Harry Potter: House Magus

[POV SWITCH: 3RD PERSON]

The days at Hogwarts slid into a rhythm that seemed almost designed for Richard Magus. Where others found chaos, missed staircases, misplaced homework, and the sheer noise of hundreds of students learning magic, he saw patterns. The castle breathed, and he learned to breathe with it.

Every morning began the same: he rose before the others, the dormitory still cloaked in green-filtered shadow. While his housemates dreamed, Richard stretched in measured silence, his movements precise and deliberate. When his muscles warmed and his breathing evened out, he slipped into the corridors like a shadow and began his exploration anew. Each day, he traced a different route, pushing farther into the castle's depths and heights.

He discovered staircases that only appeared on the third step of the hour, doors that opened to hidden alcoves if you knew the right tune to hum, and a tapestry that shifted its pattern to reveal the outline of a forgotten passage. The portraits grew used to his presence; some muttered greetings, others offered riddles or tried to mislead him. He noted their behaviour, just as he noted which suits of armour creaked too loudly and which ones pretended to sleep.

The castle no longer felt like an unknowable labyrinth. It was a puzzle, and piece by piece, Richard was fitting it together.

His lessons fit into this framework with equal precision. In the classroom, Richard was neither the loudest nor the flashiest, and that was deliberate. His wandwork in Transfiguration was controlled, his levitation charms in Charms were smooth and steady, and his potions brewed to the perfect shade without fuss. He never called attention to himself; he simply executed.

Professors took notice, of course, but not in a way that invited envy. Their praise was subtle, a nod here, a quiet remark there. Richard cultivated this balance carefully. He allowed the Gryffindors to dominate the spotlight with bold gestures, and the Ravenclaws to compete with essays so long they looked like research papers.

Richard simply… delivered. Consistently just enough to impress without intimidating. Always controlled. Always deliberate.

And because he delivered, the whispers started.

At first, they were faint, drifting like smoke between conversations in the common room or at the edges of the Great Hall. A name passed along quietly, Magus, carrying just enough weight to linger. Older students noticed first. They were the ones who paid attention to patterns, to who rose and who stumbled. Richard wasn't rising loudly, but he was rising all the same.

They spoke his name with a mix of curiosity and irritation, the way people do when they can't quite categorise someone. He didn't flaunt his skill like some Gryffindors, nor did he vanish into the background like a meek Hufflepuff. He was too composed to be dismissed, too talented to ignore, and too restrained to mock.

Among the Slytherins, it was the sixth-years who looked at him the longest, weighing him as though trying to decide whether he was a potential asset or a threat. Some respected the way he kept his head down while still managing to stand out. Others didn't like that they couldn't read him.

Even outside his house, the questions spread. In the library, Ravenclaws glanced up from their books when he passed, their curiosity sharpened like quills. Hufflepuffs watched him during Herbology, whispering about how he seemed to understand them like no others. The Gryffindors were louder about it, muttering that no Muggle-born should be that good, not without some kind of secret training.

There were no clear answers, and that only fed the fire.

The whispers followed him down corridors, behind his back in classrooms, even as he studied alone in the common room. They were questions disguised as gossip. Who is he? Where did he come from? How does he know so much already?

The first real test came during Potions class.

The dungeons were thick with the scent of nettle and asphodel, their cold stone walls echoing with the low murmur of students preparing ingredients. The flicker of green flames from the cauldrons cast strange shadows across the room, making the jars of powdered root and pickled animal parts on the shelves glimmer ominously. Richard moved with his usual deliberate calm, setting out his ingredients in precise order.

That's when she stopped him.

The sixth-year Slytherin with silver braids stepped into his path like a drawn blade. Her presence alone silenced the first-years nearby. Older students carried weight in Slytherin, and she held it like a weapon. Her narrowed eyes glinted like polished steel as they swept over him.

"You're Magus?" she asked, voice cool but edged, as if daring him to confirm it.

Richard didn't break her gaze. "Yes."

"I heard you brewed a stable Cure for Boils on your first try," she continued, her tone. "No smoke, no burn marks, no exploded cauldron?"

"I read the instructions," Richard replied evenly. "Thoroughly."

Her lips curved, just barely, not into a smile, but into the faintest sign that she approved of the answer. She lingered for a moment, assessing him with the air of someone cataloguing strengths and weaknesses, deciding whether he was worth remembering.

"You'll do," she said at last, almost under her breath, and then turned away, her braid whipping behind her like a banner.

Richard watched her go. She hadn't just tested him; she had marked him. From that point on, not openly. Not hostile. Just… weighing. And in Slytherin, being weighed could mean everything.

After that, it spread.

The whispers travelled faster than any owl. They curled through corridors, settled in stairwell corners, and clung to conversations like smoke. Richard heard them in the pauses between footsteps, in the way certain students cut their eyes toward him when they thought he wasn't looking.

In the library, it was no different. The Ravenclaw fifth-year approached him like a hunter stalking prey, leaning one elbow on the table where Richard was annotating a thick copy of Magical Drafts and Potions. His knuckles tapped against the wood with the rhythm of a clock, sharp and deliberate.

"What's your real name, Magus?" the boy said, voice low but carrying. "People are asking," He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "and they really want to know."

Richard turned a page with the unhurried grace of someone who had already decided how the conversation would end. "Are they?" he asked, voice almost bored.

"Where did you learn magic before coming here?" The boy's tone sharpened, a blade testing for weak spots.

Richard closed the book softly and finally lifted his gaze. His expression was calm, even pleasant. "I didn't," he said. "I'm Muggle-born."

For a heartbeat, silence hung between them.

The Ravenclaw's mouth curled into a smirk, the kind that wasn't amusement so much as disbelief. "Sure," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "And I'm a centaur."

He straightened, scoffing under his breath as he walked away. But he couldn't help glancing back once, just once. Richard didn't move, didn't speak, just watched him go with eyes that gave nothing away.

That single look back was enough.

The seed was planted. Doubt bloomed in whispers, feeding on curiosity and envy. Where did he come from? Who taught him? What's he hiding?

No recognised wandmaker claimed prior contact. Ollivander had not so much as hinted at remembering his face, and the goblins at Gringotts, who remembered everything, had no record of his lineage. No magical family claimed him as their own. Not a single old name stepped forward to say, "Yes, he's one of ours."

His name didn't help matters. Magus. It rolled off the tongue like a title rather than a surname, ancient and sharp, with too much weight to be a coincidence. It was too fitting, too deliberate, the kind of name that sounded like it had been chosen, crafted, rather than inherited. Some whispered it wasn't a real name at all, but a mask he wore until the right time to reveal who he truly was.

And yet, despite the questions and the quiet suspicion, Richard walked the halls as if they were already his. There was no hesitation in his steps, no sign of a boy overwhelmed by magic's mysteries. Where other first-years gawked at shifting staircases and portraits that talked back, Richard observed them with a calm detachment, as though he had expected this all along.

He carried himself with the poise of someone who belonged more than anyone else, so naturally, so effortlessly, that it unsettled those who watched. It wasn't arrogance; it was certainty.

Orion Black, Head Boy, approached him in the common room with the smooth, deliberate tread of a predator. The murky green glow of the lake shimmered against his immaculate robes, making the silver trim on his prefect badge gleam like a drawn blade. Conversations around them quieted instinctively; no one wanted to be caught in the crossfire when Orion chose to corner someone.

Richard didn't look up immediately. He finished the line he was reading, marked his page with precision, and only then met Orion's gaze.

"You're attracting attention," Orion said, his voice low but edged, a warning wrapped in silk. "From the wrong places. Whispers in the upper years, questions in the common room. Some of them are curious. Some of them… not so kind."

Richard closed his book softly, as though the matter didn't concern him in the slightest. "Then I'm doing something right."

Orion's jaw tightened. His expression sharpened, dark eyes narrowing as he stepped closer, folding his arms in a way that was almost casual, but not quite. "People won't stand not knowing who you are. I'm also one of those people."

Richard leaned back slightly in his chair, his lips curling into a slight smirk, utterly composed. "I've already said it, I'm a Muggle-born."

The words hung between them, calm and cold, a statement that carried more weight than defiance. It was control, quiet, calculated control.

They locked eyes for a long moment, the soft hum of the lake beyond the windows the only sound. Richard's stare was steady, unreadable; Orion's was testing, probing for cracks.

Finally, Orion gave the slightest nod. "Fine. But remember, Slytherin devours the careless."

Richard's reply was soft, but it cut with precision. "I'm not careless."

Orion held his gaze for another heartbeat, then turned away, his cloak swirling behind him as he disappeared into the shadows of the common room. The tension eased, conversations resumed, but the exchange lingered in the minds of everyone who had witnessed it.

In that moment, it became clear: Richard Magus wasn't just another first-year. He was something else entirely.

Curiosity only deepened. Abraxas Malfoy, sharp as his name and every bit as cold, brushed past Richard in the corridor one evening, his polished shoes clicking against the flagstones. His movements were deliberate, almost theatrical, as if he wanted every nearby student to witness the exchange. The faintest smirk curved his lips, a smirk that promised intrigue laced with malice.

"We'll find out eventually, you know," Abraxas said, his voice silken but edged like a dagger. "You don't just appear with skill like that. Someone taught you. Someone gave you that poise."

Richard didn't slow his stride. He turned his head just enough to meet Malfoy's pale, calculating eyes. His own expression remained maddeningly calm, almost amused. "Who knows?" he said lightly, as if the conversation bored him. "Maybe if you look hard enough."

The smirk on Abraxas's face faltered for a fraction of a second, replaced by something sharper. But he said nothing more. He simply watched Richard walk away, the back of his head held with quiet authority that no first-year should have.

Richard was no longer just another newcomer lost in the tides of Hogwarts life. Whispers followed him into classrooms, drifted behind him in hallways, and filled the corners of the common room when his back was turned.

He wasn't just a name anymore.

He was a question.

And questions, especially those that are dangerous, demand answers.

At lunch, Richard noticed the subtle shift in how students moved around him. It wasn't overt; no one declared him a leader, no one even seemed to consciously seek his company. But the patterns were there. Certain students lingered a little longer near his seat, conversations curved toward him like water flowing to a centre point they couldn't name.

Colin Farrow, ever the easygoing buffer, stayed close. His jokes flowed effortlessly, diffusing tension and drawing others into their orbit. Richard let him talk, responding just enough to encourage him, knowing Colin's humour made the group feel at ease.

Elliot, quiet and always watching, began to ask Richard questions about wand movements, his voice low but full of intent. He'd asked during Charms practice. Richard had shown him, adjusting his grip with a few calm words. Elliot's spell had worked better on the next try, and from that moment, the boy stuck close, his trust growing with each passing day.

Poppy Pomfrey from Ravenclaw began appearing at his library table more often. She brought her own stack of books but always ended up leaning toward him, trading theories about charms or rune sequences in a near-whisper. Richard never dominated the conversation; he asked questions that made her think and offered perspectives that sparked her curiosity. By the end of each study session, Poppy left with more questions than answers and a determination to return.

Martin, the nervous Hufflepuff, started timidly, hovering nearby with his plate at meals. Richard had greeted him warmly, asked about his interests, and listened without judgment as Martin struggled to explain himself. Each time, the stammer grew less severe. Each time, Martin seemed to stand a little straighter.

Richard never overstayed in these interactions. He never monopolised conversations or revealed too much of himself. Instead, he offered just enough: a word of encouragement, a shared observation, a quick tip that led to success. Every exchange was deliberate, each one leaving a trace of gratitude or intrigue in its wake.

Names, voices, fears, ambitions, he collected them like pieces of a complex game. He learned what they wanted, what they avoided, what they dreamed of becoming.

Each conversation was a thread.

And with quiet precision, Richard Magus was weaving them all into something far greater than they realised.

One evening, under the eerie green light of the Slytherin common room, Richard stood with his wand in hand, moving through the motions of basic spellwork. The lake above cast shifting patterns across the walls, making the room feel alive with shadows. Colin stood opposite him, mirroring his stance with careful concentration, while Arjun worked through a different series of wand flicks, muttering incantations under his breath. Elliot sat perched on the edge of a chair, his eyes sharp as he mimicked the movements in the air without speaking, as if engraving each one into memory.

The atmosphere was quiet but charged, a calm born not of idleness but of focus. The only sounds were the whisper of incantations and the occasional hiss of magic as a spell fizzled or took form. Richard corrected Colin's wrist angle with a light tap, then adjusted Arjun's stance by shifting his foot slightly. There was no arrogance in his corrections, only precision. The other boys accepted it without complaint; they were learning, and Richard had a way of teaching that made them want to listen.

Malcolm, however, sat sprawled across an armchair by the fire, watching with an expression that shifted between annoyance and suspicion. He rolled a small serpent-engraved coin between his fingers and finally muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I still think you're lying. No way someone raised without magic does that well in the first week."

The words hung in the air like a spark looking for something to ignite.

Richard didn't stop. His wand cut through the air in a smooth arc, his voice low and steady as he completed the charm. The object on the table glowed faintly, levitated, and then lowered perfectly back into place. Only then did he answer, his tone calm and even.

"Believe what you like," he said without looking up. His movements never faltered, each spell flowing into the next with measured grace.

Malcolm scowled, clearly irritated at being dismissed so effortlessly. He leaned forward, as if ready to press the issue, but Richard finally met his gaze, only briefly. The look was not aggressive, nor defensive, but something sharper: a warning wrapped in quiet confidence.

"Skill," Richard said softly, "doesn't always come from where you expect it."

The lake light rippled across the ceiling like green fire. Arjun went back to practising, Colin grinned faintly, and Elliot kept copying movements, undeterred.

Malcolm leaned back with a scoff, but he didn't speak again.

The rest of the practice went uninterrupted, the only sound the steady rhythm of spellwork under the cold, watchful glow of the lake.

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