Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.
What You've Left Behind
Chapter Three
She subtly glanced around the potions laboratory and inwardly sighed as she caught sight of the large clock on the wall; the hands telling her that there was still a good thirty minutes left to go before her lesson ended. Her own reaction saddened her for she had never, ever thought the day would come, when she lost all interest in her calling, but somewhere along the line — five and a half years ago, to be precise — the spark had died. And now…
Now, it really was a mere existence. And that scared her.
Teaching was the only thing that had ever given her a sense of purpose. It was the only thing that was stopping her from falling from the precipice she was currently teetering dangerously on, and had in fact been for longer than she dared to remember, but this time, it was different: she had never been so close to the edge before. And if teaching couldn't bring her back from the brink, then nothing could.
Her eyes scanned the room again, not quite with disinterest, but it wasn't far off it. Taking in her students, the majority of whom were working away confidently and calmly as each pair worked on their invisibility potions, only an obvious few who clearly hadn't revised enough looking around in the hope of inspiration or divine intervention, she suddenly felt that all-too-familiar and gnawing feeling of guilt creeping in.
Oh, yes. If guilt was the role one played, then she was Lady Macbeth.
They hadn't asked for any of this. At the end of the day, they were teenagers, who just wanted to pass their Witches Higher Certificate and move onto the next stage in their lives. It was hardly their fault that she had made such a mess of everything.
Deep down, the logical part of her brain knew that, but it was as if there was a blockage stopping the information from filtering through to the forefront of her mind. She was so consumed with hatred and anger — mostly towards herself — that she couldn't see straight.
She hated it all. Especially this lab.
Her eyes dropped back down to the book in front of her, biting back the tears that threatened to fall. After re-reading the same sentence for the fifth time and still not taking in the words, she snapped the book shut in her fury, with such a force it caused most of her students to jump.
Physically, there was absolutely nothing wrong with the potions laboratory. It was what the lab represented that really drove the knife into her heart day after day: this lab was a direct result of the mess she had managed to create for herself, and a constant reminder that no amount of wishing could clean it up nor turn back the clock.
It was the same as the one in Cackle's had been too. If only a tad bigger and with slightly more up-to-date equipment.
Yes, it was exactly the same, and yet … it could not have been more different. This one was nothing more than a classroom that she taught in during the hours of the school day; it was empty and impersonal. Whereas the one at Cackle's Academy, had truly been hers. From the very first moment she had opened the door and stood behind the desk, it had been the perfect fit.
Her eyes flitted around the room, drinking in her new teaching environment, and what was, essentially, now her potions laboratory. It was a sparse classroom. Much more basic than she was used to, but there was *something* about its simplistic-ness that she rather liked: it was as it was and did not pretend to be anything different.
Ever the observant, she did not fail to spot the irony in her own thought.
She couldn't say, for certain, whether or not she was pretending to be something she wasn't. She suspected as much to be true, but the years of physical abuse and emotional manipulation under the rule of Heckitty Broomhead had blurred the lines of reality, leaving an emotionally exhausted and very confused lost little girl in its wake.
'Useless'.
The scathing tones reverberated in her mind as she fought to push all the thoughts of her former tutor out; desperate to break the unbelievably strong influence that the tyrant still held over her, and showed no signs of letting go any time soon.
'Do you really think you are capable of teaching others, Constance? Hmm...? Enjoy it while it lasts, dear: she'll throw you out as soon as she discovers just what a stupid and weak failure she's hired.'
She was capable of pulling all her strings, almost effortlessly, in the same way a puppet master works their puppet. And, essentially, that's what she was. Broomhead's puppet: her every movement, her every thought, her every feeling, all controlled by her malicious mistress. Her glassy eyes silently begging to be rescued, despite already knowing that she would never be free.
Constance shook her head, daring to disagree with her ex-tutor's words as tears stung the back of her eyes.
'Oh, yes. And then where will you be?'
Comstance opened her mouth to reply but no words came out.
'That's what I thought'.
A laugh devoid of any humanity rang in her ears.
Clamping her hands over her ears and squeezing her eyes shut she willed with everything she had for peace, and after a while, the voices died away to nothing. Her troubled mind granted respite … for a little while at least.
Now was not the time to dwell on it.
Not when she had been given the chance for a fresh start, having more or less been physically rescued, by the greying-haired angel that was Amelia Cackle.
Slowly making her way to the front of the room and taking her spot behind the desk, she could not help the small smile that graced her features as she looked out at the rows of empty tables and chairs that would be filled with the newest intake of trainee teenage witches in a matter of mere days. Closing her eyes, she found that she was able to visualise herself teaching those young charges and imparting both her knowledge and wisdom; watching on proudly as they each found their "talent" in the years to come.
For the first time, she felt something she hadn't felt in almost fifteen years.
Hope.
When stood behind this desk, all she could see was…
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Harlow Willowtree's hand hovering over the dish of 'Pondweed-Gathered-At-Midnight', as if she were contemplating using it. Suppressing a small smile, she was reminded of the time where Mildred Hubble had done just that, during her first year at Cackles, resulting in turning the assigned laughter potion into an invisibility potion and earning herself a chastisement from her unamused form mistress, along with yet another trip to see the headmistress.
When she stood behind this desk all she could see was all that she had lost.
Disgusted at herself for the undeserving self-pity, she quickly shook herself from her thoughts.
She had made her bed, and now, she had to lie on it.
'Even though you left, you can always go back…'
The words echoed in her mind and she forced herself to push them aside. It had been exactly a year since her riverside meeting with Davina and the words of the chanting teacher still weighed heavily on her mind and in her heart. Constance knew how much courage it had taken for her to voice them in the first place.
Davina had more brains than she had ever given her credit for.
Alas, yet another misjudgement she had made…
She couldn't go back.
…Could she?
And even if she did, would they even want her back? She highly doubted it. After all, she hadn't exactly gone out of her way to make herself the most popular of teachers. Maybe they had secretly all been glad to see the back of her?
'Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead' and all that.
Of course that wasn't true. There was a part of her though that almost wished it was because, had that been the case, it would have been so much easier to have walked away from the only place she had ever thought of as home.
'Amelia, she -we miss you, Constance; we need you. Cackles just isn't the same without Constance Hardbroom'.
Even now, the words truly left the once stoic potions mistress touched.
Unfortunately, it wasn't quite as simple as clicking her heels together three times. She only wished it were, she thought, with a wistful sigh.
Life was not a fairy tale though. She knew that, more than most. Sometimes happily ever after just couldn't be. Sometimes, no matter how hard good had fought, evil still triumphed.
Drawing a line through the words on the page, she crumpled it up and threw it to the floor, where it joined all the other previously failed attempts.
The sleeve of her dress had ridden up slightly and she found herself subconsciously tracing the pattern of ugly web-like scars which marred her wrist and the rest of her carefully concealed body. She was still able to remember everything about them: why the punishment had been inflicted, the method used, the feeling of pain as it had tore through her limbs, burning off her flesh, the hot salty tears streaming down her cheeks as she had begged and pleaded for reprieve ... the feeling of anguish and helplessness she felt as she finally realised that no one was coming to save her.
Not today.
Not tomorrow.
Not ever.
Wiping a stray tear from her eye, she picked up her quill and started again...
Amelia Cackle had given her so much. More than she could have ever hoped for: a job, a family, a safe haven. And what had she given her in return?
Two words.
'I'm sorry'.
She hadn't even had the decency or the courage to tell her in person. No, instead the headmistress had found a scrawled piece of parchment on her desk, and an absent deputy head, on a day where an unknown, yet pure evil was descending upon her school.
Constance tried. She had tried so very hard to explain her unforgivable actions, but no matter how clear it all was in her head, the words just wouldn't form when she put ink to paper. Every sentence, every word, it all seemed so wrong, so stupid, and to put it down in writing, it meant that it was true; she couldn't block it out and pretend that none of it had ever happened. Her hand was shaky as she spilled out all the truths from her sorry past, her usually neat and calligraphic handwriting barely recognisable amongst the crossed out scribbles on the page, her level of turmoil rising as she suddenly imagined the letter falling into the wrong hands and the dire consequences that would follow as a result.
Amelia.
Even just thinking about her sent a pang through her heart and she had to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out.
If there was one thing Constance Hardbroom regretted — and let's face it, it was a pretty extensive list — it was that.
Dear, sweet Amelia ...
Amelia, who had been more of a mother to her than her own mother ever had. Even before her father's death.
Right from the off, the kindly headmistress had treated her as one would treat their own daughter, despite there being no official blood linkage between them. Despite the fact that Constance would go on to shut her out, time and time again, and despite knowing that the younger witch was clearly harbouring a massive secret. Yes, despite all of that, Amelia Cackle remained undeterred. She was always careful never to prod or pressurise, never one to push the poor woman into a corner and force her to reveal all the dirt from her past. No, instead, she simply waited, calmly and patiently, until Constance was ready to let her in.
The headmistress would be lying if she said that it had been an easy task. In fact, it was one of her toughest challenges to date. It was also one of her most worthwhile.
Despite Constance's best efforts to try and forge ahead, she was so deeply traumatised from the years spent under Heckitty's iron-first rule and for every wall she sought to bring down, she would instantly, and unintentionally, erect three more in its place, so desperate to keep the world that had already caused her so much pain and heartache out of reach.
She was just so scared ...
To leave herself that vulnerable and exposed. To strip away the glares and sharp tongue. To reveal what truly lay beneath the carefully constructed mask of indifference and perfectionism.
Eventually, she stopped trying, resigned to facing her demons alone.
It was better that way. More than that, it was safer.
Maybe, subconsciously, she hadn't been able to write that letter because she didn't want to endanger their lives?
Heckitty Broomhead was ruthless. The less they knew, the safer they were.
She closed her eyes gently, feeling the beginnings of tears dampen her lashes. She couldn''t bear it if...
Miss Merryweather?
She instantly snapped out of her reverie, momentarily confused with how she was being addressed, before remembering it was the name she had adopted when she had chosen this school to hide in. It couldn't have been further from 'Hardbroom' if she had tried.
"Yes, Poppy Wolfsbane?"
"The bell rang five minutes ago, Miss."
It seemed as though it had been mere minutes since she had last looked at that clock, but Poppy was right enough. The full half hour had indeed passed.
"Very well then, class dismissed," she said, before adding as an afterthought, "And I want your essays in by the end of the week- no exceptions."
"Yes, Miss Merryweather," the girls chorused in perfect unison.
The sound of scraping chairs, hob-nailed boots, and alleged quiet chatter soon died away to nothing as they left the room and turned down the corridor, leaving their potions mistress with only the company of the clock tick and the regrets which continued to plague her tortured mind.
