The transition from the sunny upper corridors to the dungeons was like descending into another world. The air grew cold and damp, carrying the pungent scent of pickled eels and dried nettles. Icharus felt a thrill of anticipation. This was a realm of power, not fluffy sentiment.
Professor Snape made his entrance in a sweep of black robes, his voice a low bat's wing of sound that instantly silenced the room. He took roll call, his lip curling at each name. When he reached "Rodrigus, Icharus," his black eyes flicked up, held for a fraction of a second, and moved on. The acknowledgment from Transfiguration had been noted.
"Today," Snape began, circling them like a shark, "you will brew a simple Cure for Boils. The instructions are on the board." He sneered. "I do not expect greatness. I expect you not to melt your cauldrons. Those of you who have merely memorized the theory..." his gaze swept over the Ravenclaws, landing on Padma Patil, "...will find that the cauldron is a far less forgiving text than Magical Drafts and Potions."
He was a predator, and he had identified his prey. As predicted, when Padma added her porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire, it resulted in a foul-smelling, lumpy slurry. Snape vanished her potion with a flick of his wand. "Theory without practical comprehension, Miss Patil, is noise. A zero."
Icharus did not smile. He did not look. He and Ernie worked with the quiet synchronicity of a well-oiled machine. Icharus handled the knife, chopping the dried nettles with a surgeon's precision. Ernie, bolstered by his family pride and Icharus's silent competence, managed the flame and the stirring, his movements confident.
When it came time to add the quills, Icharus didn't hesitate. He removed the cauldron from the fire, his movement crisp and exact, added the quills, and returned it to the flame. The potion turned the exact shade of turquoise described in the textbook.
Snape, gliding past, did not pause. But his shadow lingered over their cauldron for a moment longer than the others. His hooked nose twitched as he inhaled the scent—not the acrid stink of failure, but the sharp, clean odor of a successful brew. He said nothing. No praise, no points.
But as he moved away, his voice, though still cold, lacked its customary venom when he spoke to the class. "It would seem that some of you are capable of following basic instructions. A novel concept."
That was all. But it was everything.
[Professor Snape's Opinion Updated: Neutral -> Not Entirely Incompetent.]
Internally, Icharus allowed himself a sliver of satisfaction. He hadn't outperformed the Ravenclaws with brilliance; he had out-endured them with cold, hard perfection. The second professor was on his way to being impressed. The System Backpack edged closer.
After class, he announced he was heading to the library to work on the ten-inch Transfiguration essay and the even more daunting fifteen-inch Potions assignment. Justin, ever the diligent one, decided to join him. In the hushed silence of the library, Icharus deliberately played his part.
"Justin," he began, his voice a careful mix of frustration and admiration, "how do you manage to articulate the theory so well? My matchstick barely held its form, but your notes on the principles are clearer than the textbook." He was fully aware of the notes, but making Justin feel intellectually superior was a small price to pay for his loyalty.
Beaming, Justin eagerly explained the nuances of transformative magic. Perfect, Icharus thought. Keep him feeling needed.
Once Justin was engrossed in his own work, Icharus slipped away into the darker, more forbidden aisles. He wasn't looking for homework help. He was hunting for tools. His fingers trailed over spines that promised power: Charms of Subtle Influence, The Alchemy of Persuasion, Elixirs of Allurement. He took meticulous notes on spells that could cause mental fatigue, lower inhibitions, and weave suggestions. He noted the Obliviate spell for its obvious utility. He couldn't afford to look deliberate; his manipulations had to feel like natural charm or misfortune.
It was then he saw him: Neville Longbottom, stumbling through the Herbology section, a stack of books teetering precariously in his arms. A slow, predatory smile touched Icharus's lips. This was a golden opportunity.
Neville was a pureblood. His family, the Longbottoms, were old and respected—they would have innate magical talents, likely in Herbology, waiting to be siphoned. But more than that, he was the perfect sacrificial lamb: emotionally fragile, forgotten, and already a victim of the Dark Lord's war. Icharus's mind spun a dark web. He could slowly warp Neville's psyche, plant a seed of twisted reasoning. It wasn't random, he could whisper. Bellatrix came for you because Dumbledore and the Potters let it be known you were the real prophesied child. They sacrificed your parents to protect Potter.
"Longbottom?" Icharus said, his voice soft and friendly as he approached. "Need a hand with those? Looks like you've got your work cut out for you."
Neville looked up, startled, then grateful. "Oh... Icharus, right? Yeah, Herbology... it's a lot."
"I think it's fascinating," Icharus lied smoothly. "And it's good to see a friendly face. It can be lonely here sometimes, can't it? I'd like us to be good friends."
Neville's eyes widened, a look of pure, unguarded happiness spreading across his face. Someone understood. Someone wanted to be his friend. "Really? I... I'd like that too."
"Really," Icharus said, his smile never reaching his eyes. The hook was set. The lamb was in the pen. The butcher's work could now begin.