CHAPTER FIVE
September doesn't last long.
Before anyone even notices, the trees along the edge of the forest are turning red and gold and orange and the rain picks up - so much so that they could hardly step outside without being drenched.
It's on one of these days that Icarus and Arianna stomp back into the castle after Herbology.
"Meet me in the Hall?" Arianna asks, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
He grabs the end of his robes and twists. The water cascades from them, forming a puddle.
"Yeah," he huffs, "save me some food, would you?"
They split paths by the entrance hall and once he's out of sight, halfway down the shadowed staircase to the Slytherin dungeon, he dries himself with a silent spell.
Fen the Prefect rises to meet him the second he steps into the common room.
"Could I have a word?"
"Sure," he says, brushing past, "I have to get changed, though."
Fen follows him in silence at first, which is honestly impressive, and then -
"Your…friend," he says, "the mud - muggleborn. You shouldn't waste your time with her."
"Oh?"
"It's bad taste, Icarus. You won't make it anywhere, associating with people like that. The Walter kid seems decent - or Bell -"
Icarus stops in front of his door, hand settling on the handle, and looks at him.
"If I ever need life advice, Fen," he says coldly, "I'll be sure never to come to you."
He meets Arianna in the Great Hall with the memory of Fen's gaping face fresh in his mind. There's a tower of tuna sandwiches on the plate in front of her - two of which he eats, the rest which they pack, before heading to an abandoned classroom on the third floor.
She slumps into an old dusty armchair without a word and pulls out a sketchbook. So, unsure if he should broach the subject that's bugging her, he sets himself up in a corner by the window and unpacks his violin.
"My Prefect doesn't like you," she says, as the second song drags to an end, "well…not you in particular but - she says you're using me. That you'll drop me the minute I'm no longer useful. Because you're a Slytherin. Because that's what Slytherin's do."
"I suppose she's an expert, isn't she," he hums, tapping the bow against the strings, "and? What will you do? Drop me first?"
"Well-" she inhales deeply and looks up at him, "I still need someone to do my homework for me, so that'd be stupid, wouldn't it."
A laugh bubbles out of him. A tiny, grateful little thing, and when he starts to play again, the clouds part to warm his back.
…
It's a trial in itself to sit through the feast.
They'd outdone themselves, like they did every year, with hundreds of bats and large, delicately carved pumpkins. He tries to admire it, he does, but the tug under his skin is impatient, desperate.
"You've never told me," Karim murmurs, "why you keep applying for the defense position."
"You've never asked," he replies, spearing a fork into a roast potato and glancing at the Slytherin table, where Icarus is laughing at something one of his roommates is saying.
"I think you'd be the perfect fit," Karim says, following his gaze, "but if rumors are to be believed…if this curse is real - then I'm glad you've never gotten it."
He almost chokes on his food.
"I don't mean it in a bad way," the other man rushes, "just that you're…valuable here. To your students. They care for you."
"Is there a point," he says, "to anything coming out of your mouth right now?"
"Well, no, but I-"
"Goodnight, then."
He stands and escapes through the little staff entrance before Karim can get another word in.
The shadows settle quickly, and deeply, around Hogwarts that night. He barely notices when Icarus joins him by the lakeside - can hardly see him. It's only the crunch of pebbles and the murmured greeting that has him reaching out to apparate the two of them through the wards.
They land in a freezing tundra. The clouds are sparse, here, the stars a glittering cacophony across the night sky.
"Stay here," he murmurs, the pull under his skin screaming, tearing against its container. Him. "Don't move from this spot. Not for anything."
He apparates again. Far away, out of sight of his son, and begins his search.
It's in a different place this year, each year; a thin thread, a torn fabric in -
There.
He sighs. The pull goes with it, ripping from his body with glee. And the sky explodes with color. Blues and violets; reds and golds and greens. Soon after, the voices join - singers, twisting and cascading among the lights.
From the other side, he'd told Icarus, once.
Everyone who ever was, his mother had said to him, everyone who has yet to be. Never listen too long, or they'll take you with them.
And this time, he thinks he does listen a little too long, because it's a moment before the sound of the violin reaches him. It's a steady melody; the echoes of rain and soft soil, warm food and a decent bed. He realizes he'd been about to take a step, forward, into the sky perhaps, so he wrangles the last of his energy and apparates back to where it's playing.
Icarus continues to play when he collapses on the grass, continues to play as the lights glow and flicker around them, continues to play when exhaustion consumes him and he falls asleep, half-wondering how he'd ever made it back before.
…
"Will it be like this for me?"
Icarus watches his father stir awake, the shadows under his eyes deeper than usual.
"I don't know," he croaks hoarsely, "hopefully not. Sometimes it skips generations."
He chucks a sandwich at him and turns to study the pale blue sky.
"We need to go back soon."
Before too many people ask questions. Before it gets too late. Etc. etc.
Severus eats the sandwich quickly, despite his exhaustion, and manages to wrangle enough strength to apparate them both back into an empty sunlit corridor. He's gone before either of them can exchange another word.
Icarus sighs, adjusting his satchel, and heads to the library.
It takes an hour for Nathaniel to find him.
"There you are," the boy hisses, waving at a hidden companion, "we've been looking for you everywhere."
Icarus frowns in confusion.
"What? Why?"
"You missed -"
"He missed his gossip buddy," Ada interrupts, rounding the corner and nicking the seat next to him, "something about Flint and…what's-her-name…"
"Marcelle -"
"Yeah. The Hufflepuff Prefect. Apparently they had a thing over summer," she snorts, "hey, can I do your hair?"
She starts on it before he can even properly answer and Nathaniel settles onto the desk, launching into the story, their first question forgotten.