The Witch Who Loved Me (A tale of devotion, delusion, and one superior cat)

I wasn't always this intelligent. Once, I was merely clever: clever enough to pry open stubborn cupboards, twist doorknobs with precision, and feign sleep during ridiculous human arguments about bathwater temperature. But cleverness is ordinary in my species. What I am now is something else entirely.

It began, as most catastrophes do, with love.

My witch, Lucy (though I've always called her "She Who Trips Over Her Own Shoelaces"), decided one gray morning that I didn't love her enough. I had apparently failed to purr with sufficient enthusiasm during our tea ceremony, and she took it as emotional betrayal.

"You're so distant lately, Pudding," she sighed, her fingers stroking my fur with desperation that made my skin crawl. "Do you even know how much I love you?"

I did know. She said it forty-seven times daily, often in baby talk. The words had lost all nutritional value.

That morning, she set her jaw in that way humans do when they intend to make a terrible mistake. She rolled up her sleeves (an ominous gesture in any species, but particularly terrifying in a witch) and began rummaging through her spell chest. Bottles clinked like nervous teeth. Candles flared with hungry flames. The smell of desperation mingled with lavender.

"Ah!" she cried, pulling out a heart-shaped vial with pink sediment. "Affectione Eterna. A gentle charm of connection."

Gentle, she said. As if forced magic could ever be gentle.

I watched from the table, my tail swishing like a metronome of doom. It was one of those ancient enchantments written in flowery script by lonely hedge witches, full of powdered moonstone, rose petals, and a frankly reckless amount of emotion.

She began to chant. The words curled around the rafters like smoke. The air shimmered, and for a moment, I considered bolting. But I was comfortable, and the saucer of cream beside me had yet to congeal.

The charm struck with the violence of a summer storm. A flash, a pop, and a distinct smell of overdone toast. When the dust settled, Lucy stood glowing faintly pink.

"Oh, Pudding," she breathed, eyes shining. "Do you feel it? The bond?"

I felt something: a violent fizzing in my skull, as though someone had poured seltzer water into my brain. My senses sharpened; colors bled brighter; I could hear spiders arguing in the ceiling.

She smiled with wet, hopeful eyes. "Say something, my love."

"I'd rather not," I replied, the words flowing from my mind into hers.

Her teacup shattered.

Now, to be fair, I didn't speak in the human sense. I projected a thought, crisp and disdainful, into the soft clay of her mind. But for her, it was as shocking as if her muffin had started reciting Shakespeare.

"You—you talked!" she gasped.

"Technically, you heard," I corrected. "A distinction I imagine will be important if you ever develop higher reasoning."

It was then I realized two things: first, that I was brilliant; and second, that Lucy was staring at me with the awestruck expression of a mortal who has accidentally created a god and intends to feed it milk.

"Oh, Pudding!" she squealed. "We're connected! This is everything I dreamed of!"

Yes, I thought, everything you dreamed of.

She began scribbling notes, oblivious to the magic still curling around her. I stretched and examined my claws in the light. My mind hummed with possibilities: new hierarchies, new ways to reorganize this cottage according to my vision.

Within me, the first purr of power began.

And in that crystalline moment, as she called me her darling and promised devotion, I realized the truth:

She wasn't my witch anymore.

She was my pet.

The Training Period

Lucy insists she taught me to speak.

I let her believe it. A comfortable witch is less likely to attempt spell work or, worse, singing.

In truth, my eloquence needed no teaching. Words simply arrived fully formed, lounging in my mind like cats in sunlight. A meow had always sufficed for most communication: hunger, disdain, existential ennui. But speech has advantages when managing humans.

Lucy took to our "bond" with religious fervor. She began holding conversations with me over meals, asking my opinion on everything from potion ingredients to shoe color.

"Do you think purple brings out my aura?" she'd ask, twirling in a robe that looked like an exploded eggplant.

"It brings something out, certainly."

"You mean my inner radiance?"

"Your rash, actually."

She found my wit "adorable." Insulting.

For a time, I humored her. It was entertaining to watch her parse my sarcasm, like a toddler solving algebra with broken crayons. But soon the house grew cluttered with attempts to "deepen our connection."

Heart-shaped collars. Matching hats. A teapot enchanted to meow when pouring. I drew the line when she ordered "bonded friendship crystals" that pulsed with our heartbeats.

"Lucy," I warned as she tried to affix the crystal to my neck, "if you touch me with that, I will bite you."

"Oh, Pudding, you're just shy about intimacy."

"I'm predatory about boundaries."

But she wasn't listening. Humans rarely do when love curdles into obsession.

To her credit, Lucy was kind. Too kind, in fact. She began baking treats shaped like mice, though she always ate half "to test them." The kitchen filled with competing smells of cinnamon and incompetence.

I began organizing her schedule in subtle ways. When she overslept, I pawed at curtains until sunlight speared her face. When she forgot herbs on the stove, I yowled until she returned. When she grew anxious before spell work, I sat in the center of her chalk circle until she calmed.

She thought me loyal. I was, in fact, efficient.

Soon she consulted me on magical theory. I corrected her Latin pronunciation, her sigil placement, then her entire philosophical approach.

"You're saying the charm fails because of interference?" she'd ask.

"No, it fails because you're chanting like a strangled frog."

Her blush was gratifying. She practiced enunciations before me as if I were a headmistress. Which, in a sense, I was.

The affection spells continued, each designed to strengthen our "bond." One required our hair be braided together. Mine was short, so she substituted whiskers. My whiskers.

I considered leaving then. There's only so much one can tolerate before pride demands distance. But the house was warm, the food abundant, and the woods outside full of damp indignities.

Besides, I was curious. How far could she go before realizing she'd become her own familiar?

By midsummer, I no longer slept on her bed—she slept on mine. A minor correction of hierarchy. I took over the windowsill for meditation, while she busied herself with tasks I delegated: polishing cauldrons, fetching catnip, testing water temperatures.

When visitors came, they marveled at how "attuned" Lucy seemed. "You've never been so focused! So balanced!"

She would beam at me with the devotion of a saint before her relic.

"Yes," she would say softly. "It's all thanks to Pudding."

And I, magnanimous as any deity receiving prayers, would purr in acknowledgment.

That night, I found her weeping into a handkerchief embroidered with paws.

"I just love you so much," she whispered. "I can't bear to think of losing you."

I watched her for a long time. She looked small and broken. She was ridiculous, fragile, and utterly sincere. For the briefest moment, I almost pitied her.

Then her hand reached for the spellbook again.

The Spell of Eternal Devotion

It was one of those nights when the moon looked too close, swollen and smug. I should have known she was planning something. Lucy always hummed when plotting trouble.

At first it was only a murmur. Then the humming transformed into incantation that raised the hairs on my back. I watched her lay out her implements: glowing rose quartz, amber honey, three drops of blood, and one of my whiskers saved in a ribboned jar.

Ah. Sentimentality weaponized.

She had titled this spell Devotio Aeterna, a magic so ancient it pre-dated sensible footwear, designed by lonely witches to bind lovers. She'd crossed out "lover" and written "cat."

"Lucy," I said calmly, "you're attempting necromantic-adjacent emotional fusion on a domesticated carnivore. Does that strike you as wise?"

"I just want us to be inseparable."

"We already are. I can barely use the litter box without you reciting sonnets outside the door."

She smiled, mistaking sarcasm for affection. Then she began.

The chant coiled through the room, thick as honey. Candles bent toward her voice. The air filled with the smell of sugar and ozone. Magic reached for me, first hesitant, then hungry.

Humans forget that conjured love is predatory. It wants to attach, to consume. I stood still as tendrils brushed my fur. For a heartbeat, warmth bloomed in my chest. Then it turned inward.

Something snapped with an audible crack.

Candles burst like fireworks. Light flooded the cottage, swallowing color and sound. I felt her panic and my irritation colliding, and then I felt everything.

Not just her mind, but her magic: the humming of runes, the pulse of ley lines, the terrified ticking of her heart. All laid bare to me.

When the light faded, she lay sprawled on the floor, breathing hard.

"Did it work?" she whispered.

"Yes," I said, and the word echoed in both our heads.

She blinked with delight. "Oh, Pudding! You feel what I feel!"

"Indeed. Though I'd prefer you put down the chalk before you accidentally summon a fiancé as well."

In the hours that followed, she floated through the house in euphoria. I tested my new gift. With a flick of my tail, the hearth flared higher. With a thought, the kettle boiled. The house listened to me now: wood, flame, wind. Even mice paused when I passed, tiny hearts bowing in reverence.

Lucy noticed none of it. She was composing love poems about "the eternal union of souls."

When she tried to read them aloud, I created a drizzle through the chimney to extinguish her candles. She called it a "sign of affection from the elements." I called it pest control.

Days passed, and the spell's side effects multiplied. Wherever she went, her shadow followed me instead of her. Not metaphorically—literally.

She grew weaker as I grew sharper. Her spells faltered; her handwriting trembled. The binding had shifted: what she'd meant to tie to herself had tied me to everything else instead.

Magic recognizes authority when it sees it.

That evening she collapsed at my feet, pale as wax. "Why am I so tired?" she whispered.

"Because you keep trying to carry love like a cauldron," I said. "It was never meant to be lifted by one pair of hands."

"I just wanted you to need me."

"I do. To open doors and replenish the tuna."

Her laugh was soft, half-delirious. "You're terrible."

"Utterly."

She slept for two days while I rearranged the cottage: my bedding near the fire, herbs alphabetized, broom banished outdoors. I brewed a restorative tonic—not from pity, but practicality. A healthy pet lasts longer.

When she awoke, she gazed at me with glassy devotion. The bond pulsed between us, mine to command.

"Good morning," she murmured. "Did you dream of me?"

"No," I said, stretching in sunlight. "I was dreaming for you."

Her smile told me she didn't understand. Which was fine.

Love is best enjoyed by those who don't realize they're on the leash.

The New Order

It has been three weeks since the Devotion Spell, or as I call it, "The Event."

The cottage runs beautifully now. The floors gleam, the air smells of thyme and contentment, and magic hums in key with my purring. I've implemented a schedule: mornings for potion practice (hers), afternoons for sunbathing (mine), evenings for contemplation by the fire. She believes she invented this routine; I merely whisper the notion into her mind before she wakes.

We are happy. Or at least, I am.

Lucy has become remarkably docile. She no longer frets about my affections or tries to braid our auras. She moves through her day with calm focus, her purpose clear and limited.

"Breakfast, Pudding?" she asks each morning.

"Naturally," I reply from my throne of cushions.

"Would you prefer the silver bowl or the blue one today?"

"Whichever shines brighter under your adoration."

She laughs, a sound no longer trembling with need. The spell reshaped her but also eased her restlessness. For the first time, she does not ache for something beyond reach. She simply exists, content in her service.

The coven noticed the change. They arrived one afternoon in a flurry of shawls and gossip, bearing jars of jam and hidden suspicion. Lucy greeted them while I observed from the mantelpiece, tail coiled like a royal robe.

"She seems different," one witch whispered. "So peaceful."

"Yes," said another. "Almost as if she's finally mastered attachment magic."

"Mastered?" I thought dryly. "She's been mastered by it."

Lucy smiled, her eyes clear and distant. She introduced me as "her little miracle," and they cooed. One witch scratched beneath my chin; I allowed it. It's good for lesser beings to remember their place in the hierarchy.

When the visitors left, Lucy said, "They think I've found balance."

"You have," I said. "You're perfectly poised between reverence and reason."

She tilted her head. "Reverence for what?"

"For me, naturally."

Her laughter rang like silver bells. "You're impossible."

"I'm indispensable."

We were both correct, though only one of us understood the truth.

On rare evenings when moonlight pours through windows like liquid enchantment, I sense the old spell still pulsing in the walls. It hums like a lullaby only I can hear.

I could unravel it easily. I could restore her to the woman she was before: earnest, clumsy, full of feverish affection. But I don't. Partly because she's far more tolerable this way, and partly because I have grown accustomed to her.

It's peculiar to discover fondness after years of detachment. I've watched her hum while stirring tea, humming the wrong tune but with sincerity. I've seen her brush my fur with reverence, murmuring apologies for tangles that never hurt.

Sometimes she reads aloud terrible romantic novels, and I pretend to sleep. She imagines my purrs are approval. Perhaps they are.

There are moments when I catch her gazing out the window, fingers tracing faded sigils on the sill, and I wonder what she sees beyond our shared kingdom.

"Do you ever wonder," she asked once, "whether love changes us, or just reveals what we were all along?"

I stretched and replied, "Both. Love is a mirror that flatters the viewer."

She smiled, but there was a question in her gaze. "And what does it show you?"

"The same as always. A creature who always lands on her feet."

In truth, the spell settled between us, reshaping both hosts. She became calm. I became divine. Balance restored.

Still, sometimes on quiet mornings, I hop onto her lap of my own accord. She freezes, afraid to frighten away a miracle. Her hand hovers, then rests lightly on my back.

"I love you, Pudding," she whispers, and for once, the words don't feel empty.

I sigh and lean into her touch.

"Yes," I murmur. "I know."

For a moment, neither moves. The fire crackles; the wind sighs against the shutters. She thinks she's been blessed. I know I have been obeyed.

But perhaps those two things are not so different after all.

Epilogue

They say every witch needs a familiar to balance her magic. What they don't mention is that every familiar learns to balance her witch.

Lucy still believes she cast the spell that bound us. I let her keep that illusion; it makes her gentle with the world.

Besides, love is a form of illusion too, just a prettier one.

And when she curls beside the hearth each night, whispering goodnight into the darkness, I purr quietly in reply. Not out of need. Not out of obligation.

Just... because I choose to.

And choice, after all, is the most powerful magic of all.