Hello witchy people! This is an idea that I really cannot get out of my head, so I thought I might as well write it! I will put up the first 2 chapters and see how it is received...hint hint... to decide how it will go. Having trouble with the next chapter of my other works so I thought I'd try something new.

Rated for probable violence and darkness, as with any of my other works you have read *makes mental note to actually finish last one...*

Hope you enjoy it, please please please review to let me know what you think! Even a few words. This is only my third FF so I need opinions!

Enjoy xxx

Destiny

Chapter 1

Darkness came with the death of the sun, the black and empty entity sweeping across the earth and consuming everything in its path. Only the weak, eerie light of the waning moon hanging ominously in the sky prevented the complete domination of the dark, with the rays spilling through the window like water rushing through a stream and causing shadows to dance across baron walls, like children around a campfire. Even the spiders had fled in cowardice to the solace of another room in the ancient house.

The silence was a plague, reaching out to every corner of the room and suffocating those who dared enter. The biting cold which stabbed at skin like the prick of a thousand needles was a message, a warning. It epitomised how this place was not simply one confined box in the vast expanse of the universe, but the centre of something far greater and far darker; even the startled cry of a raven in the depth of the night was lost into the abyss.

The only thing in the room was a bed, the iron frames which had withstood the test of time finally falling to the grip of rust eating away at the structure. The mattress was thin and worn with springs sticking out, the sharp edges threatening to bleed any occupant who was not cautious; there was no pillow to cradle the head as it wandered into the realm of dreams.

You would never have guessed that this was the bedroom of a child.

The girl was no more than eight years old, deprived of the love of a warm, comforting family since birth and locked away in the cold until it was seen fit that she should appear. Her hair, dark as ebony, was long and cascading like a curtain to hide her pale face from the cruel world she lived in. She nursed her damaged arm close to her chest, dabbing the ruby red blood with a cloth she had grabbed from the floor as she was pushed from the parlour back into her prison. The pain surged up her arm, though not a sound left her lips to betray it. She had learnt, by now, not to cry; a lesson no eight year old should have to learn.

On the outside, she had to appear as strong and stoic, but the truth which lay inside, behind the defensive barriers she had created to keep what dignity she could grab on to, was that she was a terrified little girl who longed for anything but the life she was forced to lead.

Her head jerked up, her eyes wide and alert, as she heard the clang of a key in the first of the many locks which kept her hidden from view. She shot to her feet, making sure to hide the bloodstained rag, with her posture as straight-laced and perfect as if she was soldier preparing for combat; perhaps on some levels, she was.

It was her father who entered first, a man of considerable height with dark hair and blunt, cutting features. His eyes were small but she could feel them boring deep into her soul, daring to find any sign of weakness to exploit. She could not even risk a breath escaping from her mouth, which she kept tightly shut, and held in what air she could. Her father loomed over her, looking down on her as though she was nothing and with no love or compassion in his unfathomable eyes.

'She's in here,' he growled, his tone more of a prison warden than a parent. He moved aside, his gaze fixed on his only daughter, as another figure came into view; a silhouette against the light from the hall.

The woman was almost as tall as the girl's father; her face was harsh and her lips looked as though they had never curled into the warmth of a smile. Her hair was scraped back into a bun, hidden by the aid of a small black hat and her long black dress swept across the floor. She moved towards the girl, narrowing her eyes as though examining her. She could not speak if she had wanted to, her throat constricted with a fear she had not felt in a long time. There was something about her, this unusual woman, who instilled such terror from simply a stare in such a way that even a girl familiar with the cruelty of life was not accustomed to.

'What do you think?' barked the girl's father. The woman took a few moments to reply.

'When did she first present her magical ability?' Her voice was sharp, her words clipped and firm.

'Right from when she was baby Mistress Broomhead, we had to keep her away from all of the other children.'

Hecketty Broomhead looked once more at the child. She was young, far younger than the girls she usually took into her fold who had been given far more years to mature and learn to control their magic; but she had sensed it as soon as she had walked into the house. There was something different about this girl, something unique. Power radiated from her small frame, her magic almost visible like an aura surrounding her and reaching out to the air around her; it was as though she emitted a bright glow despite the ghostly pallor of her pale face. Hecketty guessed that she had been locked away for most of her life, neglected and abused...far easier to control.

'Show me your magic,' she commanded the girl. Her mind ran into overdrive, every thought passing by too fast for her to fully comprehend it. She had never been taught spells as such, but when she was alone in her room she often played with the magic which crackled at her fingertips; now she had to use it. She could feel the apprehension hanging in the air, the longing of her father for her to do something right in her life.

She flexed her fingers and concentrated, allowing the energy to form in a bluish haze before her. It rose, like the thick mist on the moors at night and danced through the air, curling and shifting gracefully until it formed a simple white lily which floated across the room resting silently on the bed.

Mistress Broomhead looked once again at the girl, who did not seem to realise what she had just achieved. For a child so young, who evidently never been taught the art of magic, she had even managed to surprise her, though she did not let this come across in her demeanour; to show emotion was weakness, one of the first lessons this child would need to learn.

'Well, I can certainly see her potential,' began Mistress Broomhead, 'but she will need a lot of preparation before I can truly test her ability.' She waved her right hand carelessly and a large pile of thick, heavy books appeared on the bed beside the single flower.

'I expect her to study all of the incantations in the books and learn them all, by heart, before the beginning of the new term at the college. A week before she is due to start, I will test her ability again and then we shall see if she is as adept as she appears to be.' Hecketty walked over to the man and whispered into his ear,

'I think we can come to some...arrangement, so long as she passes the final test.' His eyes were greedy and a malicious smile spread across his face. He nodded and looked once more at his child; the only source of joy she brought was in what she could provide for him; soon he wouldn't have to worry about the brat any longer.

Mistress Broomhead turned without another word and the girl's father followed her out. She was exactly what Hecketty needed, even more powerful than she had imagined a child could be. This one had more magic running through her blood than even she did, and Hecketty regarded herself as one of the most skilful witches in the country. What this girl would become, what she could be...everything would fall into place.

Left once more alone, but at least with the dull warmth of the hallway light, the girl's mind was left to wander. She wished that her heat would sink at the thought of being sold; she was merely an inconvenient possession of her father's waiting to be passed on for profit, but she knew that he had never loved her and she accepted it. Looking at the books, she found some comfort in knowing that at least she would be able to harness the magic which she could feel in her blood. Magic was not only something which filled the long hours in dark solitude, but an art which she had sculpted and claimed as her own; on long nights, it had kept her going and sometimes she felt that it was all that she lived for.

She watched her father return, his smug grin truly sickening. On seeing her, however, he turned as though someone had flicked a switch at the back of his head. His eyes danced with malice and he picked up one of the books from the pile.

'You heard Mistress Broomhead,' he said menacingly, 'you need to study!' With all of his might, he threw the book hard at his daughter. She closed her eyes, waiting for the thud as the leather-bound book collided with her head; but it never came. She felt energy within her and opened her eyes just in time to see the book veer right and smash hard into the wall with a bang. This angered her father further, though another of his painful smiles returned. He closed the door and walked slowly towards her.

'Clever little Constance,' he mocked, 'let's see where your trickery gets you...'

:O What a revelation XD *Bribes with food and hugs as the review link beeps and flashes*

Hope you liked it, please review it makes my day XD

xxx