Author's Note:

Alas, that I would owneth any small measure of Phantom of the Opera. But fate hath deemed that I shouldst only draw from Sir Webber's great inspiration. Ergo, I dain not to possess even an iota of my lord's masterpiece.

Okay, okay-skip the poetics and jump straight to legal talk. Everything having to do with Phantom of the Opera is Andrew Lloyd Webber's, Warner Brother's, Gaston Leroux's, Joel Schumaucer's, and/or pretty much everyone else's but mine. However, the way I'm putting this story together is from my twisted crazy mind, so don't steal it! growls Please.

Paris, France 1919

Though it was but a distant memory, Raoul remembered what the Opera Populaire looked like in its days of glory-then, it had been a brilliant architectural masterpiece, a place teeming with life. But time had been cruel to the theatre, and now it stood crumbling and desolate on its foundations.
Raoul now regretted his decision to come to the public auction, but ever since his nurse had read the announcement that morning in the newspaper, he knew that forces larger than himself were at work. Somehow, it was his duty to be there. If nothing else, perhaps he would find some closure to those emotion-ridden days of 1870. Here, in the final chapter of his life, he deserved at least that much peace.
Allowing his chauffeur to open the door of the town car, the driver then settled Raoul into his wheelchair. The driver arranged Raoul's lifeless legs in the rests while Raoul's nurse covered his lap with a cashmere blanket.
Raoul, though, took no notice of their ministrations, nor did he pay attention as they wheeled him up the long ramp into the theatre. It seemed everywhere he let his gaze fall, a new memory arose, each one bringing back feelings he'd thought long buried.
Dust filtered down from the rafters, and Raoul absently noted how the motes danced in the air. In the distance, an auctioneer's gavel banged down, the sound echoing through the fire-ravaged opera house.
"Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen; a poster for this house's production of Hannibal by Chalumeau." The wheelchair rolled to a stop in the auditorium where a small podium was set up, ironically enough on the old stage. A porter stood next to the auctioneer, displaying items as they came up for bid. "Showing here," he said, indicating a large poster with "La Carlotta" emblazoned on it.
"Do I have ten francs?" the auctioneer inquired, glancing about at the few that had ventured to the auction. Most were hawkers and junk collectors, and stingy ones at that. They shuffled their feet on the dirty floor and refused the offer.
The auctioneer compromised. "Five, then. Five I am bid. Six, seven. Against you, sir, seven. Eight? Selling once, selling twice. Sold, to Monsieur Deferre. Thank you very much, sir." He let his gavel fall with an empty thunk. They continued in such a manner, selling miscellaneous props from productions that had once been the talk of Paris.
Raoul let his attention wander to the crowd, when he felt eyes upon him. He immediately picked out a stanch, older woman, with a noble bearing about her. Raoul recognized her at once as Madame Giry, the former ballet mistress of the Opera Populaire. Even now, the past years of intense training kept her in good health, while he sat shriveling in his wheelchair.
Such is Fate's sense of justice, Raoul mused. She tried to catch his gaze, but he looked away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes. There were many secrets between them, dark ones that had cut deeply, and left unhealing wounds.
The next item was introduced and his attention snapped quickly back to the auction. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen. May I commence at 15 francs?"
Raoul's heart leapt in his chest, but before he could raise his hand to bid, Madame Giry cut in. "15, thank you," the auctioneer acknowledged.
With a nudge from Raoul, his nurse quickly took up his bidding. "Yes, 20 from you sir, thank you very much."
The biding toggled between Madame Giry and Raoul for a few turns before settling at 30 francs. "And 35?" the auctioneer inquired of Giry.
She hesitated for an instant to send a glance Raoul's way. She observed him for a moment, and then her stern countenance seemed to soften. With a minute shake of her head to the auctioneer, she put an end to it.
A numb shock coursed through Raoul as Madame Giry's decision settled into his mind. That she would allow him to receive the music box that they both valued so dearly shook him to the core. Thousands of emotions ran through him, moving too quickly for him to name them.
The auctioneer pounced on the opportunity to move the auction on. "Selling at 30 francs, then. 30 once, 30 twice…" He slammed his gavel down. "Sold for 30 francs to the Vicomte de Changy. Thank you, sir."
The porter handed the music box to Raoul after receiving payment from the Vicomte's driver. Raoul shot a glance at Madame Giry, and he hoped that the gratitude showed in his eyes. Then he allowed himself to study the music box he held in his hands.
"A collector's piece indeed. Every detail exactly has she said." He let the song float through his mind as the memories rose anew. "Will you still play when all the rest of us are dead?"
Once again his musings were interrupted by the auctioneer's announcements. "Lot 666, then. A chandelier in pieces." Raoul's gaze, along with everyone else's, was inexplicably drawn to the enormous light fixture that lay covered by canvas on the floor. "Some of you may recall the strange affair of the phantom of the opera, a mystery never fully explained. We're told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster. Our workshops have repaired it, and wired parts of it with the new electric light."
The porter and a handful of other workers approached the covered chandelier, locating the ropes and pulleys that would free it of its cover. The auctioneer continued, his voice faintly mysterious and questioning. "Perhaps we can frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen?"
The workers jerked off the canvas, and with a flash, the chandelier blazed brilliantly. With hardly any effort at all, Raoul pictured what the theatre had looked like 50 years ago.
With every inch that the chandelier rose, it seemed another layer of dust blew off the décor and balconies. As each light winked in its holder, he could once again see the seats in their former glory, the wood gleaming and the upholstery plush and velvety. The stage was polished to a glossy finish, and high above, the statues that adorned the theatre were once again pristine. In his mind's eye, everything looked exactly as it had that fall day in 1870, when he had first arrived at the Opera Populaire.
The Vicomte de Changy allowed the memories to overtake him.