Author's Note: First of all, a thousand apologies this took me so long. I had to move back home from uni and get settled in a bit before I could get around to writing. But thanks for bearing with me.

Secondly, thanks again to Soignante, Busanda, mildetryth, CarolROI, BadBugz and Spectralprincess for their reviews. You guys are brilliant! Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.

Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 17

The music filled the caverns, echoing off every wall – but not in the cacophony that usually comes from echoes. No, these notes were true music, and even the echo played a part: filling every crack and crevice; suffusing every surface with sound until they returned to their source: the masked figure bent over the keyboard, playing away furiously, unable to keep the notes trapped within his mind. They poured forth with every ounce of skill he possessed resulting in a terrible beauty that could easily have been called divine, were it not so filled with anguish and sorrow, rage and despair.

The music had not compelled him to play so in what felt like the longest time. Music never left him – he had devoted himself too completely to it for that – but it was rare for it to fill him this completely, to the point of overflowing and beyond. He relished every moment of it. These were times when his soul was at peace: when there was nothing and no one in existence, other than himself and the music. If only they were not so rare.

He played on; unable to do otherwise, unmindful of anything else.

Which is why Madame Giry had to strike the ground more forcefully than usual with her cane in order to get his attention.

The music stopped. Like a cat, he jumped up and spun around glaring at her with a heated venom that would have sent anyone else running away in fear of their life. She, however, merely kept her distance.

"I hope, Madame, you have good reason for this intrusion!" Though spoken in a low volume, the deep resonance leant his voice a ferocity that was as sensual as it was terrible.

"Christine."

The name subdued him momentarily. It did belong to the one who had brought the music back to him with such a force, after all. He had been staring at her note and her portrait earlier that day, not realising that his fingers had wandered to the keys until he was several measures in – by which time he could not help but give himself up to it once more. But he would not allow her second mother to see that she could have such an effect on him after so little time.

"Is there any part of my world she will not disrupt? What is it this time?" His voice raised in annoyance.

"You played for her." He continued glaring at her, his breathing heavy both from the frustration he now felt, and the exertions the music had demanded of him.

"Yes."

"You did not simply play in the house. You played for her?"

"Yes, Madame, although you know how I abhor repeating myself."

"Why?"

"Was it not you who said that my playing in that house would not be a problem? That it would be appreciated? Contented as I have become to my solitude, Madame, my music demands more attention than I am capable of bestowing."

She approached him, trying to break through the walls of anger he had built once again as a defence.

"My dear, you have not played for anyone since-"

"Do not speak her name!" He snapped; closing the distance between them, using every power of intimidation he could.

"You mean to mourn her loss forever?"

"Some wounds do not heal with time, Madame."

"You sound like Christine."

He laughed harshly at this.

"I may be a ghost, Madame, but I am not a mute."

The crack that bounced off the walls as she struck him was deafening in the silence that followed. The bitterness and severity with which he had spoken that last word had struck the mother in her with an equal force that prompted her instincts.

At first he was too stunned to do anything. It only lasted a moment. He snatched up her hand before it had fallen, wrapped his own around her neck and slammed her back against the wall.

"You dare strike me!" he hissed.

"You dare insult my child!" Even though her breath was being choked out of her, she still managed to reply forcefully.

He glared at her, which she returned.

He released her. They still didn't break eye contact.

"I meant no insult to her." He respected her too much to do her any harm. She knew him well enough to accept the apology, for it was more than he usually managed.

"She is not a mute." The rebuke for his insult was received loud and clear.

He moved away and sank onto the stool he had vacated only moments before. He looked drained, finally allowing his spent energies from the music to show.

"You played for her." She went back to the original topic, their confrontation being forgotten. She had interrupted him when he had been consumed by his darker emotions after all, and he had accepted her rebuke in return.

"She heard." He spoke with an air of wonder, even now.

"Do you mean to help her?"

"No one has listened since her. I'd almost forgotten."

"So had she."

"I have known nothing in my life so faithful as music. If she is a child of music, then her faith should be restored. Gardiner has not praised a student like that before. I have to hear her. You did not object to her becoming my protégé when we first discussed her."

"Truth be told, I know of no one who could help her so well as you." She put her hand on his shoulder to show her support and approval.

"What else of my life will she disrupt?" He wondered, speaking more to himself than his companion.

"Do you mean to help her?"

He thought of the smile she had bestowed in her sleep. He thought of the dignity with which she bore her situation. He thought of all that he had been told. And one word whispered in his mind.

Angel

With that one word she had reached out to him twice now. All the times he had reached out to the world with his cries, with his music. And now this girl reached out to him.

He turned to the ballet mistress and saw a mother, to whom he simply answered:

"Yes."