A palpable tension had settled over Gryffindor Tower. Hermione Granger was back. She moved through the common room like a ghost, her body healed by Madam Pomfrey's skill, but her spirit was a fractured thing. The once-boundless energy was gone, replaced by a watchful, flinching reserve. Her books were still her sanctuary, but now she read with a frantic, desperate air, as if seeking a formula to piece her courage back together.
Ron, burdened by his detentions and the weight of his unjust sentence, approached her the day she returned. "Hermione," he mumbled, his ears red. "I... I'm really sorry. For what I said. And... I didn't steal anything, I swear. I don't know how that stuff got in my bag."
Hermione looked at him, and for a moment, the old, fiery friend was there in her eyes. But it was quickly doused by a wave of remembered pain—not just his words, but the crushing loneliness in the hospital wing, the silence where their visits should have been.
"I know you believe that, Ron," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "But knowing and feeling are two different things." She hugged her books closer to her chest, a physical barrier. "I need... I need some space to think."
The rejection was a physical blow. He watched her walk away, a chasm opening between them that no simple apology could bridge. His misery found its only outlet in the grueling, terrifying routine of his punishment. Nights in the Forbidden Forest with a nervous Hagrid left him exhausted and soiled, the darkness and strange sounds feeding a deep-seated fear. Each trip was a fresh humiliation, a constant reminder of his powerlessness.
Harry, caught in the middle, threw himself into Quidditch. The sky was his only escape. His first match against Slytherin was a brutal affair. He fought past Bludgers and the Slytherins' dirty tactics, his eyes locked on the Snitch. Then, disaster. His broom gave a violent jerk, then another, bucking and spinning as if trying to throw him. He clung on desperately, high above the pitch, as gasps rippled through the crowd.
In the stands, Hermione's analytical mind, cutting through her own trauma, snapped into focus. She wasn't watching Harry; she was scanning the staff stands. Her eyes, sharpened by fear, bypassed the panicking teachers and landed on Professor Quirrell, who was muttering incessantly, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on Harry, while Professor Snape's own intense stare seemed to be a counter-curse.
"It's not Snape," she hissed to a terrified Ron, "it's Quirrell!" Without a second thought, she shoved past the other students, her heart hammering against her ribs. She fought her way through the crowd, her fear for Harry overriding her own lingering pain. Spotting the Potions Master's billowing robes at the edge of the teacher's section, she didn't hesitate. She stumbled, as if pushed by the jostling crowd, and collided with Severus Snape, her hand "accidentally" brushing against the hem of his teaching robes.
A spark, a faint smell of burning wool, and a yelp of surprise from the professor. At the same moment, high above, Harry's broom settled, and he shot towards the Snitch. The connection was broken. Hermione, her face flushed with a mix of terror and triumph, melted back into the crowd before Snape could fully comprehend the interruption. She had saved Harry. The act was a small, defiant flame in the cold darkness that had gripped her.
When Harry's hand finally closed around the Snitch, the roar of the Gryffindor crowd was a physical force. But in the Slytherin stands, the loss was a poison. Marcus Flint's face, already brutish, contorted into a mask of pure, impotent rage. The defeat, delivered by Potter, was an intolerable insult. That familiar, hot, sadistic impulse surged within him, a need to dominate, to break something, to reassert his power. His eyes, burning with fury, scanned the Slytherin spectators and found his preferred outlet.
Icharus was sitting a few rows down, a model of quiet neutrality. He had anticipated this.
Later, in a deserted dungeon antechamber, Flint cornered him. "Warrington's little pet," he snarled, grabbing Icharus by the throat and slamming him into a stone pillar with a sickening thud. "Think you're too good to cheer for your master's house? You looked like you were about to cheer for Potter." It was a flimsy pretext, and they both knew it.
Icharus didn't resist. He let his body go limp, his mind retreating to its citadel as Flint's assault began. This was not a brief outburst. It was a methodical, brutal punishment. Fists pummeled his ribs and stomach, leaving deep, aching bruises that would bloom purple and green by morning. But the true violence was more intimate, more degrading. Flint, his rage sexualized and cruel, forced himself on Icharus with a savage lack of care, causing sharp, tearing injuries that burned with every minute movement. The violation was so violent it left Icharus with a throbbing, debilitating pain deep in his core, a severe physical trauma that manifested as an agonizing, immobilizing constipation—a humiliating, constant reminder of the assault that no healing potion could easily mend.
When Flint was done, he spat on the floor next to Icharus's head. "Remember your place, mudblood. You belong to Slytherin. You belong to us."
Unseen by either, from the top of the moving staircase, a pair of twinkling blue eyes observed the aftermath. Albus Dumbledore had noted Icharus Rodrigus's name, first for his sudden magical awakening, then for his Sorting, and now for his troubling associations. He saw the Hufflepuff boy, who was supposedly Harry's friend, spending significant time in the Slytherin dungeons. He saw the way the older Slytherins, Flint and Warrington, seemed to have a particular interest in him. His expression was as unreadable as a frozen lake. It was the composure of a strategist to use the pieces on his set forth plan and he doesn't want any variables.
Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly. It was time to pay closer attention.
Meanwhile, Icharus, masking his physical agony behind a facade of quiet diligence, maintained his other, more public webs. He held quiet, encouraging talks with Justin Finch-Fletchley, validating his muggle background. He listened with feigned fascination as Ernie Macmillan held forth on pure-blood traditions, subtly stoking the boy's pride and paranoia. He continued his careful cultivation of Neville Longbottom, their conversations now laced with subtle hints about wandless magic and the power of intent, further twisting the boy's path.
And in the library, he found Rolf Scamander, who was growing increasingly excited about the upcoming holidays.
"My grandfather's written," Rolf said, his eyes alight. "He says the Demiguise colony is thriving, and one of the juveniles has taken a real liking to him. It's fascinating." He looked at Icharus, Justin, and Ernie, who were nearby. "He said I could invite friends for Christmas. All of you! It would be brilliant."
Justin and Ernie made polite excuses—family commitments, traditional Yule celebrations. They looked at Icharus, expecting the orphan to have nowhere else to go.
Icharus allowed a small, genuine-looking smile to touch his lips, though the movement sent a fresh spike of pain through his bruised face. "I would be honored, Rolf," he said softly, his voice a little strained. "Thank you. I'd love to come."
Inside, the cold engine of his mind whirred, analyzing the pain, cataloging the injuries, and calculating the recovery time. The path to the Demiguise's blood had just been laid bare before him. The Scamander residence was not just a social visit; it was his next battlefield, and he would march onto it no matter the cost to his body.