Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.

A/N: Thank you to all for their reviews. :) I have actually found time to write a few words, lol. After this, there is one more to go and an epilogue of sorts. I am also toying with attempting to write a bonus M-rated chapter inbetween the next and the finale so if anyone wishes to offer their assistance, I would be most grateful since I ain't got a clue where to begin with that.

Like seriously, I will pay you in virtual cocktails! ;)

Love In The First 39 Degrees

Chapter 15

Despite the warmth that was coming from the lit fireplace, Imogen Drill was unable to keep herself from shaking; surreptitiously, she pulled her fleece hoodie tighter around her shivering frame, trying to reclaim some of her body temperature. A blanket soon appeared around her shoulders, her sensitive nose instantly picking up the familiar scent of the witch from the soft fabric that was now cocooning her. She had always felt safe whenever she smelled that scent: that unique blend of herbs and spices that was just Constance.

Now, it was a smell was threatening to overwhelm her.

As she caught the brunette's eye, yet again, she shyly looked away, feigning great interest in a painting in the far corner that she had admittedly never noticed until now. It seemed strange how you could be around something for so long, yet never realise it was there, until one day, when you finally looked around and took note, seeing for the first time what should have been obvious from the start

Constance Hardbroom was unable to keep the slight tremor from her hand as she stirred her tea for what must have been the twentieth time in the space of ten minutes. She bit down tentatively on her lip, wishing - not for the first time - she were not so awkward when it came to social interactions. Eventually, she broke the excruciating silence of the room. Her nerves were clear from the off as she began to stutter and stumble her way through a sentence that was lacking in a clear direction. The minute the words had left her lips, she internally scolded herself for not thinking it through properly before she started; she was just rambling now, like an idiot...

She only hoped that Imogen had not noticed.

It was unlikely that she had.

The blonde had been in an almost dreamlike state since she had arrived back at the school only a few days after she had finally left for her holidays. Several hours of long, awkward silence between the pair had now passed and she was yet to explain why she had really returned and not the flimsy excuse she had given upon her arrival – it did not take years of teaching experience to know that that had been a lie.

Truthfully, Imogen did not know why she had come back to the school.

She had wandered about for hours, paying no heed to the rain that was plummeting down from the heavens – an occurrence of weather that was most unusual for June…not that anything about her day could be classed as 'usual', and eventually, somehow, she had found herself standing outside the entrance to Cackle's Academy.

"So, am I supposed to guess or are you going to tell me what you're really doing back here, when you're supposed to be camping with S-"

"I don't want to talk about it."

The witch nodded mutely, now left at a complete loss at what to do or say next. She had secretly rather hoped that the gym-mistress would take control of the conversation from thereon in, but clearly that was not to be the case.

Constance knew that she was far from the greatest when it came to offering emotional support but even she could see that something was clearly troubling the younger woman and she wanted to be of some comfort, as Imogen had been to her the week she was ill. Contrary to popular opinion and fanciful first year stories, the sorceress had a heart, and it physically hurt her to see those she cared for in such obvious distress. Tracing the rim of her teacup with her finger, she danced around the subject nervously for a few moments before she finally spoke up again, gently pressing the issue in an attempt to tease the truth from the gym-mistress.

"Did you have an argument?"

"You could say that."

Again, the answers were not exactly forthcoming. In truth, something lurking within the tone of the younger woman was starting to frighten her. This was not like her at all. Imogen Drill was a 'why-say-five-words-when-five-hundred-will-do' kind of person. After all, this was the woman, whom she had argued with, rather passionately, one might say, day in and day out for years.

Her tone was desperate as she pleaded with the gym-mistress to open up to her. For someone who had spent her life shutting the world out, it was a somewhat ironic experience.

"Imogen,"

"For god's sake, Constance, I said don't want to talk about it! Now will you just bloody drop it!"

She regretted her outburst the second the words left her lips. There had been a point in time, up until very recently in fact, where Constance would not have even tried to engage in a conversation about the school, let alone anything that was on such a personal level as this was. The way she had said her name that last time; the desperation in her voice…

She deserved to know.

"He asked me to marry him," she choked back a mirth of laughter as the sentence left her mouth, the ridiculousness of the situation she had gotten herself into finally dawning on her.

The sound of ceramic hitting the ground startled them both as the cup that Constance had been holding slipped from her hand, smashing into pieces on the flagstone.

'He asked me to marry him'.

The sentence echoed in her head, every word more amplified than the next. It kept playing and replaying, like the chorus from some annoying pop song. Her brain seemed to empty, all rational thought lost, as the same thought flashed in her head repeatedly.

"And what did you say?" she asked, finally finding her voice, wondering how much time had actually passed since Imogen had dropped her bombshell; it seemed like hours but in reality it had only been mere minutes. The little voice in the back of her head spoke up again and it took all her willpower to silence it.

"Come on, Imogen; say something. Don't leave me hanging here."

"I-"

She tried to speak but the words never came out. She tried to think but her thoughts seemed clouded and would not form properly; it was as though she had frozen completely solid. The only movement that her body appeared to have left was her eyes as they darted from her boyfriend's to the engagement ring he was currently holding and back again.

She felt sick with nerves.

If ever there had been a moment where it would have been good to possess the skills to disappear into thin air, it would be now. She could not though; there was no running away from this conversation.

"Marriage?" she finally managed to whisper.

"Yes," he took hold of her left hand with his, the pressure just a little too tight. "I love you so much Imogen Maria Drill and I want you to be my wife. It'll be great…just think, we can travel the world and experience life together and then once we tire of all that, we can settle in Canada; we can start our family, Immy."

"I-"

A few months ago and she would probably have jumped at an offer like that, but now…

'Wait'.

She backed her mind up, replaying what he had said only moments before.

"We can travel the world and experience life together and then once we tire of all that, we can settle in Canada."

"Canada?"

Getting up from the ground and wiping the gravel off his knees, he nodded slowly. "I always planned on going home Immy, England was never a permanent plan; you knew that. Come with me…please."

"My whole life is here though, Serge. My family, my friend's, Cackles…

'Constance'

…everything I have ever known; everything that I care about. I-I don't think I can just… give it all up like that."

"We love each other, don't we?"

"You know, you're as clumsy as Mildred Hubble, Miss Hardbroom; that's two cups you've broken now," she nervously joked, referring to when she had startled the potions mistress in the laboratory and caused her to elbow the cup, knocking it off the desk.

Both of them, reaching down to pick up the broken pieces…their fingers gently brushing against each other; a jolt of desire, sparking through them…

"Don't change the subject, Imogen," the witch scolded her softly, her heart both beating and breaking at exactly the same time.

"I said no," the gym-mistress finally admitted, her words directed more into the cup than to the other woman in the room. She looked so small hunched up on the chair, staring into her tea as though she were looking for the answers to life's questions in the depths of the murky brown liquid. "I said no," she repeated, louder this time, her mind replaying the scene at the campsite… his face, the begging, the pleading, the tears. She set the cup down on the floor next to her feet.

"I'm a horrible person."

Constance shook her head, feeling the beginnings of tears forming in her own eyes. "No, you aren't," she whispered, her breath caught in her throat. Ever so slowly, she reached out, resting her hand atop the tanned one, giving it a gentle squeeze, "If anything, you're brave, Imogen."

"Brave?"

She immediately withdrew her hand as she choked back a laugh full of bitterness, her tone incredulous as she asked her next question, "How in the hell do you work that one out?"

Constance flinched. She could not help it. It was a long time since she had been addressed with even a hint of malice, her childhood flashed before her before she pushed it aside; this was neither the time nor the place.

"Be- because…you could have said yes, you could have married him to save face; you could have built a life just to avoid upset, but hard as it was, you chose to be honest – both to him and yourself, and while, yes, you may have broken his heart now, you'll find-"

The rest of the sentence went unheard as the younger woman finally snapped, the emotional turmoil of the past few hours finally catching up to her.

"Oh, what do you know?"

Removing the blanket from around her shoulders, she threw it to the other side of the room before getting to her feet, staring the other woman down, her green eyes sparking with a look the witch had never seen in her before.

"Im-"

"This is your fault anyway! If it wasn't for you, none of this would have happened!"

"My fault?" the older woman asked, genuinely confused, before her own defences kicked in, hating that she was being accused of something that - to her knowledge - she had not done.

"What do I have to do with anything?"

"I - I just mean that I shouldn't have stayed to look after you."

That stung. Actually, it stung more than she would care to admit. Initially, Constance had hated the idea of the non-witch staying to look after her, but after a few days, there had been something almost comforting about it. For the first time, in a long while, someone cared...

'I should have known.'

"May I remind you, Miss Drill," she practically spat her name, "I didn't ask you to stay! I told you, I was fine. I don't need you…I don't need anybody!"

She cursed as her voice cracked, it did not matter though.

The blonde seemed to forget that she was even there as she continued in her rant, voice shaking and tears streaming down her cheeks with an uncontrollable force. Deep down, she knew that the words were not really directed at the sorceress but more towards the situation as everything just became too much for her. She could not stop the words that were pouring out of her mouth, like word vomit.

"He'd been going on for months. He was fixated. He was obsessed; he just would not stop… every date, our every conversation, everything! It always led back to you! I told him he was wrong, god, I told myself he was wrong, but he just wouldn't listen; he was like a dog with a bone. He kept saying it and saying it, over and over-"

"Saying what, Imogen? What did Serge keep saying?

"THAT YOU'RE IN LOVE WITH HER, IMMY!"