CHAPTER FOUR
It's a complicated matter, settling in, even with an extra day.
The staircases moved consistently. The doors either had to be asked, or tickled in just the right spot, before they allowed you access, and if you ran into Peeves the poltergeist…well, you might as well give up on being on time.
Luckily, the Bloody Baron had taken a fondness towards Icarus within the first couple of days and had volunteered to guide him, and a select few, to their classes.
"The most consistent trait of humanity," Professor Karim says on Tuesday morning, "is our inconsistency. Magic, in its purest form, is neither good nor bad. It all depends on the intention of the user. My job, in this class, is not only to teach you how to defend yourselves against the external use of dark magic but also the internal compulsions you may consider during times of high stress. This might be your first year, but I will expect nothing less than your best, especially by the time your exams come around."
It turns out, quite quickly, that Professor Karim wasn't the only professor to prepare a speech for their arrival.
"You are here to learn the subtle and exact science of potion making," Icarus mocks, closing the office door behind him on Friday afternoon, "as there is little wand-waving here, many of you will believe this is hardly magic. I've spent over a decade refining this speech and I expect you to shut up and listen -"
Severus Snape, in all his hook-nosed glory, looks over from organizing a pile of bat spleens. He sighs, and drops his glamor, revealing the rather handsome, sharp-jawed wizard who was his father.
"Perhaps you might lead the class next time," he drawls, "you seem to have a talent for capturing the imagination."
"No thanks," comes Icarus' quick response, "not qualified."
Severus' lips twitch in an amused smile, before falling rather flat.
"How are you finding it so far?"
"Fine, I guess," Icarus says, shrugging, "the homework isn't quite as bad as I thought it would be."
"You should enjoy your free time while you can," Severus says, "though I suppose I can always assign more if you-"
"I'm sure I'll be fine."
Severus shrugs.
"The offer's always open. Though while you're here, you might as well figure out that pile of asphodel and moly that McLaggen managed to mix up."
Icarus sets his bag down on the couch with a sigh and summons the jar over. They work in silence, for a while.
"Aren't you going to ask me?"
He squints at the two small piles, then at the flowers in his hand.
"Ask you what?" Severus sighs.
"About the Hat. Why it took so long."
"Did you end up in Hufflepuff?"
"...No."
"Then, aside from the fact watching you made my arse sore, I don't care."
…
Despite their differing schedules, Arianna manages to become a constant presence in his day-to-day life. He finds the attachment strange, if a little annoying, at first, and slowly becomes used to it.
His indifference, however, is not a shared sentiment.
"Going off to impress your favorite little mudblood, Icarus?" Fen calls as he makes his way through the common room, "Do make sure to shower when you come back in. Don't want to get the furniture dirty."
A few people laugh. A few shoot him a look that simply says 'I don't understand why you're doing this to yourself'.
He adjusts his grip on the violin case, bites back a retort, and steps through the entrance.
Arianna meets him just outside of the Great Hall, though there'd been no plans made to do so, and they head to one of the empty classrooms on the second floor. Like the day before, and a few days before that, she settles down to get a start on her homework and he spends an absurd amount of time switching between mindless melodies and the random collection of sheets he'd stowed at the bottom of his trunk.
"What happened?" Arianna asks, as he finally packs his things away and walks over to proofread her transfiguration homework.
He frowns down at the parchment, already noting potential errors, and shrugs.
"Nothing in particular."
"I know what they say about me," she grumbles, "Icarus, if it makes things easier for you we don't have to -"
"Ari," he sighs, "shut up."
"But-"
"No one has any control over who they're born to," he says, snatching up her quill and transfiguring the ink color to write notes, "but everybody can control how much of a dick they want to be. If we stopped hanging out, that would only encourage them. So shut up."
He can see her smile from the corner of his eye. They don't speak of it again.