A/N: Just a little dose of sweet, sappy E/C fluff! Enjoy. :)

Disclaimer: The characters are Leroux's, the music is Webber's. I just play in their sandbox.


As a general rule, I despised Valentine's Day.

Under the management of M. Lefevre, the cast, crew, and orchestra struggled on a normal day to collect themselves into an hour of legitimate rehearsal. To my endless aggravation, in the chaotic week leading up to February the 14th, even that small window of productivity seemed to be completely beyond the grasp of anyone in this pathetic excuse for an opera house.

Despite the valiant efforts of Madame Giry, the ballet rats were positively fitful with giddiness, whispering excitedly to one another at every given opportunity, and blushing any time the stagehands' lusting gazes lingered at their necklines a moment longer than necessary. The stagehands, in turn, were delighted to be able to get such a rise out of the girls, and in their distraction, forgot such "trivialities" as scene changes and proper lighting cues. This, inevitably, resulted in a screeching tantrum from La Carlotta – not because she cared, particularly, whether or not the scene changes fell in a timely manner, but out of pure jealousy over all the attention being paid to the younger and infinitely more attractive ballet rats. Her childish outbursts and threats to leave the production would thus fluster the skittish, ratlike M. Reyer, and from there, the orchestra became completely disjointed and the entire rehearsal went to hell.

I had long since given up the effort of reconstructing any semblance of order. It was a sad and sorry state of affairs indeed when even the Phantom himself could not frighten the opera's occupants into submission. Oh, and I had tried; one particularly lusty stagehand had found his trousers on fire, quite literally; a ballet rat who had been flirtatiously curling a lock of hair around her finger suddenly found that finger stained with ink (and subsequently her precious flaxen locks as well); and, in one of my less-subtle moments, I went so far as to drop a note directly onstage that read: "Ladies and gentlemen, I find myself very displeased with the lack of progress to-day. You will know the phantom's wrath if you do not cease and desist with the obscenities and resume rehearsals as scheduled." Unfortunately, that last attempt only served to make matters worse; the ballet rats fell into weeping hysterics, to which the stagehands immediately offered their shoulders to cry on, and the situation spiraled from there.

By the time the dreaded day finally rolled around, I had acquired such a searing headache that I had locked myself away in the grotto that served as my home, for once savoring the quiet solitude that had been my curse from infancy. Something about the dark and the damp of the cellars helped to ease the sharp pain in my head, and so I found myself in a considerably better mood that evening when I made my way up to the stone chamber behind the opera's chapel.

My disposition brightened still more as I laid eyes on my diligent, precious young pupil. A quick glance at my pocket watch showed that she was five minutes early for her lesson. As usual, she knelt before the mural of a beautiful blonde angel, her head bowed in prayer. She had lit a candle for her father's memory, as was her custom. Still, something was different. With a knitted brow, I studied her petite form, trying to put my finger on what exactly had changed.

It took me only a moment to realize that it was her posture; normally, she clasped her small white hands together in prayer. But today, she held them behind her back… almost as if she were trying to hide something from me.

My frown melted, giving way to amusement.

Christine, I sang softly, guiding my voice down to her from the very walls themselves. Christine…

Her face lit up with a dimpled grin. Straightening her posture and raising her chin as I'd taught her, she responded jubilantly:

Angel of Music, guide and guardian,

Grant to me your glory!

It was our special greeting – our treasured tradition. Always we began this way, to start each lesson on a comfortable, familiar note. No matter what had gone on earlier in the day, no matter what stresses or obstacles we'd faced, there was always this: our evening together, our music.

Beaming down at my pupil, I chuckled and asked gently, "Child, what is it that you are holding behind your back?"

Her eyes positively glittered in the candlelight, and her grin broadened expectantly. "I brought you a surprise, mon ange!"

I blinked. "A surprise?"

"Yes, Angel." At my lack of matching enthusiasm, she seemed to deflate a little. "That is… if angels can be surprised. I hadn't really thought about it. Do you… do you already know what I've brought you? If you don't like it, of course you don't have to take it. Perhaps it was silly of me to-"

"Christine!" I interrupted. "Angels can most certainly be surprised. I haven't the faintest idea what you've brought me, but I'm sure if it came from you, I will be most pleased with it. Now come, show me."

The light returned to her eyes, and she puckered her lips in a secretive smile. "Very well… are you ready?"

"I am ready."

The dimples deepened – a true smile. "Are you sure you're ready?"

I laughed at the delightful child. Normally I would have found such stalling tactics petty and irksome, but coming from Christine, it was nothing short of adorable.

"Most certain."

"All right…" she drawled, holding out the vowels as long as she could. Then, with a squeal, she stretched her hands forward to reveal a piece of pink paper, trimmed with lace and fashioned into a heart. "Voila!"

In the dim candlelight, I could just make out the words scrawled on the paper in the halting, deliberate handwriting of a child.

My Angel sings to me every night

And fills my heart with such delight

I love you, Angel, with all my heart

And I hope that we shall never part!

Happy Valentine's Day!

Yours forever,

Christine

The smile slowly faded from her face as she was greeted with nothing but silence.

We had exchanged gifts before, of course – for her birthday, I'd given her a beautiful red dress and matching shoes. Come Christmas, I'd given her ruby-encrusted hair clips to complete the outfit. After a bit of wheedling on her part, I had allowed her to give me a piece of black silk ribbon she'd found, and a slice of carrot cake she'd smuggled out of the kitchens. My heart had stirred, at the time, and I had been so deeply touched by her gesture of kindness.

But this…

I love you, Angel, with all my heart

I read the line over and over, until my eyes burned. She didn't understand, of course. She was only a child – a sweet, naïve, innocent little child, professing her devotion to a creature whose very existence was a myth, a lie.

Still, the words branded themselves on a heart that ached for their beauty. There was no turning back now, no erasing them from memory.

She loved me.

And, suddenly, a part of my soul was filled that I hadn't even realized was empty.

Taking deep, steadying breaths, I finally managed to choke out, "That… that's very beautiful, Christine. Thank you."

But her little face was sad, and tears shone like diamonds in her eyes. "I've upset you. I'm sorry, Angel. I didn't mean to-"

"No," I barked, and she jolted fearfully. "Don't apologize, child. You…" I sighed, lowering the timbre of my voice. "You mistake my silence for disappointment. Quite the contrary. Your kind heart has managed to render an angel speechless."

Christine sniffled, and wiped her eyes with the backs of her wrists. Slowly, the smile that I loved so dearly began to peek out again. "You… you like it, then?"

"Of course. You put a great deal of effort into it, didn't you?"

She nodded, and bit her lip. "I'm not a very good poet, I'm afraid. And Madame Giry had to help me with the lace. I couldn't get it to curve just right."

I made a mental note to leave Giry a token of my thanks. "You mustn't be so critical of yourself, child. I find your poetry to be quite advanced for one so young."

She sat up straighter, and raised her chin. "I am not so very young any more, mon ange! I will be ten in six and a half months."

"So you will," I said, incapable of keeping the smile out of my voice.

The child tilted her head to one side, and batted her eyelashes coquettishly – the product of watching the older ballet rats shamelessly flirting with the stagehands, no doubt. "So do you accept, then, mon ange? Will you be my Valentine?"

I could not have denied the child if I'd wanted to. "I would be honored, Christine."

She positively beamed. "Then I think I am the luckiest girl in the world! The other girls in my class only have boys for their Valentines, but I have my very own angel!"

Her enthusiasm was infectious, as was her grin. "Well then, we must choose a very special song to celebrate the occasion, mustn't we?"

"Oh yes!" Christine's eyes danced. "A Valentine's Day song!"

I thought for a few seconds before selecting an old ballad that was light, cheerful, and sweet. Not… exactly my favorite genre, but I had a hunch that it would delight my young pupil.

Gentle waves upon the deep,

Murmur soft when thou dost sleep,

Little birds upon the tree,

Sing their sweetest songs for thee,

Their sweetest songs for thee!

Cooling gales with voices low,

In the tree tops gently blow,

When thou dost in slumbers lie,

All things love thee, so do I,

When thou dost in slumbers lie,

All things love thee, so do I,

All things love thee,

All things love thee,

All things love thee, so do I.

My instinct proved absolutely correct; Christine clapped her hands gleefully and twirled around the chapel until she was breathless and pink-cheeked. When I finished, she collapsed in a pile of gangly limbs and pink skirts, grinning from ear to ear.

"Oh, Angel, I love it! Teach it to me, please! Please!"

As always, I could deny my little songbird nothing. Using my firm "teacher's voice," I calmed her and directed her breathing, her posture, her voice placement. Within fifteen minutes, she was trilling the catchy tune back at me in her delicate soprano.

"Good. Now, let's return to 'Cooling', as you were drifting dangerously close to your head voice just there. And do try to tighten the vibrato on 'lie'-" I demonstrated for her, and saw her nod. "- it will have a much cleaner sound. Again."

The child had raw talent beyond anything I'd ever heard in one so young; she had naturally perfect pitch and excellent placement. It was only slight technicalities that inhibited her at this stage, and with time and training, she would overcome them. There was no doubt in my mind that Christine Daaé would one day take Paris – nay, the world – by storm.

Absorbed in our lesson and encouraged by my student's enthusiasm for this particular song, I lost track of the time. My keen ears caught the telltale rap of Giry's heels long before she reached the chapel, and I winced.

"Christine," I interrupted the child mid-verse, "I fear our lesson has run late, and your ballet instructor will be very cross if you do not return to the dormitory with haste."

A perfectly disarming pout tugged at the child's lips. "Oh, but we haven't even started the second verse yet!"

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" Giry's stern voice called from the top of the staircase.

Christine's eyes widened, and she shrunk back into herself. If she had been a pup, I had the distinct feeling that she would have tucked her tail between her legs.

"Coming, Madame!" she called. Then, in a whisper, "Oh, you're right, as always. I must go. But thank you very much for this lesson." She offered a fleeting smile, and placed her heart-shaped valentine on the ledge in front of the angel mural. "I'll just leave this here. Happy Valentine's Day, mon ange!"

She blew a kiss before giggling and trotting up the stairs.

I smiled after her until her light, pattering footsteps and Giry's heeled gait faded into silence. Only when I was absolutely sure that I was alone did I flip the latch on the stained glass window and step into the chapel. Gingerly, I bent and lifted the thin, fragile valentine up to the light so that I could read it again, in closer detail.

Each time, my eyes snagged on those same three words… I love you. And each time, I blinked hard and shook my head in disbelief. It was a very good thing indeed that I was alone; had anyone seen me in that moment, they would surely have thought me a madman.

In three simple words, the child had granted me the one thing I had always desired, but been vehemently denied. From that moment on, I decided I would return that happiness tenfold. I would see to it that Christine was the happiest creature that ever walked the earth! She would have everything… everything she'd ever dreamed of. I would build her a palace, and fill it with beautiful things… toys, books, dresses, jewels, flowers, prisms that caught the light and turned it into shards of rainbow! And music… always there would be music. There was nothing that I would not give the child, if she wished it.

The wheels in my head had begun to turn with runaway fantasies of a life fit for a princess. With my newfound happiness was the almost painful urge to give something to her in return.

She was, after all, my Valentine.

My feet were moving before my mind had a chance to catch up. Abhorrent as I found the holiday, I had a general idea what sort of gifts young ladies expected to receive. There were the ever-popular chocolates, sonnets and ballads professing undying love, jewelry…

Flowers, I thought as my eye caught on a festive arrangement of roses, ferns, and baby's breath. Twisting my lips thoughtfully, I paused before the display, and carefully selected the most perfectly formed rose of the bunch. It was a deep ruby red, the same color as the outfit I'd bought Christine for her birthday. Perfect.

With an idea budding in my head, I moved stealthily through the darkness and into a hidden trap door that would plummet me down several levels, into my infamous torture chamber. It took me only a moment to find the hidden lever to let myself out, and within minutes I was back in the candlelit grotto I called home.

After placing Christine's delicate, handmade valentine on proud display on my desk, I began to rummage through the drawers for a letter opener, or some other sharp object that would be easy to cut with. As soon as I found a tool suitable to the task, I began to deftly slice away the thorns that littered the stem of the red rose I'd found. It simply would not do to have Christine's sweet little fingers prick and bleed on one of the sharp protrusions. If I had it my way, Christine would be rid of all the hypothetical thorns in her life.

I laughed at my own sentimentality, but then decided, to hell with it… if I was going to allow myself to become embroiled in this ridiculous holiday, I would at least do so with gusto and a hearty dose of the cliché romanticism that seemed to make younglings like Christine swoon and sigh with delight. If feeding the child's blissful dreams of l'amour would give her even a shred of the happiness she'd bestowed upon me with her innocent Valentine's poem, well… so be it. It wouldn't be the first or the last pretty lie I'd woven for her.

As I returned the letter opener to its drawer, my eye caught on the delicate little ribbon Christine had given me this past Christmas. Smiling, I lifted it up to the light, my fingers gliding lovingly over the black silk. It was neither an extravagant gift nor an expensive one, but I counted it among my most prized possessions. In her innocence, Christine had not stopped to question what an Angel of Music could possibly want with a scrap of ribbon; she had simply found it beautiful, and presented it with pure adoration shining in her mahogany eyes.

I eyed the ribbon affectionately, lingering in the pleasant memory for a few minutes longer before securing it in a bow around the rose's thornless stem. Holding the completed project up for inspection, I smiled.

Simple, but symbolic… a beautiful gift, given out of love. Perhaps it was not as luxurious as a palace filled with jewels and toys, but somehow I had the feeling that Christine would find this Valentine's Day gift far more precious than something plucked out of a department store.

Little did I know, as I hurried excitedly through the corridors to place the gift at the foot of her bed, that the rose would eventually become a staple of our relationship – presented any time my precious student needed reminding of her Angel's loving guardianship and pride in her accomplishments.

And in the years to come, despite the inevitable headache, the screeching tantrums, the folly and the obscenity of the rehearsal week from hell… I found myself anxiously counting down the days until February 14th, when my beloved pupil would come scampering down the stairs to the chapel, clutching ever-more-elaborate valentines behind her back. We fell into a comfortable and mutually beloved routine of feigned surprise, the exchange of gifts, and practicing an unusually cheerful ballad long into the night. It was incredibly silly, I supposed – for who would have ever thought that the Devil's Child would grow to be one of the most enthusiastic supporters of Saint Valentine's Day? But then, that was the intrigue of our relationship… whenever Christine and I were bound together in the swells of music, I had come to expect nothing short of the extraordinary.

A/N: Happy Valentine's Day, beloved readers! :)