When they finally left him, crumpled and sore on the floor, Icharus did not immediately move. The pain was a distant signal, the humiliation a tool he had already stored away in the cold, classified vault of his mind. The so-called "euphoria of ultimate cognitive control" was not an end, but a beginning. He had proven his mind was an impenetrable citadel. Now, he needed the artillery to storm the world.
Alone in the Room of Requirement, which had reverted to a blank, stone-walled chamber, he willed the System interface to life. The 100 SP glowed mockingly. It was not enough. He needed something specific, something subtle. The Market was a chaotic jumble of options. He focused his will.
Refresh. Cost: 10 SP. [Remaining: 90 SP]
A list of martial combat enhancers and elemental charms flashed by, not best for present need and cant buy with present points.
Refresh. Cost: 10 SP. [Remaining: 80 SP]
Potions ingredients, rare herbs, needs too much points.
Refresh. Cost: 10 SP. [Remaining: 70 SP]
He gritted his teeth, the mechanical process a grating reminder of his temporary poverty. Again and again, he spent his hard-won points, watching the number dwindle: 60... 50... 40... 30...
Refresh. Cost: 10 SP. [Remaining: 20 SP]
A wave of frustration, cold and sharp, threatened to surface. He was left with a pittance. And then he saw it. Tucked between a "Glamour of Minor Allure" and a "Potion of slow poison of certain death," was precisely what his situation demanded.
[Cognitivo Textura]
Cost: 10 SP | 5 Years of User's Lifespan
Description: Weaves a subtle, self-reinforcing charm into the psyche of a target. Unlike crude compulsion, it nurtures existing emotional seeds (envy, curiosity, hatred, admiration) into a profound and genuine obsession, tailored to the caster's design.
Note: Target must be in a state of emotional vulnerability for initial weave to take root. One-time use. Age changes will start to showcase after 1 year.
A price of five years. A fifth of his remaining life, gone in an instant. His mind, a labyrinth of cold calculation, dissected the problem. The Philosopher's Stone was the answer, but a dying one. Dumbledore's confidence meant it was a spent asset, useful only as a trap. For Icharus, even its dregs of power could remediate his lost years. But to claim it, he needed chaos, resources, and layers of deception.. Lucius Malfoy and cassius was the key to all three.
His public role was now irrevocably set: the invisible, subservient slave. To arm himself, he first needed to secure knowledge and materials. The next day, he found Cassius Warrington in the Slytherin common room, holding court by the fire.
"Cassius," Icharus murmured, his eyes fixed on the stone floor, his posture a perfect sculpture of deference. "I wish to be more useful to you. I want to learn Potions. Properly. If I had the right materials… I could brew for you. Anything you need."
Cassius looked down at him, a predator considering a new trick from his pet. "You want to play with cauldrons, mudblood? Fine." A cruel, knowing smirk played on his lips. "You can start by brewing a Stamina Potion. A strong one. Marcus and I have use for that. Succeed, and you'll get your scraps. Fail, and you'll learn your place another way."
Icharus bowed his head. "Thank you, Cassius."
The Stamina Potion was brewed to perfection in a disused bathroom, a masterpiece of viridian potency. That night, its effects were swift and brutal. Cassius and a leering Marcus Flint, their bodies humming with enhanced vitality, dragged Icharus to Cassius's private dorm. The "lesson in his place" was a sustained, degrading ordeal, a twisted celebration of their power. Icharus retreated behind the walls of his citadel, his mind observing. This was not suffering; it was a transaction. A debasement of the flesh to purchase the tools for ultimate victory.
True to his warped word, Cassius began providing basic potion ingredients. Icharus, playing his part with chilling precision, brewed flawless basic healing potions and simple elixirs, though he had failures in every third or fourth batch. Cassius, seeing a golden opportunity, sent the successful batches to the Warrington family for sale, pocketing the gold and boasting of "his mudblood slave's" productivity. Icharus had successfully made himself a dual asset: a source of pleasure and a growing source of income.
As this grim new routine solidified, he turned his focus to his true target. The opportunity came in a dungeon corridor, where Crabbe and Goyle flanked a preening Draco Malfoy.
"—and my father said my last essay on the inherent magical superiority of pure-bloods was 'showing the right instincts,'" Draco boasted.
It was the perfect moment of emotional vulnerability—pride, a desire for approval. Icharus, lingering in the shadows, focused his will. He didn't cast a spell; he invested. He activated the [Cognitivo Textura], aiming its insidious power squarely at the seed of Draco's narcissism.
The cost was a visceral tear in his very being. A wrenching sensation, as if a part of his soul was being shredded and spun into the weave. A new, terrifying line appeared in his vision: [Chronological Age: 16 Years]. The phantom ache of lost time settled deep in his bones, a cold, permanent companion.
The effect, however, was precise. That night, Draco Malfoy penned a letter to his father. It was a masterpiece of engineered narcissism, detailing not just his grades, but with lurid pride, the "potions-brilliant mudblood" his housemate owned. He described Icharus's talent, his servitude, and the "pure, righteous joy" of his degradation, framing it all as a testament to Malfoy superiority.
In Malfoy Manor, Lucius read his son's words. The [Cognitive Weaving Charm] Icharus had woven into him weeks prior, now fertilized by Draco's letter, burst into full, twisted bloom. Disdain curdled into dark desire; avarice transformed into obsession. He saw a genius, orphaned, broken, and ready for the taking. A perfect tool for both his vault and his bed.
The hook was set. The martyr's cross was being built from the greed and lust of his tormentors, and Icharus was the architect, hammering the nails with his own stolen time.