Authors Note: This is a little idea that got buried amongst my doodles from ages ago, but a particularly brilliant ping pong session with the lovely Long Vodka generated some great ideas on how to develop my initial ideas further *awards cookies for being so helpful and lovely*. I do intend to update this, along with all the other ideas that I currently have in an unfinished state, but unfortunately, the dreaded A-levels are starting in 10 days' time, so not sure how often I'll be updating for the next few weeks! Anyway, hope you enjoy, reviews are always appreciated!

A tall, suited man pushed tersely through the crowds of screaming school-children, dodging the waving seas of adoring placards, grimly ignoring the hundreds of autograph seeking young witches as he wound through the impossible maze of pleading figures that were nearly trampling each other to underfoot in their desperation to shuffle closer to the elite celebrity figure who was attempting to make his exit from the courtyard. He paused at Walkers Gate, forcing his reluctant facial muscles to pull his usual dazzling smile as he turned and waved cheerfully at the scrabbling hoards, the uncontrollable squealing rising to an new level of ear-shattering decibels as he casually blew a kiss to the awaiting masses before climbing thankfully into the back seat of the awaiting black Rolls Royce Phantom, sinking into the plush seats, thankfully disappearing from public view behind the comforting safety of the dark tinted windows. Free from putting on the usual show of showbiz bravado, he leant forwards and placed his aching head within his cool hands, letting out a long sigh before a polite cough from the driver brought him to his senses.

"The nearest hotel, John," he snapped tersely, "And quickly..."

"I though Sir was flying to the south of France this evening?" came the patient, steady reply.

"Look," came the infuriated growl, "I employ you to drive, not to act as a bloody automated diary service, just me out of here at once!"

The greying chauffer glanced in the rear-view mirror at his stricken master, biting back the savage retort that he longed to utter before nodding abruptly and easing the enormous car forwards at a stately pace.

"As Sir wishes…" he spat bitterly within his mind, remaining obediently mute.

The master stared morosely out of the window at the passing landscape, not even seeking distraction in the awaiting piles of newspaper clippings proclaiming his meteoric rise to fame, paying no attention to the many letters of adoring fan-mail left unopened upon the silver rack that sat next to him. Fame and all the pleasures that it brought had turned sour in his mouth, the exhilaration of public prominence dying away to lethargic indifference following the extinguishing of the driving force behind his quest for stardom.

Icy Stevens leaned back into the luxurious seat, unable to look at the disappearing castle behind him, the fresh pain of rejection gnawing away relentlessly at his heart. She was there. The most perfect woman that he had ever met, the very inspiration for the show that had made his name, propelling him from an unknown reporter for Sorcery FM into the highest-paid man in magical media, becoming an overnight success story, steadily clawing his way to the top of the greasy pole of fame. He had been a nobody when he first set eyes upon the raven-haired goddess, a hopeless journalist still awaiting his "big break" in desperate belief, writer of the shambolic report on the annual Witch education conference that was politely dismissed by an incredulous producer, when a chance encounter with a certain woman had spawned the gems of an idea for the show that would propel him up the entertainment ladder in 2 years to become one of the foremost names in the magical entertainment field. Finding her again after those meteoric years, the object of his harboured affections, only to be harshly rejected by the very provider of his inspiration had shattered him, torn his self-confidence to shreds, the fantasy reunion deviating starkly from the fairytale romance to the grim reality of loneliness and obsessive yearning that had evolved within his teeming mind, a rude awakening from the blissful dreams that had fuelled him in his quest for so long.

"Oh Constance," he muttered, stroking a trembling finger lightly across the glossy paper, staring deeply into the dark depths of her soulful almond eyes, the picture of the mighty sorceress that he had cut from the programme of the conference, the miniature that had been kept loyally within his wallet ever since that day. "All of this was for you, my darling, every penny would have been yours, my beautiful inspiration…" he kissed the pristine image before carefully returning it to its hiding place. As unable to throw it away as he was to walk away from her after rediscovering her by chance, her presence taunting him mercilessly as he remembered the scene in the hall after the show. The shattering of his dreams. He had left Cackles Academy on an occasion that had promised so much with nothing but pondweed tangled through his immaculate hair and a severely bruised ego, to say nothing of a broken heart.

The impressive car, brashly baring its personal number plate- 1CY S- pulled to a halt outside a small building, desperately in need of a coat of paint, its grubby white exterior standing out dully from the grey of the drizzling afternoon, a dark red name board swung creakily from a rusting bracket, in imminent danger of decapitating the next unfortunate person to walk beneath it. A few picnic tables in a distinctly shambolic state of disrepair sat outside, their brewery-sponsored umbrellas flapping limply in the rain, weeds poking through the unkempt grass which was littered with discarded cigarette butts in various states of decomposition. Devoid of life except for the faint orange glow of a light within the bar area, the accommodation was far from meeting Icy Steven's stringent values.

"Is this it?" he snorted in disgust at the distinctly mediocre surroundings, jolted out of his reverie.

"This is the only accommodation within 30 miles of the school," replied the chauffer in a level tone of voice, "And Sir did request the nearest premises…" his voice brightened as he attempted humour, "I believe that they have a karaoke night this evening, Sir…" he trailed off at the thunderous expression that his employer was displaying. He muttered a faint apology beneath his breath.

"Hmm… It'll do…" his employer dismissed him with a wave of his manicured hand, "Carry my bags in, John."

Icy wrapped his soft grey cashmere coat around his shoulders tightly, shivering slightly at the draught that was whistling through the open door as he climbed reluctantly out of the shelter of the Rolls Royce. He bit back a derogatory remark about the shabby appearance, reminded distinctly of the shoddier rooms that he had been forced to rent only a few years ago. Before her…

He mentally kicked himself for thinking of Constance once more as her face swam before his eyes which were rapidly filling with salty tears of pain, her low tones echoing within his head, "Your hand is on my arm…" and then the flash of light that had resulted in his unceremonious crash to the floor…

He stared back at his shelter for the night, comforted only by the sight of the three-letter word that hung over the door. BAR.

He only had one intention for that evening, to get as drunk as humanely possible in attempt to blot the tormenting sight of her face from his memory.

xxx

Her talk had been "Standards, standards, standards" yet, as he sat morosely nursing another fingerprint-stained glass of whiskey at the grubby little bar in the B&B, he knew that somehow he'd fallen short of her impeccable standards. He'd even gone as far as to request the same brand of white wine for his lunch that they had shared at the conference, when he had first seen that enchanting goddess, sipping slowly from her rationed glass of wine, little bead of condensation running slowly down the glass, meeting her willowy fingers as she nibbled tentatively at a rather suspicious looking vol-au-vent before discarding it with a look of distaste. Briefly, their eyes had met for a haunting moment across the crowded room, his heart skipping a beat as he stared upon her beauty, a look of confusion passing across her face before she looked away abruptly... He had had high hopes when she had permitted herself to drink with him at lunch, but cursed the unexpected arrival of the pompous Phyllis Pentangle, the dreaded woman with whom he had to deal with every week after yet another victory from that bloody school...

He gulped back the last dregs of amber liquid from the glass before slamming it slightly haphazardly down on the cracked wooden surface of the bar.

"Same again…" he slurred, rubbing his aching eyes, brushing a stray lock of hair away from his flushed face, the faint background chatter of the occupants of the bar washing over him like meaningless waves of sound as another group of intoxicated locals set about murdering various dissonant, tuneless renditions of "Waterloo" by ABBA, the resulting din doing nothing but fuel his throbbing headache.

Alfred the barman gave up polishing the filthy glasses and threw him a concerned look.

"You alright?" he questioned as he poured another double whiskey and set it in front of the dishevelled looking man, who merely raised his eyes slowly to the source of the voice, "Only, if you don't mind me sayin', I've seen a lot of men drownin' their sorrows in 'ere over many years, an' ter me, it boils down ter two reasons, money an' women…" he leant closer and firmly prised Icy's willing hand off the glass before he could take another mouthful of the numbing alcohol, "An' despite it being none o' me business, I can assure you from experience, that the answer to life's problems ain't never found at the bottom of a glass…"

Icy sighed theatrically, throwing a hand up into the air in his anguish, the momentum nearly propelling him sideways off the precarious barstool.

"It's her…" he moaned, head in hands, "The most magnificent woman in the world and she won't have anything to do with me…" he made a wild grab for the abandoned glass and drained it in a single mouthful.

Sitting in the darkened booth in the corner of the bar, a woman was watching from the shadows in disgust at the drunken man who was pouring his heart out to the sympathetic ear of the friendly barman in-between sobs and large gulps of whiskey.

"Weakness..." she muttered to herself, sipping economically at her port and lemon as she watched him stare deeply into the swirling depths of his tumbler of whiskey, having long-since lost count long ago of how many he had consumed, "Another hopeless specimen of a human being…"

"Constance!" came the drunken howl from the bar in answer to Alfred's gentle questioning, "She's still at Cackles Academy! W-wouldn't come with me! The most beautiful woman in the world, magical, beautiful, and she h-hates me! My precious little inspiration…" he dissolved into a loud bout of noisy tears as the barman awkwardly patted him upon the shoulder in reassurance.

The observer stiffened in her seat as the information flowed freely from between the intoxicated lips. This was it! Her key to revenge!

"They all have weaknesses, fatal flaws which can be manipulated and exploited..." she chuckled darkly to herself, pausing to watch her target rise unsteadily from the barstool, wildly throwing out an arm to offer the support that his legs weren't providing as he staggered slightly, psyching himself up for the mammoth task of safely ascending the rickety wooden stairs of the B&B to his awaiting bed, desperately trying to make both of his reluctant limbs work in something resembling coordination. He made it as far as the doorway before the distinctly low oak beams interrupted his weaving gait, dealing him a square blow to the forehead. He paused, swaying as he smiled broadly for the first time that day, shocked into humour as he fell in an inebriated heap upon the faded patterned carpet. The landlady merely tutted impatiently, long-since immune to the effects of drunken lodgers sprawled across the furniture as she nudged him to his feet. Star or no star, she wasn't going to have this self-confessed celebrity sleeping upon her floor!

The hidden witch chose her moment well, casting a quick spell that caused a mass of dark curls to obscure her face before whisking forwards and helping the inebriated man to his feet.

"Whoa, steady young man," she smiled kindly, inwardly wincing in repulsion as he seized her by the arm as she hauled him to his feet, "What on earth is the matter?"

He attempted to focus his vision upon her but soon gave it up as a losing battle and allowed himself to be escorted to the relative comfort of a nearby armchair.

"Now then…" she began, leaning forwards, speaking slowly and clearly, articulating her words like one would to a particularly backward child, "Tell me all about it…"

xxx

Icy Stevens groaned loudly as he came to in a dingy, damp-smelling room with peeling wallpaper. The curtains had been undrawn and blinding light was flooding into his protesting retinas. He sniffed carefully before feeling a wave of nausea roll through his delicate stomach at the fatty stench of the fried breakfast that sat congealing on his bedside table. Instead, he groped feebly in the drawer for the nearest packet of paracetamol, his head aching more than he had previously thought possible, a splitting pain that rolled around his temples like thunder in a storm, a heavy bass resonance that was making the room swim before him. He pushed a couple of the tablets into his mouth and swallowed a mouthful of cold, unsweetened tea to wash them down with.

"What on earth was I drinking last night…" he moaned as he rolled onto his side, propping himself up upon a trembling elbow to read the hands of his travelling alarm clock. Eleven thirty.

"Shit…" he fell onto his back, staring at the cobweb-ridden ceiling, cursing beneath his breath as he realised that he had precisely ten minutes to return to Sorcery FM to a meeting with the head of the Magical Entertainment to discuss the re-commissioning of "The Witchy Hour" for the third series. He cast a look at his mobile phone only to see a barrage of unread texts and answer phone messages, doubtless either from an irate manager demanding to know his exact whereabouts or a fawning fan-message from a breathless schoolgirl, delighted to have finally tracked down his phone through various means of tracking and obsessive research.

Five minutes later he was striding out of the door, clad in a typically expensive grey suit as he stepped into the backseat of the awaiting Rolls Royce, unfolding the morning newspaper that lay folded neatly upon the leather upholstery.

"Sorcery FM Studios, John," he snapped, without bothering to offer the customary morning greeting, "And step on it, I'm late!"

He was greeted by a resolute silence as the chauffer stared obstinately into space, ignoring his every word.

"Hello!" he leant forward, snapping his fingers rudely behind the chauffer's ear, "Can you hear me! I said I'm going to be late!"

"Ah, Mr Stevens, about time…" came a voice from his left, barely taking trouble to disguise the amusement at his agitation.

"Who on earth are you?" came the surprised retort as he wheeled around to confront the stranger who had taken it upon themselves to occupy his car.

"I see that you have everything...frame, money but the one thing you cannot buy and that constantly eludes you is love...it's her, isn't it"…

He folded his arms and glared at the stranger who clearly knew who he was... surely not another deranged fan? But how on earth did she know his emotional turmoil surrounding her?

"Okay," he smiled coldly, raising his hands, "I have no idea who you are or what you want...but I have a hectic schedule, and I need to be somewhere, preferably without your company…"

She laughed humourlessly, toying with him like a cat would with a mouse, offering him the prize, dangling her in front of his nose like a dog being baited with a bone, "You want the one thing that would complete your perfect life...do you not?"

"What are you talking about? Leave me alone!" he spat, trying the door as he attempted to leave, sorrow creeping into his voice once more as Constance invaded his brooding thoughts yet again.

"Please calm down Mr Stevens... I do believe that I may be able to provide the answer to your problems..." she smiled evilly as the confused man made to escape, frantically hammering the sealed door with his fists.

"John," he bellowed, wincing as his crashing headache reminded him of the systematic abuse of his liver from the night before, "John, for God's sake let me out! Who on earth is she?"

John continued to stare straight ahead, his mouth slightly open, eyes blank and trancelike as he gripped the leather steering wheel tightly.

Agatha Cackle smiled gleefully as she leant forward and tapped the patiently waiting driver upon the shoulder.

"Drive on, John..." she whispered in his ear.

He nodded autonomously, starting the mighty engine which leapt into life with a deep throaty roar, selected a gear and sped off in a whirl of tyre smoke and gravel.

"Now then," she began, settling back comfortably into the luxurious interior, "I believe that we have something to discuss, Mr Stevens…."