Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to my little Phantom Christmas fic, which I present with profuse apologies to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Charles Dickens. It is (obviously) a retelling of 'A Christmas Carol', with the Phantom in the starring role. I know this concept has probably been done many times, but I wanted to offer my own spin on it. I've aimed for a slight fairy tale quality. I hope it works!

Thanks so much for reading, and I hope you enjoy.

A Christmas Opera

Chapter One

1.

The Opera House was getting ready for the festive season.

In the past, preparations had been fairly subtle, but this year the new managers had other ideas. The Grand Staircase would be decorated with wreaths of holly, fir and ivy which would wind up the marble banisters. A huge fir tree would stand in the Grand Foyer, bedecked with baubles. And best of all, a party would be held on Christmas Day, for all employees and patrons who wished to attend.

Madame Giry watched the preparations with great trepidation.

"You gentlemen do realise," she began carefully, "that the Opera Ghost forbids all Christmas celebrations?"

Andre and Firmin exchanged glances.

"Why on Earth would the ghost object to Christmas?" asked Andre.

"Especially considering he's a load of old humbug," said Firmin.

"I don't know," said Madame Giry. "But it's in the Memorandum Book, under the clause about Box Five."

Andre consulted the Memorandum Book. Sure enough, there was the relevant paragraph scrawled in red ink.

All Christmas celebrations are expressly forbidden by orders of the Opera Ghost. These include, but are not limited to: carol singing, trees being illogically kept indoors, gifts wrapped in paper, parties, good will, and anything with cinnamon in it. Ignore this at your peril.

"You're not going to take any notice of this, are you?" asked Firmin.

Andre gave a nervous laugh. "Of course not."

"I'm glad to hear it. By the way, we need more wine for the party…"

Behind the walls of the managers' office, a shadow listened.

The Phantom tensed; the exchange between Andre and Firmin had unnerved him.

It wasn't that he had anything especially against Christmas, as long as people kept their celebrations to themselves. What he did object to was the disruption it brought to his Opera House. The suspension of the winter season with no performances. The backstage areas ringing with additional, drunken, off-key singing. Gifts and cards clogging up the efficient postal service, which meant that his missives to the management were either lost or ignored.

There had been no official Christmas celebrations in the Opera House since 1878. He grudgingly allowed the New Year's masquerade ball, however.

With a sigh, the Phantom turned away. He had an appointment to keep.

2.

"Angel?"

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you think we could practice something a little more…seasonal?"

"What did you have in mind, Christine?"

"Well, I was thinking 'O Holy Night'…"

There was a long pause, during which Christine wondered if her teacher had slunk back to his lair.

The mirror sighed. "I think we should focus on Faust."

It had been almost three months since her teacher had revealed his true identity, appearing before Christine in her dressing room mirror and escorting her beneath the Opera. Which meant it was almost three months since she had seen him without the mask.

Although they had resumed their lessons, conversation had been stilted and strained, with her shy voice teacher hiding himself behind glass once more. He assumed a cloak of formality and would not be drawn on any subject aside from music.

Christine thought this a great pity. She remembered the man with sad, beautiful eyes who had sung to her so enchantingly amidst the candlelight. If only things could have been different.

Today, he seemed more withdrawn than ever. Christine was growing tired of it. She wanted them to talk again, like they had when he was the Angel of Music.

"Do you celebrate Christmas?"

"No."

"Will you be alone?"

"What do you think, Christine? Who, exactly, would I spend Christmas with?"

The words were harsh and bitter. Christine winced at his tone.

"I'm sorry. I was just wondering if you would be attending the party?"

"No, Christine. At least, I have no plans to do so…Will you?" There was an odd inflection in his voice. He sounded almost hopeful. But wary, too.

Encouraged, Christine pressed on. "I'm not sure. Meg will be there, of course. But my other friends are all going home for the holidays."

"What about de Chagny? Will he be there?"

"Angel…"

"I'm just curious."

"He's going to his brother's chateau for Christmas."

"I see. So, in the absence of de Chagny, you ask the Phantom."

"That's not what I meant at all." Christine felt herself flush with anger. She got to her feet and stepped towards the mirror, hands clenched into frustrated fists. "You're impossible sometimes. I'm sorry I ever mentioned it."

There was a long silence. And then: "I'm sorry, Christine. I…spoke out of turn."

His voice was sad, but she was tired of it. Tired of his sadness and his jealousy and the fact he wouldn't show himself. She felt her compassion waning.

"Yes. You did." Christine sighed and gathered up her music books. "I have to go. I'm going shopping with Meg." She bundled herself into cloak and scarf and marched out of the dressing room, not bothering to look back at the mirror.

If he wanted to sulk, she would let him.

The Phantom watched her go, one palm pressed to the mirror.

He knew he had been harsh, and he cursed his own bad manners. But she couldn't have been serious about wanting him at the party. No one would want him at the party. He would be the spectre at the feast, and no one wanted to be terrified at Christmas.

Christmas Eve stretched ahead of him, long and empty. There would be no performance tonight.

In the absence of anything else to do, the Phantom went wandering around the Opera House. The entire building was eerily quiet; the celebrations would start tomorrow. He surveyed the festive damage. The Grand Staircase was covered in greenery, and a huge Christmas tree had taken up residence in the Grand Foyer.

He stared up at the tree. He supposed it would have been rather beautiful in a forest somewhere, with no baubles hanging from it. The base was surrounded by parcels wrapped in colourful paper: Christmas gifts.

The Phantom couldn't remember receiving a Christmas gift. He wondered what it would be like. Then again, he had never really enjoyed surprises.

Back in his underground home, the Phantom stoked the fire, lit one extra candle, and ate a quick supper of items he had pilfered from the Opera's larder. Then he wandered over to his small library and surveyed his bookshelves. He kept picturing Christine's face before she had stormed out of the dressing room, and he needed a distraction.

His library was mainly comprised of opera scores and books about architecture, but there was also a shelf of romantic novels which he only turned to when he was very bored.

It would be opera tonight.

As he ran his fingers over the spines, his hand rested on a small leather-bound volume with a red cover. He slid it out.

It was a book of Christmas carols. He turned the pages, and saw that there was musical notation as well as lyrics.

O Holy Night was in there. It would have been easy to learn it from this book, and to accompany Christine on the violin.

It was strange - he couldn't remember ever seeing the book before. He certainly couldn't remember purchasing it.

He snapped it shut and blew out the candle. It was almost midnight; he would go to bed.

Getting comfortable proved a struggle. The Phantom shifted position several times, tossing the embroidered throw pillows from the bed and lying on the bare mattress. Even that didn't help, because he could feel every wrinkle in the sheet, every spring.

The sound of familiar, tinkling music made his eyes snap open.

It was the monkey music box. He could just make out its arms moving in the darkness as it played its tiny cymbals. It had never played by itself before. At least, not that he was aware. But it was old; the mechanism must be malfunctioning.

He fumbled on his nightstand for a match, and lit a candle. A dim glow filled the room.

The monkey had stopped. Its arms were still. Maybe he had dreamt it.

He blew out the candle and lay back against his pillow.

The music came again. But this time it was different.

The music box was playing a carol. Silent Night.

A chill ran down his spine, and he relit the candle.

The music box was still.

The Phantom was starting to regret the large piece of cheese he had eaten for his supper, pilfered from the managers' pantry. This was clearly all a figment of his imagination, brought on by indigestion.

He blew out the candle.

In the living room, the piano started to play.

He threw back the covers and slid out of bed. He crept towards the music, his hand tightening around the Punjab lasso.

A glow was coming from beneath the living room door, and the music grew louder. This could only mean one thing: he had an intruder. An intruder…who had broken into his sanctuary to play Christmas carols on his piano. Yes. He supposed that must be it.

He opened the door quietly, and crept into the living room. The piano was still playing, the keys moving unaided by human hands, Silent Night drifting across the room.

The Phantom stared at it. He couldn't remember purchasing a player piano.

Just as he was trying to think of another logical explanation, the violin, which had been lying innocently on the sideboard, decided to join in.

This was followed by the harp in the corner.

And the flute.

And so on.

At the last count, the Phantom had fifteen instruments in his lair. He was fairly certain he could hear them all now.

Apart from one.

Behind him, the organ clanged ominously.

The Phantom pressed his hands to his ears, trying in vain to block out this impossible festive orchestra. But the Christmas cacophony continued: Silent Night came to an end, and they moved on to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.

He had gone mad. There was no other explanation. Too much cheese and too much solitude had pushed him to the brink of sanity.

As the music reached a crescendo, the Phantom removed his hands from his ears and gave a cry of despair.

"Stop it! Stop it at once! What do you want from me?"

The cacophony ceased. He had the uneasy feeling that the instruments were watching him, waiting to see what he would do next.

"I think a more pertinent question," boomed a deep musical voice, "is what you want from us."

It took the Phantom a moment to process the fact that his pipe organ had spoken to him.

"You're a talking pipe organ," he said stupidly.

"Am I? That's interesting," said the organ.

The piano decided to chime in. "We're wondering why you object so much to Christmas carols."

"I…don't have anything against Christmas carols."

"That's not what you said to Christine Daae," said the organ.

"You leave her out of this," the Phantom growled, clenching his fists.

"Do you even enjoy playing music anymore?" whined the violin.

"He hasn't played me for two years," trilled the harp.

The Phantom put his hands on his hips. "I don't have to justify myself to you."

"Why not?"

"Because you're a harp."

"Oh, that's lovely, that is."

"Shut up."

The flute whistled. "Touchy, isn't he?"

"Very touchy," hummed the violin.

"Now you listen," said the Phantom. "None of this is actually happening. You" – He pointed to the organ – "are the result of indigestion brought on by a piece of old cheese. And you" – he indicated the harp – "are the result of too much wine, consumed with aforementioned cheese. I'm going back to bed. And when I wake up, you'll all be normal instruments again. Not talking ones. Do I make myself absolutely clear?"

There was a silence.

The organ made a deep rumbling sound, as if it were clearing its throat. Or possibly bellows.

"It's not as simple as that, Monsieur le Fantome. You see, we've been given the power of speech so we can warn you."

"Warn me? About what?"

"They thought you would listen to your music, the thing you value above all else. They thought it would be the best way to get through to you."

"Who's 'they'?"

"You're going to be visited by three phantoms, Phantom," trilled the harp.

"Phantoms?" He shook his head. "There's no such thing."

"Really? I thought you of all people would believe in ghosts." This was from the piano.

"But…what do these phantoms want with me?"

"They want you to change your ways," boomed the organ.

"But my ways don't need changing. I'm happy with my ways, thank you very much."

"Are you?" asked the violin, with philosophical melancholy. "Are you really?"

"And what happens if I don't change my ways?"

"Then you will be alone forever."

The Phantom gave a short, bitter laugh. "Is that all? I'm quite used to being alone. It's what I've come to expect. I can cope with loneliness."

The candles on either side of the organ's music stand flickered, as if the instrument was blinking. It looked almost as though it pitied him.

"I'm not sure you really believe that, do you?"

The Phantom was stubbornly silent.

"Look…just try to keep an open mind, would you?" said the organ. "I could have written a symphony in the time I've spent arguing with you. You've already dealt with talking instruments. Ghosts should be easy."

The Phantom wasn't convinced. "But…"

"Good luck, Monsieur le Fantome," said the organ. "You're going to need it."

"I could play you a lullaby, if it would help," offered the flute.

"No…thank you."

The instruments fell silent.

The Phantom whimpered.

Then he ran back to his bedroom and pulled the covers up over his head.