Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.

A/N: Hello there. Thank you to everyone so far for their reviews/follows/favourites, you've no idea how much it means to me. :) Anyway, here is chapter eleven - I reckon another few chapters should tie it up. Yes, I am actually nearing to having completed something without my infamous six billion light years between updates, lol.

Love In The First 39 Degrees

Chapter 11

She gently touched the witch's forehead, pulling her hand back in alarm at just how burning hot her skin actually was; it was as though it were on fire. Grabbing for the thermometer that was resting on the bedside table, she carefully checked her temperature, her eyes widening in fear as they took in the reading.

It was high.

In fact, it was only a few degrees away from falling into - what could be called - dangerous territory, but you would never have guessed it. Aside from the odd whimper coming from the slumbering witch, she was silent.

Imogen could not help but wonder how on earth she was surviving this before remembering that Constance had been through worse, much worse. The gym-mistress suppressed a shiver. She was not sure what exactly had caused the scarring – she suspected who, but how was still very much of a mystery, and part of her was afraid to solve it.

Putting aside her own wild theories, borne of her an overactive imagination, she turned her attention back to the brunette, knowing it was of vital importance to bring her temperature down.

Despite her basic training in first aid, her mind was a haze of panic and she had no clue what to do. She could feel the beginnings of tears pricking at her eyes and knew that she had to pull herself together or she would be no use to anyone. Stepping outside the room to regain her composure, she couldn't help but admire how Constance always managed to keep her emotions so in check. Fumbling in her tracksuit pocket for her mobile, hoping that she could find enough signal in the draughty castle to make her call, she dialled, and then waited.

"Hiya, Mum. Aw, that's great," she smiled, "give them a big kiss from Auntie Imogen please!"

As she listened to the 'scandal' that had taken place on the afternoon of the church fete, she knew that unless she cut across her, she wasn't going to get anywhere fast. Imogen Drill loved her mother dearly, but the woman could talk for England!

"Listen, Mum, my credit is running out so I can't talk for long but I need your advice. I'm looking after this-erm… Serge, he has the flu. Yup, man flu…typical wimp! Anyway, her-his temperature is high, really high. I need to get it down. What can I do?"

Upon hearing her mother's suggestion, she could practically feel the dread growing in the pit of her stomach.

"…Are-are you sure? I guess I'll try that then…thanks."

Leaning against the doorframe that separated the bathroom from Constance's bedroom, Imogen wondered if she had just signed her own death warrant. She had never really considered her own mortality before but she knew that her time on earth was now running short, and that the cause of death would most certainly be magical annihilation by the potions teacher. She knew that she had overstepped the boundaries but she hadn't really had a choice; she couldn't just stand there and do nothing. She did not even want to think of what might have happened if she hadn't acted. It was too frightful to bear.

Still, she could more than understand why Constance had reacted the way she had. Truthfully, she had almost fainted herself after her mother had told her that the best way to bring down a high temperature was a cold bath.

The witch was drifting in and out of consciousness and she had been surprised to find that Constance hadn't overly protested either way at the time, instead simply curling deeper into the covers, muttering about how she was tired and just wanted to sleep. It strange to say the least: Constance Hardbroom and the notion for sleep were not two things that were usually associated, going together as well as… the two of them and a civil conversation.

She cursed under her breath as she slipped again, a low hiss of pain escaping from her lips and echoing around the room as her hipbone collided with the side of the bath. She knew that she had to get out of the bathtub - the water was now becoming too cold for her body to cope with. She knew that she had to get out; she just wasn't sure how exactly she was going to go about doing it.

Her usually inexhaustible strength was failing her, her arms lacking in the physical power she needed to pull herself up and hold her own meagre weight. It was not only the physical power that appeared to be working against her but also that of her own craft.

The art of materialisation was no by means a standard skill; some witches never even developed it. It took hours upon hours of studying, years of practice and a hell of a lot of energy to be able to perform it successfully. This more or less meant that near-perfect health was required as the slightest little ailment could hinder the process – potentially midway through – putting the witch in question into a possibly life-threatening situation. Near-perfect health was one thing she was currently lacking. Of course, stubborn as she was, it hadn't stopped her from trying…and almost drowning in the process, following her failed attempts. As she emerged from under the water, still coughing and spluttering, she closed her eyes and let out a sigh of defeat.

She knew that she had no choice but to call the blonde back in and ask for her…help.

'Help'.

Such a simple four lettered word, yet it was like a knife embedded in her chest, her pride in tatters at even the mere thought of what she was going to have to do. It went against everything she stood for; everything she believed in, but she was not currently in a position to pass judgements of weakness, not even on herself. Deciding it was best to just get it over with, she took a deep breath, and was about to call out Imogen's name, hoping against hope that the gym-mistress hadn't gone too far away as she really was in no fit state to shout, when a voice cut across her thoughts.

"A real witch has no need to rely on others."

She shivered as she heard those familiar and scathing tones reverberate in her mind, her every ounce of already-limited energy shifting its focus, now solely working on trying to rid the unwelcome presence that had invaded her mind, embedding itself in her every thought, her every feeling, its sharp talons digging in and refusing to relinquish their hold.

"Tell me, Constance," Heckitty Broomhead's voice simpered on sweetly as she continued, though every syllable she spoke held what could only be described as an underlying and venomous mocking, "Are you not a real witch?"

The question hung in the air as her eyes fell to the bathwater, taking in her own sorry image: her long hair neither up nor down, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks and the scars that littered her body. "I am," she whispered, unable to find the conviction even in her own words.

She wondered, not for the first time, why exactly she found the prospect of asking for help so damning. Needing someone and admitting to weakness within character was a simple part of human nature, an intangible understanding that you could not do it all alone and an acceptance of trust, friendship and even love, forming as a result. To her though, admitting weakness and fault was akin to a searing white-hot pain.

"I shall expect perfection from you, Constance. Nothing else will do."

Those very words had been drummed – and beaten – into her, right from that very first day of Witch Training College; the day she knew that her life was not about to get any better, sensing the stormy times ahead but not knowing then how dark her path would truly be. Yes, perfection was key. Nothing else was acceptable and anything remotely outwith the lines was classed as failure. If there was one thing Heckitty Broomhead could not abide, it was failure. Failure was not tolerated within the prestigious halls of WTC.

Failure was punished.

A sharp cry fell from her lips, as an old scar seemed to bleed anew, a faint trail of red droplets falling and mixing with the bathwater. Her eyes widened in disbelief but before she had the chance to react, the waters around her – that until moments ago had been still and clear – turned a shade of scarlet red before darkening in colour, the blood-like liquid glistening like rubies catching in the sun.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed for it to go away, but it didn't. Instead, it seemed to increase, the level of liquid now rising rapidly as it reached her neck. Suddenly, she felt an invisible force dragging her under and into the murky depths of the bloody substance. She fought, weak as she was, her arms flailing around like a fish out of water as she desperately tried to breach the surface that was slowly becoming outwith her reach, like a man dying of thirst in a desert; her freedom nothing but a cruel mirage toying with her senses. Her screams were lost to the outside world as a metallic taste filled her mouth, every sound around her becoming nothing more than a low din.

Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the image dissipated, the waters changing from red back to clear with a gentle ripple. She covered her hands with her face as tears streamed down her cheeks, unable to tell whether it really had been the sick games of Heckitty Broomhead or her own illness causing her delirium.

All she knew was that she had to get out of this bathtub, right away, and there was only one person who could help her.

Wiping her tears away with the back of hand, she called out the gym-mistress' name, shocked at the frailty of her own voice as the name rang out in little more than a whispered sob. She knew she could not shout so could only hope that Imogen could hear her - that was, if she was even still there.

Wondering why she could not bring herself to leave Constance's room, Imogen went back to listing all the things she would now never get to do with her life. She had just gotten to number 37 when she heard a voice calling out her name; it was weak, more a whisper than anything else, but it was definitely there. Cautiously, she entered the bathroom, not fully knowing what to prepare herself for.

A sweeping wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm her as she caught Constance's gaze and the vulnerability that was burning away in the brown of her irises, as she silently pleaded with the gym-mistress to help her, without her having to ask.

Here she was, the fearsome Constance Hardbroom, stripped bare - quite literally - of everything she usually hid behind, the wall down for all to see, and she had never looked more beautiful.

"Come on then," she gently coaxed as she approached the bath and helped the witch to her feet, helping her out of the bath before quickly wrapping a soft fluffy black towel around her, hoping that the brunette would understand the action was not simply just to warm her shivering frame.

Constance simply stared ahead, as though she were in a trance, only snapping out of it when she felt Imogen rub the towel against her body in an attempt to kick-start her circulation. Finally reaching her limit, she sank down to the floor, Imogen soon following suit as she was the only thing holding her up, and broke down in a howling mess, her cries rending the heart of the gym-mistress, who was shocked, to say the least, by the display of emotion coming from the deputy.

Unsure of what to do, she slowly pulled the witch into an embrace, fully expecting her to recoil and push her away but she didn't, instead Constance clung to her and sobbed all the harder." Shhh, I'm here," Imogen whispered as she nestled the mass of cold flesh and long hair close to her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.