Constance most certainly had not been listening as Amelia Cackle had been droning on in her usual monotone, and somewhere deep in the potion teachers thoughts, Constance was reliving old memories, memories she loved, and memories she would do best to forget. Both miss Bat and miss Gimlet were giving the headmistress all the attention she deserved and her words half passed through the deputy's mind. That was until the name. The two words sent Constances senses into action, trying to come up with exactly what had been the topic of discussion. No, she couldn't possibly of heard correctly! But how else could she explain the crackle of electricity that shot through her veins at that exact moment.
"What did you say?!" The intensity of Miss Hardbrooms question stunned the three witches before her, never had any one of them heard her use such a desperate, anxious voice. The charms mistress looked back down through her glasses, reading the application note through again for her.
" 'I am hoping to bring great benefits to the school, as I truly believe that I could pass my own talents unto them, a vital subject I am sure they will enjoy and learn from' signed 'Imogen Drill'" The tall witch silently gasped, unable to believe it. No, she couldn't believe it, it was impossible.
"Have you really been listening to this Constance?" Miss Gimlet tilted her head, unable to read the very shocked expression the deputy head wore.
" A non-witch, applying at Cackles Academy... I love the idea!" Davina squealed, in the midst of playing the percussion, with the teaspoon on the sugar bowl, annoying Miss Gimlet greatly.
"It just can't be..." The witch was practically paralysed, with no focus in her dark, mysterious eyes, as she slumped back into the chair. Every inch of colour drained her face, leaving her a stationary statue of ivory.
(Many years earlier)
'One more year to go... After this one' Constance thought bitterly, biting her lip as she flew into school after the end of the holidays, unable to wait until the /next/ holidays, after the weary term. Already far from home and she missed her little sister. Penelope Hardbroom had been sent to Pentangles after Constance had came home covered in cuts and scars and black and brown bruises that mortified her widow mother. After that, she had tried to withdraw her daughter from the school, but... It wasn't granted, of course it wasn't , not with Mistress Broomhead as headmistress. And now, Constance brushed away the salty tears, knowing her form mistress would scold her as soon as she hit the ground, and crying, was the very last thing to do in front of Mistress Hecketty Broomhead. Of course there were small highlights of school, she was excelling highly in potions, and of course, her friends, Priscilla and Lavender. But of course she hated the school, she despised the witch that haunted her dreams, that had burdened her to hate herself, especially her body, she hated her bruised arms, she hated her scarred back and she hated her skinny, weak frame. Her mother had desperately fed her, as the young girl was dreadfully thin, looking like she had been starved. Constance Hardbroom had been starved, the whole time she had been isolated in the head mistresses wardrobe ( this past feeling had caused her to despise miss Bats hibernation in there, knowing too well, the place was one where her own nightmares took place ). The young girl cleared her thoughts, just before her eyes widened in pure horror, forcing herself to keep her balance as she landed, effortlessly, not meeting Mistress Broomheads gaze. Lining up in silence, the student made sure everything was right. Her hat wasn't jaunty, her cape fastened properly, broom had been tendered to, boot laces fastened and her face clean. Nothing could possibly go wrong.
" Constance Hardbroom!" The shrill voice tore its way inside of her as iron fingers bore into her shoulder, causing the young witch to wince as pressure had been placed rather brutally on already existing bruises.
" y-yes, Mistress Broomhead?" It was just more than a whimper, as Constance raised her head , not able to meet her ice cold eyes.
" look at me when I'm speaking to you!" The superior witch barked and forced the young girls head upwards. There was no sound, all the other pupils had lined up formally in rows not making a singl noise, trying to have an emotionless face. " Your boot laces are undone again, Constance" she tutted, shaking her head, disappointed, not taking notice of the confused look on her petrified face.
" untied miss? I am absolutely positive I had tied them. I even checked after I landed, Miss Broomhead."
" are you calling me a liar?" Constance shivered at the harsh voice as the woman's long nailed dug into the back of her neck. " see for yourself then" indeed, they were undone... But had been done up only seconds before. Magic.
" that's not fair, you did that on purpose!" Lavender had been standing one person away from her left, and she leaned over to inconspicuously tap her wrist, as her best friend shook her head, clearly telling her to stop.
" Lavender Feverfew is right, Constance surely shouldn't three years here have taught you how to speak to your superiors?" Constance shivered and hung her head. " Detention girl, after classes, my office!" She barked marching away.
"Are you okay?" Lavender had switched places with the girl beside her and reassuringly took her friends hand worried.
" fine," she whispered back " it's those sharp nails though " her fingers lightly brushed the stinging nail marks on the back of her neck.
" you mean claws?" The smaller witch giggled.
" you mean talons? " Priscilla Blackwood had somehow appeared unnoticed on the other side of constance, and the three quietly laughed. The students would stand in perfect formation until the first years had arrived, then they would all proceed to dinner. Mistress Charmwell was what other people could class as the 'school bus' or 'tour guide' for the first years, so they'd all arrive together. Except for those who couldn't handle their brooms. They were left behind. Couldn't fly? couldn't go to this school, headmistresses orders.
It was like a flock of ravens, flying towards them, black silhouettes on a faint water-coloured blue sky. As the first years landed, it was almost impossible for the three pupils to not start picking things out that would anger Mistress Broomhead: the ribbon at the end of a long plait; Badges dotted on the cloak; pink love heart earrings; makeup; dazzling emerald eyes. Wait! What? She wasn't sure why the eyes had captured her attention... That was until she looked again. Bright, keen, slightly mischievous eyes, that were sure to grow dim and lifeless in this place. The girl had light blonde hair, completely natural, pulled back in a tight ponytail. Despite her keen eyes, her lightly tanned complexion seemed to go paler, at the sight of the silent, well presented crowd, as if she expected an ambush. Another five minutes of standing as a register was taken, and Constances soles were starting to ache.
"Donnelly, Eleanor?" A faint 'yes miss' had been murdered during a round of sneezes, and anyone could bet that it was the freezing cold broom ride. " Drill, Imogen?" The younger witch perked up at her name, smiling again.
"Here miss" her voice held certain power and importance to it, and Feverfew was impressed that anyone could have a sturdy voice in such a place as this.
There was something about this Imogen Drill. Something about her that Constance couldn't put her finger on.
" If Miss Broomhead sees you playing with your food you're done for," Lavender sat herself and her plate down beside Constance and Priscilla, opposite. Constance pushed the lump around her plate with her fork.
" I know, but it's...puke, on a plate!" the girls sniggered slightly. " wait a moment..." As Mistress Broomhead was cruelly correcting the first years on their postures, constance concentrated on the sickly plate in front of her. " alakazam, alakazoom."
" Constance! What are you doing?" Priscilla hissed, fiddling nervously with her blonde hair." You'll be in so much trouble if you get caught" still casting wary glances at the busy head, Constance bit into the cake.
"Hep yersef" the young witch mumbled through a mouth full of cake, and before long, the whole cake had been distributed up the table, with no evidence left of it.
"Honestly, if Miss Broomhead ever found out-"
"If I find what out, Lavender Feverfew? Well then... The girl who causes all the trouble," she turned to constance and the young witch tensed as the fearsome headteacher appeared from nowhere, immediately unscrewing a vial from her pocket, and pouring it into Constances water. Dark blue. They had covered identifying potions two years ago. And there was no mistaking that to be truth potion. "Drink" it was an order not an option. The brunette tentatively raised the glass to her lips. " drink it all" the shrill voice set every girl on edge, and there was deadly silence, all eyes staring, as she placed an empty glass back on the desk.
"Good! Now. What was it that I should not find out." There was a moment of thought, deep thought that shouldn't be happening under the potion.
"... The truth" the hall was in uproar of laughter and Heckety clenched her teeth.
" and what is the truth?" The old witch was most certainly impatient.
" not lying." More laughter, it was true but not the answer the old witch wanted.
"What happened Constance!?" The loud voice barked sharply and the girl swallowed.
"We ate cake, Miss Broomhead." Constance raised her eyes from the table just in time to see the blonde murdering a silent incantation, and she felt incredibly odd, the effects of the potion were already wearing off, surely it should've taken hours. And the most important question how did the first year know a spell like that? Actually the main reason was, why?
" and who is responsible for providing you with cake?" her shoulders drooped, she had no answer, she didn't have to tell the truth, but she ought to own up anyway.
"I did it." The words were hers, but the voice was not. And soon nobody's eyes were in her anymore but on the first year who had stood up, claiming the fate.
"You!?" She was screeching now, mainly in disbelief. " Sit down girl, you probably don't even know a spell like that" Constance bit back a giggle as she began to realise the seriousness of the situation. Imogen drill still stood defiantly, and stared at her own empty plate, so Mistress Broomhead couldn't prove her guilty of being guilty. Young Constance was deeply confused, as to why Imogen was being so nice, they hadn't even talked before.
"Yes Miss, I'll show you" And concentrating on another dish of cold corn beef casserole, she began chanting. Till there was a cake, the exact same as constances. Imogen hadn't even had a charming lesson yet, and was practically perfect already. For a moment her bright green eyes met the dark sincere brown ones, and a slight smile passed between them.
" Is this true Constance?" The young witch was still staring at the blonde, unable to bring herself to condemned the girl. She just couldn't. " well I'm waiting."
"Yes" she hated herself that moment onwards, after barely whispering the answer, and dropped her gaze. She knew what it was like to be hurt, to be at the receiving end on Broomheads wrath, but Imogen didn't, and now she had condemned her to hell, when she had just saved Constance.
Of all things Constance knew, how to fear someone, how to hide under her sheets at the fright and terror, mostly it was how to ignore the pain. And she knew. She knew everything that was taking place right then, sure she could hear the blondes tears call to her through the stone walls. She knew the agony, the younger witch was in her place her forehead pressed against the doors to support herself, so she didn't drop to the floor,biting her tongue as she cried out in pain, the nails, the knife, the grip. Mistress Hecketty Broomhead was a woman from hell, and she was never satisfied till the sobs were ringing in her ears like music. Constance felt her head jerk, unable to see the pretty young girl there, with the same imagery, when it was all for her, the bloodspill, was for her, the agony, was for her, the scars the bruises, all for her, but the tears that clouded the brunettes dark eyes, were for Imogen. The young witch sat on the edge of her bed, her dizzy head in her trembling hands, able to see everything, and knew it was a price that should never had to be paid. Nobody, especially not Imogen should have to pay such a heavy price on her behalf. She couldn't pretend she didn't know the excruciating torture. The blonde witch was in pain, in suffering... And it was all Constance Hardbrooms fault.
