CHAPTER FOUR
He does, however, wake up with a mouthful of fur.
It purrs and snuggles into the space between his neck and shoulder. He yawns, the cotton sheets rustling quietly in the early morning silence.
He hadn't closed the blinds on his four poster bed the night before so, as his eyes adjust to a soft green light, he's able to take in the details of the room. It's round, with a cathedral ceiling, and the four beds are spaced evenly, with simple ebony desks and leather chairs. There's a door across the room from the entrance - the bathroom, he assumes - and a Victorian heater in the center, its coals smoldering gently away.
It takes a while for him to roll away from the fluffy pile that's Frida, and she mews in protest when he slips from the bed to get ready for the day.
Nathaniel is the next one to wake up, greeting him with a groggy 'good morning' as he steps into the cool bathroom. It's another twenty minutes before the other two stir - Sergei gets up at the quiet tilling of a grandfather clock that Icarus hadn't noticed - and Douglas is barely changed in time for Fen's arrival.
The Prefect doesn't bother to knock when he comes into the room, and seems surprised to find that they're all awake .
"Well," he says, turning on his heel, "c'mon then."
They follow him back into the carnivorous common room to meet with the females, who're still half-asleep, before heading out for the Great Hall.
"So," Ada yawns as they shuffle over to the Slytherin table, "is there a reason we're up so early?"
She glances pointedly around, a silent commentary on how empty the place is. Ciara, the female Prefect, shoots Fen a filthy look and sits down to pour herself some coffee.
"It isn't often we get new arrivals on the weekend, so we -"
"You," Ciara snaps.
"-thought showing you around would help in the future," Fen says, ignoring her.
"We're five years in the running for the House Cup," Ciara grumbles into her mug, "you're not going to be the ones who mess that up for us - especially not over something as stupid as attendance."
Icarus picks up a slice of toast and bites into it.
"Professor Snape will want to meet you later today, to give you your schedules," Fen continues mildly, "but if you have any questions, ask us first. He's a busy man. It's better not to keep him occupied for longer than necessary."
Margaret is the only one to take him up on the offer.
They eat in silence for the most part, tiptoeing around Ciara's irritability, and only move on when she's finished her third coffee.
The tour is rushed, Icarus thinks, a winding maze of wide corridors and narrow staircases, leading them in a direction that would exhaust even the more athletically inclined. It's only when they're stumbling, panting, onto the platform of the Astronomy tower that he's able to work up enough confidence to ask for a break.
"A break?" Fen repeats, confused.
"That's what I said, yeah," Icarus says with a huff, "besides, Doug isn't good with heights."
There's a loud gagging sound from the stairs behind him and panic flashes across Fen's face.
"Yeah," he says, "we'll, um, do that."
Icarus and Esther split from the group to help Douglas to a chair. His face is pale and slightly green.
"Do we -" he whimpers, "do we have to do this class?"
"Yeah, Doug," Esther says kindly, as Icarus hands him a flask of water, "I think we do."
Icarus pats him gently on the shoulder and walks off, back up the stairs to the outlook. The castle spreads out under them, all turrets and pillars and stained glass; the courtyard underneath is green, open, welcoming and the clouds unending.
He hears Ciara before he sees her appear in the corner of his eye.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" she says, and he thinks her voice is fond.
And of course, it is.
…
Though it had felt like a waste of energy, the first year Slytherins were the only ones to make it on time to their classes the day after.
Arianna plops into the chair next to him, five minutes after the bell, and smiles awkwardly.
"Is this everyone?" Professor Karim asks, book snapping shut in his hand, "I understand that navigating the castle can be difficult but in the future, I'll expect all of you to be here on time."
He studies them with dark green eyes.
"Please put your books away," he says, "most of our lessons will be practical. You won't need them for anything other than your homework. Talking of - pick a partner, and take a position on the opposite side of the room from each other."
He flicks his wand and the desks fly to the back of the room, settling into an unsteady pile.
"This school, quite surprisingly, doesn't provide many opportunities for you to learn the art of dueling," he says, "but as your defense teacher, it is my responsibility to make sure you are adequately prepared."
He smiles, stepping away from his desk.
"Today you'll be learning the basic cast and the basic shield. Miss. Sylvester, if you would come forward, please."
They leave the room wincing and bruised, to head for Transfiguration.
Professor McGongall, unsurprisingly, is the sort of teacher to get right to the point.
"Anyone caught messing around in my class will leave and not come back. Transfiguration is a dangerous magic and will not be taken lightly. Am I understood?"
She gives out handfuls of matches to each desk and demonstrates turning them into needles, before leaving them to attempt it for themselves. By the end of the class, Icarus is the only one to achieve a full transformation.
"It isn't often a first year manages to transfigure an object even in the first week," she says, as the bell rings, "congratulations, Mr. Sørensen, I think you just earned Slytherin house ten points."
…
He tries to remind himself that he was once a perfectly capable spy and nerves are useless in a classroom.
His heart still tries to tear a hole through his chest as he pushes the door open.
He ignores Icarus as he stalks to the front, absolutely not paying attention to the fact he's sat in the far right corner by the shelves.
"Most of you will hardly believe this is magic," he drawls, picking up the attendance sheet and skimming through it, "because most of you are under the impression that magic is dramatic, wild and unpredictable. It can be. But if you pay attention, if you actually listen, you can do much more with it than you can imagine."
He sets the parchment down, scanning the dim room.
"If, however, you think this is a place to mess around with your friends, you will find yourselves in the Hospital Wing very quickly and out of this class. Morgan -" the tanned boy next to Icarus flinches, eyes wide, "-what would happen if you stirred mistletoe berries clockwise into your common antidote?"
"It, um…wouldn't work?"
"No. I suppose it wouldn't. Why do you think that is, Bell?"
Katie Bell cuts her laughter off quickly, flushing, as his gaze settles on her.
"I…don't know, sir."
"Mistletoe berries are poisonous. Stirring anticlockwise mixes it thoroughly with the other ingredients and reduces the chance of any undesirable effects," he waves his wand at the chalkboard, where a set of instructions appears, "do not mock your fellow students, especially if you don't know the answer either."
She shrinks so far back into her chair he's quite sure she'll fall through it.
"Your instructions are on the board. Get to work."
The lesson drags.
He tries, once, to hover by Icarus' desk but Nathaniel Morgan manages to knock over the freshly ground pile of unicorn horn and his son's glare chases him off to other parts of the room. The other students aren't much better.
But at least, by the time the bell rings, there haven't been any explosions.
There's the familiar rustle of students hurrying to escape his presence and then-
"You're a busy man, I hear. Are you sure you can be wasting time with a lowly little first year?"
He lets his glamor drop with a roll of his eyes. Icarus leans against one of the empty desks by the front with a smirk plastered on his lips.
"I'm a decent multitasker," he says, as a door appears in the wall by the ingredients, "but I might be able to free up an hour or two if my assistant can do his job correctly."
Icarus snorts, satchel shifting on his shoulder and follows him into the dark corridor.
"And how much do you plan to pay your assistant?"
"Pay?"
"Slave labor is outdated, Da. Your assistant needs motivation."
"Three sickles."
"Reduced homework."
"Five."
He reaches to push open the private door to his office, squinting at the flickering amber light that illuminates the room. It's a simple place, with leather chairs and dark wooden furniture.
"That's your final offer?" Icarus sniffs.
"Fine. Ten, and a monthly allowance of gillyweed."
A crystal glass and decanter appear on the little table by the fireplace. He slumps into a chair at the same time as Icarus, crossing his legs.
"That's…generous."
"Well, the forest is off limits, not the lake," he sighs, "and good assistants are hard to come by."
Icarus positively beams.