Authors Note: A short little introduction to a fic that I have just started writing set in the aftermath of "The Inspector Calls" following a little idea that appeared amongst my doodles and refused to go away! Will hopefully update soon -quick little word of thanks to Long Vodka for playing ping pong with me over some ideas on this one.

Reviews always welcomed!

The heavy main doors of Cackle's Academy shut with a reassuring clunk, the whistling autumnal draft being stoppered by the dense oak timbers, banishing the Academy's unwanted visitor out into the cold, the tall, imposing witch staggering away across the stone cobbles and muttering darkly beneath her breath as she wrapped her thick travelling cloak around herself and took no time in mounting her awaiting broomstick and rising elegantly into the sky.

Hecketty Broomhead did not accept defeat well, there was not an iota of lenience granted towards personal failure within the constraints of her demanding regime, however the sudden, painful reminder of her past had been more than enough to silence her usually acerbic tongue, stilling the threats in her throat and forcing her to comply meekly to the demands of Amelia Cackle without further questioning. She knew that she would do anything, including falsifying the assessment results of that disastrous educational establishment to prevent the public outcry that would envelop her if she and Wilhelmina Wormwood were found to be one and the same….

Xxx

Constance Hardbroom sank slowly into the welcoming comfort of the patched, faded armchair in the reassuring safety of the staffroom, both physically and mentally exhausted after the unexpected re-emergence of her feared tutor. She had felt her old wounds opening up one by one, the silver threads tearing open into searing, gashes which bled profusely in a never ending torrent of painful recollections and remorse as she was subjected to devastatingly familiar, icy, withering look of contempt as that their eyes had met once again, the clipped tones of her former tutor that she had hoped to never hear again boring into her relentlessly, forcibly dragging her darkest recollections to the surface of her laden mind. A brief return to the living hell that she had experienced at the brutal hands of that harsh, unrelenting woman.

She gratefully accepted a steaming, willow-patterned cup of tea from Amelia, her slender hands shaking so much that the porcelain cup juddered audibly within the restraints of the saucer as she fought to maintain her grip upon the delicate object, struggling to maintain her usual calm, dignified façade before the worried expression of her concerned colleague. A particularly violent tremor from her shaking wrist dislodged the vessel from its resting place and the cup plummeted to the floor, smashing into smithereens as the scalding brown liquid pooled untidily amongst the ruins on the stone floor.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped, abruptly snapping her fingers and deftly catching the newly re-formed cup as it sprang back into her hand from the floor, "Please forgive my carelessness, Amelia…"

Amelia Cackle surveyed the trembling woman carefully, deeply troubled by the flickering glimpse of fear and uncertainty that had been plaguing her usually indestructible deputy head ever since the announcement of the Of Witch Inspection, but now, she knew that Constance's fear was entirely understandable, having witnessed the intense, raging insanity of Wilhelmina Warlock first-hand. Heaven knows what atrocities she had committed as a personal tutor, and to think how different things had been initially…

"She's gone, Constance," she placed a caring arm around the stiff, unyielding shoulders of her deputy head in a bid to comfort her, "Gone for good!"

A faint, disbelieving shuffle beneath her outstretched limb informed her that Constance wasn't quite as confident in that statement as she was.

She stared up at Amelia cautiously, biting back the stream of questions that she longed to express, an agonised expression of despair spreading slowly across her gaunt features as the vivid memories of her time spent at the infamous Witch Training College began to resurface in alarming clarity, dis-jointed images of the dark cells, the non-existent chinks of light, the dank, damp, mould- infested living quarters and the constant noise of the inhuman screaming- oh the screaming! The heart-wrenching, ear-splitting symphony of pain and anguish that had echoed so frequently within the bare walls of the legalised torture chambers as the inmates shrieked and pleaded for mercy in the chosen key of the sadistic maestro that was Hecketty Broomhead.

She choked as blazing tears began to well up behind her resisting hazel eyes, stubbornly wiping the back of her bony hand across her eyes before her feelings could be betrayed by the cowardly tears. A simple question fell unopposed from between her lips, an almost pleading tone present as she sought some form of company and understanding within her lonely distress.

"You knew her?"

The simple question was fearful, yet curious as she sought to further her understanding of the demonic witch who had so nearly drained her very existence away from her.

Amelia sighed heavily as she soothed Constance's tears from her soft cheeks with a gentle caress of her wrinkled hand.

"Oh, I knew Wilhelmina Wormwood very well indeed," she replied grimly, her revelation accompanied by a harsh, humourless bark of laughter that escaped humourlessly from within her as the bitter memories of her past resurfaced once more.

"For quite some time, she was my best friend in the entire world."

Constance let out an audible gasp of shock as she stared at Amelia, incapable of speech at the knowledge that her friend and sole confident had been friends with that monster! That soulless torturer who had almost crushed the final, wavering spark of life from within her!

"What?" she breathed urgently, clutching tightly onto the Headmistress's wrist in panic, desperately wishing that her disbelieving ears were not hearing the damning statement that hung uneasily in the air between the two women, "Amelia, what on earth?"

Amelia exhaled slowly as she met the fear-stricken gaze of her deputy head.

"It's a very long story, it was all an incredibly long time ago…" she began to protest wearily before Constance interrupted her abruptly.

"Tell me," she whispered quietly, still gently enough to be considered a request for knowledge rather than a demand, but with an added degree of insistence as she sought the opportunity to provide stillness to her racing mind and lay the eternal fears and doubts over her past that plagued her continually to rest, to finally begin to address the agonising thorn in her side that was Hecketty Broomhead.

"Please..." a faint plea escaped from between her dark lips as her tear-laden eyes stared unblinkingly into the pale blue depths of Amelia's eyes, the woman who held the previously unreachable key to beginning to understand her past, the opening of the path to understanding Hecketty Broomhead, her steady, determined rise to notoriety and the adoption of her vindictive, brutal methods.

One loved, one revered, one hated, but all respected in their own ways. The three golden girls of the esteemed Witch Academy, the pick of their generation, their impeccable academic performance showing them to be destined for greatness. The inseparable trio of friends who were Phyllis Pentangle, the highly intelligent orator and chanter who had gone on to found Pentangles Academy single-handedly, a thriving and eminently respected school, Amelia, the gentle, nurturing witch with the amazing capacity for experimental spells who had inherited her proud grandmother's ancient institution, Cackle's Academy, and Wilhelmina Wormwood, the unnervingly quiet, focused young girl who was the thrice winner of the All-European Witch Schools' award for Advanced Potions before she reached the tender age of fourteen, the small, introverted little girl with the long pigtails who had secretly undergone the terrifying transformation into the legendary educator Hecate Broomhead, head of the famed WTC, the highly selective training college that was the only establishment that stood upon equal ground academically with the illustrious Weirdsister College. How differently they had all turned out, reflected Amelia as she sat with her arm around the trembling shoulders of Constance Hardbroom, unable to ignore the hauntingly beseeching look that was present in abundance in her hazel eyes.

She relented and settled comfortably into a neighbouring chair, bracing her fingers together arms across her plump frame as she began to recount the distant memories of her schooldays, her warm, friendly voice washing over Constance who was visibly clinging on to her every word as her gentle tones effortlessly painted the vivid descriptions of the senior witches past, shades of colour appearing within the previously sketchy, monochrome outlines as her steady narration began to untangle the web of intrigue that surrounded the murky background of the feared witch.

To be continued…