February 1882

Erik awoke to a sharp ache in his lower back that morning, the result of spending too long hunched over his desk and scribbling notes like a mad man. He wasn't entirely sure of the exact period he'd spent here but he'd estimate that he'd left Paris with the Giry's at least three months ago and New Year had past, marked merely by the absence of his female companions from the somewhat drab place they all called home –an isolated building, apparently planned that way for his state, but only a short cab ride from England's great capital, London, the place which had been their destination all along.

Blinking sleep from his weary eyes, Erik pushed himself out of his chair and heard a crack of protest from his back again. Ignoring this, he wandered over to where a bathroom adjoined to his bedroom and found himself in front of the mirror. He slowly peeled back the mask, knowing that sleeping with the item on did more damage than good, and was met with the twisted flesh which he had become accustomed to. He had obviously been lucky that night for the only damage were a couple of raw spots on the surface – on his forehead and above his bloated lips. He opened a small cabinet lined with viles and ran his fingers over the labels before plucking the largest bottle off its shelf. Erik tipped some of the liquid content of the bottle onto a clean cloth and gently dabbed at the sore patches on his face, trying to ignore the stinging it brought – that just showed it was working. Finishing this off and then rinsing off the fluid, he placed the mask back over his deformity and went about changing into something more suitable than the clothing from the previous day. There was a knock at the door just as he'd pulled a fresh shirt over his torso; he gave a shout to allow whichever Giry was waiting outside the chamber entry.

"Monsieur?" The curtain of blonde ringlets that peered round the door still shook slightly, keeping Erik quite aware of Meg Giry's fear towards him. "M... mother wished for you to c-come talk with her in the... the parlour, when you're ready of course..." Her voice was so soft it was hard to catch the words but his ears were well attuned to eavesdropping and so this caused him no bother.

"May I inquire, Miss Giry, as to why this is?" He spoke the words with a slight acidic tone to his voice, wanting to maintain some of the power he felt when people feared him – he had missed this aspect of life as a ghost.

"I'm afraid I-I don't know, Monsieur," Erik noticed her eyes remained fixed to the floor, as though the girl had some great interest in the floorboards of the house.

"Very well," He turned to sort the papers scattered across the floor surrounding his desk before realising Meg hadn't left. "Did you not understand, girl? Go!" He did not raise his voice, there was no need to. The demanding tone caused her to flee just as quickly as if he'd gone into a rage.

Rolling his eyes at the child's foolishness, he shuffled the papers up together and spread them on the desk to be finished later then strode out the door, ensuring he locked the place beforehand. His footsteps echoed in the vast corridor as he headed toward the grand staircase - this house had a sense of grandeur which had been lost to time, as though it had been built for great things which were never fulfilled. Finally reaching the door to the parlour, he marched in without so much as a knock and stood before the stern-faced ballet mistress whom he was all too familiar with.

"Erik," She spoke, raising a hand as he opened his mouth to protest the name. "I hope you have slept well?" The man simply shrugged his bony shoulders and mumbled something. "Do sit down, you make me uneasy when you stand around like you're about to leave." She ignored his sigh of annoyance as he perched on the edge of the chair opposite her; "So how have you found life here, at the house?"

"Can you expect to enjoy life shut away in a room, madam?" He spoke ironically so often – why was a straight answer so difficult to come by with Erik?

"Yes, well that's rather why I wished to talk to you..." She paused, watching the man's eyes scan the room as he took in each detail – typical behaviour of her old friend. "I wondered whether you had considered some sort of occupation?" She sighed as he gave her a blank look: "A job, Erik"

"Give me some credit; I am quite aware of what you implied..." He paused as the signs of a smirk crossed his face. "And what job do you suggest a phantom should take?"

"Your talents open a wide range of possibilities, monsieur. I'm sure you will work something out," It was her turn to smirk now as he snorted in annoyance. As she stood and set to leave the room she spoke a few last words: "I hear French architecture is quite the 'thing' in London."

As her footsteps faded out as she crossed the hall leaving Erik alone with his thoughts, most of which were clouded by annoyance. So this was how Giry would get him out of her way, with a job? It wouldn't be for income for he knew the ballet mistress had got herself and her daughter work at a London theatre, not as large a company as the Opera Populaire, but apparently popular nonetheless. Rational thought finally brought him back to the truth of the matter; Giry was simply trying to help occupy his mind. What was it she had said before her exit? 'French architecture is quite the 'thing'?

This thought floating through his mind, Erik swept back through the corridors and up the staircase before swiftly unlocking his door and hurrying over to take his seat back at his desk. A blank sheet spread in front of him and fresh graphite in his hand, he let his imagination run free in the hopes of producing anything that might 'wow' the simple minds of most average citizen. It took Erik no more than an hour before he lifted the sheet to the light and smiled at the finished piece – it was a perfect example of just what wonders he was able to produce when prompted. Now it was merely a matter of finding the right employer...

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Another early morning, Christine thought wearily, as she found herself rushing for the bathroom the third morning that week for the all-to common sickness that she'd found herself plagued with. She was in her third month of pregnancy, yet already she was yearning for the end of it – no good had come of this realisation.

It had been around three weeks after their wedding when Christine first felt unwell in the mornings and despite her protests, Raoul had insisted on calling out a doctor. When she'd first heard the news, she'd been thrilled like any mother-to-be – but then a matter of timings had brought an end to this:

"Three weeks along..."

That was the phrase which echoed through her mind through a majority of the day, her last thought when she went to sleep, her first when she awoke. As bad as it may have seemed to most, her and Raoul had failed to consummate their marriage for over a week after their actual wedding day – not that she realised at the time. They'd just been busy with all the social events and such that came with being married to the Viscount de Chagny – the relationship had taken a back seat even then. So originally, when told she was three weeks pregnant, Christine had failed to see how this could be possible...

...Then she remembered that night.

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"Christine shouldn't be doing this to a half-faced beast..."

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She sighed – her angel hadn't realised how right he'd been. The fact that it was the night with him which had created such a situation had been all too much for Christine that day, finding herself sobbing uncontrollably into her hands before feeling a warm arm wrap around her back; Raoul. That had only made the crying worse, but the doctor had tactfully left the dates between Christine and himself; in other words, Raoul was none the wiser that the child was not his. He had simply thought her reaction due to shock and had tried to console her with the thoughts of a few months on from then when she would cradle their child in their arms.

She padded back from the bathroom in her gown, feet bare, and smiled as she passed Raoul's new project, the nursery (in progress). She leant against the doorway as she glanced at the pale blue walls and the white painted crib that was set in the centre of the room, a small mobile with farm animals dangling over it. Raoul had gone and bought both cradle and mobile the very day they'd found out about the child in a further attempt to cheer her up, only succeeding in adding to her guilt though she hid this with her exterior expressions. He'd stopped his paper work the remainder of that week to paint the room himself.

She moved away from the room and shuffled further down the corridor to the master suite. She slowly cracked the door open and found the room was still in complete darkness, Raoul still dead to the world and unaware she'd vacated the spot beside him. She smiled and suppressed a laugh as he mumbled her name into his pillow, deciding against returning to the bed herself when it was already dawn. Instead she pulled the door closed behind her and crept through the house to the place she always went – the library.

The floorboards felt cold under her feet and the room was lit only by the gray dawn light that slipped through the dusty window panes. She settled herself by the piano, gently pressing some of the keys as her mind wandered – what was the Phantom doing now? What would he have done had he known what they'd created that night? She hardly noticed herself playing the beginning bars to the soft lullaby he once sang to her as a young girl unable to sleep. She was stirred only when the door to the room creaked open about ten minutes later than when she'd entered, revealing a very sleepy-eyed Raoul carrying two cups of tea. He smiled as he noticed her at the old instrument.

"Always with your music, my Little Lotte," He set both cups on the top of the piano briefly as he dragged a small side table and a chair over to her side, moving the beverages onto here instead. He slowly sipped the darker of the two brews before nodding encouragingly; "Don't stop on my account."

She hesitantly began to play the same soft tune as she had been, the guilty pit at the bottom of her stomach gnawing at her as she thought the man who'd taught this to her. The father of this child...

As she finished the final bar, Raoul gave a gently round of applause with a grin on his face; "Is there no ends to the talents of the Daae's?" He came round behind her, softly kissing the top of her head in the midst of her curls. "No doubt our child will be just as much of a wonder." Christine swallowed hard as she tried to rid herself of the hard lump forming in her throat. The way Raoul spoke of this child, such fondness and love in his voice – what would he do if he knew the truth?

"We can only hope, my dear," She stood, lightly stroking his arm before reaching for her white tea and leaning on the window ledge whilst sipping it. Raoul was soon behind her, wrapping his arms round her hips and resting his palms on her already slightly rounded abdomen. She twitched slightly at the odd sensation, but nonetheless leant back smiling and lightly kissing his cheek; "You are too good to me Raoul." He had no idea how much so...

He simply smiled, the lopsided grin that seemed to turn Christine's knees to jelly, and stated; "Only for you, Christine," He brushed his lips gently against her's before pulling away and carrying his empty cup in the direction of the door. "I shall leave you to go dress then, see you down at breakfast." He gave her one last smile before his head disappeared and he was down the corridor.

As soon as he was gone, Christine found herself slumping down onto the piano bench as her forehead slightly dampened. How had she ended up with such a man? One who comforted her in her moments of weakness, brought her such joy with something as simple as a kiss, and was doing anything he could to ease her mind at the thought of a child...

A child he thought was his. She shook her head in her hands as she breathed deeply. He couldn't know, he wouldn't need to – he could stay on top of the world just as he was now, he would feel the pride of being a father just like a husband would. She wouldn't let herself be the source of such pain upon a man she loved like this.

She pulled herself up and then hurried back in the direction of her bedroom, calming herself as she went. It didn't matter who the child's biological father was in reality, Raoul would be the real father and she'd make sure of that...

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Hope this isn't as cringe-y as I felt it was while writing it. I kept to my word about no Coney Island stuff! All new ideas are hopefully what you'll find in this story ;) Hope you're liking it and please review!