How to Resurrect Your Headmistress (And Other Mistakes)

My name is Thraxil'von'Keth of the Ninth Vermilion Descent, defiler of all things unholy and keeper of nightmares.

But you can call me Keth.

Before you ask: yes, I am a demon, and yes, I currently exist as a cat. Right now, I would very much like to be asleep.

Clara, however, had other plans.

She'd waited until the housekeeper made his last pass before slipping out of bed and turning on her lamplight. The sudden brightness stabbed directly into my night vision.

Clara pulled on her cloak over her nightgown and flicked her frantic blonde hair out from under the hood. It still had the chaotic look of bed hair, which, combined with the feverish gleam in her eyes, suggested either a brilliant idea or a spectacularly stupid one.

Experience told me it was the latter.

"Is it my imagination," I said, stretching into a long arch across the bed, "or are you getting ready for class five hours early?"

Clara didn't answer. She yanked her satchel from the door and dropped it with a dull thud. Crouching beside it, she pulled out her schoolbooks and tossed them aside.

"You're going to wake the dead with all this noise," I said, edging myself to the foot of the bed. "And I'd like to make it known that you are disturbing my sleep."

"Demons don't need sleep."

She'd got me there. Technically, I could go without it - but after several years in feline form, I’d grown rather attached. Among other things. Sunbeams, for instance. And sardines. And the particular satisfaction of sharpening my claws on a priceless tapestry.

"Are you going to tell me what you're up to?" I asked.

"It's the witching hour," Clara said, "I'm witching."

From her desk, she gathered a fistful of crow feathers and stuffed them into the bag. Then she added a small jar of something black and viscous, candles, and her spell book.

"Need I remind you of the consequences for practicing magic without supervision?"

"You're supervising me."

I lashed my tail in irritation. Why can't I ever have one who follows the rules? The last time Clara attempted magic outside of the classroom, she set fire to my afternoon napping rug.

Clara opened her dresser and lifted a dead frog from her sock drawer, holding it by one leg.

"Where did you get that?"

"I stole it from Mr. Peterson's class."

"Mhmmm."

Clara dropped it into the bag with a soft plop.

"I know you don't approve, Keth, but how else am I supposed to get better if I don't practice?" Her voice was quiet, almost pleading. I could see the dark smudges under her eyes.

I kneaded the blanket with my claws.

"I'm the only one in class who hasn't managed the resurrection spell," she said. "Even Louise managed to do it. If I fail another exam, they'll send me home."

It was true. Even I had to admit Clara was struggling. She would fail, just like the others and the cycle would begin again. What was the point in offering comfort?

Clara sighed, and cinched the laces on her boots.

"If you're that concerned, you can stay here," she said, not looking at me.

"I am concerned, that's why I'm coming with you."

She offered a faint smile and scratched behind my ear. Demon or not, it felt remarkably good.

"Might I propose an alternative? Perhaps we could stay here, in this warm room, and go back to sleep?"

Clara laughed softly. "You're so risk-averse, Keth. I thought you were supposed to be fearless. What was your title again? Defiler of all things holy?"

"Un-holy."

"You know what I mean." She said, slinging her satchel over one shoulder purposefully. She lifted the lantern beneath her chin, the light painting her face in amber and shadow. Very dramatic. Very unnecessary.

"Let's go," she said, and turned toward the door.

I hopped off the bed and padded after her.

We reached the courtyard a few minutes later. The night air smelled faintly of wet grass and rabbit droppings.

"This will do," Clara said, lowering her hood.

The courtyard doubled as an old cemetery, headstones silver in dappled moonlight. Clara stepped into the center and crouched down, withdrawing her assortment of items. I followed, wading through a sea of autumn leaves.

Within a circle of crow feathers, she drew a sigil with black sludge. Five candles arranged around the perimeter; wicks catching flame as she whispered. Finally, she placed the frog supine on the sigil.

Clara settled into a meditative position resting upturned palms on her lap and eyes closed. Her lips reciting the ancient words in a low whisper.

I edged away several paces. You learn not to sit too close to a novice witch mid-spell.

As Clara spoke my eyes flickered between the frog and witch. Her voice strengthened, and power burst outward, scattering leaves and dust. Every candle snuffed at once.

Clara opened her eyes.

She frowned.

The frog was gone.

Grabbing the lantern behind her, Clara swept it across the ground in frantic arcs. "Where is it?"

"You’re certain you used the right incantation?"

"Yes! I've practiced it a hundred times! "Everything was correct. The components, the circle, the words-"

The temperature dropped. Clara's words trailed.

"Keth…" she said, her voice wavering. "What's that?"

I followed her gaze and stiffened.

In the far corner of the courtyard, a shadow shifted between two leaning gravestones. A black silhouette, its edges rippled and frayed.

"I think you may have resurrected something else…" My hackles rose.

As I spoke, the shadow expanded into a tall, humanoid figure.

"Clara. Move."

Clara scrambled behind me, her eyes locked on the advancing entity.

My instincts kicked in and I formed a protective shield, a thin barrier of light.

The entity sailed through my barrier, shattering the veil like glass.

I cursed. I'd gotten rusty.

I shrank in fear, hugging close against Clara's leg.

The entity stopped, close enough to touch. Its void of a mouth moved as it tried to speak. The syllables were garbled at first, before sharpening into words.

"Whaaaat... what are you... students doing... out of bed?"

What?

The figure straightened, its form flickering like a black candle flame before turning toward the academy building.

"No students... out of bed..."

It passed through the oak door and vanished.

"What happened?" Clara asked.

Barely processing her words I moved toward the corner where the shadow had first emerged. I had a hunch, but needed to be sure.

The air still buzzed faintly with residual magic. Frosted grass surrounded a single gravestone. The inscription read:

Here lies Headmistress Gertrude Froggart

1878–1923

No.

Not her.

Anyone but her.

"Clara… I think you just resurrected Mrs. Froggart."

"Who?" Clara appeared beside me, squinting at the stone.

"Gertrude Froggart." The name was ash in my mouth. "She was headmistress here forty years ago."

"But - that's impossible, I - "

"It must have taken the frog as an offering," I said. "She must have desperately wanted to come back."

Clara’s knees weakened and the lantern swung wildly in her grip, throwing shadows across the frosted graves.

"Keth, I didn't mean to resurrect a person. I swear I didn't-"

"I know." I stared at the gravestone, decades of memories I'd rather forget flooding back.

"What do we do?"

I turned to look at the academy. Somewhere inside was the entity. Every fibre of my being screamed to run, to hide, to let someone else deal with this mess.

"We have to tell someone," I forced the words out. "The headmistress, the professors-"

"No." Clara's voice was sharp. "I'll get expelled! I'll never become a witch."

"What if it hurts someone?"

"Please, Keth." Her eyes were rimmed with tears. "We can do this."

Every instinct screamed no. She wasn't ready. She'd never be ready.

And yet - she'd managed the resurrection, hadn't she? Not as planned, but still. Maybe she could do this.

"Okay," I said finally. "I'll help."

"Yes! Thank you." Clara grabbed her satchel, hastily packing her supplies.

"What do you know about banishment spells?" I asked.

"Not much. We haven’t covered them yet."

"Fine. I'll explain on the way."

Clara's footsteps echoed too loudly on the flagstones. I flicked my tail in warning, and she slowed.

"Where are we going?" Clara whispered.

"Following the cold. Spirits leave a trace. Especially the mean ones.”

We descended the main stairs, past the library with its scent of old leather and dust, past the great hall. The temperature dropped with each step, seeping through my fur until I was shivering.

"Keth, wait." Clara stopped on the landing, her breath misting. "You’re acting as if you know this ghost."

I sighed. "When I first came to this academy, Mrs. Froggart was headmistress. She never liked me after I pointed out that her hair made her look like a poodle.”

“What? A poodle?” Clara laughed.

“Yes. She really did look like one. Anyway, after that, she looked for any opportunity to get back at me. I was bonded to a promising student-brilliant, actually. I may have... encouraged her to explore subjects that Froggart deemed inappropriate."

"Like what?"

"Like anything interesting. Froggart believed in rigid structure, absolute obedience, magic by the book and never a step beyond. She caught us working on transformation spells after hours. That was her opportunity."

"What happened?"

"She had my student expelled. And as for me..." I looked away, unable to meet Clara's eyes. "She cursed me. Said I'd never be able to graduate a student."

Clara's sharp intake of breath told me she understood.

"How many students have you been bonded to since then?"

"Seven," I said quietly. "Seven students in forty years. All of them failed. All of them were sent home." I met her eyes. "You're number eight, Clara."

Clara was quiet for a moment, her hand resting on the cold stone wall. When she spoke again, her voice was steady. "You think I'm going to fail too."

"I think you're brilliant and determined and completely reckless. But yes, I think you'll fail. Everyone does." The words hurt more than I expected.

Clara's jaw set with determination. "Then help me prove you wrong."

I nodded. “First, we need to find her, and I think I know where she might be.”

We reached the basement levels, where the cold was so intense that frost had formed on the walls in delicate, crystalline patterns. The kitchen door stood ajar, a sliver of darkness beyond.

“Here?” Clara said. “In the kitchens?”

"Spirits are drawn to places they have an emotional attachment to," I said. “It was here that Mrs Froggart came to meet with the head chef.”

Even the ice queen was capable of love. In a fashion.

Clara’s eyes widened. “That’s a strong emotional anchor.”

“Indeed,” I hesitated. “There’s something else…

“The chef ended the relationship because he was worried about the secret getting out. Mrs. Froggart didn’t take it very well. A few days later, she was found dead in her room. The official story was food poisoning, but-"

"The chef killed her?"

"It's possible."

"Where is he now?"

"Retired years ago. Spain, I think."

"How do you know all this?"

"His familiar was a compulsive gossiper."

Another wail from the kitchen. I shuddered.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Mrs. Froggart stood at the center of the kitchen. Fully formed now, no longer the wraith from the courtyard. Black tendrils writhing and lashing at the air. Hair standing wild and unbound, defying gravity. Eyes burning with cold blue fire.

"George," she called, her voice echoing off the metal surfaces. "George, where are you?"

A ladle flew off its hook and smashed against the wall.

"George, I know you're here. I know you're hiding from me."

Clara pulled me behind a flour barrel. Through a gap between staves, I watched the ghost drift between the prep tables.

"Clara, maybe this was a bad idea."

"We can't stop now. Look at her. We can't let her grow any stronger."

"I KNOW IT WAS YOU, GEORGE!" Froggart's scream shattered a window. "I KNOW WHAT YOU DID!"

Every knife in the kitchen rose into the air, circling the ghost like a crown of blades. The temperature plummeted. My breath bloomed in white clouds.

Clara knelt and grabbed me, pulling me close. Her eyes were fierce, determined, and - desperate.

"I have to try."

"Clara, wait-"

But she was already moving, stepping out from behind the barrel into the open kitchen.

"Mrs. Froggart."

Froggart spun, her attention snapping to Clara. The circling knives paused.

"That's enough, Mrs. Froggart. Time's up," Clara said, her voice firm.

Mrs. Froggart laughed. A deep and cruel belly laugh.

She drifted closer, black tendrils reaching out like grasping fingers. "Students should be IN BED," she screeched.

A knife shot toward Clara.

Clara dove sideways, too slowly. The blade sliced across her cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. She gasped, pressing her hand to the wound.

"Clara!" I leaped forward, protective instinct overriding fear.

More knives launched. I summoned my shield, the translucent veil encasing Clara. It was brighter than last time, but still weak. The knives punched through, though slowed enough that Clara could dodge.

My witch was going to die because of me. I let her come here. I let myself get weak. I got lazy. I lost hope. I stopped caring. Clara needed me and I’d failed. I'd stopped trying years ago. I failed those students, and now, I was about to fail her.

No.

I planted my paws on the cold stone and reached deep - deeper than I had in decades. Calling on my heritage for power.

And power answered. Old power. Power that I'd almost forgotten existed.

Light erupted around Clara, solid and strong. The next volley of knives rebounded off it in showers of sparks.

"Keth?" Clara gasped, staring at the glowing barrier.

"Focus on the banishment!" I snarled through gritted teeth, feeling the strain of channeling so much magic through this cursed form. "I'll hold the shield! Remember what I taught you. Her name is power."

Three knives at once. The impact felt like blows, but I held firm. I poured energy into Clara - not just power, but confidence. Belief. You can do this. We can do this!

"Gertrude Froggart, you are forty years too late for your revenge. I banish you back to where you came. Leave this place."

Froggart's eyes widened, focusing on me for the first time. "YOU." Her voice dropped to a hiss. "Thraxil'von'Keth. Still in that pathetic form. Still corrupting my students."

I stepped forward, hackles raised, placing myself firmly between the ghost and Clara. "Your curse ends tonight, Gertrude."

"My curse?" She laughed. "No. You cursed yourself. You are not worthy of your name. Nothing more than a common housecat. A joke."

The words hit harder than the knives. Because they were true.

More knives rose - a dozen, two dozen, every blade in the kitchen forming a spiral of death around the ghost.

Clara stepped forward. Light burst from her palms. Threads of silver wrapped around Froggart like chains.

The ghost shrieked, thrashing. The knives launched all at once. My shield flared, the strain enormous. My legs shook, vision blurring.

I closed my eyes and embraced the connection. I let Clara feel everything: my fear for her, my desperate hope that maybe this time would be different, my belief-fragile but real-that she could succeed.

And I felt her response: iron determination, stubborn refusal to concede, and something else.

She believed in me. Even knowing I'd failed seven times before. She believed I was exactly who she needed.

Our magic merged.

Clara brought her hands together with a thunderclap.

The black flames guttered and died. The ghost's form collapsed inward like a dying star, compressing until it vanished.

Knives clattered to the floor.

Silence.

Clara swayed, blood still trickling from the cut on her cheek. I let the shield drop, my legs gave out. We'd done it. Somehow, impossibly, we'd actually done it.

We both collapsed to the floor, too exhausted to stand.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

Clara turned her head to look at me, managing a weak smile despite her exhaustion. "I see it now.”

“See what?”

“Her hair did make her look like a poodle.”

We both laughed. Despite the tiredness, her green eyes were brighter than ever.

"We should probably clean this up," Clara said, yawning. "Before someone finds us."

"Right. Yes. Cleaning."

By the time we stumbled back to her room, the sky beyond the windows was turning gray with the approach of dawn.

Clara kicked off her boots and fell into bed, not even bothering to remove her cloak. I nestled in beside her.

"Keth?" she murmured, already half-asleep.

"Mm?"

"Do you really think I'll graduate?"

I thought about it-really thought about it, not just falling back on the resigned certainty of failure I'd carried for so long.

"Yes," I said. And meant it.

Clara smiled and closed her eyes.

Sleep crashed over both of us like a wave.

Finally.

Sunlight was streaming through the window when I woke, painting warm squares across the blanket. I stretched, long and slow and-

I heard the frantic rustling.

"No, no, no, no-" Clara was hopping on one foot, trying to pull on her boot while simultaneously attempting to tie back her hair. "I'm late! I'm so late!"

She grabbed her school bag, knocked over a stack of books, cursed, and bolted for the door.

The door swung open before she could reach it.

Headmistress Thorne stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

"My office," Headmistress Thorne said quietly. "Now."

Her gaze shifted down to me, and I felt a chill.

"You too, Thraxil'von'Keth… We have much to discuss."

Clara glanced back at me, fear and uncertainty written across her face. I hopped down from the bed and padded after her, tail held high.

Maybe Clara wouldn't be failure number eight. Maybe this was the beginning of something different.