A/N: Hey, thanks for clicking! This is going to be a rather lengthy story- I'm going to have a chapter for each song on the soundtrack, and then some. This chapter is what you could call a prologue... my take on how Erik might have encountered Christine. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: If I had the creative genius to think up Erik, Christine, Raoul, or any of the other characters, not only would I be a bagillionare, but I would have no need to spend hours of my life writing fanfiction. LOL... No, unfortunately, they are not mine, nor are their film counterparts (Gerry and Patrick... yummm -giggles wildly-) Alrighty, enough legal talk. On to the story :)

Little Lotte's Debut

To be perfectly honest, she held no interest for me at first.

I was returning to my usual seat in Box Five to leave a small trifle of my appreciation for the generous Madame Giry, who had once again seen to it that my seat was reserved and salary paid on time. As I slipped through the dank, dimly lit passage behind the chapel walls, I first heard her tiny voice, trembling softly as she whispered what I presumed to be a prayer of some sort. I snorted softly under my breath, continuing on my way; my faith in a benevolent, compassionate God had been shattered with the first unearned blow to my flesh nearly twenty years earlier. If such a God existed, why would he curse me so? What had I done to deserve such an ill fate?

The blood crept up into my cheeks at the thought, and my hand moved instinctively to the smooth ivory mask which covered the right half of my face. Once I was convinced that it was still properly in place (which I realize now was a bit superfluous, as no one could see it anyway), I continued my trek through the shadows and hidden passages of the Opera Populaire, with no further incidents to speak of. Madame Giry was out and about somewhere, so I took the opportunity to leave her a crimson fan lined with black lace, which the Countess DeBleuc had left in Box Eight two nights earlier. On the way back to my dwelling, I nearly bowled over that pompous blob of a man, Piangi, but so lost was he in a drunken stupor that he paid me no heed, and I slipped into the nearest corridor unnoticed.

But when I once again reached the passage behind the chapel walls, I heard a soft, breathy voice that stopped me in my tracks.

You once told me

of an Angel of Music

You once promised

That once in heaven

You'd send me an angel

A guide and a guardian

Now Father, in heaven

I ask you...

I beg you...

Where is he?

Where is my angel?

Intrigued by the beautiful melody that poured from this child, I climbed through a trap door in the ceiling and peered down at her through a crack in the mossy stone.

My breath caught in my chest at the sight of her.

She was only a small girl, about eight or nine years old. Chestnut curls cascaded down her back, and her large, tear-filled eyes of the same color were trained on the flickering candle above her father's picture. Her complexion was milky and pale, dappled with red blotches from the tears that tumbled down her slender cheeks. The room was dimly lit; only that one candle provided light to the dark cellar, but my eyes were well adjusted to the dark. She was alone.

Where is he?

Where is my angel?

Her mournful song faded into silence, and a stream of tears trickled down her rosy cheek.

"Christine? Christine?" another child called from the next room. "Are you down here?"

The child looked up, startled. She quickly wiped the tears from her eyes and cleared her throat. "Down here, Meg," she replied.

A moment later, the ashen face of little Meg Giry peered around the crumbling stone archway. Her wide brown eyes darted feverishly around the room before she dared take a step into it. She held out her petite hand to her young friend urgently. "Come, Christine. You shouldn't be down here alone," Meg whispered, her eyes still roaming the room restlessly.

The little brunette, Christine, I told myself, didn't move. Her large brown eyes returned to the picture of her father, and she sighed. "No more talk of ghosts, Meg, really. There's no such thing."

I had to stifle a laugh. No such thing, indeed.

"But there is!" Meg squawked, then clasped her hand over her mouth, her eyes going wide as she glanced around the room once more in terror. She huddled close to Christine, goosebumps popping up along her skinny arms. "Piangi swears he saw him just a moment ago, and Monsieur Buquet..."

I cursed under my breath. That damn fool Piangi had seen me after all. No matter- Christine confirmed my hopes a moment later as she shook her curly head.

"Oh, Meg," she sighed, smiling warmly at her friend. "Monsieur Piangi is so drunk he can't see straight; he was probably hallucinating. And Monsieur Buquet only tells you those stories because he knows you'll believe them."

"But- but-"

Christine placed her index finger over her friend's mouth. "I'll be up in a moment, Meg," she assured her. "I promise." Her eyes suddenly glazed over with that familiar sadness as she returned her gaze to her father's picture.

Meg hesitated, scanned the room once more, then darted out of the room without further complaint. "Hurry!" she called over her shoulder.

Once alone again, or so she believed, little Christine folded her hands and began to pray once more for the angel that her father had promised her... the Angel of Music.

I watched her vigil silently for another moment or two until the pattering of footsteps on stone jolted me back to the present. Madame Giry herself appeared through the stone archway another moment later, a cross frown plastered on her otherwise comely face.

"Christine, I sent Meg down for you not five minutes ago!" she sighed. She held out her hand and helped the child to her feet, then pointed meaningfully at the stairs from whence she came. "Practice started five minutes ago, Mademoiselle Daaé; I'd suggest you hurry."

With that, Christine gave a quick curtsy, apologized fervently, and scampered up the stairs toward the main auditorium. Madame Giry lingered in the chapel a moment longer, then suddenly looked directly at me, taking me by surprise. She looked away a moment later with a sharp sigh, and blew out the sole candle, leaving me in complete darkness once more.

I listened until her distinctive footsteps no longer echoed off of the stone walls, then slipped silently back through the trap door and down through numerous other tunnels and corridors, working in the darkness by memory and touch, while the small, hauntingly beautiful voice of little Christine Daaé flooded my mind and soul.