Constance Hardbroom:

It is not often that I behave in a way which could be considered even mildly eccentric, let alone out and out mad. I am, generally speaking, a woman of sense.

On this occasion, however, I believe I may actually have taken leave of my senses.

It is the last day of term; by some miracle, the academy is still standing, and furthermore is on its way towards being blissfully empty. Any other time, I would be readying myself for a peaceful holiday, alone, content, in control, and with plenty of books to read. Nothing could be better for a woman like me.

But on this occasion, it is, alas, not to be - on account of the aforementioned leave-taking of my senses.

Because on this occasion, I am going on holiday. To Cornwall. With my most esteemed - my pen drips sarcasm - my most esteemed colleague, one Miss Drill.

It has come about by accident, I suppose one could say, though I am not typically the sort of woman who has accidents. It was originally to be a holiday for all the teachers - an insane proposition, as I did not hesitate to inform them all, several times - but then it turned out (how convenient) that the others all had other commitments, and now it is just me.

And her.

I have packed, and I am ready. I have clothes, toiletries, and plenty of books. On the top of my suitcase is a recently published treatise by a prestigious witchcraft authority; the subject, the essential incompatibility of witchcraft and a love of nature. I know that it will annoy her if she sees it - she is always prating of the wonderfulness of nature - and I intend to place it somewhere where she definitely will see it.

And why do I care so much for annoying her? Perhaps it is because she annoys me. It's bad enough that she is not a witch, but on top of that, she is too...too what? Too perky, too friendly, too eminently reasonable, too smiley, too blonde, too pretty - yes, pretty; she must be, for I have seen how every man who has ever visited the academy looks at her. She encourages them. I give her ten minutes, if that, this week, before she falls prey to the inane charms of some immature young man. It will be the camping trip all over again. I can still see them now, stealthily holding hands by the campfire, talking and giggling away together like a couple of love-struck adolescents. Whatever happened to that fellow, I wonder. Dare I hope it was something unpleasant?

"Ah!" She bursts into the room, all enthusiasm and casual clothing. "You're ready! Are you?"

"Yes, Miss Drill, I am ready. Aren't you?"

"I...well..." She's flustered; I feel a flicker of satisfaction. "Almost! I'm almost ready! Just hang on a minute..."

I watch coolly as she dashes hectically from the room; time elapses, and she dashes back in, carrying bags and looking flushed.

"Right, I'm ready." She says it with an air of immense satisfaction, as if she has overcome terrible odds and achieved the nigh-on impossible. She looks me up and down. "Dare I hope you are going to remove your hat?"

"It is this, Miss Drill, or the bonnet. The choice is yours."

She sighs. "You are leaving your broomstick behind at least, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes." I'm not, of course; I have turned it temporarily into an umbrella, but she doesn't need to know that. A witch does not leave her broomstick at home, or her hat. It's simply not done. She would know that, if she weren't such a silly, clueless, normal sort.

"Well, then." Her look is strangely challenging, but nothing compared to the sort of glare I can summon when I choose. "Shall we go?"

I nod coolly. "As you wish."

And so, the holiday begins - much good may it do either of us.

Imogen Drill:

I have never seen Constance Hardbroom in a car before. I wonder if she's ever been in a car before. She sits bolt upright (of course she does) in the passenger seat of the car I've hired for the week, and regards the motorway with the sort of cool, unflinching gaze which she normally reserves for misbehaving first-years. At least she's taken her hat off, if only because it wouldn't fit in under the roof. I'm sure she won't hesitate to put it back on again as soon as we stop anywhere.

We drive in silence - quite a stony silence, in her case. I strongly suspect that when we do talk to each other, it will only be to argue.

And yet, I feel oddly happy, happy to be here with her, happy at the prospect of a week in her company, even if we will do nothing but squabble during it.

I may as well be honest. I have...how can I put it?...a bit of a thing for her. A crush sort of thing. Maybe even a love sort of thing. Who wouldn't, if they knew her? I couldn't tell you how it started; it feels as if it's been there forever, a little corner of my heart reserved just for her.

Oh, of course I've tried to deny it; I know nothing could ever come of it. Quite apart from anything else, I'm convinced she absolutely hates me. I don't always like her. She drives me mad.

Would I find her so annoying if I didn't love her?

I must be out of my mind going on holiday with her - yet I can't deny that my heart leapt when I realised it was going to be just the two of us. Why? It's not as if anything could ever happen. She's Constance Hardbroom; I'm me; never shall the twain meet, except maybe to exchange harsh words.

"I thought we might stop off and have lunch in a pub on the way," I break the silence to say.

She looks at me askance, as if I have suggested we stop off at a cheap hotel and book a room for an hour. Shut up, brain.

"I do not frequent that sort of establishment."

I sigh. "It's not a...den of iniquity. It's only like a restaurant. We've got to have lunch somewhere."

She gives me the look she usually reserves for particularly idiotic students. "Very well, then. It is your holiday as well. Carry on, Miss Drill - to the pub!"

Well, that's not something I ever thought I'd hear Constance Hardbroom say.