MadGirlWithABox

When you stepped back into the house, you could've sworn it felt warmer. You could hear children playing somewhere outside, soft laughter and chatter from down the street, a quiet, normal evening in Westview. Even though you knew it was everything but. Agatha had just closed the door behind the two of you, looking around her home in what seemed some kind of quiet contemplation. You tried to keep holding her arm, fingers twisted into the fabric of her sweater, but at some point she stepped away from you and gave the living room another glance.

“You really let this place gather some dust, huh?”

You pressed your lips together, ignoring the urge to reach for her hand again. You kept wanting to make sure she was really still there, still alive. Part of you was expecting her to drop to the ground and go back to being a ghost, or worse, just stay dead. But all she did was sigh at your lack of answer, and lock the front door.

Senor Scratchy peeked out from behind the couch at the noise, curious of all the commotion, then sniffed in her direction and made his way over to her. She paused, and you caught her split second of hesitation, how her eyes went your way briefly as if checking whether you were watching before she bent down to pick him up, cradling him in her arms.

“Hey there mister.” she murmured softly, one hand moving to pet his soft fur, “Did you miss me too?”

There was something soft in her expression.

You fought down the urge to step over there and join in. Try to get her to hug you again. You weren’t going to be jealous of a bunny for hell’s sake. No matter how much something in your chest twisted every time her hand went over his head, soothing and gentle.

“We both missed you.” you said, forcing yourself to look away.

“You’re about the only ones.” Agatha replied, gently plopping the rabbit back onto the carpet. You watched him sniff at her shoes and then hop off, scurrying into the kitchen. Agatha glanced at your backpack on the couch, and you felt a jolt in your stomach as you remembered what was in there. Before you could panic any further about giving your mentor a Mother’s Day card briefly after successfully bringing her back from being dead-- or at least from being a ghost-- she interrupted your internal panic by sighing loudly, and in that all-too-familiar Agatha manner you so desperately missed, tossed her hair back and said after a loud eugh and a huff,

“I look like I just rose from the grave,” she frowned, and pointed a finger at you before you could say that she technically just did.

You fell silent.

“I need a shower.” she said, turning around disappearing into the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your slowly increasing nerves. “And so do you, by the looks of you clothes.”

You looked down at yourself, jeans patched with streaks of green from the backyard lawn and the occasional splotch of freshly dug earth, dirt, and your own sweat.

She was right. You did need a shower.

You stood there for a moment more, listening to the sound of her room door closing and drawers opening. The bathroom faucet turned on. Then the shower too. Senor Scratchy knocked something over in the kitchen, snapping you out of your reverie. Sighing, you picked up and unzipped your backpack, rummaged through it until you found the mug, still in the same box you’d left it, purple bow and all.

You undid the ribbon.

Opened the box.

Stared at the mug, emotions swirling in your chest, anticipation coursing. Then you closed the box and hastily redid the bow.

It was fine. This was fine. You’d just--

Give it to her.

Approach her, smile, tell her the truth, tell her thank you. You had so much to thank her for. You weren’t expecting a huge reaction, she wasn’t too big on the touchy feely stuff, always covered it up with the snark and attitude, but you knew she cared. You only wished you could tell her just how much you did, too. You set your bag down in the kitchen, gave Senor Scracthy some fresh food and water, and went down the hall into your room. It was just as you’d left it. Clothes strewn over the place-- you picked out a clean outfit and dumped the rest into the hamper.

Agatha was right- the house was dusty, and you had yourself to blame, but you couldn’t find it in you to come back while she was gone. You should’ve, should’ve stayed behind to set things straight and clean up and look after the damned rabbit instead of the neighbors, but you couldn’t. Coming back alone was too heavy. Grief was heavy. You pressed a knuckle into the corner of your eye, wiping away tears that had gathered there again.

You had to pull yourself together.

It was a good day, a happy one, you brought her back and she was fine, so you were too.

Right?

You dismissed any further thoughts of tidying your room and went into the bathroom to clean up. Then, in fresh clothes and with a foe smile, you stepped back in front of the mirror to tie your hair back loosely. Fixed it. Tugged a few strands loose. Then untangled the tie from your hair and threw it off to the side. You took a breath.

When you came back into the living room you were surprised to see that she was already out of the bathroom, lilac sweater on, soft clothes and wet hair spilling over her shoulders like a curtain of dark brown. She seemed... softer, somehow. More approachable. More vulnerable.

Unlike herself.

You simply stood for a moment, watching her sitting on the couch, sipping from a mug. It was a scene so normal and familiar to you yet somehow so far away from what you were used to, from what used to be routine.

She looked up ahead, but you knew she knew you were there.

“I see you made sure to leave a pot of lukewarm coffee for me as a welcome back present,” she said, voice nonchalant as ever, “could’ve at least warmed it up.”

It was a joke and you knew it, but it was hard to laugh for some reason. You tried to smile. Maybe you failed a little. If she noticed she didn’t say, simply took another sip and sighed into the quiet space.

“That’s uh, mine.” you said eventually, a little awkwardly. “I made it while I was digging up... your…”

You stopped. She didn’t seem too bothered that you were apparently talking about digging up her previously dead body in her own backyard, and instead set the mug down. You fought the brief urge to pick it up and smash it across the floor. How could she be so casual about this? About being gone, being--

Did she not know how hard it had been for you? The damned chaos everything was in after you’d stormed off and left her here with Billy? Of course, she didn’t, she couldn’t, because she wasn’t here, so she couldn’t have known how hard it was for you when you came back that same day later, came into the empty house, tried to get back to a normal life without her there and cried in your room for hours. The way you’d curled up in her bed, face pressed into her pillow, trying your best to find comfort in the faint ever-lingering traces of her presence there, in the echoes of her perfume, her scattered things, her sweater you held and clutched as you cried yourself to sleep. It was hell, knowing the one person you so deeply cared about, considered family, your only family, was now gone, and there was seemingly nothing possible you could do to bring them back.

You supposed to her, after so many years of being used to everyone wanting her dead, seeing your grief and sorrow and despair was too foreign of a concept. You didn’t blame her for that. They asked you to join them, her and Billy, expected it even, and you just stormed off and left, not wanting to face the facts that were then true. Now they weren’t anymore. You watched as a droplet of water slid down one of her dark curls and fell onto the armrest of the couch.

“Where did you go?” she asked suddenly, voice soft and low, but also curious. “After you left, where did you go to?”

You glanced away.

“Just stayed with a few people. Asked around about some spells.”

That was a very big understatement of the truth. Yes, you stayed with some friends. Yes, you asked about spells, but that asking was more of a you banging on every known witch’s door demanding they share all their gathered-thus-far knowledge of bringing people back from the dead, every spell, every charm, every enchantment involving chaos magic or potions or rituals or sacrifices. You hoped you wouldn’t get to the last part, and fortunately you hadn’t in the end, but the nights you didn’t spend crying into your pillow you spent staring up at the ceiling or out the window, wondering quietly to yourself how far you’d go to do this. Would you end up like her too? Earn yourself a reputation for the lengths and sacrifices you were willing to achieve to get what you wanted, what you needed?

And most importantly, how would she react? You thought maybe she would be proud, but then later you started to wonder of she’d secretly feel disappointed, because she didn’t want you to be like her.

Either way, it was all irrelevant now. She was here and she was back. Once and for all.

You circled the coffee table to sit next to her on the couch, a little space between you, enough for you to see one of her fingers tangled in the thin gold chain of her brooch.

You hesitated.

Glanced at the clock in the kitchen.

It was almost ten at night, later than you’d thought. You both lost track of time.

“Thank you.” her voice startled you a little, and you turned abruptly.

“Uh- I—”

“For bringing me back.” she said, tilting her head a little, “Must’ve took some real magical effort, and I’m here without any missing pieces so I guess that means you did well.”

It was a clumsy was of saying she was proud of you, but you took it with grateful want in your heart. You allowed yourself to smile a little.

“You’re welcome, I guess. It was- well- I just-”

“Really wanted to earn my favour?” she smirked, “I’ve seen other witches go to great lengths, toots, but this—”

You laughed a little. “Shut up.” but you were already feeling lighter. You glanced briefly to the kitchen. To your backpack on the floor. Bit your lip.

“One second,” you said, quickly getting up and going into the kitchen, leaving her with a muttered “Okay, whatever…” still in the living room. You knelt down and unzipped your backpack before you lost the nerve for it, and took out the box and card. Holding both in a slightly shaky grip, you went back over to her, both items hidden behind your back. She gave you a very obvious and suspicious look.

“What?”

“I, uh. I have something for you.” you blurted.

She blinked. Looked you up and down once and set down her mug.

“Is it a decent cup of coffee? You’d think being dead earns you one, but apparently-”

“No. It’s- um. It’s-- for today.” you practically winced when she gave you a confused look, “I know you probably don’t, uh, but...just- here.”

And you shoved the card into her half-outstretched empty hand.

She paused. Stared at the card, stared at the text on it.

Happy Mother’s Day.

She didn’t say anything.

And suddenly you started to panic. Why did you even think this would be a good idea? Like, at all? Giving your mentor-- who is also Agatha Harkness-- this? And calling her like a-- a mother-- when you knew she had-

That she was once-

An apology was half-ready at the tip of your tongue when she opened the card. And started to read. You had half a mind to snatch the thing from her hand and bury yourself in the yard in the hole from her grave. This was so much worse that you thought-- what if she-- if you- if-

You saw her eyes skim over the words once, then again, more slowly. She read your scribbled text, and you fought to try and forget the exact wording you’d used. Something like thank you Agatha, for being the best and most awesome and chaotic and witchy mentor ever, and also sort of a mother-figure--

Or had you written for teaching me about more than just magic and how to hex someone--

You wanted to hide behind your hands. Brace for a hex sent your way. Something. Anything.

All you got was just-- silence.

You couldn’t tell if it was a good or bad kind of silence, but Agatha, for once in her three-hundred-and-fifty years of life and death and being a ghost and then life again, had nothing to say. No snarky comment. No teasing smirk. No mocking remark. Nothing.

And that perhaps scared you more than all those sleepless nights combined.

You swallowed.

“Um… Agatha?” you tried hesitantly, your own voice rather frail and tentative.

“Are you, uh-”

“You got this… for me?”

You nodded.

“Today?”

Another nod. “Yeah, cause it’s… I wanted to-- today, cause-” you fumbled, “I mean of course I would’ve gotten you back anyway I just thought- today- cause- it’s… yeah.”

She didn’t reply.

“I also got you a gift.” You blurted again, cursing yourself for it internally, because you weren’t even sure if you were just making this worse, whatever this was, but when you held the box out she took it.

You watched her deftly open the lid and pull the mug out.

Best Mom Ever, it said.

It was Easter sales. It was cheap. It had some silly spring themed design on it but there was a bunny that made you think of her, and you chose the one with the text in purple that just matched her robes.

“I was gonna go for ‘best mentor’, but they didn’t, uh, have those.” you said pitifully.

Agatha opened her mouth, still staring at the mug, then closed it again. She turned it over. Tilted her head at the little brown and white bunny painted on it. Turned it back over in her hand. And you were suddenly wishing you’d never done any of this.

It had been a bad idea. She was just back from being a ghost, back to being alive, and what if you made things weird now, what if she--

You blinked, fought the tears back down again.

But this time they wouldn’t listen to your will. Instead they gathered in your already glassy eyes and spilled softly once you blinked, silent as a feather. You turned to leave but she held up a hand, and you stopped. You didn’t have it in you to disobey her right now.

You opened your mouth. “It’s just…” your voice was shaky and soft, “You were gone for s-so long and I- I never got to tell you thank you- I just-”

You forced yourself to take an uneven breath.

“You don’t have to- to say anything about this, ever again, just- don’t throw it away please. I...”

Those weren’t the words you’d had in mind but it seemed your heart had chosen now to be openly vulnerable and pitiful and every bit as needy as she’d always jokingly described you. You bit your lip to stop yourself from spiraling further.

Agatha finally sighed softly. She shook her head a little. And huffed.

“As if I’d throw away something as pathetically sentimental as this. Pfft.”

You felt a tearful laugh bubble out of your throat.

You watched her turn the card over once more, eyes briefly skimming over the text.

“Guess I’ll have to find somewhere to hide this,” she said, a faint smirk back on her face, “or it’ll ruin my fearsome reputation. Can’t have everyone thinking I’ve gone soft now that I’m back, but…”

You looked up, so evidently hopeful.

“But?”

She smiled. “But... I suppose it’s not too bad that you think of me as a-- as—”

And you realized her stopping wasn’t to tease you, it was because she was flustered.

The Agatha Harkness, flustered over a Mother’s Day card. Your life was something special, with the things you got to see.

“Do you like them?” you asked, so shyly and hopefully that even she couldn’t hide a hint of fondness in her eyes that shone through.

She sighed like it pained her to say so, but gave a sort of half-nod, half-shrug.

“It’s my shade of purple.” she said, glancing back down at the mug. “Card’s a bit tacky, but I suppose your sappy writing inside adds to the overall value.”

She smiled. “You can stop holding your breath, toots. I find it embarrassingly endearing. Both the card and this.”

You felt as if the weight of the world was off your heart.

And then you couldn’t hold back any longer and hugged her.

She stumbled back a bit against the cushions at your half-tackle, both hands balancing (adorably) to keep the mug from knocking into anything as you hugged her. Then she somehow set it down onto the nearest sturdy surface, and carefully hugged you back with an exaggerated sigh.

“I suppose this is my punishment for being overly influencial in your life.” she exhaled woefully, patting your back.

You just smiled and hid your face into her shoulder, inhaling that familiar lavender-and-magic scent of her perfume, feeling the dampness of her still-wet hair against your cheek, the everlasting safety and comfort you felt every time you were wrapped in her arms. You buried your head deeper. Closed your eyes, feeling more tears falling freely.

“I really missed you.” you mumbled, “It was so quiet without you, and so lonely, and I’m sorry I wasn’t here- I just couldn’t-”

She sushed you gently, softly, warm hands never faltering in gliding over your hair.

“Don’t apologize.” she murmured. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

“But I should’ve been here—” you sniffled quietly, “To- to take care of Senor Scratchy a-and-”

“He’s a tough cookie.” she said, voice firm but still soft. “And so are you. You’re strong. More so than you believe.”

“I don’t feel strong.” you mumbled.

It was true. You didn’t. At all. All you wanted was to stay in her arms and cry and have her comforting you until your tears all stopped and your heart felt full, and then have her promise to never, ever, ever leave you again. You didn’t think you could take it. Couldn’t take the loss of her.

You felt her lips brush against the top of your head as she spoke her next words.

“You know, I don’t always feel strong either.” she said, quiet as the night.

You looked up. Frowned a little. Of course it was true, you supposed no one could always feel strong all the time, that was impossible, but hearing her say it was just…

“Of course you can’t tell anyone that, it’ll ruin the fun, but…” she sighed softly, blue eyes meeting yours, finally making you feel reassured. “I think you’ve gathered my mother wasn’t the best at… anything remotely relating to care. Sometimes I worry that I’m becoming just like her.”

You opened your mouth instantly to argue but she shushed you.

“But when you go ahead and do sweet things like this…” she gestured vaguely to the card and mug you’d given her, “it’s when I think that I must be doing something right. Even if I don’t say it often. I do care about you, hun. So much.”

“I love you too.” you mumbled, tucking your face back against her sweater. You felt her still against you, her breath stuttering in her chest for one brief moment.

“You do, do you?” she murmured back.

And too exhausted to care, you simply nodded against her, because it was the truth. You did love her. She was your scary, chaotic, witchy mentor and your only family, and you loved her in a way you never loved anyone else. Maybe because you never had anyone else like that, but maybe because there was no one else like her. She was so greatly, chaotically unique, and she’d chosen to teach you, to let you stay, to let you in. It made you feel so special that you didn’t even care if she’d say it back to you of not.

So when she said in a soft whisper, “I guess I love you too, then. You little menace.” you couldn’t think of a response that conveyed your happiness, and just closed your eyes.

You stayed like that for a while. You wrapped tightly in her arms on the couch, clinging to her because she was finally, really, actually back, and then listening to her list of threats of hexes that she would cast if you ever uttered a word to anyone of what she’d just said to you. But your smile never faltered. Your relief finally didn’t dim. And after reluctantly letting go of her so she could disappear into the kitchen while she ordered you both takeouts-- you really had to go to the store someone soon to get food-- you took her teasing when she came back in a few minutes later, reappearing with a fresh cup of coffee in her new mug that she was now claiming was cheap and too suburban and basic, but you didn’t miss the genuine smile she tried to hide every time her eyes went over the words.

And later, when you went to say goodnight and stayed for another hug because you had to make up for all the time she was gone, maybe you glimpsed that card somewhere in her room, high on a shelf enchanted to repel dust, or tucked away in a desk drawer that only held some of her most important, valuable trinkets and possessions. When you drifted off to sleep that day, Westview now quiet and soft against the backround, nothing but the sounds of magic thrumming in the air around the house and the occasional cricket in the Azalea bushes outside, you felt ready to start the rest of your life again, everything and everyone now safely back into place where you needed them most. Finally, after what seemed a dozen nights of tears and sleepless thoughts, poring over spellbooks and centuries-old tomes, you let yourself rest, and softly fell asleep.

🐇.•*¨`*•.¸ 🐇.•*¨`*•. 🐇¸.•*¨`*•. 🐇

A/n: ...phew. took me 2 weeks-ish to start writing this, and then i wrote most of it yesterday in ungodly hours of the night and went to bed. With college and everything i probably won't be able to post as much as I did before but i'll try to keep at it whenever a new idea strikes, and i always love reading yall's opinions or anything else, so if anyone sends in an ask pls know i'll get to it as soon as i have time (i always want to make sure i reply properly to y'all and not just write something hasty in the moment.) This was not proofread, I'm sorryyy. When she mutters 'okay whatever' i see it like in ep2 after Jen comes in and Agatha's like 'i don't care, do whatever she wants...' all grumpy and- anywayy. Title is from Soft Universe by AURORA. I try to match the song to the vibes of the fic and when I saw the lyrics for this one it was perfect. Hope you have a wonderful day and happy Easter holidays to everyone who celebrates!! 🐰🐇🐰🐣💐 side note: you all always write the best comments, i wanted to say thank you for always making me smile :-)

Broken.

One word whose meaning you learned far too sternly and engraved it in your mind, let it burn through all the layers of false-made comforts and hope. Broken promises. Broken pieces.

Broken.

You.

Your eyes were down on the shards of glass on the floor, scattered across the tiles like some glittering flower caught in the sun.

You were in the kitchen. It was a normal evening, your day had been one of the better ones. You got a spell you were learning finally right, and you started a new book. Everything was going well. Until you had lunch. And ate your food. And did the dishes. And your hands were still wet, everything clean and perfect and undisturbed and then your fingers had to slip. It was an empty glass. No water, nothing spilled.

But it broke.

All over the floor.

Tiny and big pieces. All scattered. Your fault.

And one second you were there, watching it fall, hearing it break, and the next you were away, back over there, back in that shop, with your old witch, standing over you as you accidentally knocked over a tiny box from beside the register. She was redecorating, having you help, everything was cluttered- you hadn’t noticed the thing tip over until it was already on the floor, a bunch of old, rusted nails and pins rolling away in every direction. She didn’t yell. She didn’t even speak, not until you bent down to scoop some back into the box with a spare piece of cardboard.

‘Leave that.’ she said, ‘You’ll use your hands.’

So you did. Every pin you picked up, careful not to prick yourself but she hurried you, so of course you did in the end. Several times. By the time she allowed you to scurry away into the back you went straight for the washroom, putting both your palms out under the cool water in the sink, relishing in it just for a moment before rinsing your hands out with soap.

It stung. Every pinprick on your skin, on your fingers, your palms, it hurt even more when you rubbed the soap on it, but those nails were rusty, old. The last thing you needed was to die of something so trivial, and you of all things, a magical being. You weren’t sure witches would be exempt from tetanus, so why would you be, a faulty familiar.

Barely a second passed while that pain flashed through your mind before you managed to open your eyes and focus back in on the mess in front of you, here in the present.

The kitchen floor was clean, no rust or dirt present, but glass would hurt more than metal pins. Glass was sharp. Jagged. Tiny. You felt your eyes beginning to water.

Agatha had told you once that her desk in the basement outlived kings and queens, that her quilt was eighteenth-century silk, her spellbooks ageing back to the 1500s, what if her kitchenware was just as old?

Did you just break something older than your whole family tree?

Even if the answer to that was no, you’d still broken it. You were the one responsible. Always making a mess, always doing things wrong, messing up- and then it was your old witch’s voice back in your ears- clumsy, irresponsible, incapable-

You felt your throat tightening.

Would Agatha yell at you?

She’d been polite so far, the teasing and exasperation yes, but nice, kind- except you hadn’t made her mad before. You never did anything to make her angry. Until now.

You swallowed.

Surely she would’ve heard you drop it- she’d ask why you’re not already cleaning it up- just standing there over a mess you made that simply wouldn’t clean itself—

You bent down on your knees to try and gather the pieces closest to you. One of them cut into the side of your palm- clumsy- incapable- just the same as before, you hadn’t changed at all. You picked up another one, then reached for one more.

Agatha’s voice called your name from the living room.

You froze.

Swallowed.

Listened.

Didn’t move a muscle.

“Please tell me you can handle whatever that was, I just sat down.” she sounded bored.

Silence.

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t. You tried but no words came out. You blinked back tears.

She called your name again, this time with a hint of impatience. You tried to force yourself to reply, to say something back but what would you say?

You knew what your old witch would have said.

Stupid.

Fumbling.

Useless.

There was a huff from the living room. A slam of a book being closed. You flinched at it, the sound startling you. And then you didn’t have time to do anything else as Agatha appeared in the doorway, looking routinely disgruntled.

“What on earth are you doing in here, you—”

Her eyes flicked over from you to the mess on the floor, then back onto you.

“You broke a glass.” she said flatly. “Great. I thought something terrible happened. Why didn’t you answer when I-”

Her gaze landed on you. On your face. The exasperated annoyance from her expression faded in an instant, features slipping into an almost confused concern.

“Pet?” she asked slowly, stepping towards you, “What’s wrong? Hey—”

She froze when you scooted backwards at her movement.

After a short pause she tilted her head.

“Are you hurt?” she asked, voice low and careful. If you didn’t know better you’d say she was worried.

Tearfully you shook your head. Everything you wanted to say wasn’t coming out of you, the apology, the pleading, the anxious build-up of words please I’m sorry, please don’t be mad at me, please don’t send me away for this I’ll never do it again-

You couldn’t lose this. Not now. Not yet. This was your life- the one you’d always dreamed of with a witch who treated you nicely, you couldn’t lose that now, and you’d cling to it with everything you had, onto her.

Your hand as if listening to your thoughts raised faintly, reaching almost towards her before you forced it down with a tearful blink, bowing your head.

You couldn’t meet her eyes.

You’d disappointed her. Let her down. What was she going to think of you now? You were supposed to be her familiar, there to help your witch, not break her things and make a mess. You tried to focus on something else, on anything but the woman in front of you, studying you as you couldn’t meet her gaze. You looked outside. The leaves on the trees had turned brown, shades of orange and yellow and red, falling slowly like you sometimes imagined yourself to fall too.

“I’m sorry.” you blurted before she could say more, and you meant every trembling word that left your mouth. “I didn’t mean to- I was just- and it fell and I- I’m so sorry please don’t be mad, please don’t make—”

“Make?” she said, too sharply for your liking. For a moment you’d thought maybe she wasn’t going to mind, maybe you were right in thinking she looked like she might stay calm and not yell, but her words were quick, almost harsh.

“You think I’m going to make you-- what? You think I'll-”

You sniffled, feeling lost. What were you to say? All you had in your mind was sorry sorry I’m sorry please don’t—

“-hurt you?”

It was a low murmur, no indignation, to heat. Just a strange sense of defeat you felt inside you too, and maybe it was your feelings, maybe your being her familiar, that bond you still had no basic knowledge about, too afraid to ask. You looked up then, quiet with your hands still trembling, fingers fumbling and overlapping, awaiting an execution.

Agatha kneeled down in front of you, close, studying your face with a careful softness before glancing down at your trembling fingers. Her hands found your own, prying then open gently as she tilted your hand, making the few pieces you’d gathered fall gently back onto the floor. She didn't mention the cut on your hand, ignored it completely.

“It’s just a glass, hun.” she said softly, the light hold on your hands never faltering. “It won’t get you in trouble.”

You sniffled. She seemed sincere. She sounded sincere. Then again you thought that before, and then found out her plans for you. Plans she gave up on, changed her mind. Your heart ached to trust her again. Only you were scared that if you did, if you tried, and failed, again, had worse judgement, you wouldn’t be able to do it a third time. Or a fourth. Or any number after that. She seemed to notice your deliberation and tilted her head lower to meet your teary eyes.

“I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you. My promises mean something, pet.”

You met her eyes. “I thought-” your voice caught slightly, cracking a little, “if it was important-”

“You are more important to me than any silly thing I have in this house. That I have anywhere.” her tone was firm. “I know my methods might be…” she thought for a moment, “unorthodox, different from other witches, but what did you expect? And for all the gods do not say it’s something to do with your old witch—”

You winced. Apologetic.

Agatha looked ready to hit something. After a very long moment of a look that said ‘are you serious?’ she steeled herself and took a deep breath though her nose.

“I am going to kill that woman just to bring her back and hex her for all eternity- what did she do to you, huh? She punish you? Yell? What?”

You blinked, feeling slightly hesitant. “I-- she just- wasn’t very nice.” Your words were barely convincing for yourself. And you knew the truth.

“Oh really?” Agatha murmured, “Good thing you told me, I really couldn’t tell.” Every word dripped with sarcasm. “I was starting to think she’d given you sunshine and rainbows, hun, tell me something I don’t know. Out of all the familiars in the world and I get the one who's-”

You swallowed, still sniffling. Agatha raised an eyebrow, but her features softened back into that earlier concern.

“Alright.” she said, huffing softly, “Come on, I’m not mad at you, you’re okay. Come here.” she tugged you closer and you went willingly, pressed yourself against her, head hidden in her shoulder. It was awkward, the floor firm and flat against your knees and her- soft, steady, warm, her arms around you like a shield from the outside world and its biting words. You took a slow and shaky breath.

“I didn’t mean to.” you mumbled, those words from earlier now slowly unclogging your throat. “I really didn’t.”

Agatha sighed softly. “I know, hun. It’s alright. No harm done.”

“But the glass-”

She chuckled, though it was more an exasperated sigh than a laugh. “The glass. Yes, the glass. You wanna see what I think about the glass?”

She got up, you quietly standing with her, still pressed into her side, and watched in utter shock and amazement as she stepped towards the counter and pushed another crystal glass over the edge.

It crashed to the floor with a loud noise, and you startled despite seeing it happen.

You stared at it. At the floor. Then back at her.

She was fixing her hair with her now free hand, the other still loosely around you, and smirked at your flabbergasted expression.

“That’s what I think, hun. I tend to have loud opinions."

You were robbed of words to answer, so instead you nodded.

Yes. That had been very loud indeed. Unorthodox, as she’d said.

“And before you go all oh, but the mess—” she did an uncomfortably solid impression of your worried voice, “Darling we’re witches. We don’t worry about rules when we have magic.”

“I’m not a witch.” you murmured, shameful with the way your voice gave away the obvious longing in your tone.

But Agatha paid it no mind.

“No, honey.” she said, low. “Of course you’re not a witch. You’re just my darling familiar.” she pulled you closer to her side, warm and tight. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t use magic to clean something up. Watch.”

She raised one hand, effortless as ever, and with a slow twirl of her wrist the dozens of fragments of glass rose from the floor and reassembled back into one solid piece on the counter.

“There.” she said, unimpressed. “Good as new, I’d say. Though maybe wash it first before putting it away.”

You stared at the glass, unbroken and perfect, not a splinter out of place. No cracks. No traces of magic of any kind. Just as with all the previous times you’d had the privilege of seeing her magic up-close, you were in awe.

She smiled at your silence.

“Impressive, I know. I’m amazing. Now your turn.”

That made your head snap up at her.

“What?”

She nodded with her chin to the remainder of the shattered glass. “I break one, you break one. I fix mine, you fix yours. Fair’s fair.”

“But I- I don’t know how-”

She shushed you, quickly. “Oh, I know. I’ll show you. Look.”

She raised one of your hands, covering it with her own.

“Think of this as an extracurricular. A little lesson on the go. Practical. Now focus.”

You focused.

Nothing happened.

You felt your quiet hope slowly twisting into dread. Agatha, as if sensing it, simply smiled.

“I usually break something on my first try at a new spell. This is far more peaceful.”

Her hand tilted just slightly, making your own tilt in turn. You felt her head pressing close to your ear, gaze focused on the mess on the floor.

“Picture it inside your head. See it coming back together. And use that pretty head of yours to make it work.”

She twisted your hand the same way she twirled her wrist, and the pieces flew together so quick that the both of you took a step backwards. She paused, lips pursed, studying the now reassembled second glass on the counter.

“Hmm.” she hummed. “That was… a little overexcited but good. Good job.”

You looked up, eyes big.

Good job? She thought-- she said that you did good?

“Yes, hun. I meant you. You did well.” she paused. “For a beginner. But more than good enough.” And she ruffled your hair.

The relief that swept through you, for the praise, the fact that your spell worked, that you weren’t in trouble and she wasn’t going to yell or be mad or say you’re in trouble- it was all too much, all at once. You turned away from admiring your job well done and buried your face back against her. She stumbled slightly, not expecting it, but slowly, carefully, hugged you back.

“There there,” she said, patting your back lightly, “no need to cry. It’s alright.” she murmured softer. “My perfect familiar.”

You closed your eyes firmly. This was heaven. So much safety and security overwhelming you that you didn’t know what else to do but cling to her and not move. She set her chin on your head, with a faint hum.

“What am I supposed to do with you, hm?”

You had no control over the words that slipped free from you next. You were too warm, too content.

“Whatever you want.”

Agatha stilled slightly. You almost started to worry when she spoke up, quiet. “You’re very trusting. That’s gonna get you killed one day. But not if I have anything to do with it. And I do.” she sighed into your hair, fingers coming up to slowly card through it. “My scared little munckin. We’re gonna have to work through some stuff with you, hm? I can’t have you thinking I would ever hurt my own familiar.” her voice was so soft, that usual Agatha bite in it as always but it made you feel safe. You tried to press your head closer but she gently pulled away, taking your face in her hands, steady fingers caressing over your cheeks. She tilted your head up to look at you.

“My little sweetheart.” she said softly. “How do I make you see you’re safe here?”

“I don’t know.” you mumbled, voice small. She studied you for a moment, blue eyes sweeping over every part of your face, assessing. You ducked your head back against her, and she sighed, soft, almost tired, before cradling the back of your head with one steady hand, fingers gently moving along your scalp.

“My poor darling…” she said into your hair, “you really do love these hugs, huh?”

A nod.

She held you a little tighter, closer to her. “What else?”

You stayed silent, unsure. No one had asked you these questions. No one ever took the time to ask what you liked, what you wanted, what you wished for.

“When… when you let me stay close.” it was more than a whisper, but of course she heard you.

“Ah,” she smiled, a small smirk, “so my little darling is clingy, too? You like being close to me, hun?”

Another nod.

She chuckled, softly. “It’s understandable, you know.” Her tone was low. “A familiar and their witch, they don’t say it like that for nothing. We fit together like a magic puzzle, don’t you think?”

The corners of your lips twitched upwards slightly, though you didn’t dare move your head away from her.

A puzzle, she said. But what did your puzzle make a picture of? A home? A future? Safety? Or maybe something in between the three. You weren’t quite sure. Not yet. But that was fine.

“You mean,” you murmured uncertainly, “because I’m- because we’re-”

She smiled again, tiling her head a little. You felt her gaze sweep over you. “Yes, that too. I never thought I’d actually do this one day, you know. But here I am, in my own kitchen, bound to this precious little thing who’s terrified of me.”

“I’m not scared of you.” you murmured, frowning slightly but she tilted your head up, eyes meeting yours.

“You say that, hun, but I can feel your heart. Your thoughts.” your eyes must’ve widened in obvious alarm because she quickly shook her head, expression softening to reassurance, “Not like that, pet. I’m not inside your head, no. But I can still feel it.” she took your hands in hers, turning them over for a moment, and you realized she was right- yours were still trembling.

You swallowed, quietly.

“Then why can’t I feel your thoughts?” you looked up at her, trying to ignore the tingling in your hands, the warmth on your skin. “I can’t-- I mean I think I can’t-”

“No,” she said, faintly, “you can’t. But only because I’m not letting you.”

You frowned a little, not offended but curious. “Not- letting me?”

Her lips pressed together for a moment, as if she were pondering how much to reveal. Finally, with a sigh, she said,

“A bond between a witch and her familiar is a delicate thing, pet. It goes both ways, yes, only I’ve… closed some parts off.”

You tilted your head. That made sense, if only a little. You could still feel her, close, but what she said? Her heart, her mind? None of those you could make out.

“Why?” it came out quiet, almost dejected. If she was sorry, it didn’t show on her face.

“There are spells, hun. Spells to keep people out of your head, witches and others alike. And nobody gets to go in here.” she tapped her skull with two fingers, her eyes still set on your face.

“So then how did I- before, I mean—”

“How did you get inside my head and snoop around, you mean?” she smirked now, “Easy, because I let you.”

“Are you...gonna let me again? In- the um, in the future?” you tried to keep the hope out of your voice, you understood her, maybe better than anyone, what it’s like having someone strip you of your privacy, take away your will. And yet, you were still curious. You wouldn’t miss an opportunity to see more, if she allowed you to.

“Perhaps.” she said, vaguely. “But not now.” And her tone was final.

She took notice of your slightly bowed head and nudged your chin up a little, looking at you carefully. “Don’t pout, darling. You’ll have plenty of time to see what secrets I have in here.” Her hand swiped over your cheek, lightly. “Now why don’t you tell me a bit more about that previous witch of yours, hmm?”

You fell silent again. You weren’t very keen on talking about it, on thinking about her, reminding yourself what you tried so hard to forget. Agatha tilted her head, inclining towards you.

“You don’t wanna tell me?”

You tried to shake your head, to tell her no, I do, I just don’t know how- don’t know where to begin- but all you managed was to look down instead. She sighed. “Alright. You don’t have to. But if you ever change your mind you come find me, okay? I don’t care what time.”

You were listening, but your mind was elsewhere, gaze drifting faintly to the empty spot on the floor where all the glass had been. Agatha followed your gaze, looked down.

“Still thinking about that?” she hummed.

Most days you still thought about how different your life was now to the one you’d always imagined you would get. But what did you think? That you would end up with some cruel, uncaring witch, someone who would offer affection as a treat for things done well, things you struggled to do without messing them up? You could see it still, see yourself sitting on some carpeted floor, quiet with your eyes on the fireplace in front of you, some other witch’s hand curling in your hair. Her hands would be soft, but harsh, her touch not forgiving. You imagined yourself leaning into it, closing your eyes then just as you closed your eyes now, imagining a better place, a better life, some tiny, warm-toned escape.

A touch on the edge of your temple nudged you into looking up. Agatha was looking at you with a mix of curiosity and well-hidden concern, and you couldn’t help but dwell on how much her touch had differed from the one you always dreaded would come. She was always gentle with you, careful, like handling some precious old artifact brimming with ancient magic. She never once pulled your hair, never tugged. Deep down you knew it wasn’t a thing to thank her for, you knew the supposed bases of common decency and respect, but that made no difference to you now. It only made that urge to thank her more pronounced. You tried to swallow it down, softly.

“Come over here, sweetheart.” she murmured finally, gently pulling you along with her. After reaching the counter she let go of your arm, opening the fridge and pulling out milk, a carton of eggs. She opened a cabinet and pulled out a bowl. Sugar. Cocoa powder. You stared at her, suddenly not following.

“What- what are you…”

She turned briefly, gave you a look. “Over three centuries of life and you think I don’t know how to bake? Honestly, that’s a bit offensive.”

You blinked. Was she serious?

After comforting you and talking about all of that, and now she was- baking?

When you looked back up she was mixing ingredients in the bowl, whisking them into a paste. You didn’t move. When was the last time you watched someone making food like this, let alone something sweet? You knew the recepie pictures in magazines, seen the little steps listed with the numbers. But you’d never really done any of that, not yourself or with someone else.

In front of you, Agatha seemed perfectly content with your silence, not even sparing you a glance. You watched her melt a block of butter in the microwave, pour it into the bowl. She circled you, weaving around you to get something from the upper drawers, walked past you and mixed the batter once more.

Tentatively, you took a step forward. Edged closer, watched what she was doing. She’d turned the oven on, you realized, the little light above one of the knobs was glowing orange. When she pulled out and opened a pack of cups with fluted sides, little zig-zag paper crinkling as she set each one on a tray. She caught your eye in the microwave reflection, winked-- it made you grin shyly-- and finally turned, beckoning you over.

Slowly, a little uncertainly you edged closer, stopping beside her at the kitchen counter. She handed you a ladle. You stared at her.

“Well go on.” she smiled. “Scoop.”

You frowned. “Scoop?”

“Yes, into the paper cups. Scoop.”

You did as she said, pouring batter into each little cup until all of them were full. Halfway through she stepped behind you, and with a fond huff, gathered your hair carefully behind, tying it with a hairtie you could’ve sworn she pulled out of thin air and purple sparks.

“Agatha?” you murmured, watching her tug open a small packet of cake décor beads.

“Hm?”

“Why are we making muffins?”

She smiled, not looking at you. “Why not, pet?”

“I just thought-” you swallowed. “I thought we’d talk. About- that you wanted to know why-”

“I do, darling. But I’m not here to pull facts out of your head with magic. It’s a talent, I know,” she flicked her hair back over one shoulder, “but I’m saving that for nosy witches, not you.”

You studied her expression, trying to read what she was thinking. You couldn’t quite tell.

“If you want to tell me something, you can.” she said, softer now, “You wanna talk or cry about how horrible that old hag was to you, I’ll listen.” her eyes met yours, comforting. You felt your throat tighten a little, emotions mingling with the air in your lungs, the smell of cupcake batter and cocoa powder that wafted with your each inhale as she went on.

“But those are up to you. So until you do all that, I’m here to hug you and make sure I spoil my sweet familiar with as much sweet things as she deserves. Starting with these.”

She slid one finger over the now empty bowl, over the edges, and flicked some batter onto your nose.

You froze.

Stared. Paused.

Broken was a concept you were so utterly familiar with, but looking over at those perfectly solid, perfectly intact glasses on the counter, the ones she’d fixed with her magic, you thought perhaps there was more to it than you previously thought. There was still more to learn. Broken didn’t only mean in pieces. It meant someone was there to find those pieces, to glue them back together, put them back into whatever they were before they fell, or maybe something else entirely.

And Agatha and her magic? You weren’t sure if she had been the one to do that herself, to fix you, piece you back together, or if she was simply the one who was slowly teaching you the spells herself. Making sure you could be the one to decide what shape or form you’d turn the pieces into after.

And maybe, you realized, it didn’t matter either way.

Not right now, at least.

Raising a finger to your nose, you wiped the batter off, and then scooped some leftover yourself and flicked it at her.

For a second you hesitated, that knowing fear of crossing the line, but then her features sharpened, not in anger but a mischievous grin. She tried to get you back and you ducked. She smirked, flicked her wrist, summed some purple.

And it was on.

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