#witch!sakura

“I am as I am every time you see fit to bless the shop with your presence,” Sasori intones dryly. She is the most annoying little witch prancing about town. From her mycena rosea toned hair to her verdant eyes. They glow when she uses her magic, nearly the same bioluminescence hue of the hadrurus arizonensis that fill the tank behind him when exposed to uv light.

“Well, the continuity is most certainly appreciated,” Sakura laughs lightly, making her way over to the counter. He wonders if she glamors herself to be so vexingly pretty, as lovely as the haunted porcelain dolls locked away in the warded display cases, or if it comes naturally so. From her charming coloring to the teasing banter she treats him with, she is the most tempting of specimens.

Sasori has checked, on more than one occasion, if she has placed him under some sort of love spell. A phenomenon-like pull to draw him into her web, an amorous curse of erotic attraction. She unfortunately has not; he rechecks often nonetheless. The quixotic feelings of lust and yearning all his own. An infelicitous lasciviousness he pushes down at the thought of her in most any capacity.

“It’s near sundown, shouldn’t you be hunkered down next to your hearth by now? Tending to your fire?” He mocks lightly. Her home warm and inviting, cozy even. Full of mismatched furniture and all her instruments of practice, he’s been by a few times on errands forced upon him by his grandmother. “All Hallows Eve is soon upon us, you know.”

Mere hours away from the setting sun crosses the barrier of the horizon, stealing the light from the sky. The turning of the bountiful harvest into the cold bleakness of winter. Sakura’s light, green work magic will dampen as the death and decay of Sasori’s dark magic strengthen.

“I came for some last-minute supplies,” she offers, tapping her nails on the countertop. Sasori narrows his eyes at the offending chipped opalescent enamel-coated keratin. Fingers adorned with an assortment of metal rings that catch the light as she moves.

“A candle for your jack-o-lantern,” he drawls. Protections from any sinister spirits that may be lurking about, all too eager to get their hands on a source of magic to feast on. “Or perhaps some cinnamon and clove for your simmer pot.”

Sakura often comes by the shop to purchase ingredients for her medicines. Dried flowers and leaves. Processed powders and tinctures. The occasional handful of mildly toxic hallucinogenic berries or psychoactive mushrooms that find their way into his inventory.

“Very funny,” she tells him, with a perfect pout. “I was thinking more along the lines of belladonna or mandrake.”

“Oh, really?” Sasori queries as uninterestedly as he can manage. “Seems a little dark for your type.”

It is true. Sakura’s a garden witch—a good one, both in skill and morality; village folk often seek her out for her restorative potions and medicinal balms to help treat their illnesses and ailments. She dabbles in divination and crystals. Star-reading and matchmaking. Midwifery. Hardly the type to need ingredients for darker, occult leaning intentions.

“Dare’s bane, hemlock, foxglove.” She continues, counting off items on her fingers. Sasori keeps his expression neutral as she prattles on. “Wing of bat. Eye of newt.”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” he informs her. “No one calls that these days. Ilex aquifolium leaves and seeds from sinapis alba.”

“I mean,” Sakura interjects in his scientific classification lesson, “most people would call it holly and mustard seed. Who’s out here memorizing taxonomies for common potions ingredients?”

Sasori doesn’t point out that he does, and also Sakura, despite her teasing of him. She’s in here often enough with both her own orders and pick-ups that she packs in a little wicker basket to deliver to his grandmother. (The Old Hag never forgets to remark on Sakura’s lack of a husband every single time Sasori endures her presence.)

“What are you really here for?” He’s itching to know what she aspires to do on this nocturnal holiday.

“Oh, you’re so impatient.” She tells him. Sasori’s often torn in her presence, unable to decide if he never wants to leave her side or never wants to see her again. “I need some sugar cubes.”

Sakura has a running tab in his bookkeeping ledger, as she does not charge people for her services, taking payment in whatever form it is given. From wild honey to handmade gifts. Tokens or trinkets. Fresh meat and jars of jam or jelly. Favors, secrets, and the like. Trading in her earnings to pay down her balance when she acquires a novelty that Sasori would find of value.

“Sugar?” He can’t keep the shock out of his voice. What kind of silly little witch ventures out on All Hallows Eve to buy sugar instead of preparing her home against wicked specters and all other manner of malevolent supernatural creatures?

And almost like a test of his patience, something he has little of, waiting for her selection is always worth it. Sakura smiles, like the little flirtatious minx she is, pulling out a flask-sized crystal bottle from the depths of her enchanted apron pocket.

The liquid inside near fluorescent green, shimmering and swirling in its container, clearly magical in its properties. Absinthe, likely made by Sakura herself.

“You plan to divine tonight?” Quirking a brow, how licentious of her. He swallows the urge to offer to join her. To get a glimpse of her usual sweetness in a more debauched state on such a sacred night to his practice.

She swirls the bottle, causing the contents to swirl and flow around. Enchanting, entrancing, enticing. Passing it over the counter to him. “Not quite.”

Sasori pulls the stopper off the top, wafting the fumes towards his nose. Wormwood, fennel, and anise as expected. An overlay of mint, lemon balm, and basil.

“A love potion?” Nothing less than scandalous. Salacious.

She hums, fidgeting with the small crystal display on the counter. “A short-term lust potion, one that intensifies sensations between a couple. I thought perhaps we could enjoy it together if you were not otherwise engaged for the night.”

Oh.

Oh.

She snapped her fingers. Sparks flew from them, like flint striking steel. A small orb of fire appeared between her thumb and middle finger. She tossed it up into the air. It hovered at shoulder-height, illuminating the brush a little better. Casting an orange glow over her own face too. 

A boy stood half-hidden behind a tree. He was far too thin. Shirt drooping off his shoulder. But it was the eyes that caught her attention. A brown that bordered on red. Unsettling and normal all at once. 

He didn’t move toward her. He didn’t flee either. She saw his cheeks were dry, devoid of the tears that normally accompanied children lost in the forest. 

The fire also revealed a plant heavy with fruits that sat between them. The leaves sagged under the weight of the berries. They were black, shining like patches of ice in the darkest winter night. The boy’s eyes darted to the plant. Hunger made his eyes gleam brighter than the fruits.

“Don’t eat those if you don’t want to die,” she warned, turning away from him. She grasped the edges of her hood.

“…What if I want to?” he asked. Voice scratching like stone crumbling apart.

Her hands paused. 

She looked over her shoulder at him. Studied his gaunt, dirty face. The dark shadows under his eyes. He was far too thin for a child. She had seen many like him before. She also knew why he didn’t beg and cry. 

He understood that he had been abandoned.

“Do whatever you want. But make sure you eat a lot if you don’t want to suffer,” she retorted. Pulling the hood over her hair, she strode down the path she had memorized many years ago. 

It was quiet for a long time. A solitary owl hooted as she moved past its tree. Leaves rustled as the wind tickled them. And then, she heard a set of footsteps that didn’t match up with her own. They rustled through the leaves as the little boy followed her home. Crunching in staccato as he stumbled over the roots and vines that littered the forest floor.

The winding trail through the woods led to an oddly-shaped place. It had started off as an old, square cottage. But as the years went on, she had added on to it. An extra room off the kitchen. And then a second floor. To the left was a greenhouse made from red wood and squares of glass.  The glass trapped the heat inside during the winter months and kept pests out. 

As she approached, the lanterns lining the path suddenly lit themselves. The windows of the house filled with gold light too. She stepped down the stone path, ignoring the double doors out front. Instead, she followed the mossy stones, around the side of the house. To the back door. A big crow sat on the lantern mounted beside the door. When Sakura approached, it let out a single “caw”.

Sakura opened the back door. The smell of something sweet wafted out to greet her. The jars of apple jelly she had left on the counter were still warm when she ran her hand along them. 

The boy hovered in the doorway of the kitchen. Neither in nor out. He watched as she stepped out of her shoes and undid the tie on the front of her cloak. She tossed it over the back of a chair. The cloak draped itself so that it wouldn’t wrinkle. The broom leaning in the corner sprang to life when she gestured toward it. It swept up the little bits of leaves and dirt that had followed her shoes into the house. The boy stepped aside as the broom approached to push the dirt outside. 

“Have you eaten?” Sakura inquired.

The boy stared at her. 

Sighing, Sakura twisted her right hand through the air. The fire in the hearth roared a little brighter. There was a black cauldron hanging in the fireplace. Whatever was inside began to bubble. Soon, the kitchen was filled with a savory smell. Herbs mingling together in a delicious harmony. 

As the soup heated, Sakura opened up the breadbox. Inside was part of the loaf of sourdough she had baked yesterday. She sliced off a generous hunk and set it on a clean plate. As she worked, she glanced up at the boy. 

“Shut the door. You’ll let the heat out,” she instructed. 

He stared at her. She stared right back. Until he moved to close the door. The lock turned before he could touch it. 

“Sit.”

A chair jerked out from the table, swiveling towards him. He stepped across the floor, barefoot. The broom followed after him. The sweeps almost sounded like scolding as he it gathered up the dust he had dragged in. 

Once the soup was warm, Sakura pulled a bowl from the cabinet. A ladle rose from one of the hooks by the sink. It dipped into the cauldron, pulling up a generous serving of a deep brown soup. Translucent slices of onion and bits of herbs bobbed on the surface. The ladle deposited the soup in the bowl before it threw itself in the sink. 

Sakura made a pushing gesture with both hands. Both the soup and the bread floated across the room. They landed very gently on the table in front of him. 

He began devouring his food without hesitation. He didn’t even notice when she slipped out of the kitchen.

“Boy,” she said, appearing again. His head jerked up. Mouth stuffed full of bread and soup. 

“When you finish eating, just go to sleep. Don’t touch anything. Find somewhere else to stay in the morning,” she told him. Throwing the blanket at his feet, she turned and walked out of the room. She climbed the stairs up to her room. Listening to the spoon clink furiously against the side of the bowl. The lock of her bedroom door snapped shut behind her. 

In the morning, he was gone. The pantry doors were ajar, as were the drawers of her cabinets. Several pieces of her cutlery were gone. Two jars of her apple jelly were missing too.

Sakura stood in her kitchen, hands on her hips as she surveyed the damage. 

“Oh well,” she sighed. She gave a wave of her hand. The broom in the corner stood upright and began sweeping across the floor.

She raised her arms. A clean apron whisked off the hook by the door. It lowered itself over her head, strings tying a neat bow behind her back.

“It could be worse,” she added as she picked up the dirty bowl and plate from last night to place them in the sink.

Later that morning, Sakura pulled her cloak over her dress. Basket hung over her forearm, she headed out of her house. The lock snapped shut behind her as she descended the stone steps. 

The market was bustling already. Merchants pushed their carts past, chickens clucking in their cages. The women cupped their hands around their mouths, shouting about the prices of their cabbage and whatnot. 

The people in the street tried not to make eye contact with her. But they didn’t exactly ignore her either. There were a few nervous nods here and there. 

Magic was one of those strange things that was both illegal and extremely common. A new mother with a colicky baby often sought soothing potions. The priest turned to her when he came across congregants who suffered from nightmares. Men who toiled in the fields stopped by for salves for their blistered hands and feet. Almost everyone in town had asked her for something. 

It had become an unspoken agreement that she was both an abomination and necessary. Which was why no one had tried to chase her out with torches and pitchforks yet.

Sakura bought a few things in the market. On her way to the apothecary, she thought she saw someone following her. She turned, red cloak swishing with the movement. There was nothing behind her.

The apothecary was a dusty place. There were probably things on the shelves that the owner himself had forgotten about. He sat on a stool behind the counter, barely paying attention as she measured out sacks of dried ingredients. She paused as she opened the jar containing orange and red flowers. The brittle petals were shaped almost like fingers. The flowers were in good condition so she added a little extra to her bag. 

As she set her bags on the counter, the old man got to his feet. He winced, hobbling over to weigh each of her sacks. 

“Your joints?” asked Sakura. The man grunted. Sakura said nothing as she looked him over. She paid him. And as he handed over the change, Sakura decided what to say.

“Send your grandson sometime next week. I’ll have a salve ready for you,” Sakura promised him. His white mustache twitched.

“Money’s a bit tight right now,” he muttered. 

“I’ll be troubled if you close the store. Give me a discount on this witch hazel and I’ll consider us even,” Sakura declared. She lifted the jar and shook it a little. Enough for the dried flowers to rattle around inside. He squinted at her, stroking his mustache. She knew she’d won when his shoulders drooped.

“Thank you,” the old man relented.

He threw in a bundle of dried sage with her other goods. Sakura pretended not to notice it. She would only embarrass him by thanking him. 

Sakura walked out of the apothecary, pulling her hood over her head. She paused when she heard something like a whimper. When she hesitated at the door, the man hobbled over to peer out into the street. Sakura heard the noise again. She leaned around the corner of the building and spotted a figure slumped in the alley. 

“These damn vagrants,” the old man grumbled. But Sakura held her arm out to stop him. She lowered her hood before she took a few steps toward the figure. As she drew closer, she saw that her suspicions had been correct. It was the skinny little boy. He had stolen one of her red cloaks and draped it over his tattered clothes.

Sakura crouched in front of the boy. 

“I told you not to touch anything,” 

The boy’s breathing was ragged. His face and chest were flushed under all the dirt. 

“You know this brat?”

“Mmhm. You know, that apple jelly was supposed to be medicine for the lady who runs the orphanage. Those children are so picky. The apple masks the taste of the herbs. But it makes you sick unless you’re sick already,” Sakura told the boy. She rested her cheek in her palm. 

Sakura let out a long sigh as she got to her feet. She dusted off the bottom of her cloak. 

“Well, it’s no concern of mine. I did warn him,” she added. 

The boy’s eyes fluttered shut. Another whine left his lips. Everything ached and it was so hot and cold at the same time. The inside of his stomach burned like something was trying to claw its way out. Something rattled nearby. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone. 

His eyes opened. 

“This time, listen when I tell you not to touch anything,” Sakura ordered, leaning over him. She gathered him into her arms, pulling the cloak tighter around him. She set him on the back of the cart, on top of some clean straw. And then she climbed into the front seat. 

“Thank you, Minato,” said Sakura. 

The farmer flashed a smile. When he whistled, his old work horse lurched forward. “Not a problem, Miss. My boy’s teething fever was driving us all insane. Can’t thank you enough for your help,” he replied. 

“And your wife?” asked Sakura. 

“Couldn’t be better,” came his cheerful reply.

They made idle talk as the cart rumbled out of the town, out toward the forest. The wooden wheels bumped along the dirt path. Sakura glanced back every once in a while to check on the boy. When she touched his cheek, it was alarmingly hot. 

“The boy?” Minato queried, also looking over his shoulder. 

“A stray. He followed me home and caused some trouble. It doesn’t feel right to let him die on the street,” she replied. 

Minato took them to the gate that separated her home from the forest. He jolted when the lanterns lining the path lit up all at once. She got off the wagon and he twisted around to watch her.

“Do you need help?” he asked. 

She had no trouble lifting the boy in her arms. He weighed much less than he should have.

The kitchen came to life when she stepped inside. Cups and plates swirling around. Pie dough flying from the ice box to roll itself out on the counter. She crossed the kitchen, moving to the pantry. The door swung open. The broom nudged its way ahead of her, sweeping out any cobwebs and stray bits of dust before she stepped inside. 

The boy started when something cold touched his face. He slapped the hand away. Only, there was no hand. Just a wet cloth hovering above him. He bolted upright, scrambling away from the levitating piece of fabric. He winced when his head knocked against the wall. 

“Oh, you’re awake.”

He swiveled his head. The woman stood in the doorway. A book hovered beside her. She cast him a bored look over her shoulder before she turned back to the book. She flicked her wrist and the wet cloth smacked against his forehead, resting there. She carried a long pipe in the other hand. Smoke rose from the tip of it, earthy and a little sharp.

“Your fever’s gone down, but not enough. Drink some of this and go back to sleep,” she ordered. She waved her pipe. A cup zoomed into the room. It jolted to a stop just in front of him. She wiggled her fingers. A transparent, slightly green liquid poured into the cup from thin air. Steam rose from the surface of the drink. 

“Don’t touch anything, boy,” she warned before she turned and stepped out of the room.

He waited a while, listening to her footsteps creak away. Slowly, he reached over. Turned the doorknob. The door swung open, but the broom stood waiting there. It gave a few angry sweeps towards him. He yanked the door shut. 

The door creaked open in the morning. He scooted back into the corner, wrapping the red cloak around his body. Light seeped into the little closet.

“Oh, good. You survived the night,” came the woman’s flat voice. And then another cup of bitter tea flew towards him.

“Drink this,” she ordered. He could hear her walking around just outside the door. Something made clinking noises. As he inhaled, he recognized the fragrance of meat cooking. Juicy, red meat. Not just the watery soup with onions she had offered him the night before. 

“I’m hungry,” he croaked. 

“Drink your medicine first,” she answered. He could hear her tapping her spoon against the edge of a pot. 

“I don’t want to,” he responded.

There was a pause. Her head appeared through the doorway. Her pipe dangled between her fingers. “Then you can leave,” she told him. Her head disappeared, but the cup continued to float in front of him. He stared at it for a long time before he grasped the porcelain handle. He gulped the bitter liquid down. 

As soon as the cup was empty, it flew from his grasp. A bowl materialized in its place, filled to the brim with stew. Tender chunks of beef and bright green carrot tops filled the bowl. He hesitated. A spoon appeared in his hand. He gobbled his meal down without another word. 

He crawled back into the narrow bed, curling up on his side. He fell asleep with his stomach almost uncomfortably full. 

He woke again in the dead of night. Wrapping the cloak around his shoulders, he eased off the narrow cot. The old floorboards creaked under his traitorous feet. Wincing, he stood still. Listening for something outside. The quiet outside was unsettling. Leaning against the handle, he eased the door open.

The kitchen wasn’t empty like he’d hoped. The woman sat in a chair by the hearth. Her back was to him, but her head turned in his direction when he took a few shaky steps out of the pantry. Glass vials hovered above the sink. There was deep red liquid inside. As he drew closer, he could see that the vials were rotating bit by bit. 

Blue smoke trickled from the end of her pipe. 

“Go back to sleep, boy. Find somewhere else to stay in the morning,” she said without looking at him. 

He looked down at his feet. “I…I don’t feel better yet. I think I’m still sick,” he lied.

When he lifted his chin, she was looking over her shoulder at him. Her eyes gleamed in the darkness, the color of robin eggs. He flinched a little as her eyes narrowed.

“Hm… I see,” she responded. And then she turned back toward the fire. “Then I suppose you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

In the morning, he emerged from the pantry, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. She stood at the sink, a black robe tied at her waist. A piece of paper hovered in front of her. 

She didn’t greet him. But she swished her finger and one of the chairs at the kitchen table pushed back. A plate sat waiting for him, piled high with potatoes and fried eggs. He hesitated, eyes filled with longing as the fragrance of the food wafted over to him. And then he looked at the woman again. She swished her finger again. An invisible hand pushed him across the kitchen, plunking him down in the seat. 

“Hm,” the woman sighed. She rubbed her fingers together. The paper crumpled before throwing itself in the fireplace. 

He gobbled down his breakfast as fast as he could without choking. He jolted when he looked up and realized that she was watching him. He ate a little faster, just in case she was about to kick him out.

She was silent as he ate. When his plate was empty, she swiped her hand to the left. A basket unhooked itself from above the counter. It landed on the table just beside him. 

“Hold out your hand,” she ordered. 

He did. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw her begin to gesture. Fingers twisting together, like she was shaping something out of thin air. Something began to glow in his palm. It was a little mushroom. When he tried to grasp it, his fingers passed right through it. And when he turned his hand over, it disappeared. As soon as his palm faced up, the mushroom appeared again.

“Go out into the woods behind the house. Fill that basket with as many of those as you can find,” she instructed him. She pointed to show him where.

He stared down at the mushroom. Let his fingers squeeze through the specter again.

“No.”

“Then you can leave,” she replied, turning away from him. She waved her hand. A book flew off the mantle, opening up to a page towards the end. She continued to swish her arms, like she was the conductor of a grand orchestra. Dried herbs and dusty vials drifted off of shelves, dancing their way to her. 

She didn’t look at him again.

He grabbed the basket and walked out the back door. It slammed shut behind him.

He stomped his way down the damp forest path. The mud squished between his toes. His breath puffed out in front of him in the misty morning. When he looked over his shoulder, he could see the strange house shrouded in the same fog. The windows glowing with warmth, smoke rising from the brick chimney.

He plucked a couple mushrooms and threw them into the basket before he made his way back to the house. But for some odd reason, no matter how far he walked, the house didn’t seem any closer. He tried moving to the left and right, but the house stayed the same distance away. Just close enough that he could make out the shape of a woman in the window. 

His hand tingled. He turned it over. The mushroom appeared in his palm, glowing just a little brighter. When he looked up, he thought he saw the woman smirking in the window.

Huffing, he turned around to head deeper in the woods. It took a few hours to fill the basket with the mushrooms. But this time, when he moved in the direction of the house, it drew closer and closer. The back door swung open as he approached. 

The basket flew from his fingers as he stepped into the kitchen. 

“You hexed me,” he accused, pointing at her. A smirk curled her lips.

“If you don’t like it, you can leave,” she retorted. She drew a circle with her pointer finger. And the basket of mushrooms spun.

The following morning, she sent him out with pail to draw water from a waterfall. Through the woods, inside a dark cave. Even though plenty of water flowed from the kitchen sink. 

The next day, she sent him up to the roof to feed the crows that had gathered there.

“Go chop firewood,” the woman commanded the day after.

“You don’t need more. I’m tired,” he complained.

“Then you can leave,” was the only response she gave whenever he refused her tasks.

Every couple days, she remarked, “If you’re feeling better, you should find somewhere else to stay in the morning.” 

Even though he went to bed aching from all the work she made him do, he came up with excuses. He still felt weak, his stomach hurt. He invented a new ailment each time. And she always replied, “Then I suppose you’ll have to stay a little longer.”

It was only after almost a week of staying there that he thought to ask, “Who are you anyway?”

The woman was busy grinding herbs with a mortar and pestle. She gestured with her chin. A bottle of gold liquid drifted off the counter. The cork popped out before the jar tilted, dribbling the contents into the mixture.

“You already know. I’m the bad witch who lives in the woods,” she answered.

He watched as she added some of the bright yellow flowers he had picked from the greenhouse. To his surprise, the mixture turned red when the petals began releasing their juices.

“What’re you making anyway?” he then asked.

“A sleeping draught,” she told him.

She added a handful of dried purple flowers. The buds crunched under the stone pestle. 

 “Sakura,” she suddenly said.

He stared at her. When she looked up at him, a smile flickered across her face. “You can call me Sakura. That’s what I go by nowadays.” 

“I’m Itachi,” he mumbled.

He didn’t know whether she had heard him or not. Because even after that day, she continued to call him “boy”. Her call carrying out of the kitchen, sending him to dig up tubers in the woods or to pluck the wings off dead dragonflies.

People came to request things from Sakura. That was how she made her money. She met them in the parlor of her home, the hood of her red cloak pulled over her face. She had him make the customers tea. Itachi overhead bits and pieces of all sorts of problems. A woman who couldn’t have a child, a man who suffered from headaches. They all came to Sakura with their ailments and woes. She listened to all these things, silent as she deliberated.

“Boy. I need five mandrake roots,” Sakura called as Itachi walked into the kitchen. He set down the bucket filled with water. She had sent him to the waterfall three times that day alone. He heaved a sigh, crouching beside the bucket. The skin on his palms was raw and red. She looked up from her spell book.

“Boy.”

“It’s late,” he protested. But he already knew what she was going to say.

“Then you can le-”

He was out the door before she could finish the sentence. 

At least the mandrakes grew in the greenhouse. He didn’t have to venture into the woods again. Pulling on leather gloves, he opened up the door to the greenhouse. Despite the cool weather, it was warm and a little humid inside this place. 

Mandrake flowers were purple. Itachi was careful not to damage them as he seized the plant by the stem and pulled them from the soil. The roots were long and pale, almost like bizarre, hairy legs. He harvested five and gathered them in his arms. Sweat beaded above his upper lip and at his temples. He didn’t understand why she insisted on getting them now when they would still be there in the morning. 

Grumbling, he got to his feet. He was careful to close the greenhouse door behind him. As he crossed the yard, a cool wind began to blow. The back of his neck tingled. Dread pooled in his gut as he recognized the sensation.

When he lifted his chin, he saw that the clouds had parted. Watery moonlight peeking through. The plants tumbled from his arms. 

“Boy, the mandrakes!” Sakura’s voice drifted out from the house.

Itachi scrambled to gather the mandrakes again. One had rolled down the path. He grabbed it just as the door opened. 

“What are you doing?”

His head whipped around. And then he began looking for a hiding spot. Anywhere so that she wouldn’t see him. He just had to find somewhere that the moonlight couldn’t touch.

She stepped outside, a lantern held in one hand.

“Boy?”

Itachi froze. And she did too.

The lantern bathed the side of her face in orange light. And it was just enough to illuminate him too. To highlight the sharp teeth and the horns growing from his temples. He knew that his eyes glowed bright red in the darkness. He had seen the reflection many times, on the nights when he had forgotten to draw his curtains before the moon rose.

She reached for him. A snarl escaped his lips.

“I haven’t seen a tiefling in a long time,” she remarked.

Tieflings weren’t quite human. All it took was drop of demon blood somewhere up the ancestral tree. Sometimes families went generations without showing any signs of this influence. It was just every once in a while that tieflings were born. Monstrous things with tails and fangs. Horrific to behold. Many were smothered in their cribs to spare their parents the disgrace.

 “It looks like someone tried to mask your appearance. Probably some half-wit wizard,” Sakura observed. “They should’ve used a more robust spell if they wanted it to last under moonlight.”

Itachi waited for the disgust. For her fists to strike him as she called him a beast. Her shrieks of terror and rage as she drove him far from her home.

“Bring those mandrakes inside. I want to finish this potion tonight,” she told him.

She slipped back into the house, taking the lantern with her. Itachi waited several seconds, wondering if he had misheard her. And when he took a couple steps toward the door, it swung open a little wider. 

He stood in the doorway, heart racing. He watched Sakura spin her finger. A knife danced through the air, peeling an apple in one deft movement. 

“Wash those in the sink,” she told him without looking up. 

He swallowed the lump in his throat. 

“…You…you’ll let me stay here?” he asked.