Phantom of the Opera 1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I've seen this concept a couple times, but hopefully mine is an original enough take on it. Rated T for now, may go up to M in later chapters. I'll change it if/when I get there. It will be an E/C story despite copious amounts of Raoul in the couple chapters. Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Christine clutched the crisp linen sheet closer to her, using it as a barricade between her and the world. Beside her bed, Raoul stood guard, his warm hand smoothing through her usually soft curls, now damp and ragged after their shared ordeal at the underground lake. Their ordeal with _him_.

She caught Raoul staring at the tattered sleeve of the elaborate wedding dress she was still wearing and swallowed tensely. She hadn't had the strength to undress yet. Unbarring herself and her body before the night… no, even in private Christine kept her clothes on, wedding dress or not. Raoul had seemed to understand when she'd explained it to him. At least she thought he had.

If only this wretched night would end already.

"Madame Giry will be back with the tea soon enough," Raoul whispered gently, bringing her attention back to him. "Then you will sleep and this nightmare will be behind you. Behind both of us."

"I'll sleep," she repeated. "And the nightmare will be over?" Christine let out a short laugh that quickly wrenched itself into a sob. "Sleep is where the nightmares always begin!"

"Sssh! Hush now," Raoul said, wrapping his arms around her. She stiffened and then slowly relaxed as he began to lazily stroke her back. "I can't promise that it will be immediate. Tomorrow may seem just as dark as tonight, but time mends all wounds in the end."

Christine let him comfort her until Madame Giry finally arrived with the tea. If she had her own personal thoughts about all the things that had transpired that day, she wasn't sharing them. The older woman simply smiled softly as Christine thanked her for the tea and then left again with barely a word.

Sitting in the silence with the warmth of the beverage beginning to pool in her belly, Christine finally began to drift off to sleep. She clutched at Raoul's sleeve as her eyelids started to droop.

"Raoul?"

"Yes, Christine?"

A dozen questions ran through her mind. About the two of them. About the future. All her worries and fears and words on the tip of her tongue quickly jumbled together and slipped from her grasp. She smiled sleepily instead.

"Say you love me," she managed weakly.

He smiled back and leaned over to leave a light, chaste kiss on her forehead.

"You know I do."

* * *

The floor was hard and cold beneath her. She curled up tightened, trying to preserve the pitiful amount of warmth she had. Her nose twitched as a familiar salty tang drifted across and curled in against her nostrils. Far in the distance a gull squawked.

Christine sat up with a start, short auburn curls tumbling in front of her face. She shoved them aside, disturbingly noting their length as she did.

This wasn't right.

There was wood everywhere, the floors, the walls, slanting together to meet the narrow ceiling. An attic. Christine was in an attic. Had been sleeping in this attic. But she wasn't in an attic. She was in her bed at Madame Giry's. She remembered that. She remembered closing her eyes as she pressed down against her soft, feather bed, rolling the taste of lemon around in her mouth as she drifted off, a pleasant lingering tartness from the tea.

She had most definitely been in Madame Giry's apartment.

However... this was also most definitely _not_ Madame Giry's apartment.

Stumbling to her feet, her breath threatening to spiral out of control, Christine made her way to a pair of shuttered windows, placed unusually high, at the end of the attic. Her fingers struggled briefly with the latch before throwing them open. Only mildly prepared, she staggered back several steps as she was buffeted by a fresh gale of frigid sea air.

Her mind spinning, Christine felt as through she might actually faint from the insanity of it all when she spotted a familiar shoreline on the coast.

There. Three large, grey stones creating a fanciful precipice above the water. And across to their right, a miniature bay of sea glass and crabs. She used to climb that precipice as a child, used to position herself on its edge and fancy herself as the ruler of all that lay below. She remembered how on rainy days she'd venture to the attic of the cottage she and her father had been renting, how she'd prop herself up at its window and gaze out upon the sea, following the waves back and back into eternity.

Here. At this window.

Christine slammed the shutters shut, as if no longer seeing haunts from her childhood would cause them to vanish.

This wasn't happening. It was a dream, a nightmare of her childhood long since past. Her childhood…

Christine reached a hand up and grasped the nearest available curl. Her hair was shorter and lighter than it'd become in her later years. She thrust out her hand in front of her and stared at its shorter fingers. Faint freckles coated its back and the top of her wrist, extending sporadically down her main arm. She opened her mouth and felt the small gap between her teeth, a gap that a younger Meg had incessantly teased her about until her teeth had mercifully grown into it.

Dream or not, Christine was a child again.

A faint groan echoed across the attic. Christine whipped around, heart now thrashing ruthlessly against her chest. She wasn't alone.

Her eyes darted to either side of her, frantically searching for something she could defense herself with. Nothing.

Logically, Christine knew that she should be fine. If this was all just some terrible dream, then she was in no danger. Even if she was stabbed to death by some deranged attic stalker, she would simply wake up again. That was how dreams, even terrible ones, functioned. And, if by some divine or supernatural power, she _was_ truly revisiting her own past, she hardly remembered her father ever letting deranged attic stalkers past their doorstep.

Logically, she knew all of this. But nothing about this situation was logical.

"Who are you!" she finally spat out. "Stay back!"

"Christine?"

She hesitated, the voice horribly familiar.

A young boy slowly stretched out, distancing himself from a small, shadowy nook in the wall. He yawned, soft golden hair tousled about his face, and groggily sat up. Still blinking the sleep from his eyes, he shivered and then turned to where Christine was frozen against the wall.

"Did you open the shutters?" he asked with a frown. "You know how sharp the wind's been these past couple days."

Christine stared at him, taking in the familiar shape of his face, the tenderness of his eyes. Those unmistakable blue eyes…

"Raoul?"

Her overwhelming confusion and terror must've been apparent, not that she'd been hiding it. The young version of Raoul regarded her with an odd, pensive gaze.

"Christine? What's wrong?"

"You're… I…" The words scattered from her mind even as she scrambled to clutch onto them. Where to even begin? That she wasn't really here? That she'd been mentally transported to the past? If this even was the past. She was still not convinced that this _wasn't _all just some horrible dream that God in his mysterious ways refused to wake her from. "You don't remember?" she managed weakly, clinging to the faint hope that perhaps she wasn't alone in this after all.

"Remember what?" he replied with no sense of hidden/lies behind his tone.

"I…" Her mind still scrambled for words. For anything. "I… No. I must be dreaming. I must…"

He wouldn't stop staring at her, his boyish face painfully attentive. He thought he was being comforting, reaching out to her by maintaining eye contact and a cautious, hesitant smile, but it was only tossing her thoughts into more of a storm. Panic seized her heart. She couldn't stand it. Raoul wasn't a boy! He was a grown man of twenty-three!

She turned away, gripping the edges of the shutters until her fingers turned white. As the pain started to lance through them, she closed her eyes and rested her head slowly on the cold wood. With growing dread, she tried to remember a time that she'd had a dream with so much physical detail. Her stomach turned as she realized she couldn't.

"Christine," she heard Raoul say again, his voice much higher than it had any right being. "You don't look well."

She heard the creak of the oak boards beneath his feet as he took a step closer. She kept her back to him, flinching when he made to touch her shoulder. The hand quickly retreated.

"Christine…" he repeated.

Involuntarily she remembered the night on the opera roof. It'd been a bitterly cold winter's night, the wind piercing her cheeks, freezing her tears to her lashes. Overwhelmed by darkness, he'd called to her in the same comforting tones. He called to her, and so had the wind...

No.

No. That was then, not now. There was no sense on dwelling on the past. But, an annoying voice in her head prompted, what if this was the past? Was she instead dwelling on things not yet happened?

She shuddered, sobs threatening to break through her fragile enough composure. Once they began she knew she wouldn't be able to stop them.

"Christine… do you want me to fetch your father?"

She froze, the rogue sob suddenly swallowed awkwardly back into her stomach. The world seemed to tilt.

"My father?" Her gripped loosened. Her hands tingled as the flow of blood began to return. One hand left the shutters completely, dangling uncertainly at her side as she slowly turned back around. Raoul looked most definitely worried now, but she barely saw him. "My father is…"

Dead? Alive? Oh, if this was indeed some endless nightmare, then God in all his magnificence was just too cruel.

Raoul started to turn as if to go, but Christine reached out, grasping his sleeve and dragged him slightly back to her. Startled at her sudden forwardness, she paused, letting her mind work through its bewilderment. The feel of the cloth as she ran it back and forth between her chilled fingers, warming them, cemented her further to this dream, this reality.

She shook her head. "No," she finally said, slowly dropping his sleeve and politely clasping her hands in front of her. "I'll-" A shaky breath rattled around her throat; she swallowed it back down. "I'll go with you. I just… I just had a bad nightmare."

Or perhaps she was still in one.

Raoul's face softened as he gave her a sympathetic smile. "Perhaps we tell each other too many dark stories up here after all," he said, glancing around the old room.

Dark stories indeed. She followed his gaze, taking in every timber beam and cobweb. They'd used to tell each other so many, most ending in the most terrible, gruesome ways they could imagine, which - she remembered - was quite a lot. Her father would join them some time, breaking up the grotesque monotony of werewolves and witches. And he would place his own stories and songs in their heads. Tales of lost love, of unsurpassable beauty, of night's symphonies, of the Angel…

Her angel-

Christine paled again. He'd been clutching onto her hands as part of his desperate, last farewell. She remembered the soft brush of his lips against the tops of her hands mingled with the damp warmth of his tears. He'd been crying. She'd been crying. Meg had even cried a little too, after the four of them had all managed to make it back to Madame Giry's. Possibly the one only with dry eyes that night had been Raoul, not that she blamed him for the exception.

And now… Oh. For heaven's sake, she didn't even know when now _was_.

Raoul softly cleared his throat and Christine jolted to awareness. He was staring at her again, worry etched into his face. The similarities between the boy now in front of her and the man who had comforted her as she'd drifted off to sleep were unquestionable.

She shook her head again and forced herself to finally take a step forward, stepping away from the shutters, away from the madness.

"It was just a little fright, Raoul. That's all, " Christine said, feeling as if she was trying to convince herself more than him.

Raoul held out his hand, and - after a final bit of hesitation - she took it, allowing him to lead her across the bare attic and down the steep staircase at the end.

Once in the main house, surrounded by the relics of her childhood, Christine found it difficult to breathe again. A crude doll of twigs, ribbon, and cloth that her six-year-old self had made father as a birthday gift lay propped against a small bookcase. As they passed the door to the dining room, Christine caught sight of the small burn mark on the table cloth from where she'd accidentally knocked over a candle during one particularly vigorous bout of storytelling. A ceramic sculpture with a nostalgic chip here. A frilly sweater fraying around the cuffs casually tossed over a sparely carved chair there.

This couldn't be a dream. She was drowning in the detail of it all.

After what seemed like an eternity, Raoul led her to the main sitting room. The fire roared from its dominion in the hearth, licking their faces with its warmth as they stepped through the doorway. A large, green armchair had been positioned to face it, its back to them. A pair of feet were visible from beneath it, as well as an elbow carelessly lounging against its right arm. Even as she stared - this moment, a thousand moments, frozen in her mind - the figure shifted slightly. From a distant corner of her mind she heard the page of a book being flipped, a hearty laugh from years and years ago.

Her head spun with thoughts of everything and nothing.

And suddenly she realized she was crying. The sound broke her out of the everywhere and into the present. Raoul's hand was on her arm again, he voice as soothing as ever, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered compared to the sight, to the feeling of her heart ready to burst as her father - her one and only father - stood from his chair, noticed her distress, and immediately swooped down before her.

He tried to comfort her as best as he always had, but it only made her cry harder. It was all just too much: his strong arms as he wrapped her to him, his soft fingers as they combed gently through her hair, his gentle voice as he whispered soothing assurances in her hair.

Oh God. His voice!

Throwing her own arms around him, she smashed up against his neck, babbling incoherently something. Anything. Her mouth had detached itself from her control. Hands pressed against his back, she somehow clutched him even tighter. Christine rested her head against his chest and felt his pulse steady and strong and _alive_.

If this was indeed a dream, let it be a fantasy she never awoke from.


	2. Chapter 2

Christine sat perched on one of the large grey stones overlooking the sea. The sun's rays shone clear and bright, but barely any of their warmth reached her skin. A particularly nippy current of air gusted past, whipping at her curls and the hem of her dress. She shivered as she felt the hairs under her thin sleeves rise. With small sigh, she wrapped her arms around her knees and drew them closer in.

It'd been almost a week since she'd woken up in the attic. A week since she'd been transported back, somehow, to this fairytale-like time.

She hadn't let herself believe in anything the first day. Lost as she'd been in her father's arms, if she had fallen asleep only to wake again at Madame Giry's - their reunion a mere figment of her nearly broken mind - she wouldn't have been able bear it. Yet another goodbye ripped from her grasp before she was ready.

And so she had remained distant, barricading her heart from the inevitable disappointment of it all.

It'd been an easy enough lie, playing the part of a ten-year-old girl temporarily shocked into meek silence after an intense nightmare earlier that day. Both Raoul and her father had been concerned, but not suspiciously so. She'd whittled away the time like that until night had come, her friend had said his farewells for the day, and her father had tucked her into bed before kissing her goodnight.

She had stopped him then, letting the walls crumble ever so slightly. She'd made him sing to her with that voice she'd thought she'd only hear again in her memories and then, against her greatest efforts otherwise, had slowly drifted off to the melodic adventures of brave little Gerda and the terrible Snow Queen. Perhaps she could've stayed awake if she'd been in her original body, but this young self of hers had no resistance against the irresistible pull of slumber.

Fully expecting to open her eyes to the warm visage of her fiancé and the cacophony of Paris's streets, she was - to her discomfiture - not wholly dismayed when she'd found herself in the same tiny bed in the same tiny cottage.

Over the next several days as she'd began to resign herself to this new fate, Christine had learned that - while attributing her sudden emotional withdrawal to a nightmare was easy - extending that excuse past the initial day was not. As a child she had never been timid: running in the forest, chatting with strangers, climbing boulders, splashing in the sea. She'd tried out anything that crossed her path and taken on nearly every challenge with a smile and a tinkling laugh.

It was only after her father's death that the world had slowly closed up around her, piece by bitter piece.

Needless to say her abrupt change in demeanor, as much as she'd tried to mask it, had not gone unnoticed. She'd kept up her best cheerful facade, but acting had never been her forte, especially when she had to maintain it every hour, every minute, every second they glanced at her…

Christine had soon found that it was easier to pretend if she took some time to wander off by herself each day, taking a break from the sham of it all. She'd walk up and down the coast for hours, always within distant sight of the cottage as to not cause her father worry, but alone nonetheless.

And it wasn't that she was sad, quite the opposite in fact. From the second he'd left her side till the days of Don Juan - even with thoughts of Raoul and her angel clouding her mind, poisoning her clarity - her greatest wish had still been for _him_ to be there for her again. And now he was.

She'd wake in the mornings to find breakfast already made and laid out on the table for her. He'd speak of the day's plans and gently wipe away any crumbs that she'd missed. On the days he had to go out, he'd kiss her on the forehead and wrap her tightly in his arms before saying goodbye. In the evenings, she would take her position by the sink and scrub dishes as he'd lift up his violin and simply open himself to music, letting it flow down his fingers and tumble out into the world. And Christine would stand there, hands submerged in the soapy water, as she simply let the melodies cascade against her ear. It would end always too soon but at least was followed by a pleasant silence as they both picked out their books for the night and read by the light of the fire.

It was all she had ever wanted, and yet… she'd had so much sacrificed in return.

Still, she continued to fall asleep and awake in the same bed, and if there ever had been a chance of returning to the life she'd thought had been hers, it seemed as though it'd already come and gone.

Christine sighed. Maybe if she stared at the ocean long enough, she could stop herself from thinking. Even a minute of blank noise in her head would be a relief. It would be so much simpler to just forget everything that had happened and become a _true_ child once more. She snorted, knowing how foolish that was even as she wished it. Keeping one arm wrapped around her knees, she lightly began to trace small swirls against the speckled stone.

"Aren't you cold, your majesty?"

Christine turned at the sound of the voice. It was Raoul, as always, gazing up at her from the sand below. He bowed slightly, in spirit of one of their earlier games where she'd proclaimed herself the queen of the sea.

In many ways, interacting with her father was fairly simple. She'd been a child when he'd died, was a child now, and their current relationship was the only one she'd ever known. But Raoul…

Even in this miniature body she remembered the feel of his strong hands against her back, cradling from harm. She remembered his rich laugh, the feathery kisses he'd sprinkle upon her whenever she felt the tears starting to swell, and hushed whispers shared beneath a twilight sky as they strolled hand in hand down a summer Paris street.

That was her Raoul, the man she thought of whenever his name came to mind.

And now there was just this boy. She wondered if he even thought of romance yet, if he thought of kissing with anything more than mild adolescent disgust. Despite her attempts to reconcile the two in her head as the same person, Christine couldn't help but feel as though her Raoul was lost. Their relationship had been erased and all that was left was this stranger.

Not to mention that he was a child and she had an adult's memories and it just felt _wrong_.

But today she simply wasn't in the mood to argue at his presence. Scooting over to one side of the precipice, she invited him with a sweep of her hand to sit on the other.

They sat in blessed silence for several minutes before he spoke.

"You do look cold, all hunched over like that."

"Hmm."

When he did not respond, Christine flicked her eyes to left, taking him in as she kept her head turned to the sea. Raoul was fully facing her, studying her with a slightly alarming intensity. His eyes lit up in some dawning recognition.

"Your scarf!" he cried out, slamming his fist into his palm. "You're not wearing your scarf! You know, that red one that never seems to leave your neck these days. No wonder you're cold."

Christine fought for a response and settled with simply shrugging her shoulders instead.

"Did you forget it? You can go run and grab it if you want. I'll stay here and keep the rock warm." He seemed particularly pleased by the suggestion.

Unfortunately, returning to the cottage and grabbing her scarf was exactly what Christine _didn't _want to do. Although she'd forgotten the exact day, she remembered this cold snap. She'd taken to wearing her scarf more and more until the wind had finally snatched the thing and blown it far away into the sea. And even though Raoul had been more than willing and successful in its retrieval, for all she knew some variable would be changed. The scarf could be lost forever. Raoul could injure himself… or worse.

It hurt in a way. Knowing that even if she found herself once again at the opera house and he happened to remember her, even if he came to her dressing room after the show… there would be no tale of the red scarf for them to delightfully reminisce over. It would exist only as a story that could've been, only in her mind.

She wondered though. Perhaps it wasn't too late. She could follow his advice, run up to the cottage, grab her mother's heirloom, let it catch in the wind…

No. Recreating her cherished memory, the first true declaration of his young affection for her, wasn't worth the risk.

"It's okay," she said softly. Her eyes flicked back to the sea. "I'm not that cold, really."

"Christine," he protested. "Your fingers are white, and I can see the breath when you talk! If it's something about me that's holding you back, forget about it! Just go!"

"Really, Raoul! I'm fine! What is a scarf going to do for my fingers anyway?"

Raoul gave her a surly look, his mouth gaping like a fish as he searched for some other convincing argument. Apparently finding none, he crossed his arms and pouted like the child he once - and still - was.

Assuming that was the end of it, Christine tried to relax as much as she could in the brisk weather. A movement caught her eye and she glanced over at her companion again.

Raoul had his arms around his neck and was halfway through unwrapping his grey scarf from it.

"What are you doing?" Christine asked.

"What does it look like?" He paused as he worked through the final loop and brought the whole bundle over his head. "If you won't go and get your own scarf, at least take mine instead."

She stared at his offering as he extended both arms and scarf towards her. She looked up at his face, innocent and inviting.

"But won't you be cold then?"

He tossed aside her comment with a shrug. "Boys have thicker skins than girls. I can barely feel a thing as it is," he said brightly, teeth chattering slightly on the last syllable.

Christine frowned. It'd been the same story when he'd offered to fetch her scarf from the sea all those years ago, and he'd nearly frozen to death. She'd dragged him back to the cottage where he'd continued to protest their administrations, even through blue lips. Still so young, this boy of hers didn't understand even the concept of consequences, that sometimes - no matter how pure one's heart was - the day didn't end for the better. Not everyone survived the night.

And yet, his blue eyes shimmered with unspeakable hope and kindness. His smile made her feel warm and safe.

Yes, Raoul was a child again, but so was she in many ways. Here she was, playing the mother, thinking of him as only a boy to be coddled and protected when she was still physically younger than him. All this time, every day she'd seen him, she'd thought only of their relationship that had been lost. And while that book had indeed been shut, there was no reason that they couldn't begin again.

With a guarded smile, she tentatively reached out a hand to accept his gift, blushing as their fingers bumped against each other ever so slightly. Her heart the calmest it'd been since she'd first arrived, Christine slowly wrapped the scarf around her neck.

"So," he said, after some more time had passed. "Have you been feeling alright?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Christine asked with the most innocent smile she could muster.

"Well… you've been going off by yourself a lot. Ever since that nightmare you had. I can understand avoiding the attic and the stories, but I don't know. It somehow feels like more than that."

"I've just been thinking about a lot of things."

Christine somehow doubted the painfully vague response would be enough even as she said it.

"What kind of things?"

"Oh, you know. Things…" She fished for some answer that might placate him, at least for the time being. "The future," she eventually said. It wasn't entirely a lie.

"Hmm."

To her exhausted relief, he mercifully left it at that. Once again, they sat in silence, watching the gulls flit in the breeze as the surf pounded onto the shoreline below.

If she was to rekindle her relationship with Raoul, it wouldn't be for many years to come. Nearly ten years to come, if they both followed the same course of events from her original life. But what would happen if she didn't want to follow the same course of events? Christine had no intention of giving up her father again, not after she'd prayed for so long. Still, her memories of future happenings only had so much power if she stuck to the paths that had created them.

If she never joined the opera this time around, then she would never meet the phantom. She would avoid that entire disaster, but that meant she would also never sing in Hannibal. She would never be recognized by Raoul as he watched the performance from his box, and - if it hadn't been for that - would they _ever_ have been reunited?

But even as she sifted through the many possible futures, she knew she did not want to put _any_ of them through that pain again.

Her angel. She'd thought about him occasionally since waking up here, but everything was still so overwhelming. It was easier to place those memories aside, to quietly label them relics of a past best forgotten. Still Christine knew that was the coward's solution and not really a solution at all. And yet what could she do? Was she honestly foolish enough to believe that she could go to the Opera Populaire, accept his tutelage, and simply _tell_ him not to fall in love with her this time?

A thousand alternate scenarios ran through her head, but they all inevitably ended with him falling in love, her choosing Raoul, him losing his temper, people dying, and all of their hearts shattering. She was terrified to even attempt manipulating that part of her life.

Yes, one thing was unremittingly clear. So long as that man lived beneath its floors, she couldn't knowingly set foot in that place.

Christine would make her own path, become a prima donna in her own right. She'd learned, after their reunion, that Raoul and his family had a residence in Paris. They would meet each other again in time and, until then, they could share in the now.

"Christine?"

"Yes, Raoul?"

"I… no, it's nothing."

She glanced at him, one eyebrow arching. "What?" she insisted, her turn to be inquisitive.

"It's just… these days, this summer with your family, with you. It's been truly wonderful."

"Raoul-"

"But summer is over now," he said quickly, finding his momentum once he'd started. "It has been over for some time. My mother and sisters are already back at the main house, you know, society and all. It's only because of Philippe and my lessons with your father that I've been able to stay this long, but now even he's beginning to yearn for home."

"You're leaving."

In the midst of everything else that had happened, despite the cold snap and the shortening days, Christine had somehow forgotten that their summer was already ending. And still she could have sworn that he hadn't left this early before.

No, it wasn't the departure that was different, she realized. He was just _telling_ her earlier. Perhaps her distant behavior this past week had created a large enough barrier for him to start facing the undesirable reality around him. In her other past, Raoul hadn't wanted to ruin the fun that the two of them had continued to have. He'd been so nervous, avoiding the truth as though it'd miraculously change if he persisted long enough. He'd ended up putting off the announcement until the very last afternoon before he left. She remembered her reaction to the one day notice. Tears. Denial. She'd rushed over before breakfast the next day, hugging him with all the desperation she could conceive at that young age. Philippe had eventually been forced to pry her off, finger by clawing finger.

"It won't necessarily mean goodbye though," Raoul continued. "I mean it will, but it doesn't have to mean goodbye for forever."

She remembered her father picking her up from the de Chagny residence, lifting her up from her waist when she'd refused to move, and practically carrying her home. She'd stayed in her room for the rest of the day and part of the following morning, a vehement protest at the unfairness of the world, broken only by the reluctant growling of her stomach.

Even with the other turmoil in her head, Christine was much calmer now. Taking in his worried face, obviously blaming himself for the news far beyond his control, she gave him a reassuring smile.

"I know," she said.

"I'm sorry."

Smile fading slightly, Christine decided she might as well continue to address the situation while they were still speaking of it. "When do you leave?"

"A little over a week from now. The 13th to be exact. We're hosting a gala the Saturday after, and Mother wouldn't stop writing until we both swore we'd be there."

He continued on about the gala and his mother and his sisters and all the other minutia in his life, but Christine was only half-listening.

Even though she'd managed to calmly accept it, Raoul's departure had snuck up on her, and that was something that she could not allow to happen again. She had no desire to relive this new life exactly the way she'd lived it before, mistake for mistake. She had to be strong, be vigilant, see the critical moments where a single drop of a pin could change everything and seize her chance. This time she would save her father. She would prevent all the wretched phantom business from ever happening, for _all_ of their sakes.

As Christine started to stand, the wind began to pick up again.

Even as her mind cried out in warning, it caught on her scarf and tugged. Seemingly detached from her body, she watched herself reach out to grasp the fabric as it was whisked from her shoulders, but her fists clenched only air. Raoul leapt to his feet as well, but it was too late.

Christine stood helplessly as the scarf fluttered briefly in the wind then fell, landing ungracefully on the sea. It sat there, a distant grey flourish bobbing tantalizingly in the dark water.

She didn't know what to say.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered automatically, eyes wide.

She started to tear up then, the feeling of foolishness beginning to overwhelm her. She'd saved her mother's scarf, but now she'd lost Raoul's. For all she could know it'd been the same gust of wind, then and now. And if she couldn't stop a simple thing like this from happening again, what hope did she have for the rest of the future? She couldn't even save a stupid scarf! And as for her father, she'd have no _chance_ at saving him at all! It was entirely a fool's dream. She was about to scream with the frustration of it all when she felt Raoul place one hand and then the other on her shoulders.

Slowly he turned her to face him.

"Please don't get upset," he said. "It was just a silly old thing I got from some second-cousin or other years ago. It's not worth your tears."

"But-"

"Christine. Look at me." She did, fighting down her anxiety as best possible as she gazed into his oh-so-innocent smile and bright, blue eyes. "It means nothing."

He seemed to be waiting for some sort of response, so after a minute to blink away her tears she nodded stiffly as best she could. Even still, doubt clenched her heart as she watched the scarf float further out to sea before finally sinking beneath the waves. Her eyes grew moist as a fresh round of tears threatened to break free, but she forced herself to remain strong.

He was right. This meant nothing. Not everything would go the way she planned. Things hadn't in the past and they wouldn't in the future. But so many other things, so many people were still depending on her, even if they didn't know it yet. She couldn't let herself dwell on things that had already happened. Twice.

She and Raoul had found a love and life together before. They could do it again, opening night of Hannibal or not.

Christine couldn't keep thinking about everything that could possibly happen at once. She had to get her mind in order, had to concentrate on the most important things first and foremost. And the person who right now required her most urgent attention above all else was sitting at home, waiting for her.

* * *

**A/N: At the bottom this time, where I think they will stay. Thank you first and foremost to everyone who's reviewed! I've apparently raised some high expectations and can only hope I don't disappoint.**

**Meanwhile, exit Raoul, pursued by a bear. That's right. If you hate Raoul, rejoice for he shall not appear for many more chapters to come. If you're a fan, be comforted in the fact that he will eventually return and won't be bashed when he does.**

**I feel I should also apologize for my totally wonky timeline. I went back and listened to the musical and apparently Raoul is 14 when he fetches Christine's scarf? It threw me a bit since that age makes me think of "high school freshmen" not "childhood friends." And I believe in the book they're younger because they meet again three years later, and the scarf incident is portrayed as their first meeting... and I don't even know at this point.**

**So rather than tear my hair out, I'm just rolling with it. If ALW can magically skip 10+ years of his own canon, I think I can fudge a year here or there. Christine's about 10, Raoul's 12, Meg's a year younger at 9, and Erik for all intents and purposes will be about 17 years older than Christine. Edited a couple super minor details in the first chapter to fix some of this.**

**What else... oh, I'm interpreting the "new year" lines in Masquerade to mean a new season, not a new calendar year. So Il Muto would be in Feb/Mar and Don Juan in Sept/Oct or so. I blame the movie for this one, putting snow in both the rooftop and graveyard scene. Cold snaps. Cold snaps fix everything.**

**Hopefully none of my future author notes will be this long.**


	3. Chapter 3

Gustave Daae knew one thing for certain, his young daughter was unreservedly, _unsettlingly_ concerned for his health and well-being.

He'd lost count of how many times he'd caught her staring at him after a single sneeze or cough, even when the source had been as innocent as a dust cloud knocked free off a tall shelf. Several times he'd thought of confronting her about it, but he didn't even know where'd he'd start. Gustave couldn't help but feel as though her concern was part of something deeper, something he couldn't quite grasp. Not to mention that, if Christine was indeed gravely distressed, blankly telling her not to worry without any deeper understanding of the situation would undoubtedly cause only more anxiety.

And so Gustave waited, keeping his own watchful eye on her in return.

There was something undeniably different about his daughter, even if he couldn't quite specifically put his finger on what that difference was. As the days progressed and his unease grew, he realized that it - whatever it _was_ - had started months ago.

His first thought had been that Christine might've been suffering some youthful form of heartbreak following the young Vicomte's sudden departure, but - he'd soon decided - that couldn't have been it. Playing back the days in his head, the peculiarities of her behavior had shortly _before_ then, although he still couldn't recall a singular origin.

This odd withdrawal of hers, a veil of distrust and secrecy drawn viciously around her and barbed with a hollow cheer, had happened before on a slightly smaller scale around the first anniversary of his wife's death. Christine's unexpected sullenness had caused Gustave a great deal of concern at first but, after realizing the connection, had also been understandable. He checked the calendar again after supper that night, wondering if he'd forgotten some other tragic day, but the weeks were white and clear.

And the strangest thing was that her moods came and went.

There would be days where she'd wake up with a brilliant smile and chatter endlessly on at breakfast, words flying out of her mouth faster than his ears could take them in. Gustave would get ready for a rehearsal or two in town and she'd scurry off, collecting his things from about the house and depositing them neatly at the door. At night she'd curl up against his lap as he'd read to her from one of his many tattered, second-hand novels, and he'd wonder if perhaps he was just imaging the whole thing after all. That perhaps this was all just some twisted, subconscious affliction of his own that he was simply projecting onto his daughter, making her seem the odd one.

But then there were times where he'd call her name and it'd take her several moments to respond. It wasn't the delay itself that concerned him - ever since she was a toddler it'd often taken multiple calls to break past whatever preoccupation had her currently ensnared - but this was different. It was almost as if she didn't believe that he was calling her name, as if he _shouldn't_ have been calling her name. And when she would finally turn her head, the eyes that gazed back at him were far, far older than any ten-year-old's eyes had the right to be.

And, of course, there was the matter of putting her to bed. For years she'd been enthralled with the stories he'd weaved for her. In many ways, she still was. However the Angel of Music, who'd she long expressed delight in to the point that he'd become a staple figure in nearly each and every tale, was now apparently a subject of off limits.

"What's the matter? It is the Angel?" Gustave asked after she'd visibly flinched at the name. He'd always equated the heavenly being with both musical and moral excellence and felt slightly guilty whenever Christine pouted about his lack of presence in her life. Perhaps she'd finally taken it too much to heart. "Are you upset that he hasn't come to you yet? Because it doesn't mean that you are any less of a good person or a good musician."

"It's not that," Christine said softly. The light from the bedside candle cast flickering shadows over her face. She fought to keep her head turned towards him but failed to meet his eyes. "I… I just think I'd like to hear stories about other things for now."

The whole affair was disconcerting to say the least, but - with no clear path to proceed upon - Gustave was content to simply observe rather than push for the time being. And, to his mild relief, it seemed like Christine was as well.

Then his cough began.

Gustave always seemed to get a cold at this time of the year. Snow began to fall, sporadically at first, but with more and more consistency as the days passed. It drenched boots and mucked up entrance ways when it stuck to ground, then clogged the streets with brown slush when it finally began to melt.

Demand for musicians increased tenfold, to his delight and exhaustion, every mass and seasonal celebration clamoring for festive melodies to waste the bitter nights away. While he welcomed the additional employment, Gustave often struggled to juggle all the commitments he heaped upon himself. His schedule strained with rushing from practice to performance to practice once again every minute, every hour, every day, for weeks and weeks and weeks. His sleep was always the first to suffer and his health often followed, an inevitability that came with dedicating a life to music.

And Christine knew this. Gustave had recently managed to befriend an older lady at church who didn't mind keeping an eye on his daughter during some of his longer days, but in the past Christine had accompanied him everywhere, sitting patiently and quiet at his side through the long hours. She'd seen him fall sick and press on, holding vigil from offstage as he fiddled away through a severe fever, nary a thought running through his head save the endless stream of notes cascading in and out through time itself. Many times he'd finished the night with a flourish, bowing triumphantly to the crowd only to have collapsed in crumpled heap as soon as the curtain fell.

She should've been used to his colds by now and should've been used to the fact that he always recovered.

But whatever dormant dread had possessed her, now shone in full fury.

"You need to see a doctor," Christine said one evening, after a coughing fit fierce enough to jerk his hands away from his strings.

She stood by the door to the kitchen, her shoulder bumping its frame every so often as she rocked back and forth on her heels, hands still wet from the evening's dishes and covered in suds.

"A doctor?" he cried out incredulously. He let out a light laugh. "Whatever for?"

Christine avoided his eyes then. "Because you're sick."

"Christine…" Gustave tried to keep his face buoyant but sighed all the same. "It's just a small cough. You've seen me get sick many times before, and I've never needed a doctor then."

"But…" She bit her lip as she twisted the front of her dress, her fingers leaving frothy trails over the stiff, blue cotton. "But what if this time is different?"

He frowned, contemplating, then put his violin down and went to stand by his daughter. He kneeled so that they were at eye level and then took her chin in his hand. She reluctantly raised it. As always these days, he had trouble meeting her eyes.

"Christine," he said in his most reassuring, pleading tone. "I am _fine_."

But she merely shook her head out of his grasp and fled back to the safety of the kitchen before he could stop her.

To his slight dismay, his daughter's petitions for him to seek medical attention only increased after that. Once or twice every few days would have been tolerable, but these were harrowing and constant. Gustave began to watch his every move, his every sneeze and cough, but Christine easily saw through whatever attempts he made to hide his illness.

It wasn't necessarily his daughter's determination itself that finally won out, but rather the disturbing supply she had of it. He'd never seen her be so persistent about a single matter, at least not so intensely for so long. In fact, Gustave had never seen _any_ child her age be so persistent, never about things that didn't somehow concern themselves in some way.

And so after church one morning, he called after the town's resident physician, Doctor Jean Renard, and - unshakably aware of his daughter's nervously expectant presence behind him - made an appointment later that week for a basic examination.

Dinner that night was a brighter affair than usual. Christine, back once again to her cheerful self, babbled on about the many adventures she'd had that day at Madame Bayard's house, her face nearly bursting at times from the sheer size of the guileless smile plastered upon it. For a foolish moment, he let himself believe this would be the end of it all.

But whatever hopes Gustave had for a peaceful resolution were short-lived.

The actual visit with the doctor went smoothly enough. On the morning of the appointment Christine begged to accompany him, but he had several rehearsals in town that day scheduled to last long after dusk. She sulked for a bit before he finally convinced her, to his great relief, that it was better for both of them for her to stay at Bayard's again for the day.

At the small clinic, Doctor Renard asked him a series of basic questions before performing a few small physical tests, marking down the information and results for each on a small pad of paper. He then left for a moment; whether to gather his thoughts or simply deal with another patient, Gustave did not know.

The older man made his way back just as Gustave was beginning to glance more and more at his watch, itching to take off before he was late.

"Well?"

"Honestly there doesn't seem much to worry about, Monsieur Daaé."

Gustave wasn't sure what other news he'd really been expecting but let out a sigh nonetheless.

"If could, however, get a specific date on something for my records?" the doctor continued. "You mentioned this cough of yours, the one that's been troubling you."

"In all honesty it's been troubling my daughter more than myself," he said, feeling a little foolish again for bothering the man with such a trifle. "But as to its origin…"

Gustave thought back, trying to pin point the exact day it'd began. The trouble with chronic coughing was that it was often hard to pick out which ones were the prelude to sickness and which were simply innocent tickles.

"About two weeks now," he finally decided. "On and off. If I had to guess."

"Hmm… And you've only experienced the cough. No soreness of the throat or congestion of the sinuses?"

"No, but surely their absence is a good thing."

"Oh, to be sure. An abnormality of course, but common ailments have quite their share of those," Renard said, with a wave of his hand. He referred to his sheet once more. "And no other symptoms to report? No fever? Fatigue? Loss of appetite?"

"No," Gustave said carefully. "That is, if you're asking whether I've been feeling tired lately, of course. But who doesn't at this time of year?" He paused as he watched the doctor scribble another note. "And to be completely honest, I don't think I've been eating as much as I normally do, but that's only because I'm barely at my house these days."

"I see."

Renard waited until he'd finished the last of his scribbles before turning to Gustave with a crafted smile. "Well, Monsieur Daaé, as I mentioned before, I don't believe you have anything to worry about. I know, I know," he said, raising a hand when Gustave began to protest. "You said your daughter was the one fretting about. Be pleased that you can return home and assuage her fears. Your cough is - in all likelihood - just one of the many manifestations of a simple winter cold."

"Thank you, Doctor Renard."

Gustave stood up and shook the doctor's hand before turning to his coat that'd been draped over the chair he'd been sitting in. He was already halfway out the room, violin case in hand, when he paused.

A faint memory of Christine's haunting eyes drifted back to him, the lingering chill of her desperate pleas raising hairs down his spine. For the first time, a sliver of the dread that seemed to consume her these days broke off and wedged itself deep within his heart. It wrenched at him, filling his lungs with ice.

Gustave slowly turned back around to where Doctor Renard was already flipping to a new sheet.

"Doctor?"

The older man glanced towards him with a bemused expression. Cursing the childish absurdity of it all, Gustave continued.

"You are right that it's most likely a simple winter cold, but… assuming, just assuming, it was not. What would your diagnosis be then, if you would indulge a foolish man in his wonderings?"

Renard frowned. "I thought you said your daughter was the concerned one."

"She is," Gustave said, his gut already swirling with unease. "This is simply… curiosity for curiosity's sake."

The dour curling of his lip showed exactly what the doctor thought of curiosity. "You do understand that no diagnosis is ever absolute, don't you, Monsieur Daaé? That multiple symptoms always share multiple ailments? That fear-mongering speculation only serves to worry the mind and delay the body's natural recovery?"

"I do."

The two men stood at a slight impasse before Doctor Renard finally yielded.

"Well, if you are so adamant in knowing," he said, body crumpling slightly as he let out an audible sigh. "There is a minuscule possibility, and believe me when I say it's more likely for you to step out this door and be hit by a carriage, that your cough _might_ represent the very early stages of consumption."

"Consumption?"

"As I said, merely one possible diagnosis of many. In fact, there are hundreds of applicable others and each is just as improbable as the one I have given you. If you are truly paranoid, you could visit a specialist to be more certain - there are many in Paris - but even their answers would not be absolute. Trust my word as a doctor and save your time, worry, and money. This is a winter cold, pure and simple, and you have nothing to concern yourself with."

* * *

He picked up Christine from Madame Bayard's long after the sun had set. She bounced down the front steps as Gustave waved a thank you to the old woman and promptly took her place at his side. She didn't take his hand but remained close, hovering, as they walked home. Occasionally he glanced down, her fervent desire to know his examination results painfully transparent from the burning glimmer in her eyes.

They were barely five minutes into the half hour journey when what little patience she possessed finally ran out.

"So?"

"So what?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

"How did the visit go? With the doctor?"

Gustave smiled at her, breaking slightly under her intense scrutiny. From the importance she'd attributed to the visit, his daughter was clearly expecting a certain answer, and it was not the one he was about to give her.

"You can stop your worrying," he said anyway. "The doctor said I was fine."

She stopped dead in the snow, small and rigid in the darkness. "Fine?"

"Yes." The beginnings of a frown tugged at his lips. "Don't you believe me?"

"Of course I do!" she cried out, her face suddenly shocked with guilt. "But… your cough-"

"Is just part of a small cold," he said. "Like always."

Christine didn't respond, instead choosing to turn her head towards the ground. Her hands slowly curled themselves into loose fists.

Gustave sighed. They still had quite some distance to cover before they were anywhere near home. "Christine, take my hand. You'll catch a cold of your own if we stay out here like this."

She murmured something he couldn't quite catch.

"Say again?" he asked.

"And you're sure that's all he said?" she said louder, still continuing to stare at her boots.

"Christine," Gustave pleaded. He tried to avoid the question, knowing there'd be no rest if he told her the full truth. "The doctor said I was fine-"

"Is that all he said?" she cried out, her head whipping back up to face him, eyes clear and unswayed. Gustave nearly stumbled.

"Christine…"

He briefly considered lying, a delicate white lie for both of their sakes, but the thought instantly appalled him. Is that really what he was resorting to now? Directly lying to his daughter? And even he were to go through with such a thing, he'd already hesitated too long. Christine hadn't been fooled by any of the other attempts he'd made to hide his cough, and he had no doubts she'd easily see through whatever sugary falsehood he could manage to fabricate now.

Although-

He continued to run through his thoughts, both acutely aware of and ignoring his daughter's increasingly worried face before him in the snow, he realized she shouldn't be able to do these things, parsing through his words and movements so effortlessly. The Christine he knew, the daughter he'd raised, oh, she was astute in her own childish way, but never had she been so… _precise_ about it. This had gone far beyond continuous worry and a slight change in bedtime narratives.

Gustave took a deep breath.

"What is this really about, Christine?"

Her eyes widened, face draining of all color, and she visibly flinched.

"About?" she squeaked. She coughed and forced a weak smile. "It's- It's about you, of course! You're sick and you need-"

"Christine, you know that I'm fine-"

"No, you're not!" she screamed. Immediately her hands flew to her mouth. Her eyes left his face, wildly searching the ground as if it somehow would provide the answers to close whatever cursed box she seemed to have just opened.

Gustave didn't know how to respond.

They both stood there in the falling snow and darkness. She looked so conflicted, so torn and ragged. He finally took a step towards her, reaching out a conciliatory hand, but from the way she shivered, instantly taking her own step back, he might've just as well raised a fist to strike her. His heart clenched, mind reeling with guilt, with terror… with, beneath it all, betrayal. Betrayal at the way she had slowly but completely shut him out. The way she no longer trusted him. The way she was now viewing her own _father_ as a creature to be feared.

What was happening to his daughter? Had he truly been such a terrible parent that he hadn't noticed how serious things had become? No, Gustave had definitely noticed; he'd just chosen to wait around for the situation to solve itself instead of actually doing anything about it.

He wasn't sure what was worse.

"Christine," he tried again, trying to keep his voice level and free of tears as she seemed to crumble in on herself. "Whatever you may think, no matter how things may seem, I am on your side. All I want to do is work with you… help you. Just tell me what is going on and I'll listen."

She slowly glanced up at that, meeting his gaze physically, but her mind was still somewhere else. Somewhere horribly far away.

"You're not though," she protested, her own tears glimmering at the corners of her eyes now. "I'm trying so terribly hard, and you don't hear a word I say!"

He instinctively took another step towards her, but she put out a hand for him to stop.

"What else did the doctor say?" she asked again. She shook her head. "Don't try and tell me there was nothing else. I know there was something else."

"How?" Gustave challenged, his voice rising despite himself. "How do you know these things? What has happened to you, Christine?"

"Nothing!" Despite the passion of her voice, her eyes told a different story. "I don't know what you're talking about!"

"Nothing? Some days I look at you and you're hardly there! I call your name and see you turn, but I'm not sure I know who looks back anymore and it _scares_ me!"

"Scares you? Of all the- Do you know what scares me? What is truly frightening? You ramble on about money to save and rehearsals to attend and you don't even _begin_ to understand what I'm trying to do for you! What you keep pushing away!"

"Chris-"

"The doctor told you something, didn't he? And I don't know what it was because you're not listening to me, you never listen to me, but please! The solution to everything is in your _grasp_, and you're just turning your back on it because of some minor expense-"

"Christine, a sudden trip to Paris is hardly a minor expense!"

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, leaving an echoing silence in their wake. Father and daughter stared at each other, lungs exhausted, chests heaving. He prayed… oh, how he prayed…

"Paris?" Christine finally whispered. His heart dropped. "You have to go to Paris? Why? Is it another doctor? There's another doctor in Paris, isn't there? A better one! Papa, you have to go!"

"Christine," he said suddenly exhausted, feeling as though every bone, every inch of his soul, had been dragged non-stop across the length of the rocky coast. "This conversation is over."

"Madame Giry is always writing us letters," she continued brightly. "It's been forever since we've seen them! I'm sure she'd be glad to have-"

"Christine, we are going home."

His tone was final, a warning that he'd rarely ever had to use with her, but she still paused.

"No," she said.

"Excuse me?"

"No. I'm staying right here." As if to further demonstrate her point, she promptly sat down, ruining her skirts in the process. She crossed her arms and stared up at him, eyes defiant.

Something in him snapped.

Gustave lumbered over to her and, with his violin case tucked under one arm, scooped her up and tossed her over his shoulder. Christine was still at first, brain too shocked to process what was happening, but after the first couple steps she began to thrash, screaming in rage as she pounded at his back with all the tiny strength she could muster. Steeling himself against the blows, he tightened his grip around her waist and continued walking.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**A/N: Yay, chapter three. Or as I'm informally calling it, "Well That Escalated Quickly."**

**Sorry for the delay on this one. As I thought about things, I rewrote it twice and even then originally planned to cram four times the amount of plot in. And _then_, after I'd already cut in half, I realized if I didn't cut it in half again, I'd never finish it. Of course that mean it'll probably take me four chapters to get where I thought I would in one, but oh well.**

**I promised I'd keep things short. I'm actually thinking of making a small tumblr to post full author notes and stuff, catalog the plot adjustments as I write... long there, short here. Special thanks to SquidPire btw for some improvements I ended up making in chapter two.**

**Anyways, hope you enjoyed! Feel free to comment whether you loved or hated it.**


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Phantom of the Opera, Romance, Supernatural