Christine had moved in on a Saturday, meaning that she had the weekend to settle in before classes. She used this time wisely, exploring the campus, getting her bearings, and finding out where her classes were. In the center of campus, several clubs had set up camp, handing out flyers to unsuspecting passers-by, drafting new members. During her short walk, Christine had managed to be laden with countless flyers for a cappella group auditions, all the while wondering how they even knew she was a singer. To the older, more experienced students, it was simple to spot: the dreamy, wistful look in her eyes, the soft rhythm of her step, and most telling, the fact that she was wearing a scarf in the middle of September.
The weekend passed by in a blur, and before Christine knew it, it was Sunday night. She had class bright and early tomorrow, on the fundamentals of music theory. By the selective ness of this program, Christine had no idea what they meant by 'fundamentals'; she, of course, could read music very well, as taught by her late father, but perhaps this was not enough. Perhaps, she was simply not enough.
She sat at her desk, attempting to read one of her favorite novels, but her anxiety of the next morning caused the words to blur and swim on the page. If she did not get a hold of her nerves soon, they would consume her. Making herself a cup of tea in her travel mug and wrapping herself in a scarf, she told Meg she was going on a walk.
"Christine, it's literally midnight," Meg warned her, looking up from her phone.
"I'll be just a few minutes," Christine reassured her, in her usual soft tones. "I just need some air."
Even in September, Paris was frigid at this time of night. Mercifully, there was no wind, just cold air, a little damp to the touch with mist. It stung Christine's throat as she walked through campus, but she did not mind. It made her feel alive. She was completely alone at this time of night, and the campus that was normally so lively with people was now still with the slumber of night. She preferred it like this, surprisingly: it was quiet, and under the shelter of the dark, she could find some solace.
At last, after a long, slow amble through campus, Christine found a satisfactory spot to sit. In the middle of one of the lush, green lawns, far from any other building, sat a magnificent fountain, with a marble platform running around. She sat, with her tea, in quiet contemplation for a few moments, simply staring at the glints of dew on the grass below her. After a time, to fill the strange, comfortable silence around her, she felt the urge to sing. Only when she confirmed that there was no one else there did she allow herself to, and soon she began the soft, lilting melody of an old Swedish lullaby. Her father's favorite, if only he could see her now.
To Erik, there was something bittersweet at the beginning of a new school year. Of course, there were the new first-years to get settled: half of them will fail out the first quarter, and most were not worth his time. In the same theme, most of the students on campus would never actually meet him, and for the unsavory few that did, it was not for good reasons. Almost never, when a student was called into his office, was it for praise. In fact, he did not even deal with normal disciplinary actions, including most expulsions. His impossibly elusive stance as the headmaster of this institution gave him quite the reputation with the students, which worked wonderfully in his favor. Fear was the greatest motivator, in his opinion.
In his short time on this earth, shorter than most people would expect for a man of his wealth, Erik had become a jack of all trades, and a master of most. He spent years traveling Europe during his youth, commissioning fantastic architectural designs for the country's wealthiest patrons. With this money, he invested heavily in infrastructure and stocks, which is where the steady flow of 'stupid' amounts of money has come from ever since. And what is there to do with that money, other than to spend it on something that you love. Music has always been Erik's biggest love. And so, he did not just decide to work at the greatest conservatory in the world: he bought it.
With the beginning of a new school year came ridiculous amounts of paperwork. Student registrations, budget reports, purchasing forms, all to be strictly approved and controlled by him. Of course, he could give all of this work to hired help, perhaps a financial advisor or a secretary. But to Erik, what's the fun in having stupid amounts of money if you couldn't control where it was spent? Even so, the grueling amounts of work kept him at his desk until late in the evening, often making him wonder why he was doing this to himself in the first place. He needed some air, he thought, a walk would do him some good, even at this late hour.
Even for a man so used to the cold as himself, this was a bitterly cold night. During normal hours of operation, no one would hope to see Erik roaming the campus, for his seclusion habits did not allow for it. He was either chained to his desk, his head down in work, or he was home, with his cat and his music. His amount of isolation made the students wonder if he even existed at all, a brilliant conspiracy theory often passed around with a joint during late night escapades. Despite his debated existence, Erik still managed to strike fear into the hearts of students, even from far away. After all, he saw everything.
These thoughts, coupled with numbers from spreadsheets, compositions, and dozens of other scattered thoughts clouded Erik's head as he aimlessly ambled through the empty, still campus. The silence was quite comforting, and after a few moments the cool night air served to clear his mind. And yet, there was something nagging at him, pulling him from within, and it only took a few more steps for him to realize what it was.
Who is that voice?
Of course, being the owner and sole monarch of an institution of this caliber, Erik has heard many a spectacular voice come through this campus. All quite wonderful, all went on to have amazing careers, well deserved. But he has never heard something like this.
At first, he most definitely thought he was hallucinating. He would not have been surprised, either: he can't remember the last time he slept, and eating was an occasion spared for once every few days. And yet, by some impossible hunch, he knew he was not hallucinating the soprano voice carried gently to him by the light breeze.
He stood quite still now, as if movement would scare the voice off. Beautiful voices were in abundance at the Institution, but never had he heard something so raw, and yet so naturally gorgeous. He could detect a hint of light training, but nothing compared the insulting refinement of the school's most common voices. Just natural, beautiful pitch, with an upper register as clear as a bell. Singing in Swedish, not to mention. But who was it?
He could not take it anymore. Despite his formidable reputation amongst the students, even the staff, he had to investigate, lest he never hear that voice again. His wonderfully sensitive ears carried him almost effortlessly to the source, confusion welling up in his chest all the same. Who was outside, singing, at midnight when there were classes tomorrow? And then he saw. Perched upon the old fountain on the green, wrapped tightly in a scarf, he saw the reflection of white-blonde hair under the moonlight.
Just as soon as he realized that he had found his target, the voice stopped. He had been noticed too.
As soon as Christine heard the crunch of grass betray the footsteps that lead to her, she fell silent, her heart beginning to hammer in her chest as she quickly turned to see who it was. She shouldn't have gone out this late at night, didn't Mamma Valerius tell her enough times? It wasn't safe, and now she was about to learn first hand why. She turned her head, her eyes wide, but they only widened further when she realized who it was. Oh my God.
Christine had never even seen a picture of him. There was none on the internet, and the only hint to his existence on the school's website was his name, Erik Carriere, under the title of headmaster. Of course, under normal circumstances, she never would have been able to tell it was him, except for one identifying factor in every description she has ever heard of him: he wears a mask. And that same mask was now staring her down, about five meters away, on the grass. The exclusive, infamous headmaster of the Paris Institution for the Fine Arts was gazing at her, in the middle of the night, presumably after hearing her singing to herself. She didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or die.
Erik continued to stare at her, becoming vaguely aware of the rising tension between them. He quickly realized she was a student, which surprised him beyond belief. Of course, he should have known, with a voice sounding as natural and young as she did. He would have been an idiot to think it was a professor or staff, this late at night on a weekend. Oh, the poor dear, she probably thought she was in trouble now. He knew he should say something, but as he tried to do so, the tension in the air translated to tension in his chest. He realized, now, that she would become one of the only students with an accurate description of him. And for this reason only, he knew he had to speak.
"Don't stop." His voice was barely a sigh, but it carried effortlessly over to her in an instant. Those two words both calmed her and terrified her all the same: it was strangely, ethereally beautiful.
"I-I'm… I apologize if I disturbed you," Christine stammered, feeling incredibly stupid. This was not how she wanted her first impression to go, not at all. Her speaking voice was nothing like her singing: it was shy, timid… constricted. Erik frowned, furrowing his eyebrows. Perhaps he was hallucinating after all.
"Was that you? Singing, just now?" His voice was a little harsher than it needed to be, but he needed an answer. "Answer me."
It was now that Christine wished she could die. In her panic, she prayed quickly for a lightning bolt, a divine act of God, anything to strike her down where she stood. She knew her voice was bad, or so she thought, but she did not think anyone was listening. But of course, she could not force herself to lie. Whatever punishment or expulsion he was going to dole out on her now, she would take it with honesty, for it was probably what she deserved. She always knew that perhaps she wasn't as good as people thought she was. She gave him the smallest of nods as a reply, but strangely, he did not offer any kind of reaction. Not that she could see it, anyway, with the mask.
"I have never heard anything like it," he breathed, and Christine's heart stopped. Her overwhelming anxiety had quickly turned his statement into I have never heard anything so fundamentally bad.
"I… I'm sorry," she stuttered softly, tears beginning to well in her eyes. Why did she always have to cry in the worst of situations? It took all of her mental strength not to let them fall. At her response, Erik's brow knit tighter in a pang of confusion.
"Why are you apologizing?" He asked, his voice remaining quite stern. He studied her face momentarily, his frown deepening, knowing that he was losing her. She was panicking. In his pattern of curt authority, he continued, "What is your name?"
Now this she was not expecting. Perhaps I have never heard anything like it was not bad news. Maybe, just maybe, it meant something different. Something better. She simply stared into the night for a few moments, utterly startled once his voice rung through the air again.
"Are you deaf?" He pushed, knowing he was being very harsh. But he was desperate. "Your name."
"Oh!" She gave a little noise of surprise as she jumped to attention. Almost instinctively, the last thing she wanted to do was to make him angry. "I'm sorry. Christine Daae, sir."
He recognized that name from somewhere, he was sure of it.
"Our scholarship recipient," he muttered to himself before continuing. "Well then, Miss Daae, after your classes end tomorrow, I would like to see you in my office. I assume you know where that is?"
She nodded dumbly, causing him to smirk undetectably. His voice seemed to have that effect on people.
"Do not tell anyone that I have spoken to you," he continued, staring her down with his eyes that seemed to freeze and burn at the same time. "Do you understand?"
In response, he received another baffled nod. He was almost positive that she has now lost her ability to speak, and he took this as his cue to leave her alone. He curtly bid her good night, and his quick, silent stride carried him swiftly out of her view. The moment he left, Christine found release from the tension in her core, and she let out the breath that she was instinctively holding. She was left with only the memory of that encounter, the breathlessness that she felt in her chest, and the overwhelming feeling that this was all a dream.