Disclaimer: If I owned Phantom of the Opera, I would not be here. I would be dancing in my large mansion while talking to Gerard Butler on the phone.

Anyways, this is mainly based on the movie, but I am basing Erik's deformity on the book. The left side will be modeled after the delectable Gerard Butler, because I OWN him. Co-own, actually. With my friend Lisa. waves to Lisa and Sara, and laments that Carla hasn't seen The Hotness of Gerry and the Greatness of PotO

I spent three weeks on this thing, and accidentally erased it twice, so if you don't like it, don't flame me, give constructive criticism.

Enjoy!

Chapter 1 - Guess Who's Back?

Ah, July in Paris: the warmth, the sun, and the odd smell of overripe fruit in the market. Paris, that beautiful city where "a young man's fancy turns to love." Or hate. All depends on whom you're dealing with. Paris is also that place where scandal is king and gossip is queen, where if a man is seen with a lady, they are immediately assumed lovers, where if a person is secretive, they are slandered by all. But hey, it has pretty clothes and pretty buildings, so no one's complaining.

Of particular interest in higher society this summer was the re-opening of Le Opera Populaire. It had been three years since the tragic incident involving the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny, née Daae, and the renowned Phantom of the Opera. Now, the new owners of the opera house, Monsieur Ambler and Monsieur Follett, had restored the place to its former glory, or as some whispered, surpassing it. The old managers, Firmin and Andre, had disappeared. They were rumored to be living in the countryside together, raising pigs, trying to forget their pathetic attempts at running an opera house.

The first performance, The Fall of Camelot, an original piece by Fontaine Malletier, was to be performed on September 17. And as the Opera Ghost had perished in the fire of 1870, there would be no ravishing on stage, or hangings, or chandeliers falling. The de Chagnys had assured them of the Phantom's grisly, yet not untimely, demise. So 1873 would be a good year for opera, or so everyone hoped.

However, Mme. Giry, the ballet corps director, was not so optimistic. She had her doubts about Erik's death; she knew him too well to assume that he would die so easily. However, she put on a happy face for everyone, and instructed her daughter Meg and her pretty young friends with a content face.

However, this story begins on July 10, two months before the Opera Populaire's first performance. The lead soprano, La Carlotta, was being as bratty as she always had been, although singing beautifully. The corps de ballet was dancing fine, except for a few who tripped up, and everything was going well. Until…

"Madame Giry?" a voice called from a stairway leading to the dressing room. Mme. Giry sighed edgily, signaled to the dancers to continue, and made her way to the stairs. A small girl, one of the seamstress's daughters if Mme. Giry was correct, was waiting for her on the steps.

"If you please, Madame," the child said timidly, "Someone left this for you in the dressing room." With that she held out an envelope; to most, a seemingly normal envelope. But for Antoinette Giry, time stood still as the girl's hand extended toward her.

The envelope was of cream-colored parchment, lined with dark crimson. On the front, in oddly childish letters were the words "Mme. Antoinette Giry". But the thing that stood out, the thing that made this seemingly harmless missive so ominous, was the seal; for the seal was no simple circle. It was a skull.

Little Babette would never know why Mme. Giry's face went white as she saw the letter, or why she snatched it away as if it might harm the girl. But Mme. Giry had good reason to be alarmed. She knew the Opera Ghost's trademark well. Thanking Babette, she darted up the stairs so that Meg or any of the girls saw the infamous death's head. With shaking hands, she opened the letter.

My dear Madame Giry,

Congratulations! You are doing as well as you always have in your endeavors to teach those flighty young harlots. I am truly sorry, however, that Carlotta still reigns as prima donna.

I digress. Would you please spare the time to meet me in your room after your rehearsal is finished? There are some matters that I wish to discuss with you.

Signed,

Erik

In that moment, Antoinette Giry's breath caught in her throat. Although she had been confident that Erik was alive and, hopefully, well, she had never thought that he would actually contact her. She had thought that maybe he would keep to himself, or maybe find a new opera house to terrorize. But he had come back…to the place that held his worst memory: one of heartbreak.

Why on earth had he returned?

Pondering over the enigma that was Erik, Mme. Giry returned to her pupils, the concern and strain not showing on her face.

Erik had been able to get into Mme. Giry's dressing room without being noticed by those insufferable chorus girls. He couldn't stand the lot of them, with their frilly bows and high-pitched, annoying giggles. He had hidden in the shadows until they passed, then picked the lock on his old friend's door and slipped inside.

The room was simple, but homey. The single, linen-covered bed had a canopy covering it. A small bookcase that also served as a night table stood next to the cozy bed. The only other piece of furniture was a mahogany desk with a small mirror. On the desk were various portraits, along with a blue glass vase that had a slightly wilted lily in it. A derelict chair accompanied it, and Erik sighed as he plopped into it to wait.

He knew he had not long to wait until she came; ballet practice was over at 7:00, andAntoinette would stop in her room before dinner at 8:00. However, it was 6:45, and Erik was getting bored. He glanced at the bookcase, and then turned away. He didn't share Mme. Giry's taste for cheap romance novels.

Sighing, he turned to the mirror and gazed at his reflection. The faint lamplight left his mask in shadow, and only his left side showed. He had to admit that the un-deformed half wasn't bad looking…in fact that side was rather handsome. He caught himself in the conceited thought and reminded himself of the horror that had earned him all the scars on his back.

Stretching back in the old chair, he noticed for the first time that one of the desk drawers was open. As he went to close it, he noticed that the only things in the drawer were three pictures. He hesitated for a moment, then, hoping Mme. Giry wouldn't mind, took them out to look at them.

The photographs seemed to be fairly recent, a few years ago at most. In the first one, a faraway horse stood in a field, looking away from the camera. A young girl sat on the horse, obviously laughing, telling from her eyes. For some reason, she was wearing a cuffed man's shirt and a pair of very loose pants. "Probably away from her mother's watchful eye." Erik thought out loud.

The second had what looked like a 13-year-old Meg Giry arm-in-arm with the girl from the first picture. The first girl was tall, around 5'7, and looked to be around 15, 16. Long, wavy, dark hair fell about the pretty, almost faerie-like face. The dark haired girl had her arm around a dark-haired boy, who was maybe in hislate teens. The black and white photograph showed their innocent happiness quite well, and Erik was almost jealous.

The third was just the dark-haired mystery girl, leaning against a tree. A loose white dress of some kind of light fabric flew about her, and her arms were crossed. She was staring straight at the camera, her eyes so innocent, so young, yet so…Erik struggled for a word…so oddly mature in that youthful face. A smirk was tugging at the corners of her lips; the gesture seemed familiar to him somehow. He was still staring at the girl when he heard a familiar voice say:

"You know, Erik, it's quite impolite to go through others' personal belongings."

Erik turned with a start to see Antoinette Giry leaning against the doorway, with an eyebrow raised. She had a slight smile on her face. "It's also rather rude to not even greet me after I've been standing here for two minutes."

Cursing himself silently for not hearing her open the door, and feeling rather guilty for looking at something that could've been personal, Erik gave a weak grin. "Hello, Antoinette…I'm sorry, the drawer was open, so I just...well, I'm a curious person."

"Oh, it's all right, those aren't personal." Mme. Giry interrupted, taking a quick glance at the pictures. "Those are just some pictures from our trip to my friend Geneva Laurent out in the country, six years ago. They're of Meg, Gabriel Laurent, and Nadia Laurent. Nadia's the one you were looking at." Mme. Giry gave a faint smile. "Gabe is off at some medicalschool in England, and Nadia…is indecisive about what she wants to doin her life."

Erik was quiet as Antoinette carefully slipped the pictures into the drawer and locked it. He was thinking about how lucky those children were, to be so happy. Of course, none of them were children now; Meg was 19, and the Laurent children were sure to be in their 20s.

"So..." Antoinette's voice startled him out of his thoughts. "What did you want to ask me about?"

"Oh...yes." Erik forgot all about the children as he turned his thoughts to business. "I've been...wanting...for money ever since that night a few years back." His tone was easy and casual, but a glance at his eyes told Antoinette that those memories of Christine still cut through him like a knife. "I need to know if these new managers, Ambler and Follett...I need to know if they'll supply me with my salary if I threaten them a bit."

Antoinette was silent for a moment, her eyes closed and her arms crossed. She let out a long sigh. "Yes..." she started, slowly and reluctantly. "Yes, I think they would. They have no wish for their opera house to be damaged after they just spent so much money on it...and they aren't the most strong-willed of men. Yes, I definitely think they would." she finished.

"Excellent!" The familiar half-smirk formed on Erik's face as he got up from the old chair and straightened his cloak. "Tonight I'll write a pleasant letter for them, then I'll deliver it to you in the morning, and-"

"No!" Antoinette's tone was harp and urgent. Erik stopped in mid-sentence and stared at her in surprise. She had always helped him with everything; why was she refusing now?

"I can't help you anymore, Erik." she said with difficulty. "Ambler and Follett may think I'm taking the money. I can't risk my job here, Erik! The Opera Populaire is the only place I've ever known! Meg would be heartbroken if we had to leave! I'm sorry, Erik..." She looked up at him. "I just can't help you anymore."

Erik looked at her for a moment, then looked at the floor. "Very well, Antoinette." he said in a business-like tone."I understand your situation. I'll find someone else to help me. You won't be seeing me again." Before Antoinette could call to him to wait, to tell him that she could think it over, he was gone.

It was midnight, and Erik was pacing back and forth in his bedroom. He had a serious problem, which he needed to solve before his clothes were threadbare and he was reduced to stealing from the opera's kitchens.

Who was going to help himextort the managers?

He needed a contact to go back and forth between him and the managers. But who? All of the ballet girls would turn him in, and he couldn't stand those whores they called chorus girls. The staff were always drunk. Who could he trust?

He twisted the large, expensive ring on his finger and glanced at a picture on the wall. The drawing showed a tall girl, maybe 16, standing with her arm held out. She wore a gorgeous wedding dress and veil, and her brown curls tumbled down her back. Doe-brown eyes filled with innocence and love stared at the artist, and a smile was on her ruby-red lips.

Erik closed his eyes tightly and started to tremble. If Christine was here, she would help him. But no, she had to go off with thatpoor excuse of a man, Raoul de Chagny. Raoul was perfectonboth sides of his face! Raoul had saved her from the monster in the mask.

"I will have you, Christine." he choked out in a mixture of hatred and misery. "When you come back, I will have you as my own,evenif it's the last thing I do."