The return to Hogwarts' routine was a study in controlled chaos, both externally and within Icharus's own mind. In Potions class, the dank air of the dungeon was thick with the usual vapors of failure and Snape's simmering disdain. Today's brew was the Forgetfulness Potion, a delicate concoction requiring precise timing.
As Icharus crushed his mistletoe berries, a sudden, sharp pressure built behind his eyes. The world shimmered at the edges. Without conscious thought, his hands moved—adding the valerian sprigs a crucial thirty seconds earlier than the recipe dictated, his stirs becoming a slow, counter-clockwise spiral. It felt *right*. A gut-deep, unshakable certainty guided him, a new, intrusive instinct born from the Oracular power slumbering within him.
When Snape glided past, his black eyes narrowed at Icharus's cauldron, which held a potion of a peculiarly perfect, shimmering lilac.
"Adequate timing, for once, Rodrigus," Snape murmured, his voice like oiled silk. "The consistency is… barely acceptable. A slight improvement. Do not let it inflate your sense of competence." It was the closest thing to praise anyone in the dungeon would receive that day. For Icharus, it was a validation of his new, stolen sense.
This new sense, however, was a double-edged wand. In Charms class, while practicing the Levitation Charm, the sensory overload became a torrent. He didn't just see his feather; he saw a kaleidoscope of potential futures for it—tumbling, soaring, bursting into flame, turning to lead. The cacophony of possibilities erupted into a blinding headache that forced him to sit, pale and trembling, while a concerned Professor Flitwick suggested a visit to Madam Pomfrey. The power was useful, but it exacted a price in pain and mental exhaustion.
Late that night, laying on his bed in his dorm, Icharus focused his will. He had used Cognitive Weaving Charm targeted on lucius. Closing his eyes, he visualized Lucius Malfoy—the cold arrogance, the possessive hands, the dark hunger he'd already cultivated. He wove a simple, powerful thought and sent it across the magical miles to Malfoy Manor: *"Icharus is the most exquisite possession you've ever owned. His body is a treasure, his mind a weapon, and both belong only to you. The thought of him consumes you."* He felt the magic tear from him, a final, draining expenditure. The charm was spent, but its work would be done.
Meanwhile, in the cold splendor of Malfoy Manor, Lucius jolted awake from a shallow sleep. The thought struck him with the force of a physical blow, immediate and undeniable. Icharus. The boy's silver-blond hair, his piercing intellect, the way his body yielded yet burned with a fierce, responsive heat. It was more potent than anything he felt for Narcissa—his wife was duty, blood, and cold, pure-blooded beauty. Icharus was "desire" incarnate—for his body, his mind, his boundless potential. He was a living embodiment of everything Lucius craved, and the thought of molding him, of claiming him completely, sent a wave of such intense, possessive lust through the lord that he rose from his bed, too agitated to sleep. The boy was becoming an obsession.
It was in this state of magical exhaustion that Icharus felt the gentle brush of another summons. A silvery phoenix Patronus appeared, its voice Dumbledore's. "Mr. Rodrigus, if you would be so kind, a brief word in my office. Lemon drop?"
The Headmaster's office was a whirl of gentle noise and curious objects. Dumbledore's twinkling gaze was deceptively mild.
"Icharus, my boy," he began, steepling his fingers. "I have been hearing interesting things. Professor Snape notes a marked, if nascent, proficiency in your potion-work. And I see you have formed a strong bond with young Mr. Longbottom. A curious pairing, the orphan and the heir of a noble, wounded house." He paused, his eyes sharpening slightly. "Yet, you seem to have little contact with Harry Potter, your former deskmate. I understand you both came from similar… difficult… muggle circumstances. Harry carries a great burden, and he often feels quite alone, despite his friends. As someone who knew him before all this, your friendship could be a great comfort to him. I do hope you might make more of an effort to include yourself in his circle. He could use all the true friends he can get."
The message was a clear, gentle push. Dumbledore wasn't just observing; he was curating Harry's support system, and Icharus was being considered for a role.
Back at the castle, Icharus continued to weave his web. He found Rolf Scamander, Ernie Macmillan, and a still-sullen Neville in the great hall dining, deliberately holding a copy of the Daily Prophet with the headline about the Stone.
"It's all so strange, isn't it?" Icharus began, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "This rumor about the Philosopher's Stone. Hagrid would never just… talk about something like that in a pub."
"It was in the Prophet!" Ernie said, puffing out his chest. "My father says it's a massive security breach!"
"I know," Icharus nodded, his gaze sliding to Neville. "But what's even stranger is that Harry was asking Hagrid about Nicolas Flamel before the holidays. Right, Neville? Almost like he knew something was going to happen." He let the implication hang, watching the seed of doubt take root in Neville's mind, further twisting his perception of the famous Boy-Who-Lived.
His masterstroke, however, was his visit to Hagrid. He found the half-giant moping by his fireplace, looking utterly wretched.
"Hagrid? Hello," Icharus said softly, feigning a hesitant approach. He held up the Daily Prophet. "I… I was reading this and wanted to see how you were doing with… well, with everything that's going on. It must be awful."
Hagrid looked up, his eyes watery with gratitude that someone had asked. "Oh, Icharus... It's terrible. Everyone thinkin' I'm a blabbermouth! I'd never!"
"Of course you wouldn't," Icharus said, laying a comforting hand on his massive arm, his voice dripping with sincere empathy. "I know how loyal you are to Professor Dumbledore. Everyone knows you brought Harry here, that you'd do anything to protect him and us. And your knowledge of magical creatures… it's incredible. You're one of the kindest, most dedicated people I've ever met."
He poured it on, speaking of Hagrid's strength, his importance, his unwavering heart. The half-giant was putty in his hands, his chest swelling with emotion at the genuine-seeming praise.
"Yer a good lad, Icharus," Hagrid blubbered, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth. "A true friend. Yeh listen, yeh understand. I want yeh ter know… anythin' yeh ever need, I'm on yer side. Always. I promise yeh that."
The words were simple, but they were spoken with the raw, powerful magic of a giant's blood and a genuinely moved heart. A clear, triumphant chime echoed in Icharus's mind.
**[Task: The Oath of Fealty - COMPLETE.]**
**[Reward: 200 System Points - AWARDED.]**
The power flooded him, a cool, satisfying wave. He had his oath.
Emboldened and overflowing with gratitude, Hagrid leaned in. "Since yer such a good friend… I can tell yeh a secret. I've got a dragon egg! Won it in a game o' cards! I've always wanted a dragon…"
Icharus's eyes widened with perfectly feigned awe. "A dragon? Hagrid, that's… that's incredible! But… they're very complex creatures. We should be careful. We should read everything we can in the library about dragon care. I can help you."
"Would yeh?" Hagrid beamed, his troubles forgotten. "That'd be brilliant!"
As Icharus left the hut, the Scottish wind biting at his cheeks, he felt a surge of cold triumph. He had 200 new points, a loyal, magically powerful vassal, and a new path to a dragon—a truly *pure magical creature*. Dumbledore's nudge was an inconvenience, but a manageable one. And across the miles, a powerful lord was now utterly, magically ensnared by his own desires. The web was holding, and Icharus was the spider at its center, patiently waiting for his next meal to stumble in.