A/N: I meant to upload this on Tuesday but I have been so obscenely busy right now, it's not even funny. Sorry for the delay and please review. I want to know what you guys think.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, the Phantom's past, or Masquerade.

Those Lovely Nights

A black haired young woman walked through the halls of the Opera Populaire, barely managing not to get run over by two blonde teens, who were giggling to themselves.

"Watch it brats, or you might take an unfortunate slip," the black haired girl spat threateningly at the younger girls. Unfortunately for her, Lorraine was watching and was not pleased.

However, rather than commenting on it, she simply said, "Nicole, it's your turn to clean Box Five." That promptly caused the black haired girl to go completely white and her eyes to widen in fear.

"What! Why is it mine?" she cried.

"Because Bernadette did it last week," one of the twin blonde maids answered, gesturing to her sister.

"And Bridgette the week before that," the other blonde girl added, waving at her sibling.

"Well, why do you never clean it Lorraine?" Nicole asked defiantly.

"I'm too busy cracking the whip at you girls to have time to do Box Five," replied the brunette older woman, heading out.

"Just be careful, Nicole," Bernadette advised.

"Yeah, remember what happened to Gwendolyn? She left a bit of dust around the corners of the box and the Phantom put something in her bucket when she scrubbed the floors. Nearly burned her hands off," Bridgette reminded her. At this point, the black haired girl was hyperventilating with fear.

"Oh God, please will one of you take it for me? Please? Please?" she pleaded desperately, only met with mischievous smiles.

"You can always ask me Nicole," chimed a voice from being the three, who all turned to find Valentine standing there. Nicole's fear was promptly replaced with disdain.

"What do you want Miss Bride of Frankenstein?" she hissed and the scarred red head merely smiled.

"To make you an offer. I'll clean box five if you give me proper compensation." The dark-haired girl raised an eyebrow.

"What kind of compensation?"

"Twenty cigarettes a month."

"What!"

"Did I mention I'll clean Box Five for the remainder of my employment here?" Valentine added. The other girl bit her lip as she thought it over.

"Come on Nicole!" Bridgette encouraged.

"Yeah, this'll be good for all of us!" Bernadette agreed. Finally, Nicole groaned.

"Fine!" she sighed and brought out her package of cigarettes, but the red head refused to take them.

"And you have to be nice to Bridgette, Bernadette, Lorraine, and all the other maids for the rest of the time I'm employed here," Valentine added.

"WHAT?" Nicole cried indignantly.

"Would you rather get burned hands? Or even the magical lasso?" she reminded the other maid. Looking at the ceiling warily, the other girl finally caved and nodded. Grinning triumphantly, Valentine finally took the cigarettes and mockingly took the dark-haired maid's hand in her own, shaking it enthusiastically.

"Pleasure doing business with you my dear," she remarked, before flouncing off to clean Box Five.

Box Five was favored by the ghost for clear reasons: it was the most beautiful, with its gorgeous carved angels of gold being devoured by disfigured demons, gold seats with red and black velvet cushions, and had the best acoustics, allowing the strings, winds, brass, percussion, chorus, and soloists to blend into each other gloriously. But Valentine's recent encounter with the Phantom himself down in his lair had left her wondering about what other secrets the Opera House held. Therefore, while she was cleaning, she found herself surveying the box and thinking, There was a passage behind the mirror… I wonder. And so she began knocking on the walls and, sure enough, the column rang hollow. Running her hands over the surface in hopes of finding some hidden latch or opening, her fingers pressed one of the smaller angel statue's faces into the wall, allowing the column to open. Smiling triumphantly to herself and taking special care to make sure no one was watching, she lit a candle using the nearby gas lamps and headed down yet another passage. She'd been walking for a while when a breeze passed through the passage, blowing her candle out and plunging her into darkness. She smiled as she relit the torch.

"Good day Monsieur le Phantom," she greeted. The Phantom then melted from the shadows into the light of her candle.

"You're back." He sounded a little surprised.

"Oui, Monsieur. One question though, how many passages are there in the Opera House? I just found the one in Box Five, so I'm assuming there's more."

"You didn't tell anyone about my lair." Even more surprised than before. She scoffed.

"Obviously. But honestly, how many passages are there?" she inquired, looking around.

"Dozens. Now shall we?" he asked, stepping to the side to allow her to pass him, which she did, nodding to him as she went.

(Page)

"Would you kindly keep it down? If you keep making that cacophony, I'll die of old age before I finish!" Valentine called heatedly from her place on the floor of his lair as she worked on her sketching.

"That so called cacophony is likely the greatest piece of music you will ever hear," the Phantom shouted right back at his organ.

"Really, because just it sounds like a damn good amount of noise to me."

"It would be wise not to provoke me, Miss Valentine," the ghost grit out. She shrugged.

"I'm already a dead woman, might as well enjoy provoking my executioner." He rolled his eyes at her, but, shockingly, did quiet his music, if minutely. She turned back to her piece, squinting at her sketch as she worked. After a while, she sighed and rubbed her eyes; this wasn't going well.

"Having difficulties still?" the Phantom asked, somewhat mockingly.

"Yes, because artists need a bit of light and you live in a world of near darkness. You know, if you kept a few mirrors around here, you could dramatically increase the amount of light and we could both see our work much more easily," she suggested.

"No. No mirrors," he snapped and she shrugged again.

"Very well." She turned back to her work, realizing that she'd smudged a corner. Sighing sharply, she turned the page to find a rather well done drawing of a lovely brown haired girl who looked to be in her late teens, early twenties at most. She was holding a rose and had her eyes closed.

"Who's this?" she inquired, turning the pad around so he could see. He looked up and she swore he paled. She chuckled and turned the page around again. "Do you have another victim you're keeping from me?" she queried jokingly. He then strode over to her and ripped the book from her hands, gently tearing the sketch from its binds.

"She's a student," he answered shortly. Valentine raised an eyebrow.

"Student?" He nodded. Valentine poked her from between her teeth devilishly. "What's her name?"

"Christine Daae. She's a ballerina."

"So, what, you teach her to pirouette?" Valentine giggled and the Phantom glared at her.

"Sing," he answered before turning his back to her. She shrugged and turned back to her work; she may be on death row but she was going to enjoy the little time she had left.

"Alright, you've been working on that for almost a week now, you have to have made some progress by now," the Phantom snapped.

"Excuse me Monsieur le Phantom, but how long have you been working on that piece of noise you call music?" Valentine shot back, holding the sketchbook out of his reach.

"Would you rather I knock you out?" he inquired rhetorically and she narrowed her eyes at him but relinquished the pad nonetheless. He looked the artwork over, eyes widening from behind the mask as he did so. She raised an eyebrow at him and he coughed uncomfortably. "I must say… this is… surprisingly good," he admitted. She smiled slightly.

"I could've done better if I'd had more light Monsieur." He scowled at her, silently telling her not to push her luck. She shrugged and went back to work.

"I don't see your name though," the Phantom noted. That confused her.

"What?"

"Your name. Don't artists put their names in the corner of their works?"

"First of all, they do that last and I am not yet done. Secondly… I can't write."

"Figures," the Phantom scoffed, making Valentine glower at him. It wasn't her fault she wasn't born into a world of riches and frivolity where they threw away money like she threw away failed sketches.

Still, it did bug her a bit, prompting her to ask, "Maybe you could teach me to write?"

"What?" It was the Phantom's turn to be shocked.

"Teach me. Like you do with Christine." He narrowed his eyes behind the mask.

"Christine is an angel of music who simply needs my guidance to help her take her rightful place as Prima Donna. You are an annoying gutter rat who is soon going to find her neck in a Punjab lasso."

"Alright then fine," Valentine spat, turning furiously back to her work. But her mind kept wandering back to the topic they'd just discussed. She wasn't dumb enough to think him an actual ghost now that she'd met him, but if he was a man, who was he? "What's your name?" she asked suddenly. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Your name. What is it?"

"Why would you want to know?"

"Because I spend almost everyday down here sketching while you bang that damn organ and yet I don't even know your name. And before you say anything, it's not like I'm going to be able to tell anyone. I'd probably get arrested for 'helping an extortionist' or something of that nature. That or the Asylum. Either way, telling anyone doesn't work out in my favor." He hesitated, pursing his lips, before looking at her again.

"When I was a man, if I was ever even considered one, I went by the name of Erik."

"Erik," she echoed, the letters and syllables rolling of her tongue as she tried it out. She nodded. "It suits you." She moved back to her work, but was stopped by the sound of his voice.

"What about you Miss Valentine? No last name?" he inquired. She looked away.

"Don't know my mother's and I don't go by my father's," she replied shortly.

"Why?" The glare she directed at him burned with the fury of a raging bonfire.

"None of your business." He narrowed his eyes at her.

"Considering you spend almost everyday down here sketching my lair, I think I have a right to know who you are," he mocked, using some of her words against her. "Besides, I'll need to know what to put on your gravestone." Her glare somehow managed to intensify, but when she thought about, if she was going to tell anyone, a ghost would be the best choice. Dead men tell no tales after all. And it was an opportunity to get it off her chest without the chance of her past destroying her future. So she set aside her sketchpad and patted the steps next to her, signaling him to sit next to her. He obeyed.

"It was years ago," she began. "There was a man and his daughter who lived in a terrible part of town: Full of drunks, whores, thieves, and… murderers. And the man… hurt his daughter… beat her… gave her terrible scars…" "Scars?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically. "Terrible ones monsieur. Great ones, barely noticeable ones, ones on her body."

"Ones on her face," he caught on. "And ones that are not on the surface, monsieur. He used and abused her for many years, never caring for her like a father should. A drunken scoundrel… more monster than man," she ground out, remembering his biting words and the cuts he'd given her for putting one hair out of line. She clenched her fists, closed her eyes, and let out a shaky breath. "And then… he was murdered. His daughter was nowhere to be found. They never found her. It was said she had died…""But she didn't die, did she?" he said and she looked down as she nodded. "The world forgot her, but I never can… For in this darkness, I live with blood on my hands.""And so you murdered a man…" he murmured behind her. She looked up from her hands to face him.

"No one's ever really cared about me. Even the other maids, we're coworkers, but we hardly know each other outside of work and they don't see things the way I do. They're blind." And for the first time in her life, Valentine saw something in his eyes that she thought she would never see: understanding.

After telling him about herself and her past, Valentine and the Phantom's relationship had progressed strangely and yet wonderfully all the same. He had showed her the network of passages that ran through out the Opera House, taught her how to read and write, and even invited her to join him in Box Five for opera performances. Which led to them hiding within the walls of the Opera Populaire, watching the performers and socialites below celebrate the yearly masquerade.

"Masquerade! Paper faces on parade! Masquerade! Hide your face so the world will never find you! Masquerade! Every face a different shade! Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you," they sang, dancing around in their bright, vibrant costumes.

"Do you think you'll ever go down there?" Valentine inquired.

"Too risky. What if someone should become curious and snatch away my mask?" he replied. She shrugged.

"You can't be an artist without taking any risks, and considering the number Don Juan Triumphant takes, I'm surprised you haven't taken this one."

"Well I'm surprised you aren't enjoying the party with your coworkers," he noted. She scoffed.

"What's there to enjoy? It's a drunken disarray of crude dancing, with too many people, too close together. No class whatsoever. The few times I went, I had to introduce several men to my knife to get them to leave me be."

"Why not go to the party for the patrons and performers?" At this point, she was full blown laughing at the Phantom's questions.

"Even if I could manage to snag an invitation, I'd have nothing to wear."

"You steal costumes for our Opera nights in Box 5," he reminded her and she shoved him, much to his amusement.

"Borrow and that's different. No one other than you sees me, and if I borrow a costume to wear to the masquerade, I'm bound to be recognized."

"But you want to go," he noticed. She turned from her view of the performers to him.

"You know what it's like to be judged on appearances. For one night, just one night… I'd like to feel pretty," she murmured, as she imagined it. Being a mysterious beauty, appearing once at the ball before vanishing forever. "A Lovely night, a lovely night, a finer night you know you'll never see," she sang softly to herself, though the Phantom could hear her. "You fall in love, truly in love, as truly as in love as you could be." She stood and looked at the window the offered them a view of a gorgeous Paris winter night. "The stars in a hazy heaven, tremble above you, while he's whispering, 'Darling I love you,'" she dreamed, closing her eyes as she imagined it. "You say goodbye, away you fly, but on your lips you keep a kiss, all your life you'll dream of this lovely, lovely night." She dragged the Phantom to his feet and into position for dancing, but rather than shake her off like she expected, he laughed and played along."A Lovely night, a lovely night, a finer night you know you'll never see!" the Phantom sang, leading her around like one of the dancers below."You fall," she crooned."In love," he added."Truly–"

"In love.""As truly as in love as you could be," she finished. "The stars in a hazy heaven."

"Tremble above you," he said, twirling her."While he's whispering," she murmured."'Darling I love you,'" he serenaded as he dipped her.

"You say goodbye, away you fly," she said, separating from him once he righted her and extending her arms like the ballerinas did when playing birds in Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake."But on your lips you keep a kiss," he smiled."All your life you'll dream of this, lovely!" she chimed."Lovely!" he mirrored."Lovely!""Lovely night!" they sang together, finishing their piece. The red headed young woman giggled as she sat down, well worn out by their dance, while the Phantom just sat back in his seat.

"Well that was… entertaining," the Phantom muttered.

"Oh you had fun, admit it!" Valentine teased.

"It was… enjoyable," he avoided, enjoying the sigh of frustration he extracted from her.

"And you're hopeless." She shook her head as he smirked at her, before he turned back to look out at the crowd below. She moved closer to him in hopes of finding what he was looking for. "Looking for someone? Maybe a certain student of yours?" He nodded and pointed to a brunette in a blue saloon girl dress next to a blonde in an angel costume.

"There. Right down there, next to Madame Giry and her daughter. That's her." Valentine looked Christine over and raised an eyebrow.

"Your Christine. The saloon girl?" she asked incredulously. He frowned as he noticed her costume.

"I'm assuming Miss Giry convinced her to wear that. She's usually very modest and shy," he explained.

"Jealous?" she prodded good-naturedly.

"She's just a student," he maintained, though there was a noticeable blush on the exposed portion of his face.

"At the moment. But she's very pretty and besides, what a pair you two would make, 'the Phantom of the Opera and his Angel of Music.'" He shoved her playfully but couldn't help but smile at her teasing. They went back to watching the performers and higher society fops twirl about the dance floor like leaves or flower petals spinning on a breeze.

"Do you only sketch, Valentine?" he asked her suddenly. She blinked and looked at him oddly at the sudden question.

"No. Actually I prefer to paint," she responded.

"And do you think that you're better with paints?" he pried further. She smiled slyly.

"I'd say so." He straightened up, looking more like a businessman than the Phantom of the Opera.

"In that case, how would you like to try your hand at painting my 'hidden heaven?'" he proposed, making her grin from ear to ear.

"It would be my honor Monsieur le Phantom," Valentine smiled, bowing to the Phantom of the Opera, who bowed back. They then turned back to their view of the outside world, content to watch the festivities from their place in the shadows.

That night, as she packed her paints and canvas for tomorrow back in her apartment, she found herself thinking back to the two of them dancing, the way he held her, how his body felt against her own, and the way her heart had raced. It was a feeling she was unfamiliar with, yet from what she'd heard, it sounded like…

She frowned.

No, tha–that couldn't possibly be it, she assured herself. She couldn't possibly have… feelings for the phantom… could she?