Harry Potter: House Magus

[POV: Cecilia Marino]

He is the most polite little boy I've ever met.

"Thank you, signora," he said when I gave him a sandwich—like he was forty and had just been handed a pension check. Even wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin. Con calma. No fuss, no crumbs, no reaching across the table like my Luca always does.

Luca called him "weird", and I told him off, of course. But... he's not wrong. Richard's strange, just not unkind. I mean, who volunteers to do the dishes during a playdate? And not as a game—it actually helps. Drying plates like a little husband.

He moves so quietly that you almost forget he's in the room until he speaks. And when he does, it's with that strange, slow voice—like he's reading from memory. Even said "Much obliged" to me once. Much obliged. What three-year-old says that?

Mary said he's just thoughtful. Enzo said "vecchio spirito". Maybe. But when he looks at you, it's like he's got questions you don't know the answers to. Makes me feel like I'm under a microscope.

Still, sweet boy. Good manners. Maybe a little too much.

[POV: Luca Marino]

I wanted to play soldiers and smash the tower and make a big noise, but Richard said, "After I finishing helping."

Help what? The dishes?

That's Mum stuff. I said so and he didn't say anything, just dried a plate.

When we did fight with sticks, he didn't say "HIYAH!" or anything. Just poked and stepped and looked at me like I was doing it wrong. But I wasn't. I was fighting! He never said he won, but I think he thought he did. I don't know.

He didn't smile funny. He didn't laugh out loud. He didn't even build the dragon right. Just stacked it like bricks and said, "This will hold better." Dragons aren't bricks!

I said, "You're weird."

Mum told me off, but I still think he is.

He's not bad, though. Maybe he's magic.

[POV: Mr. Hales, Postman]

The Russo kid stands by the gate sometimes when I do my route. Never calls out, never waves—just looks. One time, I swear I saw him watching the clouds, as if he were waiting for them to do something. Clouds!

Polite, though. I dropped a letter once, and he handed it back like I was a guest in his house.

"Here," he said. Not even a scowl. Just... blank.

Doesn't blink too much, either. Makes a man feel like a specimen in a jar.

No doubt, Mary and Enzo are good people. Kind, hard-working. But that boy... there's something off. Not bad. Not broken. Just off.

[POV: Mr. Avery, Baker]

Strangest little man I've ever met—and I say that respectfully.

Comes in sometimes with his dad. Doesn't beg. Doesn't point. Doesn't even look at the sweets first. Just glances at the loaves and says something like, "The dense one, please. It keeps longer."

Who thinks like that? I gave him a cinnamon twist once, and he blinked at it and said, "It's very kind, but I'll take what we need."

Didn't want to waste it, see?

I like him. Reminds me of a younger version of myself, back when I was clever and quiet before I opened a bakery and started talking to customers every day.

He's respectful. Mindful. Still as a cat in a sunbeam.

But you do feel watched around him. Like he's filing things away in his head. Makes you want to check your buttons are straight.

[POV: Mrs. Pritchard, Busybody]

That child ain't right.

Looks like a boy, dresses like a boy, but he doesn't act like one. Never seen him run, never seen him shout, never seen him cry.

Walks around like a ghost with manners. Once, he helped me pick up my groceries without being asked—but he didn't smile. Just did it and walked away. Didn't even look back.

I asked Mary once if he was slow. She said he's "bright in a quiet way." Well, I don't know about that. I think there's something... odd in that head. Like the lights are on, but the windows are tinted.

 Gives me the shivers.

Children are meant to shout and get dirty. He looks like he'd rather file taxes than throw a snowball.

Something unnatural about that, if you ask me.

[POV: Mr. Ellery, Pastor]

I've met hundreds of children in my life. Some squirm in the pews, some stare up at the rafters like they're waiting for angels. Most fidget. All whisper. All tug at their collars.

Richard Russo doesn't.

He sits still. Listens.

Not just with ears—with eyes, too. Eyes that don't blink at the right times. They hold your face like they're studying why you're saying what you're saying, not just what it is.

He came with his family last week. Mary brought him up for the children's blessing after Mass. The others all laughed when I tapped their heads with holy water.

Richard only nodded and said, "Thank you, Father." No smile. No shift in weight. Just... still.

I asked him if he'd like to join the children's story group after Sunday School. He paused, like he was measuring the question for hidden strings, then said, "Not today."

Didn't lie. Didn't give excuses. Just said what he meant. Like a grown man, only without the weariness.

There's something about that boy.

He doesn't fidget because he doesn't need to. Doesn't chatter because he sees no point in wasting breath. His spirit isn't dull—it's contained like a lamp behind glass. You don't notice the glow right away. But it's there. Steady.

He'll be something, one day.

[POV: Miss Everleigh, Teacher]

I've only spoken to him twice.

Once at the summer fête, once when Mary brought him by the school to drop off forms for Luca. Each time, he looked me straight in the eye and said, "Good afternoon, Miss Everleigh." Not in a singsong or baby voice—proper. Like, I was his landlady.

He's not enrolled. Not yet. Too young still. But I remember thinking: he doesn't look it.

He's taller than some in my class, but there's something about the way he stands—heels close together, hands clasped behind his back like he's waiting for inspection. Or a verdict.

I asked if he liked stories. He said, "Depends on the ending."

Not rude. Never rude. Just… unnerving.

Children usually interrupt, show off, or whisper questions when they think I'm not listening. Richard listens. You can feel it. He doesn't lean in—he holds still. So, still, you start wondering if you're the one being tested.

Mary says he's sweet. I believe her. He's polite, helpful, gentle, even.

But I've met quiet children before. Shy ones. Sad ones. Angry ones.

He isn't any of those.

He's quiet like a book with the pages glued shut. There's something in there—you just don't get to read it yet.

And maybe that's what makes me nervous.

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