Well it's been almost a year since I updated, but here at last is the next chapter. I'm not sure how many of you are still following this story – but to those of you who are, I apologise for the prolonged wait, and I thank you for sticking with me for that time.

What can I say really? It took me a long time to write this chapter – I didn't have time when I felt able to write, and when I did the words simply wouldn't come. This chapter has been edited and re-edited so many times that, though I hope there aren't any mistakes, I can't be completely certain.

Anyway, I hope that you enjoy this very long chapter, and that it doesn't disappoint. Please review!

Chapter 7

Something was wrong. He couldn't quite place what it was, but he could feel instinctively that Hope's attempt to transport them from the courtyard to wherever she had in mind hadn't gone according to plan. From what he'd experienced in materialising, he knew that one shouldn't feel as if one's entire body was being compressed into a pencil thin tube. It felt as if blunt needles were digging into his ears, like something that scorched and cooled at the same time was reaching inside him and gripping his stomach in an iron fist. As a doctor, he was required to travel via materialisation very often, and it had never felt like this.

Stars popped behind his eyes, and he gripped Constance's shoulder tightly, desperate not to lose his only link to the magic pulling them through space. He had a vague feeling that time was running out and slowing down, as if it was speeding up, and lurching back and forth. He wondered how long they had been here, in this black abyss that tasted of metal and smelt like rain.

With a rushing sensation similar to being in a lift jolting to a halt, the ground appeared abruptly beneath his knees. The sudden return to reality caught him off guard, and he released Constance's shoulder to topple backwards. His back hit the floor, and he found he could breathe again.

He sat up slowly, the room spinning gradually to a stop as he became aware of where he was. The infirmary was a strangely welcome sight.

There was a groan somewhere to his left. Amelia was sitting up; her glasses perched lopsidedly on her nose, her grey hair wild and windswept. He glimpsed Mildred clutching the brass rail of the bed in front of him, before he saw that Constance was lying on the bed. At least she wouldn't have sustained any further damage.

Hope lay flat on her stomach next to Amelia and Mildred, her head tilted to the side, breathing heavily. Her skin was deathly pale, her pupils small and dilated, and there was a metallic taste on her tongue. Her entire body ached all over, and the room had yet to stop spinning. She felt like she was going to be sick. Idiot. You knew that that was dangerous. You could have gotten the others killed.

There was movement around her, and she was vaguely aware that Jason was already starting to tend to Constance. Good. I didn't just bring us here for him to waste time. If she dies I will personally make sure that Agatha wishes she had never been born. Subconsciously, she was a little alarmed at how like Hecketty that thought was. Cold, calculating and unemotional, she had voiced the words as if she were describing the weather. Perhaps she was more like her tutor than she had once thought.

'Hope? Hope, can you hear me?' She felt the pressure of a timid hand on her shoulder. Mildred's voice was tight and concerned, as if she was barely restraining herself from shaking Hope violently. Hope could sense concern and confusion and something a little like anger rolling off Mildred in waves.

In the background, Hope could hear Jason talking to Amelia. Jason was explaining that Constance was unable to respond, and that he needed to undo her dress to get to the wound. Oh. Back. Scars. Questions. With a sudden surge of energy, Hope pushed herself to her feet and staggered a little, gripping Mildred's offered arm for support. She had no wish to be present when the doctor and the headmistress discovered the marks that undoubtedly marred the deputy's back. Hope had no wish to be present when Amelia put two and two together and started to ask her questions. She was not in the mood to talk about what Hecketty done to her, nor what she had definitely done to Constance.

'Hope you really should sit down'. Amelia had left Constance's side briefly to attend to the girl who looked like she was about to faint at any moment.

Hope tried to quell the nausea rising like bile in her throat. She held up a shaking hand, intent on warding off Amelia's concerns. 'I…I just need to lie down. Trust me, I'm fine. I just used a little too much energy. It's happened before. I'll be fine as long as I can get some rest'.

Jason paused. He had cast a temporary clotting spell on the wound he could see through the tear in the back of the deputy's dress, simply to prevent any more loss of blood before he had the opportunity to tend to it properly. He wished that he had a colleague with him. Constance wasn't the only one who was injured. He needed to check on Mildred, just to ensure that Agatha hadn't succeeded in hurting her, and he felt that Hope was probably on the verge of collapse. What Hope was saying was actually true in his experience. His eyes met hers, and he was a little startled to see the desperation and pleading expression in her startlingly blue eyes. She wanted to get out. Whether it was the attention she was unused to receiving or the after effects of what had just happened he wasn't sure, but she wanted to escape, that much was clear. He sighed. He could always check on her later. 'Alright. Mildred, could you help Hope to her room please? Hope, I want you to have a lot of water alright? You need to stay hydrated. I'll come and check on you once I've finished here'.

Hope practically lunged towards the door, pulling Mildred behind her, despite the fact that Mildred was meant to be helping her. Jason watched her go, trying to ignore the troubled feeling their sudden departure had left him with. Then he turned back to Constance. 'Amelia, do you think that you could grab some warm water and some clean cloth for me?'

While Amelia hurried away, Jason reached into his pants pocket and extracted a small leather doctor's bag. It was no bigger than his thumb. He placed it on the bedside table, took hold of the handles, and pulled. The bag opened, simultaneously expanding to the correct size. He rummaged around in the bag, thankful that he had had the foresight to pack his doctor's bag. He never went anywhere without it. Amelia returned with a basin of water and a handful of cloths a moment later. Neither of the adults spoke as he snapped on a pair of gloves and waved his hand at the back of the unconscious witch's dress.

Amelia sucked in a breath as Jason bent intently over Constance's back, her stomach heaving at the sight of so much dried blood. The headmistress watched as the doctor grabbed a wet cloth and began to dab gently at the blood, intent on getting a better view at the injury. As the blood came away and the damage came into view, Amelia covered her mouth and sat down heavily in a chair. A long wound started at Constance's right shoulder, extending in a diagonal line down towards her lowest left rib.

Jason refused to let the sight faze him, instead he moving robotically, switching off the emotional side of his mind as he let his clinical side take over. Amelia turned her face to the window, breathing slowly through her nose as she attempted to remain calm. Amelia realised that it was a miracle Constance had survived. In fact, it was a miracle that none of her students had been injured. She was anxious to check on her charges, as well as on Imogen and Davina. She could imagine that the entire school was in a panic, and though it was her duty to calm them and ensure them that they were safe once more, she was determined to wait until Constance had been tended to.

After a while, Jason pulled off the gloves and placed them in a disposable plastic bag before dumping them in a bin. He let out a shaky breath and then leaned forwards to assess the now clean wound. The injury had required stiches, and he had placed some gauze over it to keep the stitches in place. As long as Constance didn't move too much when she woke up, she should be fine. The injury was surprisingly neat and clean, and it probably wouldn't even scar.

There was a pop, and a log in the fire place shifted. The flames flickered and leapt up the chimney, the shadows sprang back, and for a moment something shone white against the woman's skin. Frowning, the doctor leaned closer, so that his body was bent over the bed, bringing his face very close to the woman's bare back. The bright light that had lured the students and staff out into the open had faded as the clouds moved to cover the school once more, and the light in the infirmary was dim. Jason rubbed his fore finger and thumb together to spark a match like flame over his thumb, and the shadows leapt back.

His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock and horror as he stared at the faint marks that the firelight threw into startling clarity. Pearly pale scars scattered over the woman's shoulder blades and down her back, disappearing beneath the heavy black material. The marks interlaced and overlapped, like a network of winding roads and pathways, a map that told a startling story of pain and suffering and loneliness and woe. He felt sick. The churning in his stomach sparked and grew and he suddenly recognised the emotion hiding behind his horror. The anger roared and spread through his body, and the flame hovering over his fingers flickered as his body trembled with anger. Perhaps it was a natural reaction to such a sight, but he was a little startled at the intensity of it. Did he had a right to feel so angry about something that had happened many years ago, something that was not his business, and that Constance clearly did her best to hide?

So this was why Constance was so afraid of Hecketty. It was something that the woman had clearly tried to hide, something that he had picked up on through threads of their conversation. Distantly, he wondered whether this was the reason why Hope had wanted to get out of the room before he treated the form mistress. Constance had informed him about the truth of Hope's arrival, and therefore a little about her history with Hecketty, and the fact that Hecketty wanted her back. He had gathered from the conversation, which had so many missing details, that there was a lot more that Constance didn't want to tell him. He had picked up from the half-hidden pain in her eyes that she knew Hecketty on a more personal level, and wished she didn't. Later, he had discovered that Hecketty had tried to take the school before, that she had come very, very close to shutting it down, and that she had only been prevented at the last moment in a desperate act by a girl who hadn't really known what she was doing. It was the carelessness, the complete chance that she had been beaten, that had enraged Hecketty, Constance had said. She'd explained that, had Hecketty been beaten through skill and power, she might not have desired revenge. It was the fact that circumstances had driven her from her goal that she couldn't cope with.

So perhaps, if this was the reason why Constance hated and feared Hecketty, then Hope too had also suffered similarly, which was why she had fled before he could discover the connection.

What kind of person could knowingly do this to a child? What kind of person could live with themselves, could sleep at night and go about their daily routine, knowing that there were people out there that would never recover from a treatment that had scared them both emotionally and physically?

'Jason?'

The man straightened, having completely forgotten that Amelia was even still in the room. The headmistress had occupied herself by building up the small fire in the grate as a way to occupy the time and she had watched him stand there for a good fifteen minutes, his green eyes dark with anger and disgust. She joined him at the bed. 'What is it?'

Unable to speak, the doctor motioned to Constance before retreating. He crossed to the fire, his mind in a whirl. He felt like lashing out at something. He wasn't usually so affected by this sort of thing. After all, he'd seen similar things before. But he felt like he first had when he'd been confronted by a horribly maimed wizard who had been caught in a backlash of magic that had torn his house apart. He felt sick and disgusted and horrified and angry all at the same time. His throat was tight, and he suddenly felt very close to crying.

He stared into the fire, oblivious to Amelia's horrified gasp, his eyes un-focusing as the orange and yellow flames roared and leapt into the chimney. A hand clenched at his side, he lifted his other hand to trace the scar marring his right temple absentmindedly. He'd had an aversion to fire ever since flames had consumed his home and family when he was a child, an incident that had left him with a scar and a memory problem that had left his childhood blurred. When Hope had materialised in the courtyard swathed in flames, he'd been frozen on the spot. But the flames leaping and dancing in the grate, straining up the chimney seemed to represent how he was feeling right now.

Amelia joined him at the fireplace, her face pale and her rigid expression conveying how disturbed she felt. They stood there for a moment, unwilling to be the first to break the silence that settled like a heavy blanket over their shoulders. Amelia's head was spinning. She'd always known that Constance had had a very good reason for being so reserved, for fearing a woman who she was very similar to in mannerisms. She'd suspected something a little like this, but not of this magnitude. 'What does this mean exactly?' It felt like a very foolish question, born of shock and disbelief, and she wished that she could take it back.

She glanced at the doctor. The firelight threw his handsome features into sharp relief, and his green eyes shone with flickering gold reflections. A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw, and he was so tense that his body was shaking. 'This means that what we thought we knew about the woman we are up against is not even close to reality. It means that this attack is only the beginning. It means…it means that we might not survive this'.

Hope was sitting up in bed with her head resting against the cool metal headboard. She closed her eyes and curled her fingers in the worn material of her blanket. She breathed deeply, but she did not feel calm. On top of everything that had just happened, she did not need to worry about who had her book right now.

Damn, damn, damn, damn it!

On returning to her room, one of the first things she had done was to look for her sketch book. Every time an event occurred that she had previously seen in a vision, she sat down and took notes, as a way of discerning what could be coming next. It had not been the most pleasant thing to discover that it was missing. All her visions were hidden away in that book. There were certain spells she had placed on it to stop anyone from destroying it or damaging it in anyway, and it would take a while for them to understand what they were actually in possession of. But she didn't like to think about what someone could do with all that knowledge. It was the main reason why she had avoided telling anyone about her Seer powers. It wasn't that she didn't trust Mildred, quite the contrary actually, but she did know that there were ways of other people obtaining what they wanted through Mildred. If Agatha got her hands on Mildred, and in turn Hecketty, then there were ways for her former tutor to get what she wanted. Hecketty knew all about her sketch book. It had been the only thing she had been determined to take with her when she left, and the one thing that she had known would be the hardest to take. Hecketty had kept it under lock and key for the majority of the time, though she wasn't quite as rigid about locking it up as other things, seeing as her visions happened at random and frequently. Hecketty had believed that Hope was completely under her control, a naivety that had allowed Hope the time she needed to get her book.

Hope tilted her head, a deep frown creasing her brow as she gnawed on her lip anxiously. Whoever had taken her sketch book wasn't actually thinking about it at this time, which didn't surprise her given what had just happened. And she wasn't able to find it telepathically unless someone was directly thinking about it. Well, she could delve into the likely suspects minds and hope that she would find some clue, but that took energy. The mind was a complicated thing. There were layers and layers of thoughts and feelings, and in her current state she probably wouldn't be able to block out the irrelevant ones.

Though she had a very good idea as to who had taken it. After all, the only people who would bother to try to take something of hers were Ethel and Drusilla. And she had left them outside her room when she'd teleported away. Right now, she wanted to find them and demand that they give it back. The problem was that they were still in the great hall, where Imogen and Davina were attempting to calm the panicked students. Plus, it would be best if she was absolutely sure. She would have to wait.

But she didn't want to wait.

Mildred had left not long ago to check on Constance. Hope knew that the girl felt guilty about what had happened. In Mildred's mind, Constance wouldn't have been injured if it wasn't for her. Which was of course ridiculous. Agatha's instructions had been to injure Constance, at least enough to put her out of action. The old witch simply hadn't been able to resist when she saw Mildred lying on the pavement. Hope's lips curled into a bitter smile. Hecketty won't be pleased. It really was foolish of Agatha to disobey Hecketty's instructions. There was also a good chance that Agatha believed that she had actually managed to kill Constance, or close to. And Hope was almost one hundred precent sure that Hecketty wanted both her and the deputy alive. She'd spent years and years coaching them for a purpose. She wasn't about to let all that effort slip through her fingers.

There was a knock at the door. Hope sighed, irritated, and settled further back into the pillow. 'Come in'.

Jason poked his head around the door. His short brown hair stuck up at angles, as if he had run his fingers through it repeatedly, and he looked older than he had when he arrived. She didn't like the way he looked at her, with an expression of pity and sympathy. And perhaps a little amazement. The man shut the door behind him and leaned against it. His eyes rested on the half empty glass of water beside the girl, and she realised that he was deliberately avoiding eye contact. 'How's Constance?' The silence had become unbearable and she was desperate for news of the woman anyway. While she could tell that the woman was still alive, she didn't like the permanent frown furrowing the doctor's brow.

'She's… as good as can be expected given the circumstances. Thanks to you, I got to the wound before the blood loss amounted to anything serious, and the wound was surprisingly clean. She'll have trouble when she wakes up, especially if she insists on ignoring my instructions to rest, which she will, but she will recover with time'. There was a resigned note in his voice that made him sound very tired, and she realised with a start that he was beginning to wonder whether that time would continue to be available.

Jason met her eyes, and she didn't have to second guess what had caused the defeated slump of his shoulders. The sight of Constance's scars had clearly made him realise that Hecketty was going to be a greater challenge than Agatha, and considering what had just happened that didn't make their chances look any good. Quietly, as if anyone could hear, Jason said, 'what does she want with you?'

She didn't need to ask who he was talking about. She fought to keep her expression neutral and her voice calm. 'I suppose you're questioning her reasons for taking us in if she hated us so much? Quite simply, Hecketty has always obsessed about power. She needs it. She believes that perfection (and don't even get me started on her obsession with perfection) can only be obtained through absolute power. She needs to be the greatest witch of her age. And she might be an exceptionally skilled witch, but she's not gifted. She had to work to get to her current status. She doesn't have… a natural talent or an inherited trait that even in the magical world would seem special. And the idea that anyone could possess a magical talent that she doesn't sickens her. Thus her decision to find those witches, and take their power for her own'.

Jason blinked involuntarily, his jaw clenching and his throat tightening as a wave of nausea passed over him. Hope might be able to prevent him from reading her expression, but it was the very presence of her emotionless mask that made him feel both horrified and angry altogether. No child should be able to do that. No child should need to.

Hope met his gaze with a fierce sadness that made his throat constrict painfully. 'I am no child Dr Jason. I never have been'.

There was a heavy silence in the bedroom. Hope stared at her hands, clenched fists in her lap, admonishing herself for the slip of emotion. It wasn't so hard before she came here. Well, that was easily explained. She was surrounded, for the first time in her life, by people who cared about her well-being. She'd never had to hide anything from anyone who had really cared. An accomplished witch does not form attachments of any kind. A powerful witch does not need friends. You will learn that affection is weakness in the end, child. Friendship, love, affection, they're unnecessary emotions that will destroy you unless you keep them at bay. Hope squeezed her eyes shut in an attempt to block out the woman's voice. It was a battle she fought every day when she woke and a war she raged with the instincts ingrained in her whenever she smiled. A heart that for a long time had been deprived of any sort of affection, and that now, having had a taste of it, refused to let go.

A shadow fell on her and she looked up. Jason was standing by her bedside, rummaging through a number of things he had tipped out onto her bed. After a moment, he offered her a small object from the pile. 'Here, I've found it helps with the after effects of using too much magic'.

Hope took it gingerly and turned it over in her hands. 'Chocolate?' She read the label with a little scepticism. She'd thought that chocolate referred to the drink that Mildred had given her when she first arrived. Apparently it was edible as well. 'Does it actually help?'

Jason smiled. 'Well, that's debatable. I think it's just because it tastes nice. But then again, it does help with energy'.

Hope peeled back the wrapper and took a cautious bite. She smiled. It tasted like the drink, just sweeter, and not quite as rich. Jason began to gather up his possessions again. Out of curiosity, Hope picked up a book that had fallen into her lap. She frowned slightly. The book was worn and used, with creases down the spine and a slight bend in the paper cover. The name Agatha Christie was embossed across the top in loopy pale blue and white letters, along with the title Towards Zero. The cover depicted a crossroads between four buildings from what appeared to be a bird's eye view, yet was slightly abstract. The dark redbrick buildings were cast partly in shadow, and the two white roads crossed to form an X. Four people were walking towards the cross roads from different directions, and the long shadows unfurling behind them gave the impression that they were walking quickly. There was a strange feel to the picture, almost like a suspense, as if something was about to happen. Hope swallowed the chocolate and turned the cover over, her interest and curiosity aroused. She'd never seen anything like the book in her life. 'What is this?'

Jason looked up from his things, pausing with his fingers curled lightly around a blunt pencil. He gave the girl a slight, somewhat embarrassed smile. 'It's a detective novel. A murder mystery. I have a bit of a weakness for them. To her credit, Agatha Christie is a brilliant writer. I've never been able to guess the murderer, and she's written dozens of books'. He shrugged and slipped the pencil into his shirt pocket. 'Helps me take my mind off my work'.

Hope stared at his shirt pocket for a moment, realising that she could not see the outline of the pencil, or anything else he had put there. He must have enlarged it magically. She was impressed. Enlarging the inside of an object without changing the exterior was a tricky piece of magic. She turned her attention to the book again. Jason straightened from replacing his items and watched her thoughtfully for a moment. She was reading the blurb on the back cover, and her expression was a mix of childish curiosity and incredulousness. And it occurred to him suddenly that she had probably never read, or even seen a novel in her entire life. Books certainly, but he doubted that Hecketty would allow for reading that didn't involve magical theory. Judging by the rising curiosity in Hope's bright eyes, he was probably right.

'Keep it'. Hope looked up at the doctor, surprise openly displayed on her face. Jason smiled. 'I think you'll like it. I'd advise that you stay in bed for a little longer, and you're going to want something to do. Keep it'.

Hope's lips parted as she continued to stare at him, speechless. She'd never been given anything in her life before. Certainly not something she had wanted. Her hands curled tightly around the thin spine, and a wide open smile lit her pale face. 'Thank you'.

Jason felt his throat constrict painfully at the sight of her smile. It made her look younger. Some of the age in her eyes faded and her mask lifted, and altogether she looked like a different person. A happier person.

The doctor sat down on the edge of her bed, his expression both curious and serious. 'So you're a telepath then'.

Hope's eyebrows rose at the calm way he said it. 'You don't seem very surprised'.

Jason folded his arms over his solid chest. 'Do you really think that I never would have heard of a telepath, in my line of work? I've treated telepaths who didn't know how to block out the voices they heard on a daily bases. It's quite common for them to have severe headaches'.

Hope smiled as her suspicion faded. 'Well, I never really had that problem. I've never really been around that many people, and Hecketty liked to keep a sort of… control over me. I couldn't use my power unless she let me, for a while'.

Jason's eyes closed briefly, as if hearing about what Hecketty had done physically pained him. Quite suddenly, he changed the subject. 'I suppose you have no idea what happened to your parents, do you?'

Hope shook her head, her jaw clenched tightly as she attempted to keep her emotions from surfacing. 'I… I know that Hecketty took me by force from my father when I was a baby. I assume she killed him. I don't know what happened to my mother'.

Jason frowned. 'How do you know about your father if you were a baby at the time?'

Hope smirked teasingly. 'I thought you knew all about telepaths, doctor. It's very rare for us to forget anything. Even if we're not aware of it, every memory we have is stored safely in our mind, and we can access it. I remember Hecketty chasing my father through a wood during a storm and… well, you get the picture'.

'But you don't remember her actually killing him? I mean could –'

'He's dead'. Hope spoke sharply, almost forcefully, and Jason felt a rush of anger and pain and bitter emotion that didn't belong to him. Hope pinched the bridge of her nose. 'Sorry. I do lose control sometimes'.

More gently, Jason said, 'it's fine. But you're sure that your parents are dead?'

Hope took a deep breath. 'I wasn't sure, for a while, about my father. In fact, I was sure for a long time that he was alive, somewhere in the world. But I just… the day before I left Hecketty – escaped is probably a better word – I felt something… I knew that he was dead. I just knew. The effects of Hecketty's spells to keep me under control were still wearing off, and I realised that, as a telepath, I would be able to tell that he was dead, but that her spells had been preventing me. So yes, I know that he's dead'.

Jason was silent for a moment, a great pity and sadness for the girl before him preventing him from speaking. Hope didn't want his pity; of that much he was certain. Carefully, as if he was approaching a wounded animal, he asked, 'and your mother?'

A puzzled frown creased Hope's forehead. 'I…I don't know. I don't think that she's…I just really don't know'.

Jason didn't comment. It hurt really, the knowledge that Hope just didn't want to consider the possibility that her mother was alive, because he could tell that she had her suspicions. It was there in the half supressed hope in her brilliant blue eyes, and it was clear that she almost didn't want to know. She didn't want to face the possibility that she was wrong.

She was aware, first, of a feeling of floating. Stars swirled behind her eyelids, little twinkling dots that looked far more like the impressions light left on the eye than the burning balls of gas in the inky black sky.

There was a dull pain, but she couldn't feel her body, so she couldn't source where it came from.

Exhaustion washed over her suddenly, like a great wave cascading over a rocky shore, and she felt that it would be very easy to just… drift away on the current, out into the endless sea, with nothing but the shining stars that were not stars overhead, and only a memory of a dream that was reality.

Laughter drifted on the wind towards her, ecstatic childish laughter that brought an image of a tree with a swing on the edge of a river to her clouded mind. She remembered a boy with blue eyes and dark hair, a boy who looked like her when he smiled, and who could make her laugh when she was upset.

The clouded haze of her vision focused, though she hadn't been aware of sight moments before. Her brother sat above her on the smooth bough of a tree, an easy laugh crinkling the corners of his eyes as he leaned towards her. She craned her neck back to glare at him from her position far below, though she was more exasperated than cross. The ends of her hair tickled the back of her neck, and the soft fabric of her shorts rubbed against the back of her knees.

Part of her, small and perplexed, knew that this had happened before, that her hair should be longer and her clothes more restricting, that she shouldn't be able to feel the breeze on her bare arms and the grass between her toes.

And an even smaller part of her knew that her brother was dead, and that he couldn't be laughing at her, and that the days of laughter in her life had ended.

She felt a presence beside her, and warmth as someone ran a hand down her arm. She turned her head, her hair obscuring her vision. She caught a glimpse of a boy whose face was blurred, heard her name on the wind, and then a splitting pain in her head.

'Constance?'

The flames were racing towards her, yellow and orange and blisteringly hot. The back of her neck ran with sweat, and the hand in hers slipped and slid against her fingers. Smoke followed them through the corridor as they raced towards the basement, and she could hear screams through the crumbling walls. She could hear her parent's voices, one low and one high, terrified, and she wondered why they weren't moving. She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned her head. A figure stood behind her, clothed in black, and she could see a pair of fathomless eyes that caught the flames and made them roar. She could see a glimpse of terror in those eyes, terror because the flames were out of control, and the house was groaning around them.

The world tilted as the figure's hand latched into her shoulder, yanking her away from the basement against their body, and she could feel magic crackling like static across their clothes. The small hand in hers was gone, and she heard a shriek as the boy went toppling down the steps into the basement. 'Connie!'

There was a responding scream on her lips that was swallowed by the smoke, and she was gagging, choking, unable to breathe as the world around her changed.

She was standing on a hill, gazing down at her burning house, and there was clawed bony hand on her shoulder, and a weight in her heart as the screams echoed in her head.

'Constance!'

And that voice was in her head, but it wasn't a memory, it wasn't even a hallucination. It was warm and familiar, young yet old and kind but urgent.

The landscape vanished, and there was light shining down through her eyelids, and a weight against her chest, and her face felt limp and squashed against the pillow.

She was lying flat on her stomach in a bed that smelled like cleaning fluid. A blanket lay over her, and she could feel the course fabric against the skin of her back. Her back felt tight and restricted, and when she breathed a stab of pain shot down her spine. She winced, her fingers tightening in the sheets.

'Constance?' The voice was quieter now, gentler, and she could recognise the fear beneath the concern.

Her thoughts were sluggish, dazed, and she realised that the haze in her mind stemmed from the pain coursing across her back. Everything was gradually falling into place, and she remembered how the spell had felt as it ripped across her skin.

A groan slipped past her dry lips before she could contain it. She became aware that there was someone else in the room, someone whose clothes rustled when they moved, and whose breathing was slow and steady. Calming.

'Are you alright Constance?'

Finally, her mind cleared enough, and she was able to form a discernible thought. 'Hope?' She sounded weak, even in her head, and she could practically hear her old tutor's words criticising her. A witch is not weak. And the most accomplished witch knows how to overcome and ignore her weaknesses. What are you if you can't do that?

'Yeah'. There was a silence, as if Hope was waiting for something, and Constance felt a trickle of frustration run through their linked minds, though she had the impression that it was not directed at her. 'How are you feeling?'

How was she feeling?

She felt exhausted and drained. She felt like her back had been shredded. She felt like she was going to be sick. She felt like she had just lost her family all over again, because she hadn't wanted to believe that she'd been dreaming.

'Fine. Well, nothing that I haven't experienced before'.

And of course that was partly true. Her back had been shredded before, just not so dramatically. It was just another wound that would heal and leave a scar behind, perhaps larger than the ones marring her skin, but just a scar none the less.

It was nothing compared to the ones that disfigured her memory.

She felt warm suddenly. The heat started in her fingers, numb and slack by her head, and ran up her arms, through her chest and down her back to her toes. It was like stepping into a tub of water to find that it wasn't icy cold, but scalding hot, and it left that same feeling of comfort behind.

Hope couldn't say anything to her last comment, because she knew better than anyone that she was being honest. But Constance felt a surge of gratitude rush through her for what the girl had done, and remembered with a jolt that, despite her upbringing, Hope was radically different from Hecketty. She needed to remember that. It was hard in a way. They might look different, but Hecketty was very much present in Hope's cold mask, her posture, and the aura that hung around her like a faint mist. Hecketty's aura was black, black and suffocating, like tar, and it smelt like pepper and sulphur. Hope's magical signature was white, white with veins of black that didn't belong to her, with a fresh aroma of rain and flowers.

And yet, it was their resemblance that made Hope similar to Constance.

Perhaps that was what Constance struggled with the most.

Perhaps that was why, when she felt the link with Hope slipping and evaporating, she did nothing to stop it. Why, when she felt the girl's presence departing her mind, she knew with astounding clarity that Hope felt the same way, struggled with her likeness to Hecketty, and did not object.

Not only did Hope know about her past with Hecketty, but Constance knew that Hope had seen her nightmares, and now she had access to a part of her history that she herself preferred to forget.

And that made it worse.

Hope shivered and pressed her face into the pillow, flames burning the backs of her eyes. She wasn't sure whether they were tears or an image from the woman's dream. She wasn't sure whether the clawed hand ghosting over her shoulder was her memory or Constance's, and she wasn't sure whether the pain tickling her back was from the scars she remembered getting, or the ones she knew were present on Constance.

They were so very alike.

And so different.

And there was a woman in severe black clothing and fathomless eyes standing between them.

A sob rose from somewhere deep in Hope's chest, one that, on the other side of the castle, Constance was keeping firmly lodged at the back of her throat. Perhaps the echo she heard was a remnant of the link still fading from their minds, or perhaps it was her imagination.

Hope didn't believe in coincidence. She believed that everything happened for a reason. She told herself that every time she cursed whatever fate or destiny or supreme power had landed her in Hecketty's grasp. She told herself that every time she remembered her father running through the forest, every time she remembered that she couldn't remember her mother.

Constance didn't believe in God, and she didn't follow a religion. She couldn't believe that someone, something, like God could let a child suffer what she had. She couldn't believe that people liked Hecketty would exist.

And yet, she did believe that some things were beyond coincidence, beyond chance.

She had once believed in fairy tales and happy endings.

Hope had never believed that.

And neither of them ever would, now.

Ethel wouldn't call herself selfish. Proud, definitely, but she had a right to be proud of her heritage and her talent, and being proud didn't mean that you were vain. It simply meant that you had something that made you stand out, and Ethel was anything but common. She was stubborn too, and enjoyed it when things benefited her, yet she had never called herself self-centred.

But she felt it now, sitting on her bed with a book that didn't belong to her in her hands, with the school still reeling from the attack, attempting to unbind the enchantment protecting its pages.

She remembered with clarity Drusilla's hissed words as they were ushered to their rooms, remembered the cold thrill that had passed down her spine as the girl thrust the book into her hand, and a sudden jolt of realisation that it was wrong, and dangerous, and that the danger didn't necessarily come from Hope.

There was something about the worn book that set her teeth on edge, and it was that anxiety that was driving her to dig deeper.

Curiosity killed the cat.

Ethel shook her head to clear it. She was not a cat, nor any other animal, but a talented and bright witch.

She wasn't sure exactly what she would find written on the pages, but the point was that Hope had gone to a lot of effort to keep people out, and no one did that without cause.

She was curious, and not necessarily for the right reasons. Honestly, she was jealous. Jealous because no one had ever upstaged her in class before.

Perhaps pride was a weakness.

But she was perplexed as well. She didn't understand how someone who had been home schooled all their life could be that advanced. It wasn't as if Hope had learnt ahead, because she acted like she was ignorant about what was being taught.

Ethel was sure that the answers lay in the book. Maybe it was a diary, or perhaps it was a spell book. She wasn't sure. But she was determined none the less to get it open.

Well, getting it open wasn't the actual problem. The problem was that once she had opened it, she had found that there was nothing but blank pages inside.

Ethel pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and hunched over, her hands pressed against the deceivingly blank pages. Friction buzzed against the pads of her fingers, a sign that the enchantment was weakening. Red sparks crackled up and down her fingers, prickling her skin as they rebounded off the paper. Her brow lowered into a deep frown, she whispered the words of a spell she had memorised a long time ago, during a period of boredom in the library.

She felt the spell seep from the tips of her fingers and over the pages, pulsing red as it came into contact with the ward. There was a moment where nothing happened, except for a rise in her frustration and a drop in her energy levels.

Then with a sound like the crackle of flames, the spell broke through the ward, and the magic winked out of existence.

Ethel allowed herself a smile of triumph before flopping onto her stomach and propping her chin in her hands. She gazed down at the white page, and waited patiently. She had spent a long time trying to break the enchantment; she could wait a little longer for it to take effect.

Gradually, grey pencil markings spiralled out from the centre of the page, twisting and twirling like ink on water. A picture began to form. Ethel frowned. She'd expected writing, not drawings.

Finally, after what seemed like a ridiculous amount of time for the impatient girl, the picture took form. And when she realised what she was looking at, Ethel felt as if the breath had just been stolen from her lungs.

It was her.

A perfect, superbly detailed sketch stared back at her from the once blank white page. And yet, it wasn't the drawing that caught her attention so much as the portrait's expression. Despite the detail, the expression was blank. Completely and utterly emotionless. There was no sneer twisting her lips, no frustrated frown, no narrowed eyes that signified a glare. Just a cold mask.

Except for the eyes. The corners of the eyes were smooth, unlined, and yet somehow Hope had managed to capture the emotion swirling in her irises. They churned with a fiery, destructive rage that went against the blankness of her expression. The combination sent a chill down Ethel's spine, and she had a sudden desire to slam the book shut and hide it away.

What disturbed her was that she knew that she had never worn that expression. She had looked at Mildred with anger, there was no doubt about that, but the figure in staring back at her looked ready to kill, without hesitation or pause, to rip the world to shreds and burn the pathetic pieces.

Never, in her life, had she wanted that. She had wanted Mildred so suffer for shaming her sometimes, for besting her, but the thought of actually physically killing her had never crossed her mind. And as it did now, Ethel felt her stomach twist in disgust and repulsion.

Ethel blinked and tore her eyes away from the picture, focusing instead on the words written across the page opposite. In neat flowing handwriting, Hope had jotted down questions.

Who is she? In the context of what I saw, why does she look both angry, and somehow scared? Why doesn't her face reflect what her eyes tell? Who was she looking at?

The last question was underlined heavily, as if the girl believed that it was the most important. Beneath the questions, Hope had scribbled down an answer.

Ethel Hallow.

Note: Childish, easily offended, holds onto her grudges. Her feud with Mildred may be the source of her anger, but it is a meaningless feud. What they call a schoolgirl grudge. Ethel, despite whatever her objections may be, feels threatened by Mildred. The number of times Mildred has saved the school, sometimes without using her magic, grates on Ethel's nerves, because Ethel has to work to maintain her position at the top of the class, and while Mildred may have some trouble in that regard, she is nevertheless a talented witch. Ethel knows that, perhaps subconsciously, and is intimidated by it. Ethel takes it seriously of course, as all bullies do, but despite all the name calling and attempts to have Mildred expelled, she would never attempt to kill her. So, logically, what I saw has yet to happen, and the cause of her rage has yet to occur too.

More importantly, does her trance like expression have anything to do with Hecketty? Could she use Ethel to get into the castle, or to act for her?

Ethel's heart was thudding against her ribs, and her hands had gone cold and clammy where she was holding the book.

More than the long note about her personality that hit home more than she wanted to admit, was the fact that Hope had added the note and name after she had drawn her. Hope had known who she was long before she had arrived at this school.

Hope was a Seer.

It fit of course, once Ethel calmed her heartbeat enough to focus. Little things that she had picked up on, things like the abrupt whitening of the girl's face when they first met in the corridor, and the nightmare that had woken their entire dormitory up. She remembered that Hope had remained locked in her dream, no matter how hard they tried to wake her, and that when Miss Hardbroom had finally managed to wake her up, she had explained that it was nothing more than a nightmare. She remembered briefly glimpsing Miss Hardbroom's expression before she had returned to her own room, remembered the half narrowed eyes, the suspicious frown, and the fact that Hope had shaken her head in response. Miss Hardbroom clearly knew that Hope was a Seer then, or at least suspected it.

Ethel shut the book with a snap and put her head in her hands, pressing the heels of her palms into her eyes. This wasn't quite what she had expected. If Hope was a Seer, then she had before her possibly every vision the girl had dreamed since coming into her power. And that terrified her. She didn't want that kind of power. She didn't want the responsibility, or the undoubted danger that came with it.

A horrifying thought crossed her mind. What if Hecketty or Agatha got their hands on this book? She didn't know exactly what it contained, but she did know a thing or two about Seers. Their dreams always revolved around themselves or those around them, and events that had, would, or could affect them. There was no doubt that there would be some clues to as how this whole scenario would turn out engraved into those pages, what with Hope being in a school of young witches and their teachers who would be affected by Hecketty's siege, and who would suffer if she gained entry.

Ethel shivered. Hope's gift also explained her advanced knowledge of magic. Seers, or telepaths as they were formerly known, inherited their gifts. With each generation, that gift grew in strength. Ethel wouldn't be surprised if Hope turned about to have telepathic powers, as well as prophetic ones. The ability to read other people's minds was far more common than the ability to see the future. Unless Hope's parents had possessed faulty genes, then it was very likely that they would have been able to teach her to control her power, and in the process would have advanced her general knowledge of magic.

Ethel frowned, hugging her elbows. That didn't quite fit. If Hope's parents had possessed telepathic powers, then in teaching her how to control those powers, they should have taught her how to control her nightmares. Advanced Seers, or even well trained ones, rarely had constant nightmares, unless there was an urgent event, because usually their ability to control their gift simply alerted them of an impending dream and consequently allowed them to 'see' that vision when they wanted to.

And it was very, very rare for a Seer to have two parents with defective genes. Throughout history, most Seers had come from ancient magical families. Quite commonly, a child with prophetic abilities had a parent who had themselves been a telepath, and another parent who'd had what was known simply as the 'sixth sense'. A minor form of telepathy, the sixth sense was more of an intuitive feeling, or an unusual ability to perceive and understand the world and those in it. Some mortals had that gift. In history, the combination of a witch or wizard with the sixth sense and another who was a powerful, or even minor telepath, had sometimes resulted in a Seer, whose power often depended on that of the generation before. In other cases, Seers simply appeared in a long line of witches or wizards who had telepathy.

It was the same for most gifts really, and the same for actual magical talent. Magic was passed down, typically, through generations, though there were many witches and wizards who came from non-magical families. Some people, including Ethel, believed that non-magical witches or wizards had inherited the magical trait from a witch or wizard in their family line decades ago, and that the gene had simply lain dormant. Gifts, special abilities, talents and so forth, typically either appeared in ancient family lines, or completely randomly.

So Hope's reaction to her visions, or rather the method she was receiving them, didn't at all match with what Ethel had read. The only explanation was that she had come from a magical family with dormant genes, which just didn't fit in Ethel's head.

Ethel shook herself. Did it honestly matter whether Hope was in control of her powers? Did it really matter about her heritage? Yes, the girl had probably come from a long line of powerful witches, but that only helped to further explain her talent in class.

The real question was; what was she going to do with this information?

Hope had clearly been concerned about what could happen to her sketch book. And now that it was in her hands, Ethel was faced with a responsibility that she didn't want. She couldn't keep it. Hope would undoubtedly find out, and Ethel didn't relish the girl's reaction at all. She could destroy it, but it was very likely that there was some kind of protection spell on the book, and it probably wasn't a very wise idea. She had already come to the conclusion that there were things in the book that foretold or forewarned about Hecketty and Agatha's plans. That was information that could come in handy. She couldn't leave it lying around, because someone else could take it, or Drusilla's curiosity could drive her to locate it, and this wasn't something Ethel wanted Drusilla knowing about.

She couldn't hand into a teacher, because then she would have to explain how she got her hands on it, and they probably wouldn't understand the significance of what was in their possession, except for Miss Hardbroom, and Ethel definitely wasn't going to her.

She could return it.

Ethel cringed from that thought, already perceiving that the confrontation couldn't end well. In truth, she was a little frightened of Hope. She had been since she'd witnessed the girl encase her hand in flames, since she'd watched her expression turn blank, and since she'd watched her scream and thrash in her sleep. The event had disturbed her, and at the time she hadn't been sure why, but now she understood. Hope's nightmare had been too consuming, too clearly vivid, to have been a simple dream.

Then there was the girl's uncanny ability to understand her character.

In another entirely different situation, Ethel probably would have dismissed her concerns and kept it. But she knew all about Seers. She knew the problems they faced and the danger that followed them. She knew that they were burdened with what they saw, and the daily dilemma they faced as to whether they could change what they had seen, and more importantly if they should.

She might have bridged a gap and admitted that she could be selfish, but she knew without a doubt that she was not stupid. It was the one thing she had always been sure of. Everything she did was thought out. Even her acts against Mildred were usually thought through, unless they were spur of the moment.

Logically, stupidity would mean keeping, destroying or ignoring the book. Intelligence would mean returning the book.

She'd crossed enough bridges today. She'd admitted her selfishness, and come to the realisation that Hope's analysis of her character and her feud with Mildred was scarily accurate. Her intelligence and her assuredness of it was all she had left.

She barely remembered crossing the corridor to Hope's room, barely remembered anything aside from the frantic beating of her heart in her eardrums and the way the shadows seemed to reach out from the cracks towards her.

The door creaked open and she hurried inside, clutching the book to her chest as she supressed a shiver. The room was cold, almost icy, and dark, lit only by a single candle. Ethel realised with a start that the sun had set long ago. They'd spent longer than she'd realised in the Great Hall, and she'd lost track of time battling with her own consciousness.

The door swung shut behind her and she jumped, clutching the book tighter, thinking of wild grey hair and spectacles, of dark empty eyes and clawed hands, and wondered when she had really begun to fear those women, and if she always had.

The candle flame leapt brighter, growing to an unnatural size until the entire room was cast in a warm orange light. Ethel blinked, her eyes watering, and jerked back against the door when her eyes focused.

Hope was standing barely half a metre away. Her uncannily blue eyes bored straight into Ethel's, dark and furious, and the corners of her mouth were turned down. A cord stood out in her neck and the tension in her body was obvious from the tremors that occasionally shook her form. A strange sound issued from the back of her throat, something between a snarl and a hiss, and Ethel realised abruptly that despite her imposing glare, her eyes were red rimmed and her pale face was damp.

Neither girl moved. Hope's eyes flickered down to the book Ethel held against her chest, and some of the hostility leaked out of her as a frown furrowed her brow. The tension in the room decreased noticeably as the witch took a step back, and Ethel released a breath she hadn't been aware of holding.

Hope sat down on her bed, her eyes still on her book, and waved her hand. The chair by her desk shot out and Hope gestured at the seat, her expression expectant. Ethel hesitated, but she was aware that she was treading on very thin ice. She sat down nervously and cleared her throat. 'I believe this is yours'. She held the book in her hand and licked her lips. She felt like she was locked in a room with a dangerous animal whose last meal had been postponed.

Hope took the book from her and opened it, thumbing through the pages intently; her head bent so that her dark hair swung forward and obscured her expression. Finally, she straightened and fixed Ethel with a puzzled, somewhat hostile stare. 'Tell me two things. If you know what this is, why did you return it, and why did you take it in the first place?'

Ethel swallowed. There was no mistaking the anger in the girl's voice. 'I… I didn't take it. Drusilla took it when she was putting the books back in your bag'.

If anything, the answer seemed to irritate the girl more, and her eyes narrowed. 'Typical of you to place the blame elsewhere'.

The comment stung more than she had thought it would. There was something about Hope's insults that hurt more than Enid's remarks or Mildred's anger. It was probably to do with the fact that Ethel knew what the witch was now, and thus knew that Hope repeated what she had seen. So every comment held a truth Ethel herself preferred to dismiss, and yet couldn't. 'I… I just wanted to…'

'Why did you return it and do you know what it is?' Hope interrupted her sharply.

Ethel took a shaky breath. 'I know that it's a book that contains possibly every single vision you've had since you came into your Seer abilities. And I know what damage it could do in the wrong hands'.

Hope stared at her. Slowly, she shut the book and placed it on the bed beside her. She leaned forwards. 'Are you telling me that you returned it because, once you realised the power it holds, you were afraid? I thought you would have taken advantage of the situation'.

Ethel suddenly realised something. 'You knew. You knew that I had it before I entered the room'.

Hope raised her eyebrows. 'Yes I did. I knew that moment you tried to unravel the protection spells. But you're avoiding the question'.

Ethel felt stunned. 'But I don't understand. If you knew that I had it, if you knew what I was doing… why not stop me?'

Hope sighed and ran a hand through her hair. 'I was…busy, when I realised what you were doing'. A shadow passed over her face, and she suddenly looked far older than her age. She looked exhausted and weary and strained. 'And I was curious… I wanted to see what you would do. I wanted to see whether my summary of your character was accurate'. Her eyes met Ethel's, and the hardness present in her gaze softened slightly. 'Seems I wasn't entirely correct'.

Ethel crossed her arms and lent back in her chair, shivering slightly. 'You thought that I'd keep it'.

Hope shrugged. 'Can you honestly blame me? I've heard a lot about you Ethel Hallow, I've… seen a lot about you. Overall, I wasn't given the best impression'.

Ethel thought of Hope's note, of the words that had struck her like blows, and the fact that she couldn't deny a word written there. She shivered.

Hope frowned at her. 'What did you see?' There was something different about Ethel, and she wasn't entirely sure what it was. But the girl looked worried and a little afraid, and there was none of the arrogance and hostility that had been present when they last met in the hall way. She seemed… disturbed almost.

Ethel shifted uncomfortably under the girl's sharp focus. 'I… I saw that picture of me. The one where… I didn't look like me'.

Hope's expression went blank. She knew instantly why Ethel seemed to have changed. Not only had she seen the picture of herself, but she had obviously read her notes. Which meant that, logically, she was troubled, not only be her expression, but by the summary of her character. Hope hadn't exactly intended for anyone to read her notes, so she hadn't curbed her words. It would have been a bit of a rough awakening. She wondered what she could say. She wasn't a very kind person, and she had no idea how you were meant to comfort someone, especially when what they had heard was the truth. Besides, did she want to comfort Ethel? This might be the best thing that had happened to her, in terms of development. This was her chance to confront the unpleasant parts of her personality, and change.

'Ethel… I won't apologise for what you read. I can't apologise for writing the truth, even if I didn't intend for you to find it'.

Ethel set her jaw. She had the strangest desire to cry. She'd never wanted to be a selfish or cruel person, and she'd thought that the people that saw her that way didn't matter, because they had chosen Mildred's side. But this wasn't about Mildred.

She could defend herself. She could say that she was over achieving because she'd come from a long line of witches and felt pressured to do well in school. She could say that she tried to make up for her lack of imagination by vigorously studying and memorising every book she came across. She could say that she was cruel to Mildred because, as Hope had said, she was jealous, and that almost made it worse. She was jealous of the fact that Mildred had saved the school countless times, jealous of the recognition she received, and the sudden extraordinary magic she could produce. The ice sculpture in charms class certainly hadn't been the first astounding feet of magic, and it probably wouldn't be the last. But, glancing up at Hope, she realised that the girl already knew those things, and that the moment she voiced them they would become excuses, not reasons.

Hope smiled suddenly, a bright honest smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. 'You're still young Ethel. There are plenty of people out there exactly like you. There is plenty of time to change. I believe that most people, and I say most, deserve a second chance'.

Ethel swallowed thickly, taken aback by the girl's smile. 'What do you suggest exactly?'

'Well for starters, stop putting people down for their mistakes. Start encouraging them. Help them even. Next time Mildred does something brilliant, congratulate her. Next time she does something silly, help her'. The smile faded. 'There couldn't be a better time to start. After all, we're at war. It's not a time to be fighting among ourselves'.

Ethel nodded, bitting back the cynical remark on the tip of her tongue. She stood abruptly, the urge to escape from the conversation finally winning out over her odd desire to stay. She'd never really talked to anyone like she just had with Hope. Drusilla wasn't the type of friend to discuss things with. In a strange way, she liked Hope's blatant honesty. It was similar to Miss Hardbroom's no nonsense persona, just a little less… frightening.

At the door she paused and looked back at Hope. The girl didn't seem to find her sudden departure peculiar, and Ethel wondered how much of her inner monologue Hope had heard. If she was a telepath of course.

Hope smiled, a little less bright, but there was an encouraging gleam in her eyes now. 'Think about what I said'.

'I will'. The words slipped out almost without her permission. She wanted to resent Hope for her harsh judgement and belief that she could make her change, but she was finding it difficult to. 'Hope… your why Hecketty is here, aren't you? She wants your power'.

Hope went very still, her face paling slightly. She seemed to hesitate, as if she was trying to decide how much to tell Ethel. 'What…' her breath caught and she coughed. 'What makes you think that?'

Aside from your reaction you mean? Ethel shook her head. 'I just… when she was here, I recognised her lust for power. It was transparently obvious, as was her desire for control. You have a rare and unique power. And you turned up the very day that her presence here was announced'.

Hope's thoughts whirled. Ethel didn't know the extent of her connection with Hecketty, that much was clear, but she knew far more than she would like. 'Well… yes. Hecketty wants my power'.

Ethel bit her lip. It made perfect sense, but she couldn't help wondering what had happened to Hope's parents. Had they gone into hiding? Witches who above all else desired power could do dreadful things. Hecketty was the kind of person who wouldn't hesitate to stoop to threatening Hope's family. 'Do you know how she plans to do it?'

Hope laughed shortly, shaking her head. 'No. I haven't really had time to research it'. She frowned suddenly. She'd never really thought about it. She hadn't exactly had time to. But now that Ethel had mentioned it, she realised that it was probably quite important. Did Hecketty have a specific time frame? Was that why she had raised them rather than take their power as children? Hope felt as if the breath had been knocked from her. Now that she thought about it, it was possibly the most important couldn't believe she hadn't considered it before. 'Thank you Ethel. You've just brought an extremely important matter to my mind. I'll look into it'.

Ethel nodded, wary of the sudden coldness in her voice and the impenetrable wall that had risen behind Hope's eyes. She felt as if she'd just touched on a sensitive topic without even realising it. She slipped out the door, pausing with her head still in the room. Hope had retrieved her book from the bed, and was now gazing down at it, a strange expression of determination and apprehension creasing her brow. 'Hope…'

Hope looked up. Ethel took in her red rimmed eyes, the tears staining her cheeks, and the stubborn, defiant set of her jaw, and wondered why she looked so sad. She didn't look cold or imposing, just exhausted and forlorn, and the warm light caught in the dry tears, making her look very young. Anything she had been planning to say evaporated. She felt that anything she could say would be insincere. She was missing something about Hecketty's presence in the girl's life, and she had a feeling that the woman had been after her power for a long time.

'Good luck'.

Surprise flickered in the girl's eyes. Her hands gripped the rim of her book, and a current of understanding seemed to pass between them. Ethel knew that the witch was in danger, suspected that she had been for a while, and Hope understood that Ethel wasn't a bad person, which was more than some people believed. More than that, Ethel understood what being a Seer meant. Her knowledge was roundabout, gained through extensive reading and tales passed down through her family, but it was far more than most people.

They weren't friends. Not by a long shot. They were still two entirely different people, standing on opposite shores, with a vast churning river flowing between them, but they were connected by a thin precariously balanced bridge that rendered every other factor meaningless, just for a moment.

And then Ethel shut the door.

Left alone outside, Ethel gripped the door knob tightly in her hands, her head resting against the cool wooden door. She listened to the silence in the corridor and wondered how much Hecketty could see of the castle and its inhabitants, wondered how much damage she had done in those moments before the wards had been replaced, before any other spells would fail. How many metaphorical eyes did she have in the corners of class rooms and the shadows of corridors? How many traps lay beneath the floor boards, waiting to ensnare an oblivious student?

And what of the spell that had broken the wards in the first place? Ethel knew enough about wards to know that Hecketty must have had someone or something inside the ward to break it. Was that still here?

Her nails dug into the palms of her hands. The school and its inhabitants were at a distinct disadvantage. With Miss Hardbroom out of action and the headmistress struggling to keep order and ensure that the wards were back in place, there was no one to investigate the answers to the many questions swirling around her head.

She thought of Hope's words. Perhaps it was time that she put her anger at Mildred and the grudge that she had kept since that first day at school behind her. They would never be friends, that much was certain in her opinion, but perhaps they could be allies.

Like Hope had said, their feud was childish.

Foolishness could get you killed in a war. And they were at war. They were at war which someone who stood for the very opposite of childishness and innocence. If they lost the war, and they had already lost a battle, there would be nothing left of their innocence, if there was anything left of them at all.

People were remembered for what they did in times of desperation. Ethel certainly didn't want to be remembered as the girl who stood by when their world crumbled.

If she was childish, perhaps it was time to grow up.

So, good, bad or ugly?

Is everyone in character? I know that Ethel's decisions are a little off, but I believe that she may have reacted in this way given certain circumstances, so I think that this is more of a development in character than a radical change.

Please let me know, and as always I am open to suggestions and constructive criticism :)