A/N: Happy New Year! Bonne Anée 2008! Ooh...I just saw a brilliant documentary about life in turn-of-the-century Paris...what luck! (And there was me thinking that having only French TV 24/7 was a bad thing...) But it was about life during roughly the 1889-1900 period - 30 years after the events at the Opéra Populaire. I am contemplating the idea of doing some shameless time-tweaking...hmm...uncertain.

I also may be adding some fluff, in later chapters - you've gotta have a little fluff somewhere, after all. You may have noticed, too, that I'm having a bit of trouble with the spacing here...for some reason it separates the text waaay too much - anyone know how to get it back to normal? Cheers.

And thanks for all the encouragement, GhostOfMusic! I have now planned out every chapter so that I know what I'm doing, and so now all I need to do is start writing it out with more detail (and translate it from my obscure note-slang to regular English...) Hee-hee...enjoy.

Music. Soft, gentle piano music, slightly muffled by the walls. Erik's yellow eyes opened, and he watched the ceiling for a while, serenely listening to the gentle melody. Ah, music - what sweet torment it was for him now! But from where did it come?

He raised his pale, thin body from the bed, and got to his feet. For a moment he swayed slightly, unbalanced, but then righted himself and walked ponderously to the door. He walked like an old man now; his strength had still not returned, if it would return at all. This frustrated him to no end, him being a man used to flying across suspended catwalks and flitting swiftly behind walls. But he was broken inside, and this was what took its toll on him.

However, for now he did not dwell on this: his thoughts were only on the music that was being played somewhere in the house. He had not known that Bayard owned a piano...Entering an unfamiliar, glaringly sunlit corridor, he listened for a while, and then laboriously made his way across it and through a doorway on the opposite side. The carpet under his bony toes turned to wood once more, and the music heightened in volume as he entered the room.

Erik paused in the doorway, catching his breath and cursing his stiff, trembling limbs. He seemed to be on the threshold of a small room with a wooden floor and panelled walls. A large window to one side poured sunlight into it, lighting up the piano that stood in the room's centre. Sitting at the instrument, with her back to him, was none other than Lucie Bayard. She had apparently not heard him open the door, and was continuing to play. Erik turned his head to one side slightly, eyes unfocusing as he lost himself in the tune. It was a simple melody she played, and she was most certainly not professional - but she played with flair and seemed to find such fulfilment in it... The rich sound of the piano filled the room entirely, each note a pleasurable dagger in Erik's shattered heart. What memories music now brought to him - he still loved it, he still lived for it...but how could he continue loving it when it reminded him of...of...

Suddenly the music stopped, and he realised she was watching him.

Lucie stared at the man in surprise. Why had he risen? Had her music woken him? She certainly hoped not. She had been playing very quietly, but it seemed he had sharp ears when it came to music...

She had no way of telling how long he had been standing there, simply contemplating her with his strange golden eyes, his mask shining a blinding white in the sun. What a mysterious man he was...and what an odd look there had been in his eyes. She wished she could see his face to know what emotion it had been. The permanent, blank scowl of his mask obscured most of his facial expressions, but although his eyes and mouth were still able to betray him, now they did not. She could not discern any of his thoughts, so she waited patiently for him to speak.

'You play well,' he finally murmured, walking a little way into the room but keeping well away from her. Goodness, he was tall! From where she sat, he seemed to tower over her even more. She guessed that even if she stood the top of her head would only just brush the middle of his chest. But he was so frightfully thin...

Lucie gave him a small smile and inclined her head in modest thanks. She was determined to make amends with this man - her father seemed to think well of him, and the two of them had started off rather on the wrong foot...

The man - Erik, her father had said his name was - regarded her steadily, then his eyes flickered down to caress the long board of polished piano keys in an almost reverent manner. He looked up at her again, curious.

'Who is your teacher...if you can answer me?' he asked softly and politely, his bewitching tenor making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end with its sheer beautiful power.

Lucie bit her lip, then shrugged and pointed to herself.

'You taught yourself?'

She nodded, and he began to peruse the shiny wooden curves of the piano's fine body once more, his hands clasped behind his back, sharp shoulders straight. Refusing to be intimidated by his mask when he looked at her again, she tilted her head slightly in the direction of the piano, her face questioning.

His mouth tightened convulsively, but then he answered normally enough:

'No. No, I do not play.'

With that, he turned and left the room. Lucie frowned. She would never be able to fathom him...

The boat rocked slightly as Madame Giry pushed it forwards, the lanterns upon it casting their shimmering reflections upon the water. The knowledge that she was truly alone now under the Opera house unnerved her, and she wanted to be above ground again as soon as possible. The last time she had come down here, Erik had still been in his lair...but now the underground labyinth of arches, caverns and canals was empty. It was rather off-putting, the thought that she was on her own in the darkness, but she needed to do this; not only for Erik, but for Docteur Bayard as well - she needed to bring back Erik's dishonest earnings so that he could have a home of his own and not encroach on the Bayard household any longer. Listening attentively for the change in the note of the wind ahead, she skirted the other low passageways that led to dead ends and water traps, until she came to the opening at last.

As soon as she reached it, though, she knew something was wrong. The portcullis was raised (of course, she had forgotten to lower it again when she had passed by with Erik and the Docteur!) and there were voices from within. Madame Giry stopped pushing the boat onwards out of sheer surprise as she saw the faint glow of light in the lair across the water, from where there came the sound of gravelly male voices. She stared in horror, beginning to propel the gondola forwards once more with her hands gripping the pole even tighter than before. How dare they? The portcullis had only been accidentally left open for a week or so, yet already thieves were swarming in, hungry for the gold they knew lay hidden beyond it. What nerve they had to trespass so brazenly!

The boat had barely scraped the bank when Madame Giry leapt from it, nearly tearing her narrow black skirts in her haste. A second vessel, a rickety row-boat, was lying on its side nearby, and she glanced at it contemptuously. It was already piled with a few of the golden candelabra, some of the taller ones snapped into smaller pieces to fit into the bottom of the boat. Burlap sacks and a few tools lay inside the row-boat among the battered, cracked oars, and Madame Giry was tempted to sink it out of scorn. However, she did not, wanting to find the pilferers herself as soon as possible. Leaving the gondola, which looked so sleek and grand beside the ugly, scratched row-boat, she marched forwards in the direction of the light, very glad indeed that she had thought to bring her cane with her.

She walked forwards, her posture as tall and straight-backed as any professional ballet artist's, picking her way through the detritus on the ground. Most of the broken objects had been swept aside, and piles of sheet music and torn canvas had visibly been rummaged through. Her mouth now a thin line of fury, she marched towards the area that was illuminated by several petrol-lamps.

Madame Giry stopped and stared. Two men, wearing shabby, oil-stained clothes and wielding shovels were in the centre of the lit area, working away at part of the lair's wall that was crumbling. A pickaxe, which had been used to hack at the hard wall, was lying on the ground beside a couple of sacks that were filled with gold. The thieves had somehow found the hiding-place of the Phantom's extensive income, presumably by demolishing walls until they found it. Rubble lay everywhere, and though the sacks were full the two thieves were looking for more hidden in the lair's walls.

Madame Giry was absolutely appalled. She had come down to the lair with the intention of pushing the hidden switch behind the fine mahogany desk to enter the treasure room, only to find that the entire wall behind the desk was missing, the room beyond it bare. What blatant violation, indeed! The thieves were still busy mining at the opposite wall, greedy for more gold, not paying any heed to the beauty they were desecrating. She narrowed her eyes; enough was enough.

'Bonsoir, messieurs.'

Her clipped, sharp tone - well developed from years of shouting commands at errant ballerinas - rang out over the scraping of the shovels, making the two thieves stop digging and spin around in shock. They stared in surprise at the haughty, stern ballet-mistress as she held them with her piercing gaze.

'Might I ask what your business is here?' she snapped, both hands resting on the head of her black cane. The men glanced at each other, wondering whether this woman was truly a threat to them. But after seeing the dangerous glint in her eye and the way her fingers tightened around the cane, they decided that yes, she was.

'Er...begging your pardon, m'dame, but we're not the first people to come down here,' one of them said guiltily. 'Everybody's talking about it, m'dame.'

'Talking about what exactly?'

The thief glanced at his accomplice. 'Well...the Phantom's Hoard,' he muttered. Madame Giry raised her eyebrows. The Phantom's Hoard? No...this could not be true...How could a legend be born from a legend in such a short amount of time? Yet obviously the thieves believed it, and judging by the gold in their sacks, their belief was paying off.

'We only found this much...the rest's already been taken,' continued the other thief. 'Seems like a lot of people came down before us and beat us to it. We were just looking, m'dame...'

'Just looking?' repeated Madame Giry acidly, her eyes turning to the wreckage of the wall. 'Have you no common sense, you fools? You will bring the Opéra down upon your heads with all of this digging!'

One of the men looked sheepish. 'Well...it is in ruins already, if I might be so bold -'

'Non, monsieur! Enough of this!' vociferated the enraged ballet mistress, outraged at their sheer nerve. 'I am a representative of the Opéra Populaire and you would do better to leave this place, now!'

The two thieves looked as if they were about to object, but Madame Giry sent them swiftly on their way with a wave of her cane. As they hurried off, muttering and cursing, she glared after them in disgust. The Phantom's Hoard, indeed!

'You are fortunate, messieurs, that I am letting you go with no more than a warning!' she called out over the splash of oars, then walked over to the bags of gold. They were right, it was only a fraction of the money Erik had amassed over the years. 'Oh, mais...regarde-moi ça...' she grumbled to herself. Will you just look at that... 'Maudits impértinents...cursed impertinent people...' Even just by looking she knew that the gold within the sacks was nowhere near enough for a house. A tiny apartment, maybe...but it would have to do for the moment. The only thing left to do now was to take what remained of the money to the bank, and inform Erik of the news, hoping for the best.

Madame Giry grimaced as she picked up the sacks. She had a feeling he would not like this situation at all...

The piano stood silently in the middle of the empty room. It seemed to beckon, pleading to be played, its smooth, strong keys appealing soundlessly while its hidden wires trembled with the promise of rich, beautiful music. Voluptuously curved wood gleamed darkly and seductively in the light of the setting sun, reflecting the scarlet glow that came through the large windows. The keys shone, the golden music-stand glimmered, the black leather bench stood invitingly before them...

Erik hovered in the shadow of the door, leaning against the wall for support with his long fingers shaking as he imagined the feel of the smooth wood beneath them, the simple joy that coaxing a tune from it could bring. That damned piano had been tormenting him all day, haunting his thoughts and reminding him that he had not touched an instrument for a long, long time...oh, how he hated this yearning to experience the ringing euphoria that had always coursed through him when he had a set of keys at his fingertips! The yearning made him feel weak, made him feel as if he had forgotten what his music had done to him, what it had done to others...but it was becoming hard to fight, especially now as he stood watching the piano. Bayard and his daughter were downstairs. If he indulged his craving for music as softly as possible...if he played quietly...they would never know of it...

Erik slowly, slowly crept forwards, cursing the frailty of his resolve. All he wished to do was to produce one, signular note, to feel the power of music just one final time...he sat himself down at the piano bench, the stinging, unwelcome sunlight in his eyes not bothering him for once as he stared dreamily at the keys. How enticing they were, for simple blocks of wood! How marvellously appealing with the power they held...one bony, pale finger scored with faint scars flexed, then came forwards to lovingly caress a glossy black key. He had always liked the black keys best; just one added to a whole host of white keys could make a completely different sound, could change the entire feeling of a tune. Masked face tilted down, amber eyes full of a deep emotion even he could not understand, his trembling finger pressed down gently. A soft, rich note issued from the piano's heart, and made the corners of his dry lips twitch upwards involuntarily. Erik pressed another key, a white one, savouring the subtle yet tangible difference between them. Closing his eyes with an uncharacteristically tender smile, he produced another note, then another, and another...his left hand leapt to the lower keys of its own volition, and slowly, like the gears of a clockwork machine winding faster and faster, the room began to echo with the music that was suddenly beginning to pour from him. He was doing what he had always done, what he always wanted to do - unleashing his complex, frustrating emotions in the form of music. Erik's hands pounded on the keys, throwing caution to the winds as he revelled in the glorious sound that engulfed him. He closed his eyes, eyebrows drawing together as the pain, the loss, the terrible longing flowed through his fingers and out through the piano. Looking at the keys was not necessary for him - he knew where they all were, as he had for decades, and now, as the music rebounded from the walls and back at him, he lost all sense of time and place. He was consumed by his own thunderous crescendos, lilting legato notes and shivering trills as they echoed all around. Augmented, diminished, sustained, seventh, minor, major...ever-changing, his music mirrored his deepest, darkest emotions, and was his only source of comfort in a world that ignored his torment. As his fingers struck the keys and flitted across them with such force they blistered, he enigmatically felt himself lifted by the music of his own pain. Oh, quelle âcreté merveilleuse! What marvellous bitterness!

The discordant fluidity of Erik's music had devoured him to such an extent that he did not perceive Lucie hesitantly opening the piano room door. She had not been able to believe her ears when she had heard the etheral, passionate tumult from upstairs, and it had taken her a while to realise that Erik was playing. If only her father had waited a little longer before going to the post office to send off his documents...then he might have heard that beautiful intermingling of sounds that she knew she would never be able to describe to him, even with words. Now she watched Erik with silent fascination as he ran his hands up and down the piano keys, fingers moving unnaturally fast, entire body tilting forwards or backwards in accordance to the notes he stressed. Why had he told her that he could not play the piano when he was a true prodigy at it? Surely it was not modesty; Erik did not seem to be a man who possessed much reticence. Her eyes followed the complex dance his fingers performed, wondering how a person's hands could move so quickly. She had never heard music like his before; so hypnotic, so beautiful and grand and majestic...but full of dark discords and worrying minor chords that evoked a sense of deep, deep despair and rage. How could all of this come from one man? Was this a tune he had leant, or was he just inventing it as it came? The more Lucie watched the tensing of Erik's bony shoulders, the bowing of his head, the swinging of his shirt's tails over the back of the piano bench, the more convinced she was that this music was fresh from the depths of his soul. Her wonder turned to concern for a moment before she was once more swept away by the sweet, black sorrow that he played. To think he was at her lowly piano, the very piano she had so recently played her modest melodies on, and making it peal out such a beautiful, haunting symphony of pain and loss! A normal man could not possibly create such a magnificent reverberation of sounds; at the piano Erik seemed...beyond human. To say that he played like a god would be an exaggeration...no, thought Lucie, he played like an ang-

Without warning at all, Erik's finger slipped on a key. Normally, he would just continue playing, or reinforce the note slip into the actual tune, but for some reason his mind numbed and he could not think for a split second. His hands faltered, and the entire symphony came crashing down, out of control, no longer music but a mere dissonant noise, an ungainly clashing of notes. Erik's eyes were wide with disbelief as his fingers shook, somehow unable to regain their familiar sprightly grace. To his absolute horror, he found the flow of music in his mind had completely halted, his fingers blundering over the keys until he slammed both fists down in furious resignation.

Lucie stared wide-eyed from the doorway. Why had he stopped playing? He had only made one small mistake...why had he come to such a brusque and noisy stop? By the look of it, Erik was full of frustrated shock. He did not appear able to play a single further note. Her eyes filled with sadness on his behalf as Erik slumped forwards across the keys with a crash of sound, his shoulders shaking and his back curving with soft, horrified sobs. If Lucie had not learned to listen rather than speak over the past years, she would not have heard his crying at all, so bitterly soft it was. It was a woeful sound to hear indeed, and she found herself wishing she could say something to comfort him. But no, she had long chosen silence, and could do nothing about it.

Tentatively, Lucie came towards the hunched form of Erik as he wept quietly but inconsolably. The raised ridge of his spine was made even more prominent through his clothing as his curving body shook, and she once more felt alarmed by how emaciated and wiry he was. He looked so frail now, as his true sentiments made themselves known through the tears he shed. Lucie reached out with a shaking hand to comfortingly touch his shoulder, but as soon as her fingers brushed the fabric of his shirt his entire body stiffened, making her start back.

'Ne me touchez pas!' he cried, in a strained and shaken voice, never raising his face. Do not touch me!

Lucie frowned at him. Her father had told her of Erik's unfortunate deformity, and from the tone of his voice she had been glad she had not managed to lift the man's mask after all. Her father had also said that Erik's life had not been easy, from what he had gathered, and so Lucie assumed his hatred of the physical touch of strangers had come from some bad past experience. The poor man...if only there was a way to console him...

Feeling useless, Lucie politely offered Erik her lace-edged handkerchief. At her movement, he looked towards her with glistening, red eyes, a tear clinging to the bottom of his mask. Seeing the handkerchief she held out to him with a look of concern on her face, Erik gave a bitter laugh, confusing her.

'No, thank you, mademoiselle, I have no use for it,' he said, getting up just as Lucie suddenly remembered with mortification that the man had no nose, and had probably thought she had meant...oh, no...

She gesticulated frantically to stop him, then shook her head and indicated her eyes. I meant for you to dry your eyes...your eyes, monsieur! However, Erik's thoughts were elsewhere, and he merely declined, sweeping past her and out of the room. His mind was still in a state of complete and utter shock, because something terrible and unthinkable had happened...something he had never thought would ever occur...

His music had left him.