Hi everyone! I can't believe it, but I forgot the disclaimer last time and I used direct quotes from Susan Kay's wonderful book Phantom without crediting her! Shame on me! Well, this is for everyone who was planning to sue me:

Disclaimer: If I owned it, would I be writing fanfics about it?

So there you go. I had no idea what to call this installment, so I just wrote something random. More than 50 people saw the last chapter, and only 5 reviewed! And 3 of those people I told personally that I had a fanfic up and that they should review! I feel so unloved (cries)! This is the chapter where two important characters are introduced. One is a lot of fun to write about. I hope you enjoy her, too! Now, without further ado (wow! a rhyme!),

Chapter 2: Somewhere new

"Sir?"

Is that a voice? Talking to me?

"Sir, you need to move. Are you awake?"

That's a good question. Am I awake?

"Can you hear me? If you could lift your torso up a bit, it'd be a big help."

That voice sounds like a child's. His eyes opened a little so they were just slim slits between his lashes. There was dim light, but he couldn't make much out without opening his eyes wider. He felt sick, and was tired, so he shut them again.

"Oh, just move already!" there was a pause "Fine, I'll move you myself!" He felt hands grab his shoulders and pull him roughly up into a sitting position. There was the shuffling sound of pillows being moved around. After a few seconds of fumbling, he was dropped back onto the pile of pillows. Pain flared in his rib cage, and he moaned quietly before he could stop himself. "Suck it up, boyo." Definitely a child.

Whatever happened next, he didn't know what it was, because he passed out again shortly after being moved. When he woke up again, he found he had the strength to open his eyes completely and look around at wherever he was.

It was a small bedroom. The walls were not painted, but they were made of beautiful oak wood, and were polished so they reflected the light of the single candle on the bedside table. He was on a bed and was covered by a light blanket. Old strips of cloth were wrapped around his abdomen. A little girl with dirty blond hair and a round face who could have been no older than nine was slumped over in sleep with her head resting on his mattress. As soon as he noticed that he was not alone, his hand flew to his face. He ignored the pain in his ribs that came with the sudden movement. He had not been wearing his mask when he had been taken from the opera house by who-knows-who, so he must not be wearing it now . . .

His fingers touched cool cloth. As he felt around his face, he realized he was wearing a make-shift mask made out of an old wet cloth with eyeholes cut in it. He sighed with relief and dropped his hand. A horrible idea struck him, and he lifted the blankets and looked under. He was wearing the same pants as he had last night (or what he had assumed was last night, as he had no two clues how long ago Don Juan Triumphant had been), and they were still just as dusty and sooty as they had been then, too. So they had not taken the liberty of changing/cleaning his pants for him. That was a good sign. But someone must have seen his face, or they would not have covered it. His eyes flew immediately to the girl on the chair by his bed.

He stared at her for a few minutes. She did look tired. Exhausted, actually. That would explain why she had been so grumpy earlier. If it was the same girl from before, anyway. Chances were it was. He wondered who her guardians were. They must be very courageous; he thought, to take me in. Or very stupid.

For a moment he considered the idea that they were just good people who did not know he was an insane genius-murderer and had heard him yelling that fateful night and brought him into their home out of the goodness of their hearts. But he dispelled that thought immediately. No one was crazy enough to take some random man from a burnt building and into their house, no matter how good they are. Especially from L'Opera Populaire. It had to be all over the news. Or at least the rumor of the opera ghost would be enough to make someone think twice about bringing him into their home and keeping them around his family.

There was a long time were he was absorbed in his thoughts. The realization that his stomach was making hungry squelching noises was the thing that snapped him from his reverie. He was starving. Who knew how long it had been since he had eaten last? The few days before his opera debuted, he had not eaten anything. He had not been nervous, but he had simply spent the whole time with his music, his brain swimming in an ocean of dreams about Christine. I will have her. He had thought. In a matter of hours she will be mine. I will win this battle . . .

He had lost.

The memory struck him so hard he fell back on the pillows like something had really hit him. For the past months, he had worked, thought, breathed, lived, sang for Christine. He had loved someone. His life had been centered around the girl. A wheel cannot roll without an axis. He could not live without her. He had had that hope that she would one day leave the world of light and join him.

It had been a childish fantasy. He had known that. But he had still wanted it.

Teaching to love, love to obsession, and obsession to death.

Suddenly, the little girl moved and brought him back from the dark labyrinth of his thoughts. She lifted her head, blinking blurrily. After rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, she turned her head to look at him. Since his eyes were closed again, she assumed he was still asleep.

"Are you ever going to wake up?" she muttered irritably "The fever's gone. There's no need to sleep for another day!"

"Clearly, you are not keen on the prospect of speaking to me at this time, so may I talk to your parents or whoever takes care of you?"

The girl jumped back when he spoke. "Alright then, maybe you are awake." There was an awkward moment when the two just stared at each other. She did not seem as scared as he had thought she would be. Actually, she looked more curious . . .

"PAPA! THE SLEEPING MAN'S AWAKE AND HE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!"

He cringed at how load she could yell. There was a moment of silence, and then footsteps could be heard coming from outside in the hall.

"Genny, please don't shout like that when there are sick people in the house. I've had enough noise as it is from Madeline, I don't need any more from you . . ."

A tall man walked into the room and pulled up a stool to sit next to the girl by the bed. He looked to be about forty, but it was hard too tell. His dark hair was sticking out at strange angles. His face was pale, it almost looked unnaturally so. It looked as if it had been drained of its colour some years ago after receiving some terrible news, and he had never properly recovered from the shock. His eyes were pale with exhaustion, even more than his daughter's. He was not aging well, as wrinkles were already beginning to form around his eyes and mouth.

"Hello." He said finally. "I see you've already met my daughter."

"My name's Genevieve!" the little girl piped up.

"Yes, Genny, we know. My name is Henri Boufard. Genevieve has been taking care of you for the past three days while you were sick. Yes, a little girl has been tending to you. She's good at nurses' work, too. She's a natural . . ."

"But I don't work on Sundays or Bank Holidays."

"Genny, ma chere, could you step out for I minute while me and . . ." his voice trailed off there was a moment of awkward silence again, until the man on the bed realized he was being addressed. He hesitated, then spoke.

"Erik. Just Erik."

"Yes. Erik and I would like to speak to each other. You run along, there's some fresh bread on the table in the kitchen, if you'd like to have a snack." Genevieve gave Erik one last look, then rushed out of the room and out of sight. The two men sat there for a minute, Erik staring at Henri, Henri staring at the floor. Finally, Erik broke the silence.

"Why did you take me in?"

Henri looked up. "I heard yelling in the opera house. I came in and saw you, and took you here, to my home. I couldn't just leave you there, you know. My older daughter was in the building when the chandelier fell. She burnt her leg badly, and I had been at the hospital visiting her. When I was walking home, I heard you. Why did they leave you behind?"

He has no idea who I am. Erik was unsure whether to be glad or not. He also was unsure of how to answer his question. He came up with the only answer that seemed convincing. "I was trapped under my seat and they didn't see me. I managed to pull myself out eventually. I assume that's when you found me."

Henri nodded slowly. "You're lucky. My daughter's fiancée was killed in the fire. They had been in the front row." He sighed. "I suppose I should let you rest." The man stood up and walked to the door. "If you need anything, just call Genevieve. I should go visit Madeline again, and see if she's ready to come home." He closed the door behind him.

Erik lay there, and a new emotion, one he had not felt since the night he ran away from his mother, wrapped itself around his brain. "Almost killed" . . . who knows how many people had died because of him?

With a new place comes a new feeling.