Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.

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Love In The First 39 Degrees

Chaper 3

As soon as the door had closed, she slumped, letting her true exhaustive state be known for mere minutes, before she pushed herself up, ignoring the ache all over her body with sheer will power, as she reached for the glass of water and packet of paracetamol, grimacing slightly as she swallowed two of the tablets.

If she were to be completely honest then she felt like hell and, judging by the brief glimpse she had caught of her reflection earlier in the day, she looked like it too.

She had woken up with a slight scratch in her throat a day or so ago and, since then, had began to feel progressively worse as the day had gone. She had already woken up on her bathroom floor, with little recollection as to how she had ended up there, and stayed there for as long; the cold tiles providing a welcome relief from the fever that was firing through her veins, like a mother soothing the brow of their sick child. Despite feeling, as Enid Nightshade had once put it-and earned herself a severe reprimanding-like 'complete shit', she had managed to drag herself up and pushed on, knowing she was eventually going to fall but wanting to prolong it for as long as possible and preferably wait until her colleagues had departed and the school was completely empty before it happened. As always though, luck had not been on her side and now, on top of feeling completely drained of energy, she was mightily embarrassed. The only saving grace-and even that was minor- was it was the holidays and not during the school term.

As much as could have complained, she knew that she wouldn't; it simply wasn't in her nature. She never had been one to scream and wail about how the unfairness of it all. Life wasn't fair; it was the only real certainty of it. To her horror though, she could feel the build up of hot salty tears as they stung the back of her eyes.

As soon as she closed the door behind her, Imogen could have sworn she heard the faint sounds of sobbing coming from the other side and if she hadn't felt bad before she sure did now. Her hand hovered over the door handle and she considered going back into the room but in the end she decided against it, figuring the witch would want a bit of space, before she checked on her again in a few hours time.

However weird the situation was for her, she knew it was ten times worse for Constance, and it wasn't really the 'being ill'; it was the stigma that was attached to it. Constance Hardbroom was an incredibly proud woman and Imogen knew that for her to have no choice but to accept help had wounded her pride. Imogen had always been told it was okay to ask for help, and that it wasn't a sign of weakness but somewhere down the line the complete opposite had obviously been drummed into Constance' s brain.

Making her way through the school, she noted how quiet it was without the students. It was too quiet. In fact, it was eerie and rather unnerving and she was left feeling as if somebody could jump out on her at any moment. Imogen seriously hoped that no one did have any plans of attempting to ambush the castle in the next few days: Amelia wasn't there, poor Constance wasn't in a fit state to do anything, and she herself was unable to do any magic and defend herself. Sure, she knew a bit of martial arts, but that would hardly keep a bunch of wicked witches at bay for long.

Shaking the thought from her head, as quickly as she could, she entered the staffroom and after sorting herself a quick snack, sat down at the table. Absentmindedly picking up a old copy of 'Witch Weekly' that somebody, presumably Davina, judging by the odd rose petal found in between the pages, had left behind and having a quick flick through, deciding once she was done that in future she would just stick to her sport magazines.

Reaching into her tracksuit pocket, she retrieved her mobile phone and nervously waited as it took its time to power up but, eventually, the small screen lit up and all her icons started to appear. She waited and waited...

...no messages.

Not one.

It was clear then: Serge still wasn't talking to her.

She sighed as she recalled the final part of their phone conversation in the late hours of last night.

"What's the problem? You cancelled our date a few months back when Steve's wife left him?"

"Yeah, he's a mate."

"Well so is Constance – well she's more of a colleague...sort of friend...

"Yeah, but the difference is Imogen, I'm not in love with Steve."

Silence.

"...that's what I thought."

"I-I –I –I can't keep having this same conversation with you."

"Whatever, I'll call you later."

With that, he had hung up. She sat in shock for a good while after that. Never had she known him to be so abrupt with her before, even going as far as to call her Imogen, rather than using his pet name for her. As a Canadian he was usually so pleasant and mild-mannered but there hadn't been a trace of that in his voice. She didn't understand why he was still getting at this; he just wouldn't let it drop and it had, in fact, been the source of arguments with them for months now, many a romantic night for two ending in her drowning her sorrows in a bottle of red wine.

In love with Constance Hardbroom?

It was an absurd notion!

She suddenly had a flash of memory from earlier in the morning, when the witch had smiled at her, and how her heart had fluttered in response.

...Wasn't it?

Upon receiving no reply after knocking, she very tentatively opened the door and entered the room. The witch was awake and Imogen could tell from the dried in tracks on her cheeks that she had indeed been crying, confirming her earlier suspicions. She decided not to make any remark about it but it was a strange sight to see. Never, in all the years, she had been at the academy, had she seen Constance Hardbroom cry. She had only ever seen her, with what could be classed as remotely close to tears once before: when they had heard the name of the school inspector.

"I'm sorry..about earlier; I shouldn't have-"

Constance lifted her arm a few inches and put her hand out to silence Imogen. "Just forget about it, it's fine."

The beads of sweat glistened in light of day and before Constance could stop her or she could even stop herself she was over at the bedside of the witch, her hand ready to place her palm on her forehead. Constance instantly pulled away. It hurt but it was to be expected - she didn't like people invading her space, but it was a moment too soon as the sudden movement instantly sent a searing pain through her already pounding head, forcing her grit her teeth and lie still, until it had subsided. She felt her cheeks flush as Imogen's fingers had come into contact with her skin.

"You're still burning up."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor." She remarked sarcastically.

"Do you plan on being like this the whole time?"

"I don't do being 'sick', Miss Drill."

Imogen couldn't help the small smile that graced her lips. "Ah, so now you admit you're sick then? Since despite fainting yesterday, you still proclaimed, only a few hours ago in fact, that you were, and I quote, 'perfectly fine.'"

Constance mentally cursed as she fixed the non-witch with a tired glare. She had walked into that one, well and truly. "Yes, well..."

She no longer even had the energy to finish a sentence, let alone think of some witty comeback, so she just trailed off into silence. She could feel the oncoming exhaustion as it threatened to envelop her once more, knowing she was powerless to avoid the need for sleep; she tried to fight against it but as the seconds passed the heaviness of her eyelids grew, the long lashes fluttering gently several times before closing.

Imogen smiled and reached out to tuck a loose strand of hair across her face behind her ear. Taking the flannel she dipped it into the basin before gently dabbing at the porcelain forehead in an attempt to try bring the fever down and relieve Constance from at least some of her discomfort. A slight moan came from her left as the witch attempted to pull away, before deciding against it.

Even in her exhausted, delirious and sick- induced state, Constance wasn't set to get any respite.