Hi all

Just a oneshot about Constance and Imogen's first meeting.

Sorry I keep leaving things up in the air – I WILL finish New Year's Eve (probably next NYE, ha!), and I will get on with BellaT soon, promise.

When Constance Met Imogen

It was a Monday morning at Miss Cackle's Academy for Witches, and the corridors dozed in the sort of half-slumber that accompanied the first lesson of the day. The post-assembly bustle had died down, and Mr Blossom could be heard whistling a merry tune as he stacked chairs in the hall. From the music room came the sound of girls chanting, and elsewhere Miss Cackle's voice swooped above the chatter of her Spells lesson. Outside the staffroom, Constance Hardbroom peered through the slightly ajar door until her eyes found the object of her curiosity. Her heart gave an involuntary flip as she retreated noiselessly down the stone steps.

So there she was. Their new gym mistress. Imogen Drill.

She didn't look like an Imogen, Constance thought, rendering herself invisible and sidling into the room for a closer look. She wasn't sure what Imogens looked like, but it wasn't young and svelte and blonde and – well – normal. She'd imagined some hoity-toity public school madam who'd had it drummed into her that the world owed her a living and it ought to know it. She hadn't expected the elfin features, the delicate jewellery or the kindly gaze that was being cast over the school's rather slapdash prospectus. After observing her for several seconds, Constance winced as her new colleague paused at the full-sized picture of the Deputy Headmistress that Constance loathed so intensely, yet which Amelia insisted had its place in the brochure, alongside the obligatory waffle about her (extensive) qualifications and experience. Only just in time did she stop herself lunging forward to seize the brochure from Miss Drill's grasp, reminding herself what the likely effects of such an inexplicable occurrence would be on a non-magician...

'Constance Hardbroom...' Miss Drill whispered into the air, as if trying the name on for size. Constance stiffened, feeling a chill surge through her veins and she waited breathlessly lest the gym mistress should speak again. She wondered, against her own better judgement, if she'd been sent undercover by the Witches Guild and had in fact detected her presence... But after scrutinising the photo with a vague smile, Miss Drill turned the page.

xxx

Miss Cackle had not involved her Deputy in the interview process, as Constance had made her objections to the idea of employing a PE teacher more than clear. In her opinion, the girls benefitted perfectly well from their twice-weekly ramble across the meadow to pick herbs. And when Constance had heard via Davina that Amelia was considering a non-witch for the position, the Potions Mistress had vowed to have nothing to do with the woman when she arrived. It wasn't that she had anything against non-magicians, of course - Frank and Maria had been employed by the school since before Constance had arrived herself, and for the former at least, retirement loomed. However, they both knew their place and had little involvement with the girls. But a non-magical teacher would potentially expose the girls to all sorts of newfangled ideology from the so-called "real world". Cackle's girls were not ordinary girls; they were from well-heeled families; they were young ladies who had not been (and should never be, as far as Constance was concerned) subjected to the indelicacies of the male species; and above all they were apprentice witches who would in time learn of the prejudice of the non-magical world, and how to protect themselves from it. Fraternisation with non-magicians from an impressionable age was not conducive to the disciplined lifestyle required of a dedicated, practising witch.

Constance moved silently back out into the corridor, where she reappeared and re-entered the staffroom with all the nonchalance of someone who barely had time for meeting and greeting.

'Ah, Miss Drill, I presume? I am Constance Hardbroom, Deputy Headmistress. I trust you are being attended to?'

Miss Drill had clambered nervously to her feet and extended a hand, which Constance duly ignored as she swept over to the book cabinet.

'Er, yes. Imogen.' Miss Drill retracted the hand with a sheepish smile. 'Your chanting teacher was just going to fetch the key to the sports shed so I can get started on it and...' her voice trailed off as she realised Miss Hardbroom wasn't listening; the witch was now stooping down to run a finger along the leather-bound spines of books until she found the one she was looking for.

'What was that?' Constance's tone was irritable. 'Oh – yes, Miss Bat. Well, I wouldn't wait too long for her to reappear. She'll have forgotten all about you by now and will probably have found a derelict birds' nest to sing to in the forest.'

Miss Drill's expression was one of bemusement.

'Oh, never mind. Come with me. I'll unlock the shed myself.'

'But... if we don't have the ke-'

Constance was already sweeping out of the room, aware that Miss Drill was hotly – if a little hesitantly– on her tail. Her lip curled into a satisfied smile as she breezed along the corridor with authority. Oh, how she loved to make a lasting first impression...

xxx

The ancient doors of the sports shed were locked fast. With a brief flick of Constance's spellcasting fingers, the latch could be heard to slide across. Turning the handle, she was not surprised to see the aghast expression on Miss Drill's face.

'But you just – how did you –?'

'Please tell me Miss Cackle thought it prudent to mention that we are a witch Academy?' sighed Constance.

'We'll yes, but – I mean don't you have wands?'

'Oh, been reading Harry Potter, have we?' Constance rolled her eyes and heaved open the door, making a face as the scent of dust and aged wood assaulted her nostrils. 'No, Miss Drill. Magic is in the blood, not a misshapen piece of wood purchased from a high street shop.'

Miss Drill squeezed curiously past her into the shed. Constance watched, noting how the cobwebs and the rickety fittings did not seem to curtail the young woman's enthusiasm.

'This is great,' she beamed. 'Just the sort of thing I needed at my old school but they didn't have the space to provide. Give me a bucket and mop and I'll have it sparkling in no time.' She glanced over her shoulder to the Deputy. 'Or you could just "magic" it all for me, I suppose?'

Miss Drill's break-the-ice gesture clearly did little to impress Miss Hardbroom, and her grin faded under the steely glare of the silhouette in the doorway.

'Or... perhaps not.'

xxx

When Imogen Met Constance

Well, Imogen had to admit, her first day had been rather a fruitful one. She'd managed to get about halfway through her planned labours in the sportshed (it was now as spotlessly clean as a decaying brick and plinth lean-to could be), and she'd arranged her collection of deflated basketballs, netball bibs and other sporting paraphernalia in a corner, ready to sort through in the morning. As she wandered across the yard in the half-light of the evening, Imogen shuddered against the chill, wrapping her bare, goose-pimpled arms about waist and trying to force down the nervous feeling that periodically crept over her regarding tomorrow morning's assembly. It would be the first time she'd be "on display" to the girls, and Miss Cackle had asked her to say a few words about herself, her experience and her hopes for her time at the Academy. Public speaking was not Imogen's forte; unlike, she contemplated, Miss Hardbroom, whose cut-glass accent and clipped, brisk tones had implied that she was probably very used to it and very good at it. And, strangely enough, it was the thought of speaking in front of that woman that had played on her mind all day: as she'd cleared the cobwebs from the crevices of the shed; as she'd nibbled half-heartedly on her home-made sandwich in the empty staffroom; as she'd fought to lock the lopsided doors to her new - if draughty - sanctuary. Come on Imogen, she thought to herself as she stepped into the building, smiling up at the group of first years who were huddled at the top of the stairs to get a glimpse of her. Don't be intimidated. This is your chance to turn over a new leaf – to stand up for yourself. She's not The Firebrand Pyke, after all. How bad can she be?

The staffroom door groaned as she pushed it open. The only sounds from within were the ticking of the clock and the scratching of a quill on parchment. The table was deserted, and it took Imogen a moment to realise that Miss Hardbroom was in fact hunched over a small desk behind the door.

'Oh, hi,' said Imogen, lightly. 'Sorry if I'm interrupting. I just thought I'd get a cup of tea before dinner. Would you like one?'

Constance took her time to stop what she was doing before turning in her seat, hitching her fingers over the back of it and giving Imogen a scrutinising look. Her gaze stopped at her trainers, on which she bestowed a hard stare.

'Do you ever wear anything more... elegant, Miss Drill?'

Imogen's eyes trailed down to her feet.

'Well, I don't wear these if I go out on a date!' she laughed, uncomfortable that Constance didn't. What sort of question was that, anyway?

'Hmm,' murmured Miss Hardbroom, in a tone that suggested she highly doubted the last statement to be true. She laid down her quill and rose to her feet. 'At Cackle's, we place a very high value on presentation,' she said, smoothly. 'Far be it from me to criticise another staff member's choice of attire; but I do think that, for the purposes of consistency and etiquette, at the end of your working day you should change into something more befitting to a formal environment.'

Imogen couldn't believe what she was hearing. A disbelieving smile crept over her lips.

'Are you saying you find my sportswear offensive?'

Constance's gaze lingered hesitantly over Imogen's bare midriff.

'There's a little too much... flesh.'

Imogen huffed and zipped up her Lycra running jacket.

'There. Better?'

The Deputy's eyes moved down to Imogen's exposed limbs.

'And rather a lot of leg show.'

'I'm sorry, Miss Hardbroom – you seem have a problem because I'm not clad head to tail in black. I teach PE! I can hardly run around sweating in a boiler suit, can I?' Constance was clearly trying to suppress the amusement that this image conjured in her mind. 'Well?'

'If you will cast your mind back a few moments, I was not suggesting you wear alternative clothing when carrying out your duties. Merely that you dress more appropriately in the staffroom. You may have been allowed to parade around half-dressed at your previous school, but this, I can assure you, is not an ailing inner-city comprehensive and you would do well to remember that.'

'Oh would I?' Imogen goaded, taking a step closer so that the two women were almost nose-to-nose. 'Well seeing as you presume to know so much about me, Miss Hardbroom, I'll tell you what I've ascertained about you, shall I? You're a workaholic who devotes every waking hour of your life to this place, though hardly through choice as I doubt you have many distractions. Judging by your less than sunny disposition, you remain about as remote from those around you as our closest neighbouring galaxy, and given your somewhat – shall we say – demure couture, you're more frigid than a Victorian nun. I'd guess you were either an only-child or an orphan - in either case brought up by those who did little to nurture sensitivity. And you think anyone who isn't a witch isn't worth spitting on!'

Imogen kept her eyes locked to Constance's, whose expression remained impenetrable. My God, she thought, aware that her heart was pulsing eratically in competition with the steady tick of the clock. Where did all that come from? And who did she think she was, anyway, talking to her new Deputy Headmistress like that? She'd burnt her bridges before she'd even started, and if she wasn't careful this woman would see to it that she fell – and hard.

As the moments laboured on, Imogen was sure she sensed a vague letup of tension in the air, and Miss Hardbroom moved slightly back as though considering her next move from a more long-term angle. Imogen felt a qualm in her stomach. At that moment the door opened and Miss Cackle appeared.

'Ah, ladies!' She paused, noticing the wavering standoff. 'Everything all right?'

Constance eyes widened a fraction, silently daring Imogen to relay their conversation.

'Absolutely, Miss Cackle,' replied Imogen with an uneasy smile. 'Miss Hardbroom and I were just getting to know each other a little better.'

xxx

Constance closed the book she was reading and placed it on her bedside cabinet. She took a deep breath, releasing it along with the strains of the day. Miss Drill flickered through her mind, and Constance turned her gaze in the direction she knew her room to be. Settling back into her pillows, she decided she'd discovered quite enough about their new gym mistress for one day. Miss Drill was outspoken, opinionated and potentially obnoxious. She rose to a challenge, and challenged in return. She was independent-minded, articulate and unsettlingly intuitive...

And Constance liked her.

Never in a month of Sundays would she admit it; but she liked her.

xxx

END

Hope you enjoyed! Thanks for reading.