Darkness. Footsteps echoing in the distance. Ears strain. Do they come for me? Fingernails grip at concrete. Footsteps outside. Don't let me fall. They stop.
A long creak, light falls. A black cloak advances.
Words I cannot hear, but I am afraid. Do not show fear.
Those thin hands, a wand gripped. A flash.
The pain! Don't let him hear you scream! Stop it! Stop it!
He stops. Tears over hot cheeks. A pool on the floor. Sit up! Don't let him see you weak.
Low laughter. More words, but-
No! Stop it! Stop! I have done nothing!
Nothing? What have I done? Nothing!
Betrayal.
Dumbledore knocked on the sturdy oak door and was greeted moments later by a harried smile.
"Mr. Dumbledore! I must have fallen asleep."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you."
"No, I'm glad for it. It was not a peaceful sleep."
"You are still dreaming, I see." He eyed his charge sadly. These dreams were wearing on her "I will speak to Madame Pomfrey about it. Perhaps she can help."
"Thank you, sir." She stepped elegantly across the room to her cloak. "Are we going for a walk?"
"Not yet. Not yet. I want to show you something first. Come, sit down."
She followed the movement of his hand toward the chairs set before the fireplace and sat. Her eyes followed his hands as they slid into a file and emerged with the photograph he had received earlier that evening. He handed it to her and watched as she carefully examined the face.
Gently, her fingers slid over the face, then touched her own. She stood and crossed to the bureau to examine her face in a mirror.
"This is me." Her voice trembled with the revelation.
"Medea Colberson?"
She turned, her eyes wide. The fire reflected in the silver mirrors of her eyes.
"That name is familiar. Is it mine?"
"It belongs to the girl in that picture, so it is possible. Or it is the name of a relative. You say it is familiar?"
"Medea," she whispered, turning back to the mirror. "Medea Colberson. My name."
Dumbledore smiled faintly. He didn't know if it really was her name, but at least now, he had something to call her.
When Dumbledore arrived at the Potions class the next morning, there was much whispering about the class. He assumed they were gossiping about Snape's disappearance. He had told them that he had left on a personal emergency, but no one had expected him to be missing for so long. And he couldn't bring himself to hire a replacement, even a temporary one, so he taught the classes himself.
"Now class," he began, "today we will begin discovering the many magical properties of dragon's blood." He paused as a hand shot up into the air. "Yes, Miss Brown?"
"Professor, who's up on the third floor?"
"The third floor?"
"Yes, sir. We've seen them by the windows when we're outside. We thought maybe it was a ghost, but Nearly Headless Nick-"
"Sir Nicholas," he corrected.
"Uh, yeah. Sir Nicholas said that there wasn't a ghost up there that he knew of. He said it was a woman. And we were wondering who it was."
"I see. This is what you have been whispering about behind your books?" Several students were nodding. "The woman up on the third floor, is a young lady who has been placed in my charge."
"Why?" It was Parvati Patil.
Dumbledore smiled. "How many of you have heard of Countess Elizabeth Bathory?"
The students stared blankly back.
"Countess Elizabeth Bathory," he continued, trying to contain his smile, "was a young witch from the Balkans. A noblewoman of unsurpassed beauty. She was afraid of becoming old, so in order to keep her youth, she bathed daily in the blood of young women."
He heard several gasps from the room.
"Are you kidding?" Ron. Weasley asked. "Is that her?"
Dumbledore smiled. "I jest. The young woman upstairs has been placed in my care to recover from an illness, that is all. And I hope that none of you would disturb her while she rests." He could see the class relax. "If I find that any of you decide to quench your curiosity and go to find her, I shall be most unhappy with you. Stay away from the third floor. Please." The old professor knew they would listen to him, but nonetheless, decided to add a few more spells to her protection.
Minerva McGonagall joined the midnight walk that evening. She too was uneasy about Snape's long absence. As they walked through the light fog, they were aware of the noses pressed against the windows of each tower they passed. Students watching, hoping to catch a glimpse of the mysterious woman.
"It continues to amaze me how secrets travel through this school so quickly," Dumbledore commented.
"Well, when you tell the students we are harboring a vampire in the attic, it is bound to catch their attention, Albus."
"A vampire?" Medea, who had been very quiet, looked up. "They think I am a vampire?"
"It was a jest, ladies, and I told them so. I am afraid our students very much enjoy mysteries. You, to them, are just that. A mystery to take their attention away from their work."
"Perhaps you should not feed their imagination quite so much, Albus. It is bad enough when there is nothing to rouse their suspicions, but when-" She stopped at Dumbledore's raised hand and followed his eyes to Medea. She was frozen in midstep, her eyes wide, unfocused.
"Medea?" he said gently.
Darkness. Cold. Face pressed to concrete. Sit up. I can't. He's coming! Footsteps closer and closer. Heart quickens. Fists clench. Sit up! The long creak. Light falls. More words, low laughter. A flash.
God! Oh God! Please just kill me!
No, don't say that. Don't let him know you're weak.
The pain! The pain! Please stop!
Just say the words. Beg me for death!
No, don't say it!
Please, please-
No, don't say the words. Be strong.
The cloak leans forward, hot breath.
I won't do it until you beg me to kill you, Severus.
Concrete falls away. Floating. Light. Darkness. A body on the ground, face turned away. Muffled whimpers.
Be strong. Thin fingers reach to touch his face. Just be strong. His head is in her lap, a severe pointed face. Pools of ink look up at her. So familiar.
Medea?
Shh. Be strong. Just be strong.
"Medea?" Dumbledore lightly touched her hand, and she seemed to wake from her dream. Her silver eyes fell on him, tears clinging to her eyelashes.
"Severus," she said weakly. "I saw him."
"Is this a memory?" Minerva asked.
"I don't know, but I saw him. He was in pain and I tried to comfort him."
"You're sure it was him?" Dumbledore asked.
"That's what the man in the cloak called him. He was telling him to beg for death." She paused in thought, biting her bottom lip. "I don't think it was a memory. It was- me. I was lying on the floor. I thought he was torturing me. And then the cloak said his name and it was like I was floating. I looked down and it was a man. Severus. His- his face. I knew his face. And he said my name. He was in such pain."
"Come," said Minerva, taking her elbow. "Let's get you inside. We can discuss this without the prying eyes." She glanced up at the tower where more eyes peered out at them.