A/N: I honestly forgot I had this phic stashed away, but here it is! Enjoy! It is originally intended to be a quick oneshot, but I'll continue it if anybody actually pays attention to it and wants me to. It's in your hands.

And it's totally my birthday today.

Luring Her Back from the Grave

"My name is Christine Daaé, and if you read this, you may consider me mad." I read the first line of my journal, a simple leather-bound book of blank pages in which I record my thoughts. It is true. Those who read it may well consider me mad. But I am not, I swear. I am quite sane. The Opera Ghost, as some call him, really exists. And he loves me…

Me. A shy girl of twenty. I have done nothing that would earn his favor. His love…

There is another who loves me as well. Raoul. Strong, handsome, gallant Raoul, a friend from my childhood. I do believe I love him back, but what is the feeling that drives me toward that poor man in the shadows? Something more than pity, but less than passion. I know not.

Raoul proposed to me last night. I accepted, for I do believe I love him, and I know we shall be happy together. But I have insisted that we keep it a secret. Raoul does not understand, but one day when we are wed I will be able to tell him all without fear.

Tonight is the Bal Masque. I look forward to this extravaganza every New Year, when richer Opera employees buy their finery, and chorus girls dig through old leading lady costumes with tiny hands, searching for one not tailored for Carlotta—one that will fit them.

When I see Meg I can barely control a laugh. In the past year she has…developed, to put it delicately. Nearly every chorus girl wears the costumes of Nathalie, the leading soprano before Carlotta, who was not quite so…well-endowed. However, my dear friend Meg no longer has Nathalie's slight frame.

I smile. "Hello, Meg."

"Don't you dare laugh," she replies. "I'm getting it altered this afternoon."

I cannot resist laughing despite this. The dress—white with white fur trim—would be lovely, if it fit. But even buxom as Meg is, she cannot hope to match our leading lady, and the bosom of the dress sags most depressingly. Hooking my arm through hers as we walk, I say diplomatically, "I'm sure it will be wonderful."

Meg snorts in a most unladylike fashion, and the tension breaks. We talk pleasantly of other things, like what a guttersnipe Sophie will be, wearing only a skimpy garment meant as an overdress.

This is how my life has been since I came to the Opera. Laughing, chatting, rehearsing—endless rehearsing—gossip, pranks, drinking, and the occasional catfight. It was good.

Then I heard that voice, seemingly from nowhere, setting into motion an unimaginable train of events. But it was such an achingly beautiful voice…

As if on cue, I hear a voice in my ear. His voice. "Christine…" he whispers. It is undeniably him. I nearly collapse from relief. It has been a long time. Such a long time. His whisper is different than other times I have heard it. Even after half a year, I can still remember everything about him. His voice, beautiful and sensuous. His face…

"I will see you tonight," he whispers, interrupting my train of thought. His voice still has that peculiar edge to it. It sounds malicious, angry, as if…as if…he knows about Raoul.

No. That's impossible.

"Christine? Christine!"

"Hmm?" I reply. Meg looks a little worried.

"Don't do that!"

"Do what?"

Meg rolls her eyes. I can tell by her expression that it is something obvious. But before she can reply, another voice calls my name.

"Christine!"

I look around for the source of the voice. I recognize it, of course, but can't see where it's coming from. Eventually, Meg, who has sharper eyes than I, points me in the right direction. At the far end of the hall, a slightly blurred figure stands. I see sun glinting off golden hair. No one else's hair glints quite like that. "Raoul!"

I run down the hall, looking childish but not caring. My love is at the end of it. When I get there, he picks me up and whirls me around. Improper. My feet reach for the floor, but he holds me tight and I squeak. He only holds me tighter. If anyone were to see us… But then I am laughing, and no longer care.

When he puts me down, he is smiling indulgently. "You," he announces, "Are coming shopping with me this afternoon."

"Oh, Raoul, you don't need to—"

He puts a warm finger to my lips. "I want to, my love. Come, my carriage is waiting."

I wave to Meg as we leave. I do not remember what we talk of, but it is pleasant—I laugh often—and I return to the Opera with a beautiful pink gown.

Raoul has to meet with a colleague, so we reluctantly part. He will return for the ball, and I must be ready for him. I must look perfect to appear in public on his arm.

Part of me balks at being a trophy for my future husband, but I push it down. Still, though, that malignant voice whispers. "It would be so much easier to live on the lake forever with a man who loves you more than anything for exactly who you are…"

"Raoul loves me." I say it out loud. It carries more weight that way. "More than anything."

"Raoul doesn't love you more than his money, his title…Erik loves you more than life." The whisper refuses to be put down easily.

"I'm not listening to you," I declare stubbornly. "I love Raoul. He loves me. The end."

The ball is even better than I anticipated. I long for it each year, but over the course of the months, I forget exactly how mind-blowing it is.

Raoul and I whirl in each other's arms for an eyeblink, for an eternity. The magic of the night blurs time. I know it must end, but even so, even when Brigitte's scream silences the orchestra, I do not wish to stop.

The source of her scream is immediately apparent, and I cannot restrain my heart from leaping a little. Unconsciously, I tuck my engagement ring back into my bodice. It slipped out during our dancing. I keep the ring on a chain around my neck. I'm not ready to wear it openly on my hand yet. He would be so angry…

But he is here, at the masquerade, tonight. He is dressed up all in scarlet, with an awful skull mask. He is the Red Death.

Brigitte is not the only one who screams. Everyone draws back, horrified. I am entranced by his eyes behind the mask. I cannon move. Raoul hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me against him. I cannot tell if he is being possessive or using me as a shield. I stare slack-jawed at him. It has been so long since I gazed at his powerful form, felt his eyes caress me, heard his voice…

He has begun to speak.

He mocks us all with his words, asking us if we missed him.

"Yes." Even now, when great things are transpiring, the whisper will not be silent.

"I have written an Opera," he says, "which you will perform. Immediately." He does not need to say any more. The glare through the skeleton's eyes is threat enough. He tells Carlotta that he could barely manage to find a part for her lack of talent, that I will be playing the lead.

Raoul's arm drops away from me in surprise. Inexorably, of their own will, my feet carry me forward, toward him.

I'm in front of him, staring into his tortured eyes. Just with that look in his eyes, he can make me do anything. Suddenly, his eyes change. He looks angry. No, enraged. He picks up the chain, sees the ring, and snaps it from my neck. "You belong to me," he hisses, before vanishing in a swirl of bloody fabric.

I run back to Raoul, and fling myself into his arms. Safe, predictable Raoul. Raoul, who is never angry with me, who loves me. I sob into his shoulder. His rage silences even the insidious whisper.

"Christine, you don't have to do this."

I look at Raoul. After seeing him last week at the masquerade, Raoul looks different. He looks flat, colorless, like a lifeless paper sketch. Whenever Raoul kisses me, I close my eyes and him swimming there, those eyes full of passion.

"Why do you think that?" I ask in reply.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

My patience, paper thin since the masquerade and steadily diminishing ever since, finally snaps. "Maybe if you're a viscount."

"Christine…"

I pace up and down, up and down. "I cannot sing it. He wrote it. I cannot not sing it. I cannot perform. I cannot back out."

He catches my hands in his. They feel too hot. The heat of his touch is stifling me. "Christine." My name sounds wrong, off-key and squawking. "Christine, my darling love, no one can make you do anything unless you wish it."

I yank my hands out of his grip and pace again, up and down, up and down. Raoul is speaking, but his words are indistinct, the sounds flowing together. I feel as if I'm immersed in a tank of water. Up and down, up and down. I cannot even hear my shoes clacking against the stones of the floor. Up and down, up and down. The water drains away. My mind is made up.

"I will do it."

"I cannot let you, Christine!"

Stop saying my name, you overgrown rooster! "I will do it. You cannot stop me. My father died today. I am going to pay my respects at his grave."

The sudden change of subject startles him. I can see his eyes trying to process what I said last while his thoughts were roaring down the track of what I said first. His eyes are always so placed, almost stupid-looking sometimes. I have never seen them alight with any sort of fire.

The journey to the cemetery is not long. It is not short enough that I may walk, but it is short enough that the bouncy carriage ride is only mildly painful. I hold a bouquet of roses in my hands to lay on my father's grave. He always liked white roses. Whenever we hit a large bump, a petal or two flies off. The waste makes me sad. The flowers were killed for my father, and now he won't to get to admire their full beauty.

I am the only one in the cemetery today. Leaves left over from autumn crackle under my steps, swish as my skirt passes over them. Being in the graveyard is a sobering experience. The majestic stone angels staring down at me make my problems seem inconsequential. I sweep a crust of snow from a monument and fling it into the air, watching as it flutters down and erases any blemish on the petals of my white roses. They look perfect, like the angels guarding the graves, observing me to see if I mean any harm. I look closer at one of the angels. It seemed perfect from a distance, but up close I can see its form is cracked, its wings crumbling. I stare into its cold, unmoving face, and see Raoul looking back at me. I jump backwards in surprise and close my eyes for a moment. When I open them, Raoul is gone, and there is only a battered, old sculpture. I sigh with relief, and hasten on, frightened of demons like any good Catholic girl. Like any good Catholic girl, taught to be frightened of demons, to believe in angels…

I reach my father's grave. He died a poor musician—indeed, for several years I lived on charity. There are no fancy angels, no decorative frills on his final resting place. His headstone is not a tall, imposing obelisk like many in this yard, but a serviceable stone block engraved with his name. I lay the remains of my roses at the base of his stone and take two steps back, sober and composed. I feel the tears gathering behind my eyes. I try to blink them back, but it is a losing battle. I fling myself onto his grave, sobbing like a child.

"Oh, Father, what am I to do? I am so confused…"

I sob until I have no more tears to shed, then curl up on his grave. My cosmetics are smeared, and my hair and clothes are in disarray. I am definitely not at my best, but there is no one here to see me.

Or so I think.

Right up until the moment his voice reaches my ears.

His voice! He did not forsake me!

I haul myself to my feet using my father's headstone, uncaringly treading on the roses. His name is on my lips, and it tastes so sweet. I want to go to him, but I cannot pinpoint where his voice is coming from. It fills the air, makes it resonate. It fills my head, rings like a bell, purer than any bell that ever tolled.

I am lost in the music, glancing desperately around to find the source of it, to find him. The notes melt into the air, liquid, flowing, delicious. I could live off his music, needing no food or drink, only the song. I would need no vision, either. Beautiful colors flash before my eyes. Gold, turquoise, silver, violet…

I hear a note of discord. It reaches me slowly, as if I am immersed in thick batter. Thick music.

There is someone else here. That is the only explanation for the discord. A sour note could never come from him.

Raoul. I can see him from the corner of my eye. I ignore him and resume my search, walking between headstones, searching around angels, glancing behind obelisks, still with the music ringing in my head.

The discord sounds again. I turn, just for a moment. Raoul is screaming my name. He has shrunk into the distance, but is growing larger again as he runs after me.

The music crescendos, snapping my attention back to him, back to my search.

The search is over! I find him, leaning against an obelisk. As soon as I catch sight of him, I run to him with all I have.

Strangling! I can't breathe, can't move forward to him. I can see his eyes from where I am caught, like a beast in a trap. They flash with fury. The catch of my cloak is digging into my neck. Soon it will puncture the delicate skin. I have to get out, have to get air. The edges of my vision turn blurry. I reach up and unfasten the clasp. It's stuck. With strength born of desperation, I tear savagely at the garment, finally escaping from its chokehold. I run forward again, skirts flying. When I reach him, I bury my head in his chest. He will keep me safe.

I risk one glance backward, bidding goodbye to my former life. There is no going back now.

Raoul stands, looking bewildered, holding my cloak.

A/N: Hope you liked it! Hope you'll tell me how much you liked it! Needless to say, the scene in the graveyard was incredibly fun to write!