Time flowed like a gentle breeze, carrying Icharus to the first of September. With Task One complete, a calculated calm had settled over him. The subsequent tasks were not matters of brute force, but of delicate social surgery. He needed to select his pawns with the precision of a master tactician, ensuring not a single ripple of his true hunt reached the ever-watchful eyes of the old bat, Dumbledore.
Platform Nine and Three-Quarters was a chaos of smoke and sobbing mothers. Icharus Rodrigus moved through it all untouched, a single cold stone in a warm, babbling river. His gaze swept over a huddle of boisterous redheads—the Weasleys. A happy, dumb family, he mused, who chose poverty and principle over power. Perfect sacrificial lambs. His eyes lingered on the twins. Their talent for magical invention was a resource. Fred, especially, Icharus thought, a dark promise forming. He will die regardless. It's a greater glory to be fuel for my ascension.
On the train, tucked into an empty compartment, he drew out his most precious acquisition: the ritual book from Knockturn Alley, its dark knowledge hidden behind the cover of a muggle adventure novel. As the countryside blurred past, he was already deep in his schemes.
His solitude was broken by a soft knock. A boy stood there, shuffling sheepishly. "All the other compartments are full…"
"They're free," Icharus said, his voice carefully neutral.
The boy introduced himself as Rolf Scamander, grandson of the famed magizoologist. Icharus expertly played his part—the worried muggle-born, afraid he'd be sent home for a lack of talent. He probed, he sympathized, he manipulated, until Rolf, flushed with pride and pity, confessed in a hushed tone, "My grandfather says my talent for conversing with magical beasts is even greater than his… I just don't know what to do with it."
Internally, Icharus smiled. Another lamb for the pyre. His greed for the talent flared. Voldemort and Grindelwald were fools, destroying such resources. I will drain them dry.
Later, the door was flung open by a bushy-haired girl with a round-faced boy in tears. "Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost his," she demanded. Icharus recognized her instantly: Hermione Granger, the academic prodigy. A vital asset. He marked her for a distant, useful rapport. He would be cordial with Harry—it would seem odd not to—but the youngest Weasley male was to be avoided entirely. He was not worth a single knut.
The journey ended at Hogsmeade. "Firs' years! Firs' years over here!" Hagrid's voice boomed. Icharus followed the crowd to the small boats, deliberately maneuvering into the same one as Harry Potter.
"Icharus!" Harry said, a genuine smile breaking through his nerves. "You're here too!"
Ron Weasley, sitting beside Harry, immediately grew possessive, questioning Harry about his link to the giant. Icharus inwardly sneered.
"Heads down!" Hagrid bellowed as they passed under the ivy. Every child ducked. Except Icharus.
"Yeh need ter put yer head down!"
"I'm not nearly as tall as you are, sir," Icharus replied with feigned innocence, earning a few nervous giggles. A small act of defiance, a tiny test of the waters.
In the Entrance Hall, Professor McGonagall's stern speech was shattered by Neville Longbottom blundering forward to reclaim his toad. The crowd laughed. Icharus saw only a perfect, fragile candidate for his sixth System Task.
Then, the peacock arrived. Draco Malfoy strutted toward Harry, oozing aristocratic condescension. "You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Potter. I can help you there."
Icharus watched, a silent spectator. Harry's reply was perfect. "I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks." The refused handshake was a dismissal. The pieces were on the board.
The Great Hall was a spectacle of magic, but Icharus felt only a cold assessment of its power dynamics. He met Dumbledore's twinkling gaze for a split second, then looked away, the picture of overwhelmed awe.
The Sorting Hat sang, but Icharus heard only a list of tools. He watched as Hannah Abbott became a Hufflepuff—the house of the overlooked. The perfect shadow. Hermione and Neville went to Gryffindor. Malfoy was a Slytherin in a heartbeat. A liability. Potter's sorting brought a deafening roar. The golden boy was in his place.
Finally, "Rodrigus, Icharus!"
He walked forward calmly. The Hat descended, and the world vanished.
"Hmm. A mind like a fortress... The Veil guards you. But I can feel what lies beneath. Such cold ambition."
You see correctly. But you will see only what I allow.
"Slytherin would make you a great Lord."
A cage. Dumbledore watches. I need the shadows.
"Ravenclaw, then? Your intellect is sharp."
They ask too many questions. I would stand out.
"You have seen and understood Death. Gryffindor could temper that."
Temper me? Icharus's mental voice was scathing. I am the fire that forges. Gryffindor is a stage for fools. I am the playwright.
"Then where?"
Hufflepuff. The house of the overlooked. No one looks for a master schemer in the basement. My loyalty is to my own ascension. They will never suspect me.
The Hat was silent, a tense, internal battle.
"A most... unconventional choice. To use humility as a weapon. Very well. Better be... HUFFLEPUFF!"
A moment of stunned silence was followed by polite, confused applause. As Icharus walked to the Hufflepuff table, a slow, imperceptible smile touched his lips. He had done it. He was in the one place no one would ever look for a future god.
He took a seat among the kind and the loyal, his gaze drifting across the hall to where the real players sat. Harry Potter, the hero. Draco Malfoy, the rival. Hermione Granger, the genius.
Let them have their drama, he thought, the cool weight of the Mnemosyne ring a comfort on his finger. My game will be played from the shadows. And it has already begun.