In a life no longer familiar to them, he struggles to prevent a future that can never happen, the chilling future once revealed to him in a world of shadows. In direct opposition, she hopes to bring about a future long desired.

But Fate will not allow some moments to be undone, and in a bizarre twist of what might have been and what is dreamed for, the days unfold -

leading to the future that no one could have ever expected …

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This story contains a bit of everything- angst, drama, fluff, romance, lighthearted moments and heavy ones, humor, mystery, suspense and more. E/C pairing. Sexual situations, some very explicit and building as story progresses (please note the M rating- it's there for a reason). I'll put warnings on those chapters. A tad of fantasy, but nowhere near as much as in Phantom Christmas Carol. This takes up where that story left off – same night – but is really more of a romance story that is a follow-up to what happened. Told in three parts, a bit like a miniseries...

I don't own the characters; I just like to play with them. :) based on 2004 movie, with some Kay thrown in …

*Those underage, please do not read.*

For those who didn't read A Phantom Christmas Carol, this also is a "what if" story ... what if the events of Il Muto never happened, because, like Scrooge, 4 spirits visited Erik beforehand to show him the past, present, and future, and the tragedy that could result with his decisions? What will Erik now do with the knowledge of all he's learned and the resolve he made - to protect Christine above all else, even from himself - especially when she fights his wishes at every turn, having made a few decisions of her own...

And so, without further ado, I take you …

Part I

To that Moment Where Words Run Dry

I

.

Within a breath of time, everything had changed and nothing had changed, and it was that ill-defined change that the Phantom now dreaded.

It seemed a lifetime ago, not mere days, that spirits from the netherworld visited him on the eve of Christmas and warned of a dire future for Christine should he proceed with his plans of retribution. He had not mentioned the horrific experience to her. Indeed, she had been excited and talkative throughout most of the evening ...

Once he agreed to remain her teacher.

A foolish mistake! cold logic vehemently insisted.

His bleak soul refused to listen.

Her voice ... her presence was what inspired his heart to beat.

God, could he not have at least that?

As they returned to the mirror door, she remained unusually quiet. He wondered if she now regretted her impulsive words and his hesitant choice. Remembering the sincerity that glowed in her eyes when she spoke her piece, as well as her brave but foolish trek through his dark dungeons to seek him out, he did not believe a sudden case of misgiving to be the reason for her silence ...

Periodically he glanced over his shoulder, to ensure she was well. He needed no such assurance with regard to her continued presence. He sensed her … he felt her. Though he did not guide her by the hand – did not trust himself to touch her after her desperate embrace of earlier when she begged him to resume his role as her teacher - she held fast to the folds of his cloak and walked so close he could feel the faint brush of her curls each time she craned to peer ahead or glanced behind.

He drew a steadying breath when her curls again whispered across his neck. Somehow, he would, must begin afresh and extinguish the growing ardor he felt at the mere thought of her - must forget his desire to be with her and for her to become his. It was enough that she wanted his companionship and continued aid in her vocal instruction. It had to be enough.

To keep her with him, as he once planned, after all that transpired … he could not allow it. Could not link her name to scandal as he almost did on the night she disappeared from her locked dressing room. Then, such worldly concerns had not troubled him. He had resolved that she would become his bride and gave no consideration how others might construe her mysterious disappearance. At that time, Madame Giry doused the managers' suspicion of her student's nocturnal activities, telling the prying men she'd found Christine sound asleep in a corner of the dressing room behind the screen. But now matters were different. He must exercise discretion to keep her reputation intact.

Their evening lessons would continue, these early hours beneficial. Few within the opera house would know of Christine's whereabouts, most of them sleeping in ignorance or absorbed elsewhere in their lewd activities, and he wished to use his pipe organ for accompaniment, something he had not been able to do when visiting with her in the chapel for their twilight sessions. Still, the Phantom did not wish to soil his rising starlet's reputation in this theater where gossip and speculation ran amok, and as freely as the wine of Bacchus. Therefore he deemed it necessary that she be found in her dormitory bed with the dawn of each new morn. He also realized, after tonight's embarrassing farce, she would daily require sleep before her lessons began, an arrangement he must work out with Madame Giry.

The Phantom walked more slowly as they approached the last corridor, knowing she should hurry to her dormitory but conversely not wanting her to leave. At the mirror door, he turned. Her pert features were drawn, uncertain, as if she struggled with a challenging decision.

"We are here?" She glanced at the dank walls of rock on either side. "I didn't recognize it. When you took me through this corridor after my debut, there were candles all around, and Madame carried a torch …"

He cursed himself for a fool. No wonder she'd been silent. She dreaded the darkness, a childhood fear she had yet to overcome. With his night vision honed from two decades of living beneath the earth, he'd grown accustomed to prowling the gloomy inner corridors, often lit by the fewest candles or none at all. He preferred it, to hinder discovery by any who might trespass. Several hidden entrances led to the dark tunnels beneath the theater other than the mirror door. But with his mind teeming by all that had taken place between himself and his ingénue, and with the endless questions instigated but as yet not posed, all of them whirling like a dervish inside his head, he'd given no thought to carrying a torch or that she would prefer as much light as possible.

He lifted his hand in command. Instantly a candle's flame flickered and grew steady in the iron holder between them. In the soft glow, her eyes widened and sparkled with relief and wonder.

"I am a magician, Christine," he explained, somewhat amused.

"So Madame Giry told me. Is that how you were able to sing into my mind? And to throw your voice in the chapel so that it seemed you were standing right beside me?"

"That was ventriloquism. Another skill I learned during my long years of solitude. Pardon my oversight in not lighting the way for you as I did on that first night. You should have spoken sooner and told me you were afraid."

"When I am with you, I'm not so afraid." She tilted her head in curious regard. "But now I wish to know, Erik. Why did you pretend to be my angel these many years?"

He remained silent and she continued, unwilling to let it go. "When I was a child, I think I can understand. I was hurting and lonely and distrustful - and frightfully timid around strangers, something I've never completely outgrown. Your pretense as my Angel might have been the only way I would have listened to you then. Since Father promised he would send me an angel of music and you are so musically talented. Your voice, from the moment I heard it, comforted me." She faintly smiled. "But once I grew into a woman, why did you not tell me the truth? Why did you wait until my debut to reveal your mortality?"

She seemed as hesitant to return as he was to let her go, but he could never disclose such a personal confession. Once, he might have. But no longer.

"The time for conversation is behind us. It is late, Christine," he added gently at seeing her dissatisfied little pout. "You must slip inside your room before anyone should notice you missing."

She nodded, reluctant, and made as if to pull back the mirror, then dropped her arm back to her side, again looking up at him. The strained look she wore during their return journey revisited her features as she pulled her brows slightly together.

He sighed. "What is it, Christine?"

"The Bal Masque will take place at the end of this week."

"Will it?" In striving to rectify his offenses, the days slipped by him unaware.

"Yes, it will." She moistened her bottom lip and pulled at it with her small, perfect teeth, clearly nervous. "What you said, about my life being my own and that I may share the hours that I am not immersed in my training with whomever I choose – did you mean that?"

His heart seemed a sudden deadweight, but he forced the words to surface without inflection. "You are free to do as you please, Christine. I will no longer hinder you in that regard."

"I should like to attend the ball, now that I am of age to do so. It would be my first ball to take part in and not merely observe from a distance."

When she should have been fast asleep, he thought with a hint of wry amusement. As children, Meg often persuaded Christine to tiptoe from their beds and eavesdrop to view the gaiety. He had always stood nearby, in the shadows, watching over her and her little friend.

"I shall no longer restrict you from engaging in such affairs," he said wearily.

"I am told it will last until the early hours of morning. Until dawn, even."

"It is nearing dawn now," he replied with mild sarcasm. "Though I do not recommend you make a routine of these late nights or any future outings. To do so would not be constructive to your voice."

His explanation sounded pathetic, however true, considering his plans for the timing of her lessons. Yet, no matter that he resolved to let her go and allow her to live her life, he couldn't abide the idea of a string of handsome suitors vying for her companionship to each and every thrice-damned social function Paris held. Even the thought of one suitor was difficult to stomach. One suitor in particular.

"And if I should desire an escort to accompany me?" she queried as if reading his mind.

"Has someone asked you?"

"Well … yes." She fidgeted. "But I refused him, in part because you didn't allow me to attend social engagements at the time."

The Vicomte. Of course. Who else.

"Do as you wish, Christine." Despite his supreme effort to remain impassive, his reply came out terser than he intended. He flicked the lever of the door. The mirror slid open with a determined push of his hand.

Her smile wavered, her eyes suddenly uncertain. She entered the dressing room, hesitated, then turned suddenly, putting her warm hand atop his at the edge of the mirror before he could close it.

He stood paralyzed by her light touch.

When she spoke, it came out in a whisper. "In that case … what I wish … is for you to take me to the ball, Maestro. I should like you to be my escort."

His mouth parted in disbelief. He drew a rush of air into his lungs. Still he could not seem to breathe.

At his stunned response, she hurried to say, "Is it inappropriate for a lady to issue an invitation? I sadly lack in areas of deportment involving such matters, as you doubtless must know since I've never attended any real social gatherings escorted. I have only the other girls of the chorus as my example, and they are often bold in their advances with men." When he still didn't answer, she looked worried. "I hope you're not angry with me?"

"Angry?" At last he found his voice, hoarse though it was. "How could I be angry with the bearer of such a sweet request …? You want me to take you to the ball?" Her words struck him fully.

"I understand you may not be willing to share in others' company yet. But all the guests will be masked so you should feel at ease." She said the words quickly, as if anticipating his refusal. He didn't tell her he had planned to attend for weeks. "Such an affair shouldn't cause you undue discomfort. And I think you should meet some of the performers you've watched from afar, in an effort to show your goodwill. I would love to introduce you, since I spoke of my great teacher on the day of Hannibal's opening." She stopped to inhale a breath. "You have proven to be a man of your word, and this further act on your behalf might help convince the managers that you no longer wish anyone harm, that you also desire peace and an end to the discord among you."

Strangely the idea of being in one accord no longer rankled since his meeting with the two owners and their agreement to all his wishes. Although he still didn't think they had any business running an opera.

"You truly wouldn't mind being seen with me?"

"Of course not." She looked utterly confused. "I would be delighted to have you by my side."

Delighted! Her soft, wondering words brought to mind another evening, when he first brought her to his inner sanctum and held her close. He looked at her glowing face now, so full of expectation. By the gentleness in her eyes and the manner in which her lips softly parted, did he dare hope she entertained similar thoughts?

His eyes fell shut. Of course she didn't. This was much too dangerous. Less than an hour into his reluctant agreement to initiate a new association with his student – and he strongly entertained former plans to make her his bride.

He could not do this.

Could not.

The shadows of the ghostly future loomed, waiting, deadly, ready to ensnare ...

He pulled his hand from beneath hers and took a step back, knowing that his futile longing clouded his damnable but necessary resolve the more time he spent in her presence.

Her face fell. His heart rebelled. And with it, all of his practical reasons and worthy intentions once more disintegrated to dust.

"If you are certain—"

She nodded before he could finish. "Yes," she whispered.

He could not deny her this one last request, and it must be the last, to share in the gala and her company as her teacher. Secretly, he longed for any opportunity to be with her, pathetic wretch that he had become. He could control the future ... could he not? Since he had been given an unwilling look into those things which must never occur, to know what to avoid?

"Very well, Christine. I will take you to the ball." The faint words seemed illusory, a figment of a dream, certainly not real and belonging to the disfigured Phantom of the Opera.

She smiled brightly as if he granted her an enormous favor. Already beautiful, her changed countenance made her a vision to behold.

Baffled by her response, he quickly lifted the candle from the holder and handed it to her. "You must go, before the others awaken. The corridors will be dark."

"Thank you," she breathed, her finger brushing the edge of his as she took hold of the slim taper. Even with the glove, a shock traveled between them, a tiny spark that made his heart quicken. She gasped softly. "G-goodnight."

Still in a daze, Erik watched as she slipped through the room and the door that stood opposite.

He should not have let her go alone, not at such a late hour. Many were the reprobates that wandered the corridors of the opera house under the dark cover of night, seeking to fill their voracious appetites for debauchery.

Silently he followed her flickering candle through the network of corridors. He kept far enough behind so as to avoid detection, wishing only to make certain she arrived to her destination safely.

Near the winding staircase that led to the dormitories he spotted a flash of red and noticed Joseph Buquet, the worst of the degenerates, loiter in the dim corridor adjacent. His evident interest fastened high above, on the doorway of Christine's room through which she had just disappeared.

A cold fury surged through the Phantom's veins, igniting his blood. The stagehand was rarely where he should be and often crept into the women's dormitories on the sly, to visit with the more promiscuous dancers. Yet if the swine should dare so much as lay a finger on his innocent Christine, he would rue that day - for on that day the Opera Ghost would make a fearsome comeback. Peace or no peace, spirits or no spirits, he would do what he must to keep his Angel safe.

With his eyes trained on Buquet, who moved to the staircase and placed his boot on the first step, the Phantom scowled and prepared to act. His ire rising, he clenched his hands at his sides, itching for the feel of taut catgut between his fingers. The Punjab no longer presented a viable option, however, even for such scum as the vile monsieur. But other methods existed beyond murder, ones that would ensure an end to the animal's depraved schemes and keep the managers unaware that the Phantom of the Opera had returned …

If such a day should occur.

Buquet suddenly tensed and looked around. "Bonjour? … I-is someone there?" he stuttered nervously in a stage whisper then belched. "Sh-show yourself."

The Phantom narrowed his eyes in disgust but remained silent.

Ill at ease, the miscreant swaggered from the staircase and retraced his steps to the corridor, a half empty bottle of liquor dangling from his hand.

The shadows acting as his concealment, the Phantom followed.

Perhaps a little ... inducement was in order after all.

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xXx