Dedicated to Phantomofgryffindor

     Unable to contain my excitement at the prospect of returning home for the first time in two years, my restless hands moved ceaselessly in my lap. As the carriage drew closer to the lane I knew so well, I leaned forward in my seat, my smile growing wider when I spotted the cherry trees that lined the elegant curve of our driveway. As the carriage came to a stop and the footman appeared at my door to help me disembark, I took a deep breath and tried in vain to calm myself.

     I took the footman's gloved hand and thanked him as I stepped onto the gravel drive. My grin must have been infectious, for he returned my smile and bowed at the waist before retrieving my luggage. Though I knew the lace was perfectly straight, I smoothed the white trim of my favorite summer dress – a peach-colored number my father sent me for my fourteenth birthday – and quickly touched my hair to ensure it remained in place.

     I moved to the back of the carriage once I was satisfied and grabbed a parcel wrapped in white paper and held together by pink string. Inside was a binder crafted from the finest leather, which I had bought for my father – a famous violinist and the current patron of the Palais Garnier – who wrote and collected music with such fervor that he could hardly keep up with the pace of his own production.

     As a young child, I often heard him pacing the floor of his study down the hall as he searched for a specific score that had gotten lost in the haphazardly stacked piles of sheet music. Hopefully, this binder would not only help him organize his work, but his thoughts as well, giving him more time to compose new pieces of music while also perfecting his craft, though in my mind, he was already the best musician in France, if not the world.

     Breathing in the sweet fragrance of the nearby rose garden and reveling in the dry, summer air, I lifted the hems of my skirts and practically floated onto the veranda. Unfortunately, when I was met at the door by my stepmother's stern countenance, all hope of a warm homecoming quickly disappeared. Madame Isabella Giudicelli – a severe looking woman with pale skin and red hair – married my father when I was twelve years old, and no sooner had I turned thirteen was I sent off to boarding school.

     During those two years, I never saw my father and seldom received his letters, and instinct told me it was her doing. I also came to suspect that she was the reason behind the frequent return of my own letters, which I had saved, intending to share them – and my adventures – with my father when we were finally reunited.

     So, when my stepmother answered the door and slowly arched an eyebrow, I lifted my chin in defiance when I should have curtsied and said, "Madame Giudicelli, as lovely as it is to see you again, I wish to speak with my father."

     I knew it was improper to address my stepmother by her maiden name, but I refused to accept her as part of my family. My real mother had died during childbirth, and when my father remarried, I knew – in spite of my young age – that it was out of convenience rather than love. My father's career as a violinist had been lucrative when he was younger, but he had battled several illnesses over the past five years, and they had severely hindered his ability to travel and perform.

     When he wed Isabella Giudicelli – a wealthy widow in the "throes of grief", as she had put it – nearly thirteen years after becoming a widower himself, I took an immediate dislike to her. What my stepmother said next still haunts me to this day, and though I may never know the true reason behind my father's marriage to Madame Giudicelli, I pray that he did not wed her for my benefit, because if he did, the knowledge I now possess would make the weight of his decision intolerable and my already-agonizing torment too much to bear.

     "I fear your father is not long for this world, child, so if you wish to speak with him, you must do so quickly," Madame Giudicelli replied curtly, her face emotionless and her words untainted by sorrow.

     I stood on the veranda for several moments, numb to the world around me. When I finally regained the ability to function, I squared my shoulders and brushed past my stepmother, clutching my father's parcel close to my chest as I entered the main foyer. When someone cleared their throat, I turned and found our steward holding the many unread letters I had sent my father while in boarding school.

     "These were on top of your luggage...I thought you might like to show them to your father," he said quietly.

     I took the letters with my free hand and whispered, "Thank you, Pierre."

     "You are most welcome, Miss," he replied, unshed tears glistening in his eyes and belaying the strength in his steady voice as he quickly hugged me.

     Blinking back tears of my own, I stowed the letters in my pocket and rushed toward the grand staircase, I'll be damned if I let her see me cry.

     Unfortunately, a hand on my shoulder stopped me, and I turned to hold Madame Giudicelli's icy gaze with my own as she reached into her pocket and produced an envelope addressed to me in my father's hand: To my Little Lottie.

     "This is the last letter your father wrote before he fell too ill to do so," she said, and the twisted satisfaction revealed in the smallest quirk of her lips sickened me. "I sent Pierre to mail your letter, along with the weekly collection of parcels and envelopes, but I later found it on the floor of my study. Perhaps...had it not slipped from my desk...you might have received it in time to properly say goodbye to your dear father. Fortunately, fate must have been on your side, for you are here now. If you stop standing about and hurry, you might still be able to have a few moments with him before I am forced to send for the coroner."

     Knowing precious time had already been wasted, I ripped the letter from her hand and raced up the stairs, my heart beating furiously against my ribcage. Any joy I'd previously felt at returning home was now extinguished, replaced with thoughts too terrible to describe. My chest ached and my shoulders heaved as I struggled to control my emotions. As I neared my father's bedroom on the second floor, I stopped, fear rooting me to the oriental rug beneath my feet.

     For several moments, I stood frozen with indecision. I briefly considered sliding to the floor and letting the shadows consume me as I wished my old life back into existence.

     Would anyone care if I slipped into my bedroom and let the world go on without me? I wondered, but before I could do anything at all, the door to my father's bedroom opened.

     Doctor Maurice Francois stepped across the threshold and removed his hat when he spotted me standing in the corner, his stricken expression piercing me to my core. He quickly crossed the hall and pulled me into his arms, stroking my back as I finally released the tears I'd been struggling to contain.

     "I am so sorry, Miss, but there will be time for grief later. Right now, your father needs you," he whispered, and I nodded, knowing he was right. "Would you like me to accompany you?"

     I tried to thank the doctor for his kindness, but words eluded me, and the most I could manage was a shake of my head. He sighed and wiped the tears from my face, straightening to his full height before bowing at the waist and quietly retreating to the foyer below. Taking a deep breath, I braced myself as best I could and walked across the hall, into my father's bedroom. His profile was a mere suggestion in the darkness, but I was grateful for the shadows, which concealed my tears as I slowly moved closer. I stopped at the foot of the bed, afraid to go on.

     It took all of my strength to keep from sobbing when my father's weakened voice pierced the silence, "L-Lottie? My darling...is...is that you?"

     "Y-yes, Papa," I whispered in reply, unable to prevent my voice from shaking.

     "There's...There is a lantern on the nightstand," he said, his voice strained. "W-will...will you light it? So I may see you?"

     "Yes, Papa," I replied, finding the match in the upper drawer and lighting the lantern with muscle memory.

     A soft glow emerged from the lantern and chased a portion of the shadows from the bedroom. When my gaze fell upon my father's face, my breath caught in my throat and I clutched at the folds of my dress to keep my hands from trembling. His countenance, once warm and lively, was now void of all color and covered in a film of sweat. He looked up at me with those brown eyes I knew so well, eyes that used to be warm but now appeared glassy and sat in sunken sockets.

     Biting my lip and choking back a sob, I sat on the edge of the bed and brushed his dark, sweat-plastered hair from his face. With great effort, my father reached up and stroked my cheek, his hand cold and clammy against my face. I managed to return his smile before lowering his hand to his chest, wanting him to save his strength even though I knew there was nothing I could do to change fate's design.

     After I leaned down and kissed his forehead, my father placed his hands on my shoulders and fingered the lace trim of my dress.

     "You got my letter...and the dress...Good," he said.

     I did not have the heart to tell him that I had not received his letter, so I simply nodded, "Yes, Papa. And I cannot thank you enough for the dress, I absolutely love it. In fact, when I discovered I would be coming home, I knew I just had to...to wear it for you."

     "Well, my...my dear Lottie, w-why don't you twirl for your father?" he suggested, and I propped him up against his pillows when a debilitating coughing fit overtook him.

     Grabbing the handkerchief that sat on the nightstand, I wiped his mouth and chin, trying in vain to ignore the blood that stained the embroidered cloth. With the pitcher of water that sat upon a small cart beside the bed, I refilled my father's glass, and he managed to take a couple of sips with my help. I then dampened a small towel with water from the same pitcher and laid it across his forehead, running my thumb along the back of his right hand, which I gripped tightly in both of my own.

     My father's eyes closed after several moments, and though I did not disturb him, my gaze never left his chest as I waited breathlessly for the next inhalation that would cause it to rise. Each time he successfully drew a breath, I allowed myself to breathe, though I could not help but notice the way his breath rattled in his throat. When he sighed, I lifted my gaze and found him staring at me, the sadness in his eyes causing my heart to constrict painfully in my chest.

     My lower lip quivered and I quickly moved into the shadows, squeezing my eyes shut when my father whispered, "Lottie...Lottie, p-please look at me."

     I shook my head and brushed away the tears that slid down my cheeks, wincing when my father's tone grew firm and only turning when he used my full name, urging me to look at him. His eyes were pleading, and when he instructed me to join him on the bed, I reluctantly did as he asked.

     Once I had curled up against his side, he leaned his head against mine, stroking my hair as he said, "I-I will soon be gone, my child...but b-before I must depart, I want...I want you to know something."

     He paused to catch his breath, and when he was sure he held my complete attention, he continued, "When I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you."

     I immediately opened my mouth to question his statement, and perhaps his state of mind, but my father was insistent, "I...I know you must think I have l-lost my mind, but this is not...not the rambling of an addled man. No...this is the promise of...of a father. Yes, a father who loves...who loves his daughter more than life itself."

     He started to cough once more, but when I moved to help him, he dismissed me with a wave of his hand. Once the fit had subsided, he reached under his pillow and produced a large envelope, urging me to open it. I untied the string and carefully reached inside, withdrawing a thick piece of paper.

     "W-when I fell ill, I had the sense of mind to leave the...t-title to the Palais Garnier in your name," he explained. "The opera house is...is yours now."

     I stared down at the deed in my hand, remaining speechless for several moments. Suddenly, I remembered the own gift I had brought for my father, which currently sat at the foot of the bed. Leaning forward, I grabbed the parcel and presented it to my father, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. When he struggled with the ribbon, and then the paper itself, I gently took the gift from him and opened it.

     "It's a folder. For...for your music," I told him. "I know you've always had trouble keeping a tidy study."

     A raspy chuckle emerged from my father's throat, though he grimaced in pain soon after and slumped against his pillows.

     "T-there is one last thing I...I need to tell you," he whispered, straining with the effort to speak and each labored breath now characterized by a thin wheeze. "I know your stepmother...and your stepsister c-can be trying at times, but..."

     When he winced and began to cough, more violently than before, I said, "Papa, you need to rest. Doctor Francois is downstairs—"

     "No, no," he interrupted, though he was clearly struggling, "you need...need to hear this. I know I-Isabella and her daughter will...will test your patience, and p-perhaps your sanity. I-I know they will test the strength of your soul, but...my darling daughter...you must not let them win. T-they will want you to lash out and fight back, but you must not. You...you must simply have courage...and be kind."

     "I will, Papa, I will," I promised, no longer caring that tears streamed down my face.

     "Good...good," he said, his eyes closing once more and his voice barely audible. "W-will you sing to me...little Lottie?"

     "Of course, Papa," I replied. "Any requests?"

     "You...you know my favorite," he stated, and he was right.

     I did.

     And so, with a shaky breath, I sang, "Flower, gleam and glow. Let your powers shine. M-make the clock reverse, bring back what once was mine."

     I closed my eyes and envisioned a beautiful countryside teeming with life, every color of the rainbow represented on the petals of the flowers found within its fields. I twirled to the music of a violin in those very meadows, no older than ten in my mind's eye and my father pictured as he had once been, when, in reality, his frail grip loosened in mine.

     Clutching desperately at his hand as though I were his lifeline, I continued, "H-heal what has been hurt, change the fates' design..."

     I heard my father's breathing hitch and screwed my eyes shut tighter, knowing my knuckles must be white as my grasp became stronger still and I finished, "Save what has been lost, b-bring back what once was mine...W-what once...once was..."

     I faltered. I stopped. I listened.

     I listened for a breath...a cough...a sign.

     I held my own breath. I waited.

     Finally, I spoke, "Papa? Papa, can you hear me?"

     I opened my eyes and waited.

     His chest was still.

     "Papa?" I said, my lower lip trembling as my pulse quickened. "Papa, please...please answer me."

     He did not reply.

     "Papa, please, don't leave me. Not yet. There...t-there is still so much I have to tell you," I begged, suddenly remembering the many letters I had written to him as I clawed at the soft fabric of his nightshirt, trying to rouse him. "Papa, please! Please say something!"

     I shouted and cried until my voice became hoarse, sobbing into the crook of my beloved father's neck until I could no longer bear the sensation of his skin growing stiff and cold. Light flooded the room when someone opened the door, but I paid them no mind. When that same person – a man, from the sound of his heavy footsteps – grabbed me by the waist and tried to pull me away, I kicked and screamed, satisfied when my defiance was met with a quiet grunt of pain.

     Unfortunately, the man's grip did not relent, and he finally succeeded in dragging me away from the bed. I turned and found myself face-to-face with Doctor Francois, tears streaming down his own cheeks.

     He kissed the top of my head and pulled me close, smoothing my hair as he asked, "What do you need, child?"

     "The...t-the letters," I managed, trying in vain to catch my breath. "And the, the binder."

     He nodded, setting me on the chair in front of my mother's old vanity and making sure I was turned away from both the mirror and my father's lifeless body. He returned after several moments and placed the binder in my lap, tucking the letters into one of the binder's pockets as my fingers stroked its leather absent-mindedly.

     "Is there anything else, Miss?" he whispered, and my eyes widened after a moment, my hands frantically grasping the lapels of his coat.

     "The deed! The deed to the opera house!" I shouted, pointing to the bed. "And my father's music! It...it is in his study! Please, I...I cannot leave without them. T-they are all I have left."

     "Of course, Miss," Francois replied. "But you must calm down. Hyperventilating will not do you any good."

     I nodded, watching numbly as he rummaged through his saddle bag, which sat near the door. He returned with a simple paper bag and held it over my nose and mouth, instructing me to take slow, even breaths. Once he was sure I could do so without encouragement, he retrieved the deed to the Palais Garnier and secured it with the letters. When he took my hand and led me to my father's study, I followed without resistance, a shell of the girl who had left her soul behind in her father's bedroom.

     Perhaps I am the ghost, I thought, but when I glanced down the hall, I knew it was only my father who laid limp and lifeless in that cursed room.

     I waited in the hall as Doctor Francois stepped into my father's study and listened to the sound of rustling paper. He reappeared after a minute or so, the pages upon pages of sheet music causing the leather binder to strain against the string that held it closed. I took the binder with shaking hands and held it close to my chest, drifting behind the doctor as he made his way toward the grand staircase.

     When we passed my father's bedroom, I paused, then let go of the doctor's hand and slowly floated across the threshold. Francois stood at the door, watching me as I moved to my father's side, and I realized the doctor must have covered his still form with one of the bedsheets when I saw his figure was now shrouded. My heart ached with affection for the doctor and his display of respect towards my father, and unshed tears threatened to fall as I leaned down and kissed my papa's forehead through the sheet, unable to bear the thought of once again seeing his waxen face.

     Taking a deep breath, I returned to the doctor and followed him to the top of the staircase, where he halted abruptly. He was still for several moments, then removed his top hat and ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair as he turned and knelt before me.

     "Miss...before we go downstairs...there is something you must know," he began hesitantly, taking my hands in his own. "Madame Giudicelli...she is not who she seems. I am sure you already have your reservations about her, but I doubt your feelings toward her go beyond the typical dislike between a child and the step-parent who has replaced their mother or father. But your stepmother is a dangerous, vile woman who will take advantage of your kindness. You must not let her."

     I-I know they will test the strength of your soul, but...my darling daughter...you must not let them win.

     My father's words echoed in my mind as the doctor spoke, and I asked, "How do you know this?"

     Francois sighed, "While you were away, there were...strange happenings in this household. I treated your father for various injuries and sudden illnesses, and though he never stated outright the cause of his ailments, I became his confidant. I will not distress you with the details at this time, but I simply wanted you to have an idea as to the true nature of her character before...before I told you that I have no intention of letting you live with her. You know I care for you as I care for my own children, and I'll be damned if I willingly allow you to be cared for by a monster. So...Miss Daaé...how would you like to come live with me?"

     "I would like that very much," I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck and hugging him tightly.

     "Very well," he beamed. "We shall go downstairs and walk through those front doors hand-in-hand. I will mail your stepmother the paperwork so we may transfer your guardianship and have it registered under my name. You will never have to worry about her again, my dear girl."

     If only it had been that simple.