The weekend dawned crisp and clear. Icharus found Rolf in the common room, coaxing a small, stick-like insect with emerald eyes onto his finger. "Ready to meet a half-giant?" Icharus asked, his tone light.
Rolf's eyes lit up. "You managed it?"
"A Hufflepuff's honesty is a powerful tool," Icharus replied, the lie tasting like honey. "I just told him we were fascinated by his work."
As they trudged down to the gamekeeper's hut, Icharus's mind was a vault of cold calculation. Trust is the key that opens all doors. And today, I need it to open Hagrid's.
The moment Hagrid learned Icharus was Harry's former deskmate and Rolf was Newt Scamander's grandson, the floodgates opened. He ushered them inside, offering rock cakes and strong tea, his massive frame buzzing with excitement. He spoke passionately about the Centaurs' pride, the Thestrals' sorrow, and the unicorns' purity. Icharus listened intently, steering the conversation with practiced ease.
"And Professor Snape, he gets some of his rare ingredients from me and Pomona," Hagrid boasted, puffing out his chest. "Picked the fluxweed myself, just last moon."
Icharus filed that away—a potential future source for potion ingredients. Then, he shifted gears, his voice softening with feigned concern. "It's just... hard to understand. Harry is so famous here, but he told me he was bullied and starved in the muggle world. It doesn't seem fair."
Hagrid's cheerful demeanor shattered. He slammed his massive tankard down, his face flushing with anger. "Them Muggles! Don' get me started! After what his parents did... sacrificed everythin'!" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. "They were in Dumbledore's Order o' the Phoenix, fightin' You-Know-Who! Brave as lions, the lot of 'em—James, Lily, Frank, and Alice..."
He spoke of the Longbottoms' bravery and their horrific fate at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. "The very same night Harry's parents died," Hagrid whispered, his eyes misty. "If Dumbledore hadn't had to fly ter little Harry, he might've reached Frank and Alice in time... might've stopped them Death Eaters..."
Icharus and Rolf exchanged a look of perfectly feigned horror. Internally, Icharus was triumphant. He had not only secured a strand of coarse, black hair from Hagrid's vest, but he had also been handed the very weapon he needed.
"Thank you for trusting us with this, Hagrid," Icharus said, his voice thick with manufactured emotion. "Could... could we visit you sometimes? And if you ever have any unused herbs or materials from the Forest, I'd be grateful to study them for Potions."
Hagrid, touched by the show of friendship from two boys who seemed to understand, eagerly agreed.
As sunlight faded, they returned to the castle. The Great Hall was bustling for dinner when they witnessed Draco Malfoy, with a sneer and a flick of his wand, hit Neville with a Leg-Locker Curse. The boy teetered before crashing to the floor, the Slytherin table roaring with laughter.
Icharus moved swiftly. He and Rolf helped a trembling, humiliated Neville to their table. "It'll wear off in an hour or so," Icharus said calmly, his voice a soothing counterpoint to Neville's ragged breaths. "Just breathe. Eat with us."
As Neville slowly calmed down, Icharus began his work. He spoke of inconsequential things until the moment was right. Then, he let his gaze grow distant, a troubled look on his face.
"It's strange, isn't it?" Icharus murmured, as if thinking aloud. "Everyone talks about Potter's scar, but You-Know-Who's followers went after your parents first... almost like they were trying to silence them for some reason. And the Order of the Phoenix... they didn't get there in time to protect them, did they? They went for Harry Potter instead."
He let the venomous thought hang in the air for a heartbeat, watching it sink into Neville's fragile psyche. Then, as he flinched and said, "Sorry, that's a terrible thought. Forget I said anything," his right hand, hidden under the table, made a subtle, twisting motion with his fingers, a faint whisper of magic brushing against Rolf's mind. It was a crude, barely-there Suggestion Charm, one of the first spells he'd researched, pushing the idea of conspiracy to the forefront of Rolf's thoughts.
Rolf's brow furrowed, his eyes glazing over for a split second before he nodded, his voice taking on an uncharacteristic edge. "It does feel a bit fishy, when you put it like that. Almost as if someone was... orchestrating things silently."
Icharus nodded slowly, his eyes full of false sympathy as he turned back to Neville, the architect of the entire exchange. "If Harry's a savior for losing his parents, you've gone through the same. Why are you not getting the honor you're meant to? Your parents are warriors who stood against the Dark Lord and sacrificed their minds. But they aren't given the same respect. Harry reaps all the rewards... and in a way, that feels like an insult to your family's sacrifice, doesn't it?"
Neville's eyes, previously filled with simple sadness, now glistened with a new, dangerous emotion: a sense of profound injustice. The idea that his family had been sidelined, that their pain was a forgotten footnote in Harry Potter's legend, took root in his heart.
Icharus gave a gentle, reassuring smile. "You deserve to be recognized too, Neville. You are also the boy who lived."
As Neville stared at his plate, his jaw set in an uncharacteristically firm line, Icharus knew the first, most crucial seed of corruption had been sown. The lamb was not just in the pen; it was starting to believe the butcher was its only friend. And the butcher had just proven he could make others dance to his tune with a silent whisper of magic. The psychological warfare had truly begun.