Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter, it means a lot to me :)
After my very horrible morning, I decided to try to re-write this chapter and give you all an update. I admit I am a *bit* nervous as the conversation may seem a bit OOC in places, but just remember that Connie is currently sick so may not be exercising her usual rational thought or control. Besides, I need to vulnerabilise her a bit so I can get them together... 3:) *May do a little editing later on*.
My morning was a disaster; please help make my night better by giving me some review love. :)
Love In The First 39 Degrees
Chapter 8
Balancing a tray in one hand, while opening the door with her other, she rather clumsily entered the room, accidentally banging the tray against the doorframe in her attempts to navigate her way inside. Mentally scolding herself for being such a klutz, she made her way across the room and placed the contents of the tray on the bedside table, leaving it for when the brunette awoke - she was determined to get her to eat something!
A slight moan broke through the rooms' silence and she immediately - yet cautiously - turned her attention to the sleeping witch, praying to whoever happened to be listening that this was not a repeat of her earlier performance.
She could still see it unfolding before her all too clearly…
Her eyelashes fluttered several times before she slowly opened her eyes, immediately wishing that she could close them again: her head was pounding and her throat felt five times as raw as it had been a few hours ago. She blinked a few times, trying to clear her fuzzy vision and adjust her eyes to the light. Suddenly - and without warning - the world around her went into overdrive: every sound, every noise, every smell, all competing for her attention.
Faint memories of screaming out earlier in the day assaulted her mind and she felt the blush creep into her already flushed skin. She was beyond mortified and wanted nothing more than to curl up under the covers and never ever come out.
Sensing there was another presence in her bedroom; she put all thoughts of hiding aside and pushed herself up into a sitting position, to try to appear less vulnerable and to claw back at least some of her dignity. Her eyes instantly met with Imogen Drill, who was looking at her with a look she had never seen before in the gym-mistress.
"Miss Drill. Am I to take it from your presence in MY quarters, that you were the source of that clattering racket?"
Her tone was much softer than normal, emphasising her obviously weakened state, but there was still such coldness and abrasion present in her words that Imogen inwardly flinched.
Imogen gestured to the tray that was balancing, rather precariously, on the bedside table. "I've brought you something to eat."
Constance took one look at the bowl and shook her head. She just wanted the non-witch to leave her alone. She felt like hell, she was beyond exhausted, and she seriously doubted that she had ever been more embarrassed in her life.
The blonde felt her heart lurch at how vulnerable the normally all powerful witch currently looked, but she was adamant she was not giving in that easily.
"It's yoghurt and honey; it might help your throat…"
"Please, Constance."
Watery deep brown eyes felt overwhelmed by the warmth and care that shone through in sparkling emerald green ones. To have anyone care about her well-being was still such a foreign concept. She nodded briefly, telling herself that by placating the non-witch, she would be left in peace. After all, that was what she wanted…wasn't it?
Clearing her throat, she adopted her most business-like and the best non-croaking tone she could manage.
"Are you on commission for that honey?
Imogen's head snapped up, wondering if she had heard right.
"WHAT?"
She immediately cursed herself for her use of 'colloquial' language; she knew Constance hated it!
"I mean, er…pardon?"
"Honey," Constance gestured to the tray next to her, a weak smile playing on her lips, "Again?"
"Oh, right. Sorry, that's just what I use. My Mum used to use it on me and our Jamie – my kid brother, whenever we were sick as youngsters and I guess I've always just stuck to it – no pun intended." She trailed off, feeling ridiculous for her awful attempts at making a joke but also just for her rambling. As if, Constance Hardbroom – of all people – wanted to hear about her Mother's old home-remedies.
"Why, what did your Mum use?" She asked, jokingly. "Don't tell me, Frogspawn or something ridiculous like-"
She trailed off her sentence upon seeing the expression the deputy was wearing. She didn't know what she had said but, judging from the look on the witch's face, it had been the wrong thing.
Constance's eyes filled with rage but within an instant, it had dissipated.
For a while, no one spoke.
"I wouldn't know." Constance eventually replied.
The tone she used was one that the blonde could not quite describe and had never heard before, certainly not coming from the potions mistress. She waited in the suffocating silence, sensing that the witch was about to open up to her about something outwith the academy and subject grades. She said nothing, knowing that Constance would speak in her own time and that she could not be pushed into a corner and forced to confess all her life secrets.
Constance broke off eye contact with Imogen, her eyes shifting to the bowl of gloopy liquid in front of her. Biting down tentatively on her lip, she sighed.
"She had an affair when I was seven and my grandmother got rid of her."
She kept her eyes trained on the bowl in front of her, still unable to look the gym-mistress in the eye.
Imogen gasped, not believing what she was hearing.
"G-got rid-d of?"
She tried – and failed – to sound casual, unable to keep the shock out of her reaction.
Surely, she didn't mean...
Constance rolled her eyes; knowing what she was thinking.
"Must you always be so melodramatic, Miss Drill? No, I do not mean murder! I mean society. She got rid of her in a society kind of way…which is worse."
Her voice cracked and this time Imogen knew without a doubt it was from emotion; the pain written in her eyes.
"I-I'm sorry."
"Why? The witch snapped, feeling years of suppressed abandonment issues struggling to escape from her. "It wasn't your fault!"
Imogen thought back to her own late Grandma. She had been such a kind and gentle soul, who always had good word for anyone. She had often slipped her and her younger brother the odd fiver or few sweets when she had thought their parents were not watching. As her mind processed what Constance had said, she could see her clear as day, a wee frail old woman, sat in her comfortable armchair.
She couldn't imagine her ever doing anything so…callous.
"What about your Father?" she gently pressed, "Were you close?"
"He's a very busy man. I haven't seen him in years."
There was not a flicker of emotion present as she discussed her Father. Imogen noted this and guessed that her parents and Heckitty Broomhead were only part of a whole host of issues that Constance had faced when she was younger.
Normally, she would never have revealed such private information about herself and especially not about her not too rosy past, but it was as if she was under the effects of a truth potion. She could not stop her mouth and mind from blurting out feelings and secrets that she had kept dead and buried for years. Her voice was incredibly and unusually unsteady as she carried on, her subconscious not stopping to think whether telling Imogen everything was a bad idea or not.
If she had started to think and acknowledge what she was actually doing then she knew she would berate herself into next week.
"Ophelia - the nanny - raised me from then until I was nearly thirteen. I was home-schooled up until that point and then my Father sent me off to study at Witch Training College, which was ran by-"
She stopped abruptly, making no attempts to complete her sentence. Instead, she trailed off into silence. She did not need to complete her sentence; they both knew how it ended.
"Heckitty Broomhead." Imogen voiced quietly, but just loud enough for the witch to hear.
Constance flinched as Imogen spoke the only name that filled every inch of her being with dread and fear. Her eyes flitted wildly about the room, scanning every inch of it for the very woman whose name she dare not speak, her ever-present paranoia telling her that the witch was in the room with her, hiding…
Only when she was completely satisfied that the coast was clear did she nod, and even that was almost imperceptible.
Imogen could scarcely believe the effect that Heckitty Broomhead had on an otherwise incredibly powerful witch.
"Whatever did she do to you?" she whispered, more to herself than to Constance.
Constance's eyes swivelled to the non-witch and then back to the bowl, suddenly feeling very nauseous as she stared at the sickly sticky liquid before her.
"She-"
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before trying again.
"She-"
She couldn't do it.
The filter of her brain was spilling it out in all too graphic detail as memories of her time at Witch Training College swarmed her mind like an infestation of stinging insects, but it was as if there was a bony hand crushing down on her windpipe and stoppering her ability to breathe – the words just wouldn't come. No matter how hard she tried.
Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, she looked to the non-witch, silently begging her for help, but she was unable to ask for it. A single tear leaked from her right eye and she silently cursed. Admitting defeat, she turned her back on the blonde, signalling the end of the conversation.
Or so Imogen had thought.
The words were barely above a whisper but Imogen heard every word as though amplified and she felt her heart break for the woman before her.
"She made me who I am today."