A/N: Well it was a hard decision to make this chapter go this way! I'm not sure how you guys will react to how I've decided to portray Christine, but hopefully I won't regret writing her this way! Honestly though I'm really still considering it, I might take this chapter down and re write it for next week, if you guys think it doesn't fit. We'll see!

Savannah White: Thanks for the popcorn! I'm glad you enjoyed the previous chapter! Sadly though, there's much more conflict to come for Erik and his leading lady.

Masked Man 2: I always like to think that Erik's feelings are a lot stronger than Amelie's somehow haha, something about the whole passionate musician character. I think Erik has been harbouring these feelings for a lot longer than Amelie, especially all those lonely years in Persia, while Amelie had more or less "forgotten" him.

Shannah: Thank you! I'm so glad you like it!

Aria: He can't be sold to you because he's already mine (yeah right hahaha). I'm so glad you enjoyed the story! Seeing your review really made my day!

Wild Concerto: -squeals with you- To be honest, I'm really curious about how their relationship is going to evolve too... I haven't gotten around to writing it yet and it's been a little difficult to write! Music of the Night is Amelie's song now X)

Perriphery: Well I'm super glad you decided to give this story a try despite being a total E/C shipper! I like both kinds of stories, but somehow decided to write a E/OC story. Well being Erik... it's going to take quite a bit to make him confess to her, what with all the inferiority complexes and all. I guess you'll just have to stick around til the end to find out what happens! (;

Guest: Actually, that part in chapter 5 that says Amelie is 8, is a recount of what happened in the 10 years that Erik left. In 1883 Meg was born, and two years later around approx 1885-6, Monsieur Giry died and Antoinette returned to the Opera House, where Amelie greeted her happily. In 1885-6, Amelie would have been around 7 or 8 years old. I'm glad you enjoyed the story though!

Thank you to Spiritus Scriptor for the follow/fav! xx

Chapter 23: The Angel of Music

Paris, 1895

It was night time, and the entire opera house was asleep, with the exception of a few stagehands who were still wandering around the corridors, drunk and trying to find their rooms. With the exception of the one lone girl who had just crept from the ballet dormitories, slippered feet padding softly through the corridors, her hands clutching her skirt nervously.

It had been two months, and still Christine Daae was nervous.

No, not nervous; that would be something of an understatement, for she was terrified. Christine Daae was scared, and yet almost every night she still made her way, alone, to the practice room she had been visiting for the past two months. It was a long, solitary road to the room, and Christine hated to be alone. She had gone down the same route so many times over the last couple of months that she now knew her way in the dark, but there was no comfort in that either. It was still dark, would always be dark, and would always be solitary.

Her Angel had warned her that it would be a lonely path.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Yes, Angel. It has been my dream forever. I have to do this! I have to do this, for myself, and for papa."

"The road to the top, child, is a cold and lonely one," the voice said. "It is a solitary road, one that you must traverse alone, and one that lurks with hidden dangers from the dark corners. And do you still want to do it?"

Christine set her mouth firmly in a thin line and nodded her head. Though she could not see her Angel, she could feel a sense of approval emanating from him.

As always, when she entered, her Angel was already there. She could hear him humming, songs she had never heard before in her life. There was so much he knew that she did not yet understand or know about, but Christine knew that she wanted, needed, to know more. Only then would she be able to stand on the stage as the best opera singer in Paris. That thought alone was the driving force that led her to endure the long, gruelling lessons with her Angel.

"You're here, Christine." The voice was curt, as always. Her Angel had never been one to show much affection. He was a strict and demanding teacher. Christine curtsied clumsily.

"Thank you for coming today, Angel."

"I come every time we are supposed to have a lesson, do I not?" The ethereal voice sounded vaguely amused, and again Christine wondered if an Angel would be amused by such things. There were many things about her Angel that did not seem – for lack of a better word—angelic, but then again she could not think of any other way that a normal man could speak to her through the walls, or know so intimately every single detail of what was going on in the opera house. How is it possible?

"I know you do, but I am always afraid that one day you will not turn up, and I will be left alone again." Christine said honestly.

"You do not have to worry about that. I promised you that I would make you the finest opera singer in Paris, and I do not go back on my promises. We have the same goal, you and I both."

Christine blinked. Do angels have goals? Throughout the past two months, he had mentioned this goal of his quite a few times, and yet she could not fathom why her goal would be the same as his.

"Enough of this talk. We shall begin now." His voice, now sharp and demanding, cut through her thoughts. "We will start with your scales. I hope you have been practising, Christine. For I ask for nothing but perfection."

She had been practising, but perhaps not as much as her Angel would have liked. There was barely enough time to practise, as it was—she had ballet practice most of the time, and she could hardly sneak off to sing without anybody noticing. She faltered on some of the notes as the scales rose in pitch, and Christine thought she heard a low growl of anger from within the walls. She steeled herself, and continued, willing her voice not to break. Her Angel did not tolerate mistakes.

There were moments when she stumbled over the music, and stopped.

"Enough of this lacklustre performance, Christine! Have you already forgotten what I taught you last week?" Her Angel's voice, usually so melodic, now sounded like the harsh blade of a sword. "I teach you things with the purpose of you following my lessons! Are you not putting in enough effort?"

Christine bit her lip and counted to ten inside her head, for she would not cry. She breathed in deeply and held back the stinging sensation within her nose that threatened to let loose a torrent of frustrated tears. If I cry, and if I give up, or if my Angel leaves, I will be left with nothing. And I must stand on the stage of the Palais Garnier.

This is for papa, and for myself. For my Angel of Music.

The thought gave her the determination to continue, despite repeated yawns and a dull, aching fatigue within her bones.

By the end of the lesson, Christine was very much out of breath, and tired.

"You're exhausted and cannot sing any longer. Go back and sleep."

"Wait!" Christine flung out a hand, as if to stop an imaginary being from moving. "Wait, Angel."

There was a pause, and Christine was afraid he had already gone, but then he spoke again. "What is it, Christine?"

"Will I…" She swallowed nervously. "Will I ever get to see you, Angel?"

"See…me?" The voice now sounded confused. "Why would you want to see me?"

"Well I—" Christine twisted her fingers nervously. "I've always wanted to meet you, Angel. You have taught me so much, and without you I would still be nothing. Without you I would still be alone, with no means to carry out my papa's dream. Please consider it the most earnest request of your student, Angel! It would mean so much to me if I could meet you once, just once."

"I do not think that will be a good idea, Christine." The letdown was gentle, but laced with a certain hardness. As though the speaker was bitter about something.

"But Angel, please!"

"My answer is no, Christine. No." The words were cold and flat, and Christine's heart jumped a beat in desperation. She could not explain to herself why she so terribly wanted to see her Angel in person, but she wanted to. She had to know if this angelic voice truly belonged to a celestial being walking the earth, had to find out if her Angel was truly what he called himself.

For all of her naiveté and sorrow, Christine was not stupid. She believed in her papa, yes, and she also believed in the stories her papa had once told her, of the Angel of Music who would visit those so inclined in the art of music to grant them with the greatest talent of all. But Christine was not foolish enough to think that she of all people had been granted the grace of the one and only Angel of Music—she knew she had talent, for her papa had always said so, but she doubted that she was that good that an Angel would bestow her with his presence.

I believed it at the start, but the more I think about it, the less convincing it becomes. It makes no difference whether or not I find out whether he is truly an Angel, but I need to know. I do not know why I wish to find out, but it is something I want. If he is an Angel, then everything continues as it is now. If he is not an Angel…

"Angel, please, just once? I do so wish to see you, my teacher! I would even come down for lessons daily if you would just agree to let me see you."

Something in her voice – the desperation, perhaps – must have made the Angel reconsider, for his tone softened considerably with his next words.

"Perhaps after your first performance on the stage of the Palais Garnier." His voice sounded a little wistful.

"Oh, thank you so much, Angel! Thank you!" Christine stared around the dim room, hoping that her Angel would be able to see the gratefulness in her eyes.

"I said 'perhaps'. The matter is not confirmed, Christine, but certainly not before you debut." His voice was firm now, the voice he used when he was teaching her, the voice he used when he meant business.

"I will practise harder, Angel, and I will stand on the stage of the Palais Garnier in no time." Christine called out determinedly before she left the room. "Just watch me."

As she left the room, she thought she heard his laughter. "Take care of yourself in the darkness, Christine."

His words warmed her heart, and for the first time in many months, Christine did not feel alone.

She felt warm.

XXXXX

The pillow was soft and downy, and the bed was comfortable, and all Christine wanted to do was sleep. It was difficult to do that when somebody kept slapping her all over. She opened her eyes blearily to glare at the offending person, with her mop of blond curls tumbling messily over her shoulders.

"Christine, wake up!" Meg Giry tugged at Christine's shoulder once more. "You will be late again if you do not hurry, and Maman will not like that at all!"

"Meg, please do go away…" Christine tried to burrow herself deeper into the covers, but Meg yanked the covers out from under her with the experience that suggested that she had once been the victim of many such actions from Madame Giry. Christine tumbled to the floor with a loud squeak.

"Goodness, Christine. You've been sleeping like a log recently, but we really must hurry! Maman was so angry the last time you were late that she made all of us repeat our routines way past rehearsals and we ached for days afterward. The rest of the ballet rats will have your head if this happens again."

Christine wearily went about changing into her practice leotard, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and dragging a comb through her tangled curls, wincing at the sharp stabs of pain pulsing through her scalp as the teeth of the comb snagged on yet another tangled curl. When she was done, Meg half-dragged her to the dining hall, anxious to reach ballet practice on time.

When they had settled down at a table with their bowls of porridge, Meg poked Christine with a spoon. "What is going on with you, Christine? You've been looking more and more tired recently, and I've even seen you falling asleep while Maman demonstrates the routines to us!"

Meg sounded horrified, but not without reason—few people dared to fall asleep during Madame Giry's class, less they risked her wrath. Christine shrugged vaguely.

"Ballet practice is tiring, and it wears me out, Meg. You know that." She smiled wanly, and tried to concentrate on her porridge.

"Yes, well, it wears all of us out. But none of us have problems waking up in the morning for practice, and none of us fall asleep during rehearsals!" Meg was insistent on the subject, and Christine bit her lip, unsure how to answer. Her lessons with her Angel had almost doubled in volume, driven by both her determination to succeed, and his declaration to have more lessons because time was running short. Waking up late at night to have singing lessons for hours on end was taking its toll on her body, but she could never tell Meg the truth.

She was saved by the arrival of some ballet rats, who plunked their bowls of porridge ungraciously on the table, interrupting the conversation.

"She's probably staying up late each night to sing." One ballet rat remarked snidely.

Christine swallowed hard. Surely she has not seen me—surely she does not know of my Angel?

"She's always singing anyway, around the corridors, on the way to the bathrooms, what's more singing at night to her?" The ballet rat next to her laughed rudely. "She's probably looking for a place in the chorus."

"Us ballet rats don't sing." The first ballet rat raised an eyebrow condescendingly. "We dance, and Madame Giry sets high expectations for us. Some of us choose not to be disgraces by attempting to pursue what we have no talent in, anyway." She sniffed haughtily and ate her porridge.

Christine said nothing. She looked down at her porridge, spooning another mouthful into her mouth, glad for the reprieve the ballet rats' biting remarks provided her from Meg's questions. Someday I will be standing on that stage, and you will have nothing to say about my singing any more.

I will stand on that stage, and I will sing. And then I will be able to meet my Angel.

Meg, the ever loyal friend, glared at the ballet rats. "Christine sings wonderfully."

XXXXX

Amélie had been passing by some of the younger ballet rats in the dining room when she heard a snatch of conversation that made her stop short in her tracks.

Meg was whispering conspiratorially to the newest ballet rat, a girl named Christine, with a head of lovely brown curls and a face that resembled that of a flawless porcelain doll. The two were of similar age, and had become fast friends upon Christine's arrival.

"Come now, you have to tell me something at the very least! Are we not friends, Christine? Will you not tell me?"

"I couldn't, Meg!"

"Christine!" Meg hissed.

"Alright, alright! All I can tell you is that I am having music lessons with the Angel of Music."

"The—what? Christine, are you fully awake yet? Who is this… this Angel of Music and why is he giving you lessons?"

"I do not know, Meg, but all I can tell you is that the Angel knows all that happens in this opera house, and he has a voice, well, of an Angel."

Amélie froze, her hands gripping her bowl tightly, wondering if she had heard the conversation wrongly. She knew of only one person in the opera house who fit Christine's description, and that person was most definitely not an angel. She had to confirm this.

After the day's rehearsals were over, and before she made her way down to the chapel to meet Erik for their weekly sessions, Amélie tailed Christine out of the practice room, and stopped her on her way back to the dormitories. "May we talk for a moment, Christine?"

"Oh, Amélie!" The girl looked startled, unlike her usual dreamy self. Amélie often spotted her walking through the corridors with a lilting step, a distracted and dreamy expression upon her face.

"Christine, have you been taking lessons from a music teacher?" Amélie made sure to keep her voice low.

Christine looked positively terrified. "I—I, well…"

"You can tell me the truth, Christine. I will not let anyone else know. I simply need to know who this teacher of yours is." Amélie patted her shoulder reassuringly, her doubts growing stronger as she took in Christine's dumbfounded expression. "Who is this teacher you speak of?"

Christine bit her lip and looked down. "I cannot tell you who he is, for fear that he abandons me. I will be all alone if he does that!" She looked at Amélie pleadingly. "Please, Amélie, tell no one!"

Amélie swallowed hard. "Alright. I will tell no one. I just want to know two things—what does he sound like? What does he look like?"

Christine smiled dreamily. "I have never seen him before, but he sounds like an Angel. He is my Angel of Music."

Amélie took a step back involuntarily. Erik?

Christine took Amélie's action as a gesture for her dismissal, and she skipped off quickly to her room, with a last whispered plea to Amélie not to let anyone know about her secret.

Amélie stared at Christine's retreating form, and took to a run. Erik!

A/N: We-ell... before the shooting squad take their places... read/review/fav/follow/let me know what you think! Hopefully reviews won't be that bad! xx hazel