A/N: Second fic, but not connected to the J.O.S. continuum. No, this is an AU thing I have to write…right now. Not sure how long it'll be, (if it'll go more than one chapter) or if it'll update regularly, but…anyway, read/review/fav/follow my AU DP fic: "The Funeral Singer," inspired by the music video of Panic! At the Disco's "The Ballad of Mona Lisa" I do not own Danny Phantom or "The Ballad of Mona Lisa." The lyrics of Phantom's song written in here are mine. That's all. Also: this chapter used to be shorter. I've added on a part.

Chapter #1: Samantha Harwood

An imperceptible twitch of violet lips, which she quickly hides behind a black handkerchief; Samantha "Sam" Harwood crumples into her mother's arms, feigned tears falling from her lavender eyes.

"There, there," the older woman soothes, stroking her sobbing daughter's back, "It'll be okay."

She smiles into her mother's corseted bodice, restraining a laugh. Her eyes swivel over to the still form on the bed. A blond-haired man in his thirties lays motionless on white sheets. A dove-gray top hat with a black ribbon rests on the bedside table, never to be worn by its purchaser more than once.

"It's so unfortunate," the doctor sighs, "To leave behind such a lovely widow."

Sam straightens, brushing away her tears, "Please excuse me. My husband would not want me to behave in such an…unseemly manner," she brushes dust from her long, purple dress with black leather gloves, "Please forget you saw anything."

"Of course, My Lady," the corpulent man replies, scratching at his gray mustache.

"How did he…? If I may ask," Pamela asks, resting a reassuring hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Some form of poison, I presume. Well…the young Baron Harwood had many enemies," he raises an eyebrow; "You haven't suffered anything unusual, have you, Lady Harwood?"

Sam shakes her head, "No…he fell after…" she covers her mouth again with her handkerchief, "after he finished his scotch."

"Does he drink every night?"

"Yes. Everyone in the manor knows of it," she dabs at her eyes.

"…I see," he huffs, "Well then, perhaps you should stay with your parents tonight. Keep an eye on her just as a precaution. I…I'll call the undertaker."

"Thank you," Sam whispers from behind her kerchief, hoping she looks absolutely devastated as her mother escorts her away from the room.

Six months ago, she had become Mrs. Aaron Harwood; his family owns the local railroad, making the young Baron a good match for the only daughter of the elite Manson estate. She hadn't been happy about her impending marriage, but she accepted it; such was the fate of wealthy women. It was purely political; to be honest, they'd met a few times and he wasn't awful.

It shows that you cannot judge a man you've only talked to for less than an hour.

She'd learned very quickly that Baron Harwood was not a good man; not the gentleman he pretended to be. He was often drunk; violently so. She would plead, hide, fight back; but she still saw the purple stains across her skin in the mirror. She knew she had to save herself from the monster she'd been sold to. No one would ever learn she'd been poisoning the monster little by little with arsenic. She'd made him dependent on it; a necessity for his survival. Then she'd stopped. Over the past few days, he'd suffered from withdrawals that ultimately killed him.

Good riddance.

-BREAK-

Four days later, she stops the final clock of the manor and turns the final mirror towards the wall. Her face is solemn; truthfully, she wishes hadn't had to kill him. The guests all offer their condolences before viewing the body in the parlor to say their goodbyes. In the main hall, chatting and raucous laughter can be heard above music.

Hidden behind a gentleman's smile,

A vile creature of cardinal sin,

Would never notice the tipping vial,

A wounded bride's desperate poison.

She halts in her tracks, suddenly feeling sick.

"Isn't that…?" a man questions his companion.

"The funeral singer?"

"Doesn't he go by some tasteless name?" he huffs.

"He's quite popular, you know. They say his songs always fit the deceased," his wife assures, "…Phantom, that's it!"

She turns to face the singer, his bright green eyes burning into hers. His white hair contrasts with his pitch-black suit and top hat.

Oh, who could ever blame her?

Forced to wed a man so cruel?

A fair maiden who once pure,

Now made a blood-stained jewel.

She takes a step back, wondering briefly if any of the other guests have noticed; but none turn her way. Phantom, though, smiles wickedly as he sings, his eyes locked onto hers.

He knows, fear pounds in her chest, he knows.

"Samantha, are you alright?" her mother asks, appearing behind her, "You look pale."

"Yes, I just…I believe I need some time to sit down. Please excuse me," she hurries up the stairs, secluding herself in her dark bedroom. Assured she's alone, she allows herself to succumb to the tremors. The music floats up from below.

Even now the demon loudly calls,

Demanding her crimson blood be spilt,

Though her pain be written on the walls,

Amongst these broken bottles of guilt.

Oh, who could ever blame her?

Sold as though a china doll?

These words I can deem as sure,

He earned his destructive fall.

-BREAK-

"So…you're not going to turn her in?"

"With what proof, Tuck?"

"True…"

"I don't want to anyway; the man was a real piece of work and he got what he deserved!" Phantom leans against the stonework, removing his top hat and brushing a hand through his silver hair. Here in the darkness, one can see the pale, ghostly glow that surrounds him.

"You're only saying that because she was hot," the darker man snorts.

"She was," he grins, but sobers suddenly, "But that's not why. You can't see it, Tuck. The miasma," he shudders, "it coated that place like a blanket."

"Almost like the tobacco smoke?"

"Yeah," he snorts, "Another reason it was time for me to leave. I've got lungs to protect!"

"You don't even have to breathe like this," Tucker retorts, motioning to his entire body, "…you most definitely terrified her."

"Yeah, I did," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You touch it?"

"What?!"

"The miasma," he frowns.

"Not any more than I had too," he shakes his head; "…did you know he'd go after her with the bottle? Oh, and he'd…" he covers his mouth, looking ill, "…He deserves to wander the Infinite Realms for eternity."

"He'll come back for her."

"Definitely."

"Then what?"

"Let's think about that when the time comes, hm?"

"…what do you think will happen to her in the meantime?"

"No idea, Tuck. None at all," he pulls his hat on once again, keeping the brim low as they stride into the night, along deserted streets.