Sorry for the delay, folks – this has been a difficult chapter to write so it's been holding me up. Plus I was writing my oneshot (well, it's two chapters long) "To Friendship" (plug!) which got in the way a bit; but I hope to concentrate on this one now and update a little more regularly.

Thanks for hanging on in there!

HBF :-)

4

As the day neared its end and Constance busied herself with marking fifth-year potions essays, she considered herself rather lucky not to have been subjected to Mistress Broomhead's objectionable company as much as she had feared she would be. She had, of course, avoided the vicinity of the staffroom; but so had the rest of the teachers, instead packing into the limited space of Amelia's office at lunchtime. Constance had bagged the best seat in the house (bar the one behind Amelia's desk), and Imogen and Davina had occupied corners of the dusty floor, where Davina had seemed very much at home and Imogen had insisted she was comfortable, despite irritably shifting her position at frequent intervals. Amelia made a conscious effort to steer the conversation away from the inspectors, and Constance had been much relieved to make it to her next lesson without encountering either of them en route.

It was almost five thirty. Any time now, Mildred and Enid would pitch up, each trying to dig the other out of the rut they had got themselves into with the fiasco by the lake the previous evening. The usual rehearsed apologies would ensue and Constance would recite her age-old warnings about the very real possibilities of expulsion. As the door to the lab creaked open, Constance didn't look up as she recognised Mildred's trademark hesitation. Why the girl could never make a confident entrance into a room was beyond the potions mistress. In fact, if there was something that irritated Constance more than incapability, it was hesitance.

'Come in, girls,' she muttered, wearily, not looking up from her work. 'Take your places and copy out what is on the board five hundred times. You know the drill.'

The footsteps, however, were not those of hobnailed boots. They were the slow, measured clop of more graceful heels, and Constance was immediately wrong-footed by her own indignation as she looked up to see Eva DeSilva drifting across the room towards her, her eyes musing at the blackboard.

'I must not attempt to drown my fellow classmates,' she read, with a tone that suggested she admired the students' all-out approach to mischief. 'Quite a handful, by the look of it. But nothing you can't handle. I must say, Miss Hardbroom,' here she set her eyes on Constance, her expression thoughtful, 'You're not what I expected. Not at all.'

Constance felt thoroughly piqued at being analysed. She put down her quill and pushed the pile of essays aside, fixing the young woman with an unblinking gaze. 'And what, prey, did you expect, Mistress DeSilva?'

The gothic eyes narrowed in contemplation.

'A weakling,' she smiled, contemplatively. 'A waif. An empty husk of a woman. Like the empty husks of girls that graduate from our institution every year.' After eyeing an unflinching Constance for several moments, Eva walked casually over to the window and fumbled in her jacket pocket, retrieving a small package which Constance instantly recognised to be an expensive brand of hemlock-infused cigarette.

'Do you mind?' Eva gestured with a cigarette, poised to light.

'They're no good for you,' Constance sniffed, raising an eyebrow in disapproval at the sight she recognised so well. Mistress Broomhead had attempted to corrupt her with her foul nicotine habit, too. 'But if you must...'

'Old habits die hard, but manners cost nothing,' Eva said, conversationally, acknowledging Constance's subtle indication and duly flinging open the window. The sound of the evening air wafted through, and Eva's face was momentarily illuminated as she flicked the switch of her lighter, cupping a hand about the end of the cigarette. She inhaled the smoke sharply through her teeth, leaning against the window frame.

'You were unlucky, Constance.' She said, thoughtfully.

'I beg your pardon?' Constance set her jaw, uncomfortably aware of where this conversation was heading. Eva took another drag of her cigarette, the smoke illustrating the cold air as she spoke.

'She singled you out. Hecketty, I mean. Her "mouldable protégée". And you endured her foul attentions by adhering to her brutality, aware that challenging her would see you expelled. It's a simple ritual, Constance. A vicious cycle that I've seen repeated time and time again.'

One of the many things Constance prided herself on was being a remarkable judge of character. Whether or not she chose to maintain a civil stance with someone, she knew whose heart was in the right place, and could spot a bad egg in an instant. For example, Constance kept a closer eye on the Ethel Hallows of this world than she ever did the likes of Mildred Hubble. Academic she may be, along with her three sisters before her; but Ethel was the archetypal bully, and no amount of A* grades could justify such a deplorable character flaw. But she had to admit to herself that Mistress Eva DeSilva had thus far proved to be entirely unreadable, and Constance was unsettled, to say the least. Constance was not used to intense types, and certainly not complete strangers who took it upon themselves to evaluate her past. She knew the other staff members were endlessly intrigued by it: that it supplied them with hours of conversation when she was absent from the staffroom, that it fuelled an unspoken competition – particularly amongst the non-witches such as Miss Drill and Miss Lamplighter – to be the one who would finally crack Constance's shell; but the stories of her Broomhead days were not ones she revisited voluntarily. And if she wasn't so intent on punishing herself for her role in Broomhead's reign of terror, Constance would have had every last trace of the woman exorcised from her soul long ago.

'You're still haunted by her, aren't you?' Eva's gaze remained on the indigo sky as she spoke. Constance said nothing, absentmindedly picking at the corner of a piece of parchment and aware of a bitter, fearful taste in her mouth.

'People like Hecketty never go away,' Eva continued, as though she were making a trivial observation. 'Not really. You can rid them from your company, but they're always there, in one form or another. In the subconscious, in an association, a dream...' She turned from the window, extinguishing her cigarette and causing the stub to vanish with a brief flick of her fingers. 'And she's with you every day of your life, isn't she? Like a bad penny.'

'And how, may I ask, do you profess to know so much about me?' Eva was already walking over to the desk, an almost wild smile flashing across her face.

'Because she is obsessed with you, Constance! She chose you, she wanted to mould you, and you dared to escape her with at least some semblance of your sanity intact. Since I have worked with her at Witch Training College and the Witches Guild, she has crushed the life out of every girl unfortunate enough to pass under her tutelage.' Eva leant on the desk, her eyes warning Constance with the same look they had given her in the staffroom. 'But she refuses to forget you. She's not finished with you, Constance.'

Constance got quickly to her feet as though regaining her towering height was the only way to distance herself from the relentless onslaught.

'Mistress DeSilva, if you have come here merely to taunt me with distant memories –'

'But I haven't, Constance!' now significantly shorter than the potions mistress, her face upturned to Constance's, a desperate urgency flashed in Eva's eyes. 'You have to listen to me.'

'Do I?' Constance sneered with forced sarcasm as she turned wipe the chalk from the board, all the time trembling inwardly at the words which blared like a klaxon in her mind. "She's not finished with you..."

Fixing her eyes somewhere on the blackboard, Constance was aware of the young woman nearing her.

'Would you listen if I mentioned the Room of Curses?'

Constance froze, a sickening feeling rising in her stomach.

She'd known it would return to haunt her one day. The sins of youth always did, blindsiding you on some idle weekday afternoon when everything else was good in your world. Someday, Constance had often reflected, when her mind lingered a little too long over her fear, usually in the small hours, when her rounds were complete and sleep just wouldn't come. Someday, far in the future. Let's not worry about it now...

But Someday had come. Someday was Today, and the guilt that seeped into Constance's blood like a glutinous poison felt as though it were burning her flesh from the inside. And the people she cared about – Amelia, Davina, Imogen – flashed through her mind. And for the first time in her life, she feared them...

'You know what she does to them, Constance. You know how she tortures them to the brink of insanity. And you knew exactly what she was doing all those years ago, when she created the room – because you cursed it.'

Thoroughly horrified by the reality of the accusations, Constance closed her eyes briefly and, for the first time since early childhood, longed for her mother. Feeling the first sting of tears, she waited for them to abate, a rush of panic surging through her as she remembered that the classroom door was still slightly ajar. Turning to implore the young woman's silence, Constance was shocked to see tears cascading silently down Eva's motionless face.

'Constance – please. You are the only one who can help us.'

x

At that moment, the door to the potions lab had slammed shut, bolted almost simultaneously from the inside and the window pane blacked out as though an incantation had been placed on it to isolate the room from intruders. Mildred Hubble was concealed in the shadows outside, a hand clasped over her mouth, gripped by fear and unsure whether her curiosity could take any more.

As Mildred tore off down the corridor and back towards her room, her heart pumped frantically at the realisation that the Constance Hardbroom she had grown to admire, the Constance Hardbroom whom – despite their conflicting personalities – she had always given the benefit of the doubt, really did have a lot more in common with Mistress Broomhead than her imagination had ever entertained.

x

The key rattled noisily as it found its place in the lock of Constance's bedroom door, and Imogen edged it open, peering inside. Despite having knocked, she was still afraid of potentially finding an alarmed Constance clad in only a towel, or half dressed, or in some other compromising situation that would immediately see the gym mistress banished to the dungeons for the next two nights. Satisfied that the chamber was indeed unoccupied, Imogen left the door ajar to allow the gentle glow from the landing to light her way to Constance's dressing table, where she lit a candle, thereafter lighting several other candles in the chamber until the room glowed with an ochre hue.

There was an all-encompassing sense of Constance about the chamber, as if despite her absence a part of her was indeed present. And although Imogen doubted the potions mistress would resort to lurking invisibly in the shadows of her own bedroom to observe her temporary companion, her rationale did not persuade her to rifle through Constance's things, tempting as it was to find evidence of anything in particular that made the potions mistress tick.

Imogen had been here once before – when she had opened her heart to Constance and revealed her true feelings. The recollection had always been an uncomfortable one, and she could only assume that it was for Constance, too. She had an image in her mind of a scene unfolding later that evening when Constance finally returned to her abode. There would be a mutually unspoken recollection of the event, an acknowledgement that whilst certain things had been said, others had not, and tension would hang in the air and probably cause an argument. Someway, somehow – they needed to have it out once and for all so that they both knew where they stood; but Imogen had an undeniable suspicion that Constance would probably avoid her chamber until the small hours, satisfied that Imogen had probably fallen asleep.

Turning on the bathroom tap and holding her toothbrush under the jet of cold water, Imogen's eyes wandered around the room, immaculately clean as only Constance Hardbroom's bathroom could be at all times. On the back of the basin, she noticed a small, tulip-shaped bottle with a pearl stopper, which her eyes remained on curiously as she brushed her teeth. Rinsing her mouth and laying her toothbrush aside, Imogen glanced to the door and picked up the bottle, unscrewing the stopper and inhaling the musky scent. She immediately felt an involuntary jolt as the subtle scent she associated with Constance intoxicated her – that light, indistinguishable feminine aroma that she caught from time to time as Constance swept past her in the corridors, or when they were at reasonably close quarters in the staffroom. She racked her brains briefly for a suitable, empty vessel of her own that she could use to decant a small amount of the perfume into so that she could keep a little dose of Constance in her bedside cabinet. But no... She replaced the stopper and held the bottle up to the light. The glass was almost transparent. Constance being Constance, she would know some was missing.

After changing into her pale blue silk pyjamas, Imogen regarded the bed before her with a strange jolt in her stomach. It was neatly adorned with the same purple velvet throw that all the staff had in their rooms, beneath which were cotton sheets of the highest quality (one perk of the job, at least). She ought to pick a side: the side Constance was least likely to sleep on herself. A small smile broke out across Imogen's face as she mused at her own methodical approach, wondering if any logic could be applied to working out just which side of the bed Constance Hardbroom was most likely to take. She thought back to the night of the dinner, when Constance had escorted a drunken Imogen back to her own room and laid her on her bed, before the gym mistress had made a foolish pass at her. That had been the right side, she recalled. Feeling inexplicably self-conscious, Imogen climbed into the left side of the bed, immediately feeling the coolness of the sheets against her skin as she nestled into the sumptuous pillow. Berating herself for wondering if she was indeed being watched, she turned to face the middle of the bed and felt for the other pillow, drawing it to her face and inhaling deeply. The same, familiar scent of the potions mistress sent yet another wave of euphoria though Imogen's abdomen. She smiled again, closing her eyes in relish.

Imogen made a mental note to savour every moment that she spent in the same bed as Constance Hardbroom.

x

Mildred hadn't slept a wink. She sat at the head of her bed with her knees drawn up to her chest, and Tabby circled obliviously around her shoulders.

'Oh, Tab,' she said sadly, into his fur. 'You have no idea how lucky you are to be a dumb animal,' she instantly felt a pang of guilt at her own unkind words, but was reassured by Tabby's compassionate purr. 'At least all you have to worry about is where your next kipper is going to come from.' As she was about to relay the events of the early evening to her pet, the way she always did when she had information too sensitive for even Maud's ears, Mildred froze, sure that she'd heard a soft rap at her door.

Mildred listened attentively to the silence that ensued, her tensed muscles relaxing slightly as she persuaded herself that the sound had been a figment of her rather over-zealous imagination. Glancing at the clock, she saw it was 10.25 p.m.

Not even Maud would still be awake at this time, she thought to herself.

When the knock came again, and with more force, she knew it was for real.

Quickly unravelling Tabby from around her shoulders, Mildred put him gently onto the bed, sliding her feet into her slippers and proceeding cautiously to the door. Listening for a moment, she put her hand to the latch and lifted it, pulling the door back only slightly to see a familiar figure standing in the darkness. Mildred's stomach plummeted.

'So. You're Mildred Hubble.' said Eva DeSilva, with a smile that didn't extend to her eyes.

'What do you want?' Mildred was surprised at her own defensive tone, aware that it probably arose from the feeling of being in yet more trouble.

'You were listening at the door when I was speaking to Miss Hardbroom earlier.' Eva's statement was clearly not up for dispute. Mildred felt herself blush, grateful there wasn't enough light to illuminate her reddening cheeks. Before she could force two hands against the back of her door to shove it closed, Eva was stepping uninvited into the room.

'A word, if I may.'

x

Imogen was lying wide awake in the darkness when she heard Constance's door open, loudly and without consideration that someone may have been sleeping inside. Imogen ran her palm gently over the mattress in search of her mobile, which she had concealed beneath the duvet. She pressed a random button so that the screen illuminated to reveal the time. 3.26 a.m. She allowed herself a quiet, frustrated snort. Was her company really so objectionable to Constance that the potions mistress felt the need to avoid her own bedroom until it was practically dawn?

Imogen lay perfectly still on her side as she watched the shadowy figure of Constance disappear into the bathroom, listening as she brushed her teeth. She checked her Facebook mobile account to kill time, toying with the idea of updating her status: Imogen Drill is waiting for the witch she is deeply and inappropriately besotted with to get into bed with her – before reminding herself that Amelia's niece had set up a profile for the Headmistress during the holidays, and that Amelia was indeed now one of her "friends".

Her thoughts were interrupted as Constance emerged from the bathroom, making her way around to the other side of the bed. As Imogen remained motionless, she became aware of a kerfuffle behind her, accompanied by the pounding and puffing-up of pillows. Unable to make out what was going on without turning over, Imogen rolled onto her back and peered at the silhouetted figure of Constance. Reaching cautiously towards the middle of the bed, Imogen realised that Constance had lined several pillows between the two of them, all the way from one end of the bedstead to the other. With an involuntary gasp of astonishment, Imogen sat bolt upright, outrage trembling through her entire being.

'It's all right, Constance,' she snarled. 'I wasn't planning on molesting you, or anything!'

Angered further by the infuriating lack of response, Imogen huffed and lay heavily on her side so that she had her back to the Great Wall of Pillows, pulling the duvet tightly around her shoulder and desperate to pick a further fight and expend some of her rage. She'd deserve it, she thought, frustrated. She treats me like shit! Absolute fucking shit! Tears stung in her eyes as a helpless lump swelled in her throat.

But if Imogen had just happened to light her way around to the other side of the bed - if she had just taken a moment to swallow her pride and ask her colleague what had kept her so long, which Constance, despite herself, so desperately wished that she would - Imogen would have found the potions mistress lying on her opposite side, her fearful eyes unblinking as a tear rolled out of the corner, losing itself uncomfortably somewhere between the the downy hair of her temple and her sodden pillow.

The conversation with Eva had exhausted her. The revelation of what was about to happen petrified her. And, as Constance's eyes eventually fluttered shut, the nightmare that had haunted her since her Broomhead days reared its hideous head, to terrify her once again.

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