A/N: Me again. Hello. This is new story, that I had an idea for, and I've been working on for months. It is finished, but you will get updates every Friday and every Monday, except for today and Chapter Two will be posted on Wednesday night since I am away on exchange for a week starting Thursday. I want to say a ginormous thank you to my beta, FantomPhan33, who was honestly incredible, helped me through some tough scenes and always made me laugh. Check out her stories (if you don't know them already).

Phantom does not belong to me. Nor does Les Miserables. Alain Boublil and Claude-Michel Schonberg actually wrote the musical and it belongs to them.

Okay, then. On with the show.


Chapter One


Paris, May 1870

My father died when I was eleven years of age. His one legacy – a tattered, leather bound manuscript almost full of words, was scribbled in a careless hand upon the worn parchment. His words, our words. The ones we spent night by night poring over, heads bent by the light of the crackling fire. Does it fit, Mari? He would ask. Does it work?

He valued my word far too much. But now he's gone, and I am left with our manuscript. Our beautiful masterpiece that will never grace a stage. Neither of us knew music, save for his small ability to tap out a one-fingered tune upon a battered pianoforte, and my ability to sing that melody into the open air.

And even if we'd been able to play our tunes, we couldn't write them down, not on those beautiful stave-pages we always saw in the quality stores of fine music when we walked together on Sundays.

But it is all stored in my head. The melodies we created, the stories we wove, all from my mother's favourite book. My poor, sweet mother, who married below her station and got nothing but a life in a Parisian slum.

It is ironic, is it not, that I now reside in an Opera House? My mother works as a maid here, her careworn face still lighting up with joy when she sees me. And I am learning ballet, though I have been relegated to the end of the back-row due to my inability to do anything more complicated than a simple rond de jambe.

Nevertheless, most of the ballet girls tolerate my fumbling and awkwardness, and some even go out of their way to be nice to me. Meg Giry, the daughter of the ballet mistress always offers to run me through my steps, even though I always manage to fall over, or step on her toes, and Christine Daae, her best friend always invites me to their table at mealtimes.

But it the silent times that I crave, when everyone has gone on some outing or another, to immerse themselves in the latest fashions at the dress shops, or giggle over a steaming mug of coffee. I hide away in a deserted corner, usually one of the boxes, and look over the lyrics, struggling to decipher which were written by me and which by my father.

The title page of the book, made when I was seven years old, proudly proclaims 'Les Miserables, an opera based on the novel by Monsieur Victor Hugo.' Papa always claimed that Les Miserables was a beast and so difficult to understand, so many intertwining tales of love, loss and redemption, and grand tangents that only touch upon the main storyline.

An opera is easier to understand. It has to be. And so that's what we did.

My greatest dream is to be there on the opening night, to play the role of Éponine, my favourite character and to receive a standing ovation for the cast, sparkling reviews from the critics of every newspaper, Le Figaro, and L'Époque. In my mind, Christine sings the role of Cosette. Carlotta and Piangi, our awful leading couple who screech loud enough to bring down our beautiful crystal chandelier would be relegated to the role of the evil, scheming Thenardiers.

But it is not to be. An opera would never work without the music, and no self-respecting composer would take on an opera written by a dead man and a young girl.

My dreams will never come true.

...

"Mon ange visited me again last night," Christine confides as she slides into her seat across the table from us, her blue eyes shining.

These comments are considered perfectly normal by Meg and myself, as Christine's 'Angel' has been visiting her ever since she was a little girl, coaching her voice and teaching her to spread her wings and soar. That is how she puts it, anyway.

"What did he say?" Meg leans forward, ever interested in the strange and supernatural. I put another spoon of porridge into my mouth. Christine darts a look around to check if anyone is listening in, and lowers her voice.

"He says it is almost time," she pushes a chestnut lock out of her face.

"Time until what?" I ask, a little too loudly. They both make shushing gestures at me.

"Until my debut, when the whole of Paris will know my name," her cheeks flush. For all her excitement, Christine is a shy girl, very beautiful and very innocent.

I smile. "I'm happy for you. But one question, how on earth is your Angel going to get rid of Carlotta?"

"Oh, The Phantom will do that for him," Meg says airily, with the expert tone of a person who is well informed on the subject of the Opera Ghost. "Another prank will send her storming off in a tantrum, mark my words."

...

The dress-rehearsal of our Opera's new production, Hannibal. As ever, I am at the back of the dancers, in my skimpy corset, trying desperately not to fall over or injure anyone in any way. I can feel Madame Giry's dark gaze fixed upon me, and know I'm in for another late night 'instruction session' that always occurs before a show.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Hem hem, ladies and gentlemen!" our manager waves his arms about like a stranded insect, trying in vain to get our attention. "Madame Giry," he calls.

She stamps her cane, and all of us stand to attention, feet in fifth position and arms held in bras bas.

"Thank you," is the reply. I drift off into a daydream of a different rehearsal, my rehearsal, as he launches into some grand drivel of how he is retiring and these are our two new managers. I stifle a sigh as he makes introductions to Carlotta and Piangi, and these two gentlemen who look as if they've never set foot in an Opera House before. Not that I can talk.

"Monsieur Reyer, isn't there a rather fine aria for Elissa in Act Three of 'Hannibal?' Perhaps if Signora would like to grace us with a private rendition…"

I exchange glances with Christine and Meg – the latter of which rolls her eyes and heaves a mock sigh. Here we go again.

"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye…remember me, every so often, promise me you'll try…On that day, that not so distant day, when you were far away and free…" I am tempted to cover my ears with my hands, but that would be childish.

There is an earsplitting crash, and scenery comes tumbling down from the catwalks. Heart pounding, I jump out of the way and land almost on-top of another ballet girl, who shoves me aside.

"He's here, The Phantom of the Opera!" Meg's face is white as she stares at the fallen scenery and the enraged diva who lies trapped beneath it.

Maybe Meg can see the future.

Because before we know it, she's volunteered Christine to take the diva's place.