Chapter 16
July 1985
Constance's heart gave a small flutter as she peered over her classmates heads to see around the heavily panelled doors to the college's assembly hall. In front was a sea of black and silver, occasionally interrupted by a splash of midnight blue, deep plum purple or darkest emerald green. The air was full of an excited hush of expectation as row upon row of happy parents, grandparents and siblings waited for the graduation ceremony to begin. With a deep, resounding chord, the college organ suddenly sprang into life and the college choir began chanting the college anthem.
Constance's eyes swept meaninglessly across the rows as the assembled witches and wizards rose to their feet. There was no one here for her, to see this day that had cost her almost every bit of energy she had. The work required of her to prepare for her final exams and dissertation has taken it's toll on her. Constance knew that she was not the photogenic, glowing graduate that most families would have adorning their hearths after today. Her frame, once willowy, was now bony and angular, her pale skin had an almost translucent quality and she bore dark stains of exhaustion beneath her eyes that no amount of sleep seemed to clear.
As the chanting continued, her mind wandered to thoughts of her mother. During her childhood she had always been told what about her great talent for chanting and she wondered how it would be if her mother would have been alive to see this moment. Constance internally admonished herself for allowing such a flight of fancy; now was not the time to dwell on notions of a woman she had never known. Instead, she allowed a moment's thought for her great aunt, another great lover of chanting and a small smile came to her lips as she thought how much her Aunt would have enjoyed the formality of the occasion. To be sat just a few rows along from the Pendle-Jones' in her best hat would have given her no end of delight.
Finally, after what seemed like endless speeches, the line of class mates in front of her began to shorten as one by one the witches processed down the central aisle, mounted the stage and received their award. Constance was at the very back of the line, next to Dorothy Pendle Jones; for at the college they lined up in order of achievement, with the young witch receiving the highest marks being the final graduant to climb the stage stairs. Just four girls had received first class honours this year and Constance felt a thrill of pride as she looked at the two witches in front of her. One head with blazing auburn curls and filled with day dreams and the other cropped dark head tilted sardonically as they watch the ceremony proceed.
And suddenly, Dorothy's name was called and Constance found herself quite alone. As she teetered on the threshold of the assembly hall, watching Dorothy make her smooth and confident procession to the stage, she suddenly felt a well-known sense of unease creep into her throat. She drew her eyes upward, and they met instantly with the steely and unflinching gaze of Mistress Broomhead who was sat in the centre of the stage.
That morning, Constance had dressed with almost ritual care. She'd draped a meticulously pressed cloak over her best black dress and taken endless care to brush out her now almost waist length black hair; freed for once from the usual confines of its severe bun. Her progress had been heeded somewhat by Morgana, who had batted her paws in an intrigued manner at the shining curtain of hair cascading down Constance's back as she sat on her bed. The cat had been returned to her a month earlier and was finally beginning to trust her again. Constance had suffered several weeks of hissing and scratches from Morgana after their three month separation but she had patiently endured them and finally her faithful cat was returning to her old self.
Finally satisfied Constance had laid down her brush and picked up her pointed black hat placing it firmly on her head. As she stood to exit the room, she caught her own movement in the mirror out of the corner of her eye and paused to look at her reflection.
For the past four months, every aspect of Constance's life had felt rigidly timetabled. As her tutorials with Mistress Broomhead had stretched ever later into the night and her tutor's demands on her had grown ever more arduous, Constance had been forced to spend every spare moment in the college library, feverishly preparing for her final exams. Even once her final exam had been over, Constance had not been able to join her class mates in the sun soaked days of post exam revelry. Her dissertation, for which Constance had developed a new type of apparation spell which enabled the caster to hear and observe their destination for a shot period before appearing, had been accepted for publication in a leading magical journal and she had subsequently been approached by a publisher asking her to write a book on the subject. Mistress Broomhead had of course made it very clear that she was to be credited as an author on both volumes. The last month and a half had been spent secluded in the shadowy library writing the long, complex chapters of spells and theory; only to have them ripped a part by her tutor's relentless comments.
Now, as Constance caught her reflection in the mirror on the morning of her graduation, she was taken aback by what she saw. For three years she had endured both the demands and notoriety her tutor had brought, until eventually it had seem that being Mistress Broomhead's student was the only thing she would ever be. Now as she looked at herself, in her hat and cloak, with her dark hair sweeping down her shoulders, she saw the young witch she had become. She felt a small glimmer of hope that, one day, people might see Constance Hardbroom and not immediately think of Hecate Broomhead.
"And finally" the Dean's voice rang out across the assembly hall "first class honours, winner of the Dean's post-graduate scholarship award for academic achievement and the Grand Wizard's prize for most outstanding undergraduate dissertation of the year: Constance Hardbroom"
As the applause began, Constance thought back to the witch she had seen reflected in her mirror and, inhaling deeply, stepped over the threshold into the assembly hall. During the seemingly endless walk down the aisle and up onto the stage, she could feel the stare of Mistress Broomhead upon her but she resolutely refused to meet her tutor's gaze. It was only once she had shook hands with the Dean and crossed the stage that she dared to look around her, returning the warm smile of Miss Fairwind before descending the steps into the waiting embrace of her two best friends.