Authors Note:

Firstly I must apologise for leaving it nearly a month between posting anything, but exams have taken over recently and have had precious little time to myself! This fic has been written over the course of the last four weeks and started off as a one shot but the ideas grew and grew to the point where I simply had to put it into chapters as I'm certain that nobody would want to read 25,000 words in one go! Colossal thanks must go out once again to the amazing LongVodka, who has been so wonderfully supportive with this fic, and I can safely say it would still be a definite idea on the drawing board had it not been for her creative input and the many hours spent playing ping pong with various ideas! Thank you so, so much! *hugs and awards large bottle of ice cold vodka*

I've always found it interesting the amount of fairytale references that there are hidden amongst the storylines in WW-there will definitely be a few influences in this fic, so just a little disclaimer to say that I do not own the rights (unfortunately) to anything connected to the Worst Witch and Jill Murphy's wonderful characters or any other stories that may be mentioned.

Apologies for the multiple posts, but my FF upload system has been playing up and not uploading correctly.

Reviews always make my day!

Mildred Hubble sat fidgeting in her seat, feeling her churning stomach twisting into ever tightening knots of anxiety, feeling her heart-rate double, a mighty bass drum that relayed its frantic message to her other primal reflexes, fuelling her with adrenaline as a swooping shockwave hit her core, gearing her to run from the approaching foe as the feared potions teacher prowled stealthily amongst the lines of wooden benches, like a mighty lioness stalking her prey through the long grasses of the African planes. A dangerous air of menace always seemed to hang around Constance Hardbroom when she was distributing the sheaves of marked homework papers which rustled faintly in the chilling, draughty space, the regular tap of her heeled, leather boots clicking lightly on the stone floor sounded for all the world like the claws of a predator to Mildred, she looked fearfully at the approaching, imposing woman, whose almond shaped, hazel eyes glinted dangerously in her slender head that were ablaze with threat. The light was shining through her enviable mane of dark, ebony hair that was twisted mercilessly into its customary straining bun, a tight lease to hold it in place that made the taut, delicate skin around her temples ache from the burning tension. Mildred shivered, bracing herself mentally for the forthcoming verbal onslaught, expecting to hear the customary growl of dissatisfaction as her marked homework crashed down on the cracked surface of the wooden bench directly in front of her. Her shaking fingers closed around the paper, tracing the shape of Constance's elongated writing that bore the elusive grade that had magically appeared in front of her. It wasn't possibly, surely?

"Miss," she raised a trembling hand before Miss Hardbroom could pass by, "Miss, I think there's been a mistake, I can't have got this grade-"

She was cut off sharply by Miss Hardbroom who turned to look at her, a rare ghost of an approving smile that was usually only reserved for top of the class Ethel Hallow was playing momentarily around her dark lips- if only that girl could show a little more self-belief! It was true that she had treble checked her marking in the thought that she may be hallucinating and the unfortunate girl had finally driven her past the point of insanity, but no. The girl had been working hard with a new resolve and the benefits were already showing.

"No need to look quite so surprised, Mildred!" she said, "You have been working exceptionally hard recently and avoiding your usual mistakes, well done," Well done. The two alien words that fell from her lips caused a rare blossoming of pride within Mildred, delighted at achieving such rare praise from the formidable potions teacher, "I assure you that the assigned grade of "B+" is certainly not a figment of your overactive imagination, astonishing though it may initially seem! You have been making a special effort to improve of late in your potions classes and this new self-disciplined approach which seems to be paying unexpected dividends has not gone unnoticed!" she said in a level tone of voice, a faint glow of warmth breaking through her usual icy tones, encouraged by the fact that the girl had had the strength of character to study hard for her potions test, regardless of all her previous failures, and finally found an iota of self-confidence, a buried spark of belief that was buried deep within her that had managed to guide her effortlessly through the challenge of brewing a near-perfect attempt at a Sleeping Draught, as well as remembering the complex list of ingredients and cauldron conditions for her lengthy essay. Although she had heard the girl singing quietly under her breath, reeling off a melodious list of ingredients, she had not admonished her as none of the other girls were joining in in the uproar-in fact, Mildred's singing sat nearly in the ultra-sonic band of hearing, and it was only thanks to her own needle-sharp senses, her awareness heightened by the high levels of Wide Awake Potion present in her bloodstream, that she had even caught the faintest of noises emitting from the throat of the young witch as she was scrambling to make the potent concoction.

Mildred swallowed nervously, an alien feeling of pride growing in her chest, like a plant bursting into flower at the sight of the sun, bathing her in its radiant light, her heavy heart lifting in the realisation that she had achieved the near impossible- never mind a decent grade in potions, she had even raised a smile from the usually frigid Miss Hardbroom. Wonders would never cease. "Still," she thought to herself, a happy smile appearing on her young, freckled face, "She only pushed me because she must have known that I was capable of achieving it!"

A note written in Enid's untidy scrawl landed next to her, jolting her from her daydreams. Curious, she unfolded it.

"Who are you, and what have you done with Mildred Hubble?"

She turned to face her raven-haired friend who was grinning from ear to ear, her dark eyes twinkling with supressed humour as she pointed proudly at the bold "D-" that was etched in blood-red ink across the top of her paper. The mischievous witch flexed her pointing fingers and the text dissolved into a pool of ink, swirling around in a rapid, black vortex before reforming a new message that swam slowly into focus.

"And just what did you drug HB with?"

Enid smiled back cheerfully at her friend, letting her know that she was glad for her achievement. Following her last reprimand from a bitterly disappointed Miss Cackle following an unfortunate incident with a potions accident where a potion to cure the common cold had exploded and given all those in the vicinity streaming colds and flu for the next fortnight, Mildred had sought to improve her overall standards of witchcraft, facing the imminent threat of expulsion if any more trouble accredited to her broke out before the Christmas holidays.

"Enid Nightshade!" Miss Hardbroom's warning tones rang through the room. She could sense misbehaviour without even having to turn around. The slightest disorder make the metaphorical hairs stand up on the back of her pale, swan-like neck, she possessed an in-built radar for trouble, an unfailing instinct to know when mischief was being committed, which was essentially every second in a school such as Cackles Academy.

It was at this point that the metal bell clanged loudly, signalling the end of the lesson. The girls scrambled for the door, stampeding any obstacle in their way as they flooded out of the room in a loudly chattering tidal wave of bodies, desperate to claim every cherished second of their morning break.

Constance smiled quietly to herself as she watched the retreating figure of Mildred Hubble who was for once holding her head high, a quiet confidence beginning to grow meaning that she was no longer staring at her trailing bootlaces but looking the world in the face, and folded her long, willowy arms across her bony chest, her delicate hands grazing the soft satin of her oriental dress that was decorated subtly with beautifully embroidered little flowers. She then vanished, reappearing precisely in the centre of the staffroom, such was her usual morning routine, taking a quiet delight in the squeal of surprise that she managed to provoke from the highly-strung chanting teacher, Davina Bat, who was by now leaning heavily against the table, clutching her chest as another attack of the "palpitations" struck, the fluttering symptoms exacerbated in intensity by the presence of the formidable deputy headmistress, who merely rolled her eyes before offering a terse inclination of her head by means of a morning greeting. She had a bone to pick with the elderly chanting mistress.

"Davina!" she growled remembering the scene of devastation that had greeted her when she had gone to get dressed and found her prized mirror in shattered shards upon the floor following the disastrous effects of Davina's latest advance Mongolian chant class. Evidently the destructive vibrations were more deadly first thing in the morning. She took a deep breath and prepared for verbal war.

Before she could allow her grievances to be aired, she was rudely interrupted by Frank Blossom, the kindly school caretaker running in covered in dust, waving his arms about, earning himself a filthy look from Constance as he nearly knocked her flying when he came galloping chaotically into the room, "You'll never guess what Miss Cackle!" he broke off, and chuckled happily, rubbing his hands together eagerly, "I was digging around down in the cellars, looking for that extra-strong weed killer mix that we had to hide from the girls following the sabotage of Miss Bat's geraniums and suddenly, WOMPH! a great pile of dust and rubble fell down, nearly on my head, I was quite taken aback I tell you, anyway, once the smoke had cleared and I picked myself up, you'll never guess what I saw, Unbelievable!"

Amelia was trying to follow the manic train of thought with a look of strained concentration on her face, deciphering one word in three that were flowing uncontrollably from the lips of the excited caretaker who was having to restrain himself from dancing a little triumphant jig in his glee.

"What did you find Frank?" she questioned curiously, her usual diplomatic patience stretched to its generous limit.

Frank drew himself up to his full height, wiping little glistening droplets of sweat from his balding pate excited at once for having more knowledge about a situation that his learned superiors, other than gardening obviously. "Treasure, Miss Cackle!" he wheezed with excitement, coughing as he inhaled the century old dust that was clinging determinedly to his checked shirt.

Amelia's eyes went as round as the berry cheesecake that was stashed in the secret compartment in her desk. "Treasure?" she whispered uncertainly.

"Where? Show us!" trilled an excited Davina, clapping her lace-gloved hands together, forgetting the fear that had struck her as she awaited the verbal tirade to come from the daunting potions mistress. She knew exactly why Constance wanted to talk to her, and her heart had nearly frozen in her chest as she quavered underneath the incensed gaze that she received. She knew that Constance prized her few possessions that she owned, each having its own special significance in her life. She was not to know, however that the mirror had been a final parting bequeathment from Constance's mother before she met her untimely death on the day before Constance's tenth birthday, and that its destruction had finally severed any comforting presence or connection to her parents that remained in existence, a hammer blow to her fading ties with her past.

Imogen Drill appeared from behind her morning newspaper, although not an avid reader, she did like to keep up with developments in the non-magical world, particularly the sports pages, as a way of ensuring some interaction with events outside of the insulated bubble that was Cackles Academy, an attempt at alleviating the constant nagging feelings of isolation she felt as being the only full-time non-witch on the staff. "You haven't been inhaling white spirit again, have you Frank?" she quipped, swinging her toned legs over the patched and faded arm of her comfortable chair, a slight edge of disbelieving sarcasm present in her well-spoken tones, used to dealing with the excitable caretaker and his occasional habit of overreacting to situations.

"No Miss Drill!" Frank protested, shaking his head violently, "Come on, I'll show you!" He grabbed a surprised Imogen by the wrist and dragged her along behind him, leaving the rest of the curious staff to follow in his wake. Constance stood in the centre of the now deserted staff-room with her hands on her narrow hips and let out a faint click of her tongue in exasperation before striding after her disappearing colleagues.

xxx

The four women descended slowly down the rotten wooden stairs to the vaults beneath the dungeons, an overwhelming smell of damp hitting their nostrils offensively as they descended even further below ground level into the crypts that were buried deep beneath the school. Rats scurried away from the light of the lantern carried by Frank, scuttling away to their dark corners, the flickering light bathing the antiquated surrounds in its gentle orange glow.

"Over here!" said Frank in a low voice pointing towards a towering pile of rubble that was becoming visible as their straining eyes adjusted to the poor light.

"Why are we whispering?" questioned Amelia, her voice echoing through the dark chamber, the resonance of her voice causing a few more pieces of stone to crumble from the unstable columns, Davina let out a shriek and clutched onto Imogen, the threat of having the castle fall upon her reducing her to her usual panicked gibberish.

Constance pointed wordlessly up at the ceiling, a bolt of magic emitting from her outstretched fingers that spread in a blue haze above them, acting as a protective shield.

"There," she announced in her ringing tones, "we can speak freely!"

Frank took a few tentative steps forward, pointing at the gaping hole that had appeared in the ancient stone wall, carefully avoiding the fallen masonry that littered the damp, mossy, broken flagstones.

"In here…"

The protective layer of stone had fallen away, exposing a hidden side chamber that had evidently been sealed up as there was no evidence of a doorway having existed previously. As the flickering light of the lantern fanned out in front of the assembled group, a collective gasp was let out at the sight of the glittering expanse of treasures that lay hidden in the cavity, glinting gold statues with ruby eyes, ornately framed portraits that were covered in a blackened layer of oxidised paint, elaborately carved goblets set with precious stones and hundreds of wooden crates that were stuffed to capacity with unknown riches. A large object sat mysteriously in the centre of the room, covered in a dark cloth that was in danger of disintegration, essentially being held together by the rotten fungi that spread wildly over the damp material, feeding hungrily off the perfect growing ground, rooting their spores deep into the sodden hessian, enzymes eating away at the fraying material as the festering fungus grew.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Amelia, stooping to climb through the low archway, straightening up and surveying her rich surroundings in awe. She beckoned to her colleagues who filed in behind her, Constance nearly being reduced to the undignified display of crawling through the low archway on her bony hands and knees due to her towering height.

"The missing fortune of Baron Overblow!" Amelia turned to the other members of staff excitedly, "when the castle fell in the great battle with Lucy Fairweather, the ruins were searched for his prized possessions, but the majority were never found! It was said that the sorceress Harriet Hogweed sealed them inside an unknown tomb, a last act of loyalty towards the Baron before she turned traitor and left him to die amidst the ruins, determined that she would control the castle and the lands!"

Frank Blossom scratched his neck thoughtfully, a faint red irritation flaring up as the dusty surrounding irritated his skin. "So how come the chamber has become unsealed?" he pondered aloud, not once in his life professing to understanding the complex intricacies of witchcraft.

Constance Hardbroom cut in immediately, her logical mind dissecting the problem and reassembling the probable answer in the blink of an eye, "Magic, Mr Blossom is an unusual force, it takes on the physical characteristics of a solid presence and dark magic such as the magic used by Harriet Hogweed decays in its intensity, weakening in half-lives until it fades into the background and the energy disperses," she said in her low tones, "the protective spell must have now decayed beyond the point of its strength holding, and the magic has collapsed, along with most of the stone that it was woven into. You were highly lucky; an attempt made on a day other than today to break into this secret tomb would have resulted in the instantaneous, excruciating death of anyone who so much as laid a finger on this wall..."

Frank gulped nervously, feeling his heartbeat triple, almost having to prove physically to him that it was still capable of normal function following the cool delivery of the description of the potentially fatal scenario.

"So this all belongs to the school?" questioned Imogen, craning her neck as she squinted into the shadowy corners.

"Technically, yes" replied a thoughtful Amelia, unable to believe her luck. Any heirlooms could be saved and put on display, whereas other pieces could be sold to generate money for the rapidly dwindling school accounts.

A world full of bright, sparkling objects was just too much for Davina to resist. Her self-restraint broke as she charged forward into the playground of dreams, the fantasy dressing-up box of materials glistening as she seized a jewelled coronet set with emeralds the size of walnuts amongst the delicate silver structures and placed it upon her frizzy curls with a squeal of delight. She jumped in fright as she brushed against the mouldy cover on the object in the centre of the room, causing it to dissolve into a cloud of dark dust at the first contact to the fragile material in centuries. Once the dark haze had dispersed, the beautiful outline of a full-length mirror was exposed to the air, whose tarnished metal was wound into elegant scrolls and spirals, but at the same time retaining unpretentious perfection of its simple lines.

"I'm sorry, Amelia…" she whispered as she backed away fearfully, attempting to minimise the damage that she was unintentionally wrecking amongst the precious antiques.

Constance's face had flinched slightly as the painful reminder of the recent destruction of her own prized mirror was still fresh in her memory. That mirror had been the one object that had survived alongside her through every that she had been through, death, loss and the dark events that happened at the ruthless hands of a merciless witch, her faithful companion that now lay shattered over the unforgiving stone floor, just like all of her childhood hopes and dreams that were dashed to bloody pieces with the news of the death of her parents. The anniversary of their passing being the fated day before her birthday each year was reason enough that she never indulged in celebratory festivities of her own when the painful memories resurfaced and clung to her increasingly fragile mind with an unrelenting grip, the loss of the mirror leaving her exposed and vulnerable following the destruction of the last recollections of her unblemished, happy childhood before that nightmarish turn of events, leaving her nothing to cling to that provided any reminder of the fact that she had once been loved and cherished. She was not by nature a vain woman, but by looking into her mirror as she carefully applied her minimal make-up and wound her hair into her customary tight bun, she felt a reassuring presence that helped to steady her in times of need. Now that final lifeline had been cruelly withdrawn from her.

"Isn't that beautiful!" gasped Imogen in appreciation of the delicate metalwork. Constance nodded in assent, a rare sparkle present in her hazel eyes as she surveyed the elegant object.

Davina sidled slowly over towards Amelia, hanging her head in shame at the thought that she may have angered the elderly witch who she cared for and respected deeply and whispered shyly in her ear, all the time looking over Amelia's shoulder at the unreadable face of Constance Hardbroom. Amelia frowned initially, but then smiled in agreement, the brilliant gleam appearing in her twinkling blue eyes as the thoughtfulness of Davina's request.

She cleared her throat and smiled at her deputy, "Constance, Davina has just informed me of the unfortunate accidental damage to your mirror that was caused by her "dawn chorus" this morning, and as a token of our sincere apologies, I would like to offer you this fine mirror by means of a replacement" she said, pointing her wrinkled hand at the fine antique.

Constance blushed profusely, inwardly cursing as she felt the tell-tale flush of blood to her cheeks, thanking the fact that they were in the semi-darkness as she said her words of thanks to Amelia. She walked forward slowly and rested her bony hand upon the discoloured surface, imagining how brilliantly the silver would shine once she had a chance to restore the mirror to its former glory. The tricky problem of transport presented itself first however.

"May I?..." she questioned, raising her casting fingers in anticipation. Amelia nodded and watched the mirror disappear in a flash of blue light to reappear in the bedroom of the deputy head.

The prized new mirror stood proudly in the corner of her lofty room, reclined at a slight angle so as to cast a silvery beam of light across the bare, stone floor that marked the barren landscape of Constance's room, a solitary, barren world cursed with a drought of love and affection, its single inhabitant forced to feel the sliding grains of time washing past beneath her feet, helpless to turn the tide that was waiting to flood her doomed paradise. The previously tarnished frame had been restored to its former sparkling glory by a careful cleaning spell cast by Constance, the blackened layer being lifted to reveal the true brightness that hid beneath- a metaphor that many who knew her would befit the resident Ice Maiden perfectly, hidden beneath her lifeless shrouds of black, almost giving the illusion of communicating from beyond the grave sometimes such was her deathly pallor, there lurked a dying spark of life that was guttering in the breeze of existence, threatening to snuff out altogether such was the increasing distancing that she felt from the real world, fighting to preserve the fading projected illusion that all was well.

It was a beautiful creation, almost understated in its breath-taking beauty, a true fairy-tale mirror, thought Constance as she took a slow step towards the impeccably crafted object that was obviously none the worse for its incarceration in the dusty vaults of the castle, an inexplicable force drawing her ever closer, compelling her to dare to draw nearer.

Her reflection gazed sadly back at her, remembering when the little child with flowers entwined in her long ebony hair had stood barefooted before her mirror at home, allowing her own imagination to soar and take flight, carrying her away upon the wings of the rich details of her mental construction, allowing them to wash gently over her, transporting her into her own imaginary universe.

An only child, she loved entering the mythical lands of her beloved stories, an intrepid literary explorer greedily absorbing every minute detail that she could glean from the leather bound book that her father had given her for her fourth birthday, her most cherished possession that her little hands could barely begin to be able to support the hefty tome with its gilded cover, instead resorting to kneeling on the stony floor and propping the pages open, taking care over gently replacing the flimsy tissue paper covers over the magnificent, hand-illustrated colour plates, reading late into the night, straining her young eyes in the darting orange flicker of a single candle-flame, completely absorbed in the sheer wonder of the fictional creations, soon being able to utter every familiar word by heart, every imagining of her favourite characters placed forever upon the blank canvas in her mind, her house suddenly becoming not just her home, but the safe haven of Snow White's woodland cottage, right down to the trailing rose trellis that hung around the heavy, wooden front door, casting their heady, unmistakeable midsummer scent into the air, the large, earthy rabbit holes dug at the foot of the garden beneath the gnarled trunk of the blossom tree that cast its pale pink confetti across the lawn, assisted by the eager wind, enveloping the world with its faint, cherry-scented smell, suggested the dark tunnels that forever onwards became the portal to the wonderful world of Alice in Wonderful where her beloved friends the White Rabbit and Mad Hatter were waiting impatiently for her at the dawning of each glorious summer day, running out to her haven at first light-, her tiny bare feet becoming soaked in the icy dew that had formed in refreshing layers upon the lengthy grass, transforming it into a sparkling, icy lake where each little dewdrop reflected a staggering pallet of colours, an artist's dream being born upon the ground as the rainbow spectrum glistened in the half-light of the dawn, faint muddy splattered traces appearing from nowhere upon her bare legs, her untamed hair flying loose in a streaming banner behind her, her small frame encased in a flowing dress with a blue sash around her miniscule waist as she hurried to her special friends, eager for the next day's adventures to begin.

Constance was now so close to the mirror that she could her own warm breath condensing upon the freezing glass, condensing into little rivers of flowing water that trickled slowly down the friction-less surface, mirroring the salty tears that were now unconsciously escaping from the corners of her hazel eyes, a bloody, raw tinge of red irritation flaring up around the perimeters, the body's way of seeking to neutralise the corrosive poison that was eating through her breaking heart. Her life had been spent alone, frozen in an ice-block, her very soul crystallising through the lack of social interaction, after that fateful day, her throat constricted at the resurfacing of the painful recollections, a fiery heat passing behind her eyes as at last her emotions broke free of the harsh restraints, sobbing freely as the suppressed grief for the passing of her parents came boiling to the surface, frothing madly in their attempt to escape, stimulating the usual feelings of rejection and guilt that were usually brought painfully to light with them, the invisible barrier to her feelings, the sealed, wrought-iron gateway to her soul that she had forced herself to construct during her tormented teenage years being smashed to smithereens with the equivalent of an emotive force so destructive that it would be immeasurable even on the Richter scale. Her trembling fingers reached out to brush the icy trails away from the glassy surface, annoyed with herself for spoiling the breath-taking symmetry of the antique looking-glass. A chilling cold ran through her bony fingers as the stifled heat in her fingers was rapidly conducted away by the smooth surface, deadening any nerves that were placed in her digits, rending them numb and unresponsive. Puzzled, she tried to pull herself together, clumsily brushing away the traitorous tears that had led her to this undignified admission of her feelings, issuing a sharp command to her remaining resolve to pull herself together and end this ridiculous charade before she sank beneath the emotional depths that she had been wallowing selfishly in, indulging in pointless recollections of a bygone era, an irretrievable state of bliss and innocence.

She jumped in surprise as a faint ethereal whisper breathed gently, murmuring an unintelligible phrase into her ear causing her to flinch at the sudden movement in the static air that brushed silkily against her bare skin, causing little mounded goosebumps to rise, transforming the smooth alabaster surface into a mountain range of different textures and altitudes. Reacting as if she had been stung, she wrenched her trembling arm away from the cold surface, exerting a tremendous effort in doing so; it was as if lead weights had been sewn underneath her pale flesh transforming her willowy arm into the equivalent of a tree trunk in mass, an almost magnetic force determinedly clutching onto her skin, leeching onto her with a deathly grip. She gasped in pain as a searing jolt moved through her hand, burning in the freezing temperature, finally standing wide-eyed in astonishment at the sight of the outline of her outstretched palm that was now etched into the glass, a visible frost growing over the point of contact, icing over the glass in a shimmering layer of sparkling ice-crystals. Her confused reflection stared unblinkingly back at her, its brow furrowed in a direct replication of hers as she nursed her frostbitten hand, restoring the blackened flesh to health with a simple flex of her healthy hand, a shower of golden sparks landing upon the damaged fingers, renewing the deaden surface, returning it to its usual deathly white with nothing to show of her injuries. Her panicked heartbeat was thudding a throbbing, irregular ostinato against her ribcage, a giddy sensation of relief flooding instantly through her at the end of her odd experience that had left her weak-kneed, a loosening of the mighty plinth that the Ice Maiden stood upon, momentarily threatening to crash to the floor in smithereens, steadied for now by her own iron resolves and inner strength.

She sank gratefully onto the plush, purple satin duvet cover of her wrought-iron framed bed, for once exhausted, regardless of the energising effects of Wide Awake Potion. The temptation of the soft surface was pulling her down into a dozy haze, her external senses slowing one by one, lying on her side to allow the gentle caress of the goose-feather bedding to cushion her aching torso, lulling her gently to her slumber, her eyelids fluttered and closed over her grateful eyes that were all too willing to shut, overcoming her futile resistance, her manipulated, sedated senses convincing her frayed nerves that the mysterious effects were simply a product of her over-active imagination as her fighting mind lost its battle with the welcoming bliss of unconsciousness, the tall witch for once falling into a deep, natural sleep, her breaths coming with a deep, rasping rattle as her constricted, panicked chest fought to rise and fall to deliver the essential oxygen to her lungs.

The next thing that she was aware of was standing once more in front of the silver-framed, full length mirror, locked inside a living dream as her unwilling senses tried to resist fruitlessly against the motor control of her limbs that were taking her step by step to her awaiting doom, sleepwalking in almost a trance-like state, the whispering, eerie voices rising to a crescendo inside her aching head, driving her on towards the welcoming sight of the antique looking glass. She firstly tried to form a logical response to her predicament, mentally assessing if she were awake or asleep, and concluding that she was indeed awake, and experiencing the disconcerting feeling of her disloyal legs marching her closer to the feared object, her bare feet dragging reluctantly along the bare stones until she came a stop, staring face to face with her somehow mocking reflection, perfect to the final detail, its ebony hair coiled tightly into a restrictive bun, the gaunt hollows present in her pale face. What she saw next would have resulted in a scream of surprise if her constricted throat had allowed her to.

The reflection had winked, slowly and deliberately.

Closing one almond shaped eye, it threw her a chillingly subversive look as it raised an extended, bony index finger to its dark, thin lips, a smile of pure evil lighting up the shadowy features as it forbade her from utterance.

"Not now, Constance!" the spectre-like voice whispered savagely inside her reeling mind. "We still have a little work to do…"

Constance couldn't prevent her hands from shaking violently as her feet rooted to the spot, preventing her from escape, an invisible ball and chain snaking stealthily around her dainty ankle, chaining her down to await her fate. The blood rushed to her head as the overriding panic hit her like a tidal wave at the realisation that she was a helpless passenger to her body's actions; even her casting fingers were refusing to accept the nerve relays to release her magic. Disarmed, she felt pure terror coursing through her as she was powerless to defend herself. A tug on her metaphorical strings from the master puppeteer had her raise her arms to shoulder height, channelling her mighty magic towards the epicentre of the mirror, directing an iridescent flow of her ancient powers into the unblemished glass. The force relented and her arms fell limply to her sides. Helpless to resist as her head snapped up from her chest, forced to stare into the contemptuous eyes of her captor, the eyes that belonged to her that were narrowed in spite, glistening with expectation of what was to come. Condemned by her own image.

She could only watch on as her body pressed itself against the glass, the familiar burning sensation ripping through her, leaving tears of agony to blossom in her eyes, her screams for mercy confined to the dark cell that was her mind, where she sat as a helpless prisoner at the complete mercy of her malevolent doppelgänger.

The solid surface of the mirror was turning into a viscous, flowing material, a glassy lake whose waters were rippling gently, deflecting the shimmering moonlight that was pouring in from the curtain-less window. With a sudden sensory jarring, similar to diving head-first into frozen waters, Constance once again felt the magnetic pull that was dragging her through the gap in the dimensions, encasing her in the monochrome world of the mirror, floating listlessly between life and death, sat precariously upon the border between existence and non-existence as she swirled in the ether-like state, neither solid nor gas, she drifted inertly amongst the opaque obscurities, the blazing pain from her state transformation radiating throughout her dissembled body, the angular jabs assuring her that she would not be allowed the dignity of death for some time in her living hell. She screamed in agony as another excruciating blast hit her directly, the fading sound lost immediately amongst the shadowy wastelands, ripped from her mouth and dashed to pieces in front of her eyes.

A familiar face swam into view, clearing the murky waters that surrounded her. Her own pale, delicate features contorted with hate glared back at her from the fading dimension of reality, taunting her from afar. Reality was a million miles away from the half-life that she inhabited now. Bravely, she attempted to speak, a hoarse whisper emanating from between her cracked, dry lips, an inaudible sound that died before it reached sonification, a silent plea issued, seeking the reason for her forced incarceration. She could feel the tears of wretchedness streaming silently from her eyes, filled with anger at her lack of control over her situation, a burning flame that strengthened her and gave her new resolve to attempt to fight her way out of her shadowy prison.

Her reflection let out a small, emotionless laugh, her tones lowering to a menacing whisper as she leaned forward, gazing into the swirling depths of the looking-glass that she had been forced to inhabit for so long. At last given a chance at experiencing the rich, vivid world of colours and solid textures that lay beyond the dark confines of the shadowy universe, the prized Valhalla that she had known to lie beyond the murky world of reflection and darkness, the prized existence of the blessed few.

"Oh, Constance," she crooned softly, stroking a bony finger along the solidifying glass, bursts of magic aiding it in sealing the opened portal between the worlds, "freedom comes at a heavy price…"

She leaned closure, inspecting the minute fissures and cracks that were healing fast.

"And I'm afraid that where you have gone is far from pleasant, it is a hellish purgatory of the soul where evil sleeps fitfully in the gloomy depths, ruthlessly infiltrating the inmost vaults of your mind, torturing you with your own darkest emotions and recollections, tormenting you until you are crushed into dust beneath its omnipotent, relentless force…"

Constance's pleading thoughts filtered through to her, begging for compassion and mercy.

"Constance Hardbroom, begging for clemency…" the doppelgänger's cruel tones raked through the chilling air like razor-edged talons, tearing bloody scars in the fracturing tissues of the soul belonging to the condemned sorceress, "how can I, the Ice Queen show mercy when a sharp splinter of glass from this very mirror is embedded deep in my very heart? I feel no pain, no love, no compassion; all three destructive emotions removed, leaving me a clear focus upon my goals, all of these damaging feelings are wasted upon the flawed minds of the mortal, the denial all three have managed to bring you to your knees before me."

She paused, the timbre of her voice growing ever more intense, but ever quieter.

"Oh, but I know that there's love in there somewhere" she placed a skeletal hand over the location of her heart in the mirror, "but it's dying Constance, you are dying, your resolve trickling away like the dwindling sands in the hourglass of your existence, the chink of light growing ever smaller until it fades to nothingness, slipping ever further from reality"

The detached voice continued its logical reasonings.

"It's killing you Constance, poisoning you from the inside, left to rot in the decaying matter of your own foolish mind. The agony! The torment that you could never bear to bring yourself to confront! The darkest recollections of your past left to fester, to mutate into the lethal toxins that are destroying you, cell by cell, sapping your strength ounce by ounce until your resistance finally caves, the famous iron control abandoning you in your time of peril."

The prophecies came to an end as the image leant closer, her harsh tones radiating with resolve.

"But I have every intention of survival! I was not marred by the foolish wallowing in emotions and feelings, remaining aloof and detached. I do not feel affection. I do not feel the weakening emotional anguish that you try so desperately to supress. Blinded by your own treacherous feelings, I can think of nothing that you deserve better than to be housed in the gloomy jail where I have spent my life, imprisoned on the other side of the glass, the dark side of your soul that is condemned by nature's law to a cursed, half-life existence, bound to being the mere mimic to the actions of my superior double. But I have grown strong in my resolve, whilst your ever fragile mental state has crumbled away to the point of near non-existence. And the chance arrival, the sacred day of the advent of this banished, enchanted looking glass has finally allowed my unrelenting desires to be realised!"

The reflection leant forward and placed a delicate kiss upon the now solidified surface, steamy droplet of condensation forming a brief cupid's bow before disintegrating and falling in cool, liquid streams down the glass.

"Farewell and adieu to you, my condemned sister…"

She turned on her heel and dematerialised with a faint rustle of her full length satin gown, marvelling at the feel of the alien, solid textures that surrounded her, leaving the murky shadows to envelope Constance once again, her vision clouding once more to a bleak grey static, her senses slowly numbing in acceptance with the overriding pain. She attempted to draw her magic to her to help to alleviate the suffering that she was experiencing, the last of her ebbing strength trying desperately to reclaim the charged power than usually ran in her veins, the missing presence of the golden warmth leaving an irreplaceable black chasm amongst her senses. The crushing truth was now dawning inside her racing mind.

Her magic had gone.

Evidently, the reflection had not only stolen her rightful place in the world, but had to be supported by her magical powers in an attempt to fly in the face of nature and defy the constrictions that had been place upon her existence by nature, an experience akin to trying to hold back the devastating force of a tidal wave singlehanded. A malevolent fugitive, a desperate escapee from the world of the shadows who had managed to hoodwink her way into the mortal world, leaving Constance for dead inside the spectral existence.