Harry Potter: House Magus

[POV SWITCH: MARY RUSSO]

Sometimes, I worry he needs a friend.

A real one. Someone who doesn't wear spectacles or hold a cane. Someone who won't ask him to use his words so carefully.

Richard's bright—anyone can see it. But he keeps to himself, even when he's with us. He speaks when he wants to; when he does, it's always the right words. Nothing wasted. Thoughtful.

Too thoughtful, maybe.

Not like other children, all the noise and stick fights. He watches instead.

And not in that aimless, dreamy way children do. Richard observes like it's a skill. Like he's studying the weight of every action. How people hold grief in their hearts. How happiness touches the corner of someone's mouth before the eyes.

Don't get me wrong—I wouldn't change him for the world. But I wonder if he's lonely in that clever little head of his. Maybe he needs another child to tumble with. Someone to fall into the mud with and not think twice.

Enzo says I worry too much. That Richard's just "carving his shape," like his father did.

But still.

He watches too often from the window when children pass. He doesn't press his face to the glass, and he doesn't wave. Just sees them. Measures them, maybe. Or wonders.

And when I ask if he'd like to go say hello, he just shrugs and says, "Maybe."

That's the part that sticks with me. Maybe. Like he's considering it, not just dismissing it.

He's not cold. He's kind. He helps carry bread. Holds Nan's elbow on the steps. Listens like grown men don't.

He's been helping in small ways since before he was steady on his feet. Gathering crumbs, checking the post, and even untangling my yarn when I drop it. He does everything with such quiet pride—like he's already trying to earn his place in the world.

He gets up before me some mornings. Stretches. Reads. Walks through the kitchen barefoot like he's inspecting the sunrise. It's endearing but also strange. Three-year-olds shouldn't have habits like that.

But I want him to laugh until his stomach aches. I want him to lose a game, pout, and try again. I want scraped knees, stick swords, and someone to chase him around the back garden.

Soon. We'll arrange something soon.

He doesn't need fixing. Just... companions.

Even a brilliant little boy needs someone to throw a rock in the river and not explain why.

[POV SWITCH: DOROTHY SMITH]

He talks like he's tasting every word first.

Not shy. Not slow. Just... deliberate.

When Mary said she wanted him to meet some children from the parish, I agreed before she finished. "Good idea," I said. "He's old enough now."

He's not difficult—not like some I've known. No tantrums, no tricks. Just quiet thinking. But quiet doesn't mean full, does it?

There's room in that boy for more.

John thinks he's just like him. I see it, too. The stillness. The way he sizes a room before stepping in.

He watches people like most children watch clouds—like every movement tells him something. Last week, he noticed the way I winced when sitting down before I even groaned. He fetched a cushion without a word.

But he's still only three. He should be falling over more and getting muddy. Catching a cold from too much running and not too much reading.

He has a good head on him. But I don't want that head stuck too far in grown-up clouds.

[POV SWITCH: JOHN SMITH]

He's got strong legs, that one. Climbs everything like it owes him a view.

He's steady, too. More balanced than a child his age has any right to be.

It's the kind of quiet you earn. Like he's already learned things most of us take years to grasp.

Not that I'm worried. Just curious.

He reads more than he speaks. But when he does speak, I listen.

Mary asked me if he was lonely.

I told her, "No. Just different."

But maybe I'm wrong.

Maybe he does need someone to knock him over and call him a potato head.

Children don't just learn from books. They learn from each other.

Richard's smart. But smart needs sparring. Needs tug-of-wars and whispered secrets and sticks shaped like swords.

He's strong in silence.

But I'd like to hear him yell about who cheated at tag or see him sulk over a shared toy. Not everything needs to be a lesson. Some things should just be messy, loud, and forgotten by teatime.

[POV SWITCH: ISABELLA RUSSO]

He is so careful. Even when he runs, it's measured.

He's never crashed through the house screaming or thrown a toy across the room just to hear it clatter.

But sometimes... that worries me.

He learned how to fold my prayer clothes before he learned to tie his shoes. I didn't even teach him—he just watched and did.

Not because it's strange, but because it's lonely.

I see how he watches other children when we pass the park.

He doesn't look envious. Just thoughtful. Like he's studying them. Wondering how to step into that chaos without breaking it.

When Mary mentioned a playdate, I nodded right away. "Let him get dirty," I said. "Let him cry once over a game lost."

He is sweet. And he is special. But he is still a boy.

And boys should be muddy sometimes.

And boys should be muddy sometimes with skinned knees, wild hair, and grass stains that don't come out in one wash. That's how they remember being children.

[POV SWITCH: LEONARDO RUSSO]

He's stronger than he looks.

Carries firewood in bundles too big for his arms. Balances on the gate like a tightrope walker.

He's always moving. Always focused.

Two years ago, he could barely reach the latch on the garden gate. Now, he opens it himself, checks the hinges, and oils them without being asked.

He watches how I carve wood and mimics the movements with his butter knife, quietly and completely scraping pine.

But focus isn't the same as play.

When Mary said he needed time with other children, I didn't argue.

I've seen boys who grew up with only the weight of adult eyes on them. They learn early how to be small, to take up less space, and to think before they act.

That's not what I want for him.

He already knows how to stay out of the way. Already understands that grown-up silence is different from peace. That's not something a child should learn too early.

Let him fall. Let him be chased. Let him lose a marble and learn not to cry too hard.

Then let him come home where he's safe.

[POV SWITCH: ENZO RUSSO]

It's not that he's alone.

He's with us, always. Listens to Mamma's prayers. Watches papà sharpen tools. Holds my hand when we walk home from the bakery.

But it's different from having someone your size. Someone who won't worry if you climb too high, eat dirt, or make up words.

I've seen him trace Latin letters into the frost on the windows, count coins by feel, stack stones in the garden, and mark their position with chalk to see if they shift by morning.

He reads books meant for older children, not just for the stories, but also for how words are constructed.

When Mary asked if we should bring him round to the Marinos', I said yes.

Their boy's just a little older.

Maybe they'll throw sticks. Maybe they'll fight. Maybe they'll sit in the dirt and say nothing.

Richard doesn't need fixing.

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