Phantom of the Opera Chocolates

**Extra special thanks to my beta-reader Arcelia!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera. If I did, oh dear... It's probably best that I don't.**

**Note for everyone: This is my first PhanPhic and it's Leroux novel based, so it won't make much sense if you're used to a different adaptation.**

**Note for opera and/or history buffs: Okay, so if you take the opening date of the Paris Opera and what we know about when the novel allegedly took place into account, Christine is either a little younger than we thought or **_**should**_** be a little older in this fic, in short: Historically the timeline's a little off in this story. Not as far off as the ALW movie though... And I know that since most of Handel's stuff wasn't popular in the nineteenth century the piece I picked out for this fic is kind of off... But... Oh well.**

_-_-_

For weeks after the night when that angelic voice had first come from her dressing room walls, Christine had thought of it as the first time she'd ever heard something so beautiful.

She was wrong.

Months later, by the time it was far too late for the knowledge to do her any good, she finally remembered that two times before that night she had heard that voice. One, her first day of employment at the opera house. The other, much, much, longer ago.

_-_-_

She'd been seven years old. It was back when she and Daddy had lived with Professor Valerius and his wife, before M. Valerius had died. Before Daddy had even been sick. She didn't remember the exact details behind why she'd been at the opera house one night. She didn't remember that M. Valerius had been a good friend of M. Poligny, one of the managers of the opera house at the time. Nor did she remember Poligny's deep distress the week the first violinist had taken ill and the second violinist had quit, nor that he relieved this distress by sharing a few drinks with Professor Valerius. She didn't remember Valerius later that day begging her father to stop sitting alone in his room, fiddling sorrowfully and singing so, so softly, to instead come and play for the Opera, a Handel piece, something any musician should enjoy. Just this once, M. Valerius had pleaded, and he would never bother Daae to leave his room again, if that was how he wanted things to be.

And so, after all that supplication, if for no other reason than to get the man to leave him alone, Daddy Daae agreed. A few nights later, Monsieur Daae was tuning his violin in the orchestra pit of the Paris Opera.

Unfortunately, for her, Christine was there watching him. This was not part of the original plan. The original plan had been for Professor Valerius to go to the opera house to see the performance Daae would be playing in while Madame Valerius stayed home with Christine. That plan was eliminated when Monsieur and Madame Valerius received an invitation to a party that they simply could not turn down; the date of the party was the same as that of the performance. Christine could not be left alone in the Valerius estate and as good a friend M. Poligny was of M. Valerius, she couldn't be provided with a free seat at the house, not to mention leaving her in an audience seat alone was almost as bad as leaving her in the mansion alone. And so it was regrettably determined that the only place the child could be was with her father in the pit.

How terribly boring it is to watch musical theater from the orchestra pit.

Though the sound of the strings was so much closer and therefore louder, Christine could hear the voices on stage, but she could not make out the words they sang, nor could she what the players on the stage were doing and therefore she had no idea what the story was about. Because that's what an opera was, wasn't it? A story told with music. She saw no story and wasn't even in the best position to hear the music; her father's violin and the violas dominated in her ears no matter who was playing the melody. Worst of all, she'd been told she must sit perfectly still and ensure that she make no noise.

Didn't anyone _get_ it? She wondered. Why must she be stuck down in this awful well in the floor of the theater for untold hours with nothing to watch, listen to, or do? Even in the rare moments when he wasn't playing, her father wasn't being much fun. He'd sit there counting rests under his breath, his eyes intensely fixed to the sheet music in front of him and yet somehow also out of focus. Out of curiosity she poked him in the knee once to see if he would notice. He didn't. This didn't surprise her. How could he play the violin so beautifully without giving it his full, undivided and unwavering attention? He probably wouldn't notice if she just got up and left.

He _wouldn't_ notice if she just got up and left.

The door was but a few feet away; she'd be doing the other musicians a favor; it could get terribly crowded in this little hole in the floor.

And maybe she'd be able to find somewhere better to watch from.

She carefully rose from where she'd sat cross-legged on the floor and tip-toed out of the pit. After closing the door behind her, she ran off down the halls, happy to be free to move and make noise again.

_-_-_

Christine looked over her shoulder, down a hallway she was half-way certain she had passed through three times already. She ran to the end of the corridor and peaked around a corner. She turned around and ran the other way. She was sure she had been down that hallway before as well. She sighed in frustration. Christine was lost.

As she wandered the carpeted hallways she resisted the urge to cry. It was a very hard thing to do. She forced herself to smile so big her cheeks hurt and she kept sniffing to keep her nose from running.

It was no use. She sat down cross-legged on the floor and began sobbing. Before she could get really into it however, she heard footsteps. She stood up and wiped her eyes just as a grown-up lady rounded the corner, walking toward her.

The lady carried a programme and a footstool. This was because only minutes before she had heard the three taps on the door of Box Five and that soft and melodic voice, "Madame Giry, my programme and footstool please."

"Right away, Monsieur," she'd replied, so now she was in a bit of a rush. Even so, the young girl crying in the middle of the corridor now had her full attention.

Christine gazed up at the woman. "Ma'am?" she said with a sniffle.

"Yes?" Madame Giry said uncertainly.

"Can you help me? I'm lost."

"I see. Whose child are you?"

"The, the," she wiped her nose, "The violinist."

Madame Giry found this unlikely since neither of their violinists were here tonight. Then she realized she must be speaking of tonight's substitute. "You mean you are Monsieur Daae's child?"

"Yes."

"Where did you get lost from?" Surely they wouldn't leave a child to her own devices in-

"The orchestra pit, ma'am. Where Daddy's playing. Can you help me get back?"

"Oh," said Madame Giry. Shaking her head, she said, "Certainly. But I have a few patrons I must serve first my dear."

"Okay."

"Come along then," Madame Giry resumed her journey down the hallway. Christine hurriedly scurried along after her.

_-_-_

Meanwhile, leaning against one of the walls of his hidden compartment in Box Five, Erik was bored.

Erik was not used to being bored. He was unaccustomed to being idle, listless, or unoccupied. He was not at all acquainted with the act of doing nothing while wishing he was doing something, anything, but instead continuing to do nothing. He was much more at home with creating, building, devising, and planning. Completely comfortable was he with composing, revising, and playing music. He was perfectly at ease with repairing some little clockwork gadget he'd constructed himself or sitting down and drawing the plans for some new trap to keep people from crossing his lake uninvited. That is why what he felt now, this _boredom_, was a completely foreign feeling. And yet, as unfamiliar a feeling it was, Erik found that it was growing more and more familiar with every performance he viewed from Box Five. It depressed him.

What depressed him even more was that tonight's performance should be perfectly enjoyable. The performance was Acis and Galatea: story courtesy of the Roman poet Ovid, music courtesy of Handel. Erik had rather been looking forward to the opera house's best soprano's performance as Galatea. Perhaps that was why he felt so uninterested, for the best soprano had taken ill, probably with the same bug that had put the first violinist out of commission. Erik quietly cursed the understudy who had just finished butchering Galatea's first aria of the show. Who _was_ this horrible understudy? He knew it was one of the chorus girls, an inexperienced teenager with a Spanish accent, but he didn't know her name. He hoped that tonight she'd realize that her talent didn't lie in the art of vocal music so that she may pursue some other career where she would not give him reason to want to strangle her. With a scowl he mused that with his luck she'd be the best soprano in this dump in a few years. How hard was it to find real talent these days? At this rate he may some day have to take matters into his own hands if he ever wanted to hear quality music from this Box again.

The thought of watching the rest of this recital was growing more dismal by the minute.

He was just considering leaving once Madame Giry finished her boxkeeping duties in his box when the woman entered and walked down the aisle toward "his" seat.

"Your footstool, Monsieur," she said, placing the footstool near the far right seat of the front row.

Erik smiled as he watched the woman from his secret compartment, but then frowned when he saw a child enter the box behind her. Who was she?

"There's no one in here," Christine said.

"Sshh!" Madame Giry said, approaching the little shelf to put the programme on. "Your programme, Monsieur."

So the child didn't know about Box Five, Erik noted. Even from his poor vantage point he'd been able to tell that the girl was not little Meg, and now he knew she couldn't be any of the other ballet brats either. This made him even more curious.

"Who's this?" he asked at last. He threw his voice in order to create the illusion of standing right before Madame Giry. The Persian had told him that the way he toyed with the woman's mind was nothing short of cruel, and Erik was sure he'd never hear the end of it if the daroga caught wind of this little episode, but chances were he wouldn't.

Blinking uncertainly and focusing her attention on the patch air in front of her, Madame Giry said, "Sorry Monsieur, this is Christine, Monsieur Daae's little girl."

"Monsieur Daae? The substitute violinist for tonight?"

"The same." She didn't wonder how he knew that they had needed a substitute that night, he was the opera ghost; it would be strange if he _hadn't_ known. She did wonder a little about how he'd learned the man's name, but the Opera Ghost surely had his methods of staying informed and there was certainly no need to question them.

"What is she doing in here?" he asked.

"She wandered away from the orchestra pit and couldn't find her way back; I was just about to return her, Monsieur."

"I see, forced to watch from the orchestra pit, no wonder she wandered." He'd tried listening from the pit once or twice. He found it unpleasant and was constantly distracted by how much more effectively he could hear every mistake the musicians made when he was that much closer to them.

Christine, who'd been turning her head every way it would go to look for where the voice was coming from, nodded at this statement. _He_ got it, whoever or whatever he was.

Erik grinned under the mask when he saw the child nodding. Poor thing. She probably thought that there was something worth watching on the stage, that behind all the singing in a foreign tongue was some grand plot she was missing out on. Would she be so disappointed if she knew that at the moment the entire plot consisted of Galatea singing about how much she loved Acis before going off stage and Acis coming on stage to search for her? Now, as he watched her, she walked down the aisles between seats in the box and past the front row, leaned against the barrier of the front of the box, and looked down at the stage.

"Wow," she whispered. Erik wondered if she was moved by the magnificent view one got from the boxes alone or if she actually found something amazing about the shepherd Damon singing an air to Acis about how he'd be far more content if he stayed with his fellow shepherds surrounded by the beauty of nature and whatnot than he'd be if he actually managed to find Galatea. "You can see _everything_ from here," Christine elaborated, answering Erik's unspoken question.

"Indeed," Madame Giry said grimly, "But now we must go."

"Not back to the pit," Christine protested with a pout. How could the woman make her return to that forsaken _pit_ after letting her see the wondrous view from up here?

"Yes, back to the pit," Giry replied.

"What a shame," Erik said sympathetically.

Madame Giry would have shot the man a death glare if she didn't respect and appreciate him so much. And if she knew where exactly he was. The child wasn't going to be any easier to handle with the Opera Ghost seemingly on her side. With a sigh she told Christine, "Not everyone can be privileged enough to sit in the boxes, dear."

"Very true," Erik said, smirking at the ineffective way Madame Giry was trying to hide her annoyance. It hit him quite suddenly that to find such entertainment in this simple conversation indicated how very, very, bored he was. This whole Box Five setup grew very old very quickly when no one was stupid enough to come in and therefore invite him to terrorize them. Not that that was what he wanted, at the moment. It had its charm, frightening people, but all he really wanted right now was someone to talk to. Perhaps... "Madame Giry?" he said, just as the woman was about to leave with the child.

"Yes?"

"Could you..." His first thought had been to ask the woman to stay in here with him, but no, he shook his head at the stupidity of the idea, her duty was to serve all the patrons and anyone else in the audience, not just him. It wouldn't be right to keep her from her job. Not to mention she needed to get that girl back to the orchestra pit. Or maybe not. "Would it be acceptable with Christine's father for her to stay up here? I pity her greatly if she _must_ return to the pit."

"Oh could I, please?" the girl jumped up and down anxiously, "I'm sure Daddy won't mind."

"I-" Madame Giry was torn. On the one hand, despite Christine's claims, Monsieur Daae probably _would _mind if his little girl spent half the evening all alone up in one of the boxes, but on the other hand, she wouldn't _really_ be alone, would she? Giry had never stopped to consider whether or not the Opera Ghost might be good with children before, but surely he wouldn't do harm, would he? Of course he was infamous for the "accidents" which happened to those who dared to annoy him, but surely this _child_...

Seeing that the boxkeeper needed some persuasion, Erik said, "You can check with Monsieur Daae during intermission and come back to get her if he disapproves."

"Oh. Well then...." Madame Giry knew that Act One would be over after a few more songs anyway. Even if this wasn't the best place to leave the child she couldn't be trapped here more than half an hour if her father objected. Then again, there was the matter of... "And what do you wish me to tell Monsieur Daae?"

"Oh, I think he deserves the truth," Erik replied with a small chuckle, "Just tell him that a gentleman patron whom you have served for years and who has an entire box to himself has invited Mademoiselle Daae to watch the performance with him. Surely this information would be sufficient."

Madame Giry nodded. An explanation that completely left out the words "Opera Ghost." Good idea. "Yes Monsieur," she said aloud. She exited quietly.

"Thank you!" Christine said cheerfully. If the nice man were somewhere where she could see him, she would have hugged him.

"You are most welcome child," Erik said, "Come. Sit beside me."

Christine stared at all the empty seats quizzically. "Where's that?" she said.

"I wouldn't have Madame Giry put a footstool before an unoccupied seat, would I?"

"What?" Christine said, "Oh!" She had almost forgotten about the footstool. This man must be some sort of invisible man, she reasoned, sitting in that seat with his feet upon the footstool. Strange, she thought, since it was generally women who used footstools, but she figured it would be considered terribly rude to question him about it. She scampered down the aisles and plopped herself into the seat beside that one. She soon discovered that the seat was so tall her feet couldn't touch the floor and she started swinging her legs back and forth happily. She stared down at the stage, where a man in a mask showing the face of a handsome young man was singing a slow and pretty song.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

"That man is Acis," Erik murmured back, making sure he was throwing his voice into his "usual" seat. "He is singing a song about the love between him and the beautiful nymph Galatea. The song is called 'Love in her Eyes Sits Playing.'"

"Oh," Christine said quietly. She figured the invisible man had probably told her all she needed to know of the plot with this statement. Erik thought as much too.

"How come they're all wearing masks?" she asked.

"Because this _is_ a masque," Erik replied. "Masques were once grand occasions many years ago, but I'm afraid in this particular interpretation all it means is a sort of opera where everyone wears masks," he said to keep from confusing the child.

"Oh," Christine said. She listened to the pretty song. The tenor on stage had a very lovely voice and it was a very lovely song. She gave a contented sigh at the end. Then, another song began, this time sung by Galatea. Christine clapped her hands over her ears.

Erik laughed as loudly as he dared. Why hadn't _he_ thought to do that? "I trust you're not impressed with our Galatea?"

"She's awful!" Christine said.

"It's what happens when one doesn't practice properly," Erik said matter-of-factly.

"I'm not going to end up like that," Christine replied.

"Oh?" said Erik, "You sing?"

"Yes." Christine was glad to be talking to him; it distracted her from the noise of that soprano. "I sing and my daddy plays violin."

"I knew that much," said Erik, he had found himself wishing earlier tonight that the substitute were not just a substitute. "He plays extremely well."

"I know," said Christine, "I always thought he'd been visited by the Angel of Music, but one time I asked him about it and he said no."

"Angel of Music?"

"You've never heard the story of the Angel of Music?" said Christine.

"No."

"Oh. Well, I'll tell you then."

And so she did. She told him all about the story of little Lotte and the Angel of Music and everything else her father talked about in those days back when it was just him, her, and Raoul, that sweet boy who had fetched her scarf out of the sea. And Erik listened.

The rather one-sided conversation sustained them the rest of the way through Act One, while the soprano bleated at them from the stage, completely ignored. Madame Giry did not come by to retrieve Christine during intermission, so the two assumed Christine's father had had no concerns. In truth her father was currently being assured by the other musicians in the pit that the child had probably managed to stumble into the dormitories of the ballet brats and even now was most likely enjoying the company of a new playmate. Since the show had attracted a large audience, Madame Giry had been unable to make her way back to the orchestra pit that night.

When the curtain rose, the on stage chorus began a little song with what sounded like a warning undertone.

"What's happening now?" Christine asked.

"They are warning the lovers that they are doomed, for the monster, the cyclops Polyphemus, approaches."

"Oh," said Christine, eyes wide, "What will he do?"

"Watch and see," Erik said wryly. Christine dutifully turned her widened eyes to the stage as the chorus neared the end of their song.

"And here is the cyclops Polyphemus now," Erik said as the masked actor made his entrance, "He's about to sing a song entitled 'I Rage, I Melt, I Burn.' It's about his love for Galatea."

"The cyclops is in love with her too?" Christine said, making a face. Who'd fall in love with a cyclops? From the look of the mask on stage he was far too ugly to consider, she thought.

"Yes, but, because he's a cyclops and she already has Acis, it is, of course, unrequited," Erik said. There was trace of cynicism in his voice.

"What?"

Erik rolled his eyes, "unrequited," what was he thinking? "She doesn't love him back," he amended.

"Oh. Well of course not."

_Of course not_. He wondered pensively if the girl would find the unrequited love so natural if Polyphemus were a man. What if Acis were the cyclops? Perhaps he should throw in such plot twists if he ever wrote an opera, he mused. Then again, he wouldn't want the stupid story to distract the audience from the beauty of his music, so perhaps not.

Erik sighed audibly as Polyphemus began his accompagnato.

Christine heard the sigh, and, not impressed enough with the song to feel the need to leave it uninterrupted, asked, "What's wrong?"

"Polyphemus, that's what. That would be the new bass behind the mask. When he sings he just hits the notes. It drives me mad."

"What do you mean? Isn't he _supposed_ to hit the notes?"

"He-" Erik didn't know how to put it into words. Yes, "Galatea" was absolutely horrid, but at least she seemed to be trying her best. The same simply could not be true for "Polyphemus" though. To Erik, listening to this new bass was like listening to a poorly made music box: every dull, mechanic note awkwardly _plink_ing into place and leaving barely enough resonance to fill the silence before the next. The man had the bare minimum of talent needed for the role he sang and when he did sing it there was no soul, no individuality, no art, no _music_. And if he insisted upon only practicing his mechanics he could at least take the time to perfect them. But no, as Erik listened to him struggle through a more technical part of the song, the way he frantically grasped each note in quick succession gave him a mental image of someone jumping across... a river perhaps, from one stepping stone to the next, nearly losing their balance after every jump and barely recovering in time to make the next jump. He had no idea how to put these images into words, much less words a seven-year-old child could easily understand, so he merely said, "He just doesn't put his heart in it."

Christine shrugged, "He doesn't sound that bad to me." She'd certainly heard better. Given a revised score and some time to practice she could probably sing it better herself. But there wasn't anything actually _wrong_ with the new bass's voice, as far as she could hear. He certainly wasn't as bad as the Galatea girl.

"Well he does to me," Erik said.

Christine shrugged again.

As the song continued Erik began to absentmindedly hum it to himself, as if to block out the atrocious voice actually singing it. He'd studied Handel's music quite in depth a few years ago and knew a couple of arias from this masque by heart. This one was one of them.

"If you're going to hum, you might as well sing along," Christine said, swinging her legs back and forth listlessly.

Erik felt his mask move a little as his eyebrows rose. Not a bad idea, really. And besides, this was the child's first opera experience, she deserved better than what she was hearing. And so he began to sing, quietly at first, then he began to grow louder, at least, to Christine. He threw his voice straight into her right ear. One standing but two feet from her would not hear it, but to her it was louder than the man on stage. He heard the child gasp quietly. _Now_ she was having a proper opera experience.

After gasping Christine all but held her breath and sat as still as possible to better hear that hauntingly gorgeous voice. She may have not detected any problem with the new bass's voice before, but now, with that angel's voice in one ear and the faint echo of the voice from the stage in the other, she _could_ hear it. The bass's voice was so cold, and somehow whiny, and... sloppy? She didn't know the word "amateurish," but if she had she would've used it.

After a few lines Erik paused. He was singing in a range he was unaccustomed to, which in itself wouldn't be too much an effort, for him, but it was proving to be more of a strain when combined with the exertion of throwing his voice so accurately that the child would hear it clearly while no one else would hear it at all.

Now that the beautiful voice had stopped and Christine was left with that abhorrently colorless noise from the terrible bass. "Please don't stop," she said plaintively, "You're so much better."

Erik felt a short rush of pleasure at her complement. It would be so much easier if he were to sit beside her; he could effortlessly keep his voice contained within that short a distance. _Why should I not?_ He thought with a shrug. "I am sorry I stopped child," he said softly, "I'll continue now, if you'll do but one thing for me."

"What?"

"Close your eyes, to better focus on the music. There's nothing to see on the stage anyway."

"Okay," she said squeezing her eyes shut, "Now sing again. Please," she added quickly.

Erik smiled at the way the child had hurriedly tried to stick proper etiquette onto the end of a demand. Then, after taking a deep breath, he gently let his voice back into the song. As he sang he silently eased the door of his hiding place open and stepped out. Slow, cautious footsteps led him to that chair he'd so often only occupied with his voice. He sang louder as he lowered himself into the seat, and allowed himself the softest of sighs of relief between verses as he watched her face; the child was none the wiser.

Christine grinned from ear to ear as she listened to his heavenly voice again. What she was feeling now was something she could only compare to listening to her father playing violin, except that the feeling was multiplied ten fold. The voice was so stunningly passionate it was almost painful to listen to, it was soul-searing in the force of emotion behind it. The force of her own emotion should she dare to stop and consider the fact that she may never hear it again was all but unbearable. Strangely, this desperate fear she had of the song's end seemed to be reflected in the song's own melody, as if the singer were frightened that he may never sing again and felt he therefore must perform for her as if he were performing for God Himself.

As he neared the end of the song she realized that it was different now. Before he had been a disembodied voice in the seat beside her, but now he was _there_. If she strained her hearing she could hear a slight creak in the chair and rustle of clothing when he shifted position. As his voice rose in a crescendo his warm breath tickled her ear. That voice, that heavenly voice, she had to see it. Opening her eyes eagerly, she turned to face him.

Erik stopped singing and stared dumbly at her from behind his Death's head mask. Christine's freshly opened eyes grew unnaturally wide with horror as her mouth opened.

Wrapping one arm around the child, Erik slapped his other hand across her mouth before she got a chance to scream.

Christine whimpered. Her eyes quickly filled with tears only to spill them out onto the skeleton's hand. It was so cold and dry and bony; she'd considered biting it so she could scream but was afraid of letting the ghastly appendage invade her mouth. She cried more when in her mind she saw again the image of that horrible skull.

"Hush, child, hush," Erik hissed. This didn't help. In fact, she began to tremble and whimper even more in his arms. If someone heard this little girl crying or screaming in Box Five, they'd probably assume the worst and then the hunt would be on for this depraved "Opera Ghost" and Erik would probably have to leave this place. Forever. After even assisting with its construction, for God's sake! He'd have to leave. Leave this beautifully accommodating opera house and his quiet little home on the lake and all the intricate contraptions he'd built into it... His anger at these thoughts got the better of him. "Hush!" he repeated, shaking the girl, "This is why I told you to close your eyes, did you think I said it to be mean? I thought you were a Christian girl, isn't there some story in the Bible about this sort of thing? Did you want to be a pillar of salt?" His lack of sympathy, he now saw, had escalated the situation from uncomfortable to dangerous: In the course of her tears the girl's nose had begun to run and now with his hand over her mouth she was unable to breathe. As she choked quietly he desperately tried to put the gentleness back in his voice. "Alright, alright, apologies, Mademoiselle." Removing his hand and fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket, he added, "For God's sake just calm down." After wiping the residue of her lamentations off of his own hand, he offered her the handkerchief.

Instead of taking the cloth Christine continued to stare, mute with fear, at that empty skull.

Sighing, Erik said, "It's just a mask. See?" He held up his right hand, fingers spread out. "Flesh and blood, same as any man." He let out a short sigh, privately relieved that he'd at least had the foresight to not remove the mask before singing to her.

"W-why? Why do you wear that mask?" Christine said with a gulp, now snatching the offered handkerchief and beginning to clean herself up.

"Why?" he repeated. Not a question he was keen on answering for her. "Why not?" he said instead. The child seemed dissatisfied with this reply but wasn't willing to argue with this man, this half-fleshed skeleton in gentlemen's clothing.

A palpably awkward silence hung in Box Five, textured with the background noise of Polyphemus beginning his air describing Galatea's beauty, "O Ruddier than the Cherry."

Erik was at a loss for the moment. Something had to be done to regain the child's trust, or God only knew what stories she'd tell important adults about her Box Five adventure. He decided after a moment to start simple and work his way up. Pulling a box out of his jacket pocket, he asked, "Would you like a chocolate?"

Christine stared. It never occurred to her that it might be dangerous to accept food from this frightening stranger, but she couldn't guess his motive for offering it. Oh well, a chocolate was a chocolate. "Yes, please." she said, holding her hand out.

He plucked the candy from out of the box and held it delicately, between the tips of his thumb and forefinger and with all his other fingers spread out, as if making sure he touched as little of the chocolate's surface as possible, before placing it in Christine's hand.

She put the chocolate in her mouth, chewed once, and stopped. She had seen Madame Valerius savor chocolates before, sucking on them, letting them melt from the warmth in her mouth alone. Christine had never seen the point of it. But now, as an intense medley of pleasant flavors played across her tongue, she realized that she'd never tasted a chocolate worth savoring before now. It took her several minutes to finally swallow it.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"You are most welcome child."

He spoke pleasantly, had spoke pleasantly for most of the evening, and was indeed flesh and blood; skeletons couldn't sing like he did; they couldn't sing at all, although what a charming ghost story one could come up with if they could. And he'd given her a chocolate. Perhaps, Christine concluded, she should not have been so frightened to look upon his mask. It _was_ just a mask after all.

Part of her was desperately curious as to what could drive a man to develop such a morbid eccentricity, but the rest of her was even more curious as to another matter. She asked him, "Have you been visited by the Angel of Music?"

After some thought, Erik replied, "How would I know? You said he sometimes stands over cradles; surely even geniuses can't remember every event from when they were that young. Perhaps that is why your father says he never met him: Maybe he was too young to remember."

"Hm… That _does_ make sense!" said Christine. She appeared honestly excited over the new solution to this mystery. She added, "He must have stood over your cradle and sang a lot when you were really little."

"Oh?" said Erik, "Thank you." Meanwhile the players on the stage were in the midst of a recitative between Galatea and Polyphemus. Rather than injure his ears by focusing on that abomination, Erik tried to focus his attention on the orchestra. The violinist sounded a little off; Christine's father must be worried.

"Child?" he said.

"Yes?" said Christine, looking up at him and only flinching slightly at the reintroduction of the Death's head into her vision.

"I think your father is worried; perhaps you should return to him."

"But I'll miss the end!"

"You wouldn't like the end," Erik said, confident that he was telling the truth.

"I wouldn't?"

"I don't think so."

"How do you know?" she challenged him.

"I have studied this masque before." The child looked unconvinced. "_I_ didn't like the end," he added, hoping this would be sufficient.

"Fine," Christine said, growing tired of the lifeless bass's voice, "But I don't know where the pit _is_."

"Very well," said Erik, "I will take you there."

It was quite the roundabout route they took; Erik didn't actually go so far as too lead her through any of his tunnels or secret passages, but the hallways, staircases, and pass-throughs that they _did_ utilize were so little-known and little-used that he may as well have done so. Initially he'd attempted to hold her hand throughout the journey as this seemed to be the proper way to lead a child, but Christine kept finding excuses to run ahead of him a few paces or stop to feel the texture of some wallpaper or whatever until he realized that the poor child could not stand the feeling of his corpse-like hand wrapped around hers.

When they finally reached their destination, he stopped the child in the shadows and whispered to her, "There is the door to the orchestra pit, but there is something I must ask of you before you go back. I'd rather not explain why, but I think if you were to tell your father where you've been this evening it would only cause him undue concern. So if he asks, tell him you met a little blonde ballet girl your age named Meg Giry and that the two of you have been playing together all this time." If the violinist were suspicious enough to ask Madame Giry for confirmation of this story, Erik was sure she would back him up.

"But why?" Christine said.

"I said I didn't want to explain, didn't I? It would take too long to do so," he added, in case the child was planning to supply another "but why" for that statement. She still looked reluctant to keep his secret. He knelt down beside her and pulled his box of chocolates out his jacket pocket again. "Keep my secret," he said opening the box and selecting another candy, "And you can have another chocolate."

"Oh!" She held her hand out to receive the gift.

"Do you promise?" said Erik.

"I promise! Really!"

"Well okay then," he said, placing the chocolate in her palm. She looked down at it looked back up at him, and said, "I have a question."

"What, child?" He tried to sound patient, but he was getting a little nervous, what if someone were to walk around the corner, see Christine, and wonder just who exactly she was talking to…?

"How _does_ the story end?"

"You really need to know?"

"Yes."

"Fine," said Erik, "Polyphemus kills Acis. See? I told you you wouldn't like it," he added when he saw her facial expression. He omitted the part that _he_ didn't like: that after Polyphemus proved himself victorious over Acis he _still_ didn't win over Galatea and that instead she turned Acis into the Acis River so he could be "immortal."

"He should've just let him have Galatea," Christine said, "She loved Acis and Acis loved her."

"And Polyphemus loved her too, that's the point of a love triangle," Erik said, now slightly panicked _and_ irritated.

"But she didn't love him back. Didn't he know that?"

"Perhaps he was relying more on hope than reality," Erik replied.

Christine couldn't think of a response for this and wouldn't have spoken anyway; for the first time she could tell that she seemed to have hit a sensitive spot with this man.

Patting her on the head, Erik said, "Enjoy your chocolate," before disappearing down the shadowy hallway.

_-_-_

Christine _did_ keep the skeleton's secret. And, many years which included her father's death and her decision to sing for the Paris Opera later, she forgot the secret altogether. With so many other, darker, colder, more solid matters to occupy her mind, there was no longer room for a dream she once had of a skeleton with a lovely singing voice who gave her expensive chocolates. And now, today was her first day of work at the opera house. She had just been introduced to the boxkeeper Madame Giry, who was now introducing her to her daughter Meg while ballet practice continued in the background.

"So you'll be working here but not living here?" Meg said, for the path of the conversation had somehow led them to this matter.

"No," Christine said.

"Lucky you," Meg replied. Her mother glared at her. "Not that I'm complaining," Meg added quickly.

"I'm just glad I won't have to _find_ a room here," Christine said, "It's such a gigantic building."

"Isn't it?" Meg said, "But don't worry, you'll figure out where everything is after a few weeks. Especially if you get someone to show you around early on."

"Meg, why don't _you_ show Christine around?" Madame Giry suggested.

"Okay," Meg said brightly, thankful for the free break from ballet practice, "Come this way, Christine, I'll show you the orchestra pit first."

_-_-_

About halfway through the tour, (somewhere between "_this_ is the stage" and "_this _is the ballet school for the little ones! Some start as early as six years old, you know, like I did!") Christine found herself utterly plagued by a troubling uneasiness. She was sure she'd remember visiting this place before, which she didn't, but somehow it was eerily familiar. That odd sensation of familiarity had begun at the start of the tour, in the pit, and now seemed to increase with every hallway they ventured down. She wished Meg would just get the whole tour over with more quickly, at the moment she was going through the surprisingly lengthy process of showing her all the different sections an audience could view from. Right now they walked down a somehow expensive-looking carpeted hallway.

"And _these,_ are the boxes," Meg said grandly, "Only the wealthiest of our patrons watch from these." She all but danced down the hall and stopped at a closed door, placing her hand lightly on the knob. "And this," she now whispered, glancing around conspiratorially, "Is _Box Five_." A tense silence hung over the girls a moment.

Feeling awkward for breaking it, Christine asked, "What's so special about Box Five?"

"You mean you don't know?" Meg asked.

"Know what?"

"Box Five is special," she said, repressing a nervous giggle, "Because the managers never sell it."

"Why?"

"Because they _must_ keep it empty for the Opera Ghost."

"Opera Ghost?"

"Yes," Meg said, her eyes gleaming with delight at being the first one this new girl would hear the legend from, "Box Five is _his_ box that he watches the performances from. Which is why you'll see most of us avoiding it."

Too intrigued to point out that Meg didn't seem anxious to avoid it at the moment, Christine asked, "Why? Is he dangerous or something?"

"Something certainly," Meg said breathlessly, grinning in spite of herself, "He's usually harmless enough as long as no one annoys him. We're still afraid to see him though, he's a frightful sight."

"Really?" Christine was definitely fascinated now.

"Yes."

"What does he look like?" she asked, excited.

"From the neck down quite normal, they say. He wears gentleman's clothing. But his face, it is a Death's head!"

Christine grinned. Gentleman's clothing and a Death's head, what a story! But aside from enchanting her imagination, the words also rang long-forgotten bells in the back of her mind. She was about to ask Meg more questions when from down the hall the girls heard, "_Meg!_"

"That's my mother," Meg said with a sigh, "I'll go see what she wants. You wait right here." With that she scampered down the hall, around a corner, and out of sight.

It seemed the very second the dancer left Christine's line of vision the air grew colder. As goosebumps popped up on her arms, she remembered. Remembered wandering these grand hallways, lost. Being brought to a box where a disembodied voice spoke to her. A chocolate given as incentive to keep a secret. A Death's head in gentleman's clothing. Staring at the door to Box Five, she shuddered. Surely he hadn't been... Surely she hadn't met... Surely...

She stood alone in the hallway, chilled to a cold sort of numbness. She started to bite her nails fretfully, wishing Meg would get back sooner. "_The opera ghost,_" she whispered to herself, still hardly able to believe it. Then, from behind her, she heard that voice. That voice she'd heard before and would hear again soon enough, but wouldn't recognize until it was far too late. It said:

"Yes. Keep our little secret and you may have another chocolate."


End file.

Phantom of the Opera, Friendship