(BEING REWRITTEN) An Opera Ghost- A Phantom of the Opera Fan Fiction

Chapter Thirteen

A/N: Okay, so what are you guys thinking of Olivier? :3 and just the whole story in general x) Share your thoughts please, plenty of room to comment! And vote.. and fan.. Well you get the point ;D Enjoy!

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Florence wasn't sure how long she had waited in the dark tunnel. Had it been two hours, or five minutes? She couldn't really tell.. However, the chatter had gone down and barely a sound came from the stables. Biting her lip, Florence decided to chance it; she stood and put her weight against the passage door. It swung open silently, and Florence peeked out. The stables were very dark now, but she could see a light coming from somewhere within the building. Florence crept out of the passage, pushing the door almost closed- she needed to get back through.

Her feet didn't make a sound as she softly padded along the dirt and straw that coated the ground within the stables. She saw him before he ever saw her; he was leaning against the stall of the lovely gelding Florence so admired. If that horse had not seen her and let out a soft nicker, Olivier may not have ever known his dear opera ghost stood behind him. However, the horse did in fact let out a delighted sound at the return of the girl he loved so, alerting Olivier immediately to her arrival. He turned to see her in a lovely pink dress with golden colored trimmings, a white porcelain mask covering the top portion of her face.

"Ah, why if it isn't my little Opera Ghost," Olivier cooed, a smile wide upon his face, "I would like to thank you for earlier; Phoebe can be such a pain to me!" Florence smiled shyly at the boy.

"You are welcome," she whispered, and then recalling something her father once said, she added, "I am a humble servant to the Opera Populaire."

"Ah," Olivier responded, "so you are the reincarnation of the Phantom of the Opera after all? I was told he used to be the servant of the opera house."

"I suppose you could say such," Florence told Olivier, her voice growing slightly at she grew less wary. He was speaking of her father.

"Did you know him?" Olivier asked next, catching Florence a bit off guard.

"Who?" she countered, to which Olivier rolled his eyes.

"The Phantom, of course, you silly little Ghost!" Olivier laughed. Florence blinked. He was speaking of her father once more...

"Yes, I know him," Florence allowed, her voice low again. Olivier gave her a strange look.

"You mean 'you knew him', do you not?" he questioned skeptically, "The Phantom is indeed dead, little ghost. At least, that is what we have been told." Florence realized the mistake in her words. Her father was supposed to be dead in the world of the living it seemed..

"Yes, ah, that is what I mean," she said, trying to sound sure of herself, though Olivier's narrowed eyes told her he still did not believe it. And so, she changed the subject. "Please, Olivier, I know nothing of you. Will you please tell me of yourself?"

"My life is no great feat, my Opera Ghost," Olivier sighed, a smile still standing upon his face, "But if you wish to hear it, I will oblige."

And so Olivier told Florence his story. Olivier did not know his real parents, but Mr. Hutchman had found him lying on the doorstep of the poorhouse where he was abandoned. Having known it was no place for a baby to go, Mr. Hutchman had taken in the child with his wife who had died around five years later when trying to give birth to her own child. Alone, Olivier and his adopted father had come to the Opera Populaire to reopen with the opera house- apparently Mr. Hutchman owned the stables and had only closed them to save money while the Opera house was not in use. Since then, Olivier had been working for the man he saw as his father and had also had multiple.. relations with various ballerinas, explaining why Phoebe was so adamant.

"That is quite cruel," Florence scolded when he got to the part of the story where he and Phoebe had... well..

"I warned her, my Opera Ghost," Olivier argued, shaking his head, "I told her straight that none of what we were going to do meant a thing, but she ignored my words and did the deed. It isn't my fault." Florence thought over his words and then nodded in agreement.

"I suppose that in this case you are right; she is the one who is-" A group of murmuring voices was what cut her off. They were at a distance, but she could hear them advancing. Her face grew white, her eyes wide. "What time is it, Olivier?" she hissed, scared she had let time get away from her and that her father would arrive to see she was not in their home. And then he would search for her... "I must go!"

"Wait! Wait, Little Opera Ghost!" Olivier called, his voice low as he caught her by the wrist, "You do not have to be afraid. They will not harm you."

"Please, Olivier!" Florence begged as the voices grew steadily louder, "Nobody else may know I was here tonight!"

"Why, my Little Ghost?" Olivier cooed, "You are safe."

"I have a master, Olivier," Florence growled, not daring to say it was her father, "If I do not return to him he will be angry. He does not want anyone to know of me, and already you do! I do not wish for trouble from him." Olivier frowned, but released Florence.

"Go," he whispered, "I will not tell of your time here. Just, please, return here again." Florence only blinked in response before running back from which she came, this time letting the wall make an ever so quiet click as it shut.