Harry Potter: House Magus

Mornings started with sound.

The rattle of the kettle, the clink of Nan's wedding ring against the teacup, the soft thump of Grandad's cane against the hallway wall. They were small things. Predictable. Comforting.

I had gotten up late today.

When I sat up, the sunlight had already stretched past the windowpanes. My heartbeat was steady. There was no rush—just motion. I carefully pulled on my shirt, tucked it in, and padded barefoot downstairs.

The scent of toast and tea met me halfway. Butter. Dusty coal heat. A hint of lavender from Mum's apron.

Nan stood over the stove in the kitchen, cracking eggs with practised hands. Mum stirred something at the counter. Their movements flowed together like a dance rehearsed a thousand times.

I stepped forward, voice calm. "How can I help?"

Nan turned, a smile already forming. "Just go sit down, sweetheart. Breakfast's nearly done."

I nodded and made my way to the dining table. I didn't push—I never did. 

Babbo entered a moment later, boots loud on the tile. His scarf hung crooked around his neck, and Mum moved without a word to fix it. He kissed the top of my head as he passed, his fingers smelling of metal and engine grease.

Grandad came in next, slower, his limp more pronounced this week. He ruffled my hair gently. "Keep your mum in line, eh?"

"I'll try," I said.

He grinned, then followed Babbo out, their voices low and fading.

Mum brought over three mugs—two teas and one warm milk—and placed them down carefully. "Drink while it's hot, love."

We sat together, the three of us. We had eggs, toast, tomato slices, and leftover potatoes fried in butter. Nan ate with small bites and slow movements. Mum's plate was half-finished before she paused, watching something out the window.

When we finished, I helped with the dishes. My arms weren't quite long enough, but I could dry them carefully and methodically. I liked the sound the plates made when they clicked together just right.

After we finished, I dried my hands and turned to the back door.

"I'm going out to the garden," I said.

"Alright, honey," Mum replied. "Don't go too far."

The garden was small, boxed in by brick walls and sagging trellis. But it was enough.

I moved through it with purpose. One lap at a jog. Then, up onto the overturned crate beside the fence. Balance. Breathe. Down. Roll. Again.

At three, I knew I had limits. But I also knew I could build past them. Slowly. Quietly. One step at a time.

Good habits start early. I wasn't training to impress. I was training to improve.

I climbed the tree near the gate—left foot, right hand, swing—then dropped back to the ground and landed softly. My palms stung. My heartbeat thrummed in my ears.

Perfect.

I slipped behind the shed when I was sure no one was watching from the kitchen window. The earth was soft there, worn down by repeated visits. I crouched low and retrieved the pebble I had used for nearly a year. It was smooth, worn from fingers and weather.

I placed it gently on the ground and sat cross-legged before it.

Breathe in. Focus.

The magic stirred behind my ribs like a tremor in the deep. It wasn't strong. Not yet. But it was there.

I stared, willing it forward.

The pebble trembled—then nudged forward. Three centimetres. Enough to count. Enough to matter.

Sweat beaded on my forehead. My pulse slowed, then spiked. A headache scratched at the back of my skull.

I let go. 

'Stop while you're ahead'

I reminded myself.

I wiped my hands on my trousers and strolled back into the house.

Inside, Mum, Nan, and Nonna sat close together, knitting, flipping through recipes, and sipping tea.

Nan looked up first. "Tired yourself out, sweetheart?"

I nodded. "A little."

Mum tilted her head. "You alright?"

"Just need a drink," I said.

I walked into the kitchen, pulled myself up on the stool, and poured water from the chipped ceramic jug. The glass felt cold in my palm.

Behind me, the soft murmur of conversation started again. Latin from Nonna. A joke from Nan. A hum from Mum, halfway to a lullaby.

I sat there quietly, sipping slowly, soaking it in.

Nan made sandwiches for lunch. Thick, slightly uneven slices of brown bread filled with cheese and tomatoes from the garden window sill. She set them out without fanfare, with a plate of apple slices and a jar of mustard no one used but her.

I helped carry the mugs. One at a time. Carefully.

We sat together in the warm lull of midday.

"Tell us what you're reading lately, darling," Nan said between bites.

I reached for the book on the shelf behind me. It was worn soft at the edges—Tales for Thoughtful Children—its blue cover faded, the corners chewed by time, mice, or maybe me, long ago.

I flipped it open to where the ribbon rested. "The boy who built a house with no door."

"Oh, I remember that one," Mum said, wiping her hands on her apron. "He thought no one would ever leave him if they couldn't walk out, didn't he?"

I nodded. "But in the end, he was the one who couldn't leave."

Nan sighed. "That ending's always sad."

I glanced at her, then at the book. "It's not sad. It's just true."

That silenced the table for a moment.

Mum smiled into her tea. "You always did see things a little different, love."

I didn't respond. Just kept reading. The words were simple, but they hit hard. I liked how the story didn't flinch from loneliness. Like it knew something, most grown-ups pretended not to.

By afternoon, the kitchen had settled again. The light outside had turned softer and greyer. A hint of coal smoke crept in through the cracked window. Nonna started humming an old folk song under her breath, her hands busy with a tangle of wool.

Mum leaned over her sewing, needle darting through a frayed cuff.

"Do you like the story?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," I said. "He didn't win, but he learned."

"What did he learn?"

"That walls keep everyone out. Even the ones you want to stay."

Mum's needle paused for just a second. Then resumed.

"That's a hard thing for a little one to say."

"I'm not little," I replied calmly. "Just small."

Nan laughed, a soft, wheezing laugh. "Lord help us when he's got height to match his mouth."

Dusk fell gently. The windows fogged slightly at the corners. I helped set the table—cutlery first, then plates. My hands knew where everything went.

The door creaked open just past six. Grandad entered first, leaning heavier on his cane than yesterday. He exhaled like the day had wrung him dry.

"Alright, ladies?" he said. Then saw me and smiled. "And young lord Russo."

I gave him a half-bow from my seat. "Dinner's ready."

He groaned as he lowered himself into the armchair by the fire. "Don't I know it. My knees told me an hour ago."

Nonno came in next, silent as usual. He kissed Nonna's cheek, murmured something in Italian, and took his place at the head of the table. He smelled of sawdust and tobacco and the cold.

Babbo was last. His coat was damp at the shoulders, his face tired. He kissed Mum without words and hung his jacket by the door.

I watched him walk. Slower than usual. Not from pain, but weight. Invisible kind.

He ran a hand through his hair, sighed, and joined us at the table.

Dinner was stew—carrots, barley, and a bit of mutton from the butcher's discount. It was warm, rich, and heavy with garlic.

"Enzo," Mum said gently, "did they say anything?"

Babbo didn't meet her eyes. "They cut me down to four days a week."

Nan made a sharp noise with her teeth. "Bloody shame. After all your years there."

"It's not personal," he muttered.

"But it feels personal," Mum said, her voice low.

I watched the silence fall over him. I watched the way he stirred his stew without eating. I watched the way his eyes flicked to the fire, then away.

Grandad spoke next. "Maybe it's a sign, Enzo. Could do with less of that place gnawing at your bones. You're still young enough to pivot."

Babbo gave him a dry look. "You think I've got options lined up, Dad?"

"No," Grandad said. "But you've got a boy."

Everyone glanced at me.

I didn't look away.

Mum's hand reached across the table, fingers brushing Babbo's.

"Alright," she said. "We'll manage. Like always."

That night, I helped clear the plates and dried each fork and spoon until they gleamed. Nonno said nothing, just patting my back as he passed. Grandad grunted with effort as he rose from the chair. Babbo lingered at the window, the flicker of worry still etched in his jaw.

And I stood quietly at the sink, watching the last drops of stew swirl down the drain.

The world was changing. I could feel it.

But we were still together.

For now, that was enough.

After dinner, the house softened.

Voices lowered. Footsteps slowed. The sharp clatter of plates gave way to the hush of cloth drying porcelain to yawns half-hidden behind teacups.

Nonno disappeared into his room without a word, as he often did. His presence lingered even in his absence, like the scent of old wood or the echo of a prayer still hanging in the air.

Grandad remained by the fire, slippered feet stretched toward the hearth, eyes half-lidded. One hand curled loosely around his cane. The other rested in his lap, trembling faintly. He didn't speak much after supper these days. Just listened. And sometimes nodded to no one in particular.

Babbo sat with him, both men staring into the flickering orange quiet. Mum brought them tea—less sugar now, more milk—and didn't say a word. She didn't need to. Not tonight.

I sat in the corner of the room with a different book this time—Old Tales from Home and Hearth. I didn't read it aloud. I moved my lips silently, letting the words line up neat rows behind my eyes.

Nonna leaned against the doorframe with her knitting in her lap. She wasn't knitting anymore, just turning the wool over between her fingers. Her lips moved in silent Latin, the shape of each word precise. A blessing, maybe. Or a memory.

Nan rubbed her knees. "Time we all got to bed," she muttered. "Can't burn the candle both ends. Not anymore."

"Some of us never had candles to spare," Grandad grunted, pushing himself to his feet with effort. Mum moved to steady him, but he waved her off.

Babbo helped him down the hall.

The house lights dimmed one by one. The lamps clicked off. Doors creaked shut. The air cooled and settled.

Mum took my hand. "Come on, love. Let's wash up."

She wiped my face with a warm cloth in the upstairs bathroom and helped me into fresh pyjamas. They were a bit snug at the cuffs. She noticed but didn't say anything. Just folded the sleeves a little higher.

We brushed our teeth together. She hummed as she moved. The same lullaby from earlier, but softer now.

Back in my room, I climbed into bed while she pulled the blanket to my chest. It smelled like sun-dried linen and the lavender she tucked into the drawers.

"Book?" she asked.

I nodded, already reaching under my pillow.

She took Tales for Thoughtful Children and flipped to the next story. The light from the hallway made a pale line across the floor.

"Ready?"

"Always."

Her voice was gentle but precise, and every word was wrapped in warmth. She read about a girl who caught stars in a glass jar and gave them away, one by one, until only darkness remained—except for the last one, which she kept in her chest, glowing quietly.

I watched her, not the book.

She had creases near her eyes now. Faint. But deeper, when she smiled. Her hair had thinned a little near her temples. But her hands were still steady. Still warm.

When she closed the book, I didn't ask for another story.

"Goodnight, Richard."

"Night, Mum."

She leaned down and kissed my forehead. "Sleep well, piccolo."

I listened to her footsteps retreat down the hall. The house had grown still, and the only sounds were the creak of old pipes and the settling of human bones.

I lay there with my hands folded over my chest, eyes on the ceiling.

This was an average day.

Simple.

Predictable.

Quiet.

The kind of day that tucks itself into memory like a pressed flower in a book—flat, fragile, and more beautiful than anyone realises at the time.

Tomorrow, I'd rise again with the kettle, the cane, and the teacups.

And build.

Slowly.

Steadily.

Because even ordinary days were part of the legacy I was crafting.

================================================================

Hey, dear reader! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a power stone to show your support—it helps keep the story going strong! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment or write a review.