Author's Note: Thanks to CarolROI, steelelf, Spectralprincess, jtbwriter, Rose of Night, Busanda, mikabronxgirl, montaquecat, Lady Winifred (double thanks) and KyrieofAccender for their latest reviews.

And we've hit yet another target, so here's part one of another double upadte for you.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. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.

Chapter 55

When he had seen the harpy and that drunken prying fool brazenly trespassing on his property yet again, the calm he had previously felt from Christine's presence had evaporated until all that was left was a cold, steely anger – the same anger that was responsible for at least half of the legends about him.

By the time he had made his way inside and tracked them down, they were on the first floor watching Buquet clumsily attempting to break into his music room. Idiot! The keyhole was a decoy and the lock concealed. Knowing that imbecile, he'd probably be at it for a month before he realised it was hopeless.

He was about to begin his usual tricks of frightening them away – no matter how many times he did it, Buquet always fell for them – when he saw Christine inching her way down the stairs. Concealed as he was, there was no way of warning her to go back up without frightening her or risking drawing attention to her. As she quietly passed by them – she really was his protégé, and he hadn't even taught her to be that silent – he made sure that everyone was focused on Buquet. Whenever it looked as though someone's head might be turning in the wrong direction, he disguised and threw his voice into that person's ear so that they thought some progress was being made and continued to watch. Satisfied that she was out of the way, he slipped down the stairs himself, hurrying to catch her and take her to safety.

As he reached the ground floor, he saw her running down one of the back corridors. Why was she not leaving? She could have been gone by now! Then he realised. The room she had put so much love and work into, the room that looked as though it bore everything she had of her parents; she was running to protect it. He did not have time to marvel at the depth of love and devotion she was capable of – the sound of footsteps following his caused him to chase after his rose, concealing himself in the process.

Whilst certain he was not seen, he knew there would not be much time and silently helped her conceal the room. Just as a torch beam fell on her, temporarily blinding her sight, he slipped across to the opposite wall and opened the passageway hidden there.

They were coming.

He tried calling out to her, throwing his voice so that she alone would hear it. The sight of her quivering breathlessly by the dresser reminded him painfully of the first time she had seen him – the first time she had called him 'Angel'. And he knew there was only one way to reach her.

He took hold of her and pulled her into the shadows.

Frantically she began struggling against him, wanting to scream even as he held her silent. Hurrying along the narrow passageway, he held her firmly trying desperately not to harm her, for one sound and their presence could well be revealed – even though there was little chance that they'd be found.

Once they were within the boundaries of his opera house, he released her. Her efforts to get away didn't cease. It was as though she didn't realise he'd let her go until she was two feet away from him. He took hold of her shoulders, turned her to face him and called her name in the firm but alluring voice she always responded to. It stilled her a little, but her face remained filled with panic. Taking hold of a torch, he wrapped his other arm around her waist and holding her hand, guided her from behind. Her eyes kept darting around the tunnels as they moved down towards the underground quay once more. This time he had to lift her into the boat, and though she made no protest, he could tell she would have otherwise bolted the moment he let go of her hand. He lay her down on the cushions and she curled up into a protective ball, her eyes always looking around, always looking for something.

He inwardly cursed the fools who had done this to her. His rose was strong! He had seen her bear so much and yet she was lying before him trembling like a helpless child. Once again, he was struck with a realisation: she feared the darkness. Last time he had brought her down, she had been too absorbed in the music to let it show.

The music.

Though he could have chosen a better setting and circumstances, he knew there was no better time: his rose needed his comfort. Softly, he raised his voice into the first song she had ever inspired in him – the first one he had written solely for her.

"No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears.

"Shamed into solitude, Shunned by the multitude, I learned to listen; In my dark, my heart heard music.

"I longed to teach the world, Rise up and reach the world, No one would listen – I alone could hear the music." His eyes moved from the waters ahead to fix on her now stilled form as he sang with a full heart:

"Then at last, a voice in the gloom Seemed to cry, 'I hear you! I hear your fears, Your torment and your tears!'

"She saw my loneliness, Shared in my emptiness; No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears."

Lifting her gently out of the boat and moving towards the bed where he carefully laid her once more, he echoed again:

"No one would listen, No one but her, Heard as the outcast hears."

She was completely still and calm, her eyes gazing up at him. But those eyes were empty. So he had bewitched her again, but this time into a stupor. Backing away, he went to retrieve a candle – the majority of the place being unlit, seeing as he had not been expecting company. As he retreated into the shadows, Christine's head slowly moved back to staring up at the ceiling, where her gaze had been since he had put her in the boat.

He returned with a candlestick bearing three candles to light the cavern for her. Gently, he called to her, trying to draw her attention to the flames, trying to bring her back from whatever darkness she had become lost in.

"Christine."

She looked his way, her eyes flickering briefly to the candles before widening in horror. Shuffling quickly to the other side of the large swan bed, she frantically covered the right side of her face as she faced away from him. Keeping her face hidden, she began brushing at her right arm and side, the panicked movements swiftly turning into a clawing action that had him genuinely alarmed.

As he moved around to the side she was now on, she began calling out almost wordless protests. She had turned from him, was rejecting him: she feared him. But that did not stop him from taking hold of her shoulders once more as he knelt on the bed by her side, giving her a quick shake and calling her name again, this time putting all the thunder and power he could into his voice: the voice of the phantom.

She woke up from her daze.

Looking at him coherently for the first time since he had returned her to the house, her eyes filled with questions and wonder. Lowering her hand from her face, she looked at it in confusion. He let go of her shoulders as she took in her surroundings, sinking back wearily, though never taking his gaze from her.

As her head turned back to him, her eyes searched his face until realisation dawned. She couldn't stop the tears that fell, didn't even try. Neither did she attempt to hold back the sobs that rose in her throat.

It tore him apart to see her tears. But he did not melt as he ordinarily would have. She had cowered before him in fear, in spite of all she had said, all the hope she had given, and in spite of all that he had done to restore her faith in-

His train of thought was cut off as she crawled into his lap and wrapped her arms around his waist. Burying her face against his shoulder, she proceeded to soak his shirt with her tears. Softly, he held her, unable to do less, unwilling to do more.

Her tears tore him apart.

But her rejection broke his heart.