Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay (well, it was only a few days but as those who are familiar with me will know that is like a lifetime for me!)

I wanted to get this chapter perfect and I think I have got it as good as it is going to get - so enjoy!

:)

Chapter 3

A pool of blood rippled, the ringed waves expelling from the centre and reaching out to the corners of its domain. The ground was soft beneath her feet as she ran, gnarled arthritic hands clawing at her from all angles as she tried in vain to vanish them with her magic. She came, as always, face to face with the monster. It laughed, a sound that could crack the heavens with its malice and bring everything crashing down to nothing, knowing there wasn't anything she could do to stop it. He loved how she tried to fight, the firm desperation in her eyes an accolade to his power; it was all too easy.

He took the magic from her with the simple beckoning of his hand, smiling as he saw the streams of colour pulled unwittingly from her body and delighting in the pain his actions caused. She was alone, defenceless in the silent darkness with only that face to tell her that she had not been granted the slow release of death. A force came across her like a palm colliding with the side of her head, nails digging in to her skin and scraping a thin bloody scratch across her cheek. She wouldn't cry for him, for she knew the euphoria her suffering gave him, but she was weak, so weak, and falling into the blackness of nothing.

Constance woke, as she had done countless nights before, with the breath caught in her chest, as though an invisible force was grasping her neck and stopping the air from reaching her screaming lungs. She fought to gain control, her mind dragging her back to the cool safety of reality. She knew that she could not go on like this. She had not slept properly in weeks, every morning taking more and more potion to disguise the terror which visited and taunted her in her dreams. She was perfectly aware of the staffroom whispers, the passing glances that lingered a little too long to be anything but analytical, and it destroyed her to know how they talked about her. All too often, she had lingered in the space of nothingness after vanishing from the room to see what they said when they assumed she was elsewhere, but she couldn't bear to hear them talk in that way; it wasn't simply concern, but pity, and that was what she simply could not abide.

She rose from her bed, wiping the hair from her face with a flick of her wrist and walked over to a bookcase which stood across from her. Constance did not know why she had not consulted one of the many volumes she possessed; perhaps it was the fear of what she might find...but no. Constance Hardbroom felt no fear; or at least that was what everyone needed to think. She had come to realise that this was something beyond her control and it was taking over her life more than she could allow.

Trawling through endless pages of pointless words took the potions mistress into the early hours of the morning, the unyielding darkness fading into a receding grey and the silence broken by the calls of morning. She sat at her desk, summoning books with the flexing of her hand and returning them without the need to waste time with the journey. She had found nothing of use on dreams, though she was not sure what she had expected to find. Her eyelids were heavy, as though they were being pulled across her eyes against her will, and her thoughts were a disarray of meaningless sounds, but she would not rest again that day. She had never felt so vulnerable as when she woke from a night of tormented slumber and it was a feeling she wished to hold off on until it could be banished completely.

It was only half an hour before she needed to be downstairs, watching over the girls as they began another day of blissful ignorance to the harsh realities of the world. Just before she left her books, just before she began to prepare for another monotonous day at the academy, she read a line which sent an unwelcome shiver down her spine.

The dreams are the gateway to the soul, and those who enter are bound in blood

The thought was chilling, though she didn't quite understand what it meant. Of course it was a metaphor, to show how dreams can portray the unconscious longings of the mind; yet still the words rang in her ears, echoing through her skull as she tried to comprehend exactly what it meant, a curse of wanton words which would stay with her until she would discover its truly shattering significance.

Xxx

Miss Cackle sipped tea in her usual cosy armchair whilst pretending to be reading a book which she had placed on her lap. The headmistress had not read a single word of When Magic Goes Awry by her favourite author as she was watching her deputy from the corner of her eye, sitting as always at the desk doing work she seemed to create to keep herself occupied. Amelia's heart was doing battle with her mind, a raging conflict of what was right and what was easy. It pained her to see Constance like this, subdued and melancholy yet still keeping the porcelain mask which hid her from the unwanted burden of admittance; but the mask was slipping.

Constance feigned ignorance of the watchful eye of the headmistress, but it was becoming more and more of a distraction as she got to the third pile of essays stacked on the desk, mountains of paper and ink that today felt like not simply a duty but a hindrance. It was not Amelia's right to decide what was best for her and she knew that was the only reason she had been restrained from voicing what was on her mind. The only distraction from the paranoia induced by her insufferable colleagues was a dull ache, throbbing persistently at her temples and fogging her mind as she tried to work.

Constance decided that she'd had enough. Gathering the remaining papers into to a pile, she rose from her seat and Amelia looked up, as though she had not been scrutinising her every move since she had walked in half an hour ago. There was no need for words, both women knew exactly what the other was thinking and neither needed the stress of the conversation still not quite ready to be had. Constance vanished without a word, leaving Miss Cackle to sigh and place her head for a moment in her hands; she was too old for this. She was the head of the school, the matriarch of the academy, yet somehow this situation was too perplexing for her to handle. She was aware that something was going on, but her deputy's futility and complex defence mechanism made it impossible for her to reach in and find out what secrets lay hidden in the deep brown pools of Constance's eyes.

Something was wrong. Constance had been materialising around the school since her first day, using it as a means not only of keeping watch but of undetectable transport and she had been taught it well; she never got it wrong. So when she appeared, dazed and confused in the middle of a corridor outside the laboratory, alarm bells rang like a frantic morning chorus.

The pain in her head suddenly blazed, fire burning through her veins and forcing her eyes to close from the paralysing agony. She saw flashes of scenes too horrible to describe, children screaming and evil laughing in the wake of madness and anarchy descending on the world. Constance felt the sting of flaming tears fall from her eyes and was powerless to stop them. The papers fell as a cascading waterfall of white and black as she grappled at the wall, stumbling forwards to try and stop herself from falling. Her mind was a thick fog of affliction and commotion, her thoughts lost to the haze; all that was clear was the pain taking over her, demanding her to bend to its will.

She fell to her knees, her breathing barely a low rasp as she struggled to keep the impressing dark void of unconsciousness at bay. She opened her eyes, fighting to take back any form of control over herself. She noticed a ruby of red blood fall gracefully onto one of the papers beneath her, followed by a gentle flow of scarlet droplets. She knew that they were hers, the glistening red reflecting the light to catch her eye like a warning and a mockery. She reached slowly to the side of her face and felt the searing agony of a cut across her cheek as though it was fresh, though of course it couldn't be. The pain was enveloping her, a shroud of darkness dragging her down into the depths of her own weakness; she was losing the fight.

'Constance?' asked Miss Cackle, looking in worry and confusion at the deputy headmistress. It was as though nothing had happened. Constance found herself in the corridor as she had been, kneeling in a heap of essays and the pain she had felt before gone, leaving no trace but the pulsing headache she had experienced before. She realised how she must look and straightened up, albeit a little too quickly. How her hand began to reach for the wall to steady her did not go unnoticed by Miss Cackle, but she brought it back and the barrier of self discipline and control surrounded her once more like an invisible force.

'I do apologise, headmistress, I simply dropped a few papers.' With a casual flexing of her fingers, the work rose into the air and organised itself into neat piles which Constance gathered in her arms.

Miss Cackle was no fool. She had seen her fair share of liars in the many years she had taught at the academy and the look in Constance's eyes was certainly lacking in honesty. Her face was ashen, though expressionless and Amelia got the distinct sense of panic in the air which she guessed Constance was trying desperately to control though her steely eyes were giving nothing away. She looked awful, worse even than she had only moments ago in the staffroom, but Amelia knew the exact response she would get to any question she dared to ask.

'Constance please, I-'

'Again I am sorry Miss Cackle but I really must see to some third years.'

She turned and walked away, giving everything she could to give the impossible illusion that she was alright. She had felt that agony coursing through her body, seen the face disguised in the smoke, but still she had to deny that anything was happening; because if she didn't then it would be true. It would be true that she was losing her mind, the one sacred thing which she could pride herself upon and trust above everything else. The concept of insanity was terrifying, even she could admit. If you cannot trust your own thoughts, if you no longer believe that what you are thinking is true, then who are you?

Ooh, very interesting! Surely deserves a review, perhaps? Hint much, I know, but reviews really do mean the world so even a few words would be fab!

Thanks :) HB rules xx whoo!