© INFO: All characters and the original idea of The Phantom of the Opera belong to the original author of the book, Gaston Leroux. You can't ask his permission for anything. He's dead, as of 1927. The musical version of The Phantom of the Opera belongs to Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber, and the Really Useful Group, excepting the character Sara, who is © me, 2005, and may not be used without express permission. I didn't, because this shan't be published, but if you don't know how to obtain RUG's permission to use their characters, you shouldn't bother using them. Permission to use MY idea, though, can be obtained at This story is purely fictional, more so even than the original novel, as it is a gift for a very good friend of mine. This work is dedicated to you!

NOTE: This story is based entirely on the movie of a similar name, and as such, the best reading experience can be obtained by keeping the movie in mind as you read.

A PHANTOM'S REDEMPTION

© Maître Kiro, 2005

The Opera Populaire still stood in 1919 as impressively and incredibly imposing as it had two score and nine years ago. The snowy buttresses were still silent and strong, despite the horrors the opera house had faced in the years of its existence. Most of those horrors were but rumour, passed down and embellished by those who claimed to have experienced them. Others were very true, however, and the marks of these horrors remained in the terrible scars they had left behind. But obvious as they were, most people would never have the privilege - or misfortune - to see them.

On this dank and dreary morning, three people who had seen those scars met in the courtyard outside the opera house, drawn by the ringing of the auctioneer's gavel. The meeting was pure chance, and if any of the three of them had had their way, it probably would not have happened. They did not particularly dislike each other, at least not overtly, but they were not exactly glad to see each other, either. One, a withered old man in a wheelchair nodded silently to the two women standing before him, one older, one younger. The younger woman nodded back, stealing a quick glance at the older, who ignored the nod and responded only with a cool, unyielding glare that was not so much hateful as it was simply disappointed. Possibly, the older woman had simply hoped the man would not have been able to attend today's auction, or perhaps had even hoped the man had passed away, preferably in a terribly painful way. In any event, the meeting ended quickly as the three were suddenly brought back to the moment by the ringing gavel and the auctioneer's voice announcing that Lot 664 had sold for ₣25. Without a word, the three separated and entered the house, oldest first, then youngest, and the handicapped old man last.

"Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen." The auctioneer continued despite their entrance, his voice ringing dully in the muted grey atmosphere of the dusty old opera house. "A papier mâche musical box in the shape of a barrel organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals." A porter produced the item, gently winding it as he held it up for everyone to see. "This item discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order, ladies and gentlemen."

The porter spoke, starting the music. "Showing here."

As the music played, all three people were taken back fifty years, back to when the song the monkey played was heard not from a box, but from an operatic pit orchestra, with lyrics. Lyrics that threatened to awaken the ghosts of the past…

Masquerade…paper faces on parade; Masquerade, hide your face so the world will never find you…

The auctioneer started the bidding at ₣15. Madame Meg Giry and the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny both looked up attentively, bidding back and forth for it. Eventually, Madame Giry realized the importance the box held for the Vicomte and backed off, allowing Raoul to purchase the box for ₣30. The porter brought the box to him, and he looked it over with something between wondrous ecstasy and sorrowful terror. The older woman looked at the box in his hands, tears starting to collect in the corners of her eyes. It still worked. Surely, the construction of the box must have bordered on artistry, for it to still play after all these years. ₣30 was a steal for something so valuable, but Madame Sara Reynolds wouldn't have bought the box for ₣2. She was here for one item and one item alone. She suspected it would soon be put on the block.

She would not be disappointed. "Lot 666, then. A chandelier, in pieces." Sara turned around and eyed the tarp in the middle of the dusty opera house. Underneath it, something jagged poked up into the fabric, creating icicle stalagmites out of the canvas, as if to refute accusations of its role in the inferno of legend. It sat still and silent, much as it had several years ago, albeit now on the floor, instead of hanging from the ceiling. In the past, it would only be lit during a show, since it was dangerous and difficult to lower the beast to light each candle individually. However, it had not held a light in decades, and as the auctioneer explained how the craftsmen had 'fixed' it and added electric lighting, Sara felt a twinge of anger. How dare they try to change the past! What had happened…no amount of electric lighting would ever chase away that ghost.

The ghost…she closed her eyes as the auctioneer continued, imploring the men to raise the tarp. She remembered the legend. She remembered the ghost. The ghost whose only crime was drawing his first breath…the ghost whose only consolation came in the influence of his horrific powers…the ghost who was at once saved from death only to be condemned to a life devoid of purpose. The ghost who was feared by all, hated by most, and loved by none.

Save one.

Suddenly, she felt a cool breeze. Just like fifty years ago…that night had been cold…deep in the winter, it was. Another made its way under her cape, chilling her legs and back. She shivered, her eyes still closed. Had fifty years really passed? She was old…but she could still remember it all as though it was yesterday. The cold wind, the tights, the ballet slippers on her feet…they were performing Hannibal the next day and rehearsal was to start in a very short time. She was at the theatre, already dressed. She and Christine were down in the Chapelle, where she was providing a sort of silent moral support for Christine, who was lighting a candle for her father. For the first time in years, she had almost forgotten to come down and go through her pre-rehearsal ritual. Sara went with her, so that when she showed up late to rehearsal, she would not be the only one. After all, Sara had almost made a habit of showing up late to rehearsals. She smiled to herself. She was by no means the ideal chorus girl, and her poor physical condition often forced her to show up late to rehearsals, assuming she showed up at all. Other girls had been taken out of programs for lesser infractions, but luckily for Sara, anytime Madame Giry, Meg's biological mother and the pseudo-adoptive mother of all the chorus girls, had had any cause to punish Sara, she had held back, never really unleashing the kind of fearful power Sara knew she possessed. For most of her life, she assumed it was her relationship with Meg. But in time, she had learned the truth…