"Imogen! You look lovely! Green really suits you!"
"Oh, thank you, Davina!" Imogen smiled warmly at the Chanting teacher who had just complimented her. "You look lovely too. New dress?"
"Yes, I thought I ought to dress up a bit for the Christmas Dinner. It came from that nice little shop in the village. Retail Therapy, it's called."
"Oh, yes, I think I've heard of it."
"They've got some lovely vintage things. I must say, it is lovely to see you out of your usual sportswear and in a dress - ooh, there's Amelia, I'd better go and say hello..."
Miss Bat hurtled away to exclaim at the headmistress - as if she didn't see her every day - and Imogen began to cleave her way through the crowd of assembled witches and wizards. She had found the gathering rather daunting in the past, felt that she had no place among all the magic-workers - but after several years, she had come to rather enjoy the occasion. It was nice to actually have an occasion to dress up for once in a while.
She was feeling cheerful, festive even; she was rather looking forward to both the Dinner and the ensuing party. She had promised herself that she would spend Christmas having as much fun as possible, and not think about You-Know-Who.
Except of course that plan went up in flames before it was more than a few hours old, because, as she looked along the table to see who was already there, her eye fell upon none other than You-Know-Who herself, austere and handsome as usual, in a plain black dress and with a simple garnet necklace about her throat (she only ever wore jewellery on special occasions, and always that necklace. She thought jewellery "frivolous" generally), looking characteristically disapproving about something or other. Imogen's heart leapt almost painfully at the sight of her; for some reason Constance looked up, and their eyes met. Something almost tangible passed between them - a spark, a kind of magic rather different from the sort any of these witches and wizards usually dealt in - and they both looked away hurriedly.
Imogen took her usual place, some distance from Constance. She hardly heard a word that was said to her; the Christmas speech which the Grand Wizard insisted on giving completely passed her by, though she applauded politely afterwards. She forced herself to look away from Constance now and then; but her gaze wandered in that direction again and again of its own accord. Now and then Constance looked up, drawn, it seemed, by the same compulsion; every time, that spark passed between them, and Imogen's heart fluttered like a trapped butterfly.
Sexual tension, she thought, incoherently, Lust - or love. When she looks at me it's like...I don't know...electrocution of the eyeballs. Only nicer.
The Christmas Dinner wound on rather ponderously, as these occasions generally do. Crackers were pulled, and paper hats donned by all; jokes were read out, and cheap plastic gifts accumulated in vague piles in the middle of the table. Imogen hardly tasted the food, despite having looked forward to it. She only drank one glass of mulled wine, and shook her head firmly when she was offered a top-up; she felt light-headed enough without the addition of alcohol. To be so near and yet so far from the object of her love - close enough to exchange glances, too far away to talk - was at once torturous and wonderful; Imogen hardly knew whether to long for or dread the end of the meal. She knew she'd have to go over and talk to Constance then, though she had no idea what she would say. "I love you" was all that came to mind - and, though true, she had a feeling it wouldn't be quite that simple.
At last the puddings were either gone or almost gone; Christmas music was playing, and people had begun to make their way - rather unsteadily, in some cases - out onto the dance-floor. Mistletoe began to appear, mostly in the hands of the last people who should have been allowed it; a few kisses were exchanged. Benjamin Greengage was flirting outrageously with a blushing Miss Cackle; Algernon Rowan-Webb had embarked on a tipsy round of karaoke; Miss Bat was dancing in a manner that made her look demonically possessed.
Imogen shook her head a little fondly, then suddenly noticed that Constance had left her place at the table. Another moment, and a voice at her side said, "Miss Drill - we need to talk."
Imogen's heart hammered painfully as she met the eyes of the one she - God help her - loved.
"We do," she agreed; then, wanting to prolong pleasure where she could, she ventured, "I don't suppose I could tempt you to a dance first, though, could I?"
"I don't dance, Miss Drill."
"You stand under mistletoe, though."
"Only by accident."
A silence descended briefly, then Imogen said in a rush, "You wish it hadn't happened, then?"
Constance sighed. "We really need to talk. Not here," she added, as a conga line of witches led by Miss Bat frolicked past to the sounds of Slade's Merry Xmas Everybody. How they could all dance so nimbly after such a big meal, Imogen would never know. She idly wondered if magic had anything to do with it.
"My room?" suggested Imogen.
Constance hesitated.
"Or yours?" asked Imogen, then wondered if she'd sounded too suggestive.
"Yours," said Constance, decisively, "You go on up and I'll join you in a few minutes. We didn't ought to leave together."
Imogen rolled her eyes. "No one'll notice. No one cares."
"You can't be too careful."
Imogen felt as if she should say more, but no words seemed to be forthcoming, and, anyway, Constance was edging away as if it were dangerous for them to be seen in one another's company.
Imogen turned and left.