(A/N)- Not my greatest but I've had a rough week and I'd list out the excuses but there's no point. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far, should be one more chapter after this.
- Chapter 5 -
Imogen was alone in the staffroom one morning, pouring herself some tea when it happened ...
Every fiber of her being felt like ice. She tried to move, but as soon as she did, her body tensed and stayed incredibly still. Her teacup fell from her grasp and shattered on the hardwood floor.
A low amused laugh came from behind her as the substitute headmistress circled her, stopping to stand in front of the non-witch with a satisfied grin.
"OfWitch said your position here has been approved, but I know better. You're nothing but scum of the earth, and you deserve no better than a maintenance job in this establishment just like the rest of the non-magickal wastes." she spat, referring to Frank and Miss Tapioca.
Imogen's lips were firmly closed, bound by the spell. The only thing she could do was glare at her, and it had no effect whatsoever.
"The next time you defy me will be the last, make no mistake of that!" she hissed into her ear, teeth bared, and she snapped her fingers as she strode from the room, causing the spell to break.
Imogen lost her balance and stumbled into a chair, gripping the back of it fiercely.
"Imogen?" a voice inquired, and she looked over to see Constance in the doorway.
The witch turned to look down the hallway until Broomhead was out of sight, and she shut the door firmly behind her, eyebrows knitted with worry as she eyed her colleague.
"What's she done?" she asked urgently but quietly, "Are you hurt?"
Pale fingers touched her shoulders gently, and she shrugged them off, casting a glare at the confused witch.
"I'm fine." Imogen muttered under her breath, mentally reminding herself that although she felt Constance was to blame for not contacting Amelia, this wasn't her fault. Imogen was the one who foolishly stood up to that vile woman the day before.
She sat down with a sigh at the staffroom table, running a hand through her short blonde hair. Her destroyed mug crunched noisily under her sneakers.
The familiar whir of magick met her ears and she involuntarily tensed, shutting her eyes a moment. She opened them to see her mug on the table, good as new.
Fingers returned to her shoulder and she jumped at the touch.
"What did she do to you?" Constance demanded under her breath.
"I could ask you the same thing."
The witch's burgundy lips pursed, and she averted her gaze as her face flushed slightly.
Imogen sat back in her chair, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she looked despairingly at the stoic witch, who avoided her eyes with great determination.
She found herself looking to her pale hands, biting back the urge to take one in hers ... but it didn't last long. Her shaking hand gently brushed the other woman's knuckles, but as soon as she made contact, it had been whipped from her grasp.
"Don't." Constance warned, eyes livid, and Imogen realized in that moment what she might've assumed.
"I wasn't ... I just ..." tears formed in her eyes but she blinked them away, getting to her feet, "Never mind," she muttered as she left the room.
She couldn't believe she wanted to hold her hand, to comfort her ... she'd almost forgotten about the cuts on her arm ... she just wanted to hold her, somehow, without coming across like some ... pervert, for lack of a better word.
She was grateful that Constance appeared to have forgotten she'd kissed her.
Imogen hoped that someday she could, too.