This is a bit of a "what if?" story based on the stage show and the movie. What if Christine never ripped off the Phantom's mask after "Music of the Night"? What if he never showed her the wedding dress? Instead she returned to the Opera House with their relationship still intact, and continued to take singing lessons from him, now in his underground home.

(Let's just conveniently ignore the fact that what I describe would hardly be the reaction of a girl who discovers that the voice she believed belonged to the spirit of her father is actually a disfigured man who has watched her from behind a one way mirror for years.)

Here we give their lurve a chance by ignoring such trifling details. :)

Christine stared intently at the keys of the organ, sitting at the very edge of the stool she shared with her teacher. They had finished her singing lesson for the day, but, appalled by her blank expression when he mentioned the cadence points in the piece they were studying- Who Can From Joy Refrain? by Purcell- he had insisted that she revise her musical theory.

She examined closely the interval between his bare fingers, brows furrowed in concentration: C sharp to G sharp. She knew the interval was a fifth, but was there a G sharp in C sharp minor? She couldn't remember…

"A major fifth?"

"No Christine, remember, there are no major fifths, fourths or octaves. They are…?"

"Perfect." She sighed. "A perfect fifth. I'm sorry."

"Try again." He ordered calmly as his fingers hovered over the organ. He played the next two notes softly and deliberately, eyes closing as he leaned into the gesture. She wondered at how his fingers could evoke such an exquisite sound from two simple pitches. Such a sad sound.

"A minor third!" She was sure she was right this time.

"No, Christine." She could sense his frustration rising fractionally. "Would a minor third have such a dissonant tone quality?"

Dissonant? Puzzled, she played the notes herself. It did sound ugly that time.

"Of course… the G clashes with the A sharp. An augmented second."

"There." He said, pleased. He reached out to play another interval, but she laid her hand lightly on his arm, and looked up towards the mask that faced her. Her thin brows were furrowed. "I don't understand. It sounded so different when you played it. You made it sound beautiful."

He looked startled for a moment, then pleased.

"Discordance can be an effective musical device, but it takes skill and practise to perfect. As you progress under my guidance you will be able sing 7th leaps, augmented seconds, and even wider and stranger intervals with the ease that you sing an arpeggiated scale. That is the mark of a truly accomplished voice." He smiled at her, and she returned it; his enthusiasm was infectious, and his complete faith in her abilities a comfort.

"Try it now." He ordered, striking a G chord. "Sing the A sharp."

She opened her mouth, concentrating so intently on struggling to find the note that she forgot all else.

"Posture!" He scolded, and she corrected herself quickly. He was always so much stricter with her singing than her theory or piano work.

"Close." He said thoughtfully after a time. "Impressive for a first attempt. But you are singing an A natural- you need to raise it a semitone."

She glowed. There really was nothing quite like his praise, however small.

"Now C Major:" he said, changing the chord. "Sing for me a D sharp."

She did, and perfectly so.

"Beautiful." They breathed in unison, and then laughed softly. Her hand seemed to fall naturally to his shoulder, and he smiled at it, then up at her.

"I am pleased to know that you hear it, as I do." He said warmly.

Christine sensed a rare opportunity, forcing the words from her lips before she lost her nerve. "Perhaps…I would be able to see it, also." She tried to gaze steadily at him, but he turned his head and rose quickly, hiding whatever emotions played out upon his face. The atmosphere in the room shifted suddenly from comfortable to tense, and she cursed her recklessness. It was the moments like that of a few seconds ago, when they were completely at ease with one another, that she cherished with him.

After a few tense moments he spoke.

"Christine I have told you, what lies beneath this mask far surpasses mere ugliness. Now, do not raise the subject again." His voice had lost all its warmth from moments ago, and was filled with a cold authority. How quickly they shifted from friends to master and student!

He began to quickly pack away the sheet music they had used in the afternoon's lesson. Christine wrung her hands together in the tense silence, her next words bursting forth almost irrepressibly.

"Your desire to conceal it from me has only fuelled my imagination- I am certain I have created in my mind images far worse than the reality-"

He laughed humourlessly, and turned to face her, "And I am certain of the contrary!" He swept around her to a nearby shelf.

The finality in his tone angered her, and mounting frustration prompted her to speak without thinking.

"Really! What's the worst it could-?" She ventured, and winced, knowing that this was the worst possible thing to say. He let out a furious sound and spun around to glare at her once more.

"You dare to suggest that it is vanity that keeps me here, trapped in this hateful prison?" For the first time she sensed the magnitude of his bitterness. His teeth were bared in an almost animalistic manner and his voice became dangerously mocking. "That my own mother forced me to wear a mask because of, perhaps, a mildly unappealing scar?"

She was shocked by his last comment, and he seemed to regret it as he spoke, realising that he had once again forged a crack in the aura of mystique and power he tried so desperately to preserve around her.

She sensed it would be unwise to inquire further while he was so enraged. She stared at the floor, ashamed, as he moved agitatedly to the opposite side of the room, inwardly cursing.

"Forgive me." She said in a small voice. "It was not my intention to make light of your torment."

She felt awful now. Why had she brought it up? Her stupid insatiable curiosity was not worth their friendship.

She moved slowly to where he stood; breathing unsteadily in his anger and clutching a work of Mozart whose pages were crumpling. He did not meet her gaze until she raised her hand to rest against the unmasked side of his face. It was warm and smooth and pleasant to the touch. His eyes fluttered and closed.

There must be a way to resolve this.

"Describe it to me." She whispered as gently as she could, caressing his face and fighting the unexpected desire she suddenly felt to press her lips to it. Conflicting expressions of pleasure and pain contorted his features and it took him several moments to answer. Her heart wrenched at the sight. "It is-a deformity." He choked at last.

"A birthmark?"

He shook his head wearily, but not in answer to her question.

"Please, let me show you that whatever the sight that haunts you- it cannot cause me to think less of you!"

"No … no more of this Christine." He sighed, seeming to regain his composure. She sighed herself, knowing that the opportunity was lost, and dropped her hand reluctantly. Did she imagine the disappointment in his expression as it fell to her side? She certainly did not imagine the way his gaze lingered on it as they stood in a few moments silence.

"You will know my face…but later, later when I am sure…"

Her eyebrows rose at this development.

"Sure of what?" Her eyes searched his, but he shook his head again, seeming once again to struggle on the verge of speech. "No. Not yet." he whispered at last, more to himself than her.

"Come, it is nearly dusk." He said at last, and she took his hand, trying to apologise for the argument with her eyes. Slowly they made their way back up towards the light.

I'd love to know what you think

Oh and what happened to Raoul? Pfft who cares? :D