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Harry heard a voice—this time, a woman's. Young, but definitely an adult. It certainly wasn't a child's voice like the one he thought he'd heard before. He tried to focus on the memory, sensing something important just out of reach, but the harder he grasped at it, the faster it slipped away.
He groaned and blinked, thoroughly sick of people telling him to wake up. He fought past that lingering veil of sleep, again trying to recapture whatever he'd been dreaming about. But it vanished, retreating to some inaccessible corner of his mind.
"There you go, lad, now drink this and sit up," the woman said briskly.
Something pressed against his lips. A sharp, bitter liquid trickled onto his tongue. His eyes flew wide, and he jerked upright in bed, sputtering as he tried to cough it out.
"Gah! Wh–?!" he choked.
"Right, then," the woman said calmly. "Who are you, and who do I need to contact to come fetch you?"
Harry tried to swallow, then paused at the nauseating taste in his mouth. He darted his gaze around the room, desperate for a place to spit. The woman's stern glare warned him against it.
"You spit that on my floor, and I'll dose you again," she threatened.
He grimaced, forced it down, and shot her a fierce look.
She was around her late twenties or early thirties, with a trim figure that her tight jeans and a V-neck knit top showed off rather well. Her long, dark hair was pulled back, and her strikingly blue eyes glittered with something akin to amusement—or challenge—as she arched a brow at him. Leaning forward with that little bottle in hand—whatever it was—she inadvertently gave him an awkward but enticing view down the front of her top. The swell of her breasts pressed against the V-neck, gravity drawing the fabric away from her chest.
Harry swallowed again, his face flushing slightly, and forced himself to look elsewhere. He took in his surroundings instead: a soft bed in a tastefully decorated room, sunlight streaming through the window in that gentle morning glow. He guessed he'd been out the entire night. A fluffy, quilted blanket covered him, and although his shoes were gone, he was still fully dressed. He tried to dispel the vile tang of that liquid by working his mouth.
"That stuff is foul," he said. "How's it supposed to help me feel better?"
The woman glanced at the bottle. "It isn't," she said matter-of-factly. "It's meant to make sure you listen—so you won't need another dose." She tucked the bottle into her jeans pocket. "Seems it's done the trick."
Harry groaned softly, letting his head fall back on the plush pillows.
"Now, who are you?" she demanded.
He exhaled, still a bit disoriented. "My name's Harry. Did you… bring me here? From the alley? Thank you… I suppose. Some bloke tried mugging me."
The memory of that incident burned at the back of his mind—his attacker's bloodied face, the crunch of bone against brick. He winced reflexively, recalling how the man crashed over and over into the wall.
"Right," Harry added haltingly. "Until he ran away, anyway."
"And not at all bludgeoned himself to death on that wall?" she asked with a peculiar chuckle. "No need to pretend otherwise. You're in friendly company—though I would've expected you to know another witch when you see one."
She placed the back of her hand on his forehead. Immediately, a faint, prickling tingle sparked in Harry's skin. She jerked her hand away, frowning at him.
"None of that now!" she snapped. "What Family taught you such manners?"
Harry heard the word witch but couldn't process it. Something about that label, her talk of "Families," "mana," and "pulling power," all sounded dangerously unhinged. Yet her voice carried enough authority to put him on edge—he'd never been one to dismiss odd threats out of hand, especially given his own strange, unexplained… incidents over the years.
He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry if I've been rude," he said carefully. "I appreciate your help—and I really do apologize if I offended you." A small part of him couldn't stop thinking, Please don't cast some insane spell on me if she truly believed herself a witch.
Her expression softened, but only slightly. "Well, you did just go through a nasty ordeal," she allowed. "Likely nearly drained yourself with that… mana surge. You're so empty, you can't even keep your shields up. So I understand the instinct to draw from me. But next time, you should at least ask." She paused, as though contemplating a friendlier approach. "Don't worry—I've tried not to look too deeply at you, but there's enough ambient energy floating about to help you rebuild your reserves. Now, who are your people? Let's get you back where you belong and be done with it."
Harry's brain stumbled over her words: mana, shields, look. Each term felt layered with meaning he didn't understand. Did she really believe she was some kind of sorceress? She wasn't wearing a pointed hat or anything.
He tried a tentative smile. "I—I don't have people. I was… living with my aunt and uncle, but they made it clear they don't want me around once I turned eighteen. So yesterday, I ended up on the streets…"
She snorted. "A likely excuse. Ran away from your Family, more like. I realize they can be suffocating, but going rogue will only get you snatched by a rival clan—and that's far worse. No place for an unclaimed wizard to make his own way out there. You should know that."
She stood, her posture steeling with new determination. "If you won't tell me, I'll look for myself. Your resonants might show me which line you come from, at least."
Harry's breath caught. He clutched the blanket reflexively, half expecting her to yank it away—to inspect him physically. There was an undeniable part of his mind that flickered, unbidden, over the possibility: a strangely magnetic, older woman, rummaging over his body… Not that the scenario was purely terrifying, if he was honest, but it still made him tense.
To his mixed disappointment and relief, she merely fixed her gaze on him. Her eyes seemed to cloud over, as if focusing on something beyond the visible. Then, abruptly, they widened in shock. She stepped backward, edging toward the door.
"The washroom is there." She indicated a second door across the room. Her voice was tight, and her cheeks had gone a touch pale. "I'll wait for you in the kitchen—three floors down."
With that, she turned the knob behind her and slipped out, closing the door firmly.
Harry loosened his grip on the blanket, uncertain whether he felt relieved or disappointed. The last sight he'd had of this mysterious woman involved the gentle sway of her denim-clad hips slipping out the bedroom door. He slid out of bed, still shaken by everything that had happened in the alley, and ducked into the adjoining bathroom. There, he quickly wet his hair to tame it and used a finger to scrub at his teeth, hoping to ease the stale taste lingering in his mouth.
When he returned to the bedroom, he spotted his battered backpack on the floor. He crouched and rummaged through it, relieved to find his few belongings—including the small wad of money—intact. One strap was partially ripped away, and there was a nasty slash across the back where he must've swung the pack into that mugger's knife. A shiver ran through him at the memory of that vicious confrontation, and even more so at how abruptly—and bizarrely—it ended.
He eyed the window. There was a fire escape outside; he could make a quick getaway if he wanted. But the promise of breakfast—not to mention a roof over his head, even temporarily—wasn't something he could ignore, especially with nowhere else to go. The woman was strange, yes, but she didn't seem bent on harming him. So he slung the backpack over his shoulder and headed out.
He realized only then that this wasn't some ordinary flat; it looked like the entire building belonged to her. The top floor comprised two bedrooms—he glimpsed another through an open door—and stairs that went up at least two more levels. Just how big is this place? Harry wondered.
On the next floor down, he saw a single, closed door in a smaller hallway, but the level beneath that opened into a large dining area at the front and a cozy sitting room at the back. The furniture looked antique and expensive; there was a gleaming table surrounded by fourteen chairs, a tall china cabinet full of pristine dishes, and in the sitting room, a set of plush couches, chairs, and a small piano—no TV or anything modern. He could hear the clatter of dishes from below, reminding him he should probably stop poking around and actually go find that breakfast.
"Coffee's on the counter, dear!" the woman's voice rang up the stairwell. Harry startled, then hurried the rest of the way down.
At this ground level, Harry peered through a front window and saw a row of neat brownstone houses across the street. They looked well-maintained and quite expensive—nothing subdivided into flats like he'd seen elsewhere. His host, it seemed, had a lot of money. Possibly more than anyone he'd ever known. Rich, eccentric, and apparently convinced she was a witch… That was quite a combination.
He rounded the staircase, which continued down one more floor—likely a cellar of some sort—then reached a modern, sunlit kitchen at the center of the house. It opened toward the front door's little entry area, while behind the kitchen lay a proper living room, with contemporary couches, a massive TV, gaming consoles, and rows of games and controllers. The aroma of coffee, bacon, and freshly flipped pancakes made Harry's stomach twist with hunger.
There she was: the self-proclaimed witch, clad in tight jeans and now an apron tied around her waist. The apron's bow only drew more attention to the curve of her backside. Her dark hair was gathered into a loose bun, a few strands trailing along her neck. Harry's fingers twitched with a sudden urge to trace those curls. The large kitchen island was set with a single place setting, plus a pot of coffee and a carafe of orange juice resting in an ice bucket.
As if flipping pancakes with one hand and pulling a tray of bacon from the oven with the other wasn't enough, she moved with easy confidence—like this was her usual morning routine. Harry swallowed, the scent of sizzling bacon triggering his already ravenous appetite. Rich, gorgeous, and can cook, he noted, shifting uncomfortably as his jeans grew tighter in a telltale way. Desperate to hide it if she turned around, he rushed to take a seat at the island, placing his backpack on the floor and gripping the cool marble to steady himself. Get a grip, he told himself, even as a decidedly improper thought of pressing her over the countertop flitted through his mind.
He squeezed his eyes shut. What the hell is wrong with me? Sure, he was eighteen and prone to impulsive reactions, but this was extreme. Then the woman set the bacon on a cooling rack and faced him. At once, her gaze locked on his, and the light buzzing he'd felt in her presence before flared again—this time an intense wave of something that vibrated through his entire body.
Harry lost it—literally hopping off the stool and taking two steps around the island before his mind registered what he was doing. Inside, he was screaming at himself to stop. She pressed back against the stove, flicking her hand in a swift gesture, and that energy surge disappeared. Harry staggered, bracing himself against the island corner. His cheeks burned, fear and confusion warring inside him.
After a moment, he slunk back onto the stool. "We'll work on your shields first, dear," she said, turning away to transfer the bacon to a plate. "And mine, too. I've gotten sloppy around my own home, that's clear."
She busied herself with breakfast, giving him space to compose himself. Harry noticed she'd dropped any immediate mention of finding his "Family," and instead was talking like he'd be here for a while, working on these so-called shields. He swallowed, trying to keep his voice level. "Um, ma'am?"
"Mm?" She didn't turn around.
"I— I don't know your name."
That made her chuckle softly. "I suppose it's been ages since I've met someone within the Veil who doesn't already know me." At last, she turned around. Mercifully, there was no fresh wave of that bizarre vibration. "Rowena SeraphinaRavenclaw. But you won't recognize the name, will you? Clearly you've grown up outside our world. Just call me Rowena, dear."
She set platters of bacon and pancakes on the island, diverting Harry's attention from the puzzle of what the Veil might be. He tried to focus on the food—his stomach certainly demanded it.
"How do you like your eggs, dear?" she asked.
"Scrambled… if that's alright?"
"Absolutely, darling." She turned back to the stove.
He heaped two pancakes onto his plate, plus a few strips of bacon. They were irresistibly appetizing: fluffy pancakes with buttery edges and thick-cut bacon crisp around the rim. He took a bite, nearly moaning at the taste. While he was busy pouring syrup, a sudden thumping sound and the jingle of a small bell made him glance up—just in time to see a black cat leap onto the island. Its fur was almost entirely black except for a trail of irregular white spots along one flank. A pink collar with a tiny bell read: Nagini.
Harry's jaw dropped. "Nagini?" he blurted, barely managing to swallow his mouthful of pancake.
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pa treon .com(slash)lovelab (remove the space)