Chapter Text
Life moves quickly, perhaps too much so. In the blink of an eye, nothing is as it was.
One moment, they were driving steadily along the rain-slicked road, lights illuminating the path ahead, the night silent but for the soft rumbling of the engine. (There was danger, of course. The car could have lost its grip and slipped away into the night. But what is life without that sense of danger?)
The next, the world was spinning, twisting away until they came to a stop with a sickening crash, heads slamming against the dashboard. The world stood still. The birds dared not sing, the wind dared not blow. The only movement in the still, still night was the smoke standing stark against the gentle glow of the moon as it rose, curling from the wreckage.
By the time Mildred was pulled from what had once been their family car, the world had regained motion. But it was too fast. The people surging past her blurred with the flashing lights until they were hazy slashes across a dark backdrop, bright sparks that sputtered out the moment she lost sight of them. She could hear people speaking, perhaps to her, but their voices too faded to the background until the noise was no more than an indistinct murmur.
Trying to rise from the stretcher she had been placed on, Mildred found herself trapped, pushed back by a careful hand. From somewhere above her, she could hear quiet reassurances being whispered to her, but they flowed languidly past her, not a single drop sticking. And as Mildred fought the hand on her chest, she called out for the one person who could always make it all better.
“Mum!” Muffled by the oxygen mask strapped to her face, her voice cracked, hoarse from what felt like hours of drifting in and out of consciousness, the only constants: the throbbing pain in her head and the thick smoke smothering her, stealing the very air from her throat.
“Mildred—”
“Mum!” she screamed again, pain flaring in her chest as she fought for breath. Her eyes burned, but someone caught her hand before she could rub them.
“Mildred.” A familiar face filled her field of view, blocking out the chaos Mildred couldn’t stop watching, though she didn’t understand it. “They’re getting her out now. I need you to take some nice big breaths for me. It’s gonna to be alright.”
But Mildred knew Leanne. She’d known her since her mum started working at the hospital, before magic was real, before the accident. And Mildred wasn’t stupid. She could see the furrow between the paramedic’s eyes, the tense set of her mouth, the short wisps of dark, curly hair, tinged with grey slipping out of her usually pristine bun, the furtive glances towards the car.
It was then that it hit her. Something in Leanne’s eyes, perhaps, that she saw before she was dragged back into that dark abyss of nothingness, her eyes fluttering shut. Something that made her stomach drop and her heart freeze.
It’s not going to be alright.
When Mildred finally came to, it wasn’t for long. She barely had enough time to register her new surroundings, the sterile, white walls and the steady beeping of the heart rate monitor, before falling back into unconsciousness. She slipped in and out of consciousness for the next few hours. And maybe a doctor or nurse came to check on her as she slept, but every time she woke, she was alone.
But then she wasn't. When she woke for the fifth or sixth time, someone was sitting by her bed, their hands clasped around one of her own. Sensing her stir, the person’s grip on her hand tightened, and they stood. Leanne. The woman broke into a tired grin with but a shadow of her usual intensity.
Mildred tried to speak, to ask after her mum, but all that came out was a weak croak, setting off a chain of hacking coughs that wracked her entire body. Propping Mildred up, Leanne helped her drink a few sips of water, the cool liquid immediately helping soothe the burning in the girl’s throat.
“Wh-Where’s Mum?” Her voice was still hoarse, but she managed to force the words out.
The small, tired smile slipped from Leanne's face, and she gently smoothed Mildred’s hair down, hands trembling.
“Oh, Millie.” Her voice broke at the girl’s name. “Your-your mum, she didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”
“No.” Mildred shook her head, and suddenly the stinging in her eyes wasn’t just from the smoke. “No, no, no, no, no. Sh-She can’t. No, you’re lying!”
“Millie, why would I lie to you?” the paramedic asked softly, her own tears welling up in response.
“Please, I want my mum,” the girl whimpered, turning pleading eyes to Leanne. “I want her, please.”
“I know.” She brushed the girl’s tears away and leaned over the bed, enveloping her in a warm embrace. “I know.”
Hecate awoke with a start, an alarm blaring at her from the mirror over her desk. With a wave of her hand, the incessant noise was silenced and she lurched out of bed, transferring to Ada's office, her hair still loose around her shoulders.
“Ada, what is it? Has something...happened?” she asked, hardly daring to know the answer. Only once before had she ever received that specific emergency mirror from Ada, and she shuddered to think of a repeat of that night.
“There has been an...accident. I'm afraid...Mildred Hubble’s mother is dead," Ada told Hecate, her grey eyes solemn.
Hecate sank down into the chair in front of Ada’s desk at the news, perching on the edge of the seat, her back ramrod straight. She and Julie Hubble may not have been on the best of terms, but she hadn’t disliked the woman. And, she realized with a sinking heart, Mildred Hubble was now alone in the world, much like Hecate had once been. But rather than put that into words, she nodded stiffly. “I see.”
“As she has no remaining family in the non-magical world, I believe it would be in her best interest to have a magical guardian, one who can teach her about our ways and traditions and, of course, one who will be disciplined enough to keep her out of trouble as best they can.” Ada approached the topic carefully, but finished with a small chuckle as she thought of Mildred’s certain penchant for trouble, as if she were not discussing the fate of their newly orphaned student.
Hecate’s eyes widened when she saw Ada’s expectant look. “You are asking me to take in...Mildred Hubble?” she asked, her lip curled halfheartedly.
“You are the best person for the job," Ada replied mildly, fixing her gaze on her deputy.
“I am not. She…hates me," Hecate gritted out through clenched teeth.
“Hecate.” Ada accompanied her soft reprimand with a sympathetic look. “You can’t really still believe that. She looks up to you, and I know that you care for her.”
“Ada.” Hecate took the older woman’s hands in her own and, for once, let her see the vulnerability shining in her eyes of her own volition. “You know I cannot.”
“Yes,” Miss Cackle sighed, musing sadly to herself. “I rather did think you would say that.”
She stood and smoothed down her skirt before making her way to the plush armchairs in front of the empty fireplace, Hecate trailing silently behind.
“Tea?” Miss Cackle asked, summoning the pot.
“Thank you.” Hecate gave a small nod of thanks as she accepted the proffered cup. They sat without speaking for a few moments, the silence comforting in its familiarity.
When Ada finally spoke, it was a return to the previous topic. “Hecate, this girl has lost her mother. She needs you.”
“She doesn’t need me.”
“I think she does. She looks up to you, she respects you. And you are an excellent—”
“I am no mother,” Hecate cut her off abruptly, punctuating her point with the sharp setting down of her teacup. With a softer tone she added, almost as an afterthought, “I can’t.”
“I was going to say role model,” Ada chided gently, a sad smile her only response to her deputy’s unconvinced look. They lapsed into silence again, though it lasted not half the time of the first.
“How long's it been?” Ada’s quiet inquiry roused Hecate from her thoughts. She looked up, knowing she’d see a reflection of herself in the headmistress’s eyes. Mirror images of grief lurked in their eyes, though neither were willing to address it, one for fear of the other’s reaction, and the other for fear of memories long since buried.
“Eleven years,” two weeks and five days. The answer was quiet, barely more than a whisper. “Now.” Hecate’s usual brusque manner was back, and had she been speaking to anyone besides Ada Cackle, perhaps she would’ve seemed herself again. But as she wasn’t, she didn’t entirely succeed in covering up all traces of previous vulnerability. “I will go see Mildred and assess her condition. If she is well enough, I will bring her here until we find a...suitable guardian.”
Standing gracefully, she held a hand up to transfer, but stopped, looking down at the hand encircling her wrist and then to the warm, grey eyes she knew so well.
“We miss her too, Hecate.”
A small nod. The faintest of smiles that didn’t reach her dark eyes. “I know.”
She transferred away, reappearing by Mildred’s bed in the hospital. There was another woman there, hugging the girl, comforting her as she cried. And had Hecate been thinking clearly, she might have realized that transferring directly into Mildred’s room hadn’t been the best idea, but talks of her never left her thinking very clearly.
“Mildred Hubble.” The words lacked their usual bite as her heart swelled painfully. In one night, the girl’s entire world had come crumbling down, just like Hecate’s had all those years ago.
Both Mildred and Leanne looked up at once. Mildred filled with relief, surely Miss Hardbroom could save her mum.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?” Leanne stood, putting herself between the teacher’s imposing figure and Mildred.
Miss Hardbroom drew herself up to her full height, looking down at the non-magical woman with a disdainful look, but before she could respond, Mildred called to her.
“Miss Hardbroom, Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred called out, cutting off any of Leanne’s further attempts at an interrogation. Tears flooded down her face as she begged and pleaded. “Please, please, my mum. Please help her!”
In a few short strides, Miss Hardbroom was at the side of her bed. “Mildred Hubble,” she said again with uncharacteristic gentleness. “There is nothing more I can do.”
With a gentle touch to the girl’s forehead, Hecate sent her magic pulsating through the girl’s body, a calming flow that left Mildred’s own warm and content. Within moments, Mildred was asleep, and it was all Hecate could do to stop herself from smoothing the furrow in the girl’s brow. She was not a mother and certainly not that of Mildred Hubble.
“What do you want with her?” Leanne folded her arms over her chest, protective of the small girl lying in the bed.
With another disdainful look at the non-magical woman, Hecate summoned the bottle of forgetting powder hidden in the depths of her bedside table and blew it in the woman’s face before transferring away. She would be back for Mildred Hubble.
By the time Hecate returned, looking significantly more put together though forgoing her typical black dress for more ordinary clothing, there was a second woman in Mildred’s room. After being made to walk all the way to Mildred’s room, she found herself face to face with a short, older woman who seemed to have a certain fondness for the pale green that adorned her clothing and practically oozed insincerity. A social worker. Ada had warned her.
Though reluctant to do so, the woman did eventually leave after Hecate snapped. She had just given what she considered to be a completely satisfactory explanation for her relationship with Mildred (a distant aunt who had recently returned from a month long trip around Europe) and had grown tired of the woman’s insipid remarks and extensive blathering.
“Get. Out.” She pointed one long, black nail to the door. She didn’t raise her voice, she didn’t need to; the woman cowered all the same and scurried out the door like the little vermin she was. With the woman finally gone, Hecate sank down by the girl’s bedside, ignoring the curious look Leanne was sending her.
Mildred wasn’t awake yet, so Hecate waited. And, of course, being Mildred Hubble, she only woke when Hecate’s back was stiff and her foot had long since fallen asleep. Mildred tried to call out to her but only succeeded in a hoarse croak toward her stern teacher.
“You’re awake. Good. The…doctors have requested that you stay here another night, and then you will be coming with me to the academy,” she informed Mildred matter-of-factly, missing the way her student drooped with a crestfallen look on her face.
“Cackle’s, but my—” she stopped abruptly, the events of the past 24 hours hitting her all at once. Her eyes filled with tears again and she took a ragged breath. “She’s,” her voice broke, “…she’s really gone?”
Hecate’s expression softened and she nodded, acutely aware of the other woman in the room watching her closely, “I’m sorry, Mildred, you...did not deserve this.”
“Why—” the girl gasped for a breath in-between her sobs, “why c-couldn’t you s-save her? Y-you’re the best w-witch.”
“I’m afraid no magic is that powerful,” Hecate said softly.
Mildred didn’t answer, sobs still wracking her small body. And though Hecate was not her mother nor knew how to comfort her, she stayed with Mildred, hoping her presence was enough.
She stayed with Mildred through the night, long after Leanne left. She stayed at Mildred's bedside while the doctors examined her young pupil, barely managing not to curl her lip in distaste at their primitive poking and prodding. She stayed by the girl’s side when they were finally permitted to leave, scooping Mildred into her arms when the young witch sagged with exhaustion before transferring them to Cackle’s.
It was then, and only then, that she left. After carefully placing Mildred in her bed in that drafty, attic room and brushing her finger across the girl’s forehead with the lightest of touches to cast a wordless spell (that mothers learned for their daughters) so that her magic lay just atop Mildred's own, Hecate turned and transferred away.
She didn’t see one, final tear slip out of Mildred Hubble’s drooping eyes when the girl realized she was alone again nor how she curled into a ball and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to pretend she was in her nice, soft bed at home. She didn't see how when that failed, Mildred opened her eyes, staring blankly into the darkness as she rocked back and forth singing her stuffed bear's little song in a shaky voice, hardly louder than a whisper. Perhaps if she had, she would have thought twice about her hasty decision.