A/N - sorry for the long delay. I have rewritten this chapter so many times that I don't think I'll ever be happy with it. I have also written it in third person, but I think it fits better like this. Also, it is quite long.

Chapter One:

Meg Price née Giry

During my time as a member of the corps du ballet I had always enthusiastically discussed the mysterious Phantom of the Opera. I would gleefully retell the fictional stories of his escapades entwined with my own embellishments to frighten some of the more fragile members of the corps, gaining a strange sense of satisfaction from their exagerrated squeels and panicked flurries. That's why I always announced his presence when anything unexpected or unfortunate occurred. I didn't know if he was behind mischief like taking ribbons and hiding shoes, or even the perversity of damaging props and destroying scenery, but it certainly led for a more exciting environment and broke up the monotony of ballet practice.

It wasn't that I didn't enjoy or value ballet practice, I understood the importance of rigorous training as I had seen many talented dancer's careers end due to sloppy technique and injuries. In fact, my own mother's career had ended following an incorrect landing that damaged her knee, resigning her to the position of ballet mistress.

That was my problem: my mother was the ballet mistress. This automatically meant people assumed one of two things: either I was a naturally talented dancer who would quickly rise through the ranks of the corps to the position of prima ballerina, or I was a sub-par to average dancer who would quickly rise through the ranks of the corps to prima ballerina due to nepotism. Either way, any advancement would never be seen as the result of hard work and dedication on my part, but instead the result of my lineage. This was the same reason that I had no friends within the company and why I spent most of my childhood surrounded by adults rather than my peers, absorbing their stories and learning about the different roles within the Opera House.

What other members of the corps du ballet didn't realise was that I trained longer and harder than anyone else. I may have been dancing since I was three, but I wasn't naturally gifted and every move and position required extended hours to master. I would often to stay late to practise alone, always mindful that I needed to leave before the lamplighters undertook their duties. Mother and I didn't live far from the Garnier - it was only a ten minute walk - but navigating the streets of Paris at night was highly unappealing. I knew that there were bug-hunters, thieves and rapists looking for victims, and an unescorted woman was easy pray. I had always been cautious, but had become more so after news of of 'spring-heeled Jack' made its way across la Manche. It wasn't that I believed the murderer would have made his way to Paris, nor did I meet the appearance or status of his victims, but I did worry some mad-man may have taken it upon himself to follow suit. I became more nervous once I read the descriptions of the assailant; the way he was dressed being characteristic of opera-goers, and although in England performers held higher status than prostitutes in France they did not.

The night I met Christine Daae I had been practising my transitions into a fouetté from a sauter and had lost track of time. Fouettés are notoriously difficult to master and although I was able to do them, the strength needed to continually propel myself while remaining en pointe was not something that can be done with ease. I had eventually ended my practise when I started to feel the warm and sticky sensation of blood in one of my ballet slippers. The moment I realised my binding had not been sufficient to protect my toes I immediately collapsed to the floor and inspected my shoe. Relieved that there were no signs of blood I hurriedly untied my ribbons to inspect my damaged toes.

Having been a dancer my entire life I knew that pointe work damaged the feet, and that was why it was essential to bind your feet toroughly and stuff the tip of the slippers to prevent you from breaking your toes. As I unwound the linen banding I inspected my white shrivelled skin for tears and blisters, and was relieved to have found none. It was when I removed the stuffing from my shoe I found the cause of my problem - I had torn a nail and my feet were swollen. Even then I knew the best remedy for swelling was to rest and elevate my feet, so I moved one of the chairs from the far corner of the room and lay on my back resting my feet above me. I had only intended to remain in that position for five or ten minutes, but exhausted from the strenuous practise I drifted off to sleep.

I hadn't been disturbed from my slumber naturally; I had been shaken. When I opened my eyes I was greeted with the face of a women whose face was half cast in shadows, yet still held the ethereal beauty of one of Michael Angelo's odes to classical deities and mythology.

"Here let me help", she said extending her hand to help me rise, "are you okay? Did you mean to sleep on the floor or did you fall?"

I was certain my blush of embarrassment was so deep that it was visible in the dull light of her candle,

"I'm fine" I muttered as I collected my shoes. Then suddenly it dawned on me: she had a candle and the room was dark. Upon this realisation I went into a blind panic and emptied the contents of my purse onto the polished wooden floor allowing the sound of its contents to echo around the empty room. Upon realising that I did not have enough coins to pay for a cab I sat back on my knees and started to cry.

"Here", the girl said as she pulled the exact amount of money I required from a pocket in her robe. I had briefly wondered why she was wandering around the opera house in her nightdress and robe, but the thought had flickered away and been extinguished by my own concerns.

"Thank you, but I can't take your money", I told her, genuinely touched by the gesture of someone I didn't know, "but you are an angel for offering".

In response she had insisted and enclosed her hand around mine. "It is a gift from 'the Angel'", she said without breaking eye contact. At the time I assumed she was making a bad joke in reference to my previous comment, but now I know differently. Now I know she wasn't referring to herself.

--xxx--

Although I often refer to that night as our first meeting, that isn't technically true. My mother had introduced Christine to the corps a few weeks beforehand, but we had never spoken. I remember hearing some of the other girls comment about her naturally curly hair, while others spoke with distate due to her beauty, but that didn't stop them from inviting her to join in their rendezvous with the stagehands or their late night games in the dorms.

After the night in the practice room Christine and I became firm friends, and she would always join me for my extra practise sessions. We shared our secrets and our dreams; she wanted to be a prima donna and I a prima ballerina, she was in love with a boy she saw every summer at Perros, and I told her about the former stagehand I had once kissed to reclaim my stollen ballet slippers.

Each member of the corps du ballet had Tuesday afternoon free and most of the girls would spend it gossiping or running errands (some would even be taken in carriage rides by some of the patrons) but I had never participated. Instead I would sit and listen to the orchestra reherse. At first my visits had been to pay homage to my father who had played both the cornet and baccin in the Garnier's orchestra, but as time passed I found music as enticing as dance, drawn by its ability to elevate you to the heavens and then plunge you to hell within the same piece.

One Tuesday afternoon Christine had asked me to accompany her to the market so that she could purchase some fresh lavender. Personally I have never been found of the smell, but Christine adored it.

"It isn't that I don't want to spend time with you", I reassured her after I declined the invitation, "it's just every Tuesday afternoon I sit in the auditorium and listen to the orchestra"

Once I had explained that my father had been a member of the orchestra before his passing, and how my love for music had thrived since listening to the rehesals, she was eager to join me every Tuesday. It only took two Tuesday afternoons for some of the younger members of the orchestra to notice that Christine had started to join me, and as a consequence they began to pay us attention. I wasn't foolish, I knew they only spoke to me as I accompanied Christine but it was nice to be seen as something other than 'Madam Giry's daughter', even if it was just as 'Christine's friend'. There was only one person who made a conscious effort to speak to me, and that was Edward Price - the third violinist.

Over the course of a couple of years Christine became increasingly distant and would shy away from any admirers. I acknowledge that during that period I probably wasn't the most attentative friend, and that I should have been aware of the changes in my friend's demeanour and personality, but I had become preoccupied with my beau; the same way Christine did only a few months later.

When Christine had decided she no longer wished to accompany me to listen to the orchestra I was secretly overjoyed. I througherly enjoyed her company, but I wanted an opportunity to spend time alone with the English third violinist, Edward Price. He was shorter than most men, which I know some women find unappealing, but he is the kindest and most compassionate man I have ever met. I adore how his icy blue eyes contrast against his dark brown hair, and how he speaks with the most appalling artifical French accent I have ever heard. But all said and done, he is an incredible violinist. He was only twenty years old when he had been offered a position in the Garnier's orchestra.

Once Christine stopped attending practise Edward and I began courting; we would spend the evening to the rooftop to steal kisses, hold hands and gaze across the city

We had been secretly courting for a year when Edward received a letter from his sister informing him that their mother was ill and requested he returned home. I cried into my blankets the day he resigned from the Populaire, and I was most hysterical the last time he embraced me upon the roof. My entire body was shaking as I tried to take deep breathes in-between my sobs, clutching his jacket tightly dreading letting go.

"Shhh my love", he cooed as he held me and stroked my hair. He pulled my close so that I could hear the sound of his heart and feel the warmth of his touch. We stood in the embrace for several minutes before he broke contact to propose. I cried harder when he had presented me with a gold band with three emeralds on its shoulders - I desperately wanted to be his wife, but I knew mother would not allow me marry at seventeen. Edward told me he understood and promised he would write. We both pledged that we would remain true to one another, but I think we both believed we would never see each other again.

When I returned home that evening my mother had been furious. Somehow she had learnt of my relationship with Edward and his proposal, and she was angry that we had been courting without her permission. We had a blazing row where she told me I was a liar, disrespectful and ungrateful, and refused to believe that I remained pure. When I demanded she tell me who had told her of my relationship with Edward she had deflected the question and continued to berate me for my unladylike behavior until I retreated to the sanctuary of my room and locked the door. As I lay in my bed I couldn't figure out who, other than Christine, had know of my relationship with Edward, and who could have known he had proposed when we had been alone on the roof.

--xxx--

After Edward left I became more aware of Christine's strange behaviour. Her singing had improved expentionally, and when a piece of set scenery fell and narrowly missed our prima donna (Carlotta Giudicelli), Christine seamlessly stepped into the role. It had been the night after her debut in Hannibal that suddenly everything fell into place.

Christine had been sublime, but the corps performance had been a "lamentable mess". There were many young men who visited the opera only to see the ballet, so it was paramount that our performance be perfect. I had known that mother would be on the warpath following our abysmal performance, and that I would need to hurry if I was to congratulate Christine before she was surrounded with admirers.

"You were perfect", I gushed once I entered her room, embracing her tightly, "who is your new tutor?".

Christine became agitated following my question and began speaking about her father and an angel of music. She had always been somewhat whimsical and religious, but I was genuinely surprised that she believed that she was being tutored by an angel. I tried to reassure her that such things were in her imagination, but mother interuppted and sent me away.

Things escalated quickly after that night. Christine had been taken to the Opera Ghost's home and it transpired that he had been her tutor, and that the series of unfortunate events that befell Carlotta had been orchestrated by him. I approached my mother and asked her how I could help my friend, after all, she was always telling the head flyman Joseph Buquet that the Opera Ghost was dangerous, but she just reassured me that Christine would be fine. It had been then that I had become suspicious of my mother's involvement with the Ghost. It was well known that she was his intermediary and box keeper, but her calm and assured demeanour told me that she knew much more about the ghost than she had ever shared with me.

Christine told me of the Phantom's home and how he had sung to her in the most mesmerising and hypnotic voice. She spoke with a level of admiration I had never witnessed, and even when she described his deformed features she spoke calmly and with a surprising level of indifference.

After Carlotta's return Christine was renagated back to the chorus, much to the Phantom's dismay. My friend was assigned the silent role of the mute in Il Muto - which I personally think was not only an act of spite, but also one of monumental stupidity. Needless-to-say the Phantom was not impressed, and to show is displeasure he cut the ropes that secured the chandelier and sent it crashing into the stage.

After that incident the Phantom ceased his haunting for several months, enabling Christine and her childhood sweetheart from Perros to begin courting. It was clear to any observer that the pair were deeply in love, and although their social statuses varied dramatically they were clearly happy. That was until the night of the New Year's masquerade when the Phantom reappeared and demanded that the company perform his opera.

By this point Christine had pulled away from me, much preferring to spend her time with her fiancé Raoul de Chagny. I understood, Raoul was a Vicomte and had the wealth and power to protect her from her former Angel and tutor, and I had slighted her in favour of spending time with Edward. I didn't know the details of their conversations as Christine has never shared them, but I do know that she never wanted to partake in Raoul's plan to capture the Phantom and she was genuinely scared that the Ghost would imprison her for her betrayal.

"How have you betrayed him?", I'd asked out of curiosity on one of the rare afternoons we had taken tea together. It was a strange choice of words that implied she and the ghost shared a level of trust, something I found very peculiar.

"He taught me to sing", she said averting her eyes and shifting her body away from me so that she wouldn't have to meet my gaze, "and I am engaged to Raoul".

It took my a few moments to register what she had said and its implications. I couldn't hide my shock when I relaised: the Phantom of the Opera was in love with Christine.

--xxx--

People do crazy things when they are in love, and the Phantom of the Opera was no exception.

The night of the premiere of his Opera, Don Juan Triumphant, he replaced our principal tenor, Piangi, on stage and sung a duet with Christine. I didn't know much about him, but I knew from the quality of his opera that he was a highly intelligent person, so he must've known he was walking straight into Raoul's poorly throughout and executed trap.

As they reached the climax of the song, which was certainly the most morally questionable piece I had ever heard, Christine unmasked him on stage. My heart was in my throat when I saw the genuine look of terror and hurt on his face, and my heart broke a little when I heard him ask "why Christine? why?". But any compassion I felt for him soon ended when he grabbed my friend and absconded with her through a trapdoor into the darkness.

In the commotion that followed O had managed to sneak away and avoid the armed guards and police officers who had now decended into the opera house and were questioning the cast and crew. As a short and fairly inconsequential member of the ballet chorus I had managed to avoid their bumbling inquisition and began my search for mother. When I found her my suspicions about her knowledge and relationship with the Opera Ghost had been confirmed, as she had instructed Raoul how to find the ghost's home. I had offered to accompany him, eager to ensure my friend's safety and also participate in something worthwhile an valuable, but both my mother and the Vicomte had objected.

--xxx--

Although my mother had forbidden me to do so, I had travelled with the mob through the bowels of the opera house. torches and chanting driving on the collective aggression towards a man most of them had never encountered. I didn't recognise the majority of people who surrounded me, and I was certain thay most weren't even opera goers. Beyond Christine's love sick fiancé it is almost laughable to think of members of the aristocracy traipsing through the cellars and muddy waters, let alone wade and partially swim through the underground lake.

I recalled Christine's description of the Opera Ghosts home and while the mob turned over tables and chairs I quickly headed in the opposite direction until O came to a closed oak door. Nervously I pushed it open, not sure what I would do if I was confronted with the sight of the Phantom and Christine. But the room was empty bar the most magnificent organ I had ever seen (and to this day I cannot fathom how he managed to get it down below) and a throne. There was a literal throne , and I couldn't help but scoff at the man's arrogance and sheer audacity. The entire room and situation would have been laughable if it had not been so serious.

There was no sign if Christine, but I was certain there was the shape of a figure underneath the shroud that covered the seat of the throne. Nervously I reached out and pulled it back, but there was nothing there except his porcelain mask. I turned it over in my hands, tracing my fingers over its features. The inside, which would have met his skin, was lined with leather, which I thought couldn't have been the most comfortable against the skin. As I tilted it towards the light I was certain I saw traces of blood. Holding the Phantom's mask, both figuratively and metaphorically, felt strongly intimate, and I felt compelled to protect it.

I don't know how long I was beneath the opera house, but we all fled when we were told the building was on fire.

--xxx--

I had been terrified when I returned home to the flat I shared with mother and saw the man I have come to know as Erik qsitting by our fire crying. I had immediately panicked and turned, fumbling, to unlock the door so that I could escape. But my mother stilled my hands and shook her head gently.

She shushed me and placed her finger to my lips, "You don't need to be afraid of him. He won't hurt you", she spoke in almost a whisper

"His actions beg to differ", I muttered quietly enough so only she could hear me, but I am certain I saw the hunched figure pause momentarily and raise his head, before returning to his sobbing.

"Just don't mention her and he will be fine", mother replied placing a comforting hand on my arm

I doubted that. The man was crazy, insane, and belong in an institution somewhere. He had murdered both Piangi and Buquet, and judging by how adept he was at it I assumed many more.

"Why have you lit candles rather than used the gas lights ", I asked in an attempt to distract my racing mini from my proximity to a murderer.

"He hasn't got his mask", she spoke as though I'd understand and feel some compassion for the man, but I didn't. Having seen his face when Christine had unmasked him, I fully understood why he preferred to lurk in darkness, but at the time I couldn't bring myself to feel much compassion for him. Although my opinion has since changed.

"Now go wash-up", she instructed, "I'll warm our broth on the stove".

When mother left me alone with the fabled Opera Ghost I fought the desire to run. Although he looked much less intimidating hunched over by the fireplace, wrapped in a blanket, while his clothes appeared to be drying on a horse, he still scared me. Momentarily I realised he must have been naked beneath the blanket and I felt the sudden surge of annoyence; mother had berated me for my chaste relationship with Edward, yet she left me alone in a room with a naked madman.

"Don't worry Marguerite, your mother has given me a nightshirt". His voice was deep and smooth, but quivered as he fought to hold back tears. It was very unlike the booming and manical voice that he used to terrorised the Opera House. The voice he used was the voice of a broken man, not a ghost.

I felt a surge of compassion, and I reached into my satchel allowing my fingers to lightly brush the cold porcelain within. I could feel my blood pumping my ears, the loud thud becoming increasingly rapid as I slowly approached him.

We had never spoken before, and I did not know how one should interact with a broken hearted murderous ghost. I removed the mask and tentatively held it out, my entire arm shaking as I fought against my natural flight instinct.

"I believe this is yours monsieur"

Within seconds he had snatched the mask from my hand and secured it around his face. And that was the start of my unusual friendship with Erik Zabelle, the Phantom of the Opera.

A/N - Next chapter: Erik