The aftermath of the night was a somber blur. Madam Pomfrey worked through the hours, her face grim. Hermione Granger hovered between life and death, her injuries severe: multiple complex fractures, internal bleeding, a concussion that threatened her brilliant mind. The prognosis was grim. Professor McGonagall stood vigil by the bedside, her stoic mask fragile, a cold, maternal fire igniting in her heart. Someone would pay for this.
The official investigation the next morning was swift and brutal. The discovery of his ravaged storeroom and the violation of his private shelf sent Severus Snape into a silent, terrifying rage. The Half-Blood Prince's book was gone. Utterly. The personal, handwritten testament to his genius, stolen. The wound was profound, a desecration that cut deeper than the physical pain from Fluffy's bite. He was a cauldron of simmering, paranoid fury, his black eyes promising retribution.
The breakthrough came from Professor McGonagall. Acting on the chaos and the portrait's report of a masked figure, she ordered a castle-wide search of all students. In the Entrance Hall, as Filch began roughly inspecting bags, the damning evidence was found.
From Ron Weasley's bag, tumbling out amidst a jumble of books, came not only the scrap of dragon-hide glove, but the unmistakable, original copy of the Half-Blood Prince's Advanced Potion-Making book, its margins filled with that uniquely brilliant, spidery script Snape knew as his own. But there was more. A single, separate piece of parchment fluttered down after it.
Professor Flitwick, who was assisting, picked it up and read it aloud, his squeaky voice cutting through the tense silence.
"Delivery confirmed for Halloween night, as previously discussed. Leave the package in the usual spot. Borgin and Burkes."
The message was succinct, professional, and utterly damning.
Simultaneously, from Draco Malfoy's bag, Professor Sprout pulled out the stack of freshly copied parchments from the Restricted Section and, to a collective gasp, the stark, white Death Eater mask.
The Entrance Hall fell into a stunned silence, then erupted into whispers. The narrative was now horrifyingly clear. Weasley was the potion thief, the one who had stolen Snape's personal treasure and was orchestrating a sale to the infamous Knockturn Alley shop. Malfoy was the one who had looted the Restricted Section for Dark Arts and used the mask. They were partners in this dark enterprise.
Ron, pale and stammering, looked utterly lost. Draco, arrogantly defensive but visibly shaken, shot Ron a look of pure venom, clearly believing the Weasley had been cutting his own deals behind his back.
Both boys were placed under strict supervision, facing expulsion and a Ministry inquiry. Snape's hatred for Weasley was now absolute, a cold, focused thing. The note to Borgin made it a personal and professional insult.
The following morning, the final, masterful touch of Icharus's plan descended. A school barn owl dropped a heavy pouch of one hundred Galleons directly into Ron's porridge. The glint of gold was unmistakable. There was no note this time; the one found in his bag had already said everything. This was simply the payment, confirming the sordid transaction.
Ron stared at the gold as if it were a venomous snake, too terrified to even touch it. He was publicly branded not just a thief, but a dark artifacts courier.
From the Hufflepuff table, Icharus Rodrigus took a slow sip of pumpkin juice. He had the ingredients, safe in the Room of Requirement. He had the Prince's knowledge, secured in his System Space from his quick study of the original. He had a flawless, divided scapegoat, with Ron now framed as a deliberate seller of stolen potions knowledge, and a vial of liquid luck waiting in the wings. He had not just struck; he had woven a web of deceit in the very hallways of the castle, entangling his enemies without ever stepping into their homes. The harvest was complete. The only thing missing for the Polyjuice Potion was the final, living component. And he knew, with cold certainty, exactly which lonely, ostracized half-giant he needed to befriend next. The serpent had struck from the shadows, and its venom was a perfectly forged trail of evidence.
A cold satisfaction settled in Icharus's chest as he observed the aftermath of his scheme. The System had confirmed his success, the notification glowing in his mind's eye:
[Task: The Forbidden Heist]
Objective: Steal and master one piece of forbidden knowledge.
Completed
Reward: 100 System Points. One-Time Trace Removal Charm (5-day duration) has been added.
Retreating to the solitude of the Room of Requirement, he willed the interface to life. A new tab, previously greyed out, was now accessible: [Temporary Market]. His eyes scanned the available purchases, each meticulously tailored to his current needs.
[Subject Proficiency Analysis] - 200 Points: A comprehensive scan of a target's magical strengths and weaknesses. Useful, but not a priority. with chart depicting all subjects.
[One-Time Wizard Level Measurer] (3 Uses) - 75 Points: A curious device that would dismantle after three uses. Tempting, but too expensive for the immediate need.
[One-Time Memory Compulsion] (3 Beings) - 50 Points: Perfect. This was the tool he needed. A subtle, powerful enchantment to implant a specific, false memory into the minds of three targets, making them believe it as their own truth.