Chapter Text
Hansol had opened up the shop on a whim. His mother, one of the more famous witches in this part of the country, had given him enough of her magical knowledge before leaving him out in the real world by himself, as many witches prefer to do with their children. With nothing much else to do in his life, he rented a small shophouse on the quiet side of town, filled the shelves with spell books and jars of herbs, moved his furniture upstairs and hung up a sign above the storefront: The Eclectic Wiccan’s Shoppe.
Of course, Hansol knew being a witch was nothing like in the movies. He didn’t fly around on a broomstick with a wand cursing people. Being a witch was more like quietly casting luck spells surrounded by candles and crystals on a full moon night. At least he was lucky enough to have a black cat.
When setting up the shop, he noticed that the storefront actually had a large window, but Hansol being Hansol decided to cover it up by plastering an unbelievable amount of posters on the glass.
In- store Tarot Readings!
Dozens of modern and antique spellbooks inside! Come and browse sometime!
Herbs, crystals, potions – we’ve got it all!
Ridiculously colorful backgrounds and cheesy catchphrases weren’t really his thing (if he had to describe his “thing” it’d probably be dark colors and, well, less cheesy catchphrases) but he knew his town well enough and he knew it’d attract people.
The thing is, his shop seemed to attract only certain types of customers. Not everyone who walked past a shop that had the word ‘wiccan’ in the name was going to want to enter. After a while of tending to the shop, he began to notice certain stereotypes in the people that came in.
His first customers were just curious passers-by. These people didn’t really match a certain type; they were just wondering why this strange store was next to the nail salon/waffle hut they usually visited. Sometimes they’d come in and browse cautiously through the labeled bottles on the shelves. Some would ask skeptically if they actually worked before leaving, and others would have to be convinced by Hansol before they actually decided to buy anything.
Second came the superstitious middle aged women. These old ladies usually wandered in asking if they could have their fortunes read or if Hansol had any charms they could hang around the house that would ward off bad spirits (for the record, he could do both). Sometimes they’d stay for a chat, talking about their adorable grandchildren or their sons who didn’t seem to visit enough, and Hansol would pour them a cup of lemongrass tea and tell them that things would be okay. Even if it took up most of his afternoons, at least they left extra tips in the money box.
The third type of usual customer he noticed were the hipster-type girls with edgy style. These girls would walk into the store with purple or blue hair tied up into some sort of quirky updo, like space-buns. They’d be wearing some sort of shirt with a quote on it that said something like ‘space queen’ or ‘normal people scare me’, and more often than not they’d be wearing a choker or have a galaxy print backpack. These were the girls that liked the aesthetic of being a witch. They loved buying colorful crystals and candles and potion bottles, simply because they were pretty. Hansol didn’t fully understand it, but it’s not like was going to stop them from buying his hand-sewn moon chart, since those were some of the most expensive things in the shop.
He did get plenty of other types of customers. Sometimes, people would come in, and Hansol could just sense that they were a witch. Some felt like they were beginners, or acolytes, in the traditional word. Others came in with the perfect aura around them, and they felt like the most experienced witches. Hansol became self-conscious every time he tried to help out a customer that already knew way more than him. Thank goodness they were actually nice and not snobby that Hansol knew nothing about blood root in spite of selling it in his very own shop.
Despite all of the people he met every day, Hansol had to admit that his most interesting customer by far was not one he was expecting. It was possibly a quiet Friday evening, and he had just decided to close up shop for the night. It wasn’t a particularly busy day, and he hadn’t expected it to be. He went around on his usual routine: moving items into the perfect positions, shelving books based on titles and dates, and calculating his profits for the day.
His black cat, Kiki (short for Kikimora, like the Russian house spirits, and not very different in personality from them too) strode through the room gracefully, winding in between table legs and climbing up the spiral staircase.
He hummed a tune quietly to himself and followed Kiki up to his small flat above the shop. He stepped into his kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door, considering his options for dinner. He was just about to pull out a container of orange chicken when he heard a soft sound from the store below him.
He paused for a moment, wondering if he imagined it, or if it was just his cat that had wandered back down. He began to turn back to the refrigerator when he heard it again, this time a little louder. A moment later, Kiki appeared at his feet and began to rub her body against his leg as she normally did. Something was definitely happening downstairs.
Hansol halfheartedly closed the refrigerator door and tiptoed back down the stairs, practicing defensive spells in his head. He only knew a few – shield spells, body-binding, karma chants – but was still hoping whoever/whatever was downstairs was not entirely dangerous.
He silently moved against the wall in the darkness of the shop until he reached the light switch. In one quick movement, he flicked the switch and spun around, body in fighting stance, ready to face whatever was there. To his surprise, there was no magical monster or burglar in black ski mask. Only a frightened looking boy standing in the middle of the room.
The two of them stood in silence for a moment, neither knowing who the other was and why they were wherever they currently were. Hansol decided to take a step forward, but the boy’s reaction was not what he was expecting.
“Don’t hurt me!” the boy cried, taking a step away from the witch. His entire body was quaking with fear. The sight both disoriented and distressed him.
“What?” Hansol replied in disbelief. “Why would I hurt you? You’re in my shop.”
“Please don’t do anything!” the boy said once more, obviously not having heard Hansol.
“Stop crying,” Hansol said, then as an afterthought added, “please.”
The boy blinked back his tears and hesitantly brought his eyes up to meet Hansol’s through the dark hair hanging over his own eyes.
“I promise I’m not a bad guy,” the boy said, his voice brittle. “I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
“It’s alright,” Hansol said, although uncertainly. “How about we just take a moment to relax?”
The boy’s eyes fluttered downwards and he nodded quickly, taking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Hansol didn’t know what to do at this point. Was the boy genuinely scared? He seemed like it, but he could never know. His mom faced her fair share of black magic witches, and they always liked to pretend they were innocent before lashing out. But when Hansol looked back at the boy, the tears in his eyes really did seem genuine.
“Want to sit down? I’ll get you a cup of tea.”
The boy seemed unsure about it, but it’s not like he had any other options, so the boy dropped himself on the worn out couch. Hansol went to the shop counter where he kept the teacups and quickly brewed up a cup of peppermint tea. He brought it back to where the boy was sitting before seating himself on the chair opposite him.
The boy held the cup in his hands, swirling the leaves around, letting the warmth of the tea soak into his palms, before slowly taking a long sip. Hansol watched as color began to reappear in the boy’s plump cheeks and the worry lines disappeared.
“Mind telling me where I am?” the boy asked, his voice soft.
“You’re in my shop,” Hansol replied.
“Oh.”
Hansol thought for a moment. “How’d you get in? I have protection spells on all the entrances.”
The boy froze. “Protection spells?”
Oh shit. He wasn’t a witch.
“I – uh,” Hansol stammered. “I meant – uh, never mind that. You shouldn’t have been able to get inside."
The boy frowned. “I don’t even know how I got in here.”
“What?”
“I swear I’m telling you the truth,” the boy pleaded, droplets of water forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I don’t think you’re lying,” Hansol reassured quickly. “I just don’t understand what you’re trying to say.”
“I don’t know either,” he said with a half laugh. It wasn’t the most comforting laugh, but it was better than another breakdown. “I could tell you what happened, but it doesn’t even make sense to me.”
“Doesn’t matter. I’ve seen plenty of things you would call impossible.”
The boy sighed and stared out the window, or whatever was visible through the posters slapped against it. The sky was completely dark now, only a waxing crescent moon and the few scattered city lights illuminated outside.
“I was walking home, and I must have been lost in my thoughts or something. I wasn’t paying attention, and I took a wrong turn somewhere, and I got lost.” He paused and Hansol nodded at him to continue. “And I got scared. I didn’t know where to go. So I started wishing I was home, that I was anywhere but here. And suddenly my eyes were closing, and it felt like I was suffocating. I was so scared. And then I heard a sound, and the lights were on and I was standing here. And you were in front of me.”
Hansol blinked. Had he heard this right? That sounded like –
“You’re a witch,” Hansol said suddenly.
The boy’s lips parted slightly in surprise, his eyes full of bewilderment. “Huh?"
“I don’t know why you ended up here, but you just… teleported?”
“What?"
“Well,” Hansol explained, not fully certain himself. “It’s not really teleportation like in the sci-fi movies. When witches do it, it’s more of a psychic thing. But still, only powerful witches can do that. How did you do it?"
The boy stood up abruptly, nearly knocking over the teacup in the process. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?"
Hansol was taken aback at the sudden outburst. What happened to the soft, crying stranger from a minute earlier?
“YOU KEEP SAYING WITCHES, WHAT DO YOU EVEN MEAN?!”
Hansol tried to get him to calm down but it was definitely not working.
“I JUST WANT A REASONABLE EXPLANATION FOR WHY I’M IN A STRANGER’S HOUSE THAT’S FILLED WITH CRYSTALS AND PICTURES OF THE MOON AND WHY NOT AT HOME LIKE I SHOULD BE!”
“Well, I’m trying to tell you but you won’t let me!”
“WELL TELL ME THEN!” The boy huffed and stared down at Hansol in frustration. “Tell me then,” he said, in a slightly less violent tone and sitting down again.
“Okay,” Hansol said, “but you have to promise not to start screaming again.”
“I can’t promise that.”
Hansol sighed. “I’m a witch. That’s why this shop is full of crystals and potions and stuff. And I guess you’re a witch too.”
“Don’t lie to me.” His round cheeks were getting pinker.
“I’m not!”
“Where’s your wand and your pointed hat and your black cat then, huh?”
Hansol scoffed. “You’re thinking of wizards. Wizards have wands and pointy hats, not witches. And wizards don’t exist.” He paused. “I do have a black cat though.”
“You’re lying to me,” the boy said, although Hansol could sense him even doubting himself.
“Do I have to prove it to you or what?”
The boy nodded furiously.
“Fine then,” Hansol huffed and stood up, looking around the room for something he could use to prove he was a witch. He spotted a small orange bottle wrapped with a blue bow. That should do it.
He brought back the bottle along with a shot glass and placed them in front of the boy.
“I don't drink," the boy said, a cynical look on his face.
“It isn’t a drink. It’s a potion. Try it.”
“Are you about to drug me?”
“I promise it isn’t a drug,” Hansol said, rolling his eyes. “If I wanted to hurt you in any way I would have done so already.”
The boy scoffed, and Hansol took that as a sign to reach forward and pour the liquid into the shot glass. He handed it to the boy across from him.
The boy stared at the glass in annoyance, as if it was mocking at him in some way.
“Just so you know, I don’t entirely trust you.”
“Maybe you will after you drink the potion.”
“... Fine.” The boy sighed and lifted up the cup and swallowed its contents in one movement. He paused for a moment, not really feeling an effect, and tried to scold Hansol again, but when he opened his mouth, no sounds came out.
"Fun, isn’t it?” Hansol said, a hint of amusement in his words.
The boy kept trying to speak, but all that came out was a choked silence. He began to angrily mouth something along the lines of ‘WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT’ but Hansol just smiled.
“It’s a silencing elixir. It causes you to lose your speech temporarily. I’m sure there were plenty of other terrible potions I could have given you but I thought this one would work best.”
The boy continued to angrily gesture at Hansol, but at least he had gotten the point across.
“Just rub at your Adam’s apple for a bit,” Hansol explained. “Your voice will come back eventually.”
The boy grumpily rubbed his throat, now and then shooting Hansol an annoyed look. When he felt his voice return to him, he looked back at Hansol with a defeated look.
"I ended up in your shop by accident and instead of helping me, you give me a freaking silencing potion.”
“I couldn’t think of anything else that could convince you,” Hansol said apologetically. “Sorry about that.”
>“Alright, fine,” he sighed. “You got me. You’re a witch. Or something like that anyway. I’m still not entirely ready to believe you.”
“I expected that,” Hansol said, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll probably have to show you some advanced spells or something to make you believe me. But maybe not.”
“Whatever. I still don’t know why you said I was a witch. I’m clearly not. I don’t know how to make potions like you. I don’t own a black cat. I don’t know magic.”
“Maybe you do know magic, just unknowingly. You’d be surprised at how many people have magical powers but they can’t recognize it. Some people just have more than others, and they happen to be witches. Like me, for example. Or you.”
“But I don’t know any magic,” the boy repeated.
“Sure you do,” Hansol said. “You just teleported into my shop.”
“What? How?”
“Who knows? You were caught up in the moment. You didn’t know where you were and you panicked, and some part of your psychic made you end up in this shop.”
“I don’t want to believe you, but there’s no other explanation, right?”
Hansol shrugged.
The boy sighed again and sunk into the couch cushions. “Why me?”
There was a brief yet comfortable moment of silence, then the boy’s face lit up again.
“So what else can witches do?” he asked, a small hint of something exciting in his voice.
“Cast spells, brew potions, charm things,” Hansol counted them off on his fingers. “What else? Oh yeah, the cool stuff like astral projection and telekinesis and mind reading.”
“Holy shit,” the boy whispered. “You can do all of that?”
“Nah, I can only do the less cool stuff. And then I sell whatever I make. But it seems like you can teleport?”
“Teleportation, huh. But why can I do it and not you?"
“All witches have a special power that they are somewhat better at than others. I’m pretty skilled in tarot cards. My mom was an expert in divination. My friend calls himself a crystal expert, if you can believe him in any way. And your unique power is supposed to guide you in life, sort of like a helping hand.”
“That’s a little too much for me to handle right now,” the boy groaned. “Maybe get back to me another day to tell me that.”
“Seems reasonable,” Hansol said. You’ve had an exhausting night. You should probably be heading back home now. Do you live with your parents? They might be worried.”
“I live alone, so that’s not really a problem” the boy reassured, then spent a moment thinking. “Should I try teleporting back home?”
“You could try. Unless you’re exhausted.”
The boy huffed. “I am exhausted. I could just walk. Where is this shop located anyway?”
“We’re about a half mile away from the south side post office,” Hansol said.
“Oh, that’s not too far away.” He stood up and dusted himself off. “Thanks for not… thinking I’m weird. For helping me out, I mean.”
Hansol chuckled. “Not a problem. At least you ended up beaming into my shop. You would have been confused if you were anywhere else.”
“True,” the boy mused. “I’ll get going then…”
“Are you sure you can get to your house by yourself? It’s getting late and you know its not exactly the safest neighborhood. I’ll come with you if you want.”
The boy’s eyes widened. “No, no, that’s alright. It’s not far.”
Hansol followed him as he walked to the entrance.
“Bye, then,” he said with a small wave. Hansol waved back and watched him head out, his hands in his pockets and a soft smile on his face.