A/N: Thank you, everyone who has been reading! I encourage you to please review, even if you hate it. This is not an easy story to write and I would love all the feedback I can get.

I do not own Charles or Raoul. I do own Charles Jr., Rosalind, and anyone else who was not mentioned in Leroux, Kay, or ALW.

If I had any thought that Rosalind might warm up to her son, those hopes were quickly and effectively dashed by the time Charles was three weeks old. She staunchly refused to be in a room alone with him, would not cuddle or talk to him, and would only feed him if I somehow obscured his face, which I managed to do with light blankets. But I knew the day was coming where that would not be enough, and I would somehow have to explain to my son the differences that would separate him from the world.

I had tried to employ a baby nurse- three, as a matter of fact, but after the initial interview, after meeting Charles, I had nothing but three clever excuses why they simply could not handle employment at the de Chagny residence. And, after the third girl, a nervous redhead who seemed to be looking every place but my eyes when she declined employment, no one would come for an interview, either. Rumors run rampant in a city like Paris, and soon word had spread that Charles de Chagny, the handsome concert pianist, had fathered a monster.

A monster! How it pained me to hear those words attached to my son, my only flesh and blood! And yet, how could I deny it? Of course he was human, but his face suggested an otherworldly origin, and I wondered what sort of life he could have at all. He hardly ever cried, rarely demanded any sort of attention, he hardly seemed to be hungry most of the time! I had no idea how to care for a baby and my wife had no idea how to be a mother, it seemed.

I dreaded the day Father would arrive from London, didn't want to see the look on his face when he met Charles for the first time. I could only hope he had come prepared for the worst, only then might he be able to understand. I knew it was a futile hope, but I clung to it like a drowning man does a life raft, praying someone would be able to understand and make sense of this madness. Each day stretched on into eternity, and I had no idea what I would do when it came time to return to work.

The day Father was to arrive, Rosalind and I had a terrible fight. She, once again, was refusing to feed our son, as he had grown adept at pulling his blankets off. And I had had quite enough at this point.

"What is the matter with you?" I yelled, my patience sapped by long nights of little sleep. "He's your son! Your only son! I don't understand why this is so difficult for you to grasp!"

"Are you insane? You don't understand? Have you been struck blind?"

"Have you been struck on the head? He can't help how he looks!"

"And I can't help how I feel about it!" I stared at her. Was it possible I had never seen how selfish she really was? I looked at my wife a long moment, trying to see something that had connected us, but it was gone, seeming to have died with Charles' birth. I could not see her beauty anymore for her demeanor, and the charming wit and demanding attitude that had seemed to charming when we were courting and first married was nothing more than an extra millstone now.

"I don't care how you feel!" I retorted, realizing I was entirely serious. I had never felt anger like this before. "I won't have my son die because you're being an infant over this!"

"I don't believe you," she hissed. "Do you know what they're saying about us? About your son? And you expect me to act like everything's fine! Well, I won't have it!" She turned on her heel, grabbed her cloak and stormed out of the house, nearly colliding with my father as he descended from his carriage.

My father was not an old man, only in his early forties, but ever since mother's death, he had seemed to age a little more quickly. That meant nothing where his mind was concerned, however, though he might drift off into some unknown memory from time to time, he was sharp as a tack.

"I see you've managed to keep the peace," he said with a chuckle, watching Rosalind hail a passing cab with a glare in my general direction.

"Yes, I daresay," I said dryly. At that moment, Charles began to cry again, and I knew he must really be hungry. Well, it would have to be a bottle again. I didn't anticipate Rosalind home any time soon.

"Is that my grandson?"

"Yes, father, that would be him, demanding a bottle, it would seem," I said, trying to delay the inevitable, but it was not to be. He walked past me and followed the sound of the cries until he reached the nursery door.

"Father-" I started, but it was too late. He was looking into the cradle, his back to me, and I saw his hands clench into angry fists.

"That bastard," he muttered, though I was not sure I heard him correctly.

"Father?" Father stood for a long moment, his hands clenched. Finally, he gave a long sigh and turned back around.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Raoul

That bastard! I thought we were done with this long ago, I thought this little play had come to an end! But it isn't enough for you, is it, Erik? You gave me 23 years to dwell on this, and just as the wound began to heal, this!

I had no idea what emotion might have been playing on my face, and I had no idea what to say to my son. But he isn't your son, not really, the inner voice that had taunted me so many years ago challenged. I thought that voice had gone away so many years ago, but here it was, once again. I knew only that Charles should not know about this.

Charles relieved me of my duty to answer.

"It's an awful shock, isn't it?" he said grimly.

"Yes," I managed, struggling a bit more than I'd have liked.

"Father, what is it?" Father! And this boy would call me grandfather! I thanked God that Philippe had never fully known the story of the Phantom of the Opera, only what inaccurate tales the papers had told.

"Nothing, son," I said as normally as possible. "I am sorry about this. I hope you will manage to give him as good a life as possible."

"So then…you think he will live?" He did not say it reluctantly, rather with a curious tone that suggested no one else quite believed he would see childhood.

If he's anything like his grandfather, I daresay you'll see another fifty years at least from him, I thought to myself, but quickly banished the thought.

"Something in his eyes," I said, as convincingly as I could. "Something tells me there's a reason he's here."

And perhaps, short of tearing my family apart, there really was.