This chapter and the next are shorties, because I need the length and little tiny things before the Grand Abduction. But don't worry, there will be nice, deliciously long chapter when she meets Erik. For now, enjoy this next one! I'm loving writing POTO fics, this is my first! I really like it!


Christine stared bitterly at the silver handcuffs around her wrists; the tears flowing freely down her face. Now she was completely and truly alone. She had seen it in Raoul's eyes when he chastely kissed her forehead, just before they had hauled her away. He thought she was mentally ill. Her father, she knew, had the sense to realize that there was no way she could have ever killed Joe Buquet. Why the jury couldn't see that frustrated her to no end.

Brentwood was an hour from where the court case had taken place. The entire way seemed both like an eternity and the blink of an eye. Time warped and distorted as Christine stared longingly out the jail-van's barred doors. Would she ever be freed from this nightmare?

Finally, they arrived. She was escorted out of the van and taken into the holding area. Christine was surprised, as they drove through barbed wire-peaked fences, how there were no guards along the outer walls. She thought this was one of the top prisons of the nation. How were there no security personnel?

She was not given time to ponder. She was shoved roughly through the doors, where a prim female receptionist was sitting.

She examined Christine crudely through her blue-rimmed spectacles.

"Name?"

Christine gulped. "Christine Daaé, ma'am."

"Please follow me."

The two guards stood by the doors, but did not follow as Christine let the woman lead her into a smaller room. A female doctor stood there, holding a clipboard. She looked up, and did not respond to Christine's timid smile.

"Please remove all your clothing," the doctor said monotonously.

"What?"

"You heard me."

Nervously, Christine did as she was told, trying not to cry at how she was suddenly naked.

"Stand up against the wall."

She did, shaking. The doctor measured her height, which was around 5"7, and took her weight and arm span measurements. When she was done, the receptionist took a carbon copy of this information and disappeared, returning with a bright orange jumpsuit,

"Put this on," she instructed, handing Christine a matching pair of fluorescent underwear. Eagerly, Christine scrambled into her new clothes, glad to no longer be nude. The jumpsuit itched away at her skin, chafing against its softness.

When she had finished, she was led down a pure white hall where there were no windows, and no guards. There were security cameras everywhere, though, and small marks along the floors and walls. Christine marvelled again at how few guards there were.

The receptionist reached a door marked "psychiatric ward." Christine felt her heart jolt as she was led down it. This was it. She was being put into solitary confinement for observation.

They stopped at a door labelled with a large "5." The receptionist opened the door, and with a mock bow, gestured Christine inside.

The room was small, with a tiny cot covered with a meagre blanket. There were two large mirrors, facing each other. One, Christine supposed, was where the doctors would be. The other would be a fake to confuse her, to ensure she never knew which one she would be watched from.

As the door closed behind the secretary, and an ominous click ensued, Christine felt hysteria whelm up inside of her. She was trapped. She would not see anyone but doctors until they were sure of her mental state.

Now, she felt more fragile than ever. The only window was about eight feet off the floor, covered with bars. There was no other furniture in the room at all. The only thing there was the Bible, placed carefully in the centre of the pillows. The Bible…

"Angel," she suddenly prayed, not caring who might hear. "My Angel of Music, please watch over me. Please, help make sure that everything's all right. I'm frightened, Angel! I didn't kill Joe, I swear! Please help me get through this okay. I need you."

Softly, she began to sing.


From his subterranean level, Erik watched and listened, entranced. Quickly, he grabbed his sketching pad and began to draw the lines of her lovely face, in an attempt to capture that ethereal beauty as she sang. Her face began to take shape on the parchment, comforting him.


From behind the mirrors that were to the right of Christine's bed, her new psychiatrist, Dr. Giry, nearly dropped her clipboard.

"My God," she whispered. "She has the voice of an angel."


Angel of Music, Guide and Guardian,

Grant to me your glory

Angel of Music, hide no longer,

Secret and strange Angel

The words of her father's lullaby comforted her as she sang them, pacing her room. She continued to sing the haunting melody, only this time without words. It soothed her frazzled nerves, calming her enough to lie down on the uncomfortable bed, gazing at the light the lonely window cast through her room. She noticed the light-switch built into the wall next to the headboard, and flicking it; plunged into darkness, save for that lonely patch of sunset shining on the wall.


The next day, Christine was woken harshly by a buzz on the door. Her eyes tried to see through the morning mist that hung over them, and she could make out a tray being slid through a mechanical panel built into the door. Her stomach whined for food, and she scrambled out of bed to see what had been brought.

It was two pieces of burnt toast, some slightly green and washed-out looking scrambled eggs, and a glass of watery juice. Christine ate it all quickly and without complaint, knowing that she would need her strength.

She was diligently making her way through the Bible when a knock on her door sounded. Confused, Christine called out, "Come in."

A woman, whose age could have been anything from thirty to sixty, came through the door and closed it behind her.

"I always find it the polite thing to knock," she said pleasantly, her accent slightly French. "My name is Dr. Giry, and I am your new psychiatrist."

Christine shook her outstretched hand, and took her appearance in. Her face was mature, but the skin was tight and unwrinkled. She was wearing a pristine white lab coat and carried a clipboard, and her stance was proud. She had a presence of command around her that was unmistakeable, but also of kindness. Christine was grateful that she was not given a frightening psychiatrist.

"I didn't kill Joe," Christine stated, as she sat down on her bed.

Dr. Giry was a little surprised. Usually patients tended to beat around the bush, to stall their actual sessions.

"Perhaps, but you were found guilty in a court of law, and your sanity was questioned," said Dr. Giry gently. "That is why you are here. Perhaps we will discover if you truly killed Joseph Buquet, and perhaps it will remain lost in the abyss of your mind. For now, we will do our best to help you get better from any illnesses you may be suffering under. Now, let's get started by running a few tests, shall we?"

Christine obliged her. She took the ink blotting tests, written tests, and many others. She wasn't sure how well she was doing, but Dr. Giry seemed a little unnerved when she received Christine's answers.

At the end of their session, Dr. Giry shook Christine's hand again. "Thank you, Christine. We will see each other every day, and we will constantly be recording you in here. I will also be checking up on you through the observation window, which I'm sure you know is one of these mirrors. I won't say which one, but don't be afraid. There are no cameras in the washrooms."

She pointed to a small door in the corner Christine hadn't even noticed.

"These tests that you have done lead me to believe that you are in no danger of hurting yourself, so the showering chamber will be unlocked for you. That's all for now, though, any questions?"

"When will I get out of here?"

Dr. Giry sighed. "I'm not sure, dear. We'll soon see."

Christine nodded, and made her way to the washroom. At that moment, Christine would have traded anything in the world for a shower.


Dr. Giry headed back into the observation room, and rubbed her eyes. All of Christine's tests results showed that she was in perfect mental condition. She seemed worn, of course, but the inkblots showed that she was most likely compassionate in nature, and probably incapable of murder.

It didn't make sense. Usually there was a slip-up of some kind in even the most clever of patients. Christine's was flawless.

Sighing, she put the test results inside a bright purple portfolio. She would have to keep a very close eye on Christine Daaé. She was either completely healthy, or a ticking time bomb.


Erik paced anxiously in his bedroom, trying to drive her out of his mind, but it was impossible. Even in bright orange, she was still lovely. Even in the most trying of circumstances, she managed to keep her cool.

I'll wait a week at most, he decided. A week of seeing no one but Dr. Giry, a week of nothing to keep her occupied but the Bible, and she would be desperate for someone to save her from her solitude. It would be the perfect time for his grand debut.

Meanwhile, he had to keep his mind busy, to stop the infinite wait. He strode powerfully to his piano, and began composing a suite dedicated to the passion he felt for her. Music welled up inside his very soul as his fingers began to strike at the keys. In those moments, it felt not as though he were playing the piano, but instead, the piano was playing him.

He finished the introduction, and wrote everything down in blood-red ink. He tapped his chin thoughtfully as he tried to think of what to name it.

Finally, it came to him. The passion he felt for her was the passion of one thousand men. Only one other man in the history of mankind used the seductive power that Erik too possessed. It was a sacred art that only those born with the ability could truly use, and that other man had used it almost infamously.

However, the name was not enough. He needed something else to bless it, to ensure his victory. Erik snapped his fingers as the title instantly struck him.

With a smile, he penned the words "Don Juan Triumphant – for Christine."


Ta DAAAAA! Another chapter. Reviews make me insanely happy, so please review! (please check your "How to care for yourtemperamental writer" manual for instructions).Honestly, reviews make my day. I don't care if they're anonymous or not...please just review!