Hello again,
This one turned out to be a lot harder to write than I thought it would – hence why it's taken longer to upload than I promised. Hope you're all still interested enough to keep up!
7
A great advantage of being a teacher was that whenever one needed time to indulge in deep reflection, one could set a mock examination.
The downside, of course, was that too much thinking time could be unproductive, especially when the thinker was prone to intrusive thoughts. Which, during this particular episode of her life, Constance was.
It was the first lesson of the day, and the third years were respectively scraping together an essay entitled "The Intricate Properties of Pondweed". Under usual circumstances, the potions mistress would have embraced the prospect of an hour's uninterrupted peace. Today, however, she sat motionlessly at her desk with her fingers steeped, unable to stop her mind wandering back to an event she had, over the years, endeavoured to forget...
She had been sitting in the visitor's chair of Mistress Broomhead's office. The afternoon sun cast a stencil of the Georgian window across the desk, and the occasional voices of students late for lectures could be heard from the courtyard below. Broomhead padded about the room, deep in contemplation. She lit a cigarette which she smoked via a holder: a recent quirk that Constance supposed to be a misjudged attempt at vintage chic. Her tutor slid the small tin case open between her fingers and offered it to her pupil, who politely declined.
'They help you think,' Broomhead muttered as she took a drag of the cigarette, hissing through her teeth to draw the smoke deeply into her lungs. She was in a good mood, Constance observed, eyeing the older witch with caution as she meandered about the room. That was likely to mean that someone, somewhere, was going to suffer. Constance had been far too drained from her stake-burning experience to fret on someone else's behalf, having made an educated guess that due to her weakened physical state, she might for once be let off the hook. And as ashamed as she was of her relief at the expense of another's terror, Constance had the distinct feeling that she deserved a day off.
The cigarette case clicked shut, and Broomhead tossed it casually onto her desk. Constance watched her tutor's waistline sauntering menacingly close to her. She flinched as the bony knuckles glided their way gently down from her temple, across her cheekbone and to her jaw, where the cold fingers unfurled, curling beneath her chin and lifting her face so that she was forced to look upon the withering countenance of her mentor.
'You have done well, Constance,' she said, without her usual venom. Constance shivered inwardly. Broomhead rarely addressed her by her first name, and Constance couldn't decide whether she preferred it or not. 'The room has finally been put to good use. You, second only to me, are the Keeper. There must always be two Keepers of the Room of Curses. When I die, as I surely will before you, I will pass my authority on to someone I trust above all others. You will do the same in years to come.'
As the chilling grip released her, Constance let out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. Broomhead walked around to her desk, taking her seat and removing a small package from the drawer, along with a leather-bound book which Constance recognised immediately as her tutor's Book of Shadows; her personal record of spells and incantations.
'This,' she said, passing the package to Constance 'Is the key to the room. Go on,' she gestured to Constance to unwrap the crisp, brown paper that surrounded a small gift box. She lifted the lid, confused to find only a silver lizard inside. She automatically assumed it to be a brooch, but on closer inspection it appeared to have nothing to fasten it to clothing. Her brow furrowed as she held it at eye level and studied it carefully. Its body was in the shape of an S, its feet splayed out at the ends of short legs. Constance turned it over in her hand, an unpleasant sensation in her stomach as she noticed the words inscribed on the underside.
'No ordinary key, Hardbroom. You will recognise those words as the incantation you formulated. You must keep it with you at all times, or you, as Keeper, will be destined to be destroyed by the room.' Constance's stomach lurched and she pressed the key to her belt, where it fastened itself with a flash of white light. 'And this,' Broomhead waved the book, 'Is invaluable. It contains the spell to pass your power as Keeper – along with the key – on to another witch. There is more you need to know about the room.' She rested her elbow on the table, her cigarette poised and emitting a ribbon of smoke as she took another drag. 'But don't worry about the details just yet. You've seen what it can do.' Her last words were laden with barbarism, and Constance shifted her line of vision so that she just missed locking her gaze with Broomhead's soulless eyes. They exuded, Constance had noted in the diary that she kept wrapped in an invisibility cloak under her bed, an inhuman lack of empathy for all living creatures: a demonic love for the macabre, for misery and humiliation...
'Now,' Broomhead crushed the cigarette in her ashtray and turned to her register, running a finger down the list of names. Constance saw her give a self-satisfied smirk as her talon stopped at a particular name. 'Stella Phoenix. Yes... Go and fetch her from the Common Room, will you?'
x
As Constance made her way along the vast main corridor of the college, her eyes looked through everyone who passed her, so accustomed was she to distance they kept from her. Students whispered amongst themselves on her approach whilst academics failed to acknowledge her, walking so close to the opposite wall that their robes caught against its grainy surface. Constance let up a silent prayer: there wasn't a worse member of her year group that Broomhead could have asked her to summon. Stella was the ringleader of the "it" witches; one of the popular girls who attended college to shirk, meet boys and drink until they had to have the alcohol surgically drained. She was the one the young wizards of Sorceric Training College compared lewd notes about; the one whose money, rather than brains, would buy her future; and the one who, above all others, outlawed Constance for her proximity to Mistress Broomhead.
The usual scenario was played out as Constance stepped into the Common Room. Heads turned, conversations fizzled out, anticipation hung in the air. The room smelt as it always did, of machine coffee and vinegar, and from somewhere came the upbeat melody of a pop song. Constance spotted Stella immediately, perched on the corner of a table and wearing a skirt that desired at least another four inches in length, her jaw rotating vulgarly as she champed on bubble gum. Her gang of girls surrounded her as always, each trying to imitate her carefree stance, but none able to pull it off quite as effortlessly as their infamous leader.
Stella's head turned quickly as every pair of eyes watched Constance approach her. Sliding from the table, she shook the mass of highlighted, shoulder-length curls with one swift movement, and sashayed over to Constance. She was shorter than the trainee potions mistress: everyone was, and she stood before her now in a coquettish façade, her doe-eyes peering up from under thick lashes.
'Well, well! What have we here girls?' she took a further step forward, moving her face so that her glossy peach lips almost met the mulberry ones of her classmate, altering her tone to a sultry whisper: 'Broomhead's bitch.'
There were squeals of laughter from the girls. Constance remained composed, ignoring the sickly scents of bubblegum and flowery perfume.
'Mistress Broomhead wishes to see you in her office.'
'Ooh!' Stella turned to her girls with mock excitement and they gasped, theatrically. 'Does she, now? And what does she want to do to me, Constance? Give me a good seeing to?' she bent over, turning round so that her tightly clad behind waved in Constance's direction and slapped it repeatedly, exaggerating yelps of enjoyment. The rest of the girls erupted into raucous laughter, some turning their backs and wrapping their arms around their own waists as though in a passionate embrace, others crying out Mistress Broomhead's name and making crude, Sapphic gestures. All the while the other occupants of the Common Room observed the spectacle in astounded silence.
Constance bit the inside of her cheek. She'd been through this before. If she chose not to react for long enough, the girls would get bored, and eventually Stella would feel unnerved by her lack of retaliation and give up. A short while later, Constance's prediction proved correct, and Stella turned to face her once again. Despite her undeniable – if cheap – beauty, Stella had often reminded Constance of a Jack Russell: always on the defensive and squaring up for a fight, however unfazed her opponent.
'Well?' Stella eyed Constance, her hands on her hips. 'What are we waiting for?'
As they turned to leave the room, there were cheers and whoops as Stella did something – Constance knew not what – behind Constance's back. A noise reminiscent of wailing apes continued from within as Stella clicked the door shut behind them.
'So what does she want?' she hissed, as Constance turned to make her way towards the Balefire Wing. Constance said nothing, hearing the quick steps hastening to keep up with her. What was she supposed to say? 'You're about to be thrust into a room where your worst fear will come true, and if you're lucky you may emerge with at least some fragments of your sanity intact'?
'Constance? I said what does she want?' The concern rose in her classmate's voice, and Constance's eyes darted to the Heavens yet again.
'It's probably about extra potions, or something...' she mumbled, inaudibly.
'What?'
At that moment they rounded the corner and Constance rapped on Mistress Broomhead's door, for the first time in her life relieved to be there. Broomhead could take over the Q&A session now.
The door opened almost instantaneously, as if their mentor had been waiting on the other side of it.
'Ah. Phoenix. Good of you to drop by. Do take a seat.'
Stella didn't glance back at Constance as she wandered into the room, looking around it like she'd never been there before. Constance, hovering in the doorway, waited for Mistress Broomhead to excuse her.
'No, Hardbroom – close the door. I need you here for a moment.'
Constance's blood pressure surged as a thought crossed her mind. Surely she doesn't expect me to do it...
'Now. Phoenix.' Mistress Broomhead sat down and flicked through some notes she had laid out before her, peering through her half-moon spectacles. 'I understand your attendance record leaves much to be desired. This is clearly reflected in your grades. You do realise, Stella, that an "E" in Secondary Spells is unacceptable?' Mistress Broomhead became more agitated as she spoke. 'In fact, I can't think of a single magical institution in the land who would take you on with such an appalling collection of results. And Mistress Ostara tells me your attitude in your Secondary Ancient Runes classes is abysmal.'
Constance kept her eyes on Stella's back, the blonde curls sitting motionlessly on her shoulders.
'You came here, Stella,' continued Broomhead, 'From one of the best witch academies in the country and, I believe, are a member of one of the most prestigious magical families. Therefore this time I am not going to suspend you. Merely I am going to give you a short, sharp shock.' Here she glanced at Constance, who had an unpleasant flashback to her time in the Room of Curses accompanied by an intense need to vomit. 'Constance – would you do the honours, please? Phoenix – follow Hardbroom.'
Constance opened the door, avoiding eye contact with Stella and sensing her bewilderment as she brushed past on her way out.
'Where are we going?' Stella asked, alarmed as they descended into the lower mezzanine of the building and beyond the realms of College civilization, to a place that had been outside of Stella's vague knowledge of the building. They reached the top of the spiral steps that led to the dungeon, and Constance heard Stella's kitten heels come to an abrupt halt as she descended the first few.
'No,' she said in an outraged laugh. 'I'm not going down there!'
Whatever Stella had done to her before – from the time she had stuck a note on her back in class saying "I Heart Broomhead" to the time she had sabotaged Constance's cauldron, basting the inside of it with unidentified animal blood – Constance could not help but take pity on her. She really had no idea what was coming.
'You have to,' Constance whispered. 'Mistress Broomhead's instructions.'
Stella took a few brisk steps towards her, her shoulders hunched resolutely. 'No, I won't.' she hissed. 'I'm not going into the dungeon because some old crone tells me I should!'
Constance felt helpless. She couldn't force her. But to think of the consequences... Her mind flashed back again to the horrific events she had endured in the room herself. She couldn't go through it again - she simply couldn't. And if she went against Mistress Broomhead's wishes, she might not come out alive next time. Besides, perhaps forcing someone else to go through a similar ordeal might get the word out that Broomhead really did need to be stopped…
'Fine,' Constance said. 'But you can explain to Mistress Broomhead why you decided not to carry out her punishment.' And, as Stella turned to make her way back into the College, successfully lulled into a false sense of security, Constance raced up behind her and grabbed her in the same way that Mistress Broomhead had herself, with an arm tightly around her front so that both Stella's arms were restrained. As she attempted to scream, Constance clasped a hand over her the girl's mouth.
It was more than a slight struggle to get Stella down the steps and along the corridor of the dungeon. She fought and grunted, biting Constance's hand and drenching her palm in saliva. The door to the Room of Curses was closed, and Constance fumbled on her belt and seized the lizard she had magically attached to it, pressing it firmly to the keyhole as a silver light glowed around it and the door flew open… The wave of nausea swept through her once more, and she stopped, catching her breath, summoning up enough strength to do what she had to do.
'I'm sorry, Stella,' she whispered into the echoing space. 'It won't be for long, I promise.'
And with that, she thrust the young witch into the blackness of the room, quickly casting the incantation so that the door slammed shut.
'Constance? Don't leave me in here! Constance! Please! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry – please Constance, you have to help me, I'll do anything…'
She heard a hideous scream, and Constance's flesh crawled as she slid down the wall and sat with her face in her hands, realizing that Stella was probably feeling for the now invisible door. Constance's tears came at once, her sobs echoing in the empty space of the dungeon, intermingled with the terrified pleas that emanated from within the room...
After what seemed like an eternity, the wailing stopped. Constance lifted her head. The door reappeared and fell open, and she got to her feet, moving cautiously in and guided only by the shaft of light from the stairway. Stella was lying on the floor in the same prostrate position Constance had expected to find her. She hauled her to her feet, feeling the stickiness of the young woman's tear-soaked cheeks, blackened by her mascara. The once ultra-confident it-girl was a quivering mass, her nerves shot to nothingness and her sanity shattered. She had clung to Constance like a child to her mother, her face contorted by unspoken memories as she trembled, sobs catching in her throat. Constance rocked her, holding her face close against her chest and whispering useless words of comfort…
Two weeks later, Stella's lifeless body had been found face down in a pool of blood in the courtyard, beneath the Balefire clock tower from which she had hurled herself.
x
'Miss?' The word came in the tri-syllable, questioning tone of a child.
Constance shook the cobwebs of thought from her mind, aware of the hopeful voice of a student calling her name. She looked up to see Clarice beaming at her, her crimped ginger bunches swaying slightly as she glanced at Sybil, who was urging her to continue.
'Miss – can we finish now? It's lunch break.'
'Er… yes,' Constance said, the sea of expectant faces coming into view. Never before had she been so relieved to see the girls, who exchanged questioning glances as they placed their exam papers on her desk and filed quietly out of the room. One of the best year groups she had ever taught… one of the most well behaved. And as the door closed after Sybil Hallow, Constance could not help but wonder if that might be the last lesson she ever taught them.
xxx
As usual, thanks for reading, and please do review!
