So this is the result of me watching Moulin Rouge at 5 a.m. and deciding, "hey you know what? What if Christine was never at the Opera because her father never died? Let's give Erik a happy ending, gods know he needs one." Then this. I blame the Moulin Rouge and 2004 POTO soundtracks for this. Please review, I'd like to see how if you lovely readers like the idea of this too.

Disclaimer: I do not own any copyrighted music or characters. I simply cannot stand the idea of Erik never getting to have true love. I make no profit except my own fangirlish peace of mind. Please no sue-sue.

Come What May

The year is 1870, the warmth of early spring beginning to blush over frozen earth. The Opera Populaire is booming in success, the familiar players set... except for one small, minor detail. Gustave Daae has not fallen ill, has not died; he has just celebrated the recent wedding of his only child to her childhood sweetheart, Raoul de Chagny, with the promise to remain their personal violinist and give up his life of fame. It is small price to pay for his daughter's beaming joy.

With this one simple change, a tragedy has been averted. The Phantom still haunts his beloved opera, loneliness his only friend and companion. He yearns for something he knows to be forever out of his reach—love, friendship, some semblance of normalcy. He believes there is no one who could ever love him.

Somewhere, in the far-distant and twinkling stars, the music of his pain stirs pity. A plan to assuage his anguish is put into place, the luminous strings of time and space being plucked in an accompanying harmony. This new piece is softer, gentler; tempered with hope and joy, like the unfurling bud of a perfect rose...

A new story is taking place in the Opera Populaire, one you have never seen before. Take your seats as the heavy curtain draws away and enjoy the magic before you...

The evening was cold, dreary; the chill of winter hadn't yet passed. The stagehand yawned, stumbling to the door, sniffling miserably. Blearily, he stared at the still figure blocking his way for a moment, blinking. Realizing it was, in fact, a person he cursed, fumbling for a pulse. Shoulders sagging in relief as he found a strong, steady one, he pondered what the hell he was going to do now.

Madame Giry, he decided. She would certainly know what to do.

Pushing through the usual bustling commotion, he finally found the woman in the middle of a lesson, the limp body in his arms still as death.

"One-two-three, that's it, petites... Jean, what in heavens do you have there?" she exclaimed at the unexpected sight.

"I found her, madame. She was just lying outside the door..."

"Quickly, bring her here," she tsked.

Finding the young woman chilled and soaked to the bone, she quickly brought her to the ballet dormitories. Ordering a relieved but curious Jean out, she stripped the girl briskly out of her strange clothes into clean ones of Meg's and bundled her in blankets. She wondered for a moment if the girl was of the Phantom's doing, but let the thought go. She would learn in time; for now, the important thing was making sure whoever-she-was survived. She was lucky Jean had found her when he did, or else she wouldn't have survived the night.

She could wait to unravel the mystery of their new guest.

It was cold.

So terribly, utterly cold.

Slowly, so slowly, warmth started to return to her half-frozen limbs. Teeth chattering, she forced her eyes open with more strength of will than body. She took the surroundings in with a sort of resigned tiredness.

"I must be dreaming," she mumbled, burrowing back into her precious warmth.

It was strange though—hadn't it been summer? Yes, she remembered now—it had been hot, muggy. She forced herself to try and remember what had happened. She had been driving, she knew; driving to see a friend. Then there was singing...

Grimacing, she was forced to let go of the memory; it physically pained her, forced a pressure in her head that made her distantly worry it would explode. She focused herself on the basics—keeping her eyes open, starting thinking. She could puzzle out the details later.

"I assure you, madamoiselle, you are not dreaming," an accented voice spoke softly.

Jumping slightly, she dredged up strength into her body to sit up slightly. She turned her head to look at the woman who had spoken.

"Where am I?" she whispered hoarsely, pulling the blankets around her more securely.

"You are in the Opera Populaire, madamoiselle...?"

"Charlotte," she whispered. "Charlotte Fairechild."

"Well, Mmlle. Fairechild, I am Madame Giry, ballet instructor. I do not know the details. Only that you were found by one of our stagehands unconscious and near to death at our door."

Wearily, she noted the implication of how she came to be here. If only she knew herself...

"I do not remember, ma'am," she whispered.

Raising an eyebrow, the older woman decided to not say anything. There was a nasty bump growing in the middle of an ugly bruise on Charlotte's forehead which would explain the amnesia. Green-grey eyes wide in her colorless young face, Madame Giry felt pity for her. She couldn't be much older than her own daughter.

"Sleep, Mmlle. Fairechild. You are safe now."

Blowing out the candle as she left, she walked away, troubled. Without memory of more than her name, there would have to be inquiries of the girl's family. For all she knew, she could be a wife, mother, beloved daughter. Yes, she would speak to the new managers and inform them that, until the girl's relations were found or her memory returned, the Opera Populaire would find somewhere to fit her in.

Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not notice the figure slip in from the shadows...

There was something different about her.

It might have been the pale tone of her sleeping face, but there was a softness there, a tempered sort of innocence. The dark gold of her hair contrasted with it, the lustre tempting. He touched it, finding it soft to the touch. He let himself wonder for a moment what she was like.

"I will be keeping an eye on you, Mmlle. Fairechild," he muttered before leaving.

In her deep sleep, she heard the echoing strains of music again. They were so familiar, as though she had heard them all her life. Struggling to remember how it went, she let it wash over her troubled soul. So beautiful but so unbearably sad...

And deep within her, music rallied and answered. Sitting on a wooden stage she had never seen before in waking, she smiled at the empty seats. Somewhere, she knew someone was listening to her as she sang, determined to change to the melody, softening it into something sad but hopeful. There were no words—no words were needed. The music was everything, filling her, completing her.

When she woke, tears were streaming down her face. She tried to grasp the dream, remember it, but it had already faded. She didn't know if the tears were tears of sadness or of joy.

Perhaps they are a little of both, she smiled slightly.

Pushing herself to stand shakily, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Opening them, she stood to her full height on steadier limbs. She looked around her, frowning.

Had she been taken in by a theatre? Why hadn't anybody notified the police? Was there a Missing Persons out for her yet? How long had she been out?

She reached for her phone and panicked when it wasn't there. Cursing, she ran a hand through her disheveled hair. It seems as though I have been robbed. Shrugging, she decided there wasn't anything she could do about it at the moment. One step at a time, Charlie-girl. First, she needed to find out where she was and how she'd gotten... wherever she was. Then, after that, she could start to get her business back in order. She'd taken worse blows before—she'd land on her feet again.

She always did.

Now, deal with step one: the where. How would follow on the heels of that, but solve what you can first. Madame Giry had had an accent, one suspiciously French. Opera Populaire, ehh? The way she had pronounced it had been distinctly French as well. Well, she could hardly be in France...

Could she?

Well... stranger things have happened in the world, she supposed. Let's say I am in France. Alright, seems as logical as anything else at the moment. In... an opera house. Right, Charlie, you're not crazy at all.

Shut up, me.

Fine. You're in an opera house in France. A very old-fashioned opera house, it seems, but one would assume as much for a bloody opera house. So what do you do? They might not like an American much... but cross that bridge if you get to it. See how long you've been out first. Work out from there. Sketch out the edges, no matter how roughly, and slowly fill in the rest. Like an outline. Figure out the details later.

Nodding, she pushed open the door.

She wasn't quite prepared for what lay on the other side.

Everywhere, people in fantastic costumes or handling props chattered or yelled instructions. Dizzying colors and sounds assaulted her senses. Despite the sheer absurdity of the situation, she grinned widely, heart bursting.

"It's like waking from monochromatic to color," she whispered in wonder.

"Ahh, Madamoiselle Fairechild!" a voice boomed.

Jumping slightly, she turned to see Madame Giry walking over to her with the elegance that only experienced dancers manage to have. Smiling weakly, she smoothed down the incredibly old-fashioned dress she wore. Maybe it was a spare costume.

"I have informed our managers that you will stay here until we find your relations or your memory returns," Madame Giry briskly informed her. Charlotte thought about telling her she had only lost her memory of the actual incident then decided against it. Let's see if I should or not.

"What can you do?" she inquired bluntly. "Can you dance? Sing? Sew? Paint? I must know where I am to place you."

"Uhh..." Charlotte scrambled. "I can do simple sewing. I'm pretty terrible at dancing. I guess I can sing okay..."

"Well, sing something for me," Madame Giry ordered impatiently.

Charlotte's mind went blank.

Opening and closing her mouth like a fish out of water, she desperately tried to remember a song, any song. How could she not remember one stupid song...?

"How can you see into my eyes, like open doors? Leading you down into my soul, I've become so numb. Without a soul, ahhh, my spirit sleeping somewhere cold, til you find it there and bring...it...back...home. Wake me up inside, wake me up inside, call my name and save me from the dark. Bid my blood to run, before I come undone, call my name and save me from the dark..."

Everyone had turned and stared at the new girl singing the strange sound. Her voice was hardly perfect, but it wasn't terrible, and there was a longing behind it that was tangible.

"What an odd song," Madame Giry murmured, shaking her head. "Still though, not bad. I shall put you in the chorus. Come, it is time for dinner. You must be half-starved, you've slept for almost two days now. I was worried we might need to call the doctor."

Explaining her new duties as a chorus girl, neither of the women knew that in the catacombs a figure had frozen at the unfamiliar melody tinkling down to him. It had been rough, unpolished; but something of the song, something behind it, made him want for her to finish it.

It was time to pay the stranger a visit.