"She's drawn you into a lie, Albus. That child is not Medea Colberson." Snape leaned against the mantle of the fireplace in his private chamber. Dumbledore had sought him there, not long after he fled from her room.
"She looks strongly like the woman, Severus. Even you must admit that."
"It's not her. It can't be."
"Tell me about Medea, Severus. Perhaps it will help."
Snape sighd heavily. "I met Medea in 1981. She looked exactly like the girl upstairs. Flawless. Entrancing. Her eyes were the purest silver." He stopped himself. "We met on top of her building, as that girl said." As Snape told the story, the memories began to flash before his eyes.
He had been sent to that very building to kill a wizard by the name of Pendrach, a young man who had taken too much interest in the Death Eaters, was writing an article about them for Magical Mysteries. Snape was destroying all of his work, scrolls and scrolls of notes and information, when his girlfriend came to see him. She was a muggle. Snape never heard her key in the door. She never saw the flash of light that took her life. It was messy. Her dead eyes seemed to follow him about the room as he worked.
His work finished, he escaped to the roof to breathe fresh air before leaving. Already, his own death count had begun to weigh on him. It was only a few weeks before he would seek out Dumbledore for redemption.
She was there, spinning in the moonlight to a tune only she could hear. She was barefoot, her toes gripping the cement patio as she turned, fingers grazing over the leaves of a rooftop garden, her face toward the moon, taking in every ray of the yellow light. He watched her, in spite of himself, half hidden by several tomato plants. He was enthralled by her, drawn in by her ecstasy in the moonlight, alone. She stopped suddenly, her silver nightgown still swirling about her ankles, then swinging back and forth until resting just above her feet. He ducked down, but her eyes sought him out.
"Qui est?" she asked softly.
"Eh, moi." He stood, revealing himself, rather embarrassedly, in his hiding place. His brain searched for more words in this language he understood perfectly, but was put off by his mind swallowing every detail of the woman before him.
"Qui est vous?" she asked, stepping forward. The gown silhouetted her body exquisitely, clinging to her stomach and breasts and the dampness of her dance. She was watching him, and he realized that he had become lost in her for a moment.
"Je m'appelle Severus. My name.. is… Severus. Et vous?"
"Medea. You're British?"
"I am."
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm here on business."
"On my roof?"
It dawned on him that this was a dangerous situation. Below him in the bowels of the building were two dead bodies, both of which would be connected to the Death Eaters. And here was he, a stranger, on that very rooftop, on that very night. She knew his name. She could connect him. He had to kill her too.
His wand was already clutched in his hand, yet he could not bring himself to raise it against her. She stepped closer and glanced down to see it.
"A wand? Are you threatened? I think that if either of us should be holding their wand, it should be me. Afterall, you were spying on me from behind those plants. But as you see," she said, raising her hands, "I am unarmed. Why don't you put that away before I think you are unfriendly."
He slipped it up his sleeve. She was watching him make this quick maneuver, a smile on her lips. As soon as he looked up again, the pops of apparation reached his ears. Three men had joined them on the roof, their wands out.
"More visitors?" She said, looking around her. "Fellor, what are you doing here?"
The man she addressed stepped forward, dressed in a dark blue robe, blonde hair cropped short.
"Medea, there was a murder in your building. We came to investigate. Meiser heard movement up here, so-"
"So you decided to come see," she finished. "But as you see, Javier, it is only me and my friend, Severus."
"Severus?"
"Yes, a friend from Britain. Surely you've met. No?" He shook his head. "Well, now you have. Now, who was murdered?"
"Medea, you know I can't tell you that."
"And you know very well that I will find out from my father anyway. Who was it?"
"Morden Pendrach and some muggle."
"I see. And do you suspect the killer is still here? Should I leave?" She stood tall, as if daring the man to tell her yes.
"No. No, I'm sure he's long gone."
"Good. I feel safer already. I suppose you need to go find this person, rather than stand here with me talking."
"Yes, of course. Oh, Medea, how long have you both been up here?"
She glanced up at Snape as if conferring silently.
"Well, when we came out, the sun was just beginning to set, wasn't it?"
Snape nodded, surprised at her actions.
"Yes," she agreed. "You commented on the color. It's been a few hours, at least."
"And you saw no one else?" Fellor asked.
"No. No one else."
The man considered this for a moment, then motioned to the other two men. As soon as they had disapparated, Snape turned to Medea.
"Why did you do that? You don't even know me. For all you know, I killed those people."
"That thought had crossed my mind. However, if they took you away, I would have no chance to know you better."
"Why should they believe you?"
She smiled at him. "My father is the British liaison to the French Ministry. They would never question that he or his family would have anything to do with a murder. Besides, Javier and I know each other from school. He trusts me." She was right next to him now, peering up into his dark eyes. Snape had to restrain himself from reaching out and touching the pale skin of her shoulder. "So, I suppose you have somewhere you need to run off to?"
"Yes, I do." He didn't want to go, but he had to report back to Voldemort.
"Will you be back?"
"No."
"That's too bad. If you were, I would wait for you."
"Why?"
"Like I said, a chance to know you better."
Snape considered this a moment. He knew he shouldn't, but he wanted to see her again.
"Tomorrow night then."
"Here?"
"Is that okay?"
"Yes. Yes, that's great. It was nice to meet you, Severus."
"And you, Medea." He disapparated quickly, before he could talk himself into staying longer.