Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch. The title, summary and inspiration comes from 'Hello' by Adele.
Warning: CONTAINS SLIGHT REFERENCE TO MISCARRIAGE/STILLBIRTH
A/N: Has anyone else broken the repeat button listening to Adele's new masterpiece or is it just me? No, seriously. I fell in love with the song as soon as I had first heard it and - suffering writers block for 39 Deg -my mind instantly began plotting a way to do something with it. This resulted in playing it again and again and again and again and; you get the picture.
Obviously, I know two women cannot make a baby so let's just assume that magic played its part somewhere.
Cheers m'dears to typicalRAinbow for her advice and little suggestions when I landed the previous draft of this on her earlier in the week.: )
The World Fell At Our Feet
Chapter One: All The Roads We Have To Walk Are Winding
The roaring fire had died away to nothing hours ago yet she had barely registered the coldness that was now seeping into her bones. It could be easily argued that this was because she was used to it. After all, one could hardly have lived in a constantly draughty castle for years and not have developed at least a certain level of immunity to the cold, but, this was not the case. It was quite simple really: she couldn't the feel biting chill that was in the air because the temperature was not the coldest thing in the room.
'Ice Queen'.
That was what the students of Cackle's used to call her; they had always believed that she had no idea but she knew, oh how she knew…
A heavy sigh escaped from her lips as she addressed the envelope in her trademark calligraphic style, turning the letter over, she gently placed it down on the table before she topped up her glass of wine, not even caring that she had barely eaten a thing all day. All it was missing now was a stamp but, other than that, it was ready to send.
Yes…
A bitter laugh, intermingled with a sob, stuck in her throat at the sheer ridiculousness of her own thoughts. I mean, really…
A stamp!
Who was she kidding?
Of course she wouldn't send it; she hadn't sent any of them.
It had been a year.
365 days.
Five hundred, twenty five thousand, six hundred minutes… and it was still as raw as when it had happened. It was said that time was a great healer but the trouble with time was that there was no end date.
To most, today was just one day out of 364 others but it was a date that would forever be carved deep into her heart, reminding her of how close she had come to having everything she had ever wanted, only to watch it all slip through her fingers. It had been dangled in front of her; a seemingly once impossible dream, and then it was cruelly ripped away. Her left hand subconsciously moved to her flat stomach and rested there for a few minutes.
Now, the tatters were all that remained of her happy ending.
She had felt the baby – their baby – growing inside of her; she had felt her kick. The pregnancy had not exactly been planned but once she had gotten over the initial shock, she had loved her so much, counting down the days until they would finally meet her; she had sworn to protect her every day of her life, only for the world to take her before they had even been given a chance.
That hour and fourteen minutes they had spent with their newborn daughter was the most beautiful and most heartbreaking moment of her life, all the other pain she had ever experienced had paled into insignificance. She had just looked like she was sleeping. She was so tiny; so perfect.
How had it all gone so wrong?
Heckitty Broomhead was right - she was useless!
The one thing that a woman was supposed to be able to do and she couldn't even get that right!
The aftermath was still somewhat of a blur for her but staff and students alike could tell you how worried they had been for the deputy's increasingly fragile state of mind; it wasn't the woman they had come to know.
It was as though she had given up completely
When the students had first heard that their potions teacher was pregnant, it hadn't sat right with many of them. They had accepted that their respective teachers were now in fact a couple, which was fine; it was sweet actually, but this was Constance Hardbroom for crying out loud – she was definitely not mother material!
The topic of how some had pitied the child had been discussed in whispered conversations, immature minds judging what they did not understand, blissfully unaware that the form mistress was standing in the shadows listening to their every word. That sound of the beaker smashing though, causing them to look up from their work, just in time to see their teacher protectively cradling her bump, a pitiful howl escaping from her lips as she had fallen to her knees in absolute agony, was an image that would stay with them for a long, long time.
Amelia Cackle could tell you how she had shut herself in her room, abandoning everything around her. For nearly two weeks, she had refused to say a word to anyone but the defeated look in her swollen and bloodshot eyes as they had stared, unblinking, into the distance had said more than any words ever could.
The headmistress had of course granted both her members of staff time off under such tragic circumstances but it had broken her heart to see the woman she had considered her own daughter in such a dangerously low place and equally to see one of her closest friends lose everything that she had held dear. There was nothing she could do except watch on as the couple had drifted beyond the point of breaking.
Davina Bat could tell you how she had refused to eat a thing, relying solely on her magic to sustain her, and that the only sleep she had gotten was through either crying herself into utter exhaustion or from the sleeping potion - she had pretended not to notice – stirred into her tea.
Imogen Drill could tell you how her girlfriend had clung to her for five days straight like a lost little girl before she had pushed her out and refused to let her back in.
Right from the start she had told Imogen she was no good; she had warned her she would only hurt her in the end.
At least that was one promise she hadn't broken.
Over the past few months, she had written many letters, and every single one of them had ended up in the exact same place: the drawer of her dressing table, where their only destiny was to lie there gathering dust and to never be read by the one whom they were intended. Not for the first time, she wondered, fleetingly, why she continued to bother at all.
Imogen would never see them.
Broomhead would have no doubt called it a complete waste of time and would have had no qualms in using physical violence to get her point across while she chastised her for daring to betray her emotions, gleefully whispering in her ear that she wasn't worthy of happiness and in the end had only gotten what she deserved. Whether it was madness or not though, she could not deny that writing those letters provided her with a outlet of release for her pain and even if the words would never be read, she wanted the gym-mistress to know how truly sorry she was for giving up on them. Imogen had been strong for the both of them but she had crumbled.
They had tried but every day was a constant reminder; every hour a pain crushing reality of what would never be.
It was too much.
Leaving had been selfish but not as selfish if she had stayed. She knew that her girlfriend would never ask her to go – the blonde had begged her to stay, she had pleaded with her, her cries heart-rending... but they had both needed time … time apart.
It was supposed to be few days; a week at most but, somehow, that week had turned into two.
Three weeks.
Four months
Seven months.
One year.
And now, going back wasn't so easy.
Was there even anything to go back for?
She would give almost anything just to hear her voice again, the whispers of sweet nothings -and dirty talk- in her ear in their more intimate moments. She missed her laugh; hell, she even missed that out-of-tune singing voice she used to tease her about.
Believe it or not, she missed their arguments because no one had ever fought with as much passion as she had, the tenacious personalities clashing and exploding in a mesh of different – yet so very similar ideals – and of course, after the fight, always came the making up…
She missed her touch and how she could always make her feel as though she was the most special woman in the world when she herself knew the exact opposite to be true. She missed their cuddles, how she – and only she – could calm her down after another childhood nightmare; stroking her hair as she whispered that she was safe and she would never let anyone hurt her.
She missed being able to look into those captivating eyes, they sparkled like emeralds in the sun and it was so beautiful to look at. When they had first found out they were expecting, she had secretly hoped there would be another green pair of eyes for her to fall in love with.
She missed her.
She missed them.
She missed what they had; what could have been.
It was too late now though, wasn't it?
Her hand shook as she picked up the receiver and dialled the number she had committed to memory - she had no idea whether it was even still active or not but, right now, it was all she had. Her heart was in her mouth and with every second that passed she began to feel more and more ill, her level of fear going into complete overdrive as a host of 'what if's' ran through her mind.
'What if she slams the phone down?'
'What if someone else picks it up...?'
'What if -'
This wasn't a good idea; it would blow up in her face.
'Hang up, Constance…don't do this; hang up.'
Her fingers wouldn't compute though.
She waited anxiously as it rang and rang until, eventually; a familiar voice was on the other end.
"Hello?"
She was a million miles away yet she still felt so close.
"…it's me."