Disclaimer: Yo no poseo nada. Je possède rien. Ich besitze nichts. I own nothing. Jeg eier ikke noe. If any of those were incorrect, I apologize. I only speak two of those languages, but hopefully you get the picture.
Author's Notes: Wow. Well, here's my first sorry attempt at a Phanfic, and I almost can't believe I'm doing this. But I finally saw the movie, fell in love with it, then later got that and the book for my birthday. And I finally finished reading the book (darn school took up most of the time I would've otherwise spent reading...), and I've had this idea buzzing around my head for a while, so I decided I might as well write this. I'm also a little new to the Phantom section of fanfiction, so if this idea has been done before, please don't kill me. And this may be slightly rough since my beta STILL hasn't written me back about it…if there are major changes she thinks I should make, I'll repost it.
And now, on with the chapter!
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Chapter 1: Christine
The young girl stumbled out of the alleyway, at last catching sight of the vast building in the middle of the square. In disbelief, she read and reread the words at the top of the building to make sure that she had indeed found the place she had been questing for for the last month. Her footsteps lit by only moonlight, she staggered toward the front steps, her stomach aching and her body rebelling against her continued movement for lack of food. Before she even made it to the fifth step, her knees had given way and her body fell to the ground, losing consciousness beneath the blaring words Opera Populaire.
Meg Giry bustled about the opera, doing her usual duties of overseeing the dancers and many other parts of the opera in an attempt to keep it functioning for the owners. She inwardly grumbled at the thought of her employers' demands that had been issued to her only that morning as she was finishing a class with the young aspiring ballerinas. You're using the wrong methods to teach. The opera is falling apart, you need to do something. The guests want more service. Their first request had left her incensed at the idea that they thought they could tell her how to teach. They knew nothing of the dancers! In fact, the new managers knew nearly nothing of the Opera they now owned. And the other orders...they weren't her job; the managers needed to take responsibility for the Opera. Meg sighed quietly. She knew she should be grateful that the managers put so much trust in her, unlike how Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard had treated her mother. Meg still had her job and the owners trusted her sanity. As she passed the doors to the theater a shiver ran down her spine as she was reminded of the other thing she ought to be grateful for. She did not have the responsibility that her mother had had of overseeing Box Five--the Ghost's box. No one carried that burden anymore, for after the incredible singer Christine Daaé had fled with the Vicomte ten years ago, the Ghost had stopped coming to performances. Though the Ghost was not there, the tickets were never sold as Box Five was believed to be cursed. Nevertheless, he was not gone from the Opera; or at the very least he was not gone from the minds of those who lived and worked there. Meg felt it was her duty to dispel the rumors and myths of the Opera Ghost flitting amongst the stage hands and singers and ballerinas, but she could never fully cast out the unnerved feeling the stories gave her. Memories were continually summoned of her mother serving the Ghost, of Christine's strange and disturbing behavior, and of herself believing the tales with ultimate fright. Meg was brought out of her thoughts as she passed near the front of the opera and one of the stagehands came running up to her.
"Mademoiselle Giry! They've found something - someone on the front steps, passed out! They sent me to fetch you!"
Meg raised her eyebrows at this unexpected piece of information and quickly followed the young man toward the great front doors of the opera house.
There was already a great group gathered round that Meg had to force her way through to get to the girl sprawled upon the steps. She immediately knelt by the young girl, beginning to examine her, then, without looking up, called out, "Someone fetch the doctor! She is hurt!"
888
"He's following us, I know it."
"Who is following us? Who is it that you speak of?"
"Stop that. You know exactly whom I am talking about."
"No! You stop it! It wasn't real!"
"You know it was real. I was there and you were there. It happened, and nothing can change that."
"NO! No one is following us! Nothing happened!"
"Calm down. It's alright. It's over. You don't need to relive it; you're with me now."
"I'm not reliving anything! There's nothing to relive! Nothing...nothing..."
"Shhh...don't cry...I'm here; it'll be alright."
888
The girl blearily opened her eyes, rubbing them absently and trying to recollect the exact contents of her dream, but could feel it slipping away even as she tried to remember. This was a usual morning ritual for her, as she felt that her dreams could possibly reveal things from long ago that she only subconsciously knew. Normally, she would attempt to consciously remember everything from her night's dream and ingrain it into her memory, while carefully examining the street and making mental note of the new dangers it presented.
What were not normal about this morning were her surroundings.
She was in the grandest room she had ever seen. Her head rested on large fluffy pillows on a lavish bed. The entire wall to her right was devoted to a mirror. The room itself was very spacious and seemed peaceful enough, which was what set her on her toes. She had learned from experience that the most peaceable environments were usually the most dangerous, and she had to be ready for anything, including the young woman who suddenly came in the door to the left at that moment.
"Ah, so you're awake? I'm surprised; you took quite the blow to your head." The girl was confused for a moment until she put her hand to where she would normally feel her matted blonde hair, but instead felt bandages. During this action, her eyes didn't leave the woman speaking to her. Quickly, she took in the woman's physical appearance: she had black hair and dark eyes and looked to be about in her early twenties. "Now," the woman continued, seating herself on a stool by the child's bed, "the doctor instructed me to ask you a few questions when you woke up. He says that sometimes when people hit their heads they lose their memory. So let's start--"
"Who are you?" the girl interrupted.
For a moment the woman looked as if she might not answer, or might even become angry and indignant at the interruption, but then she kindly answered, "My name is Meg Giry." And then, as she looked more closely at the girl, she added, "You may call me Meg." Then she resumed her business-like tone. "Alright, how old are you?"
The girl hesitated. She hadn't really thought about her age in a long time. Finally, she decided upon the age that she felt. "Sixteen?" she offered.
Meg laughed, a happy laugh of a young person who enjoyed good jokes. "Are you sure you're sixteen?" she asked with a smile.
"I feel sixteen."
"What is your name?" The girl shrugged, which made Meg look concerned. "Have you a family?" The girl shrugged again. "Do you even know where you are?"
Finally the girl spoke again. "I remember seeing the Opera Populaire last night. I think I went toward it...but I don't remember much after that."
"Well, you have at least some memory," Meg sighed, relieved at this bit of knowledge.
"It's not that I forgot my name or my age or my family, I just don't know," the girl said defensively. "I never really had a name, and I never really kept up with months or years."
"And what of your family?"
The girl hesitated, deciding what to tell Meg. She seemed trustworthy enough, but she had enough experience behind her to know not to trust a stranger, no matter how innocent they appeared. People only trusted others if they wanted to be betrayed, no matter how well they knew them. Finally, she simply shrugged, showing that she didn't know about them either.
"If you don't have a family, then where do you live?"
The girl shrugged again. "Anywhere. Everywhere. Just on the streets mostly." She was not stupid enough to give anything more specific than that.
Meg looked surprised at this, but continued speaking. "Alright, now back to the first question. We can probably figure out how old you are if we know how long you lived on the streets. When did you first begin living there?"
"I was four," the girl said before she could stop herself.
"And you don't have any sort of idea as to how long you've been there?"
The girl thought for a moment. She had been there for a long time, and that was the only unit of time that she had ever needed. She had traveled to different cities over her time on the streets, and she had come to Paris a long time ago, but not nearly as long as the long time she had been on the streets. Finally she spoke, choosing her words carefully: "I've been there for a while. I didn't always live in Paris. And I just recently found out that this Opera was here, in Paris, so I stayed."
Meg appeared slightly confused. "You stayed because of the opera house?"
The girl mentally hit herself. How stupid she had been to let something like that slip!
"Did you want to see the opera?" Meg asked, and the girl inwardly sighed in relief.
"Yes! Yes, that's what it was! I wanted to see the opera!"
Meg smiled kindly. "Well, we shall see. But first, let us get back to the matter at hand. How long were you searching for the opera house?"
The girl thought back over how long ago it had been when she first heard of the opera house's location. In her mind she counted the sunrises she had seen. "I think...twenty-six days?"
Meg nodded. "And how much longer have you been in Paris?"
"Much longer," the girl answered promptly. "Maybe ten times longer. But I have been to other cities before this."
"Which other cities?" Meg asked genially.
The girl paused, giving Meg a glance of suspicion for half a moment. Then she said flatly, "I don't remember."
"Do you know how many?"
The girl sat silent, apparently, to Meg, thinking and counting which cities she had been to, but in actuality was trying to decide whether or not Meg could use this against her. Finally, her hardened blue eyes never leaving Meg's black ones, she decided that this information couldn't possibly be used to cripple her in any way, and answered, "Eight."
"And did you spend as much time in these other cities as you have in Paris?"
The girl shook her head. She knew she could give Meg this information, as Meg couldn't possibly be using it against her; even if, unlikely as it was, Meg or someone who knew Meg were following her, this information most likely wasn't enough to find out anything more than her stalker already knew. "I think I spent about half as much time there as I have in Paris."
Meg sat back and nodded, thinking back on the information given to her and calculating silently. Finally she said, "Then you must be about nine!"
The girl nodded and tried to sink in this information: she was nine years old. And here she was thinking that she was sixteen!
Suddenly her stomach gave an almighty growl, which made Meg smile again. "When did you last eat?"
"I think two days ago," the girl said offhandedly, but Meg leaped up in from her chair in shock. Admittedly, she was hungry, but she'd been hungrier before; Meg didn't need to be so alarmed. She quickly strode toward the door.
"Don't worry; I'll get you some food immediately. Haven't eaten in two days...!" And she was about to leave the room when she evidently remembered something and turned around. "You say you have no name?"
The girl shrugged. "I never needed one."
Meg studied her features once more, then said, "You remind me quite a lot of one of the singers we used to have here. She really was incredible. How do you like the name 'Christine'?"
The girl nodded noncommittally, and with that decided, Meg swept from the room. The girl tried out her new name to herself.
Christine...
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Author's Notes: As my English teacher says: "Questions? Comments? Snide remarks?" Although I wouldn't mind if we kept the snide remarks tally a little low... Anyway, compliments are lovely, and constructive criticism is lovelier. If you tell me what's wrong, I'll most likely fix it, or I'll at least explain as to why something is the way it is. And, of course, flames will be used to cook the flamers into lovely flamer-s'mores!