Hi all! It's been a long time but I currently have copious amounts of time in which to write WW Fanfiction, and I intend to make the most of it...

I will be updating the stories which I left hanging in the air all those months ago, but this came to mind and just had to be written. There's also a new oneshot in the offing, which I will publish as soon as I have honed it one last time.

xxx

This one's dedicated to Nattherat, who sent me a lovely picture some time ago and whom I promised a fic. So here it is! There will be updates in due course.

A/N – I have made references to certain ideas from Harry Potter here (i.e. owls delivering the post), but this is not a WW/HP crossover.

As much as I dislike OCs, I have had to introduce my own here, but she is very relevant to the story and none of the existing characters would have been suitable for the role. When I think of Mistress Eva DeSilva, I have in mind the beautiful and gothic Eva Green. Google her if you don't know who she is – those of you who have seen Casino Royale, The Golden Compass and Cracks will know her. And for those of you who enjoy all things femslash, I can recommend Cracks.

Beware – there's a nasty shock in store later on...

Bellatoxica

1

Autumn was looming, and Miss Cackle's Academy for Witches was bathed in a golden glow that brought with it crisp, clean air and leaves scattering like antique paper on the ground.

If you happened to be hovering over the castle on your broomstick during this particular Saturday morning, you'd have seen the girls dressed in their weekend gear, some playing skipping games with ropes suspended between broomsticks, whilst others chased each other round the yard, stuffing handfuls of dried leaves down their friends' jumpers to raucous laughter mingled with squeals of indignation.

If you looked a little further, to the far west turret of the building, you'd see Miss Constance Hardbroom peering over the parapet above her private study, her long dark ponytail caught in the breeze and an irritated expression on her face as she prepared to descend the steps and serve a generous helping of detention.

Uniform or no uniform, Saturday was, like any other day, one for standards.

xxx

Imogen Drill had to admit that she'd grown to rather enjoy weekends at the Academy. Recently, there had been a trend whereby the staff gathered around the staffroom table in the mornings, whilst Imogen perused a tabloid, Davina knitted yet another cardigan for yet another great-niece, and Amelia attempted to complete this week's edition of The Sorceress's Creepy Cryptic Crossword. Copious amounts of tea and coffee were consumed, and a quick trip down to Cosie's Cafe to pick up cakes for elevenses had become something of a habit.

Last week's rota dictated that it was Imogen's turn, and there had been much disappointment when she returned with a packet of rice cakes and three bottles of still mineral water.

'What on earth are these?' Davina had asked, disappointment diluting her smile as she took a rice cake and broke it in two, watching its powdery dust settle on her knitting wool. 'It looks like something you'd stuff a cardboard box with!'

'Don't complain till you've tried it,' Imogen smiled defiantly, settling herself in her usual chair and shaking open her newspaper before spreading it across her side of the table. 'I had to ask Mrs Cosie to get these in as a special favour,' she'd raised her voice in Amelia's direction as the headmistress added milk to all of their teas. 'There's far too much cheesecake around here and it does your heart no good whatsoever.'

Davina had seemed unconvinced as she took a wincing bite of one half of the rice cake, her eyes trailing to Amelia who had been dunking hers suspiciously into her tea.

Seeing as Imogen's attempts at promoting healthy eating to the staff had clearly gone down like a brick in a pond, on this particular Saturday morning, Davina had jumped at the opportunity to make the trip to Cosie's herself and returned with three iced Chelsea buns complete with glace cherries. She then proceeded to slice them carefully in half across the middle and ladle on heaped tablespoons of fresh whipped double cream, followed by a dollop of jam before balancing their top halves delicately on the mounds, tilting her head to admire her handy work.

'Oho, yes!' Amelia beamed as she breezed in, rubbing her hands with glee. Imogen was sure her eyes were watering as if it they were the most beautiful examples of patisserie expertise she had ever seen. 'This is what Saturdays are all about!'

'I get the point,' Imogen huffed, taking a savage bite from the rice cake she had saved from last week.

The hours passed and the sun poured in through the dusty window, Imogen periodically moistening her page-turning finger. Davina and Amelia had been chatting about something that was keeping them both very amused, but Imogen had tuned out, relishing the peaceful Saturday morning and very much looking forward to a run at dusk. She thought fleetingly of how different the atmosphere would be if Constance were with them. Tending to avoid social gatherings which might encourage informal conversation, Constance was rarely to be seen in the staffroom on Saturday mornings unless it was to check her post tray. Probably for the best, Imogen considered, scanning the horoscope column. She found Constance's presence very distracting these days, particularly since the potions mistress had rescued her from the clutches of a violent boyfriend. She could not fail to be in awe of the woman's strength and incorruptibility – although the latter had unfortunately meant that Constance had distanced herself from Imogen since the events had unfolded last term. Having previously suggested the two of them get to understand each other a little better over dinner, months had passed and Constance had made no further reference to the possibility. In the meantime Imogen had made a conscious effort not to make a nuisance of herself, and had remained tight lipped in the hope that Constance would make the next move.

'Very sad unfinished story about rising smoke,' Amelia broke into Imogen's thoughts, scratching her chin absentmindedly with her pen.

'Sorry?'

'Eighteen down,' replied Amelia, as if snapping out of deep thought. 'It's the only one I'm stuck on. Blank, R, blank blank blank, C blank L.'

Imogen looked horrified. 'How on earth do people do cryptic crosswords? I barely manage the simple one!'

'Tragical,' said Davina, nonchalantly, still knitting. Imogen regarded her with confusion.

'Yes...'

'No – I mean the answer. It's TRAGICAL. "Very sad" is the definition, "unfinished story" gives the "tal", or "tale" with one letter missing, making it unfinished. "Rising smoke" indicates that "cigar" should be written backwards up the page, and "about" means that the letters of "tal" should be put either side of "ragic", resulting in your answer. Tragical. Simple parts of speech, dear,' she dropped her knitting into her lap and cast a worried glance about the room. 'Although I do hope it's not ominous.'

Her last comment seemingly unheard, Imogen and Amelia exchanged glances of sheer disbelief. As Amelia opened her mouth to ask where they taught people as scatty as Davina literary logic, the door flew open, causing them all to start and Constance swept in, heading straight for her post tray.

'I assume the owls have been today,' she asked, wearily, already stooping to rummage through a small pile of letters sealed with molten red wax.

'Yes, Constance, yes,' mumbled Amelia, mopping up a dollop of cream that had escaped her bun to the tabletop. 'I'll deal with mine on Monday, thank you,' here she rolled her eyes at Imogen and said aside 'This is the time of year for appeals against last term's exam results. There's always one who scored a high "A" and wonders why they missed out on an "A*".'

Although Imogen had been meaning to ask how the examinations' appeal system worked at the academy, her eyes pursued Constance who moved slowly towards the window, her attention solely on the piece of parchment she was reading. Even though Constance had turned so that Imogen could not see her face, the gym mistress sensed all was not well. There was a chill in the air, the same inexplicable chill that seemed to emanate from Constance whenever things were not quite right. Her shoulders had stiffened, her head bowed to read. Imogen bit her lip apprehensively, aware that the other two staff members were oblivious.

'Is everything all right Constance?' she faltered.

The chatter between Amelia and Davina died down immediately as Constance regained her usual composure, turning to the Headmistress and placing the parchment on the table in front of her.

'This ought not to wait until Monday, Miss Cackle,' she said, the slight waver in her voice betraying her calm exterior.

Amelia squinted at the parchment as she fumbled in her cardigan pocket for her glasses, holding them in front of her eyes with their arms still folded. Davina angled her head so as to read the letter upside down.

'Dear Miss Hardbroom, blah blah blah,' Amelia muttered the letter aloud, as if scanning chunks of text in search of the main point. 'It has therefore been deemed necessary for – oh,' She let the hand holding the letter drop into her lap, closing her eyes as anxious realisation flickered across her face. 'Oh, no...'

'What?' asked Imogen, urgently.

Amelia said after a heavy sigh, 'It's Broomhead. She's coming back.'

Imogen's mouth dropped open and she stared aghast at Amelia, awaiting further explanation and not daring to look at Constance. 'What the hell for?' her voice was shrill as she glanced between the Headmistress and Davina.

'She has a new Inspector she wishes to introduce to the Academy before her retirement next year.'

'Retirement? Well, that's good, isn't it?' Imogen looked from one colleague to the next, annoyed that they didn't seem to share her glimmer of hope. 'All we have to do is survive this visit, and she'll have handed over to someone else and be out of our hair.'

Another silence dawdled, and Imogen felt Constance's penetrating stare beaming into her like a laser. She looked cautiously up to see her colleague suppressing a dangerous rage. As a wave of sheepish fear swept through Imogen's abdomen, she swallowed hard.

'Out of our hair?' Constance hissed through clenched teeth. 'It is not your hair that she has become eternally entangled in, Miss Drill. And no mere retirement will rid her from mine!'

'Constance – I'm sorry, I didn't mean to –' But even before Imogen had started to mumble the clumsy apology, Constance had swept towards the door and out of the room, slamming it forcefully behind her. Imogen let out a tense breath and looked pleadingly to Amelia, who had slunk back in her seat and was studying the ceiling.

'I've got to go and find her,' Imogen got up, her chair grinding noisily across the stone floor.

As the gym mistress disappeared in pursuit of Constance, Amelia turned her attention wearily to Davina, who has now knitting as though her sanity depended on it.

'Davina, dear, there's something wrong with that jumper.'

Miss Bat hesitated, irritably. 'Sorry – what?'

'You've started a third arm.'

xxx

Imogen's eyes darted about the corridor as she stepped from the staffroom, spotting Constance's silhouette disappearing around a dark corner. Hastening after her, Imogen heard her colleague's voice ring around the corridors. 'Out!' she snapped, 'OUT!'

As Imogen rounded the same corner she saw two fourth years stumbling into the corridor from the girls' toilets as though they had been hoisted out with some force. They both gazed wide-eyed at Imogen as she neared.

'Run along girls,' she ordered, waiting whilst the girls drifted confusedly back in the direction of their dormitories.

Imogen placed her fingertips on the door and listened before pushing it open, afraid of what she might see. As she peered around the cold stone wall, Constance immediately doubled up over one of the basins and retched violently. Imogen averted her eyes and backed into the narrow entrance, knowing the sense of indecency Constance would feel if she knew someone had seen her. The potions mistress then straightened up, took a deep breath and turned the tap on so that a jet of water blasted into the basin, despite there being nothing to clear. She doesn't even eat enough to vomit, Imogen thought.

'It must surprise you to see me like this, Miss Drill,' Constance's words had an air of sarcastic self-deprecation. 'You'd think the passage of time would have a healing effect, would you not? Perhaps for some it does. We can only hope, for their sakes.'

'I'm sorry,' Imogen said stiffly, feeling foolish as she emerged into Constance's full view. 'I didn't mean to trivialise the situation.' She watched Constance in the large mirror suspended from a heavy link chain above the sinks. 'If there is anything I can do to help... I mean, I know I don't have any power over Broomhead but if you needed somebody to talk to, or – well, anything.'

Constance was not easily intimidated, but in the case of Heckitty Broomhead, her colleagues had discovered her Achilles heel. What had the woman done to have such an effect on an otherwise forthright, unwavering woman that she had still not managed to put behind her some fifteen years later? Imogen's fist clenched involuntarily against the wall behind her, and she felt instantly stupid when she realised what she was doing. A powerful witch like Constance didn't need her protection – Imogen was a mere mortal, far less academically intellectual and completely uneducated in the field of magic. She'd have probably have been insulted by Imogen's offer of support. Besides, what was Broomhead planning to do, anyway? Turn up and throw a few taunts in Constance's direction before finally relieving countless people of her foul company forever, probably. The potions mistress could handle that.

Constance exhaled, as though she had been holding her breath for several seconds. Brushing herself down briskly, she turned and made purposefully for the door, passing so closely to Imogen that the gym mistress had to take a step back and collided clumsily with the wall.

'I will be indisposed for the rest of the morning,' muttered Constance as she disappeared towards the spiral staircase leading to the teachers' quarters.

xxx

Inevitably, Medusa Scales and Salome Platter had ignored Miss Drill's instructions and stayed to eavesdrop at the bathroom door. What with the school being the intimate community that it was, scurrilous rumours soon spread like wildfire that the pair had been manhandled out of the girls' toilets by HB, where the teacher could be heard throwing up.

The theories followed in their dozen. Enid Nightshade suggested that a group of parents had combined forces and complained about Miss Hardbroom, which was no more than she deserved for the misery she caused them on a daily basis. Maud Moonshine had heard Miss Hardbroom was pregnant; but that was an unlikely story, according to Fenella Feverfew – after all what man in their right mind would go anywhere near a frigid old spinster like HB?

In order to quell the stories, Miss Cackle made an announcement the following Monday in the weekly bulletin that there was to be another visit from the fearsome Mistress Heckitty Broomhead.

'So that explains it then!' Fenella brandished the yellow parchment in Griselda Blackwood's face at breakfast. 'This'll be sure to put the frights up HB!'

Griselda rested her spoon on the side of her breakfast bowl and reached for the parchment. As her eyes grazed the text she raised an eyebrow, nodding knowingly.

'Sure will,' she said thickly, through a mouthful of porridge. 'Gutted, HB! OW!' Griselda almost choked as the parchment was suddenly whipped from her grasp. The table of fifth years around her stared aghast as the parchment floated momentarily in midair before Miss Hardbroom materialised, towering above them with the bulletin clutched in her hand.

'Gutted indeed, Griselda Blackwood,' She mocked, icily. 'May I suggest you assist the kitchen staff with their clear up operation after breakfast, and I expect to see my reflection in every bowl, plate and spoon by the time you are finished – or you will be similarly gutted.' Sniggers hissed around the table at their teacher's scathing use of a colloquial term. 'That goes for you too, Fenella Feverfew. And while I'm here, are any of the rest of you angling to suffer a similar fate?'

There was silence and poker faces all round as Miss Hardbroom's scrutinising glare studied each girl individually.

'No, Miss Hardbroom,' they chorused. Their potions mistress sniffed, flexed her spell casting fingers in a way which suggested she had successfully resisted an urge to send them all to the nearest pond, and vanished. Fenella huffed and rested her chin on the heels of her hands, noticing that Griselda was sucking furiously on the side of her thumb.

'What's up with you?' she asked, sulkily. Griselda pulled her wet thumb from her lips, inspecting it closely.

'She gave me a bloody paper cut!'

xxx

'It was better to tell them,' Amelia justified, although her tone betrayed a certain doubt that she had done the right thing. She circled her desk, using a hand to steady herself on her way around it. 'There's no way Broomhead would agree to be kept out of sight of the girls. She takes obvious delight in wreaking havoc and fear wherever she goes and I doubt she will make an exception just because retirement looms.'

Imogen had perched on the back of the chair opposite the Headmistress's desk, her teeth grinding on a fingernail.

'I still don't see why Broomhead has to come at all. It's not as if this place is so vast that a newcomer couldn't work out what to do if they came on their own. We didn't even have inspections before her first visit, did we?'

'Very rarely,' Amelia contemplated, blowing the dust from her central register in anticipation that it would be required at the forthcoming visit. 'And on the rare occasions that we did, they were nowhere near as in depth as Broomhead's. The Guild used to go on the basis that if there were no complaints, there was no need for intervention. People soon pipe up when they aren't happy with a school's performance, Imogen.' She put her glasses on and sighed, reclining slightly in her seat. 'Well – that was then. Things are very different now. Blame, compensation, health and safety... Let's just hope it's not a case of "better the devil we know".'

Imogen's stomach plummeted. Surely this new inspector couldn't be as bad as Broomhead? There was the advantage that she wasn't Broomhead, therefore would not have the same effect on Constance and perhaps the potions mistress would soon be exercising some of her legendary authority – but what if the newcomer was something more sinister altogether?

'You know,' Miss Cackle mused, 'You two do seem to be getting on an awful lot better lately, since –' she trailed off, seemingly unsure whether mentioning Serge's name would seem insensitive. 'Well, since your – breakdown with – that chap you were involved with. You both seem more at peace in each other's company. Constance is making more exceptions for you.'

Imogen was intrigued. 'What do you mean – exceptions?'

'She's allowing more room for your opinions. Don't get me wrong – she's still our same old Constance, staunch traditionalist and all. And the girls are no less petrified of her. But she changes when you're around. You must have a calming influence, Miss Drill.'

Imogen swallowed. It was true – despite Constance's aloofness, she had to admit that things had been a little less fractious since Constance had saved her from Serge's tirade of domestic abuse. But she couldn't help but feel a certain degree of resentment about the fact that Constance kept her cards so determinedly close to her chest. She had, after all, helped Imogen out of a potentially deadly situation. Why could the potions mistress not confide her own fears to her?

'Is there something wrong, dear?' Amelia took a Garibaldi from a newly opened packet, gesturing to Imogen to take one.

'No – no thanks, Miss Cackle. I ought to tidy the store – make sure there are no basketballs out of place before Broomhead gatecrashes the party.'