Merry Christmas everyone! This is probably the last chapter before the season so wishing everyone a good Xmas.

Despite the season's festivities this chapter isn't the prettiest it has to be said. The last bit..well I was stuck on how exactly to write it so I went with this and shoot if you must but it is probably the best I can do so here we are!

Won't clog the fic up with too much of an A/N just a thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far and hopefully people will keep reading this...rather long fic to say the least!

There are some references to previous chapters which even I barely remembered but it isn't 100% necessary to know exactly where they come from. You'll see anyway

Enjoy!

Chapter 25

She fell to the floor hard, her cheek stinging where her tutor's hand had collided with her face. Trying to catch her breath, her head swimming and flecks of colour dancing before her eyes, Constance wished that she didn't know what was coming. It had been an unbelievable dream, a foolish mistake to think that she would not have found out; now she would pay the price for her one sacred moment of indulgence.

Constance tried to pull herself from the floor only to be met with a kick to her stomach. It ripped through her abdomen and forced her to stay down, bringing a wave of nausea to her throat which she only just managed to suppress.

Seven years of her life had been wasted in this place. They were years which some called the best of their lives, a time where a child could be so free with nothing more to worry about then a late piece of homework or a bully at school; she envied such people, holding a strong yet hidden desire to be just like them. Her fate was sealed, written in blood on the walls and carved in stone; she would never be free.

At fifteen, Constance had known no other life than cruelty. Her eyes were wise with maturity some never managed to obtain, deep with secrets never to be uncovered and a knowledge of how her life would have to play out. Looking into those eyes one could tell nothing of the life that this young girl was forced to lead, though there was a sense of sadness which pervaded the air around her wherever she walked. She carried a great burden, it was clear to see, though one which could never be shared or lifted.

It was the burden of knowing that one day her fate would be sealed in blood and the sound of her own screams, yet she was not permitted the simple comfort of knowing what this fate would be. Her life was a mystery, even at times to her, and one she was growing tired of living more and more each day.

'How dare you,' Hecketty hissed, circling the fallen child like a vulture watching as a dying and vulnerable animal suffered before it.

'Did you really think that you could get away with it? Did you think that I would not know?'

'I...' Constance stuttered, her words failing her as the darkness she was so used to succumbing to clouded her vision.

'Pathetic,' spat the older witch, a word which meant so many things and still hit a nerve with her pupil. It was a word which disbanded every effort she gave, making the small goals she had achieved meaningless and her life worth less than nothing. If she wasn't strong, then who could she be? The word was poisonous, two simple syllables yet ones which made Constance shiver. She didn't want to fail, for she feared the consequences if she did.

'You left the grounds,' Hecketty reminded her. 'You dared to stray beyond the walls you know that you must stay within and honestly thought that I would not be able to tell?' Constance gulped, preparing herself for a fight she would not win.

'I...I didn't r-really-'

'DON'T LIE TO ME!' screamed Mistress Broomhead, her eyes burning with anger. It was as though the young girl had committed murder rather than strayed beyond the restrictions of the castle, though any misdeed was punishable as such in the eyes of deranged and twisted witch.

'I-I'm not!' protested Constance, trying for the first time to defend herself. She was surviving on pure adrenalin, rational thought lost with her only hope that she could stay strong in the face of evil.

'Explain,' was all that the elder woman shrieked, her chest heaving with the weight of her own anger. Constance forced herself to breathe, to stay awake despite her body's pleas to let her sleep.

'I did d-dematerialise from my room,' Constance admitted shakily, 'but I never actually appeared outside the castle. I just sort of...lingered for a while.'

For the first time in her many years of what can only loosely be described as teaching, Hecketty was speechless. To vanish and appear in the desired location was one skill, one which had been taught to her protégée when she had first arrived at the Witch Training College, but even Mistress Broomhead herself had never heard of a witch disappearing only to linger in the night's air without the need to appear in a physical form.

She had always known that Constance was special, powerful and creative without the limitations of magic which restricted so many witches, but this...She didn't know whether to be pleased or disgusted. She had to wonder if her control over the younger witch would slip, if this was what she was truly capable of. If she could create her own magic, use her power in ways no other person could, then it was only a matter of time before she could stray beyond her authority.

Constance lay on her side, one quaking hand holding her body from the floor. She wished beyond what she had thought possible that she had never said anything, that she had just kept her mouth shut. It was stupid really, such a ridiculously trivial thing and one not worth the hassle it would cause.

The end of year exam results had been published the day before, with Constance rising above and beyond the very top of the class. The entire year had been preparing to go out that evening, as was permitted for normal students, and they had invited her along. It had been a gesture which she had greatly appreciated, knowing that although she could not call these people friends, they were extending an amicable hand to offer her a night of freedom; they knew who she had to deal with every day, everyone did.

Though flattered, Constance had politely declined. She knew what Mistress Broomhead would say, her rules on straying beyond the wrought iron gates particularly clear; she had only wanted to see. Whilst sitting, as usual, alone in her room Constance had looked out of the window and wondered, just for a moment, what it would be like to join them. Standing and folding her arms, she had vanished from her room and her mind had been transported to the very restaurant where her peers were having dinner.

She did not reveal her presence and only stayed for the briefest of moments, but watching the people she saw every day laughing and enjoying themselves brought her a sense of comfort. Constance could have cried, could have pined for the life she would never have, but what would that achieve? Being able to watch others embracing life was refreshing to see, and though once she returned to her room the usual sense of forced enclosure and sickening depression took hold, that memory was one she would treasure. One day she wanted to be part of it, no matter how long it took to get there.

And now, lying before her tutor trying her hardest not to break, Constance did not know where her actions would lead her. She could not tell what Hecketty was thinking and that brought a growing sense of dread which was spreading through her body like a virus.

'So,' Hecketty began, her voice dangerously calm, 'you sought to defy me, and then speak out of turn.' Constance swallowed, her eyes wide; she could already feel the severity of what was about to happen to her with every feeble beat of her heart. She did not even dare to breathe.

'I never thought...' Mistress Broomhead's words trailed to nothing as her thoughts wandered.

'I could...no, could I? No-one has ever...'

Listening to her tutor's thoughts being spoken aloud terrified Constance, though she would never admit it. She looked into Hecketty's eyes, watery brown meeting cold grey and she saw a glimpse of what was coming. The echo of a gasp escaped from her lips before she felt something blunt crash into her head and everything went dark.

Xxx

When she woke, Constance soon became aware that she was sitting on a hard wooden chair. The weak sun appeared from behind the clouds and the warmth comforted her as she pulled her mind back into the real world. It was a small and stolen moment of calm, the mirror-like water before the crashing tsunami, and one which would not last.

The first indication that something was wrong came when Constance realised that she could not move her hands.

Blinking the last remnants of darkness from her eyes, Constance recognised the room where she spent most of her days and where she had been lying either moments or centuries ago. Looking down at her arms, it took a while for what she was seeing to register; when it did her blood ran cold. She was used to Mistress Broomhead's punishments, everything ranging from simple physical violence to dangerous experimental potions; this was something else. Something far, far more terrifying.

The chair was made from old, rotting wood which produced a sickly aroma that forced itself onto her, assaulting her senses. Her wrists were bound to the arms of the chair with old belts so tightly that her fingers were deathly white where the blood-flow was restricted. The most unusual thing that Constance realised was that the sleeves of her dress had been ripped and pulled so that they lingered on her shoulders, her hair pulled back harshly and knotted atop her head.

Hecketty was nowhere to be seen. For over an hour, Constance writhed in the chair trying with all the effort that she could muster to break free. She screamed and cried, knowing that it would do no good; the term was ending and everyone would be in the great hall on the other side of the building. She was alone.

Exhausted, Constance tried once more to use her magic. Something was blocking it, restricting it to her body and refusing to allow it to stray far enough to untie the bindings which seemed to get tighter with every passing minute. Barely able to open her eyes, her breathing shallow, Constance heard another person enter the room; she didn't need to be able to see clearly to know who it would be.

'I think,' came the sound of Hecketty's voice through the haze, 'that it is time to remind you who is in control.'

'Please,' whispered Constance, not caring as tears graced her pale face.

'I haven't had to use this in years,' explained Mistress Broomhead. 'The only other time I have, I am sorry to say that the girl died; let's see if you fare any better.'

'Wh-what,' Constance managed, refusing to believe that even someone as cruel as Hecketty would resort to murder just to prove a point. She couldn't, could she? Not even her...

'Your magic is a part of you, part of your living soul, but it affects other parts of your body; your blood, for example.'

Constance's heart stopped beating.

'The blood of the most powerful witches is extremely magical, a very rare substance due to the method of...extraction, and one which has many uses; this of course makes it very valuable.'

'No,' Constance begged, feeling the arteries of her body pounding as her precious blood ran through them, 'no you can't...please, you can't.'

'Perhaps now, you will realise who you belong to,' Hecketty said far too calmly, producing a long gilded knife from beneath her robe. Constance screamed.

She felt the blade pierce her skin with the intensity of a burning star, the first drops of blood the brightest red and glistening in the sunlight. The droplets slid down her arm, marking their path in scarlet ink as if to mock her.

Hecketty conjured a glass beaker, placing it beneath one of the chair's arms and muttering a few words as she did so. The first ruby of blood moved slowly and painstakingly from its searing origin to the end of Constance's arm, before falling as if pulled by an invisible force into the beaker.

Constance felt as if she was dying. On the surface it was nothing more than a superficial cut, something she had dealt with many times before; you couldn't tell from looking how much deeper the torture went. The incantation on the beaker drew the blood from the wound, pulling it from her body with her powerless to stop it.

Yet more than that, it turned the substance which gave her life against her. Within her veins, her blood burned and scorched her as if she had been poisoned and every waking moment brought greater agony. She tried to fall into the welcome pit of unconsciousness, but her mind refused to let her. The raw magic she depended on, residing deep within her soul, had woken in the panic and was forcing her to stay awake, and with that forcing her to suffer.

Mistress Broomhead looked down at Constance who after a moment of struggling had fallen limp in her chair, still trying to shout out with what effort she had left. Draining blood was a tiresome and painful process, one which took much energy from the unfortunate soul upon whom the spell had been cast; it was going to be a very long day.

Gripping the knife between her fingers, Hecketty dared to look into Constance's horrified and defeated eyes for a moment as she took the younger witch's unharmed arm in her hand. They begged her, pleaded with her to stop. She knew that she had understood, that she would never stray again; yet somehow it wasn't enough. The knife cut deep into her pale flesh, drawing precious blood as Constance screamed in agony. The sound was so hopeless, so terrified, that even Hecketty suppressed a shiver.

Xxx

Stepping back, Hecketty realised that she was trembling. Constance's eyes were flickering, not quite closed but the older woman knew that she would be too tired to even comprehend her surroundings. All she would know was the pain.

Mistress Broomhead had always taken a certain pride in her punishments. It was not just the violence and mental degradation which she served to those who had done wrong, but the sense of justice and control which made her feel as if she was doing the right thing. Never before had she felt that she had overstepped the mark. Not until then.

Regret was an emotion which Hecketty had never really embraced. She saw that what had been done could not be changed, and to look to the past would only lead to moving backwards and wasting time. She didn't know whether it was the way that Constance's chest was barely moving, or the colour of the shimmering scarlet rivers against the deathly pale skin; something about the young witch before her told her that what she had done was wrong. The knife clattered to the floor.

'You...you should have listened,' Hecketty muttered. Constance showed no signs of response.

'It's your fault,' she shouted, her voice for the first time near to breaking point, 'look at what you made me do!' Shaking her head, Hecketty was talking more to herself, to justify her actions, than to the lifeless form before her.

'There is no-one else to blame, you brought this on yourself!'

Saying it aloud could not quite make her believe it, but it was enough for now. The beaker had filled to the brim, still warm as Hecketty moved to pick it up. The spell dissipated at once, the bond between the beaker and the blood left coursing in Constance's veins broken. Her eyes could finally close.

'You brought this on yourself,' Hecketty whispered one last time, staring as though entranced at the beaker which seemed far too full and trying to keep a slowly slipping composure. As she vanished into the unknown, Hecketty cursed her own emotions. She thought that they had been gone for a very long time, pushed to the corner of her mind and locked away forever. She couldn't really be feeling sorry for the girl...

No. It wasn't right. It wasn't her. As soon as she materialised back in her office she cried out in fury, slamming the beaker down on the table. She refused to let emotions take hold of her, to taint the path she had to walk to get what she needed. The small flash of regret had turned the hatred in her soul against her mind, against herself, and she would never let such a feeling loose within her again.

Something within Hecketty changed. She had always been cruel, heartless and cold, that was plain to see; after watching Constance suffer so, she became nothing less than ruthless. The adrenalin coursing through her body was intoxicating, and although part of her was repulsed another part was excited. She decided, there and then, that nothing would stand in her way. Hecketty Broomhead became unstoppable. Nothing would ever stand in her way again.

Xxx

The school year ended. Constance had spent hours bleeding, crying out for nobody to hear her and allowing tears to escape from the corners of her eyes as she began to wish that the world would end around her; nobody knew. She had realised quite soon that the chances of being found were slim. Who would come into an otherwise empty classroom when the great wide world was waiting for them outside? Had it not been for the kindness of a stranger, she would have died in that very room.

Her eyes were still closed, but she felt the presence of another. She was aware, yet everything was dark; she wondered how long she had been there.

Xxx

As soon as he had seen her through the door, he had run to her as fast as his legs would carry him. Though she did not yet know him – nor, he hoped, had she even seen him – Thomas Woodstock had been keeping an eye on Constance ever since he had first noticed her unfortunate affiliation with Hecketty Broomhead. More than once, he had challenged her methods on previous pupils despite being only a student himself and for that he had been sorely reprimanded.

Knowing the burden that being Hecketty's protégée would be, he had sworn to look out for Constance even if she couldn't yet know what he was doing.

When Tom reached Constance, he covered his mouth as nausea gripped his stomach. There were open cuts across her face, neck and arms which were still dripping blood and someone had slashed her abdomen ripping her badly stained dress. She was bound by her wrists, though her body was lifeless in the chair which was surrounded by small pools of scarlet. It was like a scene from a horror film.

Tom knew who had done this without needing to ask, yet he couldn't quite comprehend why anyone would be that cruel - even Hecketty. Untying her wrists, Tom allowed Constance's body to fall into his arms and he picked her up before laying her gently on the ground. Not one of the spells that he used to try and stem the bleeding had worked, and Tom was forced simply to remove his jacket as a meagre offering of warmth; her body was as cold as ice.

He feared checking for a pulse, unsure of what if anything he would find, but a feeble gasp from Constance assured him that the worst had not yet happened. Her eyes opened, deep rich brown which told such a sad and tortured story, and Tom managed a smile for her as he found a small device in his pocket which could be enchanted to carry messages. Murmuring a plea for medical attention, he sent it flying away with the flick of his wrist and held Constance's freezing hand in his own. The sun was setting. Everyone else had gone home. He had been her only chance, her knight in shining armour, and she would never even know.

Xxx

Constance just forced her eyes to open for a moment, her vision blurred and her mind too tired to comprehend much more than that she was alive. She felt the ground beneath her, comforting in comparison to the horrific confines of the chair, and was aware that she was slipping into darkness again. As her eyes closed, she saw the outline of a figure. It was a face that she would forget, even when she met with him in six months time and he asked her to come away with him. She tried to mutter a thank you, but her voice was lost. Her silhouetted saviour.

She woke up three weeks later in intensive care, screaming and unable to say exactly what had happened. It was an experience she would never forget, which would give her scars which still shone in the moonlight and gave her the most horrendous of nightmares. She would never tell a soul.

Constance woke, every bone in her body aching and the bitter taste of blood still fresh in her mouth. The sky was darkening outside; the end of an era. Everyone else was gone. The castle was empty, the stone walls bare and the corridors vacant as every student had gone home to their families; it was a time of great tranquillity.

Usually Constance was forced to stay within the college grounds during the holidays and study; they had been some of the worst days of her life, but were now no more than memories to be buried. She had graduated from the WTC, the youngest graduate in a century with more qualifications than most witches earned in a lifetime and now she could finally realise...she was free.

It took her a while to get to her feet. Her parting exchange with Mistress Broomhead had proven challenging, one which left her fighting once more for her life, but now it was over. She would never have to stare into the face of evil again; or so she thought.

Picking her tattered bag from the floor, Constance limped slowly from the room to be greeted with nothing but glorious silence. Every step was painful, every movement a hardship, but it was worth it. She could not rest until she was released from these terrible corridors and free from the confines of the castle forever; she had to leave this place a strong and independent woman.

Reaching the gates seemed to take forever, yet feeling the rough metal beneath her fingertips was a blessing. She pushed them open, using more strength than she had within her and stumbling; it was worth more than everything.

Constance staggered past the entrance to the mouth of hell and into the trees beyond, watching the horizon darken as the sun disappeared. It was not long before her body could take no more and she collapsed into the leaves.

Turning onto her back, Constance stared at the deep inky sky. Like her own life it was clouded in such mystery, and yet the stars seemed to hold a certain hope within them as they appeared one by one; there was nothing more beautiful in the world. She had nowhere to go, no house or family; she didn't even have any money. She was alone in the world without means or purpose, yet none of it mattered. A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, a tear of relief and happiness; she could say it, she was free. Whatever happened to her now, whatever the future would hold for her, she was in control of her own life and there was nothing and no-one who could take that away from her.

Drifting off in the warm midsummer night air beneath the stars, Constance had never felt more alive. She couldn't know that there were forces working around her even when she thought that she was alone. She couldn't tell that whenever she slept, there was another pair of eyes in the room watching her. She would never know that her freedom had always, in fact, been a lie. She was never free. And, until the bitter end, she never could be.

The sorrowful memories of her life revisited her like old friends, her story playing out like a black and white picture flickering from scene to scene with faded sound ringing in the back of her mind. If nothing else, it would be over. If the life after what was to come brought only peace and the chance to put these memories to rest, then it would be worth the struggle to get there. She just had to be sure that they were safe, those who mattered most to her, and then she could go. She needed only to hang on to ensure that they were protected, and then she would accept whatever came after the end of the storm.

Constance could feel her soul being pillaged, the deepest secrets that only she knew and the very essence that made her who she was being invaded and torn apart as Hecketty's magic sought to take what she did not have the right to own. With each passing second she was fading, the person she had been becoming lost to the ether in a desperate tirade for magic and power.

She could not see how meaningless it would be, a pointless pursuit. We are not judged on how much power we have or how skilled we are; we are all judged, in the end, on the person we truly are at heart when everything else is stripped away. It is what makes us who we are, what separates every man woman and child, and all that Hecketty could gain from her cruelty would be damnation.

It had to be now. Though her mind and her body were no longer one, Constance reached deep into her tainted soul and found the image of her daughter. She held on to the memory of the one time that she had been able to hold her, remembering the warmth of Destiny's skin against her own and the brightness of her sparkling blue eyes, revelling in that far too brief moment. Constance tried to dismiss her pining to hold her daughter again; it only distracted from what she had to think, had to believe and remember. It would bring about the final justice.

Xxx

Hecketty screamed. Her hands burned, her magic recoiling back to her fingers as she staggered and fell to the floor. Kneeling and staring at the charred skin of her fingertips, she could not understand what had gone wrong. She had been so close to taking everything. Constance's soul had been in her hands, her magic flowing into its new owner when...she couldn't even describe it.

Constance's limp form fell back, unmoving and ghostly pale with her hands still tied behind her back. Amelia watched, mouth agape, not sure what to think.

'What,' Hecketty muttered in disbelief, 'what is this?' She looked at the headmistress, noticing that the protective bubble was still holding around its inhabitants though appearing considerably weaker. She couldn't understand.

Mildred looked at Amelia, begging to be told what was happening.

'What happened Miss,' she whispered, 'is Miss H-Hardbroom okay?' She had to hope, though the image of the fallen woman in the corner of her eye told a very different story from the one she dreamed of. After everything that had happened, why was it that the dying witch could not find a happy ending? It wasn't fair. Life wasn't fair anymore.

'I don't know,' replied Miss Cackle honestly, 'but something has gone wrong, something Mistress Broomhead had not anticipated; that has to be a good thing.' Her assurances were built on a whim, nothing more than a chance, but it was better than blind hope which could prove to be completely false. Holding Destiny close to her chest and feeling Mildred's shaking body close, Amelia knew that she had to be strong. However scared she was feeling, however sad and terrified she was, there were those who had no-one else to turn to.

'You underestimated me.'

The voice, at first, was almost as quiet as a whisper. It rang with an ethereal echo, a voice which belonged to the only person Amelia wanted to hear from; yet Constance's body was lifeless, her eyes closed and her lips only parted to breathe. It couldn't be...

'For my entire life, I have suffered at your hand. You thought me nothing but a toy, a tool for your own amusement and a protégée to lead the life you never could. I used to fear you, but in truth Hecketty, I should have pitied you.'

'What is this trickster's magic?' Hecketty cried, fear flickering in the deep furnaces of her eyes as she stared around the vacant room. The voice was hers, was Constance's, yet it did not come from the body which was lying before her. It the voice of a mind which roamed free, something which she could not fight or belittle. She was, despite her considerable magic, powerless.

'You couldn't see it. I don't blame you; love is something that you will never truly understand.'

'Constance!' Amelia shrieked. 'Constance is that you? How...'

'I cannot quite explain it myself Amelia, but yes it is me.'

The tone was so calm, as smooth as the finest silk but with the affliction of a certain chill. Amelia couldn't help but realise how ghostly it sounded, like a message from the world beyond.

'What do you mean I couldn't see it?' shouted Hecketty, refusing to believe that she had been defeated. There had been no further battle, so how could she have lost?

'You used the connection between me and my daughter to take my magic, but you could not understand what that would do. A bond of love as strong as a parent and her child cannot be pervaded by evil, and cannot be manipulated for selfish plights. You cannot use her to kill me, Hecketty, and now you will pay your own price.'

Mistress Broomhead was lost for words. She did not quite know what to say, nor what to do, and her mind could not accept that she had been wrong. Indeed she had underestimated Constance. She had seen her as weak, as someone who would simply fall when defeated rather than fight back. There was no way to describe the feeling within her; she was lost.

'No-one else will suffer at your hand, I will make sure of it. You will discover that in the world, it is you that is alone. It is you that is pathetic. And I am sorry; I know how it feels.'

'This isn't over,' Hecketty insisted through gritted teeth. 'It can't be over.' The disembodied voice gave no reply, knowing that in such a denial lay the only answer.

Amelia allowed soft tears to fall down her face. She knew that she should be happy that Mistress Broomhead had lost, that she would never take Constance's magic and that they were safe from her. Yet hearing her deputy's voice...it seemed to her like an end. Why was she not speaking as she always had, through her body and with her own lips? It appeared to be too much of a last effort to hold on.

'Amelia.'

The headmistress knew that the voice was only present within her own head, the words no longer ringing but like a soft lullaby in the back of her mind.

'I'm here,' she whispered in reply.

'Amelia I...I'm so sorry.'

'What have you to be sorry for? You made sure that we were safe, you stopped Hecketty from gaining your power...we owe you everything.'

'This was my fight, my burden; I should never have let innocent people get hurt because of me.'

'None of this is your fault!' exclaimed the headmistress. 'I have more to thank you for than I ever had before and when you are a bit stronger then I will tell you in person.'

'I...I can't...'

'No,' Amelia said sternly. 'You're not gone yet, you are still here. Don't you dare let go.'

'Amelia this is the only way I could find to speak to you. My body was dying, I barely have the strength to hang on...I would come back if I could. There's nothing that I want more. But I have to accept it, as must you.'

'NO! No I am not saying goodbye. I can't say goodbye...'

'Take good care of her for me. If I can't be there for her, then at least she will be in caring hands.'

'But she needs you! Goddamnit I need you! How can you leave us after all this, after everything we have been through? I love you Constance Hardbroom and I will not let you go!'

'Everything has it's time. If I could change what has to happen in any way, then I would. I don't want to live an empty life, one where I am alive but not quite living...you will understand soon I promise. You have to know that I love...'

Constance's voice trailed off, fading into the darkest corners of Amelia's mind until it was gone. The headmistress cried out and sobbed, her violent tears at the goodbye she had never wanted to give. The world wasn't fair. It didn't make sense anymore. Mildred squeezed her arm with a comforting hand but it wasn't enough, it could never be enough. She wondered whether Mildred had heard her too, her own final farewell; the poor girl deserved some answers if nothing else.

Hecketty gasped and crumpled to the floor, surrounded by a crackling blue light which faded into the sunlight's rays. Mildred looked at her, hate and disgust welling in her chest. She could not tell if she was gone or simply fallen, though she wished the cruellest and most lonely death upon a woman who deserved nothing more. It would be the only justice.

The protective shield which the young pupil had been holding up with her magic fractured, pulling away from Mildred's grip as there was no longer a reason for its existence. The danger was gone. At once, she ran to Miss Hardbroom's side and with a muttered spell she thanked God that she remembered, Mildred untied the bindings on her teacher's hands. She could not stop the tears from falling, even though she forced herself to remember that this was no time for crying. She knew what she had to do.

Miss Cackle joined them in a heartbeat, kneeling carefully beside the younger witches with Destiny cradled close to her chest. Destiny's eyes strayed to her mother and though she could not possibly understand what was going on she began to cry. Amelia wondered if she could sense something that they could not.

Without warning, the world went dark. The room disappeared from around them and Mildred braced herself against the endless darkness, the emptiness of a space where nothing existed and prepared herself to land. The familiar surroundings of the academy materialised around them, the corridor outside the staffroom seeming a foreign world of long ago rather than part of the place they called home for most of the year.

With a gentle thump, they landed on the floor as if they had never been away. Amelia could no longer bear to look at the impossibly pale body before her and rose to her feet, turning away and rocking the wailing baby gently in her arms. Mildred took one of Miss Hardbroom's frozen hands in her own and pushed a strand of dark ebony hair from across her face. Her fingers wandered to the wrist of her potion mistress' left arm.

'Miss...we need a doctor!'

To sum up:

In reference to flashbacks, to clear up anything, the first was before Tom and Constance met in the first scene with him in when he tried to save her etc. but he still knows who she is and has been keeping an eye on her (aww bless).

The second takes place after a precious flashback after her graduation when Broomhead was not pleased to be supposedly relinquishing her hold and was rather mean to poor HB!

Let me know if it was utter nonsense or whatever in a review and thanks for reading! Next chapter will be the penultimate I think *listens for cheers or groans* not that long before it is all tied up!

Thanks :) HBR