AN: Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed. I am sorry that my chapters are short, butI tend to think and write in short bursts, and I promise to update frequently. Also, you may notice once you start reading that I changed perspective; Remy is my character, soI pretty much know what she is thinking, but I did not want to take first-person liberties with Erik.

Chapter 2

He knew that she was there the moment she entered the opera house. His opera house. A year had passed since they had tried to drive him out, yet he remained even when all else was in ruins. Painstakingly, he had restored his own lair, while above him the once grand building stood abandoned. He often thought with irony that his actions had caused the Opera Populaire to become more like himself: full of potential that would never be used, all because the exterior was so horrific.

The girl's sudden, desperate appearance both angered him and roused his curiosity. Who was she to intrude upon his precious solitude? Hadn't she been warned to stay away? The many homeless who roamed the Paris streets at night hadn't tried to colonize this building, as they did with so many others. The few gendarmes who had been brave enough to enter fled without so much as a rifle shot in his direction when they saw his dark form approach through the ash; and upon leaving spread rumors that helped discourage further visits. He was the Phantom of the Opera. No one disturbed him without paying a price.

Haunting the rafters above the stage, he watched her run towards the dressing rooms with a limp that looked quite painful. He also noted the two large men who followed her through the doors, armed with knives and looking murderous. He disinterestedly wondered what the girl had done to have two such ruffians hunting her. Moving silently through the balcony level of the former backstage, he watched her slow her pace and listen for footsteps. From his vantage point above her, he could tell that she had been brawling with someone, and losing miserably. Her hair was chopped short and hung around her neck. Her clothing, men's breeches and a loose shirt, were tattered and dirty. In the darkness, he couldn't tell if the darkness on her face was dirt or blood, but he was willing to guess a little of each. Parts of her face appeared to be swelling, and a jagged scar ran across one cheek.

Apparently, she wasn't paying much attention to where she was going, as she took a wrong step and plunged through the weakened floorboards to the level below. He jumped lightly to the floor, searching for the trapdoor that would take him to the lower level without following her through the gaping hole. He quickly found what he was looking for, and as he disappeared into the trapdoor, he heard the voices of the two buffoons, calling for the girl, shining their lanterns into the dark corners to find her.

He climbed quickly down the short ladder, and stood facing her. She was unaware of his presence, unable to see him in the almost complete blackness that had swallowed her. Used to the darkness, he saw her eyes drooping closed, then flickering open again as she battled her fatigue. A few silent tears dropped down her face, as she rested her head against the wall.

Suddenly, she sat up, alert. She had heard his footsteps. Now was the time to speak.

"What are you doing here!"

Her eyes opened wide, staring into the darkness, trying to find his voice.

"What do you mean by this intrusion? Explain yourself!"

He could see her open her mouth and try to speak, but no sound emerged.

"Answer me, you little wretch!"

She was struggling to her feet now, barely able to stand, looking like pure fear was the only thing supporting her. He moved closer, till he was standing just before her, at a near enough distance that he could make out the expression in her eyes, the desperate courage of a cornered animal who knows that its time has come and yet refuses to give in to death.

"Who are you?"

He uttered, inches from her face, close enough to hear her heart, beating faster than it should. Without a word, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she dropped to his feet.

He stood still for a few moments, looking at her dark form on the ground. A thousand thoughts seemed to fly through his mind at once, one side of him telling him that he ought to help her, the other resisting, urging him to just leave. Surely, he didn't want this annoyance, this unasked-for burden. He owed nothing to anyone. No one had ever shown him kindness, why should he bother with her? She was practically dead when he found her anyway.

He started to walk away when he heard the pair of men returning, impatience and anger obvious in their step.

"You little witch! Once we find you, you'll burn! Hear me? Burn like the monster you are!"

That was enough to make up his mind. He gathered her into his arms and lifted her, feeling the sharpness of her bones in her too-thin body, and the unnatural coldness of her face against his neck. If she was going to die, he wouldn't let these two creatures take any pleasure from it.

'Witch', they had called her. 'Monster'. That was when he noticed the brand on her right forearm.