Constance watched the small bee as it bumped incessantly against the diamond paned window. Each time its small body struck the leaded window pain, its frantic buzz deepened as the vibrations hummed through the thin glass. Constance was sat in a comfortable stuffed velvet chair in the Dean's empty office, her long limbs still retained a sense of languidness from her time asleep. As Constance had suspected, the third years' sleep potion had been a very well made one, and the small dose had kept her asleep for almost 24 hours. She had only stirred from her dreamless day of sleep a few hours earlier, and her brain had the feeling of a blackboard which had just been wiped clean.
Constance's dazed senses were called into focus as she became aware of a pair of footsteps and a murmur of conversation approaching the Dean's office. The footsteps owners came to a halt in the octagonal stone clad antechamber outside and Constance could just make out the lowered voices of continued conversation from the other side of the heavy, wood panelled door. Constance was filled with a sense of curious trepidation and without thinking further, she recalled some yet untried words from the almanac – a spell for hearing what is said behind ones back. Immediately, she could hear the hushed voice of the Dean, as clearly as if she were speaking into Constance's ear.
"But surely, she knew the risk, why would she drink that amount of sleeping potion?"
"Presumably" Mistress Broomhead's voice was familiar in its brusqueness but Constance could sense it was also laced with a little aversion "to sleep"
"But to suddenly to take such a large dose. You don't think she intended to -" the Dean left the final words of her sentence unspoken
"Constance is a notoriously bad sleeper. I imagine the temptation of a sleeping potion ready made before her was too luring for her to resist. Despite my best efforts, on occasions she is far too impulsive. She is going to tell you exactly this herself when you ask her"
Constance felt a shiver of suspicion run down her back, Mistress Broomhead's final words sounded exactly like an instruction directed at Constance herself. Was Mistress Broomhead aware that Constance was listening in on their conversation or were years of suspicion just making her credit her tutor with more power than she had? Constance did not have time to debate the issue further, as at that moment the latch of the heavy wooden door clicked upwards and the two witches entered the room.
"I am very much glad to see you back in the world of the living Constance" began the Dean. She had settled herself at her desk opposite Constance. Mistress Broomhead had refused a proffered chair, and instead chosen to stand just behind the Dean's right shoulder. Looming over the conversation and fixing Constance with a steely stare.
"but you must tell me, you are an experienced potion maker and you know the risks of consuming such a large dose of potion, particularly when made by a novice witch. What on earth possessed you to do something so foolish? Is there something troubling you Constance? If so, you must tell us"
Constance looked into the Dean's face – her eyes appeared genuinely concerned and her expression was open. Constance longed to tell her the "something" that was troubling her. The sleepless nights when she could not cease the ever-increasing ideas and thoughts in her own head. The constant sense of unease as she lay in bed with the cool metal of the slim silver bracelet against her wrist, always wondering if she was to be jerked from her few grasped moments of sleep by the metal burning red hot. The myriad of never-ending tasks demanded of her by Mistress Broomhead on top of her teaching and studies where she always felt that she was being watched and never living up to her tutors unyielding standards of perfection. Of her dreams, ambitions and plans which the other students made, voiced and discarded with such carefree ease. But which for Constance, were hoarded close to her, like priceless treasure. Kept secret from Mistress Broomhead for fear that she would - . For fear of exactly what, Constance didn't know; merely that she spent her days on a knife edge of trepidation in case she drew her tutor's wrath by deviating from the life which had been rigidly drawn out for her. In truth, Constance was no different from the trapped bee buzzing against the window pane – forever hurtling herself against the glass but earning no freedom for her efforts, simply increasing her sense of exhaustion.
But Constance said none of this, instead she merely replied "I have trouble sleeping, I thought the potion might help. I'm sorry."
"It is nothing more than that?" the Dean pressed; her voice gentle but her gaze firm
"Nothing" Constance confirmed, not quite able to meet the Dean's eye.
The Dean paused a moment to look at Constance. No longer the unexpectedly talented girl of 17 they had first admitted to the college but an accomplished young woman of nearly 21. A young woman with pale skin and dark shadows beneath her eyes whose thin, angular frame bore a sense of weariness too heavy for her 20 years.
"I think perhaps Constance we have let you take on too much. No other fourth years are teaching their own classes and Mistress Broomhead tells me the book from your undergraduate thesis has just been accepted for publication. It is a great deal of pressure for a witch so young and it is understandable that you are having difficulties sleeping. Misuse of potions is against the college rules, but I think on this occasion we can take account of the extenuating circumstances and waive any sanctions. However, given that this incident with the sleeping potion could have been much more serious, I think we must take it as a warning that it is time for us to intervene"
Constance nodded tentatively, unsure what the Dean was going to propose.
"Mistress Broomhead and I have discussed the matter, and we think the best way from preventing this kind of incident occurring again, is to treat your sleeplessness ourselves. So, Mistress Broomhead has kindly brewed you a sleeping draft and she will continue to do so daily until we see an improvement in your fatigue."
Mistress Broomhead produced a small, green corked bottle from within the pocket of her black dress and held it out to Constance. Constance couldn't help but withdraw slightly from the proffered potion. She could feel a mounting sense of alarm in her throat at the thought of each day drinking an unlabelled bottle of potion from her tutor. Constance could still recall the long summer of tender throat and weakened powers following the incident with the tea. Even more clearly, she could picture exactly the ruby red glow created by the sunlight as it hit the narrowly avoided truth potion.
"Is a potion really necessary, perhaps there is something else –"Constance began, trying to keep her tone calm and reasonable.
"That is enough Constance. You have taken up more than enough of people's time" Mistress Broomhead cut in "Do as the Dean says"
Constance felt an electric heat run through her right arm and before she could react, her hand reached out of it's own accord and took the potion from Mistress Broomhead's hand.
"I really think this is the best solution Constance" said the Dean, nodding encouragingly "and you mustn't be nervous, many witches need sleeping drafts from time to time. I even took them for a small spell myself when I first became Dean. I am sure you will find your sleep improved in no time."
"You will take it now Constance." Mistress Broomhead ordered before glancing at the Dean and tempering her tone slightly "I may need to make adjustments to the dose and so the sooner you take it, the sooner we will be able to take the necessary amendments"
Under the relentless gaze of Mistress Broomhead and the encouraging attention of the Dean, Constance felt she had no choice but to uncork the small green bottle. She pressed the cold glass to her lips and consumed the contents, surprised to find the potion largely tasteless apart from a slight, lingering hint of bitterness.