Author's Note: Just a bit of HB-related fun. It occurred to me that it is only very rarely that anyone other than Miss Cackle calls her Constance; I'm pretty sure that in the original books, she doesn't even have a first name.
Ben Robinson and the Oakbeam Witchcraft Academy belong to me and are just paying a visit from the Land of Original Fiction. Miss Hardbroom, sadly, definitely does not belong to me. Alas and alack-a-day.
Miss Hardbroom was going on a date. It wasn't something she was either proud of or looking forward to; in fact, she sincerely hoped that no one would ever find out about it, least of all her pupils. She was a firm believer in the ideas of Machiavelli, and believed - no, knew - that it was better to be feared than to be loved, and that to show any weakness at all was to lose control. The date was nothing but a horrible accident, really; she had no desire whatsoever to go on it.
She had met Ben Robinson, a Potions teacher from the Oakbeam Witchcraft Academy, at a teacher training course near the close of the Christmas holidays. He was young, handsome, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, funny, kind to animals and passionate about his job. More than one witch on the course had cast amorous glances in his direction - but he, for some reason, had taken it into his head to eschew all of them and pursue Miss Hardbroom. No doubt, she thought, disdainfully, he was one of those caddish louts so used to getting their own way that an uninterested woman seemed like an exciting novelty.
He had spent the entirety of the three-day course endeavouring to chat her up, and she was pleased to say that she had remained entirely impervious. She had met his charm with nothing but crushing remarks and cool glances. And still he had been undaunted, and had at last issued her a challenge: she was clearly a very adept and knowledgeable witch, he said, and he was sure she was capable of reciting the entire formula for the famous Cleaning Spell, one of witchcraft's most notoriously difficult spells, without making a slip. And if by any chance she did make a slip - well, she would have to pay the forfeit, and let him take her out to lunch.
She should never have agreed. She should have told him that she had no more patience for silly games and forfeits than she had for romance, and gone her haughty way. But competitiveness was one of her weaknesses - her only weakness, she liked to think - and she had boldly gone into the recitation right then and there.
She knew the entire formula, of course she did, though it incorporated every letter of the alphabet and more twists and turns than a Celtic knot. But something about Ben's steady blue-eyed gaze had discomfited and distracted her; she had grown confused, missed a few values, and now - well, now she must pay the forfeit. She had at least managed to put it off for a while - a whole month - but now the thing had to be done, and he was to take her out to lunch that very Saturday - today, in other words. She was not looking forward to it.
And yet...
No one would have suspected it, but, behind the sombre black door bearing the nameplate "Miss C. Hardbroom" (that she had a first name came as a surprise to many; very few were permitted to actually refer to her by it, and then only when they had known her for a very long time), Miss Hardbroom was in a frenzy.
Should she wear her hair up or down? She usually wore it as up as possible, quite painfully up, but it did look nicer on the rare times when she wore it down. And her dress! All her dresses were black, of course, but she could easily magic one of them a different colour. She stood before the mirror and muttered spells, wincing at the sight of herself in pink. But very dark purple, perhaps? And make-up! Should she wear no more than her usual slash of deep red lipstick? Should she not even wear that, just to prove a point? Why was she even wondering what to wear to go out with a man she didn't even like?
She eventually settled for wearing her usual clothes, though she hardly felt entirely content in them. But still, she didn't want it to look as if she had made an effort, did she?
She had told him she would go to the Oakbeam Witchcraft Academy to meet him, rather than him coming to meet her. She had no desire to be seen by the staff and pupils of Cackle's Academy going about with a man. Besides, it would be easier to go to him. He knew nothing at all of teleportation, while Miss Hardbroom was an indisputable expert at the art - not, by the way, an easy art, or one that many witches were capable of mastering.
She threw on her cloak and picked up her broom, forked her fingers, folded her arms, concentrated - and the next moment, she was stood outside the door of the Oakbeam Witchcraft Academy.
She steeled herself for the ordeal to come, and rang the doorbell.
xxxx
Ben Robinson was in, to Miss Hardbroom's mind, rather unnecessarily high spirits. He actually seemed pleased to be with her.
"I know a wonderful pub we can go to," he said, brightly, and apparently oblivious to her stony glare, "You'll love it. Shall we take my car?"
Miss Hardbroom regarded him icily, and tapped her broomstick on the ground pointedly. "I never use a car."
"Oh. Oh, right." Ben looked from Miss Hardbroom to the broomstick and then back again, daunted at last. "Just...wait a minute, then. I'll just go and borrow a broomstick off someone."
"You mean to say you don't have a broomstick of your own?" said Miss Hardbroom, a staunch traditionalist and proud of it, in horrified tones.
"Well, no," admitted Ben, "I haven't ridden one for years - not since I passed my driving test. But, well! I expect it's one of those things you never forget how to do, isn't it?"
Miss Hardbroom gave vent to the sonorous tutting that she usually reserved for when her pupils hadn't done their homework. Ben only shrugged apologetically and headed back into the academy in search of a broomstick. One was at last found, and they set off in the drizzling rain, Ben a little nervous and wobbly at first, but quickly gaining in confidence. Miss Hardbroom, meanwhile, rode like a pro, sitting genteelly side-saddle, her back ramrod straight, her entire posture expressive of the most profound disdain.
And then - then! - Ben had the audacity to try to make conversation with her! As if having him sprawling untidily alongside her wasn't bad enough!
"I suppose," he said, conversationally, as he rode along beside her, clinging on as if borne by a bucking bronco rather than a broomstick, "That I ought to know your name, if I'm taking you out for lunch."
"You do know my name," snapped Miss Hardbroom, "It is Miss Hardbroom."
"Yes, but...that's rather formal, isn't it?"
"There's nothing wrong with being formal," said Miss Hardbroom, adding pointedly, "Mr Robinson."
He laughed a little awkwardly. "Call me Ben, please, everybody does. I can hardly call you Miss Hardbroom if I'm taking you out, can I? What's your first name?"
"My first name is none of your business," replied Miss Hardbroom, coolly, "I do not generally use it."
Ben was undaunted. "It begins with a C, doesn't it? Let me see...C for Charmaine? Caitlin? Corinna? Cressida? Charlotte? Charlotte's a nice name."
"Perhaps, then, you had better find a woman called Charlotte to foist your attentions on, Mr Robinson."
"Won't you give me a clue, Miss Hardbroom?"
"No, I certainly will not, Mr Robinson," said Miss Hardbroom, with finality - and they rode on in a stony silence. At least, Miss Hardbroom's silence was stony - Ben's, she observed, with a sinking heart, was more of the nature of a man who is plotting.
xxxx
"No, no, no, no, Mr Robinson!" said Miss Hardbroom, waving her finger admonishingly across the table at Ben, "You can't possibly say that the Cleaning Spell is impossible to get right. It is merely very, very difficult. The formula is quite sound. One just has to be careful with it. If, Mr Robinson, you have ever read Noblecourt's Livre sur la formule magique pour le ménage, you would know quite well that the Cleaning Spell has been successfully performed no less than ten times in the last two centuries, twice by mere trainees."
"Miss Hardbroom," said Ben, smiling, "I wouldn't dream of arguing with you. I am fast realising that you know best in these matters."
Miss Hardbroom smiled (her pupils would have been very surprised to see such an expression on her face) and took another sip of her wine. It was half past two, and, though she would have committed hara-kiri with a sharpened broomstick rather than admit it, Miss Hardbroom was enjoying her date immensely.
She had never intended to do so; she had deliberately set out not to do so. She had preserved a dignified silence throughout the main course. But Ben had persevered so persistently that it had at last seemed easier to reply to him, to enter into conversation with him, than to keep ignoring him. Perhaps the wine had had something to do with it too. This was her second glass. She had never meant to drink anything alcoholic, but Ben had insisted on buying them a bottle to share.
A thought suddenly crossed her mind, and she narrowed her eyes at him. "I hope, Mr Robinson, you are not plying with me with alcohol in hopes of leading me into some indiscretion."
"Of course not." He merrily topped up her glass. "I am sure, Miss Hardbroom, that a woman like you can hold her drink."
"Naturally," said Miss Hardbroom, whilst privately wondering if she would still be able to fly her broomstick in a straight line. She didn't often drink - a glass now and then on special occasions and at lunches attended by the great and the good of the witchcraft world - and it had gone straight to her head. She tried to remain confident that she would not embarrass herself; after all, she wasn't that sort of woman.
"But anyway, Miss Hardbroom," said Ben, "I think I must have heard all your views of witchcraft and wizardry now..."
"Oh, no," said Miss Hardbroom, "I've many more, I assure you."
Ben smiled briefly. "No doubt. But Miss Hardbroom, what I'd really like to know is a bit more about you. You don't seem to talk about yourself."
"What could you possibly want to know?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some random trivia. Your favourite colour, or your favourite flower, a band or a book you like. Your first name, perhaps."
Despite the wine, Miss Hardbroom still managed to look daggers at him.
"My favourite colour," she said, crisply, "Is black, because it is functional. My favourite flower is the dandelion, due to its many magical and medicinal uses. I like classical music but only if it is not too full of silly fripperies and conceits. My favourite book is the ever useful Gyll Blackwood's Grimoire, and my first name is, quite frankly, my own business and nothing at all to do with you."
Ben laughed. "What a remarkable woman you are, Miss Hardbroom!"
"I wish I could say I'm glad you think so, but in fact your view is completely immaterial to me."
He only laughed again. "Miss Hardbroom, the countryside round here is lovely, and it seems to have finally stopped raining. When you've finished your drink, would you like to come for a walk with me?"
She meant to say no, she really did. She had performed her forfeit, and, besides, she was finding him quite extremely annoying. Yet for some unfathomable reason - could she blame it on the wine? - the word that came to her lips was not a defiant "no", but an utterly accidental "yes".
And thus they found themselves, half an hour later, wandering together around a small village a few miles from where they had had lunch. The village was picturesque, as was as its old church; it was presided over by an Elizabethan manor-house with formal gardens, which were however closed due to bad weather - but which they peered at, down a long expanse of majestic driveway, through a pair of black wrought iron gates.
Something very strange seemed to be happening to Miss Hardbroom in the presence of Ben; as they wandered aimlessly about the little village, pausing to peer into the window of a little antique shop here or the local museum there, she found herself talking, making conversation, in a way to which she was hardly accustomed. Her sentences became longer, and were spoken rather than barked out. Ben, if he noticed this change, made no mention of it; he merely ambled along at her side, and joined in the conversation. She found out a great deal about him, and especially about his love of animals and his work with ISCAR, the Intergalactic Society of Campaigners for Animal Rights, which sometimes found him doing exciting things like going to parallel universes to protest against dragon slaying. It was only with great difficulty that Miss Hardbroom managed not to seem impressed.
For her own part, she after a while found herself revealing certain details of herself, recalling her days of training at the Malloy-Pennington Academy in Cardiff and Weirdsister College in Cambridge, the blaze of success she had enjoyed during her schooldays, the frustrations of trying to make it in the world of professional witchcraft, a world far too much ruled by cantankerous and bigoted academics. Becoming a teacher at a small boarding school in the middle of nowhere had never been her first choice; she had gone to Witch Training College only after multiple disappointments in her attempts to forge a career in research and academia.
"You see," she said, with uncharacteristic animation, as they drank tea in a quaint little tearoom in which they were the only customers, "It may have been the 'eighties, but ideas were still so old-fashioned, especially in Cambridge, and it was much easier for a gnarled old wizard to be taken seriously when writing a thesis on spellwork or alchemy or whichever, than for a twenty-year-old witch...well, you know the old stereotypes, I am sure, the idea that witches should be holed up in little village cottages making potions and lotions for the populace while wizards are pondering the fabric of the universe. Some even denied that Potions was a subject worthy of serious scientific study. It was when I lost out on a fellowship to a wizard who was twice my age but only had half my powers that I decided it was time I went elsewhere. And all the old wizards were so very patronising about it: "oh, well done, Constance my dear"... "
For a moment, she did not realise what she had done; she was caught up in her recollections of the past - but then she saw Ben looking at her and all but clapped a hand to her mouth. Restraining herself with difficulty, she took a sip of her tea, as if hoping it would steady her nerves, and then adopted her haughtiest expression - she always found that looking haughty helped in any situation.
"Constance," said Ben, "What a pretty name. Won't you let me call you by it? It's so ridiculously formal to keep calling you Miss Hardbroom."
"If you call me anything else, I will throw this tea in your face, Mr Robinson."
Ben only laughed at the threat. "There is such a thing as being too formal."
"I do not share that belief." His discovery of her first name seemed to have split asunder their temporary understanding, and she no longer felt the urge to converse with him or confide in him. She wondered what she had been thinking, boring on about her schooldays. What next, rambling on about her experiences at Witch Training College as if he were some sort of unpaid therapist? She had been behaving uncharacteristically all afternoon, and it was high time she stopped, high time she regained control.
With this in mind, she rose abruptly to her feet, leaving her tea only half-finished. "It is getting late, Mr Robinson. If you would be so kind as to accompany me to a place where I can teleport without drawing undue attention to myself, I shall bid you goodbye."
"And shall I see you again?" Ben enquired, as they left the tearoom.
"I am sure we will attend some of the same conferences and training courses in the future."
"That wasn't what I meant, and you know it. I've enjoyed today."
"I'm very glad for you that it should be so."
"And you? Have you enjoyed it?"
"It has been tolerable." They were by now in a deserted car-park. It had begun to rain again, and the leafless trees tossed their branches in the wind. "However, there is no need to repeat it. I have paid my forfeit, and I will not again enter into your silly games."
She was about to teleport away when Ben suddenly caught hold of her wrist in a surprisingly vicelike grip.
"Not so fast, Constance," he said.
"Unhand me this instant, Mr Robinson."
"Not just yet, Constance. There is something I must do first - if we're not going to meet like this again."
And, with that, he kissed her.
It was, to Miss Hardbroom's mind, a wholly unnecessary and gratuitous gesture. It was more than that, it was impolite, and undignified for all concerned. And it was also very, very wonderful. For a few seconds she actually allowed herself to be lost in the moment, revelling in the unfamiliar closeness of another human being, relishing the sensation of being wanted and admired, feeling more like a love-struck teenager than a respectable and fierce thirty-something Potions teacher. But then she recollected just who and what she was, and, just as Ben's kiss was deepening in passion and intensity, she folded her arms and vanished - leaving Ben to start back in confusion, having found himself passionately snogging thin air.
"Bloody woman," he said, with feeling. For a moment, he stood buried in reverie, passing his broomstick from hand to hand; then, observing the rain and the wind, he sighed and took out his phone to call for a lift home.