So this is my story...well at least part of it. I don't think about continuing it because it's like all the same. Eventually I'd make Christine choose Erik over Raoul and they'd live happily and everything... o.O

I just really had to channel all the POTO fluff I was keeping in. it was oozing out of me! So here is my story. Like it. Don't like it. It's really okay :)

Oh just a note: the part where Erik sings to Christine, it's in the tune of Angel of Music/Mirror Scene. And the second line is the tune of the line, "flattering child you shan't know me..."

I don't own any of the characters used here...no infringement or profit meant...just fluff :)

Chap 1 refined and reedited.

Her heart is pounding with adrenaline, her breathing is uneven. She is frightened. She does not know where she is, though she feels that she has been here before. It is pitch-black except for one candle that burns dimly a few feet across her own. She tries to stand up and grab the candle to protect her from the darkness, but her hands and feet are tied together by a thick and uniquely created rope that is twisted more tightly than any rope made by man. A monster perhaps?

She squints in the darkness, as if pushing the blackness out of her eyes will make any difference. She makes out figures in the shadows of the shy candlelight. There is a bed near the far end of the wall and beside it an organ with, she thought she saw, an unfinished score lying on the cover, patiently waiting to be completed by its maestro.

Sweat is dripping down her temples, along her jaw and finally melts into the base of her neck down into her chest. Even though the darkness seemed cold enough to freeze her, the candlelight seemed to emit strong heat waves that made her head throb and her arms quiver.

She murmurs a "hello" only to find that she is alone and that no one will save her from her own fright of anxiety: waiting to die, waiting to live. She greets the darkness louder this time, and with more desperation as she begins to hyperventilate.

Moments that seemed like hours had passed and finally she saw a pair of shoes emerging from the darkness. The shoe buckles glisten softly in the dim lighting of the room. They stopped.

Her pulse quickened with fear and slowly looked up at her the man who held her captive. His clothes were of high-class; they were crisp and were in dark shades of black, royal blue, and crimson red.

His torso was muscular and curved to shape a toned body. His gloves were of prestigious leather with rich embroidery around the fingertips and on the outer palms.

Further up were his cuff links. They were white gold, and were carved into the shape of an angel's face. His jacket pocket contained a flawless rose tucked neatly inside it so that only the young bud would be seen. It was the most beautiful rose she had ever laid eyes on.

Her eyes moved up even more, almost nervously and anxious to meet the eyes of the mysterious man who intrigued her more than frightened her. She stopped breathing heavily and stayed still and wide-eyed.

She could only make out of his face a very faint outline of a chiseled jaw and strong pointed nose. If she squinted harder, she would make out thin lips. But what astonished her more were the man's eyes, for they were emerald green. They had such luster that if she focused on them, they would shine in her eyes and into her soul and fill it with such garish illumination that had its own darkness that compelled her to look any further.

The second thing she noticed was that he was wearing a mask that only covered the right side of his face. This intrigued her greatly and she became drawn to it. To the man.

"Christine".

She was in a deep state of hallucination that she did not realize that his lips had opened slightly and her name had gently streamed out. His voice was a soft melody of letters strung together in perfect harmony. Hearing her name had sent a shiver down her spine and brought her back to utter consciousness of what was going on.

"Christine". The man had spoken once more and with more urgency for a reply.

"W-who are you?" Christine had managed to verbalize.

The man had not answered her question, but continued to stare at her with his beautiful, penetrating eyes. Seeing this as more of a challenge, Christine had begun a little staring contest and glared at him with her hazel eyes. The man had leaned over her, close enough for her to smell his perfume, jasmine and sweet musk.

"Sleep now, Christine" the man had whispered after a few seconds of the silent war between their eyes. A wave of exhaustion had swept over Christine and she realized that she was extremely tired. Her eyelids had begun to droop and her body had begun to loosen its flexed muscles in weariness. She tried to fight her exhaustion but something inside told her that she would be safe.

As she was about to drift off, she heard a lullaby being sung by the man accompanied by a sweet melody on the organ.

"Your Angel of Music watches over you now. Sleep now my child, the Angel of Music watches over you now."

Christine opened her eyes out of sleep. Her heart was beating wildly against her chest and cold sweat was beaded on her forehead. It was a dream, she had thought, nothing more, though it was a dream she would have almost every night.

She looked around the usual surroundings; her dresser was to her left, with a few lipstick tubes scattered about, and a bowl and a pitcher of water was already there waiting for her to rinse her face in.

Directly in front of her was her enormous wardrobe, intricately designed at the borders with loops of Fleur-de-lis, containing gowns she would wear for the opera galas held after her performance on stage. Beside her bed was her Oakwood side table, the usual miscellaneous objects on top, yet something oddly different. Beside her bible on the side table lay a rose. The same rose she had dreamed.

She picked the rose up to make sure that it was real. She ran her fingers along the length of the rose, and began to examine it as a detective would observe a piece of evidence from a crime.

She gently touched the crimson petals of the rose which were as velvety as her own ivory skin. Tied on the stalk of the rose was a black ribbon. Slowly, she stroked the ribbon and closed her eyes, and imagined the man from her dream looking down on her with his incandescently green eyes. His very presence in her mind was enough to make Christine feel uneasily attracted to him. Even though the dream remained the same, the intensity of her feelings of desire and burning passion was growing with each time that she had dreamed.

Should she inform Raoul of this? Raoul was Christine's suitor and childhood friend. He had been courting her for three months now, claiming that their long friendship had been enough to make him love her for a lifetime.

Christine has yet to give her answer to marry him, though her heart would flutter at the very mention of his name. He was a de Chagny, one of the most powerful families in France which controlled sixty percent of the diamond industry. As a result, Christine would receive glamorous jewelry from Raoul almost every time he visited her at the opera.

She briefly held the necklace with an angel charm that Raoul had given her, and wondered whether or not she should tell Raoul about this recurring dream that she experienced almost every night. He was, after all, her best friend and she could tell him anything, even about a dream she kept having about a man coming up to her and making her feel something in the pit of her stomach that she had never felt before. Right?

Christine stood up and stretched her arms. She walked across the room to the window letting warm sunlight flood in. She opened it and a cool breeze kissed her face. She peered down onto a group of trees whose inhabitants were still asleep themselves. She smiled at the thought that she was an early-riser, one of many traits she had inherited from her father, Gustav Daae, a world-renowned Swedish violinist who had died when Christine was only fourteen years young.

Then, she was taken to the Opera Populaire where she would learn and live to be a ballet and chorus girl. She was taught how to dance by Madame Giry, the ballet instructor who also stood as Christine's mother. Madame Giry's daughter, Meg Giry, was Christine's best friend.

Who taught Christine to sing, she does not know. She calls him her Angel of Music. She does not know who he is, just that his voice resounds in the walls and in her head. She had never seen him ever since he had begun singing her to sleep every night when she was a younger.

He was very strict with her; in exchange for singing lessons, he demanded that she do everything he asks of her lest he should send a demon upon her to serve as her come-uppance. As a result, he had molded Christine's great singing potential into a blooming beauty of sweet song.

Christine put her elbow atop the window sill and lay her chin on her hand. She contemplated and wondered what Raoul's reaction would be if she told her about the dream. The jealousy of it would drive him mad.

Raoul was a respectable man of eighteen, who had an equal share of an issue of possession. Se hadn't wanted any other man to challenge him in a courtship duel over Christine who was only sixteen years old. Her young and innocent beauty proved her to be a worthy prize for any man. She did not like to be called a prize or a mark of a man's capability. She wanted to be loved and cared for as a wife whose husband was kind to her and put her above everything else.

That was a characteristic that she loved about Raoul: his ability to cherish a woman the way she should be.

After moments of looking out the window, she heard a soft bustle happening outside her room. People are waking up now, she thought. It would be another busy day of rehearsals, was this how she was to spend her life? Aimlessly attending rehearsals and performing onstage was not the kind of life Christine had intended for herself. She loved adventure for the thrill of it and the way her body recognized the risk of getting injured astounded her. Again, another trait she got from her late father which consequently cost him his life.

As she was preparing her day clothes behind her dressing screen, she heard the voice of her master emanating from the walls. She stopped moving. Her body frigid, she listened in anxious patience for her master's instructions for the day.

"My Angel of Music, great performance! I'm pleased with you child, truly. But something is wrong, yes, I can sense it. Sing to me dear! Sing song!"

There! The man in her haunting dreams had been her teacher! Why had she not recognized his voice before?

"Angel of Music, I am frightened. Stay with me now, guide me! The dream that I had was of you and of me, why were you there, Master?"

He had praised her for her singing of the opera "Le Jardin" which he had composed himself. She waited as her Angel sang back to her. He had always sung to her and asked that she do the same. It had been the only way for her to develop her voice and ability to match words to the music that her teacher had prepared.

"Christine, you speak of such riddles! You do not know who I am. But I shall reveal soon to you, child. Let your heart beat wild!"

His voice had echoed until it was nothing. With corset in hand, Christine beamed at the very thought of meeting her long-awaited Angel! The day would go by fast, she thought for tonight she would wait in anticipation for her teacher to come and show himself.

She quickly dressed up and combed her long, russet-colored, curly hair and tied it neatly with the black ribbon that the rose was tied with.

Before she went out of her room, she glanced at the rose on her side table and finally decided not to tell Raoul about her dream.