Once there was a boy who flew to greet the Sun.
The Sun, startled, sent him to the Ocean's embrace -
And wept.
CHAPTER ONE
The water churns, white foam clawing its way up the surface of the cliff face like fingers searching for purchase. He stands on the edge, watching as the sun rises in a frenzy of red and gold, before stepping off and into the darkness below.
…
"You're late."
His father stands in the kitchen, tall, dark-haired and pale. There's a plate of cold food on the table.
"What have I told you about hanging out with Selkies?" he asks, nose wrinkling.
"You come home stinking of dead fish and wet dog," Icarus calls back, already halfway up the stairs, "and it takes days to get the smell from the couch."
"Well then, could you fucking not?"
Icarus laughs and rounds the corner to his room. It's a surprise to him, when he comes back down ten minutes later, that his food's still there.
The backdoor stands open and the soft crunch of gravel floats inside on a warm breeze. He eats quickly, sets his plate in the sink and heads outside.
"I considered letting you make your own way there," his father grumbles from a bush of rosemary, "but knowing you, you'd end up in Glasgow or something."
"Wouldn't be so bad," Icarus says, "I've heard it's nice this time of year."
His father rolls his eyes and sets a large hand on his shoulder. There's a familiar tug at the back of his stomach and a brief, crushing darkness before they pop into existence in the middle of a filthy alleyway.
Icarus winces as the noise of London traffic hits his ears.
"Here," his father holds out a small pouch of money, "go to Ollivander's first. Don't let him charge you a knut over eight galleons."
"Ok, Da."
"And meet me back here in three hours."
"Mm-hmm."
"And-"
"Da," Icarus sighs, "you told me all of this yesterday."
"Yes, well," his father frowns down at him, clearly uncomfortable, "just making sure."
Icarus doesn't wait around to see him raise his glamor - an ugly thing, all hooked nose and greasy hair - and heads out of the alley to cross the road into a little pub. Once inside, he somehow manages to slip under the bartender's keen gaze and to the dingy courtyard at the back. He studies the bricks and channels a little sliver of magic into his index finger, before reaching for one a little higher than his head.
The brick shudders and folds away, followed by others, until he's able to step through an archway to Diagon Alley.
Even though they'd come a week before the rush, the street is packed with students and their families. He navigates his way through them easily enough and pushes the door to Ollivanders open.
A little bell tinkles quietly in the back of the shop.
It's a tiny place, for such a big name. More of a room packed full to bursting with wands than anything else. A spindly, three-legged stool sits by the window and the counter stands empty.
"Hello."
Icarus jumps, startled.
Stood empty.
The man smiles kindly, silver eyes flickering in the low light of the gas lamps.
"Hi," Icarus mumbles, "I came for a, um, wand?"
"Of course," the man says, "I would expect little else. Hogwarts, I presume?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well," the man - Mr. Ollivander, must be - steps out from behind the counter, unraveling a silver measuring tape, "if I could have your wand arm, please."
He lifts his left arm and tries not to squirm as the tape measure brushes along it.
"You seem familiar," Mr. Ollivander says softly, "might I have had the pleasure of serving any of your family?"
"I don't think so, sir."
"Ah."
Mr. Ollivander turns and disappears into the shadows of the shop. His voice lingers in the air like an echo.
"I don't suppose you know much about the process of wandmaking?"
"I, um…no," he tries not to bat at the tape measure as it slides under his nose, "can't say I do."
"A shame, really," Mr. Ollivander says, appearing next to him with a worn leather box in hand, "there aren't many who are interested in the details, despite the fact that wands are sometimes your longest lasting companions. I realize I forgot to ask your name."
"Icarus, sir," he says, trying to calm his heart, "Sørensen."
The tape measure clatters to the ground as Mr. Ollivander holds out the box.
"Please - try this. Mahogany and unicorn hair. Ten inches."
Icarus plucks the wand from the box, but no sooner is it in his hand than it is out of it, and clattering onto the stool. He blinks and Mr. Ollivander is gone.
"Sørensen. Danish, isn't it?" comes his voice.
"I think so, sir."
"Here. Spruce and - nevermind."
They go through a dozen more wands in a similar manner, before Mr. Ollivander decides to use another coherent sentence.
"Our wands have gone through centuries of experimentation to ensure our customers get the best results. This process narrowed down the best woods and the best cores…but sometimes…sometimes the older ones are…better…"
He appears with a small pile of dark leather boxes.
"My great-grandfather specialized in producing wands for customers with…unique magical signatures," he says, setting them down on the counter, "I'm sure we'll find something for you. Don't worry."
"I'm not," Icarus protests quietly, "worrying."
Mr. Ollivander's laughter is warm.
"Holly and rusalka, eleven and a quarter inches," he says, "sturdy."
Icarus takes the wand and nothing happens. He sets it carefully on the still-growing pile.
"Maybe-"
"Hawthorn," Mr. Ollivander interrupts, holding another box out, "thestral and unicorn hair. Ten and a half inches. Slightly flexible."
Icarus picks it up reluctantly. For a moment, nothing happens. Again.
And then the store explodes.
Not…literally. But the gas lamps flare up to meet the ceiling and almost every box flies from its shelf, across the shop. Black and blue flames burst from the end of the wand he's holding to wrap their way up his arm, but they're cold to the touch and disappear almost as soon as they flicker into existence.
A buzzing silence fills Icarus' ears, along with Mr. Ollivander's applause, as the store settles down.
"Amazing!" Mr. Ollivander cries, excited, "I haven't had a customer like you in almost two decades! You will say hello to Severus for me, won't you?"
Icarus almost drops the money he'd pulled out to pay him.
"I - what?" he chokes.
Mr. Ollivander just smiles, takes what's being offered, and sees him from the shop.
He spends the rest of his journey through Diagon Alley in a sort of half-daze that even Madam Malkin's needles can't interrupt. The apothecary, where a barrel of tadpoles almost falls on him, is the only place where he snaps out of it long enough to be excited.
It's only when he's back in the alleyway they'd landed in earlier, with the sound of his father's approaching footsteps, that he's able to pull himself together.
"Da," he blurts, standing up too quickly, "I swear I didn't even say anything - I dunno how he knew but he just….did, and -"
His father lifts the packed cauldron with one hand and sets the other on his shoulder. They pop into existence in the backyard, Icarus still rambling.
Until he looks up and sees the man trying very, very hard not to laugh.
"You-" he gapes, "you knew. You utter, complete…arse! You knew he was gonna figure it out!"
"Really?" his father snorts, "Arse? That's the best you can come up with?"
He carries the cauldron inside, shoulders shaking with silent mirth, and Icarus watches him go, exasperated.