Author's Note: Thanks to Timeflies, montaquecat, CarolROI, Lothiel, Melodic Rose, Ohpoorerik, mikabronxgirl, Aisalynn, jtbwriter, KyrieofAccender, Lady Winifred, phantom-jedi1 and Spectralprincess for their latest reviews.

Well, by way of apology for such a short chapter last time - even though you did seem to enjoy it - what's this? Two chapters in two days? And a long one! I got tired of waiting, plus I had time on my hands, so you guys get to reap the fruits of that. 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 72

It seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

That boy had chased after him, plunging into his dark world without a thought for the 'mercy' he was placing himself under – no doubt imagining himself to be the white night riding in to slay the beast. The temptation to taint his blade with the pup's crimson life had been almost too great. But it was too easy. He had already taken life for her once. To do so a second time, and so soon, would ruin everything. Besides, he had never stained his blade, never taken life with bloodshed. He was no butcher. Instead, he had contented himself with tormenting the foolish youth, toying with him by casting his voice around, concealing himself within mirrors.

Perhaps it was cowardly, but 'merciful' was preferable. At least he hadn't driven the boy to madness – simple as that would have been. No, it had ended far sooner than he had anticipated. The sight of Antoinette intervening had reminded him of another, and thoughts of her had driven him back into the shadows.

And in the shadows he remained. The shadows of his domain. He hadn't walked the halls of this house – his house – for what felt like an age. But it wasn't just his house. Everywhere he looked, he could see the sign of her; every breath of air he took was filled with her scent. Like a fool, he stood there drinking it in, remembering her at that ridiculous dance – ridiculous but for her presence. And like a fool, he had not thought that she would be there. Oh he had no doubt he would see her again, once rehearsals began for his opera. But to have her so near!

It seemed he was destined ever to be weak where she was concerned.

He clenched his fists at his side, quashing the storm that raged within. He would conquer this. He would take back his theatre, and he would bring his rose home. She was a child of Music, she was Katie's child, and she was his rose.

She was his.

His ears pricked up as he heard footsteps approaching. They were not hers, and there was more than one set. His mouth twisted into a cruel grin. So, they thought they would continue with their other traditions, did they? Even in the absence of that odious swine that passed itself for a man, they still went on with the hunt. Ah, of course! Now that they had finally seen the Phantom who had haunted them so long, the thrill of the chase was begun anew.

So be it.

With a swirl of his cloak, he enveloped himself in the shadows. No matter what they thought or had seen, he was still the Ghost. And in spite of his recent lapse, he still knew how to play his part.

She moved towards the house almost in a daze. Not that she had ever really left it. She didn't notice the chill of the night air as it cut through her dress. Nor did she pay any attention the few times her ankle went over on those high heels. All she thought of was the ball. Or more accurately: her Angel. He had come out of the shadows, had revealed himself, reclaiming the Ravelle in the process; and had revealed to all and sundry the secret she had tried to keep for his sake. They knew he was her tutor. They knew she knew him. And no doubt she wouldn't be allowed to forget it.

Was this part of his plan? In taking back the Ravelle, did he no longer feel any concern for . . . what? Her? Or had it all been about her voice? The music?

She couldn't believe that.

Whatever the reason for his constantly pushing her away, she knew there was more to his behaviour than that. Or he wouldn't have held her like so carefully, so possessively at the Masquerade. And she certainly didn't imagine the way he had looked at her or touched her, even in front of everyone.

And so she found herself silently slipping in the back door of the house she had come to call home over the last year. It desperately needed a clean, seeing as she had been staying with Mother Giry since Il Muto, but Christine didn't care about that now. This was the one place she could think of to look for him. And somehow, she knew he was here.

She made her way through the kitchen, trying to keep her heels quiet on the hard floor. The house was so silent! When last she had been here, it had been saturated with his music . . . with their music. And now, the one thing she dreaded, that she thought would never happen in this place had become reality: the house was silent. Why did his absence feel like her father's death all over again? She knew the answer. And now she had to convince him of it. To remind him of what had been only a few short months ago – a few months that felt like an eternity.

Making her way over to the doors that led to both the dining room and the entrance hall, she caught a glimmer of movement. Hurrying over to the front of the house, she saw a whisp of what looked like a cape disappearing into shadows she couldn't define.

Then she heard them.

No!

Not again. Not this year. Not now.

The Halloween Ghost Hunt. But of course.

Now they had a real ghost to catch.

Raoul sat in the Giry house, still somewhat shaken by his attempt to catch that . . . that thing. Whoever it was. Antoinette watched him closely. The boy tried admirably to mask his feelings, his fear, but he was not so well practiced as Christine. Or her other charge.

"Madame, who is he?"

"Who?" The reasons for his dislike of the boy could not be more obvious to her. But after such reckless behaviour, she too felt some unease about what, if anything she could say to the young patron.

"The Opera Ghost. This Phantom who keeps terrorising the Ravelle. You must know something." He urged.

"No more than anyone else."

"Then why did you know where to find me?"

"I have been ballet mistress of the Ravelle since it opened. There are many secrets a place like that can reveal over time." She answered easily, remaining stoic in her visage.

"So why did no one else come?"

"Why would they? Who else would choose to follow someone who has 'terrorised the Ravelle' so effectively and for so long?"

"But you did. I'm not a fool Madame. Please, for Christine's sake. Who is he?"

That did it. No matter what her promises, her daughters came first. But her promises still stood.

"I met him many years ago, when I was a dancer. He was just a boy, but even then he lived in hiding. He had suffered much pain and rejection by the world, and yet he still showed promise; he was a prodigy. Now he is a genius. A musician, composer, architect, magician. I have kept his secret all these years, and he has guarded my dancers and done the Ravelle a lot of good."

"How can you say that? The threats he has issued-"

"That has only become a matter of concern recently. He is not to be trifled with, true. But few have before. His advice has been good, and those who truly know of him know that much of the Ravelle's good name can be credited to him."

"Whether he is responsible for that good name or not, he is certainly responsible for its ruin. Surely you can see that genius has turned to madness."

Antoinette remained silent. In truth, she didn't know how to answer that. Part of her hoped that the boy was wrong, that it was just his temper acting up again. But part of her knew that he had never gone this far. No one like Christine had ever been involved in it all before, and so part of her couldn't help but wonder if Raoul was not giving voice to supposition, but to reality.

"What hold does he have over Christine? I know he's mentioned her in his notes, but why has he singled her out so completely?"

"I do not know."

"Madame-"

"She is as much of a daughter to me as Meg, Mr. de Chagny. In truth, I do not fully understand either why he singled her out, nor his recent behaviour towards her. I took her away from this place over the summer because of it, and I should not have to tell you that I will continue to protect her by every means I can."

"I meant no disrespect, Madame, but so long as he is at the Ravelle, will you be able to do enough?"

She was spared the pain of having to answer as Meg burst into the room.

"Maman, has- Oh! Mr. de Chagny, I'm sorry. I didn't realise we had company."

"Please, call me Raoul." He answered as Madame Giry rose to once again try restoring some of Meg's decency from that costume.

"Maman, where's Christine? I've got to tell her something." Antoinette's movements finally stopped.

"I thought she was with you. You followed her?"

"Yes, but she said she was going home. I tried to come with her, but she told me to go back to the party. I did try, but- she's not here yet?"

"What's all this?" Raoul joined in, now on his feet. "Where's Christine?"

"Maman?" Meg asked her mother, worried at her anxious face.

"What was it you needed to tell her?" The ballet mistress asked in a whisper.

"They've gone on another Ghost Hunt. I wanted to make sure she had everything here. Maman, what is it?" she called out as Antoinette hurried out into the hall, reaching for her car keys.

"Madame, what's the matter? Where is Christine?" Raoul joined Meg, realising that something was very, very wrong.

"She didn't come here. She said she was going home, you are certain of that?" Antoinette took hold of her daughter's shoulders, the action bidding her to be absolutely sure of her answer.

"Yes." Antoinette's shoulders sank in resignation.

"Come. We must hurry."

"Maman, where is she?"

"She's gone back to the house." Meg's eyes filled with horror. She knew the stories of the Ghost Hunts. After tonight, if Christine were caught up in all that, there was no telling what would happen, what would be done to her.

"What house? Madame- Meg, what house?" Raoul asked, getting no answer from the older Giry. Meg looked at the patron, wondering whether to tell or not, wondering what her mother would think. Seeing only concern in his eyes, she answered.

"The Ghost's house."

They were everywhere. Swarming all over his house like parasites, showing as much regard for the place as they did for their performances. Their numbers had increased this year, as numbers were wont to amongst vermin. They were spread throughout the house, and his usual tricks did not have quite the same effect. In some cases, his prey would turn tail and run as soon as they heard his voice whispering in their ear. But then they would return with others, and the search would continue. The bolder ones simply drew more to wherever his voice had supposedly been coming from.

No, these were not the usual drunken stagehands. These were determined.

This could be fun.

He moved from the shadows concealing him and slipped into the passageway where he had retrieved . . . her last year. Taking a slightly different path, he found himself behind the door under the stairs. This time, his whispered taunts were scattered as far and wide as he could manage, sending them running all over the floor. It wasn't long before genuine doubt and fear began to seep into their confidence.

Satisfied that mayhem was ensuing, and their endeavours would cease before long, he made his way imperceptibly to the next floor. His music room was thankfully undisturbed. None would have escaped his wrath had the door so much as been tampered with. Concealing himself from their eyes in one of the more out of the way alcoves, he repeated his pattern. Soon they were alternately murmuring and crying, and were it not for the fact it would have given him away, he would have been cackling in delight.

His mood was brought to a halt though, when he saw a very familiar flash of blonde hair.

Before they had burst through the door, Christine had run – well, as close to running as she could manage in those shoes – and tried to hide. Not that there was much time. She managed to duck into the dining room as the door crashed open. Fleetingly she hoped the lock hadn't been broken, because she doubted the school would be inclined to fix it this year. The footsteps and voices spread out. A few sounded drunk, but most sounded like they were out for blood. Quite frankly, which was the lesser of the two evils was uncertain.

As soon as she heard steps approaching her retreat, she moved back to the kitchen, utilising the time she'd spent here to conceal herself as best as possible. The house seemed to have been designed to contain a myriad of hiding places, and she probably didn't even know the half of it.

Suddenly the atmosphere changed. She could feel it, though she wasn't sure of exactly why. Until she heard an all too familiar voice whispering in her ear. Checking she remained unseen, she looked around, vainly hoping she could find him. Wherever he was concealed, perhaps he could only hear who to speak to rather than see, perhaps . . . the stairs! The door where she kept leaving notes. That had to be it. Someone crashed past her and she shrank back. When next she dared to look out, she saw a flash of black disappearing up the stairs. Knowing it was him, she ventured out of her hiding place, creeping past everyone – not so difficult given the efficiency with which they had been distracted.

She made her way up the stairs, trying to remain inconspicuous, but the size of the house meant that she was fairly well in the open. She'd just made it onto the landing and was about to move to what she knew she would be well hidden when someone's head turned around – their expression making it obvious that it was because of a a certain voice – and she was seen. Vainly she tried to disappear, but her teacher had never gotten around to giving that lesson. As she fled, she heard cat-calls and voices calling after the 'Ghost's girl' – although there were a lot worse that were called out. She ran down the hallway, looking for a room to hide in that they wouldn't think of, but they were all too obvious. Hearing the many footsteps hard at her heels, she raced up the stairs, even knowing that she was effectively cornering herself.

She turned the corner up the stairwell, tripping a little, but was not given chance to right herself properly when a hand grabbed hold of her arm, another clamping itself over her mouth as she was yanked back against a very solid body. The pull backwards continued when suddenly, the lights began to be replaced by darkness. She began to struggle, her old fears resurfacing instantly, when a voice whispered in her ear:

Christine

Her movements froze. The hold, though remaining firm, relaxed on her slightly, allowing her to turn. There he was, resplendent in all his dark glory: her Angel, looking down at her, an unreadable expression on his face. The skull mask had been replaced with the familiar white one, and he was no longer guised as Red Death.

The sound of their pursuers became louder, and reaching behind her, with one quick movement he pulled her tight against him and closed the panel, shrouding them in darkness, one of her hands resting on his chest as a reflex. Their closeness was a necessity, the space being too small otherwise. Shutting her eyes, trying to block out everything except the man who held her, she let her other arm reach up slowly and return his hold as she brought her cheek down against him. Feeling him start, she was relieved when he made no movement to discourage her, and even with all the noise outside; all the footsteps and calling, the sounds of their house being torn apart, even amidst all that, in the darkness she was able to relax against her Angel.

He stood holding her, unable to do otherwise.

What was she thinking, coming here?! Why was she not with Madame Giry? Surely her guardian would not have had it otherwise, especially after their last 'conversation'?

He knew the moment she had been spotted and had pushed aside his plan, instead focussing solely on finding her. It was no surprise that she had struggled against him. And his holding her was a matter of necessity, given that this little hide-away was only designed for one. But when she had returned the embrace . . . she was content to be in his arms? Or could it be she actually feared the darkness more than him? Did she even realise the temptation that she offered, standing in his arms in that seductive gown? The Rose of the Night, wrapped in his embrace. Of course she didn't know. That's what made her so . . . Christine. She couldn't know the torture even the scent of her hair was putting him through, the feel of her soft body against him once more, her hand over his heart . . . his heart in her hand.

No.

Her fingers had proven far too careless.

At length, the house finally quietened down again. How long they had been stood there, neither knew. And neither cared. In spite of whatever doubts or issues were in their minds, the pleasure of holding each other was too much to worry about anything else. He waited a few moments, just to be sure, before reaching forward and opening up the panel.

Still she stood there.

He looked down to check that she hadn't fallen asleep, but her posture indicated otherwise. Pushing her away, gently this time, she finally looked up at him, releasing her hold. She looked into his eyes until it became clear that he was waiting for something. Eventually, she caught on, and looking away rather bashfully, she turned and moved out of the small space, back onto the stairs. By the time she'd turned around, the panel or door or whatever it was had been moved back into place, and she couldn't even tell it had been there.

Turning away from her scrutiny of the wall, she saw him looking at her, that same unreadable expression on his face. It was only a moment before his features locked into a stony mask and he headed back down the stairs. She managed to follow him down to the first floor landing before her heel went over again. The instant he heard her cry, he whipped around and caught her. He held her there, above the ground for a few moments, there eyes locked, both breathing heavily, before he pulled her up harshly, righting her on her feet again.

Moving away to the other end of the hall, with his back to her, he asked tightly.

"Why? Why did you come here, Christine?"

What answer was there? If she had truly lost him, if he no longer cared for her, was determined to push her away, then there was nothing she could say to persuade him. Experience had proved how implacable he could be.

"Why?" He demanded, facing her this time.

"You said I still had much to learn." She stammered.

"And you wish for a music lesson at this time of night?"

"You tell me. You were the one who bid me return, so I have come." He moved towards her as he answered, circling her like a hawk.

"How very noble, Miss Daae: coming as a Rose of the Night to tempt its master into keeping his schemes at bay; braving the traditional hunt to prevent any further wrath being poured out upon your colleagues. And just how should I reward such self-sacrifice?"

Her head lowered as he all but spat her name. She fought back tears when he mentioned her gown – he was the only one who hadn't needed to ask what she had dressed as. He was the only one who ever understood. Except now.

"Stop it." The whisper, though quiet, was nothing short of a command.

"Stop what, Madame?" He asked, mockingly, stood in front of her now. She raised her head and met his gaze straight on.

"How is it you can write the most heavenly music, run a theatre like no other, command the respect of so many; how can you show all the signs of being a genius and still be such an idiot?" His eyes flashed, the fire blazing, though now it was undoubtedly in anger.

"You dare-"

"I dare." She shot back, matching his glare with her own. "Why can't you realise that I came because you asked. I came to see you." Almost shouting in frustration, it was her turn to move away with her back to him. Whirling around, she met his dumbfounded expression and continued.

"I came to see you because I've spent months thinking you'd rejected me, even though I've lost count of the number of times you promised you wouldn't leave me. I came to see you because I thought maybe you were finally willing to let me back in, or at least tell me what I'd done to you. I thought my Angel had returned to me."

Her voice trailed off in a choked whisper as the tears came upon her, though she still refused to let any spill.

Still, he stood dumbfounded. She had wanted to see him. She had wanted to see him! She'd feared his rejection, had wanted to return, was willing to be obedient again . . . She still didn't know. Still she wondered what she'd done, which meant she never knew how she had betrayed him. Could it be she saw no crime in turning to that boy, in openly rejecting him to others? If that was the case, then she would have no qualms about doing it again.

"Your Angel, Madame? Surely you mean the Opera Ghost."

"What do you mean?" She looked up at him in confusion. Did her words mean nothing?

"I see you have forgotten again: that your 'Angel' and the Opera Ghost are one in the same. Or do you think merely attempting to brush last summer aside will make it go away? I am no child's fantasy, in spite of our earlier lessons. I did what was necessary to shape your voice. You of all people should know that I am no angel." Standing inches before her, he concluded. "And if you are unable to grasp that, then ask your colleagues. No doubt they will have far more accurate names for me."

Moving swiftly away, unable to look at her when her eyes were filled with pain and betrayal, he began to head down the stairs, but was brought to a halt.

"My Angel truly is gone." Was there no end to the pain she could inflict on his heart? Her broken voice tore at it anew.

It was all he could do not to turn and fall at her feet, begging her forgiveness. Antoinette was right: he had restored her, and he had broken her. And that in turn broke him like nothing else. Her rejection of him was easier to bear.

No.

She was doing it again. Wrapping him around her little finger, bending him to her will.

No.

He was allowing her to do it again. For she could not manipulate him; she was too innocent for that. It was his own weakness where she was concerned. And that weakness was rising yet again.

He couldn't let that happen.

He had to be strong, had to stick to the plan. She had to learn to accept all of him, or she could not have any of him. It was the only way. This was the only way for there to be hope. She would see, she would know all that he was, all that he could be to her. Then she would understand.

Slowly, he turned to face her, his mouth set in grim determination and reminded her of his earlier decree.

"Your chains are mine. You will sing for me."

Disappearing in a flurry of cape and shadows, Christine sank to the floor, unable to support herself any longer. Her Angel was gone. And in his stead . . . she didn't know. All she could do as the tears finally burst forth was dread whatever was contained within the pages of his opera.

But as Raoul's arms wrapped around her, she knew without a doubt that her dark Angel was right.

In spite of everything that he had done, all that he had said that night, one fact irrevocably held firm.

She belonged to him.

AN: Sorry if that was a bit angsty. I was trying to explain a bit about what's going on inside both their heads, whilst giving you some interaction between them, a little bit of (possible) fluff and a chance for some things to get out in the open as was requested - and planned originally. Hope I avoided going overboard on the angst front. I will try and get things moving a bit quicker now that he's back though. Thanks again. N.