The Scamander cottage was a sanctuary Icharus knew he did not deserve. For a few days, he had allowed the illusion to cradle him: the smell of Mrs. Scamander's cooking, the gentle, rambling wisdom of Newt, the earnest camaraderie of Rolf. He had played his part perfectly—the grateful, bright orphan—and in the process, secured the rarest of ingredients, now a cool, heavy vial nestled in the void of his System Backpack.
But as the Christmas decorations twinkled their farewell, the citadel of his mind was already reforging its walls. The Demiguise's blood was a key, not a prize. The next lock to be picked was the world's attention.
He returned to Diagon Alley two days before the New Year, the cheer of the season feeling like a thin veneer over the cobblestones. He paid for a week in a cramped room above a noisy cauldron shop, the last of his stolen Galleons feeling lighter than air. It was time to make an investment.
On a cold, clear evening, he stood in the Room of Requirement, which had provided a single, focused cauldron. The Polyjuice Potion, a perfect, murky brew thanks to the notes stolen from the forbidden section, swirled within it. He held up the coarse, black hair stolen from Hagrid's hut months ago.
"No turning back," he whispered to the silence, though the thought was a formality. There was only ever forward.
He dropped the hair in.
The transformation was a fresh kind of hell. His bones screamed as they stretched, his skin burned as it thickened and coarsened. When it was over, Hagrid's massive, clumsy body was his prison. He looked in a conjured mirror, and the half-giant's bewildered, gentle face stared back. He practiced the voice, the cadence, the lumbering walk. It was a grotesque puppet show.
When he was ready he simply walked downstairs, The Leaky Cauldron was bustling, a haven from the winter chill. He pushed the door open, his massive frame drawing immediate, if familiar, glances.
"Hagrid!" Tom the bartender called out. "The usual?"
"Might do, Tom, might do," Icharus boomed in a perfect imitation of the gamekeeper's rumble. He settled at the bar, ordering a triple measure of Firewhisky. He drank it fast, then another, letting the liquor do its work, loosening the tongue of the character he was playing.
He waited until the crowd was at its peak, then let his voice rise above the din, slurred with false intoxication and thick with manufactured emotion.
"...an' he trusts me, see?" he slurred to no one in particular, but everyone within earshot. "Dumbledore, greatest wizard of the age, he trusts me with his secrets!" A few wizards chuckled indulgently. Icharus slammed his tankard down, making the bar tremble. "I'm serious! The things I've seen... keepin' it safe, I am. Keepin' it safe from him."
The mention of You-Know-Who hushed the immediate vicinity.
"What're you on about, Hagrid?" a witch asked, leaning in.
"Can't say! Sworn to secrecy!" Icharus said, then leaned forward conspiratorially, his voice a stage whisper that carried. "But between you, me, an' the gatepost... it's a stone. A philosopher's stone! Right there on the third floor! Nicolas Flamel himself... poor man must be worried sick..."
He let the name hang in the air, let the implications sink into the minds of the gossips and the reporters who haunted the pub. He saw a man in the corner, his quill already flying over a piece of parchment. Perfect.
He continued his performance for a few more minutes, a maudlin monologue about loyalty and heavy burdens, before "stumbling" out into the cold night, the buzz of excited conversation erupting in his wake.
The next morning, in his small rented room, Icharus read the Daily Prophet with a cold smile.
HOGWARTS HIDING ALCHEMIST'S TREASURE? Dumbledore's Secret Project Revealed by Gamekeeper.
The article was speculative but rich with damning quotes. It mentioned the Philosopher's Stone by name, the third-floor corridor, and painted a picture of a drunken, loose-lipped Hagrid compromising the school's security.
A silver Patronus fox burst into his room, its voice that of a frantic Minerva McGonagall. "Headmaster Dumbledore wishes to see you immediately, Icharus. Return to the castle at once."
He didn't move. He simply watched the fox dissolve. The hook was set. Let the old fool stew.
Later, he imagined the scene in the Headmaster's office. Dumbledore, facing a crimson-faced Cornelius Fudge via the Floo Network.
"Albus, is it true? The public is in a panic! The Wizengamot is demanding answers! If You-Know-Who is after the Stone..."
"Cornelius, I assure you, the situation is under control," Dumbledore's voice would be calm, but the twinkle would be absent.
"Control? Your gamekeeper announced it to half of wizarding London! I want that oaf questioned! Under Veritaserum, if necessary!"
And Dumbledore would have to summon Hagrid. The half-giant would be a blubbering mess of loyalty and confusion. "I'd never, Professor Dumbledore, sir! On me mum's grave! But... I did have a few... I can't rightly remember everythin'..."
Dumbledore would be trapped. He knew Hagrid's heart, but he couldn't prove his innocence. The perfect, frustrating bind.
Two days later, the other shoe dropped.
Icharus was examining a display of Third-year potion-making texts in Flourish and Blotts, mentally calculating the cost, when a cold, drawling voice spoke from behind him.
"A little advanced for a first-year, wouldn't you say, Mr. Rodrigus?"
Icharus froze, then slowly turned. Lucius Malfoy stood there, impeccably dressed, his pale eyes like chips of ice, his serpent-head cane resting lightly on the floor. He looked like a predator who had just found his quarry cornered in a genteel setting.
"Lord Malfoy," Icharus said, his voice carefully neutral.
"A word," Lucius said, it was not a request. He gestured towards a secluded corner between towering shelves of Arithmancy texts.
Once there, Lucius dispensed with pleasantries. "I have taken an interest in you, boy. My son has provided me with... illuminating reports." He withdrew a single, pristine piece of parchment from his robes. It wasn't the Howler Icharus might have expected, but something far worse in its quiet precision. "This is a magically-binding transcript. It details certain... activities you participated in with my son, Cassius Warrington, and Marcus Flint. In graphic detail."
Icharus's blood ran cold, but his face remained a mask. The Cognitive Weaving Charm had worked too well. Draco's obsessive notes had become a weapon.
"The Daily Prophet would pay a king's ransom for this," Lucius continued, his voice a silken threat. "A Muggle-born, using the Imperius Curse to sexually entrap the heirs of prominent pure-blood families? You would be expelled, imprisoned, and you would vanish within a week. The world has no use for a used-up Mudblood whore."
He let the word hang in the air, its venom soaking into the silence.
"However," Lucius said, his tone shifting to one of cold magnanimity, "I am a practical man. Talent, however base its origin, should not be wasted. I am prepared to become your patron. I will fund your education, provide you with unlimited resources for your... potions hobby, and offer you a measure of protection. In return, you will brew for the Malfoy family. You will apply that sharp mind to our benefit. You will, in essence, become an asset of my house. Your duties will be... multifaceted."
Icharus stared at him. The threat was absolute. The offer was a gilded cage. But his mind, that cold, calculating engine, was already whirring, finding the angles.
Unlimited resources to learn and refine potions. No more scrounging for ingredients. The Oracular Awakening Circle... it requires a magically potent partner. Lucius is far more powerful than Cassius. This humiliation could be the key to unlocking true divination. He is a stepping stone. A dangerous, viperous one, but a stone nonetheless.
He saw the path, paved with degradation, but leading directly to power. He met Lucius's gaze, allowing a flicker of fear and resignation to show—just enough to be believable.
"I understand, Lord Malfoy," he whispered, his voice barely audible. He bowed his head slightly, the picture of defeated submission. "I... accept your generous offer."
A slow, triumphant smile spread across Lucius Malfoy's face. He saw a broken, useful tool. He saw a new possession.
Icharus saw a new, more powerful lamb for the pyre, and the means to light the flame. The game had just escalated, and he was now dancing in the serpent's coil.