A/N: My review replies just refuse to happen, so here you all go.

Vampiress Idrial : First off, I love your username! Secondly, yes, I don't always stick so closely to the Beauty and the Beast script, but I liked how the parts were organized and scripted, so I used it. And I did in fact do my research, I looked up the different movies and googled Erik's many different last names (Actually, there were only around three . . .) And I settled with Mulheim. And I am most impressed by your knowledge, I have saved your review to review later. =)

Heywhatup: Erik is masked, yes. His deformity was the curse bestowed on him by the enchantress.

Madame Giry: Thank you for your compliments, and I believe your only problem has been addressed above.

Enough rambling, I need to stop procrastinating and start writing. Here I go . . . to write . . . and I am NOT procrastinating at all . . .

Chapter Three, Impressions

Christine had expected worse. She had expected much, much worse, she thought, as the Phantom of the Opera stepped forward from the shadows and into the light. He glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable, his face wary. Half of his face, which was admittably attractive in a dramatic, refined way, was exposed, and the other half was covered up by a smooth and shining white mask that left a space for his eye. Part of his lip seemed to pull up slightly, but she convinced herself it was a trick of the light.

"Seen enough?" the Phantom chuckled darkly. Christine pursed her lips. "Do we have a deal or not?" Christine opened her mouth to reply-

"Christine, please, don't-"

"Enough from you!" the Phantom turned to face Gustave, his eyes spitting flames, and slammed his fist against the glass, so hard that for a moment Christine believed he had broken through the glass and hurt her father. She jumped back in fright.

Christine took a deep breath and closed her eyes, imagining the life she had hoped, wished, and prayed for. Singing for large audiences, and singing . . .

And singing here. What sick irony. She opened her eyes, her decision made.

She stood up, stepping closer to the Phantom, holding out her hand. He hesitated, before grasping her hand with his, his hands cold as ice. She flinched slightly, which he noticed, because his grip loosened.

"We have a deal." The Phantom's mouth curved into a ghost of a smile. Christine felt the fear welling up inside.

"Christine, no!" Gustave cried. The Phantom released her hand, and she collapsed on the ground, sobbing. The Phantom turned from her, to the mirror that held her father.

"Take him to the coach, and have him take this man to town," he said. Christine narrowed her eyes. Was this Phantom completely insane?

She had thought too soon, for right as the thought escaped her subconscious, the mirror stood up and walked down the stairs. Christine gasped audibly, drawing an amused smirk from the Phantom. She dashed forward to say goodbye to her father, but the Phantom caught her, holding her firmly in place. She struggled against his grasp, calling out to her father.

"Father!" she cried. "Let me go!" she screamed, hitting against the Phantom's arm as hard as she could, but his grip only tightened. She turned and slapped him across the face, and he did not flinch, though his eyes darkened.

"Christine, don't do this! Please, take me instead!" her father called from far below. She heard a loud crash and cry of pain, and then the sound of wheels fading into the dreary distance. Once again, she fell to the floor, sobbing.

"I-didn't . . . get . . . to-" she choked on her words, turning away when the Phantom knelt beside her. "-say goodbye . . ." She was overcome with grief, crying so hard her head pounded and her vision blurred. The Phantom let her go, standing back cautiously, opening his mouth, and closing it before finally speaking.

"Come, I'll take you to your room." Christine looked up in surprise, wiping away stray tears. Her breathing came in short, uneven gasps. The Phantom looked nervous, as if he didn't know how to deal with someone in pain. Christine trembled, half from grief and half from the chill of the attic.

"My room?" she questioned meekly, not understanding. The Phantom sighed, exasperated.

"Would you prefer the attic, Christine?" he asked, looking slightly amused. Finally comprehending, Christine shook her head like a child. Without saying a word, the Phantom removed his huge black cloak and draped it over her shoulders. Christine shuddered, breathing in the scent. It smelled of smoke and moisture.

"Thank you," she murmured, so softly she at first thought he hadn't heard her. But he had, as he turned and simply nodded at her. Christine took the advantage of walking behind him as they descended the stairs to study him more closely, wanting to get a better look at this, this monster who had separated her from her father and stolen her dreams. To think she had been free to live her life happily this very morning!

He walked with a strong yet labored stride, and his back had a slight hunch to it. His hair . . . was that a wig? She wished she could reach out and touch it, but she was afraid to. It would not be worth it.

What did he plan to do with her? Would he attempt to court her, or would he just make her prey in his lust for flesh, or worse, blood? She glanced at the walls of the hallway they were now passing through, examining the intricate design. A tear escaped, slowly making its way down her face before dripping to the floor. A voice murmured something, and she looked up. The candelabra was whispering to the Phantom. Too exhausted to be frightened or surprised, she just accepted the fact of the matter and let go of all thought.

She was lost in her grief and hopelessness when the Phantom turned suddenly to her. "I hope you find happiness here, Christine." She simply looked down at the floor, answer enough. The candelabra spoke again, and the Phantom followed suit. "The Opera is your home now, you may go anywhere you wish, except for my quarters."

"Where are they?" she asked softly.

"Underground," the Phantom replied, "You need not worry about stumbling upon them by mistake." The statement held a hint of menace, of warning. Christine chose not to reply. They began to ascend a flight of stairs, and Christine stumbled on the large black cloak, letting out a small scream. She began to fall backwards, half-hoping she would hit her head hard enough to make herself undesirable. But the Phantom reached out, catching her arm and pulling her upright with ease.

"Watch your step," he murmured in his voice of silk. Christine nodded breathlessly.

"Thank you," she said for the second time that night. Why was she thanking him so much tonight, when he had taken everything she loved away from her? What a confusing character he was, this Phantom of the Opera. He does small acts of kindness, acting like the perfect gentleman, and yet she was his captive, his prisoner. A spark of hope ignited that perhaps he would treat her decently.

They continued walking through a new hallway, and the Phantom stopped at a door, holding the candelabra over by the sign, which read: Stage Hands Only. "This leads to rafters, it was used for sets and such. Do not use this door, if you wish to enter the stage, go downstairs. I do not want you falling." Christine looked at him, curiosity written across her face. He held her gaze for a moment, his eyes guarded and cold, before turning and continuing their walk.

They finally passed a sign that read: Dormitories. The Phantom turned to her.

"You may choose any room you wish for tonight, tomorrow my workers will set to turning these rooms into a suite for your use. You may use any furniture you like around the Opera House. Just ask and my workers will take it up here." He paused, eying her. "You are hungry." Christine shook her head, but he didn't take notice. The candelabra whispered something to him. "Come downstairs for dinner in an hour. . . That is not a request!" And with a dramatic flourish, he disappeared into the dark shadows of the halls.

Christine dropped to the floor, crying once again.

Erik walked as fast as he could down the stairs, dropping Andre on an empty podium.

Christine was even more beautiful than he had ever imagined a woman to be, the most lovely creature he had ever seen. How could he possibly win her affections, after making her his prisoner? How could he get her to see beyond his mask?

He opened the door that led to his chambers, descending the stairs as swiftly as possible. It came to his attention that he had left his cloak with the girl. A chill racked through his body, and he welcomed the discomfort, after all, didn't he deserve it?

"Um, Master?" Erik turned angrily.

"What now, Andre?" he demanded. The candelabra hopped forward humbly.

"Master, I may be mistaken, but you might want to be a little . . . gentler with the girl." Erik swung around.

"What are you trying to say, Andre?" he asked, a hint of a growl ringing in his already menacing voice. Andre gulped.

"Master, she has lost much today. Maybe try to find something to make her happy, or-"

"Enough from you!" Erik yelled, "I wish to be alone." Andre hung his "head" in defeat and wobbled off, leaving Erik to his thoughts.

Christine sat on the bed silently, staring out of the small window into the streets of Paris. Was there a way she could climb out? Signal for help? She glanced around at the window, looking for a lock, but finding none. This Phantom must have removed everything. The rest of the Opera House must be like this as well.

Giving up, she collapsed back on the bed, sighing. Might as well get cozy. She glanced around the small room. Her bed was small, covered in old sheets still covered by a small layer of dust. There was a small desk and chair with a mirror near the door, it reminded her of a dressing room. Well, she was in an Opera, wasn't she?

She looked down at her dress. With a wry smile she realized she was still in her nightgown and red cloak.

Cloak.

She immediately threw the warmth that was the Phantom of the Opera's black cloak across the room and into the wall. It fell gracefully to the floor, pooling together in a corner. She stared fearfully at it. Would the Phantom use it as an excuse to come back? She shuddered at the very idea of having to look at this wretched person ever again.

A knock sounded at the door, and she froze in fear.

"Miss Christine?" It was not the Phantom's voice. She relaxed.

"Who is it?" she called.

"Madame Giry."

"And Meg!" Christine's eyebrows furrowed. Bt the voices were friendlier and . . . feminine.

"Come in," she replied softly. The door creaked open, and she jumped slightly as a mirror slid in, followed by a pair of soft pink ballet slippers. The mirror smiled at her.

"I am Madame Giry. It is a pleasure to meet you, Christine."

"Bonjour," Christine murmured with a smile. The ballet slippers jumped beside her on the bed.

"I am Meg Giry. Nice to meet you!" She smiled. "I think you and I will be very good friends, Christine." Christine managed to smile for the first time since she had arrived at that dreaded Opera House.

"Nice to meet you too," Christine said softly. She shook her head in wonder. "I can't believe this . . ." Madame Giry chuckled.

"It does seem out of this world, doesn't it?" Madame Giry asked, smiling. "I hope, my dear, you will not jump every time something moves that normally shouldn't. Everything here is alive." Christine jumped off of the bed, and Meg laughed.

"Nothing here is, Christine."

"Oh," Christine blushed, sitting back down. She sighed, looking back out the window,

"Christine, the reason I came here . . . I think you shouldn't be afraid of the Master. He doesn't like it when others fear him." Christine turned to face Madame Giry angrily.

"Well then he shouldn't frighten me so!" Madame Giry sighed.

"I know, I never said he was without flaws, I just hope you will look past the facade he puts up and see who he is on the inside."

"Who is he on the inside?"

"That, young one, is for you to find out. Will you be coming down to dinner?" Christine didn't even have to contemplate on her answer, for her mind was already made up, in fact, it had been made up ever since she had been left to choose a room.

"No." Madame Giry tensed.

"Miss Daaé, the Master is not a patient man, he doesn't take well to being blatantly disobeyed-"

"I don't care." Tears welled up in Christine's eyes. "He took away my life. I would never share a meal with that . . . that monster!" Madame Giry stiffened.

"Please, do not call him that. If you get to know him, you will find he is intelligent, kind, and caring. Please, give him a chance, he deserves so much more than what life has given him."

"I don't want to see him, please, forgive me, but would you leave me alone? This is too much for one day. I need time to think . . . alone. I can't even think of eating right now."

That was a complete and total lie. She was shaking from hunger, having not eaten since lunch the day before. Madame Giry could see right through her weak facade, and just smirked at her as she left the room. Meg bounded into her lap, looking her square in the eyes, looking completely and utterly serious.

"For what it's worth, Christine, I agree with my mother on this one."

So . . . thoughts? Review! I apologize that not every chapter can be over 3000 words, but I was pressed for time and I didn't want to begin rambling.