A/N: Aaaaaaaaand welcome to Chapter Four of Descendants! I hope you guys like this one. It took me forever to get this one written up and set to go. I spent, oh four, maybe five hours working on this last night. (I was up until around 3:45 in the morning) and after that I had to go back with sane eyes and fix the crap first draft.

Hope you like it!

IMSP

Chapter 4 - Regardez, Je Vous Ose

(Translation: Look Up, I Dare You)

Thirteen Years Later…

Above the brightly lit stage of the Opera Populaire, shadows abounded.

Darkness pervaded every single nook and cranny not illuminated by light from kerosene lamps or the sun that seeped through the cracks of the wooden beams and pulleys of the upper levels of the backstage. The occasional stagehand meandered through the darkness, sometimes charging precariously across the walkways to check a knot that had yet to be accounted for.

Other than that, the inky shape that stalked the rafters was alone.

This was unusual as said figure's father usually accompanied it on the customary hauntings of the Opera House.

Their Opera House.

A gloved hand reached out of the cloak and gripped a railing on one of the many catwalks to vault down with all the grace of a cat. The figure had done this a thousand times before, making him privy to the knowledge of where he should jump in order to not miss his destination. Turning in the air, he leaned forward and repositioned himself to land on his forearms.

Expelling the momentum, he rolled forward and locked his boots silently on the rafter. Dust kicked up around him and the planks rocked for a moment. Still, his success was limited as the hood of the cloak around him fell back and revealed his face.

It had matured over the years, fit for a young man his age.

Fit for an eighteen year old boy.

Damien readjusted his hood so it concealed most of his face from view and then placed a hand on the side of his face hidden beneath the silky paper mask attached. Finding it still in place, he inched forward toward the railing.

Now to learn what all the fuss was about.

The last two days, there had been a great ruckus and the Opera had been in chaos. Word had been going around that some important guests were to arrive at any moment. Rumor dictated that a once-famous opera singer was returning to make a fresh start. Another stated that a wealthy family, one in power, would be coming for a visit. The most common was that a new patron had been found.

Hence Damien's alternate reason for being there in the first place. If any of the rumors were true in any way shape or form, he felt obligated to make an appearance. After all, the threats of the Opera Ghost were empty ones if they had no backing. He smirked.

However, as soon as he thought it, a whirlwind of activity swirled out onto the stage below. The ballet rats all skittered out, closely followed by the chorus and the orchestra. Each group filed into their respective places and warmed up in their consecutive manners.

In all the action, the stagehands were not to be idle. Damien snapped his head around when he heard them clamoring up the many ladders. He had to get out of there. Glancing around semi-frantically, he tried to figure a way out of his situation. Stagehands on his left and right, and the above walkway was too high to jump to.

A rope hung down between them. Looking across, there was an adjacent beam concealed in the shadows. If he could swing over to it, then he could in turn climb higher to the catacomb-like catwalks above near the painted dome ceiling.

Not wasting another second, he lunged for the rope, wrapped it around his wrist, and then leapt from the catwalk, dissolving into the shadows. Planting his feet down on the rafter and releasing the rope. He pulled the hood lower as it swung back and the stagehands converged on the very spot he had been not two seconds before. None of them stopped to see why it was swinging or where it had swung from.

This gave Damien his chance. He darted to the opposite end of the rafter and ascended the ladder propped against the wall. Occasionally he had to pause to keep out of eyesight. The stagehands saw more than most gave them credit for. Aside from the ballerinas, they were a veritable breeding ground for stories of the Phantoms of the Opera. Plural.

Reaching the topmost walkway, he crouched low and scanned his surroundings. Satisfied that he would not be found here on the eighth level of catwalks where there were no levers or pulleys for a single significant reason.

It was rumoured that there was a third ghost in the Opera Populaire. The ghost of Josef Buquet. Of course, Damien for one knew that it was pure rumour. But it was on the eighth floor that his father had hung the deceased stagehand after he had gotten too curious.

Looking over the edge, he could see another small group sauntering out onto the stage. Of the seven people that it was made up of, he recognized four of them. Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin, the managers; Monsieur Sebastien Olivier, the orchestra conductor; and Madame Clarice Dupont, the lead soprano since the reopening of the Opera House.

However, he didn't recognize the other three. In fact, he wasn't sure he had ever seen them before. Their little trio seemed to be made up of an aristocratic older couple, obviously in love judging by the way their arms were linked and they held hands, and a younger woman. At first, Damien wasn't sure if she was just a handmaiden to the older woman, but then noticed the clothes she wore. The green and brown fabric sparkled faintly in the light, obviously quite expensive. A daughter was more like it. Faintly, he could hear Monsieur Andre bring the split-second rehearsal to a halt.

Everyone stopped what they were doing to listen to what he had to say. Seeing that their work was done for the time being, the stagehands retreated to the backstage area below; most likely to smoke and drink. Using this opportunity to get closer, Damien snuck back down to the lower rafters once again just in time for the manager's announcement.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we would like to introduce to you our new patrons," Andre began, his mouth open to give the news. Firmin beat him to it.

"-The Vicomte and Vicomtesse De Chagny and their daughter," he delivered while Andre looked at him scornfully. Everyone turned and clapped in the direction of the three guests.

So far two of the rumours are true, Damien thought as he shifted his position to redistribute his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet as he crouched. He slipped his arms through the posts holding up the banister and crossed them before resting his chin on them.

Suddenly, a figure charged gracefully out onto the stage. It was the resident Halley mistress, Madame Giry. Or rather, Madame Meg as he knew her. "Christine?" She cried, hesitating only slightly as the woman turned and faced her. The young ballet mistress wrapped her in a tight hug, surprising Damien. His brow rose in response.

Meg, though often high spirited, had never been this openly affectionate as far as he could recall. Yes she had hugged him many times, desperately so after he had a close brush with injury or death, but never quite so jovially. Still, he didn't dare jerk his head up in surprise and give himself away. He was close enough to hear the conversation.

"Oh, Christine it's so good to see you."

"It's been far too long, Meg."

"How have you been? I'm so sorry I couldn't have been in contact with you more, but I've been so busy here and with mother."

"Oh, it's fine Meg. I've been very well. I would hope that the same is true of you and your mother as well."

Damien tuned out most of the rest, filing away the mindless chit chat for later reference. But then he heard someone gasp and he looked down, fearing he had been caught. To his immense relief, the gasp came from Meg and was directed more at the girl who had accompanied the Vicomte and Vicomtesse. "Oh my goodness gracious! Is that dear little Charlotte?"

He swiveled his head to look at the girl, her hair a tone caught between that of her parents. It was a wavy dark chestnut color, curling more at the ends and perfectly straight and smooth at the top. He could see her smile and hear her giggle as she moved over to Meg and hugged her.

"You've grown since I saw you last...perhaps maybe, oh I'm not sure, two feet!" Meg said jokingly, gesturing the height change. The girl laughed outright at this before replying.

"I should think so! After all, you've not visited since I was six," she said, her voice still holding traces of laughter.

Damien's jaw clenched in distaste, his usual reaction to newcomers in the opera, especially the female kind. Even if they were not in the chorus or ballet, they were still the more curious of the genders. And being of the aristocracy only seemed to make them think they were entitled to explore what wasn't theirs.

Also more easily frightened off, he pondered with a smirk. Instantly, at least fifty possibilities skimmed through his mind as to what "accidents" could befall any of the three.

The girl would be the best to target, he decided, if anything were to happen to her, her parents would run away with their tails between their legs in moments.

He didn't have much longer to weigh the ups and downs of committing to his idea.

"Madame Giry," the Vicomte spoke up, "would it be too much to trouble you for a tour of the opera house? We heard that the new design was quite an architectural feat."

A strange request. It was blatantly obvious that the parents had been here in the past. His father had mentioned many times in his childhood the great fire that had decimated the innards of the Opera Populaire. Damien was well aware that his father, the feared Phantom of the Opera, the mysterious O.G, had been responsible. That said, it didn't bother him. His father had cared for him even though he was not his flesh and blood. He had raised him, taught him to protect himself, and protected him when Damien was unable to do so. The man had saved him.

Setting the thoughts aside, he once again looked down at the girl. Her hands were folded respectfully behind her back, which was ramrod straight but relaxed. She had the posture of a singer, as did her mother. Briefly he wondered what her singing voice was like. He shook his head and focused on Madame Meg.

"Oh, um, no, it would be no trouble at all. I'll have Marie lead the girls for now," she said, nodding at the red-blonde dancer who suddenly took on the face of a hunted animal. Damien grinned. He knew her fear stemmed from the notes that had been sent to the managers regarding her when she arrived. Too often she had attempted to take charge from Madame Meg, displeasing his father and meriting the correction. A little threatening, both written and verbal, had been enough to do the trick. Now she was scared to take the lead even for an hour.

He saw her swallow down the fear when Madame Meg would not relent and she was all but forced to comply.

The convoy remained until she took up a position in front of the rest of the ballet troupe and gracefully raised her arms into the opening stance. The others followed suit and the chorus also began their warm ups whilst the orchestra began to the play the notes for the first major aria of the first act.

He watched Madame Meg grab the Vicomtesse' hand and pull her backstage. His interest was piqued to say the least, so he quickly followed after the group. Still, the instinct to remain hidden kept him from directly striding down the catwalks backstage. Rather, he used the inconspicuous hidden passageways in the walls to stalk the oblivious group. He used Madame Meg's voice as a guide until he had skirted around the more populated areas and had entered the dormitories.

From there, the passageways and catwalks gave way to simple rafter beams barely above the warm light cast from the torches and candles.

"...And here of course are the dormitories. They didn't burn down completely in the fire, so several of the rooms are almost entirely as they were before. That includes the ballet mistress's room, a few of the smaller dorm rooms to the back, and...the Prima Donna's dressing room," Madame Meg made a decided pause as she spoke, eying the woman.

Damien had been in the process of climbing out onto the beams, but he too paused for fear of being heard. The man drew closer to the older woman, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. The girl glanced at them before crossing her arms over her chest as though she was cold.

"Is the room used?" the Vicomtesse asked in a quiet voice. Madame Meg shook her head.

"Not anymore. Madame Dupont requested a newer room closer to the stage. It is more effective for when she needs to quickly change her costume," she told her. The group seemed about to move on, and started back out of the dormitories.

The girl was the last to leave, seeming almost hesitant to do so. Ready to leave regardless of her, he stepped down from the banister to return to the passage.

But.

The wooden rail creaked.

He heard the girl turn on her heel. For several moments, he just stood there, waiting for her to go. But there were no footsteps indicating such.

And then, he heard them. The only problem was that they moved further into the room rather than out of it.

It seems I was correct. She is curious, he thought, his mouth set into a grim line. Stretching his neck out, he could see her walking down the hall, peeking in rooms through open doors. His eye twitched voluntarily.

"Hello?" she called. When she did not receive an answer, she sighed and visibly slumped. Her eyes wandered around the hall, looking everywhere but up at the shadowy rafters. "I could have sworn I heard something," she said to no one but herself.

For a moment, Damien thought she might be sensible and turn back to find her parents. But no. Instead she crept further into the well-lit labyrinth of the dormitories. After she turned the first corner, Damien knew she was going to get lost. His more curious nature begged that he follow to see just how lost she got.

Not to mention that if she got too lost, she actually stood a chance of finding his home.

So, with one final glance back to see no one of value to the girl below, he edged his way down the rafter in pursuit.

~oOo~

It took Charlotte a bit longer, but after an hour of wandering the maze-like halls of the dorms, she had to admit that she was thoroughly and hopelessly lost.

Just a bit further and I'll turn back, she thought for the fifth time. She bit back the feeling of annoyance at her realization that she had been making and breaking promises to herself for the last fifty minutes. She should have turned back after the first crossroad.

But she had heard something. She wouldn't deny her ears a thorough investigation, so she had entered the recesses of the dorms, ignoring her better judgement.

"Yet again…" She mumbled pointedly. This was hardly the first time, but with her protected upbringing, all other declines in good judgement on her part had been innocent. This, on the other hand, could be difficult to get out of if she didn't find someone to help her and soon.

She was well aware of her parent's apprehension in coming here. She was also well aware that she was perhaps the single reason they had returned at all. Her greatest dream had been to see the Opera Populaire, the place where her mother had found her voice, as well as her husband. It meant a great deal to her, and after much pleading with her parents, they finally planned a visit.

And now she was lost.

"They'll not let me set foot in here again," she sighed. Casting her eyes to the floor, she brought herself to a stop. Her brows furrowing in discouragement, she sighed again before looking up to take stock of her surroundings. To her direct left was a pair of tall ivory doors with golden handles, one of which possessing a lock.

There was a bronze key with a red and gold velvet tassel attached hanging from said lock.

She stared at it for a long moment.

The Prima Donna's dressing room.

"Mama's dressing room," she muttered. She grasped the key and gave it a turn to see if the door was already unlocked. It was. Sucking in a breath and hoping for nothing but a dark, empty room, she wrapped her hand around the cool golden knob, tarnished from time, and twisted it.

With a flinch-worthy creak, the door came open and she peered into the blackness beyond the small field of light cast from the lamps of the hallway. Hesitating for only a moment, she reached over to the wall and pulled one off. Taking a breath for courage, she swallowed and moved through the door.

The first thing she noticed was the floor to ceiling mirror that stood adjacent to the door. The gilded edge of the piece was dulled from the candlelight from 21 years of dust and cobwebs. The next thing she saw were the candle sconces that still held moderately tall waxy columns. Along with them were a myriad standalone candles on the table beside the vanity.

The first thing she did was light the candles in her immediate range of sight with the tiny flame from her lamp. She leant down to ignite the wicks of some of the smaller candles and looked around. Finding that she could see quite well now, she set down the original lamp and glided further into the room.

Every single surface was coated in dust, and occasionally cobwebs. She was no longer surprised that no one had wanted this room afterward. "Still," she thought aloud, "if someone had bothered to come in here and clean up, dust at the very least, then it wouldn't have fallen into such a state of neglect."

Nothing could have prepared her for the voice that spoke up.

~oOo~

Damien squatted on the rafter he had been cautiously moving down when she stopped at long last. He had to admit he was torn about her decision to come to a halt. It meant that he no longer had to follow her deeper into the maze of halls, but on the flipside, it also meant that he would once again have to navigate the rafters left unsafe from the fire.

However, before turning, it seemed she had paused to catch her breath. Not about to look a gift horse in the mouth, he leaned against a beam that held the rafter he stood on suspended from the ceiling. He closed his eyes and inhaled silently.

Then she murmured something, almost indecipherable, but he heard it with his keen ears.

"They'll not let me set foot in here again."

She straightened up, and he watched as she tilted her head back, eyes closed, and stretched her back. She slumped and sighed before taking a look around at the hallway. Damien found himself returning to a familiar train of thought, namely, how people rarely seem to look up. However, observing her, it didn't take long for him to notice that something had hit her. She stood as still as a rock, staring at the door beside her. His visible forehead creased in interest. That was the Prima Donna's dressing room. Or, at least, it had been. 21 years ago it had been.

He wasn't worried about her having heard of him. He hadn't made a sound in his pursuit; not even a rail had creaked. He watched as her hand lifted from her side, almost hesitantly, and hovered over the burnt golden handle.

His mind raced to find a reason for her not to go in there. He couldn't think of any reason why she shouldn't. True, his father had seemed attached to the room in his younger years, but he had sealed the secret entrance when Damien was ten after an interesting incident in which someone had managed to open it. Thankfully they had run off to find the managers, thus giving his father time to seal it shut with careful application of brick mortar.

So he waited and watched as she quickly opened the door and crossed to the other side of the hall to fetch a lamp. He watched as she disappeared into the darkness. Then her silhouette gradually took form as she apparently took to lighting many of the hundreds of candles inside the room.

She didn't come out.

Bored beyond belief, Damien rolled his head and groaned inwardly. Just go. You've got better things to do than wait for her all day. Besides, father will want to know about the new patron.

Still, his mind traveled back to his original plan. That was right. Something was meant to happen to her as a warning for said patrons. A devious grin split across his face. Nothing too terrible. Just something enough to scare them off. Killing her would do the trick. But his father had expressly told him not to do something so drastic unless it was vital to their safety or lives.

I'll hang her over the stage, he decided, by her feet. She can't possibly weigh much.

His grin didn't falter, but now he had to find a way to lure her into a trap. Her ears seemed as keen as his. His grin grew as he launched his plan, as well as into the air.

~oOo~

THUNK!

Charlotte gasped and looked up from the dusty jewelry box sitting on the vanity. What was that sound? She swallowed, fear rising in her stomach. She let the lid fall forward and shut the case. She redid the lock and then reached for her lamp. However, as she did, a draft kicked up in the room out of nowhere and she herself in almost complete darkness.

Gasping again as her heart began to pound in her chest, she turned to look out the door to see the same thing in the hallway. The only light came from the small flame protected by the glass surrounding the lamp. Briefly she wondered why the Opera had not invested in the use of electric lights when they had rebuilt. She would suggest the installation to her father.

Right now, though, it seemed she had bigger problems. She stood from the vanity chair and alternated between watching where she placed her feet as well as where she was walking. Once the door frame was visible, she found the fresher air of the hallway to be preferable over the now smoke-ridden air of the dressing room. If the darkness hadn't driven her out, then the fumes likely would have.

However, now she had a problem. She had no idea which was the proper direction to get out of the halls, having been turned around by the darkness.

"Oh, how am I to get out of here?" she asked no one. Her candle barely lit halfway up her arm, much less two feet in front of her.

"You could always walk," a voice growled from nowhere. For the third time, she gasped and began to look around wildly. The voice had not sounded friendly. In fact, it was deep and hard and threatening.

So I did hear something, a part of her brain mused as she tried to find the source of the voice. However, with nothing but a sentence lost to the silence to work off of, she was having some difficulty with that. She stopped, hearing nothing besides the her pulse thundering in her ears, and took deep breaths. It was for naught.

A deep chuckle pierced through the veil of silence. She whirled around, bringing the lamp with her. The sound was nearer than before. Her senses screamed at her that there was danger, but she stood her ground. Mostly because she had no desire to become lost in a maze. Still, her legs yearned to run, almost carrying her off with them against her will several times.

She wheeled around when the sound of footsteps reached her ears and reverberated around the hallway. They sounded even closer than the disturbing laugh and they more greatly influenced the urge to run. Her mind told her it would be useless. This creature of shadow was in its element. It would find her, whatever it was. Her voice, previously caught in her throat, dislodged itself and she found she could speak again.

"Where are you?" she called, noting the fear and desperation in her voice. The footsteps shuffled to a halt and she distinctly heard another chuckle fill the vacated silence. She whirled in the other direction to find the same blackness. Either this omnipresent "voice" was being thrown and or projected, or its owner could move very quickly and very quietly.

Her money was placed on the latter.

"Who are you? And what do you want with me?" she called again, making sure to strengthen her voice, as she had been taught to do while singing, and add a note of defiance. Trying to keep up her facade of courage, she lifted her chin, jutting it out for emphasis on her pride. Admittedly, she hadn't been expecting to get an answer, so when she did it scared her stiff.

"Well, the proper question there would more than likely be what am I. To the world and everyone in it, I have no name, no identity. Identity does not matter. Not when you're an apparition," the voice stated, taking on a tone more befitting a philosophical discussion rather than a questioning.

Charlotte had to admit, the voice was enrapturing. It had taken on a smoother tone than the way it had growled at her earlier. This time it remained deep, but it was rich, cultured, and held a steady good-natured tone to its overall timbre. While she didn't melt like many of the heroines in the books she had read, she did feel as though she could listen to it for hours.

But it hadn't answered her second question.

Just as she opened her mouth to sputter out a quick defense, the voice began again. "As to my intentions here, let's simply state that they are somewhat more honorable than that of a stagehand's who might discover you here," it said.

She felt her heartbeat slow as she grew a bit more relieved. A part of her had been afraid of what would happen if she ran into the one of the hands in the dark. Yet another reason why her parents had warned her repeatedly about the dangers of getting lost. Now there was this character-this "apparition"-who claimed to have somewhat more honorable intentions.

She voiced her thoughts without thinking about it. "What do you mean by 'somewhat'?" she inquired, suspicious. A part of her growing hope cracked when there was no mischievous chuckle. There were no footsteps. The voice was silent.

"Do you intend to help me?" she called, this time trying to sound somewhat penitent toward her unseen companion. Silence.

~oOo~

Damien's brow creased again.

This wasn't a part of his plan. He had intended for her to run. However, it seemed that she, while as curious as the rest, was not faint of heart.

He hadn't meant to talk to her. But he hadn't been able to resist. A part of him worried that his father would be upset with him for talking to a girl. Still, he had never done so before, and his father had never expressly forbid talking to young women. So he had taken a chance.

He realized, standing just beyond the small circle of light surrounding her, that a part of him deep down had been eager to speak to her. He wasn't sure what to make of that.

Then he had had to answer her when she asked him a question. He had had to answer in his philosophical manner, the one his father alone appreciated.

Then she had dared to question his intentions. He had, admittedly, been taken aback by just how low she thought of him, a stranger, who hadn't yet had much chance to make an impression. Though he didn't doubt that she would figure out he was the one responsible for absence of light.

He smiled again. She was clever.

But then she had to keep asking questions.

Would he help her?

She was waiting for an answer. He knew she was staring right at him in the darkness. Staring straight into him and yet through him all the same.

He didn't like the way she was unknowingly weaseling herself out of his designs.

Hang the plan, his mind whispered, just be a bloody decent person for once in your life.

~oOo~

"Well?"

Charlotte was staring into the darkness, straining her eyes to see what lay inside the shadows. She locked her jaw, beginning to wonder if she had just been imagining the events of the last five or so minutes.

She could sense that there was, or had been, someone there with her.

But her last three inquiries into the black beyond her circle of candlelight had gone unanswered. She was beginning to wonder if she was alone.

She couldn't help but jump when the deep sound of the voice pierced the silence again.

"Yes. You are lost are you not?" It asked, the growl slowly edging its way in.

"Yes, yes I am lost. The darkness does not help much. Do you know the way back?" She replied, hoping that it would answer more quickly this time.

It did. "Mademoiselle, I happen to know the backstage of this opera house, as well as the rest of it, like the back of my hand."

Charlotte, for the first time since leaving the dressing room, smiled into the shadows. "And I can trust you'll get me back safely with no harm done?" She asked, needling for his word of promise.

A sigh. "Yes mademoiselle, you have my word that your honor will not be infringed upon while you are in my care."

Charlotte felt relief wash over her and she smiled openly at the point of origin of the voice. "Well then, let's go. My parents are likely worried sick," she said, starting toward him. She heard the sound of backtracking footsteps as a flash of black whipped through the light. For a millisecond a figure was visible in the meager light. Then it disappeared. "Are you still there?" She queried, fearful of being alone again.

"Yes I am here," the voice started, "but you won't be coming near me with that."

Charlotte was confused for a moment, wondering what he was on about. Then her eyes fell on her lightsource.

"The candle?" She asked, surprise and hesitant to let it go, "but don't we need it?"

"I certainly do not. I can find my way perfectly fine in the dark. Better actually. The light distracts," the voice stated.

"I'd feel better if I had it with me," she tried to reason with him. But the figure behind the voice was having none of it.

"Well, unless you want to try your luck at getting out of this labyrinth with a lamp and no help, then be my guest," it replied, stubbornly. Feeling annoyed but not wanting to test her luck, she questioned him again.

"Why? Are you afraid of the light?" Her tone was challenging.

"I told you. I am an apparition. A shadow. Shadows flee from the light. I will vacate your presence if the light accompanies you," the last part being said with some venom.

Charlotte frowned. "Fine," she acquiesced, crouching down to set it on the floor.

"Turn it off," the voice commanded. She rolled her eyes skyward before doing what he said without argument.

A sudden wash of fear passed over her as she found herself immersed in the dark. Now whatever creature she had made a deal with had the complete advantage. She would see if it kept its word. Straightening up, she smoothed her skirts and bunched up a small amount of the soft fabric in both her hands, an old habit she'd had since her childhood.

Charlotte searched through the black, attempting to discern the figure of the "apparition."

"Give me your hand," the voice commanded, softer now, more gentille. Hesitantly, she raised her hand and held it out in front of her, palm open.

Though she could hardly see anything, she could see the outline of her hand, and she could hear the sounds of footsteps nearing her. Their approach was hardly masked. Perhaps her new companion was attempting to be more courteous to her by alerting her to his presence.

She listened until the footsteps were directly across from her, barely more than a foot away. She didn't dare look from her outstretched hand as her eyes adjusted more sharply to the darkness. It was still empty.

Then a dark shape hovered over it for a moment before engulfing it. She gasped at the feeling of a cold leather gloved hand in her own. It wrapped around her hand, causing a shiver to rattle up her arm and down her spine.

She could feel the overwhelming presence of another human being in front of her. The heat radiated from his core in a way strangely not felt by his fingertips. A he? It had to be a he. Her eyes drifted from her hand to the silhouette of the figure in front of her. Tall. He was tall. A good foot over her. And he had broad shoulders.

A menacing figure to be sure.

Coming to his face, she could see nothing. It was completely concealed in heavier shadow. She frowned, but then realized it was hopeless in the first place. Her eyes were not attuned to the dark, as his most likely were.

"Let us go. As you said, they will likely be looking for you."

Then he began to lead her down the hall, pulling her lightly, gently. The gesture belied any indications given by the size and obvious strength of his hands. Those were the last words said for a long time. Well, Long by her standards. It was by no means a long walk.

She could hear the hustle and bustle of the stagehands and music from the orchestra within a few minutes, leading her to believe that there was an alternate route back to the main stage area.

Then there was only a small space of shadow left before the dark backstage gave way to well-lit stage. On their short journey, they had somehow traded places until she was in front of him, and he remained behind in the shadows. She was all but alone.

She didn't turn immediately back to him. Instead, she watched the dancers as they moved across the stage, watched Madame Dupont glide gracefully into the spotlight and begin a less graceful aria of the opera being performed. She could see her parents across the stage, sitting in the "stage left" area. Her mother was sitting almost rigidly on a crate, while her father had his arm around her shoulders, comforting her. Aunt Meg was pacing just behind them, chewing her nail in thought.

Her thoughts were cut short when his hand began to slip from hers. She noticed.

"Wait!" She whispered, whirling around to face his disappearing form. "Who are you?"

She felt him step forward just slightly before saying quietly, "I already told you. I'm a shadow." Charlotte leveled a glare at him that told him that wasn't a good enough answer. She heard him step back once, no longer able to see even the outline of him further than his arm.

"You can tell me. I promise not to tell anyone," she said, trying to reinforce her grip on his hand and hoping he would leave.

"The Phantom of the Opera. That's the only name that matters. Don't te-"

He was cut off by the sound of footsteps charging across the stage.

"Charlotte!"

She whipped around at the sound of her name being called by her mother. Her mother and her father and Aunt Meg. All three were crossing the stage at a run to where she stood. With the Phantom of the Opera himself.

She turned her head to look back into the shadows, but he was gone. Her gaze shot to her hand. It was empty, devoid of the glove that had grown warm in her grasp.

Something slammed into her and she was suddenly engulfed in a four way hug between herself, her parents, and her Aunt. Though she was dazed and her heart raced from the revelation of whom she had just spent time walking with, held hands with, and had been rescued by, she couldn't help but smile in relief at the warm embrace.

"Charlotte we thought something horrible had happened to you!" he mother cried into her shoulder. Her father was stroking her hair, and Meg looked like she might cry with relief.

"Oh where did you get off to?" she choked out, obviously having been as upset as her parents by her disappearance. Charlotte, just happy to be returned to them, gave an answer.

"I got lost in the dormitories. I heard a noise and went looking for it. I was lost within minutes," she informed them, hoping that her family would be satisfied with that meager explanation. But it was not to be.

"How did you get out, then?" her father asked, pulling back away from her to see her face.

"Well, I must have been lost for quite some time when I came upon the Prima Donna's dressing room and the lights went out. It was then I found my savior in the darkened hallways," she said, noticing her parent's smiles were faltering. There was something going on here that she wasn't aware of. Did they have a history with the Phantom of the Opera? One thing was for sure, her gut was screaming at her not to tell them the true nature of her rescuer.

"It was a stagehand with a lamp. He had heard me and got me out. A kind young man, he didn't compromise my honor in anyway, father," she told them, trying to make the lie smooth. They looked at each other for a moment, their faces pale, and her mother's lips a thin line on her face. There was a long stretch of silence between the family.

"Well, you're safe now. Just promise that you won't do something so foolish again," her father said, giving her a concerned frown. Relief once again washed over Charlotte; she gave a weak smile in return and nodded.

The rehearsal had stopped around them, and the cast milled about the stage as they made their way to the entrance they had come in through. Once they were on the opposite side if the stage, they stopped to say goodbye to Aunt Meg.

"Thank you for having us in Meg. We really enjoyed the...less stressful parts of our tour," her mother said, giving Meg a hug. Charlotte did the same.

"I'm so sorry Meg. I didn't mean to cause a disturbance. It won't happen again," she said in earnest, not too keen on getting stuck in the dormitories again.

The adults spoke for a few moments, and Charlotte couldn't prevent her mind from wandering off. Her gaze too, wandered off into the dark auditorium. It was empty as far as she could see.

Then a light caught her eye from above.

Out of curiosity, she tilted her head up somewhat to see the chandelier hanging high above the seats. The light had reflected off of some of the crystals, shaking from something's movement. She narrowed her eyes and looked harder at the beautiful decoration. A shadow swung itself around the support chain that held it to the ceiling before perching on the edge of one of the tiers. She knew instantly that it was the shadow.

The Phantom of the Opera Populaire, she thought, smiling to herself. She lifted her hand a little to wave at the figure discreetly.

"Charlotte? Come on sweetheart, we need to be home before dark," her father called to her. She nodded and glanced quickly out to the chandelier.

He was already gone.

A/N: Alright, like I said, this one is HUGE. The next one will most likely be shorter, or about the same. I'm not sure. I have to check my story board. I also might not update until next Wednesday as I won't have my computer. Hope you guys liked this!

Please remember: Coffee keeps me awake to write, but reviews keep me motivated! :)