Worst Witch 1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch **

**Hey, folks. **

**I found this in my old files and decided to go back to working on it because I 've sort of lost EVERYTHING current from my memory stick!*sobs***

** Firstly: I myself have been fortunate enough to have never had the flu, so I apologise if my medical stuff isn't quite right. My knowledge essentially came from a bit of googling and from good ol' Wikipedia.;)**

** Secondly: My music of choice whilst writing my notes for this has been the 'Stronger' album, by Kelly Clarkson: 'Dark Side' &amp; 'Standing In Front Of You' are especially, to me at least, very HB/Drill. **

**Thirdly: This fic is for typicalRAinbow, who has always been a lovely reviewer and an even lovelier friend. I can't promise I'll finish it dear, what with my track record, lol, but I shall aim to try. **

***blows a kiss***

**Hope you enjoy :)  
**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

** Chapter 1**

"That sounds wonderful, Davina!" exclaimed the headmistress, as she finished off her cream slice and then surreptitiously looked at the plate, as if contemplating having another. "I do hope you have a lovely time." Her hand hovered over the plate of cakes as if fighting a battle with temptation; it was a battle temptation was quickly set to win. "What about you, Imogen?" Amelia Cackle enquired before taking a massive bite of cake, "do you have anything nice planned for over the summer holidays?"

"I'm off camping with Serge." She replied, hoping that her excitement had come across as believable and not too false.

Truthfully, she was not looking forward to it in the slightest.

Recently, things between her and Serge had started to change; arguments had become all the more frequent and all the little habits she had once found adorable now just irritated her. While people would most likely say it was only because the so-called 'honeymoon' period was now well and truly over, she knew it was more than that. In fact, she wasn't even sure whether she...

She was jolted from her thoughts as the door opened and in strode the deputy head, Constance Hardbroom. The woman had such an imposing presence that you could not help but not notice whenever she entered a room. It wasn't even strictly to do with her great height and instead was more to do with the power, which practically radiated from all around her, and the confidence she oozed in a seemingly effortless fashion.

Imogen noted, with some surprise, that confident and effortless fashion seemed to be taking that bit more effort than usual to carry off.

It was as if all her muscles were protesting under the strain of carrying her tiny weight and, despite the lengths, she was going to try to hide it, a flicker of exhaustion passed briefly across her features, as she sat down in her usual spot. She didn't know whether or not it was just the way the sunlight happened to be hitting that side of the room but she noticed that the older woman's complexion seemed slightly flushed and upon closer inspection, there was a slight look of glassiness to her brown eyes.

In fact, if the woman in question wasn't Constance Hardbroom, then Imogen would have sworn that she was coming down with something.

She jumped guiltily as the witch suddenly looked over in her direction and locked eyes with her own. Glassy or not, there was still one hell of a glare coming at her; as if she was daring the gym-mistress to make some comment.

Shrinking back under the gaze, Imogen quickly looked away, suddenly finding herself heavily engrossed in a picture she had never even noticed before, let alone bothered to look at.

"Constance?"

" Yes, Davina?"

"I said could you pass me the 'Witch Weekly' over please?" the chanting teacher asked again, as she gestured to the magazine lying on the table next to the potions mistress.

Lifting the magazine from the table, Constance stood up; wavering a little on her unsteady legs as she discreetly clutched the edge of the table for support. Not discreetly enough though.

"Are you alright, dear?" Amelia asked her, starting to become rather concerned for her deputy's well-being, as she noticed for the first time just how flushed the woman's porcelain skin seemed.

"Perfectly fine, headmistress", came the automatic and expected reply to the question.

Reluctantly, she uncurled her fingers from the table's edge, releasing her grip slowly, before standing to her full height. She had barely taken two steps forward when she felt the room spin; the corners of her world were quickly blackening.

The magazine fell from her grasp and landed with a thud as she collapsed on the floor.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own The Worst Witch; more's the pity.**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 2**

The door gently creaked open as she tiptoed into the room, mentally shushing the sound her trainers made as they bounced off the flagstone. Closing it over as quietly as she could, she stood for a minute, just watching the sleeping witch. It was a rare sight to see.

It occurred to Imogen that she had never seen what the woman looked like when she was asleep. She only ever saw her during the day, when she was stalking the corridors of the castle, usually scowling; her dark eyes boring into you like a laser, and she was surprised to notice , for the first time, just how breathtakingly beautiful the sleeping beauty truly was, even though she was suffering from a bad case of the flu.

Working in a busy close-contact environment as they did, there was always someone that was sick with one thing or another; usually it was one of the girls and occasionally it was one of the staff but in all the years she had been at the school she had never known it to be Constance Hardbroom. The woman seemed to have an iron-immune defence system.

Imogen didn't fail to spot the irony in her own thought.

She _**seemed**_ to have an iron-immune defence system because that is what she wanted you to believe. It was yet another piece of the mask that Constance used to conceal her true self: she had to be seen as strong and powerful; she didn't want to be seen as weak and she most certainly did not want pitied when at her most vulnerable.

She had to admit though she was more than a little surprised that it had seemingly thrown the witch off her feet as it had but had to agree that it did stand to reason because whilst Constance was great at looking out for and protecting others, when it came to her own well-being, she rarely followed her own advice. In fact, she never followed her own advice.

Rather than just admit to feeling unwell and taking a few days off for the necessary rest and recuperation, she chose to mask any discomfort she was suffering from with a concoction of potions and a feigned fineness. It was a short- term fix and, as soon as the effects of the potion had worn off, she was left feeling significantly worse than before. Not that she would ever admit to it.

Imogen was quite certain that had she not fainted in the staffroom the previous evening and been practically ordered to bed by a concerned Amelia, she would be doing exactly that now, and even though she had told them over and over again that she was 'perfectly fine'; it was apparent she was anything but...

It was a reminder that even Constance-the -all –powerful- witch-Hardbroom, wasn't quite as invincible as she tried very hardly to portray and, at the end of the day, she was indeed human. And tucked up under the bedcovers, yet still shivering as she coughed wildly in her sleep; the action wracking her whole body and her normally pale complexion flushed with a rising fever, that humanity looked so fragile; like a little china doll that Imogen just wanted to take in her arms and take care of.

She was so entranced that she had failed to notice the two glassy brown eyes that were now staring back at her as a voice broke into her thoughts.

"Are you planning on standing there like a Tussuads' waxwork all day, Miss Drill?"

There was no real energy in the delivery and there was certainly no disguising the hoarse whisper as the words croaked from her swollen throat; sending fresh waves of agony to it with every syllable spoken. It was such a far cry from her usually confident and dulcet tones but she point-blank refused to be seen in any more vulnerable a state than the one she was currently in, so was putting on a front, namely with her sharp tongue.

"Uh...no, no. I brought you some tea, honey."

The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she could even realise what she had said and unable to take them back, she faltered, momentarily looking to the exhausted brown eyes before attempting to dig herself out of the hole she was close to falling into.

"Tea with honey-I mean I've brought you some honey-flavoured tea...you know to try help to soothe your throat and stuff..."

She could hear the words coming out of her own mouth and her brains will for her to stop talking.

_'For the love of god Imogen... shut up...just shut up!'_

The last thing Constance wanted was fuss. She absolutely hated anyone witnessing her in such a state of weakness, much preferring instead to just suffer in silence, rather than be a burden to anyone else, but even she could not deny that anything that could potentially ease the aching of her throat was a welcome relief. The rawness of it was so acute it was like having swallowed a bunch of razor blades.

"Th-ank you."

Unsure of what else to say, Imogen quietly crossed the room and carefully placed the cup and saucer on the bedside table. Her mind was still reeling as she replayed her words from just moments before.

_'Honey'_

She had just referred to Constance Hardroom-of all people- as 'honey'.

Yet...she was still alive.

_'Had the witch not heard the slip of the tongue? ... Or was she simply choosing to ignore it, with not having the energy to do any reprimanding?'  
_

"You're welcome." She finally said, flashing a smile. She received a weak one back in return, but it was there nonetheless and she felt her heart skip a beat. She couldn't remember the last time her heart at done that at one of Serge's smiles.

"So," She hesitated for a moment as she racked her brain for something to say.

She and Constance had never really conversed before on anything out with the girls' education and, even then, it was mostly just bickering and a constant clash of opinions. "How are you feeling then?" she asked, eventually ending the sentence and immediately wanting to mentally kick herself for asking such a stupid question.

_'How are you feeling then? You idiot! Way to state the blooming obvious! Next thing you'll be talking about the weather.'_

"As I told Amelia, I was and still am perfectly fine, and this whole charade is-", she broke off as an unexpected coughing fit, as if on cue, caught in the back of her throat, wracking her whole body; it was agony. It felt as if her lungs were on fire but she remained impassive, continuing after it passed, "-not only unnecessary but also a complete waste of my time!" Her dark eyes stared into Imogen's green ones, but the infamous 'Hardbroom' glare was replaced with glassiness and exhaustion, so it wasn't nearly as effective as normal.

They both knew she was fighting a losing battle.

"Just because the term is over it doesn't mean I haven't other work to do not too mention planning next terms work – it doesn't just fall out of the sky you know?!"

"I know, bu-"

"What are you even doing here anyway? I thought you were off camping with that Neanderthal you call a boyfriend."

Imogen bit down on her tongue trying to prevent herself from saying something she might regret. "I was- I mean I am. We're going next week instead now and since Amelia had to urgently go and visit her Aunt Gertrude, I guess I drew the short straw in looking after you." She joked.

"I see."

The words were barely audible and her voice slightly cracked as she said them. Imogen couldn't tell whether it was from the flu or from emotion.

"You can leave now, Miss Drill."

"B-"

"And just for future reference, I do not need 'looking after.' I have told you already, I'm fine."


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.**

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews :)**

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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.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews, guys :) **

**I am going to try to update with the latest chapter of 'Goodbye Kiss' and 'I Thought I'd Come So Far' in the next few weeks. In theory… ;) **

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 4**

She didn't know why she was crying, but for some reason she couldn't stop. It made her feel vulnerable; exposed, even though there was nobody there to witness it. She hated being ill, it clouded her mind and left her unable to think logically, toying with her emotional state like a cat playing with a mouse.

The last time she had felt this bad, had been back in witch training college. She had been incredibly ill with a flu, just like this one, feeling so weak that even standing was a seemingly near impossible effort and all she had wanted was to pass out on the spot and to rest her aching limbs. Her head was pounding and the thought of sleep had never seemed like a more welcome notion. A notion was all it was to be though as Heckitty Broomhead hadn't been the least bit sympathetic.

In fact, she had made her practice her materialisation technique for eight solid hours.

_"How do you ever expect to be a great witch if you can't even fight off a little cold, Constance?"_

* * *

**_She didn't know at what point she had finally passed out, her body physically unable to withstand anymore, but when she had eventually came round in the cold, dark dungeon of a bedroom she was forced to reside in, her whole world was spinning. A series of hazy and grey images flickering before her eyes as her exhausted mind struggled to piece together the puzzle and process what had actually transpired. It was too much of an effort._**

**_She winced as she moved her hand less than an inch across the floor, her every nerve-ending and muscles protesting against such a small movement. Pushing past the pain, knowing she needed help, she moved her hand an inch further, and instantly felt her fingers come into contact with a sticky substance._**

**_Blood._**

* * *

Wearily waving her hand, she summoned over the cup of tea the gym-mistress had brought her, despite knowing she really shouldn't be using her magic with the state she was in. As if confirming it for her, she instantly felt a wave of fatigue wash over her entire body, and closed her eyes gently for a few moments until it had passed: she couldn't remember the last time she had felt so tired. Taking a sip she felt the syrupiness of the honey slide down as it gently eased the rawness in her throat.

This situation was more or less her own doing.

She never had been great at taking care of her own well-being and growing up, other than the nanny, she had never really had anyone to do it for her.

The constant lack of sleep she suffered from did nothing to help matters and over the years, her insomnia had only worsened, if anything. Her insomnia was driven by her fear; it wasn't that she didn't want to sleep, there had been times, and indeed there still were, where she'd just wanted to curl up in her exhaustion and shut the world out for a few hours. It was that she was too afraid too.

If anyone were to find that out, ever, then they would find it ridiculous, and perhaps even laughable, that the formidable potions mistress was afraid. That the woman, who could reduce any of her students to a gibbering heap before her with a simple look, was too scared to shut her eyes and to relinquish control on her world for even a second.

Every single time she closed her eyes she was haunted beyond belief by nightmares of a past she had unsuccessfully tried to bury, repeatedly, but to no avail, it would just resurface; time and time again. Every time she thought she was safe, every time she felt like she was finally moving forwards, there it would be, slamming into her; reminding her that there was no escape.

Not then.

Not now.

Not ever.

Basking in satisfaction as it dragged her into the depths of hell, memories circling her mind like a pack of vultures that had swooped down and were ready to tear their prey apart before devouring them.

The laugh.

There was always a laugh. A cold, calculated laugh; one devoid of emotion, devoid of feeling, a maniacal tune of triumph echoing in her ears as she tossed and turned, trying to block it out.

The discovery of Wide Awake Potion, years ago now, had been her saviour. As if being sent from above it could grant her peace of mind and salvation. Not only did it stop the torment of her nightmares, it prevented them altogether because, by taking it, she could eliminate the need for sleep. Of course, like many substances, it would only sustain her for so long.

On their own, the properties of the potion were considered relatively harmless but coupled together and they could be dangerous, addictive and potentially life threatening. For all her stances she held on rule breaking, surprisingly, she found that she didn't care: it was better than the alternative. For everybody's sake.

She didn't fear the addiction; it was too late to start worrying about it. She was long past the stage of addiction and over time, the toxins from the potion had begun to seep into her system and were now slowly poisoning her from within. She feared the day it stopped working because there was always the possibility: the more anything is used, the more the body becomes able to tolerate it, and as a result, its effectiveness lessens.

Wide Awake Potion was the only thing that was stopping her from falling off the cliff, and for so long she had been holding onto the precipice, her grip gradually starting to loosen and slip away. If it ever stopped working, she was done for.

She secretly hoped the potion would kill her long before the day ever came.

* * *

There was a gentle knock at the door and she knew that Imogen was outside again.

"Constance?"

She didn't answer; hoping the blonde would just go away and leave her alone.

It was the indignity of it all!

She had told them she didn't need a glorified babysitter, but Amelia was having none of it, telling her she wouldn't feel right leaving her on her own in case something happened. Constance knew, touching as that was, it formed only part of the reason. The other part being that she wasn't trusted to **_actually_** rest and recuperate. Though she was rather annoyed, given her workaholic tendencies, she couldn't fully blame them for appointing someone to keep watch.

Amelia?

Yes.

Davina?

…At a push.

Though it would no doubt increase the pain in her head ten-fold, especially if the chanting teacher attempted to sing the self-composed lullaby she had overheard her singing to some of the students, when they were ill.

But Imogen?

...

She couldn't help but wonder why the gym-mistress was here in the first place. If she had been Imogen and it had been a choice between going camping with her boyfriend or staying at the school and looking after a woman, she crossed swords with on a regular basis, she knew which she would choose, and it certainly was not the latter of the two.

She didn't know why her and Imogen didn't get along: they both wanted the best for the school and for the girls but she supposed that they were just too different to see eye-to-eye about anything. Different upbringings and different experiences had helped to shape them into who they were now. She would never admit it aloud, ever, but she sometimes envied the non-witch: her constantly sunny personality, her optimism, and the way she could talk to someone she didn't know and within 5 minutes it was like they had been best friends for years.

For all the great power and qualifications Constance had, she was lacking in that particular skill. She suspected that at school Imogen would have been the girl whom everyone wanted to be best friends. She would have been the one inventing all the playground games and encouraging them all to join in, whereas she had been the girl, who had sat alone with a book, pretending to read it, while trying to ignore the whispering behind her back coming from the other girls, as the tears streamed silently down her cheeks.

'Perfectly fine'

Who was she trying to kid?

Even without the blasted flu she was still so far removed from 'fine' that it wasn' t true.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch. This chapter also took inspiration from: 2 Broke Girls, Matilda, Tangled and Bad Girls, so I don't own any of them either.**

**A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews. Things get a little darker in this chapter. I blame my keyboard. LOL! **

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 5**

Placing the cloth in the water basin, she was slightly unsure of what to do next. She had never been in the chambers of the potions mistress before and she couldn't help but feel like a naughty child, sneaking into a forbidden domain: one who was about to be caught and severely reprimanded for her actions. Despite this feeling, she could not help the curiosity that overtook her as she cast her eyes cautiously about the room, drinking in its every detail. Not that there was much to see.

All the rooms at Cackles were the same, though the teachers were granted a little more luxury than their pupils were, with their chamber containing not only a bedroom but also an en-suite bathroom and a small sitting room. Imogen hadn't known what she'd expected to find but Constance' room was exactly as she had always imagined it to be: a place for everything and everything in its place. It was such a contrast to her own room, but while her own felt lived in, there was a certain air of emptiness in the room of the potions mistress. And it wasn't just down to the lack of possessions out on display.

She turned her attention to the impressive bookshelf, the only real thing in the room that marked it as belonging to anybody, her eyes widening in awe as she glanced at title after title – half of which she could barely pronounce, let alone even imagine understanding. Towards the end of the shelf, near the bottom, the magic theory tailed off and there were a few of what Imogen would call the "classics" – including the book she herself had given the sorceress a couple of years ago as a Christmas gift. Picking it up, she took the chair from the desk and brought it over to the bed, settling herself down with the intention of reading. As she did so, something fell out from between the pages.

Bending down to pick it up, she saw it was an old photograph and upon closer inspection, she recognised it to be a photograph of a young Constance – there was no mistaking it. Even at 4 years old (she hazarded a guess) Constance had that trademark stare down to a fine art as she gazed into the camera, her wide grin displaying true child happiness. In the picture with her was a woman, whom Imogen presumed was her mother, noting the more than striking similarities the two beauties possessed.

Gazing at it for a few moments longer, she couldn't help but smile at how adorable the deputy once was. She knew Constance would obliterate her if she heard the "A" word, especially in regards to herself but she couldn't help it.

There was a slight moan from her left, causing her to jump guilty, though perhaps a little too prematurely. In fact, the moan had been so quiet; she wondered whether she had actually imagined it because when she glanced over Constance appeared to be sleeping soundly.

She turned her attention back to the book, missing the lone tear that trickled from the deputy's eye.

Tucking the photograph back inside the book, feeling more than a tad guilty for invading the privacy of the potions mistress, she soon found herself engrossed in the realms of the story. It had been years since she had last read it but now it was all coming flooding back to her: the white rabbit, the magic potions, the Mad Hatter's tea party…

Soon, she was lost in a fantasy. Until she was sharply brought back to reality when a hoarse scream shattered the silence of the room.

* * *

Her already tired eyes felt heavy; so very heavy. It was as if they were weighed down by a ton of bricks and the effort to keep them open required more energy than she currently possessed. Still, she fought against the onset of unconsciousness, her fear overriding any rational though telling her she need sleep to aid her recovery. She couldn't give into it. The minute she closed her eyes on the outside world, she lost all control. She wouldn''t be able to stop the nightmares from rearing their ugly head as they encircled her in her sleep-cocooned state.

She would simply be a mere spectator, forced to stand by and watch as the sorry tale of her life played out in front of her again and again. The little light that had once been there turning to darkness, blocked out by the dark clouds that rolled overhead.

Abandoned.

Neglected.

Mistreated.

Forced to stand by and watch, knowing full well she couldn't stop it nor change it.

Fear put up a strong fight but exhaustion was to win the battle.

* * *

**_"Alright, there we go. Snug as a bug in a rug." Vivienne cooed as she tucked her four year old daughter into bed for the night._**

**_"Don't forget Brambles, mummy." She gestured to the brown teddy bear she was holding."_**

**_"And Brambles too, of course." She responded. Placating her daughter by giving the bear a kiss on his forehead to emphasis she was sorry. _**

**_"Better?"_**

**_Constance nodded, grinning happily._**

**_"Good." Her mother smiled back at her. _**

**_"Can I have a bedtime story, mummy?" _**

**_"You can indeed, poppet. I thought you might want to hear mummy's favourite story from when she was a little girl. _**

**_In her hand, she brandished a copy of 'Alice's Adventures In Wonderland' by Lewis Carroll._**

* * *

An involuntary smile flashed across her face. She hadn't dreamt about her mother in a long time; it was bittersweet.

* * *

**_"Please, Johnathan, don't let her do this." _**

**_The woman begged. Mascara trailing down her cheeks as she attempted to appeal to her husband's better nature. "I swear it'll never happen again." _**

**_He looked into her wife's eyes, desperately trying to find even a trace of the woman he married all those years ago, but there was nothing left. She had tainted their marriage; she had broken that sacred bond. The first time, he had forgiven her, the second time too, but enough was enough. The trust was gone and without trust then they really had nothing. No foundations on which to build the rest of their life together and yet… he couldn't help but feel partly responsible. Wondering if he had spent less time in the office, trying to make his fortune and more time at home with his wife and daughter, then she wouldn't have felt neglected and found solace in the arms of someone else. _**

**_His expression softened, his instant anger dissipating leaving a sense of regret in its place._**

**_"…And the Oscar goes to-"_**

**_"Mother!"_**

**_He opened his mouth to continue but the sentence never was completed, his eyes shifted to the ground as he looked at his feet, shuffling them nervously. "She's right, Viv. I think it's best you go."_**

**_"But- b-b-, what about Constance? You can't take her away from me, I won't let you... I'm her mother... "_**

**_"Well maybe you should have thought about that before you dropped your knickers." Cecilia Hardbroom retorted back. She was a formidable woman and conniving when it came to protecting the interest of her family. In society, she was highly regarded and as statuses went, she was classed as Queen Bee. One word from Cecilia Hardbroom could instantly see you ousted from society. _**

**_"I bet you are loving this. You've never thought I was good enough for your precious son!" _**

**_And I was right. I had you pegged the minute I first laid eyes on you. Gold digger." _**

**_"And you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?_**

**_"How dare you! Just you remember who you're talking to, Vivienne…" _**

**_"That's right, becau-"_**

**_A seven-year-old girl sat halfway up the stairs, clutching onto an old but well-loved teddy bear with her hands clamped over her ears as tears ran silently down her cheeks. She didn't understand what was happening but she just wished they would stop shouting. They had been shouting for hours now. Bad words had been screamed, dishes had been thrown, and a lot of crying had been done. Then, after her Grandmother had turned up, things only got worse. _**

**_A small sniff halted the adults in their tracks as they looked over, spotting the dark brown eyes through the gaps between the staircase. They had forgotten about the little girl. _**

**_"Connie, sweetie, why don't you go and play upstairs? There's a good girl." _**

**_ "I want to play with mummy." She whispered sadly into the fur of her teddy bear. The request was so innocent it could have broken a heart of stone. _**

**_"I'll be up soon, Princess. Now come and give me a kiss."_**

**_She jumped up from the stairs and ran, practically leaping into her mother's arms, the two of them enveloping each other in a bear hug. "I love you, Connie."_**

**_"I love you more, mummy"_**

**_"I love you most, my darling."_**

**_"Will you really come and play, mummy?"_**

**_"I promise." _**

**_Wheeling her suitcase down the garden path, Vivienne took one last long back at her home, her eyes meeting those of her only daughter who was watching her from her bedroom window, her tiny hands pawing at the glass as she tried reaching out to her._**

**_"I'm sorry," Vivienne mouthed, her tears mirroring her child's. She held the gaze for a few moments longer, drinking in every inch of her child, before she broke the gaze and her heart by walking out of her daughter's life forever._**

* * *

A lone tear fought its way free from her closed eyes, trickling down her cheek and onto the satin of the pillows.

* * *

_**Her tutor's grip was vice-like. Her sharp nails digging deep into the wrist, an unnecessary applied pressure piercing the flesh and breaking the youthful skin, leaving a mark. Her expression was like stone, the only sign of life shown in the madness that danced in her eyes. Dragging the girl along the corridor, she ignored the garbled protests of innocence and stuttered apologies. It was too late. **_

_**A lesson had to be learned.**_

_**Entering her office, she reached for her set of keys, snatching them up from off the desk with one hand while the other continued to hold the girl, stopping her from running off. In actual fact, it was probably the only thing stopping the girls shaking limbs from completely giving out on her and sending her crashing onto the flagstone, her eyes widening in terror as she realised where this was headed.**_

_**The punishment closet.**_

_**The punishment closet took pride of place in Heckitty's office.**_

_**Situated in a dimly lit corner of the room, it was a tall and narrow cupboard, with a heavy iron door. Barely 10" each way, it gave the unlucky victim the unsettling feeling of being buried alive, as they were forced to reside in the small, dark, hot and sticky coffin-like space, until Heckitty found the morsel of humanity in her and granted them their freedom. Sometimes you could be in there for days.**_

_**"In." She growled, her eyes flicking from the girl to the closet and back again.**_

_**The girl didn't move. Her feet were practically rooted to the spot in utter terror.**_

_**"I'm sorry, did you not hear me the first time? In. Now!"**_

_**Still the girl didn't move. Her whole frame was shaking beyond her control and her watery eyes silently begging with her tutor; pleading.**_

_**"I said, "she grabbed for her wrist again "in, now!" before pulling the terrified girl forward and pushing her into the closet with such a force that the girl winded herself on impact, doubling over in agony.**_

_**Making use of the lapse in concentration, Heckitty slammed the door shut tight before turning the key in the lock. Locking her in and leaving her to her fate.**_

_**"Oh, and Constance? I wouldn't bother screaming, if I were you; you might want to save on the oxygen."**_

_**She cackled loudly, a laugh that wouldn't look out of place in the depths of hell.**_

_**The clicking of her heels grew more and more distant until, eventually, it stopped altogether and a silence befell her. With that, Constance knew that she wasn't coming back for a long time and was all too quickly beginning to face up to her predicament.**_

_**She was trapped.**_

_**Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she slowly opened them again, hoping against hope that this had been nothing but a horrible nightmare and she would soon wake to find herself in her bed at WTC, but when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed. All she could see was darkness.**_

_**She was doing her best to keep calm, knowing it would only make things worse, but there was spike in her heartbeat as absolute terror kicked in.**_

_**She was going to die in here.**_

_**In the dark and all alone.**_

_**Feeling her way around the space she could feel nothing but the four walls that surrounded her, encasing her in her tomb. Desperately she scratched at them, frantically trying to claw her way free, ripping her fingernails to shreds in the process, before realising that her attempts were in vain.**_

_**There was no way out.**_

_**She tried to breathe steadily but her heart rate was going too fast, each breath she took becoming more strained than the last as they came in short shallow gasps for air.**_

_**There was no hope.**_

_**"LET ME OUT!"**_

_**This was it.**_

_**"HELP ME. PLEASE!"**_

_**Her torn fingernails ran down the door as she fell forward, her eyelashes fluttering as they began to succumb to the enveloping darkness.**_

_**"Help me, please."**_

_**"Somebody."**_

_**"…anybody."**_


	6. Chapter 6

**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.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.**

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews/follows, guys. I thought this was due an update (Seriously, how are we on August already?!) so here you go.**

**Thanks to typicalRAinbow for giving me some feedback. - More on the next chapter but thanks all the same dear.**

**:)**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees **

**Chapter 7**

"CONSTANCE!?"

She all but screamed her name as she grabbed frantically for her wrist, in desperate search of a pulse, her panicked mind visualising having to explain to Amelia that the deputy headmistress of the school had died under her neglectful watch. Feeling the steady – albeit slower than normal – beat of a pulse, she let out the overwhelming sigh of relief she did not even realise she had been holding. The witch had simply fainted.

A large part of Imogen could not help but feel glad. It at least meant that Constance had escaped from the clutches of whatever terrifying ordeal she had been experiencing in her obviously-not-so-peaceful-slumber. Selfishly, she could not help feeling slightly relieved for her own benefit as well as that of Constance's well-being. The seriousness of the situation had been rising - rapidly- and she had quickly found herself out of her depth. If Constance hadn't of fainted when she had, there was no telling what could have happened next...

She shuddered even thinking about it.

Gently, she brushed a loose strand of hair from the brunette's face and adjusted the bedcovers that had become a tangled mess in the wake of her writhing. It wasn't much but she really didn't know what else to do; she wanted to help, but she did not know how. The whole situation was so absurd that it was almost laughable, but Imogen knew that it was no laughing matter, and it was certainly not something she was going to forget in a hurry.

For the most part, she was still in utter shock at what she had just witnessed. She had never ever expected to see such a sight - especially not from Constance Hardbroom.

It was as if she was a completely different person. Gone was the strict, imposing and confident witch with whom she crossed swords with nearly every other day and in her place was a terrified and vulnerable little girl.

* * *

**_"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."_**

**_Constance's 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. The witch'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."_**

* * *

Imogen squeezed her eyes tightly shut, trying to block out the screams, visions and voices that were reverberating around her head as the scene from earlier found its way to the forefront of her mind, replaying again and again and gaining in vividty and clarity each time. She dug her palms into her head, desperately trying to drown it out and shift her focus onto something else; anything else. The weather, her PE lesson plans, her boyf-

Wait a minute...Broomhead?

Broomhead.

That was what Constance had called out in the midst of it all.

She didn't know exactly what had gone down between the former tutor and pupil all those years ago but she knew that even the mere mention of Heckitty Broomhead's name shook the very foundations of the strongest woman she knew to the core. Causing the façade and pretence Constance exercised to slip, it revealed a true glimpse at what lay underneath the carefully constructed mask of indifference.

Despite her best efforts, Imogen found herself unable to focus on anything else. A wave of nausea rose in her throat as she realised - with a sickening feeling - that whatever Constance had been dreaming about, had likely been less of a nightmare and more of a memory. Suppressing a shiver at the thought of a young Constance at the mercy of Heckitty Broomhead, she turned her attention back to the present Constance.

She looked so peaceful; so serene.

Looking at her now it was hard to believe such an out of control terror-driven outburst had ever taken place.

Looking down, Imogen realised that she was still holding onto Constance's wrist. Embarrassment washed over her but for some reason she could not bring herself to let go. It was as if she sensed the witch needed some comfort.

At that moment, the light seemed to change, shedding light on both the room and on her colleagues largely unknown past.

Imogen gasped, finally understanding the reason behind the long dresses that covered her entire frame.

Littered on Constance's delicate wrist - and subsequently working their way up her arm -was a spider web of scarring, seared deep into her flesh: the tainted -though faded- redness standing out against her porcelain skin. Dotted in between the scars were the odd few burn marks, from what Imogen recognised to be from a cigarette.

For a moment, she simply sat there, so many emotions filling her head: pity, anger, admiration.

Ever so slowly and ever so gently, almost as if she was scared of hurting her, she shakily traced the pattern of scars with her finger, barely able to believe that they were real. Bringing the witch's wrist to her mouth, she placed a soft kiss on one of the burn marks, as if it would ease the pain, while her mind went into overdrive as she wondered just what the woman before her had been through.

She was both tragically beautiful and beautifully tragic.

Dropping her wrist, Imogen took her hand instead and gave it a gentle squeeze. Her own eyes were now drifting shut and as they closed, she felt the briefest of movements as Constance returned the gesture.

It had been so brief; in fact, Imogen wondered whether she had simply imagined it.


	8. Chapter 8

**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."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.**

**A/N: Hey, people! Thank you so much for your reviews on the previous chapter - it was one I was very nervous about posting. :) This is what I came up with earlier when I was on the bus. Not sure when the next shall be up but hopefully it won't be too far away. Also, as a side note, this fic is now officially my longest - both in chapters and word count - and is my best updating record to date! :)**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 9**

Just as she was reaching the end of her sanity over that_ one vital answer_ that was needed to complete the cryptic crossword in the paper, her phone buzzed. The little envelope icon in the corner was now flashing furiously away as it alerted her to the fact she had received a text message. Half expecting it to be from her phone company, probably offering her so many free texts if she topped up just _one more_ time, she reached for it very half-heartedly, keeping one eye on her crossword.

One new message: Serge

She couldn't help but feel nervous. After all, it was the first time she had heard from him since their fight earlier in the week, couple that with how strained things had been between them lately, and she couldn't help but wonder if this was the classic 'We need to talk' text and more importantly if it was, how did that make her feel?

Her finger hovered over the button for a few moments, unable to bring herself to press 'read'. Sensing that drawing it out would get her nowhere, she decided to bite the bullet and read the message before she changed her mind again. Almost with trepidation, she opened the message, bracing herself for what it would say.

**Hi, Immy. Sorry I was such a prick. Forgive me? Love you. Xxx**

Staring at the words in front of her, she wondered what to say back. She had to say something! - thanks to the damn read recipient feature, he would know she had read it. Just as she was about to reply, her phone buzzed again.

One new message: Serge

**How is the Ice Queen anyway?**

Normally, she would have laughed at his nickname for the witch but now it wasn't so funny. Over the past couple of days she had seen Constance Hardbroom in an entirely different light. One that – had she not seen it with her own eyes – she would have never believed existed. While this bout of flu had physically weakened the witch, it had also revealed an incredibly emotionally vulnerable woman.

One who had clearly been dealt a rough hand in life.

Imogen thought back to the hurt in the witch's voice when she had joked about having drawn the short straw and therefore **had** to look after her, and – on reflection – she felt awful. It seemed the sorceress had been made to feel as though she was a burden and unwanted her entire life, and now, however inadvertently, she had done the same thing. She desperately wanted to tell the witch it simply wasn't the case but she knew Constance wouldn't believe her.

Truthfully, she had volunteered to stay and keep watch over her.

* * *

_**"What did the doctor say?" Davina asked as soon as Amelia had entered the staffroom, after seeing the doctor out. She wasn't exactly Constance's greatest fan but that didn't mean she wished anything bad to happen to the witch. She respected her and she knew that Cackle's would not be Cackle's without the presence of the powerful – albeit sometimes terrifying – sorceress.**_

_**Imogen was very glad that Davina had voiced her question for her. It was one she could not bear to ask herself: her brain fearing the worst and her heart aching at the thought.**_

_**"She said that Constance will be fine," Amelia's face broke into a mother's relief, "She's caught that really bad flu bug that has been doing its round recently, that's all."**_

_**"Oh that bug! I heard Mildred tell Maud her sister was down with that."**_

_**"Whatever you do, Davina, do**_** not**_** tell Constance that."**_

_**"Come on, headmistress. Even she can't blame Mildred Hubble for the flu!"**_

_**"I wouldn't bet on that," She broke off as she thanked Davina for the cup of tea she had just poured. "As I say, thankfully it's nothing serious and is nothing that a good few days of bed rest shouldn't cure."**_

_**Imogen caught Davina's eye at the mere notion of Constance Hardbroom taking bed rest for anything.**_

_**"How is she?"**_

_**"She's sleeping just now, Imogen; out for the count, bless her.**_

_**Amelia took a long sip of tea, her other hand rummaging discreetly through the tin, hoping that no one had stolen her favourite biscuit. "I suppose I had better call Aunt Gertrude and send my apologies."**_

_**"She's just broken her hip, Amelia. You can't just cancel on her!"**_

_**"I know, I know, but I really wouldn't feel right about leaving Constance on her own, not when she's under the weather as she is…besides, I need to make sure she actually stays in bed and does rest! You both know how stubborn she can be at times."**_

_**The expression Davina wore was one of 'Now isn't that the understatement of the century'.**_

_**"I'll stay with her."**_

_**Imogen heard the words coming out of her own mouth and even she was shocked. In fact, she wasn't sure who was more surprised Davina and Amelia or her.**_

_**The room would have fallen into silence if it hadn't been for the chanting mistress, who was now coughing and spluttering, after her Yak's milk had gone down the wrong way, following Imogen's admission.**_

_**Even Amelia was gobsmacked.**_

_**"You?!," She exclaimed. A tinge of red creeping into her cheeks as she realised how that must have come across, "Sorry, dear, it's just that-" She broke off, wondering how to put her words gently, "You and Constance have never exactly seen eye-to-eye. Besides, aren't you off camping with Serge?"**_

_**Imogen shrugged, "Delaying by a few days won't hurt. I'll just explain the situation to him."She casually took a sip of her water, hoping she was coming across more confidently than she felt, "I'm sure he'll understand."**_

* * *

She couldn't help but wonder exactly _why_ she had volunteered. Was it to get out of spending time with Serge, or had she genuinely wanted to help her colleague. Or was there something more to it…?

* * *

_**The witch had smiled…and her heart had fluttered.**_

_**As she had stood over Constance, trying to calm her down…she had found a desire to kiss her.**_

_**Watching her suffer…she had just wanted to make it all better.**_

* * *

Even before now, that Christmas, she had gone out of her way to track down a copy of the book for her. Her heart bursting at the thought of gifting the sorceress something that now connected a memory the two of them shared.

Imogen finally realised why Alice's Adventures In Wonderland had been the deputy's favourite book as a child: it had allowed her to escape and to lose herself in a magical and mystical land, taking her away from the misery of her own life…

She also had a sneaking suspicion that that book had formed part of Mother-Daughter bonding time.

Separated from her Mother, neglected by her Father, raised by a nanny and god only knows what she had endured while under Heckitty's tutelage.

Imogen's own favourite book from childhood had always been 'The Wizard of Oz' but a close second – a love formed over later years when she would babysit her niece and nephew – had been Roald Dahl's 'Matlida'.

The more she thought about it, there was a shocking similarity of parallels that could be drawn between the book's protagonist and Constance Hardbroom: gifted child, parents who were too wrapped up in their own lives to notice she even existed and a psycho for a teacher. She wondered, briefly, if Heckitty had had some form of Chokey-like device in her office, before deciding that she really did not want to know. The idea alone was frightening.

Matlida had gotten her happy ending but she suspected Constance never had.

It was a sorry tale of a lonely childhood and she felt she was now a little closer to understanding why Constance was the way she was. Why she never let anyone get to close to her, out of a fear that they would abandon her. For the first time since she had met the sorceress, she saw past the bossiness and the cold façade, she saw past the scowling and the sharp tongue. She saw past the powerful front and saw the lost little girl who was in need of saving.

She wanted to be the one who saved her.


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: I don't own 'The Worst Witch'.**

**A/N: I've finally gotten around to doing a little updating! *Yay!* (I may edit later on) I'm not sure when the next chapter will be up but *hopefully* it shan't be too far away. I found all my notes for 'Goodbye Kiss' yesterday, so I am planning to go back to working on that as I feel an update is long overdue. I hope you enjoy. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'll be hiding from HB for a few hours. Does anyone fancy coming with me? Cocktails are on me! ;)  
**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 10  
**

Her eyelids flickered as she murmured quietly to herself, the long lashes fluttering ever so slightly as she attempted to open her eyes, each time deciding that the light was in fact too much to bear and so retreating to the comforting darkness that currently enveloped her.

Somewhere, buried deep within the confines of her conscious, she got the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Though she could not pinpoint the specifics, it was a feeling that she did not overly care for. It reminded her all too well of her time spent under the iron first of Heckitty Broomhead and the way that her tutor's snake-like eyes would watch her every single move, deeming her a failure at even the simplest of tasks.

Failure was unacceptable, and Heckitty Broomhead had had no qualms whatsoever in letting her fury be known.

Each minute seemed to last a lifetime. Each second stretching out in front of her was so painstakingly slow that it was as though time itself had come to a complete standstill. It made her feel uneasy and ashamed, as though she was being judged for her body's own weaknesses.

Ignoring the overwhelming dizziness that swept across her vision, threatening once again to overcome her and send her back to the welcoming black abyss, she forced herself to open her eyes. Recognising the dimly lit features of her own bathroom, she instantly felt confused, a hot embarrassment creeping into her cheeks as she found herself unable to recall how she had ended up in the bathroom.

Had she passed out again?

The last time she had woken up on her bathroom floor had been a few days before the end of term. She had stayed there for as long, the cold tiles providing a welcome relief against the fever that was firing through her veins. She hadn't really the energy to move but, true to form, she was reluctant to admit it and equally determined to at least hold it together until the castle had emptied. Stifling a scream she had managed to drag her aching limbs off the floor and claw her way to a standing position, willing with everything she had that her body would comply for just a few more days_._

Of course, it hadn't.

It took her tired and usually infallible mind a lot longer than normal to process her surroundings but more worryingly than that, the fact that she was sitting in her bathtub, the coldness of the water causing her to involuntarily shiver as it touched her bare skin, caressing it gently, like the lover she had never had.

She swayed slightly, still entrapped by the clutches of dizziness, as she willed for her mind to concentrate and clear the haze of fog that currently resided in it.

_'Wait…bare skin?'_

Then that meant that she was…

…naked.

At this realisation, she felt a bout of nausea rising and burning in the back of her aching throat as she forced herself to swallow it. She couldn't breathe. It was as though the air around her was thinning. Her lungs were on fire as she desperately tried to force the dwindling atoms of oxygen back into them, each gasp she took becoming more difficult than the one before; emotion after emotion flooding her mind: horror, shame, weakness, embarrassment…

Whomever it was that had put her in here had undressed her, and whoever had undressed her would have seen her scars. This person – whoever they were - had seen everything: every scar and every burn. Every mutilation of hardship she had suffered but strove to hide from the world, choosing instead to cover her body up with long high-neck dresses, a steely glare and a feigned indifference, rather than let her past define her. It was all she knew. It was all she had known for so long now that to try to change was just too hard - she would not even know where to begin.

Wrapping her thin arms around her chest, she felt exposed. Not just her body but the very essence of who she was – who she actually was, and not just what she was pretending to be – had been put out there, on display, for the whole world to see, like a caged animal in a zoo.

Tears stung at the back of her eyes, leaving faint lines as they trailed down her burning cheeks. She just wished that there were something, anything that could cover her modesty, allowing her to claw back at least an ounce of her dignity and self-respect; to be Constance Hardbroom, fearsome deputy head and potions mistress, but the clear waters offered her no such shield nor shelter.

Casting her eyes blearily around the room, they eventually fell on some blue material that was scrunched in a heap on the floor, as though it had been hastily discarded. Slowly looking up, almost with a sense of dread, knowing what she would find, she saw that Imogen Drill was sitting nervously on the edge of the toilet lid, watching her intently.

The second their eyes met, a glimmer of fear flashed amongst emerald green.

"Constance, I-"

Imogen spluttered her words, immediately trying to justify her actions to the witch, knowing, full well, that she had overstepped the mark. Massively. In fact, she was so far over the line that the line was now no more than a dot to her; a mere speckle on the spectrum. She didn't get very far however as the sorceress cut across her, her eyes more ferocious than Imogen had ever seen.

"Get out!" Constance ordered through gritted teeth.

"B-but, Con-"

"NOW!"

It was supposed to be a command, but it came out as little more than a plea, the words whispered from her trembling lips, her previous anger now lay forgotten. There had been a hint of desperation tinged in her tone that she could not quite disguise, but the look in her eyes said more than any words ever could.

Standing to her feet, and without looking back, Imogen quietly left the room.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.**

**A/N: Hello there. Thank you to everyone so far for their reviews/follows/favourites, you've no idea how much it means to me. :) Anyway, here is chapter eleven - I reckon another few chapters should tie it up. Yes, I am actually nearing to having completed something without my infamous six billion light years between updates, lol. **

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees **

**Chapter 11**

**_She gently touched the witch's forehead, pulling her hand back in alarm at just how burning hot her skin actually was; it was as though it were on fire. Grabbing for the thermometer that was resting on the bedside table, she carefully checked her temperature, her eyes widening in fear as they took in the reading._**

**_It was high. _**

**_In fact, it was only a few degrees away from falling into - what could be called - dangerous territory, but you would never have guessed it. Aside from the odd whimper coming from the slumbering witch, she was silent. _**

**_ Imogen could not help but wonder how on earth she was surviving this before remembering that Constance had been through worse, much worse. The gym-mistress suppressed a shiver. She was not sure what exactly had caused the scarring – she suspected who, but how was still very much of a mystery, and part of her was afraid to solve it._**

**_Putting aside her own wild theories, borne of her an overactive imagination, she turned her attention back to the brunette, knowing it was of vital importance to bring her temperature down. _**

**_Despite her basic training in first aid, her mind was a haze of panic and she had no clue what to do. She could feel the beginnings of tears pricking at her eyes and knew that she had to pull herself together or she would be no use to anyone. Stepping outside the room to regain her composure, she couldn't help but admire how Constance always managed to keep her emotions so in check. Fumbling in her tracksuit pocket for her mobile, hoping that she could find enough signal in the draughty castle to make her call, she dialled, and then waited. _**

**_"Hiya, Mum. Aw, that's great," she smiled, "give them a big kiss from Auntie Imogen please!" _**

**_As she listened to the 'scandal' that had taken place on the afternoon of the church fete, she knew that unless she cut across her, she wasn't going to get anywhere fast. Imogen Drill loved her mother dearly, but the woman could talk for England! _**

**_"Listen, Mum, my credit is running out so I can't talk for long but I need your advice. I'm looking after this-erm… Serge, he has the flu. Yup, man flu…typical wimp! Anyway, her-his temperature is high, really high. I need to get it down. What can I do?" _**

**_Upon hearing her mother's suggestion, she could practically feel the dread growing in the pit of her stomach._**

**_"…Are-are you sure? I guess I'll try that then…thanks."_**

* * *

Leaning against the doorframe that separated the bathroom from Constance's bedroom, Imogen wondered if she had just signed her own death warrant. She had never really considered her own mortality before but she knew that her time on earth was now running short, and that the cause of death would most certainly be magical annihilation by the potions teacher. She knew that she had overstepped the boundaries but she hadn't really had a choice; she couldn't just stand there and do nothing. She did not even want to think of what might have happened if she hadn't acted. It was too frightful to bear.

Still, she could more than understand why Constance had reacted the way she had. Truthfully, she had almost fainted herself after her mother had told her that the best way to bring down a high temperature was a cold bath.

The witch was drifting in and out of consciousness and she had been surprised to find that Constance hadn't overly protested either way at the time, instead simply curling deeper into the covers, muttering about how she was tired and just wanted to sleep. It strange to say the least: Constance Hardbroom and the notion for sleep were not two things that were usually associated, going together as well as… the two of them and a civil conversation.

* * *

She cursed under her breath as she slipped again, a low hiss of pain escaping from her lips and echoing around the room as her hipbone collided with the side of the bath. She knew that she had to get out of the bathtub - the water was now becoming too cold for her body to cope with. She knew that she **_had_** to get out; she just wasn't sure **_how exactly_** she was going to go about doing it.

Her usually inexhaustible strength was failing her, her arms lacking in the physical power she needed to pull herself up and hold her own meagre weight. It was not only the physical power that appeared to be working against her but also that of her own craft.

The art of materialisation was no by means a standard skill; some witches never even developed it. It took hours upon hours of studying, years of practice and a hell of a lot of energy to be able to perform it successfully. This more or less meant that near-perfect health was required as the slightest little ailment could hinder the process – potentially midway through – putting the witch in question into a possibly life-threatening situation. Near-perfect health was one thing she was currently lacking. Of course, stubborn as she was, it hadn't stopped her from trying…and almost drowning in the process, following her failed attempts. As she emerged from under the water, still coughing and spluttering, she closed her eyes and let out a sigh of defeat.

She knew that she had no choice but to call the blonde back in and ask for her…help.

'Help'.

Such a simple four lettered word, yet it was like a knife embedded in her chest, her pride in tatters at even the mere thought of what she was going to have to do. It went against everything she stood for; everything she believed in, but she was not currently in a position to pass judgements of weakness, not even on herself. Deciding it was best to just get it over with, she took a deep breath, and was about to call out Imogen's name, hoping against hope that the gym-mistress hadn't gone too far away as she really was in no fit state to shout, when a voice cut across her thoughts.

"A**_ real_** witch has no need to rely on others."

She shivered as she heard those familiar and scathing tones reverberate in her mind, her every ounce of already-limited energy shifting its focus, now solely working on trying to rid the unwelcome presence that had invaded her mind, embedding itself in her every thought, her every feeling, its sharp talons digging in and refusing to relinquish their hold.

"Tell me, Constance," Heckitty Broomhead's voice simpered on sweetly as she continued, though every syllable she spoke held what could only be described as an underlying and venomous mocking, "Are you not a real witch?"

The question hung in the air as her eyes fell to the bathwater, taking in her own sorry image: her long hair neither up nor down, glassy eyes, flushed cheeks and the scars that littered her body. "I am," she whispered, unable to find the conviction even in her own words.

She wondered, not for the first time, why exactly she found the prospect of asking for help so damning. Needing someone and admitting to weakness within character was a simple part of human nature, an intangible understanding that you could not do it all alone and an acceptance of trust, friendship and even love, forming as a result. To her though, admitting weakness and fault was akin to a searing white-hot pain.

_"I shall expect perfection from you, Constance. Nothing else will do."_

Those very words had been drummed – and beaten – into her, right from that very first day of Witch Training College; the day she knew that her life was not about to get any better, sensing the stormy times ahead but not knowing then how dark her path would truly be. Yes, perfection was key. Nothing else was acceptable and anything remotely outwith the lines was classed as failure. If there was one thing Heckitty Broomhead could not abide, it was failure. Failure was not tolerated within the prestigious halls of WTC.

Failure was punished.

A sharp cry fell from her lips, as an old scar seemed to bleed anew, a faint trail of red droplets falling and mixing with the bathwater. Her eyes widened in disbelief but before she had the chance to react, the waters around her – that until moments ago had been still and clear – turned a shade of scarlet red before darkening in colour, the blood-like liquid glistening like rubies catching in the sun.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she willed for it to go away, but it didn't. Instead, it seemed to increase, the level of liquid now rising rapidly as it reached her neck. Suddenly, she felt an invisible force dragging her under and into the murky depths of the bloody substance. She fought, weak as she was, her arms flailing around like a fish out of water as she desperately tried to breach the surface that was slowly becoming outwith her reach, like a man dying of thirst in a desert; her freedom nothing but a cruel mirage toying with her senses. Her screams were lost to the outside world as a metallic taste filled her mouth, every sound around her becoming nothing more than a low din.

Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the image dissipated, the waters changing from red back to clear with a gentle ripple. She covered her hands with her face as tears streamed down her cheeks, unable to tell whether it really had been the sick games of Heckitty Broomhead or her own illness causing her delirium.

All she knew was that she had to get out of this bathtub, right away, and there was only one person who could help her.

Wiping her tears away with the back of hand, she called out the gym-mistress' name, shocked at the frailty of her own voice as the name rang out in little more than a whispered sob. She knew she could not shout so could only hope that Imogen could hear her - that was, if she was even still there.

* * *

Wondering why she could not bring herself to leave Constance's room, Imogen went back to listing all the things she would now never get to do with her life. She had just gotten to number 37 when she heard a voice calling out her name; it was weak, more a whisper than anything else, but it was definitely there. Cautiously, she entered the bathroom, not fully knowing what to prepare herself for.

A sweeping wave of emotion threatened to overwhelm her as she caught Constance's gaze and the vulnerability that was burning away in the brown of her irises, as she silently pleaded with the gym-mistress to help her, without her having to ask.

Here she was, the fearsome Constance Hardbroom, stripped bare - quite literally - of everything she usually hid behind, the wall down for all to see, and she had never looked more beautiful.

"Come on then," she gently coaxed as she approached the bath and helped the witch to her feet, helping her out of the bath before quickly wrapping a soft fluffy black towel around her, hoping that the brunette would understand the action was not simply just to warm her shivering frame.

Constance simply stared ahead, as though she were in a trance, only snapping out of it when she felt Imogen rub the towel against her body in an attempt to kick-start her circulation. Finally reaching her limit, she sank down to the floor, Imogen soon following suit as she was the only thing holding her up, and broke down in a howling mess, her cries rending the heart of the gym-mistress, who was shocked, to say the least, by the display of emotion coming from the deputy.

Unsure of what to do, she slowly pulled the witch into an embrace, fully expecting her to recoil and push her away but she didn't, instead Constance clung to her and sobbed all the harder." Shhh, I'm here," Imogen whispered as she nestled the mass of cold flesh and long hair close to her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead.


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch **

**A/N: Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews in the previous chapter. I reckon two; maybe three chapters at most, shall tie it up. **

**As I have said to a few people, I felt that poor Constance had suffered enough, physically at least, so I have time-jumped this chapter on by about a week. Hope you enjoy. :)**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 12**

Throwing the last of her clothing into her rucksack, Imogen Drill zipped it closed, fastening the clasp very half-heartedly. She really did not want to go camping, at least not with Serge, but she knew if she told him that then all hell would break loose. It was just easier to keep the peace, for now at least. She was all too aware though that she would soon have to make a decision, and she feared that 'soon' would be sooner rather than later, given her boyfriend's somewhat cryptic text messages over the past week.

She had already been putting it off for days now and was now officially out of believable excuses as to why she _needed_ to stay at Cackle's Academy for just a bit longer. She was not even sure herself _why_ exactly she was finding it so hard to leave the castle in the first place. Actually, she did know the answer to that question; it was because of Constance Hardbroom.

The PE teacher had told herself that she was reluctant to leave because the witch might need her but she knew this was not the case. The potions teacher had been back on her feet for almost a week now and if anything, seemed to be going out of her way to avoid her. Gone was the emotional instability of the previous week, replaced with that formidable air that just radiated from the deputy.

She both loved and hated that air in equal measures.

The PE teacher had also tried to convince herself that the deputy was avoiding her simply because she was embarrassed. It would have made a lot of sense. For years, Constance Hardbroom had been a completely closed book and the last week had just revealed more of the story than the blonde could have ever imagined. She knew that Constance would no doubt find it patronising and would probably scoff at such a notion, but she really did feel that she understood the enigmatic brunette so much more.

Whilst this reasoning was in part true, it too was a lie.

After what had happened – or rather, what had _almost _happened, she had thought she would have been out of there like a shot, desperate to keep as much distance between her and the potions teacher as possible. Instead, she had hung around the past few days, like a lost puppy dog, hoping against hope that the older woman might want to deal with it, rather than brushing it under the carpet.

It was clear, however, she did not.

Imogen sighed; she honestly did not know what she had been expecting. She had thought that after all those years, maybe, just maybe, they were finally getting somewhere, but she had been wrong: Constance Hardbroom would always be Constance Hardbroom; she would never change.

_'And you wouldn't want her to'._

The little voice in her head spoke up again.

She had been trying to silence that voice for days.

Unwrapping one of the chocolates she had pinched from the staffroom earlier that morning – with Davina Bat away for the holidays, she actually had a half-decent chance at getting at least one of her favourites from the tin – she sat down on the edge of her bed nibbling away before tossing the rest in her rucksack to eat later on. Picking up her phone, she quickly texted Serge, telling him that she was ready. A reply pinged back almost instantly.

**That's great, babe. See you soon! Xxx **

With a small sigh, she set her phone down on the bedside table and picked up a magazine to flick through until he arrived; whilst time-keeping was not her strongest point, he was always bang on time, sometimes even early. She could not help but wonder where they were going. All he had told her was they were going camping; the rest was all a big secret, and that was what she feared.

* * *

Reading back over what she had written for her speech at the Witch Education Conference later in the week, Constance Hardbroom internally groaned as she glanced up at the clock on the wall and noted the time. Four hours she had been at this and all she had managed was an eight-word introduction, and if that was not bad enough she noticed, upon closer inspection, that she had in fact misspelt her own name. Throwing her pen down in her frustration, it bounced off the desk before rolling onto the floor. Now annoyed with herself for losing her composure she bent down to retrieve it, slamming it down with such a force that everything else on the desk vibrated under the tremors.

_'Get it together, Constance,'_ she hissed under her breath, her fury apparent in every syllable.

Massaging her temples with her left hand in a bid to shift the dull ache her recent bout of influenza had left, she sighed. Despite the residual dregs still circling her system, leaving her more tired than usual, she was just glad to be on her feet again – or out of bed at the very least. The deputy headmistress rarely got sick but when she did, it knocked her off her feet for about a fortnight. Though she was the first to admit (to herself at least) that the flu clouded her ability to think as logically as she would when compos mentis, it did not usually turn her into such an emotional wreck!

No, that had been something entirely new altogether…

Mortified did not even begin to cover how she was feeling. Even now, she could feel her cheeks reddening as she recalled what she could of the previous week, almost feeling glad that a large chunk of time was no more than a blurry haze. Yet, at the exact same time, she was terrified at what she could not remember.

She was even more terrified at what she could remember.

It was partly the reason she had been avoiding Imogen since the beginning of the week. The potions mistress was not stupid, far from it. She knew how it would look to an outsider; she knew how it would look to Imogen herself. The kind PE teacher had delayed her camping trip with her boyfriend to witch-sit and now that the Wicked Witch of the West Tower was back to normal, it was business as usual, but that was not the case. It wasn't that she wasn't grateful to the blonde for all her help, she was, she just didn't know what to say to her; how to act around her.

Especially not after…

Given all that Imogen had witnessed, it was obvious that the 'Queen Bitch' act was no longer going to wash with her and that scared her. Her façade had now been in practice for so long that it came effortlessly to her, and without its safety net, she was lost.

Imogen had found her in such a vulnerable place; a place that she herself had never wanted to revisit, let alone for anyone else to see her in such a state. Despite their admittedly frosty working relationship, she had told the blonde things - things she had never told anyone. Her childhood, her mother, Witch Training College, all things she had buried deep within the confines of her mind, swearing to never again open that box, yet she had told Imogen Drill… and she believed that she did not regret it.

She felt confused.

The confusion that had been bothering her for the past few days now and, no matter how many times she tried to convince herself otherwise, her mind kept returning to one certain point in time.

* * *

_**"God, Constance, will you stop fussing." **_

_**Imogen snapped, her tone holding more authority than the deputy had ever thought she was capable. "I'm not arguing with you," she reaffirmed, making it clear that she was not for budging as she brandished a hairdryer, preparing to tap into the little electricity the castle was fortunate enough to possess. Sensing that she wasn't going to get anywhere, the blonde decided to change tack, knowing how important the other woman's work and research was to her, "Unless you want to catch pneumonia and have to stay in bed for another week!"**_

_**Remaining, what could only be described as a combination of unconvinced and insulted, the potions mistress slowly raised her right hand, clearly intending to dry her hair with the aid of a quick spell. Whilst any other time the blonde would have found this little skill to be of extreme benefit, she figured it might not be the best of ideas: with Constance not in perfect health, there was no telling what might happen. **_

_** "I don't think that's a good idea." Imogen said softly. **_

_**Reaching up, she took hold of the porcelain hand and gently brought it down to rest.** _

* * *

Her mind was still reeling from the sparks that had jumped through her fingers as soon as Imogen had touched her. She had felt her heartbeat increase from the sheer shock alone but the reaction had not been her defensive magic kicking in.

No, this had been something else.

* * *

_**She flinched as the PE teacher took hold of her hair, gently running the hairdryer over the long locks. It had been a long, long time since anyone had touched her and she could not stop her body from tensing up at such unfamiliar contact. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, praying that it would soon be over, attempting to distract herself by throwing her mind into reciting every single spell she could think of, but to no avail.**_

_**She was all too aware of what was going on.**_

_**Eventually, somehow, she could feel herself actually beginning to relax into Imogen's touch, the feeling of the blonde's fingers running through her hair becoming rather therapeutic.**_

* * *

Even now, she could still feel those fingers as they ran through her dark tresses.

* * *

**_Tucking a few loose strands behind her ears, the PE teacher's fingers lingered on her face for longer than was strictly necessary, softly brushing against her cheek in a way that was too much, and at the exact same time, not enough. _**

**_She could feel her heartbeat increase and her palms becoming clammier by the second. Their eyes locked and both could feel a sense of anticipation dancing in the air. _**

**_"Const-" _**

**_Her words were cut off as her mobile phone rang out; shattering the moment and snapping them back to the present with a sharp thud. Looking down, she saw Serge's name flashing furiously across the screen, flickering away, serving as an ever-present reminder that she was spoken for. _**

**_"Excuse me." _**

**_The brunette mumbled her apologies as she got to her feet and practically raced into the bathroom, locking the door behind her._**

* * *

Constance Hardbroom would certainly never claim to be an expert on romance and in matters of the heart but it had certainly seemed as though Imogen had been about to kiss her before her phone interrupted the moment, and she was unsure how that made her feel…

The deputy had always known that she was attracted to women but she had never once acted on any feelings she may have held out of a fear of being rejected, a fear of being abandoned; a fear of being judged, it just wasn't worth the risk. Instead, she had closed off any feelings and had resigned herself to living in solitude.

It was simpler.

It was safer.

She had always been the outsider.

The girls in the neighbourhood had never let her join in their games. They had said she wasn't pretty enough, they had said her Mummy was a whore, they had said her Daddy didn't love her… that nobody loved her.

* * *

"Constance?"

A voice broke into her thoughts, startling her so much that she accidentally elbowed her teacup, knocking it off the desk. It was only when it hit the floor and shattered into pieces that she snapped out of her reverie and back to the present.

"Imogen," she all but whispered, taking in the blonde standing in front of her, before she found her voice, "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

"God, I'm sorry Constance. I didn't mean to scare you."

Whether she did not hear the comment or had merely chosen to ignore it, the brunette never replied. Setting her rucksack down on the ground, Imogen bent down to pick up the pieces of the broken cup, at the exact same time Constance did. Their fingers brushed against one another and the deputy shot up as though she had been burnt.

"LEAVE IT!..."

Hurt instantly appeared in the emerald green eyes, making the older woman feel instantly guilty.

"I just- I don't want you to cut yourself."

Imogen simply nodded, picking her rucksack back up and hauling it over her shoulder. With a quick flick of her wrist, the brunette sent a quick spell in the direction of the cup and within seconds it was as good as new. The irony that she could fix anything that was broken, except from herself, was not lost on her.

"You didn't 'scare' me. Now, what is it?"

"I- just erm…wanted to say that was me leaving now. I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Thank you."

A heavy silence fell between them, the ticking of the clock serving as the only proof that time had not stopped altogether.

"Right then, I guess I'll be on my way." The blonde turned her back and headed towards the door, her hand just gripping the handle and no more when a voice called out her name.

"Imogen?,"

She turned around, daring to hope they were finally addressing what had occurred between them. Dark brown irises met with emerald green in a mesh of conflicting confusion.

_'Ask me to stay'._

_'Ask me to stay'._

_'Ask me to stay'._

"I-"

_'Stay'._

_'Stay'._

_'Stay'._

"Have a nice time, and give my regards to Mr Dubois."


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.**

**A/N: A huge thank you to everyone for their kind reviews on the previous chapter. My muse decided this was what was going on in this one, so I had no choice but to obey, lol. **

**I hope it's okay. :)**

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 13**

_"When you find the one, you'll just know."_

Serge Dubois had once scoffed at that saying.

It went right up there with "love at first sight" but the first time he had met Imogen Drill, everything just seemed to fall into place. At last, he had found himself understanding the meaning within all those famous love ballads; life suddenly began to make sense, and he knew right away that she was 'the one'.

She was gorgeous: a seriously striking combination of tanned skin and green eyes. Truthfully, it was her eyes that had first caught his attention, they were the most captivating shade of green and he could have stared into them forever. Like tiny emeralds they seemed to sparkle in the sun, even more so when she was happy.

He could still remember sitting in that small cabin, huddled together as they had tried to find a solution to the double-booking issue that had arisen, technically forcing one of the groups of young teenagers to leave the campsite. Not wanting to ruin their respective charges trip, and not wanting to run the risk of never seeing her again, he had put forward that they shared the campsite and their activities. With that decision in place, the rest of the time had been spent getting to know one another. Time seemed to slip by in the blink of an eye as they had discussed adventure and extreme sports, all the while those eyes glistening intently, truly showing the passion the blonde before him held for the great outdoors.

Everything had been so perfect.

Then _she_ had crashed through the door.

Sweeping in with an air of icy indifference, telling him in no uncertain terms to pack up his stuff and get lost! And whilst she hadn't used those exact words per say; he knew that's what she had really meant.

Constance Hardbroom.

From the word go, the woman had been a complete and utter hindrance in his forging a relationship with Imogen.

That bloody witch!

Even now, he could feel the frustration rising within him as he thought of her, his grip involuntarily tightening around his wine glass as he tried to contain his fury. As a Canadian, he was easy-going, pleasant and mild-mannered by nature, but there was *something* about 'the Ice Queen' - as he had christened her- that just rubbed him up the wrong way.

She was the only thorn in his otherwise perfect romance.

There was no denying that Constance Hardbroom was a very pretty woman. He had seen the picture Imogen had of the staff, taken at the Halloween Celebrations the year before last and between the witching robes, long hair cascading down her back and that feline stare, he knew that had she wanted, she could have had any man. Men fell to their knees for woman like her: attractive, confident, powerful and unavailable.

Not him though.

His heart beat for Imogen and Imogen alone and he knew that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her, even if it meant he had to compete for a place in her heart. At first it had been like a dagger in his own heart but now he had reluctantly come to accept it

She was worth it.

She was the one.

The only real saving grace in the whole sorry mess was that whatever…feelings his girlfriend unwittingly harboured for the potions mistress, the witch would never return them. He doubted the ice maiden even knew what feelings were - she was so cold; so unapproachable, and he truly failed to see what she had that made Imogen's eyes sparkle more than they ever did when he was with her.

Reaching out, he took her hand.

* * *

_**"I don't think that's a good idea," she said softly.**_

_**Reaching up, she took hold of the porcelain hand, a direct contrast to her own tanned skin. As she brought it down to rest, their fingers gently interlocked. It was only for a brief second, but it had felt good. **_

_**More than that, it had felt natural.**_

* * *

His fingers closed around his girlfriend's, feeling the small tremor beneath him as he took hold of her hand, pulling her closer to him.

"Are you warm enough, babe?"

The warm Canadian tones broke into her mind, bringing her out of the trance she had obviously been in. She only hoped that she hadn't been too obvious. "Fine, thanks," she replied, flashing a quick smile and taking a large gulp of her wine in an attempt to steady her nerves. She really didn't know why she felt nervous; she had been alone with Serge before, hundreds of times, but there was something different about this time.

He smiled at her, cupping the side of her face and turning it gently so that she was facing him.

Those beautiful eyes.

His fingers gently stroked her right cheek, running his fingers across her perfectly flawless skin.

* * *

_**Tucking a few strands of the luscious dark tresses behind the brunette's ears, her fingers lingering on her face for a few moments longer than they should have, she found herself softly brushing against the porcelain cheek. **_

_**Partly aware of what she was doing, she prepared for the inevitable magical annihilation, but was instead stunned into silence as the brunette's eyelashes gently fluttered closed and she appeared to lean into the touch, just for a second, before slowly pulling back; almost as though she was only doing it because she felt she had to and not because she really wanted to. **_

_**She could feel her heartbeat increasing with every second that ticked past; her palms becoming clammier by the second as their eyes locked.**_

* * *

Maybe it was because she kept replaying her almost moment with the potions mistress or maybe it was the look in his eyes.

Maybe it was the fact that he had brought her to Murdoch McFee's Adventure Centre; the place they had first met, the place that the past near two years of their lives had been borne, following that one moment of chance.

She didn't know, but whatever it was, it made her feel uneasy.

There were questions unanswered and a sense of expectation dancing in the air.


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch. **

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for their wonderful support and reviews. :) I may re-write this at somepoint in the week.  
**

**This chapter was loosely inspired from the song 'Elastic Heart' by Sia. My muse definitely feeds off music, lol. **

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 14**

Pulling the blankets tighter around her shivering frame, she buried herself deeper beneath the bedcovers in an attempt to keep out the chill that was in the air. Being as old a castle as it was, Cackle's Academy was always notoriously cold - even in the height of summer. Usually, the coldness did not faze her but tonight, for some reason, it just seemed to serve as a reflection of her own loneliness.

A soft meow echoed around the room. Peering out into the darkness, she was just able to make out the outline of the sleek black cat who was padding across the floor, having returned from her hunting trip hours earlier than she normally would. It was as though she could feel the despair that was emanating from her mistress and as she leapt onto the bed, quickly cuddling up to the broken woman, her olive green eyes seemed to ask 'why'?

"Now, don't look at me like that." She meant to scold but her voice was barely above a whisper as the green of her familiar's eyes only served as a cruel reminder of another pair of green eyes. "She deserves someone who can make her happy, someone that she can build a future with; someone who she's not afraid to be seen with,"

"...What can I possibly give her?"

Morgana cocked her head to the side as if prompting her mistress to continue offloading her troubles before berating her for not realising her own self-worth.

"No," she reaffirmed quietly, shaking her head. "I did the right thing." A lone tear finally broke free as it rolled down her cheek, splashing onto the cat's fur.

"I don't know how to love."

* * *

As she tossed and turned trying to get comfortable, it quickly became clear that sleep was once again evading the deputy headmistress, despite the fact she had actually gone to bed early, uncharacteristically giving into her tiredness rather than fighting against it. Physically, she felt wiped out but her emotional state was a whole other story; she always had been her own worst enemy. Her brain would not shut off and as she thought of all their interactions over the years, going over *that* moment again and again, she found herself caught up in an internally confusing battle, torn between what she wanted, what she thought she wanted and what she thought she was supposed to want.

Knowing that any attempts on her part to sleep would prove to be nothing more than an exercise in futility she sighed, despondently, lighting the candle on the bedside table with a quick flick of her wrist. As she reached for her book, a familiar photograph fell out from between the pages and landed gracefully on the bed.

Time seemed slip by unnoticed as she simply stared down at the photograph, her eyes wide as if she had never seen it before. Unable to tear her eyes away, her hand hovered over it; she desperately wanted to pick it up but could not find the courage to do so. Ever so slowly, she dared to reach out, her fingers brushing against the photograph and her hand shaking as she traced the outline of the familiar figures, taking in the brown eyes that were staring back at her and feeling that all too familiar white-hot rejection stirring within her with every moment that passed.

She really tried to avoid thinking about her Mother because every time she did, it hurt too much. Despite everything that she had been subject to throughout her life, it was still her earliest experience of heart-wrenching pain and nearly 32 years later, she was not even close to being over it. She could still remember how she had cried herself to sleep for months afterwards, thinking it must have been something that she had done; something that was so terrible, her own Mother did not want to be around her anymore. She was too young to understand and anytime she had asked her Grandmother or her Father, they either changed the subject or got cross with her. Eventually, she stopped asking.

Ophelia had been nice enough but she hadn't known how to play all the secret games that Mother and daughter had invented: she couldn't make her teddy Brambles talk in his special bear voice the way her Mother did. She could not replace her, and neither could the string of women her Father had paraded in and out of their house on a weekly basis.

She was still able to recall all the times Heckitty had left her sprawled across the cold flagstone, beaten and bruised with the remnants of dark magic circulating her system, her exhausted mind and body floating between a rapidly blurring reality and the onset of unconsciousness welcoming her into the abyss, granting her a temporary release from the world. She could remember wishing, begging…**_pleading_** with anyone who might be listening that her Mother would come back and save her.

She never did.

The potions mistress knew that a large part of her deep-seated fears stemmed from her issues of abandonment. As the years had gone by, it was just easier not to try because at the end of the day, eventually, they all left...

They always left.

_'No one loves you, Constance. And it's easy to see why.'_

_'Girls whose name begins with "C" aren't allowed to join in the game.'_

_'Daddy, do you want to see what I learnt in dance class…Daddy?'_

_'Ophelia, will you get her out of here; what the hell am I paying you for?'_

_'Will you really come and play Mummy?'_

_'I promise.'_

She squeezed her eyes shut tight as fresh tears trailed down her cheeks, flecks of magic sparking dangerously from her fingertips as she fought to control her rising emotional turmoil, her previous upset turning to a momentary anger.

She wanted to tear it up.

She wanted to tear it up so badly, rip it to shreds in the same way that everyone in her life had done with her heart, but her younger self halted her in her tracks. That photograph was the only proof she had of her childhood and the little girl in her, the one who had cried her eyes out night after night as she called out for her Mummy, could not bring herself to destroy such a precious memento. Needing to release something before she burst, she picked up the copy of the classic children's tale and hurtled it across the room, not even flinching as it bounced off the wall before landing on the floor with a heavy thud. With that, she broke down in a flood of tears, her sobs heart wrenching, like an animal wounded in battle.

* * *

A soft yet firm meow stirred her attentions and she looked up, spotting the blur of black in the corner. Morgana continued to paw at the book, her pink nose gently nuzzling against the dust cover. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, the deputy regarded her familiar with curiosity before slowly approaching the spot where book –and now cat – both lay.

"What is it, Morgana?"

The cat merely looked at her in response, the intensity of the stare actually rather unnerved the potions mistress, who felt as if she had just gained an insight into how it must have felt to be one of her own students. Bending down to retrieve the book, frustrated at herself for losing her composure in such a childish manner, her eyes caught sight of the words scrawled underneath the title page.

**_Just in case, you ever want to revisit an ol' childhood favourite…_**

**_Merry Christmas, Constance_**

**_Love Imogen_**

**_XxX_**

She bit down tentatively on her bottom lip as she read the words on the page. Her childhood was certainly not a place she had any desire to revisit, ever, but despite the inadvertent irony of the gym-mistress's message, she could not help the small smile that spread across her face as she traced the words, the familiar and carefree twirl of each letter yet another reminder of just how polar opposites they were.

_'Another barrier...'_

Even now, she was still incredibly touched that Imogen had even remembered that conversation let alone gifted her with a book that had once meant so much to her. Closing it over, she held it close to her chest, all the while her mind in deep thought.

Very few people in her life had let her know that she was loved. Heckitty Broomhead had in fact told her, many times over, that she wasn't worthy of love and while she had tried to pay no heed, pretending it did not faze her, she knew deep down that those cutting words held an unfortunate truth. Her Mother had not loved her or she would have fought harder to stay. Her Father had not loved her or he would not have palmed her off on whomever he could. In truth, there had been six nannies before Ophelia.

Six.

She had acted out for all of them in the hope her Father might notice she existed but of course, he never did. After Ophelia left, her motherly figure abandoning her yet again, he just gave up, sending her away to Witch Training College to be educated by the evil incarnate. They had not spoken in near twenty years and though she had a drawer full of unopened letters he had sent over the years, she had no desire to open old wounds much less rub salt in them.

In Cackle's Academy, she had definitely found that family; that sense of belonging she had always craved. She loved the school more than anything but deep down there was still something missing…the jigsaw remaining incomplete. She looked at the book again.

_'Dare I...?'_


	15. Chapter 15

**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!"


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch**

**A/N: Good evening, people! I've finally gotten around to updating – no thanks to ff playing up! Since it has been a while since the last update, I have included the tail end of the last chapter at the start of this one. As always: a huge thank you to everyone for your lovely support and kind reviews. :) **

* * *

**Love In The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 16**

**_"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!"_**

* * *

The words hung in the air as their eyes locked.

She couldn't breathe; the air quickly thinning around her.

It was what she had wanted.

It was what she had dreaded.

It wasn't enough.

It was too much.

* * *

"I thought I would find you here," Imogen quietly spoke, gesturing around the air, frankly a little unsure of what to do next. This was not exactly a situation she had found herself in before.

She had spent the majority of the morning looking for the brunette and, after the potions laboratory proved to be the end of a fruitless search, she had been about to give up, reluctantly accepting that Constance did not want to be found, when she suddenly remembered a conversation she had been privy to some weeks before when the deputy headmistress had been poorly.

Which was why, on a relatively dull day in June, Imogen Drill had found herself heading for the duck pond in the local park.

And sure enough, there was the witch.

Feeding the ducks had been a prime – yet sadly all too brief - feature in the relationship between Constance and her Mother, and then later with Ophelia, but, even now, as a fully grown adult, her skills more accomplished than most could ever dream of, it was still a refuge that she would go and seek. When she was angry, when she was upset; when she was feeling lost.

"Well, given that you now know this is my hiding place, one would expect you would."

Constance gave nothing else away as she tore a chunk of bread from the small baguette and threw it in the water, the previous stillness in the air instantly broken by squawking and quacking as the ducks fought amongst themselves for their supper. Secretly though, she felt a rare glow rush through her at the fact Imogen had remembered at all. Over that short period, after finally running out of objects for "I Spy", they had talked about a lot and, though she had been too delirious to remember most of it at the time, now, odd snippets kept coming back to her, like missing pieces of a jigsaw.

Imogen bit down on her lip.

Okay, so this was not getting them anywhere.

She wasn't sure what she had been expecting but she needed a reaction; she wanted something, anything, anything but the indifference she was receiving at present. Remaining undeterred though, and knowing there were things to be said, she lowered herself onto the grass and sat down next to the older woman who had still yet to react to her presence. At closer glance though, she could see the clear emotional battle that the potions mistress was fighting with herself. As she sat down, her hand accidentally brushed against the porcelain skin, jumping back in shock at how icy cold it was. Unzipping her tracksuit jacket, she gently draped it over the frozen witch.

"You're freezing Constance. Have you been here all night?"

"I couldn't sleep."

It was the truth.

After fleeing from the staffroom, she had gone back to her own room, a million different questions, scenarios and emotions flooding her brain, sending her into a panicked frenzy. Dragging her suitcase out from underneath the bed, she had started throwing her belongings into it, only stopping when she swept the bathroom shelf of toiletries and caught sight of herself in the mirror. What was she doing? She didn't want to leave but, at the moment, she couldn't stay. She needed to get out.

She had to think.

She had thought. She had thought for hours and hours, she had thought to the point where her brain wanted to explode and, on one hand, she honestly wasn't sure whether she was any further forward or not, but on the other hand...

Her train of thought was thrown as a voice broke into her mind.

"I'm sorry," Imogen said, unsure if the witch had heard or not.

She had.

Constance's mind was instantly in further overdrive. Why was she sorry? Sorry for saying it or sorry for feeling it? It was the latter, surely, god it had to be! What on earth had she been thinking, fooling herself into believing that **_she_** was worthy of love? Who was she trying to kid? At the end of it all, Imogen was no different to any of the others.

She said nothing.

Pulling her knees closer to her chest and swallowing the sobs that were threatening to erupt from her throat, she whispered to herself, repeating her childhood mantra over and over again.

_'Don't let them see you cry…don't let them see you cry…don't let them see you cry'._

It wasn't working.

She tried harder.

_'Don't let them see you cry…don't let them see you cry…don't let them see you cry'._

"I-I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable, Constance. I'll leave-"

Constance nodded, "I think that would be for the best." She couldn't have this conversation just now, maybe later on when her thoughts weren't so muddy. Probably not though.

"- Cackle's. I'll leave Cackle's. The last thing I want to do is make this weird for you. I'll tell Amelia w-when she comes back. Obviously, I won't say why but I'll-well, anyway, I'll think of something to tell her," she forced a smile, "I'm sorry again, Constance, truly..."

Imogen trailed off, her heart in bits at the thought of leaving it all behind. Still, it was too late now and she only had herself to blame. Getting to her feet, she brushed the loose grass off her tracksuit bottoms and started to walk away, everything within her fighting the urge to look back.

There was no point.

It was all over.

"I don't want you to go."

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned back, sure that she must have imagined it; the voice had been so quiet, like an echo in the distant ether, but she didn't appear to have. Constance was now on her feet, her beautiful brown eyes swimming with unshed tears, as she walked closer to where Imogen was stood.

"Please don't go, Imogen. I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to leave…me."

She could scarce believe it but she had to know…she had to ask. She dared to hope.

"What do you want?"

"I-"

The simple question threw her off guard.

She didn't know.

For so long, everything in her life had been dictated, her entire path set out for her with no care given as to whether or not it was one she wanted to follow. Heckitty Broomhead had demanded, threatened, ordered, bullied and beaten but she had never asked.

Not once.

Her Father had been too engrossed with his string of floozy's to notice she existed most of the time, only taking note when yet another nanny had walked out, washing their hands of dealing with "an attention seeking brat".

_"Discipline, girl, you need discipline," there was no warmth in his voice as he picked up the phone,"Ah, Mistress Broomhead, Good evening…"_

* * *

She shuddered as her memories flashed before her. Pain. Blood. Screaming; so much screaming. Had she brought it all on herself? Had she…deserved it?

She knew that she had been unruly in her pre-teen years. It wasn't exactly something she was proud of. In fact, it was something that would come as a surprise to many if they were ever to learn the truth, things they would never have expected of the prim and proper deputy but the truth was, she had once pulled stunts that were probably worse than most of the school put together; done things that would make even Fenella and Griselda blush! She hadn't meant it. Any of it. She had just been so lost and so lonely, desperately seeking the validation that she was loved and never once receiving the answer she craved. Until now…

"Constance?"

A voice pulled her back to the present and she looked up to see Imogen staring at her.

"I-I don't know," she whispered as she sunk back onto the ground, defeated; "I've never had the choice."

Imogen could feel her own heart breaking as she sat down next to her, "Okay,** _if_ **you had the choice, what would you want?"

"You."

The word was barely audible as Constance stared down at her hands, absentmindedly playing with a loose thread, yanking it off because it wasn't perfect...because she wasn't perfect.

Just what exactly did Imogen see in her?

Daring to look up, she found a bit more conviction in her voice as she repeated the thought that was consuming her mind and, if she was being completely honest, had been since the not- quite- declaration the previous evening.

"I want you. I-I want…us."


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch. Inspiration for this chapter came from 'Secrets' by One Republic.**

**A/N: Apologies for the *slight* delay but I have finally got here. This is technically the finale but still got the (potential) M rated chapter to go and also a sort of epilogue as well. I just want to say a huge, huge thank you to everyone for their kind reviews, favourites, and follows on this story.**

**It means a lot that people are interested in my version of Constance and Imogen. Or "Cimmy" as I christened them a while back… ;)**

***Sammi hits publish and goes and hides in secret hideaway cave of self-doubt before she changes her mind. Again***

* * *

**Love in The First 39 Degrees**

**Chapter 17**

**_"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!"_**

**_For a moment, no one spoke. No one moved; no one dared even breathe. Time seemed to stand still as the two women simply stared at each other. It would have almost been funny if emotions hadn't been running so high._**

**_The adrenaline that had been coursing through Imogen's veins only seconds before — the same adrenaline that had been fuelling her outburst — seemed to disappear almost instantly, leaving her body as quickly as it had entered and as her mind caught with up what had just happened, she begun to wish that it had taken her with her._**

**_What had she done…?_**

**_She had tried to stop but to no avail._**

**_It was as though she had been but a mere spectator in her own body, only able to watch on as this crazed loon who looked exactly like her had ranted and raved, inadvertently spilling out a truth she probably should have kept to herself._**

**_Yet, at the same time she couldn't deny that she felt…lighter, somehow; she felt free. Realising she longer had to play pretend with Serge, finally admitting to herself that she did harbour strong feelings for-_**

**_"Constance!"_**

**_She had forgotten that the woman in question was in the room. In fact, she was flabbergasted to find that she was still in the room, thinking that by now she would have run a mile. Just because she hadn't left the room yet though, it didn't mean that she wasn't still planning to. Ordinarily, Constance's face was totally impassive, her emotions carefully contained behind her mask of indifference, leaving you unable to tell what was going through her mind, but not this time…_**

**_'Freaked out' is how the girls would have described it._**

**_The witch was like a deer caught in the headlights, her eyes wide and filled with fear, the little colour she did have rapidly draining from her complexion like sand in a timer; she opened her mouth to say something but no words came out._**

**_Pulling her dressing gown tighter around her slender frame, Constance shyly stepped forward, her right hand raised. As the almighty sorceress started towards her, the blonde could not help but feel extremely nervous._**

**_Whatever was she going to do to her?_**

**_Hex her?_**

**_Hit her?_**

**_It seemed that she didn't have to wait long for her answer, nearly falling over in shock as Constance's trembling hand reached out and gently started to caress her cheek, the elegant digits running along the tanned jawline._**

**_The blonde let out a slight whimper; it felt so right._**

**_She had to be dreaming; there was no other logical explanation. Yes, she was definitely dreaming. Surely, any minute now, her blasted alarm would go off, telling her that reality beckoned. And if reality would soon beckon, then she owed it to herself to make the most of this fantasy... Closing her eyes, the PE teacher savoured every inch of the moment; her skin practically burning in desire with what the brunette was doing to her._**

**_It felt so good; so, so good_**

**_Suddenly, and without warning, she felt the witch withdraw her hand from her face as though she had just been stung. Slowly, she opened her eyes, her green irises instantly coming face to face with terror-flooded brown ones as the potions mistress had obviously realised just what she was doing._**

**_Constance's hand was over her mouth as she shook her head, tears spilling uncontrollably down her porcelain cheeks._**

**_"No….I can't. I'm sorry."_**

**_"Wait, Con-"_**

**_Imogen took a step forward, in a futile (and in hindsight stupid) attempt to try to reassure her. The minute she did, Constance took one more back, desperate to create some distance, half-collapsing against the wall, before she did the only thing she knew she could._**

**_She vanished._**

* * *

"I want you. I-I want…us."

The answer to the question was unexpected — she was honestly not sure which of them was more surprised — but it was not unwelcome, far from it.

The silence was unbearable as it seemed, to the witch at least, to go on forever. Her inner demons relishing in the opportunity to gloat once more, seemingly never tiring of humiliating her.

_'Oh, Constance; you stupid, stupid bitch… you have just made things one million times worse. Her silence says it all — of course she doesn't want you. I mean…who would?!'_

_...You should have just kept your mouth shut; you should have left this pond the minute she sat down; you should have been firmer when you told her that you didn't need her help that week; you should-'_

"Well, it looks like I owe Davina that crate of yaks milk as for once we agree on something."

The words had barely left her lips before the brunette pounced on her.

Her kisses were intense and almost bruising as she nipped on the edge of the blonde's lip, trailing kisses down her neck and collar bone; sucking at the tanned skin before gently biting down and marking her territory, telling the world that she was hers and hers alone. The blonde's back arched in ecstasy as the manicured fingernails ran down her back, feeling the heat pool between her legs as the witch whispered in her ear **_exactly_** what she wanted to do to her.

Suddenly, Imogen's brow furrowed in confusion as she wondered the relevance of such a word in what was a rather heated moment. She blinked, slowly returning herself to reality.

Of course Constance hadn't just kissed her.

Not when she was still sat on the grass, looking like she wanted to throw up, her eyes flitting about wildly as though she were looking for the nearest escape route, clearly having forgotten that she had the ability to dematerialise at the drop of a hat.

"Why?"

The witch repeated her question as she toyed with a daisy that she had picked from the grass, subconsciously stripping it of its petals as her nerves got the better of her — it was an action that reminded Imogen of the game she used to play when she was younger and starting to develop crushes as her hormones had begun to change.

One petal.

_'She loves me'._

Two petals.

_'She loves me not'._

One by one, the petals continued to fall, each one delicate and graceful as it danced in the slight breeze before being carried off into the wind. Soon there was only one petal left.

_'She loves m-'_

The flower was suddenly tossed to one side, leaving the gym-mistress wondering if the sorceress had in fact been playing the **_exact_** same game as herself and more importantly, if she had, what did she make of the outcome?

"Why would you want someone…like me?"

"Honestly? The fact that you're a witch, Constance, it doesn't bother me in the slightest. In fact-"

"No, Imogen, that's not what I-," the older woman sighed, biting down tentatively on her bottom lip in a bid to keep her rapidly diminishing composure intact. She still had one finger wrapped tightly around the reins of her infamous iron-tight control and had resolved not to let it slip from her grasp, knowing that if it did, she would shatter completely, "You could have anyone so why on earth do you want damaged goods?"

Despite her best efforts to contain it, her voice cracked; the end of the sentence coming out as more of a whisper lost in the ether. In the blonde's ears though, it rang loud and clear, and she wanted nothing more than to take this tragically beautiful woman in her arms and give her the validation that she so desperately needed.

"You aren't damaged goods."

"Oh, I think we both know that I am." Constance said quietly; admitting to someone else, perhaps for the first time in her life, that she was not as infallible as they all believed her to be. Her dark eyes were so full of self-loathing as she dared the other woman to disagree with her.

Imogen didn't know what to say. She still found it hard to believe that a woman who was beautiful and strong and intelligent beyond belief — a woman who outwardly appeared to have so much confidence and bravado — held such a low opinion of her own self-worth.

"Still," the witch continued on, unsure whether or not she was still talking to the blonde or just to herself now, "maybe it's no more than I deserve; what goes around and all that. Don't give me that look, Imogen. You know the story as well as I do: this isn't some happily ending fairytale and I am certainly no princess."

"You're right," Imogen said in agreement, "you're not a princess but you aren't the evil queen either, Constance."

The snort of derision she received in response told her all she needed to know: the brunette did not share in her sentiment.

"Sorry to disappoint but I'm sure Mildred Hubble and her cronies — _**and**_ indeed the majority of the school — would disagree with you there."

The potions mistress gave a little satisfied smirk in knowing that she was right before she realised the implications of being so. Her smile seemed to freeze for a minute before it fell, her expression returning to one of a deep self-hatred.

"I'm serious!", the P.E teacher exclaimed, determined to persevere. All right , so maybe this wasn't how she had imagined this conversation going — not that she had **ever** imagined having **_this_** conversation — but if this is what she had to work with, then so be it… "Do you know what I thought when I first met you?"

The witch merely raised an eyebrow in response, "I can hazard a guess."

Deciding just to let the comment slide or they would not get anywhere, Imogen continued on with what she had to say.

"I thought you were stubborn, bossy, headstrong — a bit like myself, I think that's why we fight so much."

"How is this-"

"I knew you were extremely intelligent and powerful but apart from that, you were a complete enigma! Every time I would think that I had finally figured you out, you would do something that would change the game entirely."

"Smoke and mirrors," Constance muttered with a nonchalant shrug as she wondered just where the other woman was going with this.

Although Imogen knew only snippets, she suspected that what she had learned about the past of her up-until-recently-mysterious colleague was just the tip of the iceberg. The way the potions mistress seemed to cope was admirable and she couldn't help but wonder that had the shoe been on the other foot, if she would have been able to play the part as well as Constance could.

"You put on a front of being this super cold bitch because you think it stops anyone from getting too close to you. It's not who you are though, not really. You aren't Broomhead and you aren't your grandmother; you care, Constance - probably more than most do. You care about the school, about the girls...about what people think of you."

On more than one occasion, she had heard the unkind comments the students made when they thought their form-mistress was not around — '_HB obviously stands for heartless bitch '_ being the most common one — and knew that if she had heard them, there was not shadow of a doubt in her mind that the topic of their discussion had as well.

Constance said nothing

It was somewhat true.

Sticks and stones might break bones — specifically ribs, in the case of ex-tutors — but it was the words that had always had a far greater impact on her, those barbs and jibes capable of cutting so much deeper than any glass ever could; every criticism embedding itself in the depths of her conscious, each harsh word fuelling the fire in adding to her feelings of inferiority…failure…loneliness. It seemed no matter how hard she tried, things would just get worse until, eventually, she lost the will to try anymore. There was no point.

What was done was done.

She cursed as a solitary tear ran down her cheek and made to wipe it away but Imogen got there first. Reaching out, she gently wiped away the lone tear that had fallen from the dark eyes opposite her, somehow knowing that one teardrop was representative of so much more than a flood of tears.

"You say we know how the story goes but it doesn't have to be that way, there's still time to change the ending."

Reaching up, Constance slowly removed the tanned hand from her face but she didn't let it go. Instead, bringing it down to rest and, after a moment of hesitance and a seek of approval, gently entwined their fingers.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin." she eventually replied.

Looking down at their enjoined hands, she was surprised at how natural it felt to be holding the other woman's hand. Nice, even…

"I want to, Imogen; I do, but I've been on my own for such a long time now and…I'm scared."

It was such a brave admission.

The blonde could practically feel the fear that was radiating from the woman beside her; the ever so subtle way her hand was trembling. She squeezed it tighter, "I know that it's a big, big risk, Constance, and there's always the chance it won't work but-"

"That's not why I'm scared, Imogen. Well, yes obviously there is the chance that it won't work but," she stumbled over her words as she fought through all the mixed emotions in her brain to find the one thought that was filtering above all,"I'm more scared that...it _**will**_ work."

Sensing there was more to come, the blonde remained silent.

"If I allow myself to feel that kind of happiness, it's only going to hurt more when its taken from me." Another tear fell and this one she made no attempt to wipe away.

Imogen did not fail to notice that she had said:'when' and not 'if' and felt her heart ache. Things hadn't even begun and Constance already expected the inevitable, so used was she to having any glimpses of happiness and hope destroyed at every turn.

"Hey," she said gently, "whose to say it will be taken from you? I'm not planning on going anywhere — unless you know something I don't?"

"It's all very well saying that now, Imogen, but eventually, you will leave. Everybody leaves...even *I* would leave me if I could."

The confession was heartbreakingly honest.

"Can I say something?"

"Of course you can, Imogen; it is a free country after all."

"You were dealt a rough hand, Constance, there is no denying that and I completely understand now why you are so careful but the thing about life is that its short. For some — most in fact — it is pain and struggle and heartbreak; it's faking a smile to get through the day, getting back up even though you have nothing left to give. Essentially, it sucks...but in between all the crap, there are these moments of sheer joy and that is why it was important to grab them while we can, before the moment passes us by and we're left wondering about what could have been." She smiled slightly, "The pen is right there in your hands, Constance. What do you want to do?"

Constance's heart was beating wildly in her chest as she looked down at their entwined hands, all the while her mind processing what the blonde had said. After a lifetime of loneliness, the chance of happiness — albeit with the last person she would have ever expected — was right there within her reach...all she had to do was take that leap of faith and grab it. Still, the whispers told her 'no'; the hold her own mind had over her telling her that this would only end in tears — namely hers.

The question was were they to be tears of sorrow or of joy?

She couldn't breathe.

She couldn't think.

She didn't want to think anymore.

Imogen felt her heart sink as the brunette dropped her hand but she tried not to let her face show it; she had put the decision — the metaphorical pen — in the witch's hands and, if this was what she had chosen, then there was nothing left to be done.

Or was there…?

Tentatively, Constance reached out and placed her trembling hands on either side of the other woman's face, her brown eyes staring intently into the emerald green ones of her colleague. The situation was strangely reminiscent of only a few weeks before except this time there was no flu and there was no phone call from Serge to interrupt them.

It was just the two of them: Constance and Imogen; brunette and blonde ; witch and non-witch — two very different souls — sharing in one very important and life-altering moment.

"Are you sure about this?"

The witch shook her head but she didn't break contact.

_'This is it…'_

Time seemed to standstill as everything around them faded into nothingness; their lips inching ever closer together until, finally, they met in a kiss. It started off gentle, both women coming from a different place of unfamiliarity but as they found their rhythm, it quickly deepened in its intensity. A wave of passion that she hadn't even known existed was unleashed within the sorceress; her kisses becoming almost bruising as a result. The PE teacher let out a moan as she wound her fingers around the dark tresses and pulled her closer, neither woman wanting to break the moment of such unadulterated and unexpected pleasure.

Eventually, and somewhat reluctantly, they broke apart, their foreheads resting against one another, both breathing heavily from an increased heart rate barely able to comprehend what had just transpired.

"That was," Imogen begun, unable to even string a sentence together; her brain utter turning to mush,"...wow!"

Constance laughed, her laugh so enchantingly musical and such a sweet song to hear.

"I should really chastise you for your use of such colloquial language but, under the circumstances, I think that pretty much covers it... 'wow' indeed!"

She wasn't lying.

The sheer intensity of the kiss had made her head spin, leaving her completely giddy and creating a similar effect to that one time the girls' had slipped a love potion into her tea, but this was no potion. This was real.

In fact, this was surreal.

* * *

They sat by the pond for a while, occasionally stealing glances when they thought that the other was not looking, both reeling from what happened not so long ago, emotions in a spin as they both wondered the exact same thing.

_'Now what…'_

"I should probably head back, I've still got to finalise this speech for tomorrow." Constance said quietly as she got to her feet and brushed the grass from her dress.

"Right," Imogen replied as she too got up although she was unsure why. Her green eyes failed hide her disappointment despite knowing that things would not do a 360 just like that.

Seeing the look in her eyes, almost as though she could read her thoughts, Constance shyly held out her hand, the invitation accepted at once as the two women walked back to the castle but not before she had answered the burning question.

"I honestly don't know, Imogen, but I think that its maybe time to buy a new pen and see if we can find out."


End file.
