Author's Note: Apologies (again!) for the slight delay. I was hoping to post this yesterday, but (again!) it was really difficult to write, but it's a longer chapter, so hopefully you'll forgive me.

Well, I asked for responses, and you guys were your usual brilliant selves and gave them, so thanks to: CarolROI, montaquecat, KyrieofAccender, steelelf, Lair Lover, mikabronxgirl, snowflake17, Busanda, Rose of Night, jtbwriter, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, terbear, Lady Winifred, grannydaisytoo, Earelwen, TalithaJ, Spectralprincess, Lothiel, Passed Over and mildetryth for their latest reviews. Quadruple thank you to Lady Wen and a mega thank you to melodic Rose for some incredible catch up reading. But to all my reviewers: an extra big thank you. Your responses were so encouraging to me - as always. And they meant so much more because I was nervous about that last chapter, so I'm really glad you all liked it. Thanks again everyone, 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 67

If the thought of being in the Dean's office had filled her with dread before, now she felt little besides terror – something which seemed to be popping up an awful lot of late. This time, though, Dr Poligny was sat by her side. His presence did nothing to ease Christine's mind though, seeing as on the other side of the desk were two policemen who, from their expressions, did not seem to think very much of her at all.

"Miss Daaë, further to an emergency call placed by one Mrs. Giry-"

"Madame." Christine quietly interrupted the seated of the two officers who had begun.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Madame Giry. She'd be insulted if you called her anything else." Detective Milfroid shifted in his seat, a little disgruntled at being corrected by the hitherto silent and timid young woman before him.

"An emergency call placed by one Madame Giry, several of my officers were dispatched here, to the Ravelle Institution, to investigate an attempted sexual assault made against you." Christine's eyes flew up to meet her interviewer in surprise, having not been told of this before. Taking a very interested note in her reaction, the detective continued: "Shortly after meeting Madame Giry, she was called away due to a performance that was being given; a performance which you were playing a part in, and one I have been led to believe was the subject of much controversy."

Christine remained silent, recognising what he was doing, refusing to take the opportunity and give him what he was looking for.

"Approximately ten minutes into the first act, the performance was interrupted by a man's voice; after an attempt to continue, it was interrupted almost immediately by the leading lady's sudden inability to sing. A dance number was brought forward, which saw the end of the performance when the body of one Joseph Buquet was dropped from the flies." Christine could not help the shudder that coursed through her veins as he recounted those awful events so detachedly.

"Miss Daaë? Do you agree with what I've said so far?" Milfroid pressed, still getting nothing but silence from her.

"Yes." She answered with as much strength as she could put into her voice, though it still came out as a whisper.

Amidst all the confusion, it had not been hard for Madame Giry to persuade both the police and Christine that it would be best if she stayed at her house for the time being, not wanting her daughter to be left alone anymore. It had taken no small amount of persuasion to get Raoul to return to his own home, but the ballet mistress was a force to be reckoned with, and so he had eventually been dismissed. However, given the prestige of the Ravelle and the tremendous number of witnesses, not to mention the sinister events leading up to the disastrous performance, Christine's interview could not be put off, and so the following morning found her in the Dean's office once again.

Seeing as Madame Giry had played a part in last night's happenings, she was unable to be present as Christine's guardian – a guardian being required since she was still legally a child. Dr Poligny had been happy to step in on behalf of the Ravelle, but also because he too was genuinely concerned about the young girl who, it seemed, had so unwittingly and unfortunately captured everyone's attention.

"You seemed surprised when I mentioned Madame Giry had called us." Clearly expecting some sort of comment, Christine at last gave in to Milfroid.

"With . . . everything that happened, she didn't tell me. I wasn't surprised that she had, though." She answered quietly. The inspector looked at her steadily for a few moments, assessing her whilst simultaneously making sure she was aware of the fact. To her credit, Christine didn't flinch under that professional scrutiny, not did she look away.

"I've read the statement you gave about your assault. Based on the evidence," he began, referring to the now prominent bruise that darkened Christine's cheek, and the DNA that had sickeningly been taken from various places on her body which matched Buquet's, "I cannot argue that an attempted assault did take place." At her look of indignation, the detective went on. "But you must understand why I would want to. Miss Daaë, these are very grave circumstances which find you at the centre of them. You are what connects the tragedies of last night, and where there is such a strong connection, there is often a motive to be found."

Christine rapidly paled, the full weight of her 'interview' sinking in.

"Inspector, you cannot seriously be suggesting-"

"Dr Poligny, may I remind you that your capacity here is as a guardian to Miss Daaë. Unless you have any serious objections as to how I conduct this interview, I must ask you to remain quiet. Miss Daaë must also understand that this is an avenue of questioning that has to be explored if there is to be any chance of clearing her of any blame." Milfroid answered Poligny's interruption, addressing each of them in turn.

"What do you want to ask?" Christine spoke, her old mask slipping firmly into place, having almost forgotten just how much she needed the distance it offered to survive an interview.

Realising that he now had her full attention, and more cooperation than she had hitherto been offering, Milfroid sat back in his chair a little more, the creaking of the old leather speaking of the power his position in the present circumstances afforded.

"Tell me about this rivalry between yourself and Miss Guidacelli."

"I can only give you the side that I know." She answered carefully.

"That's all I was expecting." She hated being humoured.

"Based on her behaviour, the way she reacted to the recognition she was given because of her mother, it was pretty obvious from the start that Carlotta didn't want or expect anything less than centre stage, no matter whether it was a lesson or a performance. And it's what she was given.

"When the year started, I was effectively mute, but I was classed as a coloratura. She took quite a few opportunities to make fun of my 'situation'. The rivalry started in a lesson where she was asked to demonstrate a song to the class. It had some Gaelic in, which she was told to leave, seeing as she couldn't pronounce it. The piece was very important to me and she was destroying the music, so I took over. Until that point, nobody knew I'd got my voice back. She wasn't very happy to say the least.

"It got worse when I ended up hitting her because she badly insulted my father. He . . . he died a few months ago. We were both offered the finales of the Christmas Concert, but she only got the first act, whereas I got the one at the end of the show. It didn't really help any that her mother is one of the patrons of the Ravelle: I think she felt that should have secured her an easier ride or something.

"The rivalry that you referred to earlier began when I was favoured for, and eventually received the lead in Hannibal, and again in Il Muto."

Milfroid was surprised when she stopped, but no more so than by the amount of information she had offered. Something about her made him believe that it would be easily corroborated by the staff and students.

"You say you were favoured for the lead in Hannibal. Quite an honour for a first-year student. How do you know that was the case?"

"Professor Gardiner told me after the parts were announced."

"And what did he tell you?" The vague nature of her answer was a sharp contrast to the information she had just relayed.

"That he was hoping to cast me in the lead based on my performance in the concert."

"Anything else?" Milfroid was leaning forward now, his anticipation clear even beneath the scrutiny. Closing her eyes, Christine took a breath, knowing where this was going and praying he would understand.

"He mentioned a note he'd received from the Opera Ghost, recommending me for the lead." She answered quietly.

"Recommending?"

"Strongly recommending. He said those recommendations are usually more like instructions." Her voice had all but trailed off completely by the end of her elaboration, knowing that there was little she could do to both satisfy them and clear herself of any guilt in their eyes without placing it all at her Angel's feet.

Milfroid came around from behind to sit on the desk in front of Christine, either missing or ignoring the affronted look of Dr Poligny at seeing his furniture treated with such impropriety and disregard.

"I've seen the note, Miss Daaë. And the similar ones sent regarding Il Muto. I've also spoken to the certain members of both the staff and student body here, several of whom have identified a suspect in the case of Joseph Buquet's murder. Now I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to think very carefully about your answer: do you know the Opera Ghost."

Christine refused to let her eyes leave those of the man seated in front of her, even though her mind was not registering the sight of him.

All night she had been plagued by what had happened, the horrors of life yet again depriving her of her rest. All night she had seen Buquet's face distorted with anger, pain and finally death. And each time she had seen the latter, it had been accompanied by another startlingly white face; but one that had never known life. The leather mask was only half of a face, just as it was only half of the man who had looked down upon the chaos he had created in triumph. That half was the Ghost: the figure who dictated the workings of the Ravelle, who struck terror into the hearts of staff and students alike, who, with no compunction of guilt, humiliated and threatened all those who stood in his way. That was the cold figure who had once again taken her dreams and brought nightmares back to her on the swift wings of Death.

That was not her Angel.

That shadow could not save her from the darkness only to plunge her back into its torrid depths. Her Angel had sought to protect her, to comfort her, to guide her, to care for her . . . he cared for her. He would not do this, surely. The role of Elissa had been won through his machinations, but she had told him what death had done to her, had shown him each of the marks that it had left on her life. Her Angel would not turn his hand against her so violently when only minutes before he had held her with all the care of a father and more.

That was not the Ghost.

And despite the words that had come back to haunt her on the roof mere hours ago, she knew her answer.

"No, Inspector. I do not know the Opera Ghost."

"Miss Daaë, these notes would suggest otherwise." Was that a hint of frustration in his voice?

"I was under the impression he had written several notes before I came here. Do the people who got those know him? Do the people he wrote about know him?" The quiet calm with which she spoke began to grate on Milfroid's nerves. No schoolgirl should be this good.

"Any previous notes did not lead to murder. The last one clearly threatened a disaster, and you, Miss Daaë, are the only link we have in this mess. You are the one who would benefit the most by Miss Guidacelli's inability to perform; you had a motive for revenge against Mr Buquet; and yours is the only presence that has so far been unaccounted for at more than one interval last night. Now I will ask you one last time – and may I remind you that if you are in anyway implicated, you risk facing charges of accessory to murder as well as perjury – tell me, Miss Daaë: do you know the Opera Ghost?"

"No." Milfroid was barely given time to finish his question before she answered. He certainly wasn't given time to respond to her emphatic declaration. "As for what you are suggesting: Madame Giry took me to my dressing room after Buquet attacked me, where I stayed until I was called onto stage. I didn't see Carlotta or go anywhere near her or anything belonging to her after the last rehearsal. After the managers announced I'd be singing, I went straight to my dressing room with Madame Giry because I only had ten minutes to get into a very difficult costume. Shortly after, I returned to the stage; and if you want anymore details, you can ask Raoul de Chagny, Inspector, because I am tired of justifying myself to you when I have done nothing wrong."

"And yet you still managed to be at the centre of everyone's attention." The Inspector mused, trying to push her one last time. It worked.

"I did not ask for any of this!" Christine yelled, springing to her feet, though she was unable to tower over the man.

"Oh, but it worked out ever so conveniently for you regardless, with the exception of last night's unfortunate little incidents." Her interrogator sneered. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself, trying not to break; trying to hold back the tears that were welling up, threatening to choke her again.

"For my parents' sake, I have only ever wanted to succeed because of my own ability, my own talent. I didn't want it to be because of who I am or who I knew. I wanted to earn any success I received. If I could have stopped what happened last night, I would have, and if you don't believe that then you're in the wrong profession, Detective." The last word she spoke with some evident distaste.

"Then why has this Ghost shown such interest in you?"

"I wish I knew." She answered, filled with hopelessness. Why had he shown such interest in her, such devotion if only to hurt her this way? Why had he saved her only to leave her worse off than before?

Milfroid gestured for her to have a seat again, before turning the interview over to his partner who had thus far remained silent.

"Miss Daaë, I am Detective Inspector Lachenel. You said that 'for the sake of your parents', you wanted to earn your way. What do you mean by that?" Christine pursed her lips and looked past Dr Poligny, out of the window, trying to keep up the dam holding the floodgates at bay.

"They were both concert musicians. My mother died when I was six and my father . . . he was killed last summer. But they both taught me well. Amongst other things, they told me that I should make the most of my gift and not rely on their names or anything else, otherwise I wouldn't be worthy of any success."

"And you believe Miss Guidacelli does that? Is that why you dislike her?" She raised her eyes to his, wondering at this new, and gentler line of questioning.

"I never respected her, because it was obvious what she was doing. I only started to dislike her when she went out of her way to bother me."

"You say your father was killed?" Christine's eyes lowered once more.

"Gentlemen, is this really necessary? I'm sure you or your colleagues have files on the matter." Poligny protested, remembering all too keenly the last time this subject had been raised in his office. Christine's soft whispers silenced him.

"A fire started in our home. He died saving my life. And yes, Doctor, they do have files. They took statements from me I don't know how many times." She looked straight at Milfroid as she went on, her voice growing stronger as it hardened. "They pestered me with their questions even though my father had just died the most horrific death, even though I'd seen his body destroyed by the burns he'd tried to save me from. They kept asking me the same things over and over even though I didn't have any voice to answer with. Yes, the fire took my voice. That's why I was mute, though you seem to have forgotten to go over that one, gentlemen. As if what happened wasn't bad enough, they kept trying to make me feel like I was some kind of criminal, even though I'd just lost the one person I loved above everyone else, the one person who gave me any kind of hope in this world – the one person who WAS my world. They wouldn't leave me alone!"

Once more she was one her feet, only this time it didn't matter that she couldn't tower over them; they felt six inches tall anyway.

"Miss Daaë, you have my sincerest apologies, but you must understand-"

"Oh, I understand, Inspector Milfroid. I am the only link you have in this whole mess. I'm the one the Ghost decided to write about in his notes. So therefore, I must be the one who knows what on earth he's playing at. Well I don't! All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that."

He didn't. He couldn't. All he could do was end the interview, attempt to apologise once more and watch with a slack jaw as the young woman left the room as quickly as possible. And later regret his good cop bad cop routine when he read all the reports of the Daaë fire, saw for himself what had happened to her and was then promptly tormented with nightmares similar to the ones she had endured. Though nowhere near as horrific, they still managed to seriously disrupt his sleep for a few nights.

Though every scrap of reason within him was telling him not to, he still went, still listened, still watched over her. It would seem that with his rose, he could do no less. The old urge that had been awoken in him yesterday, once more leapt to the surface as he saw that boy sat outside with Antoinette, waiting for her, as though he had some right to be there. Well, he was certainly not going to be kept waiting outside.

When he laid eyes on her, all thoughts of what happened last night were swept aside as he saw the state she was in. Clearly she hadn't slept, and even more clearly, she was beyond distressed by the situation she was in. Instantly, he found himself loathing the two strangers – policemen – who had apparently affected her so. He found his respect for Poligny growing: he at least was able and willing to properly support Christine.

Christine

Her name slipped through his mind as easily as it had slipped through his lips under that fateful diamond sky. And he remembered her words once more. How easily she had turned to her little sweetheart for comfort. Yes, that was why he was here: not for her; he had to ensure she was not so talkative to these gentlemen as she had been earlier.

That was why.

Curious that they should begin with what went on between Christine and the toad. He couldn't help the smirk that lifted his lips: never had he enjoyed his gift of ventriloquism so much. It soon became apparent why they had chosen that route of questioning: was it really so easy for her to give him away!

No . . . I do not know the Opera Ghost.

She protected him. By denying knowledge of him, she could not be expected to reveal anything about him. Or was she merely denying him again? Washing her hands of him once and for all? She knew he watched and listened within the Ravelle – enough! Forcing his concentration back to the matter at hand, he listened with outrage as she was basically accused of what he had done. Were it not bad enough that his handiwork was being credited to someone else, she was far too gentle to ever attempt such a thing. Nor was her heart capable of the ruthless cruelty necessary for such deeds.

Or was it?

How could she question why he had sought her? Had he not made it plain? When he had taken her to his home he had poured out everything that he was for her, shown her his hopes, given her his music . . . offered her his love. And yet, she brushed it aside with four little words.

His thoughts were interrupted once more as she spoke – or rather yelled – about her father. The fervour of the love she still held for her parent overrode any concern she should have otherwise felt about her voice. The conviction with which she uttered those words silenced any further questions from those fools – and stirred admiration within all those who could hear her. One of whom still could not help but wish she would speak similar words with such conviction about him. He got half his wish as he heard her utter with that same conviction:

All I know is that the Ghost has brought death back into my life again. You tell me, Inspector, you tell me why I could possibly want or consciously play any part in that.

Death.

Not music.

Death.

That's all he was to her. All those times when she had held him . . . kissed him . . . offered him those little signs of affection, of respect: he had actually dared to hope they were the beginnings of something more, something so wonderful he could scarcely even think of . . . love. But now he knew for certain: he was death, from head to toe, all that he was. And she was like everyone else by seeing only that and not the music he had given to her.

No!

Not like everyone else. He had not opened himself up so much to anyone else; not offered so much of his time, his gifts, his heart to anyone else. No one else could have twisted the knife so deeply as she. And like a fool he had let her.

Once more his rage was complete. But this time, it was not alone. This time, it was accompanied by the bitter stabs of betrayal.

He watched her walk away. And let her go. Anyone else would have instantly tasted his wrath. But not her. No. Anyone else would never have managed to get as close as she. Anyone else would never have filled his world, his thoughts, his music like she had.

And that is exactly how he would teach her the price of betrayal.

The work he had begun for her would be completed: but with a new purpose.

Turning, away, he did not even consider seeing that she got home safely: he had his own to return to. His own home, where the music sheets awaited him. Already the black notes filled his mind in frenetic rhythms and crescendos. And those notes were black indeed. Yes, he would complete the work he had begun for her, for she would not defeat him. She would not be rid of him merely with those callous words: he still had lessons to teach. The opera had been filled with love, devotion and reverence. No more. That was the stuff fairytales are made of. And this was no fairytale. Yes, there would be love, but he would show its true colours to the world, the real side of it that life offered: passion, betrayal and anger.

His opera would be worthy of her indeed. His final lesson to his little rose.

The lesson of Don Juan Triumphant!

AN: OK, I'm getting back trouble from ducking all the missiles you keep sending me. I know you were hoping for some ECness, or at least the beginnings of a resolution to the situation. Sorry! This was part of the plan. Rest assured, the wait will not be very long in getting those two back together again (by which, I mean 'in the same room'). I'd apologise for the evil cliffhanger, but I think by now you know that I'm not really. I'll try and get the next chapter written ASAP for you though, seeing as I have a fair idea of what's going on. Thanks again. N.