The stone walls of Hogwarts seemed to hum with a latent energy, a current Icharus Rodrigus felt thrumming in his very bones. In the Great Hall, amidst the cacophony of the evening feast, he was an island of premeditated calm. A book on medieval European herbology lay open before him, its words unread. His mind was a chessboard, and the final pieces were sliding into place. The fifty Galleons had been transferred. The Weasley twins were his perfect, unwitting pawns. But a king cannot be checkmated with pawns alone. He needed two knights to sacrifice, and he had prepared them—Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy. His plan relied not on breaching their common rooms, but on the predictable chaos of the post-dinner rush.
The gambit began at precisely 8:17 PM. A thunderous explosion from the fourth-floor corridor shook the castle, followed by a creeping, emerald mist that smelled powerfully of rotten eggs. The planned panic was immediate. As professors scrambled and students milled in confusion, Icharus moved. Audacity was his cloak.
He slipped into the suddenly deserted library. Inside the Restricted Section, his two Automatic Copying Quills whirred to life, replicating pages from Magick Moste Evile and Brews of the Heart and Mind. He created two identical sets of parchments. One set vanished into the secure vault of his System Space. The other was for the frame.
But the true prize lay in the dungeons. The now-unguarded Potions classroom yielded its treasures from the main storeroom: Stewed Lacewing Flies, Powdered Bicorn Horn, Knotgrass, Fluxweed, and the more precious components—Shredded Boomslang Skin, Runespoor skin, Billywig stings, Acromantula venom, and Dragon's blood. His primary target, however, was Snape's private collection. Unpicking the complex wards with his unique affinity, he retrieved the Half-Blood Prince's Advanced Potion-Making book. He set his finest quill to work, copying every page, every scribbled note and invented spell. The process took precious minutes, but the result was a flawless duplicate. He slipped the original into his pouch, leaving the perfect copy on the shelf. Snape would notice the subtle difference upon close inspection, but the initial glance would confuse him.
Next to where the book had been sat a tiny, crystalline vial of Felix Felicis. Icharus pocketed it, and with a thought, the Luck Potion vanished into his System Space.
He then proceeded to the seventh floor. Focusing his will, a door materialized. The Room of Requirement. Inside, he stored all the physical ingredients he had stolen from Snape's storeroom in a magically preserved cabinet. They were safe, untraceable, and ready for use.
Now came the delicate part. He positioned himself in a shadowy alcove near the entrance to the Slytherin dungeons. He waited, a phantom in the stone. Soon, the sound of approaching footsteps and drawling voices echoed. As a group of Slytherins, including a smug Draco Malfoy, passed by, Icharus acted. With a whispered spell and a flick of his wand, he levitated the second set of copied Dark Arts parchments and the stark, white Death Eater mask, guiding them with unerring precision into the gaping top of Draco's open schoolbag as the boy walked, completely unaware. The Slytherins moved on, descending into their common room, none the wiser.
Icharus then moved swiftly to a tapestry near the Gryffindor tower's entrance. He heard the boisterous chatter of returning Gryffindors. Spotting Ron Weasley, he performed the same sleight-of-magic. The original Half-Blood Prince book, Small parchment written from Borgin and Burges and the scrap of dragon-hide glove drifted silently from the shadows, settling deep into Ron's overstuffed bag as he laughed at something Harry said.
The masterpiece of misdirection was complete. Ron would be the potion thief, Draco the Dark Arts enthusiast. The evidence was planted not in their sanctums, but in the public corridors, making the discovery seem like the carelessness of guilty students.
But the chaos he had set in motion was about to take a tragically unforeseen turn. While he was securing his treasures, the troll had found a target. Hermione Granger, who had fled the Great Hall in tears earlier, was cornered in the girls' bathroom. The mountain troll swung its great club. A sickening, bone-jarring crunch echoed as it connected with her side. She was flung against a stone wall, her body crumpling to the floor, her breath a ragged, wet gasp on the verge of extinction.
It was Albus Dumbledore who found them. The usual twinkle in his eyes was extinguished, replaced by a glacial, terrifying fury. A single, silent curse of immense power shot from his wand, turning the massive troll to stone from the inside out; it crumbled into a silent, grey pile of dust. The Headmaster stood amidst the wreckage, his magic a palpable storm, his gaze fixed on Hermione's broken form.