Harry Potter: House Magus

[POV SWITCH: RICHARD RUSSO]

It began over toast and marmalade.

"You're going to play with Luca Marino today," Mum said, setting down her teacup. "He's five now. Just a little older than you."

I looked up from the corner of the newspaper I'd been folding into a boat. "Alright."

She leaned across the table to wipe a bit of jam from my chin with her thumb. "Be kind, alright? Try to have fun."

"I will."

Babbo folded the paper properly and set it aside. "And don't overthink it, piccolo. You don't have to figure him out in five minutes."

I nodded, even though I probably would.

The toast had gone cold on my plate, but I finished it anyway, chewing slowly as I listened to their voices settle into morning rhythm.

Mum gave me a once-over with her eyes, then went upstairs. I heard the wardrobe creak open, the soft thump of shoes being set beside each other. She always laid things out flat, creases smoothed with the side of her palm.

She helped me dress—a clean jumper with only one patch at the elbow, my brown wool trousers, the boots that rubbed at the heel if I didn't wear thick socks. She knelt to fasten them and smoothed the laces with her fingers.

"If he wants to play tag, run. If he wants to sword fight, duck. And if he says something silly, it's not rude—it's just being five."

"I understand."

She smiled and kissed my forehead. "That's what worries me."

Downstairs, Babbo was already tying his scarf. He opened the door and held it for us, the air crisp with last night's rain.

We left mid-morning, Babbo on one side, Mum on the other. I didn't hold their hands, but I walked in step. It had rained earlier—puddles still shimmered in the gutter, and leaves stuck damply to our boots.

Mum talked quietly to Babbo as we walked. Not about me, but around me—half-whispers about war, shortages, and whether we had enough coal for the month. I listened without showing it.

I watched the clouds as we moved. They were thick with late-autumn grey, the kind that made windows steam and boots feel heavier.

The Marinos lived two streets over. Their garden had a broken gate and chalk scribbles all over the flagstone—a hopscotch grid and a sun with a smiling face.

Mrs. Marino answered the door with a wide grin and loose hair. "Mary! Enzo! You brought our little gentleman!"

She bent slightly to my level. "Hello, Richard."

"Good morning," I said.

"C'mon in," she said brightly, stepping aside.

Mum crouched down to straighten my collar and brush a bit of lint from my sleeve. "Be good."

"I will."

"Thank you again, Cecilia," Mum said to Mrs. Marino as she stood. "We really appreciate it."

"Oh, it's nothing. He's no trouble. Luca's been bouncing off the walls since I told him."

Babbo shook her hand. "I'll come by a little after lunch to pick him up."

"No rush. Let them wear each other out," she said with a smile.

"Hopefully not too much." Babbo grinned, then nodded toward me. "You behave, eh?"

I nodded. "I will."

"Alright," Mary said softly. "See you soon, darling."

She kissed my cheek and squeezed my shoulder before she and Babbo stepped back onto the path. They paused briefly at the gate—Babbo raised a hand—and then they were gone.

The door shut behind them with a soft click. It was quieter than I expected.

The hallway smelled like lavender polish and tomato sauce. By the door, there was a shoe rack full of boots, and drawings were pinned crookedly to the wall.

Luca came crashing down the hallway in socks that barely clung to his feet. "I've got soldiers," he announced, staring at me with wide brown eyes.

"I like soldiers," I said simply.

"C'mon."

"After lunch," Mrs. Marino cut in. "Everyone sits first."

The table was small, round, and stained at the corners with gingham cloth. Lunch was cheese sandwiches cut into triangles, thick carrot sticks, and slightly bruised apple slices, with juice in tall cups.

I sat with my hands in my lap until everyone else had theirs.

"Thank you," I said when Mrs. Marino handed me a plate.

"You're very welcome, dear."

Luca gobbled his sandwich in uneven bites, crusts tossed to the edge. He drummed his feet against the chair legs and left smudges on the napkin he never used. Before anyone else was halfway done, he was gone.

"I'm playing now!" he shouted from the hallway.

Mrs. Marino shook her head. "That one's all motion and no manners."

I stacked my plate with hers, careful not to clatter. "I can help," I said.

She blinked. "That's kind of you."

We washed and dried together. She handed me the dish towel, and I made slow, steady circles over each plate.

From the hallway, Luca's voice floated in: "Hurry up, Richard!"

"I'm helping first," I called back.

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl.

Mrs. Marino chuckled. "You're welcome back anytime."

She handed me the last plate to dry, then leaned on the counter, watching. "You don't say much, do you?" she asked softly.

"No," I replied.

"That's alright," she said. "Luca talks enough for two."

I folded the towel neatly before setting it down. Her smile lingered.

When I finished drying, I set the towel down and walked into the front room. Luca was sprawled on the rug, two wooden sticks already chosen.

He tossed one to me.

"Let's sword fight."

I caught it—not smoothly, but firm enough.

"I don't really know how," I said.

"You'll learn. Just don't hit me in the face."

We circled each other slowly, testing.

He swung wide. I ducked.

I swung back—not hard. Just enough to tap his arm.

"Hey!" he said, then grinned. "You're fast."

We clashed again. He hit my hip. I stepped back and tapped his shoulder.

It wasn't a match of skill. Just patience. I didn't rush. He did.

After a few minutes, he dropped to the floor. "You're weird," he said, panting.

I didn't respond.

Mrs. Marino poked her head in. "Luca."

"What?"

"Be kind."

"I was!"

She gave him a look.

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. You're good at sword fighting. Weird, but good."

"Thanks," I said.

We kept playing. He swung wildly. I blocked gently. I wasn't better—just stiller. After a while, we stopped hitting and started building things out of cushions instead.

"You ever seen a dragon?" he asked as he stacked a pillow tower.

"No."

"I have. It flew past once."

"Maybe it was a hawk."

"Nope. Dragons have longer tails."

I didn't argue.

Next, he pulled out a tin full of marbles. I helped him line them up by colour. He called the chipped green one "Lucky." He gave me one—clear with a blue swirl—and said I could keep it.

I turned it in my fingers for a long time before pocketing it.

We played for nearly an hour. It was not wild play—no shouting, no running—but movement and curiosity. 

He made up a story about a goblin army. I didn't say much, but I built a barricade with blocks. That seemed to be enough.

Sometimes, he talked to himself while we played, like he didn't need answers—just someone nearby. That was fine. I could be nearby.

When the knock came at the door, I was sitting beside him.

Babbo stood outside.

"Time to go," he said, smiling.

Luca stood, too. "You can come back if you want."

"Okay," I said.

Outside, Babbo and I walked side by side. He didn't ask much.

"Did you like it?" he said after a while.

"It was alright."

He gave my shoulder a slight squeeze. "Good. You don't have to be like other boys. Just... be with them sometimes."

I nodded.

On the walk home, we passed a puddle, and he nudged a leaf into it with his foot. "You did well today," he added, almost like it was for the leaf and not for me. I nodded again.

When we got home, I put the borrowed marble on my windowsill.

Not because I needed it.

Just because it meant something.

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