(A/N: Sorry for the loooong wait, but I hope this will please you enough once you've finally remembered what on earth is going on! Ah, I love humour… Please review if you like, or if you think I'm an aimless hack, I really have to know. And my brother would like to prove me wrong on the hack thing. And I would really really like to prove me right. So REVIEW!

Fiona OUT.)

Six months had passed slowly, and silently. Silently, that is, if the daily bashings at the organ were ignored. Not that it was easy to ignore these incensed chords; the Phantom grew only angrier as time passed by without a whisper passing his stubborn larynx. The poor organ was the sole recipient of his frustration, and had eventually, whimpering in submission, flattened itself slightly, maybe seeking help in the form of an organ tuner- but we shall never know for sure.

And so not only had his voice abandoned him, but his organ, and his will to live itself. For music was his passion, his source of connection with a higher being; it was his bloody religion, for heaven's sake, and it had apparently just decided to pop out for a tea break. Never mind him. Or his sanity. The only thing that kept him going these days was the hope of his voice, and Christine, returning to him. But until then….

Bet Fauré never has to deal with crap like this, he thought ominously. Bloody Romantics. His black mood only deepened as he thought sourly of the well-known French composer and all the glory that he, Erik, a far better composer than Fauré could ever even sniff at, could never hope to enjoy. He kept silently muttering these petty grumblings to himself as he slowly, reluctantly, began to unfurl a mysterious black curtain.

This curtain, situated in the same dark room as the organ, hid a small area, a broom closet if you will. Empty of brooms for some time now, after Erik had quite abandoned the notion of entertaining guests, or going to Hogwarts in a fairly cringe-worthy cross-over move, it now held an object of much greater mystery and intrigue. But more of that later.

One tug away from finally revealing to the anxious and mesmerized viewers what secret treasures lay beyond its filmy folds, the Phantom stopped dead. He suddenly realised something utterly devastating to his cold, impersonal self-view- maybe he was becoming a Romantic…

Becoming? He snorted. He had been a fool for love since the day Christine had finally turned sixteen, and started wearing that intoxicating perfume, Eau de Caverne. His self-respect examined the evidence, packed its suitcases and left to join its novelised other, the self-respect of the cold-blooded, insane killer of Leroux's Erik.

Disheartened somewhat by this unsavoury realisation, the erstwhile angel of music grabbed the curtain and ripped it off its rod, the impatience to commence his magnificent plan overcoming his mortal fear of dust mites.

Roughly grabbing what lay inside, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, down to the shore, jumped magnificently into the waiting boat and rowed himself strongly around the corner, out of sight in less than a breathless minute. For tonight was the night; it was New Year's Eve, and the time had come to put his first and final performance into action.

Five minutes later he rowed red-cheeked (only one cheek visibly red, of course) back around the corner, stumbled out of the boat and ran back into the organ room, hurriedly seizing the score for his opera.

Slightly late, but still fashionably, not so much so as to be rude, the Phantom stood behind the door near the top of the staircase leading down to the grand ballroom of the Opera Populaire, waiting for the right moment to make his appearance. He brushed his white-gloved hands down the front of his bright red jacket, unconsciously straightening and preening. It was all right for a man to be slightly nervous, wasn't it, especially if he was to be introducing himself to a crowd of people for the very first time? He had even donned his favourite black mask as a kind of security blanket, and printed the words "Red Death" across the back of his jacket, in case people were confused as to what to call him. The long, menacing-looking fencing sword was merely a decoration, the icing on the cake of his outfit, if you will.

Erik took a deep breath, and swung open the door, his unconventional entrance positively reeking of malodorous intent and vile intentions.

No-one noticed. The oddly-apparelled couples tittered loudly as they swung across the ballroom floor, gossipping and laughing as they enjoyed the foolish atmosphere of the masquerade ball.

He cleared his throat. A man glanced in his direction but was quickly distracted by the sight of an ample-bosomed female.

Erik stamped his sexy leather boot in frustration. This was not how he had planned his grand entrance. A voice, a voice, my bloody thousands of magical, waterproof candles for a voice! He eventually decided to try again, and walked back out the door, coolly collected himself, and strutted back to the top of the stairs, slamming the door for good measure and drawing upon his deep reserves of intimidating aura.

Still no-one noticed. He sighed and went back to collect the set of bongo drums he had procured beforehand, from behind the black curtains. He had hoped it would not come to this.

Bongo drums are not often noted for their rapturous musical qualities, but aside from rupturing, they almost always prove infallible, a property that the Phantom, during this rough and testing period, thoroughly respected. Being the musical genius that he was, he meant to make the drums sing in the way that he used to, filled with passion and beauty.

Filled with a sudden self-confidence, he straightened to his normal formidable height, clasped the bongos (menacingly) to his chest, and flung open the door for the third time that evening. He walked calmly to the top of the staircase, and then, throwing up his arms melodramatically, brought them crashing down upon the animal skins for a rousing rhythm of wrath.

The drums had the desired affect: everyone turned in alarm at the noisy clamour, and stared in amazement at this strange fellow at the top of the stairs dressed all in red. Nobody seemed to realise who this masked marauder was- most of them being masked marauders themselves, this evening, dressed in outlandish costumes of varying hilarity and vulgarity.

The Phantom sighed in frustration from behind his copious layers of eyeliner, and whirled around in one fluid motion that riveted the eyes of his enraptured audience. He jutted one gloved finger agitatedly at the words marking his back: Red Death. A murmur began amongst the watching crowds.

"I think this must be some odd form of charades, darling," Raoul muttered, mystified, to the horror-struck Christine beside him. She took a moment from her aghast expression to quickly roll her eyes at her betrothed's stupidity, and then reassumed her shocked position.

"It's the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg shouted excitedly, hiding safely away from his view behind Piangi's considerable bulk.

The girl had no way of knowing that she had saved them all from an untimely death, for the Phantom had been growing annoyed indeed by the collective ignorance in the room.