Prologue

A woman stared out of the shadows in the wings. She was auditioning for the choral group that would be singing for Hannibal. Erik stared down at her and the other girls looking to audition, seeming high above them from box five. She had blonde hair that was streaked with light red. It was held up in a severe bun, more severe then it needed to be. He frowned at that. She had long, soft curling eyelashes, a strong Roman nose, and heart-shaped lips.

He looked down further to see what she was wearing. It was a conservative mild brown high-collared backstage robe. It showed off none of her body. He shook his head, wondering what she could possibly hide under such a thing. If she was not in prime physical shape, why had she even thought of auditioning at the most exclusive opera in France, if not in the world?

Erik watched as she shed the robe, gracefully stepping out of it. She wore a simple black leotard under it. He gasped as he saw her figure. She had long, slender legs (untypical in a dancer, he mused), a thin waist, and ample breasts. The Phantom nodded dispassionately, wondering if she could sing. The crowd would love her if she could. He was past tired of Carlotta.

He noticed something else. She seemed afraid. Not nervous or jittery with stage fright or anxiety about the coming audition, but genuinely frightened. The Phantom wondered what she was afraid of. He thought, bemused, that it might be him. That was probably all it was. The girls' backstage fright stories about the Phantom of the Opera probably had gotten to her. If she did not bother him and played into his hands like all the other dancers did, she had nothing to fear from him.

He turned away, about to lave the catwalk above the stage. Before he could, bright blue eyes caught and held his, if only for a second or two. He stared down at the woman for a moment, and then turned away with a flick of his long, dark cape.

Noelle de Chante was shivering in the shadows. She looked at all of the other girls and shook her head, wondering how they managed to make friends so easily. She remembered happier days, when she had pranced and flirted like the best of them. She shuddered at the memory of what had happened as a result of that. Now, she wore dresses that she had only ever seen on old women.

She gently slipped off the conservative robe she was wearing. The ballet outfit she had to wear under it made her nervous. She would much have rather been in a conservative, stiff, high-collared, plain brown dress right then. Noelle reminded herself that she needed this job, and that she had better shape up if she planned to get in as a chorus girl. She was bankrupt. After her mother had thrown her out of their house after learning her secret, she had been on the mean streets of Paris, with no work experience. All she had was the clothes on her back and two hundred franks, money stolen from her mother before Noelle had left. But she had been quite a dancer a few years earlier, getting good enough to get several suggestions that she went professional, and remembered many steps. She sang fairly well; she was no prima-donna, but she got along. She bought a cheap leotard for this audition with her last bit of money.

And so she had come to the Opera Populaire, after she had run out of money and self-respect. She had not thought of herself as rich before, but compared to the squalor in the slums of Paris, she realized that she had been more wealthy then many. Had Been. It was still difficult to think of her old life in the past tense. A brief, sarcastic smile danced on her lips as she chuckled at herself. She was beginning to relax. No one could harm her here. She was safe.

Just as she was thinking that, she felt eyes on her. She knew the sensation anywhere. Someone was gazing on her, and she knew it was not one of the dancers or Mme. Giry. It was someone far more dangerous. She did not move, but felt with her mind to see where the look was coming from. It was a talent she had, born out of paranoia. She looked up, blood pumping in her ears, and adrenalin through her veins. There was darkness there up in the catwalk, but in the midst of the darkness, two sharp pinpricks of green. Eyes, she thought. She also thought she saw a flash of white among the black, as if there was a mask. She blinked, and there was nothing there, only the steel of the stage-hand's perch.

Mme. Giry looked at Noelle, hands on her hips. "Come, madame, do not take all day. We have work to do, and cannot sit around waiting!"

Noelle quickly ran into line at the sharp reprimand, her pointe shoes making a tap-tap rhythm on the wooden stage.

"Sorry," she whispered as she got in line with the other dancers. Focus, she coached herself. The real trial was to begin now. No more thoughts of strange things lurking in black shadows. She would inform Mme. Giry of what she had seen after practice, but not until then. She returned her attention to the first girl to audition, a brunette with soft, curling hair.

"Christine Daee," Monsieur Reyer proclaimed.

Erik walked adeptly through the shadows of the passageways, going to his usual spot in Box 5 to watch the auditions. Monsieur Lefevre would be sitting there, watching the auditions because it was necessary for appearances. But both he and Erik knew that the Opera house belonged to one person, and one person only, despite whoever bought a piece of paper saying the property was theirs. That person was the Phantom, and the Phantom only. No matter who Lefevre sold it to, it would always be Erik's.

He made his way there, exiting out of a long mirror in the hallway. He walked over to his seat, watching out of the shadows, deathly-silent. Lefevre looked up nervously. Fool, Erik thought. He was almost glad the coward was leaving. Perhaps there would be a real challenge for him now; he had quickly bent the weak man to his uses. He had grown bored, seeing as there was no sport.

"Christine Daee," said Monsieur Reyer with relish.

Erik watched her closely. She had been at the Opera Populaire for many years, training steadily. Hopefully she would not turn out to be a disappointment. He had too many of those. She was pretty enough, but he wondered if she could sing. She went through the ballet steps well, lifting her legs high on the many leaps and arabesques. Mme. Giry looked up into the shadows, knowing that he was watching. Christine was a girl the ballet mistress had grown attached to, and had high hopes for.

Monsieur Reyer cleared his throat, and began to conduct a simple aria, a easy piece. Erik sighed. The girl had an average voice. One that could be developed with time, perhaps, but time was not what he had. He would keep her, but she would not become great.

Several girls came. They were all fair, and none of them worthy of a spot in his opera. He smiled when he saw Meg Giry. She already had a spot in the chorus, as far as he was concerned. He had watched her grow up from the time when she was very little. Her voice was good, and she was an excellent dancer. Lord knew she was at least better then Carlotta.

Finally, they got to the girl he had been watching earlier.

"Noelle de Chanter," Monsieur Reyer announced.

Noelle of singing, he thought, translating the French. Hopefully she could sing. She moved through the routine, a little rusty, but good. He decided that there was a certain passion to the way she moved, a love and a feeling. She was not simply dancing, she was telling a story. But all of her movements encompassed a certain despair, even when the dance was joyous. He wondered why.

He was quickly torn away from these thoughts when Monsieur Reyer began to count, beginning the piece. One, two, three, four.

Noelle moved over the notes, her sultry voice moving along them smoothly and softly. It was a joyous song, speaking of love and light. Somehow, she did not seem able to put the emotion into it that she put into her dancing. She seemed almost to put on a false air of joy, that was not true to her nature. She seemed weighted down, and unable to draw the audience into the song.

He smirked as he thought that no one else would read as much into the character and soul of a person by hearing them sing one song. Only he. As she finished the song on the one high note in it (which she hit well), he began thinking that she was the exact person he needed. He would keep her, he decided. She was the last one to audition, and so he decided to go down and begin composing a note that he would give to Monsieur Lefevre. It would inform him of who he would keep. Right now, it looked like only Meg Giry, Noelle de Chanter, and Christine Daee.

He thought of her, Noelle, for a moment. He closed his eyes, soft lips parted in an expression of admiration and perhaps... a bit more? He shook his head. That was disgusting. He was ten years older then her, at least. Still, a glimmer of hope, despite all his attempts to subdue it, slowly rose subtly in his chest, until it became part of his entire being. Perhaps in time, if he allowed her to know him... perhaps she would see him as more then a monster, more then 'the child born of Satan's mistress,' as he was known in his days in the Gypsy band.

Memories flooded over him in a despairing torrent, now that he had thought of his childhood. He gasped, unable to move, the black stares and gasps of women and men flooding over him in a wave. He remembered his mother's face, glaring at him in repulsion. He could not bear that look on anyone else's face, ever again. He opened his eyes after some time, and realized that he was still standing there. He wondered how long he had been there, in the corridor leading down to his home. Lefevre would be needing some direction as for who to keep for Hannibal. He would go write a note to him.

He wondered, as he made his way down in to opera's deep basement, what had brought such emotion from him. Usually, he was able to bypass such emotional horrors. He felt drained and used. After he put the note on Lefevre's desk, he would lay down and feel a burning pain in his soul, coming from his memory and driving a knife into his soul. He would not weep, but mourn silently his face that had cursed him so. It was a horrible ritual of self-pity, and Erik knew it. But he did not care. As he lay down, one word came into his consciousness, burning with a sudden intensity he did not know it possessed.

"Noelle,"he whispered into the darkness.

Noelle stood politely until the last of the girls were finished. She could not help herself but to judge them. None of them had any potential except for Christine Daee and Meg Giry. Of course, she had no guarantee that she would even get into the Opera.

At the end, she stood forward. Many of the girls were growing impatient, wanting to go home. She did the ballet, feeling a little rusty, but doing well. The passion of the dance enveloped her, until she felt the music deep in her bones.

She was breathing heavily when she finished the dance. She did a small curtsy, and waited for Reyer to wave his wand to start the ballad. She thought that she did well. The only fault was the choice of song. It was a song of light, when all she could feel was darkness. It was a song of love, when she knew that there was no such thing. She was bitter, deep down in her heart.

She finished her song. She curtsied low again and stepped back into the line of the other dancers, who were impatiently waiting.

Mme. Giry addressed them all.

"Come back tomorrow, girls, to hear who we will be choosing. You may dorm in our dormitories, if you wish. Until then, Ou Revoir."

The girls began to exit the stage, talking among themselves excitedly. Only Meg, Mme. Giry, and Noelle remained. Noelle ran forward quickly, stopping the older woman.

"Ah, Madame, I was wonderingif I might have a brief moment of your time?'

Mme. Giry nodded expectantly.

"I'm not entirely sure, but... I thought I saw something up in the catwalk earlier, like someone or something. I was wondering if there was an explanation for that?" The words tumbled out of her mouth, clumsily tripping over themselves.

Mme. Giry raised an eyebrow. "You thought?"

"Well, yes..."

"How certain were you?"

Noelle bit her lip.

"I see." Mme. Giry patted the dancer on the cheek.

"You were probably imagining something, my dear. Go now. Meg will show you the way."

Meg came up to Noelle. She began walking with her, past the wings of the stage. Mme. Giry's daughter looked around cautiously, making sure her mother was gone.

She stopped in the middle of the hall. Noelle looked at her curiously, wondering what she was doing.

"What... exactly did you see, Noelle?"

"Well," Noelle faltered, "I thought I saw two green eyes, something white, and there was black... But why do you want to know?"

Meg looked around cautiously once again.

"There are... rumors that something, someone, lurks beneath this opera. He wears a white mask, and is very dangerous. We know him as the Phantom of the Opera, or the Opera Ghost." Meg motioned for Noelle to come closer. "It is.. rumored he sends notes to people, telling them what to do, and suchlike. And that if you don't do what he tells you to do, then bad things happen to you."

Meg took Noelle's hand, obviously disturbed by this subject. She lead Noelle down the hallway, walking quickly. But in Noelle's mind, there were only two words.

"Le fantôme de l'opéra."