Author's Notes: I started this months ago in response to a prompt on tumblr (see summary). It went on hold as I had to work on other projects; I finished it the other day and edited it enough that I can put it up. (If you see any mistakes, please gently alert me to them and I will be grateful!) I'm posting it in a few little chapters because after years of long HP stories posted as one chapter, I have more fun posting things in chapters over a few days.

Thank you, always, for the support of my tumblr friends and fabulous fandom. It may be little, but it's one of the best fandoms around; there's no place more welcoming.

Reviews are always *so* appreciated!

It was a chilly night at Cackle's Academy. The students would have argued the vast inaccuracy of this assessment and pointed out that it went far beyond the average British understatement: if it was a 'chilly' night in town, it was downright frigid up at Castle Overblow. Few students articulated their complaints as curfew had passed hours ago and even the senior girls had tucked themselves up in bed, after casting trivial warming spells, and subsequently fallen asleep. (They would likely awaken hours later complaining of heat, as if they had fallen asleep in an oven, and chuck off their jumpers—only to retrieve them again later as part of a vicious cycle.)

None of this concerned Constance Hardbroom overly much. A bit of chill was good for the girls—it built character, even with the tradition-defying glass installations—and it hardly touched her, covered as she was from neck to toes in multiple layers. It was even less of a concern as she reclined in the glow of one of the perks of the job: a blazing fire in the staff workroom.

Constance peeked toward her usual workstation—a writing desk in the corner—and back to the flickering flames near her feet. In the evenings she was not so opposed to relaxing a little into one of the armchairs for her marking. She sat with her legs tucked up beneath her, shoes long forgotten on the floor, as she steadily circled and annotated the parchments tacked to her clipboard.

While she would normally have observed any intrusions, the moment found her thoroughly engaged with the paper before her and the general peace of her surroundings.

'I see you're actually using that thing.'

Constance started at the sound and abruptly looked up, hastily pinpointing the destroyer of her peace and solitude. Imogen Drill lounged against the closed door, her smile faint in the flickering light.

'Yes, well,' Constance began. She shifted the papers on her lap and moved as if to get more comfortable; despite that, her new posture was clearly less relaxed than the last. She tapped the clipboard, a gift from Imogen after she caught the witch using a book beneath her marking. 'It has its uses.'

Imogen laughed at the tone, which additionally implied that Imogen had her limited uses as well, though perhaps this moment did not prove it. Imogen marvelled at the way Constance could convey so much in so few words: it was all in the tone, expression and posturing. Constance could be quite calculating in that way.

'You'll go blind working like this,' Imogen commented as she moved to the opposing armchair. 'Beats me how the lot of you live with no electricity. I could stub my toe in this dark and here you are deciphering student scribbles.'

Constance stared at her, not quite sure where to begin with her scorn. 'I'm not sure what your hap-hazard clumsiness has to do with centuries of successful tradition, but I assure you there's no need to worry after my eyesight. Hours of reading these "scribbles" and I can see you're about to—'

But she was too late. A sound rang through the staffroom and likely ricocheted down the corridor: the sound of a cat screeching.

Imogen ducked down, murmuring sounds of apology as she moved. 'I'm sorry, Morgana, I didn't see you there in the shadows. I'm terribly sorry.'

'Perhaps if you paid more mind to your feet than my aged eyes,' Constance snapped, unimpressed and downright furious.

'To be fair, you could have warned me sooner if you saw it coming—'

'Oh yes, please do blame me for your inability to simply walk across a room without causing feline distress and cacophony.'

Imogen reached to mollify the cat or at least tempt her out from beneath the armchair. In the process, she knocked over Constance's boots.

'But I see you're not quite done wreaking havoc,' she added tersely. 'By all means, don't let me stop you.'

'I'm sorry Constance, I didn't mean to—'

'I'm not interested in your intent when your impact is what sets my cat off. She'll be grooming all night at this rate. For goodness' sake, let her be! Waving your arm in her face like that—you couldn't possibly think that would help?'

Imogen pulled herself upright and sat on her haunches, having finally been reacquainted with her own temper. 'Yes, since clearly I'm no expert on cats or witches or anything traditional. And it's not as though you'd let me get a word in edgewise—'

'Because your words are supposed to be so valuable to me?' Constance challenged. She stared down at Imogen from her perch up on the armchair. Imogen's hands were knocked away as Constance lowered her feet down to the floor. She scooped up her shoes in her free hand and walked to the door. 'I'll take my leave of your innocent intents and undervalued words, now, and try for some peace of mind or sleep—but more likely soothing my poor cat's nerves. Pleasant evening, Miss Drill.'

Constance called to Morgana only once and the cat came slinking after her, shooting looks back at Imogen over the betrayal.

Imogen sighed and drew in a long breath as the two disappeared down the corridor.

'Well that went according to plan,' she said to the empty room. She stood to take a seat in one of the armchairs and noticed that the clipboard had been left on the seat. The tool had apparently outgrown its usefulness.

Imogen flopped down into the other armchair and stared into the fire. All at once it came to her, the similarities between people and their pets. Constance was no more drawn to Imogen's words and failed actions than Morgana, but between the pair of them, there was hope to be had. Imogen suddenly understood the best way to earn Constance's trust, or approval, or at least something bordering on positive.

The following evenings found Imogen in the library, with one trip into town on her off hours. She didn't approach the staffroom again in the evening until she felt sufficiently prepared.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it; please let me know if you did. (: