Harry Potter: House Magus

The sun hung low in the sky as Richard walked through the narrow streets of his old neighbourhood, the sky painted in streaks of orange and violet. The air smelled faintly of brick dust, warm pavement, and the lingering trace of evening rain that clung to the walls. The buildings were the same as he remembered, weathered by years, their paint peeling in places, laundry lines strung between windows fluttering in the breeze like quiet flags. Rusted bicycles leaned against fences, and the occasional voice called from an open window, mingling with the distant laughter of children playing somewhere unseen.

His footsteps were almost soundless on the uneven cobblestones, each step carrying him deeper into streets that had once shaped him. Every cracked corner, every dented lamppost, every fading mural told a story he knew by heart. Here was where he had run errands as a child, weaving through the crowd with quick steps. There was the bench where he had sat with a book long after dusk, when the streetlamps flickered weakly to life.

For a moment, he simply stopped. The wind carried the familiar hum of his old world, whispering like an echo of the boy he used to be. Memories rose, unbidden, his family's voices calling him home, the warmth of the kitchen on nights, the feeling of small victories in a life that had once felt so constrained.

He breathed in deeply, letting the scent of the neighbourhood fill his lungs. It was different now, distant, but still his. This was where everything had started, where he had learned to watch, to listen, to survive.

The streets welcomed him like an old friend, but they also reminded him of how far he had already gone, and how much further he intended to go.

As he approached the Marino residence, the familiar smell of simmering herbs and baked bread drifted out to meet him, blending with the soft strains of Italian music spilling through the open kitchen window. The warm light glowing inside contrasted with the fading day outside. Richard paused at the doorstep, letting the moment settle, adjusting his expression to something open and calm before removing his cap and raising his hand to knock lightly.

The door swung open almost immediately, revealing Cecilia Marino. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. Her eyes widened as they fell on him, first with surprise, then with something far warmer, before narrowing just as quickly with indignation.

Cecilia Marino stood in the doorway, her eyes narrowing as she took him in. The golden light spilling from behind her framed her like a guardian of the home.

"Richard!" Her voice was sharp enough to cut. "Do you have any idea how many years it's been? Not a single letter, not one! You think you can just walk in here after all this time?"

Richard let her anger wash over him, his face calm, his smile faint and apologetic. "You're right, Cecilia. I should have written. Things became… hectic. I'm studying abroad now. It's no excuse, but I thought of you often."

There was a subtle pulse in the air, soft as a sigh. Her anger softened, the lines on her forehead smoothing slightly as she exhaled. "Always so composed," she muttered, "just like your Nonno, never letting anyone see you ruffled."

Behind her, Luca appeared, taller than Richard remembered but with the same lopsided grin. "See? I told you he'd come back," he said, clapping Richard on the shoulder. "You really had us thinking you'd vanished, though."

Richard stepped inside, letting the warmth of the house wrap around him. The scents of roasted chicken, garlic, and basil filled the kitchen, mingling with soft Italian music playing from the radio. He slipped his cap off, nodding faintly. "I wouldn't stay away forever."

Dinner started stiff, questions asked cautiously, answers measured. Cecilia kept staring at him, her sharp eyes catching every change. Halfway through, her gaze lingered on his hair.

"It's darker," she said slowly, tilting her head. "Like your Papa's. More… intense."

Richard smiled faintly. "Is it?" The air shifted ever so slightly, as if the thought slipped from her mind. She blinked and moved on, the observation dismissed.

Luca, for a brief moment, frowned. "Your eyes… they look..." but then his voice trailed off, the thought dissolving before he could finish. Richard's calm expression never wavered.

As the plates emptied and the warmth of the meal spread through the room, the stiffness melted. Richard spoke with ease, recounting carefully chosen stories of his studies, mundane to them, but laced with subtle intrigue. Luca leaned in eagerly, asking questions, while Cecilia's laughter returned in small, genuine bursts as she scolded him playfully for not eating enough.

By the end of the meal, the earlier tension was gone. Cecilia reached over, resting her hand on his briefly. "You've grown, Richard. Not just taller, you carry yourself differently now. Stronger. Not so… empty."

Richard met her gaze, his faint smile returning. "Perhaps."

"Luca, I've got a little business up and running. I can get you a job there; it would be nice pay. More than enough."

Richard said, directing the conversation into a new direction.

"Really? That would be amazing! Thank you, Richard."

Luca said in excitement, already getting up to give Richard a hug.

"Hey, wait, this isn't something dodgy, is it, Richie?" Cecilia said suspiciously.

"It's all above board, we have an office in the city, and I can get him a good job with good pay. He just needs to pull his own weight," Richard said with a small smile.

"Mama, it will be okay, this is Richard we're talking about, he was always smart, he wouldn't do anything stupid. And anyway, it would help you out with the bills." Luca said to Cecilia.

"As long as it's nothing bad, I don't see why not," Cecilia said with a smile.

"It's not, I'll come by next week and I'll take you both out, you can come see the office," Richard said, trying to calm the worry.

Later that night, as the town fell into a hush, Richard walked the empty streets with only the rhythmic sound of his shoes on the pavement. The glow of the Marino home faded behind him, its warmth replaced by the cool breath of night. Overhead, the moon hung low and pale, washing the world in silver. A thin mist drifted along the ground, curling around the edges of buildings as though guiding him to his destination.

The old graveyard loomed ahead, its iron gates mottled with rust but still standing proud against time. They creaked softly as he pushed them open, the sound swallowed by the thick quiet that clung to the place. Mist pooled between the rows of stones, wrapping the ground in a veil of white. Each grave rose like a silent sentinel, with precise engravings. Each one after the other.

Mary Russo - 1917-1943

Enzo Russo - 1915-1941

Dorothy Smith - 1900-1942

John Smith - 1900-1938

Isabella Russo - 1899-1941

Leonardo Russo - 1897-1942

Here, the world felt untouched by time. No voices, no laughter, no footsteps but his own. Only the smell of damp earth and the weight of memory.

Richard moved between the stones with measured steps, his posture straight, his gaze fixed. He did not hesitate or search; he knew exactly where to go. The mist swirled around his legs as he reached the familiar plot, the graves of his family. The names carved into the stone were clear as day.

He stopped, standing before them as if before a court of silent judges. His hands clasped behind his back, shoulders squared, expression unreadable.

He settled in the middle of the graves, his eyes fixed on each name and death date. Memories involuntarily flooded his mind. Laughs, smiles, faces.

He stood like a statue. Then something inside cracked. His shoulders trembled, and laughter burst from him, harsh, almost manic, ringing through the graveyard.

"HA...HAHAH...AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

The laughter turned to sobs without warning, his knees hitting the cold ground as tears spilt freely down his face.

"I miss you guys... I truly do, every day feels like a struggle."

"I try... I do. I'm moving forward; it feels like the only thing... I can do right now." 

"Everything feels... like it's moving too quickly. I have a hold on it now, but I'm not sure if... I'll be able to do it anymore." 

"I've got this thing, it helps put things in perspective, but I don't know... if I'm just using it as a... crutch, something that gives me... hope for a better future."

"I've only ever wanted a family, and I got it... you guys."

He changed suddenly, his face twisting with a raw, primal rage. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, veins standing out against pale skin as his breath came in sharp bursts. The air around him responded, as if the world itself felt his anger. The fog thickened, swirling violently, wrapping around the graves in ghostly coils. The wind howled through the iron gates, rattling them like a cage, and loose stones skittered across the ground before lifting into the air.

"BUT THEN WHY, OH FUCKING WHY, DID YOU GUYS HAVE TO ALL FUCKING DIE!"

The mist roared, spiralling into a vortex, the graves trembling under the force. Small rocks lifted, whirling around him like an orbit of shattered memories. Even the owls above let out uneasy cries, their wings beating harder to stay balanced in the sudden storm.

"WHY WAS I GIVING MY DREAM TO ONLY HAVE IT GET TAKEN AWAY!"

His voice tore through the night like a weapon, echoing off every headstone, carrying his grief and fury into the stillness beyond the graveyard walls. The sheer force of it made the branches of the nearby trees bend and groan, the leaves scattering into the mist.

Then, silence.

Richard's shoulders heaved once, twice, before the rage drained from his face. Slowly, almost painfully, his expression softened. His jaw unclenched, the tension melting away as tears streaked his cheeks, cutting lines through the cold anger. The rocks dropped to the ground with dull thuds, the mist unwound itself from its violent spiral, and the wind's roar dwindled to a soft breeze.

The world seemed to breathe with him, as if the graveyard itself exhaled in relief. The fog returned to its natural path, curling lazily over the grass and stones as if nothing had happened at all.

"I'm close to having my own family, I am."

"I have the plan set, I know what I have to do to achieve it."

Richard went back to whispering into his chest. His hand removed his cap, resting it on his Grandad's grave, and his other hand removed his ring necklace from his shirt. Rolling them between his fingers.

"I just want my own family now. I don't want to have to wait."

Above, Coeus and Hera circled slowly, their black feathers catching the faintest glimmer of moonlight. They made no sound; even the air seemed to be still in their presence. They glided down, resting themselves on the side of Richard.

For a long moment, Richard said nothing. The quiet pressed close, heavy but not unwelcome. His gaze lingered on the names, and the flicker of something, memory, grief, or resolve, passed through his eyes before vanishing beneath the surface of his calm.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low but carrying in the night air.

"I'm back," he murmured, as if speaking to the earth itself. "And I haven't forgotten you guys."

"I'm close," he whispered, almost to himself. "Closer than I've ever been. I'll build a family of my own. I swear it. I'll do whatever it takes."

For a moment, he bowed his head, whispering words too soft for the night to hear.

When he rose again, his face was calm, too calm. The storm in him had passed, leaving only cold resolve. His eyes glinted with the reflection of the moon, no longer soft with grief but sharpened with purpose.

Above, the clouds parted, and the moonlight fell on the graves like a blessing.

"I'll make you proud," he said, his voice steady now. "You'll live on through what I build."

The mist stirred as if to acknowledge his vow. He turned, his posture straight, and walked back toward the gate. Behind him, the fog closed, erasing his footprints as if he had never been there at all.

Coeus and Hera followed, their wings cutting silently through the night.

The graveyard remained untouched, silent and eternal. But the promise Richard left behind clung to the air like an oath the world itself had heard.

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