For my story to fit the season, I changed around some times/dates from when they occurred in movie. All usual disclaimers apply. This is based on the beloved classic of Charles Dickens' - "A Christmas Carol" -… with a Phantomy-Scrooge we all know and love as Erik … ;-) Hope you enjoy…

I

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"The fools! Will they never learn?"

If the incompetents had their wretched way, they would destroy the sanctuary of music he had worked so hard to create!

With his lip curled in a sneer, the Phantom dipped his pen into an inkwell and finished scrawling the final note. Those idiot managers thought they could ignore his mandates and challenge his power? Based on the extent of their ignorance and conceit, they alone placed the cast and crew at risk. This had been his home long before it became theirs, once their pathetic manipulations in the junk business came to naught. Did a pair of imbeciles, whose scope of intelligence lay smothered in rubbish, truly believe they could manage the art of opera with finesse?

He slipped the parchment into its envelope. Twenty-thousand francs per monthly allotment was a pittance to ask in return for his protection and aid in orchestrating an opera of sublime perfection, one that would ensure instantaneous success. Moreover, he needed that money, to conceive and carry out his plan…

Christine…

He stared into the distance, barely noting the stage before him, a replica of the one on which the bungling performers rehearsed and executed their deplorable arias. Only Christine had been blessed with a voice created for those immortal, of angels and of goddesses. Only she possessed a talent worthy of his tutelage.

To convince her of the destiny he planned for them would involve trickery and manipulation; no other method presented itself. Even with a mask to conceal the fearsome truth of his visage, she might deny him if she witnessed the reality of these chill, damp surroundings that encompassed his prison. If she glimpsed what lay beyond the safeguard of his mask, she most certainly would flee.

His large, slender hands curled into fists. The torment of such possibilities ripped through his heart. He must blind her eyes to the truth and create a deception within her mind, so as to make her fully his. He must have her! At some point, during these past nine years, she had become a part of his soul ...

The Phantom poured blood-red wax onto the flap of the envelope and sealed it with the crest of the Opera Ghost, a leering skull of terror. As he worked, he heard the constant slosh of water behind him. Setting his writing apparatus aside, he rose from the chair and came around it to greet his visitor.

Over the curling mists of the underground lake, beyond the rock shore, the bow of his boat moved into view followed by the emergence of the slim but sturdy form of Madame Giry. He raised the portcullis, noting her drawn features, tense and pale.

"You're late." His tone conveyed his displeasure.

"I had to sort out a problem with the seamstress." She leaned the pole against the wall and lifted the hem of her skirt as she stepped out of the boat, to stand before him on shore.

"The gown will be finished on time, per my specifications?" Only two hours remained until Christine's debut.

Her eyes darted to the sketches of Christine on the wall of stone beside them, her mouth drawn. "Oui, Erik. All has proceeded as you have ordered. She will sing in Act 3 of tonight's opera, and she will wear the gown. The matter did not involve her costume, but rather the seamstress's tardiness, and delay in finishing the other costumes."

He wished he had never told Antoinette his true name that evening long ago when she had helped him escape. Just as she preferred formal address from all who worked in the theater, he preferred to be known as the Phantom of the Opera or Opera Ghost. Nothing more than a shadow, an illusion to advance and disappear at will, inciting terror within the hearts of men. They, too, had treated him with the same measure of abhorrence.

"I will not tolerate any disregard for punctuality - discharge her." He collected the four envelopes from the table that held the model of the stage. "Once the performance ends, you are to watch Christine and see that no one interferes with my plans to meet with her; if you cannot spare the time away from your ballet rats, get that prying daughter of yours to help. I do not wish the managers near Christine. They are gravely mistaken to think they will get their filthy hands on her."

He handed the notes to Madame Giry. "You are to deliver these with all haste once the performance has ended." He sensed her hesitation and narrowed his eyes. "There is a problem?"

She stood at her full height. "I ask that you reconsider."

"Reconsider?" His brow sailed up in mockery. "Reconsider the fate I have prepared for the two incompetents who continually choose to defy me? Or reconsider the punishment I shall inflict on La Carlotta should she ignore my warnings and torment the entire company with her cruel renditions of a hyena?"

"Reconsider what you have planned for Christine."

His jaw hardened, his mouth a firm line. "That, Madame, is none of your affair."

"She is little more than a girl."

At last glance, he had perceived otherwise. "I do not wish to discuss Christine now or at any time in the future. My plans for her do not concern you."

"But they do," she persisted. "I raised her, much as I helped you when you first came to live at the opera house. Both of us were mere children then, unable to comprehend the trials you would confront or the struggles which have become a part of you." Her pointed gaze went beyond him, to the elaborate bed he had crafted with devotion for his ingénue, then returned to him. "I do not wish to see her suffer ill."

"The subject is closed." He grated the words through clenched teeth. How dare she judge his directives! He had made his decision over a year ago. No longer a child, Christine was a young woman and of suitable age to marry.

She flinched in the face of his irritation, though she kept her chin held high. "Very well. At least reconsider your plan concerning this opera. A spirit of goodwill and cheer resonates in the air, with the approach of the Yuletide; La Carlotta has left, and the Vicomte has presented to us his patronage -"

"Goodwill and cheer," he scorned, "do not belong in the same breath with the Vicomte. He does not run this theater, nor will he make future decisions concerning it."

"The managers do not share your opinion," she countered quietly.

"He knows nothing of music, of the arts!" he fumed, swinging his arm to the side. "Nor do they."

"Perhaps time will tell?" Her tone persuaded. "At least give them a chance to prove themselves."

The Phantom turned on his heel, away from her and her pointless discourse. "This discussion is ended," he said, his voice grave. "You may go."

Madame Giry hesitated a moment before turning away.

"Wait," he said brusquely.

He approached his model of the stage. With care he plucked up a rose from where it lay atop his latest sketch of Christine. His long fingers caressed a blood-red petal, satin soft as he imagined her skin must feel, then trailed along one of the black silk ribbons flowing from the stem. "Give this to her after the performance. Tell her I am well pleased with her."

Madame's brow clouded in confusion. "You have not yet heard her sing."

"She will not disappoint me."

xXx

.

That evening, the Phantom stood in the bowels of the drafty cellars, his eyes closed, his face lifted to the music resonating far above, inside the vast theater. His soul stirred, alight with the crystal-clear song of his protégé. What beauty! What magnificence to be found in her voice! For a time, he forgot his anger at The Vicomte for disobeying yet another directive and stealing his place of honor in Box 5. The box stood nearest the stage and to his Angel, while still allowing him the ability to conceal himself from curious onlookers. No other box sufficed.

Later, however, a torrent of rage again exploded within when he assumed his place beyond the tall mirror of Christine's dressing room and witnessed that uncouth boy asking - no, demanding - that Christine dine with him. How dare he! The Phantom barely restrained himself from abandoning his hiding place and making his presence painfully known to the presumptuous interloper.

Once the boy left, Madame Giry stood in the wings and offered a mild stare of disapproval as the Phantom twisted the master key inside the lock to prevent further intrusion.

Ignoring her, he brushed past and again entered the secret corridor, repositioning himself behind the mirror. His feelings churned. Had she invited the fool boy's advances? Would she prefer to be dining with him?

At that moment, Christine emerged from behind the dressing screen. The Phantom's controlled fury unleashed through a bellow of song. He took an odd sort of satisfaction in her quivering, meek replies, pleased she still sought his guidance. So like a child in many ways, so like a woman in others.

With approval, he noted her choice of attire for their secret meeting and how the corset and filmy dressing gown accentuated her womanly charms. Her eyes widened in her shining face once she noticed him standing there. Through the rift between mirror and wall he held out his gloved hand, all former anger forgotten.

"I am your Angel of Music ... come to me, Angel of Music ..." he sang in a smooth, bewitching voice, compelling her approach.

With her eyes open and trusting, she took his hand. Her gentle touch on his glove shook his resolve. He was touching her!

For the first time in almost ten years he held her hand; for the first time she held his …

Momentarily, he forgot his devilish scheme, her sweet innocence causing him enough remorse to release her from his spell to mindlessly follow. Still she moved toward him, her face alight with wonder. Heartened by her response, he led her through the mirror and down the corridors into his world. She gave little notice to her surroundings, her gaze magnetized to his face as if enraptured by the mystique he presented.

"In sleep he sang to me … in dreams he came. That voice which calls to me and speaks my name, and do I dream again? For now I find - the Phantom of the Opera is there inside my mind…"

He led her by the hand, deep through the labyrinth of narrow, twisting corridors. She followed without question, singing to him, now understanding who he was. Hungry to look at her, he sought her gaze as often as she sought his.

When the trek had grown long, he set her atop his horse he had left waiting and tried to ignore the heat that washed through him at such close proximity to her as his large hands spanned her delicate waist. Dear God, she was as fragile and beautiful as a doll of china. In the many years of their acquaintance, through all the cracks of the walls he had stared, from all the balconies he had watched, he had never been this close to his Angel.

The Phantom forced his mind to regain distance, to concentrate on their journey through the cellars, and soon they reached his boat. Again he helped her down, his heart giving a mad lunge when she fell softly against him. Her lashes shyly lowered, a flush staining her cheeks.

He stepped nervously away and helped her into the boat. Taking her deeper into the hub of his dwelling, he knew gratitude that she could not see the darkness, though by her shivering he sensed that she perceived its chill. Without thinking twice, he covered her with the edge of his cloak.

As the portcullis rose and they entered the home he had known since childhood, he felt the first stirring of fear and commanded her voice to soar, hoping the pure beauty of her crystalline notes might shatter his apprehension. Other than Madame Giry, no one had crossed into his domain. For the first time, since the odious gypsies forced him to live inside a cage as a boy, he felt vulnerable as the woman he prized above all else now beheld both his external countenance and his hidden lair.

Her eyes, luminous and dark like the secrets of midnight, shone with wondering expectation. She took brief notice of her surroundings once again before transferring her full attention to him. Her soft smile of pleasure entranced him. He forgot his plan to deceive and bedazzle, himself a victim of her beguiling charm.

Pouring out his heart into words of song, he beseeched her to join him in his music of the night. He prowled through his dwelling, beyond the pipes of his organ, at last coming around the great instrument to stand before her. All the while he sang, she stared at him, her eyes taking full measure of his commanding presence before lifting to his face in what his stunned mind told him was approval.

He must hold her, must touch her …

His gloved fingers barely made contact with her jaw then turned her slowly around, until her back was flush against his chest. She melted against him and his heart thundered within his ribs. Eager to extend his touch, to know every part of her, he held her tightly against him as he sang of his desire for them while he smoothed his hand slowly, boldly over the lush curves of her creamy bosom, down her flat stomach, against her rounded hip. Her breathing quickened against his gloved hands and she gave a little gasp. His mouth went dry as she turned to him, drowsy-lidded, her lips parted for his kiss…

His kiss!

Anxious, he stepped away. This was progressing too quickly. He had never known physical contact before this, never felt such closeness. The sudden thought of her lying naked beside him made his blood race. Full of soft question her large eyes reached deeply to the core of his soul, leaving him shaken.

Without clear thought, for he could no longer think, the Phantom led her by the hand to the chamber that held the mannequin, keen to express what he wished for their future, still singing to her of the life he wished to share, his voice cracking slightly with emotion.

Her eyes widened in maidenly shock - perhaps fright - as he stood close behind and watched her expression as she beheld the image of his planned future for them: a replica of Christine in the wedding gown he had designed for her.

Her eyes fell shut and she swooned. He caught her lissome body before she could hit the ground.

Fool, he berated himself, his heart plummeting at his idiocy.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her slight form to the bed he had crafted for her. He had frightened her with his callow act. Tomorrow, he would try again to woo her. In time, he hoped to persuade her to join him in this life, this Music of the Night, to stand with him before the priest Madame had located and speak their vows in the chapel. He would keep Christine with him until she agreed to become his wife.

He laid her on the counterpane with reverent care and gazed at her innocent beauty, his fingertip caressing the perfection of her slim jaw. He wished he possessed the courage to pull off his glove and feel her warm skin beneath his hand, to place his lips against her brow and receive the undeserved gift of the smooth satin of her unblemished skin beneath his mouth. He was certain that was what her skin must feel like, and the temptation to follow through with the need to touch her, flesh to flesh, increased until his body trembled. A wealth of unexpected emotions surged through him, and swiftly he stepped away from her unconscious form.

What was he thinking? Unloved and unworthy, how could he expect her to exhibit even a morsel of the desire he possessed for her? She was untried, curious. That must be why she had seemed to want his touch and kiss. That, and his attempt at amorous seduction, bungled though it had been. Always an idealistic girl of dreams, Christine had only lived in the moment he created. Yet he would take whatever she would give. If he could not have her love, he would settle for her companionship; surely that was not too much to ask or hope for after their unusual bond of almost one decade together?

With a sigh, the Phantom lowered the ebony curtain around her, quelling the strong desire to lie down beside her and gather her against his heart. Instead, he sought another type of physical comfort as he moved into his main chamber and shed his confining waistcoat and cravat, afterward donning a velvet robe to battle the pervasive chill that sank deep into his bones.

He abhorred this clammy tomb into which he had mummified himself, but his fate had denied him the happiness that belonged to all perfect mortals deserving of such privilege; those mortals not scarred or maimed beyond repair. For the span of one painful heartbeat, he reconsidered his plan to hold Christine captive in his icy mausoleum. Yet without her to create music with him, he would surely shrivel to even less than the creature he was.

Sinking to his organ bench, he bowed his head into his hands in desolation. She might yet refuse, might somehow glimpse what horrors lay beneath the mask and run ...

"No! I cannot let that happen. I must have her. I will never let her go…"

In the distance he heard the slow clanging of a chain and raised his head in startled confusion. The sound faded, likely into the deep wells of his imagination, to blend with his many other arcane musings.

Beyond the smoke of numerous candles, within the opaque curtain that shielded his beautiful Angel, he glimpsed her slender form in repose, so innocent, so trusting, so angelic, so ...

Christine.

Again he forced his gaze away. He snatched up his quill and put pen to paper, resuming work on his latest opus, one that would disclose the extent of his Angel's exquisite voice. And, should the clowns who managed his opera house fail him, it would become a chilling composition that would exact the vengeance they deserved.

xXx

Lyrics of "Phantom of the Opera" written by Charles Hart, Richard Stilgoe for Andrew Lloyd Webber.