Harry Potter: House Magus

The first snow came silently, covering the grounds in a pristine sheet of white that sparkled faintly under the pale morning sun. Icicles hung from the eaves of the castle, catching the early light like crystal daggers. From the Slytherin dormitory, the view through the underwater windows was surreal, the lake glowed a deeper, almost emerald green against the winter sky, and strange shapes of fish drifted slowly through the cold water.

When Richard woke, the usual murmur of students was replaced by the muffled sounds of packing and the occasional excited shout echoing through the stone corridors. The air smelled faintly of frost and pine from the enchanted garlands winding their way around the bannisters.

Students bustled everywhere. Trunks rattled on staircases as house-elves whisked luggage toward the carriages. Owls swooped low, delivering last-minute letters to hands already gloved for the journey home. The Great Hall was alive with chatter, the tables piled high with breakfast and packages for students departing. Laughter rose and fell like waves, blending with the clatter of dishes and the calls of friends making promises to write over the break.

Richard moved through it all like a ghost. He watched clusters of students hugging goodbye, the older ones slapping each other on the shoulders, the younger ones clinging to friends as if a few weeks apart were an eternity.

Colin, fastening the clasp on his travelling cloak, glanced at him. "You're really not going home for Christmas?" he asked, incredulous.

Richard's tone was calm. "I have everything I need here."

Colin hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but only nodded before disappearing into the crowd.

As the days shortened and the snow deepened, the castle transformed. What had been loud and crowded was now quiet, echoing. The corridors stretched long and empty, the torches burning lower, their flames swaying lazily in the stillness. The Great Hall, though still decorated with towering Christmas trees and garlands, was hushed without the hundreds of voices to fill it. The only sounds were the soft crunch of boots on snow outside, the faint whispers of the portraits to each other, and the occasional creak of ancient wood settling against the cold.

Hogwarts under winter's grip was almost another world entirely. To some, the emptiness might have felt lonely.

To Richard, it felt perfect.

He thrived in the silence, moving through the corridors like he owned them, mapping out routes without interruption, reading in the library without the constant shuffle of bodies around him, and practising spells in abandoned classrooms where no one could see. The castle belonged to him in those days, and he to it.

On the first evening of the break, when the castle had fallen into the deep, muffled silence of snow and slumber, Richard sat alone by the emerald-glowing fire in the Slytherin common room. The flames cast shifting patterns on the stone walls, their green light dancing across his face as he wrote.

The parchment was pristine; his handwriting was precise and measured, with each word deliberate.

Rupert,

The investments are to remain as they are for now. Avoid expansion into markets we cannot control. The moment we overreach, we will draw eyes we are not ready to meet. Maintain the appearance of caution, even if growth is inevitable.

– Richard

He sealed the letter with a small, plain wax stamp. When his owl stirred on its perch, Richard tied the letter to its leg with practised ease.

"Straight to Rupert. No detours," he murmured. Its head nodded, and the creature launched into the cold night, wings slicing through the snow-laden air like a shadow.

The days passed with a strange, satisfying rhythm. The castle remained hushed, the few students who stayed keeping to themselves, their presence barely felt. Each night, he sat by the fire again, the flicker of green flames his only company as he traced strategies in his notebook.

Several days later, as he was leaving the library, a flash of motion caught his eye. His owl descended silently through one of the high windows, wings outstretched, landing with a click of talons on his arm. The letter it carried was sealed with Rupert's mark.

Richard opened it carefully. The handwriting was strong and deliberate, but warmth was threaded through its sharpness, the voice of a man who knew both affection and strategy.

Richard,

The funds are stable, as you predicted. The markets bend slowly, but they bend. Our foothold grows stronger each week, though there are whispers and questions about where you are. I've maintained the story of studying abroad, but your presence will be needed soon. I've tightened security.

Stay sharp. And keep writing.

Merry Christmas.

– Rupert

Richard read the letter twice, absorbing every line. A faint smirk ghosted across his lips as he folded the parchment and slipped it back into its envelope.

Even here, cloistered within ancient walls and snow-drifted towers, far removed from the hum of markets and meetings, he still held the threads of something greater. Hogwarts might have felt like another world, but his influence stretched past its walls, quiet and unseen, weaving into everything he touched.

It was on one quiet night that it happened. Snow drifted silently against the high windows, and the castle's silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the soft creak of torches as their flames sputtered in the draft. Richard walked alone, returning from the library with a book tucked under his arm, his steps slow and deliberate. The dim corridor that led to the dungeons was empty, or so it seemed.

A voice slipped from the darkness like oil.

"Magus."

Richard turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing with a predator's awareness. From the shadows ahead, three figures emerged, the older Slytherins from the corridor weeks ago. Their faces were half-lit by the flickering torches, their expressions twisted into something between a smirk and a snarl. They fanned out across the hall, blocking his path.

The leader stepped forward first, shoulders squared, wand already in hand. His voice was low, full of venom.

"You humiliated us. In front of a Muggle-born girl, no less. Do you think that makes you one of us? It doesn't. You're nothing."

Richard's expression didn't change. His steps didn't slow until he stopped just outside of striking distance, his book still held loosely at his side.

"Now come on, lads, you don't want to do this."

The tallest of the three laughed, harsh and brittle. "Oh, but we do want to do this, you little shit. You need to know your pla-"

Richard's gaze locked on his, steady and cold, before his fist connected with his mouth.

"Ah shit."

The tallest said, as his hand went to his already bleeding nose.

The two others shifted behind him, wands slipping into their hands as well. The corridor's shadows seemed to stretch, swallowing the space between them.

Richard didn't flinch as he drew his own wand with measured precision.

"You're sure about this?" he asked, almost conversational, as though this were a lesson rather than a threat.

The leader sneered. "Very sure."

Richard's expression hardened, his stance lowering just enough to betray readiness.

The torches flickered violently as the first spell was cast.

The first spell shot toward Richard, fast, a flash of red light that hissed through the cold air. He moved before it reached him, wand snapping up with a fluid motion.

"Protego."

The shield erupted, a shimmering barrier of light that cracked under the impact but held firm, scattering the spell's energy into harmless sparks. The leader snarled, already preparing another curse.

The tallest one, already recovering from the punch, lunged to the side, trying to flank him. His wand flared, "Stupefy!", but Richard had already pivoted, his wrist twisting with surgical precision.

"Expelliarmus."

The disarming charm hit with such force that it nearly tore the boy's hand, sending him staggering back a few steps. His wand clattered against the stone floor. The boy scrambled for it, wide-eyed.

The corridor exploded with light as spells flew in quick succession. Sparks rained against the walls, scorching the ancient stone.

The leader again raised his wand to cast, but Richard was faster: "Immobulus." The charm hit dead-on, freezing the boy's wand arm mid-swing. He cried out, clutching at it with his free hand as his wand clattered uselessly to the floor.

The smallest, his earlier bravado shattered, tried to rush him with a desperate jinx. Richard countered with a sharp "Flipendo!" The knockback charm sent him stumbling several feet, landing hard on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

Only the tallest one remained, rage twisting his features. He roared, firing another curse with reckless force. Richard didn't even step aside this time; his wand slashed through the air, and a "Stupefy!" sent him flying back.

The torchlight gleamed off the thin trace of blood that welled from the nose of his face. His wand slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His breathing came in sharp, shallow gasps, the earlier bravado gone.

Richard didn't raise his wand again. He stood there, steady and cold, lowering it only enough to show he didn't need to finish the fight to win it.

"Ok," he said, voice low and absolute, "from now on, I don't want anything coming from you guys, not even a whisper of anything. From this moment forward, you are my dogs, ok? Now get some healing done and have a nice holiday, I'll be in contact soon."

The leader's pale face twitched, but he said nothing. None of them did. They only nodded once.

Richard stepped past them as though they were already forgotten, his robes barely shifting as he moved. The corridor fell into silence, the only sound the faint hum of fading magic and the ragged breaths of the defeated boys.

The days that followed were calm, deceptively so. Hogwarts under snow became a world unto itself, cocooned from everything beyond its walls. The corridors were muffled by the thick drifts outside, footsteps softened as if the castle itself wished to sleep through the winter. Frost feathered across the windows, catching the morning light in crystalline patterns, and enchanted snowflakes drifted lazily indoors, melting before they ever touched the ground.

The Great Hall transformed into a winter dreamscape. Towering Christmas trees lined the walls, each one shimmering with magical ornaments that twinkled like captured stars. Garlands of holly and ivy coiled along the bannisters, and warm golden light spilt from floating candles that seemed to glow a little softer than usual. Meals were quieter with so few students remaining; conversations were hushed, laughter softer, the magic of the season weaving through every moment.

Sometimes, he would share tea with Caroline in the nearly empty common rooms. With Caroline, their talks drifted toward charms, her questions growing bolder, her confidence sharpening with every answer Richard gave. He watched her shed some of the timidness of those first weeks, her talent becoming clearer with every passing day.

Richard's two-headed companion had grown noticeably over the past couple of months, its black feathers now gleaming like polished obsidian in the dim dungeon light. The violet glow in its twin eyes had deepened, the colour shifting like embers caught in the wind. The creature, still unnamed, had doubled in size since hatching, its wings broad enough to cast long shadows across the walls when it stretched.

Though he hadn't used her to send letters or perform tasks yet, Richard trained her quietly in the privacy of his dormitory or in empty classrooms. She responded to his words, commands grew more complex: circle the room twice before landing, retrieve a tossed object, perch silently without a sound. She obeyed with eerie precision, both heads moving in uncanny synchrony, requiring correction only rarely.

While she hadn't managed to speak, at least not yet, there were moments when one head would tilt, almost as if forming words, while the other remained watchful. The intelligence in her gaze was undeniable. Sometimes she would stare at Richard for long stretches, as though she understood not only his commands but the intent behind them.

More than once, when Richard worked late into the night, she would perch by the window, watching the snow fall beyond the glass, her heads swivelling slowly to track its movement. The bond between them was silent but growing stronger, built on something more profound than mere ownership.

She wasn't just a pet.

On Christmas morning, the castle was almost silent, the snow outside falling so softly it seemed the world had stopped to watch. Richard descended to find some gifts from his newly made friends and a single letter waiting for him on the table, its seal familiar, the parchment crisp and clean. Beside it sat a small box.

He broke the seal and unfolded the letter from Rupert. The words were warm yet edged with the shrewdness of a man who understood exactly what they were building together:

Richard,

The funds are stable. Growth is steady, and the board has confidence in your judgment.

I hope you're learning a great deal and having a wonderful time. Making friends that you can relate to.

-Rupert

The small box opened with a quiet click. Inside, nestled on a dark velvet cushion, lay a silver pocket watch. A two-headed hawk was engraved in intricate detail, its forms coiled around the edge, as if guarding the clock face itself.

The note attached was brief:

For when timing matters more than anything.

Richard ran his thumb over the engraving, the faintest smile touching his lips. The watch ticked softly, its rhythm steady, precise, just as he was.

Timing always mattered.

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