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Harry couldn't tear his eyes off the spot where Nagini had just bolted upstairs—"grounded," apparently—for refusing to explain how she managed to show up in two places at once. He still couldn't fathom how the same cat that had roamed the Dursleys' neighborhood for years was suddenly living here with this strange, well-off woman calling herself Rowena.

"Nagini… that's definitely her," he said, voice tight with disbelief. "But I was near Privet Drive, that whole area, when I last saw her. How on earth did she end up here?"

Rowena turned back from scolding the cat, fixing Harry with those startlingly blue eyes. "You said something about a foster family?"

He nodded. "Right… I grew up in foster care—basically my aunt and uncle's, but they never treated me like family. Just kicked me out the minute I turned eighteen. Yesterday, in fact."

Rowena's gaze flicked toward the stairs. "I see… Well, Nagini's exactly the type of cat to, er, wander. I'm just annoyed she never told me about you. Could've saved us all some trouble."

Harry couldn't wrap his head around that statement. "She's a cat," he repeated. "She doesn't talk."

"Oh, she communicates perfectly well when she wants to," Rowena said cryptically. "Anyway, I'm sure you have a thousand questions. I was hoping you'd have time to eat before diving into all this, but…" She gave a self-deprecating shrug.

"You mean that you let yourself be led around town by a cat?" Harry asked, feeling the weight of absurdity settling over him. A fleeting glance at his pancakes, gleaming with syrup, filled him with a pang of regret—this conversation might kill his appetite altogether.

Rowena pursed her lips. "Nagini's… special," she said, then exhaled. "Alright, let's just start with the obvious: you've stumbled upon a hidden world. Magic is real."

Harry's fork hovered over the pancakes. He'd been bracing for something along those lines. She'd already thrown around words like witch and mana, and had performed that bizarre levitation trick in the bedroom.

"Magic," he echoed. "As in… spells and potions, waving wands around—stuff like that?" If that was truly what she meant, then it sounded straight out of a children's fairy tale—except his experiences lately had been anything but childish.

Rowena gave him a small smile. "Spells, yes. Potions, illusions, enchantments—there's a bit more to it than waving a wand, but you're not completely off track." She took a measured breath. "We usually refer to magic as mana: a power that all living things produce in small quantities, which flows everywhere. But only those of us within the hidden world—the Veil—can properly draw on it. Witches, warlocks… people like me. And you."

Harry lowered his fork, then shoved two strips of bacon into his mouth, chewing quickly as he tried to process. He was hungry, but confusion threatened to overwhelm his appetite. "You're saying I'm a warlock?"

"That's the term for males," Rowena confirmed. "But yes. If you're producing spells—like what happened in that alley—then you definitely have magic within you."

The memory of the mugger came rushing back: the man crashing repeatedly into a wall for no apparent reason. Harry had never been able to explain it… but maybe this did. Still, it was insane.

"You realize how crazy that sounds," he muttered.

She gave him a knowing look. "Believe me, I do. But you mentioned you'd just turned eighteen. It's common for a witch—or warlock—to come into their power around that age." She angled her head, regarding him closely. "Any odd experiences recently? Strange tingles? Unusual surges of energy?"

Harry froze, a forkful of pancakes halfway to his mouth. "Um… maybe," he admitted, finally popping them into his mouth. The meltdown in the job-placement office, the unexplainable tingling that sometimes coursed through him—things no doctor could figure out.

Rowena nodded. "Likely you were tapping into the ambient mana around you. You only gain full capacity at adulthood, so you wouldn't have been able to store much before—meaning you were basically on fumes when that thug attacked you." She raised an eyebrow. "You must've used some sort of telekinesis to knock him around."

"Telekinesis?" Harry repeated, mind flashing to the man slamming into the alley wall. "I… I didn't do that on purpose. I was just mad."

"Doesn't matter," Rowena said. "Your intent, combined with your magic, makes it happen. I suspect you used your will to shove or disorient him. But you had barely any mana, so it drained you and nearly put you in a coma."

He tried to wrap his mind around it. "So you're saying I can just… wave my hand and move stuff?"

Rowena hesitated. "Not quite so simply. It's not your hand, it's the mana guided by your will. But enough talk—let me show you."

She lifted her hand, palm up, and made a slow, lifting motion. To Harry's astonishment, his entire body rose off the floor until he was hovering more than a foot in the air.

"What the actual hell?" he yelped, his limbs flailing.

"Magic is real," she said evenly. "And we can discuss everything else once you accept that."

He struggled, trying to see if there were wires or some trick. There was no tug on his clothes, no harness under him, nothing that could possibly support his weight. Yet here he was, floating like some kind of balloon.

Rowena wore a faint smirk. "If you prefer, I can flip you upside down. Or maybe bounce you a bit—"

"No!" Harry blurted, panic rising.

"As you wish." Rowena turned her other palm upward. A small glowing orb, red as an ember, formed in her hand and shot toward Harry's face. He screamed, jerking aside, but the orb darted unerringly after him, then passed through his body in a shimmer before disappearing into a wall.

Heart hammering, Harry realized he was unhurt—no scorch marks or pain. "Wh-what was that?"

"A glamour—an illusion. Harmless," Rowena said, then shrugged. "I can conjure actual fire if you'd prefer a more dramatic demonstration."

Harry felt himself slowly descending, relief warring with lingering dread as Rowena lowered her palm. His feet touched the kitchen floor, and he sagged against the counter, gripping its edge for support. Even now, he half expected her to yank him back into the air just to prove a point.

"There," Rowena said, her tone airy, as though suspending someone in midair was no more taxing than pouring tea. "Isn't that far more persuasive than me simply making a few dishes fly around the room?"

He swallowed hard, knees trembling slightly as the reality of what had just happened settled over him. Yes, it could have been some masterful trick—some elaborate setup involving wires and pulleys—but he knew it wasn't. He had felt the strange vibration under his skin, the rush of power that didn't belong to either of them alone… and that sense of weightlessness was too authentic to fake.

"Yeah," he managed. "That was… effective."

A tiny smile curved over Rowena's lips. Harry didn't miss the spark of satisfaction in her deep-blue eyes. Despite all he had believed before, right now, he couldn't deny what he had seen—and felt. Magic was real, and this confident, disarmingly attractive witch had just given him an initiation into a world he never knew existed.
Harry sat in silence for a time, letting Rowena's display of actual magic sink in. He kept his gaze lowered to the remains of his breakfast—the now slightly cold pancakes and bacon he'd barely finished—trying to sort through the swirling thoughts in his head. Confusion mingled with a flicker of excitement. After all, if she was telling the truth, he'd just discovered he could wield magic too.

He had no better explanation for having floated around the kitchen like some puppet on invisible strings.

And, really, he decided, why not keep listening? He needed a place to stay, and this house—this brownstone—was definitely more inviting than any shelters he'd seen. So far, Rowena hadn't suggested kicking him out or sacrificing him to a demon (not yet, anyway). Maybe it was risky, but living on the streets felt worse. Besides, if this was all a hallucination from hitting his head, he might as well enjoy the dream—especially one that included a beautiful witch cooking him breakfast.

"What makes you think I'm a… warlock?" he asked eventually.

Rowena, who had been watching him with those vivid blue eyes, picked up the coffeepot and poured a fresh cup for herself. She raised it in a silent offer.

"Sure, thanks," Harry said, proffering his mug. He was oddly proud that his hand didn't shake as she refilled it. He opted to skip the cream and sugar, figuring something strong was just what he needed right now.

"Come," Rowena said, gesturing toward the living room beyond. "Let's sit."

Harry followed her from the kitchen into a cozy, modern space: couch against one wall, a huge television facing it, and two comfortable armchairs positioned around a low coffee table. A sleek entertainment cabinet boasted a couple of game consoles. He tried to picture this elegant witch playing video games but couldn't quite manage it.

Rowena took one of the chairs, so Harry settled into the other. Then, still holding her coffee, she kicked off her slippers, tucked her legs beneath her, and leaned back with an air of casual ease.

"All right," she murmured, "where to begin?"

Harry sipped from his mug, staying quiet. He had exactly one question on the table—why she believed he was a warlock—and he figured it was best to let her explain from the start.

"Well," Rowena began after a moment's thought, "before I dive into the finer points of magic, let's talk about warlocks in general. What do you know about witches—if anything?"

Harry shrugged. "Not much. We read The Crucible last year in English class, and I saw some silly movie about three sister-witches once, but… that's it."

Rowena gave a slight eye roll. "Forget any of that. Real witches are nothing like the caricatures in history books or fiction. For instance, have you heard of a coven?"

"That's… a group of witches, right?"

"A specific number, actually. Thirteen witches." She paused, then added, "And one warlock."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "Why just one warlock?"

"Ah, that's a longer story," Rowena said with a wistful smile. "Long ago, the ratio of female to male magic-users was roughly thirteen to one. The lunar cycle also played a part in how covens formed. But suffice it to say, you being a warlock makes you rather rare."

He couldn't help a small grin. "I guess that's… cool."

Of course, if he was hallucinating any of this, he supposed it made sense he'd be the 'special one.' Rowena chuckled.

"Yes, quite rare. And there's more to it than just being a warlock," she said, voice layered with meaning, "but I'll explain that another time." She sipped her coffee, so Harry did too, relishing how rich and smooth it tasted. "Now, about magic itself. We call the power we use mana. It's generated by most living things to one degree or another—people, animals, even plants—and it permeates our environment. But only those of us with the innate ability, or those 'behind the Veil,' as we say, can draw on it."

He nodded, trying not to let his skepticism show—he'd already floated in midair, so he supposed it was foolish to argue. "Okay… so how does this mana get made?"

Rowena's eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. "It stems from emotions, physical sensations—anything strongly felt. And it has different 'aspects' depending on the emotion. A sorrowful witch, for instance, often produces mana better suited to water magic—tears and sadness have an almost literal connection to water." She paused to let that sink in. "Still following?"

"I… think so," Harry said hesitantly.

"Everyone has a handful of resonants—types of mana they personally attune to. Most witches or warlocks have two, some have only one, and it's very rare for anyone to have three. We call those with three trinitara." She pursed her lips. "In short, if you don't align with sadness, that mana slips away the instant it's created. But if you do, you can store it for later use."

Harry's mind spun at the thought of having to feel certain emotions to gather magical energy. It sounded… draining. Or potentially embarrassing, especially if it meant conjuring heartbreak just to power a spell.

Rowena exhaled. "That tingle you've mentioned? It's the sensation of absorbing mana. Some witches find it unpleasant—but if it feels good for you, that's actually a relief. I knew one who experienced it as a migraine, poor dear."

"Oh." Harry took another gulp of coffee, considering how, yes, that tingling had been pleasant in its own odd way, especially when it flared during intense moments. "So, you're saying that in that alley, I basically… used my stored mana without meaning to?"

"Exactly," Rowena confirmed. "But you had so little mana to start with—it nearly flattened you. You saw what happened to that mugger."

Harry pressed his lips together, remembering how the man had repeatedly slammed into the alley wall as though disoriented by some force. The memory sent a chill up his spine.

Rowena studied his expression and softened her voice. "You didn't mean to hurt him, dear, but you triggered your power in self-defense. If you hadn't, you might be in much worse shape."

Harry nodded slowly. "Right." He let out a ragged breath. "So… if I am a warlock, does that mean I need to join a coven or something? Thirteen witches and me?"

"Eventually, perhaps," Rowena said, setting her mug down on the low table. "But that's a topic for later. For now, you need to learn how to handle your mana safely. I'd rather you not accidentally blow something up—or yourself. And, well, you need a stable place to stay. You're not going back to some shelter, that's for certain."

He swallowed, the truth of her words settling in. In less than a day, his life had turned upside down. Yet, strangely enough, the idea of staying here, learning magic from this confident, fascinating woman, felt… almost enticing.

"All right," he said softly, "if you're serious about teaching me… I—I guess I'm up for it."

Rowena's lips curved in a satisfied little smile. "You have quite a road ahead, Harry. But trust me—it's far better than trying to figure it all out on your own."

He nodded, gaze briefly dropping to the empty plate by his elbow. His appetite was already returning now that the shock had dimmed a bit. There was a potent excitement roiling in his gut: a life of magic, hidden truths, and… more. Maybe this day wasn't such a disaster after all.
Harry looked up from his coffee, a puzzled crease forming on his brow. "Wait," he said, glancing at Rowena. "You said the tingling I've been feeling was me absorbing… what did you call it again?"

"Ambient mana," Rowena supplied gently, stirring her own cup.

He inclined his head. "Right, ambient mana. But if a witch can just reabsorb all the mana she generates, why does this whole resonant thing matter? Couldn't she keep recycling her own magic over and over?"

Rowena's lips curved in a knowing smile. "Ah, good question. It brings us to one of the key differences between witches and warlocks. Witches can't absorb ambient mana, only warlocks can. And warlocks—like you, dear—don't produce much mana at all. You generate only enough to keep yourself alive and maintain minimal shields. The ambient stuff you pick up in the environment isn't that plentiful, unless you happen to be around someone who's feeling something very strongly—fear, lust, anger, joy, whatever—and pouring off loads of it."

Harry felt his mood darken slightly. "So basically, warlocks are… I don't know, magical cleanup crews? I'm supposed to run around mopping up 'waste magic'?"

Rowena laughed, a bright sound that made her eyes sparkle. "Not quite. Yes, you can absorb ambient mana, but your main role in a coven is something far more crucial. You see, through the magic that binds a coven, the warlock can take mana directly from the witches and then amplify it—roughly triple its potency—before handing it back to the coven's High Priestess. That vastly boosts the power of the rituals they perform together."

Harry tried not to think about the type of rituals he'd heard in whispered rumors—cloaked figures, strange chanting, and all the stereotypes that sprang to mind. He set his coffee down, feeling his mouth go dry. "Rituals… Right. Is this the part where, uh, Satan gets invoked? Because—"

Rowena released a weary sigh. "No, it's not about Satan. Haven't I told you to toss aside everything you thought you knew about witches? We don't worship any devil or summon demons. That's all malicious gossip from small-minded people who saw a coven ceremony and jumped to the worst conclusions."

Harry pressed his lips together. That is exactly what someone doing the Satan thing might say… But he didn't dare voice that. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Alright. So, you don't worship the devil. Then who… or what…?"

Rowena's expression gentled. "The Goddess, in her four aspects. None of which, I assure you, involve horns, hooves, or any goat-like creatures."

He still wasn't entirely convinced, but he resolved to hear her out. "Okay. So no devil-worship, no demon summoning. Do you summon anything?"

"Warlocks," Rowena said casually, sipping her coffee.

Harry choked. "Excuse me?"

"A coven's summoning ritual is specifically for calling a warlock. That's what the onlookers in centuries past saw—thirteen witches in a circle, calling a man to them by magical means—and they decided it must be Satan. Put yourself in 1610, for instance: you're a witch in some remote village, you manage to locate a dozen like-minded witches nearby, but there isn't a warlock in sight. You need a warlock to form a complete coven, so you join forces, head to a Grove, and perform a summoning. The nearest warlock feels that call and finds you. Nothing evil or Satanic about it."

Harry pursed his lips. "I guess that makes sense. Warlocks are rarer than witches, so if they needed one, it was either do that or… I don't know, put out a personal ad in the local parchment?"

Rowena allowed herself a small laugh. "Indeed. And in the seventeenth century, that wasn't exactly an option. People saw witches chanting in the woods with a man suddenly appearing out of nowhere and assumed the worst."

"Wow," Harry murmured, absorbing it all. "So, how'd they get from that to 'Satan'?"

Rowena glanced aside, clearing her throat in a way that suggested an awkward topic loomed. "There… may be another reason covens need warlocks."

"Which is?"

She hesitated before replying. "Making little witches."

"…Oh," Harry blurted, cheeks warming.

"Precisely. You see, witches and mundanes—non-magical folks—cannot conceive children together. Only a witch and a warlock can produce magical offspring."

It took Harry's brain a second to catch up. "So you're telling me a warlock… has sex with all thirteen witches in the coven?"

Rowena closed her eyes briefly. "Yes."

Harry's gaze darted around, as though half expecting to see robed figures pop out. "As in… frequently, or…?"

She sighed. "Often, yes. Physical intimacy is also the most efficient way for a witch to transfer mana to a warlock, and for him to pass it back—besides the obvious desire to continue the magical bloodlines. It sounds scandalous in our modern perspective, but historically it was the norm for covens."

A small, involuntary grin crept onto Harry's face—more from shock than anything else. This was definitely not the typical story you heard in any half-remembered legends.

Rowena eyed him. "Kindly wipe that grin off your face, dear."

He held up a hand. "Sorry, sorry. I can't help it. I'm just… that's wild."

She allowed the corner of her mouth to twitch. "Yes, I know. You're young. It probably sounds… interesting."

He coughed, trying to regain composure. "But how does that connect to the whole Satan rumor?"

Rowena shrugged, setting her cup aside. "Historically, it was frowned upon for unmarried women to be pregnant, and it was equally unacceptable to have one man with thirteen partners. So if a villager stumbled on a coven in mid-ritual, they leapt to all sorts of 'devilish' conclusions. It was simpler to imagine a monstrous demon in the woods than to consider, say, a normal man fathering multiple children with consenting witches. Plus, if a local husband found out his wife was sneaking off at night, he might rather believe she was seduced by Satan than by, oh, the pig farmer from two villages over."

Harry rubbed the back of his neck. "That's… a lot to wrap my head around."

She offered a wry smile. "Yes, well, that's the short version. Suffice it to say, everything you've heard about goat heads or devil horns is the product of rumor and, shall we say, certain… preferences in attire."

He raised an eyebrow. "Attire?"

Rowena looked vaguely pained. "One particular coven centuries ago. They had a warlock who wore a goat costume. A personal… kink. The rumor spread, and it's still haunting us fifteen hundred years later."

Harry nearly choked on the last swallow of coffee. "Kink, as in… furries?"

She inclined her head. "You see, even witches can have unique tastes. Word got out—legends sprang up—and now the goat-headed man is forever tied to the worst assumptions about witches."

Harry set his empty cup down, exhaling. This conversation had escalated quickly from the simple notion of magic existing to the existence of entire covens, polygamous couplings, and goat costumes. He wasn't sure which part was the strangest. Though, the goat costume is definitely near the top.

"Wow," he said at last. "That's… definitely not the version of witchcraft I learned about in primary school."

Rowena allowed herself a rueful smile. "I did warn you, dear. You're in for quite an education."

He shook his head slowly, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. Magic is real. He was a warlock, apparently—one who might eventually be summoned by some group of witches for… well, all the reasons Rowena had laid out. His life had done a complete about-face in less than twenty-four hours.

"Well," he said at last, "I guess if I'm going to land in a new world, it might as well be an interesting one."

Thank you for reading! If you want to read chapters 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21 right now and discover even more stories, join me on . Your support helps me bring you even more magical adventures!
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