Author's Note: Again, apologies for the delay. Slight hiccup i.e. I moved back home from Scotland - permanently. That's a lot of hassle. Still haven't finished sorting everything out. Anyhoo (no, that isn't a typo). I was going to put more in this chapter (in terms of plot), but it just kept going and going and going . . . so I'll have to give you the good bit next time. Sorry! Should be coming soon though.

Thanks to Lothiel, Melodic Rose, jtbwriter, Freetrader, KyrieofAccender, Ohpoorerik, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, TalithaJ, Passed Over, Timeflies, phantom-jedi1, Spectralprincess, snowflake17, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, Sqweakie the Wonder Mouse, TouchingTrusting and montaquecat for their latest reviews. Extra special thanks to Passed Over for that extra review you sent me. That was so sweet! Thanks again, everyone. Yet again, apologies for the delay, but here's a nice long chapter for you, enjoy! Nedjmet.

Chapter 73

The debacle in the managers' office was unbelievable. Were it not for their incredible track record and the positive evidence he had seen first hand, Raoul would have been quite happy to spend the day convincing his parents to withdraw their patronage from the Ravelle – although given recent events, he was fairly certain it wouldn't have even taken what was left of the evening.

When the Girys had gone tearing out of their house in pursuit of Christine, it had only taken a moment for the shock to wear off before he had followed. This 'Ghost' had a house? And Christine was in it?! He had asked the ballet mistress what hold that creature had over his friend, but now he was almost afraid to hear an answer.

Whatever occurred during a 'Ghost Hunt' seemed to have passed by the time they arrived there, though the effects were clear to see. Stepping inside he, like Meg, was horrified at the state of the place. Antoinette was not immune to the shock either, for it had never been this bad. The door had been broken down, it seemed as if nothing was devoid of stain or damage – some pieces even looked as though they were beyond repair. At least the owner was already furious; otherwise this surely would have caused him to rain havoc down on everyone. Though she wouldn't have liked to put money on it, Antoinette was fairly sure that his mood couldn't get any worse.

Raoul joined them as they called out to Christine. The house was larger than he had expected, but it didn't look like the sort he could get lost in, so he'd headed upstairs, as the other two women covered the ground floor. He had found her sat in a huddle in the middle of the first landing, a weeping rose amidst the litter that had marred the otherwise elegant hallway. Wrapping his arms around her, he'd indulged in a few moments of holding her himself before calling down to the Girys. She felt so right in his arms: his Little Lotte had blossomed into a little angel; and that monster had . . . had . . . well, whatever he'd done must have been terrible to have her in this state.

Though she had allowed herself to be held, it wasn't until Mother Giry had called her name that Christine had actually surfaced through her tears and realised that someone else was in the house. She was grateful for one of her second mother's rare embraces, for she desperately needed to be held – and given whose arms she wished to be in, Raoul just wasn't an option, no matter how sweet he was being. Again.

"Christine, Lotte, what were you thinking? Don't you know this is the Ghost's house?" Raoul asked when it seemed her cries had subsided. The three women glared at him as though he were a complete fool.

"I've been living here since the course started. The house belongs to the Ravelle."

"But-"

"Mr. de Chagny, now is neither the time nor the place." Madame Giry interrupted. "Christine, do you need anything from here?" She shook her head. "Good. I think it's time we got you home. It's been a long evening for all of us." When it looked as though she might protest, Antoinette whispered in her ear that the door was broken and the house was no longer safe. Though she couldn't tell what had happened, she knew he'd been here, or Christine would not have thought twice about returning with them.

Christine allowed herself to be wrapped up in Raoul's jacket and led out of the house. She barely looked at the damage that had been done, being too upset as it was to cope with it – somehow knowing that it would be dealt with regardless.

Sat on the comfy couch in the Giry front room as she nursed a cup of hot chocolate, it almost felt like she was in another world. Surrounded by family, wrapped in warmth and comfort; she could almost forget . . . no. She couldn't forget.

He tried everything he could think of, made every comforting overture that came to mind, and yet he couldn't draw her into his confidence. Gone was the Little Lotte of old who had chased him and with whom he had exchanged all the secrets of his childhood soul. Now she barely exchanged a word, and he felt a new surge of anger towards this spectre, who it seemed was not content to merely haunt the Ravelle. He had tried to spend the weekend with Christine, but she had insisted on seeing no one – again – but finally gave in on Sunday afternoon, though he had had to contend with merely sitting in the Giry dining room. It had taken a while, but she had eventually warmed up to him again, picking up where they had left off before the masquerade.

But it had all been for nought.

As soon as he mentioned the Ravelle, she once more shut herself away. Not physically. She remained sat across the table from him, her hands fiddling a little with her mug, but he knew she was no longer with him. He'd tried everything else. That left the direct approach.
"You're worried about going back." The fiddling stopped. "You're worried about what they'll say." They weren't questions. But when she raised her head and he saw the sheer desolation in her eyes, he realised that she probably knew exactly what they would say, and only dreaded it all the more. He also knew that that wasn't her only concern.

"Don't worry about Firmin and Andre. I'll be there with you." Her eyes lowered.

"That's sweet of you, Raoul."

"But?" She took a breath before answering.

"But there's enough gossip as far as you and I are concerned. It isn't that I don't appreciate everything you're doing. I know how much you're trying to help me, be here for me, but there have to be limits. Especially now." She trailed off quietly.

"Why especially now? Christine, look at me." She obeyed. "I think I know that you avoided me during Hannibal, and now I think I know why." Her face paled slightly, and she tried to look away but he caught her chin and gently kept her eyes fixed on his. "Christine, who is he? What hold does he have over you?" Rising, he moved round to her side of the table and knelt before her, still making sure she was looking at him. "Why did he let you stay in that house? What has he done to you, my Little Lotte?"

For a moment, she looked as though she might break, as though she might answer. In the next, she pushed his hands away and went to stand by the window, staring unseeingly at the landscape that was slowly, bleakly turning to one of winter. Raoul stood behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders, holding her gently – and pretending he didn't feel her flinch.

"Christine, tell me. Let me help you. You said you wanted to be free; you told me so yourself. Let me help you; let me free you from him."

She closed her eyes as he spoke, drowning out the force his voice added to one side of the battle that was being waged within her mind yet again – if it had ever really stopped.

Let me free you from him . . .

Slowly, she turned and with a quiet voice, answered with that same fiery conviction that he knew there was no arguing with.

"You can't. You can't free me"

He had not seen her since. Though she had been asked to attend this meeting, he wasn't sure whether she would be in any state to. Especially not given the circus it was rapidly becoming.

On arriving, it had taken a good few minutes before Firmin and Andre had realised he was even in the room, so intent were they on ranting about the farce this opera was sure to be – or make them, he wasn't quite sure which.

"Madness, this is sheer madness! If we perform this nonsense, we'll be the laughing stock of the business!" Firmin began.

"I've never seen a more ridiculous score in all my life. How in the blazes are the students supposed to perform this drivel?" Andre replied, although Raoul couldn't help but wonder exactly how many musical scores the businessman had read in 'all his life.

"It would be a veritable scandal. Have you seen the libretto?"

"What's wrong with the libretto?" The two managers turned to their young patron; finally realising he was standing in the doorway.

"Mr. de Chagny, so good of you to come in. This wretched business really is unbelievable." Firmin greeted.

"Of course. What's wrong with the libretto?"

"What's wrong with it? It's all trickery and seduction! If we tried to put that on the stage, we'd be disgraced. The students aren't old enough to portray characters like these; it would be indecent. This 'Phantom' is trying to drag the Ravelle down into whatever hole he crawled out of!" Andre answered, greatly relieved to finally get his true opinion out into the open.

"Let me see."

Raoul took the score and read over the synopsis that had been drawn up over the weekend, along with the various notes and copies that had needed to be made if the opera was truly to be performed. Though he was no expert in literature or music, one look at the page in front of him, and he knew that if it were indeed performed, it would make Carmen look like a church picnic! Trickery and seduction indeed, though the emphasis appeared to be heavily on the latter.

"What do we do?" He asked, unwilling to accept that his Little Lotte was to be a part of all this.

"What do we do? What do we do?! We refuse, of course." Firmin stated. "We'll simply go on with our original plans to put on a musical and-"

"And risk what exactly? Or who? From what I've gathered, this . . . man has been terrorising the Ravelle for years and no one has been able to stop him. Now he's finally revealed to everyone who he is, that he's more than just some over-blown theatre superstition, there might finally be an opportunity to end all this."

"What do you mean, exactly?" Andre asked, now thoroughly intrigued.

"I don't know what can be done, yet. But he revealed himself to us, which to me suggests that he's either become very confident, or very careless. Either way, now that we know he's a man, we finally have a chance to deal with him once and for all. For the time being, I suggest we play his game."

"And a clearer solution will present itself." Firmin concluded. The two older gentlemen exchanged glances. This was not what they'd signed up for when they'd agreed to become managers of the world famous Ravelle Institute Theatre. The possibility of actually ridding themselves of this problem – particularly where others had failed – was far too tempting to ignore, and so they offered their agreement with the young patron.

It wasn't a moment too soon, because they were then interrupted by Professor Gardiner together with two of his more vocal students.
"You don't seriously expect me to believe you're going through with this trash? It's an insult to opera!" Carlotta demanded of the two managers, who instantly knew this was only one of the many problems they had been dreading since that blasted score had been 'delivered' to them.

"Miss Guidacelli-"

"Have you seen the size of my part?" Raoul took the offending papers from the young soprano and glanced over them. He had to turn away to stifle the giggle that surfaced when he saw that she had all but been relegated to the chorus.

"It's an insult!" Ubaldo repeated.

"Miss Guidacelli, this has been a surprise to all of us, and obviously we are all in the early stages of dealing with the situation." He began in an attempt to placate her.

"You really think it was a surprise to everyone?"

All eyes turned to Carlotta at her seething comment. They looked at each other, knowing full well who she was referring to. Though it couldn't be clearer that she was speaking out of jealousy, they couldn't deny the implications.

"Miss Guidacelli, whatever Miss Daaë may or may not have known is not the issue. Your concern right now is that there is an opera to be prepared and you have a part in it." Raoul went on, trying to remember what Christine had said about there needing to be limits to what he did for her.

"A part? Is that what you call it? It's an insult to our art." Ubaldo defended.

"If you can call this art." Carlotta mumbled. No one was given chance to comment on the quality of the opera, however, for Christine finally managed to join them, having spent a little time after class chatting with Meg in a vain effort to restore some semblance of normalcy to her day.

"Ah, Miss Daaë, quite the lady of the hour." Andre greeted.

"I suppose we should congratulate you on securing the largest part." Firmin joined.

"She's the one behind all this! She was so desperate for a lead she did all this." Clearly Carlotta had grown sick of everyone skirting around the issue, and had decided to take matters into her own hands, relishing in the opportunity of putting down her rival. Professor Gardiner, outraged by the petty behaviour, tried to defend his pupil.

"Miss Guidacelli, you are in no position to accuse anyone. There is no proof"

"No proof? What about when he said he was her teacher? I heard it, we all did. She knows him"

"Well, Miss Daaë? You have denied knowing the Opera Ghost before, quite vehemently if I remember. What have you to say now?" Andre asked, his tone suggesting the consequences would be severe if she didn't give the right answer.

"I don't know the Opera Ghost." She answered quietly, though none could mistake the conviction in her voice.

"Well, he seems to know you. Unless he was referring to some other teacher you've failed to mention? After all, he has been so generous as to give you the lead." was Firmin's response.

"She doesn't have the voice for it; she could never earn the role. Oh wait, let me guess: you two haven't been having music lessons." Carlotta ventured with a malicious grin, her tone implying exactly the sort of lessons she thought had been going on.

Christine glared at her embittered rival. Without taking her eyes off her, she removed her copy of the score from her bag; the leading role.

"You're really that desperate for the limelight? Then take it!" She threw the sheaf of papers as hard as she could at Carlotta, the force propelling her into the chair behind her. Ignoring the outcries that followed, Christine marched up to her rival and towering over her, went on in a quiet voice laced with more venom than any would have thought possible in the otherwise docile soprano.

"If you want the lead in his opera so badly, fine. If you want to go against his instructions, then you can be the one to deal with the consequences. No matter what you think of me, I never tried to steal any parts from you. All I've ever done is try to earn whatever credit I might receive – and with a clear conscience. Unlike you, I actually object to using my parents' names to get anywhere, because I believe in working for what I get honestly.

"And believe it or not, I don't want any part in this opera anymore than you want it to be performed. You want the lead, you can have it. I'm sure you won't object to Ubaldo pawing all over you in front of a full house." Turning to the managers, she concluded:

"And as for you: I know what I said, and I stand by it. I don't know the Opera Ghost. The man behind all this is a stranger to me. If I'd known any of this would happen, then don't for one moment think I wouldn't have prevented it from happening if I could. I don't know the man who's doing this."

"Then what about his implying that he is your teacher?" Andre asked weakly, a little too stunned by her behaviour.

"You're refusing the lead in a Ravelle production?" Carlotta questioned, clinging to the part greedily.

"She's mad!" Ubaldo joined.

"Christine, are you sure this is a wise idea?" Raoul asked.

"Raoul, I have just had the worst day in all my time here. I've had to put up with name calling, pranks and blatant hatred because everyone seems to think the same thing, and I can't put up with a year of that. And I can't perform in his opera."

"Why his opera in particular, Miss Daaë?" Firmin asked, intrigued by her insistence on that particular point.

"You've read the notes, gentlemen. You know how particular he is about other people's work. Can you imagine what he'll be like with his own?" It didn't even begin to cover her true feelings on the matter, but it was the first thing she could think of that would pacify them.

"Which is exactly why I shall be supervising this production, Miss Daaë." All eyes whirled round in surprise to find Dr. Poligny in the room.

"But sir, with all due respect, the Ravelle would surely lose its reputation if this drivel were to be played." Firmin stuttered.

"May I remind you, Mr. Firmin, that I am the Dean of the Institute, and the Chairman of the theatre. Whilst you and your colleague run the theatre, you do so at my discretion. Now, given recent events, and the tentative nature of the Ravelle's reputation at present, I have decided that this opera shall go ahead, and we shall be following the Ghost's instructions."

"Dr. Poligny, surely you're not giving in to this-"

"Mr. Andre, I have been Dean here since the Ravelle opened, which means I have been dealing with the Opera Ghost longer than anyone else in this room. I was appalled when you so blatantly disregarded all of his instructions after the advice I gave you when you first arrived. Still, whatever the cause, we have this situation to deal with. And it shall be dealt with professionally, and according to the requests of the composer. Do I make myself clear?"

A unanimous, if rather lacklustre 'yes' was given.

"And as for it being drivel; allow me to remind you that the reason I am Dean is that I have always been a student of music. I have consulted with Paul Reyer, and he shares my opinion of this opera: it is far and away the most brilliant and ambitious work we will have ever done. At present, a lot of it will be beyond the calibre of the students, but if they work well, they should be able to pull it off. As for the content: I believe the quality of the music will make up for any misgivings you or the audience might have. Miss Daaë, if you are finished here, may I have a word with you?" That said, he left; his tone suggesting the Miss Daaë was indeed finished there, and so she followed.

He led her back across the campus to his office – which really was disturbingly familiar to her, given the degree by which the other students knew it, or rather, didn't.

"Thank you for coming all this way, I know the trek can be tiresome, but I thought this room might grant us a little more privacy."

"Sir?" Privacy from whom?

"I don't believe there are any who would consider eavesdropping on this office."

"Thank you, sir." She said in relief.

"Miss Daaë, my first concern in anything that occurs here is the well-being of the students and staff. Any concern for the Ravelle itself has always been secondary. Given all that has occurred recently, I find my concerns directed primarily towards you. I heard what you said about 'not knowing the Ghost', both to the police and just now. I have to say, whilst I believe you are telling the truth, I cannot believe you are telling all of it." Christine lowered her eyes.

"Please understand me, Miss Daaë: I have already told you that I respect the Ghost and have tried to adhere to his wishes in the past, but only because that has never jeopardised anyone in the Ravelle. I do admire the suggestions he has made previously, and in all honesty, I would be honoured to have his opera performed here. But I must know the reservations you have. Do you fear that he will harm you?" Christine's head shot up.

"No!"

"I doubt few others in the Institute would say that with such conviction." Her face paled. "I'm not trying to trap you, Miss Daaë. Now, I cannot promise absolute confidentiality – obviously, I cannot conceal anything that might put other students in danger – but beyond that, anything you say in this room will not go any further. Tell me, Miss Daaë: why are you so opposed to taking the lead in this opera?"

Christine studied the man in front of her. There was no doubt in her mind of how supportive he was being to her, and the fact that he wasn't condemning her Angel spoke volumes. But where to begin? How was such a question to be answered?

"I don't know the man who's doing all this, Dr. Poligny."

"Who do you know?" He asked carefully.

"My teacher. He gave me back my voice. He's taught me and guided me since the start of the course. He knows me so well, and when I'm with him, it's as though I've found a half of me that I didn't even know was missing. But I don't know the man who's doing all this."

Dr. Poligny nodded his head, finally understanding her denials, even in the face of such overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

"You do not know the Ghost, but you know the man behind him." Christine nodded in relief that someone finally understood, and without her needing to betray her mentor further.

"Why do you not want any part in this opera, if it is the work of your teacher?"

"It isn't. It's the work of the Ghost. I've read it, and . . ." and what? When she had read it, it was a wonder the pages hadn't burnt in her hands, there was so much fire contained within the notes. Don Juan was the ultimate seducer in opera, and her Angel, the man who seemed to embody all that music was, he had written a true Don Juan. And she was to be his Aminta.

"Miss Daaë?"

"It's the ultimate seduction, and the ultimate betrayal. He wrote it for me, I know he did. I can't do it. I'm so afraid of what it means he thinks of me, what it will mean to him if I perform it; what it will mean to him if I don't."

The old Dean rose and discreetly offered her a handkerchief, silently allowing her tears to subside a little before he proceeded.

"Miss Daaë, forgive me for distressing you, but you will understand shortly why I am asking these questions. Do you fear him?" She raised her eyes and looked at him emptily.

"I don't know. I fear what he could do, what he will do. I'm not afraid of him harming me – I know he wouldn't do that."

"But you fear him hurting you some other way." Her eyes spoke volumes, and he realised that a lot of damage had already been done.

"Miss Daaë, I'm afraid I received a note this morning." He said, pulling the envelope out of his jacket pocket. If the paper hadn't been unmistakeable, the blood-red skull certainly was. "It was the usual recommendations – well, more than usual given the circumstances – but I'm afraid that once again, you were mentioned rather prominently."

Closing her eyes as though that would shut out the inevitable, Christine asked.

"What does he say?"

"He states that you will be playing Aminta, and should anyone else attempt the role, they will do so in a cursed house."

"I wish I could say I'm surprised, but he wouldn't have given up the score unless everything was the way he wanted it." Poligny wondered at her response, that it was so lacking in condemnation.

"He also says that once it is habitable again, you are to 'return home'. I assume he is referring to the house that-"

"That I've been living in since the start of the course."

"I understand you've been living with Madame Giry since Il Muto."

"Yes."

"Why would he object to that?" Christine mulled it over, her eyes widening a little as she realised

"He wants me back under his wing. He wouldn't dare go near Madame Giry's house."

"Miss Daaë, I said earlier that we would be adhering to his demands, but if you object to returning to that house, then you will have my full support." Ignoring the usual code of etiquette when with the Dean, Christine rose and moved over to the window, seemingly unable to think otherwise.

He told her so long ago that he had never invaded her privacy, and she knew that still held and would continue to hold firm; she had no concerns about that. Strange, how she now dreaded the fulfilment of the promise he had made a year ago: that he would never leave her.

If he says he has forgiven you, then you are forgiven, Christine. He never says anything he doesn't mean. But be careful: he doesn't forgive easily, and he doesn't forget easily.

He never says anything he doesn't mean . . .

After all that they had shared, all that he had shown her, given her, offered her; he would never leave her. The truly terrifying part of that was that no matter what he thought of her or she of him, she knew the promise would still stand true. If she didn't go back to the house, there was no telling what he might do in retaliation. If she did, then she knew he would be watching; she would be near him again. Short of the opera, it was her only chance to find her Angel.

Turning back to the Dean, she surrendered once more.

"I'll move back as soon as it is ready."

AN: PS, writing so much of that from the fop's point of view had my skin crawling, so if anyone else was annoyed by his presence: you're not alone! Sadly, it was necessary. . . Oh well. Thanks again. N.