A/N: Exams are over, and I have more time to write. Expect a lot more updates! Happy summer holidays everyone! Check out my one-shot type story Memoirs of a Vicomte, I've gotten a lot of positive feedback on that one! Thanks again for reading!

Chapter Three

Despite the seemingly calming effect Madame de Chagny had on Erik, the moment she rid the room of her presence and Philippe had graced Erik with his own, did the poor boy finally let the tears fall.

There was little more to be expected of him. Despite having developed the mind of a child prodigy, he was just that – a child. Erik was barely seven years of age, and though, for the most part, he acted well beyond his few years, now was not one of those times.

"It cannot be!" he cried. "It cannot be!"

Philippe stood at the door, one hand clutching the knob, one hanging at his side, on his face an expression of confusion. Erik ignored this, and continued to wail loudly.

"Never has Erik had a home before! Never!"

The de Chagny boy tilted his head. It was the first time his younger friend referred to himself in third person, and it certainly would not be his last. Philippe, for a brief moment of selfish confusion and curiosity, wondered if Erik was indeed insane.

However, this instance, Erik did take notice of Philippe. His wailing suddenly stopped, only to be replaced seconds later by quieter, heaving sobs.

"Yes! Erik was taught that by his mama! Not to speak with 'I' and 'me'! Erik does not deserve that comfort, for Erik is a terrible little boy, and should be punished! Erik was taught that by mama, too!"

Philippe clenched the door knob tighter. A sudden shudder ran through his spine. He immediately detested the mother of his friend, for what mother would deny her own son the ability to speak as his own person? To teach a child to despise himself was, he decided, one of the worst sins one could commit. Instantly, Philippe bent down to the boy's side, breathing in and out deeply, stroking his thick, black hair. Erik was calmed by the rhythmic motion, but not enough to cease his fit altogether.

"You are all lying to me! Soon, you will throw me away, just like mama threw away Sasha!"

Now, Philippe hadn't the faintest idea what the poor boy was rambling on about, but continued to pet his hair. Growing up with two much younger siblings took its toll, and Philippe felt himself more a father to them than a brother. He learnt that patience, perseverance, and consolation were the best tools of the trade of parenthood.

After his much-needed cry, Erik finally looked up from Philippe's embrace. It had been the second time Philippe had hugged him, and the information suddenly sank in. Mama never pet my hair.. she certainly never hugged me. He began to wonder if it was not all, in fact, a lie meant simply to hurt him, and that Philippe did, in fact, care.

The young man closed his eyes. Yes, Erik would be a hard sibling to raise. Yes, he would certainly present a challenge, but Philippe was willing to accept that. The poor, despite his tender age, had evidently been through too much, and a good Christian such as Philippe could not deny him the chance of growing up into normalcy.

"Erik, we are not lying to you." The teenager blinked and struggled to form words as Erik's black eyes stared him down. "You are welcome here now, amongst your friends. That has been decided. Whether you will accept it, or not, is your decision."

For a long moment, the two of them stood there, unmoving, neither daring to breathe. Finally, the younger one spoke.

"Friends?"

His voice wavered, as if he was not quite aware of actually speaking it, and that instead the sound was formed by a thought so powerful, it broke the border of reality and consciousness.

Philippe, not being an intellectual, took no notice of this. He simply nodded slowly, trying to get his point across to his difficult subject.

"Yes. Friends."

† † † †

Friends. It would be awhile before Erik knew the true meaning of the word.

He rarely saw the two other children. He was confined to his room – his own room, he dared to call it – and did not dare disobey Madame's strict orders. They were his sole companions, besides the faceless servants that came and brought him meals.

Philippe visited quite often, perhaps two to three times a day. Many times, they would simply sit, Philippe would stroke his hair, and Erik would cry. The crying, however, began to become much less frequent as his days at the de Chagny mansion pressed on, and Erik began to realize that he had been accepted into a very rich family.

For one, the meals! He, who had never indulged in food in his life, began to enjoy the exotic taste of various foods that were brought to him. True, he could eat no more than several bites at a time due to his weak stomach, but he picked through his platter and carefully selected his bites so that they would be the most flavourful.

Secondly, the materials he found himself immersed in were magnificent. From the clothes to the drapes to the bedsheets, everything Erik touched seemed as soft as a goose feather. Many an hour he sat there, pondering, stroking a bit of cloth lovingly.

Finally, there were the servants. Many times Erik had heard of servants, people hired to cater to one's every need, but he'd never actually seen one. He stared at them in wonder as they brought in food, clean clothes, and exited with his laundry. Had Monsieur and Madame le Conte really hired people to cater to him? For some reason, this thought made him quite uncomfortable. He convinced himself that they were servants to the entire household, which he was now apart of.

All this was incredibly new to Erik. The more he was immersed the lifestyle of wealth, he more he liked it. He didn't even mind being stuck in a single room.

It was a lonely day, a week and a half or so after he'd arrived at the de Chagny estate. Philippe hadn't come to visit yet, and Erik was getting bored of stroking the soft material of his clothes, which were a light green cotton long-sleeve shirt and a white pair of pants. Though he detested the bright colors, he was glad that he was given long-sleeve attire, instead of shorts and short-sleeve tops that he had often seen Philippe wear. True, it was summer, but Erik would rather not have his new friends see his grotesque physical features. A minor precaution so he wouldn't be turned out.

Just to be safe.

As Erik sat on his bed, gently petting the bottom of his shirt, he was suddenly aware of a strange presence in the room. He jerked his head up, and came face to face with a stranger man.

The man was a doctor. That could be assumed. He wore an odd white hat and a rather large stethoscope around his neck. Erik couldn't remember ever seeing a doctor before, but he immediately made the connection. Philippe stood with his arms crossed, standing protectively behind his younger friend.

"Erik," he whispered gently. The boy in question slowly peeled his eyes away from the strange doctor to turn to Philippe. "This man is a doctor."

"I figured that," replied Erik.

"He is here to help. You're going to need to take off your bag."

Erik felt a cry rising in his throat, but held it back. He would need all his energy.. all his energy to...

He made a wild leap from the bed, sprinting towards the door, but Philippe was quicker. Erik felt himself lifted back onto the bed, as he thrashed and kicked around. Despite Philippe being the one to thwart his plan, Erik curled up with his face buried in the man's chest.

"Don't make me take off my mask, Philippe. Don't make me do that! You wouldn't be friends with Erik anymore! Madame wouldn't be friends with Erik anymore! No one would like Erik!"

Philippe let out a sigh, used to Erik's self-hating outbursts. He motioned for the doctor to wait, who was still standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed, as he patted Erik's hair.

"We're friends. Do you know what friends do? They accept each other. I accept you, Erik. I've already seen your face when I bathed you the first night, remember? Don't worry about the doctor, he's seen far worse."

"Erik doubts it."

"I don't."

Erik pulled away, having started to shake. Out of fear, shyness, self-hatred, he didn't know. But slowly, Philippe pulled off his dirty cloth bag, and he let him.

The doctor could not help but gasp.

If the boy's pale, bony members were bad, then his face was an utter catastrophe. Erik had no nose. In its place was a large gaping hole that formed a sort of triangle. The flesh of his cheeks, chin, forehead, was all peeling and rotting away, a very uneven surface, complete with little holes and crevasses. The skin that was left clung tightly to his bones. And in the middle of it all were Erik's big black eyes.

In all, it was grotesque.

The doctor slowly inched his way over to the young boy and stared deeply at his face, trying to ignore the butterflies in his stomach and struggling to keep his professional appearance. He needed to examine his patient. One examination, and he would be out of here.

It didn't take long. The doctor looked at Erik's non-existent nose and his skin closely, but he didn't dare touch the child. No, never.

After several minutes, the doctor stood up straight and allowed Erik to replace his mask, having reached a verdict.

"Doctor, what's your diagnosis?" called Madame's peculiar voice as she entered the room.

The doctor coughed loudly, and turned to speak to the woman in a quiet, hushed voice, out of hearing reach of the others. "Well, Madame... He is severely malnourished. He refuses to eat any more than a few mouthfuls at a time, you say? His stomach is simply not used to eating more. If you follow my instructions..." He proceeded to explain how, besides having a monstrous birth defect, the boy had one of the worst cases of flesh-eating bacteria he had ever seen.

The doctor hastily parted, and Madame was left staring at the dirty cloth mask wondering what on earth laid behind it.

† † † †

That day, perhaps because he had been deemed healthy with no contagious ailments, Erik had a special visitor. Philippe had left him, as if it were any other day, stroking one of his pillows and staring out the window.

A little knock at the door jerked the boy back to reality. He frowned, staring. Philippe didn't usually knock, and Madame certainly didn't. Cautious as well as curious, he pushed himself off the bed and hid behind it, with one eye still peeking out from behind the mattress to observe the little figure that entered. Lucille, the youngest, Erik remembered, and stood up to meet her.

She was dressed in a too-large pair of jean overalls and a blue plaid shirt. Her blond hair was braided in two pigtails that stuck out awkwardly from either side of her head. She was smaller than Erik remembered, but the last time he'd seen her, she had been wearing a tight-fitting dress.

The little girl stood proudly, despite her short height. She glimpsed him, even from behind the bed, and frowned, letting out a "Hey!". Erik, seeing no other choice, crawled out into sight, making a mental note that she had a better eyesight than was expected of a five-year-old.

"Why were you hiding?"

Erik did not have an answer to her question, and almost did not hear it over his own questions in his mind. Why would she come here? What would a normal girl like her want to do with me?

"Are you mute? Mother says that mute people don't like to talk." Lucy skipped towards him and sat on the windowsill, continuing even before he could formulate an answer.

"My name's Lucy, I think I already told you that, it stands for Lucille, but I don't like Lucille, it's an awfully proper name, and I don't like that. I don't really like anything proper, you know, Mother says that it's bad for a little girl like me, but I don't like tea, I don't like milk – you know, I just usually eat the sugar cubes, I do really like sugar – I don't like dresses, I like wearing Philippe's overalls, I don't know why Mother says I shouldn't be wearing Philippe's overalls, he said he could wear them when he was my age, he's the one who taught me to climb trees, you know – I love climbing trees, I climb them every day, Mother says it's not proper, but I couldn't care, Mother's all talk and no – Are you listening?"

Erik was sitting on the ground with his head tilted to one side, not fully processing the extent of her ramblings, as his own questions were drowning out hers. Why did she come here? What would a normal girl like her want to do with me? A few seconds went by before he quickly nodded his head.

"Will you come climb trees with me, Monsieur ..?

"Erik. Just Erik."

"Well, Erik, will you come climb trees with me?"

"Really? Can I?"

"You might want to wear Philippe's overalls, Mother wouldn't like it if you dirtied her pretty white clothes." She handed him a pair of the jean outfit that she had previously draped over her arm.

Erik gingerly took the clothes and, without a second glance at Lucy, darted into the bathroom to change. For once, he was glad he was wearing his bag, for he was grinning like an idiot. Never had Erik expected to be friends with someone normal his own age! He was two years her senior, sure, but the closest friend to his age was Philippe.

He froze. Was Lucy his friend?

A knock on the bathroom door surprised him. Without waiting for an answer, Lucy opened the door, and peeked her head inside. Luckily, he was already changed. She stared at him for a few seconds before handing him a small piece of cloth and closing the door again.

Erik stared at the cloth, turning it over in his hands. His eyes narrowed as he saw two little holes in the material. It was the same silk cloth Philippe had tried to make him wear on his first day. He must have put Lucy up to it.

He didn't want to abandon his old, dirty rag. Him and that rag had been through thick and thin. His horrible mother had first bought it for him so she wouldn't have to look at her son's face. Rather, she hadn't bought the bag: the bag was that of a sack of potatoes. It was itchy and smelly and dirty. But it was the only thing Erik had ever known. Through those days in Boscherville, through those nights in the Romani camp, it had never left him.

Was he ready to give it up? The only object that he held dear?

Philippe was asking this of him. Lucy was asking this of him. Madame was asking this of him. They had already let him live in their home. Philippe had accepted him and even seen his face without retching.

They were helping him.

Erik took off his rag and held it in one hand, the silk bag in the other. He was still holding onto the past, though he was desperate to let go of it. In a matter of weeks, he had found himself in a position where he would no longer live in shame, in fear, in sadness. He had found hope.

Slowly, he dropped the rag onto the floor and raised the smooth silk over his head. With a newfound confidence and determination, Erik smiled, opening the door, shedding the layers of his past and stepping into the light.