Chapter 10: Untouchable
PART ONE
Dec. 26th, 1999
10:15am
Mildred felt the morning sunlight brush her closed eyelids; an alarm in the sky that never failed to wake her. She made to shift beneath the bedcovers, and immediately sensed that something was different. Her neck was craned at an awkward angle, and her cheek was scrunched up against black satin.
Ms. Hardbroom.
The pit of Mildred's stomach sunk. The litany of memories from the previous night ran in rapid succession through her mind like a round off of a machine gun. She felt panicked. Naked. Suffocated by her involuntary exposition.
The fingers resting against her scalp moved as the woman in her bed began to stir.
"Mmldred?" the groggy voice from above sounded alien.
Mildred forced herself to freeze. Maybe if I don't move, she'll forget that I'm here.
"Mildred," Ms. Hardbrooms voice came back to itself; commanding, serious.
The young witch let out a breath she'd been holding. "Morning, Miss."
Silence. Deliberation.
Mildred felt a thumb gently brush a strand of hair from her forehead. It nearly undid her.
"Mildred, it is quite alright."
She had never heard her potions mistress sound so uncertain. She diverted all of her energy to center her focus on the rays of orange light that tiger-striped the floor.
"I know it is, Miss," Mildred whispered. Tentative fingers stroked her hair once more.
Mildred felt too raw to cry, and too wasted to fight. She closed her eyes and firmly pressed her cheek back up against black satin, surrendering her pride.
When Mildred nuzzled her thigh, Constance felt an unanticipated surge of adoration and…responsibility? Sure, she was a responsible person, as far as her career, her lab stock, and her self-restraint. But she'd never felt responsible for another being, and she'd certainly never felt honored to have a responsibility. She stared down at the back of Mildred's head in wonder…in gratitude, even.
Constance bent her head to the side, feeling her neck crack in several different areas. She made sure to restrict her movement to her upper torso, such that the girl cradled in her lap could not sense the shifting. She nervously combed her fingers through Mildred's messy black locks. The girl physically relaxed, which gave Constance the confidence to continue caressing her. Within minutes, both witches had fallen back asleep.
11:45pm
Mildred sat up, massaging blood flow back into the muscles of her left shoulder. She looked back at her potions mistress, who was snoring softly; the back of her head propped up by the oak headboard. She crept across her room to her closet, and gathered up her clothing for the day. She left her room, leaving the door cracked open slightly, and dressed herself as quickly as she was able.
After she clothed herself, Mildred peeked into her dormitory, and was relieved to find Constance still slumbering. She made her way down the stone staircase, her grumbling stomach demanding she satiate herself with lunch immediately.
12:08pm
"Mildred." The girl looked up from her plate, her mouth stuffed full of grits, gravy dribbling down her chin.
Constance tried to sneer, she really did, but she couldn't help but find her pupils abominable table manners rather…endearing. She smiled before she could stop herself.
Mildred clumsily wiped her chin clean with the already-soiled napkin in her lap. She then proceeded, rather comically, to chew and swallow her food as rapidly as possible.
"For Gods Sake, girl," Constance said, in a tone that was more amused than chastising, "I can wait for you to finish your lunch. My authority does not always demand immediate recognition."
Mildred raised an eyebrow sardonically.
"You are lucky that you are presently unable to say what you are likely thinking," Constance snapped, hands on her hips. Try as she might to appear offended, she really wasn't.
Mildred swallowed the last bit of her grits. "Did you need something, Miss?" she asked candidly.
Constance sat down next to Mildred and slouched her position slightly such that she was physically level with her. She interpreted the fact that her pupil had not tensed or pulled away from her as a good sign.
"Well, Mildred. I need to summon Dr. Grisham. He needs to know that you have been harming yourself," she forced herself to sustain eye contact afterwards, hoping it would lessen resistance.
Mildred felt incapable of looking away, as if her form mistress had spelled their eyes to be drawn to each other. "He has to know?" she implored, unconsciously rubbing her left forearm.
"Yes, Mildred," Constance nodded, "the Magistrate would find me grossly negligent if I did not inform him."
"Ugh," the young witch scrunched up her nose, "I wish the law didn't see me as such a child." The irony of punctuating that statement with a dramatic eye roll was lost on Mildred.
"I would not violate your privacy if it was not for your own protection," Constance insisted. She was deeply unsettled that she was actually afraid that Mildred might be upset with her.
"He's not going to lock me away, is he?" Mildred demanded angrily.
Constance could tell fear drove the younger witches' sudden hostility; so she resisted the temptation to pull the 'I am the adult and you will not question me' card. "No one is locking anyone away, Mildred," Constance said gently, and reached for her pupils hand.
Mildred pulled her hand away, and glared daggers at her, her cheeks blustering red. "You don't know that."
Constance sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She fixed the raging girl before her with as open a look as she could manage. "I do know that Mildred," she vowed, "because I will never let anyone lock you away."
Mildred's shoulders dropped slightly, and her scowl turned to a sulk. She looked down at her half-eaten bowl of grits. "If you say so," she muttered. Although she sounded glum, Constance detected a small amount of hope in the girl's voice. And that was enough for her.
1:34pm
"Ms. Hardbroom, it is a delight to see you again," Dr. Grisham took both of Constance's hands in his, and shook them with a tad more enthusiasm than necessary.
Constance withdrew herself from the physician's sweaty grasp, irritated that she did not cover up her grimace quickly enough. He was visibly embarrassed with himself.
"Dr. Grisham," Constance said, her back stiff. She tried to not make a show of wiping her palms dry on her dress.
Unfortunately, he took notice.
"I apologize for that; Ms. Hardbroom. I have had my hands stuffed in my coat pockets quite a bit to combat the cold," Dr. Grisham said hastily. You dolt; explaining yourself to her, with a lie no less! You hardly have to bear the frigid weather when you can materialize yourself anywhere you please.
"That's quite alright, Doctor," Constance replied, trying to keep the amusement out of her voice, "let me take you to Mildred."
The affectionate gleam in the physician's eyes dimmed at the mention of his patient. "Ah, yes. She is not gravely injured, is she?"
"It depends on your definition of grave," Constance said quietly, and examined her fingernails, "but she is not on the brink of any sort of physical demise."
Dr. Grisham understood the implications behind her words. His mouth went dry.
"Come," Constance broke the tortuous silence, "follow me to the dining hall." She turned to make her way down the castle corridor.
The physician followed her wordlessly, struggling to keep up with her large strides.
01:48pm
Mildred held out her bare, maimed arm to Dr. Grisham, allowing him to inspect it. She cringed at how gently he traced the scars; and forced herself to look away from him and stare at the flickering flames of the torches that were mounted on the walls of the dining hall. She appreciated his silence; she knew herself well enough to know that the second she heard a sad sigh or 'tsk' she would likely throw up the hefty lunch she had just eaten all over the floor. Concern made her angry, but pity made her sick.
Per Mildred's request, Ms. Hardbroom had left the dining hall and allowed her to independently reveal her self-destructive habit to Dr. Grisham. The young witch would never openly admit it, but she actually appreciated the opportunity to be able to divulge the sensitive information herself, despite knowing that she had only been given the illusion of a choice.
Why are you feeling grateful to the bitch who ratted you out? Her bitter inner voice scolded her. Mildred did not have an adequate mental reply, but for the first time in a long while, she didn't feel the need to justify herself to the demons within.
"All done, Mildred," Dr. Grisham's deep voice broke Mildred out of her thoughts. The physician gently released her wrist, and she pulled her arm back swiftly, cradling it against her abdomen. She tore her gaze away from the torches and faced him determinedly.
"Mildred, I have to take you to an Emergency Department," Dr. Grisham said carefully, bracing himself against what had the potential to be a violent reaction.
"Why?" Mildred spat, "I told you everything. Now you're just going to lock me up?"
Dr. Grisham held his hands up. "No one's talking about locking you up, Mildred. By law, however, you must be evaluated by a licensed Mind Healer to determine if you are an immediate danger to yourself. If the Mind Healer believes you are a danger to yourself, you may be placed on a 72-hour hold. But given your disposition and honesty, I doubt that will be the decision that is made."
Mildred crossed her arms across her chest. "What if I refuse to go?"
"To be frank, you will be forced. What you have disclosed to me legally obligates me to submit you to an evaluation as soon as possible. I do not want to call in reinforcements, but I can," Dr. Grisham made sure to communicate in a purely informative, non-authoritative way. He knew that it would be incredibly detrimental if Mildred had interpreted what he had just said as purely a threat; she needed to know that not all adults exerted control over her to simply dole out abuse.
But how could she know that? How could she recognize a form of discipline that is meant to protect; and not to punish?
He watched her mouth contort into a scowl. "You know," Mildred said acidly, "I would say that you can't make me. But it is obvious that you can. Let's just get this the fuck over with." Her resentful eyes bored into him in a way that was almost intimidating.
02:11pm
Mildred pouted, growing increasingly dispirited with her situation. She was sandwiched between Ms. Hardbroom and Dr. Grisham on an uncomfortable plastic chair in the waiting room of the Emergency Department at St. Aumars Wizarding Hospital. She felt nothing but rage…rage and helplessness. She had been coerced into going to the hospital. She was trapped by adults, and that had never resulted in anything pleasant in her past.
I could transmogrify myself into a mouse, and scurry away.
And never return to school? Be on the run forever? You'll end up on the streets. And if a search party catches you, you'll be locked up for much longer than 72 hours.
Mildred wanted to scream. There was no alternative, there was no escaping the upcoming meeting with the Mind Healer. It gave her goosebumps and accompanying nausea; the thought of being analyzed. Of being asked why she found relief by hacking herself to pieces. She couldn't adequately answer that why to herself; let alone another person.
And what if my answer isn't good enough? I'm so fucking screwed.
"Mildred Hubble?" a young, blonde department nurse with a kind smile addressed her.
"That's me," she sniped, making no attempt to look up through her black fringe at the young woman.
"The Mind Healer is ready to see you now," the nurse said, unperturbed by her defiance, "I will walk you to her office."
Mildred rose from her sitting position.
"Your mother and father can go to lunch in the cafeteria," The nurse nodded her head at Dr. Grisham and Ms. Hardbroom, "You can come see her in about an hour, whether or not she is released to you."
The two adults paled considerably. "We're not-" Dr. Grisham began, then decided the misunderstanding did not warrant immediate refutation, "…hungry. But thank you. We will wait."
Constance shook her head; annoyed by his omission but too weary to expose it.
"Right, then," the nurse said, a sad look in her eyes. She assumed that the two adults before her looked so weary because they had just discovered their child had been harming herself.
"Come with me, Mildred," the nurse reached out to take the young witches' elbow.
Mildred recoiled immediately. "I'm coming, but you're not touching me."
02:23pm
Mildred studied the portrait that was hung on the far wall of the Mind Healer's office. It was an oil painting of a gorgeous mountain range; the lower passes of each majestic rock formation cloaked by greenery, snaking up to grey crevices and snow-covered peaks that were kissed by the light oranges and pinks of a sunset. Wasatch Front, January 1994 – was painted in small letters in the bottom hand corner of the canvas.
The office door swung open, and a short, plump brunette woman entered, a clipboard in her hand.
Mildred straightened her shoulders, and pressed herself into the corner of the plush couch she was sitting on.
"Miss Hubble," the woman said in a heavy French accent, looking up at her through her square-framed glasses, "my name is Debora Molyneux. I am zee Mind Healer who 'vill be speaking with you today."
Mrs. Molyneux bustled over to the couch, and stuck her hand out tentatively.
Mildred looked at the hand suspiciously; but shook it nevertheless.
The Mind Healer flashed a sideways smile. "No vay to make zis interaction less awkward, is there?"
"I suppose," Mildred said solemnly, trying like hell to figure out how she should present herself.
"Now," Mrs. Molyneux said pragmatically, settling herself onto a leather armchair opposite the couch, "I understand zat you are 'ere for self harm?"
She placed the clipboard she had been holding face down on the floor. Mildred felt a small amount of relief at that; she knew that she would be barely able to contain her hostility if the woman across from her was intent on scribbling notes about her the entire session.
"Yes," Mildred said, and began to rub her right thigh anxiously.
"Haz zee self-harm started recently?" the Mind Healer implored.
"No," she said simply, and held her breath, waiting for the older woman's reaction. Mrs. Molyneuxs expression remained firmly neutral; no concern, anger, or sadness. Just acknowledgement. Mildred liked that.
"And how long ago did zis start?" she asked.
"Must have been…" Mildred scrunched up her forehead, trying to remember, "about…two years ago?"
"Mmm," the Mind Healer responded, "anyzing in particular that…how do you Brits zay it…'kicked it off?' "
The first time dad thought it would be prudent to fuck me instead of his secretary.
"Yes," Mildred said slowly, "but I don't want to talk about it."
Mrs. Molyneux met her eyes. "Zat is quite alright," she pursed her lips thoughtfully, "vould you be 'villing to talk about 'vhy you harmed yourself last night?"
You have to give her something. She's got all the power.
"My friends visited me in the castle for Christmas. Their parents came to pick them up, and were coddling them and hugging them and such. I just got removed from my parents home, and I'm a legal ward. I guess it was upsetting that they got what I can't ever get," Mildred felt blood rush in her cheeks. Transparency was tortuously unbearable for her.
"I imagine zat 'vas quite painful, Mildred," the Mind Healer said, "but I 'ope you realize zat you are 'vorthy of zat kind of care, and can get it at some point."
Mildred snorted. "Fat chance."
Mrs. Molyneux knitted her eyebrows together. "Vhy do you say zat?"
This is the analysis I fucking hate. "Because!" Mildred threw her hands up, "it's true. I know it to be true."
"Do you zink you know it to be zee truth because it is, or because some person told you or showed you it vas?"
Mildred saw red. "Enough with the leading FUCKING questions! What do you want me to say? What do I have to say so you don't lock me up here for three days?"
"You must non concern yourself with 'vat you zink I want to 'ear, Mildred," Mrs. Molyneux responded, not missing a beat.
"Fine!" Mildred sat on her hands, determined to not give into the sudden urge to throw one of the couch cushions at the older woman's face. The Mind Healer's neutrality, which had previously been comforting, was infuriating to Mildred in that moment. She hated herself for wanting a reaction; for wanting the balance of power to be shifted in her favor.
"Mildred," Mrs. Molyneux said calmly, adjusting the golden chain attached to her glasses, "do you ever 'ave zoughts of suicide?"
Mildred rolled her eyes, and slumped back against the couch. "I hate life, but I don't think I could ever end my own. I wouldn't want to give them the satisfaction."
"I see," the Mind Healer steepled her fingers together beneath her chin for a moment, "of whom do you speak 'ven you say them?"
Mildred groaned. "I hate these questions."
Mrs. Molyneux shrugged. "Zee majority of people do."
03:14pm
It was paradoxical, really. The supposedly adult duo that submitted a self-destructive child to a much-needed psychiatric evaluation consisted of a tenured Potions Mistress pouting sullenly in a hospital waiting room, back completely turned to an experienced Wizarding Physician with a very blatant case of the schoolboy jitters.
Both tried to immerse themselves in the background noise of the emergency department rather than their own thoughts; and both failed miserably. Ironically, it was not the medical professional that broke the silence.
"That staff nurse will eventually be informed that we are not Ms. Hubble's parents," Constance sniped, adjusting herself so she could glimpse Dr. Grisham's reaction out of the corner of her eye.
"That is likely," the man beside her agreed.
"You are aware that we could have charges pressed against us by allowing her misunderstanding to persist?" Constance crossed her arms and huffed.
"I wrote our correct identifying information on Mildred's admission paperwork," Dr. Grisham asserted with slight hostility, "we are completely protected."
Constance bristled. "Regardless, you should have told that nurse the truth." She knew that she was being blatantly unfair to him; but she always felt such relief when she let off steam by arguing for the sake of arguing.
"I apologize that a stranger mistaking us for a couple disgusts you so much," Dr. Grisham snapped, completely abandoning any semblance of professionalism.
Constance opened and closed her mouth several times. "That's not…Not at all what I said. The mere fact that you would take that so personally…preposterous."
Dr. Grisham pressed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, frustrated. "Then what are you on about? If we are not going to be subjected to any future litigious acts by the Magistrate, why are you so incensed?"
"I am certainly not the most incensed one here!" Constance exclaimed, then promptly lowered her voice when several other occupants in the department waiting room shot her questioning glances. "Honesty matters very much to me, and I abhor being dragged into a lie against my will."
"Well I apologize deeply, Ms. Hardbroom," Dr. Grisham bit out, "it was certainly not my intention to drag you into a lie. Did you consider that I may have been too exhausted to correct that nurse, that it wasn't the most important thing to me at the time? That perhaps, just perhaps, getting Mildred into a safe environment topped my list of priorities in that moment?"
Constance uncrossed her arms, defeated. Yes, she wanted to rage senselessly at the man. It was one of the only ways she knew to alleviate her anxiety; but she would not sink so low as to argue with sound logic simply to achieve that goal. "That is understandable, Dr. Grisham," she murmured, and rested her back against her chair.
The physician faced her, intent on responding, but the ability to speak left him when he saw that every single one of the rapidly changing expressions that flitted across her face was absolutely beautiful in its own way. He was dumbfounded; utterly perplexed at himself. I don't think I've ever been bloody mesmerized by a woman's mood swings. It must be my age.
Constance noted his self-defeating posture and felt a small twinge of guilt. "I also…" she curled the hand of hers that was not visible to him into a fist, "apologize for my…my unprecedented attack on you a few moments ago."
"I accept it," Dr. Grisham said faintly. He closed his eyes and began to massage his temples.
Constance turned to face him fully. She noted the prominent wrinkles that rippled across the physician's forehead; lines permanently etched into his skin from a lifetime of too much pressure. The pressure that never gives. The weight that will never lift. The sudden surge of empathy she felt for the man beside her told her to place a reassuring hand on his arm. She didn't listen to it.
Dr. Grisham readjusted his glasses, and straightened up from his hunched position. He immediately met the intense scrutiny of Constance's eyes, and it grounded him, which he wasn't so sure he was comfortable with.
"Doctor?" she asked timidly.
"Yes?" he acknowledged.
"Do you feel…" Constance shifted her weight nervously, "drained by her situation? Because I do, and I resent myself for it."
There was a slight delay in his response time. Dr. Grisham cleared his throat. "I think anyone would feel drained, Ms. Hardbroom," he watched her lips intently, hoping she'd purse them together in that maddeningly adorable way she sometimes did, "There's no need for self-deprecation."
"You didn't answer my question," Constance deadpanned, agitated by his awkward behavior.
"It is a question that would not be professional for me to answer," he said firmly; but Constance saw his unspoken words flicker briefly across his face: I am spent. This pains me as much as it pains you.
Constance grabbed onto his momentary flash of vulnerability like a life raft.
"Professionalism is nothing but a social construct," she insisted, not sure why she was so intent on pushing him, "that puts walls up between people; in diametric opposition to its intended purpose. Do not patronize me with that."
"I reserve the right to keep my thoughts to myself." Dr. Grisham glanced briefly at her chest; appreciating the way her bosoms heaved up and down beneath the black satin of her dress. And my hands to myself.
"That's fair," Constance bit out, unable to hide her disappointment. She had hoped to have an exchange with someone who felt the same level of outrage and horror with the world, someone who wanted to protect a certain clumsy young witch as fiercely as she did, their professional roles be damned. But he's too distracted by my breasts to have an actual conversation. She ground her teeth together.
Dr. Grisham was puzzled by her sudden ire. Why would my personal boundary anger her so? He knew that the answer to his minds question was likely not a healthy one, but he was nonetheless infatuated with finding it. "Ms. Hardbroom…just because I don't want to share my thoughts with you…" he paused for a moment, then damned his better judgment, "does not mean you are prohibited from sharing your thoughts with me."
"Of course I am!" she exclaimed, and let out a bitter laugh. "There's no level playing field if I am the only one sharing." Maybe he wants literal tit for tat.
"I wasn't aware we were engaged in a power struggle," he said placidly.
"Everyone is engaged in a power struggle, Doctor," Constance said with conviction, "whether they would like to admit it or not."
"Oh?" Dr. Grisham raised a condescending eyebrow, gaining more confidence in himself by playing the keen analyst, "and what sort of battles do you assume everyone fights with each other?"
"I don't assume, Doctor. I observe," she met his eyes determinedly, "and the battles that I witness, time and time again, are battles waged over needs."
"I'm not sure I understand," Dr. Grisham said skeptically.
Constance broke off eye contact. She stared down at the linoleum floor, unpleasantly recalling the horrendous memory she'd been forced to witness the night before. "We use other peoples needs as weapons to combat our own."
Dr. Grisham frowned at her solemn demeanor. "That sounds like a pointless battle," he remarked, "With those sort of stakes, there are no victors."
Constance chuckled bitterly. "There's always a victor." She closed her eyes and tipped her head back. The scorned, aging mother is victorious when the pure, youthful daughter she disfigures and drowns still yearns to be cradled in her arms. The violent tutor is victorious when the student she beats returns to her for lessons.
Dr. Grisham could not help but admire the flawless, ivory skin of Constance's exposed throat, and the delicate, fluttering pulsation of her jugular vein just above her collarbone. If he had been privy to the traumatic memories that infiltrated her consciousness at that moment, he would have damned himself to the ninth circle of hell for his opportunistic leering.
"Mildred cast Memorias Expulsor," Constance said softly, and kept her eyes firmly shut. "She cast it…involuntarily."
"She bloody what?" Dr. Grisham yelled.
Constances eyes flew open.
Dr. Grisham fixed her with an intense, searching look, completely oblivious to the attention he had drawn from those around them.
Constance sat up. "You heard what I said," she gestured towards the curious onlookers surrounding them, and cracked a wry smile. "So much for Professionalism, Doctor."
He looked at her incredulously. "Did you say that just to get a rise out of-"
"Of course not," Constance interrupted, waving her hand dismissively, "don't be ridiculous. I just thought I should inform you."
"Yes, and at the most opportune time," Dr. Grisham said sarcastically, "in the middle of a group of witches and wizards we don't know at a hospital."
Constance sneered. "I would wager that they would not be so inclined to eavesdrop if you had made an effort to contain your roar of surprise."
"Be that as it may, this is not the time or place to discuss.." Dr. Grisham trailed off, too aghast to finish his statement. He shook his head. Memorias Expulsor? Cast involuntarily? That would be the first occurrence in magical history. He bit his lip, frustrated that he could not investigate the Potions Mistress' claims further due to their surrounding environment.
"Doctor Grissam?" a polite French voice pulled him back into reality. He turned to face a short, plump woman dressed in cartoon-themed scrubs.
"Er, yes," he rose to his feet clumsily, and read the name on the badge clipped to her top, "Mrs…Molyneux?"
"Zat is me," she smiled broadly, and shook his hand firmly. "I am zee Mind Healer who evaluated Ms. 'Ubble."
"Oh!" Dr. Grisham exclaimed, truly surprised. He had not expected a Mind Healer to have an aura of such eccentricity.
Constance cleared her throat loudly.
"Ah, yes. Forgive me," he nodded towards Constance, and motioned his hand in between the two women in a poor attempt at an introduction, "This is…this is Constance Hardbroom. Potions Mistress and Deputy Headmistress of Cackles Academy. She has been Mildred's teacher ever since she began her schooling."
"Ello, Ms. 'Ardbroom," Mrs. Molyneux greeted her, not at all intimidated by the younger woman's towering form.
"It's a pleasure, Mrs. Molyneux," Constance lent her hand downwards to the much shorter witch.
After the handshake, Mrs. Molyneux fixed Dr. Grisham with a questioning look. "Is she considered to have guardianship of zee girl?"
Dr. Grisham shook his head, and shot Constance a genuinely apologetic look. "No, it's just me, since I am technically an employee of the Magistrate."
"Ah…'vell then," the Mind Healer said, turning kind eyes to Constance, "I apologize, Ms. 'Ardbroom. I am only allowed to discuss zee girls condition with Monsieur Grissam."
"I understand the laws," Constance said indignantly, "I'm not offended. I am perfectly content waiting out here."
Dr. Grisham's lips twitched. He found her stubbornness charming. "Thank you, Ms. Hardbroom," he said evenly, "we will be right back."
"Yes, yes," she muttered; and perched herself back onto an uncomfortable waiting room chair. She glared at the back of Dr. Grisham's head as Mrs. Molyneux led him back to her office. Constance was not at all pleased with being excluded.
A/N: Chapter 10 ended up being much longer than anticipated. I didn't want to make you guys wait for two more days while I finish editing the last half, so I decided to post the first part now. Second part WILL be up on June 30th.