You hummed softly as you prepared a potion, pouring the ingredients in, little by little;

Your familiar, Leon, approached, sniffing the scent, drawn to the smell of the herbs. He leaned over your shoulder, looking at the pot with curiosity.

You were his witch and he was your familiar, ever since you were seven.

You couldn’t imagine living without him, despite his often grumpy behavior.

The familiar purred, against you, satisfied by the smell of the herbs, and this satisfaction intensified when you felt you scratch him behind his ears.

“What are you preparing?” He asked, curious, his eyes still fixed on the pot.