Chapter One

It took a while, but after a week of not knowing what to do with herself, Amelia Hyatt finally came to a decision: she would leave. Not for very long, mind you. Just a night, perhaps, just long enough to clear her head and be able to face the following day with a sane mind. She rolled off the bed and redressed in dark colors, specifically in a frock her mother hated on her—it was immodestly calf-length and grey plaid, a dress Amelia had snuck with her to Paris when her family moved there from their ancestral home on the moors. She decided on minimal petticoats; that way if she had to run she didn't have the added bulk to weigh her down. She braided her dark red hair into a single plait off to the side, and pulled on her boots and arm warmers.

Dressed for the occasion now, she cast her eyes about the room until her gaze landed on a wad of tissue-weight pink fabric. Smirking with the irony, she rummaged in earnest beneath the pile of cloth till she pulled out a tattered and well-used copy of Poe's The Raven and Other Poems. She almost laughed. Her mother would choke if she knew her daughter of one-and –twenty were reading such "heathen smut", as she would call it. Having secured her illicit prize, she tossed the book, a candle and a matchbook in an old rucksack she'd sewn one day out of boredom. Without so much as a backward glance, she opened the window and slipped into the night.

It had been six months since the great fire of the Opera Populaire. Amelia stood in front of the ruined façade and wondered what it had looked like in its glory days. She had heard rumors of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera, but decided that there were no such things as ghosts and left it at that. Anything else than that was just slatternly gossip. She hitched up her sack on her shoulder and strode into the shell of a theater, not knowing what she might find, nor really caring.

The silence inside was pregnant. Her footfalls were muffled by the ash and dust coating the floor like a grey film. She wandered around for a while, and presently made her way up to the boxes. She peeked into each one of them, curious as to what she might find. She had reached the fifth box when she thought she heard a rustling behind her. She silently set her bag down and poked around the box, but found nothing. Scowling, she set out to explore the rest of the theater.

The first thing that intrigued her was the remnants of the chandelier resting in the center of the room, lying like a great crystalline beast at rest for the winter. She stepped closer to it, apprehensively, as if it might truly grow fangs and snap at her. She lightly ran a hand down a string of the clear stones, leaving little trails where her fingers brushed away the soot. She wondered what it would have been like, the terror, the unadulterated fear, to have been here in the theater when this massive thing came crashing down.

Through the silence, she heard music. It sounded like an organ, but it came from too far away for her to be able to clearly tell. She followed the sound anyways, across the stage, into the rabbit's warren of halls and back rooms. The sound was loudest when she was standing in front of a particular dressing room door. The sign demarcated it: "Christine Daae". She pushed on the door experimentally and found it open. She entered a musty smelling room, filled with furniture and dead rotting flowers. The music was louder now. She was compelled to walk on, through the mirror on the back wall, down into the eternal night of the Opera Populaire's cellars and lower levels. She followed the sound like a blind man would a familiar voice, running her hand across the wall for reference, also like a blind man would. The music swelled, crescendoing massively and echoing off the damp stone. Amelia felt her pace quicken almost against her will. Her heart beat against her ribs, pounding in time to that unearthly, mesmerizing music.

The music was so close now… she could almost feel the vibrations of the organ within her.

Without warning, the stone floor dropped out from under her, replaced by cold, rushing water. For a moment she flailed, unable to take a breath or keep her head above the surface. The current was moving quicker than she had given it credit for. If she could keep afloat, she would be okay. She closed her eyes, lay back, and let the water carry her. The organ drifted in overhead, calling to her still.

In time the current slowed, and she found the source of the beautiful sound.

The word that immediately sprang to her mind was "lair." And before the keys, giving life to the notes and harmonies, was the Phantom of the Opera himself, slowly drawing forth from the keys and pipes a slowing, quiet, softer melody than before, moving towards silence.

The music stopped. He turned, and when he saw her, he stared at her, still clinging to the rock like a helpless mer-creature.

Amelia hefted herself up onto the ledge, soaked to the bone and out of breath.

"Hello…" She began, stopping when she saw the Punjab lasso held tightly in his hand.

Erik felt alive. Not since Christine had he been this inspired. The music poured forth from the depths of his soul, filling the cavernous gloom and reverberating off the walls. The volume increased, crescendoing louder and louder, until he felt it calm within him and quietly taper off into its ending. He stopped finally, after what seemed hours of playing, and breathed heavily. He turned on the bench, making for the swan bed, and once there, sleep.

And then he saw her. She was in the water, hanging on the rock like a drowned animal. The look on her face was simply awestruck. They stared at each other for a long moment, until she found purchase on the ledge and pulled herself up out of the water.

He reached for the lasso, tightening the knot with one hand. She had barely begun to speak before she noticed the vile weapon as well.

Her face blanched for a moment, but soon she composed herself.

"I apologize if I interrupted you." She said formally. The look of awe on her face had been replaced with calculating condescension. As much of an intruder as she was, this girl was no Christine. Erik doubted she was that weak of will.

"Interrupt you did." Erik replied, running his fingers absently over the coiled rope of the lasso's knot.

She nodded towards the organ. "Carry on, if you like. I'll not interrupt."

Erik glared daggers at her. "Who are you?"

She stood firm and looked him in the eye, hands on her hips. "My name is Amelia Hyatt. I presume you to be the Phantom of the Opera?"

Erik hid his surprise. How dare she speak to him in such an abrupt manner? "Why yes. As a matter of fact I am." His voice changed from dripping sarcasm, to laden with venom. "Why are you lurking about my theater? Come to see if the Opera Ghost is real, eh?"

He advanced forward a step. She scowled mightily and again held her ground. "As a matter of fact," she began sardonically, "I do not believe in ghosts at all, Monsieur Phantom." She spit the last two words out with as much venom as he'd given her.

Erik was beyond surprised now, and quickly becoming astounded. This girl, woman, whoever she was, appeared to have no intention of being cowed by the mere fact that she was confronted with the infamous Opera Ghost, especially when he was in a foul humor. No one had ever stood up to him like that. Ever.

"You're avoiding my first question." He continued coldly. "Why are you lurking about in my theater?"

Amelia Hyatt gave him a withering look. "I do not recall lurking, my good sir. I came to the Opera Populaire after a grueling night of spending time against my will with my vapid, backwards mother and her ilk, seeking only to read my book and clear my head. I explored for a little while, and happened to hear something rustling behind me while I was in Box Five." Her scowl deepened. "I then noticed the chandelier, and proceeded to have a look at it. While I was there, I heard your music," –here she nodded again towards the organ—"and was curious as to its source. Thus, I followed it until I fell into the canal because it was dark and I couldn't see it in front of me. Then I floated down, until I reached the rock ledge there, and here I am explaining to you why I was 'lurking about' in your theater."

She backed off and folded her arms, awaiting his reply. They glared at each other for a moment, until she broke the silence.

"You can go back to playing, if you like. I'll not interrupt."

He matched her glare tit for tat. "Why should I?"

She shrugged, blasé now. "I'm not telling you you must. It's your prerogative."

Erik felt his anger cool slightly. Still, he would not break eye contact with her.

She retreated a step, back the way she came. "Or, I can leave." Again, another step back, and then she turned to walk away.

The weight of the risk crashed upon him like a ton of brick. She could not be allowed to leave, not until he was certain she would not betray the secret of his existence. He lunged and snatched her by the arm, almost dragging her towards the mirrors.

"No!" He thundered. "You will not be allowed to leave, not yet."

She struggled against his iron grip, grunting with the effort. Try as she might, she could not pry herself free.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" She shrilled.

He stopped her roughly before the tallest of the mirrors and stood behind her, arms folded across his chest.

"What do you see?" He barked. "What?"

She shot another black look at him before crossing her own arms and answering, "I see a man in a mask and a woman in sodden clothes, neither of whom are in a pleasant state of being right now."

Erik stared over her and into the mirror for a long moment. A man in a mask, she'd said. Not a monster. A man.

"I see." Was all that he could say.

She turned her head towards him and met his eyes. "You see. And what, pray tell, is it that you see?"

"It doesn't matter." He mumbled, looking away from the mirror. He looked up then , back at her. She was staring into space and fiddling with her braid.

"I'll take you back, to the theater proper, but only on one condition."

Amelia snapped out of her reverie and cast a sidelong glance at him. "Which is…?"

"You must return here, to the Opera Populaire, each night, until I tell you otherwise."

Her gaze was far off, out across the water. "And if I don't? Agree to the conditions, that is."

"You will stay here anyways, for I will have no desire to help you if you refuse. You will not be able to escape, for I will hear you and will stop you; as well as you will not be able to swim against the current that far." He moved to untie the black boat; she hadn't noticed that before.

She stood for a moment, watching him apprehensively, thinking, chewing on the end of her little finger. Finally, she sighed and replied: "Very well. I agree." She cast another uneasy glance at the boat, then at him.

Erik stepped into the boat and held out a hand to help her. "Good. Now take my hand and step down. Be careful, it's a little slippery." She cautiously obliged, stumbling a little. He caught her by the waist and deftly pulled her in before she fell in again. For a long moment neither of them moved. His arm was still around her; their eyes were locked together. That single moment seemed to last an eternity. It occurred to Erik that her blue eyes had flecks of violet and grey in them. He flushed mightily at the thought and released her.

"Sit," he instructed quietly. "It will help balance the weight out."

She nodded, and tucked her legs demurely beneath her skirts.

The trip was silent, save for the drip and the swish of the water. He stopped the boat at the place where she fell, and guided her by the hand back to Christine Daae's dressing room. He stood behind the mirror and watched as she walked away. Suddenly a thought struck him. He chased after he, until he had her within earshot.

"Amelia!" Her name in his voice rang out and echoed through the silent halls. She stopped and turned back to reply.

"Yes?"

"My name is Erik."

He thought he saw the ghost of a smile touch her lips and her hand wave as she was claimed by the darkness. For the first time in what seemed ages, the Phantom smiled as well.

She would be back. He could feel it. In no way was she at all similar to Christine, but he knew she would come back.

When he returned to the cavern, words were forming in his head as he sat at his desk and reached for his pen and a piece of notepaper.