Malfoy Manor was a monument to cold opulence. Icharus followed a silent house-elf through cavernous halls, his footsteps swallowed by thick, dark carpets. Portraits of sneering ancestors followed his progress. It was a world away from the Scamander's cozy chaos, a world built on blood, gold, and the absolute certainty of its own superiority.
The house-elf opened a pair of heavy, carved oak doors and vanished with a soft pop. Lucius Malfoy stood before a marble fireplace, his profile sharp in the firelight. He did not turn.
"Close the door, Mr. Rodrigus."
Icharus obeyed. The click of the latch was unnaturally loud in the silence.
"You will find this is the only room in the manor where we may speak… freely," Lucius said, finally turning. His eyes, the colour of a winter sky, swept over Icharus not just with clinical possession, but with a dark, familiar hunger. The Cognitive Weaving Charm had done its work well; Lucius looked at him and saw an object of his own twisted desire, a fantasy made flesh. "My wife, Narcissa, is occupied elsewhere. It is a state of affairs I intend to maintain. What transpires between us will never reach her ears. Is that understood?"
The threat was implicit: Narcissa's ignorance was his priority, and Icharus's survival depended on maintaining it.
"Perfectly, my Lord," Icharus murmured, his gaze lowered.
"Good." Lucius gestured to a heavy mahogany desk. Upon it lay a single sheet of parchment, thick and creamy, filled with elegant, spidery script that glowed with a faint gold light. "The contract. Read it. Your magical signature will bind you to its terms."
Icharus approached and began to read. The terms were as brutal as they were comprehensive. Lucius would provide a monthly stipend, unlimited access to a private potions laboratory and ingredients vault, and "protection from external threats." In return, Icharus pledged his talents—specifically in Potions, physical services, and "any other magical affinities he possesses"—to the "exclusive and perpetual service of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Malfoy."
He saw the leash, gilded but unbreakable. And then he saw his opportunity.
He looked up, meeting Lucius's gaze with a carefully calibrated mix of fear and ambition. "My Lord… the clause regarding my 'other affinities'. It is… prudent. My value is not merely in a cauldron." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "I have a talent for Divination. It is… unrefined. Dormant. But I have studied a ritual, an ancient one, that can awaken it. It requires a powerful magical anchor."
Lucius's eyebrow twitched almost imperceptibly. "Divination?" he drawled, skepticism and interest warring in his voice. "Trelawney's domain is one of vague portents and hysterics."
"This is not her cheap theatrics," Icharus countered, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is the old magic. The kind that sees the threads of fate. But to weave them into a vision, it requires a catalyst. A partnership. A… synergistic release of magic with a wizard of significant power."
The euphemism hung in the air, charged and clear. Lucius's eyes darkened, the skepticism evaporating, replaced by pure, covetous avarice. Here was a justification for the desire that had haunted his dreams, framed as a path to greater power. The idea of not just owning a body, but unlocking a unique and powerful magic within it, was a far more potent aphrodisiac than simple domination.
"A partnership," Lucius repeated, a slow, predatory smile gracing his lips. He walked around the desk, stopping uncomfortably close. He reached out, not with violence, but with a terrifying possessiveness, and traced a finger down Icharus's cheek. "Show me."
The ritual chamber was in the manor's deepest cellar, warded into silence. Icharus worked with efficient grace, using the priceless Demiguise blood to paint the complex, spiraling Oracular Circle onto the stone floor. Lucius watched, his arms crossed, a silent, powerful spectator.
"The ritual requires us to be within the circle," Icharus explained, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous room. "The connection must be… physical. Magical resonance through tactile contact is the key."
It was a lie woven with strands of truth, enough to satisfy a wizard of Lucius's knowledge. He would believe the intimacy was a magical necessity, not the System's demand.
Lucius shed his outer robes with an air of entitled grace, stepping into the center of the bloody sigil. "Then let us begin."
What followed was not the brutal, degrading violence of Cassius or Marcus. This was something else entirely—a cold, calculated seduction where both participants were using the other, yet only one was aware of the full stakes. Lucius was methodical, controlling, his touch meant to claim and dominate. He was consummating a contract, taking ownership of his newest and most fascinating asset, fulfilling his cravings making the desires grow.
For Icharus, it was a tempest of new and overwhelming sensation. A virgin in previous life, he had no practiced mental walls to retreat behind. His mind was a raw nerve, flooded with data it had no framework to process: the shocking intimacy, the chill of the stone, the weight and scent of the man, the sharp, confusing mix of pain and unwanted physiological response. He had no Occlumency, only a desperate, white-knuckled focus on the goal: channeling the magical energy, using Lucius's own power as a catalyst, forcing it through the ritual circle and into himself.
As the peak of the "synergistic release" approached, Lucius filled Icharus with his seed. Icharus mind, stretched far beyond its limits, suddenly shattered.
A flash of white—a peacock feather falling into a puddle of ink, its vibrant colours swallowed by black.
The grating sound of stone on stone, a tomb sealing shut.
A single, dying rose, its petals black and curling at the edges.
The visions were fragmented, senseless. But then, clarity.
He gasped, his body arching not with pleasure, but with the shock of true sight. His voice was a ragged, foreign thing. "A messenger… an owl approaches. It bears the badger of the Hogwarts… it brings a complaint… about the son. It will anger you."
For a moment, there was only the sound of their breathing in the silent chamber. Lucius stilled above him, his face a mask of stunned avarice.
Then, from somewhere high in the manor, the faint, clear hoot of an owl echoed down through the stones.
Lucius pulled back, his eyes wide, all pretense of cool detachment gone. He looked at Icharus not as a toy, but as an oracle. A weapon. A slave to use as he saw fit.
He stood, retrieving his robes, his movements quick with a new, feverish energy. "Stay here."
He returned minutes later, his face like thunder. In his hand was a scroll sealed with the distinct badger emblem of the Hogwarts Board of Governors. He didn't open it; he didn't need to. He stared at Icharus, the last vestiges of skepticism burned away by the impossible truth of the prophecy.
"It would seem," Lucius said, his voice low and intense, "our partnership has borne immediate fruit."
This was the moment. Icharus rose slowly, his body aching, his mind feeling flayed and foreign. He wrapped his robes around himself, projecting a vulnerability that was now all too real. "My Lord… the bond we forged here… it is stronger than any parchment. My sight is yours. But that document you hold…" He gestured vaguely upwards, towards the study. "It is a danger. To you. If it were ever found, it would not only destroy me, but it would taint you by association. It would ruin the very asset you have just… awakened."
He met Lucius's gaze, his own wide and earnest. "Let me prove my loyalty is to you, not to the fear of a piece of paper. Let us burn it. My future is bound to yours now, by magic far deeper than ink."
Lucius studied him for a long, tense minute. The arrogance, the possessiveness, the sheer thrill of having a Seer at his command—it all warred with his innate caution. But the arrogance won. Destroying the blackmail was the ultimate act of dominance. It said, I own you so completely, I need no physical proof.
A slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. "Very well."
Back in the study, Lucius took the damning transcript from his desk drawer. He held it over a candle flame on his desk. The parchment caught, curling in on itself, the magically-binding words turning to black ash that floated down onto the polished wood.
"Let this be a lesson in the new nature of our association, Icharus," Lucius said, his voice soft but laced with steel. "Your secrets are mine to keep. Your talents are mine to wield. Your body is mine to use as I see fit. And your life is mine to dispose of, with or without that paper. You belong to the House of Malfoy. Remember that. You will return to the Leaky Cauldron. I will send for you when I have need of your… talents. And you will tell no one. No one."
Icharus bowed his head. "Yes, my Lord."
As he was led from the manor, the weight of the destroyed blackmail was a palpable relief. But it was replaced by a new, more profound pressure. He had traded a visible chain for an invisible one. He had given Lucius Malfoy a taste of true power, and he knew, with the cold certainty of his new Oracular sense, that the serpent would never, ever let him go. The cage was now gilded, but it was still a cage.