For you, my Angel of Orange Music. Only ever you. You know what's weird? I can't say Happy Anniversary. I can't even say happy early birthday.

Disclaimer: You never know. I COULD be Andrew Lloyd Webber. I COULD turn this fanfic into a musical. All in favor? No one? Good. On with the show!

There's nothing quite like the feeling of running with a cloak billowing out behind you.

Erik turned a corner and felt his heavy cape sweep in front of him as he came to a stop, listening intently to the sound of footsteps on the East Staircase.

The only person Alexandre was worried about was the rat catcher. Everyone knew about him, but even though Alexandre didn't really want the rat catcher to hear him sing, at the same time, Alexandre didn't care. He needed to sing and this was perhaps the only place where it felt like no one could hear him.

Erik raised both eyebrows as he heard singing. Di Quella Pira was an incredibly difficult aria, and its passionate anger grew in a young man's voice as he descended the steps. As a boy came into view, Erik drew back into the shadows.

This was one of Alexandre's favorite arias. It took up every ounce of energy that he had, and he loved it for the way he needed every bit of his heart to sing it. He was a baritone, yes, but only by a hair, and this was the song that had gotten him into the Opéra Populaire. Unlike many chorus members, he didn't have family in the business; in fact, he hardly had any family at all, as far as he was concerned. He remembered his father's face when he told him he was joining the Opéra... Shaking the memory away, Alexandre threw himself into the aria, giving every ounce of power he had, letting the music consume his very soul.

A high C hit the walls with the force of a locomotive and Erik staggered back, impressed. He had to see the boy's face.

A movement against the wall caught Alexandre's eye, and all sound stopped, cloaking Alexandre and the unknown spirit in silence. He could feel his heartbeat in his stomach, even as every thought in his head whispered, "Ignore it! Ignore it!" and his throat yearned to continue singing. If someone wants me to stop singing, Alexandre reasoned with himself, they have only to tell me. His eyes swept the wall once more, and, satisfied with his solitude, returned to his aria.

It was Meg's dance partner. Erik had never known him to be such a singer, but here he was, spilling his heart on the hallway floor as if his voice would pave a path to peace. But there was something else, a memory of green glass. Broken green glass. From a bottle. Duront. The boy who rescued him. Amadeus? Anatole. No- Alexandre. Putting a name to the face and talent cleared Erik's mind a bit. He wouldn't feel so uncomfortable springing a trap on him now that he knew who he was. And already, Erik's mind was made up; he wouldn't kill the boy, or even confine or mildly maim him. Just scare him. Had to keep up his reputation, of course. But Erik had the decency to wait until the end of the boy's aria, pleasant as it was, before pulling a lever concealed behind the third archway.

Alexandre stopped dead in his tracks as every torch on either wall as far as he could see was extinguished. The last of his notes had faded from echoes off the walls, and in their place a silence gathered, layer by layer. His heartbeat quickened again, and the foot he willed to move took a step back instead of forward. Alexandre clenched his fist. He was many things, but a coward was not one of them. Had not ever been. The only thing he had ever run from was... He couldn't even make himself think his name. The Stygian hall before him was terrifying, but even moreso was the idea of facing his love at rehearsals. Determined, Alexandre continued into the darkness.

If Alexandre's voice had impressed Erik, the Opera Ghost stood doubly so by the young boy's bravery. But the game was becoming tiresome, and the failure of his first sure"fire" deterrent only added to Erik's unrest. Suddenly anxious to return to Christine's wedding dress, Erik followed the boy's unsteady footsteps, waiting for the perfect moment.

Alexandre's hand traced the wall to his right, moving slowly so as to gauge the safety of his whereabouts. His foot fell in a moment of dark surprise- stairs again.

Erik flew from one corner to another.

Alexandre definitely heard a noise to his left.

Erik, trained in darkness, counted Alexandre's steps down the stairs. In the West Staircase, it was Step 23 that fell to the water chamber. However, because the East Staircase was frequented by the rat catcher, whom Erik did not want harmed (because then who would chase the rats from his beloved corridors?), its trap required considerable force in order to set it off. The boy would have to fall onto it, and fall onto it he would.

"Alexaaaaaandre!"

Alexandre froze.

Oh, for fuck's sake, thought Erik.

"Alexaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaandre!" A smattering of loud footsteps accompanied the voice this time. "Alexandre, are you down here?"

Caught, Alexandre cursed whatever force it was that had sent someone looking for him. Probably Monsieur Vincents. Bitch. "I'm down here. I'll be right up."

Erik backed into the shadows, trying not to grumble discontentedly. I never get to set off the East Staircase traps. Hrmermghrm.

The caller stepped into view, illuminated by a torch and in full costume.

"Sergei," Alexandre stated in dumb surprise. Well, I suppose that confirms Monsieur Vincents as the Bitch Force.

"They wanted to send your dance partner looking for you, but I wanted to go instead." He paused as if realizing what he said, and added quickly, "I'm not in that scene. I was in the wings with La Carlotta, and I overheard my father, and I'd be willing to do anything if it means getting away from the Prima Donna."

A dark and menacing chuckle sounded from around an archway.

Alexandre shuffled. "Let's get out of here. This place gives me the creeps."

"Oh, you're saying you don't come here often?"

Their voices grew fainter as the light disappeared from view, and the stair entrance swung shut with finality.

Erik wasn't sure how to feel. Frustrated, he supposed, but at the same time... There was a soft expanse of white silk calling his name. Erik decided not to worry about the boy; when he thought about Christine, everything else paled in comparison. With a whoosh of his cape, Erik vanished.

What were things that scared Christine?

Meg sat by herself in the wings, watching Christine dance and waiting on her partner. He'd never missed rehearsals before, but today was a good day for him to miss, because Meg needed to form a plan.

What were things that scared Christine?

If Meg could spook Christine out of her dressing room, she would be desperate to move into a new one. And what better dressing room than Room 5?

Of course, the actual spooking part was the trick. There were always spiders... She hated spiders. But Meg hated spiders too. No way in hell was Meg going to purposefully infest a room in the Opeééééra with spiders. Christine was relatively superstitious... But Meg couldn't exactly fill the room with black cats and ladders. This was a problem. Not because Meg was uncreative-she tended to pride herself on her own ingenuity after years of living with the Opera Ghost-but because Christine was perfectly... Brave. Meg hadn't been the only one living around an Opera Ghost all these years. Christine was bad at decision-making and sometimes visibly anxious and nervous but it was as if knowing Erik had belittled every other concern in her world, and only unworldly things could shake her.

Unworldly things. Back to the supernatural. But there is more to the supernatural than black cats and ladders, Meg thought, hope rising.

At that moment, Sergei Vincents arrived with her partner, and Meg tucked the idea away for later.

There! The crinoline was finished.

Erik took a step back to admire his progress. A crinoline hung delicately from Mannequin-Christine's hips, and an unadorned corset lay waiting. Madame Giry had sent him yards and yards of critsey-critsey, and Erik had sufficiently reimbursed the costume department for their (albeit unwilling) sacrifice. The floor of the lair was mostly clean now, with only pattern pieces littering the area. He felt proud of his own organizational skills. Costumes weren't even his forté. Yet here he was with most of his pieces cut, a lovely crinoline, and a corset just waiting to be made Christine-worthy. It's kind of amazing what love can inspire you to accomplish. Erik glanced at the calendar. Especially under a time strain.

"Christine!"

Looking up from unlacing her rehearsal pointes to face Meg, Christine smiled rapturously. "Yes?"

"Dinner together?"

"Of course!"

Meg beamed back. It was time to put the plan into action.

"Why were you trying to skip rehearsals?"

Alexandre winced a little as he stood up. Sergei stood facing him, a bag on his shoulder and an inquisitive but undemanding expression on his face.

"I suppose I... Didn't feel my best today."

"You look better," Sergei commented.

It was probably true. Alexandre knew that dancing always put his body and mind at peace, brought color to his cheeks, gave him an air of serenity. But sometimes you need to escape even your usual escape methods. Knowing he didn't want to try to explain this, Alexandre simply answered, "Thank you," and left it at that, hoping to leave quickly and make it to his dorm before Duront. Just to grab a few things.

Sergei saw that there was a lot on Alexandre's mind. That might have annoyed someone else trying to hold a conversation with him, but Sergei smiled to himself, knowing he preferred speaking with someone who had a lot on their mind than someone who had no mind at all. "Of course. I will see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Alexandre repeated absently. He gave a respectful nod and the two parted.

"Well. You know how Mama knows everything that goes on." Meg leveled a significant look upon Christine, who nodded with understanding as she cut her food. Madame Giry was the one who delivered the Angel's letters to her. Her heart fluttered at his memory. "So I have heard some things as well," Meg continued, twirling pasta noodles on her fork.

Christine smiled, unaware and blissful. "What have you heard?" she asked. Meg always told the best ghost stories. But at the thought ghost, Christine suddenly worried. Her angel was a ghost. Sort of. Maybe? A phantom, at least... But still of heaven. Yes, still of heaven! Her mind cleared and she turned her attention again to Meg.

"I've heard some of the dressing rooms are..." She dropped her voice ominously and looked around as if to make sure no one else would hear. "... Possessed."

A stunned silence.

And then:

Laughter.

"Possessed!" Christine cried between giggles. Though Meg (trying to stay in character) waved her hands to keep her quiet, Christine couldn't help her own delight. "How ever did you hear that?"

"From Mama! I don't know which ones are haunted yet, but this was why they have been in disuse all these years..." The real reason was because the Opéra had been built for the luxury of its leads, but there were really only two resident leads at all times, and the remaining half dozen rooms were left in disuse. But what Christine didn't know wouldn't hurt her. She went on to tell of a group of girls who once tried to conjure a spirit in Room Four, the hauntings that followed, and the deaths of each girl until only one remained, a friend of her mother's who secluded herself in Calais. Christine listened intently, smiling occasionally at her raconteur friend. When Meg finished, Christine brushed back her hair.

"Does this spirit have anything to do with the Phantom of the Opera?"

Meg had been hoping she wouldn't ask that. "Maybe," she hedged. "Just keep a sharp vigil about you! I'm down the hall from you, I have nothing to fear."

Christine smiled again. "I will. And if I hear any moaning or screaming, I'll tell you."

"Good. You know, I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to switch rooms." Seed: planted.

"I haven't even moved in yet!" Christine laughed. "Perhaps I'll invoke the Phantom to protect me from evil spirits instead."

"Oh, he'll probably be too busy with the dress-dRESSING ROOM," Meg saved. "He! Loves haunting that dressing room! Yessiree! You remember that fire! Ha ha ha!" Fake as fuck, fake as fuck, Meg berated herself. Christine saw through the "possession" story, she'll definitely see through this!

Christine's eyes widened. "He does?"

Meg blinked. Jesus, Christine.

Lovely as it was to spend the day at a sewing machine, Erik would never think for a second that there was anything in the world better than the end of the day, for when the sun set and the world slipped into shadow, he could exist in a way that he couldn't during the day; he could exist before Christine.

Though she couldn't see his face, there was a connection between them in their lessons that could only exist in the night, an artifice that suddenly became real in darkness and candle smoke. It was for this connection that he donned his cloak and fedora and took up his books of music, for Christine had a lesson tonight, and in those moments, she was truly his.

Christine pushed away from the table. "I should get ready," she said.

Meg smiled knowingly. Christine always said she left to pray for her father, but Christine didn't know that Meg knew that Christine knew the Phantom, who Meg also knew, but Christine didn't need to know that. She wondered if Christine would ever need to know, or if it would remain a secret forever. If Meg was successful in getting her in Room Five and Erik was successful in winning her love, then maybe Meg would be invited to a wedding sometime soon. Christine could find out then. For now, she didn't have time to resent Erik for making her keep secrets from her best friend. She understood a little bit. The magic would lose its potency if he appeared to anyone else.

The two cleared their dishes, and Christine left to get her music books.

Seeing Christine enter the chapel made Erik realize that he had missed her terribly since their last meeting. He always missed her terribly, of course-her curls, her smile, her hands, which were often just as expressive as her eyes, and oh, how kind and sweet she was, how she understood him so, how her voice and mind were equally captivating, how he longed for her to know him... There was a point to this. What was he doing? Oh yes-he always missed her terribly, but lately he'd been unable to visit rehearsals and watch from the catwalks, and so seeing her now held even more joy for him than usual. Joy. Only Christine, Erik thought, full of love as he watched her light candles. Only ever Christine.

Night had long fallen. Meg and Christine were both safe and asleep in their dormitory; Duront slept alone, for Alexandre continued his stay in the communal dressing room. The halls seemed to breathe, even as its inhabitants slept, giving the Opéra itself a life of its own.

But there was one who did not sleep. This man stood before a grand, mysterious house far below the Opera Populaire, studying its details and approaching the front door. His shoes crunched in pebbly sand from the lake's shore before reaching the stone porch. He hesitated.

Erik jolted awake to a loud rapping at his door. Pattern pieces stuck to his face and his arm had been imprinted by a length of lace. He pulled himself up off the floor and dusted himself off, careful not to tear any materials in the process.

Again the sound of someone rapping, tapping at his lair door resounded, sending echoes to its very core; Erik couldn't say it was the wind and nothing more. Perhaps it was Meg who had come knocking; that thought wasn't quite so shocking. Though usually she came through Entrance #4.

So Erik stood and, walking surely, didn't feel his fear unfurling as he reached and opened wide the door.

"Nadir," he said, and nothing more.

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