A/N: Okay, I know it's been ages since I've updated, but school has been pretty hectic with SACs and assessments up to my eyeballs! Plus, I've had a bit of writer's block and netball finals etc. So, seeing as it's the holidays, here's the latest update, I hope you guys like it and thanks for being patient. Cheers!

A window slamming roused Patrick from his semi-conscious state. The wild wind outside was battering the shutters, causing them to slam loudly against the brick exterior of the house. A spring storm blew gales outside, as Patrick pulled himself up onto his elbows, rubbing wearily at his eyes as he tried to focus them. It was still dark outside, the newly-formed cloud cover concealing the vast beauty of the stars. He rolled onto his back, blinked a few times, then got resolutely to his feet, his hands groping blindly for the lantern. As he struck a match, a soft light filled the room, casting ghostly shadows in the walls and ceiling. After finding the offending shutter, and locking it tight shut, something within his trouser pocket poked uncomfortably into his leg. Patrick reached in, his fingers brushing the rough edges of parchment. Hesitantly he withdrew the object; holding it to the lantern light. It was the Vicomte's letter to Christine. Patrick's eyes widened a little; how could he have been so stupid as to forget to get rid of the note; the only connection still laying between Christine and the life she'd left behind; possibly the last chance for reconciliation between she and the Vicomte.

He couldn't let that happen.

Patrick pulled the door in the glass case open, stuffing the note inside. He watched with grim satisfaction as the parchment began to blacken and curl, finally igniting, and continued to stare at it long after it had turned to ash.

XxXxXxX

Three months later.

Erik kicked his chair out from the table, sitting less than gracefully upon it, and allowed his feet to thud onto the table. He was in high spirits, permitting himself a triumphant smile. He had just handed the final pages of his composition to Martineau, and spent well over two hours rehearsing it with his orchestra. Mr. Worthing had finally mastered the complicated cadenza and innuendo in the opening of Act two, and not one of his violinists had played out of tune. Smirking a little to himself, he pulled the program for the impending opening night across the table, and cast his scrutinizing yellow eyes over it. Emblazoned in fine gold calligraphy across the cover, was the title of his opera; "Night-side Phantasia."

Erik grimaced. He had been at a loss these past three months over what to call his masterpiece; it could not, after all, have no title. Several suggestions were made to him, yet none seemed to capture the essence of the tragedy, a score that Erik had poured his soul in to. Though he was still highly dissatisfied with the title, it was by far the best suggestion. He threw the program back onto the table, extricating himself nimbly from his chair and wandering thoughtfully around the room.

His light footsteps led him to his piano, where his long fingers trailed lovingly across the keys; caressing the sleek ivory. It was a fine instrument made of rich mahogany; one of the conditions he had made with Martineau on accepting the position. It did not touch base with the grandiosity of his beloved organ, rusting away in the dank cellars of the Opera House, but it would do. Erik frowned; he did not want to think about his cherished organ, it was part of a past he was determined to leave behind him… whatever the cost.

XxXxXxX

The bright spring had given way to warm summer, warmer than usual for London, though Christine was gradually adjusting to its temperature. She could scarcely believe that nearly four months had passed since she had left Paris, and she had had no word from Raoul. She frowned at the thought, her heart giving a small, yet painful ache.

She didn't miss him, in the sense, though she would give anything to have the old Raoul back. No, it was more coming to terms with the fact that he obviously cared so little for her as to not enquire after her health and well-being, that hurt. For all he knew she could be dead! Christine turned her back furiously on the window, nearly ripping the curtains clear from their rungs and returned to her dreseer.

"Christine?" Meg knocked quietly on the door.

"Come in Meg," Christine called from the dresser table, beginning to pull ribbons through her hair.

"Christine you look beautiful," Meg beamed.

Christine turned and smiled at her friend, taking in the midnight blue dress she wore, the low cut of the neck-line and the matching jewelry that adorned her neck. The blue brought out the colour of her eyes, making them sparkle even brighter. "Look at you, Meg; I don't think I've ever seen you look more beautiful."

Meg blushed a little, producing two tickets from behind her back, "are you ready to go? Maman has just ordered a carriage." She flashed Christine a smile.

"Arriving in style, are we?"

"Well, what else would you expect, Christine? This is a premiere! We have to look classy and elegant."

Christine giggled, putting on a mock snobbish tone, "why? Because we're such lovely, eligible, well brought-up young ladies?" she sobered, "I still can't believe you and Madame Giry spent so much money on these tickets."

"Now Chrissy, we're not going into that conversation again. As maman and I have repeatedly explained to you, we have been saving for a while, and dear Chrissy; it's not every day my best friend turns nineteen." She handed Christine her ticket, "Happy Birthday."

Christine's heart warmed. It had been a long time since she had felt this happy.

"Now come on!" Meg urged, "or you'll have made maman's and my labour for nothing!"

XxXxXxX

Erik stood idly on the balcony staircase; over-looking the arrival of the hundreds attending the premiere of his newest opera. Martineau enthusiastically greeted the distinguished guests and high-ranking aristocrats, Distinguished, he smirked; they know not what it means to be truly distinguished.

"Fools," he muttered under his breath, as he drew his opera cloak closer around his broad shoulders; his superior ears listening to its faint shimmering over the polished stone.
Erik hated crowds, and even more so, he hated the 'meet and greets' that came with the opera business. He was a solitary craftsman, a solitary man who wanted to compose and be left alone. For the first time, Erik felt anxious about the reception of his work; this was his one chance to cleanly break from the life he had known in Paris, to show the world a fragment of the genius he knew to possess.

He peered indifferently down into the gathering crowd below, scrutinizing the frivolity and arrogance of the upper-society; not one woman, he observed, was content with who she is without an array of jewels and furs, and her nose held high enough to add at least six inches to her height. Every face looked the same.

Snorting sardonically, he took a step back from the balcony, turning his back on the society he knew he could never be, nor desire a part of.

XxXxXxX

Christine descended the steps of the carriage gracefully; aided by the hand of the footman. Her long chocolate-brown evening gown trailed elegantly behind her, as she retracted her nimble ballet arms from the footman's grasp. She blushed as a pair of gentlemen to her right eyed her considerably; whispering amongst themselves. Meg soon followed suit, nudging her friend as she noticed the attentions of the gentlemen.

"Naught but five seconds, Christine, and you've already captured the hearts of the first two gentlemen to see you."

"Shush Meg!" Christine batted her hand away furiously, "they will hear you!"

Meg gave her a wry smile, her eyes flashing mischievously. She took up Christine's hand, raising her head slightly and led her past the two men, quirking her eyebrows subtly in their direction. Christine lowered her eyes, both embarrassed and amused by her friend's behavior.

"Come now Christine, what is the good of being a young woman if one cannot have a little fun?" Meg whispered out of the corner of her mouth, smiling broadly.

Christine could not help but laugh at her friend's frivolity.

At this point Madame Giry had caught them up and taken charge of the party, leading them up the stairs where they were ushered through the golden double-doors by two doormen. The moment Christine stepped foot within the entrance hall, her stomach gave a particularly painful lurch.

The hall was filled with hundreds of candles, their wax dripping from the tall, elegantly scrolled candleholders. A large chandelier was suspended overhead; highlighting the beautifully painted ceilings, and gold carvings of the pillars and statues. In terms of grandiosity, it nearly matched that of the Opera Popular, though held none of its sentimental value. Still, it was a cruel reminder of the life Christine had lost, and could never possess again.

The hall was filled with the usual aristocrats; consumed by self-importance. She noticed, (whilst blushing, naturally,) that she had captured the attentions of several men upon her entrance. Indeed, Christine looked the very picture and essence of perfection. She wore a tight-fitting gown of chocolate brown, the same colour as her eyes, which dropped from the waistline into a flowing skirt that resembled liquid chocolate. She had long given up trying to tame her wild curls, instead preferring to pin the sides, whilst retaining the back in an elegant clasp. Some curls had managed to come astray, and cascaded about her fine face; framing it perfectly. Christine noted, her eyes smiling in amusement, the dirty looks of envy the aristocratic women around her cast in her direction. She returned their gazes levelly; determined to treat them with the same contemptuous indifference she had shown to the same sort of women back in Paris.

"Christine, come along." Madame Giry's stern voice broke her reverie, beckoning her onwards.

The hairs on the back of Christine's neck stood on end. A sudden movement drew her gaze to the balcony staircase, where she was sure someone had been standing only moments before. She shrugged her shoulders, shaking herself mentally before following Madame Giry's footsteps into the theatre.

Erik had taken but six steps down the hallway when Mr. Martineau came bounding up the stairs to his left, his top hat tucked firmly under his arm.

"Ah, Mr. Deveraux! A good turn-out for your premiere, is it not?"

Erik nodded curtly.

"A full-theatre sir! The likes of which is rarely seen is London!"

Erik's lips quirked; "I can barely contain my excitement."

Martineau clapped his hands together, "and what a triumph tonight has been."

Erik's raised an eyebrow, "the opera has not even begun, sir. Perhaps you will give me leave to defer my rapture; at the present moment I daresay I would not do yours justice."

The light beside Martineau began to flicker.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Deveraux, I think it is high time we made our way to our boxes."

Erik nodded curtly once more, brushing carelessly past his enraptured manager as he made his way down the hallway that would lead him to his private box; number five. Indeed Erik found this rather ironic, but old habits die hard and he had demanded the private use of the box at every performance be sanctioned. He pulled the rich maroon curtains aside and observed the masses of people below him in the stalls. The curtains fluttered once more into place behind him. Erik always took care to remain concealed from view, and he often heard people question why box five is never inhabited. Pulling the chair back from the balcony, he pushed it slightly into the curtains before sitting gracefully upon its padded cushions, entwining his finger in his opera cloak. His attentions fell steadily on the stage curtains, waiting for the overture to begin.

Christine and Meg found their seats with ease. They were not near the front of the stage, nor in any of the boxes or tiers; the Giry's could not afford such grand seats. No, they resided comfortably four rows from the back, seated between two women of equal standing. Christine's heart fluttered at the familiarity of the scene, only she had never been part of the audience, one of the many faces, their eyes trained on the stage with anticipation. She had always been behind the curtain, trying to be rid of her nerves, or giggling with Meg. She peered hesitantly at Meg, and noted the same dreamy expression; she too was reminiscing about life in the Opera Populaire. Her reverie was broken as the curtains parted and the overture began.

XxXxXxX

As the tumultuous love scene came to a dramatic end, the lights brightened in the theatre; signaling the intermission. Christine couldn't move. She was struck by the sheer beauty and power of the music; the way it made her feel things she could not have thought possible for any human to feel. There was something eerily familiar about the opera, something that niggled in the back of her mind, yet which she couldn't quite put her finger on. Whoever the composer was, he managed to capture the raw emotion of the characters in his story; the innocence on the young girl portrayed by the sweet notes of a violin, whilst the obsession and passion of her lover embodied in the rich tones of the cello. This was undoubtedly a masterpiece. Christine stared curiously at the program: "Night-side Phantasia" was emblazoned in gold across the stiff parchment, "Composer: E. Deveraux."

Christine frowned; E. Deveraux? A French name, and yet itwas unfamiliar to her, and represented so much mystery. Christine knew she would very much like to meet the maestro, and began scanning the boxes and tiers; trying to match a gentleman's face to the raw, and powerful music. A sudden flash of white caught her attention in the box to her right, and Christine's heart skipped a beat; her stomach plummeting. She rose slowly from her seat, cautious of her shaking legs and swept her eyes frantically over the remaining crowd. The box was empty. Christine closed her eyes and breathed deeply, trying to steady her nerves, and slow her racing heart.

"Christine?" Christine's eyes shot open; Meg's concerned face staring at her. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, fine." She answered a little too hastily. Meg stared at her doubtingly. "You'll excuse me, I need some air."

Pushing past a lingering couple, she flew through the hallways amid stares and cries of "I beg your pardon!"

Memories, no many memories flooded her view and she scarcely knew where she was going. Her breath hitched painfully in her lungs, her eyes watering as she slowed to a stumble; clutching painfully at the stitch in her side. The hallway she now resided in was dark, barely lit bar the soft light shed by a few candles. She suddenly began to panic, her air-ways restricting painfully. Oh, God! I don't know where I am! She fell back against the wall, desperately trying to steady her breathing. Stupid girl, she reprimanded herself, you've run down a hallway; just follow your steps back. Suddenly Christine felt rather embarrassed. She peered into the mirror opposite her, taking in the ruffled state of her dress and the make-up smudged down her cheeks.

"Good lord," she breathed, before traipsing over to the mirror to fix her appearance. When she was satisfied that she looked at least decent, she retraced her footsteps down the hallway, albeit a little more calmly. When she reached the foyer, Meg and Madame Giry were no where to be seen. The room was brightly lit, with several ladies and gentlemen talking in raptures about the first Act of the opera.

"… such raw emotion!"

" never heard anything like it…."

"… must be a brilliant composer…."

Erik smirked as his fine-tuned ears received the compliments with pride. Though he doubted whether a third of them would even know the difference between E and a D, it was a welcomed change from ridicule and scorn. He turned his back on the room, observing once more, the fine paintings on the wall.

Christine entered the large foyer silently; it was large enough to fit two of the Girys' house inside at least. Though she was considerably calmer, she still could not shake the sense that she was missing something, haunted by her memories. The couple in front her parted company, allowing her an unobstructed view of the room. She gasped.

A tall, dark cloaked figure stood before her, shrouded in the shadows of the foyer. Christine took in his appearance with shaky breaths; black suit, black cloak... back leather gloves, and slicked black hair. Everything she familiarized with her angel, bar the melodic voice. Christine's heart skipped a beat for the second time that night. Could- could it be? Despite every rational objection her mind could muster, she gathered together what shattered nerves she still possessed, and slowly approached the man.

"Excuse me Monsieur?" The words Christine uttered came in no more than a whisper; barely audible over the loud chatter in the crowded foyer. Christine swallowed her resolve, placing a cautious hand on the man's shoulder.

"Excuse me Monsieur?" she asked boldly. The man's back went rigid, and he slowly turned around.

XxXxXxX

"Excuse me Monsieur?"

The man turned around. He was a handsome young man, sleek black hair, prominent cheek bones; perfectly chiseled features supporting a monocle obscuring his left eye. Christine's gaze faltered.

Erik's voice dropped from his throat; his mouth suddenly went dry as parchment, his muscles as rigid as stone. He knew that voice. After years of moulding it, perfecting it, polishing its beauty, how could he not? Darting a fervent look across the hall, he saw none other than his Christine talking to a man of whom he knew nothing.

"May I help you miss?" the young man asked, slightly bewildered.

"Oh, I'm sorry Monsieur; I thought you were somebody else…"

The young man frowned in lack of understanding of her French.

Erik watched on, too shocked to have yet regained control over his muscles. Was that a tear in her eye? Coming to his senses, he swiftly darted into the nearest door-frame, obscuring him from view should Christine turn around. He observed the slight slumping of her shoulders, the tilting of her chin, the dullness in her eyes; surely all this could not be signs of disappointment?

Despite all this, Erik could barely contain himself; his eyes remained firmly locked on her form, her maturity reflected in the fullness of her curves; the shape of which had altered since he parted with her when she was just sixteen. There was something not quite right about her; something that had changed. The weight of the situation suddenly hit him; the Christine he had known and loved, the Christine he remembered was but a naïve girl. The Christine that his eyes remained locked on was now a young woman of eighteen. What change these two years had brought upon; she was no longer a sweet and innocent girl in need of protection, but a most alluring woman.

Erik was snapped out of his musings by the movement of Christine turning to leave. He retracted even further into the shadows of the private box, his watchful eyes following her movements as she passed the doorway, treading lightly down the hallway.
Before he could stop himself, he whispered but one word; "Christine…"
Christine's step faltered; her eyes widened in panic; darting wildly around the hallway. Erik shrouded himself in his cloak, cursing himself silently for his stupidity.

Christine shook her head; "pull yourself together, lest someone should question your sanity. No sensible girl hears voices from the dead!"

The lights began to flicker in the foyer, signaling the end of the intermission. Christine quickened her pace, and hurried to resume her seat in the theatre. A silent Erik watched her retreating form.

He scarcely allowed himself to breathe; returning silent and morosely to his private box, not caring much for the beginning of Act Two, nor whether Mr. Worthing had managed to succeed in the playing of his piece.

How could she be here! Why is she here! Where is her precious Vicomte! Wild, unanswerable question flew throughErik's head. It's impossible! She cannot be here! His hands gripped the edge of the balcony so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Frantically he searched the crowded mass below, searching for her face… anything…any trace or sign of her. There! Finally he spotted her, four rows from the back, and in the company of… the Girys!

"I should have known," he cursed bitterly, prying his fingers from the ledge.

The second Act began shortly afterwards, but Erik's mind was in great turmoil. His indecisiveness over his want of seeing Christine, and the need to protect his heart, and his new life from her, was tearing his mind in two. He could not stay here, when she was in so easy a reach; he could be discovered at any moment. He left the box, flying down the numerous passageways which lead to his quarters. The door slammed resolutely behind him.
Erik placed his hands calmly on the desktop, breathing steadily. He had not bothered to light the lanterns; preferring the encapsulating darkness, that always provided some form of comfort. Suddenly Erik broke, sweeping his arm wildly across the table; he threw everything upon it to the floor. The bottle of crimson ink smashed on the floor, forming pools and rivulets around his feet.

"Why must she come back! Why must she ruin even this, my one chance to break from her forever!"

His heart beat frantically. "Stop this madness Erik, she will ruin everything! One cannot love a ghost!"

The words echoed mockingly around the empty room; No… and seemingly one cannot love an Angel either….