The pale light of a Surrey morning did nothing to soften the grim reality of the orphanage. Icharus awoke, the System's tasks burning in his mind, but his body remained a prison of weak flesh and bone. No change. With a sigh of cold resignation, he dressed and studied a map, plotting new, circuitous routes to St. Gregory's Primary School—a final, petty effort to evade the daily gauntlet of bullies, both from the home and the hulking form of Dudley Dursley.
A grim smile touched his lips. This was his last day in this muggle purgatory. After today, he would be beyond their reach, and revenge, however small, could be a final, satisfying indulgence.
He arrived early. Just before the final day's classes were to begin, Harry Potter stumbled in, bruised and disheveled, his uniform wrinkled as if he'd been chased by a pack of dogs. Icharus observed him with clinical detachment. He could understand the boy's plight, but the memories of the "movies" surfaced—a cascade of foolish decisions that dragged talented wizards to their graves for his sake. For a fleeting moment, he considered marking Harry as his sacrificial lamb for Task 006. The irony was delicious. But the specter of the "old fool," Dumbledore, and his certain scrutiny made the risk too great. The pawn was too well-guarded.
Instead, Icharus murmured words of feigned sympathy. "Rough morning, Potter?"
Harry looked up, surprised, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes before it was drowned by a wave of guilt. Here was Icharus, who faced starvation and bullying with no family at all, while Harry at least had the shelter of a cupboard. In that moment, Harry felt almost fortunate for Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.
Their teacher entered, her praise reserved for the children of wealth and those with top marks. She circled Icharus and Harry, her voice a condescending whisper meant only for them. "Good grades won't get you far in society. You need to learn to respect your elders and your betters."
The words, instead of wounding, crystallized a truth in Icharus's mind. This is the universal law, he thought, his gaze cold. The world only kneels to power, wisdom, wealth, and charisma. The rest of us are just tools, like Potter in Dumbledore's hands.
The half-day ended, the final bell a sweet chime of liberation. As it was late July 1991, Icharus knew Harry's letter was imminent. A sliver of anxiety pierced his calm. Would he receive one? His magic had only just awakened. Was it enough for that damned hat?
Meanwhile, in a castle far away, Professor McGonagall swept into the Headmaster's office. "Albus," she said, her brow furrowed, "a new name appeared on the acceptance ledger yesterday. Icharus Rodrigus. Unlike the others, whose names manifested at birth with their magical potential, his… it simply appeared. As if his magic awoke fully formed just yesterday."
Dumbledore lowered his lemon drop, his twinkling eyes sharpening with intrigue. "How peculiar. I shall deliver this one's letter personally. It would be prudent to understand the circumstances of such a… sudden awakening."
McGonagall left, slightly shocked. For all his burdens, Albus rarely handled deliveries himself.
Unaware of the coming storm, Icharus began the walk back to the orphanage, Harry trudging silently beside him. Their fragile peace was shattered by Dudley and his gang, blocking the path.
"Where's your mum, Potter?" Dudley jeered. "Oh, that's right, she's a dead bitch! And your drunkard dad! You should be grateful my dad gives you a roof, you freak!"
Harry flinched, fists clenching in helpless rage. Icharus, however, was mentally elsewhere, strategizing. The artifact for Task 001… The Potters have the Cloak. If the last Peverell daughter married into the line, their vault must hold more than gold… family tomes, other relics… The problem was Gringotts. It was impregnable. Unless… unless he planned around Harry's first visit, using the chaos of the boy's trip with Hagrid as a smokescreen.
His concentration broke as Dudley turned his taunts on him. "And you! Orphan trash! A wild seed! Your parents probably dumped you 'cause they saw what garbage you were!"
Icharus didn't feel anger; he felt a searing, calculated rage. He forced his features to crumple, letting his eyes glisten with manufactured tears for Harry's benefit. Inside, his mind was coldly weighing the benefits of orchestrating the fat fool's demise.
Unable to "bear" the taunts, he broke into a run, a picture of heartbroken grief, leaving a guilt-stricken Harry behind.
Back within the stark walls of the orphanage, Icharus finally let the mask fall. He seethed, his small hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. He was helpless now, yes. But he noted the debt in the ledger of his mind. Dudley Dursley's torment would be repaid. Not with a schoolyard scuffle, but with a properly planned, and deeply satisfying, ruin.
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through Icharus's calculated rage. Outside the grimy orphanage window stood a figure in sweeping purple robes, a long white beard shimmering in the sun. Dumbledore.
The old, cunning fox who had orchestrated the fall of two Dark Lords, draping his own glory in the guise of benevolent wisdom. Icharus's mind raced. If the old bat wasn't tempted by the Philosopher's Stone, then he must have other means of cheating death—a path to immortality, a method of reincarnation, or a way to preserve his knowledge beyond a single lifetime. The thought was as terrifying as it was alluring, sending a cold chill through Icharus's hands.
The immediate threat was Legilimency. Could he hide the System, the tasks, his predatory hunger? Then, a realization struck. Dumbledore was a "white" wizard; his machinations, however manipulative, ultimately served a "greater good." He wouldn't brutally invade the mind of a truly pitiful, helpless child. Icharus's safety lay not in strength, but in the perfection of his weakness. He had to be a portrait of noble suffering—kind, talented enough to be useful, but far too broken to be a threat or a chosen pawn in any savior narrative. He could not be another Harry Potter.
He began frantically tidying his meager space, his movements sharp with newfound purpose. Then, a dark idea bloomed. He looked at the rough edge of his wooden bedframe. Gritting his teeth, he pressed his arm against it, dragging it firmly to raise angry, red welts. He mussed his hair further, practicing a look of weary resignation in the small, cracked mirror. These bruises would be his shield; this palpable misery, his armor. He would make Dumbledore's conscience his first line of defense.
Meanwhile, downstairs, Albus Dumbledore withdrew the tip of his wand from the temple of the flustered caretaker. He had seen the memories of Icharus Rodrigus: a quiet boy, starved, bullied, and utterly alone. A tragic, but not uncommon, story. Such profound distress could, in very rare cases, trigger a latent magical awakening—a desperate surge of power from a soul pushed to the brink. His heart, that old, weary organ, felt a familiar pang. This child needed guidance, a safe harbor. Perhaps, if he showed talent, he could be shaped into a loyal ally for Harry one day, a guardian in the shadows much like Severus had been for Lily.
As Dumbledore approached the room, his mind was set on offering kindness and protection. He had no idea that on the other side of the door, his prospective pawn was meticulously applying the final touches to his disguise, having already deduced the rules of the game and prepared to play the old master himself.