Harry Potter: House Magus

[POV SWITCH: RICHARD RUSSO]

I turn five in two days.

That fact doesn't feel remarkable, but the world insists on making age mean something. People smile differently when they ask your age and you say a new number. It is as if five unlock a door that four keep locked tight. I suppose it does, in some ways. School starts next week. Luca already told me it smells like wet paper and chalk and that the teacher has a long stick she smacks on the table when people whisper.

The last two years have been very productive. Though I no longer obsessively check them, my stats have slowed in their rapid increase, but they still rise steadily. Like the way tree rings widen in slow, inevitable layers. You don't see the change day to day. But it's there. And it's happening.

My mana continues to grow. I feel its pressure clearer now, seated deep beneath my ribs. It's a hum in my blood when I concentrate. When I breathe deeply with purpose, something in my chest tightens—not painfully, but like the way a string draws taut before a bow is loosed.

I've grown to 3 foot 9. Tall for my age, they say. My features are sharpening, bit by bit—cheeks slimmer, eyes more defined. My face is no longer just soft roundness. There's something of Babbo's jaw in me now. And Mum's eyebrows, which rise when I think too long before speaking.

Everyone in the family is doing okay. But Grandad is not.

His health has declined steadily. It started with the limp worsening. Then, the stairs became impossible. Now, he doesn't leave his chair unless helped. And two months ago, he had to quit the butcher's. Said it like it was a choice, but I saw his hands tremble when he couldn't lift the cleaver. He hasn't held a knife in weeks.

So Mum found part-time work babysitting for one of the widows near the market square. She comes home with sore feet and quiet eyes. This has its advantages and disadvantages. I spend less time with her, but I do have more time to practice magic.

Babbo's hours have been cut again. He doesn't complain, but I see the weight in the way he shrugs off his coat, the lines that crease deeper around his eyes when he thinks no one's watching.

I've tried to help as much as I can. Tidying up. Making tea. Watching prices at the grocer. I've even made a habit of looking for loose coins on the street. Found sixpence last week beneath the trolley rails. Slid it into Mum's purse when she wasn't looking.

Each act is small, but I believe small things compound. The System taught me that consistency breeds strength.

My days are mostly quiet, and I mainly read. I've re-read all the parish books, even the ones meant for older children. I listen to adults talk, practice questions, and repeat sentences silently to see how tone affects meaning.

Sometimes, I play with Luca when he's not at school. He's loud. But not unkind. And he accepts me as I am—even if he doesn't understand me. Sometimes, that's all you can ask of people.

I practice my magic every day. I've moved on from pushing pebbles across the ground. I can now hover them. Once, I held one two centimetres above my palm for nearly a full minute before it dropped. My nose didn't bleed that time. That's progress.

Sometimes, when the house is quiet—when Nan's asleep in her chair, and Mum's still out babysitting—I sneak into the shed. It's where Grandad used to keep all his tools, though most are untouched now. I sit on the wooden bench and close my eyes. I listen. Not just to sound but to the air. I've started to feel it differently. There's a thin texture to it, like threads tugging very softly at the edge of my skin.

One time, I tried to light a candle with a thought. Nothing happened. Another time, I tried to mend a torn page in one of my books. The tear remained, but the page felt smoother. I don't know if that's magic or wishful thinking, but I record every attempt in a notebook under my bed in a code that makes it seem like a diary of my day, but I only know what it means. I log the day, the time, what I tried, and what happened. Progress isn't always visible, but it needs to be remembered.

Nonno taught me that. "Measure your own steps, even if no one else does," he once said while sharpening a blade.

We measure a lot in our house now. How long the coal lasts. How many cups of tea we can pour from one pot. How many spoons of sugar are enough to sweeten but not waste. It's not desperation. Not yet. But it's close enough to its shadow that we've all started walking quieter.

Even Luca noticed. He asked me why my Nan stopped baking biscuits.

Knowing the world might change any day is strange, and it's strange to still brush your teeth and fold your clothes like it matters. But I think it does. I think the small rituals keep people whole when the big things begin to crack.

Nan still braids my hair when I sit long enough. She hums as she does it—some old tune I haven't heard anywhere else. I think it's hers. When I asked, she said, "It's a mother's song."

At night, when the wind pushes against the windowpanes and the news murmurs in the next room, I wrap myself in the quilt Mum made me and look at the ceiling. The crack is still there, a tiny one near the corner. It hasn't grown, but I still check. It reminds me that some things don't break all at once. They stretch, resist, and only fracture when they're ready.

I don't feel ready. But I'm not afraid.

I think about school a lot. I wonder what the other children will make of me. I wonder what I'll make of them. Will they see the things I don't say? Will I need to hide parts of myself just to be let in?

I hope not.

But if I must, I will. Not forever. Just long enough to learn the rules of the room.

That's what I've come to understand—every room has rules. Some spoken. Some silent. Learning them quickly lets you move in and out without leaving footprints.

I want to be light on my feet. Not unnoticed. Just unburdened.

There's a strength in being gentle. In listening first. In helping quietly. I've seen that in Mum more than anyone else. Her strength is invisible to most. But I see it in how she exhales before answering a hard question. In the way, she tucks her fear behind a smile before telling me I'll be alright.

I believe her.

I don't think the world will be alright, but I will. Because I have them. Because I know who I am, even if others don't yet.

And because I feel that quiet hum grow a little louder every day behind my ribs.

It doesn't frighten me.

It reminds me I'm not done yet.

The world, though, is changing faster than I am.

Today is August 31st, 1939. I might not have been a history buff in my past life, but I know World War II was supposed to start this year.

Mr. Hales, the postman, muttered about conscription. Mrs. Pritchard said "Hitler" like it was a curse. Babbo just keeps sharpening the garden shears.

Poland is in the papers again. Danzig. Troop movement. Borders. I understand what's to come, but I am powerless to do anything about it.

The air has changed. Even Luca noticed it, though he wouldn't call it that. He said the grown-ups were "extra quiet-loud." Which I think is his way of saying their silence carries more sound now. He's not wrong.

The street doesn't feel the same. Fewer people linger at the café, and the queue for eggs stretches further. Mr. Avery at the bakery has started wrapping everything tighter, "just in case." Just in case of what? He doesn't say.

I've seen Nonna light more candles than usual. She prays longer in the morning. Latin words whispered fast like she was racing her fear. 

Nan's hands are dry from washing. She scrubs more lately, though nothing's dirtier than usual. Maybe she's trying to scrub worry from the corners of the floor.

I asked Grandad if he thought another war was coming.

He said, "No, Richard. It's already here. Just hasn't knocked on our door yet."

Sometimes, I sit near him while he sleeps, just listening to how his breath catches in his chest like a loose gear. Mum says he needs a nurse. But we can't afford one.

I don't know how to heal yet.

I've thought about trying to heal him with magic, but I have no clue where to even start trying. My magic is small. All I can do is move things. 

I press my fingers together each night, breathe deeply, and try again.

I know that people are not pebbles. But I wonder if, one day, I'll be able to hold something broken and make it whole again.

Not everything needs fixing. But some things do. Grandad is one of them.

In the meantime, I do what I can. I bring him tea. Adjust his blanket. Sit beside him and talk softly—even when he doesn't respond. His eyes still follow me.

I told him yesterday that I start school next week.

"Wear good socks," he said after a long pause.

I will.

It feels like a kind of ceremony, school—a passage from the quiet of home into the world. I'm curious how I'll be received. Will they see me as strange? Will they see me at all?

I'm practising interaction, eye contact, vocal tone, and appropriate laughter. I've memorised three jokes from a book Nan gave me. They're not funny, but they're acceptable.

I hope it is acceptable.

Mum says school will be good for me and that I'll meet other clever boys. I don't know if I want that, but I think I want to be understood. And I think I want someone else who moves slowly, waits before speaking, and doesn't find silence empty.

The world outside doesn't move slowly anymore.

The train whistles longer these days. Soldiers have started appearing more often at the station, their uniforms smelling of wool and tobacco. I saw one give up his seat to a woman with a baby, and everyone stared like it was the last kindness they'd see this month.

The radio speaks of "mobilisation."

Mum turns it off when I enter.

I don't mind. I already know what it means. 

I'm five in two days.

I have my hands. My mind. My will.

And a growing hum behind my ribs that whispers: more is coming.

And I'll be ready.

================================================================

Hey, dear reader! If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider dropping a power stone to show your support—it helps keep the story going strong! Also, I'd love to hear your thoughts, so leave a comment or write a review.