A/N: Here we are, another chapter. Nothing really to say apart from this one, but can we try to have five reviews at least for this chapter, please? And a big thank-you to those of you who already review each chapter, you know who you are.

Monsieur Firmin opened his eyes slowly, and found himself looking at the all too familiar beige carpet that graced his bedroom. He gave a small start and attempted to sit, cradling his throbbing head in his hands as he tried in vain to recall the events of the night before. He could not, so, with the ticking of the antique clock reverberating a little too loud in his ears, the manager hauled himself upright, one hand on the mahogany table and the other on the side of the bed as he found his balance.

Glaring at the clock, he was shocked to notice the hour. Eleven o' clock. Not quite believing how late it was and quite certain that his clock had some dreadful fault in it, the manager glanced out of the window, only to see the sun shining almost directly above the city.

The man let out a small groan and plodded into the kitchen to get a cup of water. He downed it in one go, massaging his temples as he sank down in a chair. It creaked and for a moment he was sure it would collapse, but thankfully it stayed standing.

"There are-matters to attend to- at work," the man muttered to his reflection in the slightly cracked mirror that hung on the wall, "I-must leave." He stood and stumbled back to his room to change.

Appearing ten minutes later in his normal attire, his waistcoat buttoned unevenly and his tie half tied, the manager hailed a carriage and set off for the Opera Populaire, where all was strangely silent...

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The Paris streets were crowded as a certain short, grey haired man trudged towards the opera house. He moved slowly, rubbing his head now and then as if in pain. The bright morning sun glinting off the drying cobbles only added to the dull ache in the head of none other than Gilles Andre, the other half of the management at the Opera Populaire.

Making his way up the steps to the foyer, Andre surveyed the posters with pride. Last night had been a great success! It was, he decided, a pity that he remembered little of the celebrations. Still, that could be remedied, could it not? There was always someone who remembered every detail of the night and wished to discuss it at great length with anyone who would listen for long enough.

Inside, the opera house was very quiet; no diva was throwing tantrums on stage, no music played and no one was shouting. How very strange! The manager trudged up through the corridor to the stage and popped his head around the door.

"Ah! Maestro!" he exclaimed as he saw the thin old man pacing anxiously in the orchestra pit, "Where is our diva?"

Monsieur Reyer simply let out a small "Oh!" of despair and resumed his pacing.

"Monsieur Firmin said she could take the next two weeks off Monsieur, last night. You do remember?" he questioned, gazing seriously at the shocked man.

It was Andre's turn to be appalled. "You fool Firmin, you fool!" Andre rested his head in his palm, sighing. This was not going to be a good day.

"What did I do?" Monsieur Firmin wondered, as he entered the building through the same door which his business partner had only a few minutes before, catching only the last few words of the conversation. Andre turned on him.

"You gave La Carlotta two weeks holiday! How are we supposed to perform when we have no diva?"

"Ah," he replied simply. The manager looked rather speechless, his brow furrowed as he struggled to think of an adequate response, "I feel as I though I may have made a small error of judgement."

"Small? This is an outrage! An opera house with no opera!" piped up Reyer, his hands flailing madly as he became more and more frustrated with his bosses, before he collapsed into a nearby chair.

Not a word was spoken as the three men looked around the room, clueless as to what they were supposed to do in the current situation. An opera couldn't take place without the lead roles and, as there was no Carlotta or Piangi, there could be no opera. This made it rather pointless rehearsing any other scenes with the rest of the cast.

"Ahem," Andre coughed, drawing attention to himself, "I have a proposal. Could we maybe announce to the rest of the cast that this was a planned affair, after the triumph of last night's opera? It was such a success I am sure they would believe it…"

"What a splendid idea!" cheered the other manager, smiling happily, "We shall alert them all at once," he stood hastily and strode out of the room, ignoring the other two men as they tried in vain to call him back.

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The ballet mistress carefully picked her way down to the cellars, thoughts whirling with the anticipation of the confrontation which was bound to follow her nervous descent into the catacombs. After Don Juan Triumphant she had taken the path she now took, ever downwards into despair, but the house on the lake had lain empty before her eyes. So now she was here again, battling with herself as she paused inside the hidden passage, leaning gingerly on the wall before moving lightly on across the rough stone.

A torch was lit further along the corridor, stuck into a hole in the wall. It cast an eerie glow across the worn brickwork, stories playing out in shadows on the damp walls. The air was moister here, and the walkway was narrower, so that now, one could only just walk without touching the rotting panelling that signified the lack of use of the tunnel. No stage hand had walked here, no diva had wandered this far. This was part of the opera that had never (and would never) be seen by the public; never would they encroach on the hidden wonders, the architecture, the paintings, the statues. All these treasures belonged to Erik, as sure as he belonged to them, but none of them, not even one, could buy him what he wanted. No, some things riches couldn't buy.

Madame Giry traipsed along these secluded tunnels, each footstep bringing her closer to the lake as she debated what she should say. He would be angry, of that there was no doubt.

"What to do? What to say?" she murmured to herself, too intent upon her predicament, if it could be called such, to hear the padding of feet behind her, the swish of a skirt as it brushed against a stray stone. These noises went unheard as the ballet mistress took a last turn and entered the great vaults at last.

Almost as if on cue, the Persian music box began to play its hollow melody from its position on a nearby chair, the cymbals knocking against each other with a dull ringing sound. It was a song Madame Giry knew well; she could almost imagine the tapping of feet and a hundred voices singing out in chorus. But no, all was silent as the soft tune faded away. It was almost soothing, the last echoes mingling with the water lapping on the landing stage where the boat was still moored.

The portcullis was up and water dripped from the rusty iron where tangled weed wound its way around the spikes, snaking upwards as if striving to see the light of day. No light would be seen here though, this was a place of darkness, of hopes that might have been but could never be realised. The hopes of a man who now came striding from the bedroom, clothes muddied and rumpled but mask firmly in place, although no mask could cover his apparent rage.

His eyes were burning with hatred, anger, betrayal. The ballet mistress had seen this look before, but never before had it been directed so intently at her.

"Erik, please let me explain. Let me assure you there was a very good reason for…" she swallowed, attempting to find the right words to say what she needed to, "for what I did to you."

"I am sure of it," a bitter smile was twisted onto the phantom's face as he made his way toward the trembling woman below. The ballet mistress took a discrete step backwards, rather too aware of the water behind her.

"Erik..." she protested, trying to sound confident as she pulled herself up to her full height.

"Madame," the taller man interrupted with mock courtesy.

"Erik!" Madame Giry's voice rose and Erik's eyes seemed to darken with each step he took, daggers flying, challenging her. But the ballet mistress had never been one to be daunted by challenge and, her logical mind reasoned, he had never physically hurt her before, so why would he now? Albeit something such as this had never happened before, but forcing herself to face her fear she stepped closer to the phantom, who had by then drawn himself up to his full height in an attempt to seem even more intimidating. She waggled an agitated finger at him and spoke rather crossly, "Listen to me this instant, Erik! You may or may not be aware of this, but long before you even came close to even thinking about the performance of that opera, I made a promise to Miss Daae that there would be no trouble during her performance. It is quite obvious to me that had you attended then there would have been trouble. Had you even considered this as a possibility?"

Erik glared down at her.

"Promises," he muttered rather disgustedly, "Since when have promises been kept in this, this place!" A flicker of anguish showed on his face but he suppressed it with his anger, turning to return to whichever room or passage he had come from and get away from the woman as quickly as possible.

Madame Giry grabbed his arm before he could disappear, and the man spun back round to face her. Satisfied that she had regained the phantom's attention, his rather angered acquaintance continued her ranting.

"I try to keep my promises. I'm sure you know that by now. I care for the girl, I think of her as a daughter," she held up her hand to stop him interrupting, "Yes, I know you care for her, but I did as she wished…"

The Phantom cut her off, his voice rising, "What about this hideous beast? I thought you had said you would care for this!"

"You are being unreasonable!" The flustered voice of the middle aged woman barely reached Erik's ears as he stalked away to the organ.

He was halfway there before a movement in the shadows caught his eye.

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Meg's heart froze as she saw icy eyes turn in her direction. She held her breath as the man stared directly at her, his fierce gaze pinning her to the spot. Behind him, her mother watched them with a slightly quizzical look. At least she hadn't seen her daughter hiding like a thief in the darkness by the passage. Meg prayed that the man would keep walking and ignore her, so that she could slip back up the tunnel without her mother finding out. But today, it seemed, she had no such luck.

"We have a visitor, it seems," the Phantom span round with a swish of his cloak, "I presume she is here to see you, not me!" The man's voice rang out loud over the lake, echoing off the stone walls, a thousand replies to a lonely man. "It appears your daughter has followed in your footsteps, quite literally…"

Madame Giry's head snapped up at his words and turned to face her child.

"Meg Giry, come out here this instant!" she yelled, following Erik's gaze, her bad mood only adding to her furious reaction.

Meg took a slow step forward into the light, looking sheepishly up at her mother, her ballet shoes soundless as she tiptoed across the rough stone.

"I was…," she started nervously, before having her mother cut her off before she even had a chance to explain herself.

"Come here now. We are going back up. You are not to speak of what you heard or saw here. Erik, think about what I have said," with that, Madame Giry towed her daughter firmly by the arm into the passage, leaving Erik staring after them.

As Meg looked back, she caught his eye and he seemed to soften slightly, looking at her sadly as if apologising. He'd just found out what it was like to be on the receiving end of one of her mother's rants.

Sighing, he threw himself down on the organ bench, grimaced at the sudden movement, and began to lose himself in his music.