Disclaimer: I don't own The Worst Witch.

A/N: Hey folks. Just another idea that I've come up with, while trying to sort out all the other unfinished ones lol. I'm not a 100% sure where it is going yet, but que sera sera ... :)


It Will Not Be Forgotten

Chapter 1

'Drip Drip Drip …'

The water fell from the ceiling, the droplets falling as if in slow motion before increasing in speed as they neared the bottom and splashed onto the stone floor with great force: the droplets of water mirrored the child's tears as they pooled under her eyelids before trickling down her face and hitting the floor, mixing in with the water from the rain; it was impossible to distinguish the tears cried by the rain, from those that were cried by the frightened child.

It was dark.

So very dark. If you were to hold your hand out in front of your face, chances are you wouldn't be able to see it: you couldn't see anything. The far away corners of the room seemed even darker, still standing out against the pitch blackness that filled the entire area of the room. Not a lantern or even the merest flicker of a candle graced the room's presence to offer a little comfort; even the luminescent moon was nowhere to be found. There was not an ounce of light that escaped from under the crack of the bottom of the door from the hallway outside.

'Drip Drip Drip …'

The child sat huddled up in a corner of the room, she was so cold. Despite the smallness of the room it was freezing but still the temperature continued to plummet even further, it was well into the minus scale: the biting cold seared through her every limb, the thin material of her worn-out dress not enough to shield her from it. She hugged her knees closer to her body in a vain attempt to try and keep warm, even though she knew it to be futile.

Crawling across the floor and wincing as the cold made contact with her bare flesh she reached for the thin dirty blanket that covered the bed. Her young frame was aching, every bone in her body protested as she shakily made to stand up. Holding a hand out in the darkness to try and keep her balance she involuntarily screamed out in pain as her palm met with the metal spoke sticking out of the worn iron frame of the bed: it pierced into her fragile skin like a knife stabbing her and slicing deep into the flesh. She couldn't see it but she could feel the pain and she could feel the stickiness as it began to bleed.

Taking the blanket off the bed she wrapped it around her as tight as she could in a last ditch attempt to capture even a miniscule amount of warmth before sliding down the wall and sinking into a heap on the floor, cradling her injured hand close to her. Her long dark hair hung over her face like a curtain; masking the tears now rapidly pouring from her deep brown eyes.

'Drip Drip Drip …'

Aside from the continuous and melodious dripping of the water, it was silent: too silent. Not even the scurrying of mice or spiders echoed in her ears. And then she heard it; the very sound that chilled her to the very core, sending a shiver down her spine a thousand times colder than the temperature she was currently being subjected to ever could.

It started off so faint and far off in the distance.

'Click click click …'

It got closer.

'Click click click …'

It got louder.

'Click click click …'

Wiping roughly under her eyes to rid herself of any obvious signs she had been crying she waited, she didn't even dare breath aloud, instead holding it in her throat; her eyes were wide with pure terror unable to tear themselves away from the door, even though she knew all too well what monster lurked on the other side.

She waited.

And waited.

She listened as the clicking finally came to a halt, as the key was placed in the door and turned, the click of the lock echoing around the walls of the room. She watched as the handle was pressed down and very slowly turned; it was exaggeratedly slow, she knew she was doing it deliberately in order to draw out further terror. She watched as the door creaked open; the hinges in desperate need of a good oiling, it was like nails being scraped down a blackboard.

As soon as the door was fully opened she was forced to shield her eyes, the sudden entrance of light in the room momentarily blinding her. She was unable to make out the figure coming towards her, but she could still hear the clicking of the heels. They got louder and louder; they neared closer and closer. She could just about make out as a hand reached out, a bright stream of magic erupting from the fingertips and hurtling straight at her and then …


Constance Hardbroom screamed as she awoke suddenly finding herself thrust back into the present day; memories of the past continuing to haunt her once more. She was just grateful for the self-installed sound-proofing spell contained around her chamber: it wasn't advisable or particularly sensible, a potential danger if anything were to ever invade her room, but it kept her screams safe within the confines: she would never live down the embarrassment or the shame if anyone were ever to witness her in the middle of a nightmare.

Running a hand through her hair she swept it back in order to get the loose strands out of her eyes; a thin sheet of sweat gleaned across her forehead, plastering her hair to her face. Her eyes were usually so controlled and her emotions hard to read but now they were wide with terror; the vulnerability pooling in her brown irises as hot salty tears spilled down her cheeks and onto the satin collar of her purple pyjamas.

She hated how she could take control of her mind the way she did; snaking herself around her consciousness and grabbing the reins of control. She couldn't stop her. She would fight to escape the nightmares frequently but she couldn't stop them from happening.

Much as she didn't want to she forced herself to think of the nightmare she'd just had. Whilst nightmares of her childhood were a common occurrence, usually kept at bay with the use of her saviour wide-awake potion, recently they had become more vivid and as of late, more prominent. She didn't believe in coincidences so she took it for what it was: a warning.


The next morning Constance sat at her dressing table applying a thin layer of make-up to her features; her touch light and delicate, having had years of practice covering up her imperfections. The dark circles under her eyes were indicative of the sleepless night she'd had but it could partly be concealed. Her hand shook so much she could barely control the mascara wand as she applied a light coat to her eyes and not wanting to take her eye out with it she eventually gave in, throwing the tube at the mirror in a fit of temperament before becoming annoyed with herself for not keeping her composure. A thin coat of burgundy lipstick and her mask was in place.


"How are we going to tell her?" Imogen's voice could be heard through the staffroom door.

"Tell me what Miss Drill?" the tones wafted through the air before their owner appeared to confront her colleagues; annoyed at being talked about behind her back and even more annoyed at the sympathy they held for her. "Tell me what?"

It was then she noticed it. The letter lying on the table so innocently, she recognised the black and cream monogram of the Witches Guild instantly. She didn't need to look at the writing to know who had sent it; she didn't need to read it to know what it said. She just knew.

Heckitty Broomhead was coming back to Cackles.