So this kind of just happened on the bus ride to N.Y.C, I wrote it on my iPod. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I own neither Les Mis or Phantom, alas.

Erik— or, as he was better known, the Phantom of the Opera walked through the streets of Paris late one night, sticking to the darkness of the shadows. He preferred not to be seen or bothered. He reached the red light district, but did not seek another way to the Opera House. The women here knew better than to approach him; that is, if they even saw him, concealed as he was in shadow. Besides, if they did not know of his identity, the white half-mask that he wore kept most away. No one ever dared approach him. This night, however, would be different.

A man, perhaps of the same intelligence as most in the area, but definitely more desperate and more accustomed to murky shadows, noticed him and approached him, dragging along a struggling young girl. The girl had clearly been beaten rather viciously. The man, however, sustained only a black eye.

"Are you in need of companionship, Monsieur? My daughter here would be more than happy to be of service to you." the man said, grinning. The girl tried to pull away, but her father had a death grip on her arm. The Phantom was disgusted. He may have been a monster (as he seemed to think) and a murderer, but never would he force himself onto a woman; never would he rob a woman of her innocence, much less a child. He knew, though, if he did not do something, what this poor young child would be subjected to.

"How much?" he asked, feigning interest instead of disgust.

The man eyed him for a moment, trying to decide of he was wealthy or not.

"10 francs." he decided.

Erik handed him the money and the man then shoved his daughter toward him. He caught her and tried his best to be gentle, though he was certainly unaccustomed to being such.

"Salaud!" she hissed, though it could not be ascertained whether this was directed at her father or at the man who had just bought her. Erik, though rather amused by this, remained deadpan. He led her away from the area. She struggled to escape from him, hissing profanities at him; but he kept a hold of her, knowing that she would only get herself into more trouble if she ran away.

"Enough of that!" he said, harsher than he'd intended. She fell silent, hearing the thundering power behind his golden voice. He brought her to the entrance to his home under the Paris Opera, in the Rue Scribe. She was confused by this, but still did not speak. It seemed that she had come to terms with what was happening and, instead of being fearful, she seemed completely blank; empty; emotionless; dead inside. In her eyes, however, he could see her fear.

Once inside, her confusion turned to amazement. This showed on her face very briefly before she seemed to remember what was happening and she became stony-faced once more.

"Sit." he commanded, gesturing toward the sofa. She silently obeyed. "I will return in a moment." he said. Then, seeing the life return to her eyes briefly, he added, "I would not recommend trying to run. The traps in place would do more than only hurt you. In other words, if you value your life, stay put."

The young girl, being rather adept in the art of deception, despite being only fourteen, knew that he spoke no lies. His words were a terrifying truth; she did not move.

As she sat there waiting for his return, she contemplated the events that had brought her there. She couldn't really say that she was surprised that it had come to this; she had always seen it coming. Her father, in a bout of drunkenness, had lost a great deal of money and decided that, as a method of regaining the lost money, he could sell the only thing she had left; her body. She had feared this for a very long time; but she would not cry, she decided. No, she would give no one that satisfaction.

The Phantom soon returned with a kit filled with bandages and various ointments and medications. He was almost amused to see that the young woman had not moved in the slightest. He pulled up a chair so that he was sitting directly across from her. She looked at the bag, her confusion showing.

"What...?" she started to ask.

"Relax, I will not harm you unless provoked, nor will I force you into anything."


"'Why' what?"

"Why did you pay for me then? Why d'you care what my father forces me into?"

"No one should be sold." he replied quietly, "No one should be treated as a slave."

She could hear in his tone that this was a personal topic for him, so she did not press on the matter.

"Thank you, M'sieur; but then, why'd you bring me here?"

"You need medical care." he replied as if it were obvious.

"Are you a doctor?"

"Not exactly."

"D'you know what you're doing?"

"Have some faith in me, would you?" he replied, sighing.

"What exactly are you gonna do?"

"Bandage your wounds and pop your dislocated shoulder back into place. Now is that all? Any more questions?" he asked, clearly annoyed.

"Just one."

He sighed,

"Of course there is. Well? What is it?"

"Why do you wear that mask?"

The atmosphere of the room immediately changed.

"Never ask me that again." he said, his voice taking on glacial tones.

"Sorry." she said quietly.

Erik silently set about tending to her wounds, though he soon stopped, seeing the pain it was causing her. He grabbed a bottle of something and poured it into a glass.

"Drink this." he said, handing it to her, "It will help with the pain."

The young girl needed no more convincing than that and downed the glass. It took effect almost immediately and her eyelids drooped. He continued with his work, leaving her shoulder for last. She was mostly unconscious when he popped her shoulder back into place. This woke her up a bit and she weakly tried to slap him, not aware of what she was doing. He caught her wrist and gently placed it back at her side. Her head lolled back as she neared unconsciousness.

He carefully lifted her from the couch. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hardly aware that she was even doing do and he carried her to the Louis-Philippe room. Christine would never use it; she had married Raoul. He laid her down upon the bed. She struggled to remain awake, stubbornly fighting the effects of the medicine.

"Sleep." he said.

"No." she replied.

"And why not?"

"I want to know your name." her words were slurred and only half formed. He could see the child-like curiosity in her half-closed eyes. The poor innocent creature did not deserve the life she had and he could see that already. "Please?" she added as an afterthought. He sighed once again. He had not told his name to any but Christine and the Persian. Even Madame Giry did not know his name.

"People call me the 'Phantom of the Opera' or 'Opera Ghost.' One once called me her Angel of Music."

"'S'not a name."

He chuckled quietly,

"No, I suppose it's not."

"D'you have a name?"

"I used to."

They were both silent for a moment.

"I'm Eponine." she broke the silence.

"Well, Eponine, you really need to sleep now."

"I entirely disagree."

"Of course you do, but just do it anyway."

"Fine..." she mumbled, "G'night... Angel..."