This chapter's a little shorter than usual, but only by a smidgeon. A definite change in pace before we pick up again…

CHAPTER SIX

It was several days after Mistress Broomhead's aborted inspection, and Constance Hardbroom was sitting the staffroom, enjoying a moment of solitude in the unwontedly warm room. The night before had seen the first snowfall of the winter, and the castle was currently shrouded in a blanket of white, an illusion of beauty and security. Consequently, Miss Cackle had insisted on lighting a fire, and even Constance had to admit that the sensation of warmth radiating across her back was a pleasant one.

Her pen travelled over book after book, scoring or ticking as appropriate, but for once Constance's mind was not entirely on her work. She was tense, knowing from painful experience that Mistress Broomhead did not countenance defeat, and – unlike Amelia – she was not convinced that the loss of their GAS was all they had to fear from the WTC.

Constance frowned and sighed as she corrected Mildred Hubble's latest attempt at a potions essay. It had crossing outs where Mildred's volatile mind had changed tack at the last possible moment – really, couldn't the girl get to grips with concept of planning? – and more than a few splodges of ink, several of which obscured Mildred's writing to the point that it was almost not worth marking. Constance contented herself with putting a red line through the entire essay and adding a tart comment at the bottom to the effect that if Mildred could not be bothered to present her work neatly, she could not see why she should be expected to mark it. Not that she thought those actions would have any impact; Mildred was so accustomed to such reprimands that they rolled off her like water off a duck's back.

All the same, as Amelia had once observed, it was difficult not to be fond of the worst witch in the school. Her faults were many, but she was, as Amelia frequently opined in her defence, 'rather sweet'. Constance repressed a snort as she put Mildred's book to one side and drew another to her: Ethel Hallow's. Her hand hovered over it for a moment before she put it aside firmly.

Ethel was technically no longer a pupil at Cackle's; she and Sybil were simply waiting for the snow to end so that their parents could collect them and their belongings via the Muggle means that Mr Hallow seemed to prefer. If Constance was honest with herself, she was not sorry. Ethel had always been a disruptive force within her cohort, but her genuine intelligence and diligence in academic matters had inevitably engendered respect, if not liking, from the similarly minded Deputy Headmistress.

She looked at the remaining books in the pile and tutted, hating how unsettled she felt. The state of the room did nothing for her temper either, for Davina had strewn holly leaves all over the floor that morning (why, only Davina knew). The armchair was almost buried under the pile of clothes Imogen had seen fit to bring into school with her that morning, and Amelia was responsible for the haphazard heap of books in one corner. Constance narrowed her eyes and flexed her hands automatically, even while her conscious mind regretted the loss of her ability to simply zap everything into place with one snap of the fingers.

She glanced out of the window again, noting the white dervish outside, and made a decision. She gathered her books together into a neat pile – with Ethel's still out – and reached into her bag for her writing case. It was Saturday morning; no-one would be making any demands on her time for at least another hour, and she owed her cousin Minerva a letter, assuming she could get it sent.

With a typical economy of movement, she uncapped the fountain pen she kept for just this purpose – not even for Minerva would Constance consent to writing with those messy and unhygienic quills – and began her screed.

She had just reached a pleasant rhythm when she was disturbed by a knock on the door, and she expelled a breath of annoyance.

'Come in,' she called, sparing a moment to be grateful for the fact that her voice had improved, even if it was still not at full strength.

Fenella Feverfew slipped through a barely opened door – something that annoyed Constance in itself; why couldn't the girls enter a room properly? – and stood, her expression determined and her arms cradling a worn leather volume.

'Well?' Constance demanded when the girl said nothing.

'I was in the library this morning, reading, and I found this,' Fenella began, opening the book at a specific page with the smooth expertise born of long practice. She put it down on the table next to Constance. 'Does Miss Cackle know about it?'

Constance squinted at the tiny print and ignored the little voice in her mind that told her she should consider a visit to the optician in the not too distant future. 'It's the rules of the WTC,' she said, glancing swiftly at her pupil. 'What of it?'

'This,' Fenella said, pointing to the microscopically tiny footnote at the bottom of the page. 'It's linked to the statement about GAS.'

'Hmmm,' said Constance, trying not to peer too obviously at the page. 'I really don't think that – oh.'

'Exactly,' Fenella put in eagerly. 'That's what I thought too. What are we going to do?'

Constance heaved an inward sigh and wished everyone would stop asking her that question. 'The first thing is to inform Miss Cackle. I am sure she is not aware of this; indeed, I wasn't aware of it myself,' she admitted, darting a look towards Fenella that warned against gloating of any kind.

'This explains why we haven't heard anything more from Mistress Broomhead,' she went on, her mind working furiously. 'She doesn't need to tell us anything. All she has to do is remove us from the list of schools with GAS at the WTC headquarters – and our wards drop instantly.'

'Weren't the wards affected by everyone losing their magic?' Fenella ventured. 'If they're magical, surely –'

'They would only be affected if they were imposed by someone within the castle,' Miss Hardbroom responded absently as she tried to calculate the possible repercussions of this. 'As they weren't, they remained in place, protecting us – until now.'

Fenella looked nervous. 'Do you think they've already gone?'

The sense of unease that had haunted Constance since Mistress Broomhead's peremptory departure escalated another notch.

'I don't think there's any doubt,' she told her pupil seriously. 'You saw how Mistress Broomhead left the school; she's not a woman to endure such humiliation without instigating immediate retaliation.' She repressed the soul-deep shiver that wanted to escape, knowing that such a clear sign of disquiet from her would only unnerve Fenella further.

The girl's gaze went past Constance to the snow falling outside. 'I suppose we should be grateful for the weather,' she commented. 'If we can't go out, no-one else can come in.'

Constance did not reply at once. She knew that a witch or wizard in full possession of their powers would make light work of the wild snowstorm outside. Instead, she closed the book and put it aside, next to her pile of exercise books.

'With your permission, Fenella, I shall hold onto this to show Miss Cackle,' she began, her tone making it clear that there was no question of Fenella denying the requested permission. 'In the meantime, you had better turn your attention to other subjects – such as your potions project.' She allowed a thin smile to slip out. 'I am expecting something truly spectacular from you and Griselda this year.'

Fenella's brown head dipped so that Constance could not see her face. 'We're not working together any more, Miss Hardbroom.' She glanced up, her expression oddly blank. 'May I go now?'

'You may,' Constance assented, her frown back in place as she watched the girl leave, and rubbed her arms, chilled despite the heat of the room.

She glanced at the clock: Fenella had cost her a precious fifteen minutes, but if she went quickly she would still be able to say all that needed to be communicated. And then… the letter would need to be sent, for whatever good it might do.

xxx

It was half an hour before the bell for lunch, and Amelia was sitting in her office, glumly trying to reduce her desk to some kind of order. Her tummy grumbled loudly and she cast a longing glance at the clock, and sighed when it resolutely remained at quarter past twelve.

A letter with the logo of the WTC branded across it peeked through the detritus, and Amelia grimaced and fished it out with her index finger and thumb. 'There's no question where you're going,' she muttered, and she scrunched it into a ball and chucked it into the fire. Her mood lifted when she saw she'd succeeded placing it where she wanted it, and she watched triumphantly as the little ball glowed amber and crimson before fading to black and crumbling into nothingness.

'That's what'll happen to all your communications in future,' she said aloud. 'Straight into the fire they'll go.'

Now, where did I put that Ministry paperwork? she wondered, guiltily relieved that Constance had elected the spend the morning elsewhere. Tidying up was always so much easier when her deputy wasn't looming over her, smirking knowingly. Mustn't lose the confirmation that the girls have been registered for their OWL exams or I'll never hear the end of it…

She had just swept a pile of papers off her desk – it was very much the quickest way of finding anything – when the distinctive sound of clacking in the corridor outside made her freeze.

Constance, she thought gloomily as she frantically tried to scrabble the papers together and replace them on the desk. Typical…

The door flew open, and Constance entered, shutting the door behind her with her usual firmness.

'I was just-' Amelia gabbled, but she interrupted herself when Constance turned to face her, her expression at its grimmest. 'What is it? What's happened now?'

'Headmistress, we're in trouble,' Constance announced abruptly as she sat down on the hard chair that faced Amelia's usual seat, her newly solitary stick beside her.

Amelia repressed the desire to be sarcastic as she dumped a second load of papers on her desk. 'I'm quite aware of that. Is there any new trouble on the horizon?'

Constance watched her. 'You seem to have the remains of a typewriter ribbon in your hair,' she pointed out, a propros of nothing in particular.

Her employer sighed and swiped at her head as she sat down, hoping that would suffice. 'Don't keep me in suspense,' she ordered, once Constance had nodded her approval.

'Fenella has uncovered something rather disturbing,' the Deputy Headmistress began. 'In the WTC's rule book, there's a addendum to the effect that the wards affixed by the WTC remain in place only as long as the school in question retains its status. If that status is revoked for any reason, the wards fall instantly.'

Amelia frowned as she combed her fingers through her straggly grey locks, scattering the last few fragments of clingy ribbon. 'What wards? This is the first I've heard of them.'

'I must confess I was not aware of them either,' Constance admitted. 'More research is needed; I may set Fenella on it. I think that girl needs a distraction,' she went on. 'She's brooding over her split with Griselda.'

'I don't like that split,' Amelia said seriously. 'Not one bit. I know many of the girls have been at each others' throats lately, but they don't worry me. Even Enid Nightshade's alliance with Drusilla Paddock is a minor detail, especially now that we're getting rid of Ethel Hallow. Fenella and Griselda, however…'

'I'm sure it's something trivial,' Constance said dismissively. 'You know how teenage girls are.'

Not those teenage girls, Amelia thought but did not say. 'The wards?' she said instead.

'Wards are a form of magical protection,' Constance began, moving easily into teaching mode. 'They provide an unseen shield around a place or a person, repelling all those who might wish it, or them, harm.'

'It hasn't worked very well so far, has it,' Amelia muttered. 'What about Hecketty – or my own dear sister?'

'Hecketty Broomhead would be recognised by the wards as a member of the WTC,' Constance explained. 'Agatha… would be recognised as you.'

Amelia spluttered in indignation. 'We're nothing alike!'

'The wards do not distinguish character,' her deputy continued. 'They operate by filtering biological and magical profiles. And Agatha, as your twin sister, is similar enough to you on both those counts that she can pass as you. As we have already discovered to our cost.'

'It might be time to consider a witchover,' Amelia mumbled, thoroughly disgruntled by this revelation.

'That would make no difference,' Constance said patiently, and Amelia could practically hear the rolled eyes in her tone. 'A witchover makes superficial changes only.'

'Huh.' Amelia sank into thought, only vaguely aware that Constance was saying something about being vulnerable without either wards or magic, and that tickled a memory.

'Ripe for the plucking,' she said suddenly, ruthlessly interrupting her deputy in full flow. 'That's what your cousin said.'

Constance's finely arched black brows contracted in a rare physical show of anxiety. 'But by whom?' she whispered.

'That's the question, isn't it?' Amelia studied the younger woman. 'Constance, what do you know about – what was it? – oh yes, Voldymord.'

Her deputy blinked in clear confusion. 'Voldy – oh, you mean Voldemort!' Amelia was startled to see her wince as the name echoed around the room. 'Or He Who Must Not Be Named as he is more properly known,' she corrected hurriedly, her eyes skittering across the room as if she was afraid they might be overheard.

'Why?' Amelia asked, puzzled by the furtiveness of Constance's response. 'I'd never heard of him before your cousin mentioned him.'

Constance sighed and ran a hand over her face. 'He was a wizard who dreamed of ruling over both the wizarding and non-wizarding worlds,' she began. 'He planned to turn the Muggles into slaves at best. He believed that all magical families who were too close to Muggles, or had Muggle blood, were blood traitors, and should be culled for the good of the wider wizarding world. There was a war,' she went on softly. 'A guerrilla war. Many people died, and many survived only to wish they had died. The name became … almost a curse in its own right. He was defeated sixteen years ago by a baby boy named Harry Potter.'

'A baby?' Amelia repeated, startled.

Constance's thin smile reappeared. 'A baby. Minerva says that he's the only person to have ever survived the Killing Curse.' Her smile flickered at Amelia's indrawn breath. 'I see you understand.'

'Not entirely,' Amelia admitted. 'But for a baby to survive Avada Kedavra, and to defeat the wizard who cast it… that's old magic. The oldest magic of all some say,' she went on softly, her gaze turning vacant. Then it sharpened once again and refocused on her deputy, examining the younger woman over the top of her glasses. 'But this person who should not be named is back, is that it?'

'So I believe,' Constance admitted reluctantly. 'However, we escaped unscathed sixteen years ago and there's no reason why we should not do so now.'

'That's true,' Amelia agreed absently. 'But it is disquieting when we are so uniquely vulnerable at this time.' She shivered, and looked at her dancing fire. 'It makes me wonder - '

'What?' Constance prompted as the word hung in the air.

Before Amelia could answer, the door flew open to reveal a distraught Griselda Blackwood, followed by Mildred Hubble, who was soaking wet and managed to fall into the office by the simple means of tripping over her own undone bootlaces.

'Girls!' protested Miss Cackle in annoyance, while Miss Hardbroom boomed, 'What is the meaning of this?' in almost her old style.

'There's someone outside, Miss Cackle,' Griselda panted as Mildred attempted to untangle her arms, legs, and hair. 'I don't know how she got here through the snow, but she's in an awful state. The kids found her next to the broomshed when they went out to build a snowman.'

Miss Cackle was on her feet at once. 'Who is it?'

Mildred blinked up at her from the floor. 'I'm not sure, Miss Cackle, but I think it might be that Pentangle's girl I turned into a chicken last term,' she said apologetically. She bit her lip and went on in a voice so quiet that they had to strain to hear her. 'She looks more than awful, Miss. She looks nearly dead.'

xxx

Dum-dum-dum! I hope this chapter hasn't been too confusing for those unacquainted with Potter, but I think it gives the gist of what's needed. Oh, well, we'll see soon enough…