Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

**_Here is another phantom of the opera fanfic._**

Hecradled the baby the in the nook of his arm, he had found it in his boat when he was coming home; it seemed to only be a few days old. The child opened his blue eyes and looked up at him; he was suspecting the baby to start crying when it saw his face, but instead it yawned and fell back to sleep. He rocked it back and forth; humming a lullaby softly; it squirmed and yawned again. The baby's face reminded him so mush of himself; it would always be shunned by the world, just because of its looks. The right side of his face was marred and deformed, but the left side was normal and untouched.

"Now, what are we going to call you, little one?" Erik muttered, stroking the baby's soft, downy black hair. The baby opened his eyes again, and looked up at him, staring into his eyes.

"How about we name you after your evil mother, Christopher." He said, smiling down at the child and letting the little baby grip his finger. The baby smiled and cooed.

"Then it's settled, Christopher Willard Destler, perfect." He said, tickling the baby under the chin.


	2. Thirteen years later

**Here is chapter two**

He watched his son's every move; he had gotten better at hand-to-hand combat.

"Now, Christopher. Remember what I taught you." He suggested, moving closer to the boy.

"I remember, papa. Never talk to your opponent." He said, kicking his father's leg out from under him.

"Good, Christopher." He complemented, reaching out his hand. Christopher took it; Erik pulled him down beside him.

"You forgot another keen rule." He said, standing up. "Yes, I know. Never trust your opponent." Christopher jested, also standing up. He dusted himself off, and fixed his hair; he then straightened his mask.

"You're getting better, Christopher." Erik commented, patting his son's shoulder.

"Thank you, papa." He replied, smiling at the older man. They looked up; someone was up in the opera house.

"Let me take them," Christopher begged, "Please." Erik nodded, and waved him away; he smiled and hurried up the stairs.

He draped his cloak over his shoulder, and placed his sword on his belt in record time. He hurried down the secret passageway to the dressing room mirror; he slid it open softly, it had grown rusty and squeaked every time he opened it. He tiptoed down the hall to the back stage, and looked for his prey. Two people, a man and a woman, dressed in very elegant clothing; he smiled his wicked smile. He drew his sword and climbed to the pillars above; he followed their moves.

"What if he's not here, Raoul?" he heard the woman ask, hugging the man's arm.

"He'll be here, my dear. This is his home." He answered, smiling down at her. Christopher jumped down behind them, making them jump, but he stayed in the shadows so they couldn't see him until he wanted them to.

"May I help you, Monsieur, Mademoiselle?" he asked, walking out behind them; they turned to stare at him.

"It's not polite to stare, Monsieur." He said, glaring at the man who was gawking at his face.

Raoul stared at the boy who seemed to only be thirteen years old, but he seemed to be more mature then most children his age.

"What is your name, child?" the woman asked, smiling at him weakly. Christopher's temper boiled, how dare she call him a child.

"I am not a child, Mademoiselle. And how dare you insult me in such a manner." He yelled, tears starting to stream down his face; he felt them under his mask.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to insult you so. I just want to know your name." She apologized, taking a step toward him.

"Christopher Willard Destler." He replied, wiping the tears away. She gasped; Erik's last name was Destler.

"You wouldn't happen to be related to Erik Destler, now would you?" she asked, walking back beside her husband. The boy smiled a wicked grin, that reminded her so much of her old music teacher.

"Yes, mademoiselle. He is my father." He snapped, replacing his sword.

"Your father is the phantom?" Raoul asked, standing behind his wife.

"Do you have a problem with that?" Christopher asked, glaring at him.

"I would like to see your father, Chris." The woman suggested, smiling at him.

"It's Christopher, Mademoiselle." He snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"Please, Christopher. I'm begging you to take me to your father." She begged, pleading at him with her soft brown eyes.

"Alright, but I better not get in any trouble." He said, turning to walk away. They followed him silently. They followed him down the same passage he had used before.

"Papa, we have guest. They say they know you." He shouted as he walked out into the underground palace. His father looked up from the organ; removing his fingers from the keys.

"I don't know anyone, Christopher." He said, looking over at his son.

"I don't know them." He replied, shaking his head and moving out of the way. His father stood up, staring at the woman, his mouth open wide.

"Christine." He muttered, walking toward them.

"Hello, Erik. It's good to see you again." She said, smiling shyly at him.

"Papa, I need to talk to you now." Christopher whispered in his father's ear.

"Later, Christopher." He replied, not looking away from the woman.

"No, now, papa." He snapped back.

"Later, Christopher. Go to your room." He ordered, pointing toward his room.

"No, I want to talk to you now." Christopher snapped, his face turning red.

"Christopher Willard Destler, go to your room, we will talk later. And don't you ever get that tone with me again." Erik scolded. Tears started streaming down his son's face. Christopher glared at him then ran to his room; Christine saw tears in Erik's eyes.

"You've never scolded him before, have you?" she asked, walking over to him.

"I've never had a reason to." He answered, wiping the tears away.

"He's a lot like you, same temper and everything." She commented.

"Thank you." He replied, smiling at her.

"Where's your husband?" he asked, wiping his eyes again.

"Probably went looking for our son, Ronald." She said; he laughed coldly.

"What's so funny?" she asked. "Your son, Ronald. What about your other son, Christopher?" he snapped, all of suddenly his temper boiling over.

"Please, Erik. Calm down, I've come to see you and Christopher." She informed, taking a step back. Beautiful violin music suddenly filled the cave; it was dark, and tragic.

"He's upset." Erik muttered, lowering his head.

"He is like you, you can tell his mood by his music." She commented, smiling again. Then there was a loud noise coming from Christopher's room.

"What was that?" she asked, looking at him.

"He's escaping," Erik, answered, running to his room, "He's gone." He said, searching the bedroom.

"Where could he have gone?" Christine asked, standing behind him; she looked the room. There were sheets of music all over the floor and pinned up on the wall; Erik picked up the violin and placed it on the bed.

"What do we do?" she asked, picking up the violin bow and sitting it on the dresser.

"What do you mean we?" he snapped, turning around to look at her, the angry was back and so were the tears.

"He's my son as well." She replied, taking a step toward him.

"What about the last thirteen years, Christine?" He bellowed, grabbing her and shaking her, "hum, where were you when he said his first word, or when he took his first step, where were you on his fifth birthday." He snapped, shaking her harder.

"Let her go, Erik." Rauol ordered, walking into the room; Erik saw a young boy standing behind his father's legs.

"Hello, Rauol. Came to finish me off." He snapped, letting go of Christine.

"No, Erik. I haven't." he snapped back, glaring back at him.

"Just leave, Christine and take your Vicomte with you." Erik ordered, pushing her toward Raoul.

"I want to help look for him." She explained, turning to look at him.

"I'll look for him just like the other times, alone," He growled, walking toward her, "Now, go!"

Raoul took her by the arm and dragged out of the bedroom, leaving Erik alone.

"We better just go, I knew this was a bad idea." Raoul said, pulling her and their son down the secret passage way.

"He hasn't changed, has he?" Christine muttered, looking back.

"No, he hasn't, still rude selfish Erik." He replied.

"He's not selfish, just protective." She said, smiling at him.


	3. Five years later

_**Five Years later**_

He watched as the people hurried into the opera to find their seats; some many, he wasn't use to so many people. He opened the secret door and hurried down the pathway; to the back stage. The performers and stagehands were busy getting ready for the performance; running around, bumping into each other.

"You'll get use to the chaos, my boy." His father said, walking up beside him.

"So much noise and so many people. I've never seen the opera house so clean and elegant." He replied, looking at him.

"The opera is open again for business, so the infamous opera ghost has to come back as well. I mean the phantom made the opera house legendary." His father informed, smiling at him, "But I'm not as young as I use to be." His son looked at him in confusion.

"Do you want me to take the position as the opera ghost?" he asked, smiling; Erik nodded.

"You mean it." He asked again. They looked down at the dancers and watched as the curtains opened and the opera began.

"Your mother was supposed to come to this performance." Erik whispered.

"I don't care." He snapped back, crossing his arms in front of him.

"Come, Christopher. Madam Giry was supposed to keep box 5 empty for us." Erik said, patting his shoulder. He walked behind his father up to the boxes; Madam Giry was standing outside of the box, waiting for them.

"Erik, Christopher. " she said, pulling the drape back; Christopher walked in, followed by his father, Erik nodded to the Madam Giry before he pulled the drape closed.

"Great opera, bad performers." Christopher mumbled, laughing softly.

"That's how they usually are, except for the ones your mother performed in." he replied, smiling at him; Christopher lowered his head.

"You can't be mad at her forever." He muttered, patting his knee.

"You are." He replied, looking up at his father.

"That's different, Christopher and you know it." Erik answered, looking down at the stage.

"No it's not." He whispered, just loud enough for the phantom to hear; Erik looked at his son and smiled. He reminded the phantom so much of himself; the boy seemed to be drawn to trouble and mischief, yet he never got caught. As a boy, he could get away with anything.

"I think it's time, the opera ghost made his first appearance." Erik muttered, smiling at his son; Christopher stood up and then left. A few minute later, a scene background, fell, right on top of one of the performers.

"The opera ghost, he's back!" one of the ballets girls shouted, pointing up at the bridges above; she was answered by a deep sinister laugh. Erik let out a laugh that matched his son's; the audience and performers looked up at the box, then back at the stage.

"He is up to his old tricks." One of the mangers said to the other manger. They turned back to the stage, when they heard one of the female singers scream; the phantom had jumped right in front of them. He bowed and disappeared in a cloud of smoke.

Erik stood up and left to go back to his underground palace; Christopher was already there, waiting for him.

" Bravo, Christopher," Erik said, clapping his hands, "I don't remember ever being so proud."

"Thank you, Papa." He replied, bowing mockingly.


End file.

Phantom of the Opera