved patrons were very gullible, or very stupid. Or a mixture of both. Nevertheless, they made their way down the corridor I had pointed to, not even noticing that I failed to follow. Instead, I waited until they had disappeared into the darkness before turning my attention back to the mask. I lifted it, feeling its lightness. I turned it over, bringing it to my face.

"Don't do that."

I gasped, dropping the mask. He stood in the frame of one of the broken full-length mirrors, behind which had been a hidden door. His clothing was finely made, if a bit disheveled currently, and he had his head tilted down and slightly to the right, his hair falling down in his face, hiding the right side of his face from my view. I saw him glance at the mask, and I quickly picked it up and held it out for him.

"You're not going to scream, mademoiselle?" he asked coldly. "I thought that was all a ballerina here was good for."

I shrank back at his harsh remark, and felt immediately guilty.

"I'm sorry I screamed at you, monsieur," I said, my voice surprisingly tight and quiet.

He snorted in a rather ungentlemanly way and placed his mask over his face. I saw a glimpse of the tangled, reddened flesh of his deformity before the mask was in place, and I gulped.

"Does it hurt?"

He glanced up at me. "You're concerned?"

I nodded. "And curious."

"Curious screamers," he said condescendingly. "You ballet rats are the worst kind." He noticed my ill-concealed look of hurt and sighed. "No, it doesn't hurt."

"What happened?" I asked.

"I was born."

I bit my lip as he made his way around the room, surveying the damage. He clucked his tongue. "This will be torture, cleaning this up."

"Didn't you do it?" I asked.

He chuckled, and I felt myself shiver at the lack of humor in his laugh. "Yes," he said quietly. "I suppose I did."

He stooped to pick up some loose leafs of composition paper. I noticed some by my feet, and picked them up, handing them to him. He simply stared at my hand.

"What do you want, little Giry?"

I frowned. "How do you know my name?"

"I know everyone in my opera house," he replied matter-of-factly.

"Well, what's your name?"

His expression hardened, and he went back to picking up the paper. I scowled defiantly. "You know my name!" I cried. "It's only common courtesy that you tell me yours!"

"And how do I know, little Meg," he said coldly, "that you won't plaster my identity all over the newspapers? Or spread more wild rumors about me among the other ballet rats?"

"And how do I know, Monsieur le Fantome," I replied in an equally icy tone, "that you won't come to me and Maman's flat and murder me in my sleep?"

Silence.

"Touché."

He continued his labors, starting to pick up the larger shards of glass. I opened my mouth to request his name again.

"My name is Erik."

My lips closed. I nodded and helped him in silence for a while, careful not to cut my hands on the glass. I, of course, broke the silence first.

"Where is she, Erik?"

He stiffened. "Where is whom?"

"Christine," I said softly. "Where is she?"

"Christine is . . .gone."

His answer was so quiet and without emotion, that I felt dread creep up my spine. He saw my morbid thoughts flash across my face and grew angry.

"I didn't kill her, you stupid thing. I couldn't kill her."

He moved quickly, cat-like, to his organ and sat there, hands gripping the sides as if to keep them from involuntarily lashing out at me.

"She is with her young man," he said, practically spitting in anger. "I let her go."

He breathed in deeply, and turned to face me. "I will never understand you women," he said, his tone suddenly contemplative and exhausted at the same time. "We can offer you the world and more, but that's nothing compared to a handsome face." He lowered his head, catching my hand quickly as I reached out to touch him, comfort him.

"You should go, little Meg," he said. "I am very tired."

"But you--"

"I am quite fine alone," he replied. "I have been so for many years, child."

I straightened, my eyes tearing slightly. "I won't tell anyone, Erik. I promise."

He looked up at me. His eyes were wet and red, but he managed a small, grateful smile. "Merci, little Meg."

I left him there, that night. Alone. I haven't seen him since, but I am not worried about his well-being. For every night, after a performance, I return to the dressing room and find a perfect pink rose, tied with a black ribbon, laying on the vanity, attached to a note.

Merci, little Meg.