The Sorting was complete. As the applause for the final Hufflepuff died down, Albus Dumbledore rose to his feet, his twinkling eyes sweeping the hall. He delivered the usual warnings—no magic in the corridors, a stern avoidance of the Forbidden Forest, and a particularly grave admonition regarding the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side.
"—which is forbidden to all who do not wish to die a very painful death," Dumbledore concluded, a faint smile on his lips.
A hush fell over the Hall, followed by a wave of nervous chatter. Icharus simply took a slow sip of pumpkin juice. So, the bait is set. The old fool is dangling the Philosopher's Stone like a worm on a hook, and the Dark Lord is the fish. He found the entire spectacle beneath him. Let Potter play the hero. It provided excellent cover.
Then, the feast began. Platters materialized, groaning with more food than Icharus had seen in a lifetime. As he ate with measured politeness, his gaze swept the Hufflepuff table, conducting a cold inventory. The house was large, filled with a vast spectrum of talent—the diligent, the kind, the fiercely loyal. So many potential assets, he mused. So many lambs. If one goes missing, who would notice in such a crowd? And if a body is found, the noseless fool makes a perfect scapegoat. After all, something dramatic is destined to happen every year Potter graces this castle with his presence.
His eyes, however, kept drifting back to one student in particular: Cedric Diggory. A few years older, he was the embodiment of Hufflepuff virtue—tall, well-toned, with a handsome, open face that seemed naturally inclined to smile. He was a Quidditch Seeker, popular, and radiated a genuine warmth that made people trust him instinctively. A flicker of something new stirred within Icharus, a raw, possessive hunger ignited by the System's Awakening. He would be a conquest, Icharus decided. A vessel of both physical pleasure and ambient magical energy for the future. The thought was… appealing.
After the feast, the Hufflepuff prefect, Gabriel Truman, herded the first-years. "Welcome home," he said warmly, leading them to a pile of large barrels hidden in a stone alcove near the kitchens. "The entrance is here. You tap the rhythm 'Helga Hufflepuff' on the second barrel from the bottom, in the middle of the second row. Get it wrong," he grinned, "and you'll be drenched in vinegar. On the bright side, it's not fatal, and it makes a decent salad dressing if you're in a pinch."
Polite laughter rippled through the group. Icharus filed the information away, his lip wanting to curl in disdain at the rustic simplicity. Instead, he offered a small, appreciative smile.
The common room that greeted them was the physical manifestation of everything he despised. It was low-ceilinged, warm, and cozy, filled with overstuffed yellow armchairs and bustling with activity. Plants of every description trailed from the ceiling and perched on every surface, a clear extension of Professor Sprout's influence. The air hummed with chatter and laughter, an atmosphere of communal trust that felt to Icharus like a thick, suffocating blanket. It was nauseating. It was perfect.
He was shown to his dormitory, a round room with four poster beds draped in yellow quilts. And here, the final pieces of his initial chessboard were revealed.
Justin Finch-Fletchley was already organizing his trunk with efficient grace. Confident, handsome, with the polished air of someone who had been destined for Eton. Icharus's gaze was analytical. Intelligent. Well-connected in the muggle world. And aesthetically pleasing enough to consider for more… carnal tasks. A prime candidate for a profitable alliance.
Ernie Macmillan was pompously explaining the lineage of his family owl to anyone who would listen. A pure-blood, proud, and dripping with the unshakable confidence of old wizarding money. Loyal to a fault, and therefore easily manipulated, Icharus noted. He will be my claws into the ancient families, my key to their influence.
Then there was Zacharias Smith. Pale, with a pointed face and a permanently sour expression. He unpacked his things with a languid, bored air, already looking at his roommates with thinly veiled contempt. Unpleasant. Arrogant. Utterly average. The perfect sacrificial pawn. The books said he was a coward, hexed by a mere girl. Expendable.
"Icharus Rodrigus," he introduced himself, his voice a carefully crafted blend of shyness and warmth. He directed a friendly, open smile toward Justin and Ernie, engaging them in light conversation about their summers and their impressions of the castle. To Zacharias, he gave only a curt, polite nod, a subtle but clear signal that he was not worth the investment of charm.
As he lay in his bed later, listening to the sounds of the sleeping castle, Icharus's mind was a whirlwind of schemes. The Den of the Badger was not a prison. It was a operations base. And his first moves would begin at dawn.
Lying in the Hufflepuff darkness, Icharus finalized his web of theft. His first targets were his roommates. From the handsome Justin Finch-Fletchley, he would siphon social confidence to boost his Charm. From the well-connected Ernie Macmillan, he'd take his family's latent affinity for Herbology. And the shy Rolf Scamander was the grand prize—his rare Beast-Speaker talent was the key to taming a Demiguise.
But his ambition stretched further. He saw Draco Malfoy not as a rival, but as a key to his father, Lucius. Through that connection, he would plunder the Malfoy family's gold and, more importantly, their hidden library of dark tomes.
His most audacious plan involved the Dark Lord himself. Using his foreknowledge, he wouldn't stop Voldemort's return—he would subtly delay it, buying time to grow stronger. His endgame was to infiltrate the resurrected Dark Lord's inner circle and, using the System's power, perform the ultimate heist: siphoning the ancient, fragmented knowledge from Voldemort's own soul. They were all just vessels for his ascension.