Harry Potter: House Magus

The castle had settled into its evening rhythm, the kind of stillness that came only when the last bursts of chatter had faded from the halls. Torches flickered low, their flames bending and swaying against the draft, casting long shadows that crawled up the ancient stone walls. Richard walked alone, his footfalls silent on the flagstones as he made his way back from the library. The smell of old parchment still clung to him, a reminder of the quiet hours he had spent there, buried in thought and observation.

It had been a full day, classes, subtle conversations, the ever-present sensation of being watched. He carried himself as if the weight of those stares meant nothing, yet he catalogued every glance, every whisper. Now, in the dim corridor leading toward the North Tower, he expected nothing but silence.

Instead, voices bled from an unused archway, sharp and mocking.

"…Look at her. Doesn't even know which end of the wand to hold properly."

Soft laughter followed, thin and cruel, echoing off the cold stone.

Richard slowed, then stopped. His eyes narrowed, expression still as glass.

Through the archway, the scene revealed itself under the torchlight's weak glow. A small girl stood pressed against the wall, her dark hair a curtain around her tense face. Her robes were skewed where they'd been grabbed, and her books lay scattered like fallen leaves at her feet. Two older Slytherins loomed over her, enjoying their dominance, while a third leaned lazily against the wall, arms crossed, smirking like he was watching a play.

The girl's knuckles were white around her wand. She trembled, but her chin stayed high. Defiance simmered in her Hazeal eyes.

She was frightened. But not broken.

Richard stepped forward, his movements silent, almost spectral. The torchlight caught the edge of his face, throwing sharp shadows across his features.

"Hello gentlemen, now I don't know why three respectable Slytherins would lower themselves to pick on a second-year girl and throw all her books around, so why don't you pick them up?"

The words were spoken softly, almost conversationally, but the tone sliced through the corridor like a knife. It wasn't a request. It was an order.

The three boys stiffened, turning as one. The tallest sneered, baring teeth in something that might have been a grin. "What's this? A little first-year comes to play hero?"

Richard didn't so much as blink. His voice stayed level.

"Pick. Them. Up."

The silence that followed stretched, taut as a bowstring. The boys exchanged glances, as if waiting for one of them to make the first move.

It wasn't the leader who moved. It was the smallest, the one whose bravado had cracked under Richard's gaze. He seemed the most weak-willed. His eyes darted nervously as he crouched and began gathering the fallen books, fingers fumbling over the scattered pages. The leader glared at him, but said nothing.

"You think you can order us around, Magus?" the tall one spat, his voice forced, brittle around the edges. "You've only been here five minutes; there's a lot we can do to make your time here and outside hell."

Richard took one slow, measured step closer. The greenish torchlight caught his eyes.

"Now, I wouldn't make threats you can't back up."

The boy's smirk faltered. The corridor seemed to shrink, the only sound the rustle of books being stacked back together.

The girl watched silently, her defiance flickering into something else, something like relief. When the smallest boy handed her the books, Richard turned to her with the faintest nod.

"Go."

For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes locking with his. Gratitude glimmered there, and something unspoken passed between them. Then she clutched the books tight to her chest and slipped away, her footsteps quick but steady.

Only when she was gone did Richard shift his gaze back to the boys. His voice dropped lower, each word deliberate.

"This is the last time I want to see something like this, okay?"

The leader swallowed hard but said nothing. The third boy, still leaning against the wall, suddenly found the floor more interesting than the confrontation.

When Richard finally walked away, the corridor remained unnaturally still, the tension lingering like smoke. The older Slytherins stayed where they were. Richard didn't look back. He didn't need to.

Richard's expression never shifted during the encounter, but behind the calm mask, his mind was sharp, dissecting every angle.

Three older Slytherins. Two aggressive, one passive. None prepared for someone who wouldn't flinch. He didn't need to raise his voice; volume was for the desperate. No, the right tone, low, controlled, carried more weight than any shout.

He counted the spaces between his words, the exact moment to step forward, the second to hold their gaze just long enough to break their rhythm. When he said, "Pick them up," it wasn't just an order; it was a test. Would they submit to quiet authority, or force him to escalate?

When the smallest moved to gather the books, Richard logged it away. Weak link. Follows pressure. The leader, arrogant but not stupid, hesitated at the wrong moment, and that was all it took. Control shifted.

Even as he spoke to the girl, Richard calculated the outcome. This will travel through the dorms by nightfall. They'll call him arrogant, reckless, and dangerous.

He hadn't stepped in for chivalry. He had stepped in because she was worth the investment; presenting an image of a peacekeeper would draw people in and make his words a law that was respected.

Every word, every step, was deliberate.

The same girl who had just run away stood in the shadowed corner of the hall, hugging her books so tightly the edges dug into her arms. Her heart still thudded from the confrontation, every beat a reminder of how close she had come to losing control.

She had been ready to hex them, even if it backfired, even if it hurt. Anything but cry. But before she could, he had appeared.

Richard Magus.

The way he had walked into the corridor, silent, unhurried, was unlike anything she'd seen in her short time at Hogwarts. He hadn't shouted, hadn't drawn his wand, hadn't even looked angry. And yet the older boys had faltered like children caught in the act.

When he told them to pick up her books, she almost didn't believe it. Not because she didn't think anyone would help, but because he said it as if it were inevitable. Like he expected to be obeyed.

She wanted to thank him then, but the words stuck in her throat. So she walked away quickly, clutching the books as if they were armour. But she didn't go far. Something in her told her to wait, and she didn't have to wait for long.

The tension of the confrontation still lingered behind Richard like a cloud of smoke. His steps were measured, each one echoing faintly in the quiet passageways as he walked. He turned a corner and stopped.

The same girl was standing there, half-concealed by a shadowed alcove, as though torn between hiding and stepping forward. The light from a nearby torch catches her face, revealing the strain she's been carrying, the way her fingers still clutch her books like a lifeline.

She isn't running. She isn't crying. She's just… waiting.

Richard studies her in silence for a moment, and he can see it clearly now, the same defiance that had burned in her eyes during the confrontation. A quiet resilience.

When her gaze meets his, it wavers only for an instant before steadying. She takes a single step out of the shadows, as if to meet him halfway.

When Richard finally came down the corridor, she stepped out before she could lose her nerve. Her voice came out softer than she intended:

"You didn't have to help me."

He said, "I know," with that same calm certainty.

"…Why did you?" she asks, her grip tightening around the books pressed to her chest.

Richard tilts his head slightly, as though weighing her question. When he speaks, his words are precise and deliberate. "Because I don't see the difference between you and those 'pure-bloods'."

The answer catches her off guard. For a heartbeat, she can only blink at him, as if that idea, that notion, had not even occurred to her.

"Richard Magus," he says finally, offering a smile and his hand.

The corners of her mouth twitch. "Caroline Davis."

The name resonates in Richard's mind. The Index had told him she was important long before he knew her. Now he could put a score to a face.

"I've heard of you," he continues, his voice as steady as his gaze. "Apparently, you've got some good wandwork; maybe you can give me some tips."

Caroline looks down, almost embarrassed. "Not good enough, apparently."

"You're better than most," Richard says, and there's no doubt in his voice, no room for her to argue. "That's enough for now."

For the first time, she smiles, a small, cautious thing, but real.

They walk the remaining distance to the library together, the silence between them no longer tense but steady, like the calm after a storm. The great doors creak as they push them open, and the scent of old parchment greets them, warm and grounding.

Caroline chooses a table near the far wall, one surrounded by towering shelves that form a cocoon of quiet. She places her books down carefully, as if regaining control with every movement. Richard sits across from her, his posture relaxed, hands folded neatly on the table.

At first, she speaks hesitantly, her words coming out unevenly. She tells him about her home, a small Muggle town where no one believed the letter when it arrived, where magic was something out of stories. She admits to feeling strangely out of place walking these halls, how even the moving staircases seem to mock her uncertainty.

Richard listens, never interrupting. When he does speak, it is with the same deliberate precision he uses for spellwork, each word landing exactly where it needs to.

"You're here now," he says at one point, his voice low, eyes fixed on hers. "You're here for a reason, you've got a gift, and you're here to learn to use it."

The tension in her shoulders eases. Slowly, her words flow more freely, her tone lighter than before.

They stay there for an hour, the world outside the library falling away. The only sounds are the turning of pages and the occasional scratch of quills, a rhythm that feels almost like understanding.

By the time they leave, something has shifted. Caroline walks with her head higher, the fear that had shadowed her steps now replaced with quiet determination.

The corridor outside the library was almost empty when they stepped through the doors. The last traces of torchlight danced along the walls, and the distant murmur of students faded as they dispersed toward their dormitories.

Richard and Caroline walked side by side, neither speaking for a while. The silence wasn't uncomfortable; it was intentional, heavy with the echo of what had just happened.

Halfway down the hall, she stopped. Richard paused as well, turning slightly to face her.

"You didn't have to… stay," Caroline said, her voice softer now, no trace of the earlier fear. "You could've just walked away."

Richard's gaze didn't waver. "I don't like to leave things unfinished."

She studied him for a long moment, as if trying to read the layers beneath his calm exterior. "People don't usually stand up for me. Not like that."

"They should," he replied simply.

For a moment, neither moved. Then she nodded once, a silent acknowledgement, and turned to continue down the hall toward the Ravenclaw tower.

Richard remained where he stood, watching until she disappeared around the corner. When she was gone, he let out a slow breath and turned back toward the dungeons.

The green light of the torches caught the edge of his face as he walked, casting him in half-shadow. His mind wasn't on the confrontation anymore; it was already moving forward, calculating, weaving.

Caroline Davis had become more than a passing moment, more than just a name and a number.

By the time Richard reached the entrance to the dungeons, the halls above were nearly deserted. The stone wall slid open at his approach, revealing the emerald-lit expanse of the Slytherin common room. Students lounged in clusters by the fire, their voices low, as though they feared the lake pressing down above them might listen in.

Richard moved through the room like a shadow, drawing glances without inviting them. He paused briefly near the fire, where Colin, Arjun, and Elliot were still awake, their books open but forgotten.

"Where were you?" Colin asked, curiosity tinged with concern.

Richard met his gaze calmly. "Finishing something important."

Malcolm snorted from the corner. "Important? Or secret?"

Richard didn't rise to the bait. He simply said, "Both," and continued toward the staircase leading to the dormitories.

As he climbed, he felt their eyes following him.

Up in the dormitory, Richard sat on his bed in the dim glow of the lake's green light filtering through the windows. He opened his notebook, its pages already filled with precise notes and observations.

He wrote one name carefully on the following blank line:

Caroline Davis – 91

For a moment, his pen hovered, then he added another line beneath it:

Potential ally. Worth protecting.

Closing the book, he placed it under his pillow and leaned back..

Tonight, a piece had been moved.

And as small as it seemed now, Richard knew, it was the start of something far larger.

Ravenclaw dormitory, long after the other girls had drifted off to sleep, Caroline Davis lay awake in her bed. The moonlight spilling through the tower windows painted silver streaks across the floor, and the gentle rustle of turning pages came from a nearby bed. None of it reached her.

Her mind kept circling back to the corridor, to the way the older Slytherins had laughed, the way her hands had shaken. And then, Richard Magus.

She had expected no one to step in. Hogwarts had already taught her that sometimes people watched cruelty and did nothing. Yet he had appeared, quiet as a shadow, and with only a few words turned the balance of the scene entirely.

He hadn't boasted afterwards. He hadn't even lingered to make her thank him. He had simply… helped. And that made it all the more striking.

Caroline turned onto her side, hugging the pillow against her chest. She replayed his words in her head:

"Because I don't see the difference between you and those 'pure-bloods'."

They had settled into her bones like a spell. No one had ever said that to her before or even said it in general. No one had looked at her and seen strength instead of fear.

As sleep finally began to take her, a faint smile touched her lips. She didn't know why he had chosen to help her, but one thing was certain: she would not forget it.

Back in the Slytherin common room, the three boys sat in silence. The usual hum of chatter and the crackle of the green-lit fireplace felt distant, almost muffled. None of them met each other's eyes.

The leader, still nursing the sting of humiliation, gripped the arm of his chair until his knuckles whitened. "He's just a first-year," he muttered under his breath, though the words rang hollow.

The smaller boy, who had picked up the books, shifted uncomfortably. "Doesn't feel like it," he said quietly.

"You pathetic worm, why did you listen to him?" The leader barked at the smaller boy.

The third, who had leaned against the wall during the confrontation, stared at the fire. "He didn't even raise his wand," he said more to himself than anything. "Didn't have to."

For a moment, the room was filled only with the sound of the fire snapping. The leader finally exhaled sharply, trying to cover the tremor in his voice. "This isn't over."

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