With fifty points spent, the compulsion was his. He held a small, crystalline orb that pulsed with a soft, amethyst light. The targets were clear: Fred, George, and Peeves.
He found the twins in a disused corridor, huddled and somber. Peeves was nearby, cackling. Icharus crushed the orb in his palm. A wave of invisible energy washed over the three beings. Their eyes glazed over for a fraction of a second before clearing. The deed was done.
The implanted memory was now their reality: Weeks ago, Draco Malfoy had offered them fifty Galleons to create a major ruckus. Ron Weasley had overheard and, seizing an opportunity, later approached them with a "better plan." Ron promised them he would pay the fifty Galleons if they caused the diversion on Halloween night. They'd agreed. Now, they believed Ron had not only welched on his payment but had used their diversion to steal, selling the materials for a paltry hundred Galleons and landing them in trouble.
Icharus moved to the next phase. He made his way down to Hagrid's hut, where Harry and a despondent Ron were seeking solace.
"...don't understand how any of it got in my bag!" Ron was moaning as Icharus entered.
Icharus knocked and entered. "Hello, Hagrid."
The half-giant looked up, his face brightening momentarily. "Icharus! Come in, lad." Hagrid was always happy to see his regular visitor, a Hufflepuff who showed a genuine, quiet interest in his creatures, a stark contrast to the usual drama surrounding his other friends.
Icharus nodded to Harry and a despondent Ron before his expression shifted to one of somber sympathy. "It's a shame, really. Such a terrible thing that happened to Hermione Granger. To be struck down like that, for just being in the wrong place... it makes you realize how fragile it all is, doesn't it?"
The comment landed like a physical blow. Harry flinched, and Ron's shoulders slumped further, a fresh wave of guilt washing over them. Their friend was in the hospital because they hadn't been there for her, a fact Icharus had just subtly reinforced.
"Speaking of magical creatures," Icharus continued, pulling a small, silvery pouch from his pocket. "I managed to get these—a few strands of unicorn hair. For good fortune." He handed one each to Hagrid, Harry, and a hesitant Ron.
Ron stared at the glimmering strand before tucking it carefully into his pouch. "Thanks, Icharus," he mumbled. "I… I need all the luck I can get."
"It's nothing," Icharus said. He then turned to Hagrid. "Actually, Hagrid, I was wondering if you could help me. Professor Snape scolded me for my poor leech refining. I heard you sometimes have a jar for bait?"
Hagrid, always pleased to be asked for help, waved away payment. "O' course, lad! Got a whole jar right here. Take a handful, practice all you like!" He handed over a jar of squirming black leeches.
With his alibi secured, Icharus returned to the Room of Requirement. The jar of leeches was placed on a table. He would not be refining them. He began the month-long process of brewing the Polyjuice Potion, following the Half-Blood Prince's annotations with meticulous care.
In the following weeks, as the potion simmered, he did not idle. Using the extra leeches, he began his true practice. In the Room's silence, he trained relentlessly. He started with the lesser Compulsion Charm, bending the leeches' simple minds to his will. He then progressed, his voice a cold whisper in the empty room.
"Imperio."
A leech would still, awaiting his command. He practiced subtlety, making it perform useless, complex tasks. When he grew confident, he moved to the final, darkest spell. His wand flicked, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Crucio."
The leech would contort violently, a tiny, silent testament to the agony of the Cruciatus Curse. He felt no pleasure, only a clinical assessment of his power and control. He was arming himself with more than just a potion.
The next day, Professor McGonagall, her face harder than granite, summoned Fred and George Weasley to her office. The rumors of their impending confession had spread. "Explain yourselves," she commanded, her voice like ice. "Why did you cause that explosion on Halloween?" The twins, influenced by the unshakable false memory, exchanged a guilty look. "It was Ron's idea, Professor," Fred began, the words tasting foreign yet true in his mouth. George nodded. "He said Malfoy had offered us gold for a prank, but that he had a better plan. He promised us fifty Galleons to cause the ruckus at the feast. Said he wanted to get back at Snape for how he treats Harry and make some money." McGonagall's breath caught. The story was horrifyingly plausible. It provided motive, means, and a timeline that painted Ron not as a bumbling accomplice, but as the manipulative architect. The theft, the note to Borgin, it all fit a new, darker picture of Ronald Weasley. "And you believed him?" she whispered, aghast. "We're his brothers," Fred said, a genuine pain in his voice now, layered over the compulsion. "We thought it was just a big joke. We didn't know he was going to… do all that. We thought he just wanted to sneak a few sweets from the kitchen or something."
The day after the twins' confession, Professor McGonagall summoned Ron to her office. Snape was there, a looming shadow of malice, and Dumbledore sat behind his desk, his eyes twinkling with a sharp, analytical light.
"Mr. Weasley," McGonagall began, her voice strained. "Your brothers have given a statement. They claim you orchestrated the Halloween diversion, promising them payment."
Ron's face went from pale to ashen. "What? No! I didn't! I never said anything like that to them! They're my brothers, why would they say that?"
"That is what we intend to discover," Dumbledore said calmly. "Severus, if you would."
Before Ron could protest, Snape's dark eyes locked onto his. Ron felt a violent, invasive pressure in his mind, a sifting through his memories. He gasped, struggling against it. After a moment, Snape pulled back, his expression even more sour. "He believes he is telling the truth. There is no memory of such a conversation. Only confusion and fear."
"Then we shall see the memory from the accusers," Dumbledore said. He summoned Fred and George. One by one, both Dumbledore and Snape performed Legilimency on the twins. To their profound disquiet, they found the same memory, vivid and consistent in both minds: Ron's proposal, the promise of gold, the specific plan. There was no sign of tampering; the memory was integrated as if it were real.
"This is most troubling," Dumbledore murmured, steepling his fingers. "The evidence is overwhelming, yet the principal accused has no knowledge of it."
"The evidence is conclusive, Albus!" Snape hissed. "The Weasley boy is clearly a skilled liar, even to himself!"
With the matter unresolved and the testimony damning, two urgent owls were sent: one to Lucius Malfoy, demanding his presence to discuss his son's role as an instigator, and another to Arthur Weasley, summoning him to Hogwarts to answer for the actions of his three sons.
The castle braced for the arrival of two powerful, and very angry, fathers. And in the Room of Requirement, a potion slowly simmered, and a young wizard practiced the Dark Arts, invisible, patient, and utterly in control.