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*hears the strange music & goes looking for the source*

*continues playing, completely immersed in the music*

[ooc: Eep :P <<< Leroux novice, forgive any inaccuracies.]

*follows the sounds to the cellars of the Opera Populaire, finds a doorway leading to the catacombs below Paris, lights a lantern, ventures into the tunnel*

*the music seems to grow, becoming louder, more passionate. The rhythm slows, the pace becoming more luxurious, deliberate, intense*

[ooc: Alrighty :D]

*keeps wandering through the tunnels, the music echoing eerily off the stone walls, it's very easy for an impulsive ballerina to lose her way*

*he stops playing for a moment, fiddling with the tuning of the violin - he is nothing if not a perfectionist - unaware that someone had been using the sound to find their way*

*hears the music stop, stomps her foot in frustration*

Blast!

*realizes she has no idea how to get back to the opera house*

*pauses in his fiddling with the strings, certain he heard something. Turns on his stool, straining his hearing for more sounds of life aside from himself and rats*

*continues on down the passageway, doesn't see the snare until it's too late, screams as she's pulled off her feet to hang by an ankle, drops the lantern in surprise plunging the tunnel into darkness*

There was no mistaking such a sound, especially when one had lived most of his life listening to little else. He abandoned his violin and went angrily in search of the intruder - no doubt one of the chorus girls who didn't know what was good for her.

Grabbing his cloak as he left and wrapping it around his shoulders, he proceeded down the vast tunnels. He didn't take a source of light with him, so many years in perpetual darkness had trained his eyes to see even in the thick gloom, but he was still on his guard. He wanted to be the one to find them, not the other way around.

Carefully navigating his way through the labyrinth, he came across a trap that had been sprung and within it the prey he had set it for. He stayed where he was, just around the corner, where he could see someone struggling from his snare. He would need to teach them a lesson about respecting the privacy of others.

"You will pay," he whispered darkly, throwing his voice so that it sounded like it was coming from right behind her - and he was certain it was girl - her left ear. "For your trespass."

"OH!" she squeaked in surprise, still trying to find a way to loosen the knot from her upside-down position.

It was rather disconcerting having one's skirts in one's face, even if one was in pitch blackness. As much as she tried keeping them in a more decorous state, it was a battle she couldn't win.

"I didn't mean any harm, really!" she protested, trying not to flail against gravity. "I just heard the violin and wondered who..."

He paused as he considered her. He was certain he recognised... Meg Giry? What on Earth? She was the last person Erik had been expecting, especially when one considered who her mother way. He had expected her to know better.

"Marguerite Giry," he said smoothly, crossing his arms as he leaned against the stone wall, tilting his head to study her face. "You curiosity shall be the end of you."

He should have added "one of these day" but he did not amend what he said. It left her to imagine her predicament and, hopefully, learn a lesson.

She tried twisting in the direction of the voice, but the inky darkness did little to reveal who had spoken. She frowned in confusion.

"You know who I am?" Meg blurted. "But no one calls me 'Marguerite' except Maman, and only when she's rather cross."

Oh, and she would most definitely be cross when she heard that Meg had been in the catacombs, despite all the warnings about people being lost never to be seen again.

"Oh, dear," Meg said softly. "You won't tell Maman, will you?"

"It would be wise for you to be concerned about your current predicament," he whispered again, his voice coming from the opposite direction to confuse her further.

"I do not take kindly to intruders." He was careful to cause each word to be coming from a different direction, giving her the impression that he was silently circling her. He wanted her to know what it was like to be hunted, though he didn't ask himself why. The answer was too deeply rooted in his memories, too personal.

Meg bravely tried to convince herself that she wasn't frightened, but given the circumstances, she was scared half out of her wits.

"I ... I didn't know who was playing!" she protested. "Please, won't you let me down?"

"All the more reason," he said, his voice coming from behind her while he silently made his way closer. "To stay away."

With that, he tugged the end of the rope, freeing it from where it had been tied off. It jerked as he did so and she dropped foot or so before his arm tensed and he held slowly lowered her the rest of the way to the ground. It was only so that he may avoid physical damage, he told himself.

Madame Giry would have his head if she thought he had deliberately - or accidentally for that matter - harmed her daughter.

Meg let out an involuntary squeak as she felt the rope jerk before finally being lowered to the ground. She immediately tried to sit up, but felt the caverns start to tilt as the blood rushed back into its normal places, leaving her light-headed. Her fingers fumbled blindly for the knot in the rope around her ankle.

"I didn't mean any harm," she said again. "I suppose I just wasn't thinking."

She couldn't help a wry smile. Both Maman and Christine had often chastised her for being too reckless and impulsive.

"What was that you were playing?"

"Music," he told her dryly, more irritated by her presence than ever. The usual response when faced the the Opera Ghost was to run. It was rarely ever the time to chat.

"And you would do better to use your head every now and again, Mademoiselle." He sounded angry but altogether cold. He did not raise his voice but it was sharp, like a knife being traced across the throat, pinching the skin but not quite breaking it.

Meg resisted the urge to roll her eyes at him before standing up and brushing off her skirts.

"Alright, so you like your privacy," she replied tartly. Now that she was back on her feet, she refused to be intimidated, even by someone she couldn't see.

He quickly slunk closer in the darkness, little more than a briskly moving shadow. He reached a hand towards her and grabbed her by the upper arms, forcing her back against a wall.

"You will speak of this to now one," he said, bending forward so that they were eye to eye, his face inches from her. "Not a soul, do you understand?"

Again, he caught her by surprise. She hadn't been entirely sure of his identity until then, but the vehement manner with which he spoke left no doubt. As intimidating as he might be, Meg found no reason to be frightened.

"Of course not," she replied. "Monsieur le Fantôme."

"Your word, Mademoiselle Giry," he insisted, long, dexterous fingers squeezing her arms tighter. It was a warning of what would happened if he betrayed his trust, for that was indeed what he was giving her, even if she did not realise it.

Those who had come to know too much about his lair, about him were dispatched with cold, calculated ease. He was making an exception for her.

"You have it," Meg replied. "After all, I certainly don't wish for Maman to find out I was here. She would be livid."

Ever since Madame Giry found her in the passage behind the mirror, the ballet mistress had kept an even more watchful eye on her daughter lest she decide to go exploring again. Meg was also more wary of speaking about the Phantom in front of her mother who had grown concerned that she had developed an unhealthy attachment to the mysterious figure.

He released her then, not bothering to give a reply and turned on his heel. The darkness seemed to embrace him, bringing it within its gloomy folds. He meant to return to his caverns and to think nothing more of this event.

"Return to the Opera House," he told her, loud enough so that his voice carried back to her. "And remember your promise."

Meg nearly panicked. He wasn't just going to leave her to find her own way back, was he?

"I would gladly do so," she replied finally, "if I knew how to return, but I cannot see my hand in front of my face much less my way back to the opera house."

He stopped, his jaw tensing with annoyance. Oh, for the love of - Perhaps he should leave a loaf of bread at the entrance so that those foolish enough to wander down here could leave a trail.

With a sweep of his cloak, he turned around and marched past her without so much as a glance in her direction.

"Follow me."