Author's Note:

Dear reader,

First, I must extend my apologies for this belated chapter. Due to personal issues I was unable to post it sooner, but I do promise that I will try not to have a repeat of this performance any time soon. I am extremely grateful if you are still interested in my little creation and the fact that you are reading this means the world for me. As far as those who have sent me their wonderful comments are concerned: Chrissiemusa, chocomoon, Aleksandra Hardbroom and HB rules (who I have to openly commend on the awesomeness of her story, War of Dominion). A deep heartfelt thank you goes to a person who in such a short time I have come to regard as a dear friend: NextChristineDaae.

This chapter is the product of a lot of travelling, lack of internet, sheer boredom and frustration and a sense of duty towards those who deemed this work of fiction worthy to be read and followed. Although, I do feel that this particular chapter can be improved, I would find it unfair to let you wait any longer, especially when I also need to distance myself from it. I apologise if it is not up to the usual standard and promise to redeem myself in my following work.

Yours faithfully,

Lemondrop

PS: this chapter contains some disturbing images of blood and nudity, and should probably not be read by people younger than 14.

FIRE AND ICE

BOOK I: THE WIELDER, THE GIVER AND THE HEIR

Chapter 4: The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. (Mark Twain)

The woman didn't struggle and certainly didn't beg because, most likely, she was unable to see her. Thus, Hope thought, as she gently placed her hand on the sweaty forehead, that her job there would be done quickly, painlessly, with no contact involved. She liked these situations best for two simple reasons. First, Hope wasn't the kind of person that could relate well to emotions she could not understand, allowing herself, in most circumstances, to be guided by reason. Secondly, because, despite Noah's frequent jokes that her heart was buried somewhere deep in a coffin, six feet under, it pained her to see people suffering and afraid. She couldn't quite understand why those whose souls she took were frightened, as most of them had quite a bleak and pitiful life. Maybe it was the fear of the unknown, or maybe they thought of all the things they would never get to do if they were dead. If she were in their position, she would have welcomed death as an old friend. She would have seen it as the ultimate, blessed release.

"Why did you do that?" a child's voice rang behind her and Hope sighed in defeat. It wouldn't be as easy as she had anticipated.

Children were so much more perceptive than adults, mostly because of their innocence. When they were young and unknowing, they believed in mythical creatures like the Tooth Fairy, Santa Clause or god knows what else. Also, because their minds held such purity, they could interact with supernatural entities. They could see them, talk to them and, if willing, touch them. This meant that the child could see her, although she was invisible to everyone else. As they grew into adults, very few of them retained this ability, mostly because somewhere in-between infancy and maturity the capacity to unconditionally believe in things that aren't there is lost. Those that preserved their gift were either those that came from a magical background or carried a certain naivety and purity into adulthood. Those were known as psychics and were usually doomed to jests and ridicule among their peers. The girl found it ironic that although every human had an inertial desire to find out as much as possible about his own mortality, most individuals closed their minds to the very explanations they sought.

"It's my job." She said simply turning towards the source of the voice. It was beyond her why she even bothered explaining; maybe she had some sort of masochistic streak or maybe, at moments such as these, she needed to be reminded of her own humanity by interacting with others.

A small, scrawny child of about seven or eight stood in the doorway, dressed in dirty pyjamas. His dark-blond hair fell into unkempt ringlets around his face and his entire appearance spoke of neglect and even abuse. Looking at the motionless form of his parent, the child approached the woman and, with tender, child-like movements, he caressed the now-ashen face contorted in a grimace of pain. Hope saw fresh bruises on his forearms and long, thin cuts on the exposed patches of skin on his legs. They were perfectly straight, almost parallel to one another, and seemed to form a gruesome optical illusion. She shuddered to think what that child, that innocent soul, had been forced to go through. Droplets of water were falling on his cheeks and true sorrow shone through his vivid green eyes. Gazing in those eyes, Hope knew that she didn't stay to be reminded that she was human or because she was a masochist. She had stayed to remind him that life is worth living and that it is not only a pitiful succession of hurtful events.

"Why?" he asked calmly, trying to wipe the tears that had fallen on his mother's corpse.

"Because this is how the world works. We are born, we live and we ultimately die." The woman explained kindly, a hint of sadness clear in her low voice at seeing how gently he held the hand that had mistreated him. Apparently, having a mother, even a bad one, is better than not having one at all.

"If we all die, why do we bother living?" his voice was so questioning and held such pain that his interlocutor could feel her own heart give a jolt.

"Because, I believe, each person's life, no matter how short it is, or how meaningless it seems, changes something" she had chosen the diplomatic answer she gave everyone when asked that same question, as she quite frankly had no idea what to say to him. His innocent enquiry had so many potential answers and people much smarter than Hope had tried to answer that very question since the dawn of man. Despite her dealings with fatality, she didn't have a better idea of what life was than most humans. The only certainty she had was that of death and never bothered to seek a meaning to her life. Was she truly alive or did she merely exist for the sake of existing? Ironically, she was as clueless as the child in front of her, and realized that maybe she existed because someone who did what she did was supposed to exist. Maybe her life maintained some sort of cosmic balance.

"When I die, will you come and do the same thing to me?" he asked with the same unmoving, unnerving, tearful stare, much too mature for a child his age.

"It depends" this time, Hope took a longer time to ponder her answer before responding, even if she could have simply dismissed it with a 'yes'. Something in the innocent green stare fixed upon her shook her to the core and made her want to be truthful. There were so many factors to take into account; there were so many variables to consider before answering. To begin with, how could she explain to the child, that, like all the others that she took, his mother's soul was one of those condemned to eternal damnation? How could she explain that the world was probably better off being rid of his mother? How could she do that? Especially as he, himself, was not aware that he was the prime benefactor of his parent's death.

"On what?" he enquired, his small brain trying, for the first time in his young life, to process the workings of this world.

"On your choices" she said patiently, her voice carrying a tone of finality, indicating that the conversation came to an end and she was no longer at liberty to say much more.

"She looks so pretty…"the child whispered softly, patting his mother's reddish hair and inhaling her powerful, cheap, prostitute perfume.

"She does, doesn't she?" the woman replied and took a moment to take in the sad tableau. Muttering some words under her breath, she could see red, fiery letters and numbers forming above his head. Her lips curving in satisfaction, she disappeared into nothingness, without a trace that she had ever been there. The child had a long life in front of him, and she could only hope that, when it came to an end, it wouldn't fall upon her to take his soul away.

Like every morning, at four thirteen sharp, Constance Hardbroom entered the almost bare bathroom connected to her bedroom and turned on the shower. She never used hot water, regarding it as an indulgence of the flesh, which made one weak. With swift, robotic movements she checked the temperature of the water and finding it, as always, satisfactorily refreshing, she proceeded to take off her purple pyjamas. The way in which the woman undressed herself had the ease of an ever-so-often practiced ritual. First she, with nimble hands, undid all those small buttons at the front of the shirt. Then, as if afraid to be left bare, she allowed her long, black hair to cascade down her front. Safe from prying eyes, even her own, she took off her shirt, folded it neatly and placed it in its assigned place, next to the marble sink. With the same practiced precision she took off her pyjama bottoms and cream lingerie. There, unclothed, in front of the unforgiving mirror, no longer stood the fierce deputy of Cackle's Academy, but a woman whose pain and sorrow was embedded in her flesh.

She never looked in the mirror above the sink. She always ignored it. In fact, she didn't understand why she never bothered to remove it. Yet, this time, her hazel eyes, treacherous things, turned their gaze to see the exposed, feeble, and almost frail, lady in the reflection. Whoever the woman was, she wasn't Constance Hardbroom, the potion mistress that had inspired fear in the hearts of students for the past fifteen years. That woman, with her pale, sickly flesh and sunken cheeks, could never inspire fear. That person, whose hands had an inertial tremble, was unable to brew anything. That human, whose ribs protruded the pale skin and bones stuck out at odd angles, looked more like a scared, malnourished, child than a grown woman of almost thirty five. Hot tears fell on her cheeks as she observed and understood what she had been reduced to. Was that it? Will the end come soon? Constance had no idea and she neither had the wish or the energy to investigate. They all said, Amelia especially, that all will be well. But, despite all those well-meant wishes, the potion mistress, as well as her pitiful reflection, knew better.

They say that when an individual's natural cycle comes to a close, that person knows. He can feel it in his bones, he can feel it in the finality with which his heart beats, and he can feel it in the way in which his senses dull. Thus, Constance was aware that her body was fighting a potentially useless battle and she was so very tired of it. If her life were to end at the age of thirty four, then so be it. As she could feel the cold water fall on her over-sensitive skin, she considered the prospect of death for a split second. She wasn't scared of it; she accepted it and maybe, in some way, expected it. Her mother, after all, had also died young. Younger than her, in fact. Truth be told, what she was scared of was the process of dying not death itself. How much more would her body crumble before finally give up? How weak would she be at the end? In fact, if she thought about it in more depth, she could understand that she was, ultimately, scared of being weak.

Her hair fell in a tangled mess on her back and she methodically washed it with her herbal shampoo. The silky locks slipped through her fingers and she realized that she had never had short hair. Ever since she was a child her hair had always been long, falling in wavy curls on her back and she had never bothered to change it. How would she look with short hair? She tried to picture herself with some sort of pixie haircut but found that she was unable to, and bitterly thought that her hair was one of the many things she had never seen change, she had never experienced. She was a creature of habit and alterations to her life unnerved her. She always sought constancy, regularity and even monotony, above excitement and surprise and that, apparently made her miss out on the many things the world had to offer. With the dedication and organization that characterized her, Constance involuntarily started to make a mental list of the places she had never seen, of the things she had never done, but soon found out that they were too many to keep track of. She wondered how hard it would be for her to go and visit Paris, or watch a movie in a cinema, or buy a dress that wasn't black or even, one morning, take a shower that wasn't freezing cold. Who would notice and who would care? For once, now that she felt her life to be empty, bleak and almost meaningless she wanted, needed to be selfish. In a surge of defiance, she touched the shower faucet she never used and looked at it with a strange gleam of determination in her eyes. The small red letters proclaiming the word "hot" seemed bold and rebellious, as if daring her to trespass her daily ritual. With a shuddered breath she complied and immediately felt the stream of warm water fall on her head and shoulders. It seemed so inviting and so soothing that the woman immediately felt herself being lulled to sleep, a gentle feeling of drowsiness and calm rising in her chest. It didn't feel right. She didn't feel like herself anymore. With a much firmer hand she closed the hot water tap. She had spent years, decades even, becoming the woman she was today, the firm, unyielding Constance Hardbroom. She had carefully constructed every character trait that woman had, weeding out what she found unnecessary, and she would do anything in her power to die as Constance Hardbroom and not as someone else.

With the same ease, she poured some of her magnolia-scented shower gel and started to gently wash her colourless skin. She unconsciously touched the white scar defiling the pale flesh of her lower abdomen, a scar that was the product of her one and only, less than happy, relationship. Albeit healed, for her it still felt raw to the touch like a painful, vivid reminder of what she had lost and would never have. Yet again, a series of what ifs flooded her brain and she could feel salty, hot tears fall on her face, mingling themselves with the cold water. There had been a time when Constance didn't exist and she was known as the carefree, innocent Connie who loved her father above everything else in the world. Connie loved the sun, and colour. Connie wanted to become a famous artist or a famous writer and loved to dance. Connie was pure and unknowing, and greeted everyone she met with a smile. She had killed Connie immediately after she entered Witch Training College at the age of seventeen. She had been forced to, and even now she mourned her loss.

Turning off the cold water tap, she stepped out of the shower and avoided looking in the blasted mirror above the sink. She wrapped a large, white towel around herself and quietly muttered a spell to dry off her hair. With the effortlessness of a woman that was aware of both her body and her movements, she proceeded, in an orderly, methodical fashion to get dressed. First, she applied her scented body lotion, one of the few vanities she allowed herself, and then she put on the dark silk lingerie and stockings. After that, she immersed herself into the painful process of combing and plaiting her long hair and tying it up into a tight bun. Fifty comb strokes and twice as many pins later, she easily slipped into one of her, once thigh-fitting, dresses, first removing invisible specks of dust from the slippery material. As a finishing touch, the woman applied a coat of red lipstick on her lips and placed everything she had used neatly on the shelves next to the sink. When she was fully clothed, she could finally look up with no fear, for in the reflection of the mirror, albeit more battered than usual, stood the familiar figure of Miss Constance Hardbroom.

Mildred Hubble hated mornings with deep passion. She loathed the moment in which she woke up on her already worn off mattress, to face the wooden grinds of the ceiling. She despised having to drag herself out of the bed, walk through the poorly heated corridor, just to get to the restroom. But most of all, she despised that no matter how early she tried to wake up, it was still later than the others. Anyone who went to a boarding school, especially one as old as Cackle's , knows that ,because of the old plumbing system, hot water is a commodity that comes on a first-come, first-served basis. As such, for the past two years, Mildred, against her wishes, had taken impossibly cold showers in the morning and was resolute, in her third year as a student in the academy, to never let that happen again. It was a matter of principle, really. Hence, at five o'clock in the morning, for the first time in her life, she stood wide awake in the middle of the room and pondered if Foster's Effect will hit her, full force if she lit the candle by magic rather than fumble in the darkness for the box of matches. She quickly decided it was better to light it manually, because, knowing her luck, the effect would surely touch her and she would probably end up setting a member of the staff, possibly HB, on fire. The girl forced herself not to imagine the consequences of such an action, as they were too terrifying to even think about. Suffice to say that she already had a taste of what being a frog meant and she wouldn't like a repeat of last year's incident.

Finding the matches and her fluffy, pink towel simultaneously, she lit the candle and tiptoed out of the room, into the cold corridor. A small light was shining downstairs and she was pretty sure who was using one of the classrooms at that unholy hour. It was beyond her how her form mistress had the energy to be the first person awake and the last person to go to sleep in the entire school, but she did have some pretty good guesses, all of them involving some sort of potion. Stifling a yawn, the girl wondered if she could ask her teacher for the same potion as it would have made the matter of the shower and staying awake throughout the day much simpler. HB would probably dismiss her swiftly, saying that it would be both unhealthy and irresponsible of her to try to use potions only to take a hot shower.

As she entered the damp bathroom and put her towel on one of the multiple hangers, Mildred wondered if her teacher was sick because she didn't get much sleep. Although Miss Cackle had assured her, both privately and during the school assembly, that the potion mistress was only slightly under the weather and would recuperate in no time, the student wasn't too sure that what the headmistress declared was true. Especially, as she had seen her teacher, only a few days before, cough up her lungs in the middle of the potions lab. She had a feeling that Miss Hardbroom was in a greater trouble than anyone, but her, realized and she truly wanted to help the woman to the best of her abilities. It was when she entered the shower cabin that it dawned on her that her form mistress had been on her mind from the moment she had opened her eyes up to that point.

From the instant she had first seen her formidable teacher, the woman had provoked a deep impression upon the young girl. It was natural, normal and perfectly understandable, as she was the first person in Mildred's life that never tried to cuddle her, sugar-coat things and apparently held an immense dislike for her. From her first week at Cackle's, HB had been on her mind in the same way a bomb about to explode is on the mind of the individual that tries to get rid of it. Being the worst witch in the academy and living in an enclosed space with someone as volatile and quick-tempered as the potion mistress seemed, to Millie's mind, much like swimming in a tank full of sharks. It would be irresponsible of her not to think of the woman, but never in a million years did she expect to spend most of her time awake reflecting on how HB was faring. She smiled with satisfaction and a particular sense of triumph, as the warm water touched her skin.

Her hands started to wash her long hair quickly and with dexterity and the student wondered what kind of shampoo Miss Hardbroom used. She had seen the woman's long, silky locks, much like her own, and knew, from experience, that her teacher must have some very good ways of taking care of her hair. Maybe she used some potions or, like Mildred herself, some special shampoo that made the hair stronger. Or perhaps she used a spell to never have tangles. Once again the student contemplated asking her and Millie snorted quietly at the thought. Imagine her and HB sharing hair-care ideas and products. She would certainly end up as a frog, or some other animal, before even suggesting it.

"This is getting ridiculous!" Mildred muttered softly, understanding that, once again, she had been thinking about her teacher too much.

She could not understand why but ever since she came back from the summer holiday, she had felt an ever-present wish to be close to the woman and to get to know her. To understand her, her motifs and her character. She liked to think that it was because of the conversation that the two of them had at the end of last year, in the dungeon, but she knew, at the back of her head, that it was so much more. It was as if, for whatever reason, a bond, a magical connection, had been forged between the two and it made her almost obsessive towards the potions teacher. Drying her hair with her pink towel, the student speculated whether there was a way to terminate the connection or not. She certainly didn't want to spend the rest of her life fixating on what HB felt or thought. As she let the still damp hair fall on her back, the girl caught a glimpse of herself in one of the six mirrors above the six sinks in the student bathroom and involuntarily gasped. Maybe it was her overactive imagination, but the reflection in the mirror wasn't that of her fourteen year old self. The person was a tad older, carrying a cross of her own features and that of her potion mistress', her long dark hair falling in perfect waves on her back, her cheekbones high and blue eyes having the shape of Miss Hardbroom's hazel eyes. What was most striking about the appearance was that, round the young woman's neck, a golden necklace, with a round pendant, glowed red.

The third year students were still speculating whether Miss Drill or Miss Bat would take their class, when their formidable potions mistress closed the door behind her and instructed them, in a clear, no-nonsense voice, to quiet down. She looked as straight and tall as she always had, and if not for the slightly more pronounced dark circles round her eyes and the almost insignificant shake of her hands, no one could have guessed that a mere three days before the woman had been bed ridden.

"Our topic today is one of the most powerful concealment potions in existence: The Chameleon Potion" her voice held a hint of excitement and the corners of her lips slightly turned up upon noticing her students paying attention and trying not to miss a word she said "Like the name suggest, this potion allows the witch that uses it to take the colour and texture of the environment, perfectly blending in any scene. Although it is not as effective as a classic Invisibility Potion, its effect lasts much longer and, if brewed properly, it should render the user virtually impossible to be seen. Turn to page fifty four in your books for the ingredients and brewing method…" feeling a bit wobbly on her legs, she lowered herself gracefully on her chair and intensely watched her students start working.

While she made her way to the back of the class to collect the powdered root of asphodel, Maud Moonshine appreciated once again how much their teacher loved her job. HB wasn't well and anyone with half a brain could see that. Although she tried her hardest to hide it, her shaking hands, the fact that she hadn't materialized out of nowhere in the class room, and the subtle, almost unnoticeable, weakness in her voice were tell tale signs that, despite appearances, the potions mistress wasn't her usual powerful self. Maud admired and respected her teacher, not because of her superior skill, but because of her dedication to her students. She supposed it was only natural in a school as small as Cackle's for affinities to be formed, for teachers and students to form close relationships that could be compared to friendship, but that certainly wasn't the case with Miss Hardbroom. Although she did keep everyone at an arm's length, and she was as warm as an ice cube in a freezer, the fact that their form mistress cared for them and the Academy was obvious in the way in which she protected them, much like a lioness protects its cubs. Maud wondered for a split second if this was because Miss Hardbroom had no one else to bestow her affection upon. If that was the case, she could only feel sadness for her teacher but also a selfish sense of gratitude.

As she cut the hellebore root into tiny, cubic pieces, Ruby Cherrytree hoped that she wouldn't be the one testing the potion. Sometimes it seemed that HB picked on her as much as she did on Mildred and Ruby didn't exactly appreciate that. She had no aspirations to be a top student, she wasn't exactly fascinated with potions and she knew that her career after finishing Cackle's would probably involve science rather than magic. As such, she always tried to do her moderate best to pass her classes with a high enough grade, but apparently for the potion mistress that was not sufficient. Every time something was to be tested she would always choose Ruby to go first, and the student suspected that it wasn't because she was sadistic. Miss Hardbroom was many things, but she wasn't stupid and could recognize intelligence when she saw it, and she did see plenty of it in her less than interested student's mind. Hence, the girl suspected that pushing her to test things was the woman's way to challenge and ignite a spark of curiosity and awareness in her. She had long ago learned to not resent her teacher for that, which certainly didn't mean that HB had succeeded to make her more interested and involved in the art of potion making. After all, how can you resent someone that only tries to do things for your benefit and show you that you have endless possibilities? If anything, she was grateful for her attempts.

Enid Nightshade struggled to dice up the monkshood and mentally swore at her potions mistress. She hated potions for two reasons: one, she found them completely useless as most of their effects could also be achieved through spells and second, she couldn't stand the woman in front of her. Perhaps it was the way in which she responded to authority, or maybe it was a personality clash between herself and her form mistress, but there were days when Enid would have liked nothing more than see her teacher burn in the pits of hell. Looking up for a moment, she could see the woman involuntarily clutching at her desk and taking deep breaths as if trying to steady herself, and the student felt a surge of pity invade her soul. Ever since she had been transferred at Cackle's she had regarded her form mistress as a formidable adversary, as the last pillar of authority without whom she, and all the others, would be allowed to do whatever they pleased. But now, seeing how ashen and distraught she appeared, Enid's contempt had lessened and it had been replaced with some sort of empathy. The type of feeling one has when witnessing the fall of a giant.

As she added the powdered asphodel root into her mini-cauldron, Jadu Wali tried to keep a low profile. She was conscious that she had no special talents to boast with, that her skill in magic was less than amazing and that the only way for her to get out of potions classes unscathed was to be as invisible as possible. To the shy, quiet girl the potions teacher inspired fear beyond belief. From the first moment she had set foot in the academy, she had instinctively known that Miss Hardbroom was not to be tampered with albeit she wanted to suffer the dire consequences. Her strong impression of her form tutor was only magnified tenfold by the way in which she treated Mildred, and Jadu was grateful that she wasn't in her friend's shoes. Of course, the girl was aware that HB would never, ever, consciously inflict any physical harm on them. If anything, she was more likely to protect rather than hurt them, but that didn't make the student less afraid. She hated people who raised their voices as it made her incredibly uncomfortable, even if the shouts were not directed towards her. And Miss Hardbroom seemed, on the days she was most volatile, the absolute master of shouting.

Ethel Hallow stirred in the potion counter clock-wise, counting softly under her breath. Despite being Miss Hardbroom's favourite student, the girl did not have an especially high regard for her teacher. She truly believed that she was entitled, mostly because she was a Hallow, to the preferential treatment and the extra attention he received. As such, it wasn't with respect or with admiration that she looked at her teacher that morning. It was with morbid curiosity. Unlike her pears, Ethel knew that something fantastically powerful, beyond reason, was harming their deputy and if that force truly wanted her dead she would unequivocally die. As such, she closely watched her teacher's predicament the same way a bystander watches an accident about to happen, greedily taking in the goriest details so he could re-tell the story as accurately as possible.

Mildred sighed quietly and prayed to whoever was listening, that HB would not notice that her potion was a disgusting shade of yellow when it was supposed to be clear pink. Despite her better efforts to stay fully awake and pay attention to what she was putting in the cauldron, her quest for an early hot shower seemed to work against her, as ever so often her eyes would involuntarily close. Looking at the graceful way in which the potion mistress slumped, albeit straighter and more rigid than a normal person, on her chair, a hand lifted to her forehead and another clutching the desk, she knew that HB wasn't faring much better than her. Maybe, just maybe, the potion mistress was too tired to notice her botched potion. Knowing that there was little she could do to improve it and having time to spare, Mildred took out a white sheet of paper and started to randomly scribble on it. With the confidence she lacked in potions, she drew lines in black ink, which soon formed a life-like copy of Tabby. The cat on the page seemed friendly and Millie smiled somewhat satisfied at how accurate and natural it looked. Intensely searching, more out of boredom than anything else, something to fix or add to her drawing she noticed something unexpected. Taking into account what had happened that very morning it could mean that she had finally lost her senses and succumbed to insanity, but she was pretty sure that the drawing was moving.

Imogen Drill could feel the proverbial butterflies flying in her stomach while thinking for the hundredth time of the small note that had come for her with the morning post. Written on expensive cream paper, in a neat and rather flamboyant handwriting the few words exuded the easy confidence of their author, and the woman could not help but smile slightly at their formal, yet familiar style. It was as if Mr Mallard was completely sure of what her answer would be and although it was a bit infuriating that her feelings had been so obvious, the fact that their exposure had the desired effect was indeed pleasing. Without noticing the staff room door open with a creak, the blond woman took the note again, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips, and a slight emotional tremor in her hand as she read the simple yet convincing words. Oh, how she wished Serge could be as direct and courteous as Evan was.

"Dear Miss Drill (or dare I call you Imogen?)

The few hours spent in your company have been so pleasurable for me, that it would be a sacrilege not to try and have a repeat of that experience, albeit in less dramatic circumstances. As such, please accept my invitation to dinner in a quiet bistro in the nearby village. I will come to collect you tomorrow, at around eight.

Yours,

Evan M."

"Oh, Imogen, this is wonderful!" the chanting teacher said behind her shoulder.

"May I ask what the cause of all this excitement is?" a second figure clad in black, much straighter than Davina entered the room and, with an authoritarian air, demanded to know the cause of the ruckus the chanting teacher made.

"Mr Mallard invited our Imogen for a date!" Davina exclaimed before the gym mistress could do anything to stop her.

"Did he? And I suppose, Miss Drill, that you accepted?" the deputy asked with a hint of mockery and bitterness, her thin eyebrows rising involuntary as she walked to the table where the tea pot was placed.

"What if I did?" Imogen asked more sharply than intended

"I was under the impression that you were already involved in a relationship" she said in the same mocking tone, pouring herself a cup of tea.

"Yes, but going out with Evan for dinner doesn't automatically mean that I am betraying Serge" the gym mistress declared defensively.

In all truthfulness, ever since she had received the note Imogen had been somewhat troubled by accepting Evan's invitation. Like all long-distance relationships, her involvement with Serge was a complicated one and, during the recent holiday, it had only been resumed to a physical connection rather than a deep spiritual one. Serge was a nice simple guy, whose only fault was that he lacked the refinement of her new acquaintance. Frankly, being with him was like being with a male version of herself. They always had the same conversation topics, they always went to the same places and they always shared the same opinion on almost everything. While this was somewhat pleasurable, ever since she had been confronted with the sophistication and smoothness of Mr Mallard, she had craved for something more. No one would have ever pegged the gym mistress as a romantic, but she did wish for romance in her life and she thought that pursuing a liaison with the gentleman had the potential of becoming a love story like the ones that could only be found in books.

"Doesn't it? You are, after all, planning to go with another man for dinner and not tell your current partner. That does seem a bit off, if you ask me." Constance unknowingly interrupted her colleague's musings, taking a sip from her black cup.

"And who asked you, Miss Hardbroom? With all due respect, but everyone knows of your intense dislike for the male species, so I would rather not take dating advice from a cold, frigid spinster." Imogen answered defensively and put a hand to her mouth upon realizing what she had just said.

The stoic woman refrained from replying, her face turning into a blank mask of indifference. With no further words she put the tea cup in its assigned place, vanished the liquid with a flick of her hand, turned on her heels and exited the staff room quietly. If she were to look behind, she would have seen a mortified Imogen with a hand on her forehead and a remorseful look in her eyes, and Davina deciding that all the excitement was too much for her and locking herself in her cupboard.

As the past few days had been some of the most productive in his life, Evan decided to reward himself with a fourteen year old virgin. With the vanity of a man that had always been first in whatever he decided to do, he liked his women pure and untouched. He liked them to be innocent, unknowing and even afraid, he enjoyed being their teacher and, most of all, he adored making them feel both pleasure and pain at the same time. Like all men too rich and too bored for their own good, he knew where all the best brothels were, especially those that traded young pure women like cattle. Also, with a certain amount of arrogance befitting his station, he genuinely believed that buying women and using them to satisfy his carnal desires was perfectly normal.

As waited, stark naked, for his order to come, he felt the familiar feeling of anticipation mingled with a new surge of satisfaction at his recent achievements. He truly deserved his prize. Whoever said that money makes the world go round, was right, for, after some well-placed bribes and some pulled strings, he had found out all that there was to know about Cackle's potion mistress. Constance Hardbroom was nothing if not a fascinating person with an out of the ordinary life. After looking into the woman's past, he had a better grasp of who she truly was and why she displayed the cold façade he had been confronted with. He was feeling like he could understand her better and because of that he had a clear idea of what he had to do next. He knew that, because of certain events in her background, the woman would find it hard to trust him and he feared that he neither had the time nor the resources to make that happen soon enough. Also, he had a better and much simpler idea of how to get to her and achieve his goal. Fortunately enough, despite appearances, his visit at Cackle's had been a very fruitful one for one simple reason: the infatuation of the gym mistress. He had to admit to himself that he hadn't expected the woman to accept his invitation to dinner so soon and was prepared to chase her longer than that. The fact that she did, and that she clearly felt some sort of attachment to him only served as a huge incitement for Evan's plans. If he played his cards right Hope wouldn't know what hit her.

A young girl, a mere child, entered the room and Evan looked at her with hungry lustful eyes. Although he was a bit too young for his taste, she had curves in all the right places and a long blond hair falling on her tanned shoulders. Something wasn't exactly right. She was indeed very beautiful, especially with her blue eyes widened slightly in fear, but she didn't inspire any other feelings above mere lust. In order for his night to truly be enjoyable and for him to get his well-deserved prize, he had to alter her appearance a bit.

"Turn around" he asked calmly and muttered a soft spell under his breath. The girl's blond hair was immediately turned to jet black and her tanned skin was converted into pearly white. Now she was perfect. Now she looked just like her.

After the confrontation with Imogen, the potion mistresses pondered appearing to her room and try to marginally calm herself there, and possibly lie down for a bit as she did feel a bit faint. Yet, remembering that she had a full stack of fourth year essays on the benefits of bindweed in transformation potions to grade, Constance decided to do what she always did: bury herself in her work. After all, Miss Drill's impertinence wasn't something worth disrupting her usual schedule for, was it? The gym mistress did not say anything that she hadn't heard before. She knew what kind of image she projected, and in all truthfulness the woman had been quite accurate in her assessment. If she were to think about it with the dry logic of the intellectual she was, she could understand why she had been called both spinster and frigid, as the only man she allowed to come even remotely close to her was the school's handy man, Mr Blossom. And no one could ever accuse the deputy of being too familiar with him either.

Nothing. That was what Miss Hardbroom thought she would feel at her colleague's words but instead she felt everything. For years she had believed herself immune to the opinions of the students and other staff members, but the sharp, cutting pain that she felt when Imogen depicted her in those less than flattering terms proved otherwise. Pain, anger, sadness, frustration, need for closeness, every single sensation that she had locked into a lone black box in her mind came exploding out with a vengeance, and she could feel her cheeks redden and tears stinging in her eyes, threatening to fall. She panted loudly, her legs shaking like willow twigs and clutched the dark material above her heart as a shot of pain ran through her chest. Like it had happened before, blood came out in waves from her mouth and she could feel the metallic taste lingering at the back of her throat. Her legs gave out and she fell to her knees on the cold stone floor. She retched and spluttered and tried to catch her breath, to no avail, while an invisible hand was constricting her neck and setting her lungs on fire. She had neither the energy nor the power to conjure a container, so she allowed her own blood to smear the floor and pool at her knees, staining the impeccable black dress.

Imogen opened the oak door of the potions lab to see a gruesome, ghastly spectacle. She had went after Constance to try and make amends for what she had said, hoping that her moment of bravery would not result in a lifetime of being a frog. But as she opened the door and saw the fallen woman kneeling in a puddle of her own blood, unable to breathe, all trace of fear disappeared from her mind and was replaced with unbelievable concern and remorse. As she quickly came next to the deputy she wondered if she should touch her shoulder and let her know that she was there. Although she could probably sense her,Constance didn't speak. Her body jolted violently, her hands reflexively grasped the material of her dress, and her blood splashed against the stone of the floor with an ungainly sound. Miss Drill stood in shock, next to her, not knowing what to do of how to react, and not even noticing that Miss Bat had also entered the room to make sure that the argument between Constance and Imogen did not escalate to something irreversible.

"Constance!" the chanting teacher's panicked shrill broke the silence that had fallen on the room and the deputy turned to face the two staff members that were staring at her in awe.

"I … I… can't…." Constance whizzed, her eyes widened with fear while trying to take short, sharp breaths and finding that her efforts were completely useless.

"Davina! Call a doctor! Fast!" the gym mistress said sharply, snapping out of her reverie and, putting what she hoped to be a comforting hand on her colleague's back. In response to the touch, Constance's body went painfully rigid.

The room was small and cramped and Hope was frustrated that the inn keeper seemed resolved to think that Noah and she were an item. Wales proved to be even soggier, cloudier and more depressing than she had imagined and the room, which apparently was the honeymoon suite in the small inn, was in no better condition than the weather outside. The wallpaper had a dubious pinkish colour, the bed sheets, although clean, seemed overused and there was only one small wardrobe available, which could be easily filled to the brim only by the high number of shoes that she had brought. Fighting the urge to bang her head against the wall because she had only unpacked half her clothes and filled the entire wardrobe, Hope took a moment to look at the miserable surroundings of the inn. Almost hidden by the rain and mist, at the top of the mountain

"What in the Lord's name are you going to do with stilettos here?" Noah said looking for something in his black suitcase and noticing the woman holding a pair of really high healed shoes.

"Hey! No hate towards the shoes!" she said with mock-seriousness. "You said that we were going on an infiltration, James Bond-like mission. Stilettos are a must for that!" she took the red D&G shoes and tried to squeeze them in the remaining space, on the bottom shelf, between the green flats and the black boots. Being thoroughly unsuccessful, with a sigh she leaned against the pink covers of the bed, unceremoniously throwing the problematic shoes in the far end of the room. Noah's lips formed a smile while he was busy installing some sort of black contraption, looking like a cross between an ordinary radio and a really old phone.

"What the hell is that?" Hope asked turning her head to get a better look at the object her friend was preoccupied with.

"This, my darling, is a magical signal tracker. I bought it a while ago on the black market, but never had a chance to use it" he said proudly "It basically catches radio signals in the area and transfers them to us. I want to set it to intercept any calls that come from the school. Hence the receiver. The beauty of this thing is that it not only receives radio signals and waves, but also has an increased sensitivity and can even intercept and redirect calls from landlines" he further explained, looking at the machine the same way a child looks at a new toy, and the girl nodded knowingly, even if she didn't really understand why they needed such a machine. Maybe Noah was taking the spy thing too far and, in his fervour to help, was over-thinking and over-complicating things.

"Isn't it a bit too much, though? I mean, are we even sure that they have a phone up there?" she said meekly, trying to mildly temper his excitement. She could understand his involuntary happiness at being away from Elwood Manor for the first time in almost ten years, but she could not let him transform everything in child's play. Having one childish, potentially homicidal, maniac to deal with was enough for her.

"They do have a phone. Last year, in January, the Guild issued an amendment in the Witch's Education Code stating that every educational establishment, regardless of the convent, needs to have a non-magical communication device installed in order to function. "he smiled proudly and Hope could not help but feel impressed, like every time her friend sprouted out some random fact about some random subject. It was beyond her how Noah managed to both find out and remember so many utterly arbitrary things, but she suspected it had to do with spending his life in the company of books and secluded from the real world.

"So, even if they have a phone, how is that supposed to help us?" she continued, still sceptical. Quite frankly, she saw nothing wrong with going into the school, kidnap the person in question and make a run for it out of rainy Wales and to an exotic warm location.

"Well, you told me that something was making her sick. So, I drew the logical conclusion that, unless the people in the school hate this person so much that they want her to die, they will, at some point, call for a doctor… "he said animatedly, quite proud of his plan but soon found out that his friend wasn't sharing his excitement.

"Noah, love… with all due respect, but are you bloody insane?" Hope looked at him as if he had just declared himself Grand Wizard. She understood what he wanted to do and she was afraid that his selfish zeal to regain some of his old life back would not only hurt himself but also others, her included.

"Not that I am aware of… why?" his voice had suddenly lost its vivacity and became strangely monotone.

"You can't go to the school and pose as a doctor…" she replied carefully, desperately trying not to offend him. She really comprehended his reasons, but as much as she cared for him, she couldn't allow unnecessary risks to be taken.

"I'm not posing as one… I am one, remember?" he answered with derision, suddenly feeling like his identity was challenged.

"And how many patients did you treat in the last year?" her voice was harsher than intended and Noah's subsequent silence told her that she had hurt her friend. "Exactly! I rest my case."

She finished in the same way a duellist gives the coup de grace and hoped that her, rather weak, argument would be enough to quench his ambitions of re-becoming the person he once was.

"That doesn't make me less of a doctor, you know?" Noah said after a while looking with disappointment at the magical device that was now humming softly.

"Darling, may I point out a very important fact?" the girl asked with a hint of derision " If you kill her, you kill me. And although, I do love you, I wouldn't want to die while satisfying one of your whims!" Their conversation was interrupted by a sharp ring coming from the device and both exchanged a startled look. With trembling hands, Noah took the receiver and put it to his ear.

"Yes?" he answered with feigned calm, incapable to hide the tremor of excitement in his voice.

"Is this …" the voice at the other end was that of an older woman who, judging by the way she shouted in the receiver, certainly didn't have much practice using a phone.

"Yes it is. Doctor Elwood speaking" he felt his heart tremble with pleasure when he recommended himself as a doctor and Hope, knowing that she had lost the battle, threw herself dejectedly on the old bed.

"I am calling from Cackle's Academy, the school up the hill. One of our teachers collapsed and I think she needs medical attention" despite the better efforts of the voice to appear calm, panic was obvious in her tone and Noah instantly knew that he had hit the proverbial jackpot.

"I understand. I will be there shortly. But first, can you please tell me if this happened before?" his tried to sound as professional as possible, although taking into account the distress of the person at the other end, his attitude seemed to go unnoticed.

"Yes it did. Almost three days ago, but not like this…" the woman seemed increasingly panicking "Then she just fainted… now she is coughing up blood…."

"I understand. I will be there as soon as possible" he tried to sound as calm as possible while his mind was already running various potential diagnosis related to haemoptysis. He could feel the surge of adrenalin coursing through his system, as his brain already started to try to solve the so-very-familiar puzzle. With a satisfied smile, he placed the make-shift phone receiver down and automatically reached for his old doctor's bag.

"Do you have any idea why she is coughing up her lungs?" he asked his current roommate, while he checked that he had the bare necessities to perform a consult. While he hadn't been active in the field for almost ten years, his mother's condition taught him caution, and as such he aimed to have at least the basics with him, everywhere he went.

"No idea. You are the doctor…" she said with the bitter tone of a child that just lost a game, and pouted at upon seeing his triumphant smirk. Knowing that he had everything he needed, he turned with a nod towards her and almost exited the room when she suddenly jumped from the bed and ran to where he was standing.

"Please, don't screw up…" Hope said softly and placed a delicate kiss on his cheek as he closed the door behind him.

Amelia met doctor Elwood in front of Walker's Gate where he had parked his red Mini Cooper, and was surprised at how un-doctor-like he looked. While no one in his right mind could pretend that the headmistress of Cackle's had much of a contact with the outside world, or hospitals and doctors for that matter, she did instinctively know that the man that stood in front of the school was no ordinary medic or healer. To her mind, people in the healthcare system always used to have a busy air about them, and the man, tall and well-built was nothing but calm and relaxed. Also, they seemed to always expect the worst, but the man's face was contorted in a genuine smile, and he had a small flicker in his green eyes as if he knew more than he let on. Over all, he looked well-groomed and had a pleasant, easy confidence and his cool, demeanour seemed to automatically rub on the headmistress as well, despite the most dire circumstances she found herself into.

"Hello, I am Doctor Elwood. Noah Elwood" he said pleasantly, and shook the woman's hand with a certain amount of confidence.

"Amelia Cackle, the headmistress of the school" she replied with a sense of urgency, shaking his warm hand.

"Amelia, she can't breathe!" another woman dashed from inside the building and he recognized her as the voice he had heard through the telephone.

Noah quickly followed the older women inside and after climbing some shaky, old stairs he reached a rather damp corridor with five oak doors. The same pleasant surge of adrenalin was coursing through his veins and he realized, with satisfaction, how easily he slipped into the role of a doctor. The woman led him to the second door on the left and they both entered the small bedroom that contained the meagre worldly possessions of the deputy, and the man had the distinct impression that it looked much like a prison cell. An inhabited prison cell.

"This is doctor Elwood, Constance. He came to take a look at you…" the headmistress said gently, as if she was explaining something to a child.

"This… not… ne-ne-cessary…" the voice from the bed replied between desperate attempts to breathe.

"May I be the judge of that?" the soft baritone reverberated in the almost bare room and the black-haired woman looked up to see the gentle features of the doctor. He reminded her of someone, but her mind was too woozy to pinpoint of whom.

Noah's hand trembled slightly as he reached for the stethoscope and realized he hadn't used one in ten years. For a moment he felt a sense of apprehension grip his heart and wondered if what Hope had said was true. What if he misinterpreted something? Or what if he misdiagnosed something? Or what if he prescribed some medicine that was inappropriate? The possibilities to do more harm than good were endless, and the consequences of him doing something wrong were dire. If he, literary screwed up, not only would he harm an innocent woman that trusted him, but he could also, in the worst case scenario, kill his best friend. Taking a deep, steadying breath, he finally turned to face his first patient in almost ten years. His breath involuntarily hitched. The way in which she looked, with her dishevelled dark hair, piercing eyes and pale skin contrasting to her black dress and red lips reminded him of an opera he had seen during his years as a college student: La Traviata, the fallen woman. He had seen that stage production more than twenty times only because his, then-hormonal, mind had fixated itself on the main character, Violetta. And now, this woman who stood prostate on the silk sheets and looked as if she was fighting for every breath she took, appeared to be an incarnation of the fantasy of his youth.

"Do I have your permission?" he whispered softly, still amazed of how unnerving the similarity between that fictional character and the real woman in front of him was. Ironically enough, at the end of the opera, Violetta's body was succumbing to consumption so her condition was very similar to the one the woman on the bed was displaying. Noticing the faint nod, he went next to her and with dexterity he undid the buttons of her dress, revealing a cream chest and a black bra with flower patterns.

As his hands gently opened the top of her dress, Constance felt her muscles involuntarily tighten. He was the first man in almost twenty years that had touched her and she felt exposed, almost naked. Wordlessly he put the cold stethoscope on her skin and listened to the faint beats of her heart. He then took her wrist carefully, the same way one handles an already broken porcelain doll, and measured her radial pulse. Afterwards, he wrapped a cuff with an inflatable rubber bag inside, over her brachial artery inside the arm, at the elbow, put his stethoscope over the pulse point and pumped enough air pressure into the cuff to close the artery. Opening the thumb valve he released the air pressure and when the pressure in the cuff was equal with the pressure on the artery, he started to listen to the fait sound of her pulse. In his left hand he held the manometer connected by tubing to the cuff and was able to read her blood pressure. As the cuff deflated slowly and the sound became too faint to hear, Noah smiled in satisfaction. Although it was incredibly basic what he had done, the fact that he had actually touched a patient that wasn't his mother meant the world to him. Plus, as a further indication of his skill, even if he could not be entirely certain, he did have a pretty good idea of what was wrong with her.

Author's note:

Yet again we have reached the end of another (hopefully interesting) chapter. Any comments, questions, thoughts, angry words that you might have, can be sent through your reviews and I will reply to them promptly. I also apologize if, for the last chapter, I didn't reply to all of you. As I said before, I unfortunately had little time for fanfiction duties during the past week. I promise it will never happen again.

Here comes a little sneak preview from chapter 5:

Noah and Constance get to know each other better. Imogen and Evan go on a date and Mildred tries to make sense of her newly found talent. And Hope tries her hardest not to strangle her best friend.