A/N: Thanks again to all of you awesome reviewers! I am so glad I finished this before tomorrow. No more one day updates until Wednesday, sorry! I have to finish school, and as soon as that's over, I will be free to write this story! *woot woot!*

So, who's ready to meet our Opera's managers? And more importantly, THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA?

P.S. Suggested listening for this chapter, Hannibal and Why So Silent?, and Phantom of the Opera (in that order), if you can, go on Youtube and look up JOJ and Sierra's 2011 Olivier performance!

Chapter Two, The Deal

"Hello?" Monsieur Gilles André almost fell off of the small table he was sitting on in shock and excitement.

"Keep quiet," Monsieur Richard Firmin whispered from his perch, "Maybe he'll go away." The candelabra sighed. Why must the old clock be so inhospitable? After all, the Opera House was receiving its first guest in years . . . his instincts as a manager had not dimmed in the slightest. And apparently, neither had Firmin's . . .

But then again, he remembered, they were not the only ones who remained the same on the inside. He gulped.

"Is anyone here?"

"You better not be saying one word," Firmin warned. André refrained from pointing out that Firmin was doing all of the talking.

"I don't mean to intrude, but I was almost robbed, my horse ran off, and I need a place to stay for the night . . ." Andre looked pleadingly at Firmin.

"Oh, Firmin, have a heart . . ." he half-begged, making his eyes as wide and round as he could.

"Sh!" Firmin hissed, putting his hand/handle over Andre's mouth. Blinking, Andre moved his candlestick arm and placed the flame on the handle. "OW!"

"Of course, Monsieur, you're welcome here!" he called out as Firmin continued blowing on his handle.

"Who said that?" the stranger called out, his voice growing more spooked by the second. He picked Andre up and began to wave him around.

"Over here!" Andre said patiently.

"Where?" Andre sighed and tapped him on the head, and when the stranger turned, he flashed his most charming smile.

"Bonjour!"

Gustave gasped and dropped the candelabra to the ground in fright, jumping back. Had that inanimate object just . . . spoken? "Incroyable . . ." he murmured.

"Now you've done it, Andre!" came another voice, causing Gustave to jump again, as the clock that had been resting on a small table came bounding forward. "Splendid, just pea-AH!" Gustave reached out and picked the clock up curiously, and began to examine it.

"How can this be?" he murmured softly, looking over the clock and ignoring its-or his- protests. He continued looking over the clock before he jumped out of his hands. Gustave bent over to pick him up before a sharp stabbing pain came to his attention from where he had fallen. "Argh," he groaned, standing straight again.

"Why, monsieur, you're injured!" the candelabra gasped, hopping over to him, "Oh, and you're freezing! You might catch cold! Come, follow me, and warm up by the fire." Gustave nodded gratefully as the candelabra led him to another room, which had a welcoming fire ablaze in it and an extremely old and unused chair next to it.

"No, no, no!" the clock called out indignantly, "I demand that you stop right there!" He pulled at Gustave's cape, but only ended up being pulled down the stairs into the warm and inviting room.

Gustave settled in the old chair and sighed as his worn muscles began to relax. "I am so sorry for intruding, thank you for your hospitality," he said softly. "I still can't believe you have all been in the Opera House for so long . . ."

"You know of our Opera House?"

"I used to go here at every chance when I was younger," Gustave admitted, "I am a musician myself, so-"

"A musician!" the candelabra asked delightedly, "Oh, how wonderful!" he turned to the nearby footrest, which was . . . purring? Gustave shook his head in awe at the magic surrounding him in his beloved Opera House. "What do you play, monsieur?" Gustave blushed for the first time in years.

"The violin, but sir, don't burden yourself by-"

"Oh, it is no bother, I am sure Cerise would be delighted! The maste- I mean, she has not been played in years!" He turned back to the footrest. "Mini, go at once and fetch Cerise, would you?" Mini purred and sped off.

"What is this I hear of a guest?" came a female voice from behind him. Gustave turned to see a beautiful golden mirror entering. Behind her came a dainty pair of ballet slippers.

"Madame Giry!" the candelabra called out, "We have a poor violinist who was almost robbed here, and-"

"Andre, you know how the master feels about guests," Madame Giry scolded. Gustave frowned. Who was this "master" everyone continued to mention? Should he be wary of him?

"But Madame-"

"Don't interrupt me! I was only telling you that I agree. Leaving a victim in the cold is unacceptable, I should know." She made her way over to Gustave. "Bienvenue, mon nom est Madame Giry," she said. Gustave dipped his head and smiled.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Madame."

"And this is my daughter," she said, as the pair of ballet slippers hopped up to the armrest, "Meg Giry."

"Bonjour," Meg said, her voice soft and sweet as honey.

"I have a daughter," Gustave said fondly, "Christine. She is nineteen, and she-"

"A daughter?" Andre asked, "Well, maybe she could visit us!"

"Oh, I need to return to her, she is probably worried . . ." Gustave murmured, "I'm late getting ho-"

He was cut off as the door swung open. Instantly, the fire went out from the wind, and Gustave froze. He heard the steps approaching, even and menacing.

"There is a stranger here," came the voice. Gustave gulped. The voice was musical, but low and threatening.

"Master, I-" Andre began.

"Silence!" came the voice, louder. The chair Gustave sat in whirled around, and Gustave found himself staring at a dark form silhouetted in the night. The form was tall and well-built, but very regal in itself. He gulped. The form turned to Madame Giry, reflecting a white mask covering half of the man's face. Gustave tore his eyes away in fright.

"Why have you allowed this, Giry? You have no right! I am tempted to smash you right now!" he spat. Madame Giry did not flinch.

"Erik, you are losing your temper. Calm down before you do something you'll regret."

"Do not tell me of my temper, Giry! I am the master of this Opera, not you!" the figure roared, turning in a dramatic swing to face Gustave. "And who is this? A guest?" He laughed humorlessly. "Who are you?" Gustave remained still, frozen in fear. "Answer me now!"

"G-gustave Daaé, monsieur!" he stammered. Suddenly, a memory stirred in his mind. A legend. He had told it to young Christine before the Opera had closed down, as it was a fantastic tale to explain all of the accidents at the famous house of arts. "You're . . . the Phan-"

"-tom of the Opera? You're not the first to believe it, monsieur." He leaned closer to Gustave. "And do you know, my friend, what happens to those who behold the Phantom against his own will?" Gustave merely shook his head, his heart beating rapidly, at a loss for words because of fear. The Phantom chuckled darkly. "They disappear!" And with that, Gustave suddenly found himself falling downwards, until he landed in cold, dark water.

And then the world turned black.

Christine looked out of the window again, her fingers tapping restlessly against the glass. Where was Father? He had said he would be home in time for supper, but it was past nine o'clock, and there was still no sign of him. She couldn't even eat out of worry.

She walked from the window to put dinner away. As she was finishing up, a knock sounded at the door. She dropped the dish she was carrying and rushed to answer, swinging it wide open.

"Fathe-oh. Bonjour, Raoul." She sighed. Raoul opened the door the rest of the way and let himself in, smiling.

"Why hello, Christine."

"What a pleasant surprise," Christine said evenly, clenching her fists.

"Isn't it? You know, Christine, mon cherie, I am just full of surprises."

"I bet you are, Raoul," Christine muttered. She sighed and sat down. Raoul took the opportunity to plop down next to her, resting his feet on the table and slinging an arm around her. "You know, little Lotte," he said, using his old childhood nickname for her, "I was wondering, do you still have that red scarf I rescued for you?"

"Yes," Christine admitted, sighing. She attempted to wriggle out of his embrace, but he only tightened his grip on her.

"I was thinking, and I thought, red goes good with diamonds . . ." Christine gasped, moving away quickly.

"What?"

"You know, there isn't a girl in Paris who wouldn't want to be you right now. You are very lucky, for tonight is the night-" he paused to grab her mirror off of the coffee table and examine himself quickly, "Tonight is the night all of your dreams come true."

"What do you know of my dreams, Raoul?" Christine whispered softly, glancing out of the window and then at her songbook.

"Plenty, Lotte, trust me! Picture this," upon saying this Raoul stood up and leaned towards her. "Me and my wife, living together on the DeChangy estate, you only being forced to sing that ridiculous music in the privacy of our double shower, and all of our beautiful children, running around our yard, playing smart child games." He wagged his eyebrows. "And you know who that wife will be, Christine?" Christine drew in a deep breath, bracing herself.

"Let me guess . . ." At this, Raoul cornered her against the wall, his hot breath tickling her throat. She felt like gagging.

"You, Christine Daaé." Christine ducked under his arm and backed off.

"Oh, Raoul, I'm . . ." she backed up against the door, "Speechless!" Raoul continued his approach, leaning against her.

"Say you'll marry me. Leave this life of music behind and get a real one."

"I-I . . ." Christine turned the doorknob, "I just don't deserve you!" And upon saying that, she opened the door, knocking him off balance and clumsily into the streets in front of a large gathered crowd. Gasping, she shut the door, leaning against it.

Me? Raoul's wife? Oh, that arrogant pig! As if I would be Countess DeChangy, the little wife of the honorable Comte DeChangy! Oh, no, I want to sing! How dare he try and take music from me!

"Oh . . ." she murmured, worried, "I must find what has happened to Father . . ." She looked outside and sighed. "In the morning."

Erik Mulheim paced the floors of his underground lair restlessly, attempting to breathe evenly so he wouldn't just go and tear the old fool apart.

The man had fallen into his lake through one of his many trapdoors, and had passed out, he had been lucky enough to have been rescued in time by Nacella, his gondola. He was now coughing away in the makeshift prison Erik had constructed in the attic of the Opera House, so that nobody could hear his coughs and pleas for help. Crazy old fool.

He paced.

Madame Giry had mentioned he had a daughter. A spark of dreaded hope ignited in his heart, but he crushed it down as passionately as he played his organ in the night.

This girl probably would never even find the Opera House, let alone care to know him. Upon seeing his horrid face, she would scream and run away. He was a monster, a deformed monster, all because of that damned enchantress!

Was it his fault he had been afraid of her, repulsed by her haggard appearance? What was he supposed to do? Ignore it? She could have been a witch, she could have been a burglar, or . . .

Oh, what is the point of making excuses for myself? What good is it doing? I am just as bad as all of those normal persons out there, happily living. I was unable to look beyond the face and into the heart, and now that same fate shall be mine . . . I do not deserve any of this, anything at all. I am horrible, ugly, disgusting . . .

I am a monster.

Christine woke in the morning and instantly jumped out of her bed, running to her father's room to see if he had returned in the middle of the night.

It was empty.

"Father?" she called out, hoping, praying that he was somewhere in their home, in the kitchen, cooking breakfast, or tuning his precious violin in the living room.

No reply.

Just to make sure, she searched their entire home, but to no avail. Her Father was nowhere to be found. She grabbed her scarlet cloak off of the rack and ran out of the house. She was surprised at the sight before her.

"Minuit!" she said in surprise. There he was, the family's beloved black stallion, standing skittishly at the entrance to their home. "Minuit," Christine murmured softly, attempting to calm him down, "Minuit, where's Father?" Minuit tossed his head around. "Minuit, you must take me to Father. Can you do that?" He just neighed. Christine mused for a moment. "Come, Minuit, off to the Opera House!"

Luckily, Christine knew her way to the Opera House much better than her father did, from repeated trips there during the day. As she rode through, those same little people who had seen her walking through for years looked on curiously as she rode through.

She took a deep breath as she reached the Opera.

Christine nervously noted that the gates had been broken open, but nobody had noticed, obviously. She made her way towards the door, and noticed that it too, was unlocked. Biting her lip, she opened the door carefully and stepped inside.

There it was again! That music! It wasn't the same piece as yesterday, no, this was similar, but much angrier. She cringed at the thought of who had angered the composer so. Gulping, she continued on.

The Opera House was nothing like she had imagined. From the stories that Father had told her, it had seemed to bright, so happy, so full of music and laughter and singing and dancing . . .

Father! He had to be here . . .

"Father!" she called out, glancing around at the dark and dusty Opera House. She heard a rustle and then a creak behind her and whirled around. "Father?" Was Father playing around with her? Suppressing her fear, she walked through the door, which led to a winding staircase, and-

There! A light! Moving up the staircase!

"Hello?" The light kept moving. "Wait, I'm looking for my father, Gustave Daaé!" She continued running, until the light stilled. Slowing down, slightly out of breath, she turned to see a candelabra. So that must have been the light she had seen.

"Father?" she tried once more.

"Hello?" came a voice from the shadows. Christine gasped.

"Father!" she cried, running towards the sound. And there he was, behind a double mirror acting as a prison.

"Christine! H-how did you find me?" Gustave asked.

"You said you would be here," Christine said kindly, and jumped when he broke into another fit of coughing. "Oh, I've got to get you out of here, Father, what happened?"

"Christine, you must leave this place-"

"Who did this?" Was it the man playing the angry music. Christine took no notice of the music's abrupt halt.

"There is no time to explain! Go, now!"

"I cannot leave you, Father!"

"Oh look, another guest!" came a suave voice from the darkness. Christine jumped up, turning swiftly. She could barely make out the form of a tall man in the shadows. She stepped into the light. "Oh," the voice breathed softly. Her hands shook.

"Who are you?" she asked shakily. She thought she could hear him chuckle.

"The Phantom of the Opera." Christine gasped. "Ah, has your dear old father told you about me?"

"Y-yes, but-" She straightened up. Gathering every ounce of courage she possessed, she stepped closer tot he shadow. "I am here to take my father home." The shadow growled.

"What gives you the right to do that?"

"Christine, please, just go home," her father begged. The Phantom laughed.

"I am sorry, Christine, but your father has intruded on my home. He is my prisoner now." Christine gasped in horror.

"Please, let him go, he's sick, he could-"

"Die? Well, that is his problem, not mine!"

"Please, monsieur, what could I do?"

"There is nothing you could do," the Phantom hissed. Christine broke down and began to cry, until suddenly an idea struck her.

"Wait!" The Phantom of the Opera froze and turned to face her.

"Maybe . . ." Christine drew a shaky breath. "What if I took his place?" Tha Phantom scoffed.

"You would do that?" he asked with disbelief. Christine nodded.

"Christine, no! Don't do-"

"Silence, old man!" The Phantom's tone softened as he spoke to Christine. "If we were to agree to this, you would have to promise to . . . stay here forever, and never leave for anything . . . or anyone. Is that clear?" Christine shut her eyes, and then opened them again.

"Come into the light," she whispered. The Phantom didn't budge. "Please," she whispered. He seemed to take a deep breath, and strode forward into the light.

So, thoughts? So I looked up all of the last names authors have given Erik, and I settled on Mulheim. It's pretty, is it not? Gosh, he is so hard to write! How did I do? Review, please!