A/N: Reviving this again… why not, right?

Disclaimer: Still don't own any of this.

Christine barely paused to drop her things before allowing herself to collapse onto her bed and close her eyes. The Bowling For Soup song that was blaring out of Meg's stereo lessened in volume to more of a dull roar.

"Soo, how did it go?"

"Idowannatalkabouit." Christine burrowed her face into the pillow.

"That awful, huh?"

"I was an idiot to even go out there." She opened her eyes to find Meg seated next to her, looking sympathetic. "How could I have expected any teacher to take me without a penny to my name?"

Meg frowned. "Don't you have some sort of inheritance or something? I mean, your father was famous and everything."

"Famous, yes, but he always believed that having more money than necessary would give us big heads or something. We always had enough to live comfortably, and the rest of what he made stowed away in case of emergency. A lot of that went to medical bills and funeral costs. I have enough for tuition and general expenses, but I can't possibly afford lessons at the prices they ask nowadays, and with my course load I don't have time for a job."

"Oh." Meg murmured, and they both fell into silence for a few moments, before Christine pulled herself upright.

"Alright," she said, determination in her voice. "I won't sit here and wallow in self-pity. I have better things to do. I have tests to study for, homework to do."

"Charity Gala to sing for," Meg interjected.

"Yes, Char—what?!" Christine's eyes widened. "Oh my God, that's tonight isn't it?!" Every year the local theatre held a huge party, complete with performances by the local artists. The proceeds went to a different charity each year. Christine, being the kind soul that she was, had volunteered to sing for them this year. She silently scolded herself. How could she have forgotten? She'd been preparing for weeks for this. She supposed the teacher trauma today had made it slip her mind. Looking at the clock, she was relieved to find that she still had enough time to shower and properly prepare before she had to be there. She groaned at she dragged herself off the bed.

The house looked darker than he remembered it. Granted, it had always been rather menacing – its size and state of disrepair seemed to give it that "haunted mansion" look as seen in the majority of cheesy horror flicks – but it had never loomed over him in quite that way before. Passing it off to the dreary weather – anything could look unfriendly under such a dark sky – he located his key and shoved it into the lock with an ease of long-time habit. The familiar abandoned foyer greeted him, the foot-prints from his last visit still dimly visible under the thick layer of dust coating the room. He followed them, not paying mind to the myriad of other abandoned rooms along the corridors, until he found himself at a dark wooden door. Again locating the proper key and unlocking it, he pulled open with a creak.

It was cold. It was always cold. He shivered as he closed the door behind him, cautiously making his way down the stairs into the thick blackness.

"Generally, it is considered appropriate to knock before barging into another's home." The voice seemed to have no origin, but it contained a note of displeasure. Several notes, in fact. Perhaps even a chord or two. He could hardly suppress the shiver that ran down his spine. That voice… there was something very unnatural about it that he could never get used to. One did not hear such a voice with their ears… but with their soul. It wasn't an altogether comfortable sensation, but he had to admit there was a terrible beauty in it.

"And a lovely afternoon to you, also. Surely you don't mind an old friend dropping by?"

"Oh, of course not, my dear friend." Sarcasm joined the displeasure. "And here I though you'd forgotten about little old me."

"You aren't exactly an easy person to forget, Erik." A thick silence fell between them, and he rubbed his arms. "How do you live in this cold?"

"Next time, bring a coat. Now I hardly think you've come to inquire about my preference of temperatures. Why are you here?"

"Just checking up on you, that's all." He looked about, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness, for the most part. The normally neat room was in a state of general disarray. The same could be said of its inhabitant. "We should go out tonight."

Erik raised an eyebrow, lip curling in a sardonic smirk. "Daroga, are you asking me on a date? I'm flattered, but I'm afraid I have to stay home and wash my hair. Perhaps another time."

"No, Erik. You've been holed up in this blasted house for far too long. You need fresh air, a change of scenery for a night."

"I really don't think--"

"You have no choice in the matter. Clean yourself up and meet me upstairs. We are going to the Charity Gala, whether you like it or not."

"How," Erik asked, turning to the other occupant of Box Five, "exactly, did I let you talk me into coming to this bloody…thing?"

"You didn't. You had no choice in the matter."

"Ah, yes." Erik fell into silence for a moment as he sunk back into his seat, listening to the pianist on stage. He winced as she made a painful mistake. "Daroga? Have I ever told you quite how I hate you so?"

"Oh, shush, it's not that bad. They've sounded rather nice." Erik glared at him as she made another mistake. "Well, most of them…don't worry; there are only a few performers left." The girl ended her piece, and Nathan clapped politely for a few moments before checking his programme. "Christine Daaé," he read aloud. "Maybe she will be better? Hm…Daaé. The name sounds familiar. Wasn't there a musician by that name? A..."

"A violinist," finished Erik. "One of the best of our time. Died nearly ten years ago, I believe." He watched her come onstage.

He had to admit, she was quite beautiful. Pale blonde curls framed her porcelain-white skin, blue eyes sparkling under the stage-lights. She looked something like an angel. She closed her eyes, and began to sing. Erik sat up, his expression softening behind the mask. She was rather painfully untrained, but he did not find himself cringing at the sound. She had a near-perfect instrument . . . a crystal clarity of tone, perfect pitch, and no weakness in either register. But she seemed almost reluctant to use it; there was no passion in her song… only a sort of deep sadness. He was sad to see her song end, and stared dazedly at the stage for the duration of her applause. Nathan turned to him, grinning smugly.

"I told you they aren't all bad,"

"Daroga, she was..." The next performers had come onstage, but he paid them no mind, Christine's song still ringing in his mind.

"Ah yes, now I remember her…" Nathan said after a pause. Erik looked at him out of the corner of his eye, brow raised.

"You've met?"

"Yes, earlier today. Nice girl. She was rather distraught, you see, she was having trouble finding a voice teacher and she ran—"

"What?!" Erik fought to keep his voice at less than a shout. "How could anyone reject such a beautiful…" he trailed off, pausing for a moment. "Perhaps you could help her." Nathan raised a confused eyebrow, almost invisible in the dark. Erik continued, "You could tell her of someone who would be willing to teach her, free of charge."

"Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?" He did not wait for an answer. "You are a bloody fool, Erik. The risk… I mean, if she…"

"I'm well aware of the risks, Daroga."

"You can't afford--"

"I," said Erik coolly, "will decide what I can and cannot afford to do."

Nathan sighed. "I can't help you again."

"I highly doubt I will need your assistance, daroga. Except, of course, telling Miss Daaé about her new teacher." There was a long silence before Nathan spoke.

"Fine… but I still think this is a bad idea," Nathan protested, but Erik said no more.

"Miss Daaé!"

Christine let out a sigh as she turned to face the speaker. No doubt another audience member come to congratulate her on her performance. All the compliments made her uncomfortable, but she smiled and said "Thank you" nonetheless, counting the minutes until she could leave. She saw, however, that the speaker was none other than the man she'd run into – literally – just hours earlier. She smiled and let out a small laugh.

"Why, imagine running into you again, Mr…."

"Kahn. Nathan Kahn." He shook her hand warmly. "Listen, about finding you a teacher…I think I may be able to help."

Christine raised an eyebrow quizzically. "What sort of help?"

"I brought a friend of mine to the performance tonight. He was… well, blown away by your performance; he wants to teach you. He's quite good…a master of all things musical."

Christine sighed inwardly. She could not possibly pay for the skills of a musical maestro. "I'm sorry Mr. Kahn, but I can't afford--"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. He is willing to teach you for free; he only asks that you keep it a secret."

Christine frowned. This whole thing seemed a bit strange; it was simply too good to be true. She did not know either of these men, and had no reason to trust them. Who could say what they truly wanted, if there was a teacher at all. If Mr. Kahn had brought him to the performance, why did he not come to speak with Christine himself?

"I know this sounds awfully suspicious," he said, apparently noting her disbelief. "But it's not as strange as it sounds. He is just a bit… eccentric. He wants his privacy, that's all. I promise you, I am telling the truth." He raked his hand through his hair nervously before digging into his pocket. "Look, you can trust me. It's my job to help people." He held out an object; Christine recognised it as a police badge. She took it gingerly out of his hand, inspecting it closer. It seemed real enough, although she'd never actually seen a real one before. She handed it back to him, satisfied of its authenticity.

"Listen," she said, "this is really great, and I appreciate it, but I need to think on it a bit. Can I possibly get back to you?"

"Sure," he said, giving her his card. "Just call me when you've made up your mind. Thank you very much." He tipped his hat to her, and left.

Three days later, Christine still had not called Nathan Kahn. She picked up his card from where it lay on her desk. She'd called the police station, and there was indeed a Nathan Kahn. But something about this still seemed funny. Surely, though, it wouldn't hurt to just meet this teacher? She hesitantly picked up the phone and dialled the number. It rang for a long time, and Christine contemplated hanging up. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, after all—

"Hello?" She heard a voice on the other end.

"Hello, Mr. Kahn? This is Christine Daaé, from the other night."

"Oh, Miss Daaé! I've been hoping you would call. Have you made up your mind about my offer?"

"Yes…I guess…I guess I could…meet with him." Her stomach gave a tiny twist, and she hoped she hadn't made the wrong decision.

"Oh, wonderful! Are you free tomorrow?"

She closed her eyes as she thought over it. "Er…not 'til 6."

"Six is fine. He really wants to meet you."

"Where are we meeting?"

He gave her the address, which she wrote on the other side of the paper with his number. It seemed familiar…now she remembered what it was. "The old Baladere mansion? I thought that place was abandoned." The old house was said to be haunted, many of Christine's friends had sworn they heard eerie music coming from it late at night.

"And haunted, I'm sure you've heard. The stories people can make up….No, it's not abandoned, and certainly not haunted. Erik simply doesn't go out much."

"Erik?"

"Your teacher. Okay, so I will see you tomorrow at 6, I'll be there to introduce you."

"Okay. See you then."

"'Bye." Christine heard a click and then silence. She slowly pressed the "TALK" button on her phone, and set it lightly on her desk. Tomorrow she would meet this mysterious maestro, this Erik.