Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miss Drill's old, yellowing radio sat in the center of the staffroom's table, surrounded by several empty coffee mugs and bottles of Wide-Awake potion. The staff of Cackle's Academy had huddled around it to listen to the announcer in tense silence, ignoring the rings of the wall clock that signaled each new hour. Miss Bat, however, was the only staff member not seated before the radio. She had fumbled and retreated to her wardrobe the second she heard the announcer's first statement:

"The world's population is declining rapidly."

Miss Cackle's shoulders were shaking, her lips pursed and her eyes fixed on a lone crumb on a plate. Her hair trembled with her, making her discomfort all the more noticeable. Miss Hardbroom held her hand, though her death grip told Amelia she needed the contact just as much. The announcer attempted to deliver his harsh words in a calm manner, as if he were discussing something as simple as the weather.

"After direct contact, the virus spreads quickly through its human host. Side effects include-" Static momentarily interrupted the broadcast, much to their dismay. "Head to the nearest port, boats will be-" More static. Frustrated and impatient, Miss Hardbroom snatched the damned contraption and fidgeted with the antenna, hoping to get some result.

Miss Drill's heart was beating much too fast. She bit down on her knuckles and tapped her foot anxiously on the floor. "The nearest port is seven hours from here. We can't possibly get all the students there."

"We could fly," Miss Cackle suggested, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

Miss Hardbroom shook her head, crossing her arms tightly. "Not all of us," she said, with a sideways glance at Miss Drill. "Some of our girls aren't yet at that skill level. Half the first years can't even get their familiar on their brooms."

"So what should we do, then?" Miss Drill asked worriedly.

The threat loomed over their heads like some unknown, incoming storm. An international disease that could wipe out half the world in just a few days, and no healer (magical nor ordinary) had developed any sort of medicine. There was a city not too far from the academy, already overrun with the virus. Cackle's magical staff could theoretically leave the academy on their own, but that would mean abandoning the girls, as well as Miss Drill, Miss Tapioca and Mr. Blossom. That was out of the question.

After a moment of deliberation, Miss Cackle looked at the others with a grave look in her eyes. "We go on lockdown. Miss Hardbroom and I shall cast a protective veil over the academy. Miss Bat, I believe we have a two-way radio in the storage closet near the mess hall. I want you to bring it here. Hopefully, we can contact the Magic Council. Miss Drill, as you know how to navigate the ordinary world better than any of us, I need you to head into the nearest town and gather anything you can find; Food, medicine, bandages. Anything that might be useful."

"With what money?" Miss Drill said, baffled.

"The school has some savings, and-" Miss Cackle was interrupted by Miss Hardbroom clearing her throat. She drummed her fingers against her forearms.

"When we visited Rowan Webb's Riverside Retreat, his apprentice magicked up a feast. I'm sure he could-"

"They are dead, Constance.”

Miss Cackle's eyes were tired. Miss Hardbroom was rendered speechless.

Before another heavy silence could fall over the room, Miss Cackle continued her words. "As I was saying, Miss Drill will use these savings to purchase supplies. Mr. Blossom and Miss Tapioca will gather all students in the mess hall and inform them of the situation. We must act quickly."

A quiet sniffle came from the wardrobe. Reluctantly, Miss Hardbroom slipped her handkerchief into the crack between the doors.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

"Millie?" Maud cried, thrusting open the window shutters. She shook her friend's shoulders forcefully. She hadn't even had the time to comb her hair. "Millie, wake up! This is important!"

Mildred groaned and burrowed even deeper into the comfort of her blankets. The light from the window blinded her. "Maud, what time is it?"

"It's five in the morning, and they're calling everyone into the mess hall. Classes are cancelle— Mildred, don't go back to sleep!"

Enid, who had been standing by the doorway, stamped her foot in frustration. She marched right up to Mildred and seized her by the arm. "For goodness' sake! Get out of bed, there's no time to get dressed!"

Mildred finally rubbed the sleep from her eyes, registering the agency in Enid's voice. She followed her friends, although she was heavily disoriented from being awoken so suddenly. Hurrying downstairs, she found the rest of their students in their nightclothes. The sun was just rising over the horizon and half the students were already dozing off. Miss Tapioca and Mr. Blossom stood at the pedestal, shushing the girls into a relative quiet.

"Girls, girls!" Mr. Blossom shouted, raising his palms in the air. "Hush now, we've got something to-"

"There are zombies!" Miss Tapioca cried out hysterically, her hands trembling. The students gasped collectively and muttered to one another in hushed voices. Somewhere in the room, Sybil Hallow broke down into a sobbing fit. The cook continued her melodramatic screaming. "Oh, I knew this day would come! I knew it!"

"Hey!" Mr. Blossom shouted again, silencing the crowd. "The teachers are handling it, so calm down! We are all staying inside the academy."

The girls called out questions, their voices filled with fear.

"What about our families?!"

"Where's Miss Cackle?"

"I want to go home!"

Mr. Blossom sighed, hugging himself tightly. The truth was, he hadn't the faintest idea what to do and barely had enough answers. His nephew was missing, the staff were stressed out of their minds, and all the information they had to go off were the broken words of a radio broadcast. He felt like cowering under a desk and hiding away from the world. "Girls, quiet! The staff are handling it. Just sit down and— Oh, I don't know— Play patty-cake!"

"We will not be playing patty-cake while the world burns, Mr. Blossom!" Ethel scolded him, followed by the murmured agreement of her peers. While Ethel was disliked by the majority of students, her words held truth; The girls couldn't stand idly by. They had the ability to help, if only the adults could see that.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

That night, no one slept within their own quarters. Students and staff alike slept on the floor of the mess hall with their blankets, the quiet occasionally interrupted by the soft, stifled cries of the girls. Miss Hardbroom couldn’t rest, her mind racing with a thousand different thoughts, and busied herself with a rifle the students had found in one of the castle's many closets. It had belonged to Hermione Cackle, Miss Cackle's ‘highway woman’ ancestor whom the students so admired. Although Miss Hardbroom hadn’t the faintest idea how to use a gun (for she never had the need for one), she was a witch who liked to be prepared for the unexpected. She’d seen ordinaries using such contraptions in a couple of old movies, but the idea of herself using it on a former human being seemed… Gruesome.

Not too far from her, Mildred lay wide-awake, listening to the quiet clicking of the rifle. She had handled wicked witches invading the school, a wizard-turned-frog, a dragon lord and a pop star, but real life suddenly felt too real. She never thought about what would happen if these wonderful witches passed away, especially in a brutal manner.

The sound of Miss Hardbroom's rifle filled Mildred with dread. Each click was a constant reminder of impending danger. She couldn’t close her eyes for fear of something happening when she did.

”Mildred Hubble?” Miss Hardbroom’s low voice drifted across the room, hushed lest she awaken any of the others. It was hard to ignore Mildred's heavy breathing; It was as if she had just run track. “Why are you not asleep?”

Mildred would've squeezed her eyes shut if she had felt safe enough to do it. Unwilling to lie to her teacher, she sat cross-legged where she was and hugged her blanket to her chest. ”I’m scared, Miss Hardbroom,” she admitted, rubbing the soft blue fabric between her fingers.

Miss Hardbroom pursed her lips and stared at her blankly. “Scared,” she repeated, as if it were a foreign word.

”Yes, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred swallowed dryly, feeling tears well up in her eyes. “I don’t want anyone to die.”

There was another silence between them. The austere woman sighed and beckoned Mildred towards her with a wave of her hand. The girl complied, clutching her blanket while stepping around her sleeping peers like a small child during nap-time. For the five minutes it took Mildred to shuffle towards her, Miss Hardbroom’s heart ached strangely. The ache became even more noticeable when Mildred sat down by her feet. She did not sit too close, but refused to sit too far. And she looked up at her teacher with those damned doe eyes that always seemed to soften her somehow.

”Rest here.” Miss Hardbroom told her, her words oddly gentle. “I am keeping watch, Mildred Hubble, and no harm will come to you or anyone else tonight.”

When Mildred yawned and buried into her blankets, Miss Hardbroom was left alone again. Her eyes scanned the mess hall and watched as the witches’ bodies rose and fell with their breaths, resembling some human wave. It gave her a strange sense of comfort to see it. Perhaps it comforted her to know everyone was alive and well. Or perhaps it felt comforting because she wasn’t alone on this sinking ship.

Chapter Text

A gunshot.

The witches of Cackles’ Academy sat up in an instant and frantically glanced around themselves. They found Miss Hardbroom leaning halfway out one of the windows with her rifle tucked into her elbow. She was chewing on her tongue, brows furrowed, staring at something outside.

“Constance?” Miss Cackle asked her, adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose. As her vision cleared and the image of her friend came into view, she felt anxiety wash over her. “Is everything alright?”

Miss Hardbroom set the rifle against the wall, briskly made her way to the headmistress’ side, and whispered into her ear with her hand cupped around her mouth. “One of them got in.”

Let the record show that Miss Cackle did not like to curse. She told students to watch their language and mind their manners. Let the record also show that Amelia was a hypocrite who muttered a well-deserved “Shit.”

Constance was watching her with a helpless, pleading look in her eyes. She needed someone to tell her what to do. She needed direction. She needed logic and sense during moments of nonsense. But when Amelia was as lost as she, she didn’t know what to say. “Constance,” Amelia said slowly, placing a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “I want you to check the body. Write down observations. Clothing, skin, anything. We need to understand why this one passed the veil.”

“Yes, Miss Cackle,” Miss Hardbroom replied hastily. She returned to the window and carefully lowered herself down on the other side.

Meanwhile, Mildred Hubble looked between the two. Miss Hardbroom and her rifle somehow made her feel safe. Without her, she felt that the whole world might collapse. It was a feeling of dependency that she’d never felt towards the woman before. “Excuse me, Miss Cackle?” Her voice came out too small for her headmistress to hear. She cleared her throat and repeated herself a little louder. “Excuse me, Miss Cackle? What’s happened?”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” Miss Cackle replied, but a little voice in the back of her head whispered ‘yet.’ She hated to pretend she had everything under control. The truth was, she did not. Miss Cackle had never even been in a physical fight before (except with Agatha, perhaps, when they were five and six years old). She was starting to see the appeal of hiding in a wardrobe like Miss Bat.

She saw the rest of the students looking at her the same way. The same wide, questioning eyes. The same confusion. Miss Cackle took a breath and forced a smile to maintain her facade.

“Girls, your teachers and I will discuss private matters. In the meantime, you may talk amongst yourselves. Do not leave this room.”

The girls nodded and echoed a chorus of “Yes, Miss Cackle.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Mildred Hubble and her class were seated in the spells classroom, their eyes trained on Miss Cackle. She’d been pacing back and forth in front of the chalkboard for some time now, with several magazines (from “Blades: The World’s #1 Knife Publication” and “Firearms News”) tucked under her arm. At some point, she nodded as if making a silent agreement with herself and began passing down the booklets. “Take one for each desk. I want you to flip through and transform your stationery into the items you see within these magazines.”

Maud Moonshine sadly stared down at the new pencil she’d gotten yesterday. It was her favorite, decorated with blue stripes and topped with a grey polymer cat. She loved to take notes with it. If only she hadn’t taken it to class today.

“You want us to do what with our stuff?” Ethel asked, leaning over the desk to hear her better because surely Miss Cackle did not say what she did.

“Yes, Ethel.” Miss Cackle took a breath, knowing full well how utterly insane she sounded. “Using the spells I’ve taught you, transform all your writing utensils into weapons.”

The girls looked between one another, then at the pencils and pens laying on their desks. Gathering her courage, Drusilla was the first to open the magazine and skim through its pages. Her eyes landed on a ‘trailing point’ knife (she had no idea what the types were, but the curve appealed to her) and raised her hand over her fountain pen. She hesitated. “Miss Cackle, I don’t know of any spell to…”

Miss Cackle crossed her arms. “Make something up. All that matters, really, is intent and rhythm. Give it a go.”

“Uh…” She felt stupid. “Trailus Bladus?”

Sparks flew from her fingertips. In a flash of white light, the pen expanded. Its metal tip began to flatten and roll out into a blade, until Drusilla’s pen had become similar to the knife in the magazine. At least, the blade was the same, but the handle was adorned with colorful rhinestones as if it were taken straight from Willy Wonka’s illegal armory.

“Well done, Drusilla,” Miss Cackle gave her a thin-lipped smile. It hurt to make her girls do this. “How about you, Mildred? Do you see anything you’d like to create?”

Mildred Hubble had been looking at the same page for the past five minutes. Her father had lended her that hunting rifle when they went out last summer. While Mildred hadn’t shot anything herself, not having, as her father said, the ‘balls’ to kill an animal, Mildred knew how to hold that model and liked the feel of it in her hand. “Incantatus Amunitus, Huntus Riflus?”

For a second, nothing happened. Mildred was about to give Miss Cackle a deadpan look when her pencil, same as Drusilla’s, glowed, expanded, and transformed into the very rifle on the page.

Miss Cackle nodded approvingly.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Hardbroom stood before her class, her lips parted. Every single one of her students had a gun and blade on their person, either tucked into the hem of their skirts or resting on their desk. Then again, she couldn’t possibly scold them. She owned a rifle too, after all. Miss Hardbroom supposed it was just one of those things she’d have to get used to.

“Girls,” she spoke slowly. “I understand you’ve had your first class with Miss Cackle. As you are all beginning to realize, our classes are being repurposed. Today, we will be creating various explosives using our knowledge of potions.”

In the back, Jadu squeezed her eyes shut and sighed. Right. Fantastic. Their school was training child soldiers. It really was a prison, now.

“Recall our Fire Conjuration potions.” Miss Hardbroom paced, arms folded over her chest. “Now, we will be using five fireflies, rather than one.”

Ethel raised her hand, assuming this was some trick question. “But Miss Hardbroom,” she said haughtily, “the textbook specifically states that more than one firefly would—“

“Did. I. Ask?” Miss Hardbroom replied. She’d learned that from a fourth year passing her in the hall, and found it a rather effective method for silencing others.

Ruby Cherrytree stifled a snort and covered it up as a cough. Mildred chuckled a little.

“Mildred,” Miss Hardbroom shot her a faux smile. She clasped her hands before her and rocked on her heels. “Since you’re so giggly this morning, perhaps you’d like to give a demonstration?”

Mildred sobered up at the question. “I uh— With all due respect, Miss Hardbroom, I don’t think I—“

“And with all due respect, Mildred Hubble,” Miss Hardbroom replied bitterly, “I believe you can. It’s a Fire Conjuration potion with five fireflies. A simple task for a simple girl.”

The words stung, but they always did. One moment, Miss Hardbroom could smile after Mildred had saved her from a waterfall, and the next she’d be mocking her in class with these stupid insults. She never really understood her. It was the end of the world, and Mildred was still sitting in potions class getting picked on by HB.

“No.” She said decisively.

“What?” Miss Hardbroom’s eyebrows shot up her forehead.

“No, Miss Hardbroom, I won’t. You’re the teacher, so demonstrate it yourself.”

Her classmates murmured small ‘oohs’ to one another. Mildred didn’t know what to think of that.

Miss Hardbroom was absolutely fuming— If Mildred focused enough, her face even seemed to be turning red. “Mildred,” she took a breath, “Hubble. Report to Miss Cackle’s office, at onc—“

“What good will that do? Miss Hardbroom, none of us know how this potion’s going to turn out. I mean, surely it can’t be too much to ask for a demo?”

Ethel raised her hand and batted her eyelashes. “Miss Hardbroom, I can give a demonstration if Mildred won’t.”

The potions mistress sighed. “Oh, very well. Go ahead, Ethel.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Their next class was… Again, with Miss Hardbroom. Mildred Hubble had narrowly escaped detention last period and was treading on thin ice. The students were standing in the courtyard, trying to ignore Miss Drill attaching barbed wire to the walls from a stepladder.

“Rather than chanting with Miss Bat, whom Miss Cackle has named our new guidance counselor, you will be learning how to operate your new weapons with myself.” Miss Hardbroom told them, swinging the rifle from her shoulder and into her arms. “For this class, your hair should be well out your face. Sleeves should not dangle.”

“Great, two gym classes?” Enid mumbled to Mildred, who nodded slightly.

“Mildred Hubble?” A shrill voice asked.

Oh for FUCK’S SAKE.

“Mildred, would you care to do a demonstration now?” Miss Hardbroom said loudly. “And before you speak, I will remind you that I am not only armed, but your form mistress, potions mistress, and now, your trainer.”

Mildred stood. She avoided Miss Hardbroom’s eyes, knowing they’d be filled with hatred. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

Taking her rifle, she aimed her scope at the red X painted on one of the bricks on the wall. She squeezed one eye shut, took a breath and fired. To her complete and utter shock, there was now a black circle right where the X had been marked. She’d gotten a bullseye. It seemed like her father’s teachings were useful, after all.

Mildred looked at Miss Hardbroom, who raised her eyebrows. “For once, Mildred,” she clasped her hands together. “I’m impressed.”

I’m impressed. Mildred engraved the words in her mind. Miss Hardbroom was impressed with her. She wasn’t ashamed of her, or irritated, or downright furious, but she was impressed. The girl loved the praise, loved how it made her feel. Up till now, Mildred had never been very good at any class and the constant ridicule from her teachers and peers did nothing to improve her self-confidence. The school finally discovered something she was good at and appreciated her for it.

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred mumbled, her cheeks flushing with her shyness.

Miss Hardbroom didn’t miss it, but decided not to mention it. She ordered the rest of the girls to follow Mildred’s example and fire at the wall. Some missed, others shot, and Ethel was the only girl to stumble and shoot at the sky. Miss Hardbroom maintained her composure, knowing her students would improve in time. “Well done, girls. Now, don’t relax just yet. As per Miss Cackle’s orders, you are to take those boards, nails and hammers by the door and barricade every first and second-floor window. Then you shall be doing your usual run with Miss Drill down castle halls, and visit Miss Bat by the end of the day for a wellness check. Understood?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.” The girls replied glumly.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

A week passed under the new system, no witch ever flying on their broomstick nor leaving the castle. Their days were spent learning spells with Miss Cackle, training with Miss Hardbroom, going on a run with Miss Drill and having mandatory therapy sessions with Miss Bat.

During a sprint down cold, stone halls, Ethel quickened her pace to match Mildred. “Mildred?”

Mildred rolled her eyes and blew her hair from her face. “Oh, what do you want now, Ethel?”

“How did you fire your gun so well?” The girl asked her, tilting her head in what seemed like genuine curiosity.

But Mildred was cautious. Since there was no telling what Ethel would do with that information, she redirected the conversation. “How did you make such a good potion?”

“It’s quite simple, really.” Ethel huffed and puffed as they ran. “It’s just the Fire Conjuring potion, like Miss Hardbroom told us, but with five fireflies. Thing is, they all have to be alive.”

“Well, how do you get them into the potion if they’re alive?”

“You take a bottle of potion from the cauldron, and carefully pour it into the flask with the fireflies. They get mixed in and dissolved.”

Mildred gave a small ‘oh.’ It was either from her breathing or from her acknowledgement.

“Now your turn,” Ethel said, looking at her expectantly. “How did you do it?”

“You have to line up both the scopes on the rifle. I don’t really know how it works with other guns, because I haven’t tried them.”

“I did that, but it just—“ Ethel huffed frustratedly, unwilling to relive the humiliating moment. “Well, you saw.”

“You need to keep your footing firm.”

“Thank y—“

“Girls!” Miss Drill called, waving her stopwatch above her head. “Less chit-chat, more running! Clock’s ticking!”

They exchanged glances. Ethel flicked her ponytail, her arrogant facade forming again, and sprinted ahead of her.  Mildred’s ‘nemesis’ had been oddly helpful for once. It could have been a survival tactic for all she knew.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

That night, Miss Bat was awoken to screaming in the first-year halls. Without even bothering to make herself presentable, she scrambled out of bed and rushed to the source. It didn’t take long for her to find Ethel standing in the open doorway of one of the bedrooms.

“Ethel!” Miss Bat’s eyes widened. She moved to stand next to the girl, her hands gripping her shoulders. “What are you doing here? You—“

And Miss Bat followed Ethel’s gaze.

There was a girl dangling from the ceiling by a rope noose.

…The name of that girl was Sybil Hallow.

Chapter Text

Miss Bat’s fists pounded against the door with all the strength she could muster. With each hit, her knuckles came away with a reddish tinge and the door shook against its hinges. “AMELIA!” Her voice cracked. “Oh, please please please— OPEN THE DOOR!”

Miss Cackle unlocked the door to her quarters, dressed in damask pajamas and fluffy slippers. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and managed to set her glasses on the bridge of her nose. “What in heaven’s name do you—“

“Sybil’s dead!” Miss Bat shrieked, tugging at her own hair until it hurt.

Miss Cackle’s heart dropped into her stomach. She was frozen for a good second, her lips parting. Dead? Dead? She seized Miss Bat by the wrists. “Davina, where.”

“Her bedroom.” Miss Bat replied, her eyes darting rapidly over her face like a frightened animal. She was trembling hard, her breathing erratic. Her tears wouldn’t stop falling, they wouldn’t stop. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Amelia, it was my job—!”

“Get a hold of yourself!” Miss Cackle hissed at her. Her grip was tight enough to be painful. “Get Miss Hardbroom, now. I’ll handle this.”

Miss Bat nodded and scrambled off, moving faster than Miss Cackle had ever seen her. A few curious first years peeked out their bedroom doors, having been awakened by their shouting. Their mouths were moving, and yet, Miss Cackle heard nothing. Her thoughts had narrowed on one thing, and one thing alone. Without another moment wasted, she rushed down the hall in the opposite direction of Miss Bat.

The headmistress found Ethel on her knees in Sybil’s bedroom, clutching the limp body of her younger sister to her chest. To an unnatural degree, the girl who had once held such life and excitement now resembled a ragdoll. Curved lines ran along her neck from where the rope had choked her. There was no blood on her body, nor fear on her face. It was as if she were simply in a trance.

Ethel was shaken. She could not speak to her headmistress at first, only stare at her with a look that communicated everything Miss Cackle needed to know. And whether it was strange or appropriate, the girl did not shed a single tear.

“Ethel,” Miss Cackle said carefully, as if speaking to some wild animal. “Let go of her.”

“But…” Ethel mumbled, her eyes hazy as she gazed at Sybil. Sybil, who did not look back at her, but through her. When the older girl shifted, the body’s head dangled over Ethel’s arm and locked eyes with Miss Cackle. The unfeeling, half-lidded stare taunted Amelia with her failures. “My sister…” Ethel’s voice was barely audible.

Miss Cackle exhaled. “I know, Ethel.”

“She’s never coming back.” 

“I know,” Miss Cackle repeated, her voice softer. She kneeled beside her and, with reluctance, attempted to pry each individual finger from the body. Ethel had a death grip on her sister with some newfound strength. “Just put her down.”

Ethel, evidently, wouldn’t do so. She was in a state of shock, the only thing that seemed to ground her being the dead body of her sister. The cold skin. The soft hair. Besides the little shakes of her head and mutterings she’d let out, Ethel was frozen in place.

Unable to move the girl nor vanish the corpse away while it was being held, Miss Cackle slipped her arms under Sybil’s knees and neck, lifted her, and carried her down the hall. Ethel continued to cling to her, refusing to let her sister out of her sight for even a moment. The students who had been leaning out of their doors now fell silent at the sight. It was only Clarice Crow, with her ginger curls cascading over her shoulders, watching the scene with an unreadable expression. It was almost as if she had predicted it.

Sybil’s head lolled against Miss Cackle’s shoulder before the woman could ponder any further. She flinched at the chill of her skin against hers.

Sneakers and slippers thumped against the tile, signaling the swift arrival of other staff. The headmistress looked up from the girl’s soulless face and felt instant relief at the sight of Miss Drill and Miss Hardbroom sprinting towards her.

“Oh my god,” Miss Drill cried, her jaw dropping. “Oh my god! Is that Sybil?!”

Miss Hardbroom’s composure faltered. Her arms fell limply at her sides, her mind blanking. It was as if every train of thought had gone off the rails, rendering her a spectator who watched the scene from a thousand miles away.

“Constance. Constance,” Miss Cackle scolded. Miss Hardbroom snapped back to reality and finally registered the hall she stood in. Twenty first years standing in their doorways, sobbing into the fabric of their nightgowns and wiping their tears with the heel of their palms.

She crossed her arms tightly, her hands holding herself in a vice-like grip. “Girls! Back to bed, this instant!”

A bittersweet smile crossed Clarice Crow’s lips as she went to close the door. But Miss Hardbroom was quick to transfer beside her and shove her foot into the doorway. “Not you.”

…Fifteen minutes later, Miss Hardbroom left Clarice’s bedroom feeling like a shell of a woman. The conversation had certainly been… Enlightening. Now, her only wish was to hide under the covers and sleep.

Sleeping was a strategy Constance used to avoid being awake. Clarice and Sybil wished to sleep in a different sense, and to some extent, Constance could understand that.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

At four in the morning, Mildred paced circles in her room whilst her friends deliberated over the rumors. Over the past hour, news of Sybil’s death had quickly spread through Cackle’s Academy until no student could fall asleep. Maud and Enid perched on the edge of Mildred’s bed. Jadu leaned against the wall, a hand running through her hair, while Ruby sat on the ground with her knees to her chest. At this point, no one cared about lights out. What were the teachers going to do, call their presumably-dead parents?

“So Sybil’s…” Enid’s voice trailed off. No one could say it aloud, for fear of making it real.

“But how? Why?” Maud stammered. Her glasses were slightly crooked from the amount of times she’d rubbed a handkerchief over her face. “How did she even do it?”

The realization dawned on Mildred. “Miss Cackle’s transformation lessons. Remember? ‘All that matters is intent and rhythm.’”

“God,” Ruby bit down on her lip. “No wonder they can’t find Sybil’s hat.”

The silence stretched on. The five girls had noticed that happening frequently: Silence stretching on. The academy’s halls no longer held laughter, nor gossip, but were instead filled with people who struggled to understand and cope with the situation they were in. Even the teachers seemed exhausted nowadays, either from night shifts in the academy’s tallest tower or the effort it took to maintain composure.

Without warning, the door clicked and swung open, revealing Miss Hardbroom looming over them.

The girls held their breath.

…But Miss Hardbroom didn’t have the heart, then. She was too tired.

“Sleep before ten,” was all she told them. She closed the door softly.

It had the same gentleness as a parent telling a child Goodnight, I love you.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Mildred was confused. Or maybe saying she was ‘confused’ was too much of an understatement. Miss Hardbroom faltering last night, Sybil’s death, Ethel’s absence. It was all too overwhelming. And here she sat amongst a crowd of students, barely listening to Miss Cackle’s speech on grief and resilience. It hardly meant anything, anymore. The teachers’ attempts to maintain routine and schedule while students died seemed foolish to her.

Sybil was twelve years old.

She was just a kid.

Drowning out Miss Cackle’s voice with her own thoughts, her gaze drifted over to Miss Hardbroom. They locked eyes. Miss Hardbroom watched her with such a dull stare, it would’ve sent chills down Mildred’s spine if she hadn’t been staring back at her the exact same way.

The students seated in the row before Mildred suddenly stood, blocking her view of her mentor. Coming to herself, she realized the speech was now over and they were free to leave. The thing was, her legs wouldn’t move. They didn’t move, because she needed time to stop. Everything was moving too quickly.

She felt a hand on her shoulder.

“Millie,” Maud whispered. “C’mon, we have a morning run with Miss Drill.”

Mildred nodded slowly and followed her out of the hall, unaware of Miss Hardbroom watching the back of her head.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Classes were over for the day. At least, she believed them to be. In all honesty, Mildred hadn’t been listening half the time. Only in Miss Hardbroom’s shooting class (the name was still being workshopped) was Mildred engaged enough to fire a few shots at the target.

When her rifle jammed in class, partly from her own distraction and partly from misfortune, Mildred knocked on Miss Hardbroom’s office door. “Miss Hardbroom? Are you in?”

The woman swung open her door at the sound of the girl’s voice.  “Mildred Hubble,” Miss Hardbroom drawled. Rather than her usual tight bun, for that took time she could no longer afford to lose, she wore her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “What seems to be the matter?”

“The barrel is jammed,” the girl told her, holding up her rifle. Miss Hardbroom had regrettably grown accustomed to the sight of twelve-to-sixteen-year-old girls carrying weaponry.

Miss Hardbroom ushered her inside her office and shut the door behind her. The room, once bathed in natural light, was now darkened from boarded-up windows. There was only a little candle to illuminate the office in a soft, golden glow.

She seated the girl in a small chair at her desk and placed the rifle on the table.

“We would usually use a broken shell extractor, though we don’t have that at the moment,” she explained, kneeling next to the girl. She opened the chamber of the rifle, then dug out a long, screwed object from her cabinet. “We do have what’s called a ‘rat tail file.’ What we want to do, Mildred,” and she moved closer to her, properly showing her the chamber of the rifle. “We are going to slip the file in and twist. You see, we’d like its teeth to dig into the brass. Then we simply pull it out, like so.”

Miss Hardbroom pulled the rat tail file out of the rifle’s chamber, revealing a brass covering over the tip. Mildred gasped, a hint of… Excitement in her eyes. She’d never been so enthusiastic in her potions lessons.

The task served to distract them both from the loss. If only momentarily, they were safely in their own bubble. Shielded from the rest of the world, gathered around the lone light of a candle. Their faces were lit up by the flame.

In the darkness, Mildred offered her a small smile. Miss Hardbroom allowed herself to smile back.

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred spoke.

“Yes, you’re welcome, Mildred.” Miss Hardbroom nodded. “You can keep this file, we have a few others from Mr. Blossom.”

“Thank you again,” Mildred repeated. She watched her mentor for a moment, before fishing a bandage from her pocket. It was one of the childish ones from a pharmacy; A lime green color, decorated with a cartoon frog. What a coincidence then, that Miss Hardbroom’s favorite animal was a frog. “You can have this, too. For the cut on your arm.”

“You remember that?” Miss Hardbroom asked, somewhat shocked. She’d accidentally cut her arm a few days earlier, when she’d rushed to a high window to shoot at an approaching infected.

“I do.” Mildred fidgeted with the end of one of her plaits. “It’s still there, isn’t it?”

Miss Hardbroom didn’t have the heart to tell her that such a small bandage would barely have any effect on her cut. Mildred seemed so proud to give it to her, to make herself of use. Never had a student done something so endearing for her. At least, something genuine.

“Yes,” she said coolly, although her heart felt strangely fuzzy. “Thank you, Mildred.”

“Of course, Miss Hardbroom. Goodbye.” Mildred began to rise out of her chair, but her mentor was quick to hold her down by the shoulder.

“Wait.” Miss Hardbroom told her. “If you or your friends have any… Dark thoughts, you would tell me. Wouldn’t you?”

She knew that was highly unlikely. Students, confessing vulnerabilities to a woman like her? Miss Hardbroom was aware that she wasn’t… Well-liked by the students. They feared her, even drew exaggerated doodles that, admittedly, even Miss Hardbroom laughed at on a good day. There would be no ‘good days’ from now on. That wasn’t the point, Constance, get your head in the game. The girls were her priority. It didn’t matter to her whether they liked her or enjoyed her company. What mattered was their safety, health and happiness.

They could hate her for all she cared—

“Yeah,” Mildred spoke, interrupting her thoughts. “We’d tell you, Miss Hardbroom.”

After Mildred left the room. Miss Hardbroom looked down at her candle. Its light glistened in her eyes. That fuzzy feeling bubbled up again, warming her better than any fireplace in the castle. Allowing herself a bittersweet smile, Constance leaned forward and extinguished the flame with a soft breath.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Sybil’s bedroom door was crowded with wildflowers and paper, all scavenged from the castle since no one could afford proper bouquets and cards. It was a tribute to the girl, who had been so innocent that she once cried when her sister accidentally crushed a butterfly with her backpack.

As Ethel set down an origami butterfly at the foot of the closed door, she regretted every cruel word. That door would never open again, and she knew it. The second that Ethel had released her sister’s hand, the teachers had simply vanished her away with magic. Apparently, she was now buried under six feet of dirt and a chunk of loose tile reading “Sybil Hallow: Beloved sister, friend and student” in permanent marker.

It still hadn’t fully registered in Ethel’s mind. She would see that stone through windows and feel nothing at all. Nothing. It was simply a piece of rock. She hadn’t even seen Sybil buried because the teachers had used magic. Last night, it had only been her and Miss Cackle standing before the stone with a lantern in the headmistress’ hand. Her words, “She’s in a better place,” provided no comfort. After the initial shock and breakdown, Ethel felt numb to the pity sent her way.

“Ethel?” Mildred’s voice drifted across the hallway. They were alone.

“Oh, what do you want now, Mildred?” Ethel hugged herself over her stomach, staring down at the pointless weeds that stained her sister’s doorway.

Mildred’s footsteps were slow and tentative. From the corner of Ethel’s eyes, the other girl’s untied shoes came to stand beside her polished ones. Ethel felt ridiculous for wearing those shoes. She didn’t deserve them.

“That’s a nice butterfly.” Mildred said quietly.

The response caught her off guard. “Oh…” Ethel mumbled. “Thank you.”

“Do you um…” Mildred was rendered speechless. What does one say to a grieving frenemy? “I’m sorry” didn’t make sense. Sorry for what? Grasping at straws, she opened and closed her mouth wordlessly until she decided on a reply. “Would a hug help?”

Ethel looked at her as if she was speaking in an archaic language. “What?”

“Nothing.” Mildred said awkwardly, avoiding the steely gaze of puffy, red eyes. “Nevermind, forget I said anything.”

“I’m not hugging you, you almond.” Ethel took a deep breath. “Regardless, thank you for the offer.”

…Almond was a pathetic insult, but neither of them mentioned it.

And maybe they held hands. Neither of them mentioned that, either.

Chapter Text

Miss Bat huddled in her wardrobe, her face buried in her hands while Miss Drill attempted to coax her outside. The wardrobe was cramped and dusty, but it provided solace when the older woman was overwhelmed. She must've hidden there a thousand times since she was first employed at the academy.

“Davina, you can’t stay there forever.” Miss Drill huffed, taking a seat on the ground beside the closed doors. Past the frosted glass, she saw the other woman shift.

“I ruined everything,” Miss Bat sniffled, audibly blowing her nose into her own sleeve. “Amelia said I could be the counselor, she said— She said—!” Her voice cracked and whined softly, muffled by her hands. “She told me I could do it! And I failed, Imogen, I failed and everything’s gone wrong, I didn’t see it! The signs were there!”

“Davina, you did what you could—“

“But I didn’t!” Miss Bag said frustratedly. “Sybil was telling me things, and I never took notes! She talked about how tired she was, and of the hopelessness of our survival, and all I did was draw flowers and talk about stupid bees!”

“Well,” Imogen tilted her head. “The fact that you could name some of what she said, tells me that you at least listened a little. You weren’t completely blocking her out.”

“A little wasn't enough! My stars, Imogen, did you see her?! Did you see her eyes?!”

Miss Drill sucked in a sharp breath at the thought. She remembered the girl too clearly. Those glassy eyes and her limp form made Sybil resemble a doll. A broken toy. “Yes, I saw her.”

“It’s my fault, it’s all my fault, I could’ve done more.”

“Davina, you're a good person. Maybe you have trouble listening sometimes, but you're good. What isn't good is the fact that you haven’t left your closet in eight hours.” Miss Drill gently knocked on the side of the wooden box. “I need you to come out. I can make your favorite tea, and we can have a nice chat face-to-face. Perhaps we can learn from our mistakes and get better together."

Miss Bat sniffled again. After a moment, she mumbled, “You remember my favorite tea?”

Of course that was what Miss Bat would focus on. Miss Drill smiled softly. “It’s the one with ‘pink, glittery flowers,’ as you call them.”

The door cracked open, revealing teary eyes watching Miss Drill from the darkness. Miss Bat fidgeted with her hands. “…No one remembers my favorite things.”

“On the contrary, Davina,” Miss Drill laughed quietly. “Many of us know what you like. We care more than you think.”

Miss Bat finally moved out of the wardrobe and threw her arms around Miss Drill. She buried her face in her shoulder and let out a sob. “Thank you, Imogen.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Hardbroom had been swiftly walking down the hall towards her next class, when Miss Tapioca happened to rise from the depths of the kitchen. The cook locked eyes with her, her lips parting as if she had something to say.

Oh, no you don't. Miss Hardbroom walked faster and kept her eyes straight ahead. She tried walking on the other side of the hallway.  Don’t speak to me, don’t speak to—

“Miss Hardbroom!” Miss Tapioca called in her thick, Italian accent. She bounded over, waving a sheet of paper in her hand. At the sound of her voice, Miss Hardbroom turned and gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Miss Tapioca,” she replied, rocking on her heels.

“There’s not enough food for dinner!” Miss Tapioca stressed, jabbing the page with her finger. “Not enough vegetables, meat— Not even a can!”

Miss Hardbroom hummed and nodded. “I see. Rest assured, Miss Tapioca, I will handle it.”

The potions mistress, in all honesty, just wanted this woman out of her face as quickly as possible. The food issue was indeed concerning, but Miss Hardbroom could simply offer to leave the premises of the castle into the neighboring town. She didn’t want anyone else facing the danger of the undead besides herself.

Miss Tapioca returned to the kitchen, fussing over the list in her hand, and Miss Hardbroom continued her journey to the potions classroom.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

She had been in the middle of presenting another variant of potion explosives (this one mimicking molotov cocktails) in class, when Miss Cackle barged in with sweat beading down her forehead. “Constance!” She breathed. “It’s the radio!”

Miss Hardbroom didn’t feel the need to excuse herself. She unceremoniously dropped her chalk on the floor and followed after her with haste, abandoning a very confused class of second years. “What is it, Miss Cackle?”

“See for yourself,” she told her, stepping through the open door of the teacher’s lounge. Miss Drill was seated at the table, her finger anxiously tapping on the microphone’s handle as she listened to the witch on the other end. Miss Bat was seated beside her, sipping on a steaming cup of tea.

“—And from what we’ve seen,” the stranger was saying. Her voice was familiar, yet unrecognizable.

“Who is this?” Miss Hardbroom demanded, her hands clutching the tablecloth.

“Miss Pentangle,” the older woman spoke. Her voice no longer carried its usual haughtiness, which had been synonymous with the name Phyllis Pentangle. “Our witches here have a theory. These undead fellows don’t like milling about the daytime. Too bright for their eyes. Too warm.”

“How do you know?” Miss Bat asked skeptically.

“Our girls take night shifts by their years to keep watch. The fourth years realized that when morning came, the majority of the undead were gone save for a few bodies laying on the ground.”

Miss Hardbroom severely disapproved of Pentangles sending their students to take night watches rather than their teachers, but they were one of the few witching academies remaining. Cackles and Pentangles must be on good terms.

“Are you quite certain?” Miss Cackle asked the other headmistress, leaning down towards the microphone attached to their radio.

“Yes, absolutely. In fact, we sent out our best girl, Deirdre Swoop, this morning. She returned with ten cans and without a scratch on her skin! We’d expect nothing less from—“

...Miss Pentangle proceeded to ramble on for the next half hour about the sheer greatness of her academy, while Cackles’ teachers gradually slunk out of the radio room. Miss Bat fell asleep not three minutes in.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

After that day’s classes, Miss Cackle knocked on Miss Hardbroom’s door. “Constance," she called. "I had a thought.”

Miss Hardbroom swung open her door, her hands expertly weaving her hair into a braid. “Yes?”

“Phyllis Pentangle has a point." Miss Cackle ignored how foreign those words felt on her tongue. "During the day, we barely see any of the undead wandering about. Since we are running out of food, I was thinking that—“

“Yes, Miss Cackle, I shall go out.” Miss Hardbroom interrupted, having already decided a few hours prior.

“Not just you, Constance." Miss Cackle told her, raising her eyebrows. "Since it’s relatively safer, I’d like you to take two students with you. Our girls need experience, if we are to consistently fetch food from the outside world from now on.”

Miss Hardbroom’s jaw dropped. “Miss Cackle,” she spoke, setting her hands firmly on her hips. “With all due respect—“

“The girls said it themselves on the first day. If the world is ending, they want to pull their own weight. I say let them. It’s not a bad idea.”

“But—“

“Constance, there are six adults and a hundred children in this school. If something happens to us, they need to be able to take care of themselves.”

Miss Hardbroom crossed her arms, her eyes filled with doubt and discomfort. Miss Cackle only returned her stare with a decisive look that made no room for questions.

Miss Hardbroom sighed. “Fine. Which students.”

“Your finest potions and weaponry students, I should think,” Miss Cackle pondered, adjusting her glasses. “Shall we say… Ethel Hallow and Mildred Hubble?”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

A knock on Miss Bat’s door interrupted her sketching. Hesitantly, she opened it to the sight of Miss Hardbroom with a rifle over her shoulder.

“Constance,” Miss Bat offered her a crooked, awkward smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Miss Hardbroom sighed and shifted her weight to a different leg. “Miss Cackle would like to send I, as well as two students, into the outside world to fetch food. Do you have any idea what edible plants I should look for?”

Miss Bat brightened. This was an opportunity to make herself useful. To show that she wasn’t just some old hag hiding in cupboards. She may have been an awful chanting teacher and a failed guidance counselor, but she knew plants. The older woman moved around Miss Hardbroom and pulled a book from her shelf: ‘A Guide to Flora & Fauna. Written by Algernon Rowan-Webb. Illustrated by Merlin Langstaff.’

“Here,” she spoke, handing over the novel. Miss Hardbroom peered at the cover, where an intricate painting of a flower had been placed below the title. She hadn’t known that Rowan-Webb’s apprentice was proficient at art, nor that the two had published a book together. To see their names again was a solemn reminder of their fate.

Miss Bat flicked open the book to the table of contents, a page stained with coffee and a mysterious red blotch that smelled of strawberries. “Page 57 has some information on edible plants. You may have luck finding the first 24 plants near castle-grounds. And personally,” she gave a chuckle, tapping on an illustration of a certain pink flower, “I find this flower makes the most wonderful tea. If you find any, would you bring a few back? Perhaps I could start a garden.”

Miss Hardbroom looked at her, about to make another snarky comment, but Miss Bat’s eyes were terribly red and dry from her tears in her cupboard. Sybil’s death had taken a toll on the poor woman, and the whole school knew it.

“I will,” Miss Hardbroom assured her, her hand patting her friend’s shoulder. “Now please, for magic’s sake, get some rest. You seem like you need it.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

“Miss Hardbroom!” Ethel stamped her foot, as Miss Hardbroom straightened the two girls' coats. “This is ridiculous!”

The three of them were standing at the main gates, while Miss Hardbroom ensured they were appropriately dressed and equipped for the expedition ahead. “I don’t like this any more than you do, Ethel.” The woman spoke, particularly miffed at wearing something other than her favorite damask dresses. She clipped her radio onto the belt of her pants, into which she had tucked in a button-up shirt. “But as per Miss Cackle’s orders, you two are accompanying me to the town. Your rifles are loaded, yes?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred anxiously looked down at her rifle, hesitant to use it on a living being. Non-living, technically. “Though I’m not too sure about this.”

Miss Hardbroom held open the main gates with her foot, revealing the forest beyond. The sun would be setting at seven. They had four hours to gather as much food as possible. The girls followed their mentor, their own rifles slung over their shoulders. Having spent far too much time indoors, the sun was incredibly bright for their eyes. Ethel hissed, raising her hand to her eyebrow. Everything seemed too vibrant, too colorful. Even Miss Hardbroom wasn’t immune to the startling contrast and blinked twice in the light.

“You two will stay close, do you understand?” Miss Hardbroom said sternly, waving her wrist to conduct a silent enchantment. The veil over the castle was rejuvenated and sealed once more for good measure. “You should not leave my side for any reason.”

“Yes, mother,” Mildred said sarcastically, earning a stifled giggle from Ethel. At a stern look from Miss Hardbroom, both girls coughed and quickly composed themselves.

The trio proceeded down the dirt path through the forest, carefully keeping from mud puddles and worms from last night’s rainfall. The walk was made in silence, besides the occasional ‘ew’ from Ethel at an insect. It wasn’t long before the town came into view: What was once a rural, homely community, where Mr. Blossom lived and Mrs. Cosie frequented, was now a deserted wasteland of abandoned buildings. Every shop with glass windows or doors had been broken into. The fountain in the center of the roundabout no longer worked. It was eerily quiet. Somewhere, an old radio sang broken tunes on a battery that, somehow, hadn’t been stolen yet.

Miss Hardbroom spotted a shop, one with chains over its double doors, and quickly made a beeline for it. It did not have windows, so the chances of supplies inside were higher. Mildred and Ethel dutifully followed her, hoisting their weapons in their arms.

“Remember what I’ve told you,” Miss Hardbroom spoke, snapping her fingers to unlock the door with her magic. The chains fell away on their own and clattered to the ground.

“The dead like dark places,” Ethel recited dutifully. She peeked out from Miss Hardbroom’s left side, while Mildred peeked from her right. Miss Hardbroom was the one to push open the door, revealing an antique store. It had been completely untouched since the Fall, judging by the fine layer of dust on the items that lined its shelves and tables. Not quite as much food as they’d hoped, but perhaps there was some further in. The girls followed their mentor, occasionally casting sidelong glances at the shop’s strange wares. A monkey holding two golden cymbals, a pigtailed doll with a permanent smile, and a singing bass.

Miss Hardbroom, who didn’t care much for the non-magical world nor desired to understand it, gasped when she activated the singing bass by walking past it. As it jolted and whirred to life, she even hopped a little where she stood like a frightened cat.

“Can you help me?”  It mechanically opened and closed its mouth with each word, looking the woman straight in the eye. It smacked its tail relentlessly against the wood, its voice too loud in the silence of the abandoned shop. “Help meee! Just take me to the ri-ver!”

Miss Hardbroom set a hand over her racing heart and attempted to catch her breath. She swallowed dryly and glanced at the girls. Mildred muffled a snort with the palm of her hand. Ethel stared at the fish, as if captivated by its music.

“Drop me in the water!” The fish demanded, flicking its tail insistently. Its beady eyes seemed to stare into Miss Hardbroom’s soul. She didn’t like it.

“Take me to the riv—“

Before it could sing another dreadful line, Miss Hardbroom fired a shot at it with her rifle. The fish’s voice deepened and distorted with its broken voice box, and slowed to a stop. The woman understood the importance of preserving ammunition, but this was surely warranted. Because look at it. What the hell are the ordinaries doing nowadays?

Ethel piped up. “What is that, Miss Hardbroom?”

“It’s a singing bass.” Mildred explained. “That one’s activated by motion, so when Miss Hardbroom passed by, it started singing.”

“What purpose, pray tell,” Miss Hardbroom looked back at the accursed thing again, scrutinizing its nameplate. “Does ‘Big Billy’ serve?”

“Nothing. It’s just for fun.” Mildred chuckled, walking alongside them through the rest of the store. “Ethel, did you think it was fun?”

“Well, it was quite funny now that I think about it—“

Miss Hardbroom quickly shushed them with a hiss through her teeth. She raised a finger in the air, signaling for their silence. The trio waited amongst the shelves, dust particles floating before them. Nothing. Not a sound, no sign of movement.

Mildred was just about to speak when a low growl reverberated from deeper in the store, somewhere past the cashier and upstairs. Then a different one. And a third. At least three undead had been residing in the store, likely the family who once ran the shop.

Ethel and Mildred reached for Miss Hardbroom, and for some inexplicable reason, Miss Hardbroom held their hands in hers. Even if there was food to be found here, it was not worth it.

Miss Hardbroom set her hands on the girls’ shoulders and carefully guided them back towards the door. Each step caused the wooden panels to creak under their boots. Each creak of the panels intrigued the creatures, who crept downstairs to investigate the source of the noise. The moment they turn the corner, they would spot the witches. The store was too cluttered to run through, and–

Ethel’s scream interrupted her thoughts. It wasn’t one of fear, and it was not the kind you’d hear when there was a rat on the floor. It was filled with agony. And her voice cracked and trembled with this agony because something’s decaying, human teeth had sunken into the flesh of her ankle. Warm blood dripped down her skin and turned her white sock a shade of crimson. An undead child, crawling on the floor underneath a table, looked up at her with a cheshire grin. Gnarled hands and overgrown fingernails clawed at her polished shoes.

Miss Hardbroom kicked its head with her pointed boot. It whined at first, until Mildred swiftly took a blade from her pocket and drove it into its flesh. The blade sunk deep within its skull, forcing an ear-splitting screech from its lips.

Too much sound. They had made too much sound.

Five fingers, each with dirt under their fingernails, wrapped themselves around the stairs’ volute. A pale man, his hair falling from his head and his eyes sunken into his skull, turned the corner. A bit of drool dripped down from the corner of his mouth as he stared at them, blankly.

He began to walk towards them. Then, he began to move quicker. And when he growled, a decaying woman stumbled down the steps and followed him.

Miss Hardbroom didn’t think. She quickly scooped Ethel into her arms, for the girl could hardly run while injured, and beckoned Mildred to run with her. Mildred nodded, eyes wide and frightened, and rushed to keep up.

They began to bump into several antiques and tables, which only slowed them down. As they passed the singing bass, the fish begged for their help again. It was becoming painfully obvious that they would never make it to the door before the undead caught up with them, so Miss Hardbroom did the next best thing. She momentarily let go of Ethel to grab onto Mildred’s shoulder with her other hand.

The undead tripped over their own feet, desperate to have a taste of their flesh.

Miss Hardbroom squeezed her eyes shut and held both girls close. In a small flash of white light, the trio apparated and the next Mildred knew, they were standing in some unknown part of the forest. The shadows had grown notably longer since they first left Cackle’s Academy. The birds chirped happily to them, as if the witches' lives hadn’t been threatened mere moments prior.

Miss Hardbroom fell to her knees and caught her breath, a hand over her heart. The transportation of three witches had taken a toll on her magic, and she needed a moment to rest. The thing is, "rest" and "Miss Hardbroom" rarely appear in the same sentence unless a negation is included. Despite her exhaustion, the woman fished her radio from her belt and attempted to contact Miss Drill, who would probably be at the academy's radio in case of news from other witching academies.

She was so focused on the handheld radio that she didn't notice the girls staring at one another in tense silence.

“Ethel?” Mildred asked, adjusting her grip on her rifle. “You were bitten, weren’t you?”

…Ethel took an unsteady step back.

Chapter Text

“Mildred,” Ethel raised her palms in the air, her breathing going shallow. “Mildred, don’t shoot. Don’t.”

Mildred chewed on her tongue. Her eyes fogged over with doubt. “I’m sorry,” she muttered under her breath.

Those two words, as simple as they were, were enough to send Ethel running in the opposite direction as fast as her wounded ankle could carry her. She felt as if she were drowning in a sea of her own tears— She’d lost everything . She lost her sister, her school, and the only true friend she’d ever had. Drusilla’s father had been paid to keep his daughter by Ethel’s side, but Mildred didn’t need money. For god’s sake, the moment Mildred complimented her origami, the girl knew that she was true because her origami was awful. And by awful, she meant awful. As much as she tried, no fold was ever perfect and the finished product was as crumpled as Sybil’s rotting corpse.

She couldn’t get her face out of her head. Not now. Ethel would end up just like her, wouldn’t she? The only difference was that Ethel wouldn’t even have a gravestone in these woods— The wolves would feed off her corpse after she was gone.

Ethel’s heart raced. She was nothing more than a rabbit fleeing from its predators. There was no time to think, or watch her surroundings, but there was time to run.

She didn’t know how long she had been running, but when her legs refused to carry her any longer, she staggered towards a nearby tree and leaned against it to catch her breath. With a sinking feeling in her heart, she realized she was lost. The trees were much taller and denser than the forest near Cackle’s Academy, and worse, neither Miss Hardbroom nor Mildred were in sight.

“Oi!” A girl's voice called, loud and gruff. “You there!”

Breathless, Ethel turned behind her. There was a taller girl, about eighteen, with a worn cloak over her shoulders and ragged hair tied into a loose ponytail. There was a certain careworn look to her eyes, and a grim frown on her lips.

“Deirdre Swoop?” Ethel asked, her voice barely audible.

Deirdre gave a tired, almost imperceptible nod.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Hardbroom sighed and stood from her seat on the grass, despite the ache in her bones after transferring herself and two girls. “I’ve just gotten off the radio with Miss Drill,” she said, dusting off her hands. “Headmistress Amulet advises us to chop off the infected limb before it spreads any further.”

She glanced around herself. Her eyes landed on Mildred, whose hands trembled on the rifle she held. “Mildred?” She asked. Then again, “Mildred, where has Ethel gone?”

“Ethel ran off, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred mumbled, her eyes beginning to tear up.

“Oh for the love of—!” Miss Hardbroom pinched the bridge of her nose and exhaled sharply. “Alright. Alright. Not only are we lost, but a student has bounded off in a moment of complete and utter—!”

A soft sniffle.

Mildred stood a short distance from her, fidgeting with one of her plaits again as glistening tears spilled over her cheeks. She wouldn’t look at her mentor. The girl refused to see anything but her untied shoelaces.

…Miss Hardbroom hesitantly set her hand on Mildred’s shoulder and lightly brushed her thumb against the fabric of her cloak. The girl flinched at her touch. “Mildred Hubble, calm yourself.”

“I’m sorry. I think I scared Ethel off.”

If Mildred had looked up then, she would have seen Miss Hardbroom’s eyes darken. “What did you do?” 

“I held my rifle, I guess.” Mildred said sheepishly. “She thought I was going to shoot her.”

Miss Hardbroom would have ranted about the incompetence of her students again, if not for Mildred’s expression. The girl— This ridiculous girl— was practically retreating into her clothes like a turtle. Her muffled sobs were pathetic, and yet, they were painful to listen to.

“Come now, Mildred,” she spoke, attempting to make her voice softer for Mildred’s sake. She was never good at comforting others. “Dry your tears, we must find shelter before nightfall.”

“What if we don’t?” Mildred rubbed her eyes with her hands, her lip trembling slightly. “What if we never make it back home, and I never see my friends again?!”

“Rest assured, we will return to the academy,” Miss Hardbroom replied, ignoring the warmth in her heart when Mildred referred to that dreary old castle as a home. “But we have to start walking. Perhaps we’ll find Ethel on the way. And I’m sure that if one of the academies finds her, Miss Drill would let us know.”

She didn’t know why she was saying these things. She couldn’t understand it. None of that was guaranteed, and in actuality, their chances of survival were less than stellar. For some strange reason, however, Miss Hardbroom couldn’t bring herself to tell Mildred that.

“You’re right,” Mildred admitted. “I’m just being stupid.”

Miss Hardbroom nodded, tugging her along by the wrist. “Very stupid,” she added, a hint of affection in her tone. Goddamn it if this child wasn’t making her soft. “Now stop crying, the whole forest can hear you.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Bang!

The squirrel toppled off the tree and collapsed onto the ground. It wouldn’t be enough to feed both herself and Mildred, but Miss Hardbroom had already decided she’d offer it to the girl. After all, she was her teacher. It was her job to take care of the students, regardless of how insolent and mischievous they could be.

She looked at the sky. As the sun set, strawberry skies transformed into a dark navy, glittering with countless stars. There hadn’t been that many near Cackle’s due to the light pollution from nearby cities and towns. They were farther than she thought.

Miss Hardbroom lifted up the dead squirrel by its tail and trekked back to the small cave she’d found for Mildred and herself. The young girl was still sitting against the wall, her knees pulled to her chest. Her mentor had strictly told her to stay put until she returned with food, and for once, Mildred had followed her directions.

Mildred made a face at the creature dangling from Miss Hardbroom’s hand. “A squirrel?” She asked in disbelief.

Miss Hardbroom briskly passed her and laid the squirrel onto a rock. “Yes,” she said calmly, flicking open a pocket knife. “And I am going to gut it. Would you gather some sticks and conduct a simple fire spell, Mildred?”

The woman didn’t know how to gut any sort of animal, but it couldn’t be that hard, could it? As disgusting as it was, she wouldn’t have Mildred go hungry. It was Miss Hardbroom’s job to care for students like her. At least, that was what she told herself. Surely she couldn’t be doing it for any other reasons.

Tentatively, she dug the blade into its fur and dragged it along its body and down towards its tail. It was just a dissection, Constance, you've done one before at Weirdsisters. Well, this was a very bloody dissection, but a dissection nonetheless and– “Oh, Merlin,” Miss Hardbroom cursed under her breath, pinching what she assumed was an intestine. No, no this was disgusting. What was she thinking? Oh, fuck, it was pregnant. Where was the ‘meat,’ even–?

“Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred said behind her, having successfully started a small fire on a pile of sticks without the need for a fire spell. There was a tiny smile on her lips. “Are you okay?”

Miss Hardbroom turned to look at her. Her hands were coated in squirrel blood and her brows were furrowed in a hilarious display of confusion. Parted lips gave Mildred no response.

“Do you… Um.” Mildred gave a soft huff of laughter. “Do you need help?”

“I’m fine,” Miss Hardbroom insisted.

“The squirrel doesn’t even look like a squirrel anymore.”

Miss Hardbroom stared at the ‘squirrel’ again. The corner of her lips curled upwards in a wry smile. “It’s a work in progress, I can assure you. Perhaps you’d like to finish it up?”

Mildred’s face scrunched up, her smile dropping immediately. She stared at the mutilated creature with a look of pure horror.

And Miss Hardbroom laughed at that. Genuinely laughed. As horrible as their situation was, she laughed until her chest hurt and her eyes stung with tears. “Mildred, you–” She burst into another fit of giggles and hiccups, wrapping her arms around her stomach. “Don’t make that face!”

“What face?” Mildred asked, giving her side-eye.

“That face! Oh, just– Fine, I will gut it.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and turned back to the mutilated squirrel. “Please, get away from me, you fiend.”

Mildred walked back to the fire and prodded it with a stick. That laugh echoed in her mind. She’d never heard Miss Hardbroom giggle like that before. In fact, she’d never seen her so happy. It prompted a smile of her own, listening to Miss Hardbroom slice the meat with her knife.

For the first time since the world fell apart, Mildred felt safe. Was that weird? There was no other way to describe it. The glow of the fire warmed her skin through her clothes and danced across the walls of the cave, while Miss Hardbroom hummed and cut the squirrel to feed her. It was all surprisingly domestic, and Mildred… Liked it.

Was this what a mother was like?

She shook the thought from her head, embarrassed for even imagining Miss Hardbroom like that. Her mentor hated her… But if she hated her, would she really laugh with her like that? Maybe she was laughing at her. That would make more sense. Then why would Miss Hardbroom make food for her?

Why did Miss Hardbroom have to be so confusing? Pick a lane.

With a flick of her wrist, Miss Hardbroom levitated a flat rock over the fire and laid the sliced meat over it. The squirrel dripped red into the flames that licked the underside of the makeshift pan. It wasn’t much, but it should be enough to sustain Mildred until the morning. With a light touch to the rock, Miss Hardbroom felt it beginning to heat up. The meat would be done cooking in several minutes.

In the meantime, she took a seat against the cave wall opposite of Mildred and sighed, exhaustion beginning to take over. Her unabashed laughter had given her a slight boost of energy, but not enough to counter the transportation spell from earlier that evening, nor the walk to the cave.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred said tentatively. “I don’t know if that squirrel can feed the both of us.”

Miss Hardbroom only unclipped her cloak and draped it over herself. “Of course not. It’s for you.”

“For me?” Mildred blinked in confusion. “Aren’t you hungry?”

The woman shook her head, watching the fire dance across the sticks. “Not particularly,” she replied.

That was a lie. She’d foolishly skipped lunch in favor of giving a few of the girls extra lessons on potions and explosives. By now, her stomach had begun to collapse in on itself and the scent of that disgusting squirrel now smelled divine.

Not like she’d ever tell Mildred any of that.

“Mildred, I am going to sleep.” She said sternly, although her eyes were already half-closed as she spoke the words. “When your food is done, you will put out the fire and move the stone onto the ground.”

“Miss Hardbroom, I’m not sure I can…”

“You’ll figure it out. Do not leave this cave for any reason.” Miss Hardbroom shuffled where she was, laying on the cold dirt with her arm tucked under her head. Once her eyes were closed, it took all of her willpower not to open them again at the sound of Mildred’s movement. Every time she looked away, that insufferable girl somehow caused magical mishaps entirely by accident. It was a wonder she had been able to join Cackle's Academy in the first place.

“Miss Hardbroom?” Mildred’s voice whispered from her side of the cave. “Miss Hardbroom? Is she already asleep? Wow, okay. I guess she’s tired.”

The rustling of fabric.

“Ew, ew, ew what is that? Is that a centipede? Why is it so fast, I don’t like that—“

“Mildred,” Miss Hardbroom mumbled, her voice muffled by sleep. “Quiet, please.”

“Oh, sorry. Uh— By the way. When it’s cooked, what should it look like?”

Miss Hardbroom’s eyes were too heavy to open. She vaguely waved her hand and subconsciously pulled her cloak tighter to herself. “Mm, brown…”

“Okay, it’s good now. I’m gonna— Oh, whoops. Wait no, I got it… There we go.” A little sigh from Mildred’s side of the cave. “Now what do I— Do I use my hands? I’m gonna use my hands. Ouch, hot hot hot.”

“Mildred…” Miss Hardbroom muttered again, her face scrunching up in mild frustration.

“Oh. Sorry.” A silence. Then a hand brushed Miss Hardbroom’s shoulder. “Wait, um. Miss Hardbroom?”

Miss Hardbroom groaned and retreated further into the comfort of the fabric cocoon she’d crafted around herself.

“Miss Hardbroom, I— Um. Is everything going to be okay, do you think…?”

At that, the woman urged herself to open her eyes and was met with the vision of Mildred leaning over her with a slice of cooked meat in her hand. The girl was fidgeting with one of her plaits; Something Miss Hardbroom noticed she did whenever she felt uncertain. The fire behind Mildred had died down to a soft, dwindling glow that cast most of her face in shadow.

“Mildred Hubble,” Miss Hardbroom said slowly, her voice softened by sleep or something else entirely. “We will be alright, I promise you.”

“How are you so sure?” Mildred mumbled. Her eyes darted over Miss Hardbroom’s face.

Her mentor remained laying on the ground, looking up at her tiredly. “I’m not,” she replied. “I only said it to calm you down. Did it work?”

Mildred managed a reluctant smile. “A little, I guess.”

“Good, now go to sleep after you’ve eaten.” Miss Hardbroom sighed deeply and rolled over to face the wall.

There was a long silence, only accompanied by the crackling of the fire. A moment of peace that was (as Miss Hardbroom's moments of peace often are) inevitably interrupted by Mildred: “Can I sleep next to you?”

The woman's eyes snapped open. She shivered at the thought. “Absolutely not, what do you take me for?”

“I don’t know, you’ve been very nice to me recently. And it’s really dark and cold—“

“For Merlin’s sake, Mildred, let me sleep.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. Goodnight, Miss.”

“Goodnight you… Foolish child.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

When morning had come, Miss Hardbroom awoke to the sound of singing birds and sunlight. By some miraculous stroke of luck, none of the undead had spotted them, or if they’d had, they’d assumed they were dead.

She looked past the extinguished fire to the girl leaning on the opposite wall of the cave. Mildred had fallen asleep with her arms wrapped around her stomach and her knees tucked in.

“MILDRED!" Miss Hardbroom spoke loudly, secretly getting her back for that unnecessary whisper in her ear the other night.

Mildred yelped and abruptly sat up, clutching her head in one hand. “Miss!”

"Up and at ‘em, we need to keep moving.” The woman briskly kicked their campfire and sent charred sticks flying across the cave floor. “We have a long walk ahead of us. I hope you slept well.”

”Hardly,” Mildred grumbled, rising to her feet. “It was freezing.”

”Oh, don’t be a baby about it.” Miss Hardbroom said dismissively, making her way to the cave entrance.

Mildred frowned and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “Why do you always have to be like this?” She mumbled, just loud enough for Miss Hardbroom to hear.

Her mentor spun around and stared at her with widened eyes and furrowed brows. “I beg your pardon?”

”You’re always so confusing.” Mildred huffed. “One minute you’re laughing, and the next you’re nagging.”

”That’s—“ Miss Hardbroom’s mouth opened to respond, yet she couldn’t think of a word to say. What was she doing? Why had she been acting differently nowadays?

She told herself she’d only been watching over Mildred Hubble because the girl was one of the many students under her care.

But then again, Mildred had made her laugh. And if Constance was being honest, she hadn’t laughed like that in thirty years.

“You have this…” Her voice faltered. She struggled to find the words to explain herself. “You have this innate ability to make everyone around you feel... Happier. I don’t know how you do it,” Miss Hardbroom breathed, flexing her fingers. “But you do. You’re very charming, Mildred, even to me. And I dislike that about you.”

Mildred watched her in silence. The other woman clenched and unclenched her hands, not knowing what to do with them.

“Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred began. “That has got to be the strangest compliment I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s not a compliment, it is an observation from a neutral standpoint,” Miss Hardbroom said quickly. And before Mildred could open her mouth, she added embarrassedly, “Let’s start walking, shall we?”

Chapter Text

“Get up.”

Ethel’s eyes fluttered open to the view of a black plastic tarp. The grass was soft under her skin, the wind breezed gently through her hair. For a second, she thought she was dead. The thought brought a strange sense of comfort.

To be dead was to be free from the stress of survival. Miss Drill’s marathons, Miss Cackle’s and Miss Hardbroom’s lessons, the ridiculous ‘therapy’ sessions with Miss Bat. Rationing food while little girls pressed their faces to ashen windows, watching the world collapse.

When that gruff voice spoke again, “Get up,” Ethel closed her eyes again and breathed. She wasn’t dead. She was very much alive, as disappointing as it was, and the pain in her ankle was absolutely unbearable. Ethel dug her hands into the soil and forced her body to sit up. Before her, kneeling before a fire, was Deirdre Swoop and the corpse of a fawn. Deirdre was digging a large, jagged knife into its flesh and skillfully sectioning it into pieces.

“Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Deirdre said sarcastically, barely glancing up from her work. Once she’d successfully stabbed a stick through slices of venison and set it over the fire, she dusted off her hands and stood up. “Give it ten, and we’ll eat.”

“Oh,” Ethel rubbed her eyes and walked over to the fire. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” The older girl crossed her arms and stared grimly at the flames. Her next words were spoken so casually, Ethel wasn’t sure she heard them correctly: “Once we get to Pentangles, we’re going to chop that leg right off.”

“I’m sorry, what now?”

Deirdre gave an exasperated sigh. “I suppose you haven’t heard the news. Amulet’s Academy found out that when someone is bitten, it’s best to chop off the bitten limb before the infection spreads any further.” She vaguely waved her hand towards Ethel. “It’s been, what, fourteen? Sixteen hours since you were bitten? That green tinge has spread all over your leg. And before you ask, yes, I did hike up your pant leg to check.”

Ethel felt as if she were in a daze. Deirdre had dropped several tons of information right on her head, and Ethel had only caught a few phrases. Mainly that her leg was meant to be chopped off once they got to Pentangle’s. “Awful. This is awful. I’m going to die.”

“Yes, if we don’t get a move on. Now quit whining and sit down, for fuck’s sake.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The walk was spent in tense silence. Or at least, it seemed tense on Ethel’s part. She wasn’t very fond of the idea of Pentangle’s teachers sawing off her leg, even if she was going to be under a spell the whole procedure to help with the pain. Ethel bit her lip, worrying she’d lose too much blood. She doubted the teachers would even know how to safely operate on a young girl.

There was also the fact that she would never trust Phyllis Pentangle with her life.

It wasn’t long before a castle came into view, looming past a hill riddled with unkempt thorn bushes, all adorned with the rotting bodies of the undead. A few of them squirmed in their presence, growling and grasping at them. Deirdre didn’t flinch at their stares. Ethel, on the other hand, squeaked and hurried to keep up.

It was Pentangle’s own method of defense, similar to Cackle’s magical veil. And by the looks of it, it was much more effective. A few undead managed to leak through Cackle's veil, after all. Miss Bat suspected that the ones that did slip through their veil were undead witches, but no one gave her words much thought. 

But unlike Cackle’s Academy, whose vines and evergreens gave it an air of familiarity and comfort, the thorns from Pentangle’s defense system had crawled up the castle walls and curled over its windows. The building was taller, thinner, and if Miss Hardbroom was a building, this was the perfect representation of her. Ethel never thought she’d think that sentence in her life (“If Miss Hardbroom was a building”), but she supposed her situation was so terrible that her brain didn’t function properly anymore.

The heavy wooden doors swung open, revealing a blonde woman in a glittering pink dress. Except, the dress was stained with dried blood and dirt. The end of the world had taken a toll on everyone, apparently, including Barbie dolls.

“Come in,” she said, ushering them in with a smile. There were bags under her eyes from lack of sleep. “Come in, you must be exhausted. Thank you, Deirdre, I’ll take it from here.”

Deirdre was already walking away, her arms crossed over her chest. The Barbie doll gave a small, awkward laugh that screamed ‘Everything is not fine, I am in constant pain and haven’t slept in 72 hours.’ “She always does that. I’m terribly sorry, she's been stressed recently. We’ve all been. You’re Ethel, aren’t you? Let’s go to the hospital wing, our nurse can take care of you.”

Ethel looked at her skeptically. She wasn’t comfortable with Phyllis Pentangle managing her injury, and didn’t feel any better about the Barbie. “Who are you, exactly?” She asked, careful not to sound disrespectful.

“Sorry–” The woman gave another small, stressed laugh. “I’m Pippa. Headmistress Pentangle’s daughter. I’m meant to be the next headmistress, but for now, I’m just the charms mistress. How are you?” Ethel opened her mouth to answer, but Pippa quickly cut her off with an apologetic smile that was just a little too wide. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry for all of this. You girls were never supposed to deal with the Apocalypse, yet here we are.”

“For what it’s worth,” Ethel placed a hand on Pippa’s arm and found it trembling. “You teachers weren’t supposed to deal with it, either.”

Pippa’s smile softened, only slightly. “Thank you. Ah, before I send you in, I just need to know– How are things at Cackle’s?”

“We’ve been managing fine, I think. We have a good schedule to balance out work, and the teachers pull their own weight. Some try to pull more than others.”

“You mean Hardbroom?” Pippa asked her, a knowing look in her eyes. She had stopped shaking.

Ethel blinked in surprise. “Yes, how did you know?”

Elsewhere in the castle, a bell tolled three times. On cue, dozens of students filed out of their classrooms and into the hallway, each carrying weaponry. As the two witches were swarmed with clamor, Pippa leaned down and patted Ethel’s shoulder. “Go into the infirmary. I have to let Headmistress Cackle know we have you.” With an uncertain smile, she added. “You’ll be alright, sweetheart.”

Ethel severely doubted that.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Drill sat by the radio, her hands gripping the microphone in a death grip. “Okay, let me get this straight. You are going to saw Ethel’s leg off, with a handsaw from your gardening shed.”

Phyllis Pentangle’s voice drifted across the speaker of the small device. “I won’t repeat it. Look, Miss Drain–”

“Miss Drill.”

“Miss Drain, ” Headmistress Pentangle continued. “Amulet’s Academy says this is a good solution. Simply slice off the infected part before it spreads any further. We’ll put the girl under a spell to help with the pain.”

“Yes, yes, you’ve said that already,” Miss Drill replied, growing frustrated with the woman’s attitude. “It’ll help with the pain, but is that all? I mean, will Ethel still be awake through the whole thing? What if she happens to look down and watch her leg being–”

“Oh, it’ll be fine. I wouldn’t expect an ordinary like you to understand, anyway.” Headmistress Pentangle practically spat out the word. Of course she’d be one of those witches. Fucking anti-ordinaries. Ordinary-phobic? Whatever they were called. Miss Drill fumed at her tone, though the other woman hung up before she could say a retort of her own.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Hardbroom stopped in her tracks, now clutching the handheld radio with both hands. “They’re going to what?”

Mildred stood beside the potions mistress, subtly leaning towards her in a futile attempt to hear some of what Miss Cackle was saying. By the look on Miss Hardbroom’s face, it was quite serious. And Mildred wanted in on the details.

“Oh, like that makes it any better,” Miss Hardbroom hissed through her teeth, now tapping her feet anxiously in the ground. “I can’t believe this. If this goes wrong—“ A pause. “Yes, yes, I know.”

The young girl instinctively reached for her plait, fidgeting with it nervously. Once Miss Hardbroom had clipped the radio back onto her belt, Mildred was quick to ask her questions. “Miss Hardbroom, what’s happened? Is everything okay?”

“Well,” Miss Hardbroom took a deep breath. There was no delicate way to say this. “Ethel’s going to have her leg amputated. Most of the witching academies have agreed that’s the best course of action for an infection, so Pentangles is… Helping us.”

Mildred paled at the words. “Ethel—“

“I know, I know.” The woman bit her knuckle, pacing back and forth. Mildred remembered the potions mistress doing so whenever she’d been stressed at the Academy... Which was all the time. “Let me think, Mildred, let me think.”

And Mildred did let her think. For a few minutes, at least, until she heard a little grumble from somewhere nearby. She’d assumed it was just the wind in the trees, or a very odd sounding bird, but then it came again. This time, from Miss Hardbroom’s direction. Right, the woman hadn’t eaten since… Okay, well, Mildred hadn’t seen Miss Hardbroom eat in a long while, but she assumed she’d eaten at lunch yesterday.

While Miss Hardbroom was pacing in circles, Mildred hefted her rifle and slipped away. She hoped to find food for her mentor in return for her recent kindness. Preferably, food that didn’t involve the killing of an animal. Maybe berries? But Mildred always fell asleep halfway through Miss Bat’s ramblings about plants. She regretted it deeply.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by a hare wandering by. It tilted its head to sniff at the air, the sunlight filtering through the trees and onto its soft, cinnamon fur. Mildred considered shooting it, but—

“Mildred?” Miss Hardbroom called, a touch of worry seeping into her voice. “Mildred, where are you? You foolish girl, I told you to stay close to me!”

Mildred took a breath and aimed her rifle. “Sorry, little guy,” she whispered, her finger hooking over the trigger. The little creature stared at her curiously, its nose twitching a little. Mildred felt guilty just looking at it. She never wanted to end life, even life as simple as a hare.

With a bang, smoke drifted from the barrel of the gun. The hare tensed, its pupils dilated, and it collapsed to the ground in a heap of fur and flesh. The forest was silent, save for the birds and insects. Life had moved on, even when the forest was one member short.

“Mildred!” Miss Hardbroom yelled, sprinting towards the sound. She found her girl laying on her stomach, her rifle over her shoulder. “Mildred, what in Merlin’s name are you doing? You should never run off like that."

The woman’s gaze drifted to the hare. The creature lay on its side, the blood spilling from a little hole in its hip. Its glazed eyes would reflect its fear for as long as its body remained intact. It was a tragic sight. Mildred felt sick to her stomach for murdering a hare that had done no wrong.

“You shot a rabbit?” Miss Hardbroom said, her voice quieter than usual.

“A hare,” Mildred corrected, rising to her feet. The light in her eyes had dimmed. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Miss Hardbroom wasn’t sure how a girl could feel so much empathy for a wild creature, though she set a hand on her shoulder in what she hoped was a comforting gesture. “Why did you do that, Mildred?” She asked her.

Mildred couldn’t look at her. She was sorry. She was so very sorry. She knew Miss Hardbroom was starving and stressed— Mildred had only wanted to help her, but— What the hell had she done? She wasn’t a killer. She was fourteen.

It took a hand on her cheek for Mildred to realize she’d been crying. Specifically, Miss Hardbroom’s hand and the soft-spoken words, “Dry your eyes.” There wasn’t enough time to look up before Mildred found herself enveloped in a sea of black fabric and warmth. It was safe here, she realized, as she melted into Miss Hardbroom’s arms and buried her face into her shoulder.

“Thank you for that, Mildred,” came Miss Hardbroom’s voice from above her. A hand threaded through Mildred’s hair. “But from now on, perhaps we should leave the hunting to me. If you’d like to help, I can teach you which plants are safe to eat.”

Mildred felt tears dripping down her cheeks. They were lukewarm, and salty to her tongue. She hated how weak she was. Ironically, Miss Hardbroom hated the vulnerability, too. Each of them believed the other held some grudge, but when embraces were this soft and comfortable, grudges seemed irrelevant and petty.

“Did you really kill that hare because I was hungry?” Miss Hardbroom parted from her, only slightly. Her hands remained on Mildred’s shoulders, grounding her in the now.

Mildred managed a nod. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Miss.”

“It’s alright. You did well.” And Miss Hardbroom swallowed, her eyes holding a sincerity that Mildred had never seen before. She knew her next words would be something that Mildred needed to hear, something that Mildred hadn’t heard from anyone in all her years at Cackle’s Academy.

 “I’m proud of you, Mildred Hubble.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

After a long walk spent in an awkward silence, the two witches took shelter in an abandoned farmhouse and camped by a small fire. The girl had been dragging her feet for the past few hours, traumatized by the blood that stained her hands, and she wouldn’t look up despite Miss Hardbroom’s attempts at humor (jokes that were admittedly stolen from Miss Drill, who liked to walk into the staff room on Mondays and deliver a pun).

Miss Hardbroom was at a loss. She’d never seen Mildred so depressed before, and it unnerved her.

She guided Mildred to a seat by the fire and left to wander the house, hoping to find something of interest. Miss Hardbroom found the following items among the old furniture:

• A colored bead between the floorboards
• A feather the size of a pen
• A small, metallic box with several buttons, dials and lenses all over.

If the farmhouse contained a metal contraption with a complicated set of controls, the house most likely belonged to an ordinary family. Ordinaries often invented such machines to make up for their lack of magic. Miss Hardbroom didn’t understand how to work such a thing, but she supposed that Mildred would appreciate it.

“Mildred,” she said, returning to the main room. She held the metal box behind her back. “I have something for you.”

The girl looked up from the fire. Her eyes were puffy and red. “What?”

Miss Hardbroom moved around the flames and sat beside the young girl, holding the box out to her. “This, whatever it is.”

Mildred seemed to brighten at the sight and eagerly took it in her hands. “It’s a digital camera. Where’d you find it?”

Camera. What in hell’s name was a camera? “It had been under one of the beds.” Miss Hardbroom replied. She shifted closer to her, attempting to get a better look at the ‘camera.’ “What does it do?”

“It takes pictures.” Mildred smiled a little. “It’s only been a month or two since the world collapsed. Maybe it still has charge. Do you wanna try it out?”

The minute the girl pointed the lens towards Miss Hardbroom’s face, she recoiled and stared at the lens with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. Mildred broke into laughter.

“I’m glad you find my anxiety entertaining, Mildred.” Miss Hardbroom hissed, eyeing the camera suspiciously.

“Sorry, it’s just– You reacted very much like Tabby.”

“Tabby?” She gasped. “That mischievous furball you call your familiar? No, I should think not. I am just... Cautious about the ordinary devices I interact with.”

Mildred stifled a snort. “Yeah, sure.”

Miss Hardbroom watched her for a brief moment, ensuring that the girl wouldn’t tamper with the camera any further. She was beginning to regret handing her the device in the first place. Mildred only blinked innocently at her in a false display of obedience.

…The woman made the grave mistake of relaxing in Mildred’s presence. The second she did, the girl quickly snapped a photo of her. White light beamed right into Miss Hardbroom’s retinas and blazed into her skull, or at least, that’s what it felt like. She screeched (that was no understatement) and blocked the flash with her hands as fast as she could.

Mildred, meanwhile, was giggling at the screen on the camera. She giggled so hard, she fell back on the dirty floorboards and coughed out dust. Miss Hardbroom was too humiliated to spare a single glance at her.

“Mildred Hubble!” She scolded harshly, but it hardly worked on this girl anymore. Mildred kept laughing like mad, and Miss Hardbroom was secretly pleased to see Mildred back to her old, cheeky self (though she was determined not to show it).

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”

“You are not sorry!”

“I really am, I am!”

“Oh, give me that!” Miss Hardbroom snatched the camera and fidgeted with the settings. She managed to turn off the flash, but she ended up pointing the lens at herself and accidentally snapping a picture.

Behind the ash and dust over the camera’s screen was a charming image of Mildred laughing with her arms wrapped around her stomach, curled in a ball on the floor. On the left side, half of Constance's face smiled faintly at their ridiculous antics.

...Constance's gaze softened.

She liked that picture.

She liked it very much.

Chapter Text

When the sun rose over the farmhouse’s barren fields, Miss Hardbroom had already been awake for the past few hours. She’d searched the house a second time, determined to find something that could point them in the right direction. A wrinkled map lay in the deepest depths of a couch (along with more than a few maggots), and an old truck remained in the driveway, though it had barely any gas.

Sitting beside Mildred’s head and absentmindedly running a thumb over one of her plaits, Miss Hardbroom narrowed her eyes at the map. The previous owner had written “HOME” in red pen over a blank field not far from Aspenville, a small town close to Pentangle’s Academy. Meaning they would have to follow this road, take a left there, travel about two hundred miles to here, then–

Mildred grumbled sleepily, squirming where she lay. Miss Hardbroom folded up the map and watched her for a moment, a small smirk playing on her lips.

“Wake up, Mildred,” she told her, brushing the fringe from the girl’s forehead.

The girl groaned, shielding the light from her eyes with her forearm. “Five more minutes…”

“We are losing daylight,” Miss Hardbroom jabbed a finger into her side, eliciting a yelp from her young friend. “You can no longer awaken disastrously late with me around. Would you help me search for gas? I’m sure the farm has its own supply somewhere.” She moved about the dusty living room, ensuring they didn’t leave anything behind. Somewhere behind her, Mildred muttered something and dragged herself to her feet.

“Fine, okay,” the girl rubbed the sleep from her eyes and trudged to the door. “I’m looking, I’m looking.”

The search took longer than it should have. Mildred, for one, couldn’t seem to stop getting herself into trouble, whether that be crawling underneath the house or diving recklessly into hay bales. And Miss Hardbroom, for another, couldn’t stop running after the girl to save her from herself. In the end, the gas was kept in the garage: The first place they should have checked.

Pouring the gas into the tank, Miss Hardbroom suddenly realized that she couldn’t drive a car. But if an ordinary could manage it, it shouldn’t be too difficult for an esteemed witch such as herself. Right?

Suffice to say, she was wrong. One look inside the metal carriage, and it was just like all the other ordinary inventions: Unnecessarily complicated.

“Mildred?” She asked, just as the girl began to climb into the passenger seat. “Mildred, do you know how to drive a car?”

“One, this is a truck,” Mildred corrected her, moving back outside the 'truck.' “And two, responsible adults usually don’t tell kids to drive vehicles. I’m surprised, Miss.”

“It’s a unique situation, we’ll never speak of it again,” Miss Hardbroom spoke quickly, pushing her around the vehicle and towards the driver’s seat. The girl laughed, wriggling in her grasp. “Okay,” Mildred snickered. “I can figure it out, I guess.”

Miss Hardbroom breathed a sigh of relief. At least with Mildred, there was less of a chance of them crashing. Hopefully Mildred was better at driving vehicles than guiding her broom.

The two witches climbed into the car, and with a few turns of the key, Mildred had started the engine. The truck purred to life and coughed out a bit of smoke. Through stained windows, Mildred managed to back the truck out of the driveway and start it down the highway. Miss Hardbroom had her legs cramped up in the passenger seat, and only after thirty minutes on the road did Mildred remember to tell her that she could adjust her seat. Either that, or Mildred got a kick out of seeing Miss Hardbroom in uncomfortable situations.

As the skies brightened to a soft blue, the truck traversed through fields of dead crop and eventually returned to the forest. Miss Hardbroom was glued to the map, giving directions to Mildred whenever there was a crossroads. It was a longer trip than either of them expected, spent in awkward silence, until Miss Hardbroom had an idea.

“This is Hotstuff Haired Hardbroom,” Miss Hardbroom announced, her lips curling into a playful smile. “Coming to you live from the Middle of Nowhere!”

Mildred gave a huff of laughter. “What are you doing?”

“Welcome to the Witchy Hour, Mildred Hubble,” Miss Hardbroom said proudly, leaning back in her seat and tapping the theme music on the dashboard.

Mildred chuckled. “There’s no way you’re doing the Witchy Hour right now. I was sitting right next to you, I saw you make that nickname on the spot.”

“You’ll never let me live that down, will you?”

“No, Miss Hardbro—“

“That’s Hotstuff Haired Hardbroom to you, Mildred,” Miss Hardbroom said loudly, putting on her announcer voice again. Mildred smiled and privately decided to let her have her fun.

“In the Witches’ Code, what is rule number eight?” Her mentor asked her. She looked at her expectantly, and Mildred racked her brain for answers.

“Oh, you asked me this question last time! What was it, what was it?”

“The rule,” Miss Hardbroom spoke, “is simply there to remind us that…?”

Mildred brightened, breaking into a wide smile. “That there’s a rule for everything! Even if we don’t know what it is.”

“Good! Five points to Cackle’s Academy. Next question: What spell can change an inanimate object into a bird?”

“Uh— Right! It’s ‘Objectus Inertus, Areatus Convertus!’” Mildred spoke. Light flickered across her fingertips, bounded over to the dashboard and transformed the truck's bobblehead into a little sparrow. Miss Hardbroom quickly opened the window for it, and once it fluttered out, she applauded Mildred with genuine excitement. “Well done, Mildred, well done! Now, what is Miss Cackle’s favorite pastry?”

“Easy,” the girl said smugly. “It’s Miss Cosie’s cheesecake.”

“Correct. And how might one organize their sock drawer?”

Mildred choked on air and covered her mouth with her hand. “Wait," she snickered. "Wait, hold on, how is that even a quiz question?”

Miss Hardbroom only looked out the window in a dramatic display of introspection. “The Lord works in mysterious ways…” She said, narrowing her eyes at the horizon.

The girl had to hold back a giggle. “You’re killing me, Miss. Okay. Um... I guess by color?”

“Or by length,” Miss Hardbroom added.

“Or by length, yeah, sure.” Mildred smirked and bit her lip. “Miss— I mean— Hotstuff Haired Hardbroom, I have a question.”

“Yes, Mildred, go ahead.”

“Back when the Witchy Hour was hosted at Cackle’s, why didn’t you go with that guy?” Mildred snapped her fingers. “What’s his name— Icy Stevens! You could’ve been in France with Icy Stevens and a better paying job.”

Miss Hardbroom elbowed her with a smile. “And stay away from my favorite girls? Oh, you wish, Mildred Hubble. Besides, I don’t prefer men. I might even have my eyes on a certain woman.”

“Oh wow, what?”

“Yes, she and I have been meeting for quite a while.” The woman told her, a hint of dreamy wonder in her voice.

“How long is ‘a while?’”

“Hm, since our college days.”

Mildred’s jaw fell open. She smacked the steering wheel with one hand. “And she’s not your girlfriend by now?! Do you know how many signs you probably missed?! Miss Hardbroom!”

Miss Hardbroom buried her face in her hands, her cheeks flushing with a subtle red. “I know, Mildred, I know—!”

“And you say I’m the idiot!” Mildred gasped. “Move faster!“

The two witches proceeded to be stuck in playful argument for the rest of the trip, with Mildred teasing the life out of her mentor and Miss Hardbroom desperately resisting the urge to pinch her arm. The silence that followed that argument was oddly comfortable, and Miss Hardbroom even found herself humming a little tune.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

When night approached, Mildred parked the truck at a gas station and went around the vehicle to open the door for her mentor. Miss Hardbroom graciously accepted her help and led the way to the entrance of the gas station. After a brief glance over its empty shelves and stained windows, she declared it safe enough for Mildred to enter.

“We can rest here for the night.” She said, barricading the door with a plastic chair for good measure. Dusting off her hands, Miss Hardbroom moved to the center of the store and laid her cloak down on the tiled floors. “We’ll travel again first thing tomorrow.”

Mildred gave a nod of affirmation and followed her example, placing her cloak right beside hers. “Driving is tiring,” she yawned, attempting to find a comfortable position on the ground.

As Miss Hardbroom laid down next to her, she watched how tired the girl looked. Droopy eyes, sluggish movements, and a slightly muffled voice. She sighed. “Well, I suppose I could take over. I’ve watched you enough to understand this ‘truck.’”

“Thanks, Miss.”

“Of course, Mildred.”

The sun finally set, casting the gas station and the land around it into shadow. Despite the scurrying of a mouse somewhere else in the room, Miss Hardbroom realized she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. Her focus was on the girl, laying facing her with both hands cupped over her mouth (as if that would shield her from the cold, Miss Hardbroom worried). The infuriating, obnoxious troublemaker, who had been the bane of her existence, had her plaits in a mess after two days of neglect.

What are you doing, Constance?

Miss Hardbroom sighed and closed her eyes, wishing she had a bottle of Sound-Asleep potion to help her rest.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

On a winter morning, Miss Hardbroom awoke to the sound of boisterous laughter and merriment in the hallway. It was just a week until midterms, she thought bitterly, and the girls were already celebrating. Couldn’t they wait until the holidays to have their fun?

Grumbling, she pulled herself from her bed and made herself presentable with a few silent spells. The usual tight bun and dark dress would do.

Time to scold unruly children.

Miss Hardbroom stormed into the hallway, and with an apparition spell, appeared beside the culprits: Mildred Hubble and company (she should have expected as much). Maud Moonshine, Enid Nightshade, Jadu Wali, and Ruby Cherrytree were present at the time, including two fourth years, whom Miss Hardbroom recognized as Fenella and Griselda. Surprisingly enough, Ethel and Drusilla stood amongst the group. The students seemed to be having their own little party in a storage room. Typical. Every student at Cackle’s Academy was roped into Mildred Hubble’s antics, somehow.

“What is going on here?” She shouted. Her eyes flicked to the strawberry cake that Ruby was busy handing out. Not that she wanted a slice.

“It’s Mildred’s birthday,” Maud explained, motioning at the streamers the girls had levitated over the shelves. “And since it’s a Friday, we figured–”

“Have you forgotten midterms are around the corner? Ethel, Drusilla, I expected better from you two,” Miss Hardbroom shot them a glare, which Ethel attempted to avoid by looking down at her feet. The potions mistress’ eyes were drawn to the corner, where Sybil cowered behind Clarice.

Mildred’s birthday, was it? Miss Hardbroom looked towards the girl, who offered her an awkward smile.

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom.”

Miss Hardbroom sighed exasperatedly. “Just celebrate quietly,” she told them, disappearing in a puff of smoke.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Miss Hardbroom’s eyes snapped open. The sun had just begun to shine over the ceiling above her, albeit in subdued tones. It was morning, and judging by the soft snoring, Mildred was still asleep.

She could only stare at the ceiling for a moment. With her hand resting over her chest, she could feel her heart beating steadily. Miss Hardbroom realized, then, how well she could remember her students’ faces. What they sounded like when they laughed. How they would get into the deepest trouble and find themselves unscathed in the end. She missed her girls. She missed them so dearly, she thought she could lay there for hours and recall each one of them in detail.

…Constance felt herself crying. She rushed to dry her tears on her sleeves before Mildred woke up.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Once Mildred had ensured her mentor knew which part did what, Miss Hardbroom was ready to drive the next morning. After some initial struggles getting the truck out of the gas station, the two witches were on their way back home. Mildred, posing as ‘Mischief Making Mildred,’ started a new game titled ‘the Ordinary Hour.’ She quizzed her mentor on various ordinary items and their applications. Bleach. Air conditioners. Planes. Miss Hardbroom begrudgingly learned a thing or two from her.

A gun fired somewhere. Before either of them knew it, there was a hole in their windshield and a bullet in Mildred’s chair, just barely missing her shoulder. Miss Hardbroom’s breathing went erratic, her hands jolting to the side and abruptly turning the truck towards the left. It flipped onto its side, rolled onto its back, then back onto its side again, as the vehicle tumbled down a small hill and into the trees aside from the road. Mildred screamed and curled into a ball. Miss Hardbroom gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white.

When the noise and clamor had ceased, Miss Hardbroom reluctantly removed her hands from the wheel. Her head throbbed, the blood rushing to her brain from the gravity. What was going on? Where was she? She tried to ground herself in the small details: The truck was upside-down. There was blood seeping through the sleeve of her blouse. Smoke drifted from the engine. Her name was Constance.

Miss Hardbroom looked to her side. Mildred was still in a ball, though the hands that were clutching her hair had relaxed. Her back no longer rose and fell with her breathing.

Constance’s heart stopped.

“Mildred?!” She screamed, her hands reaching towards her to feel for her pulse.

The girl jolted awake, registering her surroundings. Her eyes landed on her mentor. Miss Hardbroom’s hair was disheveled, her sleeve was dripping with blood at the elbow, and her eyes seemed on the verge of tearing up. She was distressed, that much was clear, but the sight of Mildred had somehow calmed her down.

“You frightened me,” Miss Hardbroom said, attempting a half-hearted smile that only faded at the sound of another gunshot. “Unbuckle your seatbelt, Mildred." She whispered urgently. "Quickly.”

Mildred’s hands fumbled at her waist for the belt. Through her window, she caught a glimpse of a pair of boots and cargo pants. Then four pairs of boots, then six, and then there were four armed individuals standing on her side of the truck. The gun pointed at Mildred’s head asked one question: Who are you?

Miss Hardbroom, who had just managed to take off her seatbelt and collapse onto the truck’s ceiling, looked at her quizzically. “What’s the matter, Mildred?”

Mildred ignored her, offering the strangers a tight-lipped smile. “Hi,” she spoke, still hanging upside down. “I’m Millie. This is my mum, Connie. We mean you no harm.”

Chapter Text

“I’m Millie, this is my mum, Connie. We mean you no harm.”

The words were strained as they fell from Mildred's lips. Crouching behind her, all Miss Hardbroom could see was the tension in her shoulders and the slight tremble in her hands. She couldn’t see who the girl was speaking to, but it was someone they had the displeasure of meeting.

Miss Hardbroom didn't often trust her instincts. But today, they told her to play along.

“Millie, darling,” she spoke loudly, her voice carrying faux sweetness. “Who are you talking to?”

Mildred unbuckled her belt and toppled to the truck’s ceiling with her. Her eyes remained trained on whoever stood outside. “Just some people, Mum.” The look of fear in her eyes told Miss Hardbroom needed to know. Armed, more people than Mildred was comfortable with, and a situation dire enough to validate lies.

Miss Hardbroom reached for Mildred’s hand. It was sweaty, cold, and small in comparison her own. For all the confidence she exuded, Mildred was still a girl under her protection. With a little tug, she guided the girl outside the broken vehicle with her.

Four individuals were gathered at the truck, eyeing them warily. Although armed, they seemed as civil as post-apocalyptic survivors could get. Three men and one woman were a part of this crew, dressed in casual wear stained in dirt and dried blood. A man scolded the survivor who pointed a gun at Mildred’s head. “Jonathan, put the gun down,” he hissed through his teeth, already lowering his own rifle. “That is a child.”

“Yeah, Nick, and she’s armed,” Jonathan said, narrowing his eyes at Mildred. Mildred maintained her innocent stare, which Miss Hardbroom was mildly impressed with. After her years at Cackle's Academy, the girl had indeed become an expert troublemaker. Miss Hardbroom recognized that stare herself.

“Right, does it look like they can hurt a fly?” Nick vaguely waved his hand at them. “One’s a little girl, and the other’s a frail woman. They look as if they haven’t eaten in ages.”

Miss Hardbroom was offended. Frail? Her? She didn’t look that weak, did she?

Beside her, Mildred seethed quietly. ‘Little girl’ was far off.

“Who are you?” Miss Hardbroom asked them bluntly, keeping a hand on her student’s shoulder. The strangers were on thin ice.

“Oh, right.” The woman stepped forward and cleared her throat. “We’re from Aspenville. Just looking for food for the others.”

Miss Hardbroom’s grip on Mildred tightened. “There are more of you?’

Nick nodded and smiled. “Yes, we’ve heard of witches in these woods. And I know what you’re thinking:” He raised his hands by his head and put on a high-pitched voice. “'Witches don’t exist!’ Well believe it or not, we’ve had several sightings of women flying on brooms. Most carry luggage with them. And if they’re doing well enough to have luggage…” His smile widened. “Then they must have supplies, right?”

The potions mistress felt Mildred tense. She gave her shoulder a subtle squeeze as if to say, ‘It’s alright.’

Jonathan hesitantly lowered his shotgun, still regarding the duo with trepidation. When one of his peers leaned in and whispered into his ear, he gave an exasperated sigh. “We’d love to have you join us,” he muttered bitterly.

Miss Hardbroom didn’t trust the strangers, but she was aware of how starved Mildred was. The poor girl had refused to eat the hare she’d hunted the day before, and Miss Hardbroom wasn’t doing any better. They needed food, fresh water, and medical supplies.

The witch exchanged glances with the girl. Sensing nothing but desperation, Miss Hardbroom reluctantly accepted the survivors' offer.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

The group of survivors owned a rusted pick-up truck that had clearly seen better days. While Jonathan, the gruff man that screamed ‘untrustworthy’ to Miss Hardbroom, drove down the road, the others were seated in the back with Mildred and her 'mother.' Miss Hardbroom hadn’t released Mildred for one moment, insisting the girl stay by her side.

“So,” one of the women on the truck asked, glancing between the two. “What are both of y’all doing out here?”

Miss Hardbroom, who had an arm around Mildred, spoke for the both of them. “Looking for resources. What other reason would there be?”

The survivors didn’t seem to think much of her words, save for Jonathan, who glanced in the rearview mirror. Mildred caught a glimpse of it and held Miss Hardbroom's hand a little tighter. The man beside her offered her a smile in a pathetic attempt to comfort her. “It’s gonna be alright, kid. We’re going to a safe place.”

Mildred doubted anywhere could be considered a safe place anymore, except the arms of her mentor. Miss Hardbroom still held her close to her side, and the girl was thankful for it. Otherwise, her quivering would be more evident.

When she felt her shoulder grow wet, she glanced over her shoulder and found Miss Hardbroom’s blood dripping onto her clothing. Mildred’s brows furrowed. “Mum, you’re hurt.”

Miss Hardbroom ignored the strange feeling that name gave her and replied, “I’m alright, Millie.”

Another one of the survivors perked up. “We can bandage you both when we get there.”

It seemed as if every survivor had eyes on them. They listened to their conversations, watched every movement, anticipated every action. They would have to wait for a moment of privacy to talk properly.

“I’d prefer it if my daughter bandaged me,” Miss Hardbroom said politely, regarding the strangers warily. Strangers were strangers, no matter how kind they acted. No amount of time would ever get her to trust them.

The rest of the ride was spent in silence. Mildred’s presence, at least, provided Miss Hardbroom with some comfort.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Two months (or three months? Out of all people, Miss Hardbroom should have been able to track the days) after humanity collapsed, Aspenville had improvised: The surviving townspeople dwelled in empty shops along the main street, which had been walled off using spiked wooden barriers. They were doing well for themselves, judging by their trading at makeshift tents and farming in what used to be flower beds.

The pick-up truck rolled through the gates and parked by the sidewalk. As Miss Hardbroom and Mildred got off the truck, the strangers followed. An old man, likely the leader of the group, stepped forward and spoke with Jonathan aside.

A boy no older than ten rushed forward, thrust a roll of bandages into Mildred’s arms and ran off. She looked to Miss Hardbroom (who returned her confused stare), then at the people of Aspenville. “Do any of you have somewhere my mum and I can stay?”

The boy returned to her in a hurry, an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. “I forgot,” he whispered in her ear. “You can stay on the second floor of the um… Deli.”

Mildred nodded. She was about to say thank you, but the boy sprinted off before she could say a word. Shy kid. Then again, Mildred thought, glancing up at the woman wringing her hands, shy witch. Miss Hardbroom was out of her comfort zone in a community of ordinaries, and Mildred was determined not to let her lose herself. To return the favor, in a way.

“Come on, Mum,” she whispered to her, tugging her along by the wrist. “This way.”

She guided her past the strangers, who continued to eye them suspiciously. If they were going to stay here, she and Miss Hardbroom had to gain their trust. They could figure that out later. Fixing up her mentor’s arm was her priority.

The deli was a small thing, its door just barely visible behind two tents. Entering the shop, Mildred and Miss Hardbroom were hit with the scent of paper. The survivors had filled the deli with what books they had managed to recover. Judging by the fine layer of dust on the shelves, barely anyone visited the library; Aspenville was too focused on their survival to read about… “The Vegetarian Cookbook,” Miss Hardbroom muttered under her breath, narrowing her eyes at one of the novels on display. Mildred gently grabbed her by the arm. “No time for that. Come on, you’re losing blood.”

At the back of the shop was a narrow flight of wooden stairs that creaked under each footstep. They walked slowly for Miss Hardbroom’s sake, even though the woman insisted she could handle stairs without Mildred to support her.

The two witches found a room to the left, where two blankets had been laid adjacent to one another. It was completely devoid of furniture, and although the room possessed a single window, it was boarded up so thickly that the sun could barely peek through. For light, they relied on a single candle and half abox of matches.

Mildred guided Miss Hardbroom onto one of these blankets and examined her arm. Both of her arms had small shards of glass from the car crash. Her right arm was much worse than the left; The white fabric of her blouse had soaked with blood so thoroughly that it was dripping.

“How bad does it hurt, on a scale from one to ten?” Mildred asked, her fingers running along the wounded limn. “Ten being the worst.”

“It’s a three.”

The girl took a deep breath. “Stop lying, I know that’s not a three.”

Miss Hardbroom tilted her head back and closed her eyes tightly. “Fine, it is an seven-point-three.”

Mildred attempted to roll up her sleeve, which only elicited a sharp hiss from the woman. Alright, no rolling up any sleeves. What was she to do… Glass shards. Glass shards first, everything else later.

“I’m going to pluck these shards out. Just letting you know.”

The woman’s eyes shot open at those words. She itched to scold her for such a rash decision, but then again, Miss Hardbroom had begun to trust this girl. As prone to mishaps as Mildred was, she had rescued her from the waterfall at Rowan Webb’s Riverside Retreat, defended the school on multiple occasions, and even saved Sybil Hallow’s life. She had a knack for saving lives, and a deep dislike of ending them.

“I trust you, Mildred,” she said, extending the wounded arm towards her.

Mildred nodded to her and reached for the first glass shard. Once she had gripped it between two fingers, she slowly pulled it from her mentor’s flesh.

Miss Hardbroom winced and bit down on her lip.

Mildred plucked out the next one.

Miss Hardbroom let out the softest little whimper. It broke Mildred’s heart to hear it.

The next glass shard slipped out nicely. The woman turned away from the sight.

...It took about half an hour for Mildred Hubble to pull all thirty-five shards from both of Miss Hardbroom’s arms. There were other shards that were too small for Mildred to get ahold of, though they hadn’t any access to tweezers.

They were far from done. The sleeves of Miss Hardbroom's blouse clung to her skin from the blood. It would be a pain for Mildred to try rolling up her sleeves again.

“Miss Hardbroom, I need you to take off your shirt.” She wasn't a medic and didn't know what the hell she was meant to do. This request, as disrespectful as it was, would at least get Mildred a clear view of the injuries.

In any other moment with Mildred Hubble, Miss Hardbroom would’ve protested. Except this wasn't just 'any other moment.' It felt as if her arms were constantly on fire, and Miss Hardbroom was desperate for relief. With a self-conscious glance around the small room, she unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it over her head, revealing a canvas of red cuts from the glass shards. The right arm, the one that had leaked the whole trip to Aspenville, had a particularly deep gash that Mildred couldn’t help but gag at.

“That doesn’t look like a seven-point-three, Miss,” she muttered, using her own cloak to wipe the excess blood. Miss Hardbroom struggled to keep a straight face. She would rather die before she lost her dignity.

“I can assure you,” she paused to take in a shaky breath, “that I’m alright.”

Rather than waste time replying to obvious lies, Mildred set to work wrapping the gash in bandages. She tried to get them as tight as possible, despite each flinch and stifled sound from Miss Hardbroom. Eventually, it was as good as she could get it, covering the whole of Miss Hardbroom’s arm from her wrist to her elbow. Mildred followed with the other arm, which had its fair share of cuts.

She had never seen Miss Hardbroom like this before. In this tiny room, in a small building, within a ruined town miles from home, Miss Hardbroom had finally allowed herself to be vulnerable. Mildred didn’t know whether to be honored or concerned by that.

“Try not to move your arms too much,” Mildred told her, rubbing circles over the back of Miss Hardbroom’s hands.

Miss Hardbroom hated every part of this. They were surrounded by strangers– Witch hunters, no less– And she was injured, leaving Mildred to pick up the slack that Miss Hardbroom had left behind. Nevertheless, she said, “Thank you, Mildred. Truly.”

“It’s no problem, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred gave her a thin-lipped smile and tossed her her blouse. “Put this on, we should see if they have any food.”

“You’ve been thinking rationally lately.” The potions mistress observed as her hands worked to button up her clothing. “I wish you'd shown more of this at school, rather than... I don't know, dropping a fish into a cauldron behind my back.”

“All it took was the end of the world. Maybe you’ve started to rub off on me.” Mildred replied with a mischievous grin, extending an arm to help her stand. Miss Hardbroom gave a light-hearted scoff at her words. This girl was going to be the death of her, and oddly enough, Miss Hardbroom didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would.

“Now, enough jokes,” the woman cleared her throat. She suppressed a smirk at Mildred’s mock offended gasp. “Yes, Mildred, jokes. Enough play, we have to talk strategy. We might as well take advantage of this opportunity. Gain their trust, gain access to their supplies, become a part of their community. Eventually, we may be able to drive one of their trucks and steal it.”

And she backtracked. Stealing? Constance Hardbroom, stealing vehicles from ordinaries? How rebellious. There was a certain thrill to it. “It seems like you’re rubbing off on me, too, Mildred,” she added with a smirk.

“Don’t you mean ‘Millie?’”

Miss Hardbroom cracked a smile. “I must admit, that was good thinking on your part. It feels as if you’re learning more outside the castle than inside it.”

“No, Miss Hardbroom. It’s just you subconsciously playing favorites.” Mildred opened the door for them both. “I better be getting extra credit for this. Driving the truck, bandaging your arms, being cool in general…”

As the girl went ahead on the stairs, Miss Hardbroom laughed behind her. “Mildred, are you planning something?”

“Mis–” Mildred coughed when she caught sight of one of Aspenville’s survivors, a boy around Mildred’s age, flipping through a book in the small library. “Mum,” she corrected herself. “You should know better. I would never plan something. But you know, hypothetically... If they have dessert in this place, you’d let me have some. Right?”

“Only if you behave yourself while we're here, Millie.”

“But I thought I was your favorite. Your number one gal, Mischief Making Millie.”

Miss Hardbroom snorted. “Not for long, if you keep up that attitude.”

Chapter Text

Under the cover of Connie and Millie, a mother-daughter duo traveling across abandoned countryside for survival, the two witches spent a week living amongst Aspenville's survivors. They did well to hide their magic. Each slip-up on Constance’s part resulted in Mildred waving it off as her mother’s obsession with fantasy. Each spark of magic that flew off Mildred’s fingertips was quickly covered up by Constance’s assurance of it being a reflection from the sun. Lying had become a routine at this point. And to lie even better, Mildred spent her nights educating Constance on ordinary culture. Mildred would even be proud to say that her mentor could now sing along to the Beatles’ “Yellow Submarine” during campfire songs.

They hadn’t gotten word from Cackle’s Academy in a long while. It was nothing too concerning, really. Constance had simply informed Miss Drill that she and Mildred were in dangerous territory, and communications must be halted until Constance reached out and gave the all clear. It had come to their attention that Aspenville owned a radio of their own, which could pick up Cackle’s signal and place the school in danger.

As for calling Miss Hardbroom ‘Constance,’ well Mildred had gotten comfortable. Maybe a little too comfortable. To commit to their disguises as mother and daughter, they agreed to make a show of being used to one another. That included hand-holding, head pats, and gentle back rubs.

At some point, that led to Constance being tackled in a hug whenever she returned from scavenging with the others.

And when Mildred would run around with the few other children of Aspenville, Constance would tell her to stay in her sight and be home before dinner.

Mildred didn’t know when it began, but one day, Constance had taken to plaiting her hair every morning. She did it much neater than she, and much faster. In front of the rest of the town, Constance even joked that Mildred had inherited her mother’s hair.

That night, in the privacy of their room, Mildred remembered asking her about it. “You have hair like mine?” She wondered, prodding the French twist Constance wore. The woman only laughed and looked at her over her shoulder. “Yes, Mildred. When I was your age, it was quite a hassle to comb through.”

A week turned to two weeks. Two weeks turned to a month. Constance would start the morning by waking Mildred (who needed an extra five minutes to actually get up), cleaning their room with her girl’s help, plaiting Mildred’s hair, and finding their day’s breakfast. Once the two had finished their meal, Mildred would run errands for her mother and townsfolk in exchange for certain items: Food, clothing, water, et cetera. Meanwhile, Constance would head out with a team to scavenge for food.

Aspenville had two teams: Scavengers and hunters. The latter, which was more heavily armed, attempted to search for witches and signs of magic. It could be anything from two perfectly cut tree stumps to a rabbit with six legs. The more signs they found, the closer they believed they were to a witches’ academy.

Mildred hated these hunters. The nearest witches’ academy to Aspenville was Pentangle’s Academy, which housed her dear friend Ethel. Whenever the hunters' truck was left alone, she liked to stuff the barrels of their guns with as much dirt as she could to stall them a little longer. Constance attempted to discourage her behavior, but like the girl did with most of her instructions, Mildred didn’t listen.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

“Why don’t we all go around and say what we’re grateful for?”

The group of survivors, seated in a circle around a roaring fire, all groaned at the old man’s words. The elderly woman beside him playfully smacked his shoulder. “Robert does this every time we gather ‘round. Sappy is what he is.”

Despite half-hearted mumbles of discouragement from his peers, Robert puffed up his chest and proudly declared, “I’m grateful for me wife, Clara.”

“Grateful for me food is what he means,” the woman joked.

The little boy on his right continued the chain. “I’m grateful for uh… The sun,” he spoke, clutching the worn teddy in his lap. His father grinned and ruffled the boy’s hair. “I’m grateful for my own son.”

A woman with a cigarette between her lips coughed up smoke and said, “Why do y’all have to be so mushy? I’m not doing this. Rather hunt witches than be with you all.”

“Oh, humor this poor soul!” Robert cried, dramatically placing his hand over his heart. The woman sighed and muttered a small, “I’m grateful for Aspenville.”

The next soul was Constance, who had been so busy fussing over a cut on Mildred cheek that she didn’t realize the group was staring at her until someone let out an awkward cough.

“Right,” Constance offered them an apologetic smile, removing her hands from Mildred’s sulky face. “I suppose I’m grateful for…” And really, she had to think for a moment. At first, she considered commenting on something ordinary, like a television show or automated vehicles. Then she remembered the young girl sitting by her side. “I’m grateful for Millie. My beloved daughter.”

Mildred, embarrassed by the cooing and teasing from the rest of the survivors, grumbled into her hands and wished to disappear into the floor.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

That night, Constance found herself sitting on a log before a fire. It wasn’t a roaring fire, but a gentle one. The kind that was warm, comforting, and emanated embers that resembled the stars glinting above their heads. The wood crackled and snapped in the quiet of the spot they’d found, in a little backyard behind the deli that no one, not even Aspenville’s survivors, had discovered.

Mildred was seated on the grass in front of her, fidgeting with her fingers in her lap and watching the flames dance. She had a bit of hair falling over her eyes and Constance took it upon herself to tuck it behind her ear.

“Mum?” Mildred said quietly. She didn’t know why she called her that even now. Perhaps she was being careful of eavesdroppers. Perhaps it was something else.

“Yes, dear?” Constance replied. She didn’t know why she called her that, either. The term had slipped out so easily, she couldn’t stop herself.

“Did you mean what you said?”

At this, the woman bent down a little to look Mildred in the eyes. “What did I say?”

“Well— I don’t know.” Mildred blushed. Her cheeks puffed out slightly. “You called me your 'beloved daughter' in front of the others. Did you mean that or um… Or was it pretend?”

Was she pouting? Constance’s lips curled into an adoring smile. Oh, by Merlin, the girl was actually pouting. She had never seen her like that before.

Focus, Constance, focus. You cannot get distracted just because the little hellion looks cute.

“I meant every word, Mildred,” Constance gently pinched the girl’s chin and tilted her head up. Her gaze roamed over her face as if she sought to memorize it. The freckles on her cheeks, the doe eyes, the fringe that covered her forehead.

“I love you.” She told her, tapping Mildred’s nose with her finger. “And if you ever doubt that, well… We can just have another chat like this. Anytime. Do you understand?”

Mildred nodded wordlessly, her heart fluttering in her chest. What was one supposed to say to that? Her voice didn’t seem to work. “Um,” she began, her mouth opening and closing strangely. “Thank you.”

Constance’s smile softened a little. Her black-painted nails began to run through Mildred’s hair, scratching at her scalp with the lightest of touches. The girl sighed and slumped against her mentor’s knees.

“Oh, wow, that feels good,” she mumbled. Her eyes were half-lidded in two seconds. “If you keep doing that to my head, I’m going to fall asleep. And you’ll have to carry me back to our room.”

“That doesn't sound too bad, does it?”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

As Constance slung her rifle over her shoulder, she listened to the buzz of life around her. In a month, Aspenville had gotten a few more survivors and their trading post was thriving. She readied to climb into the back of the scavengers’ pick-up truck, when she felt someone crash into her back and wrap a pair of arms around her stomach.

“RAHH!” Mildred cried out, squeezing her midsection. “I’ve got you!”

“It’s four-to-two, Millie.” Constance smirked. She pried the girl from her and patted her shoulder. “I still have the upper hand.”

“Not for long. Soon enough, I’ll have learned the art of silent running.”

Constance burst into soft laughter at her words. “Of course you will. Now, what do you have to do today?”

“Wash our laundry,” Mildred counted on her fingers. “Gather berries from our bush, trade those berries with Mary for socks, and trade those socks for a warm hat.”

“Good girl.” Constance patted her head with a smile and joined her fellow scavengers in the back of the pick-up truck. “I’ll be back soon. You behave yourself while I’m gone, and finish your chores before any play with your new friends.”

When the engine roared to life and the truck began moving away, Mildred waved ecstatically at Constance until she could no longer see her past fences and forest.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

This was not how Deirdre Swoop thought her day would go. She was gagged and tied, thrown in the back of a vehicle during what should have been a routine scavenge through the woods near Pentangles. With her voice silenced and her hands bound, she was unable to cast any spells. All she could hear was the boisterous cheers of the people who had caught her.

They had seen her start a fire with one of her spells. It was a simple mistake. They were never supposed to see it.

But Deirdre was a strong girl. She struggled against her restraints and squirmed on a dirty metallic floor. Above her, tree branches did well to block out the sky. It was dizzying to look at, so she only squeezed her eyes shut and hoped to end up somewhere safe.

Suffice to say, she was mistaken. They had brought her somewhere, somewhere called Aspenville. It was an isolated street of witch hunters and their families, walled off from the rest of the world with spiked fences and—

Mildred.

It was that girl. She’d last seen her when the Witching Hour visited Cackles, and since then, Mildred had earned begrudging respect from Deirdre. Word had it that Mildred and Miss Constance Hardbroom had gone silent.

Had they betrayed— No, that was ridiculous. She’d seen the care Mildred had for her school. It was the same kind Deirdre had for Pentangles. A witch would never abandon her family for those who hunted them. There was more to the story, Deirdre was sure of it.

The other girl was staring at her from afar, a basket of berries in her arms. When their eyes locked, the fear in Mildred’s eyes was reflected in Deirdre’s own. As Deirdre was dragged away towards the town's police station, she caught the way Mildred’s hands trembled.

“Hey!” Mildred yelled, rushing over to the two men who held Deirdre’s arms in a vice grip. “Who’s this? What are you going to do with her?”

“She’s a witch, Millie,” one of them replied. It was Jonathan, the old bastard. Jonathan pulled Deirdre along as if she were nothing more than an animal. “We’re gonna interrogate her, find out where she came from.”

“And how are you going to interrogate her?”

Jonathan smiled. “A young girl like you shouldn’t have to hear about it.”

When he and his men walked away. Mildred paled. She and Constance hadn’t even stolen one of the trucks yet. They had gotten too comfortable here. She couldn’t forget who these people were.

Constance wasn’t here. She needed her to— Well, she didn’t know what, really, she just needed her there. With her. Standing by her side. Maybe holding her hand. Doing anything to comfort her and slow her breathing— God, Mildred couldn’t breathe— Focus, you fucking—

She had to gather her thoughts. Break. Take a break. Take a break, right, take a break. Breathe. Breathe, but it smelled of Deirdre’s blood because she’d been dragged away in too-right ropes and— Breathe, Mildred.

Radio? Radio. Constance had her own radio. The one she clipped to her belt. Yes, maybe Mildred could borrow Aspenville’s radio, put on some puppy dog eyes and say she missed her mother. But what if— It’s okay, everything’s fine, it’s fine. First Sybil, then Ethel, and now Deirdre but young girls in peril was normal at this point. Right? Wrong. Wrong, it was all wrong— This was all wrong.

She wanted Constance.

Mildred wanted her mum.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

“Mum?”

Constance had been busy trying to recall Miss Bat’s words as to whether these red berries were poisonous or edible, when Mildred’s voice whispered from the radio on her belt. Her words carried an element of fear and urgency, which sent Constance fumbling for the communications device. “Mildred? Mildred, is everything alright?”

“They uh…” The girl sniffled on the other end. “They captured a witch, Mum.”

…A witch?

“It’s— Well, I can’t exactly tell you her name because they haven’t told me.”

Of course, Constance thought bitterly. Mildred wasn’t able to speak freely at the moment. The girl didn’t have a radio of her own, and was most likely borrowing someone else’s. “I’ll be home soon, dear.”

“Alright, Mum. Just…” Mildred’s voice cracked. “Come quickly. Okay?”

Constance’s hand tightened on her radio. “Okay.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Mildred could do nothing but loiter outside the door of Aspenville’s police station, listening for word of Deirdre. It just wasn’t fair. Deirdre was barely older than her, and she was being ‘interrogated—‘ Whatever that meant. Her ears seemed to perk up at every sound. It could be her fellow witch. It could be a soldier. Maybe it was just the sound of her foot anxiously tapping on the ground.

Eventually there came the sounds of a truck engine. Mildred wasted no time in running up to the vehicle and scanning the group of scavengers for Constance. Familiar black hair heralded her return, and Mildred threw her arms around her in an instant.

“Where is she?” Constance asked, her hand threading through the girl’s hair.

“In the police station,” Mildred stammered. The moment she felt the woman’s touch, she felt as if she could break down into tears. “I don’t know what they’re doing to her. She’s been in there for too long.”

Constance’s eyes flicked up to the battered doors of the police station. No sound drifted from the building. Just when she was about to open her mouth to speak, the doors flung open and out came Deirdre Swoop herself, bloodied and bruised from head to toe, dragged by the arms towards an old street lamp surrounded by dry branches and leaves. Behind the young witch was a constant trail of red from the station.

Constance felt her heart leap into her throat. She held Mildred closer to her chest. The girl in her arms was quivering, holding back her tears lest she be questioned about them. Constance hated to see her that way. A girl should be able to cry when she wanted to.

With rope, the Aspenville survivors tightly bound Deirdre to the broken street lamp. Children were hiding behind their parents. Some of the townsfolk cheered at the sight of the wounded girl. It was their first witch, and they hoped there would be many more to come.

“This stubborn girl,” Jonathan announced, walking in circles around the witch, “won’t tell us where her academy is. We know it is called Pentacle’s Academy! We know it has supplies! But its location is still a mystery.”

“Unless she tells us that crucial piece of information, we will burn her.”

Mildred turned her head to peek at the scene. Deirdre’s clothes were torn and dirty, with spots of dark red spreading where she’d been tortured. Her wrist was bent in the wrong way. And yet, she gazed at the witch hunters with an element of determination. She looked at them as if they were pathetic.

“We will give you to the count of three.”

Deirdre’s jaw remained locked on those who hurt her. Her eyes sent shivers down Mildred’s spine.

“One.”

Mildred’s eyes widened. She couldn’t look away.

“Two.”

Her heart beat faster. Her hands felt like they were tingling.

“Three.”

One of the men got on his knees and struck a match. Before he could flick it into the wood, the flame turned to a shade of blue and spread down the length of the match. It crept onto his fingers, his hand, his arm, and up towards his head. He panicked— Leaped to his feet and frantically tried brushing the fire off his skin with his hands. It only spread the fire to his other hand, and his other arm. His skin boiled and blackened, charred and chipped away. He screamed, but at that point, the fire had entered his mouth and crawled down his throat.

The townspeople shrieked and shouted. Some scrambled for their guns.

Constance looked down at the girl in her arms. Mildred’s hands held the same blue fire that engulfed the man.

The townspeople were staring at them, now. They barely seemed to notice how the blue fire jumped from the man’s corpse to the ropes that bound Deirdre.

“Witches!”

“Traitors!”

There was gunfire. Constance was quick to duck her head and shield Mildred with her body. There was no time. It was a mess of shouting and bullets, of blue fire that spread across Aspenville and into the trees surrounding it. It was hot. The people were sweating and armed and angry. Constance and Mildred managed to hurry to Deirdre’s side and support her arms.

The girl swatted them both away. “I’m fine,” was all she said, rising to her feet and running alongside them.

The three witches continued to run under the cover of protection spells silently cast by a flick of Constance’s wrist. Constance led the way, knowing where the Aspenville survivors kept an extra vehicle.

They hurried into a small auto shop. As Mildred shoved a chair against the door, the other two looked around. Tools, tables, nothing of— Car. There was a car, there was a car— Where was the key? Right, where—

“Found it!” Deirdre shouted from the corner, tossing the keys to Constance. The older witch grabbed it from the air and unlocked the car.

She happened to unlock the truck at the same time the hunters had managed unlocked the auto shop’s garage doors. The barrier rolled up to the ceiling. The armed folk shouted their cheers and hollers and fired a few shots into the cement floor by Constance’s feet.

Constance screamed. A few of the hunters seemed to be having fun with it. They outnumbered the three women. The odds were in their favor.

“Let's make the witch dance.”

Bullet holes appeared on the ground where Constance stood. Constance tried to jump, raise her feet, run to a different area— But the bullets seemed to follow her heels. It was a cruel thing. It was cruel to make someone like Miss Hardbroom afraid.

“Stop it!” Mildred pleaded. “Stop it, stop hurting her—!”

Thud.

Her mentor had tripped over her own feet and fallen onto the ground.

She was no longer moving.

Deirdre rushed to Constance’s side and pried the keys from her hand. With the press of a button, the car doors clicked and unlocked. And once that was done, Deirdre dragged Constance’s limp body behind the cover of the car, and tugged Mildred down to crouch with her.

“I reckon she’s fine,” Deirdre told her, her words quick and breathless. “Get her in the vehicle and drive.”

“But—“ Mildred’s hands trembled. “What about you?!”

“I’ll hold ‘em off. I’m a liability to you, beaten as I am.” Deirdre held out her hand. “Give me her gun.”

“Deirdre, I can’t let you do this.”

And the other witch smiled.

“I’ve always wanted to be a soldier. Now I finally get to be one, eh, Hubble?”

Footsteps were getting closer. They were slow and patient. The hunters wanted to savor it.

Mildred reluctantly took the gun from Constance's holster and handed it to Deirdre. The other witch gave her a single pat on the back before standing. She fired her first shot. Her second. By the screaming, she did quite well. It wasn’t like Mildred could focus on that, not now— She had to get Constance in the car.

She threw open the back door and shoved Constance into the backseat. She couldn’t quite get her upright, much less buckled down, but it was the best Mildred could do.

Keys, keys, keys— Here. Mildred slipped into the driver’s seat and shoved the car key into its slot. She turned it, though the car only whirred and creaked.

“Oh, come on, come on!” The girl turned the key again. And again. Fourth time’s the charm? Maybe fifth—

The car purred at the fifth turn of her key. Mildred breathed, turned the gear to Drive and slammed her foot down on the pedal. Disregarding the people in her way, she sped down the street to the gate of Aspenville and rammed through its defenses.

In the rearview mirror, she saw Deirdre run out of bullets. The other girl walked backwards and held her hands over her head.

But between those hands, there appeared a purple sphere. It thrummed with light and possessed a heartbeat of its own. The sound was loud and heavy, shaking the very ground.

Deirdre threw down the sphere, consuming the whole of Aspenville in heat and violet light. Wood chips bombarded the back window of Mildred’s car. A plume of clouds drifted into the sky. In seven seconds, the survivors and their town had been reduced to rubble and dust.

It was only then that Mildred stopped the car.

Suddenly, it wasn’t so loud anymore.

The sky was a brilliant blue, the sun shone between tree branches, and a spatter of dried blood was smeared on the corner of the windshield.

It all happened too fast to feel like anything other than a horrible dream.

She could hear Constance breathing behind her, but her breaths were slow and ragged with each inhale.

Surrounded by silence and death, Mildred could only curl into a ball and weep into her arms.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Come nightfall, the car was parked in a clearing. An untouched field of grass and wildflowers lay before her, glinting in the light of the full moon. Mildred stepped outside and held her mentor’s radio to her ear.

“Hello? Is this the right channel for um… Cackle’s?”

Static. Then came Miss Drill’s voice, slightly garbled through the noise. “Mildred? Is that you? Oh my God, are you alright? What’s happened, where’s Miss Hardbroom?”

Mildred didn’t know how to answer her questions. She stared at the grass for a moment, the wind breezing past the foliage. A fly buzzed over her arm, but she didn’t feel the need to swat it. “We’re okay,” she mumbled.

“What’s going on? Mildred, you have to tell me—“

The girl sat down on the hood of the car. “There were… Um. Witch hunters. I don’t know. It was… Yeah.”

“That’s…” Miss Drill sighed, knowing that was all the information she could get from her. “Thank you, Mildred. How is Miss Hardbroom?”

“She’s been unconscious for a while. I think she’s hurt, Miss Drill.”

“I see. Listen, I’m gonna go talk to Miss Cackle. Miss Bat’s going to come on the radio in the meantime, okay? Stay with us."

When the radio turned to static again, Mildred moved around the car and opened the back door. Constance remained sprawled over the backseat, just as she had left her. There was an ugly purple bruise on her temple and a shallow cut on her shoulder, which Mildred had bandaged with the sleeve she’d torn off from her own shirt. Positioning Constance so she could sit upright, Mildred sat down beside her and curled into her side. The older witch's arm draped over her shoulders, like it had done several times before. Except it didn’t give Mildred the same comfort it usually did. The girl felt utterly alone, which was strange because she wasn’t alone. Not really.

“Mildred! Hello! It’s Miss Bat.”

Mildred wiped her eyes on the palms of her hands and muttered into the radio. “Hi.”

“Miss Drill told me you were in distress? I’m not a very good counselor, but you could… Talk to me. Only if you want to, you know.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay!” Mildred could hear the forced smile in her voice. “Okay, that’s completely fine, sweetheart.”

“She won’t wake up, Miss Bat. I want her to wake up. It’s dark and cold, and she promised we could talk whenever I needed it.”

“She’ll wake up on her own time, Mildred, I guarantee it. But for now, you have to calm yourself down. Alright?”

“Alright.”

“My mother taught me a trick when I was your age. When you’re scared, and there’s too many feelings to count, you can sing a happy song! Mother would sing ‘Daffodils, Daffodils, Grow Grow Grow.’ Do you have a song like that, Mildred?”

Mildred glanced up at Constance. The older woman’s lips were parted in her sleep, her head leaning against the glass of the window. It felt as if Mildred were hugging a doll.

“Yellow Submarine,” the young girl fidgeted with Constance’s fingers, running her thumbs over her skin. “Miss Hardbroom and I liked to sing it together.”

“There we go! Just um… Sing that. I guess. And if your voice is too tired, well, you can hum it out. Or whistle. Just focus on the melody, and don't think about anything else.”

Mildred nodded.

In an old car in the middle of nowhere, the young girl began to hum a little tune, her voice muffled in the soft fabric of Constance’s bloodied clothing.

Chapter Text

“Mildred! Mildred, we’re going to be late!”

Mildred was greeted with the sight of Maud, shaking her awake with a panicked look in her eyes. Sunlight drifted in through the open window that Enid had thrown open, and the three bats hanging on her ceiling yawned and stretched their wings.

The ceiling wasn’t that of an old car, but that of stone brick and the occasional moss. When Mildred looked down at herself, she was comfortably wrapped in soft, warm blankets. Tabby was curled up beside her— He grumbled at the sudden noise and clamor in their room.

What time was it? Where was she? And most importantly, what had happened?

She reluctantly swept her feet over the edge of her bed. Her legs were covered with the usual old scrapes from her adventures. There was no blood, no dirt, no gunpowder.

She looked next to her hands. Her hands were clean and smooth. Her fingertips weren’t calloused, nor were her nails dirty with grime.

Before Mildred could open her mouth to speak, Maud tossed her uniform to her and rushed out the room with Enid, so they wouldn’t be late themselves.

…Be late to what?

The fabric of her uniform felt foreign in her hands. It didn’t feel like hers. Her uniform was wrinkled and torn. Her uniform had a tear on its cape.

Mildred swallowed, her mouth feeling… It wasn’t dry, strangely enough. She hadn’t had proper, clean water in a long while, and yet, she felt refreshed. Outside the window, a field of grass and blooms bent under a soft breeze and bathed in the light of the morning sun.

The world she knew was rotten. It was riddled with death and disease.

She didn’t bother to put on the uniform. In her nightgown, ragged brown hair falling far past her shoulders, she trudged down the hallway and ignored the stares of students rushing by her.

These students held no weapons and bore no scars. They gossiped and dreamed, as if hearsay and dreams still mattered to them.

Mildred moved down the stairs. Before she knew it, she found herself standing outside the potion’s classroom.

She could hear Miss Hardbroom’s voice drifting through cracks in the wood, harsh and unyielding. She could hear the mumbled responses of her classmates, timid and uncertain.

The doorknob felt odd in her hand. It was ornate, metallic and cold. Nonetheless, she twisted it and pulled.

…Oh. Right, it wasn’t a pull door. Had it been that long, already?

She pushed it instead.

The classroom was filled with students. Her friends. Maud, Enid, Ruby and Jadu. In the front sat Drusilla and Ethel— Ethel, who still had both legs. An empty chair by the door seemed to call for Mildred.

At the blackboard, standing tall in a black damask dress, was Constance. Connie. Mum. Whatever she was to Mildred. Raven hair was elegantly pinned in a high bun. Mildred knew for certain that she didn’t wear her hair like that anymore; It took too much time, and no one could afford to waste time in the apocalypse.

It was as if the apocalypse never happened.

Mildred sort of… Hated that. Was that strange? It wasn’t too strange, not really. Because now, Miss Hardbroom stared at her with a look of disbelief and irritation instead of her usual kindness.

“Late again, Mildred? And in your nightclothes, no less! Couldn’t you have bothered to change before you came to class?”

Her voice held nothing but disdain, and yet, it was the most wonderful sound Mildred had ever heard.

She felt like crying.

She was crying.

Her sight was beginning to blur with her tears. Her hands were shaking. She was only vaguely aware of her friends whispering concerned words to her, and even much less aware of Constance shouting insults at her.

It didn’t matter anymore. None of it really, truly mattered because Miss Hardbroom was unharmed, she was safe, she was home.

Mildred hurried across the classroom and wrapped her arms around her waist. The girl nestled into the crook of her arm, just as they’d always done— Just as Mildred was used to doing.

“Mildred Hubble, what on Earth are you doing?” Constance asked her, her hands hovering awkwardly by her sides.

Mildred missed her so much, it hurt her heart. To have everything back to normal was a stab in the chest. The world wasn’t ending, everyone was unscathed, and Constance didn’t care about her. Constance didn’t give a flying fuck about Mildred— No— She was just her student, wasn’t she?

But what about the campfires? The drives? The cold nights?

Did she matter to her?

“I’m sorry, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred finally let go of her, her cheeks heating up with her embarrassment. She turned and headed to her empty seat.

A hand reached out and grasped her wrist. Long fingers intertwined with Mildred’s smaller ones.

“It’s alright, Mildred.”

The young girl turned around again.

Constance’s hair now rested over her shoulder in a long braid, and a dark bruise on her temple marred her skin. Rather than a smooth damask dress, she was dressed in a blouse and trousers, both covered in dust and dried blood.

Her eyes held affection rather than hatred.

This was Mildred’s Constance.

And Mildred’s Constance leant forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead and quietly spoke these words:

“You did nothing wrong.”

“Everything will be alright.”

“I love you.”

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

Mildred awoke for the second time that day, though for this second time, she lay in the backseats of an old car with her head in Constance’s lap. Sunlight filtered in through ashen windows, casting herself and Constance in a soft, melancholic glow.

She felt the pain in her legs and the ache in her bones. The world was ending, everyone was frightened and hurt, but she had Constance and Constance had her.

The woman’s touch was gentle and warm. Mildred snuggled closer to her and for a moment, she could only stare blankly at the steering wheel.

It had all been a dream. Perhaps a nightmare.

The radio clicked on and Miss Drill’s voice came through the speaker. “Mildred, are you there? Mildred?”

The girl dragged herself to her feet and spared a glance out the car window. The sun was a little over the horizon— She hadn’t woken up too late in the day, at least.

She reached for the radio.

“I’m here.”

“Oh, it’s good to hear your voice.” Miss Drill gave a sigh of relief. “I’ve got a map with me. Wherever you are, I need you to keep driving. Tell me if you see anything, like a-a building or forest— Just something, anything that can give me an idea of where you are, okay?”

“Okay,” Mildred replied, her voice still muffled from sleep.

“How’s Miss Hardbroom? Is she still unconscious?”

Mildred hummed her affirmation.

“Can I ask why she’s unconscious? What happened?”

There was a heavy silence as the girl gathered her courage to speak. Then, “We met some witch hunters. They were making fun of her, kind of… Shooting at her feet. And she tripped over herself." She paused to take a breath. "She must’ve hit her head hard.”

Miss Drill clicked her tongue and muttered something. She turned to the radio again. “How is she breathing? Is she hurt anywhere?”

“She’s breathing a little weird, and there’s a bruise on her head.”

Mildred thought she heard Miss Drill mumble a curse under her breath, but she wasn’t quite sure.

“And what about you? Are you okay, Mildred? I know it’s been tough. Even tougher when you’re on your own.”

“I’m alright.”

The words felt awkward in her mouth. They felt wrong. It seemed like Miss Drill sensed her lie, because she replied, “I won’t pressure you. Just know that I’m right here, if you ever need to talk.”

Mildred didn’t want to talk to Miss Drill. Call it childish, but she wanted Constance.

With a groan, she crawled her way into the driver’s seat and started the car with the ignition key. The engine hummed to life. Her foot pressed down on the pedal, sending the vehicle back on the road.

Fields of tall grass eventually turned to thick forests. Mildred told her so.

“Alright, uh… Just keep going, Mildred.”

A small town up ahead was labeled ‘Crowsborough.’ Mildred told her so.

“Go straight through, okay? Just go straight. Follow the road.”

The buildings were empty and broken, mere ghosts of the life they once held. There were no bodies nor blood, only plants and the occasional moan of the undead. Mildred continued to drive the car past the town’s wreckage.

It didn’t take long for Mildred to cross through the small town. As the car moved quicker, trees blurred past her and insects pattered against the windshield. It was quiet, too quiet. She only wished Constance was awake.

“It’s not too far now, Mildred. Two more hours. Follow this road for two more hours, then take a left. Eventually you’ll see Mrs. Cosie’s tea rooms— I think you’ll know where to go from there.”

Mildred followed her instructions.

After an hour, she felt strangely… Dull.

It didn't feel real to her. Not just her misadventure with Constance, but the apocalypse, and life before the apocalypse. She recalled Constance’s words that day in the dungeons:

“You wander about as if you’re in a dream, Mildred.”

Looking back, her words rang true. Mildred wondered how she ever lived that way: Making mischief, failing her classes, getting bullied by Ethel and Drusilla, constant insults from Miss Hardbroom— It was the way Mildred messed up at anything and everything, and worried what others thought of her. Her reckless adventures for the sake of ‘doing the right thing.’

It all seemed so trivial.

Ethel lost a limb. Sybil was dead. Deirdre was dead. Constance was hurt and Mildred was lost. Every witch academy in the area now housed child soldiers wearing brave faces, and instructors with even braver faces.

Mildred’s stomach growled, but it was only another hour until they returned home. Her hunger wasn’t of importance.

Though it occurred to her that maybe… Was Constance hungry?

She adjusted the rearview mirror, directing the reflection towards Constance’s face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted— She was still relaxed in her state of forced sleep.

The last time either of them had eaten was dinner the night before. If Mildred was starving, so must be Constance. Regrettably, the girl didn’t have any soup cans to feed an unconscious woman, nor did she know how to make soup from scratch.

It was alright. When they got home, Miss Tapioca would surely feed them her porridge. There was a time when Mildred hated that lukewarm, soggy mess on her plate. But the taste, though disgusting, reminded her of the friends she’d stomach it with.

Perhaps the porridge was soft enough for Constance to consume in her sleep. Mildred wasn’t sure. It had been so long, she’d started to forget its texture and taste.

There were countless things to think about, and Mildred’s responsibilities only seemed to pile up. She had to consider food, gas, Constance’s health— She tried to keep her head clear of Deirdre’s last words, the gunfire and the town, yet it was impossible to forget any of it. She witnessed death with her very own eyes. She heard the way the townspeople screamed when Deirdre's magic incinerated them.

Mildred felt too tired, too grown. She wondered, briefly, if this was to be her life from now on. Death, trauma, sickness and survival.

Sybil’s suicide was understandable in that sense. Sybil suspected early on what horrors would happen and just… Opted out of life before she could experience it for herself.

But Mildred couldn’t go out the same way she had. No, Constance needed her.

Through the trees, she spied a cottage. Thatched roof, flowery curtains…

Mrs. Cosie.

Though judging by the spatter of red on the kitchen window, Mrs. Cosie wasn’t faring very well nowadays.

The young girl continued to drive—

Could she still be considered ‘young?’

The girl— she corrected herself— continued to drive uphill on dirt paths. At some point, she began to feel a faint coldness caress her skin. Subtle at first, then a freezing chill up her spine. They were passing through the field around Cackle’s Academy, which protected the school from non-magical folk and undead. It seemed to be useless to undead witches, however, if the rotting women in black robes were any indication. The corpses were scattered over the forest’s dead grass, twitching with what little undead life they had left. They were already beginning to decompose. Mildred was suddenly grateful that her windows were rolled up.

Most of the bodies were facedown. As she drove, she tried to count the dead. At times she did a double take, just to be sure she didn’t recognize one.

She saw the castle’s stone walls first, then the moss that crawled up its crevices. If it weren’t for the school’s insignia posted above Walker’s Gate, Mildred would’ve thought she’d stumbled upon a completely different academy: It hardly seemed as homey as she remembered, now that it donned barbed wire and chevaux-de-frise.

She hit the horn, sending an echoing beep through the silence. After a moment, a girl poked her head over the stone arch, her body swaying slightly with the broom she rode. It was Drusilla, her red hair pulled into a ponytail.

“Who goes there?!” Drusilla cried, narrowing her eyes in an attempt to see the vehicle’s driver.

Mildred poked her head out of the driver’s window. Drusilla’s eyes widened at the sight. “Mildred?! Mildred Hubble, you’re back!”

“Yeah, I’m—“

“Hey!” Drusilla turned, shouting at someone below her. “Open the gate! It’s Mildred!”

The voices of girls came from the other side of the gate, all chattering in excited voices. Some sounded concerned, others were in awe. Metallic clicks and clacks followed, and it wasn’t long before the wooden doors swung open. The car was immediately swarmed with her schoolmates, their hands and faces pressed flush to the glass. They smiled at her, waved their hands, shouted words and called others to come. It seemed that the story of Mildred Hubble had gotten around fast.

“Everyone, move aside! The girl can hardly drive like this!”

The unmistakable voice of Miss Cackle cut through the clamor. In seconds, the girls parted from the car and Mildred was finally able to move the vehicle further into the courtyard.

She was greeted by Miss Bat, who wasted no time in flinging open the door and enveloping her in a warm embrace. The woman smelled distinctly of tea leaves and blooms, and a strand of her curled hair tickled her cheek. “Oh, you poor dear. Let’s get you inside.”

“Constance is in the back,” Mildred said, putting barely any resistance as Miss Bat tugged her out of the old vehicle.

“Don’t you worry about her,” Miss Cackle spoke, stepping forward with her hands on her hips. Rather than her usual black dress, she donned a pair of jeans and a t-shirt displaying a tarot deck with the words It Ain’t in the Cards. “Miss Drill and I will take care of her. You go with Miss Bat— Miss Tapioca is waiting for you right inside.”

“What about—“

Above them, a screeching cry (“MILLIEEE!”) reverberated across the castle walls. From a high window some two floors above, Mildred’s friends leaned out and waved. Maud, Enid, Jadu and Ruby were all present, yelling her name as loud as they could.

“You’ll see them soon enough,” Miss Cackle assured, swiftly moving past her. Mildred watched as Miss Drill lifted Constance from the backseat of the car, bridal-style. Miss Cackle immediately set her hands on Constance’s head, brushing aside her hair to examine the bruise on her temple.

A hand on Mildred’s shoulder. “Come along, Mildred,” Miss Bat tried to smile as she led her towards the door. “We’ll put some nice food in your stomach, get you a bath…”

Behind her, the girl could hear Drusilla shouting. “Where’s Ethel?!" She screamed despite Mr. Blossom stepping forward to shush her. "Where is she?! Miss Cackle, you promised that if I did guard duty, I might see her again— She’s my friend! Mildred? Mildred, what happened to her?! They won’t tell us!”

But Mildred was already ushered in through double doors and welcomed with the flustered words of Miss Tapioca.

“Oh, you’re pale as a sheet!” Miss Tapioca cried, her hands fussing over her face. “It's okay. I’ve got some warm porridge with your name on it.”

Mildred bit her lip as she followed the two women. “But Constance…”

“You’ll see her later,” Miss Bat insisted.

The girl was led into the kitchen. There was already a small pot of porridge over the fire, and Miss Tapioca set to work plating it. In the meantime, Miss Bat rolled up Mildred’s sleeves to check her for wounds. “You poor, poor girl,” she mumbled under her breath.

The second Mildred opened her mouth to speak, a spoonful of Miss Tapioca’s signature porridge was shoved down her throat. Miss Bat lightly smacked Miss Tapioca’s shoulder. “You’re going to choke her!”

“She’s starved!” Miss Tapioca hissed, spoon-feeding Mildred at a pace that should have been illegal.

After just two spoonfuls, Mildred coughed and pushed her hand away. “I appreciate it, but I can feed myself. Thanks.”

She rubbed her fists into her eyes and took the spoon from Miss Tapioca’s grasp. The two women suddenly went silent: They were both staring at her with wonder.

Miss Bat’s brows furrowed. She wrung her hands nervously, then stuffed them into her pockets. “You sound different,” she said bluntly.

“Yes!” Miss Tapioca agreed enthusiastically, nodding her head. “You sound very strong. A strong girl. Mature, I think.” She glanced at Miss Bat, her eyes wide. “No?”

“No— I mean yes,” the chanting mistress offered an embarrassed smile. “Yes, Mildred, you sound older.”

Mildred gave them both a thin-lipped smile. She didn’t need this right now— She had a list of priorities, and weird conversations weren't on it. “Uh huh,” she said, pretending to understand one word of whatever nonsense they were coming up with. “Sure. Can I see Constance yet, or are you still gonna treat me like a dumb kid?"

Her words were rude, but she found she didn’t care.

Miss Bat stammered and looked to Miss Tapioca for assistance, though the cook seemed just as baffled as she. The chanting mistress laughed nervously. “Oh, um. No, you can’t see Miss Hardbroom yet, Mildred.”

“‘Kay, Davina,” the girl replied, chowing down on another spoon of porridge.

Miss Bat’s jaw dropped. Miss Tapioca gasped and wagged a finger in Mildred's face. “Oh, you can’t talk to your teachers that way."

“But they’re not really teachers, are they? They’re just people, stuck in the same situation we are. The only difference is they pretend to know something we don’t.”

Mildred lost her appetite. She set down the bowl and pushed past them, making a beeline for the infirmary where she knew Constance would be. They were attempting to call her back, though Mildred ignored them. She walked fast, her boots thumping against wooden floors and leaving muddy footprints.

Then a certain redheaded girl walked quickly beside her to match her pace. “Mildred,” Drusilla said, eyeing her warily. “Where’s Ethel? What happened?”

Unlike her so-called superiors, Mildred found no use in keeping information from her peers. “Ethel was bitten, but she had her leg chopped off to keep it from spreading. She’s at Pentangles— Fine now, I bet.”

Drusilla paled. Her footsteps stilled.

Mildred only continued walking. She climbed the stairs to the second floor and burst through the door of the infirmary. Sunlight streamed in through barred windows, illuminating the bed where Constance lay unconscious and battered. She’d been bandaged, presumably by Miss Drill, who sat in a chair by her side ensuring the gauze wasn't too tight nor loose. Miss Cackle was pacing in circles, mumbling her thoughts under her breath. Both looked up at Mildred’s entry.

“Mildred Hubble,” Miss Cackle scolded. “What are you—“

“I think it’s pretty obvious that I’m visiting Constance,” Mildred retorted, making her way to Constance’s bedside. Her raven hair spilled over her pillow and past the edge of the bed.

Miss Cackle moved around the bed and glared daggers at her. “You need to leave.”

“No,” the girl replied casually. “No, I think I’ll sit right here.”

Miss Drill sighed. “Leave her be, Miss Cackle. We don’t know what happened out there— Just give her time.”

“Time,” Miss Cackle spat out the word. “As if we ever have a moment of time.”

Nevertheless, they left the infirmary to speak elsewhere. Well, they said something about where they were going, but it wasn’t like Mildred was listening. She was busy holding Constance’s hand in hers, feeling her pulse under her thumb. It was steady. Steady enough to ground Mildred in reality.

Sparing a glance around the room to ensure they were alone, Mildred reluctantly climbed into bed beside her potions mistress and snuggled into her side. The woman was soft and warm; Mildred's solace when the world was, in contrast, hard and cold.

She gazed at the window above them. It was barred and— As most windows were nowadays— Stained with grime. Sunlight still managed to peek through these defenses, casting a warm glow over the room.

Mildred was tired.

So she allowed herself to take a nap by Constance’s side. If only for a moment.

· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·

A hand, slender and gentle, brushed the fringe from Mildred’s eyes. It moved to the top of her head, momentarily threading through her hair before drifting down to her cheek.

“Mildred?”

A sleepy voice from above. The way it spoke was so undeniably comforting.

Mildred opened her eyes and looked up.

Constance gazed down at her affectionately. Her hair was mussed and her eyes were exhausted, but she was pretty all the same. Not ‘gorgeous,’ or ‘beautiful,’ but ‘pretty.’ The same adjective Mildred used to describe Disney princesses when she was a little girl.

“You’re awake,” Mildred mumbled. She didn’t bother to get up from the bed.

Constance scoffed. “Clearly. What happened, Mildred? Last I remember, the witch-hunting bastards were shooting at my feet.”

The girl swallowed. Subconsciously, she curled further into the potion mistress’ side, and the potion mistress let her. Mildred didn’t like to think too much about the recent events, but she supposed that Constance deserved to know.

“Dierdre destroyed Aspenville and um… Passed. I drove us home. You’ve been out for a day-ish.”

Constance was silent. They both went silent. And that silence dragged on for a minute or two before Constance spoke up.

“Thank you, Mildred,” she told her. “I’m incredibly proud of you.”

Mildred chewed on her lip. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You did well, darling.”

Darling. She’d never called her ‘darling’ before, but Mildred kind of liked it coming from Constance. It made her feel warm— Like drinking a cup of hot cocoa in winter. She didn’t know her mother, didn't remember what she was like, but Mildred thought she and Constance would’ve been similar.

“I uh…” Now that Constance was awake, Mildred couldn’t help but spill her thoughts. “I really tried, you know? I kept driving and— And I didn’t know how to help Deirdre, I thought— Ow!”

A pinch to Mildred’s cheek. Constance’s lips tugged up in a mischievous smirk. “I don’t want you talking like that,” she said. “I know you did your best. That is all I need, Mildred.”

“Oh.” She fidgeted, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Okay.”

“We both need our rest.” Constance assured her. “Go talk to your friends, I’m sure they’ve missed you. If you ever need me, I’ll be here.”

“But I always need you.” There was a slightly sulky tone to Mildred’s voice.

“You know what I meant, you utterly idiotic girl.”

“Can’t I just stay here for a minute? I don’t feel like talking to anyone else right now.” She frowned. “They always ask me questions and stuff.”

“Oh, I suppose…” Constance gave a dramatic sigh, setting an arm behind Mildred’s head. “Just don’t expect me to be all cuddly with you.”

Another moment of quiet. Mildred glanced up at her again. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

Constance hummed. “I admit, my head is throbbing and I’ve scraped my legs. I do believe that the cuts from the car crash haven’t entirely healed, either.”

“I’m sorry—“

Another pinch to Mildred’s cheek. Mildred yelped and squirmed in her arms, much to Constance’s amusement. “What did I just tell you, my dear? I do not want you talking like that. Not now, not ever.” The woman jabbed a finger in her side. “Now hush up before I change my mind about letting you stay here.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll be quiet. Rest well, or whatever…”

The girl buried her face in the fabric of Constance’s new clothing; A black damask dress that was no doubt scavenged from the depths of her closet. It felt odd to see her this way: Hair down, dress wrinkled, a kind smile on her lips. The Miss Hardbroom she once knew— The woman who shouted orders and insults at her— was so different than the one laying in bed beside her.

Mildred decided she liked this version better. She was so much like a mother, Mildred had begun to love her as one.