A/N: This is my first (substantial) modern fic! I feel weird writing PotO in this style, so any feedback would be most appreciated.

It's a Leroux/ALW/Kay hybrid because that's what my brain concocted, so...don't go looking for any sort of logic, I guess. And expect to see even more familiar faces. :)

"An ivory tower is a fine place as long as the door is open."
–Walter Darby Bannard

It was a beautiful day for a funeral.

The sky had all the deep vibrancy of summer and the air was still warm, but the topmost leaves of the trees had begun to turn, and the breeze was crisp around the edges: a portent of shorter days and cooler nights to come. From what Christine could see through her windshield, the church was picturesque against such a stunning backdrop: pink-tinted brown stone framed by golden boughs, with spires of green copper stretching toward a cloudless azure sky.

She had always liked September. It was a month of fresh beginnings, of apples and harvest colors and newly purchased outfits that would inevitably be too hot to wear in those first few weeks. In the four years since she had dropped out of college, however, September had lost much of its allure.

Now it meant throngs of people flooding into town for student move-in. It meant Saturdays planned around the hundred-thousand fans who packed themselves into the football stadium for home games and then spilled out into every shop and bar and restaurant within a five-mile radius. And when those students and fans streamed into the little bookstore where she worked, it was an aching reminder of her own stagnancy in life.

Selfishly, she had been dreading this funeral service for the same reason.

She drew a shaky breath, shut off the ignition, and stepped out onto the street to walk the block and a half to the church doors.

Christine's heart skittered as she stepped into the foyer. Her heels clicked against tile, loudly enough to attract glances from the mourners who congregated in small groups, and it made her all the more self-conscious. She recognized some of those faces. If the double-takes and hushed murmurs were any indication, then they remembered her, too.

She diverted her attention to the casket, where a handful of mourners lined up to pay their respects. In her mind, she saw a flash of her younger self, in front of another casket at another church, pressing her palm to the lacquered wood as though that would somehow revive the soul encased therein.

This one was closed. She eyed the bland spray of white carnations, lilies, and gladioli on the lid as she considered whether to join the queue. She hadn't seen the deceased in four years, just shy of the graduation that she did not earn, and she'd only learned of his passing through social media. It had taken a series of delicately worded inquiries to former classmates to discover that he had taken his own life: a hanging, it was rumored.

The small crowd shifted, and she spotted his wife, who was parting ways with a pair of acquaintances. It was the most private audience that Christine was likely to get. Every fiber of her being strained against human interaction, but she forced her legs to move before someone else took advantage of the opening. The diminutive widow glanced up at her with the red-rimmed eyes and vacant expression of someone who hadn't slept for days.

Christine smiled feebly. "Mrs. Buquet? I'm so sorry for your loss."

"Thank you, dear." The elder woman blinked at her repeatedly. "You'll have to forgive me; I recall your face but not your name."

"Christine Daaé. I was in—"

"—the school musicals! Yes, I remember you."

Christine nodded. "I took your husband's class in stage management, too."

Mrs. Buquet pulled Christine's hands into her own. "I still attend every production, you know. Candide was one of my favorites. You made a lovely Cunegonde."

"Oh, thank you."

"Joseph would have been happy to see you here. He lived for teaching you kids, even if he was too grouchy to show it." She offered a tight-lipped smile, and she patted Christine's knuckles with skin that was weathered and soft. By the time she released her hold and added, "Thank you for coming," she was already pivoting to greet a gaggle of elderly women with the same placid but vacant expression.

With that necessary interaction out of the way, Christine's muscles released some of their tension. If she could just make her way into the nave and find a seat, then perhaps she could avoid any awkward run-ins. She had so little distance to cover, and only a small cluster of people to pass—

"Christine!" A hand shot out to grab her elbow; dread coursed like ice water through her veins. She turned. The owner of the hand in question was dressed smartly in a charcoal dress and black boots; her hair hit her shoulders in pale, beachy waves that were underscored by dark roots and lowlights.

"Meg! You're blonde!"

Meg grinned and shrugged. "Something different. You know me."

Christine did, and she had the photographic evidence of the various tattoos, piercings, and kitchen-sink dye jobs to prove it. This change, at least, appeared to have been professionally done.

"I didn't think you'd come," Meg went on. "It's been so long, and...well, he wasn't the most well-liked man."

"Oh, he wasn't all bad." A charmer, Joseph Buquet had not been; but he'd known every inch of the stage, and he'd taught it well. "Anyway, it's only fair, since the faculty were so supportive after..." She trailed off in the face of so many names, ones that Meg already knew. "After everything."

Professor Valerius. Father. Mama Valerius. Struck down, one by one, like soldiers on an unrelenting battlefield. The years between their deaths had done little to erase that feeling of large-scale loss.

Meg nodded. "Of course. I'm sure that everyone will be happy to see you."

Including you? Christine thought. What was the statute of limitations on being a terrible friend?

"Well," Meg continued, looking past Christine to the entrance, "almost everyone."

Christine followed her gaze to where the small crowd had parted to make way for a pair of newcomers: she, red-headed and rail-thin with a collarbone that could cut glass; he, rounder and tanner, with a wide jaw and jet-black hair. The former headed straight for Meg and Christine, as though a potential run-in had been her sole reason for attending.

"Christine Daaé!" she warbled. "I certainly didn't expect to see you here!"

Christine forced a wan smile. "Hello, Carlotta." The group exchanged a round of muted greetings before she added, "I heard about your move to Chicago; congratulations."

"Yes, yes, I've been very busy with my operatic roles. And wedding planning, too, now that Ubaldo has finally proposed!" She gave her fiancé a playful swat and held up her other hand to show off a large, princess-cut diamond, almost threatening in its sharp brilliance. After Christine and Meg offered their well wishes, she added, "I was asked to sing the processional hymn today, as a personal favor to the department head. And there he is now! You'll excuse me, won't you? Dr. Reyer!" With an arm raised to flag the man down, Carlotta pushed past them, leaving her fiance to offer a curt and apologetic nod before he followed.

"As charming as ever," Christine mumbled.

"As big-headed as ever," said Meg. "She's only in the chorus, you know."

"But for the Lyric Opera, Meg! And with a musical theater background. Come on, that's impressive."

"Whatever. I can't think about it too much or I'll get stabby. Hey, Mama's already inside; want to sit with us?"

Christine peered into the nave, where she spotted Professor Giry among a throng of familiar faces from the school of music, theatre, and dance. "I don't think I can," she confessed. "I'll just sit in the back."

"Okay, well, I'm going to run to the restroom, but you'll find us if you change your mind, won't you?"

Christine nodded, watching Meg wind her way through clusters of people. It was almost as though no time had passed—as though her friend had forgiven her for months with no contact, for a series of unattended local and state performances in which Meg had appeared. Dare she hope?

At the door to the church, an elderly man offered her a prayer card tailored to the deceased. She held it between pinched fingers, wondering whether to add it to her growing pile at home. Perhaps she ought to officially collect them, as others did magnets or shot glasses or ticket stubs: souvenirs of death.

Stop that, she berated herself. It's morbid.

She sat as far back from the altar as possible without singling herself out. She had already turned off her phone, so she busied herself by flipping through the red-back hymnal stored at the back of the next pew. She breathed in the smell of decaying paper and took a sad comfort in the melodies that she recognized, for Mama Valerius had been a devout Catholic.

A sudden squeeze of her shoulder made her start. It was Meg again, buzzing with nervous energy. "Hey, uh, I may have volunteered you to sing the Communion hymn?"

Christine's stomach somersaulted. "What?"

"Well, I overheard Carlotta talking to Dr. Reyer. He apparently asked her to sing two hymns, though she claims his email only said one, and she's refusing to sing the Communion hymn that the family requested. Reyer kept going on about how it was Buquet's favorite, and how he couldn't let the family down, and just—ugh. I couldn't bear it."

"So you volunteered me? What if I don't know the song?"

Meg looked at her feet. "I know you do, because you sang it so beautifully at Mama Valerius' service."

A sharp pang of heartbreak tore through Christine's chest. She toyed with the hem of her black dress. "I don't know...I'm so out of practice."

Meg's eyes softened, but she did not relent. "Please," she said. "I wouldn't ask if I didn't think it was important."

"Okay. Fine." Christine sighed and rose from her seat. "I'll go talk to the organist."

"You're a saint," said Meg. "Do I tell you to break a leg if we're in church?"

Christine shrugged. "If it actually happens, it'll get me out of this solo."

"Oh, stop." Meg swatted at Christine's arm, but her eyes were alight. "Will I see you at the reception?"

Christine hadn't planned to attend, but Meg looked so hopeful that she found herself agreeing to meet up at the banquet hall for the post-service luncheon.

The contents of her stomach roiled and twisted as she made her way toward the altar. By the time she had convened with the accompanist and been seated in a designated pew up front, it felt as though her entire body was suspended by a thick knot in her abdomen. She pretended to take a great interest in the hands she'd folded in her lap. Next to her, Carlotta flashed a sidelong glance, cleared her throat, and crossed her legs so that her body pivoted away from Christine.

They stayed that way, silent and unyielding, until Carlotta rose for the processional. She had apparently foregone the organist and instead sang "Amazing Grace" a cappella; it was a moving touch to an already heart-rending song. The hymn had always been a weakness of Christine's, and by the time the clergy entered the nave, her eyes stung with tears and mascara.

Six glassy-eyed pallbearers in dark suits ferried the casket to the space in front of the altar; the Buquet family followed soon after. Once the white funeral pall was draped over the coffin and the family seated in the pews, a doleful finality settled over the congregation like a weighted blanket.

As expected, the mass was stiff and formal. She imagined that the prior day's wake had been more personal, with a stirring eulogy about Professor Buquet's long history of theater work. Or perhaps the attendees had reminisced about his favorite fall tradition, an elaborate ploy to convince incoming freshmen that the theater was haunted. It had always culminated in a series of ghostly shenanigans rigged by the upperclassmen: flickers of light, falling backdrops, disappearing props.

Christine had been scheduled to work during the wake and couldn't attend. Had she done so, perhaps she would have gained insight into what might have driven someone as hard-nosed as Professor Buquet to take his own life. She did not understand it; her former classmates had not understood it.

When at last it came time for Communion, her heart threatened to punch a hole straight through her chest. It was a miracle that she even reached the lectern given that she could not feel her legs. The congregation was quiet and still, save for the preparatory movements of the clergy and an occasional cough that echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.

Perhaps that was why, even in her addled state, she noticed the man skulking in the far back, among the white plaster pillars that towered beyond the pews. He was scarcely more than a shadow but a man nonetheless, tall and slender and dark, with arms almost mantis-like in their proportionate length.

It was a strange word to attach to a churchgoer, "skulking," but no other term could have encapsulated the lithe alertness with which he carried himself.

She was unsettled as she looked to the organist for her cue, but when she glanced back again, the man was gone.

Hands shaking, Christine drew a deep breath and sang.

It had been a mistake, coming to the church. He knew that now.

There were too many people there, threatening to violate his space, even as rows of empty pews lay between the congregation and the large pillars that concealed him. He loosened his necktie and wiped broad, sweating palms down his black slacks.

When he looked at the parishioners' hands, cradling those red clothbound hymn-books, he saw only the potential for violence. He saw grimy palms and curling fingers pawing at his collar, his clothes; white-knuckled fists jabbing and swinging until they struck yielding flesh and bone. In their faces, he saw only malice; in their hearts, blackness—or worse, an empty, burnt-out shell of crumbling ash where the heart should have been.

He despised them all.

What a self-assured fool he had been, assuming that discretion would be the day's sole challenge. It was a legitimate concern, of course; people seldom forgot a face obscured by a full white mask. It was never lost on him that in masking one anomaly, he had successfully branded himself with another.

But he'd managed to work his way into the building undetected, and in broad daylight, no less. He was cautious and light on his feet, slipping easily into shadow, always attuned to passages and openings that most would overlook. He'd arrived at the church early, ahead of even the family, and kept out of sight.

Eavesdropping from his vantage point in the foyer, however, had yielded no new information. Neither had his lurking behind the pillars of the nave as the funeral service commenced. If law enforcement suspected any foul play in the death of Joseph Buquet, it would likely not be discussed here. He had been foolish to hope as much. Still, he needed to see it through.

But his surroundings now tilted and blurred into obscurity, until finally he withdrew from the nave, hunched over with nausea and nearly tripping over his own two feet. He could come back at the end of the service, he assured himself. No one would talk during the mass.

He found a water fountain and drank deeply, resisting the urge to lift his mask and douse the clammy skin beneath. Then he took refuge at the desk of a darkened church office until his pulse slowed to its usual, even cadence.

His black-gloved fingers settled on the lacquered wood of the desk, tapping out imaginary scales that built up to a sonata. The rational thing to do at this point would be to cut his losses and leave. Yet, something compelled him to stay. The music, perhaps? Despite his distaste for religion, he did have an odd fondness for its hymns. There was a ritualistic comfort in such simple melodies, in the somber formality of the accompanying organ.

And the soloists: those were a rare treat. That morning's recessional had been satisfactory, though there was something off-putting about the singer that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Hadn't there been another woman seated beside her? "Amazing Grace" would be difficult to top, of course, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he eventually wound his way back to the service.

He slipped back into the nave once more as the bread and wine were consecrated, the bread broken. He peered around a thick column to watch as the priest implored the congregation to "offer each other a sign of peace," at which point the parishioners turned to shake hands with their neighbors.

For a moment, it seemed that everyone but him was caught up in a small embrace. Palms pressed to palms; fingers brushed and squeezed; murmurs of "Peace be with you" curled around the members of the congregation like the soft yarn of a loom, knitting them together.

The back of the church felt cold all of a sudden. He shivered, and he realized that he had been scowling.

When it came time for Communion, the second soloist approached the lectern. She was a brunette, shorter and heavier than the other red-headed woman, with a black wrap dress that hugged wide hips and showed off thickset calves. He had seen her earlier, talking to a girl with horrid bleach-blonde hair. Nervousness now rendered her doe-eyed and red-cheeked, and though he smirked in anticipation of what was sure to be a subpar performance, a tiny, shameful part of him found her endearing.

And then she looked right at him.

Quickly, he jerked back so that the nearest pillar obscured him in his entirety. He hadn't expected to go the whole day without being seen, of course, but to catch the eye of someone at the lectern was to risk gaining the attention of the entire congregation. He'd have to stay out of sight for the time being.

He recognized the opening chords of "Panis Angelicus" on the organ, and the soloist proceeded with a timid start.

All the same, it knocked the wind right out of him.

Her voice was dulcet and clear and resonant, diverting and winding around him like a crisp mountain stream. He was helpless but to let it sweep him away in its current.

She was talented, certainly, but it was the crystalline sweetness of her voice that enchanted him. It liquefied his insides until his very core felt hollow with desire—not physical desire, no, but a sort of spiritual thirst that only this woman could slake. There was something melancholic about her delivery, too; it made him ache to pull her into his arms and stroke her hair until they were both soothed into complacency.

The hymn was marred by the shuffling and squeaking of shoes on the church floor as parishioners lined up to take Communion, by the murmured Amens as they accepted the host. He had half a mind to storm up to the altar and demand that all speech and movement cease. He stayed rooted to the spot, however, and he could scarcely move or breathe until the song's conclusion.

She was all he thought about for the rest of the service. He periodically slid from one column to another, or shifted his weight, but his eyes rarely left her face once he dared to peer out at the congregation again. She seemed so familiar to him now, as though he had dreamed her into being.

Later, at the start of the recessional, he withdrew to a shadowed alcove in the foyer where he could wait to locate the young woman with the bleach-blonde hair. He spotted her moving along the outskirts of the departing congregation. As she passed by, he clamped a bony hand on her forearm. "Who was the woman who sang the Communion hymn?" he bit out.

Her gaze flitted up and down his masked face. "Christine Daaé," she replied, with a sharpness to suggest that he had best proceed carefully.

Daaé. The name was an electric shock to his system.

He released the girl and fell back from the crowd, stumbling into a potted ficus and nearly dislodging a framed landscape before he managed to slip into a darkened hallway. His vision was swimming again. He sank into a squatting position, elbows to knees, and raked a hand through the dark hair at his scalp.

Daaé. The man was dead, and still the name haunted him! A deep, unsteady chuckle sounded in his throat. A shared surname was no guarantee of relation, certainly. But already in his mind's eye, he could see their physical similarities: the round face and stockier build, the button nose, the chestnut-brown hair scattered into unkempt waves.

Surely this young woman had nothing to do with those ruinous events so long ago, even if her father had. But time and experience had embittered him such that he couldn't stifle his resentment. It accelerated his heartbeat and curled his hands into knobby fists. He hated her, irrational though it may have been.

But her voice. Ah, her voice.

He hated her for that, too, but he couldn't pretend that it was for any reason other than envy. Wasn't it enough to have one musical genius in the family? Must her talent be of the rare variety to bring him to his knees?

Oh, but that wasn't to say that her skill was without fault. He hadn't missed her uncertainty in the opening bars, nor the various choices in phrasing that were good but not perfect. She would benefit from an astute vocal instructor, one who could pinpoint what she needed to be great.

And he—perhaps it would benefit him to discover what she knew of the past, if anything. It might not be so terrible, really, to take Charles Daaé's only daughter under his wing. There would be no need to lie in wait for the cretins who had devastated him so thoroughly—not if he had a little songbird who might lead him right to their doorstep.

Yes, this was an opportunity and not a setback, of that he would make sure. He simply had to convince one Christine Daaé of the same.

Special thanks to LaLadyCavalier for fielding my endless singing-related questions over the past week or so!