Author's Note: This story is inspired by another fic by Queen Maria called Quis Separabit? Which is a time jump from the end of Love Never Dies, where upon her death, she is given a chance to go back in time to 'right the ship.'

The only similarity between this story and Maria's, is the time warp. As further emphasis to this point, the Burden of making change falls on Erik and pretty much it is complete retelling of Webber's Phantom, with embellishments.

Rating will Eventually Increase.

Content Advisory: (Subject to Change as this is a Work in Progress) Abusive Behaviors, Adult Themes, Sexual Content, and Language.

Prologue

Private Residence in Phantasma, 1907

The night went on in a dazed blur of everything. Whether it was from endless tears or the fact that just as he had everything he ever wished, it was ripped from him.

He could still feel the weight of her in his arms, her lips pressing against his own.

Erik could still taste her.

"Oh Christine… my Christine," he wept as he sank to his knees on the bedroom floor, holding his face in his hands with an arm propped up on the bed.

Dawn was nearly breaking now. Gustave had cried himself to exhaustion in the next room, the room Erik had meant for Christine initially, while a room for the boy was set up. Though, now there was little point in setting up a new room now when there was perfectly suitable one at the ready with only minor adjustments needing made.

Meg was hauled off to an asylum rather than a jail, Madame Giry was in a fit that Erik was in no mood to handle. As far as he was concerned, their greed ruined everything. Phantasma was now forever tainted with Christine's blood. Everything he spent the last tortured decade creating, rebuilding himself into something more human, wasted.

The only thing that stopped him from either throwing himself off that pier or turning that revolver, his revolver, on himself was Gustave. It was the only thing that him breathing now, for the boy. Erik's last line to have something normal in his life.

"That bullet wasn't meant for you, Christine," he whispered. "Never meant for you."

It was his fault really, to being blinded to the Girys. For not seeing the hell Meg put herself through and Annette letting her. What damnation had he brought upon the only people who ever meant anything to him? All the mistakes of then and now weighed ever heavier on Erik. He had to repeat the boy's name in his mind to stop himself from ending everything.

Gustave could not be in the care of de Chagny. Never again.

From the abusive nature that the marriage seemed to devolve into and the constant lack of sobriety and life choices, Gustave would never go back.

Erik had trusted his rival, the arguably better man, to care and protect Christine and her future. A task that he epically failed between the gambling away everything and the liquor. That decanter in the suite had to be replaced daily. Without Christine there to protect Gustave, the Phantom's own son, there was no telling what could happen to him without an actual blood parent there to protect him. But this would not even be a concern, had Erik just stayed with her after that glorious night they shared.

The fool he was.

Christine would have had the most loving, albeit hideous husband. Gustave would have had a father that wanted to spend time with him and not disregard him so readily.

Erik shifted on the floor until his back leaned against the bed, gazing the partial opened drapes to see horizon brightening over the bay. His tears running dry as the hollowed emptiness remained present.

"If you could re-write our story, would you still make time somehow bend?" Christine asked in his left ear.

When he looked over to see no one there, but when he closed his eyes, Erik could almost imagine her sitting beside him. Those beautiful eyes looking into his and he was unafraid of the visual contact.

"Yes," came his response, voice raw and strained.

"You would learn from your mistakes of our past?"

"Yes."

"Only you would know what happens if you fail."

"I will not fail you again," he shook his head. "I am no longer the man I was."

"You are a better man now," Christine's hand rose to caress his ravaged cheek.

Erik found himself leaning into her tough and kissing that cold palm.

"You cannot hide forever. Your soul will be too weary."

"I can't turn back time, my love…"

As the sun began the crest the horizon, Christine pressed her forehead to his as her hand slid to the back of his head, "I can."

The morning sun broke over the bay and Erik's lonely bedroom filled with light. Brilliant, garish light which warped and distorted the room in strange shapes as the air and conscious thought was stripped from him and the world spun into darkness.

Then, after darkness and emptiness consumed him, it all reversed in a snap and unwound into a new space and time.

Clean Slate

Palais Garnier, 1896

As reality shifted into clarity, Erik gasped and panted for breath as he grasped the wooden rail up in the catwalks above the stage. Below, Carlotta belting out a passionless rendition of Think of Me from Hannibal at the request of the new managers of the Palais Garnier. It took longer than it should have for the world to come into focus and struggle to recall the events of ten…eleven years ago. His new present.

Coney Island and Phantasma were now the new memory of the distant future.

Christine in some way, somehow, gave him the gift of a second chance. That is, if all of this was real and not a dream or fantasy of a broken heart.

Erik shook his head and steadied himself, flinching as he realized his hand was on the cogs that controlled the backdrops that were meant to fall upon the insufferable Diva with an ego larger than her hair. Before him lay a choice: let the backdrops fall and have the future carry on as fate would have it from last time, or… let Carlotta sing.

Long fingers rippled in a rhythmic pattern against the rail as he looked below to his sweet Christine, so alive, so ready for her moment to shine above the rest. Yet, if she sang tonight, the boy will remember his old sweetheart of youth. While much of what was to come was contingent on his ultimate decisions regarding Christine. His inability to make suitable choices last time is what destroyed any chance he might have had with her then.

As he looked down upon those chocolate tresses and eyes which held all the sparkle of a diamond, Erik knew he had to do absolutely everything in his power to win her. Charm her, not inadvertently terrify her with the actions of the lovesick fool he had been. In hindsight, Erik realized he was not doing much thinking with his skull, but rather frustration.

It was tempting to still pull that lever and terrify Carlotta out of performing.

Could always kill him, Erik felt the twisting smile tug at his lips for the thought. That would be a quick and easy solution, to end de Chagny's life before he could even attend the opera that night. Christine could sing and would come easily to his hands and Chagny would be growing cold for sins he had not yet committed against his future wife….and son.

Erik removed his hand from the lever, flexing his fingers still.

For Christine, my Christine… he would do this the right way. Killing de Chagny was tempting, but would be a dishonor to the Christine of Coney Island who died on that pier. If Erik killed Raoul now, even outside the purview of the opera house, her spirit and memory would never forgive him. If the Christine of the present knew of this transgression, she would never forgive him either.

Il Muto, he thought. Switch the spray before rehearsals…

Yes, that would work. He would have a week more of Christine remaining out of the Vicomte's immediate attention and start being more truthful with her. Starting tonight.

Erik looked towards the stage and the new managers. Might as well have at least a little fun…

With that, Erik climbed a set of ropes a to the next level of catwalks and moved over the heads of the new managers, and then a rough pace before them. Perfect.

Erik drew a knife from the sheathe concealed across the small of his back, and cut a rope. The sandbag counterweight plummeted to the stage below and exploded in a spray of sand at their feet. Then as chaos unfurled with the retiring Lefevre shouting at Buquet for an explanation for the mishap, while the fly chief trotting on stage to clean up the mess as he blathered about not being at his post, thus it must be a Ghost.

Ghost would not be here if you were, Erik thought as he followed the new managers from above. Firmin became the target when he stilled first, and the Phantom could not ask for a better placement. It was only a matter on which sandbag he wanted to spill while he waited for Madame Giry.

"I've a message Sir, from the Opera Ghost," Giry announced with the note he had given her before rehearsals.

"My God in heaven, you're all obsessed!" cried Firmin.

The knife went into the largest sandbag.

"He welcomes you to his opera house…" Giry was saying as sand poured in a steady stream onto the Firmin's overly coiffed hair, Giry paused just before the whole bag began spilling its entire contents onto him.

Erik grinned at the perfect timing of it and the frazzled motions Firmin made as he tried to initially sweep the sand until it cascaded in a full barrage.

Firmin sputtered angrily and shouted at whoever was nearby. As the company struggled to stifle their amusement at the Ghost's newest prank. Even Andre was not immune to the humor, at least until sand fell upon his head in much the same fashion.

As a greater raucous erupted, but Erik could no longer remain as stagehands were quickly ascending ladders and ropes to return to their forgotten posts.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

The gala premier of the new opera season had in store was nothing short of a triumph. Aside from the ballet corps whose performance fell so flat that Madame Giry put them through an arduous ballet practice straight afterward. Not that it mattered to Christine anyway. Her day had turned from hopeful to dreadful.

While everyone was in a celebratory mood, Christine was far from sharing their elation. She rather plant herself at the small dressing table and mirror in the ballet's dressing room while the other girls left for the bistro for the company party. Meg was the last to leave her.

"Are you sure, Christine? I would hate for you to feel left out or miss something. The new patron is rumored to be going, your friend the Vicomte?"

Christine shook her head and forced a small smile. "No. Please go, have fun! My headache will only bring everyone else down."

Meg pursed her lips. "Perhaps lunch tomorrow then? After practice?"

"That sounds lovely Meg," it was another forced smile, but she meant every word. An outing with Meg was always a great deal of fun.

"All right…" the younger girl said softly. "I will see you tomorrow then."

Once Meg slipped away, Christine hung her head as she traced the thornless stem of the rose that she found in the drawer of her table. It seemed to be the one highlight of her day, from her Angel of Music who always gifted her a single red rose almost daily. Only today, she failed to earn its sentiment.

What hurt worse was to know that Raoul did not recognize her, like she was an invisible ant not worth the notice. As he went about a tour of the opera with the new managers, and he met her very eyes with his green ones, not a hint of recognition came across them. Perhaps that summer of years ago as childhood sweethearts meant more to her than it ever would for him. Afterall, he was a Vicomte and thus so far beyond the reach of a commoner like her.

"Does Christine truly have a headache?" came that sonorous voice that prickled her skin and melted her spirit into a contented puddle of melted wax whenever she heard him speak in her ear."Or is she upset that she did not sing tonight?"

"Angel of music, I have failed you," she sang with all her sorrow. "Unworthy of your presence…"

"No Christine," he did not sing but his voice was still a kind of strange melody to her. "You have not failed me. You have found the rose I left you."

"You said I would sing tonight. Surely, I have angered you somehow and thus denied a chance to be within your glory. Is it a sin to want be in your presence? To have you finally appear before me? Am I so unworthy of you?"

Silence filled the empty room, but his presence remained. Christine felt the tingle of it crawling through her skin in a manner she found delighting. However, his silence made her head hang lower as tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Christine, it not you who is unworthy."

Christine sniffed and brushed the back of her hand against her nose before she lifted her head a little.

"It is I who is unworthy of your presence, my dear," he solemnly whispered into her ear.

"I—I don't understand Angel. How can you possibly be unworthy to share a room with me?"

"I am not an Angel. Many would consider me to be the furthest thing from one. Unworthy of heaven and unworthy of you."

Her tears vanished as the words sunk in and took root. "Why are you telling me this now?" she asked cooly.

"Because I wish to become worthy of your presence. I cannot become that if I continue to deceive you in this way."

"Why deceive me at all?" she snapped in a bold manner which was new to her. "Why pretend to be the Angel of music, singing songs in my ear? Teaching me? Just who are you? What are you?" Christine's anger stemmed from the pain of his betrayal of her trust, but there was more than that. Shame of her own gullible nature fanned at those angry flames budding within.

"If you wish…" he began with hesitance creeping into an otherwise confident inflection. "I can reveal myself to you, which will answer most of your questions."

Christine looked to her hands, both frightened and intrigued by the offer. So many emotions pulsed through her. For months, a deep secret, the promise from her Father now exploited and used to another's benefit. To what end? Some sick and twisted sense of amusement from tricking a naïve mind so easily? Was her life just to be little more than a cruel joke that fate like to constantly throw upon her?

But this voice, whoever he was, taught her music and to sing as she never had before. All he asked in return was her devotion to her art, to the music that coursed through her veins. Music that he inspired in her again when it had died with her Father's failed heart.

With a steadying breath, she dared voice her wish. "Then, reveal yourself."

"I will not be what you expect, or even hope for."

"How can you when I do not even know what to expect? Not anymore."

Christine did not look up from her hands, although she was aware of movement in the room.

"Christine," he sang her name with such tenderness, she felt lightheaded.

When Christine dared to raise her eyes, she saw him. The man in the shadow of a black beaded cloak with a neat white bowtie and a crisp shirt as anyone would expect of a gentleman attending the opera. That stood out most of all was the white mask that covered the right half of his face with a slat that spanned most of his forehead to a corner of his right cheek.

Between them was two chairs from the dressing tables on the same row as hers. He had his hands clasped nearly before him, right over left with the brim of brimmed hat in his fingers.

The sight of him there in all his fine attire and brandy colored hair combed back to perfection made her breath catch in her throat. "You're… the Phantom…"

"Correct," he said, his voice will that velvety balance between soft and powerful.

"You're real, you're but a man," she breathed.

He tilted his head to the left, that cheek a bit closer to her than the masked one while his eyes gained a mischievous twinkle. "I should hope so, otherwise this becomes infinitely more awkward."

Despite herself, Christine felt a genuine smile tug at the corners of her mouth while heat rose to her cheeks.

The Phantom's visible brow raised and vanished with the flash of smile. The fingers of his left hand rippled in a rhythmic pattern against the fedora's brim, even if the visual was obscured. "It was unfair of me to take advantage of the promise that your Father made to you. When I heard the potential of your voice and your grief, I knew of no other way to convince you to allow me to teach you."

"With honesty, as you seem to be doing now," she snipped at him.

His mismatched eyes studied her a moment. The iris of his right eye beneath the mask lacked any discernable color while the left seemed to be a dark shade. It only took a moment of watching her before those eyes fell and his shoulders sagged under some unseen burden. "You would not have taken lessons from the Opera Ghost, or even just a man in a mask. Regardless of any promises made."

Christine dropped her gaze at the truth in his words. Her regrettable truth, since he was correct on both counts. Either would send her reeling without a glance back to ponder what she could be missing.

"I heard your potential Christine. It would have been an injustice to deny the world the gift of your voice. Even now, the only reason you can bear to share this room with me is for my voice."

This was also true. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

The shake of his head appeared to be little more than a denying twitch. "You have nothing to apologize for, Christine. It is merely," he sighed, "the way of things." Those fingers were ripping in a vigor now. "I only wish you could find it within yourself to forgive me, and that I will see you for lesson tomorrow." His eyes met her face but avoided looking her in the eye. "If not, I will understand."

Those fingers rested as the Phantom turned to leave her.

Christine hesitated before she popped up from her chair as he made three paces towards the door. "Wait! Please?"

He stilled but did not turn back.

"Perhaps we could start over?" she asked with hope slipping into her voice for unknown reason.

He turned slightly, his left cheek to her more than anything else.

"You could tell me your name?"

The Phantom turned fully to her now, and Christine felt a strange flutter when this time, he did meet her eyes. "Erik, my name is Erik. I implore you to keep that name between just you and I."

She smiled, "What am I to say when asked who my singing teacher is, Erik?"

That small smile appeared again that lingered for seconds longer than the others. "I will think of something for such a use then, if you would permit me a few days to consider."

"Of course," she nodded and popped up from her chair, too fast perhaps. As a result the room suddenly began to spin in a fit of light headedness before darkness fell.

"Christine?" Erik asked as he saw the all too familiar daze that came across her eyes. This time, her faint was not from a serenade that he had yet to sing; or a sudden surprise at his reappearance. This time, he had no understanding of the cause, only the instinct to dash forward in time to catch her as she fainted.

Erik was on his knees with his sweet Angel safely cradled against him, spared from a complete fall. A genuine smile slipped forth, the weight of her in his arms felt so right. More importantly in this instance, her life was not slipping away to a bullet. Even so, Erik found himself brushing his fingers against where that bullet had pierced her in another life, just to make sure this was not some dream of his twisted mind.

Relieved by the absence of the hole beneath those fingertips, Erik lifted his hand to her cheek with a feathery stroke of her jawline from ear lope to chin. "Oh, Christine…" he breathed her name like the oxygen it was to him. "I suppose you will still come to my home tonight." He shifted his hold and weight as he climbed to his feet. "Not by my choice, no. I was content to see you got home safely. But by your own instance, there is little other option, my dear."

Erik carried her to the concealed panel in a wall that held no mirrors, and vanished into the hidden corridors of the opera with Christine in his arms.

He deftly wove through the maze leading down to the boat where he took the utmost care in laying her upon its pillows. After traversing the lake and settling Christine down in the bedroom he prepared for her, Erik set about many tasks.

Much of his day, after dropping sandbags on managers, Erik spent rigging and replacing seats with 'refurbished' ones from storage. Seeing the Vicomte de Chagny retreating from Box 5 with a sopping wet derriere was more than amusing. However, that would be the least of that pathetic excuse for a man would have to deal with it in the future. Bringing Christine down to his home tonight, had not been a part of planning.

Not that her presence upset him. Never.

Ten years of existence and more than enough time to brood over all his failings in winning Christine's affection. Failings he had no intention on repeating. Ever.

Right now, that started with a purge of his old and now current home. First, that damnable wedding dress with its mannequin went straight into a locked closet. Though he was of half a mind to send it to drown in the lake. The only thing that spared it was the fact was he might there was a better chance of her wearing it, willfully.

That is, if he continued to remained sensible.

Not that he ever kept any sense about him regarding Christine.

God, he was doomed to fail again at this rate.

Erik's next endeavor was Don Juan Triumphant, his life's work – former life's work, which now meant nothing to him. It was only the ravings of an angry man, starved of affection and overflowing in sexual frustration. Christine became the elixir that remedied that pain, and Erik was no longer that man.

Except for a few scores including Point of No Return, Erik threw Don Juan into the fire burning in the hearth with no regret. It would never reach completion when decades of in adequacies no longer burned within him like flames consuming the parchment of his scores.

As Christine slept, Erik went to the small music room that brimmed with instruments including piano and organ dominated most of the space. Gathering a fresh stack of composition parchment with a full well of ink and a fine tipped quill, Erik settled onto the piano to write a pair of songs that Christine inspired. The song he composed first was his Love Letter to her, and the last song she would ever sing. Her voice was still fresh in his mind, matured by time but no less exquisite as she gave into feeling.

Oh Christine…

The second song was his serenade and invitation for her to join his world of night and music.