Little Witch Collections: 2019-2022

(1.05.2021) 🔶 Sanctuary - M, 24.5k [Finnelariot]

🔶 Ch.1 of Beauty Queen (Three-Shot) 🔶

["You're the most transfixing witch I've ever met, Ursula. Ever since I first saw you."]

| Second-Person, (Anne); Themes of Romance, Lust, (Past) Drug Addictions |

Luna Nova was once primed with the knowledge that the most well-respected, renowned, and disciplined witches taught each new generation the ways of magic. The best during the Golden Age, of course. The academy certainly held that esteem for several centuries as generations came and went, and as the wealth of magic continued to flourish.

Although, the eventual croak—the disinterest—in witchcraft proved to be near-fatal for Luna Nova. Many generations remained loyal still, though the professors dulled and flickered in their abilities. In their knowledge. In their prestige. In their...resumes.

It always takes you a moment, a long one at that, to remember how much this school has changed since your own days as a student. Back then, it was still comparable to the Golden Age of Magic, but the decline had been noticed. Money was the first issue, ever since a sorcerer's stone had to be installed. A bigger one, that is—not just for the fairies. Then it was getting those loyal generations to stay. Then find good professors. Maintaining the property amongst all the troubles. Keeping up with the times. Losing the headmistress unexpectedly (to a damn mandrake, of all things). The plumbing. The towers...

Everything. Absolutely everything declined since the Golden Age, and you can't help but think how incredible, intuitive, Headmistress Holbrooke is for managing to pull everything together—just to make ends meet. And then to tie the ends? Despite many hounding after her with distaste, scoffing at what the school had become? It was a fallacy.

What did they know? If they realized just how desperate Luna Nova was for its pride, they would've understood the great lengths she took to maintain such a demanding feat. Miranda Holbrooke kept the school running for its students. That, however, wasn't all. Miranda Holbrooke birthed a sanctuary for its professors.

The truth was, from how far Luna Nova had fallen, Holbrooke knew the rarity of witches that would be willing to brave the uncertainty—step away from their prestigious lives—and teach.

So? She searched for witches who were far from prestigious. Witches, that, had lost their way, and Luna Nova was the last hope. She took great care and scoured across England, then Europe, the Old World, and then the Americas. Each and every professor, from every walk of life, chosen.

You were the first she found.

You remember—albeit barely—that old, cheery woman from down the alley; you think how miraculous your memory is that you can still picture the fine blue vest she wore, and the sure grin against the sharp breeze. You were drunk from a handful of beers, then the additional line of crack. Or two. For each nostril. And the more you think about that night, the more you notice the gaps in judgement and clarity. It was...a rough time, to sugarcoat it.

She had barely gotten a word in before you threw your bottle at her heels, and then came the snarled obscenities which warped your prim accent into a brash slew of words. By the next week, with your dismal sobriety, Holbrooke found you again. And this, you remember vividly. It was a cold day, and abysmally bitter. She sat beside you, on your bench—your home—and spoke nonchalantly about the way the clouds moved.

All London had to offer was a damn blanket of grey. It might as well have been one sheet. But no, Miranda disagreed, and said that there were more than one, and that clouds always moved on to new things. She then asked you how long you'd been trapped in your pitiful cycle with only a bench, the clothes on your back, and a pouch of coins to your name.