A/N: Okay, this story came to me a bit randomly. I kept thinking about how almost every phan fiction revolves around Erik falling in love. Well, what if there was a girl who absolutely hated him? Here's that girl, dear readers, Juliet Louise Thompson. She despises our dear phantom. What will happen? Read to find out!

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Chapter 1: A Close Encounter With The Opera Ghost Kind

Erik wasn't in the best mood. The seventeen year old boy paced the catacombs of the Opera Populaire, deciding whether he should return to piecing together his desk, the third desk this year; the rest had broken unexpectedly.

That's when he heard the voice. It was a little girl. She was in a small, candlelit room, facing a small tribute that read "Gustave Daae". The girl had curly brown hair, deep brown eyes, which were red and puffy from crying, and a very small form. The girl sat in front of the tribute, tears spilling down her cheeks.

"Father, I miss you," the little girl sobbed. "Father, I'm so alone."

A tear slid down Erik's unmasked cheek.

"You told me you'd send me the angel of music, Father," she murmured. "When will he come to me?"

A crazy idea popped into Erik's head. Angel of Music… he liked the title.

Maybe…

Erik sprinted back to his lair, grabbed his violin carefully, and sprinted back to the room with the sad little girl. He considered several songs he could play, and decided on a soft French lullaby.

The girl gasped, jumping up. She listened intently to the beautiful music seeming to come from nowhere, and panicked when it was over.

"W-who's there?" she asked, stuttering.

Erik chuckled lightly. "I am your Angel of Music. Your father sent me to you."

A smile spread over the girl's face, brightening her features. "Father sent you? To me?"

Erik smiled for the first time in ages. "He did. Tell me, what is your name?"

The girl, still looking around the room for her angel said, "My name is Christine."

"You cannot see me," he said. "Angels, to the human eye, are invisible."

Then something occurred to him. "Can you sing, Christine?"

She frowned. "Not well, angel."

"Sing," he commanded softly.

Christine mused her song options, choosing a song her father sang to her many times.

Erik could hear the true potential in her voice. But there were some rough spots in her singing, and he knew he could fix them.

"You've got a wonderful voice," Erik said. "But it needs work. I shall teach you, Christine. Someday, you shall be the lead soprano, here at the Opera Populaire."

Her eyes widened. "Really?"

Erik smiled. "Really." He paused, thinking. "Meet me here every Tuesday for your lessons."

"Thank you, angel!" Christine called, running out of the room joyfully.

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Erik was, once more, in a bad mood.

It had been three weeks since he'd taken the title of the Angel of Music. This particular Tuesday's lesson hadn't ended well, and resulted in Christine leaving in tears. Erik wasn't even sure how that'd happened.

Erik slouched in his seat in Box 5. It was very late at night, and he should be sleeping, but he couldn't.

What caught his eye that night was a lone girl, standing in the middle of the stage. She wore a sleeveless, low cut, cream colored nightgown, with a deep blue cloak draped over her shoulders. Her strawberry blond hair cascaded down her back, ending at her hips. Erik couldn't make out her facial features, but he could tell she was crying from the sniffling sounds she made.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly, remaining in the shadows of Box 5. Slowly and quietly, he climbed atop the rafters in the ceiling, yet remained hidden. He wanted to get a better look at the crying girl.

"Who's there?" she asked sharply, her head snapping up. Her clear blue eyes shone with tears, her full pink lips formed a frown.

Erik blinked, returning to his concern for the girl.

When Erik didn't answer, she realized it was he. "It's you!" she cried. Erik noted a very strong Irish accent. It was cute. "The Phantom of the Opera, isn't that what they call you?"

"What did I do to deserve your disapproval?" he asked, curious. Such a strange girl- most people feared him!

"My mother and father," she said slowly, her tone pained, "hate me. Wish I was never born. Just because I'm different. I want to become a singer someday, even when my family insists on me simply being married off and forgotten. They only care about my perfect sister, because she does what they say. Pompous brat."

She took a deep breath, becoming very emotional. "So they sent me to the Opera Populaire, the farthest opera from my home in Ireland. Not only was it far from home, but I overheard my mother tell my father that she hoped the Opera Ghost decided to take me as a victim and kill me!"

Erik's eyes went wide as the girl returned to sobbing. The poor girl. He could relate to her pain so well, having had run away to the gypsies thanks to his own parents. But he loved them, and if Erik wasn't wanted somewhere, Erik didn't stay. He was different, but not a good different. His hideous face, deformed and distorted, set him apart from normal men.

"I'm so very sorry," he said truthfully.

"Oh, I bet you are," she remarked.

"I have a very similar past to yours," he said distantly. Flashes of being beaten by gypsies and onlookers laughing in his face passed through his mind. He shook his head, as to banish those thoughts.

The girl looked up curiously, yet said nothing.

"What is your name?" Erik asked.

She frowned, then slowly replied. "Juliet."

"Do you have a last name?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Can't I just be curious?"

Juliet sighed. "My name is Juliet Lenora Thompson. Better now, Phantom?"

Erik laughed. "Much."

"What's your name?" she asked.

Erik tensed. "I don't really ever use it, I'm used to being referred to as either the phantom, Opera Ghost, or, in my childhood, the Devil's Child." He regretted saying the last part.

"Devil's Child?" she asked.

"None of your business!" Erik snapped harshly. Juliet winced.

"Sorry… once again, your name, Monsieur Phantom?"

Erik sighed. "Erik."

"Do you have a last name?"

"Does it matter?"

"Can't I just be curious?"

"Destler. Erik Destler."

"Well, it's been nice talking to you, Monsieur Destler," said Juliet, standing up. "But I must go."

"Shall I see you again?" Erik asked.

She grimaced. "Just because you've been pretty nice and I know your name doesn't mean I like you, so I hope it's a no. You ruined my life, and that's not something I'm likely to forget soon."

With a sigh of despair, Juliet stalked out of the theater, leaving behind a very confused and helpless Erik.

I'll get her, Erik thought. I'll show her who runs this theater, one way or another.