There'll be a bit more of Erik in this one, and in later chapters – I promise! I'm sorry about the amount of Christine, but I sort of need to develop the past. This chapter's a bit dark, and I tried to make it slightly lighter…

Where was she? It was too bright, and the cushions too soft for it to be her apartment. She tried to crack an eye open, but it would not obey. For that matter, neither would any other part of her body.

Christine, usually so calm and collected, panicked. Her brain continued to scream that something was wrong; if only she could open her eyes…

And then there was singing in her head.

Think of me

Think of me fondly

When we've said goodbye

What the…?

Remember me

Once in a while

Please promise me you'll try

Erik's music…

When you find

That once again you long

To take your heart back and be free

If you ever find a moment

Spare a thought for me

Dear gods, am I going mad?

But the music faded just as suddenly as it had begun, and as her eyes popped open, she found herself in a spotless white room with a man peering intently at her.

"What…happened?"

"You screamed and fainted, Miss. He was your father?"

"He…who…what?" Apparently her brain had decided against functioning properly and refrained from sorting itself out.

The man, obviously a doctor, didn't respond, instead waiting patiently for Christine to come to her senses. She winced noticeably as her brain opened the floodgates, allowing memories and images to pour into her mind. One picture seemed to stand out—that of a man on the floor, pallid as a ghost. His entire left side dropped, skin hanging in loose folds off his thin frame; it was a gruesome sight.

"Papa? Papa…no. Dear gods, no. Where is my Papa?" Her head slowly turned from side to side of its own accord, denying Fate's cruelty.

"Where is he? Tell him to come here!" she demanded. "I have so much to tell him—so much he doesn't know…"

The doctor continued to look at her, his face contorted with pity. Christine stopped rambling suddenly, and stared through him, speaking with surprising clarity.

"He's not coming back, is he." It was not a question.

"A stroke, Miss. The neighbors called police when they noticed that he hadn't picked up a week's worth of newspapers, but we were a week too late. I'm sorry." He swiped a clipboard and pencil from the counter.

"You are his only child?" She nodded numbly.

"If you could please fill out these forms, so we can properly record his status…"

Christine was incredulous. He had just informed her that her father was dead, and he wanted her to fill out forms! Properly record his status, indeed! Was this man out of his mind?

"I know it's a shock, but…" Her eyes grew round. A shock? This was only a shock? "…if you would fill these out…" he set the clipboard down on her bed. "…and then we can help you find a friend in the area to take care of you for a while…"

"I have no friends in the area." Her voice was as expressive as a corpse's.

The doctor's brows furrowed. "We'll figure something out. If you'll excuse me, I must attend to other patients." He promptly rose and, with a last, brief glance, left Christine alone with her thoughts, a pencil, and a clipboard.

Forms, she sighed. Might as well. Name, address, date of birth, place of birth…

Relations—none.

Person to contact in case of emergency— She bit her lip. Who was a good enough friend to care?

Erik…her mind whispered, almost laughingly.

Erik, you idiot, is in France. And there has been no form of communication between us for three years. She settled with writing "Meg Giry" in the blank.

So why do you continue to think about him?

She had no argument for that. Shut up.

It would be different if he were here, it mused smugly.

Yes, it would have been very different if he was here, but he wasn't here. Not this time…

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He was at the piano, as usual. His home was odd, to say the least—it often reminded Christine of somecombination of old, Victorian England and the Arabian Nights, and perhaps even the stories of the palaces of Persia. Thick, colorful tapestries covered the walls where paintings and murals did not, and the first story floors were a glassy, marble material, and patterned elegantly with gold.

His parents were never home—he was always alone, and Christine felt bad for him, but he never seemed to mind. She later found out why.

But now his beautiful, seamless music filled her ears as she stepped through the door, and her eyes flashed to the slender, graceful fingers that danced across the keys. His hands never ceased to amaze her—they could do anything, from snatching books out of her ears to making food disappear from her plate, to soft, gentle, comforting touches, to what they were doing now, moving so quickly that they blurred above the ivory.

Erik's head tilted minutely by way of greeting, and without breaking the flow of his composition he remarked, "Do you intend to have a lesson?"

Christine chuckled; that was just like Erik. "I think we've had enough lessons in the past week. How about some studying?" It was the week of final exams, and they were fourteen.

Erik turned to look at her, but his hands continued their intricate weaving. "Since when was studying necessary for you?"

"Since I failed that Physics final last semester."

"I believe that was a B you received."

"Precisely. Failing."

"Of course." Erik heaved a sigh in exaggerated exasperation. "Well then, we shall study. Music, however, is far more important."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Don't-have-to-study-and-still-get-perfects," she retorted. "For some of us, it isn't so effortless." She had dropped her backpack by the sofa and retrieved her physics book. The music finally ended, and she sighed softly with regret as the magic Erik had woven slowly faded into silence and he moved to sit next to her.

She pointed to several problems and he explained them patiently, without much thought. Physics was simple for him—it seemed that he understood every concept inherently, without even needing to learn it.

Of course, he understands everything without needing to learn it, really. Christine chanced a glance at his face, at the angled chin and beautifully sculpted cheekbones—well, cheekbone, as the mask covered the right side of his face, and for the second time in her life she wondered what was under the mask. How bad could it be? But Erik had been vehement about not letting anyone see it, and so she respected his wishes.

She'd had a crush on him for ages—but so did half the girls in the school. Who wouldn't? Erik was handsome, brilliant, mysterious, talented, respected, polite; he spoke in cadences that would fit a nineteenth century novel, and his voice alone—heavenly, smooth, quiet, but with an unmistakable tone of confidence and authority—could charm any girl.

But he never seemed to have any interest in girls; in fact, the only interest he showed in anyone was in Christine, by being her best friend and tutor. She never understood what he saw in her.

Erik must've realized that she was staring, and raised his intense, electric green eyes to meet her own brown ones. "Is something the matter?"

Christine shook her thoughts away, unable to look away from those mesmerizing eyes. "No, no. I…it's just that I understand the problems now." She did. He was amazing.

Erik inclined his head slightly. "That is all you need, then?" He almost sounded like he wished it wasn't…or was Christine just imagining it?

"Yeah." She stood, but didn't really want to leave, feeling the need to return the favor. "Do you want to come over for dinner?" "That would be preferable; my culinary talents are rather lacking."

Christine smiled as he, ever the gentleman, slid the front door open for her. "See you at dinner!"

"Dinner it is."

Hmm, I'm not so sure about this chapter. Does it sound forced? I know it's starting out slowly, and all from Christine's view. I'm sort of afraid to write Erik's point of view at the moment, as I don't know him well enough yet. Leave me some feedback?