Chapter Text
“I’m Millie, this is my mum, Connie. We mean you no harm.”
The words were strained as they fell from Mildred's lips. Crouching behind her, all Miss Hardbroom could see was the tension in her shoulders and the slight tremble in her hands. She couldn’t see who the girl was speaking to, but it was someone they had the displeasure of meeting.
Miss Hardbroom didn't often trust her instincts. But today, they told her to play along.
“Millie, darling,” she spoke loudly, her voice carrying faux sweetness. “Who are you talking to?”
Mildred unbuckled her belt and toppled to the truck’s ceiling with her. Her eyes remained trained on whoever stood outside. “Just some people, Mum.” The look of fear in her eyes told Miss Hardbroom needed to know. Armed, more people than Mildred was comfortable with, and a situation dire enough to validate lies.
Miss Hardbroom reached for Mildred’s hand. It was sweaty, cold, and small in comparison to her own. For all the confidence she exuded, Mildred was still a girl under her protection. With a little tug, she guided the girl outside the broken vehicle with her.
Four individuals were gathered at the truck, eyeing them warily. Although armed, they seemed as civil as post-apocalyptic survivors could get. Three men and one woman were a part of this crew, dressed in casual wear stained in dirt and dried blood. A man scolded the survivor who pointed a gun at Mildred’s head. “Jonathan, put the gun down,” he hissed through his teeth, already lowering his own rifle. “That is a child.”
“Yeah, Nick, and she’s armed,” Jonathan said, narrowing his eyes at Mildred. Mildred maintained her innocent stare, which Miss Hardbroom was mildly impressed with. After her years at Cackle's Academy, the girl had indeed become an expert troublemaker. Miss Hardbroom recognized that stare herself.
“Right, does it look like they can hurt a fly?” Nick vaguely waved his hand at them. “One’s a little girl, and the other’s a frail woman. They look as if they haven’t eaten in ages.”
Miss Hardbroom was offended. Frail? Her? She didn’t look that weak, did she?
Beside her, Mildred seethed quietly. ‘Little girl’ was far off.
“Who are you?” Miss Hardbroom asked them bluntly, keeping a hand on her student’s shoulder. The strangers were on thin ice.
“Oh, right.” The woman stepped forward and cleared her throat. “We’re from Aspenville. Just looking for food for the others.”
Miss Hardbroom’s grip on Mildred tightened. “There are more of you?’
Nick nodded and smiled. “Yes, we’ve heard of witches in these woods. And I know what you’re thinking:” He raised his hands by his head and put on a high-pitched voice. “'Witches don’t exist!’ Well believe it or not, we’ve had several sightings of women flying on brooms. Most carry luggage with them. And if they’re doing well enough to have luggage…” His smile widened. “Then they must have supplies, right?”
The potions mistress felt Mildred tense. She gave her shoulder a subtle squeeze as if to say, ‘It’s alright.’
Jonathan hesitantly lowered his shotgun, still regarding the duo with trepidation. When one of his peers leaned in and whispered into his ear, he gave an exasperated sigh. “We’d love to have you join us,” he muttered bitterly.
Miss Hardbroom didn’t trust the strangers, but she was aware of how starved Mildred was. The poor girl had refused to eat the hare she’d hunted the day before, and Miss Hardbroom wasn’t doing any better. They needed food, fresh water, and medical supplies.
The witch exchanged glances with the girl. Sensing nothing but desperation, Miss Hardbroom reluctantly accepted the survivors' offer.
· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·
The group of survivors owned a rusted pick-up truck that had clearly seen better days. While Jonathan, the gruff man that screamed ‘untrustworthy’ to Miss Hardbroom, drove down the road, the others were seated in the back with Mildred and her 'mother.' Miss Hardbroom hadn’t released Mildred for one moment, insisting the girl stay by her side.
“So,” one of the women on the truck asked, glancing between the two. “What are both of y’all doing out here?”
Miss Hardbroom, who had an arm around Mildred, spoke for the both of them. “Looking for resources. What other reason would there be?”
The survivors didn’t seem to think much of her words, save for Jonathan, who glanced in the rearview mirror. Mildred caught a glimpse of it and held Miss Hardbroom's hand a little tighter. The man beside her offered her a smile in a pathetic attempt to comfort her. “It’s gonna be alright, kid. We’re going to a safe place.”
Mildred doubted anywhere could be considered a safe place anymore, except the arms of her mentor. Miss Hardbroom still held her close to her side, and the girl was thankful for it. Otherwise, her quivering would be more evident.
When she felt her shoulder grow wet, she glanced over her shoulder and found Miss Hardbroom’s blood dripping onto her clothing. Mildred’s brows furrowed. “Mum, you’re hurt.”
Miss Hardbroom ignored the strange feeling that name gave her and replied, “I’m alright, Millie.”
Another one of the survivors perked up. “We can bandage you both when we get there.”
It seemed as if every survivor had eyes on them. They listened to their conversations, watched every movement, anticipated every action. They would have to wait for a moment of privacy to talk properly.
“I’d prefer it if my daughter bandaged me,” Miss Hardbroom said politely, regarding the strangers warily. Strangers were strangers, no matter how kind they acted. No amount of time would ever get her to trust them.
The rest of the ride was spent in silence. Mildred’s presence, at least, provided Miss Hardbroom with some comfort.
· · ────── ·𖥸· ────── · ·
Two months (or three months? Out of all people, Miss Hardbroom should have been able to track the days) after humanity collapsed, Aspenville had improvised: The surviving townspeople dwelled in empty shops along the main street, which had been walled off using spiked wooden barriers. They were doing well for themselves, judging by their trading at makeshift tents and farming in what used to be flower beds.
The pick-up truck rolled through the gates and parked by the sidewalk. As Miss Hardbroom and Mildred got off the truck, the strangers followed. An old man, likely the leader of the group, stepped forward and spoke with Jonathan aside.
A boy no older than ten rushed forward, thrust a roll of bandages into Mildred’s arms and ran off. She looked to Miss Hardbroom (who returned her confused stare), then at the people of Aspenville. “Do any of you have somewhere my mum and I can stay?”
The boy returned to her in a hurry, an embarrassed flush across his cheeks. “I forgot,” he whispered in her ear. “You can stay on the second floor of the um… Deli.”
Mildred nodded. She was about to say thank you, but the boy sprinted off before she could say a word. Shy kid. Then again, Mildred thought, glancing up at the woman wringing her hands, shy witch. Miss Hardbroom was out of her comfort zone in a community of ordinaries, and Mildred was determined not to let her lose herself. To return the favor, in a way.
“Come on, Mum,” she whispered to her, tugging her along by the wrist. “This way.”
She guided her past the strangers, who continued to eye them suspiciously. If they were going to stay here, she and Miss Hardbroom had to gain their trust. They could figure that out later. Fixing up her mentor’s arm was her priority.
The deli was a small thing, its door just barely visible behind two tents. Entering the shop, Mildred and Miss Hardbroom were hit with the scent of paper. The survivors had filled the deli with what books they had managed to recover. Judging by the fine layer of dust on the shelves, barely anyone visited the library; Aspenville was too focused on their survival to read about… “The Vegetarian Cookbook,” Miss Hardbroom muttered under her breath, narrowing her eyes at one of the novels on display. Mildred gently grabbed her by the arm. “No time for that. Come on, you’re losing blood.”
At the back of the shop was a narrow flight of wooden stairs that creaked under each footstep. They walked slowly for Miss Hardbroom’s sake, even though the woman insisted she could handle stairs without Mildred to support her.
The two witches found a room to the left, where two blankets had been laid adjacent to one another. It was completely devoid of furniture, and although the room possessed a single window, it was boarded up so thickly that the sun could barely peek through. For light, they relied on a single candle and half abox of matches.
Mildred guided Miss Hardbroom onto one of these blankets and examined her arm. Both of her arms had small shards of glass from the car crash. Her right arm was much worse than the left; The white fabric of her blouse had soaked with blood so thoroughly that it was dripping.
“How bad does it hurt, on a scale from one to ten?” Mildred asked, her fingers running along the wounded limn. “Ten being the worst.”
“It’s a three.”
The girl took a deep breath. “Stop lying, I know that’s not a three.”
Miss Hardbroom tilted her head back and closed her eyes tightly. “Fine, it is an seven-point-three.”
Mildred attempted to roll up her sleeve, which only elicited a sharp hiss from the woman. Alright, no rolling up any sleeves. What was she to do… Glass shards. Glass shards first, everything else later.
“I’m going to pluck these shards out. Just letting you know.”
The woman’s eyes shot open at those words. She itched to scold her for such a rash decision, but then again, Miss Hardbroom had begun to trust this girl. As prone to mishaps as Mildred was, she had rescued her from the waterfall at Rowan Webb’s Riverside Retreat, defended the school on multiple occasions, and even saved Sybil Hallow’s life. She had a knack for saving lives, and a deep dislike of ending them.
“I trust you, Mildred,” she said, extending the wounded arm towards her.
Mildred nodded to her and reached for the first glass shard. Once she had gripped it between two fingers, she slowly pulled it from her mentor’s flesh.
Miss Hardbroom winced and bit down on her lip.
Mildred plucked out the next one.
Miss Hardbroom let out the softest little whimper. It broke Mildred’s heart to hear it.
The next glass shard slipped out nicely. The woman turned away from the sight.
...It took about half an hour for Mildred Hubble to pull all thirty-five shards from both of Miss Hardbroom’s arms. There were other shards that were too small for Mildred to get ahold of, though they hadn’t any access to tweezers.
They were far from done. The sleeves of Miss Hardbroom's blouse clung to her skin from the blood. It would be a pain for Mildred to try rolling up her sleeves again.
“Miss Hardbroom, I need you to take off your shirt.” She wasn't a medic and didn't know what the hell she was meant to do. This request, as disrespectful as it was, would at least get Mildred a clear view of the injuries.
In any other moment with Mildred Hubble, Miss Hardbroom would’ve protested. Except this wasn't just 'any other moment.' It felt as if her arms were constantly on fire, and Miss Hardbroom was desperate for relief. With a self-conscious glance around the small room, she unbuttoned her blouse and pulled it over her head, revealing a canvas of red cuts from the glass shards. The right arm, the one that had leaked the whole trip to Aspenville, had a particularly deep gash that Mildred couldn’t help but gag at.
“That doesn’t look like a seven-point-three, Miss,” she muttered, using her own cloak to wipe the excess blood. Miss Hardbroom struggled to keep a straight face. She would rather die before she lost her dignity.
“I can assure you,” she paused to take in a shaky breath, “that I’m alright.”
Rather than waste time replying to obvious lies, Mildred set to work wrapping the gash in bandages. She tried to get them as tight as possible, despite each flinch and stifled sound from Miss Hardbroom. Eventually, it was as good as she could get it, covering the whole of Miss Hardbroom’s arm from her wrist to her elbow. Mildred followed with the other arm, which had its fair share of cuts.
She had never seen Miss Hardbroom like this before. In this tiny room, in a small building, within a ruined town miles from home, Miss Hardbroom had finally allowed herself to be vulnerable. Mildred didn’t know whether to be honored or concerned by that.
“Try not to move your arms too much,” Mildred told her, rubbing circles over the back of Miss Hardbroom’s hands.
Miss Hardbroom hated every part of this. They were surrounded by strangers– Witch hunters, no less– And she was injured, leaving Mildred to pick up the slack that Miss Hardbroom had left behind. Nevertheless, she said, “Thank you, Mildred. Truly.”
“It’s no problem, Miss Hardbroom.” Mildred gave her a thin-lipped smile and tossed her her blouse. “Put this on, we should see if they have any food.”
“You’ve been thinking rationally lately.” The potions mistress observed as her hands worked to button up her clothing. “I wish you'd shown more of this at school, rather than... I don't know, dropping a fish into a cauldron behind my back.”
“All it took was the end of the world. Maybe you’ve started to rub off on me.” Mildred replied with a mischievous grin, extending an arm to help her stand. Miss Hardbroom gave a light-hearted scoff at her words. This girl was going to be the death of her, and oddly enough, Miss Hardbroom didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would.
“Now, enough jokes,” the woman cleared her throat. She suppressed a smirk at Mildred’s mock offended gasp. “Yes, Mildred, jokes. Enough play, we have to talk strategy. We might as well take advantage of this opportunity. Gain their trust, gain access to their supplies, become a part of their community. Eventually, we may be able to drive one of their trucks and steal it.”
And she backtracked. Stealing? Constance Hardbroom, stealing vehicles from ordinaries? How rebellious. There was a certain thrill to it. “It seems like you’re rubbing off on me, too, Mildred,” she added with a smirk.
“Don’t you mean ‘Millie?’”
Miss Hardbroom cracked a smile. “I must admit, that was good thinking on your part. It feels as if you’re learning more outside the castle than inside it.”
“No, Miss Hardbroom. It’s just you subconsciously playing favorites.” Mildred opened the door for them both. “I better be getting extra credit for this. Driving the truck, bandaging your arms, being cool in general…”
As the girl went ahead on the stairs, Miss Hardbroom laughed behind her. “Mildred, are you planning something?”
“Mis–” Mildred coughed when she caught sight of one of Aspenville’s survivors, a boy around Mildred’s age, flipping through a book in the small library. “Mum,” she corrected herself. “You should know better. I would never plan something. But you know, hypothetically... If they have dessert in this place, you’d let me have some. Right?”
“Only if you behave yourself while we're here, Millie.”
“But I thought I was your favorite. Your number one gal, Mischief Making Millie.”
Miss Hardbroom snorted. “Not for long, if you keep up that attitude.”