Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera. Gaston Leroux does. (sob) And Andrew Lloyd Weber owns the musical… although I'm trying to get him to adopt me…

A/N: Greetings to all fellow Phantom phans. This is my first phanphiction, so please review copiously! This is also my ultimate (hopefully) anti-clichéd Erik/Christine romance. Some clichés which I hope to avoid are the following (so let me know if you see any hint of one):

#1. Raoul goes nuts.

#2. Raoul becomes an insatiable womanizer, an abusive husband, a drunk, or all three.

#3. Christine is a self-confident, power-wielding modern-woman-vixen in disguise.

#4. Christine is a Playboy bunny in disguise.

#5. Erik was messed around with in sick ways by his cagekeeper in the fair.

#5. Erik is a nice guy. This one is the worst! Okay, so he's attractive, seductive, dark, sexy, Byronic, mysterious, dashing, mostly good-looking, dominating, dangerous, mesmerizing, strong, clever, powerful, dramatic, manly, and worthy of many hours of drooling. But he is not "nice." Although he would be nice to have around… (smiles dreamily and slips into wild phantasies)

(clears throat)

Anyway. This is based on a little bit of Leroux, but mostly the 2004 movie. It starts during the second-to-last scene in the movie, when Meg picks up the mask. And everything in the movie does happen – including the very last scene – but fellow Erik phans, don't throw anything at me yet! It's not at all like you think. So read on. And please review!

-River Nymph

PROLOGUE

Meg stared at the mask, rubbing the smooth white leather with her fingertips. So this was the end of it all. The end of the Opera Ghost, the lover of trap-doors, the Phantom of the Opera. The end of the Opera Populaire itself, if nobody was able to get the fire under control. She turned the mask over and over in her small hands, looking curiously around the Phantom's home – the Phantom's lair, she corrected herself. Homes were for people, with ordinary lives and ordinary faces. Lairs were for predators…

A sudden noise made her jump. A burly stagehand had emerged from behind a tasseled portiere, looking rather unsettled. "Are there any signs of… him?" Meg asked. Her own voice sounded strange to her, and she cleared her throat.

"We shan't ever find him, you know," the stagehand said solemnly, and, after a cursory glance around, continued in a low voice, "for he's a ghost, you know. A regular wraith. He's here now. He'll always be here." And his eyes roved around the room, rather as though he expected the Opera Ghost to materialize through a wall. Meg swallowed.

"He is only a man," she said, in a voice that sounded much braver than she felt, in the hopes of convincing herself as much as the man beside her. Ridiculous! – she would not allow herself to be frightened by a superstitious stagehand. She was no longer a mere impressionable ballet brat, she reminded herself. If she did not keep her imagination in check, she would become as delusional as Christine. "Only a man," she said again, and realized that she was repeating herself, as thoughts of Christine filled her mind – Christine terrified, struggling in a gloomy tunnel far below with that monster. Or worse, entranced by him, trapped in his musical spell.

The stagehand chuckled. "You've much to learn, mademoiselle," he whispered, and hastily scanned the room once more before lifting his torch a bit higher and disappearing behind a thickly embroidered tapestry. No sooner had he departed than three young ballerinas tiptoed in. They hurried over to Meg and inquired after Christine in hushed voices, as though, like the stagehand, they feared that the Ghost could overhear them.

"I don't know where she is," Meg replied anxiously, suddenly realizing that she was whispering as well.

"He's taken her, hasn't he?" stated the smallest ballerina, who could not have been more than ten years old. Her voice was solemn, her grey eyes wide. "The Opera Ghost."

Meg did not reply, but gazed at the embroidered tapestry as though looking through it. She noticed that along the border stretched a continuous pattern of carefully stitched roses, with blood-red petals and intertwining stems, each marked with the Phantom's signature black ribbon.

"Meg?" the little ballerina repeated. "Can she ever come back?"

Meg again did not reply, but bit her lip and walked out to where the majority of the mob was engaged in looting the lair. Something crunched beneath her feet, and she noticed for the first time that the floor was littered with shards of broken glass.

"Meg Giry!"

She whirled around. Madame Giry was standing behind her, hands on hips and with a furious expression. "I will not ask why you have disobeyed me and come down here. We must return at once; the fire is spreading and it may be difficult to get out." She seized Meg's wrist.

Meg jerked her hand away. "But we must find Christine! We must." The tears that she had been holding back since her arrival coursed down her cheeks. "If he still has her-"

"Then she is safe," Mme. Giry interrupted. "Look around you. Look at this." She pointed to the eerily realistic life-size model of Christine, stripped of its wedding dress but still modestly covered in a white corset and chemise. "He loves her. He will not harm her."

"Will not harm her?" cried Meg in disbelief, her eyes glued to the mannequin. "He is a murderer. He kills people. He killed Joseph Bouquet! And Piangi! Onstage! And – and that mirror-door, into Christine's dressing room – him watching her in there, in the tunnel - all the time – frightening her – that's not love – he's obsessed – crazy - how can you defend him?" By now she was sobbing. "How dare you defend him?"

"I have known him far longer-"

"Is he a good man?" demanded Meg tearfully. "No! He is cruel, he is-"

"Do not speak of what you do not know," Mme. Giry murmured.

"I know enough!" Meg snapped.

"Are you acquainted with his tunnels?" Mme. Giry replied harshly. "Do you know his snares, his trap-doors? I know that you love Christine. I love Christine. But you cannot find her, and even if you could, you could never take her from him." She paused. "No one can; she is his now."

"So we give up. You've always been resigned to this, haven't you? He's gotten to you too! We've let him win enough now. I won't let him have Christine. I won't. I won't!" cried Meg, trying to tug her wrist from the motherly hand that had once again snaked around it.

"My first duty is to you," Mme. Giry said, and for a moment it seemed her calm façade let through a tiny ray of fright. "I cannot let you into harm's way. It is true, he – he is dangerous. I am not going to lose you."

"But what about Christine? Do you want to lose her? She has always been a daughter to you; we are practically sisters! Please." Her lips quivered. "I can't let her die," she finished quietly.

"He will not kill her."

Meg glared at her mother. "You don't know that." By now she was only half-listening to herself, only half-believing the words that she was spewing out. "He could do anything. Anything at all." Fresh tears sprang up before she could stop them, and for a minute she wept silently.

"There, there," Mme. Giry said at last. "Just come back up. It is dangerous here, with this rabble."

And Meg followed her mutely to the bobbing boat by which she'd arrived.