Harry Potter: House Magus

I wake before the birds.

The window is grey with that almost-light that doesn't know what it wants to be yet. The air is cold around my arms. The house is still.

It's my birthday.

I turn five today.

I lie very still, listening to the hush. My heart feels loud in my chest like it's tapping on the inside of me, asking for attention. I don't know why I feel strange. I'm not excited, not scared, just… too awake.

I try closing my eyes again, shifting under the quilt, but it doesn't help. Something in the air feels wrong like the space around me is too empty.

I slip out of bed. The wooden floor is cold against my feet, but I like it. I like feeling things clearly when everything else is quiet.

I don't dress. Just wrap my arms around myself and pad down the hall.

Mum's door is closed. So is Nan's. The stairs creak, just once, when I reach the second step from the bottom.

The living room smells like old firewood and blanket warmth. The kettle hasn't been lit, the curtains are still drawn, and nothing has started yet. The whole house is paused, waiting for the clock to begin again.

And Grandad is in his chair.

Exactly where he always is.

His legs are crossed at the ankle, his blanket pulled over his lap, and his flat cap resting slightly off-centre on his head, like always. His hands are on the arms of the chair, one curled somewhat.

I smile, stepping toward him.

"Grandad," I whisper. My voice sounds too small.

No answer.

That's fine. He dozes in the morning sometimes. It takes him a while to wake up.

I get closer. His eyes are closed, and his mouth is open just a little. His skin looks pale in the early light, grey like someone rubbed out the warmth with their thumb.

I reach for his hand.

It's cold.

It's not cool, like someone who forgot to wear gloves. It's cold like stone, cold like the back step in winter, cold like something that isn't coming back.

Something is wrong.

I drop to my knees in front of him.

"Grandad?" My voice shakes.

He doesn't move. Not even a twitch.

No wheeze. No snort. No sleepy grunt. Nothing.

His chest isn't moving.

I lean in. Closer.

He's not breathing.

My hands hover in the air, not knowing what to do. I place them gently on his arm, then on his shoulder. I give him the slightest shake.

"Grandad?"

It comes out thinner this time. I can feel the heat start in my throat. I swallow it down.

"Stop pretending," I whisper. "Please. It's my birthday."

I say it like that means something like it should matter.

Still nothing.

I shake him harder. His head shifts just slightly with the motion. But still no breath. No sound. Just the soft rustle of the blanket.

"Please don't do this."

My voice cracks.

"I didn't say goodbye."

My breath catches. My chest twists in on itself. I can't feel my feet anymore. The floor has disappeared. The room tilts, but nothing moves.

I let out a sob without meaning to.

It echoes.

I press both hands to his knee like I can anchor him here. Like if I hold him hard enough, he'll come back.

"Please wake up."

It's louder now. My shoulders start to shake. My breath jerks in and out of me in fast, shallow gulps.

"Please…"

I can't breathe. Not properly. My hands feel like they're buzzing. My mouth is open, but I can't get air in. I clutch at my chest, and I cry—loud, choking sobs I can't stop. My face is wet, and I don't remember when the tears started.

My legs give out.

I curl up on the rug next to his chair and cry so hard it burns.

And then it happens.

A soft gust of wind—impossible, coming from nowhere—moves through the room.

The curtains flutter even though the windows are shut.

The flames in the hearth dip and flare, though they've long been reduced to embers.

And the blanket on Grandad's lap shifts slightly like it's being smoothed by a kind hand.

I feel the air change, just for a second. It's like the world held its breath with me, like something in the room listened.

But it passes.

And then the footsteps come.

Fast ones.

Nan's voice first. "Richard?"

Then Mum's. "What's wrong, baby—"

They stop. I feel it before I hear it. The breath was pulled out of the room like the air had just left.

"Oh, John," Nan says like she's been punched.

Mum rushes to me. Her arms wrap around my back, and I melt into her, sobbing harder. Her hand cups my head, holding me like I might come apart.

"Shhh, baby, I've got you, I've got you."

But nothing is okay.

She knows it. I know it.

Nan kneels at his side. "John?" Her voice is already wet with tears. "Come on, love… wake up. Please."

She touches his face, presses fingers to his temple, and brushes his hair back like it might help.

"Wake up, John," she says again, softer now.

Then Babbo appears. He must have heard the noise. His face is pale, his hair rumpled, and his shirt half-buttoned. He stops in the doorway, blinking like the morning hasn't settled into his skin yet.

"What's going on—"

Then he sees.

Nan clinging to her husband's hand. Mum curled around me. Grandad, still and silent in his chair.

Babbo swallows hard. His face changes. Not into grief—not yet—but something else. That frozen pause before grief crashes through like a wave.

No one speaks.

The silence after is heavier than the moment itself.

A candle is lit.

The neighbours are called.

The world outside keeps moving.

But our house doesn't.

I spend the day in a different kind of fog.

Mum gives me soup, but I don't taste it. Nan holds my hand like it's the last thread she has. Babbo carries chairs from room to room and doesn't sit in any of them. He keeps touching things and setting them down like he's forgotten what they're for.

Everyone walks slower.

No one says Happy Birthday.

And I'm glad.

That night, when the house was emptied of visitors and whispered condolences, I sneaked back into the living room.

Grandad's chair is empty now.

The blanket was folded. His cap was on the table beside it.

I pick it up. It still smells like him—old tobacco, rosemary, and wool. I press it to my face and sit on the rug.

"Strength's no good if you can't carry it gently."

That's what he told me.

That's what I keep thinking.

I didn't know five would feel like this. So full of missing.

He knew. Somehow, he knew he wouldn't wake up today. That's why he said it all. That's why he looked at me the way he did—like he was passing something on. Like I was carrying something now.

I press my face into his cap and cry again.

I sit there, crying, until Mum finds me. She doesn't say anything. Just sits behind me and wraps her arms around my middle, pulling me back into her lap.

When night comes, the house is quiet again.

Not the same quiet as before.

Not the kind you notice because everything is asleep.

This is a hollow quiet. The kind left behind when something has gone and taken a sound with it.

Mum brings me to bed. She doesn't try to smile. She just tucks the blanket around me and brushes my hair back from my forehead.

"Goodnight, my love," she whispers.

"Goodnight, Mum."

She lingers for a moment, brushing her thumb against my cheek. I think she wants to say more, but she doesn't.

The door clicks softly as she leaves.

I lie still, staring at the ceiling. The quiet presses in around me, not sharp like earlier, but slow and heavy, like the weight of a quilt that doesn't quite warm.

Grandad is gone.

That part won't change.

But when I close my eyes, I can still hear him—his voice, steady and rough, telling stories no one else remembered. The way he always knew when to speak and when to just sit beside you.

The way his hand felt on my shoulder.

I think about the last thing he told me.

Strength's no good if you can't carry it gently.

I don't know yet how to carry anything gently. But I want to try.

Tomorrow, people will speak of him in the past tense. They'll say he was. They'll use words like kind, quiet, and gone.

But right now, in this room, I still feel him near.

I reach under the blanket and curl my fingers around the edge of his cap, tucked safely against my side.

I don't need candles or cards or songs.

Just this.

Just one more minute of stillness.

That may be enough.

Because love doesn't stop. Not when someone's gone.

It just waits, soft and steady, in the places they left behind.

And that's where I'll keep him.

Right there.

Where it's quiet.

Where I can still hear him.

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