Disclaimer: I own nothing related to the Phantom Of The Opera. Credit for the character of Erik goes to Gaston Leroux.

A/N: I'd like to begin by stating that this is my first POTO fic and I'm a little nervous about posting it. I'm not quite sure why. But in any case, here it is and I hope at least a few of you find some enjoyment in it. This is an E/OC pairing. Sorry, Erik doesn't appear until the next chapter. This is just the Prologue that introduces my original character.


Although she had expected these very words to be spoken, the finality of hearing them uttered aloud still shook her to the core.

She was going blind.

"Are you all right, my dear?" asked the concerned voice of the blurred shape sitting a short distance away.

Melodie nodded, not yet trusting herself to speak. A moment longer was all she needed to regain her composure. Her hands busied themselves by smoothing over the plain fabric of her skirt.

"I'm fine," she finally managed to say. "Will I…" Swallowing hard, she tried again. "Will I lose my sight completely?"

"It's difficult to know for sure. At worst, yes. But I've encountered other cases like yours where vision exists but is terribly impaired. Blurry and distorted. However, they did not go completely blind. They could still distinguish colours and light."

This gave her some renewed hope. She couldn't bear the thought of being plunged completely into unfathomable darkness. The prospect filled her with such terror and anguish, she refused to even consider the possibility. "Should I continue the liquid drops for my eyes? Or a stronger pair of spectacles, perhaps?"

When Doctor Haines failed to reply immediately, she instinctively knew the answer. Nothing was helping. In fact, her vision had worsened since the last time she had come four months ago. "Well, I suppose I won't be needing these any longer," she said briskly, unhooking the thick spectacles from behind her ears and setting them down on the adjacent table. They were heavy and uncomfortable and she was frankly glad to be rid of them.

His voice was heavily laced with regret. "I'm sorry, Melodie. I wish there were more I could do. Perhaps another specialist could…"

"You are the third specialist I've seen and none of them have been able to help. You, at least, have been the most kind. Thank you for that."

She rose to her feet, a silent indication that this appointment was over. Shuffling and movement around her indicated that he was retrieving her coat. The warmth of the cloth soon enveloped her and she buttoned it up, pulling on her gloves.

"Shall I see you to your carriage?" he asked.

Stiffening her spine, she drew herself up to the tallest height her petite form could manage. "Thank you, but no. Haven't I answered 'no' each time you have asked for the past year?" She kept her tone light and teasing, knowing he spoke out of ingrained courtesy.

He responded with gentle humour. "So you have. Forgive my politeness. It's always rearing its ugly head." He followed her as far as the door, opening it for her. "Please say hello to Henry for me," he murmured.

She looked up, trying to gaze into the approximate vicinity of the doctor's eyes. Even from a mere two feet in distance, the outlines of his face were blurry. However, she knew his hair was greying, the skin of his face wrinkled and starting to sag. The eyes were light brown and filled with professional compassion as he routinely examined her own dark brown orbs, a scant few inches from her nose. Within such close range, she could yet see fairly well. The reading of large print and her precious musical notes were still feasible. How much longer that would last, she did not know.

"I will. Take care, Doctor."

With a half-hearted smile, she moved down the straight cobblestone path towards the waiting carriage. The air was chilly but damp, threatening of rain rather than snow. A mist hung in the air, no doubt obscuring the view of the street, even if she were blessed with perfect vision.

A weighted thud of boots jumping to the ground reached her ears. The carriage door swung open and she accepted the proffered hand of the driver, stepping up into the cab. As always, the internal confines of the small, dark space made her uneasy and she pressed herself as close to the small window as possible. Thankfully, the ride home would not be too long. With a soft nicker, the patient horses seemed to signal their readiness and she felt the usual jolt as they began to move. The rhythmic motions of the ride served to soothe her nerves a little as she settled back on the velvet-cushioned seat.

Her thoughts turned towards the only home she'd ever known and the very real possibility that she might be ejected from that safe haven. What practical use was a blind woman in a household, after all? Although she'd tried to earn her keep through housework and tutoring, she realized her precarious position. Henry Blythe was a trusted and enduring head of the staff, having worked for the Wentworth family almost thirty years. Because he regarded Melodie as a daughter, she too had been accepted into the family's home. But how long could she continue the ruse?

Her eyesight had been fine for the first twenty years of her life. Then, ever so gradually, it had started its decline. The cause was a great unknown, according to the several specialists that Henry had arranged for her to see. An infection, perhaps, or some strange condition passed along from a previous generation. Ultimately, the cause was no matter. It was the result that she had to live with. For the past five years she'd worked diligently to compensate her failing vision by heightening her other senses. She could hear a knock on the front door from the third floor of the house and could smell the promise of rain in the wind even when at first glance, the morning dawned bright and clear. Her sensitive and careful fingers kept the household spotless without ever breaking an object. In fact, she had so perfected the illusion of normalcy, no one save Henry even suspected her eyesight was so poor. She was regarded as simply another servant and thus, she kept her head down and gaze lowered to the floor. On occasions where she had no choice but to look upon the face of whomever was addressing her, she could only hope that she was gazing directly into their eyes. If she were off her mark, which no doubt happened more often than not, it could be construed as shyness or awareness of her low ranking. But now, with this prognosis, the future seemed bleak. She would speak to Henry immediately.

As the ride continued, she found herself humming aloud. It was a mournful melody, assuredly in a minor key, that befitted her sombre mood. By the time the carriage pulled up to the front gate, she'd decided a B flat minor would probably work best. Despite her current worries, she was pleased with this little gem and most anxious to try it out on the piano.

She wound her way around to the rear of the house and let herself in through the back. The kitchen was a beehive of activity as usual. She recognized the staff mainly through voices but sometimes in other ways. One young woman, Julia, always smelled of rose petals. And another kitchen maid, Francesca, was an overly robust woman who suffered from laboured breathing. Melodie had discovered that everyone possessed something distinctive and unique that set him or her apart. Once she isolated that certain aura or characteristic, recognition was never a problem.

Calling out a greeting, she inquired as to Henry's whereabouts. Under one arm, she held a wrapped parcel. The "medication" that she'd received from Doctor Haines for Henry's occasional stomach ailment. At least, that was the ruse that had been concocted for her semi-regular trips to the good doctor's office.

Upon being told that Henry was in the drawing room, Melodie went up the back stairs. Compared to the organized chaos downstairs, she found the quiet stillness of the upper floor relaxing. As she walked, she counted out the steps and turns in her mind. While the notion might sound tedious to the sighted, it had become so routine to her, it was done on a subconscious level. So automatic that she wasn't even aware of it.

"Henry?" she called out.

"There you are," he answered back. "I was getting worried."

Following his voice, she realized he was seated at the piano. As she bent to kiss his cheek, he took the package from her hands. "I'm late, I know. Doctor Haines is very thorough. He says hello. Did you finish Rebecca's lesson?"

She tossed her coat aside and settled beside him on the bench, hearing the impatience in his tone. "Yes, yes. I believe she was mortally offended that her beloved teacher wasn't here. But tell me, what did he have to say? Is there anything he can do?"

"No. He proved my suspicions to be correct, I'm afraid. I'm going blind." Though her voice was soft, the words carried a finality that weighed heavily on her.

"Oh, Mellie," His hand settled on her shoulder and she gratefully accepted the small comfort. "I'm so sorry."

A dull ache started to grow behind her eyes but she refused to give in to tears. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. She had no need to elaborate further. Having had several discussions regarding this possible prognosis already, Henry would know what she referred to.

"Let me talk to Mister Wentworth. He's a good man. A generous one. He'll allow you to stay on. I'm sure of it."

"Perhaps."

He'd made exceptions in the past. Albert Wentworth was a decent family man and had always treated her with kindness and respect.

When she was five, Henry had seated her at the piano on a lark. She'd been fascinated with the instrument and though he'd only had very basic skills, he'd taught her to play. To his amazement and delight, she'd shown a startling ear and gift for music. By the age of six, she'd begun playing pieces far beyond her years. By the age of eight, she'd started composing. Simple little tunes to start. But then one day, Henry had taken her to see a classical concert. He knew someone who worked backstage at the theatre and they had been allowed to sit up on the rafters, off to the side of the orchestra. It had been a piano concerto and the glorious sound had filled her soul with joy and wonder. She'd never heard anything more beautiful. To this day, she sat up on the rafters whenever the opportunity arose. A wooden chest in the attic housed all of her scribbled compositions. The sad melody that she'd conjured up today would soon join the collection.

Only Henry knew about her composing, but having been impressed by her gift, Albert had encouraged her to play the piano whenever time permitted. Just last year, when his youngest daughter Rebecca had shown an interest in playing, he'd asked Melodie to teach her. Some of the servants grumbled that Melodie was stepping above her place in the household but she didn't care. Rebecca was bright, eager to learn and showed promise. Melodie took great pleasure in tutoring the young child.

Yes, it was quite conceivable that Albert might allow her to reside in his home despite her handicap. His wife, however, might have an objection or two. Ellen Wentworth had never taken a liking to her. In truth, Ellen mostly ignored her and spoke to her only when absolutely necessary. She was seen as a servant and nothing more. If she became completely blind and unable to perform her duties, Ellen most certainly would not allow her to live under her roof as a charity case.

"Mellie?" Henry's inquiring voice broke into her thoughts.

"Let's not reveal anything just yet," she said finally, keeping her voice low. "I can continue on as I have. No one suspects anything."

He hesitated before speaking, as if unsure of the wisdom of her decision. "Are you sure? Mr. Wentworth adores you, dear girl. As if you were his own daughter."

"I don't know about that. But it's possible my vision may not worsen. Perhaps Dr. Haines is wrong. I don't want to be…premature." While part of her realized she was clinging to false hope, the optimistic side of her rallied to her defense. Doctors were known to be wrong in the past. They were only human, after all. She would simply have to take care not to strain her eyes. No more bedtime reading, struggling to focus gritty, tired eyes to see through the magnifying lens. But she couldn't give up her composing. She hadn't resigned herself to that fate yet, perhaps because it was inconceivable. "Swear to me, Henry that you will not speak of this yet."

"As you wish. It's your decision."

"Thank you." She repositioned herself at the piano and placed her hands over the keys. "Now, tell me what you think of this. It's rather dark and melancholy but most suitable for the day I have had." Beginning to feel at ease again with the coolness of the ivory beneath her fingers, she began to play.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After dinner and the completion of her evening chores, Melodie went up to the attic. During much of her childhood, this had been her playground. It was essentially used as storage space for old, forgotten items. Everything from furniture, books, dishes, even toys. She had always found something to occupy her time. Sometimes, she'd simply curled up on a dusty chair with a book that was far too difficult for her to read. Nevertheless, she'd enjoyed flipping through the pages to find the odd illustration and tried to read as much as she could comprehend. Usually, the book had been later plopped into Henry's hands for him to read to her.

She sat on the floor now, her black skirt swirled around her and no doubt picking up every speck of dust from the wooden planks. Uncaring of that fact, she hunched over the top cover of the chest, scribbling furiously at her newest piece of work. The short little tune from earlier today had now expanded into something longer and more complex. Each time she dipped into the ink well, her hand struggled to keep pace with the music flowing through her mind. She should have brought more candles. In the dim light, her eyes were starting to itch and burn, her nose literally pressed to the paper in order to see what she was doing. Mere hours ago, she had vowed to stop straining her eyes. That promise fell by the wayside in favour of recording her internal muse before the notes floated away into oblivion.

"So this is what occupies your time up here."

The nib of her pen jabbed deeply into the paper; ink smearing and obscuring the last two notes. Instant annoyance flared within her but she quickly quelled the sharp emotion, her heart thudding rapidly at the unexpected intrusion. She wasn't used to being taken by surprise. Her concentration had been so absolute, she'd failed to hear the footsteps approaching.

Looking towards the doorway, she could only make out a faint, dark blob. But the voice was unmistakable. David Wentworth, eldest son of Albert and Ellen. Growing up, he'd been a friend. The last few years, she'd tried to avoid his very presence.

She attempted to make light of the situation. "I'm afraid you've caught me." Dropping the pen, she began gathering the papers together. "It's nothing. Just scribbles."

"Let me see."

Although he voiced it as a command and not a request, she lifted the lid of the chest. David crossed the short distance in three steps and promptly sat on the lid, almost catching her fingers beneath his weight. "Not so fast." The top sheet was snatched up and perused while she silently fumed. "You're right," he said at last. "Scribbles, indeed. At least to me. But obviously they mean much more to you." He thumped on his makeshift chair with one hand. "This chest is full of such scribbles."

Though she longed to throw him an accusatory gaze, she kept her head down. "Have you been spying on me?"

"Now that you mention it…yes. And I know it's not the only secret you keep."

The voice was deceptively silky and smooth but there was no mistaking the malice behind it. She swallowed nervously, wondering if he was just taunting her. "What do you mean?" she asked at last.

"Where are your spectacles?" he countered.

The abrupt shift in topic threw her off balance. "I…I have no need of them anymore." She inwardly cursed her foolishness. Casting them aside at the doctor's office had been an impulsive act. She hadn't thought of the questions that would arise from their absence.

"I see. You're suddenly blessed with perfect vision, then?"

She drew back in alarm, aware that he was leaning forward to inspect her face more closely. Turning her head away, she made an attempt to rise. "I should go. It's getting late."

He grabbed her forearm in a firm grip. It wasn't hurtful but effectively halted her escape. "Am I so hideous to you? You're always running away from me. We used to be such good companions."

She felt a pang of regret. "We were children. It's hardly appropriate now. Please let me go." Instead of releasing her, he slid down to join her on the floor. His other hand tucked under her chin, forcing her to look at him. His nearness unnerved her but she tried not to show any fear. He had always been able to smell it. Within this close range, his face swam into soft focus. It had been a long time since she'd seen him this clearly. The features were still aristocratically handsome, save for a slightly crooked nose. Blue eyes bore into hers intently, seeming to search for a hidden truth.

"You do see me," he breathed.

She jerked her head, trying to shake his grasp but failing. "Let. Me. Go," she hissed, growing increasingly agitated. Any fond memories of their childhood together were swiftly being overshadowed by remembrance of the cruel nature that lurked within him. It hadn't reared itself often but when it had, she'd been terrified. She'd sworn never to fall victim to his maliciousness again.

He continued to regard her, his gaze relentless. "You see me now but if I were to step away from you, you wouldn't be able to look into my eyes. Would you." His tone was flat, as if he knew he stated a fact.

Her stomach plummeted, the imagined movement making her nauseous. He knew. Somehow, he knew. She stilled within his grip, her eyes riveted to his. Strangely, she now found that she couldn't look away. "Your eyes hide nothing, do they? They never could. Yes, Melodie, I know that you're going blind. It's a mystery to me how you even function as well as you do. I've had my suspicions for a while now but they were confirmed today. I overheard you talking with Henry."

"Eavesdropping, were you?" she bit out angrily. "How like you."

"Ahh, now that's more like it," he chuckled, his lips curling in mirth. "I much prefer to see the fire in you. You've become such the meek mouse these last few years."

"I suppose you'll take great delight in informing your parents about my predicament."

"I think delight may be too strong a word. But have no doubt that I will tell them. Unless…"

As his voice trailed off, she wondered what he was scheming. When she felt the pad of his thumb caress her bottom lip, the touch sent a cold chill down her spine. With strength she didn't know she possessed, she shoved at his chest with both hands. Surprise at her sudden move caused his hold on her to relax and she seized the opportunity. Scrambling to her feet she started to make the motions to run but didn't get far. The front of her calves met an obstacle and she tripped, tumbling to the unforgiving floor. Trying to break her fall, her left elbow struck hard, sending a shooting pain up her arm. Biting her lip, she managed to avoid crying out. Although she immediately tried to lift herself up, two hands yanked on her shoulders, flipping her onto her back. She found her wrists ensnared within his fingers, locked into place on each side of her head. Incensed, she struggled against him, kicking and flailing. She knew that he must have stuck out his legs, deliberately tripping her. As the heavy weight of his body settled over her, effectively pinning her to the floor, she felt herself weakening. Panting with the exertion, she finally stopped fighting. She was no match for his brute strength. But her mind hadn't yet given up.

He grinned down at her, the triumph gleaming in his eyes. "Had enough? As I was saying, before that rude but quite enjoyable interruption, I will go to my parents. Unless, of course, you care to change my mind. There's something irresistible about you, Melodie. Always has been. I've never had a shortage of women throwing themselves at me and leading me to their beds. But I've always imagined what it would be like to possess you."

Fear warred with disgust within her. "You're despicable," she spat. "Get off of me."

"Not before I have a taste of you," he murmured.

He was going to kiss her. His breath was hot on her face, reeking of brandy and stale cigar smoke. She turned her head, revulsion making her shudder. The muscles in her neck strained with the effort of avoiding the contact. She found her arms dragged above her head as he attempted to transfer both of her slender wrists into one of his hands. But the exchange was clumsy and she managed to free one of her limbs.

Fingers clamped over her jaw and forced her lips to align with his. Her mouth was crushed with bruising force and she couldn't contain the tiny whimper in her throat as her teeth cut into the softness of her inner lip. When she felt his tongue slide along the edge of her mouth, she almost gagged. With her one free hand, she pushed ineffectually at his shoulder. Realizing how useless that was, she groped along the floor, hoping to find some miraculous weapon. She couldn't believe it when her fingers closed around her pen, almost hidden beneath the folds of her skirt. Without hesitation, she stabbed him on the back of his hand with furious strength.

The howl of agony and outrage was immediate and filled her ears, making them ring. When she pushed him away this time, there was no resistance. Gasping for breath, she swiped her lips, desperate to be rid of the taste of him. She wasted no time in leaping to her feet and fleeing for the door.

"You'll pay for this!" he cried out from behind.

As she flung herself down the stairs, her heart pounded in time to her clattering footsteps. She felt light-headed and ill, afraid that she would vomit right in the stairwell. Her normally blurry world was worsened by the welling tears in her eyes. She would not cry. She would not.

Only sheer luck prevented her from breaking her neck as she continued to careen down the steep steps. At last, she reached the lower level of the servants' quarters. Without knocking, she burst into Henry's room.

"Mellie? Good heavens, what's wrong, child?"

The sound of his dear voice fraught with worry was her undoing.

"I don't think I can stay here any longer," she whispered brokenly. Anger and sorrow squeezed with a vice-like grip on her heart until finally, she began to cry.