A/N: Hello. This is my first phic. Hope you enjoy! I made Erik and Giry have a two year age difference, sorry if that conflicts with anyone's views on the matter. . Pairing in this phic will be strictly Erik/Giry

She turned from him, and wandered back up the dank staircase that glowed with an eerie phosphorescent light. He had spoken of nothing and everything in his simple confession. He wanted to own the Opera House. She cried, a few tears streamed down her pale face. She should have known…she should have been more careful.

"But Erik." She had said, "You cannot own the Opera House. It belongs to Debienne and Poligny." She stormed restlessly, trying to avoid the hideous face that looked back at her with questioning in its eyes.

"You do not see." He had replied, his face grim with determination. "With my music," he brandished a folio of sheet music bearing his elegant handwriting. "They would have beauty so splendid it would bring the house down." He rambled on excitedly, playing quick snippets of his melodies on his ebony piano. "Giry, you will understand one day, when I shall be famous and beautiful, no longer a hated fiend!"

"You are not a hated fiend." She had said. "No one hates you." She had lied.

"What about them?" Erik had gesticulated wildly, throwing his hands back in exasperation. "They beat me, caused me to become…nothing but a beast."

"You are not a beast." Giry had begun, but Erik cut her off.

"Of course I am! What with this corpse that I bear?" he pointed wildly at his face.

"What I mean is," she had said. "Wait. Just wait. I will speak with Debienne and Poligny, and maybe, maybe they will hear your opera."

Still crying, she moved up the stairs, her dress sweeping the cold stone floor. Erik had not wanted to see her afterwards, but to come in the gondola when she had received an answer from the managers. How could she return? Erik would have her head for this. Of course no manager wished to have pieces composed by a phantom, an opera ghost. And anyway, she was nothing but a young ballerina. She had no say in such a matter. Debienne listened only to great connoisseurs, Poligny to his many mistresses. A little ballerina could not say much to great men such as these. But she had always requested Erik's salary, and she had received it. Giry pondered this for a few minutes, and laughed despite her tears. With great persistency she had begged for Erik's salary, bowing down to the two distinguished Monsieurs, explaining her mother was ill, saying she could not last, that a priest was to be summoned for the final rites. Her mother, she had remembered, had been dead for five years the first time she did this. She remembered handing the few francs to Erik, and both of them smiling, but Erik's had been a pained smile.

Bundling herself in a shawl, she raced up the stairs, tripping over the grime and broken flagstone. If she had such powers within her, why not use them to please her only friend? And the work of a genius was much sought after, even if the great operas like The Marriage of Figaro and Rigoletto were played. Erik, in truth, was only sixteen, and his operas held a brilliance and darkness that no man today could match. His passion spoke through the notes on the page, and his bereavement was magnified throughout each passing bar.

Giry met with the head maid of the opera house, a stern, nasty woman named Agatha Emerson. She was an English immigrant who had come when her father made his money on the Opera Populaire's stage. It was rumored, however, that he had met a dastardly end when he was old and weary, but still forced his presence upon the spectators. Erik had disliked his voice so much that he had killed him, feeding him poison with the help of Giry. They had only been ten and twelve years old, respectively, and had not really known what the liquid would have done. Erik had heard from the man he had bought it that it was a type of soda that was used to cure a sore throat. The effects proved otherwise. Emerson had been twenty-five at the time, and it had caused her great grief. Thus, she restricted herself to working in the house of her father's death. But she was suspicious of Giry forever afterwards, and constantly badgered her with questions.

"What have you been doing?" she asked in a harsh voice.

"Nothing." Replied Giry, turning a ghastly parchment colour.

"What were you doing in the cellar?" asked Agatha, her voice more insistent.

"My cat," said Giry, "Went down into the cellar. I could not find him. That is why I am weeping."

Agatha gave a raspy grunt of recognition, but her eyes remained shifty.

Giry continued along the hallway, going in the direction of Poligny's private offices. She knocked politely with the brass knocker, and opened the door when she heard Poligny's distinct, pompous voice.

"Enter!" he cried, and she as obedient to his request.

He was shuffling many papers on his desk, as well as vast sums of money, a golden inkwell lay on its side, an ink stain slowly blotting itself onto his white sleeve.

"Monsieur." Giry giggled. She had hardly ever seen such a well-to-do man in a state of utter chaos. "Your sleeve Monsieur."

He looked up, and swore, which did not startle Giry.

"Damn it! My new, best shirt!" he looked up at her almost threateningly, as if daring another laugh to pass her lips. "What do you want, Mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, a man I am an acquaintance with desires you to view his work." She said simply.

"Ah. A young prodigy? A critique, I presume?" he seemed delighted.

"No, Monsieur. He has written an opera. He desires you to perform it."

"And does this gentleman you speak of have a name?" said Poligny rather teasingly.

"He wishes to remain anonymous."

"Do you have the score with you?" asked Poligny.

"No, Monsieur, I do not have it."

"Very well." He sighed. "Speak with your charming friend and we shall see what is to be done."

Giry nodded, and swept from the room, her feet gracing the floor with nimble steps. She sprinted back down into the caverns of the opera house, and ran to the black gondola.

"Erik!" she called through the gloom. "I have news!"

She jumped into the gondola, and pushed it along the water with a long pole. It creaked a little when she went into it, as if it was falling apart. She pushed harder with the pole, as a gentle stream of water trickled into the boat. Just as she stepped from it one of the planks gave way, and, in desperation, she hauled it out of the water.

"Erik," she said, sloshing through the water. "You must really think of building a new boat."

"I see." He replied tersely, looking up from his work. "What did you say to the honorable Monsieurs?" his words spat sarcasm.

"Please, Erik. They are not bad gentleman. Poligny has even requested to see the work."

Erik's face brightened a little, and there was a ghost of a smile on his face.

"And my salary?" he asked.

"I have not yet asked for that." Replied Giry. "But I will in time, when I return to them."

"I see." Said Erik. "Here." He thrust the folio into Giry's hands. "Take it, and take care of it. It is an original."

"But, Erik, your gondola. I cannot get back."

Erik said nothing and led her into his bedroom, with the elegantly carved swan-shaped bed and the blood-red brocade cushions. In one smooth motion he lifted a curtain by the back wall, and there was a small set of stairs, illuminated with candles, leading up towards light.

"Take this path." He said. "In the meantime. I will repair my gondola eventually."

Giry gave a nod, and wandered up the staircase, a lone white figure against the darkness of the passageway and Erik's soul.