I'd had this up before, but I got frustrated when I couldn't figure out where to go with the story and took it down. I've no idea how often I'll be able update this. Leroux-based, but . . . done my way, which means . . . anything goes where my twisted mind is concerned. Bwahahaha!

What if Christine had been more adamant that she did not remember Raoul? How much would change? That's all I can say for now without giving away spoilers.

Disclaimer: I don't own The Phantom of the Opera (but don't we all wish we did? Haha.) I am eternally grateful to Monsieur Gaston Leroux for sharing the bizarre story of Erik with the world and giving me the inspiration for so many stories and poems. I make no money from this silly little story (too bad, too. If fanfiction paid the bills, I might be rich by now! Ah, well, there's Helium.)

"But I don't know you, monsieur," Christine Daae insisted for the tenth time.

Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny, the man into whose arms so many women would gladly swoon, was stunned into silence. When, at last, he'd recovered his wits, he began sputtering about the red scarf she'd lost in the sea. "How could you have forgotten me? How could you forget those days we spent playing and promising to love each other and marry when we were older?"

"Love? You speak to me of love, monsieur?" She was shocked at his brazenness in front of the doctor and the maid. "Tell me, Monsieur le Vicomte, if you loved me all those years ago, where have you been all this time? Why were you not at my father's funeral just last year? No," she waved her hand dismissively, "do not attempt to justify your complete absence from my life all this time. Just . . . leave me in peace. If you insist on thinking of me as your childhood playmate, I can't convince you otherwise. But please leave. And do not seek me out again."

Mademoiselle Volanges escorted the dejected young man to the door.

"Please," he began, "I will write a letter. May I give it to you later for you to deliver to her?"

"I am sorry, monsieur, but the lady has spoken. She does not know you, nor does she wish you in her presence. Good night, Monsieur le Vicomte." With that, she shut the door softly but firmly in the young man's face.

"Merci, Mlle. Volanges," Christine called from her spot on the sofa. "What is your prognosis, Doctor?" she asked of the bespectacled and bearded man checking her pulse again.

He released her hand and smiled. "You appear to be in perfect health, Mlle. Daae. All the excitement of your first starring role simply overwhelmed you, I'm sure. Get some rest and I shall see you tomorrow to see how you are doing."

"Merci beaucoup, Doctor. Will you see Madame Valerius tonight?"

"Oui."

"Will you tell her that I shall be staying here tonight? I'm sure she will understand." 'She knows about my Angel of Music. And, if the doctor tells her what happened earlier, she will see why I chose to stay with my Angel for the night.'

"Yes, of course, Mlle. Daae." Doctor Vronsky took his leave of her then.

"Will there be anything else, Mlle. Daae?" young Mlle. Volanges inquired.

"Perhaps some tea? After that, I will retire for the night."

Volanges rushed to fetch the tea then bid the up-and-coming diva "Bon nuit."

A voice sighed from all around Christine.

"Is that you, Voice?" she called tentatively. 'Of course; who else could it be?'

"I am here, Christine," the Voice responded. "Who was that boy that was with you earlier?"

"The boy? Oh, just someone I knew long ago. But I sent him away by telling him he was mistaken."

"Why did you lie to him?" the Voice asked sadly and softly.

Christine hesitated. "Because . . . I did not wish to . . . He wanted me to remember things . . . He wanted things to be as they were. But I have changed since he knew me."

"Changed? How, Christine?"

"Well . . . I am no longer the silly little girl without a care in the world. I won't play at being sweethearts as I did then. I am an opera singer, not a child singing with her papa," she concluded wistfully. 'I am also not so silly that blind faith would have me believe you to be a supernatural being.'

"You miss your father very much, don't you, child?"

"Yes. Every day. Tonight I sang for him as much as for you!" 'But what kind of loving Creator would have made my father suffer as he did?'

"I know. That is why your voice soared as an angel's tonight! Will you promise me something?" he asked abruptly.

"Anything, Voice! I will promise you anything if it means you will stay!"

"You must not give your heart to anyone on earth, for if you do, I shall have to leave you forever!"

"Angel, please! Don't say such things! I have no interest in giving my heart to anyone . . . except you, if you were a man," she added softly. She realised how silly and futile it was to be in love with a bodiless voice, but she could not help what she felt. If she asked him to reveal his true identity, would he do it for her? Did he love her like that?

"Oh, Christine," he moaned. "If I were a man, simply an ordinary man, would you love me?"

"Oh, yes, Angel! I would!" she swore vehemently. 'Please, show yourself to me.'

"You have pleased your angel. You should rest now. Bon nuit, Christine."

"Bon nuit, Voice," she echoed. 'If this Angel of Music demands my complete loyalty, then that is what he shall have! There will be no other for me until the Angel can become a man.'

With that matter settled for her, Christine drifted off into the most pleasant dreams of what her heavenly teacher would look like once he became "simply an ordinary man," as he put it.

A/N: Don't shoot me! I just had to make her . . . less naive, more rooted in reality . . . It'll make a little more sense as the story progresses. Just . . . don't make any presumptions about . . . well, anything. *le sigh*