They stared at each other as Ilsa continued to complain in the background.

Christine's mind was spinning like a toy ship in a maelstrom. He remembered. How did he remember? What had happened to his face? Could he tell that she remembered the future as well? Oh God, he'd never leave her alone if so. Had he been behind everything this whole time? Was this all some otherworldly scheme to get her to choose him over Raoul?

She wasn't ready for this. She needed time to think. By his shock, there was a minuscule possibility that he was just as confused as she was.

Christine needed to keep up the mask.

"Are you alright, monsieur?" she asked.

Her words seemed to shake him somewhat out of his current trace. His eyes slightly sharpened, turning their attention squarely on her.

"Yes. Of course," he said. As his rich voice wrapped itself around her, Christine resisted the urge to shudder. If she'd had any remaining doubts that this man with the strange face was truly him, they vanished. "I simply… have we…?"

He trailed off, looking at Christine expectantly. She looked back, a perfect picture of innocent confusion. For once, she was grateful to be only eleven again.

Still, her heart was pounding wildly in her chest. Surely he could sense it. She could audibly hear it as it thrashed against her ribcage.

But apparently he didn't notice anything.

"Charles?" came the sound of M. Khan's voice beside her.

Whatever bubble of delirium there'd been popped. Christine suddenly remembered that they were in a crowded entrance hall. Temporarily muted, the background mumblings of nearby conversations came rushing back. Her legs suddenly felt a lot wobblier, her mouth a lot drier.

Renaud assumed a stiffer posture.

"My apologies," he said impassively. "For a moment you reminded me of someone I knew."

Christine bit back a response to that. Bit back hundreds. She knew how she'd respond as the Christine she was. She had no idea how to respond as the Christine she was supposed to be.

She ended up furtively glancing at Meg for help. It only served to throw her further into guilt and confusion. Meg looked like a dog about to get run over by a carriage. Her eyes were wide and terror-stricken, her gaze flickering this way and that, as if she wasn't sure what the safest thing to focus on.

Christine twisted her head a bit to look back at M. Khan. The older gentleman wasn't of any help either. His lips were quirked in amusement, and his eyes twinkled as his eyes met Christine's.

That… Christine bit back a mental curse word. He was enjoying this.

Reluctantly she turned her attention back towards Renaud, and then wished she hadn't. He suddenly looked a thousand times more imposing. His shoulders were drawn back and his head lifted straight, so that he wasn't actually looking at her, but merely peering down from his great height.

He had all the commanding presence of a fully fledged opera ghost. She had all the social grace and intimidation of a child.

Christine realized she still hadn't responded to him.

"Thank you?" she managed to squeak out.

"That's all very well and good, but what about my dress, Monsieur?" Ilsa suddenly snapped. "This is the very first time it's been worn, and now it's ruined."

His eyes flitted off Christine and onto the blonde soprano. "A replacement will be delivered," he said. "My deepest apologies."

He summoned some of the theatre staff to clean up the broken glass on the floor. One of the staff's eyes seemed to linger on Meg. At first Christine thought such an observation was only the product of her imagination, but then she realized that Meg had practically grown up in this theatre. Everybody knew who she was. There was a high chance Madame Giry would know every single detail of what was currently transpiring before they made it back backstage.

As she glanced around the room, Christine noticed other people staring as well. Not overtly of course, but there was a slight shift whenever Christine focused on a particular person. The telltale sign of someone quickly looking away.

"I don't believe we've been introduced," Renaud said. Her attention snapped back to see him staring straight at her. "Charles Renaud."

She swallowed nervously.

"Christine," she said, giving a small curtesy. "Christine Daae."

"And your friend?"

"This is… umm…" Christine hesitated, knowing the last thing Meg wanted was for her name to be spread further… and yet M. Khan already knew, and the young man who'd swept up the glass probably knew, and the man who'd asked the question knew even if he currently pretended otherwise. It was impossible to lie. "This is Marguerite Giry," she said.

Even with her internal reasoning, Christine bit back a wince as Meg stepped down hard on her foot.

"Daae…" the director said. Christine nearly jumped; she'd forgotten he was there. "Why does that sound familiar?"

"She's a Viennese student. Like me," Ilsa said. She smiled at Christine. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Nor I you."

"Daae! Yes, you're the daughter of that violinist," the director said. "And what instrument is it that you study again?"

Even with all the other chaos, having someone refer to her by her father's accomplishments first yet again hit a nerve.

"The piano," Christine said, somewhat curtly.

"Is that all?" Renaud asked.

Her former angel looked disinterested, but Christine knew his voice too well. There was a slight tremor to it… a hunger even, that she had no intention of feeding.

"I'm afraid the piano is more than enough of a challenge for me," Christine said with a smile.

"A shame," he said. "As beautiful as that instrument is alone, there is nothing quite like the beauty it gains when accompanied by a voice."

Could he have been any less transparent? However nothing else seemed to indicate that he knew. It was empowering in a way. For the first time, she was engaging him with some cards hidden in her favor. It was the only thing keeping her going at the moment; she had no intention of letting them go now.

"Unfortunately, I do not sing."

"Nonsense," he said with a slight wave of his hand. "Everyone sings."

"But surely Monsieur knows we all have our strengths and weaknesses. She has just admitted hers," Ilsa said. "Why waste time teaching a crow the songs of a nightingale?"

Christine took a sharp intake of breath as her cheeks flushed red. She hadn't experienced such direct cattiness since her days of Carlotta.

"Why indeed?" Renaud said. He paused as if seriously pondering her statement. "Though I suppose couldn't be any less wasteful than attempting to teach a harlot the manners of a lady."

Ilsa bristled in indignation. Next to her the director sputtered. "Monsieur Renard!"

Christine's heart swelled a bit.

"My apologies," Renaud said. "I suppose my metaphor was not the most polite. Wouldn't you agree Miss Reinhardt?"

"No, I suppose it wasn't," she bit out. She forced a smile onto her face, and then turned towards Christine. "So who did the two of you come here with? The invite list was very selective from what I heard. Your connections must be grand indeed."

Christine glanced at Meg without thinking. Her friend was still mute, and she couldn't think of a lie. It bad enough that Madame Giry would know they'd disobeyed her direct orders. It was worse that she'd find out from other members of the company. It was another thing entirely for it to spread to the outside world.

"I… that is… we came here with…"

"I invited them," M. Khan said.

Christine spun around to stare at him. The man was smiling as warmly as ever.

"Her father and I are old acquaintances," he continued. "When I heard his daughter was in town, I simply had to take her out somewhere as my treat. She insisted her friend come along. But now that I'm forced to think of it, as her guardian for the evening, I'm afraid that it is getting rather late. I have promises to keep. It's time for these two to start making their way home. A pleasure seeing you again, Monsieur Dupont." He nodded his head. "And meeting you, Miss Ilsa."

She felt M. Khan's hand come to rest on her back as the director and Ilsa responded in kind. Taking her cues from the others Christine curtsied again, keeping her eyes lowered and away from Renaud's face.

"Pleasure making your acquaintance," she said, and then let Khan start to steer her and Meg away.

"Wait!"

Christine flinched. No, no, no…

She needed time to think, time to sleep, time for everything to just stop… Reluctantly she turned back, but she refused to meet his eyes.

"The opera," he said. "You enjoyed it?"

Christine honestly hadn't expected that of all questions.

She was at a loss for words. She should've lied. Anything to shatter whatever obsessions might have carried over from their past lives to this one… but it was his music. It was too pure. Nothing but the absolute truth could ever leave her mouth.

"It was beautiful, Monsieur."

"Then the evening was a success," he said. "Good night, Miss Daae."

Christine smiled despite herself before letting M. Khan guide her away once more. When their small party was halfway across the hall, he spoke again.

"I assume Madame Giry let you into the opera house?"

"Umm…"

"No need to feel guilty," he quickly said. "You think I'd judge you for using what you have to experience art? Miss Reinhardt was correct in her assumptions, although she didn't know it. The two of you have grand connections indeed. Never let yourselves believe for a moment that class has anything to do with a person's worth."

"You mean you're going to let us go?" Meg asked, her voice cracking slightly. Her first words since their initial capture by M. Khan.

"I'm going to hand both of you off to Madame Giry, yes."

The faint shades of color that'd returned Meg's face bleached themselves out of existence.

"Please, Monsieur," she said. "Don't turn us over to Maman. We'll go back up to the balcony and stay quiet. Just please don't tell her?"

"And risk the pair of you wandering off and getting into who knows what sort of trouble? Besides you've already been seen by several patrons, staff members, and the composer of tonight's opera himself. Your mother would find out regardless of my involvement."

"But-"

M. Khan frowned, and that was the end of that.

Christine stared at the carpet as he led through back towards the main stage and then back further still into the dark, aging corridors that were the life-nourishing veins of the old opera house. After a couple of directions from various stagehands, they came to a side room where Madame Giry was lecturing several unfortunate ballet girls. Meg tried once last valiant effort to escape but was blocked by Khan.

Giry didn't notice them at first. M. Khan, it seemed, was too polite to interrupt, and both Meg and Christine had no desire to preemptively awaken her wrath. It was the ballet girls' fault in the end; one of them noticed the trio hovering in the doorway and began to stare… then another… and another…

Madame Giry whirled around to confront the intruders after the fourth girl lost concentration. She took in a sharp breath, stunned speechless.

"Monsieur Khan," she finally managed. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Found these two lovely ladies wandering up front," he said, pushing Meg and Christine forward. Meg stumbled, her knees having locked in the interim. "I thought it'd be in the best interest of all parties that I see them escorted safely back to you."

"I see."

The room was so quiet, Christine could hear the spit passing down Meg's throat as she swallowed uncomfortably next to her.

"Thank you, Monsieur," Madame Giry continued. "I will take over from here."

Was it Christine's imagination or did M. Khan linger slightly before exiting? Before she could attempt to analyze any of his actions, Madame Giry was upon them.

"Corner," she said, jabbing a finger at it. "Sit."

The two girls knew better than to give her anything less than one hundred percent obedience. They sat silent in the small corner. Meg was still pouting. Christine was too mentally exhausted to care.

She clutched her legs to her chest, pressing her eye sockets into her knees until blue spots started to form in her vision.

What in all of God's creation had just happened?

As she sat there, Christine half-expected… half-feared that either Khan or Renaud would burst through the door having seen through her pitiful masquerade.

All she wanted was for no one to get hurt this time around. For no one to die. She'd succeeded with her father, God be praised, but it still seemed like so much hung precariously in the balance.

It turned out she hadn't needed worry. At least for now. There were no interruptions. The doorway remained ever vacant.

Madame Giry finished her beratement of the dancers. She dismissed the older girls and finally turned her full attention on the younger two. Her eyes were blazing.

Christine's heart sank somewhere deep inside of her, coming to rest at a level that was probably comparable with Meg's. Her distant fears scurried away, replaced with ones concerning the here and now.

"So how is it that Monsieur Khan found you when you were following my direct orders and staying up in the balcony?" she asked, deceptively calm.

Silence.

Christine ventured a glance towards Meg.

Her friend was openly glaring at her. It was Christine's turn to be the lamb to the slaughter. Christine couldn't exactly get too upset at that, seeing as how the whole mess was technically her fault.

She took a deep breath.

"We… weren't in the balcony."

"Oh? I could have sworn I gave the two of you one rule. One absolute rule that you vowed to not break-"

"I know, but-"

Madame Giry quickly launched into a tirade that drowned out anything Christine was about to say. Christine bit her lip, staring at the floor, head only jerking back up when Madame Giry commanded the two of them to look her in the eyes.

"What I don't understand though," she said. "What I really do not understand, is why. You came to see the opera, yes? Why leave your seats?"

"I… I…" Once again a half truth was easier than a complete lie. "I wanted to see the composer."

"The composer?! Why? So you could ask him to play it all again?"

Christine didn't know how to respond. She settled for an awkward shrug. And then, "His work was beautiful…"

"Beautiful! Ugh… I can't believe… and Meg! My own daughter, you should know better than this. Why on earth did you go along with her?"

The dam of frustration Meg had been holding back burst.

"I didn't! I was trying to stop her!" Meg said. "The whole way! I'm sorry that I wasn't fast enough! But no! Everything's my fault too!"

Any semblance of a coherent dialogue dissolved into a shouting match between the mother and daughter pair. The two forces held up equally for a short moment, and then quickly became one-sided as Madame Giry overpowered Meg.

They ended up returning home like that. Madame Giry continued to lecture them in the streets, the September night cold and bitter.

Christine had to eat breakfast by herself the next morning. Madame Giry was back at the opera house. Meg had woken up before her and only laid the table out for one. She also was refusing to talk.

Right before they'd finally gone to bed, Meg had asked Christine the truth behind Renaud's plagiarism. Christine had shrugged, saying that she'd been mistaken. It hadn't been a good lie, and they both knew it.

Meg finished her croissant while Christine was still grabbing her plate. She cleaned up her part of the table and stomped back to their room in complete silence. Christine winced.

If only she hadn't been so deathly curious… none of this would've happened.

Unfortunately for Meg, her plan to make Christine suffer through silence wouldn't work too well today. It was her class's last full day in Paris and a Saturday at that. The teachers had a full day of sight seeing planned for them, and they were due to leave the academy in - Christine glanced at the clock - half an hour. She ate quicker.

Christine popped into their shared bedroom to grab a couple articles of clothing, did her best to ignore Meg while she was in there, grabbed a light coat and hat, and ran out the door.

It was a quick and easy walk to academy, even if her mind was still in shambles. She could think through certain things easier than she'd been able to last night, although that wasn't saying much. She simply had to start with what she knew… which wasn't much either.

He had recognized her, the stains on Ilsa's dress were testament to that.

Charles Renaud.

The name seemed to fit the man that she'd just seen in the entrance hall, but for whatever reason… for the man she'd known… it seemed… slightly… off? She tried to imagine the ever gothically-theatrical opera ghost signing his black missives with "Charles" instead of "O.G." and failed.

Christine brushed that silly thought aside. Names were secondary right now. The important thing was that he had memories of a previous life, just as she did.

How much did he remember? Christine didn't really care to ask him directly. For now, she'd assume he remembered as much as she did.

When she'd thought about avoiding the opera house and avoiding him with it, it was always under the assumption that she'd be the only one with any memories. She hadn't even considered the possibility of him having them as well. And why would she have? She'd spent months, over a year now, interacting with those who hadn't a clue of what lay ahead.

More than once she had wondered why she'd been given this second chance. In the end, her best guess was that it'd been some passing act of God. A divine mission to make things better perhaps. It was just as logical as anything else.

And it was a miracle enough that she existed as she did, let alone a second person…

Christine paused in her steps.

What if it was more than just two?

She quickly considered the people she knew.

Her father was completely normal. If he'd possessed any sort of future memories, he wouldn't have put up the fight he did when she'd tried to convince him of his illness. Meg was a brief possibility, but no… Her friend had never been able to keep a secret, her mouth always keeping pace with the latest gossip. If she remembered anything, she would've divulged it all to Christine by now.

She started walking again, not having much time before her class' scheduled meeting time.

Who did that leave in her immediate relations? There was Madame Giry (a possibility, albeit a bizarre and unlikely one), and other than that the only other person she knew was…

Christine froze.

No, he couldn't… She'd seen him over a summer ago, and Raoul had seemed completely normal then. He'd been the first person she'd encountered after waking up. He'd seen her confused. He'd said nothing. The probability of him remembering anything was beyond minute, and yet…

If Raoul remembered, there went the last of her chances at living a normal life. Between the two of them, she'd never be left alone… They'd probably murder each other in the process, she thought bitterly as she forced her feet to start moving again.

Christine reached the academy a couple minutes late. She was given a small lecture from the supervising teacher about punctuality - it didn't leave a dent after Madame Giry's rage - and then they were off.

Due to her proficiency in French, the other students assumed she was Parisian expert and kept her busy with questions about everything. They passed by the Arc de Triomphe, the Colonne de Juillet, and Notre-Dame (which she'd all visited before in her other memories) and spent several hours in the Louvre (which she hadn't).

As she stared at various portraits in the Louvre, she was reminded of what was possibly the most explicable mystery of all.

What had happened to his face?

Christine hadn't looked at it very much to be honest. She'd found it far too disconcerting. Still, from every glanced it'd seemed practically flawless.

She'd made changes. Perhaps he'd made some too. Maybe he'd been less self-pitying this around and had been able to find some sort of medical procedure. Something as radical as the one she'd been able to find for her father.

Even as her mind proposed it, she rejected it. There wasn't a medical procedure she knew of that could've fixed a face like that, that could grow a nose where there hadn't been before.

So what then? A miracle from God after all? A deal with the devil? Both those possibilities seemed too extreme for him, but she was at a loss for what else it could've been.

Her feet were starting to hurt by the end of the day, so she was thankful when their group finally headed back to the academy.

Christine gathered the last of her belongings. She'd already left her thank you notes for all her teachers, even the ones who'd been not entirely helpful. Tomorrow she would be heading straight to the train station and back to Vienna. Somewhere in the back of her head, she knew it'd only be a temporary revive. She'd opened Pandora's Box; they were bound to cross paths again.

She was heading towards the main exit when she saw two men conversing at the end of the hallway. One of them was an older professor she barely recognized. The other was Nadir Khan.

Christine froze.

She still didn't know how he was related to any of this. He was the only stranger, the only foreign part of the puzzle she was reconstructing. For all she knew, he could be completely unrelated. A product of complete chance.

Somehow she doubted that.

Christine casually rummaged through bag, making it seem like she'd forgotten something. She turned to walk back the other way…

"Oh, Miss Daae! Just the girl I was looking for!"

Reluctantly she stopped and turned around. Khan had already said goodbye to the professor and was walking over towards her. Christine bit back a curse and put on smile. Although she'd much rather face Khan than, well, him, she wasn't quite mentally prepared for either.

"Monsieur Khan," she said. "I didn't expect to see you again so soon. Did you have business with someone?"

"Actually, if you will pardon my forwardness, I was looking for you."

"Me?" Christine asked, her stomach curdling.

"I heard your class is leaving in the morning, and I'd hoped to talk with you some more before you left. Our conversation was cut rather short last evening."

"Yes," Christine said, honestly grateful for that. "Unfortunately I really should get going. Like you said, there's not much time before we leave and I haven't even begun to pack my things yet."

"Oh? The exit is that way," Khan said pointing the direction he'd come from.

He had seen her turn around then. Sneaky b… Thankfully she'd anticipated such a question.

"It's my gloves," she said. "I had them this morning, only now I can't seem to find them. I was going to check our main classroom one more time before giving up."

"I see," he said simply. "In that case, I'll accompany you on your journey back to your classroom. Perhaps these old eyes of mine will even be of some use."

"I…" Christine attempted to think of some dismissal, but couldn't think of anything polite. "Thank you."

They started walking back in a somewhat awkward silence.

"So your father is well?" he asked at the turn of the first hallway.

"Just as well as he was doing last night," Christine said before she could stop herself.

Nadir chuckles. "Yes, yes," he said. "My apologies. What about his work? His concerts?"

"Yes, they are going very well."

"And yourself? How are your studies?"

Christine paused slightly. "I'm not so nearly as skilled as he is," she said. "But I continue to practice."

"Mmm…" he said. "How long have you been playing?"

"I've really only just begun."

"Oh? Why the sudden interest?"

"It's not really that sudden," Christine said. "All my life I've listened to my father's violin. If anything, it's a wonder that I started down my own path so late."

"Really? Nothing before? Not even a song here or there?"

Christine barely managed to keep from narrowing her eyes in suspicion. Definitely not a product of chance. Yes, she didn't remember this man at all from her previous life, but he seemed to be abnormally close to her ex-angel in this one. On top of that, he was asking similar, probing questions in regards to her singing.

Despite the older man's geniality, it would be safest if she treated him just as cautiously as she would Renaud. At least until she was able to discern his true motives.

"No," Christine said. "Ilsa, that is, Miss Reinhardt was rude, calling me a crow… but she wasn't far off."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that…"

The two walked in silence a bit longer before Christine's curiosity ultimately got the best of her. They were natural questions, she told herself. Any normal eleven year old would have them.

"Why did you fund my father's medical expenses?" she asked.

M. Khan raised an eyebrow. "I mentioned in that first letter of mine to you," he said. "I hated seeing such a lovely lady so sad. And since there was something I could do to help, I did."

His words had some truth in them. Christine did remember reading that. And rereading that several more time in the months that had followed. She'd been willing to swallow the explanation then, but now it stretched slightly too far, fraying at the seams.

"Well, once again I can't thank you enough," Christine said. "Such whimsy though. I can't imagine the expense for me let alone the other girls."

"The other girls?" Khan asked blankly.

"Of course," Christine said, blinking with mock innocence. "You aided me without even a single conversation or mutual friend to our names. Don't you do the same for others?"

"Y-Yes," he said, stumbling over the short word. "Yes, a few."

"Are they all medically related?"

"No," he said, most non-descriptively. "And I'm sure they'd prefer it if I kept their personal details from you, just as I'm sure you'd prefer the same from them."

His recovery had been decent, but Christine saw straight through the lies.

Nadir Khan hadn't picked her out at random. It'd been calculated. She didn't even bother wondering by whom. Had Renaud been there that night? Had he told Khan to talk to Madame Giry about her? Christine could feel the beginnings of a headache.

All this time she'd thought it was her decisions this time. Her actions driving the course of her life.

He'd been behind everything all along, just as before.

At last they reached her classroom. Christine excused herself inside, but Khan insisted on following. She bit back a sigh and started going through the motions of fruitlessly searching through the desks as if she actually expected to find her gloves there.

"No luck," Christine said after an appropriate amount of time. "I must have lost them while we were touring the city."

"Well, that won't do at all," he said. "I'll have a new pair sent to you when you're back in Vienna."

"oh, i simply cou-"

"Think of it as an early christmas present. Can't have our next piano virtuoso suffering from frozen fingertips."

Considering the money he was pouring into her father's treatment, a new pair of gloves was really just a raindrop in the sea. Christine was still reluctant to accept so placidly, but ultimately didn't protest further. Her energy was better off saved to be spent elsewhere.

"Why Renard's opera?" Khan suddenly asked.

Christine nearly jumped, the question taking her off guard. "Excuse me, Monsieur?"

"You used Madame Giry to sneak in, did you not? And apparently disobeyed some of her orders in the process. What was it about his opera that made it worth the effort?"

"I…" She grasped for some kind of excuse. "Nothing in particular. I was only here for the two weeks. Monsieur Renaud's was the only opera currently playing."

"A general fan then. And yet you hold no passion for singing."

Christine regarded him cooly, no easy feature considering her current infatine stature.

"Do you sing, Monsieur?"

"No, quite terrible. Most certainly worse than you."

"And yet you are a dedicated patron."

Khan chuckled. "You make a good point."

He offered to walk her home. She politely declined. He politely insisted. She had no choice but to accept.

The older gentleman talked of random, frivolous things on the journey home to Madame Giry's flat. The weather, the occasional bird that flew by, the length of the train ride she'd be taking the next morning…

Even with the conversation taking a more impersonal tone, Christine didn't let her guard down.

The sooner she got out of Paris the better.

A/N: Thanks once again for sticking with me this long! First thing, to answer at least one question I received in the comments (and something at least one of you correctly figured out), Erik's name is still Erik. His official name that the world knows him by is Charles because I'm following the Kay version - Erik was named after the priest who baptized him because his mother refused to name him after his father.

In this world, there's no deformity (blasphemy! sacrilege!), so there's no "official" Erik. But as Christine correctly guessed, he has his canon memories too, so he calls himself Erik in that sense and so does Nadir when he's alone. Also, speaking of Nadir, in creating my own little hodgepodge of canon, this Christine comes from mostly ALW-verse events with Kay-verse backstory, a.k.a. Nadir was never in her version of the story, a.k.a. he is a stranger as far as she knows.

Of course things have been changed now…

Finally, I'm able to mention it now that we've passed the big reveal. Inspiration for this story was totally taken from Muirin007's If and The Man Beneath the Monster. Pretty much all my mental images of the characters are taken from her. I even shamelessly ripped the surname "Renaud" from the pseudo-bio she wrote. *whistles innocently*