Christine sat perched on one of the large grey stones overlooking the sea. The sun's rays shone clear and bright, but barely any of their warmth reached her skin. A particularly nippy current of air gusted past, whipping at her curls and the hem of her dress. She shivered as she felt the hairs under her thin sleeves rise. With small sigh, she wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them closer in.

It'd been almost a week since she'd woken up in the attic. A week since she'd been transported back, somehow, to this fairytale-like time.

She hadn't let herself believe in anything the first day. Lost as she'd been in her father's arms, if she had fallen asleep only to wake again at Madame Giry's - their reunion a mere figment of her nearly broken mind - she wouldn't have been able bear it. Yet another goodbye ripped from her grasp before she was ready.

And so she had remained distant, barricading her heart from the inevitable disappointment of it all.

It'd been an easy enough lie, playing the part of a ten-year-old girl temporarily shocked into meek silence after an intense nightmare earlier that day. Both Raoul and her father had been concerned, but not suspiciously so. She'd whittled away the time like that until night had come, her friend had said his farewells for the day, and her father had tucked her into bed before kissing her goodnight.

She had stopped him then, letting the walls crumble ever so slightly. She'd made him sing to her with that voice she'd thought she'd only hear again in her memories and then, against her greatest efforts otherwise, had slowly drifted off to the melodic adventures of brave little Gerda and the terrible Snow Queen. Perhaps she could've stayed awake if she'd been in her original body, but this young self of hers had no resistance against the irresistible pull of slumber.

Fully expecting to open her eyes to the warm visage of her fiancé and the cacophony of Paris's streets, she was - to her discomfiture - not wholly dismayed when she'd found herself in the same tiny bed in the same tiny cottage.

Over the next several days as she'd began to resign herself to this new fate, Christine had learned that - while attributing her sudden emotional withdrawal to a nightmare was easy - extending that excuse past the initial day was not. As a child she had never been timid: running in the forest, chatting with strangers, climbing boulders, splashing in the sea. She'd tried out anything that crossed her path and taken on nearly every challenge with a smile and a tinkling laugh.

It was only after her father's death that the world had slowly closed up around her, piece by bitter piece.

Needless to say her abrupt change in demeanor, as much as she'd tried to mask it, had not gone unnoticed. She'd kept up her best cheerful facade, but acting had never been her forte, especially when she had to maintain it every hour, every minute, every second they glanced at her…

Christine had soon found that it was easier to pretend if she took some time to wander off by herself each day, taking a break from the sham of it all. She'd walk up and down the coast for hours, always within distant sight of the cottage as to not cause her father worry, but alone nonetheless.

And it wasn't that she was sad, quite the opposite in fact. From the second he'd left her side till the days of Don Juan - even with thoughts of Raoul and her angel clouding her mind, poisoning her clarity - her greatest wish had still been for him to be there for her again. And now he was.

She'd wake in the mornings to find breakfast already made and laid out on the table for her. He'd speak of the day's plans and gently wipe away any crumbs that she'd missed. On the days he had to go out, he'd kiss her on the forehead and wrap her tightly in his arms before saying goodbye. In the evenings, she would take her position by the sink and scrub dishes as he'd lift up his violin and simply open himself to music, letting it flow down his fingers and tumble out into the world. And Christine would stand there, hands submerged in the soapy water, as she simply let the melodies cascade against her ear. It would end always too soon but at least was followed by a pleasant silence as they both picked out their books for the night and read by the light of the fire.

It was all she had ever wanted, and yet… she'd had so much sacrificed in return.

Still, she continued to fall asleep and awake in the same bed, and if there ever had been a chance of returning to the life she'd thought had been hers, it seemed as though it'd already come and gone.

Christine sighed. Maybe if she stared at the ocean long enough, she could stop herself from thinking. Even a minute of blank noise in her head would be a relief. It would be so much simpler to just forget everything that had happened and become a true child once more. She snorted, knowing how foolish that was even as she wished it. Keeping one arm wrapped around her knees, she lightly began to trace small swirls against the speckled stone.

"Aren't you cold, your majesty?"

Christine turned at the sound of the voice. It was Raoul, as always, gazing up at her from the sand below. He bowed slightly, in spirit of one of their earlier games where she'd proclaimed herself the queen of the sea.

In many ways, interacting with her father was fairly simple. She'd been a child when he'd died, was a child now, and their current relationship was the only one she'd ever known. But Raoul…

Even in this miniature body she remembered the feel of his strong hands against her back, cradling from harm. She remembered his rich laugh, the feathery kisses he'd sprinkle upon her whenever she felt the tears starting to swell, and hushed whispers shared beneath a twilight sky as they strolled hand in hand down a summer Paris street.

That was her Raoul, the man she thought of whenever his name came to mind.

And now there was just this boy. She wondered if he even thought of romance yet, if he thought of kissing with anything more than mild adolescent disgust. Despite her attempts to reconcile the two in her head as the same person, Christine couldn't help but feel as though her Raoul was lost. Their relationship had been erased and all that was left was this stranger.

Not to mention that he was a child and she had an adult's memories and it just felt wrong.

But today she simply wasn't in the mood to argue at his presence. Scooting over to one side of the precipice, she invited him with a sweep of her hand to sit on the other.

They sat in blessed silence for several minutes before he spoke.

"You do look cold, all hunched over like that."

"Hmm."

When he did not respond, Christine flicked her eyes to left, taking him in as she kept her head turned to the sea. Raoul was fully facing her, studying her with a slightly alarming intensity. His eyes lit up in some dawning recognition.

"Your scarf!" he cried out, slamming his fist into his palm. "You're not wearing your scarf! You know, that red one that never seems to leave your neck these days. No wonder you're cold."

Christine fought for a response and settled with simply shrugging her shoulders instead.

"Did you forget it? You can go run and grab it if you want. I'll stay here and keep the rock warm." He seemed particularly pleased by the suggestion.

Unfortunately, returning to the cottage and grabbing her scarf was exactly what Christine didn't want to do. Although she'd forgotten the exact day, she remembered this cold snap. She'd taken to wearing her scarf more and more until the wind had finally snatched the thing and blown it far away into the sea. And even though Raoul had been more than willing and successful in its retrieval, for all she knew some variable would be changed. The scarf could be lost forever. Raoul could injure himself… or worse.

It hurt in a way. Knowing that even if she found herself once again at the opera house and he happened to remember her, even if he came to her dressing room after the show… there would be no tale of the red scarf for them to delightfully reminisce over. It would exist only as a story that could've been, only in her mind.

She wondered though. Perhaps it wasn't too late. She could follow his advice, run up to the cottage, grab her mother's heirloom, let it catch in the wind…

No. Recreating her cherished memory, the first true declaration of his young affection for her, wasn't worth the risk.

"It's okay," she said softly. Her eyes flicked back to the sea. "I'm not that cold, really."

"Christine," he protested. "Your fingers are white, and I can see the breath when you talk! If it's something about me that's holding you back, forget about it! Just go!"

"Really, Raoul! I'm fine! What is a scarf going to do for my fingers anyway?"

Raoul gave her a surly look, his mouth gaping like a fish as he searched for some other convincing argument. Apparently finding none, he crossed his arms and pouted like the child he once - and still - was.

Assuming that was the end of it, Christine tried to relax as much as she could in the brisk weather. A movement caught her eye and she glanced over at her companion again.

Raoul had his arms around his neck and was halfway through unwrapping his grey scarf from it.

"What are you doing?" Christine asked.

"What does it look like?" He paused as he worked through the final loop and brought the whole bundle over his head. "If you won't go and get your own scarf, at least take mine instead."

She stared at his offering as he extended both arms and scarf towards her. She looked up at his face, innocent and inviting.

"But won't you be cold then?"

He tossed aside her comment with a shrug. "Boys have thicker skins than girls. I can barely feel a thing as it is," he said brightly, teeth chattering slightly on the last syllable.

Christine frowned. It'd been the same story when he'd offered to fetch her scarf from the sea all those years ago, and he'd nearly frozen to death. She'd dragged him back to the cottage where he'd continued to protest their administrations, even through blue lips. Still so young, this boy of hers didn't understand even the concept of consequences, that sometimes - no matter how pure one's heart was - the day didn't end for the better. Not everyone survived the night.

And yet, his blue eyes shimmered with unspeakable hope and kindness. His smile made her feel warm and safe.

Yes, Raoul was a child again, but so was she in many ways. Here she was, playing the mother, thinking of him as only a boy to be coddled and protected when she was still physically younger than him. All this time, every day she'd seen him, she'd thought only of their relationship that had been lost. And while that book had indeed been shut, there was no reason that they couldn't begin again.

With a guarded smile, she tentatively reached out a hand to accept his gift, blushing as their fingers bumped against each other ever so slightly. Her heart the calmest it'd been since she'd first arrived, Christine slowly wrapped the scarf around her neck.

"So," he said, after some more time had passed. "Have you been feeling alright?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Christine asked with the most innocent smile she could muster.

"Well… you've been going off by yourself a lot. Ever since that nightmare you had. I can understand avoiding the attic and the stories, but I don't know. It somehow feels like more than that."

"I've just been thinking about a lot of things."

Christine somehow doubted the painfully vague response would be enough even as she said it.

"What kind of things?"

"Oh, you know. Things…" She fished for some answer that might placate him, at least for the time being. "The future," she eventually said. It wasn't entirely a lie.

"Hmm."

To her exhausted relief, he mercifully left it at that. Once again, they sat in silence, watching the gulls flit in the breeze as the surf pounded onto the shoreline below.

If she was to rekindle her relationship with Raoul, it wouldn't be for many years to come. Nearly ten years to come, if they both followed the same course of events from her original life. But what would happen if she didn't want to follow the same course of events? Christine had no intention of giving up her father again, not after she'd prayed for so long. Still, her memories of future happenings only had so much power if she stuck to the paths that had created them.

If she never joined the opera this time around, then she would never meet the phantom. She would avoid that entire disaster, but that meant she would also never sing in Hannibal. She would never be recognized by Raoul as he watched the performance from his box, and - if it hadn't been for that - would they ever have been reunited?

But even as she sifted through the many possible futures, she knew she did not want to put any of them through that pain again.

Her angel. She'd thought about him occasionally since waking up here, but everything was still so overwhelming. It was easier to place those memories aside, to quietly label them relics of a past best forgotten. Still Christine knew that was the coward's solution and not really a solution at all. And yet what could she do? Was she honestly foolish enough to believe that she could go to the Opera Populaire, accept his tutelage, and simply tell him not to fall in love with her this time?

A thousand alternate scenarios ran through her head, but they all inevitably ended with him falling in love, her choosing Raoul, him losing his temper, people dying, and all of their hearts shattering. She was terrified to even attempt manipulating that part of her life.

Yes, one thing was unremittingly clear. So long as that man lived beneath its floors, she couldn't knowingly set foot in that place.

Christine would make her own path, become a prima donna in her own right. She'd learned, after their reunion, that Raoul and his family had a residence in Paris. They would meet each other again in time and, until then, they could share in the now.

"Christine?"

"Yes, Raoul?"

"I… no, it's nothing."

She glanced at him, one eyebrow arching. "What?" she insisted, her turn to be inquisitive.

"It's just… these days, this summer with your family, with you. It's been truly wonderful."

"Raoul-"

"But summer is over now," he said quickly, finding his momentum once he'd started. "It has been over for some time. My mother and sisters are already back at the main house, you know, society and all. It's only because of Philippe and my lessons with your father that I've been able to stay this long, but now even he's beginning to yearn for home."

"You're leaving."

In the midst of everything else that had happened, despite the cold snap and the shortening days, Christine had somehow forgotten that their summer was already ending. And still she could have sworn that he hadn't left this early before.

No, it wasn't the departure that was different, she realized. He was just telling her earlier. Perhaps her distant behavior this past week had created a large enough barrier for him to start facing the undesirable reality around him. In her other past, Raoul hadn't wanted to ruin the fun that the two of them had continued to have. He'd been so nervous, avoiding the truth as though it'd miraculously change if he persisted long enough. He'd ended up putting off the announcement until the very last afternoon before he left. She remembered her reaction to the one day notice. Tears. Denial. She'd rushed over before breakfast the next day, hugging him with all the desperation she could conceive at that young age. Philippe had eventually been forced to pry her off, finger by clawing finger.

"It won't necessarily mean goodbye though," Raoul continued. "I mean it will, but it doesn't have to mean goodbye for forever."

She remembered her father picking her up from the de Chagny residence, lifting her up from her waist when she'd refused to move, and practically carrying her home. She'd stayed in her room for the rest of the day and part of the following morning, a vehement protest at the unfairness of the world, broken only by the reluctant growling of her stomach.

Even with the other turmoil in her head, Christine was much calmer now. Taking in his worried face, obviously blaming himself for the news far beyond his control, she gave him a reassuring smile.

"I know," she said.

"I'm sorry."

Smile fading slightly, Christine decided she might as well continue to address the situation while they were still speaking of it. "When do you leave?"

"A little over a week from now. The 13th to be exact. We're hosting a gala the Saturday after, and Mother wouldn't stop writing until we both swore we'd be there."

He continued on about the gala and his mother and his sisters and all the other minutia in his life, but Christine was only half-listening.

Even though she'd managed to calmly accept it, Raoul's departure had snuck up on her, and that was something that she could not allow to happen again. She had no desire to relive this new life exactly the way she'd lived it before, mistake for mistake. She had to be strong, be vigilant, see the critical moments where a single drop of a pin could change everything and seize her chance. This time she would save her father. She would prevent all the wretched phantom business from ever happening, for all of their sakes.

As Christine started to stand, the wind began to pick up again.

Even as her mind cried out in warning, it caught on her scarf and tugged. Seemingly detached from her body, she watched herself reach out to grasp the fabric as it was whisked from her shoulders, but her fists clenched only air. Raoul leapt to his feet as well, but it was too late.

Christine stood helplessly as the scarf fluttered briefly in the wind then fell, landing ungracefully on the sea. It sat there, a distant grey flourish bobbing tantalizingly in the dark water.

She didn't know what to say.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered automatically, eyes wide.

She started to tear up then, the feeling of foolishness beginning to overwhelm her. She'd saved her mother's scarf, but now she'd lost Raoul's. For all she could know it'd been the same gust of wind, then and now. And if she couldn't stop a simple thing like this from happening again, what hope did she have for the rest of the future? She couldn't even save a stupid scarf! And as for her father, she'd have no chance at saving him at all! It was entirely a fool's dream. She was about to scream with the frustration of it all when she felt Raoul place one hand and then the other on her shoulders.

Slowly he turned her to face him.

"Please don't get upset," he said. "It was just a silly old thing I got from some second-cousin or other years ago. It's not worth your tears."

"But-"

"Christine. Look at me." She did, fighting down her anxiety as best possible as she gazed into his oh-so-innocent smile and bright, blue eyes. "It means nothing."

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of response, so after a minute to blink away her tears she nodded stiffly as best she could. Even still, doubt clenched her heart as she watched the scarf float further out to sea before finally sinking beneath the waves. Her eyes grew moist as a fresh round of tears threatened to break free, but she forced herself to remain strong.

He was right. This meant nothing. Not everything would go the way she planned. Things hadn't in the past and they wouldn't in the future. But so many other things, so many people were still depending on her, even if they didn't know it yet. She couldn't let herself dwell on things that had already happened. Twice.

She and Raoul had found a love and life together before. They could do it again, opening night of Hannibal or not.

Christine couldn't keep thinking about everything that could possibly happen at once. She had to get her mind in order, had to concentrate on the most important things first and foremost. And the person who right now required her most urgent attention above all else was sitting at home, waiting for her.

A/N: At the bottom this time, where I think they will stay. Thank you first and foremost to everyone who's reviewed! I've apparently raised some high expectations and can only hope I don't disappoint.

Meanwhile, exit Raoul, pursued by a bear. That's right. If you hate Raoul, rejoice for he shall not appear for many more chapters to come. If you're a fan, be comforted in the fact that he will eventually return and won't be bashed when he does.

I feel I should also apologize for my totally wonky timeline. I went back and listened to the musical and apparently Raoul is 14 when he fetches Christine's scarf? It threw me a bit since that age makes me think of "high school freshmen" not "childhood friends." And I believe in the book they're younger because they meet again three years later, and the scarf incident is portrayed as their first meeting... and I don't even know at this point.

So rather than tear my hair out, I'm just rolling with it. If ALW can magically skip 10+ years of his own canon, I think I can fudge a year here or there. Christine's about 10, Raoul's 12, Meg's a year younger at 9, and Erik for all intents and purposes will be about 17 years older than Christine. Edited a couple super minor details in the first chapter to fix some of this.

What else... oh, I'm interpreting the "new year" lines in Masquerade to mean a new season, not a new calendar year. So Il Muto would be in Feb/Mar and Don Juan in Sept/Oct or so. I blame the movie for this one, putting snow in both the rooftop and graveyard scene. Cold snaps. Cold snaps fix everything.

Hopefully none of my future author notes will be this long.