Harry Potter: House Magus

The day before my birthday begins with toast and steam.

The kettle sings early. Nan's already up, wrapped in her thick robe, slippers hushing against the floor. She moves slowly now, her knees stiff, but she cuts the bread just right. Diagonal slices and crusts intact. She says it's the only way bread should be eaten. No one argues.

I sit at the table before I'm called because I know the rhythm of the morning. Grandad isn't up yet, but I can hear his cough through the wall. It comes in bursts now. Shallow, like his lungs have to think too long about every breath.

Mum brings a basin upstairs. I hear water slosh, soft muttering. The day before birthdays always makes her tidy more.

Babbo is already gone. Left before sunrise. Mum says he's trying for extra hours, but I know the truth. He's hoping they forget he was supposed to be cut again.

There's no cake planned. No party hats, games, or balloons. Just the usual supper, maybe with a sweeter tea if we can spare the sugar. But I don't mind. I've always liked the days before more than the days of. There's something in almost all of the things that makes it feel honest.

The day before your birthday is still yours—but it hasn't been touched by anyone else's wishes yet. It's quiet. Undisturbed. Whole.

I polish the shoes after breakfast. All five pairs are lined up in the hallway—Babbo's work boots, Mum's scuffed flats, Nan's heavy black ones, Grandad's, and my own. The brushes are kept in an old biscuit tin that smells faintly of wax and dust. I like the rhythm of polishing—small circular motions, cloth against leather. It doesn't ask anything of me except care and consistency.

When I finish with the shoes, I tidy the entryway and collect kindling from the wood box. The air has that wet-linen smell, like it might rain, even if the sky pretends otherwise. Nan says that the air always tells the truth before the clouds do.

At midmorning, I sit beside Grandad. He's in his chair by the window, wrapped in a blanket that smells like camphor and old lavender. His eyes are closed, but I know he's not asleep.

I bring him a cup of water, both hands steady.

"Thank you," he murmurs. His fingers tremble when he takes the cup, so I hold it while he drinks.

"You're up early," he says.

"I couldn't get back to sleep," I reply.

He gives a small chuckle, more air than sound. "Couldn't sleep the night before my thirteenth birthday either. Thought something would change when midnight hit. That I'd be different somehow, but I was the same boy. Same chipped tooth. Same scuffed shoes."

We're quiet for a while. The wind pushes against the window like a child testing the limits of a closed door.

He shifts in his chair, a wince passing over his face. "Come here," he says.

I move closer. He places a hand on my shoulder—slow, deliberate. His skin feels cool, his grip light.

"Tomorrow you'll be five," he says. "That's not so small. People will start expecting more from you. But don't let them take the softness out of you. You hear?"

I nod. There's a knot forming somewhere in my chest. I know his time is running out, and he's slowly dying. I just don't know what to do. He's talking more like it's his last time to teach me some of his wisdom.

"Strength's no good if you can't carry it gently," he says. "Remember that."

I nod again. I want to say something back, but I can't yet. Words are sitting in my throat, waiting for a quieter moment to come out.

He smiles a little. "You've already got more in your head than most boys twice your age. That'll help you. But it'll also make you lonely sometimes."

I don't deny it. I just listen.

"I've told you most of what I know," he says. "The rest you'll figure out. You're made for it."

Then his hand drops back to the blanket; maybe that was the last lesson.

I spent the rest of the morning helping Nan shell peas. We sit by the back window, where the light is kind but not too bright. She doesn't say much, but I can hear the prayers in her breathing. Her hands move slowly but certainly the way they always do when she's thinking of something else.

After lunch, I go to meet Luca.

He's waiting on the stone wall that borders Mr. Avery's garden, swinging his legs with the idle confidence of someone who knows they belong there. His school satchel is beside him, half unbuckled, a piece of twine poking out like a forgotten bookmark.

When he sees me, he lifts a hand in greeting—not a wave, just a raise of fingers, like he's granting permission.

"Took you long enough," he says, hopping down.

"I wasn't late."

"I was early, then." He grins. His front tooth is missing, and he's proud of the gap. Says it makes him look roguish.

We walk toward the square, Luca leading with the kind of swagger that comes from being the middle child in a loud house.

"Mrs. Tranter made me sit in the back again today," he says. "Said I ask too many questions. Can you believe that? A school where asking things gets you in trouble."

"Maybe it's how you ask," I suggest.

He squints, "What's wrong with how I ask?"

"You ask like you're trying to win something."

"That's because I am. What's the point of answering a question if you don't prove you're smarter than everyone else?"

I don't have a good answer to that. So I don't give one.

We reach the hedgerow behind the apothecary, where the grass grows high and the fence sags just enough to let two boys through. It's where Luca says the best adventures happen— swords are made from branches and forts from stones, and daring rescues from the simple act of standing on a crate and shouting.

He pulls two sticks from behind a bush—one knobby, one smooth.

"Yours," he says, handing me the knobby one. "I found them, so I get the good one."

I take it without smiling. We spar, sticks clacking, his wild swings against my steadier ones. He narrates his attacks aloud.

"Left flank breach!" he shouts. "Reinforcements incoming! Sound the bugle!"

"Bugle?" I ask.

He grins. "Every proper war needs a bugle."

He's loud and messy and talks like he's already been in twenty battles, even if he still needs help tying his shoes.

We pause when our arms get tired. He throws himself onto the grass with a dramatic groan.

"I hate school," he says to the sky. "Not all of it. Just the parts where I can't talk."

"You talk a lot."

"I know. That's why it's awful. Can't talk, can't move, can't throw things."

"You're not supposed to throw things."

"Exactly. Awful."

I lie back beside him, the grass scratchy beneath my arms.

After a while, he says, "Do you think the other kids'll like you?"

"Probably not."

He turns his head toward me. "Why not?"

"I don't talk like they do."

"You talk fine."

"Fine isn't the same as normal."

He's quiet for a moment, chewing on a piece of grass.

"I'll talk enough for both of us," he says at last.

I nod. "Thanks."

Then the voices start.

Louder than ours, older than mine.

Four boys from Luca's class. I've seen them before, outside the schoolyard. They stick together the way people do when their strength depends on numbers.

"Oi, Bianchi!" one of them calls. It's the tall one with the scabbed knuckles. "You out here making friends with ghosts again?"

Luca stands up fast, brushing off his trousers. His jaw tightens. "Go away, Angelo."

Angelo laughs, not kindly. "Didn't know you had a baby brother."

"He's not my brother."

"You sure? He doesn't talk. Just stares."

The others snicker. One of them—Paolo, I think—throws a small clod of dirt that lands near my shoe. I don't move.

Luca's voice gets lower, sharper. "Leave us alone."

Angelo tilts his head like he's amused. "Or what? You gonna get your ghost-boy to hex us?"

I look at him evenly. "Magic's not real."

Angelo's smile slips just a little. "You sound like a priest. Who talks like that?"

"I do."

He takes a step closer. I can see the way his hands flex. He wants to knock something loose. A reaction. A flinch.

I give him nothing.

"You think you're smart?"

"No."

"Then what are you?"

I look at him, not blinking.

That makes his mouth twitch. Not a smile. Not quite.

Luca steps in front of me again. "Back off, Angelo."

For a second, no one moves. Even the wind quiets.

Then Paolo laughs, too high and too quickly. "Let's go. They're no fun."

The group retreats with the slow arrogance of boys who've decided they were never interested anyway. But I know they'll try again.

Luca sits down hard beside me.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

"You didn't even flinch."

"I didn't need to."

"What if he hit you?"

"I was ready."

He looks at me for a while. His brow furrows like he's working out a puzzle that doesn't have clear edges.

"You're weird," he says.

"I know."

He shrugs. "It's not bad. Just weird."

"Okay."

He nods. "I'm glad you're weird, though. Everyone else just says the same stuff all the time."

We stay there a little longer, the grass itchy beneath our knees, the world settling back into its usual rhythms.

Then Luca sighs. "Want to go see if my Nonna made biscotti?"

"I don't think I should—"

"I'll eat yours if you're too polite."

That makes me smile just a little.

"All right," I say.

As we walked, I decided to check the system.

'Status.'

 [FAMILY SYSTEM] 

________________________________

Name: Richard Russo 

Age: 4

Race: Homo Magi

House: N/A

Position: Scion 

Allegiance: N/A

Alliance: N/A

Family Tree: -><-

Total Family Members: 7

________________________________

Wives: 0

Concubines: 0

Main line descendants: 0 

Branch line descendants: 0

________________________________

Bloodline: N/A

Traits: N/A

________________________________

Talents: -><-

Affinities: -><- 

________________________________

[House Structure: -><-]

[House Wealth: -><-]

________________________________

[Recognition: N/A]

[Reputation: N/A]

________________________________

Compatibility Index: -><- 

________________________________

Tasks: -><-

________________________________

Body: 11.33

Mind: 29.67

Soul: 19.67 

Mana: 4477

________________________________

Strength- 11

Dexterity- 12

Constitution- 12 

Intelligence- 30

Wisdom- 30

Spirit- 29

Charisma- 15

Charm- 15

________________________________

SI: -><- 

________________________________

My stats are improving, and my mana is increasing. Everything is working out just fine.

We walk toward his house, just two boys with sore arms and sticks for swords.

When I got home, the house quieted again. The floorboards sigh with every step, and the clock ticks loudly in the stillness. I take off my shoes and line them next to the others. They're not as shiny as they were this morning, but I think that's how things go—shined, worn, shined again.

Nan is asleep in her chair, the radio murmuring softly about Germany and Poland. Her hands are folded in her lap. The blanket she crocheted last winter has slipped off her knees, so I pull it back up.

Grandad's chair is still. He hasn't moved, but his chest rises slowly beneath the quilt Mum stitched together from scraps.

I linger at the doorway. Just watching. Just listening.

Then I go upstairs.

I climb into bed. The quilt is heavier tonight. Or I am.

I check the crack in the ceiling. Still the same. Not bigger. Not smaller.

My thumb still has the splinter. I press it gently, and it stings a little, but it stays—like a promise.

Tomorrow, I'll be five.

The house will still creak. Nan will still hum. Mum will still move quickly when she's tired. Babbo will come home quieter than he left. Grandad might not say anything at all.

But I'll be here.

I press my palms together and whisper—not a spell or prayer. Just a thought, folded into the dark.

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