Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.

A/N: Thank you to everyone for their wonderful support and reviews. :) I may re-write this at somepoint in the week.

This chapter was loosely inspired from the song 'Elastic Heart' by Sia. My muse definitely feeds off music, lol.

Love In The First 39 Degrees

Chapter 14

Pulling the blankets tighter around her shivering frame, she buried herself deeper beneath the bedcovers in an attempt to keep out the chill that was in the air. Being as old a castle as it was, Cackle's Academy was always notoriously cold - even in the height of summer. Usually, the coldness did not faze her but tonight, for some reason, it just seemed to serve as a reflection of her own loneliness.

A soft meow echoed around the room. Peering out into the darkness, she was just able to make out the outline of the sleek black cat who was padding across the floor, having returned from her hunting trip hours earlier than she normally would. It was as though she could feel the despair that was emanating from her mistress and as she leapt onto the bed, quickly cuddling up to the broken woman, her olive green eyes seemed to ask 'why'?

"Now, don't look at me like that." She meant to scold but her voice was barely above a whisper as the green of her familiar's eyes only served as a cruel reminder of another pair of green eyes. "She deserves someone who can make her happy, someone that she can build a future with; someone who she's not afraid to be seen with,"

"...What can I possibly give her?"

Morgana cocked her head to the side as if prompting her mistress to continue offloading her troubles before berating her for not realising her own self-worth.

"No," she reaffirmed quietly, shaking her head. "I did the right thing." A lone tear finally broke free as it rolled down her cheek, splashing onto the cat's fur.

"I don't know how to love."

As she tossed and turned trying to get comfortable, it quickly became clear that sleep was once again evading the deputy headmistress, despite the fact she had actually gone to bed early, uncharacteristically giving into her tiredness rather than fighting against it. Physically, she felt wiped out but her emotional state was a whole other story; she always had been her own worst enemy. Her brain would not shut off and as she thought of all their interactions over the years, going over *that* moment again and again, she found herself caught up in an internally confusing battle, torn between what she wanted, what she thought she wanted and what she thought she was supposed to want.

Knowing that any attempts on her part to sleep would prove to be nothing more than an exercise in futility she sighed, despondently, lighting the candle on the bedside table with a quick flick of her wrist. As she reached for her book, a familiar photograph fell out from between the pages and landed gracefully on the bed.

Time seemed slip by unnoticed as she simply stared down at the photograph, her eyes wide as if she had never seen it before. Unable to tear her eyes away, her hand hovered over it; she desperately wanted to pick it up but could not find the courage to do so. Ever so slowly, she dared to reach out, her fingers brushing against the photograph and her hand shaking as she traced the outline of the familiar figures, taking in the brown eyes that were staring back at her and feeling that all too familiar white-hot rejection stirring within her with every moment that passed.

She really tried to avoid thinking about her Mother because every time she did, it hurt too much. Despite everything that she had been subject to throughout her life, it was still her earliest experience of heart-wrenching pain and nearly 32 years later, she was not even close to being over it. She could still remember how she had cried herself to sleep for months afterwards, thinking it must have been something that she had done; something that was so terrible, her own Mother did not want to be around her anymore. She was too young to understand and anytime she had asked her Grandmother or her Father, they either changed the subject or got cross with her. Eventually, she stopped asking.

Ophelia had been nice enough but she hadn't known how to play all the secret games that Mother and daughter had invented: she couldn't make her teddy Brambles talk in his special bear voice the way her Mother did. She could not replace her, and neither could the string of women her Father had paraded in and out of their house on a weekly basis.

She was still able to recall all the times Heckitty had left her sprawled across the cold flagstone, beaten and bruised with the remnants of dark magic circulating her system, her exhausted mind and body floating between a rapidly blurring reality and the onset of unconsciousness welcoming her into the abyss, granting her a temporary release from the world. She could remember wishing, begging…pleading with anyone who might be listening that her Mother would come back and save her.

She never did.

The potions mistress knew that a large part of her deep-seated fears stemmed from her issues of abandonment. As the years had gone by, it was just easier not to try because at the end of the day, eventually, they all left...

They always left.

'No one loves you, Constance. And it's easy to see why.'

'Girls whose name begins with "C" aren't allowed to join in the game.'

'Daddy, do you want to see what I learnt in dance class…Daddy?'

'Ophelia, will you get her out of here; what the hell am I paying you for?'

'Will you really come and play Mummy?'

'I promise.'

She squeezed her eyes shut tight as fresh tears trailed down her cheeks, flecks of magic sparking dangerously from her fingertips as she fought to control her rising emotional turmoil, her previous upset turning to a momentary anger.

She wanted to tear it up.

She wanted to tear it up so badly, rip it to shreds in the same way that everyone in her life had done with her heart, but her younger self halted her in her tracks. That photograph was the only proof she had of her childhood and the little girl in her, the one who had cried her eyes out night after night as she called out for her Mummy, could not bring herself to destroy such a precious memento. Needing to release something before she burst, she picked up the copy of the classic children's tale and hurtled it across the room, not even flinching as it bounced off the wall before landing on the floor with a heavy thud. With that, she broke down in a flood of tears, her sobs heart wrenching, like an animal wounded in battle.

A soft yet firm meow stirred her attentions and she looked up, spotting the blur of black in the corner. Morgana continued to paw at the book, her pink nose gently nuzzling against the dust cover. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the deputy regarded her familiar with curiosity before slowly approaching the spot where book –and now cat – both lay.

"What is it, Morgana?"

The cat merely looked at her in response, the intensity of the stare actually rather unnerved the potions mistress, who felt as if she had just gained an insight into how it must have felt to be one of her own students. Bending down to retrieve the book, frustrated at herself for losing her composure in such a childish manner, her eyes caught sight of the words scrawled underneath the title page.

Just in case, you ever want to revisit an ol' childhood favourite…

Merry Christmas, Constance

Love Imogen

XxX

She bit down tentatively on her bottom lip as she read the words on the page. Her childhood was certainly not a place she had any desire to revisit, ever, but despite the inadvertent irony of the gym-mistress's message, she could not help the small smile that spread across her face as she traced the words, the familiar and carefree twirl of each letter yet another reminder of just how polar opposites they were.

'Another barrier...'

Even now, she was still incredibly touched that Imogen had even remembered that conversation let alone gifted her with a book that had once meant so much to her. Closing it over, she held it close to her chest, all the while her mind in deep thought.

Very few people in her life had let her know that she was loved. Heckitty Broomhead had in fact told her, many times over, that she wasn't worthy of love and while she had tried to pay no heed, pretending it did not faze her, she knew deep down that those cutting words held an unfortunate truth. Her Mother had not loved her or she would have fought harder to stay. Her Father had not loved her or he would not have palmed her off on whomever he could. In truth, there had been six nannies before Ophelia.

Six.

She had acted out for all of them in the hope her Father might notice she existed but of course, he never did. After Ophelia left, her motherly figure abandoning her yet again, he just gave up, sending her away to Witch Training College to be educated by the evil incarnate. They had not spoken in near twenty years and though she had a drawer full of unopened letters he had sent over the years, she had no desire to open old wounds much less rub salt in them.

In Cackle's Academy, she had definitely found that family; that sense of belonging she had always craved. She loved the school more than anything but deep down there was still something missing…the jigsaw remaining incomplete. She looked at the book again.

'Dare I...?'