A note from the Opera Ghost: Christine and Erik will sing my own reprise of Angel of Music. Christine sings the general beginning, but Erik answers with the tune of "Christine, you must have been dreaming... Stories like this can't come true" etc. Just to avoid confusion.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera. If I did, we'd have seen a better Love Never Dies.

"God, you're such a whiny bitch."

Meg Giry leaned on Erik's organ, inspecting her nails and fixing her skirt.

"I haven't the time for your rude observations," Erik snarled from his desk, "I have many obligations to attend to. Please complain about your friends elsewhere."

Meg rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I've heard it, haunting an opera house is so hard, all the time, people to see, threatening letters to write, organs to brood over... Speaking of which, how the fuck did you even get this thing down here?"

"Nevermind that. I need you to deliver this to your mother." Erik, the infamous Phantom of the Opera, handed Meg a black-edged envelope, sealed with a skull of red wax.

"Do it yourself," she pouted. "You have hidy-holes all over this God-forsaken place."

Erik leveled a glare at her.

"All right, all right, I'm on it," Meg muttered, snatching the letter. "I'll be back in about seven minutes... Don't start working on DJT without me." And with a carefree wave, Meg was gone.

Erik sighed, leaning back into his seat. It was hard work haunting an opera house. He didn't really want to be dark and menacing. Well, dark, maybe; he looked really good in black, if he did say so himself. But there was a friendly, open part of Erik that longed to smile and shake hands with a normal person and say, "Hi, how are you?" A small, amiable part of him that yearned for companions other than his round-the-clock annoying-yet-useful friend Meg. Erik had a feeling that if Meg hadn't known him since birth, she wouldn't even like being around him. And he wasn't really a hard person to be around; it was just his face that complicated matters! Not a single person ever wrote back to any of his letters, not a single one! Oh, well, Erik sighed, dark and menacing pays the bills.

And, he told himself, there was really only one thing he needed to be happy. Just one. A warm blush spread over his cheeks as he looked sheepishly at his drawings; an astonishingly lifelike Christine Daaé smiled back at him from one of the many pencil drawings he had hanging up on the side of the stone wall. He had thirty seven of them, taped up on the wall, in procession starting from when he first met her thirteen years ago. The first was a lovely stick figure of the young Christine Daaé, mostly because he really hadn't had much reason to start drawing until then, a couple rough sketches and a few botched scrawlings and then about four perfect renderings, his favorite being the closest to his desk. He beamed, stroking her charcoal face with a gloved hand.

"Soon," he purred, "we'll be together. Soon, my Angel, soon..."

"Are you talking to your creepy Christine caricatures again?"

Erik leapt up in shock, knocking his chair to the ground and whirling to face Meg Giry leaning against the wall. Erik's cloak settled gracefully around him.

"That so was not seven minutes," Erik snapped, too embarrassed to sound as ominous as he wanted.

Meg threw back her head and laughed. "Mom was practically right outside the door. 'Neways, I ran into Christine on the way..."

Erik perked up instantly, hope lighting his eyes as he clasped his hands at his heart.

"No need to look so eager. She looked really focused on something; she barely even noticed me waving at her." Meg's face slipped into her classic pout, her default expression for most of the time.

"What can it mean?" Erik stepped over the still-turned-over chair and began pacing, cupping his chin as he stalked about the room, his brow furrowed.

"I'll give you a hint: she looked a little too excited about going to the old chapel tonight..."

Erik's face lifted, and with it his heart. "You mean she wants to see me?" He felt he would explode of pleasure.

Meg raised up her hands as if in surrender. "I dunno! She doesn't even know I know you-"

"I must go to her," Erik declared, dramatically drawing his cloak around him. He smoothed back his hair even though she wouldn't see it and touched his mask to test its security before turning to Meg. "How do I look?"

"Like a vampire."

"I was going for more of a Pagan-god-of-seduction look..."

Meg's laughter echoed through the halls.

Erik stuck his tongue out at her like a child and strode past her to the tunnel that would lead to the old abandoned chapel, giving Meg a playful shove on the way.

And, one two three, one two three; Meg practiced ronde de jambes across her bedroom. She was getting better at it, not quite as good as Joan but definitely better than Dominique. I should be better than Joan with the amount of time I put into practicing... Meg thought to herself, irked. She knew, though, that it was the time she spent around Erik that took its toll on her dance skills. But Erik needed her. And, if she was being totally honest, she needed Erik too. Her mother had introduced them when she was a baby; she didn't even remember what it was like to not know the Phantom. He helped her with her voice and piano lessons and in turn she helped him run little errands, like delivering letters and lighting candles. Sometimes she could even coax a drawing lesson out of him. Not that her sketches looked anything like what they had in her head, but without him, her drawings of the hot male dancer who started working at l'Opéra Populaire four years ago would probably look like that ridiculous stick figure of Christine that Erik kept up on his wall (she wasn't sure why he kept it. It kind of looked like Isaac Newton in a dress). Meg had watched Erik pine over Christine for thirteen years, which had been kind of creepy when he first saw her since he was like twenty and she was like seven.

But whatever! It wasn't like she could change his mind. Ever. Even on the most frivolous of matters. Meg rolled her eyes, remembering Erik's soft spot for sparkly things. And it wasn't the usual, like stealing diamond cat collars from Persian royalty or whatever, no, one time he bedazzled his fucking mask. He'd looked so pleased with himself, too, twisting this way and that in the mirror to watch the light shimmer off the rhinestones (at least, that's what she HOPED they were), and would hear absolutely none of Meg's protestations. He never actually wore it out, thank God, but he still had it up on the shelf with his collection of masquerade masks.

Fondness quirked the corner of Meg's mouth up into the tiniest smile, and she continued her ronde de jambes. One two three, one two three...

Christine Daaé ruffled her hair.

She stood two steps away from the door that led to the old chapel, drawing in deep breaths for extra courage.

She'd been coming here for eleven years. You'd think by now it wouldn't be so nerve-wracking just to walk in.

But she couldn't help it. Every time she thought about her Angel of Music, she got a fluttery feeling in her chest and it was physically difficult not to smile. Was it her father? She wasn't sure. Her father had been more of a baritone; the Angel of Music had a more melodious voice, sometimes baritone but also sometimes tenor when he sang and bass when he was angry. And he got angry a lot. Gosh, she didn't want to displease him. She felt like he was a fleeting figment of her imagination, something insubstantial, incorporeal, tentative. Every step down the staircase and into the old chapel was a new fear: what if he wasn't there? What if he's grown tired of me? What if he gave up on me? What if I wasn't good enough? Fear of losing the Angel was her greatest motivation for performing her best at all times.

And, despite her fears, the Angel was always there, singing songs in her head. That's how she knew he was a real angel, of course. A normal man could never have done the things her Angel did, such as know exactly when she was going to be there, or how he throws his voice about the room, and how he can see her, but she couldn't see him. And, of course, no human could have a voice such as his. His voice was that of an archangel, something so surreal she felt unworthy of hearing it.

Christine stepped into the chapel, keeping her eyes low, and headed for the stand of candles near the altar. She knelt, drawing a match from the folds of her dress. Striking it against the ground, she touched the flaming head to a candle, a soft glow spreading throughout the room. The light of dusk streamed in through the stained glass window to her left, but night approached fast these autumn days, and a candle was her best companion. She shook out the match and placed its useless corpse in an empty candle tray.

Tilting her head upwards and nestling her hands in the chiffon of her skirts, she sang, "Angel of Music, Hear my Prayer, Grant to me Your Glory! Teacher of Song, I Summon Thee Here, Come to Me, Strange Angel!"

Barely a moment had passed when she heard his haunting reply:

"Once More We Meet in the Shadows, Trading Our Sweet Lullabies... Follow my Voice, I Will Guide You, Let Your Song Arise!"

A chill ran through Christine. His voice echoed like a violin. Clearing her throat, she answered,

"Guardian Angel, Sole Instructor, What Shall I Sing For You? Angel of Music, Let Me Please You, Show Me, I Implore You!"

Erik shivered. Christine wanted to know how to please him. It wasn't a difficult question to answer...

Idiot, he scolded himself, as if being so near her isn't enough.

He shook himself, and threw his voice right behind her, so it would sound as if he were whispering from behind into her ear.

"Sing with me Là Ci Darem La Mano, the duet from Don Giovanni. You recall it, I trust." He must remain full in control.

Christine closed her eyes and nodded.

Meg tiptoed toward the chapel. She had a break between now and rehearsal, and she was sick of practicing ronde de jambes. She'd never witnessed a lesson in session, and she was dying to see how it worked.

A completely unfamiliar piano tune floated up the staircase to Meg. What on earth? Since when was there a PIANO in the old abandoned chapel?!

"Vorrei, e non vorrei, mi trema une poco il cor," she heard Christine singing. Ugh. Italian. Or was it Latin? Whatever. As if she actually understood any of it. Which was why she was a dancer, not a singer; why bother singing a song no one understands, anyway? Latin, she found, was tedious.

Christine continued babbling; not that it wasn't lovely, of course, but was this all there was to the lesson?

"Vienni, mio bel diletto!" Erik unleashed the full power of his voice into the contained room, thrumming a deep baritone that resonated in one's chest long after the note had ended. Meg stood, floored. No wonder Christine was addicted to Erik's lessons. Meg had never really heard him sing like that before.

Meg found herself wishing she knew Latin.

Or was it Italian?

She peeked around the corner. Christine stood in the middle of the room, candlelight throwing her shadow across the floor. She seemed to be singing to the wall; where was Erik's voice coming from? His specialty was mirrors, but there were none in the old chapel. He must have rigged it somehow, Meg thought with a mental shrug.

The song ended on bright and cheerful notes. Christine bowed her head, tensing.

"You have been practicing Ritorna Vincitor?" Erik asked tersely.

Christine's shoulders slumped. "From Aida?" she asked quietly.

"Yes, from Aida," Erik nearly snapped. Christine recoiled and Erik instantly sweetened his voice. "Have you looked at it, Christine?"

Meg watched Christine carefully, noting the way she trembled slightly, the anxious way she held herself, the way she picked at her nails and tugged her dress. "Yes, Angel," she answered.

"You may sing it for me," Erik said dismissively.

Meg's blood boiled. Christine dove for thick book of soprano arias and flipped madly through pages until she found the right one and took her singing stance.

How dare Erik hypnotize Christine like that and expect her to love him through fear?! She feared him! Feared his wrath! He'd turned her into a dog, an all-too-willing slave. Erik was Meg's friend, but Christine was basically her sister. She would absolutely have to talk to him about this. His obsessiveness was bad enough, but the disdainful way he treated Christine was crossing the line. She watched the lesson progress, silently fuming.

After several more pieces, Erik's demands ceased.

"Do you request anything else of today's lesson?"

There was silence.

"Christine." His voice was stern.

Christine did not move.

"You may tell me anything, child. Voice your thoughts." His words, though an order, melted around the edges with the deep love Erik held for Christine. It was the same tone he used when Meg got him to start talking about his hopes for the future; it was a rare occasion, but he got a starry look in his eyes as he spoke of how he'd reveal himself to Christine some day, take her down to his lair, and ask her to marry him. He had everything planned perfectly; she'd seen the ring box on his desk a time or two. The sound of that voice calmed Meg a bit.

"Angel..." Christine hesitated.

"I am here."

Christine swallowed hard. "Who are you?"

A long stretch of tense silence ensued. Meg bit down on her lower lip.

When he finally spoke, his voice rang with all its fervor and intensity. Its depth nearly shook the room, and it came from every corner, as if it were the voice of God.

"I am the Phantom of the Opera."

Blackness swallowed the only candle lit.

Christine crumpled to the floor and did not stir.