Disclaimer: The Worst Witch is property of Jill Murphy, HBO, and probably many others I know not of. No profit, etc.
Crooked Comfort
by Veruka
It had been questioned more than once why Drusilla Paddock socialised with Ethel Hallow, oft times by the same sort of people -- the decent sort, in truth. Those basically good at heart; the ones who seek out friendships as pigs root for truffles, and are always willing to forgive and forget, if the wicked person in question is prepared to mend his or her dishonourable ways. Merely another bribe in a prettier package, really, but even wicked people have their somewhat backwards senses of integrity.
"Why do you let her push you around?" they sometimes asked (though the thought of anyone pushing Drusilla around was amusing in and of itself). "She puts you down all the time. Why are you still friends with her?" Not that Drusilla was the nicest person around in the first place, but stations are always given regardless, and hers happened to fall only slightly short of Ethel's in matters of wickedness. They scented that small weakness, and found it noble to play craftily off of it.
But wicked people, by nature, tend to be just a touch more complex than the decent, even the simpler-minded ones. They perceive things differently than most, and are thus more prone to finding contentment in crooked sorts of things. 'Friend' is one of the blurrier words, and it can smear any number of ways -- sometimes all ways, which was the way it was for Drusilla and Ethel.
To others, Ethel spoke in contemptuous tones, and all of her words were synonyms for 'scorn'. To Drusilla, Ethel spoke in truths, and what is it that people search for in a friend if not honesty? They complimented each other, brains and brawn, Ethel speaking with brutal honesty and Drusilla being honestly brutal, and they could see that they did, and they appreciated one another for it. They were truthfully, honestly best friends -- it was simply the sort of honesty that others had trouble comprehending.
Drusilla wasn't the shiniest cauldron in the shop when it came to mental ability. She knew this, and Ethel knew this, and therefore it was of no consequence to either of them to comment on it. It was simply the truth, and it pleased them both in that crooked sort of way where each insult was a treasured reassurance of loyalty to each other. The line between friend and enemy became blurred like a lovely watercolour, with one fact smudging the paint only just in a third, clearer direction. Through insults and giggles, the common ground of insulting others and taking pleasure in it (again, honesty; decent people never know when to spot a proper olive branch even when it's being waved right in front of their faces), one thing remained pure and true as glass: they were genuinely fond of one another, more fond than anyone ever knew.
Certainly it was common knowledge that they were Miss Hardbroom's favourites, and though she would discipline them as necessary, in their later years at Miss Cackle's Academy for Witches it was never made known how often she would find Drusilla's room empty during her nightly checks to be sure that the girls were all in bed. Technically, Drusilla was in a bed, despite it not being her own, and Constance Hardbroom never needed to check Ethel's room when she found the other girl's empty. Girls will be girls, after all, and Miss Hardbroom was not about to deny her two best pupils their affections for each other when they were so often the target of others' disdain, even if they did bring it upon themselves more often than not. She, too, had long walked the path of crooked integrity, though from her severely traditionalist demeanour, many never cared to notice.
In soft, truthful kisses and tender motions, Drusilla found in Ethel the best sort of friendship -- blurred, wrapped in shadows and kept in secret. Honesty and loyalty, insults and affirmations, a perfect language that they and they alone could understand. It's a wonder how anyone could ever ask why Drusilla Paddock socialised with Ethel Hallow, when the answer is so obviously simple: understanding. Little swirls of lyric passed back and forth in flawless rhythm, and everything and everyone else was nothing more than a bit of background noise, like the buzzing of a fly. How could they not be haughty, disparaging remarks exchanged and all, when the orchestra was so inferior compared to the singers? One cannot compare the static on a record to the song set against it.
Both would leave Cackle's eventually, of course, and they would go their seperate ways. But the insults would remain, and they sought comfort in the knowledge that someone, somewhere, was appreciating that honesty. They didn't have to look far to find it; all they had to do was switch on a radio, pick out the song amidst the static, and a crooked smile of the utmost integrity was never far behind.