Fight the Dark

Prologue - Predictions

Helene sat down at the table and drew out a deck of cards. The light was dim, despite the hundreds of candles that lit the room and filled it with different scents, but she was used to working in the half darkness. She took the deck and started to deal the cards. They fell in a familiar pattern and she read them once again.

If she hadn't she read the same prediction before, she would have been horrified, but her innocence in the matter was long gone. Ever since her first prediction, she had known who it was, who had terrorized the village and the forest.

A month ago - after another attack, that time fierce, which resulted in a five year old boy's death - she had taken her deck and dealt. That time, the deck - or should she say fate - had surprised her, but now it was but a mere fact which she occasionally confirmed. The attacks could be stopped and they would be - but only if...

How the readings could come true, she didn't want to think, but she knew fate would need to play all its cards before the end.

She knew she wouldn't be there to see it. Cards do not tell you your own death and end, yet card reading wasn't her only gift. She knew her time was near; she was young in years yet her knowledge was superior to most of the old and wise. Her gifts made sure of that.

She blew out the candles and took her coat from the hook. She'd take a walk in the forest before it'd become dangerous again. The beginning was near. The wind blew from the door and blew the cards around. Two cards fell face to face on the floor. Red haired Queen of Hearts. King of Spades in black and silver.

Chapter 1 - Red Haired Devil

An old man entered the study where a pale young man sat; his head was buried in stack of books a hundred times older than him. He slightly disapproved of older man's entrance without knocking, but then again, he had come through the wall...

"Young Master," the ghost spoke, "a word came. They've heard him enter the forest again." The servant showed no emotion on his transparent face - mortal problems didn't affect him, his only duty and interest was the well-being of the family.

"Thank you Henrik. Please see that my cloak and broom are ready in ten minutes." With a bow, the old servant left the room.

The pale man paced in his study. He hadn't wanted to use his father's library for his studies, for he knew his father wouldn't approve, so he had created a study of his own in the East Wing. He had set up every possible ward he could think of and find from books that his father wouldn't notice. Only Henrik, who had served the family for years, knew of it. It would have been ridiculous to assume that a 700-year old ghost didn't notice when part of the wing disappeared. His father hadn't noticed, but then again, his father never came to this wing. Mohammed had to go to the mountain himself. He considered it to be a good thing that his father was out of the house tonight.

The curtains drew themselves around the window; ghostly moonlight drew shadows on the walls. He gazed over the lawn to the forest. Who are you? He thought, frustrated. No answer came to him - as he had expected after his 3 months of studying the subject.

He turned around and disappeared from the room.

*******

Flying had always been his favourite pastime; he had played Quidditch for his house team while at school, but lately he had been too preoccupied to enjoy flying.

He flew circles above the forest, but the light of the waning moon wasn't enough to show the ground. Disappointed with himself he landed on a clearing in the heart of the forest - where he had found her three months ago. Her body, now buried in some Muggle graveyard, had lay there. His eyes found the familiar spot; a place he never wished to return, but came back to, time and time again, wishing to find something.

His eyes scanned the clearing; something felt so wrong in the air. He hoped with all his might to find something, someone; in his heart dreaded finding it. He was afraid of what he might find... again.

He didn't see anything in the clearing. Then he heard it - a small whimper, like an animal in pain. He looked around. No one in sight... wait... was that rock moving? He crossed the clearing, carefully, yet knowing that he wasn't in danger of what he'd find. He knew it already; it had been told to him three months ago in this very same clearing.

*******

The lump of clothes, a cloak over a tiny figure and tangle of red hair. The lump didn't move - for a moment he feared the worst. Maybe he had come too late - maybe he had failed, again.

He lifted the corner of the cloak away from the face of the woman; she seemed oddly familiar. Her pale face was crossed with cuts and scratches. He took her hand and struggled to find a pulse. It was there; she was alive still. It almost made him sigh with relief. This time he wouldn't fail.

He lifted her up to carry her to his broom. But what if she woke up in mid air? What if she was a Muggle? The cloak fell off her shoulder and revealed a green dress - a Muggle dress. He couldn't dare to fly her - the shock could be too much for her.

He crossed the clearing, carrying her. Damn. He had to put her down so he could get his broom and re-size it a little. He hoped resizing wouldn't damage it badly. Not that it would really matter, he had the money to get a new one. It had taken the death of an innocent one in his arms to make him understand. Some things couldn't be replaced by money. He had promised her on her grave.

He wouldn't fail the one who came after her.

The red haired woman whimpered something on the ground and opened her eyes.

*******

The silver haired man lifted his hand, as if to hit her, and she flinched. Tears of pain were pouring down her face. She turned her right cheek to him, wondering how much more pain she could take before breaking into hysterics. The limit was near; physical pain added to the emotional was about to scatter her - only her pride kept her standing straight.

He seized her chin with his hand and looked at her; she whispered a silent plea to God, to someone - not this, not again. He forced her to face him and lowered his head. His grip on her chin was firm, not that it mattered - she had no energy in her to fight him. It had been taken care of... She closed her eyes and more warm tears flooded down her cheeks, bringing bitter pain where they ran to scratched skin. She waited him to force her, but his lips never met hers - instead he turned her head and she felt another hand touch her cheek near a deep cut. It was bleeding; she could feel the blood oozing from the cut. Her ears kept humming.

What was he doing? His fingers eased the pain and she dared herself to open her eyes. His face was close; she trembled a little - those pale features, grey eyes alive with coldness, and a face surrounded by silvery blond hair. How many times she had seen those eyes filled with loathing? Now they were emotionless grey steel. And how much they reminded her of...

The humming noise in her head grew suddenly louder; her legs went weak. She had to flutter her eyes to keep them focused.

"Come," he said, and turned around, releasing her chin. He couldn't have surprised her more. What was this about?

"With you?" her voice was shallow, but she succeeded in having enough hatred in it. It made sure she wouldn't follow him without good reasoning. She didn't trust him; why should she? He could just repeat what... No! Block it, she commanded her thoughts.

"Yes." His tone was commanding and with hint of urgency, yet he seemed surprised at her hatred. He looked at her from head to toe - her torn green dress, showing, more than covering, and the once-black travelling cloak she tried to cover herself with; her tangled red hair, covered with blood and mud; wounds on her face and arms - not to mention the wounds she covered but still felt.

"Can you move?" he asked with sudden emotion in his voice - if she hadn't known better she might have believed in the emotion, but she knew who she was dealing with. She nodded, she damn well would - even if she couldn't. She wasn't going to show her weakness to him, to any of them.

"Why should I follow you?' she tried to fill her voice with scorn, but was afraid she didn't sound that convincing. Her lips felt stiff and dry; she tasted a tinge of blood.

He looked at her, eyes stern steel, as if her words hadn't affected him the slightest bit. As if he didn't know who she was. He spoke.

"Because that cut in your face is too deep for me to treat here," his eyes flashed dangerously as he continued, "Whoever did this to you," his hand pointed to her scratched face; her torn robes, "might still be around." She gasped. He didn't know who did this?

"Come," he urged her again, "I cannot offer you safety, but I won't harm you." There was a flicker in his eyes - pity? And then the feeling was veiled and his face showed no such emotion. She closed her eyes; the humming sound in her head grew and she had to check her standing. And then her legs failed her and everything went dark.

*******

Stars of light flickered in her view; the utter blackness was fading. Thump, thump, thump - she recalled someone's footsteps. Apparently this someone was carrying her. She regained her consciousness and waves of pain hit her; it made her whimper.

She could hear him - Who was he? The voice said something in soothing tone - it came from somewhere distant, from behind the pain. The pain was about to break her; she wouldn't be able to take it for much longer. Then she'd... break. In her half conscious state, she wondered if she was being taken back to him.

'No!' she moaned silently, and heard the voice again. How warm his arms were. The pain was distant, blocked out. Where was she being taken? Right now, it didn't matter. She was behind the pain; the future would come later, if ever. Â Breaking would kill her. Pain waves washed over her again and darkness tightened around her. Draco tightened his hold on her as she shifted in his arms. Flying sure would have been easier; he thought.

*******

She didn't open her eyes at first, but listened. She heard nothing but silence and dared to open her eyes. She was in a dim candle lit room, lying on a huge four-poster bed. Satin sheets, she noted, again one of the ridiculous things the mind pays attention to. She tried to lift her head and started to see stars; she had to lay back down fast. She tried again, this time slipping her legs off the bed first, and then sitting up. Good, they seemed to work... if not properly. She collapsed sitting back on the bed. Pain shot through her back when a hidden cut re-opened; she swore silently. Tears welled up in her swollen eyes.

Every muscle in her body hurt, except for few parts she didn't even feel - they were numb and swollen. The pain would certainly come - how could anyone take this much pain? Was it like this under the Cruciatus Curse? No. This was worse. She shut off that part of her brain - blocking it would do no good; she knew, but she had to try for the sake of what she was.

She would run away. They couldn't hold her, not against her will, could they?

There were voices on the other side of the door; then the door opened. She grabbed the nearest thing to her hand - an empty flower vase from the bed stand. She was as ready as she could be.

*******

Draco was holding the door handle when Henrik appeared through wall.

"You called, sir?" the ghost spoke.

"Yes. See to it that the house-elves prepare a bath for me and get some clean robes ready. And see that they stay out of sight." What was good with ghost servants was that they didn't question your orders - at least not if you served the Malfoy family. Henrik had seen too much to care and knew enough not to ask. Draco trusted him not to tell anything; Henrik had no loyalties to either party ruling the house, he only served the family name.

Draco pressed the door handle; the door wouldn't open to anyone else but to him. That was a nice and useful charm he had found during his Hogwarts years. How distant they seemed now; the world had changed after Voldemort's defeat... but evil still remained. How well had he been reminded of it tonight.

He opened the door and was confronted with a furious and scared red haired woman.

*******

"Don't come any nearer!" she shouted as he entered the room. She was holding a vase from his bed stand. He didn't know why he had to bring her into his own bedroom, but he had. There would have been enough rooms in the Manor, or the East Wing itself. But this way, he reasoned with himself afterwards, he could look after her more carefully. And she was not to wander in the Manor - that would be dangerous...

He placed the tray he was holding on a table by the door and was about to wave his hand to close the door, but thought about it first and kicked it closed. He hadn't expected this - but understood the reasoning behind it fairly quickly.

"Calm down. I'm not going to hurt you," he said, but it did no good. The woman swayed and by instinct he stepped forward. And was almost hit by a flying vase. Thanks to Quidditch, his reflects were fast and he ducked just in time.

"Don't come any nearer," she hissed at him, searching desperately for a weapon. Should he draw his wand? He decided not to. He should certainly be able to take care of this.

*******

After a candlestick and about dozen pillows had thrown towards him, he was thinking otherwise - she really had a good throwing arm. All the pillows had hit him and the candlestick had cut his cheek. He was now standing in the middle of the room, his hands exposed, trying desperately to think what to say to calm her down. It was just something he wasn't good at - he had never needed to do that. Perhaps it was lucky for him that the red-haired girl, now holding a heavy book, suddenly lost control of her legs and passed out on the floor.

Carefully, he picked her up; it cannot be healthy to faint so many times a day. He placed her back on the bed, on the covers. He drew his wand to bind her to the bed, but thought otherwise. Letting her remain free, he picked up the book she had held and sat down on an armchair next to the bed.

*******

She didn't open her eyes when she first woke up, but lingered in the black forgetfulness and listened. Someone was in the room. She could hear someone breathing, calm and steady. A sound of pages slipping occasionally came to her. She kept her eyes closed and remembered. They had taken her. Panic swelled over her.

"You're awake," a male voice spoke from the side of the bed. The tone was steady, stating the mere fact he had observed. She opened her eyes; there was no use in pretending. Besides, there was no use facing the enemy eyes closed either, was there? She opened her eyes and met the gaze of Draco Malfoy, whose appearance hadn't changed much in the years after he had left Hogwarts.

His face was still pale, hair blond and silvery, and his lips still turned to his so familiar smirk. She was stunned by his eyes. Grey as they had always been, they had become colder, yet somehow, softer. There was emotion in his eyes now. Anger, and something else, something that she hadn't seen on that face during their school years. Â Something she could never have imagined seeing on the face of a Malfoy.

*******

Draco inspected the woman with his gaze. She looked oddly familiar, the red hair tangled and muddy. Her face was sickly pale and he realised that she must be in great pain. The wounds and cuts on her - she was still a mere girl, he observed - made him feel sick with anger; who would hurt such innocent thing? Those times of uncontrolled hatred were behind. At least, so they had hoped.

"Now that you're finally awake and not throwing things at me," he said, and she gazed around fast, studying her surroundings; there was nothing to throw in the room. Draco had removed anything that could be used as a weapon. She cursed him in her mind, cursed herself for fainting. Cursed the pain in her stomach, back, and groin, where it hurt the most. He continued,

"Would you like to sit up on the bed so I can clear those cuts?" His words, even if presented as a question, were commanding. Surprising them both, she did as she was told. Slowly and carefully she sat up on the bed. She had been lying over the covers, she noticed. She had no memory of being brought to this room. No, last thing she remembered was...

Her eyes opened wide as he jumped up from the armchair and, with few paces, stood up in front of her. She looked around her, like a rabbit smelling the fox, terrified. Her eyes searched desperately for an escape. She was scared of him, he realised suddenly. He had damn well saved the girl from the forest and she was afraid of him. It made him a little angry, even though he knew better than to blame her. She had been out cold most of the time, after all.

She sat in silence while he cleaned her face with warm wet cloth. He tried to avoid making her flinch every time he pressed the cloth against her face, but she seemed to hurt everywhere he touched her. Seeing the pain in her eyes made him angry. Had he sacrificed it all in vain? Was there ever going to be peace?

She leaned back, staying as far as possible from him. Had he seen his own eyes, he would have understood her fear. His eyes were cold as steel. Anger floated behind them and he didn't veil it well this time. When he pressed the cloth gently against the wound on her cheek she whimpered from the pain.

"Sorry," he said softly, surprising himself. He did feel sorry for her - like he felt sorry for a wounded animal. He had never liked unreasonable violence.

He put some Heal-Fast gel on the wound on her cheek, hoping it would work on Muggles as well as it worked on witches and wizards. He moved to clean the girl's neck. His fingers opened her cloak's silver fastening and he pulled it off her shoulders. He had to tear it off the skin at places where blood had dried on it. Carefully, he inspected the cuts - they didn't seem to be severe.

"What's your name?" he asked, realising he didn't know what to call her. She looked him queerly, sudden hatred in her eyes.

"Don't you know?" she spat out. His defences went up immediately.

"No," he answered in cold tone. "Have we met before?" He was looking now into her eyes - brown- he thought; he'd certainly remember those eyes. He could see her thinking; perhaps she was trying to remember something?

"No," she answered finally. He doubted her word, but as he could not remember meeting her, he let it be. Perhaps she had seen him somewhere, from a distance. Perhaps she was one of those Muggles he had been forced to have "fun" with. Thinking about the War and the past hurt him; he hated remembering the things he had to do. But they had been for greater good - as the workings of Severus Snape had been; peace to his soul, where ever it was.

"What's your name?" he asked again, and spread some Heal-Fast Gel on a deep cut on her shoulder. The red-haired vixen didn't answer, but shut her eyes and moved her lips, as if praying. He worked in silence for five minutes, taking her cloak completely off, watching the girl. She looked strained, as if she were fighting an internal battle.

"Virginia," she said quietly.

"Can you stand up, Virginia?" he asked, taking a hold of her wrist and checking her hand for wounds. She tried to draw her hand back, but he held it firmly.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked the tone in her voice questioning. Disbelieving.

For a while he did not answer, but continued cleaning her hands. He did not want her to question his motives. He was also becoming painfully aware of her. It had been so long since he had seen a fellow human being, felt the touch of skin. It had been before the end of the war, before his cover had been blown.

He did not answer the question.

"Can you stand up?" he asked again, standing up from his kneeling position, looking down on her. She did not answer, but took the hand he offered, swaying a little as she stood.

They stood there in silence for a moment. Suddenly she grasped a hold of his shoulder.

"I'm not feeling well," she said through parted lips. Draco caught her just before she hit the floor.

*******

Draco sat in his study, his head buried in a book. The answer wasn't in the books. He led his mind to the events of the previous night. How he had been notified, and who had notified the servants? He'd have to remember ask Henrik about it.

He reminded himself of finding her, the details in the clearing. Her cuts, bruises, and torn skin. After she had passed out for the second - or had it been third? - time, he had laid her back on the bed, deciding that she needed to be cleaned up. So he had undressed her, silently hoping she would not wake up. She hadn't.

Her back had been badly wounded, as if she had taken several beatings. He shivered in the cold room. He'd find out who had done this to the red haired vixen; it was his responsibility. After all, it had happened on Malfoy property.