Based upon the 2004 Andrew Lloyd Weber film.

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Phantom of the Opera, or any characters. This story, plot, and whichever new characters that might be introduced along the way, however are mine.

A/n: In most fanfictions I've read, The Phantom's name was 'Erik'. In the 2004 film, the Phantom's name was CLEARLY not mentioned, so until I find out where this information came from (and if it's plausible enough), he shall be known to me as the Phantom or the Angel of music, or him etcetera… etcetera…

It has only been a few months… perhaps only weeks. It remained unknown and uncared of. Even so, it was soon enough for the marriage of the young and naïve Vicomte de Chagny, an event that filled most people's hearts to the brim with happiness and excitement. People laughed and cried, either way, having a splendid time, dancing until their feet were sore, drinking until their vision blurred or eating until the women's corsets threatened to burst. It was a popular event indeed for such an important person to the late Opera Populaire.

The newly-wed couple truly were happy together, and their heads were so full of each other, there was no room for any common sense. Christine looked at her old childhood friend and new husband dazedly. He was all she saw for a few moments as they both shared loving gazes and smiles as they sang to each other and danced so closely, they could have been mistaken for one entity.

"Look, Little Lotte," Raoul broke their stare and waved a hand proudly across the energetic view, though they were still rather close. "Everyone, from dancers, to chorus girls to lead singers, are all here. Even Carlotta showed up." He added his very last statement with a titter, and his bride giggled along with his laughter. Carlotta has been bitter towards Christine ever since she took her role as lead singer. The two were surprised she bothered to show up. He replaced his eyes were they belonged and positioned his forehead back onto hers.

She smiled an even bigger smile than she already had on… if that was possible. "And the best thing is," she cooed lovingly "they're here for the both of us."

The music's beat picked up quite a bit and the colourful scene became a dancing frenzy.

"Come," he said, breaking away from their warm embrace. "Lets rest before our feet threaten to fall off." He lead the way to their table, hand in hand.

Within the wild twirling of skirts, fattening of middles and blurring of vision, a ghastly shadow, unnoticeable to happy partiers waited behind a cold stone statue of an angel carrying a harp in her hands… or was it male? These old artists had a knack for creating such androgynous sculptures… and paintings, for that matter…

An uninvited guest, for he was seen to be a madman, however, he needed something important, and was forced to come. He leaned his head against the cold stone and closed his eyes, listening for only one voice while he waited… that angelic voice that was almost within his grasp… a voice he could have heard every night, had it not been for that nimrod of a patron. He can still feel it weaving through his fingers, but knows better than to pursue the thought of capturing her again. But it was unfair to blame his defeat upon anyone. Love was such a disgusting emotion that ensnared it's pray and refused to let go, no matter how much they struggle against it. The harder they struggled the tighter the vines became, only to wrap the poor creature in a startling realization: they had to give in… they needed it.

He unconsciously reached up and felt his gnarled and purpling flesh tickle his fingers like a swarm of insect's feet. This was the curse that deprived him of what he needed most…. This was the reason why killing became his reliable way of getting what he wanted…. This is what created everyone's fear and loathing of him.

Christine…

A sudden wave of curiosity rolled over him as he thought of her name. He suddenly had the urge to look at his angel for the first time since he painfully watched her row away with Raoul, leaving him alone with his bitter emotions. He made sure not to breathe too deeply while merging himself within the shadows of the statue, and swiftly glanced at the giggling couple. They were too far away for him to see their faces clearly, but the atmosphere made their undying happiness all too obvious. A sharp pang of jealousy struck him immediately square in the heart and he straightened right up against the statue before anyone could lay eyes on him and his temporarily agonized expression. The cold stone once again greeted the back of his head, as he silently gulped the air to try and soothe the anguish deep within. He could not forget about her. He thought of her every waking moment, and always yearned to see her angelic face. The stabbing feeling of betrayal dug into his flesh once again, this time with burning knifes… but if it's one thing he learned from that night was to stop his attempt at gaining Christine's love… it was past her right now… she probably forgot about him anyway. His heart seemed to have gained a ton over the past few milliseconds, and painfully tugged at his chest.

"Here." Someone suddenly said with a stressed, fearful tone, and shoved two articles right into his arms with shaky hands. She did not look at his face, rather, at the nook of his neck. "I should have known you'd be hiding here." The blonde girl quickly looked behind her before throwing herself into the darkness with him, her breath just about as shaky as her hands. "I don't know how much more of this I can take. My mother's already been on my case ever since she caught me with a dark suit and cape, and… well… Christine is my best friend. I feel like a traitor." Meg looked down as she heard him place a new mask on his face with a small smacking sound and heard the rustle of fake hair as he placed a new wig on his head.

"You've done well." He whispered, his voice rich with melody and the night itself, yet painfully empty. "You needn't feel that way anymore, I already have all I need."

She still looked down, for some reason not wanting to look at his face. It's been a habit ever since she could remember. Perhaps it was all those ridiculous stories that Joseph Bouquet often spewed. Bouquet… the Phantom… the image of the bloodshot-eyed drunkard dangling lifelessly from that rope, twirling and twitching made her sick to her stomach, but that was not the time to think of such things.

"Oh!" she said, a little louder than she was supposed to, suddenly remembering something. The Phantom winced slightly, for his ears were growing used to the soft buzz of incoherent conversations, mixed with the soothing silence of the stone statues. Coins chinked around as she fished for them in convenient hiding places of her dress. He felt a little uneasy with all the noise going about. Anyone could have heard them easily. "Here's the change." She held her coin-filled hands out and found herself taking in every detail of his face after she mechanically looked up at him for the first time. She was frozen stiff.

The spotlight had pointed in their direction for no more than a second and cast a glowing light on certain parts of his face. The mask of death he had once sworn to leave behind was back, this time a mysterious shade of ebony. Most of what he had promised that one faithful night was nothing more than the result of emotional shock, which was almost immediately cured by rest. He was the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the Angel of Music, and always will be. He'd scolded himself to no end once the shock had faded and he'd realized he'd left that thick, dark and lustrous wig of hair back at the burning opera house. It was no matter to him, however, he still had quite a sum of money from the 20 000 francs he'd monthly receive from Lefevre, but he dare not show his monstrous face in public. Luckily, the second generation of the Giry family was around to help him for the second time. His hair replacement was no longer the intriguing bottomless black, but an enticing, dark shade of mahogany, held in a waste-long powerful braid. Thin bangs hovered over his mysterious and intense, yet deprived blue eyes attractively.

She had never expected the normal side of his face to be so good-looking. She always knew his mask only covered a quarter of his face, but now, she was almost glad that was all it covered. The light that shined their way was filtered by both his body and the statues, making his presence seem shiny and almost godly.

"Keep it. I have no need for it." He whispered once more, and, with that swish of a cloak, it was as if he'd never been there. Blinking, Meg began to wonder whether she really saw him standing there, or if it was merely her imagination. But, before she could really ponder over it, she became frustrated that now she'd have to carefully replace all those coins she had fished out for what might have simply been a shadow… and in the dark too…

He should have left right after he picked up his effects. He did not need, or want to wait around any longer, and with so many people around at that, but he couldn't. As he swiftly moved from one hunk of androgynous stone to the other, originally looking for an exit he'd discovered earlier on, he was instinctively getting closer and closer to where the couple sat and relaxed their sore feet.

Christine breathed bubbly giggles at her husband's flattering charm and moderately intimate hand gestures. Her head spun only with thoughts of him and his charismatic nature, so much that she even forgot her own name for a moment or two.

Within the love-filled flirting and laughing, somehow, she heard a familiar thick swoosh of a heavy cape, and her laughter stopped before her eyes darted right past her husband and found the unnaturally clear glass doors interesting. Luckily for her, Raoul was not too sharp so he didn't notice and thought she was still staring at him, mesmerized by his antics. She listened to it again as the cape fell around the mysterious entity's feet. The fabric did not sound the same, but there was something so enigmatically familiar about the way it fell. She let out a soft gasp as she felt and embraced the strange Angel's intense presence once again. Her body started to quake and sweat as it always had whenever he was around. Soon, not her husband, nor the wedding existed any longer, and her love for Raoul became nothing but a shadow. She felt light and blank, a feeling that was eerily pleasurable. Longing, needing to hear his deathly breathing, her ears strained so hard, a splitting pain ripped through them, but she just had to hear it. Her head twitched as it mechanically turned toward the statues, expecting to see either that marred side of his face, or the side that had always made her wonder whether or not she really was satisfied with her choice.

But nothing was there. Disappointment hit her so hard, she was forced back to Raoul's flattering, and bubbles and giggles refilled her head… it must have just been her imagination.

The figure within the shadows swiftly moved once again through the statues. He finally saw what he longed to see, and was not dissatisfied by the fact that she hadn't changed much.

He continued gliding through the shadows rapidly and silently, having a bit of difficulty finding the exit he'd found earlier on. A few paces ahead of him, a woman walked gloomily through the statues and broke down at the wall, leaning only her forehead against it, so her whole long upper body stuck out and was dangerously in his way. He started to slow down, but unfortunately for the both of them, there was no way he could completely stop on time.

His warm body struck hers with a small impact, but only hard enough to cast both of them in the small, lit gap between two statues. All in one second, the light washed over their faces and revealed the woman's pointy nose and very sharp features all around. She looked nothing like she used to, but her distinct facial features immediately joined her with a name he wished he hadn't remembered… Carlotta. He almost didn't recognize her very lightly made-up face and flaming red hair that was not held in either a cone or unnatural curls, but in flowing light waves. Her eyes were also different. They no longer stank with conceit, but were wide, watery and longing. The passing light lit up her freshly fallen tears like crystals.

The distraught opera singer's insides froze. A chill rushed through her at what seemed like an impossible site. That face… that mask… those eyes…

He was gone. In a blink of an eye, he disappeared. She knew he's been there, she could still feel the heat of his body pressed on her side. She shuddered for a moment, but when the chill had gone away, her insides melted and burned once more with the loss of a loved-one. She fell to the floor and sobbed silently in the shadows of the statues, surrounded by her own style of pain. She did not want to see the newly wed couple, it only brought more grief and washed her in another close-to-deadly wave of suffering.

Finally finding what he was looking for, he fled from the social madhouse through a dark tunnel behind a large statue leading to the streets of Paris, his new playground. A gust of wind rush right passed him as he walked through, sending his cape up high in the air long with his new, long braid. (a/n: no, it did not fly off his head… only the braided part blew in the wind…)

End chapter one

Review? Like it? Think it should burn in writer's hell? Let me know, and remember, if you're going to bother flaming, make sure there's a reason. I cannot improve without knowing what I am doing wrong.

Judo: hmm… realistic fiction, ne? Hm, that's a first

Pyro: why oh WHY did YOU have to come back?

Judo: looks slyly because you missed m-

Pyro: I-did-no-such-thing grumbles stupid rules…. You DESERVE to be banned from my computer.

Judo: ah, but I am not…

Judo: whispers don't mind her, she's just pissed that she wrote yet another bad story.

Pyro: ………. I heard that…

Judo: uh…. Oh…