Chapter Text
It starts, as most things start for Hecate, with a series of disasters.
Not her disasters, of course, they never are, not when she’s surrounded by incompetent schoolgirls with frivolous whims and hormones and unbalanced emotions.
Not when Mildred Hubble resides mere corridors away from her room.
There are few things Hecate loathes more than Mildred getting everything completely wrong by default, but nothing irks her as much as Mildred getting something right by accident.
Getting things right should be intentional, reasoned, thought-through. A merit earned by sound judgment and intelligence, not sheer idiotic luck.
Still, Hecate thinks, some of her lapses do have their upsides. Still.
The winter sun is high in the sky, melting a new layer of snow, and it’s the perfect weather for a contemplative stroll.
Serene, almost, although that proves to be short-lived.
Hecate is on her third lap of the grounds when events take a turn for the worse.
A resonant, ear-splitting bang shakes every atom around her, sending her staggering backwards as the earth shifts beneath her feet. Twelve jet-black crows surge into the air, squawking and spiralling, flapping to escape whatever unspeakable woe is about to consume the rest of her afternoon.
She wobbles to stand, smells smoke, and hears a small, shell-shocked, “Oh no,” from the most identifiable voice of all time carried on the breeze.
She rubs her temple, steeling for impact.
‘Oh no’ is correct, albeit the understatement of the century.
Hecate rounds the corner of the castle to discover Mildred, caked in soot from head to toe, with one pigtail standing on end as if she’s been electrocuted.
The guest quarters are…gone. Incinerated. A pile of rafters, and stones, and charred, flaming beams that resemble little more than a bonfire.
Hecate tastes ash. She feels waves of heat licking at her cheeks. She blinks, and then blinks again.
She has a definite headache developing.
“I…think I used the wrong spell,” Mildred splutters, wincing, taking one look at Hecate’s face and dropping the book she’d been clutching against her chest.
“You think?” Hecate hisses, gritting her teeth. She retrieves the tome from the floor and brushes dirt from its cover.
A Witching Christmas. She flicks through to find the page for ‘Lighting Your Yule Log’ partly folded over ‘Stringing Up Your Christmas Lights’ and draws in a slow, considered breath.
“Please don’t tell Mr Bloom that my book’s overdue,” Mildred pleads, like that’s the biggest takeaway from this situation, and Hecate nearly throttles her on the spot.
“Fetch a broom,” she instructs, finally, which will solve precisely nought, but will remove the child from her sight for at least long enough to curse without an audience.
Mildred’s bottom lip trembles, quaking in a manner that forecasts trouble, and Hecate flinches at her own sharpness.
She lifts Mildred’s chin with her fingertip. “We are fortunate that you were not a step closer,” she says, one side of her mouth tugging up. “Merrymaking, as a rule, mixes poorly with magic. Especially for mischievous witches predisposed to danger.”
Mildred wipes her eyes, nodding, and she’s brave and stupid enough to grace Hecate with a chuckle. In a move that’s even more inexplicable, she throws her arms around Hecate’s waist, hugging her fiercely.
“Thanks, HB,” she mumbles, her voice still a bit shaky. She gestures towards the debris, grimacing. “I’m sorry about…that.”
Unsolicited fondness swells inside of Hecate’s ribcage. “A broom, Mildred,” she repeats evenly, and the girl lets go, scuttling off inside.
So it goes.
There’s nothing to be done. Hecate casts protection spells around the perimeter, defusing any risk of injury, but anything beyond that is futile.
Even with every staff member pitching in, clearing the rubble will require weeks of work, and restoring the structure to its former glory might set them back months upon months. With Christmas in the wings, repairs will no doubt drag on into spring.
Pinching the skin between her eyes, Hecate kicks a stump of wood that is scorched beyond recognition.
“I assume I’ll be staying elsewhere,” she hears from behind her, high and amused, and she spins to find Pippa with her arms folded across her chest, smiling.
Hecate arches a brow. “I’m not sure what you mean,” she retorts, the corners of her lips ticking up. “You’ll have such a lovely view of the gardens from here.”
Her pulse skitters as Pippa tips her head back, laughing into the sunshine. “And such wonderful, windswept hair come morning.”
The wreckage continues to smoulder, but the bulk of Hecate’s fury is soon forgotten.
Ada arrives not long after, summoned by the thick cloud of smog that has formed above the birch trees. Her demeanour, Hecate muses, is vexingly calm.
Rubbing the toe of her boot into the ground, Hecate stares at her, waiting for input.
“Ah,” she remarks, which only stokes Hecate’s irritation. Ada nods, tilting her ear towards her shoulder, and wreathes her fingers together.
Hecate’s mouth opens and closes, trying to land on a suitable comment. Pippa is still beside her, a hand pressed over her lips to presumably stifle a giggle, and Hecate’s chest feels tight.
“I am sorry, Miss Pentangle,” Ada says, the frame of her glasses perched at the end of her nose. She peers over them, regarding the pair with a twinkle in her eye that is far, far too mirthful for Hecate’s liking. “It seems we shall have to find you alternative lodgings.”
“Warming spells are effective,” Pippa murmurs, spots of pink high on her cheeks, “but I think a tent might be optimistic.” She peeks across at Hecate, watching her, and Hecate gets the sense that she’s missing something significant.
When Hecate fails to speak, Ada takes up the mantle. She looks at Hecate, pointedly, before returning her attention to Pippa. “There are bats in the vestry, I’m afraid, and our other chambers are occupied by your colleagues.”
Pippa shuffles, wringing her hands. She smiles softly at Hecate, and Hecate begins to realise, with gnawing, terrifying clarity, exactly where this is going.
Oh goddess, this is bad. This is very bad. The worst idea imaginable.
Hecate rolls her lip between her teeth, twitching. Her fingers can’t remember how to keep still. She drums them against her forearm, circling them around her wrist when she becomes conscious of her movements. There’s a knot in her throat that won’t budge.
“Hecate,” Ada says gently, barely audible over the screeching in Hecate’s skull, “perhaps Pippa could make use of your sofa for the night?”
Perhaps Hecate could waltz straight into hell and be done with it, more like.
Pippa observes her with a tentative, hopeful expression, and Hecate’s heart clenches.
This is it. She is done for.
“That won’t be necessary,” Hecate manages to wrestle out, the insides of her mouth sticking together. Pippa’s face falls, the colour draining away, and Hecate’s cheeks burn. “I’ve grown accustomed to the loose springs in the cushions. Pippa can take my bed.”
Even as the words creep out, Hecate knows they are a mistake. An exposure. An invitation for catastrophe. She’s fully aware that this is the last thing she should be entertaining, but she’s cornered, and embarrassed, and more than a tad foolish.
The grip around her heart releases as Pippa beams at her, warm brown eyes glowing with such affection that it makes Hecate’s head spin. Pippa glances sidelong at Ada, winking, and nudges Hecate’s hip with her own.
“Thank you, Hecate,” Pippa sings, but there’s a lilt to her tone and Hecate hears ‘Hiccup.’ She brushes her fingers over the back of Hecate’s hand, smiling and smiling and smiling, and Hecate would sleep on a mattress of rusty blades if it meant Pippa could keep that smile forever.
Which is, all things considered, not an ideal well to be going down. Hecate is laying out a path for further agony, she can feel it in her bones, but it’s so hard to care when Pippa seems so happy.
“Fabulous,” Ada proclaims, clasping Hecate’s shoulder. “Now, with that settled, we should probably think about extinguishing this blaze. I believe it’s spreading.”
When Mildred reemerges moments later, towing a moth-eaten broom along behind her, Hecate sighs.