Harry Potter: House Magus

In my room, I put on my usual white shirt and charcoal trousers, buttoning my waistcoat precisely. Then I took up my wire-rimmed glasses, the lenses shaded just faintly enough to blur the view of my new violet edge, and set them on the bridge of my nose. They sat there with familiar weight, a small shield of normalcy.

My simple cap followed, its brim shading my hair so it wouldn't be exposed to the sharp morning light. Satisfied, I paused by the mirror. My reflection blinked back at me, unremarkable: a quiet, studious boy, a touch pale perhaps, but hardly the sort to draw second glances.

A quick smear of blood later. 

[2/365]

I made my way downstairs and began preparing breakfast. Rupert grunted hello as he walked to his seat.

"Happy Birthday, Richard," Rupert muttered, half asleep.

"Thank you, Father," I replied, hands darting between utensils.

"Are you taking the day off today?" He said as the morning fog was leaving his eyes.

"Nope, busy day today. I'll be out all day, so don't wait for me, start dinner without me." I said, placing the finished toast, bacon, and eggs on the table.

"Well, I know whatever I say won't dissuade you, so just say be careful. I'll get a small cake for when you get back." He said as he hungrily started to dig in.

By the time I cleared the dishes and fetched my coat from the hook, Rupert was deep in the markets page, oblivious. Precisely as I preferred it. I left him there, safe in habit and the smell of toasted bread, and stepped out into London's bracing chill.

The city unfolded around me in long grey lines, brick rows damp from last night's rain, shop windows still half-fogged, horses clopping on slick cobblestone. The air smelled of coal smoke and brewing hops, mingled with that peculiar undercurrent of damp stone that always seemed to haunt London's older streets.

I passed milk carts rattling toward narrow service alleys, newsboys with ink-stained fingers shouting headlines about minor railway strikes. A lamplighter moved steadily ahead of me, dowel staff perched on his shoulder, humming some tune I didn't recognise.

None of them spared me a second glance.

I liked that. Moving through the press of people, slipping between wool coats and trailing skirts, I felt quietly invisible. A boy on his errands. No one who mattered.

All the while, my mind ticked on. Watching minor signs, such as businesses laying out fresh chalkboards first, and which carriages had new crests on the door. Even the Muggle trade gave clues. Money never stayed still for long, not on either side of the magical divide.

By the time I reached my destination, the sun had begun to climb, illuminating streaks of soot on old facades like scars that never quite healed.

The Leaky Cauldron stood as it always had, squat and a little grimy, its door stooped under the weight of centuries of comings and goings. But there was an electricity to the moment that made the wood grain seem sharper under my fingertips as I pushed inside.

The interior was dim, alive with shifting shapes and voices.

Cloaked men hunched together at a corner table, heads nearly touching, voices pitched low over tankards. 

A trio of witches passed me by in a rustle of wool and perfume, leaving a faint trace of lavender and cold air.

At another table, a silver-haired woman with rings stacked high on her fingers traced glowing sigils in the air that faded before anyone else could see them. A wizard in saffron robes barked a laugh that ended in a cough.

And everywhere, above, around, woven through the very wood, the smell of pipe smoke, spilt ale, hearth soot.

I found a seat in a shadowed corner, removed my glasses and folded them carefully beside me. From inside my coat, I drew a slim brown book, more for show than need, its title obscure enough to discourage questions. I opened it to the middle and let my eyes rest on the lines without reading a word. Instead, I listened.

Voices rose and fell like tides.

"—so Dumbledore's finally stepped in, can't say I'm surprised…"

"—Hogwarts just starting term yesterday, little Daisy's beside herself, owls all over the place—"

"—Gringotts making noises about stricter vault audits, mark me—"

A plump wizard stomped by, muttering about cauldron permits. Behind the bar, I watched two men in stained aprons carry crates through a side door, whispering about shortages. The Landlord pretended not to notice.

I watched.

I waited, patient as stone.

Eventually, my opportunity arrived. A woman, bundled in plum-coloured robes, led her wide-eyed daughter toward the bar. I watched them linger there, speaking in hushed tones, until the Landlord nodded and gestured them toward the back.

I rose, slipping my book back into my coat. As they neared the rear door, I matched my pace to theirs and offered a slight, polite incline of my head.

"Good morning," I said, my voice mild, as the mother pushed open the door.

She startled slightly, then smiled with distracted courtesy. "Good morning, dear."

Together we stepped through.

The door swung shut behind us, muffling the clamour of the pub. The courtyard stood still, its quietness broken only by the damp stone and soot-streaked walls. I watched as she drew her wand, tapped the bricks with practised confidence, three up, two across.

The stones shivered, rearranged with a grinding hush. Diagon Alley unfolded like a secret too long kept.

I stepped after them, crossing the threshold as though into the heart of something vast. And perhaps I was.

Diagon Alley wrapped around me at once, bright in places, shadowed in others, humming with brisk adult voices.

Men and women moved in practised channels from shop to shop, their cloaks billowing behind them, parcels clutched tightly. 

Here, a sour-faced wizard checked the cuff of his robe for soot; there, a tall witch weighed a string of tiny silver bells on her gloved palm. Everywhere, Adult Wizards, all threaded through by the same determined current of errands.

Children were conspicuously scarce.

No small clusters gawking at broom displays, no wide-eyed first-years trailing after mothers with proud, worried smiles. 

It made sense, Hogwarts had begun yesterday, the first of September. The boats would have glided across the lake already, lanterns bobbing on black water. The Sorting Hat would have finished its songs and judgments by now.

I haven't received the letter yet, unfortunately, my birthday falls just a day after enrollment.

So I walked. Slowly, deliberately, boots clicking on cobblestone as though measuring each stone's worth.

I passed Peter Boat, a business that produced and sold twine and rope, painfully narrow in vision.

Next was Crispa Culpepper's Drugs & Preparations, small dark vials stacked in latticed racks. Useful, but no serious modern pharmacy-like establishment would display its contents in such a haphazard manner.

Gringotts rose ahead like a fortress disguised as a bank.

Goblins scuttled about with ledgers thick enough to fell oxen. A line of wizards fidgeted on marble steps, all irritation and nervous polish. It reminded me too clearly of certain Muggle banks, bloated on old procedures. I made a mental note: House Magus would need vaults, yes, but also broader investments, places these men would never think to look. Maybe our own bank.

I slipped next into Flourish and Blotts, breathing the heavy musk of old paper and spell-ink.

Here, at least, was a faint hush of reverence. Books were stacked nearly to the ceiling, some chained to prevent them from falling to the ground. I let my hand drift over the spines. Titles on duelling theory, curse-breaking, and defence against dark creatures. All hoarded knowledge, but poorly indexed, overpriced, and dependent.

A shop like this could be refined, streamlined, and franchised.

The thought lit through me, quick and certain.

Further along, I paused outside a narrow door under a tarnished sign: Mandrake Mufflers.

A shop devoted entirely to enchanted earmuffs. I nearly laughed. Such specialised caution for one rare hazard, when so many simpler dangers filled everyday life.

At Potage's Cauldron Shop, I lingered longer.

Rows of gleaming pots, brass and pewter and silver, each promising perfect simmering. The clerk droned to another customer about self-stirring enchantments that reduced labour by half. It was quaint. Any clever household charm could do the same, likely better. Their pricing was absurd, built on tradition rather than market sense.

Amusing diversions. Not a single shop offering modern magical tools for finance, industry, or transport. No brokerage offices. No firms seeking to aggregate small wizards' wealth for larger trade syndicates.

The longer I walked, the clearer it became: Diagon Alley was fragile, underdeveloped, a narrow artery trying to feed the entire magical heart of Britain on stale traditions and quaint illusions.

So much could be added.

So many gaps ripe for clever hands to fill.

I stopped in the middle of the cobblestones, breath fogging faintly in the cooling afternoon. My mind turned, bright and precise, already sketching overlays of new shops, new services, new kinds of power.

They called this the main market of wizarding Britain.

To me, it looked like the first fertile patch of unclaimed soil.

And House Magus would cultivate it, carefully.

My next destination was a small second-hand bookshop, wedged between a tawny furrier and a shop advertising enchanted wedding gowns that changed colour with the bride's mood. Its window was fogged slightly, titles stacked behind glass in no discernible order.

I stepped inside, the bell chiming overhead. The air smelled of mildewed leather and something faintly sweet, perhaps the scent of rotting paper. No one greeted me. The clerk, a stooped wizard with half-moon spectacles, was deep behind the counter, scribbling in a ledger.

The shelves leaned inward under the weight of time and neglect.

I traced a hand along the spines, letting dust gather lightly on my fingertips. Here were slim volumes on the Goblin Rebellions, a battered green copy of A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration, even a thin pamphlet explaining common Ministry offices. Further back, stacked haphazardly on a low table, lay a collection of Hogwarts annual records, not official textbooks, but books about the school. Lists of famous alumni, quaint sketches of standard rooms from thirty years ago, earnest accounts of Quidditch victories.

Useful. Extremely so.

Better than any idle rumour from pub chatter. This was foundational lore, the small invisible grammar of wizarding Britain.

I waited. Listened.

Only the shuffle of the clerk's quill, the occasional crackle of the stove in the corner. No one else is in the aisle.

I carefully added these to my inventory.

By the time another customer moved past the front of the shop, they were already nestled in my private vault.

I turned to leave, and nearly walked straight into a heavyset wizard with bristling brown eyebrows and a sour twist to his mouth.

"You!" he barked. "You took something from that shelf. I saw you lingering. Let's see your pockets."

I blinked up at him, schooling my expression into faint confusion. "I'm sorry, sir?"

The clerk, hearing raised voices, shuffled over. "What's all this now?"

"This boy's a thief. I saw him by the histories, up to something."

I let out a careful breath.

"Of course." My hands moved slowly, deliberately. "Here, see for yourself."

I turned out each pocket: my coat lining, the inner waistcoat slits, even the small stitched fold where I kept a few sickles. Empty. Clean. The clerk leaned in, peering close, spectacles nearly slipping from his nose.

The accuser's face darkened in blotches of red. "I could have sworn,"

The clerk straightened and gave me a slight, apologetic nod of the head. "My apologies, boy. Truly. Been a rash of petty thefts lately, easy to let nerves run wild."

I gave them both a mild smile. "Perfectly understandable. Better to be vigilant. I'd rather be checked than see your fine stock vanish to actual thieves."

The heavy man looked mortified now, sputtering half-formed excuses. I only inclined my head again, then stepped out into the street, the bell tinkling once more at my exit.

Outside, the cool air felt oddly refreshing.

The weight of those histories nestled comfortably in my hidden inventory, knowledge acquired cleanly, without the fuss of coin or contract.

I spent another hour wandering among small merchants, who were carefully polite, asking after any leftover copies of the Daily Prophet.

Most were only too glad to offload old bundles, weeks of headlines detailing Ministry squabbles, Gringotts currency advisories, even a flurry of speculation about the international war that was still on going. I accepted them all with soft thanks, stacking them into my satchel.

Each page was a thin window into how wizarding Britain understood itself. Each misspelt name or pompous editorial was a quiet admission of where real power lay, and where it didn't.

By the time I began to retrace my steps toward the Leaky Cauldron, the day had softened into evening.

Shadows stretched long across cobblestones, and lanterns winked alive over shop doors. The alley bustled still, but with a more languid, satisfied pulse, witches and wizards clutching parcels, laughing with a kind of careless ease.

By the time I stepped back into Muggle London, dusk was deepening. The soot-streaked city had grown softer under the orange glow of streetlamps, carriages rumbling past like tired beasts. 

I moved among them with practised calm, my satchel full of old newspapers and my hidden vault newly heavy with books no one suspected were missing.

When I let myself in through our narrow front door, the house smelled of warm sugar and faintly singed frosting. I paused in the hall, surprised.

Rupert appeared in the doorway to the sitting room, wiping his hands on a tea towel that looked suspiciously sticky.

"There you are," he said. "Nearly thought I'd have to put a candle on this thing and eat it myself."

On the table behind him sat a small cake, wobbly with white icing. A pair of slightly lopsided candles burned at the centre.

I set my satchel down and allowed a brief, real smile. "You didn't have to fuss."

"Oh, but I did," Rupert grunted. "What's the point of having a birthday if you don't at least taste a bit of sweetness, eh?"

He pulled out a chair for me with more ceremony than usual, then busied himself slicing two uneven wedges. We ate together in the soft lamplight, his fork clinking against the plate. The cake was dense and a little dry, but sweet enough to hide its shortcomings.

"Next year, I'll do a proper one," Rupert said, half to himself. "Maybe get one of those chocolate ones from Southwark. You'll be twelve. A young man."

"Nearly," I agreed, with just enough warmth to satisfy him.

When he finished, Rupert leaned back with a sigh, patting his stomach. 

"Go on up when you're ready. I'll handle these dishes."

I took my time ascending the stairs, each tread familiar underfoot. In my room, I closed the door behind me and rested there a moment, listening to Rupert humming off-key downstairs.

Then I shrugged out of my coat and cap and set my glasses on the desk.

I took this quiet moment to check on all the changes that have happened.

'Status.'

 [FAMILY SYSTEM] 

________________________________

Name: Richard Anderson Russo Magus

Age: 11

Race: Homo Magi

House: Magus

House Crest: -><-

House Motto: Non ducor, duco

Position: Patriarch 

Allegiance: N/A

Alliance: N/A

Family Tree: -><-

Total Family Members: 1

________________________________

Wives: 0

Concubines: 0

Main line descendants: 0 

Branch line descendants: 0

________________________________

Bloodline: Magus

Traits: -><-

________________________________

Talents: -><-

Affinities: -><- 

________________________________

House Structure: -><-

House Wealth: -><-

________________________________

[Recognition: N/A]

[Reputation: N/A]

________________________________

Compatibility Index: -><- 

________________________________

Tasks: -><-

________________________________

Body: 18.67

Mind: 37 

Soul: 30

Mana: 12105

________________________________

Strength- 18

Dexterity- 19

Constitution- 19 

Intelligence- 36

Wisdom- 37

Spirit- 38

Charisma- 27 

Charm- 25 

________________________________

SI: -><- 

________________________________

Two new sections were added, just below the House, with the crest and motto being added.

The section about Bloodlines and Traits has been updated with my newly created Bloodline and Traits.

Also, House Structure and Wealth had been unlocked. 

One thing did confuse me, though.

'System, why are the Recognition and Reputation sections still locked?'

[No one knows of Host's House.]

That made sense, how could it be recognised and have a reputation if no one knew it existed.

My mana has continued to increase; it has been growing exponentially as I've grown.

I decided to move through the system until I found something interesting.

[Affinities]

[Essence of Flux-Aligned]

[Essence of Intent-Aligned]

[Essence of Balance-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Growth-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Bond-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Sight-Unaware]

[Essence of Pattern-Faint Trace]

[Essence of Structure-Attuned]

[Essence of Self-Linked]

[Essence of Mercy-Attuned]

[Essence of Will-Linked]

[Essence of Inheritance-Neutral]

[Essence of Distance-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Moment-Faint Trace]

[Essence of Permanence-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Transcendence-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Thought-Harmonic]

[Essence of Force-Minor Pull]

[Essence of Meaning-Faint Trace]

[Essence of Presence-Faint Trace]

[Talent]

[Transfiguration-Efficient]

[Charms-Efficient]

[Potions-Efficient]

[Magical Botany-Efficient]

[Magical Zoology-Efficient]

[Divination Magic-Basic Aptitude]

[Ritual Magic-Efficient]

[Magical Theory-Gifted]

[Soul Magic-Gifted]

[Light Magic-Efficient]

[Dark Magic-Natural]

[Bloodline Magic-Standard]

[Spatial magic-Standard]

[Temporal Magic-Standard]

[Enchantment-Efficient]

[Alchemy-Standard]

[Mind Magic-Gifted]

[Elemental Magic-Efficient]

[Symbolic Magic-Standard]

[Aura Magic-Standard]

'System, why have my Affinities and Talents increased?'

[Due to Bloodline Integration Host.]

Wow, that's why my magic has felt a lot easier today. I thought it was just the usual growth, like it had been for the last two years; it had been growing easier to control and manipulate as I grew, but today was different. That was the reason.

I stood and moved to the window, fingers resting lightly on the sill. Outside, London stretched dark and huddled under the settling night, lamps flaring like watchful eyes. Somewhere, witches and wizards crossed over into hidden spaces, clutching parcels, whispering about vault audits and Hogwarts timetables. Somewhere, Gringotts goblins locked heavy doors over coins that might one day bear my seal.

All of them would come to know Magus. Slowly at first, through whispers and strange bargains, through small enterprises carefully designed not to frighten them. And then by degrees sharper, until even the Ministry would find my House impossible to ignore.

I drew in a long breath, feeling it settle through my ribs and down to the new lattice in my marrow.

This was what a legacy felt like: not just hope, not just scheming. It was a pulse, a rhythm under the skin, an inheritance that would rewrite the future long after my bones had crumbled.

I turned from the window, blew out the candle with a soft puff of breath. The room fell into shadow, warm and private.

Then I lay back on the bed, one hand lightly over my heart, feeling that new cadence, the slow, inexorable drum of a House that had begun with me.

At eleven years old, on the day of my birth, I had become more than just Richard.

I was Richard Anderson Russo Magus, first of his line.

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I was going to do another chapter, but it was only the time-skip to the start of Hogwarts, so I just decided to start with that next Arc.