Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch

A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews on the previous chapter. I've been feeling inspired this past day or so, et voila!

Love In The First 39 Degrees

Chapter 6

Somewhere, in the realms of another world, between roses being turned to red from white, with scarlet paint and a deception and games of croquet, involving hedgehogs and flamingos, Imogen could feel her own eyes beginning to drift shut. She was more tired than she would care to admit. In truth, she hadn't been sleeping well of late, her every waking and slumber filled moment spent thinking about Serge, their relationship and whether or not it had a future. She was just crossing over into the land of nod, her tired mind and body welcoming the few hours of shut-eye, when she was jolted awake by a hoarse scream. Reverberating around the room, it shattered the atmosphere, which up until mere moments before, had been one of blissful calm.

The book landed on the floor with a soft thud as she instantly jumped up, standing to attention, both a mixture of fear and guilt flooding through her veins like ice as she chastised herself for not keeping a better watch over the sickly sorceress. She was convinced that someone or something had broken into the room; there was no other explanation for it. With more bravery than she felt, she turned around slowly, fully expecting to see Agatha Cackle or one of her cronies, standing in the doorway, having turned up for another crack at taking over the school, but there was nothing there. Confused, she scanned the surroundings of both the bathroom and the sitting room but, again, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

Slowly, she lowered herself back into the chair.

She couldn't understand it.

Had she imagined it?

She rubbed at her eyes.

Was it possible that she was so tired her mind was starting to play tricks on her? She doubted it. That scream: it had sounded so real; so broken and so strained, that even thinking about it sent a shiver down her spine. If she hadn't imagined it, and there was no other presence in the room, then there was only one other explanation as to the source of such a harrowing sound. She turned her attention back to Constance, her emerald eyes gazing intently at the witch as she watched her with baited breath.

For a moment, there was nothing, and to any spectator Constance would have appeared to be at peace, but as Imogen was about to find out, it was far from the truth.

Imogen watched as her hands balled into fists, tightening her grip around the blankets. She let out a tiny whimper as she tossed and turned under the spell of the fever. A single tear leaked from her closed eyes as she began to whisper in her sleep.

"Ow! You're hurting me, Miss."

"It wasn't me, Mistress B- Brroomh-head. I didn- I swear. I had nothin-g-g to do with it."

"No! please, p-p-pleassee, don't leave m-me in-n-n here."

Her whispers were getting louder by the minute, and though Imogen couldn't make full sense of what she was saying, her concern was starting to rise. Constance's fists uncurled themselves as she began to claw at the empty air, as if fighting off an invisible force. The tears were now spilling down her cheeks with an uncontrollable force, while a string of incoherent mumbles and hysterical screams fell from her lips, her throat becoming more and more hoarse by the second.

"DON'T LEAVE ME!"

"HELP ME!

...PLEASE!"

"Help me, please."

"Somebody."

"…anybody."

" …Mummy."

All Imogen could do was watch on.

She didn't know what to think, she didn't know what to do. She was all but frozen to the spot in utter shock. She had never, ever, ever, seen Constance lose control as much as she was doing right now. She was always so well poised, so cool and collected; never fazed by anything, but at this particular moment in time all decorum seemed to have gone out the window and it was abundantly clear that she was terrified; completely and utterly terrified. It broke Imogen's heart to see the normally stoic woman in such distress.

Snapping out of her trance, Imogen knew she had to do something to try to help but honestly, she was at a loss of what to do. If it had been one of the girls, then Constance could have whipped up a potion or recited a spell, something that would calm her young charges nightmares and send them off into a dreamless sleep, but she was no witch and as such had no such power.

"Constance?" she called out gently, hoping the softness of her tone might help in soothing the situation. It appeared to fall on deaf ears though, as her words were lost beneath the screams coming from the deputy.

" Constance?" She tried again.

It was no use.

Imogen could feel her own level of fear beginning to rise. Every scream that fell from the older woman's lips was like a knife to the heart, a deafening reminder that there was nothing she could do to stop it. For the first time, she found herself questioning whether a non-witch in a witch school was such a good idea after all.

She shook the thought from her head almost as quickly as it had entered; now was not the time for self-pity.

She grabbed for her hands, pinning her down by the wrists, surprised at how much the witch fought her, despite how weak she was. Constance continued to thrash about the bed, trying to free herself from the demons, which had manifested themselves in her unconsciousness. In her mind, she believed them to be real and out to get her, while Imogen continued to call out her name, gently but firmly, in a bid to try to stir her, whispering over and over again that she was safe and that everything was alright, but it was proving futile.

Constance was too far gone in her panic to listen to logic.

It was then Imogen seemed to realise the situation before her, as if she were a bystander, seeing it laid out clear for the first time. She had the strict deputy headmistress pinned down by her wrists, leaning over her, carefully applying her own weight to try to keep her still. She was in such close proximity to the witch, they were now less than an inch apart; their faces so close they were almost touching. She was surprised to realise there was a part of her that had a strong desire to kiss the woman who was lying before her.

Her lips looked so inviting.

Devoid of their usual burgundy lipstick, the natural pinkness shone through; a worthy complement to the voluminous pout.

Imogen knew that she had to do something drastic to try to rouse her and, short of any better ideas- or any ideas at all for that matter-she decided it was worth a shot.

She leaned in closer and was about to place a small kiss upon those lips, waking her old school like the princesses in the fairytales, when the witch stopped fighting against her and suddenly went limp underneath her arms.