Chapter Text
The scent of freshly brewed coffee filled the kitchen as Agatha Harkness stood by the counter, stirring a splash of cream into her cup with slow, methodical movements. The world was quiet in the mornings—before the phone started ringing, before her music school filled with students, before life demanded anything from her. Mornings were hers.
Or at least, they used to be.
Across the table, her 10-year-old son, Nicky, practically vibrated with excitement as he shoveled cereal into his mouth like he hadn’t eaten in days. His tablet sat propped up beside his bowl, replaying one of the most recent The Coven concerts, the sound low but unmistakable—the pulse of drums, the wail of a guitar, the unmistakable growl of her voice.
“Did you see that solo?” Nicky asked, barely pausing to breathe before launching into full-on hero-worship. “Did you see how Rio Vidal absolutely destroyed that riff? She’s so cool, Mom. Like, actually the coolest person on the planet. Maybe the universe.”
Agatha sighed and turned a page of the Los Angeles Times. “Must we do this over breakfast?”
Nicky ignored her, too caught up in his own enthusiasm. “I mean, she’s a legend. Top five greatest living guitarists—maybe top three! And that song? Ugh. Perfection .” He made a dramatic hand gesture, nearly knocking over his orange juice in the process.
Agatha reached out, steadying the glass before it spilled. “Language, Nicky.”
“What? I didn’t even say a bad word!”
“You said ‘destroyed’ and ‘ugh’ with entirely too much feeling.”
“Because it deserved feeling,” Nicky insisted, exasperated. He turned the screen toward her, rewinding the video. “Just look at this—watch her hands, the way she moves—”
Agatha sighed again, glancing up briefly. The camera panned in on Rio Vidal, all wild long dark hair and tattooed arms, her guitar slung low as she played like the instrument was a part of her body. The crowd roared, the stage lights bathed her in red, and she grinned, eyes half-lidded, like she knew she had them in the palm of her hand.
Agatha turned back to her paper. “Yes. Very impressive.”
“You didn’t even watch!”
“I watched enough.”
Truthfully, Agatha had heard of Rio Vidal. It was impossible not to when the woman’s face was plastered on billboards along Sunset Boulevard, her smirk promising a good time to anyone reckless enough to take the invitation. She was the kind of musician who burned fast and bright, the kind who made headlines as often as she made music.
And Agatha had no patience for that kind of chaos.
Still, Nicky’s admiration was relentless. “If she ever—ever—walked into your school, I think I’d actually pass out.”
Agatha snorted. “Then I suppose it’s good we don’t take in rockstars.”
~*~
After dropping Nicky off at school—where he barely managed a rushed, “Bye, Mom!” before darting off to find Billy and Tommy—Agatha made her way to Sonata Grove.
Nestled in a quiet Los Feliz neighborhood, Sonata Grove was both Agatha’s sanctuary and her life’s work. She had founded the school eight years ago, not just to teach music but to create a place where discipline and artistry could coexist. A place where structure could nurture talent instead of stifling it.
Housed in a restored Spanish-style building, the school had an undeniable charm—arched doorways, warm wooden floors, and walls lined with framed concert programs and black-and-white photographs of classical greats. A baby grand piano sat in the main lobby, flanked by a few well-loved guitars, their polished surfaces reflecting the soft morning light. The sound of music filled the air at all hours—piano scales drifting from one room, a violin being tuned in another, and the occasional hesitant pluck of a guitar from a student still finding their footing.
As Agatha stepped inside, the familiar scent of aged sheet music and cedar wrapped around her. The building always smelled like this—a mix of history and possibility.
“Morning, boss,” came Wanda’s voice from down the hall.
Agatha found her best friend standing at the front desk, glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, scanning the day’s schedule on her tablet. A cup of tea—Agatha’s, no doubt—sat beside her, already steeped to perfection.
“Morning,” Agatha replied, setting down her bag.
“Busy day,” Wanda said, barely glancing up. “And before you ask—yes, your tea is ready, because I am an angel sent from above.”
Agatha exhaled in relief, taking the cup. “Remind me why I keep you around?”
“My sparkling personality, cutting wit, and the fact that I single-handedly keep this place from descending into anarchy,” Wanda said, deadpan.
“Debatable.”
“Oh, come on, we both know you’d rather deal with an off-key oboe than handle scheduling conflicts and tuition disputes.”
Agatha hummed, sipping her tea. It was perfect, as always—Earl Grey, just the right temperature, brewed exactly the way she liked. Wanda had long since memorized her preferences, which Agatha supposed was a mark of both their friendship and Wanda’s preternatural ability to keep Sonata Grove running like a well-oiled machine.
The front door opened, letting in a warm breeze along with Lilia, who strode in with her usual dramatic flair, a script tucked under one arm and an oversized coffee in hand.
“Good morning, darlings,” Lilia greeted, tossing her sunglasses onto the desk. “Agatha, dear, I need you to settle a debate—” She paused, sniffing the air. “Ah, tea’s been handled. Wanda, you’re a goddess.”
“I know.” Wanda smirked.
Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “I haven’t even finished my first cup, and you’re already dragging me into one of your nonsense debates?”
Lilia placed a hand over her heart. “Nonsense? Nonsense? Agatha, please. This is a theatrical emergency.”
“She’s been arguing with her director about whether Lady Macbeth should or should not wear heels in Act Two,” Wanda supplied, not looking up from the tablet.
Agatha arched an eyebrow. “That’s the emergency?”
Lilia huffed. “Heels change posture, posture changes presence, presence changes performance, Agatha.”
Agatha sighed. “You’ll wear whatever your director tells you to wear.”
Lilia gasped, deeply betrayed. “Et tu, Harkness?”
“Moving on,” Agatha said dryly, holding out a hand for the schedule. “What’s on the agenda today?”
Wanda handed over a folder instead. “You’ve got a new student. Fifteen-year-old, piano. Her mom filled out the paperwork online last night. You’re meeting her at four.”
Agatha opened the folder, skimming the application.
Amelia Vidal.
Her fingers stilled. The last name tugged at something in her mind—familiar, but not immediately concerning. Then her gaze flicked lower, to the emergency contact section.
Parent/Guardian: Rio Vidal.
Agatha inhaled sharply.
She knew that name. Everyone did.
She closed the folder with a crisp snap.
Wanda, who had been watching her, raised an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”
Agatha set the folder down. “Not at all.”
But as she took another sip of tea, she suddenly wished it were something stronger.
~*~
The name Rio Vidal echoed in Agatha’s mind long after she set the folder down.
It wasn’t just that Rio was famous. That much, Agatha could handle. She had spent enough of her career rubbing shoulders with renowned musicians, attending events where legends floated through the room like ghosts, their names spoken in hushed, reverent tones.
But Rio Vidal wasn’t just famous. She was loudly famous.
Lead guitarist and vocalist of The Coven , one of the biggest rock bands of the last decade. Known for blistering solos, whiskey-soaked vocals, and an unpredictable energy that made her performances electric. The kind of musician who played by instinct rather than theory, who thrived on improvisation rather than careful composition.
The complete antithesis of everything Agatha valued.
And now, her daughter was about to become Agatha’s student.
She pressed her lips together, forcing the thought aside. This wasn’t about Rio. This was about Amelia. Whatever reason Rio had for enrolling her daughter in Sonata Grove, it was none of Agatha’s business. If Amelia was serious about classical music, Agatha would teach her like she would any other student.
She would be professional.
And yet, some part of her—the same part that still remembered Nicky babbling excitedly about Rio Vidal’s guitar solo this morning—couldn’t quite shake the sense that this was going to complicate her life in ways she had no time or patience for.
“Earth to Agatha.”
Wanda’s voice yanked her back to reality.
Agatha blinked, realizing she had been staring at the same spot on the desk for longer than was reasonable. Wanda and Lilia were both watching her with varying degrees of amusement.
“You never space out like that,” Wanda said, crossing her arms. “What gives?”
“Nothing,” Agatha said smoothly, picking up her tea.
Lilia narrowed her eyes and picked up the folder, opening it immediately. “Oh no. That was definitely something. Who’s Amelia Vidal?”
“A new student,” Agatha replied, a little too quickly.
“And?”
“And nothing.”
Wanda’s eyes flicked to the folder. “Vidal… As in Rio Vidal?”
Agatha sighed, knowing resistance was futile.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Apparently, I’m teaching her daughter.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Lilia let out a delighted cackle.
“Oh, this is rich,” she declared. “Agatha Harkness, teaching the Rio Vidal’s kid. A rockstar’s offspring in your perfectly curated temple of classical precision. This is fate, darling.”
Agatha shot her a flat look. “Fate has a terrible sense of humor.”
“I’m just saying,” Lilia went on, clearly enjoying herself, “it’s rather poetic, isn’t it? The queen of structure and discipline, forced to interact with the wild, untamed force of nature that is Rio Vidal.” She grinned. “You two are going to hate each other.”
“I don’t intend to interact with her at all,” Agatha said. “I’m teaching Amelia. That’s it.”
Wanda hummed, an infuriatingly knowing expression crossing her face.
“Right,” she said. “You keep telling yourself that.”
Agatha rolled her eyes. “I am not engaging in this nonsense. I have work to do.”
“Of course, of course,” Wanda said breezily, already heading toward her office. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you when this blows up in your face.”
“It won’t,” Agatha called after her.
But even as she gathered her things for her first lesson of the day, she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling settling in her chest.
~*~
The afternoon sun cast long shadows through the arched windows of Sonata Grove as Agatha prepared for her final lesson of the day.
She straightened the sheet music on the piano, took a slow sip of her now-lukewarm tea, and exhaled. It was ridiculous how much she was thinking about this.
It’s just another student.
A knock at the door pulled her from her thoughts. Wanda’s head peeked in.
“Your four o’clock is here,” she announced, tone entirely too amused.
Agatha smoothed a hand over her skirt. “Send her in.”
Wanda disappeared, and a moment later, the door swung open again.
And there she was.
Amelia Vidal.
The girl was tall for her age, all long limbs and sharp angles, her dark curls half-heartedly pulled into a bun that was already coming undone. She wore a loose hoodie over ripped jeans, and her expression carried the distinct air of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
She barely looked at Agatha as she stepped inside, shifting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder.
Ah, Agatha thought. A challenge.
“Amelia,” she greeted, offering a small nod. “I’m Agatha Harkness. Welcome to Sonata Grove.”
The girl stiffened slightly at the sound of her own name. “Uh, yeah. Thanks.”
Interesting.
“Go ahead and take a seat,” Agatha instructed, gesturing toward the bench. “I’d like to start with a scale. Just to get a sense of where you are.”
Amelia hesitated, then moved to sit at the piano, her fingers hovering over the keys. There was tension in her shoulders, a sort of uncertainty that Agatha immediately clocked.
She waited.
A long moment passed.
Then, Amelia played.
The first few notes were tentative, careful. Then the next. And the next. A simple C major scale, played with textbook precision but none of the fluidity that came with confidence.
Agatha folded her arms. “Again.”
Amelia shot her a glance but complied. This time, it was slightly smoother.
“Hmm,” Agatha murmured. “You’ve had training before?”
“Sort of,” Amelia muttered.
“Sort of?”
The girl’s fingers twitched. “I picked up a little on my own.”
Agatha raised an eyebrow. “Self-taught?”
Amelia nodded once.
Interesting.
“Your technique is solid,” Agatha said, moving to stand beside the piano. “But you hesitate. That tells me you’re thinking too much about each note instead of feeling the movement between them.”
Amelia’s jaw tightened. “I don’t hesitate.”
Agatha smiled, just slightly. Teenagers.
“Of course not,” she said lightly. “Let’s try again.”
She reached out, gently adjusting the position of Amelia’s hand. The girl didn’t flinch, but there was a shift—subtle but telling.
A discomfort with being corrected.
A need to prove herself.
Agatha recognized it well.
“Again,” she instructed.
This time, the scale was smoother.
Better.
Amelia exhaled sharply, but there was the barest flicker of satisfaction in her expression.
Agatha noticed.
She nodded. “Good.”
For the first time, Amelia met her gaze directly.
And Agatha knew, in that moment, that this was going to be very interesting indeed.
~*~
The lesson continued in carefully measured steps. Agatha assessed Amelia’s posture, her finger placement, the way she carried tension in her shoulders. The girl took corrections with a quiet kind of resistance—she listened, but she didn’t like it.
Still, Agatha had taught enough students to know when someone was genuinely invested, and despite Amelia’s apparent aloofness, the way her fingers moved across the keys spoke volumes.
She cared.
She just didn’t want Agatha to know that she cared.
“Tell me,” Agatha said as she watched Amelia attempt a simple etude, “what made you interested in classical music?”
A muscle in Amelia’s jaw ticked. She didn’t answer right away, and for a moment, Agatha assumed she wouldn’t answer at all.
Then—
“I like how structured it is,” Amelia muttered, not looking up. “It makes sense.”
Agatha tilted her head slightly. “Unlike other kinds of music?”
Amelia’s fingers faltered for half a second before she recovered. “Rock is just noise.”
Ah. There it is.
Agatha hummed. “I imagine your mother might disagree.”
The words were barely out of her mouth before Amelia’s entire expression shuttered.
“Can we just focus on the lesson?” she said flatly.
Agatha lifted a brow but didn’t push.
Noted.
They continued in near silence, the only sound between them the deliberate notes of the piano. Amelia was determined, Agatha would give her that.
At the end of the lesson, Amelia finally turned to face her.
“How bad was I?” she asked, bracing herself.
Agatha regarded her for a moment.
“You’re disciplined,” she said, “but you don’t trust yourself yet.”
Amelia frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It means you play like someone who’s afraid of getting it wrong,” Agatha said simply. “Technique can be taught, but confidence? That’s something you have to find for yourself.”
Amelia didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, with a barely-there nod, she grabbed her bag.
“See you next week, I guess.”
And with that, she was gone.
Agatha exhaled, turning back toward the piano. She let her fingers drift across the keys, playing a few soft notes as she considered the lesson.
Then a voice from the door:
“Well, that was tense.”
Agatha didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.
“Wanda,” she said dryly, still playing. “Do you always eavesdrop on my lessons?”
“Only when they’re interesting,” Wanda said, stepping into the room with an all-too-knowing smirk. “And this one? Very interesting .”
Agatha sighed, shaking her head. “She’s just another student.”
Wanda’s smirk deepened. “Sure she is.”
Agatha shot her a look.
Wanda raised her hands in mock innocence. “Hey, I’m just saying—there’s a lot going on there. That girl’s got a chip on her shoulder the size of the Hollywood sign.”
“Yes, well,” Agatha said, pressing a final chord before standing, “she’s not my problem outside these lessons.”
Wanda hummed. “Mmm. Unless her mother becomes your problem.”
Agatha frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Wanda grinned. “Oh, you don’t know?”
“Know what?”
Wanda’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Rio Vidal just pulled up outside.”
Agatha went very, very still.
Wanda laughed. “Oh, this is going to be good.”
Agatha took a slow, measured breath and followed her friend out to the main lobby.
She wasn’t the type to be easily rattled. She had built an entire career on poise, precision, control. But there was something undeniably unsettling about the knowledge that Rio Vidal—rock legend, media darling, general force of chaos—was standing outside her music school.
And then the door swung open.
Rio Vidal walked in like she owned the place.
She was dressed in ripped black jeans and a faded band tee (not even her own band, Agatha noted, but an old Fleetwood Mac tour shirt), a leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Dark hair framed sharp features, and her smirk was the kind worn by someone who had never been told no a day in her life.
She was aggravatingly attractive.
Agatha straightened. Not relevant.
Rio’s gaze found her immediately, sharp brown eyes scanning her with obvious curiosity. Then she grinned, recognition flashing in her expression.
“So,” she said, voice smooth and amused, “you’re the one giving my kid piano lessons.”
Agatha met her stare evenly. “I am.”
Rio hummed. “Huh. Thought you’d be older.”
Agatha arched a brow. “Thought you’d be taller.”
From the doorway, Wanda made a strangled choking sound.
Rio blinked—then threw her head back and laughed.
Agatha hated how much she liked the sound of it.
“Alright,” Rio said, shaking her head. “I like you.”
“I don’t recall asking,” Agatha replied smoothly.
Rio grinned like that only entertained her further.
She shoved her hands in her pockets, glancing around. “So, how’s she doing?”
Agatha didn’t need clarification. “Amelia has a natural ear for melody. Strong technique. But she’s holding herself back.”
Rio tilted her head. “How so?”
“She’s precise, but hesitant. She plays like someone waiting for permission,” Agatha said simply. “She’s afraid of making mistakes.”
Rio let out a short breath, nodding like that made perfect sense. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
Agatha studied her. “She doesn’t want to be compared to you.”
Something flickered in Rio’s expression. For a moment, the playful ease dropped, and Agatha saw something much sharper underneath.
“Yeah,” Rio muttered. “I know.”
Agatha hesitated before continuing. “I believe she enjoys classical music.”
That made Rio snort. “Yeah, no shit. She listens to Chopin the way other kids listen to pop music. Don’t get me wrong, I love that she’s into music at all, but—”
“But it’s not your music,” Agatha finished for her.
Rio gave her a wry look. “Exactly.”
Agatha considered her for a moment. Despite everything—her overwhelming presence, her effortless confidence—Rio Vidal was a mother first. And Agatha could see the complicated tangle of emotions in her expression: pride, confusion, maybe even a little hurt.
“She doesn’t have to be you,” Agatha said carefully. “And I don’t think she wants to be.”
Rio let out a short, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. That’s the part I’m still wrapping my head around.”
She ran a hand through her hair and checked the time on her phone. “Anyway. Thanks for being patient with her. She, uh… she quits things a lot. So, we’ll see how long this lasts.”
Agatha straightened. “If she stays, I’ll make sure she excels.”
Rio grinned. “Yeah, I get that vibe from you, Miss Harkness.”
She turned to leave, then hesitated.
For a split second, it looked like she wanted to say something else.
Then she shook it off and shot her one last smirk. “See you around.”
And just like that, she was gone, apparently content to wait for her daughter on her own.
Agatha exhaled, only now realizing how tightly wound she’d been standing.
Behind her, Wanda cackled.
Agatha turned, scowling. “Not a word.”
Wanda smirked. “Oh, darling. I wouldn’t dare.”
Agatha closed her eyes. She had a feeling she was going to regret all of this.
~*~
Agatha had exactly three seconds of peace before he arrived.
The front door swung open, and in barreled Nicky—freshly dropped off from baseball practice, still in his uniform, backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder. He was mid-sentence about something, when he froze.
Agatha could only watch in muted horror as his expression morphed from vague exhaustion to startled recognition, and then— oh no —outright elation.
Rio Vidal was standing just a few feet away, casually leaning against the wall outside the bathroom, arms crossed, looking at her phone as she waited for Amelia.
Nicky’s baseball bag hit the floor with a dull thud. His mouth opened. No sound came out.
Agatha could practically see the moment his brain caught up with reality.
Like watching a car crash in slow motion, she knew what was about to happen, couldn’t stop it, and was entirely powerless to look away.
Nicky inhaled sharply—
“OH MY GOD.”
Rio startled slightly, glancing up. Then she blinked, eyes flicking to Agatha and back to the ten-year-old currently vibrating with barely restrained excitement.
“Uh,” Rio said.
“ Oh my God ,” Nicky repeated, louder this time, practically bouncing on his toes. “ You’re Rio Vidal !”
Rio tilted her head, grinning slightly. “That’s what they tell me.”
“MOM!” Nicky whipped around so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet, his expression caught somewhere between betrayal and ecstatic disbelief. “ You didn’t tell me you know Rio Vidal! ”
Agatha pressed her lips together, inhaling sharply through her nose. “I don’t know Rio Vidal.”
Nicky turned back to Rio, eyes wide. “Do you know my mom?”
Rio, clearly entertained, shrugged. “We just met.”
Nicky gasped as if this was the single most unfair thing in the entire world.
“AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?”
Agatha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Nicky—”
“I have posters of you in my room!” he blurted, addressing Rio now, as if Agatha no longer existed. “And The Coven’s entire discography on vinyl! And mom got me a signed copy of Devil in the details for my birthday!”
Rio’s eyebrows shot up. “Damn. That’s commitment. Even I don’t have the vinyls.”
Nicky let out a strangled sound, like he might actually combust.
Agatha sighed. This was exactly what she had been afraid of.
Before she could attempt damage control, the bathroom door swung open and Amelia stepped out, running a hand through her hair. She barely got two steps before stopping in confusion at the scene unfolding before her.
“What,” she asked slowly, “is happening right now?”
Agatha felt an oncoming headache press at her temples.
“Nicky,” she said, voice deceptively calm, “this is Amelia Vidal. My student. And Rio is her mother.”
Nicky whipped back to Rio, stunned. “You have a daughter?!”
Mia crossed her arms. “Yeah. Hi. I’m right here.”
Rio snorted, clearly having the time of her life.
Nicky’s brain short-circuited. “ Mom ,” he hissed in a stage whisper, as if Rio couldn’t hear him, “ How did you not tell me this ?”
Agatha, exhausted beyond measure, exhaled slowly and decided she was going to fake her own death before the week was out.
Rio clapped a hand over her mouth to hide her laughter. “Damn,” she murmured, voice full of amusement. “You’re in trouble now, Harkness.”
Agatha shot her a glare.
Nicky, meanwhile, had turned his awe back on Rio. “Okay, but—you’re really here? Like, actually here?”
Rio smirked. “Last time I checked.”
Nicky inhaled again, eyes shining with determination. “Can I play guitar with you?”
Amelia groaned audibly, rubbing her temples. “ Oh my God .”
Agatha silently wished for divine intervention.
And Rio?
Rio just grinned, looking entirely entertained.