Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A birth is a messy thing. It’s also a painful one. Lungs burning, skin tight and oversensitive. Everything is wet and slick with blood and other fluids. 

“It’s a boy,” someone says. 

His body contorts weirdly as his mother does her best to squeeze him out. There’s a lot of slime and blood, followed by the cursing and yelling of adults and large hands cutting the cord. 

He blinks up, cold and miserable, his vision a smear of colours and not much else. There’s a blob, hovering over him, a vaguely human-shaped thing. 

He takes his first breath and screams. 

It’s strange getting reborn after biting the dust for the first time. 

It’s a peripheral awareness that he has of his prior life, made harder likely by his limited brain capacity. 

It’s enough to be too self-aware from time to time in his little helpless body. 

He screams his lungs out more often than not when that happens, if only to vent some of his frustrations. 

“I don’t know what to do,” his mother confesses, while he’s held by what he gathers his grandmother to be. He’s not crying right now, a rarity unless he’s sleeping. 

Sue him. They don’t know what it’s like to be a prisoner in their own body, to be able to do nothing but piss and shit oneself on a regular basis. 

“You take care of him. He’s your child,” his grandmother says. A blurry shape with dark red hair, almost indistinguishable from his mother, rocking him back and forth. It’s not half bad. 

“He’s a regular menace to society,” his mother mutters. 

Spit bubbles out of his mouth as he tries to voice that he didn’t exactly aim for this situation either. 

“You shouldn’t drink while you’re still nursing.”

“Piss off,” his mother says. 

It amuses him. He’d drink too if he could. 

“I’m going back. There’s a mission.”

“Marlene-”

“It’s only two days. I’ve been stuck in this house for six months.”

“Be careful,” his grandmother says after a long pause. 

“Always.”

He doesn’t feel very attached to the people around him. There’s hardly any interaction there, and he sleeps most of the time anyway. When he’s awake, he's mostly miserable. 

Despite everything, he likes his mother. There’s a shared commiseration here. She talks to him sometimes, when she doesn’t call him a menace or a devil's spawn, usually in the dead of the night, once he’s woken her for various reasons. Mostly when he’s hungry or he shat his diapers again. 

“Shouldn’t be surprised you take after your father,” she tells him once, gentle hands petting over his cheek, tracing his nose. “Should’ve named ye Angus after me dad, just to piss him off,” she says, voice thick with accent. “Deserves more than that, the wanker.”

He gurgles spit in lieu of a reply, grabbing at her sleeve with tiny fingers. 

She nuzzles his head, red hair spilling over his eyes like a curtain. Her scent is relaxing, an instinctive reaction to being conditioned so early on. There’s a hint of smoke there, like she snuck out again and had a cigarette. 

His grandmother doesn’t approve. 

His mother doesn’t give a fuck. 

She looks a bit like a raccoon, what with the dark makeup around her eyes, only intensified by his blurry vision. 

He’s still smiling when she pulls back. 

“There you are. A right little charmer if you set your mind to it,” she whispers, grinning broadly.

He realises at some point that there’s something weird going on with his family. It starts about a month in, when he’s more aware of his surroundings and notices that his diaper changes are done with a strange and quick efficiency.
Nobody ever wipes his arse. Instead there’s a prickling feeling, like effervescent powder tingling over skin, and the mess is gone. 

Not that he has any complaints about that. Whatever dignity he’s got left, he’d like to keep, thank you very much. 

There are also the colourful lights that pop up above him, dancing like fireflies when he’s with his mother whenever he’s crying because he’s simply pissed off. His shitty eyesight doesn’t help with identifying their origin, and they always avoid his touch when he tries with his barely-there motor skills to pull one close for an inspection. 

It’s a strange fascination he develops, frustrating as well, and the only form of entertainment he has to occupy his mind with. 

His mother is likely just glad that it shuts him up, yet she is no help whatsoever in figuring out the origin of them all, just laughing at his attempts to grab them.

“Adorable,” his grandfather comments from the sidelines just during such a moment. He cries out of principle after that, setting his mother off about how she just managed to calm him and now her father fucks it all up. 

There. At least one person he has to speak up for him. 

He never cries when she calls him names. At this point, they’re more terms of affection anyways, but still, he’s entertained by it. His mother is refreshingly blunt. 

It’s a victory when he first manages to turn over. His head is heavy as lead, but at least now he can roll over. 

His uncle is the one to witness it, a boy more than a man, who can’t be older than his late teens, letting out a startling yell of surprise. 

He can’t help but smile smugly at his victory before he faceplants into his pillow and promptly has to be rescued from suffocating. It dampens his enthusiasm somewhat. 

He figures it out, sooner than later. The strange happenings around the house, the oddity of having an owl sail in through the window, and the inexplicable hovering lights. 

Magic. 

There’s no other explanation for it. It’s not as shocking a revelation as it might have been were it not such a gradual one.
He’s rather pissed that it took him so long, but there’s only so much a baby mind can comprehend. 

But once he’s able to connect the dots, what with his attention span growing alongside his brain, it’s blatantly obvious. 

His mother waving a wooden stick to dry him off after a bath, his uncle levitating him to make him laugh, and the kitchen appliances moving by themselves, cooking almost autonomously. 

His family, for some inexplicable reason, can do magic. There’s no denying it. 

It’s wondrous and strange, yet it doesn’t change much in his day-to-day life. Even magic is something one can grow used to. So the pictures in his children’s books move, and a couple of his toys float. And if his mother uses her wand to open a window instead of her hands before leaning out to sneak a smoke in an attempt to escape her mother’s judgemental gaze, it’s really not all that different. 

The owl in the kitchen is what gets to him the most, but even that novelty wears off after a while, especially once the bloody bird deigns to shit on his high chair. 

It’s vanished soon enough, but it definitely sours his mood. Especially when his grandfather laughs at his put-out face. Besides, he can’t do shit himself. Forming coherent noises is a struggle, not to speak of walking being a far-away fantasy, so he oughtn’t be surprised when his attempts at magic only make him look constipated. 

It happens, though, on occasion. When he’s particularly mad or frustrated, that a bottle zooms toward him as if pulled by an invisible string, or the mess in his diapers vanishes when no one comes to take care of it during the night. 

When he learns how to crawl—more of a scooting along the floor by using all his non-existent muscles—he’s able to get his first glimpse of his reflection. 

It’s hard work to leave the quilt next to his crib he’s been dumped on while his mother is taking a shower. The door to the adjacent bathroom is open, and he can hear her off-key voice singing along to an ABBA song playing on a record player. 

A couple of toys are strewn around, a stuffy and a handful of biting rings with a strange marble texture, and a few heaps of dirty clothes. 

His mother is something of a slob, not that he can blame her as a newly minted single parent. 

There’s also a floor-length mirror in the corner of the room. With a heavy wooden frame and intricate Celtic knots wrapping around the reflective surface. 

Still, he has to drag himself into a sitting position, leaving grubby prints on the mirror to get a glimpse of his upper half. 

It’s startling and surreal to look upon himself. His vision has cleared since his birth, and so he can make out all the details. 

He’s a pudgy little toddler, and barely that, his features not yet settled into something distinguishable from any other baby, as is his potato-shaped body, stuffed into a red onesie. 

A tiny nose in a chubby-cheeked face, fingers thick with baby fat. His eyes appear overly large, as is the norm with children. 

He’s pale just like his mother, but that is where the similarities end. She’s bony and tall, all cheekbones and sharp jawlines only underlined by her straight hair and the heavy makeup she favours. Whenever she doesn’t wear it, she looks softer, a constellation of freckles popping up over the bridge of her nose. She has a tattoo snaking around her ribs and back, he noticed half a week ago. A large, fiery bird the exact shade of her hair. 

The downy strands on top of his head are jet black, his eyes a pale grey to his mother's hazel ones.

He’s pulling faces in the mirror, trying to acquaint himself with his new and foreign features, while the mirror calls him a handsome young lad when she briefly leans out of the adjacent bathroom door to check on him. There’s a curse when she notices he isn’t where she left him, drawing his attention. 

She looks like a drowned rat with her hair plastered to her forehead, remnants of makeup smeared under her eyes as she stalks into the room, tugging aggressively at the towel wrapped around her bony body. 

Her raspy laughter echoes through the room when she notices him in front of the mirror. 

“Figures,” she says, snorting amusedly and muttering something about genetics and bloodlines before she disappears back into the bathroom, emerging in record time with dried hair in skin-tight jeans and a skimpy leather top. 

His mother is a regular vintage nut, seemingly only listening to vinyls from the 70s and she's got a strange sense of fashion that seems to bounce back and forth between punk rock, goth, and the occasional mix of both, judging by the long burgundy robe casually thrown on over an overlarge Led Zeppelin band tee and ripped shorts. The shirt, she apparently liked to pair with a tight leather skirt that she doesn’t fit in anymore thanks to him. He knows because she vocally complained about that particular fact for ten minutes straight before tossing it back into the dresser. 

He thinks they would’ve gotten on like a house on fire if they met in his last life. His memories are still fragmented in that regard, but he remembers enough. 

“Come on, you devil-child,” she tells him, lifting him up by his armpits and propping him up on her bony hips. “Let’s bother your uncle Archie. He was a right prick to me earlier, so I hope you can find it in yourself to piss on him.”

His mother and grandmother fight often. And loudly. It’s about various things and rather hard to grasp as a not-even toddler. His attention span is close to non-existent, even though it gets better, and he still sleeps most of the time.

Despite that, it isn’t hard to catch on that a good chunk of their fights are about him. About her going away. And his father on the rare occasion.
He’s a bit hazy on whether his father is even aware of his existence. His mother doesn’t talk about him. Not really. Only in the dead of the night and then never by name. She just refers to him as ‘that prick’ or ‘that pillock’ or various other expletives that, on occasion, sound reluctantly fond and other times come with a bite. 

After a particular row, his mother doesn’t speak to his grandmother for a week straight. 

“I don’t care what they say,” his mother tells him later one night while he blinks up to her, bleary-eyed and sated. “You’re my kid,” she says, blinking, seemingly astonished at her own words. “Hell, I made you; I get the last word. Nobody will take you from me,” she says, and he falls asleep to her mutterings. 

His mother comes and goes with an odd frequency that only picks up the older he gets. Not that a couple of months is that old, mind you, and it’s becoming more and more evident that his grandmother is all but thrilled with his mother because of it. 

He doesn’t mind that much. He likes his mother, sure, but he’s also not a normal baby as much as he might feel like one on occasion. 

He can occupy himself, and whether it’s his mother’s brother, his grandmother, or his mother herself who changes his diaper doesn’t make that much difference in the long run. 

For as big of a screamer as he was in the beginning, he’s a quiet child now. Watching and learning, moving himself if he wants to get something or making grabby hands to get his point across. 

His larynx is still too underdeveloped to properly talk, but he can make noises now, agreeable ones and disagreeable ones, and that alone is a huge relief. 

He can sit up without help now, occasionally pull himself up into a standing position if he’s got support, and crawl around with surprising speed. Moreover, he’s almost switched to solid foods now, which is a freaking delight. 

As much as he likes his mother, he’ll gladly leave the nursing aspect behind. She seems to be just as thrilled about that as he is—something to do with her being able to put her nipple piercings back in. 

His mother truly is a wild card. 

Walking again is a milestone, not only in the eyes of his family. It’s a bit of a wobbly gait, but he manages. It finally also allows him to grab at various things, from books to vinyls and newspapers, and he gains a halfway amiable truce with the owl by feeding it treats. His first-ever words – witnessed by his family, that is – are a repetition of a rather vulgar curse his uncle sprouts, just to see the reaction on his family’s faces. 

He gets to see pixies for the first time in their garden and gnomes, which his mother promptly hexes into the next century when they pop out of the bushes unexpectedly. 

His family laughs over him pretending to read the grown-up books and his supposedly feigned interest in the paper, but honestly at this point, it’s a relief to have regained some kind of independence. 

He gets ripped out of his sleep by a loud bang and screaming. Groggily, he sits up, struggling against the weight of his blankets and to get his small limbs to obey. 

His mother put him to bed earlier, and it can’t be too late yet, as she’s nowhere to be seen. It’s dark in the room, and he fights to pull himself up on the bars of his crib. 

There’s more yelling and more loud explosive sounds. Green light flashes outside the window. 

He hears wild cackling and feet slapping rapidly against the ground. The door to his room gets thrown open, and he’s staring at Archie. His young features are twisted with fear, a robe hanging loosely over his shoulders, the whites of his eyes shining in the dark. 

“Thank Merlin,” his uncle breathes when he lays eyes upon him. The light in the hallway illuminates a sheen of blood covering his torso. A wand is in his hand. 

He takes one step in the room only for a sudden explosion in the hallway to blast him off his feet. 

He flinches in his crib, wide-eyed and uncomprehending of what’s going on. Archie is already getting up, wand in hand as he faces the doorway, more blood now glistening on his temple. He makes an aborted wand movement, hissing words under his breath. 

“Yeah, flee, you little rat,” a voice barks in the illuminated hallway, deep and unfamiliar. “We’ll flush you out like the vermin you are.”

“Fuck off,” Archie yells back, a mirror to his mother. He seems panicked still, looking back at the crib when there’s another explosion, taking out half the wall, spraying debris everywhere.

His uncle isn’t fast enough to react in his distraction. Bricks pelt his body, and the force of the explosion sends him down near the foot of the bed, among toys and piles of clothes. A painful sound spills over his lips. He’s a dark heap on the floor, luckily still moving. 

A shadow blocks out the light in the door, and a figure steps through, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a dark, shapeless cloak, face hidden behind a silvery mask. 

Distant laughter and screams cut through the air. 

“Pathetic,” the intruder says. He lifts his wand, pointing it at Archie, who’s struggling to sit up. A flash of yellow light illuminates the room for a second, followed by a wet sound when Archie’s head slides off his torso. Blood gushes, soaking into the carpet and his little quilt. 

His uncle is dead. Decapitated right in front of him. 

Small fingers clench around the wooden bars of his crib. His legs are trembling not only from the weight of his body. 

Motherfucker, he thinks as his small brain tries to comprehend what he just witnessed. There’s fear and confusion, but most of it flips into rage when he watches the cloaked intruder stepping further into the room, mustering the body of his dead uncle with a sigh that’s almost pitying. 

It’s also the moment he seems to take note of the small toys strewn around. The figure looks up, sweeping the room with his gaze before it falls upon him, in his crib. 

“Ah shit,” the deep voice mutters. He cards a hand through the short blonde hair peeking out from behind the mask, spiking it up in the process. 

Oh, so there is some apprehension about killing children there. Serves him right, the bastard. 

He babbles some sounds that are meant to be insults, which only seems to agitate the man more. 

He stares at the crib for a long moment before turning around and leaving him with the dead body in the room. 

Shit. Now would be the time to escape. If he weren’t a fucking useless bag of potatoes contained in his own personal jail. He’s never hated his crib more than at this moment. 

The screams from downstairs finally die down. He hears the sounds of muffled arguing while he tries his best to pull his useless body over the edge of the crib. Not that his escape plans bear any fruit. 

The blood flow has finally died down a bit, the puddle now twice as big as his uncle’s headless torso. 

He’s pathetically helpless. 

Eventually, steps draw nearer again. He feels rather close to a crying fit. Multiple voices overlapping in an argument. “-couldn’t have known they had a sprog.”

He starts to float, suddenly, pudgy fingers grabbing the railing. 

“-e’ll do as the Dark Lord ordered us. If you can’t stomach it-”

“It’s a child.”

“A blood traitor child.”

He’s halfway across when the light in the room flicks on with a suddenness that he has to blink against the brightness, and he drops back into the crib. 

His uncle’s decapitated body is illuminated, and without the cover of darkness, it makes for an even more horrific sight. 

The red of his hair is mixed with blood, his neck a gory stump, eyes glassy where they stare at the ceiling. 

Three dark figures step into the room, all in silver masks and dark cloaks. 

“Messy,” one comments on the state of the room. 

“As if you’ve got room to talk,” the initial figure says. 

“Shut up,” the female in the group comments. She’s staring right at him. “Whose child did you say it was?”

“I didn’t say.”

She steps closer, uncaring of the body. He returns her gaze, not backing down. If he’s going to die, he might as well do it while staring her down. It would suit her to get nightmares. 

She pulls off her mask in a fluid motion, inky hair spilling over her shoulders as she reveals a pale, attractive face, with full lips and heavy lids that give her dark eyes a seductive quality. 

He stares back unblinking. 

“Bella, what are you doing?” one of the men behind her hisses. The one who killed Archie. 

“Not like it’ll remember,” the other man comments. 

She studies his face. “Hello there,” she says, her lips splitting into a stunning smile.

He smiles back instinctively, which only has the corners of her mouth tug up further. She laughs, delighted. 

One of the men in the back mutters something like crazy bitch. 

“Mind your fucking tongue,” she snaps, mood shifting as fast as it had come, and the man wisely shuts up. 

She rises in a fluid motion, bending over the crib to pick him up. Her hair falls around him, dousing him in a lavender smell with a dark and heady undercurrent. 

“What are you doing?” one of the men says. 

“Taking him, obviously.”

“Obviously,” one of the men parrots sarcastically. 

He can’t help but study her features. There’s something familiar there. She handles him with surprising gentleness even though he pulls a face, heart pumping in his chest. She smells nice.

“You can’t just- The Dark Lord-”

“Can’t you tell?” she snaps. “He’s family.”

“Family?”

“It’s the slag’s room,” she says, with disgust in her voice. 

He babbles offendedly, slapping a tiny hand against her shoulder. She’s wholly dismissive of it. 

“Oh, you’re shitting me,” one of the men says in sudden realisation, groaning. “You can’t be serious. You think it’s Black’s?”

“His dalliance with that blood traitor whore was smeared all over the front pages,” she spits. One of the men peers at him through the mask, leaning in. 

He hisses, drool spraying in the man’s direction.

“The resemblance is certainly there.” 

“And if it’s not ... Black’s?” one of the men says, with hesitance in his voice. 

“We deal with it,” Bella says with conviction, before she adds. “We’ve lingered here for long enough. The Dark Lord is waiting.”

That seems to cut off all further discussion. 

Bella coos over him as she carries him out of the room. There’s another body in the kitchen, face contorted with pain. His grandfather. He catches a glimpse of a stray limb in a puddle of blood before Bella has already whisked him outside. 

“Family comes first,” she tells him, uncaring of the massacre they leave behind as the cool night air sweeps away the scent of blood. “Never forget that.”

The two other men have followed her at a bit of a distance, talking in hushed voices. She ignores them. 

“Deal with the rest. Report to the Dark Lord. I will follow you shortly.”

The house is going up in flames. One of the men whispers a spell, and a green light shoots out of his wand, exploding into a skull in the sky, shimmering like northern lights; a snake winds out of its mouth. 

It’s the last thing he sees before he’s whisked away in a suffocating whirl, pressing his face into the lavender soft hair to stave off his nausea. 

Chapter Text

When he blinks again, the terrible feeling subsiding, he finds himself within the confines of an elaborate entrance hall, floor made up of dark polished wood just like the walls. A glittering chandelier hangs from the ceiling, distracting him. 

“Dipsy,” Bella calls, and a crack sounds through the room. “Take care of him until I’m back,” she orders, her cloak whooshing as she strides over past a man-high fireplace, logs glimmering, to a dark blue settee pushed against one of the walls, placing him down gently. 

He glares up at her. She smiles, stroking a finger down his cheek. “I’ll be back before long,” she tells him before she vanishes with a sudden crack of air. 

Frustrated, he rolls over only to find a small creature with leathery skin and large drooping ears inch closer. 

Its eyes are wide and wet, and all that it’s wearing is an embroidered dish towel. 

He closes his eyes, exhausted, giving in to the sleep that has tugged on his mind if only to escape his reality for a little bit. 

When he wakes up, it’s to a soothing rocking motion, staring up in the beatific face of Bella, who smiles softly at him. 

“Hello,” she whispers, when he blinks at her, still groggy from sleep. “We’ll need a bit of blood. It’ll be over before you know it.”

He scrunches his nose, even more confused, before he sees a dagger inching into his field of vision. 

She pricks his finger with it, a sharp burst of pain, but she’s careful about it. He makes a noise but doesn’t cry, which seems to delight Bella. “Look at him, Rod. I told you he’s a Black.” She coos over him. “Blacks don’t cry, isn’t that right?” 

A masculine sigh can be heard somewhere in the room, while his finger is healed with a quick wave of a wand. “You don’t even know if he’s a Black yet.”

“It would be so much easier if we could just look at the tapestry in Grimmauld,” Bella pouts. 

“It’s basically public knowledge that the old harpy blasted your cousin off the bloody thing. Besides, you know his orders.”

Bella makes an aborted movement. A yelp sounds through the room. 

“Don’t speak like that about my aunt,” the dark-haired woman hisses. 

“Bloody Blacks,” the man mutters, something clinking. A crack can be heard cutting off the inevitable argument. “About time,” the man says. “Took you long enough, elf.”

“Dipsy is sorry, master-”

“Give it here.” 

Another crack followed by the sound of paper rustling. “He ought to be in one of those family trees.”

It’s quiet for a little bit, and he entertains himself by tugging on Bella’s dark hair while she studies him with rapt attention, occasionally looking up to glance at something else in the room. 

“Hah!” she exclaims out of the blue, picking up a phial with a swirling red liquid and showing it off. “I knew it, Rod! I knew it!” She laughs, hugging him close as she twirls around the room. 

He first catches a glimpse of a man with coppery hair falling onto his shoulders and dark eyes clad in a red suit. He’s bent over a table, a heavy tome spread out in front of him as he goes through it with his wand. 

He’s looking up now, at Bella, amusement evident in his face despite the low, indifferent drawl when he says, “You only know he’s related to you by blood. What with so many of you around, who knows who fucked who? Might’ve been that one Prewett line that Black great-aunt of yours married into.”

“Shut up, Rod,” Bella voices, incensed yet still enthusiastic. She walks over to him. “How long does it take to look up a bloody name?”

“You try and find it. There are two dozen Sirius’ in that cursed tree, and half of you married each other. It’s like a fucking hedge is what it is.”

“Hand it over,” Bella says in a demanding voice, pulling at the heavy tome and flipping pages. “Let’s see what unfortunate name you’re stuck with thanks to that slag,” Bella says, leaning forward, her hair falling into his face, and he can’t see anything for a bit but a naked shoulder, exposed by the low-cut dress she’s wearing.

“Oh,” Bella breathes. “Oh.”

“Here? You’re sure?”

“Yes,” Bella bites back, “of course I’m sure.”

“No wonder I didn’t see it. Looks like the blood traitor got one thing right.” 

Bella ignores the man in favour of lifting him up higher on her hips, red-painted lips spreading into a wide smile as she looks at him.

“Orion Black,” she says, for the first time calling him by his name. “After your father’s father.” 

He babbles spit. 

Courtesy of him being a baby, he’s blissfully unaware of most happenings. It’s hard to contemplate and comprehend complex thoughts, and it’s harder still to hate Bella, who seems to have found her new purpose in mothering him nearly daily. 

Nevertheless, there are a few connections that aren’t easy to ignore. He’s known his family was magic for a while, but there is a distinctive memory somewhere in the recesses of his brain about a story called Harry Potter that the most recent happenings have called to the forefront of his mind. 

Vague recollections about a boy in a cupboard and Dark Lords and Death Eaters. 

It’s hard to recall and even harder to compare an insane Bellatrix Black to the doting Bella he’s getting to know. 

She really takes an inordinate amount of pictures. 

Over time he gets used to Dipsy, the house elf, who hangs around, changing his nappies and feeding him when it’s the middle of the night and he wakes up screaming like a harpy, but it’s Bella, most of the time. 

And Rod. Rodolphus. He’s more distant, but he picks him up once or twice, sighing but not complaining. He smiles at him almost as easily as his wife. He reminds him a bit of Angus, his grandfather. Both redheads, both with a beard. Their accent is strikingly different.

Everybody speaks with a crisp, posh drawl. 

He meets a handful of people. There's an equally copper-haired man, leagues younger than Rod, whom Bella introduces to him as Uncle Rabastan. A blonde woman with silver eyes, who stares down at him with a melancholic expression. Another man, more standoffish than Rod, with even paler blond hair than the woman he came with and their child. A chubby toddler with an expressive face and grabby hands who holds his attention for about as long as a fruit fly would.

“So quiet,” the blonde woman says, from where she’s watching him and her son on the carpeted floor, idly sipping at a cup of tea, opposite Bella. “One would almost think it wasn’t Sirius’ child.”

“Quiet, yes, but he sneaks around faster than one can cast a locator spell. Dipsy is keeping a constant eye on him now.” 

“Does he speak? Draco’s a bit older, of course, but he’s rather vocal at this point.”

“No,” Bellatrix says. 

The blonde takes a measured sip of her tea. “Our cousin is still unaware, I heard?”

“The Dark Lord prefers it that way.”

Both women turn to watch them on the blanket. He takes away the shiny, glowing orb Draco is grabbing at, just to do something. The blonde toddler opposite him gets teary-eyed. 

“Holding the scion of such an ancient house over a Black’s head-”

“Don’t even insinuate something like that,” Bella hisses. “The Dark Lord would never-”

Draco starts to wail. “Gimme,” he says. “Gimme-”

“He has before.”

Bella stands, suddenly picking him up from the floor and settling him down on her lap. Her nails are digging uncomfortably into his sides, and he tries to bite them with his two teeth. “We are Blacks. He respects us.”

The shiny orb falls down, and Draco stops crying, gladly crawling over and picking it up. 

The blonde woman sips more tea, keeping quiet. 

“Nothing will happen to him,” Bella says quietly over his head. “I asked the Dark Lord. He gave his word.”

The tension in the room seems to ease a little. 

Something has changed. Bella is gone more often, as is Rod. Dipsy takes care of him in their absence. 

There are more visitors, none of whom are here for him. He gets taken into a different room when Dipsy announces the arrival of guests. 

What he witnesses are tense conversations exchanged over breakfast between Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Rodolphus. There’s talk about being victorious. About revolution and a new age that they will enter. 

It’s tense, and yet there’s exhilaration. 

Bella still dotes on him daily. She coos over him, dressing him up in various outfits, proper and so different from the onesies his mother put him in. 

She lets him hold her wand, and he drools all over it out of principle. 

It hums warmly in his hands. 

She just laughs over it. 

Bella entertains him with spells, noting his fascination, conjuring flames, and transfigurating cups into spiders. She’s the one who enchants the ceiling over his crib to show the night sky. 

She’s a good mother. Despite everything. 

He dreams of his uncle sometimes. Archie. He sees him speaking to him, without saying anything, bloody foam on his moving lips. There is no body connected to his neck.

It’s the middle of the night. He’s confused, as he’s ripped out of his sleep by screams. He freezes, dread sinking into his bones. 

Not again, he thinks. 

The scream is agonizing. There’s a crash and sounds of explosion. The house seems to shake. 

He pulls himself up, trembling on the bars of his crib in the opulent nursery, the stars on his enchanted ceiling dipping the room into a cold light. 

He can’t get out. He’s trapped, just like before. Panic threatens to overwhelm him. 

His body shakes, and then suddenly he’s in the hallway. 

He blinks, disoriented at the sudden change of scenery. A few portraits take note of him; others are fleeing through the frames. 

Another cry sounds. It’s a scream more like, full of emotion. Even louder this time. 

Bella, he recognizes. Despite his better judgement, he shuffles down the hallway toward the screams coming from the master bedroom. 

He can’t lose another mother. Just then, the doors are blasted off their hinges. He toddles past the wooden shards, halting in the doorway. He is faced with a sea of destruction.

The master suite is a wreck. 

A settee is on fire. There are cracks in the walls. All the mirrors are shattered. In the middle of it all, Bellatrix rages. Her hair is in disarray, wild and stark; it hangs around her pale face, standing out against her nude form. Her eyes are glistening with furious tears. The floor around her shakes as she screams, blasting a portrait off a wall. 

Magic crackles around her. She is terrifying. She is magic in the flesh.

He is in awe. 

She spots him in a turn, wand held in a tightly clenched fist before she lowers it. 

“Bella,” he whispers, uncertain. It’s the first word he ever spoke in her vicinity. 

Suddenly she looks devastated. 

“He’s gone,” she whispers, her voice broken. Her wand clatters to the floor as she sinks to her knees.

He’s never seen her cry. It looks wrong on her face. He feels the terrible urge to console her. She shouldn’t look that way. 

For a brief moment, he wishes she would rage again. But instead she’s weeping, cradling her forearm to her face. 

He approaches her slowly, hesitating. 

She pulls him against her naked chest as soon as he’s close enough, burying her face against his shoulder. “They’ll burn. They’ll all burn,” she voices. “I’ll make sure of it.” His shoulder is damp from where her tears are staining his pyjamas.

He soaks in the scent of her hair and crackling magic. 

Rodolphus emerges from the bedroom after a short while. He can only tell by the sound of naked feet against the floor. 

He pads over, kneeling behind Bellatrix. “They’ll pay,” she whispers.

“We’ll make them,” Rodolphus says, his voice rough. 

She holds him for so long, he falls asleep on her lap. 

The next morning is strange. Dipsy dresses him. He’s wearing a dark suit, a small cape clipped to his shoulders. His hair is being brushed, curls bouncing around his ears before he’s led to the dining room. 

Rodolphus is pacing, a glass of liquor in his hand. He looks like he hasn’t slept at all, but he’s wearing similar attire. Dressed sharply in black from head to toe. 

Bellatrix is wearing a midnight-coloured gown, a charcoal dragonhide corset cinched around her waist so tightly it almost looks painful. The rubies around her delicate throat glint like a wound. 

Her eyes seem even darker than her hair today, the latter pinned up in a wild manner with her wand. She stands as soon as she sees him, putting him in her lap while she feeds him breakfast. 

Rabastan is missing. Rodolphus checks his pocket watch almost obsessively while he downs glass after glass of the amber liquor, slowly but surely putting a dent into the contents of the whisky carafe. 

The daily paper appears on the table courtesy of house-elf magic. Rodolphus stares at it with dead eyes and then he laughs. 

Bella’s head whips around to stare at him. He nudges the paper, whisky sloshing over his fingers. “They arrested your cousin. Black,” he specifies after a moment. “Murdered Wormtail on an open street and blew up a bunch of muggles in the process.”

“Serves the pathetic little worm right,” Bellatrix hisses venomously. “I would’ve wrung his neck with my own bare hands if I had the chance. It’s only right that my blood got to him first.”

“Who knew Black had it in him?”

“He never cared about those filthy Muggles. It’s Potter who drove him to join that insanity.”

“Last I heard you refer to Sirius, you called him a traitorous mudblood-loving cunt.”

“He’s a Black,” she says like it explains it all. “Don’t you forget that, Orion,” she adds, lowering her head towards his ear. “Blood is everything.”

Then she sets the paper on fire with naught but a glance. “It’s time,” she announces. 

She picks up a napkin, wiping his mouth even though he didn’t make a mess, and settles him on her hip. 

Rodolphus rises. 

“You stay here. Wait for Rabastan and Barty. And lay off the cursed firewhisky.”

Rodolphus growls, but he sits back down. 

Bellatrix’s heels click over the floor as she walks into the entrance hall. She grabs some powder off a ceramic bowl on the side, throwing it into the flames. 

They hiss, flashing green and flickering high, licking at the marble stones. She steps right into them, and they harmlessly tongue around her dress. “Grimmauld Place,” she says, and then they spin into the fire. 

It’s a nauseating experience, and he holds on tightly to Bellatrix, who tightens her grip around him in response. 

He only lifts his head from her shoulder once the spinning stops, only to find her stepping out of a fireplace into an opulent drawing room, large windows with heavy red curtains lining the wall opposite them. A seating area and a grand piano are the main furnishings, and there’s a wall that seems to be taken up by a large tapestry, branches upon branches twisting and intertwining with portraits and names stretching into every corner. It’s scorched in various places. Dark dots on an otherwise pristine and elaborate piece of art. 

There’s a woman hunching in one of the loveseats, barely looking up. A heavy cognac glass is sitting on a coffee table, a paper spread out in front of her. 

“Auntie,” Bellatrix greets coldly. 

“Bellatrix,” the woman says, and only then does she look at them. She startles briefly at seeing him. Her greying hair is pulled back into a severe bun. She doesn’t wear any jewellery whatsoever, clad in a simple black gown, her prominent features gaunt, pale lips pressed into a harsh line. 

Bellatrix steps forward, effortlessly spelling away the soot. 

“What brings you here?” the woman asks. “You were rather brief in your notice.”

“The Dark Lord is gone,” Bellatrix announces, waiting in front of the chair as if during an audience.

The woman laughs. It sounds deranged.

Bellatrix’s eyes are as black as the night. Her voice sounds strained when she speaks. “I’ve come to ask a favour.”

“After all these years… I assume it has to do with him.” She jerks her chin in his direction. “I wasn’t aware you were with child,” she drawls, lounging back elegantly in the chair.

“He’s not mine,” Bellatrix says. 

The woman looks at him with cold silver eyes. The same eyes that stare back at him from the mirror. “Whose is it?”

“Sirius’.”

The woman jerks as if slapped. She blanches, staring at him. She supports herself on the armrest of her chair with a frail and trembling hand as she rises, stepping closer. 

“Who is the mother?” she asks, her voice barely louder than a whisper. 

“The McKinnon whore. Marlene.”

Bellatrix sets him down, and he can’t help but press his back into her skirt, anxious. 

“Step forward, child,” the older woman orders.

Bellatrix nudges him. He shuffles forward, spitefully meeting the woman’s gaze. “That’s better,” she says. 

She grips his face firmly, nails digging into his cheeks as she turns it for inspection. He bares his teeth, uncomfortable. There’s a twitch in the woman’s lips. “Blood traitors as they come, but decent breeding.”

“We took him in before anybody else could,” Bellatrix says. “Blood comes first.”

“Good,” the woman says, letting go and rising with a sudden strength she did not seem to exude before. 

“Kreacher,” she snaps. A house-elf pops up, older and even wrinklier than Dipsy. A filthy rag is tied around his hips like a loincloth. 

“Yes, mistress?”

She jerks her chin toward him. “What can you tell me about him?”

Kreacher stares at him with shrewd eyes, shuffling closer. 

“We tested his blood,” Bellatrix says. 

“Dark Magic has fooled more than one wizard.”

Bellatrix pulls a face but keeps quiet. Both witches stare at Kreacher, who sniffs the air, prowling around his form like a hunched animal.

“Black blood,” he announces eventually, looking up at the older witch with glassy eyes.

“I’ll take him in,” she announces. 

Something seems to thaw in Bellatrix, a tension he hadn’t even noticed in her bleeding away. “Thank you, auntie,” she says, almost warmly. 

“Blood comes first," she echoes.

Bellatrix smiles. The older witch stares down at him with a strange expression. 

“His name is Orion,” Bellatrix says. 

Her aunt sucks in a sharp breath. 

“I know,” Bellatrix says almost gently. “I’ll be back for him.”

The older witch looks at her, impassive. “We shall see,” she says.

Bellatrix hisses. 

But then she sinks to her knees, crouching down and taking him by the shoulders. He stares back into her dark eyes that have become so familiar. “Behave,” she tells him before she kisses him, nuzzling his hair, hugging him close. “I know she seems like a mean old harpy, but she’ll take care of you.”

He feels a bit devastated right then and there. His eyes turn glassy, but he doesn’t allow a tear to fall. She wouldn’t want him to cry. “Good boy,” she says, kissing his temple once again before rising. 

She stalks towards the other witch. “If you scorn him out of the house like Sirius, Walburga, I will murder you myself. Blood or not,” she tells the other witch. 

“You were always too close for your own good,” the other woman retorts, the threat pearling off her like water. 

Bellatrix spares him a last look before she heads over to the fireplace, grabbing a handful of powder from a skull missing its cranium and tossing it into the fire. It flickers high. “Lestrange Manor,” she says, getting swallowed by the flames.

Kreacher has disappeared as well, after an order to prepare a room, leaving them to stare at each other. He musters the witch apprehensively, thinking that he ought to remember her, but his memory from before is still spotty. 

All he has is Bellatrix's estimation of her as an old harpy. 

She seems to size him up as well. “I’m your grandmother. You may address me as such.” She watches him while he doesn’t answer. When nothing else is expected from him, he starts to explore the room a bit while still keeping a wary eye on the witch. 

She settles down in her prior chair, picking up her cognac glass; watching him.

He inspects the shiny trinkets on the side tables and the various couches before he walks over to the grand piano, pressing a few of the keys. Eventually, that bores him, and he ends up in front of the large tapestry, staring at it. He doesn’t notice her appearing behind him until she does. 

She’s eyeing a particular spot on the tapestry. It’s scorched beyond recognition, a coin-sized hole where a portrait ought to be. Looking down at him, she suddenly pulls out her wand. 

She cuts her palm, smearing blood all over the image before she points her wand at the spot, mumbling ancient words under her breath. The tapestry knits itself together, the charcoal burn shrinking like poison sucked out of a wound, the blood absorbed into the fabric. An image appears, a young man with wavy black hair and a serious expression. The branch underneath him begins to twist like a snake, growing and blooming. A golden line ties it to the suddenly appearing image of a woman. 

He sucks in a breath as he recognises the red hair and the sharp cheekbones. The branch grows a twig, buds blooming into leaves. Another face appears, cherubic in its youth, with black curls and rosy cheeks. 

It’s the one he sees when he looks into the mirror. 

‘Orion Black II,’ it says on the unravelling scroll underneath his image. 

And then Walburga Black blasts his mother off the tapestry. 

Chapter Text

His grandmother is a strange creature. Old and frail, haggard almost, she’d seemed the first time he ever saw her, yet her character is everything but. 

Mercurial in temper, she raves at nothing and nobody all day, cursing mudbloods and politicians and blood traitors only to appear as composed and rigid as a statue the next. 

Not to speak of the odd times; those strange hours during which she seems to be wandering through Grimmauld Place like a ghost, long hair falling down her back – undone, like her dressing gown, leaving half-drunk cognac glasses scattered around the house. She stares at him then, standing over his crib, vacant and with flickering expressions, as if she sees someone else. 

She cried over him once, he thinks. Rocking him in her arms and petting his hair in the middle of the night, shrouded in a cloud of melancholy and absinth, calling him Regulus.

Another time, he woke up to a pillow being pressed into his face, but it’s a hazy memory, warped by dreams and the vague recollection of a croaking voice singing him back to sleep. 

Kreacher is the one who takes care of him for the most part. He’s the one who puts him to bed, who croons to him in a low voice when he screams his lungs out in helpless frustration and rage, who holds his hand while he toddles around, feeds, bathes and dresses him, all the while addressing him as “the young master” with almost feverish devotion. 

Grimmauld Place is more cluttered than Lestrange Manor ever was. A labyrinth of narrow hallways and high shadowy ceilings with gloomily dark oil lamps dipping everything in a flickering light. Sometimes the shadows seem to have a life on their own. Dark wooden wall paneling is as common as wallpaper, the latter of which is a strange mismatch of thorny roses, bones and intricate patterns that make his eyes hurt the longer he stares at it.  

The portraits look grimy, blackened by age safe for a handful, who have managed to evade the ravages of time yet.
They whisper to him every time he passes through the entrance hall.

A disproportionate amount of his waking hours is spent in the kitchen, occupying himself with intricately charmed toys and puzzles, while Kreacher bustles around on the worn stone floor, prepping dishes, cooking, and organizing the pantry.

Especially when Walburga falls victim to one of her strange moods, it’s not uncommon for him to fall asleep surrounded by the scents of herbs and smoke.

Nevertheless, it takes him a while to realize that Bellatrix won’t be back. He braves Walburga then, walking up to her on his stubby legs, while she’s nursing a cognac, a magazine on her lap. 

“Where’s Bella?” he asks, with a pronounced lisp thanks to the gaps where his teeth have yet to grow in.

She looks up, startled. He has never before spoken to her without prompting.

“She won’t be back, child.” 

Walburga rarely, if ever uses his name.

“Why?” he asks.

“Why, grandmother,” she chides. 

Stubbornly, he clenches his tiny jaw. She stares back at him, with steely eyes.

Silence stretches. He will ask Kreacher if that’s what it takes. He turns around, leaving her in the way only a toddler can get away with. 

Bellatrix is in Azkaban. 

Kreacher laments about it, once he gets over his surprise of Orion asking him about her. She and Rod and Rabastan. 

After further inquiries he learns that Azkaban is a nightmarish place with soul-sucking creatures functioning as guards. He feels like he ought to know this, yet it takes a bit for his mind to digest the information. 

Walburga stares at him over dinner – a French onion soup followed by another foreign sounding dish paired with a pie – considering him. 

Something seems to shift between them, then.  

She doesn’t comment on it, merely reaching over to correct his grip on the cutlery. Honestly, his motoric skills are barely good enough to properly work a spoon, let alone pick up the correct one for each dish. 

She’s unrelenting.

As weeks turn into months, her strange moods crop up less and less. 

Kreacher stops checking on him when he cries during the night. 

He misses his mother. 

Her scent and her voice. 

The way she would whisper her secrets to him under the cover of darkness. 

He misses Bella. 

Her easy smiles. 

The ardent affection on her face whenever she would hold him.   

Orion deals and learns, and if he needs something, he calls Kreacher, who now only answers when he asks for him by name. 

Walburga starts to have tea on occasion, with a varying rotation of people. 

Bellatrix, describing her as a right harpy, hit the nail right on the head.

He thinks it’s perhaps her age that has hardened her. She’s a bitter old hag, putting people down left and right, and yet the women she’s with, humor her, bearing the insults with stiff grace. 

It never fails to entertain him. 

Tea with ‘Cissa’, the blonde woman he’s already got to know at Lestrange Manor, becomes a weekly occurrence and she always brings Draco. He’s a boring, spoiled mess of a child, and Orion honestly can’t say he cares much for his snot-nosed company. 

Children, he’s reminded, are rather gross. 

It gets even worse once his first birthday in Grimmauld Place rolls around. 

His guests are a bunch of toddlers of similar age, dressed up like small adults in suits and primly dresses, the girls’ hair decorated with bows, while their mothers sit around on the couches in the drawing room, gossiping over tea and cake as he gets to tear into the heap of presents stacked around the grand piano. 

A small, more aware part residing within the back of his mind takes note of the meticulously planned set-up of the whole affair. 

From the tea parties hosted at Grimmauld place, where Walburga navigated thinly veiled inquiries about his parentage, insinuating it was his mother’s own choice to give him up and drop him on her doorstep – they all know, what a target she made herself out during the war, after all – to his coiffed hair and expensive attire wrought with delicate golden flowers matching the subtle embroidery decorating the hem of his grandmother’s blood red gown – so unlike her usual bleak daywear.  

It’s fun enough, despite all the hungry looks lurking behind the saccharine attention bestowed upon him.

The subsequent weeks are marked by more social gatherings and an increasing frequency of his arranged playdates. 

There’s talk about betrothals and engagements already. 

Meanwhile, he grows at an alarming rate, his physical development progressing by leaps and bounds and it opens up a whole new world for him to explore. 

He can walk and talk now, reaching places he never could before and he takes unfettered advantage of that newfound independence.

Grimmauld Place is dark and strange, fascinating in the macabre memorabilia it houses. From the taxidermied house-elf heads looming over the staircase to the collection of shrunken heads, skulls, cursed items and books bound in human skin and gilded letter openers on dark wooden cabinets with clawed legs.

With so many rooms to explore and things to discover, it becomes a weird obsession to rummage through forbidden drawers and climb on top of shelves to inspect the nicknacks and objects hidden there. 

The house is happy to help him in this endeavor, heavy drawers springing open under his touch before he can grow frustrated, doors materializing when he threatens to get lost or feels particularly bored.

He reaps scoldings and gets himself cursed thanks to his wandering hands, before he learns to become a bit more wary.  

Kreacher is always around now, and more attentive and exasperated than ever. A constant presence hovering behind him, like a particularly obnoxious shadow even when Orion believes himself to be alone. 

Still, even with the elf watching over him, he’s given free rein of the house. For the most part.   

There are some doors that never open.

Kreacher might voice his displeasure regarding his actions, or try to shoo him into a different direction with varying degrees of success, but he never disciplines him, never outright shouts. 

Walburga is the one who screams into his face and dishes out punishments. For the most asinine things at that. 

From supposed back talking, to his posture and the way he looks at her even while saying nothing. 

And Kreacher is a snitch of the highest caliber.

Escaping those all-seeing watery eyes is half the battle.

As much as it appears to aggravate Walburga to hear when he did so, it also seems to amuse her for some dubious reason. Not that she ever lets it on when she thinks he’s paying attention.

“Wipe those useless tears off your face, that weakness is unbecoming,” she tells him on one occasion, pulling her wand to draw a nasty curse out of his hand, where it’s spreading from his fingertips in dark spidery veins, courtesy of a silver letter opener tucked away in a heavy secretary. 

It burns like ice freezing over his bones – the counter curse almost as bad as the original. She tells him to pull himself together. “You are a Black. Act like it.” 

He learns, and adapts. 

The next time it happens, he bares his teeth spitefully, hissing like a snake, but no tears fall. 

She feeds him dessert afterwards. 

Still, the way he talks, the way he walks, the way he acts and speaks – everything has to be done a specific way.

His lisp especially, is a continued contention between them – and it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose. There is literally nothing he can do about it other than wait for his mouth to grow bigger. 

When he is once again on the receiving end of another admonishment for pronouncing something wrong, he explodes a vase into his grandmother’s face, cutting her up badly. 

It makes her laugh. A startling sound after so long. She orders Kreacher to get them some tarts and they sit down on the floor right where they are in the hallway. She spells the blood off her face, while he’s licking sticky crumbs off his fingers. 

And somehow, without him really noticing, their relationship changes. 

It shows in the way she begins to bestow more physical affection upon him, picking him up or taking his hand when she accompanies him to various rooms. She settles him on her lap while she reads the paper, and the society columns, commenting on the state of the world – or rather its downfall – with Kreacher muttering a litany of, “Yes mistress,” “Indeed mistress,” as she goes on about Fudge’s incompetency and his bootlickers, mudblood-lovers and weak minded people while she plays absently with his hair. 

It becomes a habit, her reading him fairy tales before he falls asleep, dark and tragic stories, of magic and creatures he’s never heard about.

Every other week, Orion accompanies his grandmother to Malfoy Manor for tea, while ‘Cissa brings Draco when it’s Walburga’s turn to host. 

While Draco is still more of an annoyance than anything, he’s the closest thing Orion has to a friend and so he doesn’t waste any time roping him into his shenanigans, showing off Grimmauld Place and the interesting things that are to be discovered there.  

After one particular incident that left Draco red in the face, covered with blackened pustules the size of plums and him screaming bloody murder, Lucius Malfoy accompanies her on the next visit.  

So far, Orion has barely interacted with ‘Cissa’s husband. He suspects it's got a lot to do with the fact that Walburga doesn’t think very highly of him. 

Therefore, he returns Lucius' gaze curiously when the man steps out of the floo and into their drawing room for the first time. 

Cool blue eyes surrounded by milk-white lashes meeting his grey ones. 

Orion stares up at the tall man, unblinking. He waits politely, like he was taught to, which leads to the somewhat hilarious impression of the man sizing up a child until Cissa pulls him down on the sofa, when Walburga isn’t looking. 

While they exchange stiff greetings, Draco is already tugging on his father’s sleeve in order to get his attention with that type of impatient insistence only a four-year-old can muster. 

Mere ten minutes later, he’s throwing a tantrum when he realizes there aren’t any sweets like last time, his outburst causing a heavy crystal carafe to explode on the table. 

Kreacher pops up in that exact moment, vanishing the shards and the puddle soaking into the carpet, but the harm is already done.  

Cissa apologizes over the noise of Draco’s wailing, while Lucius pulls his son onto his lap, fussing over the scratch on his face as if it was an irreparable disfigurement.  

Meanwhile Kreacher materializes a newly repaired carafe filled with water and a bowl of sweets. 

That doesn’t stop Lucius from going off on the elf, until Walburga lets out a scathing comment, about how his spoiling of his son will turn the sprog into a spineless excuse of an heir. 

Lucius, in a rare show of anger, in turn comments on how she’s one to talk, what with her progeny currently rotting away in Azkaban, nevermind his rather public disownment. 

Wands are being drawn, hexes are flying and Draco is still crying, while Narcissa jumps up, likely in an attempt to mediate. 

It all is cut off, not by any of them, but Orion’s wild laughter at the whole circus. 

Were he not a toddler with significant leeway, his bouts of self-awareness and subsequent improper reactions to various situations, would really make for a weak case to plead his sanity. 

Still, “People are under the impression he is Bellatrix’ son,” Cissa states, during one of their regular tea sessions, some fortnight later. Lucius has been steering clear ever since that last incident.

“I’m well aware,” Walburga voices dismissively, absently reading the tea-leaves at the bottom of her empty cup, while Draco shows off his new toy dragon – a life-like model the size of a small house cat, currently spitting colourful sparks at his prompting. 

“You have not disputed that Sirius is his father.”

“The house needs an heir. And better Bellatrix than that blood traitor harlot, who, if she came up, would only put us under unnecessary scrutiny.”

The two women stare at each other, as a silent moment passes by. 

“The Lestranges might take offense,” Narcissa offers diplomatically. 

Walburga laughs. “Then they should come and complain.”

They’re invited to spend Yule at Malfoy Manor in a private gathering prior to the gala hosted there the same night. 

The ballroom is pristine, with wreaths decorating the walls, and charmed snowflakes hanging in the air like crystals, unmoving and still, unless someone stirs the air by walking past. It must be a right sight with couples dancing on the polished floor. 

When the chandeliers are lit, they make the very air glitter. 

Still, he’s too young to attend, so they’re led out into the gardens. 

Burning yule logs are scattered around the snowy stretches of land, sending smoke up into the sky and fairy lights glitter in the trees.

A giant pine was brought for the occasion, magically made to grow to an impressive height, candles upon candles shining in the dark, spelled to burn through the whole night. 

The air smells of fire, incense and magic and the adults drink mulled cider and they sip hot spicy drinks until he and Draco are sent to bed when the first guests arrive, watched over by house elves.

The snow is red the next day, deep furrows, dark and burgundy, like spilled wine at the foot of the pine.  

They read their fortune from a goat’s liver, Walburga tells him offhandedly when he asks her about it. “It’s tradition,” she says. “You can take part when you’re older.”

Shortly before his fifth birthday, Walburga takes him out to get their portrait taken. People in the street stare, at her and at him, whose hand is clasped in her gloved one in a rare display of public affection. 

At the shops they walk into after to get some shopping done, the workers fall almost over each other in their eagerness to serve them. They run into Cissa and Draco on the way, who are clad in matching shades of royal blue, grabbing lunch in a restaurant and later ice-cream, where they’re gawked at even more.

He has mint chocolate-chip and Walburga praises him for not making a mess. Half of Draco’s face is smeared with raspberry ice-cream. 

Just then, a straggler snaps a picture of them, and Narcissa effortlessly switches the topic, praising her solicitor who aided Lucius in a recent lawsuit against a ‘cretin’, who dared take a photograph of their family and sell it to a gossip rag without their consent, and inquiring whether Walburga would be interested in employing him as well. 

The man tries to extract himself from the area, his face flushed a blotchy red, and in his haste, he bumps into another wizard, dropping his camera into a fountain. He curses violently. 

Walburga shakes out her sleeve, wand tucked away safely once more.  

“Vultures,” she says disparagingly, and Narcissa nods in agreement, a matching expression on her face. 

All in all, it’s a nice day. 

When summer rolls around, Walburga takes him to the coast.

The air is salty there, the sea close to the villa they’re inhabiting – a large property that’s been in the family for decades and is a veritable zoo of magical creatures flitting around the shrubbery – and they wander the docks in the evenings till his eyes droop from exhaustion. 

His grandmother procures a swimming instructor who teaches Orion the basics in a magically sealed off part of the ocean and he gets to dive around a bit, exploring the underwater cliffs with a bubble head charm, accompanied by his instructor under the watchful eyes of Walburga and countless monitoring spells.  

He sees merpeople for the first time there too. They hiss at him strangely over the waves, baring shark-teeth and large eyes while their scaly fins cut through the foam.

He means nothing by it, when he tosses them fish from a bucket on the docks. 

Walburga, who witnesses the whole scene from afar laughs, while the merpeople screech in offense, splashing water and tossing the fish back at him, torn apart and bloody. 

A piece hits him in the face, leaving a gory streak.  

She stops laughing then, instead she whips out her wand, cursing them to hell and back, turning the water red like chum. 

“Never forget that you are better than these animals,” she tells him after there are no more heads peeking out from under the waves. Only when he looks up, he sees that she’s staring at the other magical families attending the beach.

Walburga hires a tutor around his fifth birthday, starting with mathematics, calligraphy, etiquette and the like.
He fumbles a bit with the quill at first, but muscle memory is the only thing he’s lacking. 

His tutor is blown out of the water by how quickly he advances. 

Upon learning of his progress, his grandmother simply tells the man that he shouldn’t have expected anything less from a progeny of their ancient and noble house, but privately she sings Orion’s praises and brags about his intelligence to anyone who will hear about it. 

Yet with his brain continuously developing, he also recalls more and more pieces of who he used to be before and it makes things …difficult. 

His preferences shift, and certain mannerisms and speech patterns emerge, which drive Walburga into a fit. 

More than once Kreacher bemusedly fulfills his requests of what amounts to muggle food – not that he’ll ever tell him as much. 

Furthermore, in becoming more conscientious of those faded memories, he also gains more context for who he actually is, in this life, causing him to reevaluate events and conversations overheard when he was younger.  

He’s struggling to incorporate this newfound awareness of himself and his relationships into his worldview. 

Somehow, this culminates in him spending an inordinate amount of time in the bedroom on the fourth floor, where red and gold dominates, the walls plastered full of posters of skimpily clad women and motorcycles, for the first time relating painfully to his absentee father, whom he never even met. 

Walburga counters by having him take piano lessons and hires a French tutor, who stops by thrice a week. It comes easy to him, like a forgotten memory and he recalls vaguely that he once spoke the language. In a different life.

Unfortunately, that only reaffirms his grandmother in her efforts to nurture his academic proclivities. 

Soon, the German books in the library are as easy to read as the English ones. 

Still, however much his prior knowledge emboldens him, it’s no match to Walburga, who puts him down, scathingly and relentlessly, again and again, building him up in an image to her liking. 

Before long, their once amiable relationship turns volatile as both their natures start to clash – too similar in some ways, too different in others. 

He provokes her, tests boundaries and goes against her expectations, causing her to punish him, which only makes him act out more, out of spite. 

His grandmother doesn’t take well to his newfound “rebellion”. 

She spells him into a windowless room for a whole day when he uses a muggle expression, a punishment that is only elongated when he can’t tell her where he got it from. 

Kreacher has to deliver him food and vanish his wastes. 

Within three hours of his punishment being lifted, Orion has collected every bottle of Walburga’s favorite cognac, and throws them out of the drawing room windows facing the street, watching them shatter on the asphalt.  

It’s a vicious circle, neither giving in, nor apologizing.  

Tea time now is accompanied always with a small phial. A single drop of a diluted poison, Walburga tells him – a mere introduction to what should become a habit. 

He’s the last heir to a proud line and his survival is of utmost importance. Antidotes are good and well …if one has the time to procure one. 

Nevermind that he wears a necklace out, a small silver charm, so heavily laden with protective spells that he can feel it like static on his skin.
Resistance builds with time, his grandmother tells him, not unlike resilience to the addictive pull of dark magic. An arduous and slow process, but a necessary one. 

He reminds himself of that factor, if only when he’s sweating and feverish in the aftermath. 

At one point, he realizes that he isn’t quite right in the head. 

His emotions are volatile, strong and prone to being set off by the strangest of causes – from him experiencing amusement during the most inappropriate moments to disproportionate rage taking over in the face of simple comments made by his peers.

It’s a trait which is only emphasized by his upbringing and the faceted and fractured memories of his prior life. 

And yet, he cannot solely blame it on either.

There’s a portrait in the attic, slashed as if by knives and hidden behind a dark sheet. Silver eyes stare from the remnants, familiar features – older and cold – a voice whispering to him about how Black blood, for all its purity, comes with a curse. A madness that follows in every other Blacks’ wake like prowling hounds lapping at their heels till they catch up. 

Discipline is what makes a man, his namesake tells him. Control the sharpened edge to a blade forged of fury. 

Easier said than done. 

It doesn’t help that he’s frustrated easily by his too-small body or the constant patronization. Orion feels too old and too young at the same time and it makes for a strange dichotomy between toddler-like fits of anger and apathetic resignation underlaid by constantly simmering fury.

And while the destruction wrought in the wake of these emotions is not to be underestimated, Kreacher is never more exasperated than when Orion finds himself bored. 

Lucky for both of them, the Black library provides a bottomless pit of knowledge, despite half the books still burning Orion if he so much as glances at them. 

Even with his whimsical interest in clairvoyance having died down as soon as he found that it didn’t apply to him, there are still many more texts that provide ample entertainment. 

Runes, for example, are complicated magic, ground deeply in arithmancy when applied in a practical manner, but simple to infuse with magic using only a knife and blood. 

Who knew that his hazy recollections of geometry were useful after all? 

His room is warded now, crudely but effectively – and he locks himself in when everything grates too much, regardless of the threats or bribes Walburga tries to lure him out with. Kreacher is caught in a stalemate and the one who bears the brunt of their respective ire.

Orion’s mind is full of thoughts he daren’t express, hiding behind books and preferring his own company over everybody else's. 

Still, at every gala, every celebration and social gathering they attend, his grandmother takes care to show him off and introduce him to various people and Orion says polite hellos, and smiles through tedious conversations until he’s shoved towards the other children while the adults socialize. 

Walburga doesn’t care much for it – perhaps a remnant of her having been a regular hermit before she took him in – and it shows in the way she puts people down regardless of class and propriety. 

It amuses him, when her displeasure is not directed at him, yet that soon switches over to annoyance when he isn’t granted the same leeway in acting in a way that’s not expected of him. 

She slaps Orion, for the first time when he calls her a hypocrite to her face. 

He’s treated with scathing indifference for the next two weeks yet he can’t bring himself to grovel. 

Walburga is not one to bend to his whims so they hold on to their feud while Kreacher desperately tries to please them both. 

When Draco’s over, he speaks enough for the both of them. 

His cousin has gotten even more annoying at six years old, but at the same time, Orion’s now old enough to visit the homes of his various age-mates without Walburga supervising. 

His social circle has grown exponentially over the years, having attended countless birthday parties and other gatherings. 

There’s Lavender Brown, the Patil twins and Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, Theodore Nott, Francis and Millicent Bulstrode, Pansy Parkinson, Zacharias Smith and on rare occasions, Daphne and Astoria Greengrass – a pair of petite blonde girls who’re presided over by their overprotective father – invite him over.

Mostly though, Orion finds himself visiting Malfoy Manor. 

Together, he and Draco learn how to ride the Abraxans, try their hands at Quidditch as soon as they’ve somewhat mastered flying on broomsticks, bother Lucius’ precious albino peacocks and show off what little control over magic they have, daring each other to perform small tricks, like causing pebbles to float or making leaves flutter through the air like butterflies. 

Draco displays an aptitude for making flowers bloom. 

Orion in setting them on fire with his mind. 

And whenever their games start to bore him, Orion talks Draco into letting him into the parts of the house usually hidden away from the prying eyes of children, like the attic stuffed with dark objects and heirlooms, Abraxas’ old bedroom or the dungeons tucked away behind a secret door – and one one memorable occasion, Lucius' office where he managed to rope Draco into helping him replace all of his father’s quills with some pastel chalks of an art set he never used. 

And even then, there’s always the Malfoy house-elf – an odd thing that makes Kreacher appear sane –  who’s naive enough to be convinced to give him access to the shelves of the Malfoys’ library usually spelled to be overlooked by curious visitors sticking their noses into places they don’t belong. 

Despite all the time spent with Draco, Orion likes Theo the best, out of all the children he’s forced to interact with on a regular basis. The boy is a quiet pale thing, but not twitchy. He’s simply watching, silently, his watery eyes tracking everything in his vicinity. 

It’s somewhat ironic that Nott Sr. is the most unpleasant man he knows. There’s something off about him, something that he sniffs out like a hunting dog and wants to draw out if only to confirm his suspicions. 

He has the man’s firewhisky explode in his face once, during one of the gatherings in Malfoy Manor where the men are in the cigar room and let the children run around in the parlor. 

Nott Sr. draws his wand then and there, a curse already on his lips. 

Orion laughs and laughs, as he falls, feeling oddly vindicated even as he’s convulsing under a dark hex, while the adults scramble around him in panic, because being a Black means more than the maximes Walburga hammers into his head by repetition alone. And he’s right when Narcissa all but throws Nott out of the house while retaining her cold and polite composure.

It’s impressive really. 

Walburga would’ve cursed him.

And he’s proven right, when at home, his grandmother raves for an hour about the gall of the wizard, about lesser bloodlines and weak men.  

For all that she preaches about respecting tradition and criticizes witches for not doing what they ought to to keep their family lines intact, she can throw around quite the feminist rhetoric if she puts her mind to it. 

Walburga vanishes through the floo then, returning half an hour later, with a satisfied air around her. 

They have créme bruleé for dessert and she mentions that Nott will mind his hands from now on. 

Orion does it again the next time the opportunity arises, in Nott’s own home, staring the man down with a daring glint in his eyes while the man barely contains himself. “An accident, I’m sure,” he bites out, his hands trembling with rage. His fingers are still scorched from the cigar that burst between them.

Narcissa takes him aside afterwards, before apparating him home. Draco has already been sent to bed. “It isn’t wise to provoke his anger,” she says. 

Orion scoffs. 

“You’re not the one to bear the brunt of his ire,” she says. “There are consequences that come with actions, always. Sometimes they might not affect you, but you’d do well to remember that.”

He dismisses her, until he takes note of how Theodore keeps his distance now, staring at him from afar with hateful eyes. 

On his seventh birthday, his grandmother takes him to the furthest darkest corner of Grimmauld Place, below the kitchen and down to the wine cellar, making him bleed all over the runes carved into the ancient stones. The house hums. 

When he turns eight, Walburga hands him a wand. 

Before, any and all attempts at getting his hands on one, either by theft or deep explorations of the house, have been prevented by Kreacher. 

A family heirloom, she says with pride while she shows off the old and gnarly thing that once belonged to Arcturus II which apparently served many Blacks through the generations. She goes off then about the incompetence of the Ministry and the asinine laws set in place because of mudbloods. 

“They are all beneath us, even the likes of Malfoy. Lucius may claim his pedigree impeccable, but for all his posturing, they can trace their line back to a muggle. A Tudor woman they try their best to sweep under the carpet. Remember, despite all their attempts to purge that stain out of their bloodline, that tainted drop remains.”

He wonders vaguely whether Walburga cares to recall that his mother is a McKinnon. 

“The law that rules the corn snake doesn’t concern the basilisk. Yet,” her lips twist unpleasantly, “societal convention demands certain… sacrifices. I expect you to make that effort, if only for appearances sake. Our reputation has suffered, our name dragged through the mud by association with that filthy half-blood upstart calling himself a Dark Lord.” 

She hands him the wand then, which he’s been eyeing greedily for the duration of her rant. 

“You are the legacy of our house. Do not disappoint me.”

Orion gets to practice under Kreacher’s keen supervision. The elf is also the one Walburga teaches him to use the hexes and jinxes on until he performs them flawlessly. 

It’s easier and harder at the same time, when Kreacher thanks him afterwards for being of use. 

And once his grandmother deems him adequately prepared, she begins to teach him how to duel. 

He takes to it with fervor. 

She laughs more freely during those instances than any other times. 

On the night of Orion’s ninth birthday, Walburga takes him up onto the roof, and together they look at the cloudless sky, performing a ritual for good luck, before Kreacher surprises him with his favorite dessert and mugs filled with hot chocolate. 

He sips his drink, bundled up in a warm blanket, while his grandmother points out the constellations and tells him the stories woven between. 

A few days after, he idly flips through the book about magical creatures Draco gifted him, stopping dead at the sight of the beautiful illustration of a phoenix going up in flames. 

(A fiery bird inked onto her back – the same shade as her hair)

The reminder of his mother hits him like a gut punch. 

It haunts him for days to the point where he impulsively asks Walburga about her. 

“You’re a Black,” she tells him simply. “That’s all that should matter.” 

The name McKinnon does not once leave her lips. 

He doesn’t doubt that she’d tell him Bellatrix was his mother, were the claim not so blatantly disproved by the family tapestry. 

She can imply all she wants and stoke the rumors while fudging the truth about how the tapestry works, but Orion is a Black. He knows better.  

And if she’s tight-lipped about his parentage in that regard, it’s not much better when it comes to his father. 

‘He’ she always refers to him as, with a tone that betrays no confusion as to whom she’s talking about, or ‘my son’ when she’s particularly deep in the cups. 

“You look like him at that age,” she tells him once, three glasses of cognac in during dinner on a bleak November evening. It’s Sirius’ birthday. He only knows this, because the date is on the tapestry. 

After he’s brushed his teeth and gotten ready for bed, he passes by her room to bid her goodnight, only to find in the process of penning a letter, dark hair hanging loosely over her shoulders while she’s perched over her secretary. A half-drunk bottle of whisky sits next to her inkpot. 

He asks Kreacher about it the next day, who tells him she fed it to the fire.  

When he’s ten, Orion recognizes Slytherin’s locket in the drawing room, lost amongst other nicknacks and cursed items, knowing better than to touch it. 

He stares for a long while, wondering how he could’ve forgotten, before turning on his heel.

He remembers the story. How can he not? But it’s fragmented and jumbled in his head, blurring with what he knows of this life and the details he does recall don’t concern him.  

(Not yet.)

(Harry Potter is still only a boy in a cupboard.)

So why should he care?

(A man with two faces.)

(Sirius Black breaking out of Azkaban)

There’s only so much one can remember about a book read a lifetime ago. 

Orion has no interest in getting involved. 

He’s got a life. A name. A duty to his family.

Orion dreams of his uncle Archie.

He doesn’t remember his face. 

Only the stump of his neck and how the colour of his hair looked muddied with blood.
He remembers that the last thing he did before he died was to check on him. 

He dreams of Bellatrix. Her singing to him, showing him the stars. 

In his nightmares it’s her who beheads him, laughing over his corpse, while conjuring colourful lights. 

He’s fraying. 

Walburga takes notice. 

She belittles his appearance, scolds him for his absentmindedness over dinner and when Orion admits to his nightmares, she accuses him of reading the books she forbade him from. 

Orion is tired, conflicted and on edge and he jumps at the chance to direct his emotions somewhere. 

He insults her intelligence, calls her controlling and a hypocrite to boot.  

She calls him a thankless mongrel, who doesn’t know his place. 

Orion retorts by exclaiming the only reason for why she’s still functional is because she had him to take care of. 

Walburga screeches that he should be grateful that he took him in – bastard child that he is – and that he would be nothing, not even worthy of licking the dirt off her boots if it weren’t for her blood running through his veins. 

Orion accuses her of running the Black family line into the ground, quoting Bellatrix in saying that she scorned Sirius out of the house and exclaiming that it’s no wonder that Regulus joined a madman, because with her as a mother, even dying in the crusade of a half-blooded upstart would seem like a good option.  

It becomes the gateway to the nastiest row they’ve had yet. 

Plates are flying, glasses shattering against the walls. Kreacher is hiding somewhere in the house – the coward – while they scream across the dinner table, aiming to hurt each other in a way only family can.   

At one point, Walburga declares that she should’ve gone through with suffocating him in the cradle back when he first stepped foot into his house. 

In a strange moment of clarity, Orion realizes that there’s just no winning with her. 

She’s still spitting vitriol, going on about how even that would be granting him more of her attention than he deserves, but he barely hears her, strangely calm as he pictures ramming his steak knife into her throat to finally shut her up.

It’s then that Orion remembers the advice of his namesake, even as the fiery rage in his chest starts to scorch him from the inside, licking at the edges of his mind, egging him on and urging him to respond in kind.  

Instead, he clamps his mouth shut, caging the words threatening to claw their way up his throat behind his teeth, forcibly leashing his raging anger.

He stops reacting to her altogether.

Walburga’s words wash over him, as she continues on and on, until, suddenly, instead of barely looking at him, she actually takes notice of his lack of response.  

And what she sees seems to frighten her. 

She stares at him, face drained of blood and a strange look in her eyes, hair still in disarray where it slipped from her tight updo. 

“Morgana has sent you to punish me,” she voices, barely above a whisper. “The sins of the fathers – malediction of my blood… This is Orion’s doing. Even from beyond the grave, he must accurse me.”

She exits the dining room without another word, leaving him standing amidst the wreckage they caused and he laughs, triumphantly in the wake of her silent admittance of defeat. 

From then on, their fights grow twice as vicious. She screams, she punishes, and even hexes him, yet Orion doesn’t relent.  

His outward indifference, hard-won and not easily maintained – especially when Walburga starts to lay off the stinging hexes in favour of more creative punishments – seems to pierce through her defenses more than anything else. 

Whenever he keeps his composure in face of her own instability, she lashes out even more in a desperate attempt to regain control. 

But enduring all of this is nothing in the face of the pointed affirmation of his victory against her, and Orion clings to his newfound form of defiance with abandon. 

Because if there’s one thing a subconscious part of him has already realized, it’s that his life is not his own.  

Between outings, social gatherings, playdates and holidays in the country and abroad, his upbringing is fitted into a mould, carefully selected influences shaping the way he thinks and acts, soley kept at bay by the fragmented recollections of a past life and the hostile need to defy Walburga’s increasingly demanding expectations placed upon him.   

Whenever his grandmother accuses him of rebelling against her just to spite her, he laughs into her face. But she’s more right than wrong, not that he’d ever admit to it.

Orion isn’t ignorant of what responsibilities come with being the scion of this most noble and ancient house as well as its heir and yet, his identity as Black, is something he’s more proud of than he hates.

It’s a trait so instilled in him that despite his contentious relationship with his grandmother, he defends her viciously when someone insults her. 

Blood comes first, after all. 

It’s why he tolerates Draco’s continuous presence – though it helps, that when he gets too annoying, there’s always a section of the house where the cursed items are not quite cleared from the shelves yet. 

Sometimes, under the cover of darkness, Orion lays awake, questioning whether he’s deserving of calling himself a Black at all. 

(A life lived as a muggle, barely remembered.)

(Pathetic. Pitiful. Insignificant.)

Does it matter?

Magic is running through his veins regardless.  

(His birthright.)

Walburga wouldn’t tolerate him otherwise. 

Her love and scorn are proof enough. No one but family could evoke that kind of emotion.

And even then, he’s got the name to prove it. 

(A name picked by a woman, who wasn’t a Black, who didn’t seem to be able to decide whether she hated or loved his father and yet chose it anyway) 

Walburga resumes their duelling sessions, which fell to the wayside due to all their fighting. She takes more frequent rests now, but some of the tension between them eases.

They go on outings, attend birthday celebrations and go about their lives. 

Still, Orion takes quiet notice of their increased visits to a dimly lit potions store in Knockturn.  

Walburga’s hands shake now, on occasion. Potions and tinctures find their way onto her once bare dressing table. 

Kreacher fusses. 

Orion’s eleventh birthday is celebrated in a grand party hosted at the country estate they rarely if ever occupy, not too different actually from the annual Yule balls held in Malfoy Manor, although a tad more private. It’s the last birthday party in a row of opulent gatherings that year, courtesy of children coming of Hogwarts age and Walburga hands him his letter that confirms his invitation there, before retiring early. A mere formality at this point. She bought all of his supplies months ago. 

The only thing left to get is his wand.

She takes him to Diagon Alley the day after his birthday. 

Ollivander’s is a dusty and oppressive shop, dark walls, stuffed with shelves all the way up to the ceiling. 

It reminds him a bit of Grimmauld Place, in a more boring way that is. 

Ollivander doesn’t say much. He looks at Orion with pale silver eyes, almost as white as his hair. “Another Black, eh?” he comments, while he musters him, Walburga impatiently standing in the corner. She’s wearing a tight high-collared gown, fixed with a golden brooch on her throat and black lace gloves that reach all the way over her elbows.
Her hair is mostly grey at this point, pinned back in a simple and tight knot on her nape and fixated by a sharp dagger-like needle. She looks old, he thinks. 

“Let’s see, let’s see,” Ollivander mutters under his breath as he walks around, pulling boxes off the shelves seemingly at random, while a silver measuring tape snaps to life, snaking through the air and measuring various lengths of his body. 

It takes seven attempts exactly till Ollivander picks out the right wand for him. Larch wood with a dragon core 12 ½ inches and quite bendy flexibility. 

It’s stained with a dark finish, a single line of rune carvings around the hilt is its only decoration. 

Red sparks spray from the tip. Even his familiarity with handling a wand couldn’t have prepared him for the feeling of rightness or the warmth bleeding through his body at finding his wand. 

It feels better than his ancestor’s ever did. 

Walburga hands over the seven galleons, before she drags him out and off to Knockturn Alley.

There’s a hag she likes to visit on occasion, a fortune teller she pays an exorbitant amount of money to hear speak in riddles. 

He hasn't been allowed in there since he was five and made a mess off the centaur entrails in the large glass jug, so instead he hangs out by himself in the grimy parlor on a shabby sofa. 

Sometimes, Orion dares to sneak out, wandering through Knockturn Alley. People know better than to curse a Black. They also know better than to sell to him.
Luckily not all ways of acquiring interesting items require gold. 

Today though, he busies himself by familiarizing himself with his new wand, casting a litany of spells on the toad in the cage hanging from the ceiling. 

It’s thoroughly afraid of him by the time they leave, but able to spit fire for some strange reason.

The whole of August, they spend in France.   

They stroll down the Place Cachée, shopping and enjoying the local foods, as well as meandering down into the darker corners of the Parisian Wizarding district. 

Half a week in, they visit a night market based in the catacombs beneath the city and long sectioned off from the Muggles. 

There, Orion meets a coven of vampires for the very first time. He takes morbid fascination with their thralls – all of them muggles, all of them young and pretty and clad in expensive silken robes, lounging around on moth-eaten settees with bite marks on their necks and hand-shaped bruises on their skin. 

And while Walburga haggles over vials of their blood, Orion talks to a vampire, who doesn’t mind indulging his curiosity once it becomes apparent that she was rather involved in the wars waged during Grindelwalds reign. 

He learns more about blood sacrifice than he ever thought possible and his grandmother hands over an exorbitant sum in exchange for the vials and an ancient book that has been in their possession for centuries, before they move on.  

They idle away a few days at the coast, enjoying the sun and the beach, watching sea serpents breach through the surface and Orion earns a new scar courtesy of cutting himself on the rocks.

After that, they take a portkey to Lyon, attending the international duelling championship hosted there before spending a week visiting an offshoot branch of the Rosier family, where he gets the opportunity to test out his French, and gets regaled with tales of Beauxbatons and superiority of French wandmakers. 

Orion is actually disappointed when they step back into the French Ministry to take their international portkey back home.

Chapter Text

“You’re the scion of the most ancient and noble house of Black. Don’t shame us,” Walburga tells him ten minutes before they have to set out to platform 9¾ on the first of September. 

Kreacher is almost emotional in how he’s fussing over his school trunk. New and in pristine condition, dragon hide and silver clasps, the Black insignia carved into the front. Toujours pur, it says. She warded it herself, with spells too complicated for him to replicate yet. 

With his impending departure for Hogwarts, Kreacher has been reminiscing over ‘young master Regulus’ for nearly a week straight, wallowing in memories, and even Walburga didn’t escape a certain melancholy. 

His grandmother sinks down to draw him in for a hug. It feels bony and sharp. She smells of cognac and potions. 

“Make your house proud,” she tells him, smiling. 

Then she rises, disguising the tremor in her hands by smoothing her robe down before she grips him firmly with her thin hand, nails digging into his shoulder.

Nothing betrays her earlier emotionality when they materialise on the busy platform after a suffocating apparition. 

It’s bustling with activity, owls screeching, people yelling, families wallowing in teary-eyed goodbyes, and muggle parents bumbling around, trying to navigate the chaos. 

Walburga scrunches her nose over them, muttering about mudbloods while she steers them down the platform to a less busy spot. 

Orion can’t quite contain his curiosity, eyes darting around and taking everything in.

Before long, the Malfoys appear in the crowd, Narcissa making her way over to them with the reserved smile she displays in public. “Auntie,” she addresses the older witch, leaning in to kiss her jutting cheekbone.

“Cissa,” his grandmother returns the greeting, “and young Draco.”

“Aunt Walburga,” he says promptly as he was taught. He’s a proper little heir around the Black matriarch. Though his parents wouldn’t tolerate anything less. 

Then again, his father is the one who bears the brunt of Walburga’s remarks every time she finds Draco lacking. She likes to bring up that muggle royal in his bloodline during those instances; the only thing that usually manages to bring a crack to Malfoy’s suave demeanour. 

Orion overheard him sigh once, in the entrance hall, away from his grandmother’s judgemental gaze, muttering about ‘that harpy,’ waiting for Narcissa and Draco to catch up after such a particular afternoon. 

Orion let himself be bribed into silence by getting Lucius to buy him tickets for an Abraxan racing event he regularly supplies his own steeds to. 

“Lucius,” Walburga greets the patriarch, notably cooler. 

Malfoy makes a show of taking her gloved hand, brushing a kiss against her knuckles. “Lady Black.”

“Ever the politician,” Walburga drawls disparagingly. “Pity the ministry hires everyone these days.” 

Lucius wisely circumvents the whole argument by looking down and nodding at Orion. 

Although he’s tall for an eleven-year-old, he barely measures up to Malfoy’s bicep. 

“Orion.”

“Lucius,” he parrots his grandmother, copying her down to her inflection. 

Malfoy's left eye twitches. 

A lazy smirk spreads on Orion’s lips. “Cousin Cissa, Draco.”

Narcissa smiles warmly, amusement sparkling in her eyes. “Why don’t you boys go and see whether you find any of your friends? I think I saw Irma earlier. Vincent can’t be far.”

Draco looks like he would like nothing more than to stay by his mother’s side and drag out their goodbye till the last minute. Still, he follows the suggestion, Orion trailing after him at a more measured pace. 

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Draco’s already back to his usual behaviour, prattling on about various topics. 

“It’s a shame, isn’t it,” he starts, eyeing two teenage boys fawning over a broom with blatant envy, “that first years aren’t allowed to bring their personal broomsticks.” 

It’s an argument Orion had stood witness to half a dozen times already, and he’s rather over it at this point. 

“Father gave a grand donation to the Quidditch team, sponsoring their new uniforms, and they still said no, even though he’s on the board of school governors.”

“Uh-huh,” Orion voices, sticking his hands in the pockets of his suit while he strolls along, barely listening. 

Draco’s skinny neck sticks out from under his stiff collar as he whips his head back and forth in what Walburga would call an unbecoming manner in an attempt to locate Vince. “I mean, what self-respecting wizard isn’t able to fly when they arrive at Hogwarts? It’s only because of those mudbloods—” A witch to their left bestows him a hateful glare—“that“we’re forced to abide by those stupid rules.”

“You better rein in your rhetoric if you want to befriend Harry Potter,” Orion says, glad to have been granted an opportunity to cut off the whole broomstick debate. 

“Well, I guess his mother was a- Was one of them,” Draco says hesitatingly, yet regaining more conviction as he speaks, “but surely he knows who the right sort of people are.”

“What if he was raised by muggles?” Orion asks, mostly just to mess with his cousin. 

Like predicted, Draco sputters. “Surely not,” he blurts out, wide-eyed and appalled. “Do you think, really?”

“Is that Vincent?” he says in lieu of an answer, nodding at a group of people ahead.

Easily distracted, his eleven-year-old cousin makes a pleased sound. “Oh yeah, and Greg,” he voices, picking up his pace. 

Before long, they group together while the Crabbes and Goyles exchange pleasantries and Draco resumes the thoroughly chewed-over broomstick debate. 

They part only when the train is about to depart to say their goodbyes to their guardians. 

Narcissa crouches down to hug Draco, stroking his cheeks, which makes his ears turn pink. “Mother,” he whines embarrassedly, though the way he melts into the embrace is more telling of his true feelings. 

“Give him some room, Narcissa,” Lucius says, the fondness in his voice betraying his stoicism. “You’re smothering him. He’s a young man now, not a child who needs coddling.” Draco preens like an owl while his father moves to take him by the shoulder to exchange a few more words in private. 

Orion, meanwhile, is left standing next to Walburga. Everything that ought to be said, she already did before they arrived at the platform. “I expect weekly letters,” she tells him instead of a goodbye. “Of course I’ll have your head of house write to me as well,” she reiterates, letting him know that if he fucks up, she’ll learn about it. 

They see them off, him and Draco, as they make their way over to the Hogwarts Express, their trunks enchanted with feather-light charms for easier transportation. 

The train is already bustling, and a few older Slytherins nod at them before they find Pansy and Daphne, who saved them some seats in an otherwise empty compartment.

There’s a bit of a novel feeling to it all—their first train ride to Hogwarts—but other than that, it’s wholly uneventful. 

Daphne shows off her new owl, who gets caught up in a screeching contest with the eagle owl Malfoy got for his eleventh birthday, among other things, and there’s a small argument about whose pet is at fault for the racket. 

Orion didn’t want to get one when Walburga asked him, as the ownership of a pet seems mostly like a hassle, and there are more than enough owls at Hogwarts he can borrow to carry his letters. They got one anyway, a huge temperamental barn owl named Odesseus, because Orion can’t let himself be caught using something as plebeian as a school owl, but he convinced her to keep it at home. 

It curbed his guilt somewhat, after all but abandoning her in a house with Kreacher as her only companion. 

They buy sweets from the trolly witch, daring each other to try the most disgusting-looking Bertie Bott's Beans, and resume their discussion about the best Quidditch teams from their last get-together.

When the company of a bunch of eleven-year-olds gets too much to bear, Orion digs out his transfigurations book to stymie any further conversation involving him. 

“-can you believe it! He’s actually sharing a compartment with a Weasley! And then he had the nerve to not even shake my hand—

Orion contemplates going back to his nap if only to escape Draco’s rant about his meeting with the famed Harry Potter. 

He missed the whole affair, and he pays for it now for not having intervened earlier. Pansy vocally agrees, only validating Draco in his self-importance, egging him on. 

Orion deigns to let the whole thing run its course, because Draco’s usually easier to handle once he’s made his complaints, but at one point, his cousin looks at him expectantly, obviously expecting an answer since everyone else has tossed in their two knuts. “Yeah, very rude,” he drawls dryly, “him rejecting you so bluntly after you made fun of his friend. I’m insulted on your behalf, truly.” His sarcasm goes right over Draco’s head. 

“What are you doing?” Pansy asks, when he gets up. 

“I’m putting on my school robes,” he says. “It can’t be long before we arrive.” Outside, the sun has already set. 

Before long, the train arrives at the Hogsmeade train station, slowing till it jerks to a halt.

The platform is a bustling mess of children and teenagers in black robes, and over the crowd a voice carries, yelling, “Firs’ years over here! Firs’ years-”

“What is ... that?!” Pansy exclaims in shock, eyeing the giant of a man, who’s asking them to gather around him.

“He’s the gamekeeper,” Draco voices self-importantly. “Some kind of half-breed.”

“Who would even procreate with a giant?” Pansy whispers, eyes wide. 

She has a point, Orion has to admit as he stares up at Hagrid, who’s muttering a headcount. He can’t judge the man for who he is, but he sure as hell can question the sanity of his human parent. Giants aren’t exactly known for their civility. He wastes a few precious minutes of his life pondering the mechanics of the whole affair before he manages to rein in his thoughts. 

Soon, they fall into a trot after Hagrid, and Orion gets his first glimpse of his year-mates. He recognises about a third, exchanging polite nods, but like the majority of them, he spends the walk to the boats docked at the shore of the Black Lake sizing up Harry Potter. 

He’s a small and scrawny boy, wild black hair sticking up in all directions, adding about an inch of height. 

Orion catches a brief glimpse of his face when he turns his head, round wire-rimmed spectacles catching the light. The scar on his forehead is red and raw, as if it were a recent wound instead of the decade-old injury it truly is. It’s so blatantly a mark caused by a dark curse that he wonders how nobody ever commented on it. 

Orion himself still has various scars from the curses he caught himself from sticking his nose into places he technically wasn’t allowed to. 

It isn’t hard to assume that the slightly taller redhead next to Potter must be Ronald Weasley, and when he goes looking, he spots a bushy-haired girl a few paces to their left, talking animatedly and quoting “Hogwarts: A History” to anyone who listens.

Orion ends up on a boat with Lavender, Daphne, and Draco. The latter spends the majority of the boat ride throwing unsubtle glances at Potter while insulting Weasley with all the imagination a sheltered eleven-year-old mind can come up with. 

Orion really has to teach him how to curse. 

It all stops when they float around a bend and Hogwarts comes into view. 

It’s stunning. 

The silhouette of the castle towers over them, impressive and awe-inducing against the starry backdrop, thousands of windows aglow with light, reflected on the rippling surface of the black lake. 

A truly magical sight. 

They spend the rest of their journey in silence, and an odd mood befalls them as everybody sees the castle for the first time.

At one point, Orion believes to have caught a glimpse of an enormous tentacle under the dark surface of the lake, before it vanishes into the depths. 

Hagrid urges them to duck; when they reach the other shore, a curtain of ivy obscuring the entrance to a dark cave, brushing against their shoulders, and giving  way to a hidden entrance to the castle. 

The dark waters gurgle and slosh as they dock, and he can spot a boy almost falling before he catches himself on the roughly hewn walkway. 

In here, the scent of the lake is even more prominent, something akin to algae and dead fish, trapped by the lack of air circulation.

A door swings open on the side, painting a golden stripe of light onto the floor.

“The firs’ years, Professor McGonagall.”

“Thank you, Hagrid, I will take them from here.”

As the half-giant steps back, clearing his view, Orion is granted a glimpse of the witch who’s pulling the door open wide. His first impression is that she reminds him of Walburga. She’s wearing an emerald robe with a stiff high collar; her black hair is pulled back into a tight bun under a regal pointy hat, her complexion stern with square spectacles perched on her nose. 

His grandmother mentioned her offhandedly while she talked about Hogwarts, as a Gryffindor half-blood who attended school some years below her. 

She ushers them through into an impressive entrance hall. Their steps echo on the worn stone slabs beneath their feet as they follow her past a magnificent marble staircase, connecting to the upper floors. When he looks up, all he can see are stairs and portraits, the walls stretching up so high the ceiling isn’t even visible. 

They’re led through an unobtrusive side door into a small, bleak hall, illuminated only by the torches on the walls. 

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” McGonagall says, once they’re all gathered, cutting off any further conversation. “The start of the term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses.”

She launches into a speech about the importance of the housing ceremony and the logistics of Hogwarts.

Her eyes scan over their faces as she speaks. Orion can’t help but take note of how her gaze lingers on him before she scans the other students.

“The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school. I suggest you all smarten yourselves up as much as you can while you are waiting. I shall return when we are ready for you. Please wait quietly,” she concludes her speech. 

They are left to their own devices, and hushed whispers pick up among them. A boy with his robes in such disarray that it would’ve reaped him a stinging hex from Walburga had he dared to walk out of the house like that fusses over a toad instead of rectifying his appearance. Neville Longbottom. They’ve never been introduced, although he knows his grandmother peripherally. 

Augusta. Walburga talks of her in a manner that implies that she respects the woman, for all that it’s worth. 

Bellatrix tortured her son into insanity. It doesn’t make for a good stepping stone. 

Gasps and screams alert him to the presence of the floating congregation of ghosts emerging from the walls. 

Pansy next to him clasps his arm with an iron grip. 

“-really, I should think we should give Peeves another chance-” one of the ghosts says, seemingly deeply caught up in a discussion. 

They’re muted in colour, transparent, silvery imprints, yet they make for a gory sight, a third of them sporting bloody wounds that are even visible in death. A few of them spare them curious, if fleeting, glances, the one or other amused expression tossed into the mix at their startlement.

They disappear through the adjacent wall, when, seemingly out of nowhere, Professor McGonagall reappears. 

“Now form a line and follow me,” she orders, leading them through the hall and out, back the way they came from, though now she waves her wand, causing a pair of winged doors to swing open soundlessly on their heavy iron hinges. 

It’s an impressive sight, hundreds of faces looking at them from the long house tables, flickering candles floating over their heads illuminating the crowd, setting golden goblets and plates aglow.

Here and there, the misty imprint of a ghost shimmers amongst the students. 

Even Draco, to his right, has shut up for once. 

As they reach the front, pooling in a manner that renders their whole initial line-up moot, Orion looks at the ceiling, enchanted to show the night sky, instinctively finding the constellation that is his namesake, halfway hidden behind a cloud. 

Whispers surround them from all sides, as do stares, though most of them pertain to Harry Potter, whose mysterious absence from the magical society has been the source of many rumours over the years.

Silently, McGonagall places a wonky four-legged stool in front of the first years, before following up by setting a filthy and ragged wizarding hat down on top. 

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she announces, her voice ringing through the hall. 

“They expect us to wear that thing?” Draco whispers, appalled. 

Orion snorts, vaguely amused by his cousin’s antics, contemplating whether he should remind Draco of the fact that his father did at one point, since mentioning Lucius is a surefire way to shift Draco’s opinion on anything, and he wants to be able to pay attention without distractions.

Turns out, he doesn’t have to bother, as the hat chooses that particular moment to burst out into song. Honestly, he’d really forgotten about that part. 

Orion wonders idly whether the hat is enchanted to sing with Godric Gryffindor’s voice or if it’s a random one. The nature of the hat belies some sentience, and so his modern vernacular isn’t really conclusive in that matter.

He doesn’t think ‘Hogwarts: A History’ mentioned it. 

“Abbot Hannah,” McGonagall calls out once the applause has died down. 

A nervous-looking girl with a freckled face and chubby cheeks steps forward. One of her pigtails is askew. 

The hat slips over her eyes when McGonagall places it upon her head, and she startles visibly before relaxing on the chair. 

A few moments go by. “HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat yells in a voice that carries over the whole hall. 

Her cheeks are flushed, and she smiles shyly when the Hufflepuff table roars, and she scurries over there, her tie a newly minted yellow and black. 

“Black, Orion,” Professor McGonagall reads from her list. The hall hushes. The Slytherins shift in their seats. 

All eyes are on him as he moves towards the stool, and the crowd parts around him. 

“-ather was you-know-who’s right-hand man,” he hears someone whisper. He disregards them. McGonagall looks down at him with her mouth pressed thin as he settles on the stool. 

The hat sinks over his head, and then there’s only darkness. 

Interesting, the hat croons in his mind, and he has to forcibly keep himself from reacting. I don’t think I’ve had one quite like you in quite a while. 

‘Do you speak with the same voice as Godric Gryffindor?’ he thinks back, seizing the opportunity for what it is and hopefully sparing himself a trip to the library at a later date. 

The hat's amusement is a tangible thing, strange and invasive in how it feels foreign in his head. Indeed, I am, young Black. 

Now let’s see. 

A curious thing you are, yes. There’s a creativity well-suited for Ravenclaw. I see some potential there. 

‘Well then. There we have it.’

Ah, not so hasty. 

Impatient, hmm?
I see you’re brave enough to go against the expectations bestowed upon you. There’s a defiant streak right there. 

You’ve stood up for what you want, recklessly even... Hmm, but valour for the sake of it is not your forte. 

Ah, and cleverness. A cunning mind… 

‘What, no Hufflepuff?’ he snarks when the hat stops his comments while it seems to ponder over his placement. 

There’s that amusement again. 

Helga would take you on, indeed, with that loyalty… But hard work is not something you relish, is it? Admire perhaps, in others, but not something you strive for in yourself. 

‘Walburga will be pleased to hear that.’

Curious. You value your family, yes. Aiming to please ... in a bid for validation perhaps?

Orion wrinkles his nose.

…and yet do not seem to put much stock in the opinion of others. A strange contradiction. 

The hat hums again in his mind. 

But where to put you…

Perhaps Ravenclaw, after all… Knowledge as a useful tool…

Difficult. 

Very difficult. 

The hat hems and haws for a while longer before, surprisingly, it asks, What is it that you want?

Orion is stumped for a bit. What does he want? 

He ponders it over for a bit. 

He wants to be comfortable, really. Left to his own devices to do as he pleases and not get involved any further than he must in the whole impending shitshow looming over their heads. Although there’s a part of him that wants to make his grandmother proud. Who wants to prove that he’s worthy of being a Black. Moreover, though, he wants to make it into his late teens and hopefully come out on top, alive. If that aligns with his goal of not changing things up too much in order to make use of his foreknowledge then that’s just as well. 

What a callous outlook on life in such a young mind… but yes. That clears things up somewhat. 

Honestly, at this point, his thighs are getting a bit numb.

With that pragmatism... yes, and cleverness. We shall see how you’ll do in-

“SLYTHERIN!” 

Orion plucks the hat off his head and is met with… silence. 

And here he thought that Harry Potter’s sorting would warrant the most interesting reaction. It makes him chuckle, causing a wave of troubled expressions to wash over the faces of his fellow students. It only has him laugh more. The sound rings through the hall, swallowed only when the first polite claps sound from the Slytherin table as he makes his way over there. 

He slides into a spot next to some older snakes, who muster him with polite curiosity. A dark-haired boy sizes him up before he offers his hand. “Marcus Flint.”

“Orion Black,” he introduces himself, shaking it. 

“So, Black,” Flint says, grinning toothily. “Took your sweet time, didn’t you?”

An older girl leans forward, twirling a curl around her finger. “Almost had us worried there for a second. Must be a record, the time you spent on the stool. First hat stall in—what has it been—a decade?”

“Bones, Susan,” McGonagall calls out. 

“More like three,” Flint says.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” the hat exclaims. 

“Melinda Snyde,” the girl introduces herself. 

“Boot, Terence,” is called up to the chair. The sorting takes a bit longer this time.

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Hmm, Snape seems to have it out for you. He’s been staring at you since you sat down. Is there some history there, we don’t know about?” Flint asks teasingly, but his eyes glint with curiosity. 

Orion turns his head to catch a brief glimpse of the dark figure perched behind the teacher’s table. Their eyes meet. He’s used to icy stares, but that glare speaks to personal hate. 

Pulling his gaze away, Orion shrugs. Sit up, use your words, Walburga’s voice scolds him in his mind. This is unbecoming of a wizard of your status. 

Brockelhurst Mandy is sorted into Ravenclaw.

“Brown, Lavender.”

“Slim pickings so far for Slytherin house,” Flint states.

Orion arches an eyebrow at him. 

“GRYFFINDOR!” 

“Quality over quantity,” Snyde comments. 

“Bulstrode, Millicent,” McGonagall announces.

“Finally,” Flint sighs, when the hat yells out, “SLYTHERIN!” and they start applauding. 

Millicent milks the walk over to the housetable before eventually sliding into the spot next to Orion. She’s a pudgy girl, but tall, her usually curly hair slicked back into a tight bun fixated with a handful of silver butterfly clips. She waves at her older brother further up the table, who smiles back at her. 

“Hello,” she says, tugging on her robe. 

“Millie, eh?” Flint says. “Your brother owes me a galleon. Swore you’d end up in Hufflepuff.” 

She glares at Flint before turning that stare upon her brother. “He’s such a prat,” she says, picking at her hairdo. 

After two more Ravenclaws, Vincent is the next Slytherin to join them. “When do you reckon this whole affair is over?” he asks once he’s ended up in the spot opposite Orion. “I’m hungry.”

Orion snorts at his predictability. Crabbe’s been shooting up not only in height but also in width, and he looks like a third-year rather than a first-year. He’s been perpetually hungry ever since last summer when his growth spurt hit. 

They pay attention to the sorting then, Greg joining them before long. He knows Flint, apparently a relation on his mother’s side. 

“Hm, looks like you might not be the only one,” Snyde comments as they watch Hermione Granger being sorted, “It’s been three minutes already.”

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat eventually yells, thirty seconds away from marking the second hat-stall of the night. 

“Figures,” Flint says. 

“I would’ve clocked her as a Ravenclaw from how she was prattling on her way here,” Millicent voices. “That bint didn’t seem to be able to shut up about what she read in her books.’”

Snyde wrinkles her nose. “Typical mudblood.”

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat yells, and Daphne makes her way over, her thin blonde hair fluttering even in her less than forceful stride. 

When Draco is called up to the chair, the hat barely touches his head before it already shouts, “SLYTHERIN!”

“Shocking,” Orion voices dryly. 

Flint chortles. 

Orion joins the claps almost automatically, while the Malfoy scion struts toward their table.

“Scoot over,” Draco demands from Millicent, who shuffles aside with a disgruntled expression, opening a spot next to Orion. 

Draco’s grinning, his cheeks flush with pride. 

“What in Merlin’s name took so long?” he asks Orion after he’s sat down next to him. “A hat stall! Did you argue your way out of Ravenclaw, or what?”

“It was a couple of things, really,” Orion replies. 

“Wasn’t your father a Gryffindor?” Greg asks. 

A few older Slytherins perk up. 

“It was a huge scandal, father says,” Draco interjects. “Mother says it was half the reason it got him disown-” his eyes find Orion then, and he falters—“ed“. Not that it matters,” he hastily corrects. “He did end up coming around after all,” he says, eyeing Orion as if he were worried that the ‘shame’ Sirius brought upon their house would gnaw on him.

The older Slytherins who’d been eavesdropping without much shame stare unabashedly. 

Orion just snorts. What an eloquent way to put that Sirius ended up in Azkaban as a convicted mass murderer—not that the twelve muggles count for much in his extended family. 

Bella would throw a fit, he thinks unwittingly, if she knew Sirius was known as the Dark Lord’s right-hand man. 

After Malone Rogers—another Ravenclaw—Slytherin house gains a couple more students in quick succession.

There’s Lily Moon, Theodore Nott, and Pansy Parkinson. 

And then, of course, McGonagall calls out, “Potter Harry,” and everybody watches with bated breath. 

Draco’s neck grows long as he stares with unbridled intensity. 

“Ten Galleons that he’ll end up a Gryffindor,” the skinny boy next to Flint says. 

“That’s a fool's bet,” the latter replies, but he still doesn’t look away. 

Orion agrees. He watches even though he knows the outcome.

“GRYFFINDOR!” the hat yells after three long, drawn-out minutes, and the hall erupts in cheers. 

“We’ve got Potter! We’ve got Potter!” The voices of the Gryffindors carry through the room, deafening whistles and roaring applause accompanying it. 

Potter ducks his head, smiling shyly, while he futilely smooths down his wild bangs as he makes his way over to his house table.

“Look at that. Like a gaggle of headless chickens,” Snyde comments, as they all watch how Potter is dragged down by his housemates, who abscond upon him like a pack of excitable dogs.

“Not that it’s a surprise,” Flint says. 

McGonagall has to read out “Roper, Sophie,” twice, before she can make herself heard.

Draco sniffs haughtily, “They should show some decorum. It’s not like Potter’s that special.”

Orion bellows a laugh, drawing some looks. Out of Draco’s mouth, that’s basically blasphemy. He’s single-handedly responsible for the Malfoys’ crazy house-elf’s budding hero-worship for the ‘vanquisher of You-Know-Who.’. 

The rest of the sorting is mere formality, with the only notable happening being that the Slytherin house ghost sits down next to Draco and Millie—both scoot back as far as they can from the blood-covered spirit—and looks around with dead eyes and a haggard face. His chains rattle whenever he moves. 

Zabini Blaise is the last, concluding the ceremony with another score in Slytherin’s favour, and the hat is put away, and Dumbledore rises to hold a speech. 

“I swear, he gets more barmy every year,” Flint comments afterwards, when the tables are suddenly crammed with various dishes, already loading up his plate till only the golden rim is still visible. 

Draco, who’s been staring at a porridge with a sceptical and somewhat disgusted expression, pipes up at that. “Father says he’s an old fool who shouldn’t meddle in the affairs of the Wizengamot. He’s got friends in the Ministry, but they’re all bootlickers and suck-ups because he did away with one Dark Lord ages ago. If you ask me, Grindelwald should’ve just cursed the old coot into the next century and be done with it.”

“One would almost think he tried,” Snyde drawls sarcastically, her derision going straight over Draco’s head. The boy can be painfully obstinate, but he’s still Orion’s cousin. 

“He might’ve been at a disadvantage,” he says thus, “Rumours say he and Dumbledore used to fuck after all.”

Flint chokes on his pumpkin juice. Draco looks appalled. Half of it might be his choice of language. 

Smirking, Orion cuts into a chicken leg. 

“That cannot be true,” Draco voices, while Flint is still thumping on his chest, sputtering. 

“Your sense of humour is messed up, Black,” Snyde says. 

“Must be all the inbreeding,” Orion replies deadpan, timing his comment perfectly to Flint taking a sip of his pumpkin juice to soothe his irritated throat, making him choke once more. 

He smirks.

Chapter Text

A strawberry blonde 5th-year Slytherin named Gemma Fawley herds the first years down a narrow staircase branching off from the foot of the grand one in the entrance hall, winding further and further into the bowels of the castle.

“I’m the prefect in charge of your year bracket. If you have a problem, sort it out among yourselves. If you cannot solve it, you can come to me. In case it needs to be brought up with our head of house, I will do so. Our password changes every fortnight. It is posted on the blackboard. Do not—and I repeat—do not share it or invite people from other houses into our common room. Slytherin house affairs are to be treated as confidential. I won’t be held responsible when spreading rumours about the wrong person bites you in the arse.”

She stops them in a dark hallway after turning another corner, in front of a strip of wall that does not seem to fdiffer from any other stretch of the Hogwarts’ dungeons.

“Ad Astra,” she says, and then a hidden passage is revealed when the bricks slide aside. Greenish light tints their faces as they walk through the narrow opening, one after the other, like a row of ducklings waddling through a tunnel.

The space opens up into a dungeon-like room, with heavy stone pillars and a high, cavernous ceiling, roughly hewn from stone, illuminated by heavy chandeliers hanging from long chains and the flickering light of a large fireplace.

Low-backed, black, and dark green, button-tufted leather sofas are arranged around the room, separated into various sitting areas. There are ornate carpets laid out on the floor to stave off the chill and dark wood cupboards lining the walls alongside colourful mediaeval tapestries depicting the battles of various wizards and witches.

Orion’s gaze lingers briefly on that of a wizard standing victoriously upon the expiring form of a gryphon.

A collection of skulls is displayed on the shelves, and the theme is repeated in various decorative paraphernalia—from candelabras and stone carvings to even a handful of paintings. A large portrait of a coiling serpent crowns the mantle of the fireplace.

In a corner, a large grand piano is tucked away, splattered with wax from a many-candled candelabra.

The most intriguing thing, though, is the large glass windows in the back, granting a view of where the common room appears to extend out under the Black Lake. Dark greenish light dances over the floor in intriguing, ever-moving patterns.

Some of the Slytherins in their group can’t quite restrain their “Oohs” and “Ahhs,” which moves Fawley to say, “If you think now it’s impressive, you should see it in the daylight. Word of advice: Don’t bother the merfolk too much when they swim by. It’ll turn your summers spent at the lake into a most unpleasant experience."

At this point, more Slytherins have trickled into the room, some taking in the first years with fleeting interest but mostly preoccupied by their own reunions, sitting down on the couches or hanging around in small groups.

A pair further down has begun to play a game of wizard’s chess on the table.

“Now, as I told you,” Fawley continues, her Prefect badge shining in the firelight, “Professor Snape is our head of house. Since he hasn’t shown up yet, I expect he’ll make an appearance tomorrow morning to introduce himself. His office hours are posted on the board,” she indicates a large framed board to the left of the entrance.“- But he’ll likely mention it again. You can approach him at any time, but I’d recommend you stick to his office hours and even then have a very good reason to do so. At this point, your luggage should’ve already been brought to your rooms as well as any pets. Save for the owls, who you’ll find in the owlery. Now—” she gestures at their small group—"the girls can follow me. You boys will be shown your dormitories by Cecil over there.”

A tall, dark-haired, yet otherwise unassuming boy materialises, a shiny badge pinned to his dark cloak. “Cecil Ashwood, a fellow Prefect presiding over the 6th years,” Fawley introduces him.

“Follow me,” Cecil orders after a brief scrutiny of the first years. Walking past them, the boys set themselves in motion, trailing after him toward the further end of the common room where two hallways split off on opposite sides of the room.

“Usually, you’d room in groups of four or five,” he announces as he ushers them further into the dungeons, doors splitting off every so often before they are led down a staircase to an even lower level. More tapestries and the occasional portrait decorate the walls, interspersed with the occasional flickering torch, above which centuries of soot have turned the already dark stones black. “But since Slytherin house hasn’t had to house that many students in recent years, you’ll be glad to know that we split you guys up into pairs of two. Now, the rooms have already been designated, so I don’t want to hear any complaints. At the end of the term, you can put in a request for who you want to room with for your second year.”

He stops them as they encounter the first door. “Nott and Malfoy,” he says, reading from a list he produced from the pocket of his cloak. “This is you. Crabbe and Goyle, you’re in that room opposite over there. Zabini and Black, that door down the hall. If you need me, I’ll be up in the common room for a while longer, but for now get yourself sorted out. Tomorrow’s going to be an exciting day for you. Professor Snape will be here in the morning and hand out your schedules during breakfast. You better be presentable in the common room at seven a.m. sharp.” With that, he leaves them to their own devices, his steps echoing as he heads back upstairs.

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Draco tells Orion, while Theo has already vanished through their door.

Orion nods at him, more interested in Zabini. The boy seems to take a measure of him in his own way, long slanted eyes scanning over his features.

With his dark skin and high cheekbones emerging from the lingering baby fat on his youthful features, it makes for an exotic look.

“I guess that makes you my new roommate,” he says, a faint accent to his crisp pronunciation, once Orion has made his way over to him after having parted from the others. “Blaise Zabini.”

Orion shakes his hand. “Orion Black.”

“Well then,” Zabini says, not bothering with further niceties, and he leads the way to their dorm, pushing the door open on its heavy iron hinges.

It gives way to a spacious room with two four-poster beds with heavy curtains placed on opposite sides. Twin dark wood desks are pushed against the undecorated stone walls. Their trunks are already placed on each bed’s foot, rendering the point of arguing whose side is whose moot.

A narrow door leads off to what Orion assumes is a bathroom through which Zabini promptly vanishes after having dug through his trunk, producing a small satchel.

Orion moves over to his bed, touching the curtains and sitting down on the mattress, testing it out. It’s not half bad.

The room appears rather bleak, with only the old stones keeping them company and a heavy chandelier in the middle of the room. For some reason he’d expected windows in the walls here too, but they must be too far away from the lake.

‘Welcome to Hogwarts,’ he thinks somewhat sardonically, hearing the sound of a shower before he digs out a book from his trunk. Might as well get a head start on tomorrow by refreshing his memory.

Zabini is a quiet fellow, which suits Orion just right. The bathroom in itself hosts a shower and toilet, two sinks with a large ornate mirror above, and cabinets off to the side to store their things. He picks the sink that doesn’t already seem occupied.

There’s a handful of tinctures but no toothbrushes, which speaks to Zabini having been brought up in a magical household, as magic usually makes such tools obsolete if one learns the proper spells for it.

His new roommate apparently shares his distaste for the undecorated walls and has already put up a handful of pictures on the stones. Orion sneaks a peek when Zabini’s in the bathroom, getting treated to a collection of family pictures displaying Blaise and who he assumes to be the boy's mother—a stunning witch bedecked in jewels—and various different men in the backgrounds.

There's a magazine peeking out from behind his half-open curtains. “Witch Weekly,” which appears to be an odd choice in literature for an eleven-year-old, but who is he to judge?

They leave their room together, shortly running into Draco and Theo, the latter preferring to ignore Orion completely.

Draco, on the other hand, doesn’t waste a minute to start raving about his room, bemoaning his lack of privacy, the substandard interior design compared to Malfoy Manor, and how the green tint of the lake might disturb his sleep patterns, not to speak of all the critters being able to swim by and stare at him while he’s sleeping—the prick.

Yet Orion isn’t really surprised to learn that Draco ended up in the only room with a window down in the first year's dorms, what with Lucius being on the board of school governors. It would be just typical for the man to pull some strings.

“How’s Zabini?” Draco asks him on their way up the staircase, after he’s gotten most of his complaints out.

“Quiet,” Orion says.

“Hm. He is a new element,” Draco says, self-importantly. “I suppose his mother is a prominent figure in certain circles. Rumour has it that she’s poisoning her husbands. No spouse has survived her for longer than two years. That or she’s cursed. At least that’s what father said.”

For all of Draco’s bluster, his tendency to gossip makes him a well of information, especially paired with Lucius’ connections.

“And Nott?” Orion asks.

“Well, Theo isn’t too bad, but you know him.” Draco says, sniffing while he straightens his tie before he looks at Orion from the corner of his eyes. They’re grey, the same shade as Orion’s. “I don’t know what he’s got against you, honestly.”

“His father doesn’t like me,” Orion says.

Draco snorts. “None of the fathers I know like you. That or they’re indifferent.”

Orion smirks. “That includes Lucius?”

Draco doesn’t deign to reply with anything other than a scoff.

The common room is occupied by a handful of people, and Draco nods at a couple of them. He’s well connected; through various gatherings at Malfoy Manor, Lucius undoubtedly arranged for him to meet his fellow Slytherins before he’d start his education at Hogwarts.

Daphne and Pansy are seated off to the side, stiff and proper, a contrast to Fawley lounging on a couch opposite them, chatting with Cecil, a black cat with yellow eyes, perching on the armrest.

Pansy waves them over as soon as she spots them. They were split up into pairs of two as well, but apparently the girls’ dorms are closer to the lake, granting almost everyone a view of the murky waters. She tells them with relish how Daphne woke her with a scream upon finding a merman staring in through their window this morning.

Draco pipes up at that. “I told you! Didn’t I?”

They are a small class of first-years, barely scraping by a dozen. The only new faces are Lily Moon and a lanky Slytherin girl named Tracey Davis, the latter of whom appears with a harried expression, two minutes before seven.

Snape steps through the entrance at exactly the time they were told he would, clad from head to toe in black, his robes buttoned up tightly all the way to his throat. Oily black hair frames his severe features, brushing just so against his shoulders. He strides toward the first-years with purposeful steps, robes swishing when he stops, standing tall as he stares at them with his dark eyes. His gaze lingers on Orion.

“So. You are the lot I’ve been saddled with this year.”

Millicent squeaks, and he spares her a derisive look.

“I expect Miss Fawley has already caught you up to speed, but to reiterate for your challenged young minds, I shall repeat what has undoubtedly already been said.

My name is Severus Snape. I am your head of house and the current potions master at Hogwarts. I’m also teaching the subject.

You’re now all part of Slytherin house and under my care. I do not take that responsibility lightly, but don’t mistake my sense of duty for fondness. There will be no preferential treatment.”

Fawley on her couch smirks.

“I am available during my office hours in the evenings, Monday from six forty-five till eight thirty, and Tuesdays and Thursdays from seven to eight thirty. The hours are posted on the notice board as well.
I implore you to refrain from taking that courtesy as an invitation to come to me with asinine questions or childish matters your prepubescent minds regard as problems. I do not care that your cat has died or that a boy was ‘mean’ to you.
If you find yourself in dire need of assistance in the meantime,” he drawls derisively, “approach a prefect.
That being said, I do not tolerate pranks of any kind.” He looks at Orion now. “Should it come to my attention that you have hexed or bullied a fellow Slytherin for whatever ‘humorous’ reason, I won’t blink an eye if you are expelled.
Do not test me.
Slytherin house has made a name for itself by producing an array of powerful and great wizards and witches. Most notable: Merlin and the Dark Lord. As well as yours truly.”

A few children snicker.

Snape smirks.

“Nevertheless, our house also has gained a reputation for fostering dark wizards, for obvious reasons. You might find that there is a certain prejudice against Slytherin house, and I’d advise you to be conscientious of that.
I will be blunt. Certain professors might overlook a hex being thrown then and there, looking the other way when it regards their precious lions. You will encounter hurdles you might not, in other houses.
Thus, outside of these rooms, you will not show animosity among each other, nor derision or disrespect.
Wandering outside after curfew is strictly forbidden. Should you, for some inexplicable reason, feel the urge to leave the common room after hours, at least possess the intelligence to not get caught.
I expect you to conduct yourself in a manner befitting the Slytherin house. We have held the House Cup for the last five years, and I would like it to stay that way. Are we understood?”

He reaps a few pale nods.

“Here are your schedules for this year.” Snape pulls out a stack of papers, and a flick of his wand has one zooming through the air toward each student. Miss Fawley will show you my office and lead you to the Great Hall. After today, you will be on your own, so take care to remember the way. I won’t hesitate to send Filch out after you should you get lost in the castle and not show up on time for your lessons.
Questions?”

When nobody says anything, he concludes his speech with a curt, “Dismissed.”

Snape leaves the common room as swiftly as he’d entered it.

Fawley stretches, leisurely getting up. “After me firsties,” she says, showing them out of the common room.

Snape’s office is in the dungeons, not too far off from the common room, but Fawley doesn’t show them inside, just pointing out the door before herding them up the stairs toward the great hall.

It’s populated sparsely since it’s still early, a handful of students scattered around the house tables.

Breakfast is good, although Draco ropes Zabini into a conversation about the substandard quality of it. It appears, for all that he’s quiet, his new roommate is also opinionated. Apparently he’s lived in Italy for quite a few years, and the “British cuisine has a lot to learn.”.

Orion bemoans his amenable relationship with Nott in those instances. Two eleven-year-olds trying to outclass themselves in pretentiousness makes only for that much entertainment.

Classes can’t come soon enough.

The first week at Hogwarts is a novel yet anticlimactic experience.

The castle itself is grand, with curiosities lurking around every corner and beautiful sprawling grounds stretching as far as the eye can see, but their lessons so far are rather boring.

At the end of the day, it’s still a school, and for someone like Orion, who’s grown up in a magical household under Walburga’s tutelage on top of being able to remember certain aspects of a prior life, it’s not that challenging.

Especially considering the majority of their teachers introduce their subjects before having them read the introductory chapters of their books without any practical application before heaping homework in the form of essays on them.

History of Magic is taught by Binns, an honest-to-god ghost, and Orion comments idly on how they probably only kept him to save on wages, which Pansy vocally agrees with.

He also gets stuck in a trick step in one of the staircases on the second day, which—to his utter humiliation—Draco witnesses, and he laughs his ass off about it before finally pulling him out.

The castle seems to have a personality in itself, with wandering sets of armour, gossiping portraits, and Peeves the Poltergeist tormenting students by becoming invisible and popping up in front of them or pelting them with paper baskets, and the various doors that only open when asked politely or after tickling the handle.

Orion’s already used to a moody house courtesy of Grimmauld Place, so that’s not something particularly new to him, but he sees many of the muggleborns struggling with such blatant and wilful magic.

The older Slytherins are good at pointing the first years in the right direction, though, and they move almost in pack-like formation for the first couple of days so no one is left behind or accidentally gets lost in the castle.

They’ve met Filch at this point, who is anything but pleasant company.

Orion decides early on that he’ll try and bribe his cat Mrs. Norris with treats and hopefully get her off his case.

So far, it’s not going well. He resorts to researching scent-dampening spells.

Orion likes the greenhouses, with their many plants, but unfortunately, the ones with the more interesting and deadly growths are closed off to the first years.

He also is fairly sure to have caught a handful of older students smoking behind them.

The first Defence Against the Dark Arts lesson is both an anxious and dissatisfying experience. Quirrel is so awkward and twitchy, it’s hard to imagine that he’s possessed by the Dark Lord, and by the time the double lesson is over, Orion comes to the opinion that he’ll be able to manage. Quirrel hardly took notice of him. The garlicky smell permeating the air is more of a hassle, honestly. Although it doesn’t quite manage to overpower the sweet hint of rot that seems to cling to Quirrel’s turban.

They have charms with the Ravenclaws as well as History of Magic, and for Astronomy they’re paired with the Hufflepuffs. Aside from charms, it’s one subject that he’s rather adept at already, courtesy of his grandmother.

He’s penned and sent off his first letter to Walburga by the time his first week at Hogwarts comes to a close, mentioning his sorting and new roommate and jotting down a few noteworthy things about the general state of the castle and his teachers.

He did well in Transfiguration, but where another would’ve earned points for the shiny needle he produced, it only earned him a close-lipped stare from McGonagall.

Their only class with the Gryffindors rolls around on Friday.

Snape has got a flair for the dramatics, Orion decides, when the professor bangs the door open and strides into the dimly lit room down in the dungeons for their potions lesson.

His arrival cuts off any conversation and comments from the Gryffindors about the cold radiating from the stones, which the Slytherins are all but used to with their common room on the same level.

They, in wise foresight and without exception, had brought their cloaks.

Snape stops behind his desk with a dramatic whirl of robes, producing a list and taking the roll call.

“Ah, yes,” he says softly, when he reaches the latter half, “Harry Potter. Our new celebrity.”

Draco, Vincent, and Greg snicker behind their hands. Honestly, at this point Orion is halfway convinced Draco will end up crushing on the so-called saviour of the wizarding world before long, what with his budding obsession. He’s heard about Potter over a dozen times this week already, and undoubtedly Lucius will hear his fair share as well from the daily letters Draco sends.

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making,” Snape starts, his voice barely louder than a whisper. “As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

Orion has to give it to him; he knows how to make an intriguing speech. Snape takes that moment to pause, staring intently at Potter on the other side of the potions classroom, scratching his quill over his parchment.

“Potter!” Snape suddenly starts, and the boy looks up, startled. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

The bushy-haired girl in the back snaps to attention, raising her arm high.

What follows is a minute of utter humiliation for Potter and pettiness on Snape’s side. Orion’s mouth curls with distaste at the pathetic display.

Though he isn’t dumb enough to make himself a target by speaking up. Still, he elbows Draco sharply when he laughs at Potter’s misery, shutting him up.

“Now, open your books on page 2; we’ll be brewing a simple boil-cure potion some of you will thank me for in years to come. If you possess the necessary abilities, that is. Instructions are on the blackboard.”

Orion is familiar with the potion, having read through his book a handful of times already, but curiously enough there are a few differences between the instructions of the blackboard and the potion in the text. He jots them down in his book, scratching out the printed instructions and replacing them with Snape’s. He’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

For all his bluster, Draco is a good potions partner. He’s precise and meticulous, naturally prone to obsessing over details, which proves to be in his favour for the subject.

“Professor,” Orion speaks up when Snape wanders through the dungeon to check on their progress, staring into their cauldron with an unreadable expression. He didn’t hold back with criticisms of any other pair, so his silence can almost be interpreted as a compliment.

His eyes snap up. “What is it, Black?” he barks unkindly.

“I couldn’t help but notice the disparities between your instructions and those in the book, and I was wondering why the stirring times were adjusted.”

Snape stares at him for a drawn-out moment, to the point where even Draco takes note of it, looking between them with bemusement.

“Stirring while the potion cools down allows for a better consistency, which aids the dissolving of the porcupine quills.”

Draco, next to him, jots down a note.

“Does that translate to all potions or only this one in particular?”

Orion never gets his answer because Neville chooses this moment to add his porcupine quills prematurely, causing his potion to fizz and boil over in a spectacular manner.

Some children scream, while the more sensible ones in the vicinity have hopped onto their chairs to escape the acidic mixture seeping over the stones.

“Idiot boy—” Snape snarls, already moving to mitigate the disaster. Neville is crying, half his robes eaten away by the liquid, his arms and legs covered in angry red boils where it came into contact with it. Finnegan next to him has escaped the brunt of it, though his shoes appear to be a lost cause, green smoke rising from the leather.

“What a catastrophe,” Draco drawls in his posh accent, while Snape tears into Longbottom, docking another point from Gryffindor in a manner that is sure to put them into the minus on the very first day.

More boils erupt on his nose while Snape vanishes the mess with a flick of his wand.

“Do not touch anything in my absence,” Snape barks afterward, dragging Finnegan and Longbottom out of the classroom toward the infirmary.

Potter seems to glare at Draco as if it was his fault that Longbottom melted Finnigan’s cauldron.

“What are you staring at?” Orion addresses him, and Potter’s face flushes, and he averts his eyes.

Draco smirks.

Ron leans in to whisper something into Potter’s ear, which has his gaze flick up, fixating on Orion, green eyes glowing fiercely behind his glasses.

“Care to share with the class, Weasley?” Orion asks casually.

The boy seems to debate something inwardly, apprehension in his expression, but then he straightens up in a gryffindorish manner, jutting his freckled chin forward.

“I just told Harry that he shouldn’t mind the words of someone whose parents served You-Know-Who.”

Audible gasps cut through the air, and he can almost feel a handful of Slytherins at his back tensing, like a snake preparing to strike.

Still, Orion can’t help it; he laughs.

Weasley pales, and a few Slytherins shuffle, be it out of confusion or lack of comfort, yet as their nature demands, they watch with unbridled curiosity.

“That’s a bit underhanded for a Gryffindor, don’t you think? Steeping as low as to judge someone for their parentage, now is it Weasley?” Orion retorts.

Draco snickers.

Ron’s ears turn red with anger. “Look, he’s not even denying it!” he says, gesturing wildly.

“Why should I, when it’s obviously such common knowledge?” Orion drawls derisively.

“Your parents really were supporting Voldemort?” Potter asks quietly. Many people flinch at the name.

“They’re in Azkaban,” Weasley provides unbidden. “Bellatrix Lestrange and Sirius Black. Everybody knows they’re lunatics.”

“Aren’t they related?” some Gryffindor girl supplies, her appalled whisper loud enough to carry through the room.

It stirs up more hushed conversations, and even from here Orion can hear Granger’s gasp.

“That’s kinda gross,” Dean Thomas comments. The Slytherins are wise enough to keep their thoughts to themselves.

“No need to get insulting, Weasley. After all, it's not like you can trace your ancestry to a Black, is it?” Orion says sarcastically. “Who was it again? Ah, yeah. Cedrella Black, your grandmother, yes? Though I suppose it doesn’t quite make us family, considering she got blasted off the family tapestry for it. Then again, I wouldn’t mind calling you cousin.” He throws a wink in there for the fun of it, and Weasley jerks back with a disgusted expression.

Funnily enough, his expression matches Draco's, though for rather different reasons.

“I can’t believe you even entertain the thought of being related to a Weasley,” he says later during Defence Against the Dark Arts.

Orion blasts him with a stinging hex, causing him to yelp, which earns Draco a reprimand from Quirrel of all people.

Children are terrible gossips, and by the time dinner rolls around, everyone in Hogwarts seems to know that Orion Black is the sprog of some of the worst Death Eaters ever serving under Voldemort’s reign.

Stares follow him from the Slytherin table, all seemingly waiting for him to snap while the whispers on the other house tables pick up, eyes trailing him.

It’s almost as bad as the sycophants stalking Potter through the castle.

Orion dismisses them all, finding even some entertainment in the rumours spread about his persona. After all, his biological mother is as much of a redhead as Weasley’s brood, and Sirius Black is anything but a loyalist of the Dark Side.

Bellatrix… well. She is more complicated. His early memories are blurry, but she is stuck to his mind like glue. Even now, she feels like more of a mother to him than Walburga and Marlene together.

Overall, he doesn’t even mind people thinking he’s her progeny.

They’re all Blacks. That alone differentiates them from others.

As soon as the thought has entered his mind, he pauses. And here he thought Walburga’s influence only went so far. Yet, he still can find no fault in his opinion.

That evening during dinner, his grandmother’s letter arrives, Odysseus sailing in from overhead, settling next to his plate, stretching out his foot with the rolled-up parchment and a bag of clinking galleons.

Odysseus starts to blatantly steal food from his plate while he begins to read.

Dear Orion,

Congratulations on your sorting.

I was informed of the news by Narcissa, since Draco had the grace to pen a letter the very same day and also the circumstances around it.

I sure hope you don’t pride yourself on that.
The first hat stall in nearly thirty-five years!

Orion can hear the derision in her voice even through the letter.

I suppose I should be grateful you spared us the embarrassment of becoming a Gryffindor like your father.

I’ve sent word about Professor McGonagall's conduct regarding you to the headmaster. The preferential treatment of your peers was to be expected, yet things should be sorted out soon. Inform me if matters remain unchanged.

The Zabini boy is a surprise, but I’ve made enquiries, and you may associate with him. I hope you have set out to make other acquaintances as well.

After all, the connections you forge at school are imperative for years following your graduation, and as the sole heir to our house, you are synonymous with alliances forged between families. I trust that after all our talks, you’re aware of what precarious situation our reputation is in, following the political missteps taken by your preceding generation.

How you conduct yourself is your prerogative, but you’ve been adequately prepared, and I expect you not to besmirch the image of our family name.

He laughs out loud at this point, noting the irony of the situation. Here he’s made himself the centre of rumours, while Walburga urges him to be conscientious of their reputation.

Choose wisely who you let affiliate with yourself; her letter continues further.

Narcissa tells me you have been looking out for Draco. Continue to do so. The boy is many things, but he would benefit from your influence.

I hear he’s been attempting to associate with Harry Potter.

You have not written about him. Therefore, I assume that the rumours about his person were exaggerated. Nevertheless, I would appreciate some more insights. You have been rather curt in your letter.

It’s good to hear you are settling in well.

Kreacher sends his regards.

– Walburga Black

Orion snorts, pocketing the letter.

Considering Draco has the inexplicable urge to involve himself in any drama that is even partially going on in his periphery, Orion has made it a habit to trail after him for sheer entertainment. Unfortunately, that means Orion is the prime witness to his numerous confrontations with Potter and Weasley, as well as his loud and exaggerated stories about him narrowly escaping muggle helicopters on a broomstick.

So far, not a day has gone by without Draco riling Potter up, and be it only by commenting on his lack of letters or demonstratively unpacking the packages with sweets Narcissa sends him daily.

The first flying lessons are posted on the blackboard that very same weekend, set for Thursday with the Gryffindors.

Of course, that reignites Draco’s passionate retellings of his barely there scrape with the British military, and he’s fairly sure it’s mainly for Potter’s benefit.

Draco is still resentful of the latter’s rejection of his offer for friendship, and it would almost be funny how desperately he tries and fails to impress the other boy if it weren’t so pathetic.

The story is an exaggeration, of course.

Orion has it on good authority that the only reason Draco even knows what a helicopter is is because one time one flew over the lands of Malfoy Manor—too high up to be influenced by the muggle-repellant wards—and Lucius firecalled the DMLE, who sent Forget-Me-Nots to deal with the situation.

Undoubtedly, he would’ve done it himself, but every situation that allows him to appear like a law-abiding citizen is a plus in Lucius’ book.

After all, Malfoy Manor almost rivals Grimmauld Place in the amount of dark artefacts stowed away there.

Orion has flown his fair share himself, and while it’s fun, he never really got into Quidditch as much as Draco.

Nevertheless, he knows he’s decent.

Still, it’s nothing compared to Potter, who turns out to be a bloody natural, darting after Longbottom’s remembrall in a steep swan-dive from which he only pulls up at the last possible moment.

Of course, it ends with Potter with not even a detention to show for it and Draco being his most disgruntled self since Lucius told him he couldn’t have a pet dragon when he was seven.

Orion avoids him for a bit, because however much he hangs around Draco, he also knows when it’s wiser to keep his distance.

Only for him to hear that his idiotic cousin dared Potter to a wizard’s duel at midnight.

“You’re not going to show, are you?” Orion has to ask him, and Draco snorts.

“Who do you take me for?” He chews on a chocolate frog on the couch he’s claimed as his own, idly inspecting the card and tossing it over to Greg. “You’re still missing Marie Laveau, aren’t you?”

When Draco notices that Orion is still looking at him over his transfiguration essay, he sniffs. “Quit it with the staring, Orion. I’ll be fine.”

Orion finds himself less than relieved.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I don’t plan on getting caught.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Orion mutters, and Zabini sniggers behind his hand.

Draco makes a face. “Maybe I should’ve dared you to a duel. What do you say, Black? You and me? Only our wands and wit.”

“You’ll lose,” Vince comments idly.

That piques Draco's interest. “We’ll see about that.” He jumps up, wiping his hands.

Orion quirks a smile at the daring glint in Draco’s eye.

“You know, father told me there’s a duelling hall behind the tapestry with the wizard slaying the goblins.”

“Why not,” Orion says, for once eager to prove himself.

They pack up their things, reaping a few looks from bystanders as they slip past the tapestry into a dark rectangular room, a slightly lowered duelling space let into the floor, surrounded by four pillars with carved snakes winding around the stones.

Torches flicker to life, and a few fellow Slytherins slink after them to watch the show.

“Who’s your second?” Draco drawls, as if this were a formal duel, already shedding his cloak in a dramatic manner, even for an eleven-year-old.

Orion smiles. “Vince, you up for it?”

“Sure,” Vincent voices.

“I guess that leaves me with you, Goyle,” Draco drawls. “Unless Zabini wants to step in.”

“Keep me out of it,” Blaise says, leaning against a pillar.

They step onto the platform, bowing to each other.

Draco wastes not a second to cast the jelly legs jinx. Orion sidesteps it. His shield is decent, but he’d rather not chance it.

And then they’re off. Draco is good for a boy his age, undoubtedly having been tutored by his father.

Orion is better. Way better, it turns out, if only courtesy of his knowledge of spells.

After all, he rarely did anything other than read in Grimmauld Place.

He wipes the floor with Draco, having him give up after hitting him with a Rictumsempra head-on.

“I yield, I yield,” Draco snaps in between breathless giggles.

Orion cancels the jinx, watching Greg tossing a sickle to Vince.

“How did you even know how to do that?” he asks, when he’s up, irritation and honest curiosity warring on his face.

“My grandmother had me practice on Kreacher.”

Draco sniffs haughtily, which makes for a funny sight in his dishevelled state. “Father wanted me to, but mother didn’t allow it.”

“I could teach you?” Orion half-asks, half-suggests. He isn’t all too eager on teaching, but he’s missed duelling, and it wouldn’t hurt to practice.

Draco eyes him. “As a favour?” he enquires sceptically.

“Family is family,” Orion says.

“Sure, in that case,” Draco says. “You know, I’m still gonna wipe the floor with Potter, just so you see.”

Orion snorts, while Vince rolls his eyes behind Draco’s back. “Of course.”

“Don’t laugh at me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Yeah, right. You see whether I let you sit next to me in potions again. Would serve you right to partner with Greg,” Draco says grumpily.

Goyle isn’t even offended.

Orion raises his hands defensively, yet still amused. “No harm done. Besides, it’s not like I disagree. I mean, what would he hit you with? A Spongify?” It’s the last charm Flitwick taught them in class.

It reaps him a round of laughter, for all that it’s likely true.

Orion tries to keep out of it. He really does. He goes to bed at a reasonable hour, but he cannot for the life of him fall asleep.

He doesn’t remember whether Draco and Potter ever duelled in the original story, and when Zabini snaps at him for keeping him up, he finally gives in and heads for the common room.

“Going somewhere?” Orion asks, making Draco jump when he tries to sneak past the armchair he’s used as a lookout spot, rather unsubtly.

“Oh, it’s you,” Draco says when he recognises Orion. Greg and Vince are right behind him.

Orion sighs. “I might as well accompany you.”

Draco grins. “If I’d known, I would’ve made you my second.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get this over with. I’m not actually that interested in your shenanigans. Really, Draco? Potter? You could’ve just left him hanging and called it a day.”

Draco puffs up. “A wizard is only as good as his word.”

Orion raises an eyebrow. “Lucius told you that?”

Draco seems embarrassed for a second. “He might as well.”

Orion highly doubts that. More likely, Draco got it from one of his ‘Harry Potter Adventure’ novels.

A Slytherin sixth year eyes them warily from his spot near the fire. “Don’t get caught,” he says.

“We're not planning on it,” Orion says.

The sixth year sniffs, disinterested, returning back to his book.

At night, the castle lies strangely abandoned. Portraits snore or whisper on the walls, their steps echoing oddly in the dark.

“I swear it was around here somewhere,” Draco mutters.

“Got lost, now did you?”

“Shut up,” Draco snaps back. “The trophy room is right around the corner.”

“If you say so.”

They arrive ten minutes late and even then never make it into the trophy room, because the irate voice of Filch echoes from the walls, yelling, “STUDENTS OUT OF BED!”

They do the smart thing and leg it back to where they came from.

Only when they’re in the dungeons again do they allow themselves a much-needed reprieve.

“Well, that was a fucking waste of time,” Orion mutters, panting and sinking into an armchair.

Draco wrinkles his flushed nose over his cursing. He’s still not used to it. Yet then, suddenly he bursts out into delighted giggles. “Can you imagine Potter’s face when Filch gets them expelled?”

“I doubt that,” Orion says, frowning. He’s fairly sure Potter made it through all the way to his last school year.

“Oh, don’t be such a buzzkill,” Draco retorts. “Must you always be so pessimistic?”

“I’m not.”

Greg and Vince snort at the same time.

“I’m a cynic at best.”

“Sure you are.”

The next day rolls around, and like Orion predicted, Potter is still in Hogwarts.

He hopes Draco will learn a proper poker face one of these days because his surprise is even visible across the house tables.

Their odd rivalry commences, and Orion honestly becomes a bit apathetic towards it. While Draco might have been the original instigator, at this point it just seems to be who can pull one over the other. Weasley doesn’t help, what with the blood feud between his family and the Malfoys, and even if Orion keeps quiet, hovering in the back when Draco and Potter go at it, his presence isn’t really an advantage either.

People regard him differently now, especially the Muggleborns, who, at this point, have caught up on some of the recent British wizarding history and now know who You-know-who is.

Potter clocks another win against Draco at the beginning of October, the latter stewing in obvious envy when Harry gets sent a broomstick.

“Youngest seeker in a century,” Orion remembers then. Unfortunately, he’s voiced that thought out loud, and Draco’s irate rants are a constant companion for the next three days.

The boy must’ve sent at least five letters detailing that unfairness to Lucius.

At least their school lessons are becoming slightly more interesting, now that they’ve covered the basics.

Nevertheless, Orion at this point wishes he had brought some reading material from Grimmauld Place because archaic rituals and necromancy were much more stimulating than transfiguration theory.

At least the Hogwarts library proves to house an inordinate amount of books on various topics, and Orion has begun to supplement some of his lessons with additional reading, specifically runes.

Apparently his teachers think he’s something of a prodigy. He’s all the way up there with the Granger girl, who likely studies thrice the amount he does and also earns double the points, and whom he encounters in the library with an alarming regularity.

He’s got one advantage, though, that even she couldn’t have predicted. Namely that he went through years of muggle schooling in a prior life, which means that producing a halfway legible essay is something he can do in his sleep, especially when his competition is made up of a bunch of eleven-year-olds who’re still struggling with grammar at this point.

Flitwick almost pissed himself in joy when he handed in an essay quoting honest-to-god sources.

At this point, he’s responsible for a fair chunk of the gems in the Slytherin hourglass.

It would even be more, but some of his professors simply don’t seem to take a liking to him.

McGonagall still is standoffish, and Snape has taken to ignoring his existence almost completely.

He praises Draco and doesn’t even spare a look in Orion’s direction, although they partner more often than not.

Were he not a Slytherin, he’s fairly sure he’d be receiving the same treatment as Potter, who—after Longbottom—appears to be Snape’s favourite verbal punching bag.

On top of that, Walburga, despite her commendations about his grades, never fails to remind him that it’s an expectation that’s a given for a ‘wizard of his standing.’.

Snape always appears more irate with him on Fridays, and he thinks it’s partially got to do with his grandmother having somehow forced him into reporting to her on his persona weekly. He can only imagine those letters.

Aside from schoolwork, he’s got a few pet projects going on the side.

First off, the literal pet project of him trying to win over Mrs. Norris with bribes in the form of food snuck from the breakfast table seems to go so-so. She doesn’t hiss at him anymore when he runs into her in a hallway, but she tends to linger around him now, in the hopes perhaps that he’ll feed her, which is rather counterproductive in him attempting the whole thing in order to be left to his own devices when he strolls through the castle.

He’s also attempting to find the room of hidden things, which he vaguely remembers to be on the third floor, but so far he hasn’t had any luck with it. Neither has he found out where the Hufflepuff Common Room is, which is essential in him locating the kitchen and the house-elves, which of course would provide a good hint for the former.

So far his attempts to connect with various Hufflepuffs have been met with nothing but apprehension, so one of these days he’ll have to stalk one back to their common room.

On the other hand, the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets was easy enough to find, what with the first-year girls complaining loudly and excessively about Moaning Myrtle. Not that he’s able to open it, even with hissing at the spout out of sheer curiosity.

Halloween is marked by a great feast. Thousands of bats populate the great hall, fluttering around like large dark clouds, and honestly, Orion had put the whole Potter affair out of his mind for the most part until it all comes crashing back with a suddenness that is marked by Quirrel storming into the hall, stuttering about a “Troll in the dungeons,” before promptly fainting.

It causes an uproar in the hall. Students are screaming, and the Slytherins exchange panicking glances.

Dumbledore cuts it all off by whipping his wand through the air, producing several loud bangs until he’s gained everyone’s attention.

“Prefects,” he says loudly, his voice projecting over the hall, “lead your Houses back to the dormitories immediately!”

Orion stares at the man disbelievingly. “Is he serious?” he says. “Our dormitories are in the dungeons.”

The sentiment is echoed by more than one Slytherin, and before long, the older Prefects have impressed on their fellow students that they will not move an inch out of the great hall.

Orion feels Dumbledore’s glance momentary before he addresses their house, blue eyes glinting. “Very well. The Slytherins may congregate here in the meantime.”

Snape is nowhere to be seen. Curious. At least it would be, if Orion hadn’t recalled something about the Philosopher’s Stone being hidden in a mirror behind some asinine traps that Quirrel is attempting to get his hands on.

The news of Potter and Weasley single-handedly taking on a troll makes the rounds in the castle before the sun even sets.

With the first week of November comes a wave of cold that freezes over the lake and turns the Hogwarts grounds white with frost.

Orion has perfected a simple warming charm, which he copied off an upper year, and especially the Slytherins can be seen wearing their cloaks at all times.

On top of that, the Quidditch season is now in full swing, and nobody escapes the hype. Especially not with Gryffindor and Slytherin being announced as the first houses to play against each other.

Saturday morning, everyone chats about the upcoming game when Draco’s eagle owl, like usual, makes a show of landing in front of the boy, delivering his daily packet of sweets and tarts handmade by the Malfoy house-elves or ordered from expensive bakeries.

Pansy tries to bribe it with a piece of bacon and gets promptly bitten, while Greg and Vince are flicking pieces of food at each other under the disgusted looks of Zabini and Nott.

Draco, meanwhile, stares with bemusement at his unrolled parchment, looking up and finding Orion.

“Mother sent a letter to you too.”

“She did?” Orion raises his brows, bemused. It’s not uncommon for Narcissa to have Draco give her regards or to pack an additional sweet for his benefit, but a whole letter? He takes it from Draco’s offering hand, turning the heavy envelope over to find it indeed addressed to him.

He breaks the wax seal, unrolling the parchment at once.

Dear Orion,

From what Draco tells me, you have settled in well in Slytherin House and your classes. I am glad to learn that you are well, and I appreciate you supporting Draco in his endeavors. I have heard of your little duelling club every Sunday in the dungeons, and my son seems very impressed with you, even though he won’t admit it.

Yet, as you’ve perhaps already realised, this is not the reason for my writing to you.

So without further ado, I shall inform you of the unfortunate news I have to deliver.

Your grandmother Walburga’s health is in decline. She has been bedbound for nearly a week, and although she’s recovered somewhat and Kreacher has been taking care of her, I felt you were owed to be aware of the happenings.

She tells me she writes to you weekly, but I doubt she mentioned her weakened constitution. The Black blood is strong in her, as is her stubbornness.

Yet it is also in you, so do not fret.

Focus on your schoolwork and enjoy Hogwarts. Carry on with your head held high, as this is the only thing you can do at the moment.

I shall write to you if there are new developments, and feel free to do so as well for any reason.

Take care,

Narcissa

Orion stares at the letter, and it takes him a moment to realise that the words in front of his eyes are shaking because his hands holding the letter are.

Draco frowns at him. “What is it? What did she write?”

Numbly, he hands his cousin the letter.

Draco’s frown deepens as he reads it.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he says, aiming to sound reassuring in a rare show of empathy.

Orion can’t help it; he laughs, his constitution wavering.

Grimmauld Place functioned as the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix at one point, did it not? For that to happen, Walburga would have certainly no longer been around.

He takes the letter from where Draco pushed it back over the table, folding it in an abrupt movement before letting it disappear in the pocket of his cloak.

For all that it appears, Orion knows he’s just been handed a death notice.

“I’m sure,” he voices after a moment, though Draco still looks at him oddly. “But don’t advertise it.”

“I wouldn’t,” Draco says, as if he isn’t one of the biggest gossips he knows.

“I wouldn’t,” the boy reiterates seriously when something must show on his expression, and Orion stares, finding that he perhaps has to re-evaluate his opinion of him.

He nods curtly in acknowledgement, grateful too.

Orion doesn’t join the masses pouring out of the castle toward the Quidditch grounds like he planned. Instead he heads for the dungeons, his mind on other things.

Walburga ill. What a thought. She’s been a constant in his life for nearly a decade, and the notion frightens him.

On top of it, he doesn’t know what that will mean for him.

His father is in Azkaban. Bellatrix as well.

Any other close relative is dead, as far as he knows. Narcissa would be his next of kin. Or Andromeda, but he’s never met her.

Nymphadora, he thinks, is still in Hogwarts. A Hufflepuff. Walburga would rip him a new one if she heard about him even talking to her.

'But that’s not going to be a problem for much longer, is it?' he thinks slightly hysterical.

Getting his hands on Pettigrew would be feasible. Probably. But proving Sirius’ innocence doesn’t equal the man being stable and able to take him in.

He is an unknown factor. Frankly, Orion doesn’t even know if the man is aware of his existence. Possibly.

Nevertheless, a lot hinges on Sirius breaking out later on, does it not? His whole foreknowledge would go to the dogs, and if Voldemort isn’t resurrected, he cannot be destroyed. There is a Horcrux in Harry Potter after all.

Also, a part of him can’t deny that he’s a bit anxious about the prospect of meeting his father. What would Sirius think of him, a Slytherin, raised by Walburga and friends with Draco Malfoy?

Though it’s not the only option, it occurs to him. After all, the Philosopher’s stone is hidden right inside the castle. A cure to all ailments and the key to longevity.

And it’s not like it’s protected too well if a bunch of eleven-year-olds were able to get their hands on it the first time around.

Everybody’s out on the Quidditch pitch right now. It would be the perfect opportunity.

But no.

He restrains himself, even though in his emotionality, he’s itching to head to the third floor right now.

Because Orion isn’t foolish enough to think he can go there without preparation. He’ll have to bide his time.

The news of Slytherin losing against Gryffindor doesn’t even penetrate, as his days are held up by research more than ever.

Snow is falling in thick flakes, blanketing the Hogwarts grounds and the lake starts to freeze over, while the students have snow fights and build snow figures, shaped with magic to stretch up to impressive heights. 

Meanwhile, Orion basically lives in the library, even outside of his classes, reading and preparing, practicing spells that are far too advanced and even harder to learn.

Perhaps it’s his distractibility, but he doesn’t realise he’s reaching out to a book at the same moment someone else is until they bump into each other.

“Watch where you’re going,” he bites out, irritated from his lack of sleep and frustration over his latest spell, which he can’t seem to be able to work on top of nobody wanting to give him a pass for the restricted section.

“Oh, sorry.”

Orion blinks owlishly. “Granger.”

She flushes, her hair frazzled and her buck teeth standing out in front of her bottom lip as she chews on it.

“Are you done with that book?”

“No,” he says, holding onto the thick tome.

She peers at him curiously, her gaze darting down to the book and then back up at his face. A determined glint makes it into her eyes.

“Are you meaning to check it out or read it here?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Orion suppresses a sigh. “Whether it holds the information I want or not.”

“Alright. I’ll join you then,” Granger says, pushing out her chest with the Gryffindor tie on display.

“It wasn’t an invitation,” Orion says. He’s finally over the spells and decided to delve a bit further into the philosopher's stone. And frankly, he can do without someone breathing down his neck while he plans a theft.

He turns, leaving the disgruntled girl standing among the shelves, and moves to check the book out of sheer principle.

Chapter Text

The winter holidays approach rapidly, and Orion is trying to cram knowledge into his mind with a new fervour that doesn’t even escape his housemates.

“All you do is sit around and read these days,” Pansy complains. “You’ve gotten so boring.”

“Mind your own business.”

“And cranky too.”

“Look at him. A Ravenclaw in snake-skin,” Draco drawls, although he looks at him worriedly. After all, he knows what has instigated that sudden change.

“Hopefully, this phase is over after Christmas,” Pansy voices, draping herself over an armchair with a sigh. “My parents are going to take me to Greece this year.”

“Lovely,” Orion comments absentmindedly, flipping to another page.

“You’ll be back for the ball though, won’t you?” Draco enquires.

“Of course,” Pansy waves him off.

Orion’s nerves are hanging on by a thread. This is the last chance he has to check out the hidden traps on the third floor before he’ll go back home for the winter holidays.

He doesn’t know what time frame he’s working with, and every day the Damocles sword hanging over his head could fall down.

Decisively, he snaps his books shut. Tonight, he decides. He’ll have to go there tonight.

Sneaking out isn’t hard. Not getting caught is a different matter.

Orion’s palms are sweating as he casts an 'Alohomora' on the locked door.

Truly, for a trap that was supposedly meant to keep away the Dark Lord, it’s deceptively easy. Either Dumbledore is truly mad, or there is more to the whole thing than meets the eye.

In wise foresight, Orion had learnt the charms to silence his steps and spell away his scent, but he didn’t manage to learn the disillusionment charm—too advanced and too difficult for him to wrap his mind around. Yet.

The hound is an enormous beast. Three heads big enough to swallow him whole, bloodshot, beady eyes fluttering open as soon as he steps into the room and the door clicks shut behind him. It rises with low growls vibrating from its throats. The leftmost head snaps the air threateningly, drool spraying as it rises, towering over him.

It wears pink collars. Ridiculous.

Orion regains his bearings and starts to whistle. The cerberus halts in its attack, heads tilting, ears perking up.

The melody of ‘Twisted Nerve’ shifts into ‘Staying Alive’ by the Bee Gees. The hound settles down, dust whirling up as it lets its heavy body drop to the floor, yawning.

There’s a bloody spot and bones in one of the corners, and all Orion can think of is how surreal this whole situation is, while the three-headed dog yawns again, setting its head down on its paws, beady eyes falling shut.

Orion waits for a good ten minutes till he’s sure the behemoth of a hound is asleep before he sets his eyes on his goal—the trapdoor, let into the floor right in front of the beast.

Of course.

The spells to dampen his steps still hold, and so he doesn’t bother to sneak when he makes his way over there.

A whispered ‘Silencio’ makes sure that the trapdoor won’t make a sound when opened.

His arms strain as he hauls it open. Darkness is all that awaits him.

Conjuration is advanced magic, and so Orion didn’t even bother with it. Instead he casts an ‘Incarcerous’ on the floor, before resuming his whistling, just to be on the safe side. Curses and hexes have always come easy to him. Ropes spring up out of nowhere, wrapping around nothing.

A simple untangling charm Kreacher used on his shoelaces when he was younger takes care of it, followed by a permanent sticking charm to affix one end on the floor—that one’s courtesy of Grimmauld Place.

Orion casts a lumos as he makes to climb down the rope.

Pale light illuminates a writhing and tangled mess of vines and tentacles further down. Some have begun to wrap around the rope, inching up and towards him in alien movements, like blind worms scenting the air.

“Lumos Maxima,” Orion casts, and light explodes from his wand, almost blinding him. There’s a muffled whipping sound when the Devil’s Snare below him retracts violently. His rope jostles, and he almost gets dislodged.

Orion catches himself, cursing violently, and glides down quickly, hissing at the rope burn in his palm.

He should’ve worn gloves.

There’s a drop of about two meters, which he clears easily but not without his knees taking some of the brunt.

He doesn’t bother to stick around; instead, he locates the nearest door, ripping it open and heading into the next room.

It’s dark as the night, his lumos having died down to something more manageable, only illuminating empty stone floors.

Something flutters in the air, tinkling and clinking like gemstones against each other, but the ceiling is too high to make out anything but a blurring swarm of ... something. Apprehensively he crosses through the room, stopping when he finds a broom hovering in the air, untouched by dust and time.

He remembers vaguely the tasks Harry Potter had to go through during the first book, but seeing it now reignites his memory.

Keys. Like a mockery of a Quidditch game. Honestly, why even provide a solution to the puzzle?

This all makes no sense.

If he were powerful enough, he’d simply blast out a wall and step through there. It’s not like wizards ever think to ward the spots next to the door, though Hogwarts’ walls are likely saturated and strengthened by magic after all these years. That aside, he still can’t imagine Dumbledore riding that broom and catching a key in order to hide away the philosopher’s stone. The man probably uses some obscure variation of the door-opening spell.

Now that he thinks about it… if the door is magically warded against opening, and only the right key provides the solution… Wizards are sometimes dumb like that.

Orion digs through his pockets as he makes his way over the heavy door with the tarnished silver hinges. He casts an ‘Alohomora’ first, just for the sake of it, but it remains locked. Then he finds a handful of sickles. Reshaping a material isn’t that hard of a transfiguration feat, and before long, he’s got a set of lockpicks.

Hunting after a random key will only hold him up.

Orion’s skills have become rusty in recent years, and despite the lock being a rather simple one, he pokes around it for an inordinate amount of time before finally it clicks open.

A laugh spills over his lips. This really shouldn’t be so easy.

He steps through the door without so much as a scratch, only for his elation to falter upon seeing the massive chess set that takes over the room.

He curses.

Orion is decent at chess, but his skills are nothing to brag about.

They turn their heads, one by one, when he approaches in an eerie display, accompanied by the grating sound of crunching stone.

Shrinking them might be feasible, but he doesn’t possess the skill to do that yet. Their size is one thing but they're complicated enchanted objects he figures even a seventh-year would struggle with. 

There’s nothing to it. He’ll have to play his way across.

Silently he makes his way over the checkered floor, past the legions of chess pawns who stare at him with silent judging eyes.

Orion takes the place of the king. He isn’t idiotic enough to play as anything else.

The game commences. Orion orders pawns around, sacrificing them as easily as he takes them, pieces shattered on the ground in violent displays of bloodthirstiness.

It’s incredibly loud and also time-consuming. It occurs to him, by the time he realises that he’s losing, that the traps might simply be a way to stall time. But he’s made his choice. There’s no going back.

“You,” he tells the queen, who’s been standing guard over him in silence, “take command of the board.” Desperate times make for desperate measures. And nobody likes losing.

It’s mayhem. Orion watches grinning as his side charges forward, obliterating the opposition in a merciless slaughter, stone and dust raining, using moves that would definitely be considered cheating.

Who knew that the sentience of these chess figures would play in his favour?

Orion bows to the queen, who is pummeling the opposite king with the butt of her sword, before stepping over the rubble and opening the door to the next room.

The stench gets to him first. Then he realises that he’s staring headfirst at a troll. Four meters tall, greenish hide, and ugly as hell. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck,” he blurts out, trying to get back, but the door seems to be locked. A death trap as it comes.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he whispers, putting a wall to his back and staring down the troll who turns its small head toward him, broad fingers clenching around its club. He cancels his lumos, drowning them in darkness.

The troll's eyes glint like yellow lanterns in the dark. Orion sneaks to the side, and not a second too late, a mighty crash sounds from where he just stood.

Oh yes. Nocturnal. A trait trolls share with many other dark creatures. He is so fucked.

Even knowing that next to nothing penetrates a troll’s hide, Orion tries anyway. Curses and hexes, and jinxes, flashing through the dark room. Nothing sticks. His incarceration is broken through by sheer strength within seconds. Everything bounces off the troll like water, only turning the small room more dangerous by all the ricocheting magic.

The troll is incensed, to say the least. Captivity hasn’t been kind to him, and Orion is his nearest target. It swings its club with a grunt, and Orion barely throws himself to the side.

The walls are scorched at this point, wood splinters littering the ground where the club struck and met hard stone instead of flesh.

There’s another door, and he sprints there, barely making it, only to find it locked as well. Fuck.

Orion is feeling hot and cold. What the fuck was he thinking? Think. Think!

But there is no time to think.

He has to jump aside again, barely escaping becoming a smear of blood and guts. The troll roars again.

Orion casts a blood-boiling curse, a magic so dark he found it in the back of Grimmauld Place’s library, where the books leave his fingers littered with blisters at a single touch.

He never managed to cast it successfully before.

It stalls the troll, briefly, and it groans, convulsing as the magic takes hold. But not good enough. Because suddenly, it fixes Orion with its beady, glowing eyes and roars.

It charges.

Orion runs. He slams against a wall, hands feeling the cold brick. He’s met a corner. A literal dead end. There is no way to go, no way out.

He turns, aiming his wand desperately, wielding the most destructive magic he knows. A curse not subject to skill but solely dependent on murderous intent. “Avada Kedavra.”

There’s a pull going from his hand all the way to his heart, dark and heady as his limb grows warm. A green flash illuminates the room.

The troll is way too close, barely a hairbreadth away from him. The only reason Orion isn’t dead is because his spell hit the troll in its open mouth.

Had it hit any other point of its body, Orion doesn’t know whether the magic would’ve stuck. He is truly a lucky fool.

The creature collapses right at his feet, slamming onto the floor with a mighty thud. Orion sinks to the floor as well, back against the wall, hands shaking.

The aftermath of the dark magic is still coursing through his veins. It’s euphoric.

He shouldn’t have done that.

His wand clatters to the floor.

Irrationally, he worms a trembling hand under his robes and shirt, palm pressing against the bare skin right above his violently hammering heart. It thumps in his chest, a quick staccato beat fluttering against his fingers, proving that he's still alive.

Something claws its way up his lungs, a bubble of emotions too complicated to put into words.

A sound bursts from his lips, then, echoing from the dark walls.

Orion laughs and laughs, to the point where he gasps for air.

Dark magic takes its toll. There’s a reason the books in Grimmauld burn and that Walburga told him to only use spells she approved and then under her explicit instruction.

It’s addictive, and it always comes with a cost. Even if his mind is not, his body is eleven. He’ll be changed irreparably by what he did, even though he built up some resilience growing up in Grimmauld Place and under Walburga’s tutelage.

Minutes must’ve gone by when Orion finally pulls himself up. His fingers itch for his wand, to cast more.

His body is still trembling from the high of using such a spell.

When he tries the door this time, it opens.

This room isn’t without light, for once. A wall of dark fire hisses up, licking at a doorway like an upside-down waterfall, purple flames behind him, black flames ahead of him.

Orion staggers inside, taking a look at the assortment of potions and a riddle written on a parchment, innocently placed on a desk. This appears almost tame after what he went through earlier.

It might not only have been the high of the spell that causes his legs to tremble, Orion thinks. The adrenaline is slowly wearing off, and he feels exhausted.

He takes the riddle, sitting down on the floor, leaning against a wall, and looks at it. He casts spells, absentmindedly, with his other hand.

Easy spells. First-year spells. Obscuring what he did. Wingardium Leviosa, Spongify, Rictum Sempra, Tergeo.

It takes him a bit, what with his whirling thoughts, being forced to read the riddle over and over till he finds the right phial.

There’s one with nettle wine as well, and he downs the blue concoction for good measure before he takes the other potion. He swallows the contents, invisible ice spreading through his torso and limbs, all the way down to his toes.

He steps through the fire. It tickles, like warm kisses. Finally, he thinks.

The room is illuminated by torches, with pillars supporting the ceiling.

Other than that, it is empty.

It takes Orion’s exhausted mind to comprehend that at first. “Are you shitting me?” he whispers. “FUCK!”

Orion rages. His magic whips around him, and fire scorches the stone walls as the torches flicker high thanks to his fury. All of this? For nothing?

He has to be forgetting something. Something that should be obvious but isn’t. The mirror is not there. The mirror with the stone. He was so sure.

Orion gathers himself. He searches the room from top to bottom, every corner, every seemingly hidden gap between the stones. No revelio and no point-me tells him anything more than he already knows.

It’s futile. The stone isn’t here. His time is up. He’s been gone for too long already. Orion wipes a hand over his face.

There is no other door leading out of the room. He can feel the potion creeping through his veins, losing its potency. He has to leave. Now.

Orion picks himself up, walks through the flames, and then finds the potion he needs to pass through the purple flames.

The troll is still dead. In a fit of irony, Orion uses Wingardium Leviosa to drop its club onto its head, again and again, till its skull has been turned into a bloody pulp.

He doesn’t look at it longer than he has to. The chess set is still in the process of reassembling itself.

His queen bows to him when he walks past.

Orion’s limbs are screaming at him by the time he’s cast another overpowered lumos, forcing the Devil’s Snare to release his rope, coiled around it like a beanstalk.

He climbs up, dragging himself over the edge. He wants to lie down on the ground and just rest, but the Cerberus is stirring. Thus, he burns the rope to cinders with a hoarsely whispered ‘incendio,’ staring at the ashes when-

“What do you think you are doing?!” Snape snarls, standing in the doorway like a vengeful god, his expression dark. “Get out of here!”

The three-headed dog behind him growls, now fully awake. Snape rips Orion toward him by his collar, shoving him out of the room and slamming the door shut, just when the beast pounces.

Thumps sound as the Cerberus snaps and snarls behind the door, ramming against it.

Orion coughs, rubbing at his sore throat, and then Snape is already there, pushing him against the wall at wand-point. His shoulders ache from the force used to toss him into it.

“What in Merlin’s name possessed you to enter this room after the headmaster so explicitly forbade it?! And do not dare lie to me, Black!”

Orion can smell his whisky-sour breath on his face, Snape staring him into submission. The man’s robe is only halfway buttoned.

Orion takes care not to directly look into Snape’s eyes.

His own mind is churning. The jig is up.

“You’re hurting me, Sir,” he starts, in an attempt to stall, eyes fixed on the wand pressed against his collarbone.

Snape knows. But how much does he know? It all hinges on the details.

How long was Snape standing there?

“I don’t give a rat’s ass,” Snape says in an uncharacteristic display of losing his composure. “I do not care about your lineage, or money, or parentage! I will have you expelled, if not worse, if you do not spill this instant!”

Snape gives himself away, though by bringing it up. He cares about Orion’s father being Sirius Black. It’s the whole reason why he has a grudge against him. He’ll believe a lie if it’s a lie he wants to believe.

Orion tries to make himself look petulant, puffing up his chest in confident self-importance. “Technically, we were only warned to stay clear of this corridor if we didn’t want to die a painful death, Sir,” he says provocatively. “Perhaps I’m just suicidal.”

He risks meeting Snape’s black eyes for a moment, staring daringly as he focuses on his dislike for the man.

Snape’s expression turns thunderous, and Orion swiftly looks away.

“Besides, it’s not like I could’ve known Professor Quirrel kept a bloody Cerberus as a pet in there!”

Snape stares at him for another second before he lets him go with a disgusted expression. “You truly are suicidal if you think you can get away with this behaviour. I shouldn’t be surprised. Just like your father. Sneaking out after curfew, stalking a professor—fifty points from Slytherin for your conduct and blatant dismissal of the rules. And a month’s detention.”

His thin lips curl around his teeth with disdain as he puts his wand away. “Get out of my eyes.”

Orion leaves. His knees buckle as soon as he’s around the corner. He can’t believe he got away with this. If he were part of any other house, it would’ve been a hundred points at the least.

But then he’s reminded of the fruitlessness of the whole endeavor. He barely restrains himself from punching a wall and heads back to his common room instead, his feet dragging.

Exhaustion spreads through his body, all the way to his bones.

Zabini doesn’t even stir when he slips into his bed.

Slytherin house is in an uproar the next day when the enormous drop of points gets out. Nobody’s able to pin it on Orion yet, but it’s only a matter of time. A note about his scheduled detentions arrives via school owl during breakfast, and before long, suspicious gazes are trailing him.

If he was a social pariah before courtesy of his parentage, Slytherin house has joined the fray.

They cannot quite cut him off, not as a Black, but their silence in his presence speaks volumes.

He’s hexed twice in the common room, the perpetrator a smug-looking third year and another, whom he didn’t see. His homework mysteriously vanishes from his bag.

Orion seethes.

It takes him four days before he gets the opportunity to sneak into the third year’s room, where he curses every one of their belongings to cause painful blisters when touched and spills a whole pint of rat innards in their trunk. He manages to convince Millicent to get her older brother to ask around in order to figure out who the other person was who hexed him.

They cannot pin their missing essays on him, nor the cursed coin stuffed into their mattress—sent to him courtesy of Kreacher—which causes rather gruesome night terrors.

Nevertheless, it sends a message, and he feels like Francis Bulstrode regards him with newfound respect.

Every day for the rest of the week he’s to report to Snape for his detentions. The remaining ones are to be held after break.

Orion spends his afternoons gutting frogs, exsanguinating bats, and squeezing flobberworm juice, only interrupted by him being forced to scrub cauldrons without magic while Snape breathes down his neck with the threatening intensity of a vampire.

Orion avoids his eyes as much as he can.

He’s exhausted every time he returns to his dorm, falling into his bed, but sleep won’t come.

Insomnia plagues him, interchanged with strange and violent dreams, dark circles underlining his bloodshot eyes, which he’s only able to disguise via freshening charms that make his face look dewy no matter what.

His emotions are even more volatile, and he has a hard time containing himself. Rationally he knows what’s at fault.

Dark magic takes its toll after all.

He craves nicotine for the first time in years, if only to take the edge off.

Every shade of green coming even close to that flash of light causes Orion’s mind to drift back to that moment. He recalls vividly how it felt to cast it. The almost physical pull of the spell. The sense of power it evoked and the heady euphoria that followed in its wake.

And he could’ve left it alone if it were only that.

But Orion didn’t expect it to work. Not really.

Casting the killing curse had been an impulsive measure driven by desperation, and yet…

And yet.

He wonders.

Orion's breath fogs up the air as he whispers the words to the most infamous of all unforgivables for a second time out on the vast grounds sprawling around Hogwarts—almost hidden among the shadows of the trees at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest.

The spider his wand is pointed at doesn’t so much as twitch; instead, it merrily continues her path up the frostbitten bark of a tall pine.

There are two overlapping trails of footsteps in the snow left in Orion's wake and no dead spiders.

Between his detentions and his sleepless nights, Orion has more than enough time to ponder the circumstances of the obstacle course hidden in the castle with no philosopher’s stone in sight.

It all reeks of a trap of some kind. And how did Snape know that he entered those rooms in the first place? Was it Dumbledore’s way to simply occupy Quirrel, or has he not hidden the stone yet? It all seems so illogical. Overall, the fact that Orion managed to break through the course speaks to it being placed there with intentions other than keeping Quirrel out. Stalling for time seems to be the most viable reason why those asinine obstacles have been placed there in the first place. Perhaps to grant a chance to catch him in the act. 

He vows to look into spells that detect even the subtlest of magics, if only to find whatever alarm he might’ve triggered.

Still, Orion can’t help but wonder whether Dumbledore deliberately instigated the whole thing so Harry Potter would end up facing Voldemort.

After all, it’s not like the obstacles are much of a hindrance. The key room shouldn’t be a problem for Potter as a Quidditch prodigy, and Ron Weasley is a well-known chess player for how often he does it during his break times at the house tables. Granger, who has joined their little club, is book-smart and intelligent enough to solve a small riddle, and it’s not like they haven’t taken on a troll before, as the rumour mill in Hogwarts can attest to.

There was something about that mirror, yet Orion cannot for the life of him recall.

That cursed mirror. It’s on his mind more often than not.

Perhaps—perhaps he cannot rely on his foreknowledge as much as he thought. And that is a frightening thought.

Chapter Text

Narcissa waits at the platform to pick him and Draco up at the start of the winter holidays. Walburga’s health is in a precarious balance, and she’s simply too weak to make the trip herself. “You’ll floo over from the Manor,” Narcissa tells him as soon as they’ve parted from the masses, waiting for Lucius to conclude his social niceties.

“How is she?” Orion asks, readjusting the tie of the leisurewear he and Draco changed into earlier. If his suit and Draco’s cashmere sweater count as such.

“Stable,” Narcissa says, a small frown between her delicately shaped brows. “Neither better nor worse. But this is not a conversation to be had here.”

Orion nods, joining her in watching Draco animatedly talking to Vincent.

They don’t have to wait long. Lucius emerges after having extricated himself from his conversation with Amos Diggory, his expression as always phlegmatic in such public settings, but his eyes are crinkling as he takes in Draco.

“Father!” Draco greets him enthusiastically as soon as he sees him before forcibly tempering himself. It’s a bit funny, his attempt to emulate Lucius, like a stoic little copy next to him before his father puts his hand on his shoulder, heavy signet ring glinting. Narcissa takes Orion’s hand, and then they apparate into the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor.

“Dobby,” Narcissa calls almost instantly, handing off their luggage to the house-elf, who almost falls over himself in order to comply.

Now, out of the public eye, the real greetings commence. Narcissa hugs Draco, and Lucius even lets a small smile break through.

“It’s good to see you boys whole and hale. You can regale us with your tales during dinner,” Narcissa says. “You must be starving.”

“Indeed,” Lucius drawls, smiling. “I remember what they fed us there; you’ll be glad to lay eyes on some proper food again.”

Trust Lucius to also consider the Hogwarts food substandard. Although a small part of Orion gets where he’s coming from. He’s been spoilt by Kreacher's cooking and expensive restaurant food for the last decade. His palate is more refined than it ever was in his prior life, though he wouldn’t say no to some greasy fish and chips from time to time. Not that he ever really gets the opportunity to indulge.

Still, Orion is itching to floo home. He wants to see his grandmother with his own eyes.

Narcissa ushers them toward the dining room, Orion taking his place to Draco’s left. Dinner is already served, a steaming soup à la savoyarde waiting under warming charms.

Orion is used to silence during meals, but it isn’t handled as strictly in the Malfoy household.

“How has Hogwarts been treating you so far?” Narcissa inquires. “You have been writing, but there must be things you left out.”

Draco immediately perks up, starting to chatter about this and that, from the quality of his dorms, the merpeople swimming by the Slytherin common room, his classes, peers, and teachers.

“-Professor Snape is great, truly. Of course he favours me; I am his best student after all, but for some reason he doesn’t seem to like Orion.”

Orion snorts at that.

Lucius sits up straighter. “Is that so?”

“He treats him like Longbottom if he’d ended up in Slytherin,” Draco says.

“God forbid,” Orion replies. “Can you imagine?”

Draco sniggers. “Good grief.” His eyes widen with horror as he looks at Orion. “Imagine you’d have to partner up with him in potions.”

“Fuck no,” Orion retorts reflexively at the mental image. Longbottom is many things, but adept at potions, he is not. At this point, Snape has had to assign him partners twice because even the Gryffindors have begun to look at him as if he were a walking, talking game of Russian roulette.

Narcissa daintily dabs her lips with a napkin, clearing her throat in a disapproving manner.

Lucius raises an eyebrow. “You better not let Walburga hear you speak like that. Hogwarts really must’ve gone downhill if such rhetoric has become the norm.”

Orion’s hand flexes around his spoon, lips pressed together. Without Walburga around to chastise him each and every time he so much as ventures into the direction of overstepping that invisible line, he’s become careless.

“Regarding Severus’ treatment of yours, I’m not surprised,” Narcissa says after a moment, returning to the prior topic as she raises her wine glass to her lips. She takes a measured sip before continuing. “He was always petty. He and Sirius had this rivalry going on between them, back at school, if one can even call it that. He was jealous, and Sirius didn’t hold back with his hexes. He always was a volatile child,” she says almost fondly. “Would you like me to intervene on your behalf?” Her silver gaze rests on Orion. “I could write to Severus.”

“I doubt it would do much,” Orion says, honestly. If Walburga’s vocal disapproval of Snape didn’t bear much fruit, he doesn’t think Narcissa’s approach would either. The opposite is likely true if he thinks of the spitefulness of the man.

“Do let me know in case you change your mind.”

“You’ve made good use of the duelling room, I’ve heard,” Lucius says, shortly after their main course has appeared in front of them, delivered via elven magic.

Draco grins. “Every Sunday.”

Lucius looks at him fondly. “Who takes part in your little club?”

“Well, there’s Vince and Greg, of course, and Zabini on occasion.” Draco looks at Orion for confirmation.

“He’s more of an onlooker. Apparently he’s got a tutor at home who—and I quote—is vastly superior to anything he could learn there.”

“That is rather shortsighted of him. Duelling is perfected by practice, although he has a point. We should get an instructor for you, Draco, this summer.” Lucius swishes the liquor in his glass. “I heard of a man from Poland who has made a name for himself recently in the tournaments. He is looking for a patron; I don’t doubt he could be convinced to spare some hours of his time.”

Orion saws into the piece of meat on his plate to keep his hands from fidgeting. “How is grandmother?” he asks the question that has been burning on his tongue since his arrival here.

Narcissa shifts in her chair. “Her condition has been the same, for the most part. On some days she’s bedbound; on others she’s well enough to invite me over for tea. Though I can tell it’s a strain on her.”

“I’m surprised a woman of that constitution can even fall ill,” Lucius voices.

Narcissa silences him with a pointed look.

“And nobody knows what it is?” Orion enquires further, not even realising how he’s leaning over the table in his eagerness to hear more.

“Not as far as we know. The healers’ best guess is that it’s some kind of strain related to the dragon pox, but nothing came of it.”

Lucius’ hand twitches around his glass.

Abraxas died when both Orion and Draco were eight, and he’d been wasting away for nearly a year in a shut-off room in the west wing of the Manor with visitations strictly regulated. Orion met him only once at the man’s insistence, no less. It was a strange ten minutes, staring at his haggard silhouette through an opaque curtain, listening to a voice spitting vitriol against mudbloods and blood traitors and talking about the glorious old days, almost delirious with fever. He caught a glimpse of a withered old hand then, green and littered with scales.

They attended the funeral, and it’s the only time he saw Lucius drunk.

“Sirius Black’s spawn, eh? You better not bring more shame upon your name,” Abraxas had said in the few moments he’d been coherent. “Blood runs thick in your family, and so does insanity. Even Orion, cold as he was, still placed his hopes in the boy, even after that harpy of a wife of his banished him out of the house. Rightly so, if you ask me. I’m no stranger to disappointing sons. I sure hope you were raised better. This whole generation... gone to the dogs. Back in my day—"

He’d devolved into an incoherent rant then, and five minutes later a house elf had escorted him back out.

Dinner commences, and before long, Orion is saying his goodbyes to the Malfoys and steps into a whirlwind of green flames.

The gloomy interior of Grimmauld Place is a stark contrast to the bright and vast rooms of Malfoy Manor. Shadowy corners and dark ceilings illuminated by flickering lights, accompanied by the whisperings of portraits and the aura of the house so different from the wide hallways and polished marble floors with crystal chandeliers and windows overlooking the sprawling grounds in Wiltshire.

Something in Orion settles.

Kreacher materialises almost as soon as he’s spelt the remnants of ashes from his clothes in an almost absentee manner.

“The young Master has returned,” Kreacher croaks, his elation only visible in the deep bow and the glint of his eyes. A snap of his fingers and Orion’s suitcase vanishes from the steps of the fireplace.

Kreacher fusses around him for a bit, sizing him up, snarling about how the Hogwarts’ house elves undoubtedly have done a lesser job of feeding him than a scion of the house of Black deserves.

“Mistress is resting right now,” Kreacher voices after a while, and Orion interrupts his rant.

“How is she?”

Kreacher halts, fidgeting almost. His eyes shift uncomfortably, and his leathery ears twitch nervously. “Sickly she’s been, yes. Poor mistress, suffering from a disease that the incompetent healers couldn’t heal. Galleons and galleons they've taken for their services without a betterment in sight. Robbers and thieves they all are, but the mistress won’t listen to poor old Kreacher, no, she won’t.”

“Is she dying?” Orion asks bluntly.

A shudder goes through Kreacher, from his ears all the way to his bare feet. “No, no. The mistress is alive. Still alive. Yes, the old Master Orion, he was sick for a long time before he died. The mistress has only been sick for a few months.” He continues to mutter under his breath, incoherently.

Orion looks at him, the obvious distress in his manner, but he daren’t ask again. The elf is as attached to Walburga as he ever was, yet then again, he’s been serving their family for nearly three hundred years if the dusty records buried in the cellar are anything to go by. If someone would know it’s dire, he would be it.

He does feel a bit relieved at that. “I want to speak to her.”

“Mistress is in her room. Kreacher will see whether she’s awake.” But he shouldn’t have bothered, as Walburga shows up in that moment, a royal blue leisure robe wrapped tightly around her thin frame, her loose hair falling onto her back, silver now, with a few black streaks here and there, gripping the railing of the staircase with a bony hand. Her cheeks are more hollow now, lines around her mouth pronounced. Her skin is sallow and her eyes are sunken in.

She does look sick. Like she’s aged years instead of months.

“Oh, no,” Kreacher cries out, apparating instantly to her side, reaching out to support Walburga by the elbow. “What is Mistress doing up? She should be resting!” he voices sternly.

“Oh, cease your fretting,” Walburga chides him. “My grandson has returned from Hogwarts. It’s only right that I should greet him.”

She smiles, thin skin stretching tightly over her features. Orion smiles back reflexively, but the warm greeting does nothing to assuage his fears. The opposite really. He’d expected a lecture after what she must’ve undoubtedly heard of his conduct in Hogwarts. A month’s detention and his less-than-stellar reputation in Slytherin, which must’ve made the round even with students knowing better than to blab about a Black, despite the name meaning less than it did a generation ago if the current political climate is anything to go by.

Walburga makes her way down the steps at a measured pace, shaking off Kreacher, who fusses and fidgets next to her, his face going through all kinds of expressions at the obvious refusal of his assistance.

“Come here. Let me look at you,” she says, as she reaches the bottom of the stairs, while Orion stands uncertain, finally shaken out of his stupor.

He makes his way over to his grandmother, noting for the first time that he’s grown at least half an inch, and she puts her hands on his shoulders. He can’t help but notice that they’re shaking slightly.

Her penetrating gaze takes him in from head to toe, and he lets her turn his face to her liking as she studies his features.

Some kind of emotion flickers over her face.

“It is late. I’ve heard you’ve had dinner with the Malfoys.”

Orion nods, a heavy lump in his throat.

“I shall retire for the night. We’ll speak tomorrow. I’ve arranged for lessons with a tutor in subjects we’ve neglected so far. Kreacher shall inform you.”

“Goodnight,” Orion says, watching Walburga turn around and up the stairs again, slowly and with shallow breaths, hand always on the railing.

She looks old, he thinks. Frailty. And there is nothing he can do.

He takes breakfast by himself the next morning. A first in the whole of ten years he’s lived at Grimmauld Place.

“The mistress is indisposed,” Kreacher says, bustling around the dining room in a way he would usually refrain from, dusting the china and stoking the fire with a meticulousness that isn’t really needed.

Orion spends his first morning back home prowling around the hallways and rooms as well as the library, inhaling the familiar smell of dust and old books, diving into literature he’s sorely missed in Hogwarts, and lounging in the large claw-footed bathtub for about an hour, enjoying the privacy he sorely lacks at school.

At lunchtime, Walburga’s already seated, dressed, and with hair pinned up, sipping on a cup of tea. Only the rhythmic pattern of the steam betrays it as holding a potion.

Her hands don’t shake, and her face is as contained as always.

The meal served is venison bourguignon, and they don’t break their silence until after all their plates are cleared, upon which his grandmother chokes any enquiries about her health at the root and instead asks about Hogwarts.

Orion repeats in court sentences what he’s already relayed via letter.

Then, the lecture he expected finally comes.

Orion is subjected to thirty minutes of uninterrupted nitpicking of his conduct—about how he should be ashamed of his being a hat stall, how his lack of networking will cost him in the long run, and the disappointment that is him catching himself a month-long detention only three months into his school year.

At that point, he’s about ready to jam his knife into the table, silently seething.

The polished surface is only saved since Walburga decides then to veer off into the topic of how he shouldn’t heed the spreading of rumours about his ambiguous parentage since it stems from a place of jealousy anyway—a speech that devolves predictably into one about the benefits of pure breeding. When his grandmother goes into detail about Arcturus the First’s ancestry, his eyes honestly glaze over a little bit, but it’s a vastly preferable alternative to the scathing remarks about his persona, which he has a harder time bearing the older he gets.

Orion spends his afternoon venting his frustrations by ordering Kreacher to find spiders and rats on which he practices dark hexes, and when those come into short supply, he pettily curses various drawers to bite whoever’s going to attempt to open them next.

Around tea time, Kreacher announces that Walburga expects him in the drawing room.

There she introduces him to an ancient-looking wizard called Mr. Brockenburg. He is lean like a beanstalk and clad in an old-fashioned robe thrown over an equally out-of-date suit—his high collar looks like it’s about to cut into his throat, so tightly it appears to be cinched by his necktie.

He has a voice that reminds Orion of dried parchment.

As it turns out, the duties he’s been neglecting in learning are not of an academic nature, but instead, the old wizard came to instruct him in the matters of estate management as well as the convoluted and whimsical laws of the Wizengamot.

Two hours daily, for the duration of the winter break. There’s no discussion, no asking for his opinion.

The study once inhabited by none other than his namesake won’t open for anyone but the heir to the family. It does not budge for Walburga, nor him.

Not even Kreacher, bound by old orders as he is.

That evening, Walburga sits Orion down in the kitchen, in front of the flickering fireplace, and begins to instruct him in the obscure practice of Occlumency.

“It’s difficult magic, hard to teach and harder to learn. You are young, but one can’t be too careful. For some, this type of magic takes years to master, but I expect you to keep up with it even at school.”

Ironically enough, the hour that follows feels more like meditation than anything else.

Yule, Orion spends at Malfoy Manor, with Walburga abstaining attendance for once, and Orion left under the care of Narcissa and Lucius, sleeping over in the guest room adjacent to Draco’s alongside a few schoolmates.

The girls have been ushered into another suite as proprietary takes presidency. Idiotic, considering they’re all eleven.

Orion wakes in the middle of the night with the Malfoy house elf standing above him. Dobby bids him to follow him with a whisper.

Orion complies, still somewhat groggy with sleep, tiptoeing past the unconscious forms of the boys sharing his room, rubbing at his eyes, and shuffling out into the hallway, where Narcissa is waiting for him with a dark, fur-lined cloak held in her arms and his boots.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep.

“The witching hour approaches,” she says, a small conspiratorial smile on her face. She looks younger, with the way her eyes twinkle mischievously.

It’s an impression only aided by the absence of the silver pins she wore in her hair earlier, now falling onto her shoulders in artfully messy waves, half-melted snowflakes clinging to it, the white fur of her fox stole resting on top of her silvery, shimmering cloak matching her dress.

“I see, Aunt Walburga didn’t tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

She’s almost grinning now. Orion thinks she must be a bit tipsy. She hands him the dark cloak, and Orion pulls it over his shoulders. It’s slightly too big, dragging on the floor.

“A family tradition. You’ve started your first year at Hogwarts. It’s time to see what fortunes your future holds, don’t you think?”

“What about Draco?” he asks, stepping into his boots.

Narcissa smiles a close-lipped smile. “Draco… He shares our blood, but he will always be a Malfoy first.”

The diamond bracelet around Narcissa’s wrist sparkles when she reaches out to fix Orion’s cloak, smoothing it down over his shoulders.

“Now come,” she says with a hushed voice and a pretty smile. “It’s almost time.”

Together they step out through the large glass doors opening up to the grounds behind Malfoy Manor, the lights from the ballroom spilling out through the windows, illuminating the snow.

Orion’s breath fogs up the cold winter air, the occasional star blinking through the cloudy sky.

They walk past the trees sparkling with the light of the fairies floating between the branches—still and ethereal, like little glass figurines frozen in time—the skeletal rose bushes, and the evergreen hedges, toward the farther end of the property encircled by the stone walls.

Where they meet in a corner, a tall pine tree looms.

Beneath, a black goat is tied to a peg, illuminated barely by a single yule log burning.

Around it, braziers are set up intermittently on the snow-covered lawn, little more than a dozen people standing in small groups, talking and laughing, throwing flickering shadows onto the snow, crystal glasses held in their bejewelled hands, glinting in the firelight.

A few heads turn at their approach, eyes following them.

Lucius extracts himself from a conversation with Nott and Millicent’s parents and a stunning woman. Orion recognises Blaise’s mother from the photograph he put up on their wall. He pats Nott on the back before turning towards them, snow crunching beneath his feet, his pale hair and face seemingly aglow in the night, a crystal goblet in his hands.

Narcissa reaches towards him. Lucius grasps her hand as he steps close, bringing it to his mouth and brushing a kiss against her knuckles.

Her laughter tinkles through the night before he hands her the drink he was holding on to.

“Is everything prepared?” she asks, while Lucius remains standing close, a hand on his arm.

“Yes. We were just waiting for you,” her husband replies, smiling, a teasing hint to his voice.

“Who’ll do the honours this year?”

“Miss Zabini offered, but I know how you Blacks are with your traditions,” Lucius says, his nose wrinkling a bit, but Narcissa smiles.

She turns to look at Orion.

“Would you mind assisting me, cousin?”

Lucius also looks at him. His face is serious, a stark contrast to Narcissa’s smile. “There’s no shame in declining the offer. I myself have never participated in the ritual, and I’m off no worse for it. While Narcissa informs me that Walburga approved of this, that doesn’t mean that you’ll have to play an active part in it. Draco won’t join us until he’s at least thirteen, and even then, he’ll merely stand witness. You’re still young. There’s always next year if you’d rather wait.

He cuts himself off when Narcissa softly squeezes his arm.

Looking at Orion, she nevertheless says, “Tradition it might be, but there’s no obligation. It’s up to you.”

Orion looks past them, at the goat scratching at the snow with its hoof beneath the tree. Recalls a wine-red stain standing out against the snow.

He’s already decided when he turns back to look at Narcissa.

“What’d my father do?“ He asks anyway, because he honestly doesn’t know what the answer would be.

Surprisingly enough, it’s Lucius who speaks up first. “I believe he jumped at the chance. I remember, because Bellatrix wouldn’t stop gloating about it for the longest time,” he adds with a slightly souring expression.

Narcissa’s mouth twitches. “Indeed,” she voices. “Your uncle Regulus was the opposite, though. Sirius mocked him for it to the point where they ended up duelling on the lawn until your grandmother intervened. They caused quite a scene.”

Lucius seems mirthful when he supplies, “Some rare winter-blooming roses ended up in the crossfire. My father was quite furious about it. He’d just had them imported from Siberia or thereabouts, if I recall correctly.”

Narcissa smiles indulgently before she turns her attention upon Orion.

“So, what do you say?”

Orion is standing in the shade of the large pine tree, holding on to the cord wrapped around the goat’s neck, its body pressed against his thighs.

The faces of the people gathered around are shrouded in ever-moving shadows, illuminated dimly where the light of the yule log reaches, their hair and hoods haloed from the backlight of the braziers.

Most of them are familiar, from galas and gatherings, and even a few older teenagers, he believes to have seen lounging about the Slytherin common room before. He doesn’t linger on it.

Whatever hushed conversations were still taking place die down once Narcissa rids herself of her cloak, producing a long bejewelled athame, and begins to chant.

It’s old English, words repetitive as she begins to describe a circle around the ritual space with her featherlight steps.

She touches the goat, the yule log, and Orion in passing. To what aim, he doesn’t quite know.

The air begins to feel heavy with anticipation and something else. An intangible sensation, ominous and electrifying, like the air before a lightning strike.

Narcissa walks another circle before she pauses and approaches Orion. Her blade shimmers reddish in the light of the burning yule log as she grips the goat firmly by its horns.

Words roll over her tongue.

The animal bleats, the white of its eyes visible as it tries to free its head.

Orion holds on tighter and grips the other horn to help her.

Narcissa cuts its throat with a decisive gesture.

Blood splatters onto the pristine white snow.

It dies there, right under the tree.

Orion pants, clouds of breath dissipating in the air.

Narcissa’s chant has simmered down to something quiet and indecipherable.

She crouches down, heedless of the blood, and cuts the animal’s belly open, innards spilling out onto the snow.

The smell of blood is cloying in the air. Orion can taste it, like copper on his tongue.

Narcissa places its liver in his hands.

It’s warm, residue heat made visible by steam rising above it.

Warm liquid seeps between his fingers, dripping onto his shoes.

A black-clad witch steps forward—her resemblance to Pansy betraying her identity—a small nose and dark hair coiffed in a tight chignon, silver earrings dangling next to her neck.

Wordlessly, Narcissa hands her the athame.

She stops in front of Orion, dagger in the one hand, grasping his wrist with the other.

He sucks in a sharp breath, instinctively drawing away, when she drags the edge of the blade over the back of his hands.

Her watery eyes fixate on him, the grip around his wrist briefly tightening.

His own blood wells up, mixing with the mess dripping past his knuckles.

Images flash behind his lids. Brief impressions, fleeting sensations, gone before he can grasp them.

Pansy’s mother slides his hand over his wound.

It stings.

When she brings it up, her palm is streaked with blood.

Staring at him unblinkingly, she lifts it to her mouth, licking it.

Abruptly, her red-painted lips part. Eyes distant as she looks through him, her pupils wide and dark.

“I see hardship,” she says in her deep voice, “A gaping wound struck. Wealth in the face of loss. A snake devouring its own tail. A dark rose blooming in a dying winter. A grim on a hill, biding its time.”

She blinks, coming back to herself.

Turning her head, she spits.

Then, she adjusts her grip on the athame, wiping it on her sleeve, before she cuts the liver still held in Orion’s hands from one end to the other.

Her eyes fixed on the organ, she drags her tongue over the flat edge of the bloodstained blade, and her gaze clouds again.

“A forked path,” she announces, louder now, so that everybody can hear. “The White Rider on one, a snake-tailed lion on the other. A man with two faces, shrouded in shadows. A red horse birthing a foal—its fate, not yet determined. Rain falling onto a grave, washing away the earth. A skull is revealed. A green serpent, coiling. Change is upon us.”

Hushed whispers sound through the air.

Mrs. Parkinson’s eyes clear with a sudden inhale, and she steps back.

Narcissa approaches. In her hands, a golden bowl, containing the lungs, heart, and stomach of the goat.

Zabini’s mother steps forward, reaching inside and taking the heart.

Mrs. Parkinson turns towards her.

Orion flinches when a hand suddenly lands on his shoulder.

Lucius is standing next to him.

A brief pressure, indicating Orion to follow him.

Lucius guides him through the partially dispersing crowd. Most appear to have lost interest in the happenings in favour of returning to their drinks and conversations, already discussing the words that were spoken.

Beneath the pine tree, Pansy’s mother is still whispering to Mrs. Zabini, too low to be understood, a couple of people still standing there, waiting.

They stop next to a brazier, and Lucius looks pointedly and a little disgusted at the organ still clasped in Orion’s hands. “You may toss it into the fire now,” he says, and Orion follows his suggestion.

It lands, with a splat, flames briefly stifled, logs hissing when some of blood evaporates on impact, before the smell of cooking meat starts to permeate the air.

“Your hands,” Lucius says, and Orion presents his bloodied palms.

Lucius spells away the blood in a wave of prickling magic, and Orion watches how his shallow wounds close right in front of his eyes.

When he looks up, Lucius is staring into the brazier, wrinkling his nose. “Always a mess. But I suppose there isn’t anything to be done about it.”

He waves his wand, and a drink materialises in his fingers, golden liquid shimmering inside a heavy tumbler. Only then does he turn back to look at Orion.

“What did you think of it?” he asks him.

Orion tilts his head, considering.

“It was... interesting,” he settles on eventually. Mrs. Parkinson’s words are still on the forefront of his mind.

Lucius makes an amused sound. “That’s certainly one way to put it. Tradition aside, this ritual is rather …archaic.” He might as well have used the word ‘disgusting’ going by the tone of his voice.

Orion is amused, despite himself, while Lucius takes a sip of his drink.

He guesses the man would rather stroll robeless through the Ministry than be caught dead handling the bloody organ of an animal.

“Even with someone who’s got an inclination for the sight, it’s a cryptic business. Hindsight is one thing, but interpreting the foretellings accurately is a skill in itself. If it could induce prophecies, well, that would be an entirely different matter,” Lucius muses out loud.

“Did you ever have your future predicted?” Orion asks him, already suspecting an answer in the negative.

“Once,” the man replies. “Though given the obscurity of the information, I found it to be more useful to dedicate myself to matters other than trying to decipher words shrouded in symbolism.”

“I see,” Orion says.

To him, Mrs. Parkinson’s predictions aren’t that obscure after all. Though he supposes he’s got an advantage in that regard.

“How would you interpret her words anyway?” he asks anyway.

Lucius tilts his head. “Well, change is hardly to be misunderstood, nor a branching path. The White Rider usually stands for conquest, while a chimaera sometimes refers to something that is hoped for yet impossible to achieve.”

“But it wasn’t a chimaera, was it?” Orion interjects. “It was a snake-tailed lion.”

Lucius smiles at him over the rim of his glass. “Indeed. And that’s where we tread into the murky waters of divination. Was it a half-creature, a shadow of a chimaera, or something else entirely?”

Orion chews on his lip. “What about the rest? The snake and the skull.”

Lucius' smile drops. “It’s easy to jump to conclusions. Context matters in interpreting such things. A serpent is also a symbol of healing and transformation. Paired with the grave, it might indicate rebirth. A claim that may only be underlined by the birth of the foal. There are countless ways to look upon a prediction like that.”

“A foal born to a red horse,” Orion remembers. “And on it sat, who was granted to take peace from Earth, and that men would slay one another.”

“That wasn’t part of it, now, was it?” Lucius enquires, seemingly torn between amusement and apprehension.

“No,” Orion says. “That’s a different prophecy.”

“Dare I ask where you heard that one?”

“I read it once. A long time ago. It refers to the personification of war.”

“A quite gruesome interpretation,” Lucius concedes, staring into his glass. After a moment, he voices, “And what of your fortune? What will the future bring?” seemingly intent on shifting towards lighter topics.

“Death,” Orion says, robbing him of that delusion. And rather cynically he adds, “And an inheritance following in its wake.”

Lucius downs his drink. “At least you shan’t be surprised,” he voices in a rare show of dark humour.

The next morning brings a decadent breakfast served by the elves, while the adults pretend that they’re not waiting for their hangover cures to kick in.

Orion lets himself be roped into playing a few bouts of Quidditch out on the fields while the girls fawn over the Abraxans further out, somewhat glad for their innocent obliviousness to it all.

He arrives back home in time for lunch, Walburga notably absent again.

Her tremors have become more pronounced, and she’s coughing throughout the day. A wet hacking that is only stymied by potions.

Knowing her sickness is progressing is one thing. Seeing it play out in front of his eyes is another.

There’s a greenish tint to her pallor now, and even though she lacks the scale-like rash that usually accompanies the late stages of dragon-pox, it's distinct enough.

She ignores his enquiries and instead makes sure he’s too busy to take more of a passing note of her illness, but he does take note.

Even between dancing lessons, ventures into estate management and occlumency, he’s vividly aware of her declining health.

It’s an odd rhythm that he falls into, and his holiday at Grimmauld Place feels less like a break and more like a school of a different kind. There are no Quidditch games watched, nor a vacation home visited or social gatherings attended. Orion’s days are filled with learning and the quiet realisation that Kreacher is handling half a dozen potions while preparing each meal, which find their way into Walburga’s portions and teas.

Eventually, though, the winter holidays come to a close, and when it’s time to say goodbye, he clings to her form in an unbecoming manner, yet she does not chide him.

She hugs him tight as well, brushing curls away from his face with a gentleness she rarely displays.

“Make your house proud,” she tells him before pushing him towards the floor. She’s not speaking about Slytherin.

He arrives at Malfoy Manor, where Lucius and Draco are already waiting for him.

“Narcissa is tied up with some business regarding our estates in France,” Lucius tells him, “though she asked me to give her regards. She had to depart earlier.”

Orion nods his acceptance.

Lucius goes on about the ridiculousness of them having to take the train; for all that he is a staunch supporter of traditions, he disagrees on the hassle of not simply flooing to Scotland.

Orion is much of the same opinion.

He apparates them to the train station, seeing them off with a brisk goodbye as he is also rather pressed for time, and so it’s Orion and Draco who board the train by themselves.

Orion pretends to listen to Pansy’s ravings about her vacation in Greece, but his mind is elsewhere as he watches the landscape rushing by outside the window.

Walburga will die. And from what he’s seen, it’s sooner than later.

Two days after he’s back at Hogwarts, he wakes up in a cold sweat, his mattress drenched and with a green rash on his neck. Everything devolves into panic.

Orion laughs maniacally when a different interpretation of his fortune unfolding occurs to him.

Snape is the one who escorts him to the hospital wing, having ordered all the students not to touch any of Orion’s possessions before the elves can take care of it.

It takes not even five minutes before Madame Pomfrey declares that he caught the dragon pox.

She orders Snape to get all of his classmates into the hospital wing for an examination while she’s already ushering him into an isolated bed at the furthest corner of the room.

The winter break falls in their favour. Orion wasn’t around any of them long enough to have gotten them exposed. Not even Draco.

Orion himself is not so lucky.

Fever sets in within half a day.

It’s miserable. Orion’s itching all over, skin flaking off in greenish scales, shivering and yet feeling like he’s burning up at the same time.

The potions he has to down taste bitter and have the consistency of a chunky stew.

There are no visitors, save for Madame Pomfrey and the occasional house elf helping him to the loo or wiping off sweat. In his delirium he confuses them with Kreacher.

Over time, the small side table next to the bed starts to overflow with flowers, cards, and chocolate frogs sent by various schoolmates.

He dreams of Bella singing to him.

He asks for his grandmother.

She doesn’t show.

Orion’s fever breaks on the seventh day. He reads the cards and the letter penned in Kreacher’s distinct calligraphy, wishing him a swift recovery and informing him that private healers have been contacted.

Walburga’s signature beneath is shaky.

Madame Pomfrey declares him fit for classes two days later.

“You’re lucky, Mr. Black,” she says while Orion inspects the remnants of the scaly patterns covering his face in the hand mirror she conjured. “You caught it at the age where swift recovery is the norm, and at least now, you’ll be immune for the rest of your life. Take it easy for a while, and you should bounce back within the blink of an eye.”

He still looks sickly and oddly green, dark circles under his eyes. He scratches at the dry spots on his cheek, small parts of his skin flaking off.

Madame Pomfrey pulls the mirror from his hand and tuts and shoves a cream into his hands instead. “This should help with the lingering dryness. The tint should fade within a fortnight. Your classmates have already been briefed in that regard, so nobody should give you trouble about it.”

Children are vicious. Orion pulls his sleeves down as far as he can and glamours his face and hands as soon as Madame Pomfrey turns to a different patient.

The first thing he does after leaving the hospital wing is seek out the owlery to send a letter to his grandmother. He started it multiple times before scrapping it all. Too many of his worries bleeding through. Too much sentiment betraying his emotions.

In the end, he outlined his recovery in a handful of words and nothing more.

The reply he receives is similar in nature. Curt and to the point, letting him know that his grandmother is glad about his improved health, stating that she herself is doing well.

Lying bitch.

A large packet of sweets is delivered with it, as if she’d known that the letter would piss him off.

His anger prevails, regardless of his favourite tarts being included in the packet.

He considers setting it on fire. Refrains because of her signature.

Love, Walburga, she wrote. It frightens him almost more than knowing that she lied about her health.

Though Orion has been welcomed with open arms by Draco and a few of his yearmates, there’s still a little apprehension about him being contagious.

His glamours and a few well-placed hexes take care of killing the rumours quickly, as do Draco’s childish threats about getting his father involved whenever somebody so much as looks at him askance.

Not that a Slytherin takes the eleven-year-old seriously at this point, what with Draco throwing around the same rhetoric at least once every other day, but Orion appreciates the sentiment anyway.

Before long, everything returns to normalcy. School feels insignificant. The detentions, the vapid gossip, petty rivalries, and Quidditch.

Any letter he sends to Walburga is either responded to by Kreacher or not at all.

Orion goes through the motions, distracting himself with schoolwork, books, and obscure magics while he slowly recovers from his own bout of sickness. He spends an inordinate amount of time in the library, reading everything that catches his fancy simply to take his mind off things. Otherwise, Hogwarts would be in for some light arson.

His fellow Slytherins have taken to teasing him about it, calling him a mis-sorted Ravenclaw and musing out loud whether the sorting hat made a mistake after all when choosing Slytherin.

Orion’s nerves are frayed enough as it is.

During a rare free period spent in the common room, Blaise comments once again on his newfound bookworm-ishness, causing Draco to pick up the debate by telling Orion that he should take care, lest he “grow a pair of buckteeth rivalling that mudblood, Granger.”.

Orion hexes his roommate so thoroughly, Millicent had to get her older brother to fix it.

Draco, as well, keeps his comments to himself from that point on, knowing very well that he was only spared because one doesn’t turn on family. Not in public.

Though Orion’s tendency to curse first instead of relying on his words isn’t an atypical development as of late.

During their self-organised duelling sessions, Orion has become so ruthlessly efficient in dismantling his opponents that nobody volunteers anymore to go up against him, not even the second- or third-years who occasionally joined in to reaffirm their superiority.

It pisses Orion off.

Whenever he does manage to instigate a fight—and it’s easy when one knows which buttons to press—he draws it out.

And not in the name of light-hearted fun, like the genial competitions in outdoing each other in ever more dramatic manners, which had been so common before.

It’s a matter of control, of reaffirming himself. Mostly, though, an opportunity to vent his perpetually simmering anger in a way that won’t lose him points or worse.

He fucks up anyway.

Snape stares them down, having summoned them right after Draco delivered Crabbe to his office.

Orion feels as quiet and unmoving as glass.

Beneath the facade, fury and fear are twining in barely contained mayhem.

Half of them are still bruised and bloody, barely having fixed their dishevelled outfits and disguised the shallow cuts littering their limbs.
Vince is still shivering from the repercussions of the dark curse Orion used in the heat of the moment and didn’t know the counter to.

His own nose is bloody.

Greg punched him.

Orion honestly didn’t think he had it in himself.

They all keep silent when Snape asks them what happened, none meeting his gaze.

“I see,” he drawls, dark eyes resting on them lined up like ducks in front of his desk in his dark office.

It’s the first time Orion has ever been here. High shelves line each wall, cluttered with jars and vials, dark and glittering in the candlelight. It lends the room an odd quality. Like the inside of a geode that was taken over by a mad experimental wizard.

Orion’s counted at least two preserved heads of mutated beasts in them.

“I’ll let it slide. This time,” Snape says. Likely only because he managed to reverse Vince’s tongue shrivelling in his mouth with a single spell and Draco took the blame. “But do not mistake my mercy for weakness. If you do not get a handle on this, I will handle it. And for Merlin’s sake, be more discreet. You are not the first to have dabbled in magics within these walls that you picked up in old tomes at home, but unless you are proficient enough to undo the curses you use, abstain from them.”

Orion is quietly glad that nobody corrects Snape’s assumption. Slytherins are no snitches. Not in this. They are also, he suspects, quietly afraid of him.

Draco eyes him with worry in his eyes. He knows what is nagging at him, and Orion suspects it’s the only reason he did not tell Snape of the true events.

Vince is lucky his other curse didn’t connect. The one that would’ve stripped his skin right off his hand.

“Now scram,” Snape barks. “I’ve got better things to do than to deal with a bunch of snot-nosed fools.”

They do.

Draco pulls him aside almost as soon as they are in the hallway. “Have you lost it, Orion?!” he hisses. “You need to stop with all that idiocy.”

“I know. I know.”

“What if Snape had interrogated us further? What if Vince’s parents had been informed? You can’t even imagine the lecture my father—

“I know!” Orion bites out. “I’ve got a handle on it.”

“Yeah, right. See that you do,” Draco says, rolling his eyes. Their steps echo from the walls as they head toward the dungeons. Orion can feel Draco’s gaze resting on him. “What was that curse you used?”

Orion’s lips tick up, despite himself. “I’ll show you, if you want.”

Weeks go by, and school remains uneventful. Quidditch fever breaks out when the next game is announced, but since Slytherin isn’t playing, it’s not as bad as it could’ve been. Draco furthers his rivalry with Potter by hexing the Longbottom boy, and they get into petty fights in the hallways.

Though added to their weekly duelling session is now a small lesson headed by Orion, who teaches his fellow Slytherins some of the jinxes unearthed in the Black library. Surprisingly enough, Zabini himself is not half bad, adding his two cents as well, though apparently he’s more adept at poisons than spells.

Still, it comes as a surprise when Orion is taken out of class on a regular Wednesday. Bemused, he takes off his gloves, spelling the earth from his pants as he leaves the greenhouse under the curious glances of his classmates, hoping that he isn’t about to be expelled after all.

Cecil Ashwood, with a polished prefect badge pinned to his cloak, waits to escort him to Snape's office.

“What’s this about?” Orion asks him.

Cecil arches a delicate eyebrow. “I thought you’d know. I guess you’ll find out before long. Frankly, I’m glad for the break. Thanks to you, I’ll get to miss the next twenty minutes of Quirrel’s stuttering. The man is an embarrassment. Did you know that he used to teach Muggle studies before? Honestly. They’re grasping at straws to fill the DADA position. I can’t wait till the curse takes care of him.”

Orion snorts. “Likewise.”

“Here we are,” Cecil tells him, stopping eventually in front of the dark door. He knocks twice, rubbing his hands to stave off the chill before Snape’s muffled voice bids them to enter.

“Thank you, Mr. Ashwood, I’ll take it from here.”

“Should I wait to escort Mr. Black back?” Cecil fishes, probably to ditch his lesson.

“No, that shouldn't be necessary.”

“Professor,” Cecil says, nodding his head and leaving.

“Take a seat, Mr. Black,” Snape drawls when Orion makes no sign of moving from his spot.

A fire is crackling merrily in the high fireplace.

Orion sits. He’s wondering idly now whether Snape’s learnt of their little extracurricular studies. Or worse, it occurs to him suddenly. He can’t dismiss the notion that they’ve discovered the dead troll and connected its death to him somehow. His hands are sweating, heart dropping to his stomach. No. He could always argue self-defence. They honestly can’t expect a first-year to follow a rule like that. Besides, he would’ve heard about it earlier, wouldn’t he?

He tries to not give anything away, swallowing around the lump of anxiety sitting in his throat.

Snape takes a seat in his leather chair, staring Orion down with his black, hardened eyes. He folds his potion-stained hands.

“Your grandmother passed away last night,” he informs him without much ado.

Orion stares. Blinks.

He can’t breathe.

“I see,” he croaks out, only held up by years of etiquette hammered into him. His mind feels hazy. He knew the day would come; still, he’s not ready. His hands are white-knuckling the armrests of his chair.

“Someone will pick you up. A death in the family usually makes a student eligible for a dismissal from their classes for the funeral. I was informed your family situation is... complicated; thus, two weeks of absence have been granted in advance. You are free to return earlier; that being said—"

Suddenly the flames in the fireplace hiss and turn green, interrupting him. A figure steps out, clad in a dark dress, raven feathers decorating the hem of her black travel cloak.

“Narcissa,” Snape drawls. “Right on time.”

Orion has never seen her in that colour. It washes her out, making her skin and hair stand out even more.

A perfectly imperfect impression, lending her an ethereal quality, even in mourning.

“Severus,” she returns the greeting, arching her swan-like neck. Then she turns towards Orion.

“Orion,” she starts, rushing over to him without seeming so. “My deepest condolences.”

Orion says nothing. He barely manages a nod.

Her small hand settles warmly on his shoulder. Her touch hardly even registers.

So, Walburga is dead. The old harpy really couldn’t hold out any longer. Not even for him.

That bitch.

He feels like laughing. But he can’t.

His whole body is numb.

“What happens now?” he asks emotionlessly.

“You’ll come stay at our manor for the time being,” Narcissa says. “I’ve arranged for our elves to pick up your things.“ We’ll discuss it more in depth later. For now, I shall take you home and get you settled.”

“Alright,” Orion says.

“We’ll take our leave now, Severus,” Narcissa says. “You understand.”

“Of course,” Snape replies, rising. Then he looks at Orion. “My condolences, Mr. Black,” he voices blandly.

Orion nods. He lets himself be guided toward the fireplace by Narcissa, simply setting one foot in front of the other.

He barely feels the green flames tickling his legs, nor the spin of the floo.

Chapter Text

Mind blank, he steps out into the bright entrance hall of Malfoy Manor, the fire behind him flashing when Narcissa follows shortly after.

“Oh, Orion,” she says, and then she wraps her pale arms around him in a hug.

He’s stiff for a moment, blinking unseeing. His breathing is turning funny, shaky, shallow breaths punching out of his lungs. He buries his hands in her robes, fingers digging into the fabric, and presses his eyes shut.

Self-pity, anger, and grief hit him like a sledgehammer.

His cousin doesn’t bother with empty platitudes, a steady rock in the churning sea of his emotions. “Shush,” she says eventually, gently taking his face between her hands. “It’s alright to cry,” she says.

Orion’s jaw locks, insulted and humiliated at the same time, and he turns his head, pulling out of her grasp.

How dare she—

(What sight must he make if she tells him that?)

Blacks don’t cry.

Narcissa’s own eyes are dry; her face perfectly composed as always.

Orion feels a stab of anger at her.

Hypocrite.

Straightening his shoulders, Orion steps back—reminds himself of whose blood is running through his veins.

Narcissa politely averts her eyes, granting him a moment to compose himself, though it’s not needed.

His grandmother was a bitter old harpy in the first place.

Always screaming at him. Scolding him. Belittling him.

(Another layer of protection chipped away.)

He’s a Black. Orion tightens his already pristinely tied tie till he can feel it like a noose around his neck.

She would’ve scolded him for that display.

His chest constricts painfully.

Narcissa looks at him, emotions flickering in her eyes—melancholy, concern, and something else. A spark of approval, gone as quickly as it came, drowned out by the rest. “Now,” she starts, once Orion’s gathered himself, “how about you take a few minutes to freshen up? Your usual room should be ready for you. Unfortunately, there are things that need to be discussed in a timely manner,” Narcissa voices. “If you’re amenable, I’ll arrange for tea in the sunroom in the meantime, and you can join me once you’re ready.”

Orion clears his throat and nods, glad for the out she gave him.

Some twenty minutes later, Orion has lost his robe and tie, washing his face in the bathroom adjacent to the already familiar guest room, hoping he doesn’t look as unstable as he feels.

He’d been shaken with a fit of hysterical laughter earlier, tears dripping down his nose in the process, and now he’s wiping away the evidence, sniffing a last time as he takes in the state of his slightly reddened eyes.

Forcibly stoic, he heads towards the lower level of the southern wing of the manor, stepping into the open sunroom where pale light illuminates the tasteful furniture.

Narcissa stands like the born hostess she is, ushering him towards a seating area next to the large windows.

Orion settles on the edge of an armchair, legs barely brushing the floor while Narcissa busies herself pouring tea with elegant movements, the delicate china already set out.

Orion sips the hot beverage, feeling it settle in his stomach while Narcissa sinks down on a settee.

A few minutes pass in silence, each of them busying themselves with their tea, until his cousin places her cup onto the saucer with a quiet clicking sound.

“I am loath to discuss these things now, but it’s better not to wait,” she begins. “We have found ourselves in a ...delicate situation. You are young—" Her eyes soften as she says this, and Orion bristles inwardly—he isn’t Draco— "but circumstances have made it so that you will have to bear more responsibility than I’d burden you with. I’m certain that Walburga named you as her heir, yet despite your father having been disowned rather publicly, the fact remains that Orion—your namesake—never approved of Sirius being removed from the line.
The Ministry would like us all to believe that everyone in Azkaban is name- and penniless, but magic is not that easily tricked. Bloodlines run thicker than that, and so do the old laws.”

She pauses briefly when Orion sets aside his cup as well before continuing.

“Be assured, we have already discussed taking you in as a ward. Lucius agreed as well, and he’s currently in the Ministry, working things out. Our claim is strong, what with us sharing blood, but there’ll undoubtedly be stragglers trying to indoctrinate you into their families.” Her face twists with distaste.

“My ... sister,” she says, hesitating, “already wrote to me that she’s been approached in this regard, but she will not try to usurp us. She has declined, fortunately. Not that it would’ve made a difference; it would’ve been a farce, truly, but still. It’s one less thing to worry about.”

Andromeda, Orion realises, surprised. Momentarily, he wonders who would ask her to take him in, his mind jumping towards conclusions, before discarding his musings.

It doesn’t matter anyway, or Narcissa would’ve mentioned it.

After all, Orion will come into a great fortune, and he is the last male Black in the line whose reputation isn’t dirtied by Azkaban.

Undoubtedly, all old pureblood families would give their eyeteeth for the chance to sink their claws into him.

“As to the more pressing matters,” Narcissa continues, “Right now, Walburga is kept under a stasis charm. With Sirius in Azkaban, that means you have, in essence, become the acting head of house. Currently, that means that not even I can enter Grimmauld Place, unless approved by a living family member.”

Orion swallows hard. He can’t imagine her like that. Dead and still. Lifeless. He doesn’t want to see her like this. “Kreacher,” he calls out, his voice surprisingly steady after half a cup of strong tea, heeding Narcissa’s implied request.

The house-elf appears with a quiet pop that comes with the displacement of air.

“The young master called?” Kreacher rasps out, bowing so deeply his snout is almost touching the floor.

Narcissa looks upon him with quiet satisfaction.

Orion straightens up. “Narcissa will manage the funeral arrangements. She’ll be allowed into the house. I’m assuming you’re aware of the traditions and everything that needs to be done?”

“Of course, master,” Kreacher says, rising. His eyes are bloodshot, but something feverish returns to his face, eagerness to have a Black around to ground him after his mistress has perished.

“I’d like you to adhere to whatever instructions Walburga gave before her death.” Even without him trusting Narcissa, it’d do well to specify and not give her too much leeway in terms of ordering Kreacher around.

“It shall be done,” Kreacher voices. “The family solicitor has already been contacted. He sends his condolences and would like to request a meeting once the young master is available.”

“We shall accompany you, of course, seeing as you are a minor,” Narcissa interjects. “If you’d like us to arrange things…?”

“I’d appreciate that,” Orion voices, sparing a nod at Kreacher, who looks at him for confirmation.

Narcissa offering their help is a reassuring thought. Still, altruism aside, Orion is not unaware that all the benefits that come with housing the heir to the house of Black will fall into the Malfoys hands. Lucius undoubtedly will have taken this under consideration. And Narcissa is more shrewd than people give her credit for.

“Thank you, cousin,” Orion says, nevertheless taking another sip of his tea. His hands are trembling.

“Don’t mention it, Orion. We’re blood after all,” she says, smiling maternally. A smile, usually reserved for Draco. Orion doesn’t think he likes it directed at him. “You’ve handled all of this with exceptional grace so far. I’m aware the situation must be hard on you. How about now that the most pressing matters are out of the way, you go and rest for a bit? It’s been a strenuous day, after all,” Narcissa suggests gently.

Orion sets down his teacup. He isn’t exhausted, not really. He’d prefer to set some things on fire, actually.

“Yes, I think I should,” he states anyway, getting up from his chair.

Narcissa follows suit, as propriety dictates.

“I will let you know when dinner is being served. If you’d prefer for a meal to be sent up to your room instead, simply let Dobby know.”

“Thank you, cousin.”

Kreacher, still unobtrusive next to his chair, shuffles forward. “My condolences, young master,” he croaks out. Tears are shimmering in his beady eyes.

Orion feels a lump in his throat growing. His voice almost breaks when he says, “Likewise, Kreacher.”

The elf breaks down then and there. Orion blinks and looks out at the garden.

Narcissa pats his leathery head. “It’s hard on the whole family,” she says, almost fondly around the old elf.

Orion lays listlessly on his ornate bed in the guest room, staring at the clouds passing by in the mural overhead.

He really should write to his classmates, explaining the circumstances around his absence. Yet he can’t bring himself to acknowledge what it would mean. It’s too final.

In the end, he forces himself to move. He doesn’t have close friends in Slytherin house, safe for Draco. Even his relationship with Zabini grazes acquaintanceship at best.

Something which, in no small part, is likely owed to his own standoffishness and exhaustion over dealing with airheaded preteens.

Still, he needs those connections—he can’t afford not to heed them in the face of Walburga’s death and societal conventions ingrained in him via her, urging him to not burn any bridges.

He pens a letter to Draco first, simply jotting down his current circumstances and informing him of Walburga’s death—if he doesn’t already know. Orion then follows it up by copying a few curt paragraphs to send to his fellow classmates, explaining his absence and hoping to make it seem as if he values their relationships more than he actually does.

He hands them over to Dobby with the instruction to send them at his earliest convenience while the house-elf informs him that dinner is ready.

There’s no expectation for him to show up.

Still, he gets dressed, changing out of his school uniform into something more appropriate—Kreacher must’ve been by and stocked the wardrobe without him noticing—and heads downstairs.

It’s better than wallowing in his misery alone, and he could do with some distraction.

“-leeches, the lot of them. I had to cut my lunch with the minister short”—he can hear Lucius’ voice as he enters the dining room.

The man is seated at the head of the table, nursing a scotch, the cravat around his collar askew, robes tossed carelessly over the back of the chair, while Narcissa cards her hands through his loose hair.

It’s oddly domestic.

“Orion,” Narcissa greets him warmly when she spots him. “I hadn't known whether to expect you.”

“Well, here I am,” he says, slightly awkward, hovering where he stands.

“So you are,” Lucius says, straightening up and pulling away from Narcissa in the process, pale hair spilling softly over his shoulders. “Sit, lad,” he says, gesturing at the empty seat next to him.

Narcissa is sliding into her own chair as Orion takes the one to Lucius’ right, usually occupied by Draco.

“My condolences about the loss of your grandmother,” Lucius voices.

Orion can’t help but snort. “I know you were never fond of her,” he says bluntly, amused for the first time since he was informed of his grandmother’s passing.

Narcissa's lips twitch, as if she were stifling an unwitting smile.

“A loss of one’s blood is always a loss,” Lucius says, skirting around the statement.

Ever the diplomat, Orion hears Walburga’s voice in his head.

“Dobby,” Lucius calls out. “Pour the lad some wine.”

“Lucius—” Narcissa protests.

“Oh, let him, Narcissa,” Lucius says. “Orion is a man now. The next head of the Black family. And his grandmother just passed. He can have a drink.”

Narcissa purses her lips disapprovingly, hiding her expression behind the rim of her glass, but she doesn’t protest.

A glass of white wine appears in front of Orion, an few fingers of pale sparkling liquid swirling inside. In the light, it looks as if will-o’-the-wisps were dancing behind the crystal.

Lucius lifts his glass in a silent toast. Orion grasps his own, raises it, and then takes a measured sip.

Orion refuses to make a face as he swishes it around his mouth, experience from another life allowing him to form an opinion about the flavour before swallowing. It’s a tad sour yet for his young taste buds, but not a bad vintage. Oddly flowery.

Lucius raises a brow at the display.

Orion takes another sip and, after another, getting used to the flavour, and feels the alcohol settle in his belly. He relaxes into his chair.

“Looks like you worried for nothing, dear,” Lucius drawls.

Narcissa shoots him a look.

Lucius is saved by the main course appearing on their plates, beautifully arranged vegetables and beef bourguignon.

Orion keeps silent during the dinner, as was usual at Grimmauld Place, but Lucius raves a bit about his work at the ministry, while Narcissa acknowledges him with clipped replies.

All in all, it could be worse.

The next few days go by in a blur.

Walburga’s funeral is held at the family crypt, where countless Blacks have found their rest.

Orion is clad in a dark, narrow-waisted suit, delivered by Twilfitt and Tattings, who still have his measurements, and small alterations were easily made with magic. A high-necked collar is held in place by a black tie, with tight shirt sleeves and silvery glinting cufflinks.

He places a single black rose within his grandmother’s dead and folded hands. Right next to her ring with the family crest. It’s not the heir ring. That one now rests on Orion’s finger.

She doesn’t look peaceful in death. Her wrinkled lips are still pursed, but still, she looks younger. It cannot only be the makeup. Likely magic is at play. An ethereal glow surrounds her, and Orion can tell she was a beauty once, long ago. They share the same cheekbones.

Flowers are woven into her hair, small white blooms. Poisonous, he knows. A fitting farewell.

It’s sparsely attended. The journalists that showed up were kept out by the wards placed around the grounds beforehand, and Orion is the only one present who still carries the name Black.

Walburga’s crypt is closed and sealed with spells he hears for the first time. He finds himself tracing the carved inscription of his namesake to her right. Snake-like vines are crawling up the dark walls. There’s her father, Arcturus, and then his great-uncle Cygnus. Generations of Blacks. Dead and rotting like the soil they once traversed.

There are a few people whom Orion recognises from Walburga’s tea parties, draped in dark veils and expensive robes, and a few who share familiar features with his classmates.

No children, aside from him.

Even Draco remained at Hogwarts.

Orion is flanked by Narcissa and Lucius, who take on the brunt of socialisation, while he’s left to simply nod at the people proclaiming their condolences.

A dark figure is lingering in the back, whom nobody acknowledges. Before he leaves, he catches a glimpse of dark curly hair under a veil and features that hit him like a gut-punch before he makes the connection.

Andromeda.

She’s still there when they disapparate.

The aftermath is a private affair hosted at Malfoy Manor for convenience. It’s a blur of people trying to talk to him, but Orion barely humours them. Later that night, Kreacher serves him tea in the kitchen while Orion listens to him reminisce and tell stories about Walburga when she was still a girl.

He’ll have to go to Grimmauld Place soon to strengthen the wards with fresh blood.

Two days after the funeral, a ministry witch shows up, clad in muddy robes, a decade out of date, with large glasses and grey-streaked curls sticking out from her head.

Narcissa serves her tea, Orion seated next to Lucius on a couch, the former at his most charismatic self.

She barely even talks to Orion, flattered by Lucius, giggling and sipping at her cup, not even bothering to jot down notes on her clipboard.

The only time she talks to Orion is when she asks him whether he agrees to live with the Malfoys from now on.

It’s a joke of an interview, and without a doubt, Lucius has greased the right hands beforehand, rendering the matter of them officially acquiring his guardianship into a mere farce.

She leaves, laughing and smiling, unaware of the way Narcissa complimented her out of the house and painfully oblivious of Lucius’ true opinion of her, which mostly boils down to him calling her a half-blooded sheep, which Orion can’t help but agree with.

On Saturday, the Black family solicitor arrives at Malfoy Manor.

Orion is standing in Lucius’ study, with the man sitting in his own leather chair, being subjected to rather dry jargon regarding estates and properties, contracts and business shares, and conditions and such as well as the responsibilities that come with it, and so on.

He’s somewhat glad for Malfoy's presence to translate, but he also ordered Kreacher to listen in, because he doesn’t doubt that the elf will do a better job of remembering everything than him.

He keeps an ear out, of course, but it’s tedious talk. His grandfather’s will is mentioned, especially the fact that it remains unopened since Sirius Black ‘the younger’—and’ isn’t that an odd thought—never deigned to oversee it.

Ironically, the fact that it’s still sealed means that the order of succession takes precedence.

Therefore, Orion himself is only named heir by proxy, officially coming into his inheritance once Sirius Black dies or—Merlin forbid—breaks out and officially renounces his claim.

It makes for a good joke, an offhand comment by the solicitor that has Lucius scoffing a dry laugh but sends Orion into hysterics to the point where even Malfoy’s usual polite countenance cracks at the sound of his cackling.

Luckily, even with Sirius imprisoned, Orion isn’t barred access from the Black family vault, and in the unlikely case of disownment, he would still retain a sizable trust fund containing all assets that fell under Walburga’s purview, including her dowry and gifts received, among which count their summer house in France, various pieces of jewellery, and a handful of family heirlooms.

On the condition that he continues his education, that is, and produces an heir down the line. While not stipulated with words – as apparently such jargon is deemed illegal by law – it’s heavily implied that nothing less than a pureblood spouse will do.

He follows Lucius’ advice to have his family solicitor handle the business side of things for now but reaps his surprised endorsement when he suggests hiring an external firm to oversee the books just to be on the safe side.

Orion politely refuses the man’s offer to connect him with his personally preferred law firm, which gains him even more—if reluctant—approval.

Lucius regards him with shrewd eyes, swirling his cognac, and it’s more nostalgia than anything else that makes Orion take him up on the offer to have a sip.

Walburga preferred a different vintage, but the scent is the same.

The Daily Prophet arrives the next day, Walburga’s death announcement being nothing more than a footnote on the fourth page, squeezed under an ad for Filibuster’s Firecrackers.

Orion sets it on fire mere moments after reading it, a cold rage burning in his belly.

He has half a mind to storm their headquarters and let them know exactly what the proud Black matriarch was worth. Instead, he calls Kreacher to apparate him to Grimmauld Place.

Orion bleeds over the runes in the hidden nook in the basement, solely overseen by the glowing eyes of the elf hovering unobtrusively in a dark corner, speaking words that only Blacks have ever heard.

Grimmauld Place seems frozen in time as he walks through its quiet halls, familiar and yet strange in its emptiness. Solely the portraits are whispering, yet even they seem oddly silent. He ends up in the master bedroom, lingering at the foot of Walburga’s bed.

It appears untouched. Pristinely made sometime after her body was removed.

The room still smells like her.

Whatever potions and herbs were littering her dressing table have been put away, but there’s a half-emptied bottle of cognac stood next to a photo album, flipped open on a page depicting a younger Walburga and two dark-haired boys, no older than five and three, respectively. The younger one is blowing bubbles of spit while he’s propped up on her lap, while the other tries to climb onto her knee before Walburga makes him look at the camera, smiling.

He didn't even know the album existed.

Before long, Orion is flipping through the pages, watching his uncle and father grow taller in front of his eyes, and his grandmother more bitter as the years go on.

His resemblance to Sirius when they were the same age is uncanny.

From their complexion to their nose and eyes, they are identical.

Nevertheless, the longer he looks, the more he fixates on their differences.

The wave in his hair is more pronounced, resembling Regulus more so than his father in that aspect.

Orion is taller than both were at eleven. Bonier too.

He doubts that he’ll inherit that type of androgynous quality Sirius seemed to have retained even past puberty, making it more apt to call him pretty than handsome.

Already, Orion’s features are sharper, his jawline gearing up to become even more pronounced once he grows older.

His mother’s genes, if his blurry memories are anything to go by.

Same as the freckles that start to appear on his face when he spends enough time in the sun and which Walburga did her best to charm away whenever they showed up.

Orion flips another page, finding himself staring at an image of his late grandfather.

He looks like Sirius put through a funhouse mirror—ever stoic and never smiling.

His namesake is seated in an armchair, haggard and pale, with Sirius standing to his right, his hand propped up on the backrest, displaying a heavy signet ring—the same one Orion is wearing now—and clad in a dark burgundy robe.

It’s the only photograph depicting Orion I. There are no more pictures of Sirius after that either.

Following that, there are a few more images of Regulus, soft-featured, lanky, and somehow stiff as he poses in a poor imitation of his father, but before long, the pages are left bare.

Tucked away in the back of the album, there’s a paper clipping—likely removed from some kind of society column or magazine going by the texture of it—depicting an adolescent Sirius. It’s in black and white, a candid shot, starkly different from the other photographs in the album.

Sirius seems to be grinning at something outside the frame, his hair a tad longer, ears now pierced. There’s no context for it, the article cropped out, safe for the bottom row where a handful of letters are overlapping the picture.

Orion flips to the front of the album, pausing at the photograph he’s faced with.

Familiar faces stare up at him, younger than he’s ever seen them.

He finds Narcissa first, crammed onto the leftmost side of a dark couch, her distinct colouring causing her to stick out like a sore thumb, even as a child. She smiles reservedly at the camera, holding a bundle in her arms, which, when she moves, reveals the profile of a rather disgruntled-looking baby. Next to her, a slightly older girl clad in a matching outfit and dark braids smirks mischievously, her features a reflection of the grinning preteen to her right wrestling with a toddler. The same dark eyes, their hair a shade apart, the latter’s braids a tad more dishevelled.

The Black cousins, it says beneath in Walburga’s loopy script.

From left to right, Narcissa, Regulus, Andromeda, Bellatrix, and Sirius

Black Manor, 1963

Orion traces the tilted letters with his fingers, staring at the page of the album for long minutes.

He grabs the half-drunk bottle and takes a swig.

Kreacher finds him two hours later, drunk out of his mind and hanging over the toilet in the adjacent master bathroom, puking his guts out.

The elf is chiding him, while fussing like a mother hen, bemoaning his choices and crying about what he does to his poor old mistress’ heart, to the point where Orion shouts at him, ordering him out of the room.

It’s a hazy memory, crawling into his grandmother’s bed and crying himself to sleep, but when he wakes, his eyes are sticky and his dry mouth tastes like shit. There's a hangover cure on the nightstand, which Kreacher must’ve unearthed somewhere in the house, alongside a carafe of water and a crystal glass.

When he gets downstairs, Orion’s head is pounding, and he feels and looks like a wreck. He chokes down a bit of toast from the breakfast on the dining room table, but nothing more.

His stomach feels queasy enough as it is.

Remembering a lifetime in which one could handle alcohol doesn’t make up for the fact that he’s never gotten drunk in this body before. Too young to seriously consider it really.

He sees neither hide nor hair of his elf until he calls him. They stare at each other for a long moment, Orion awkwardly, still hungover in sleep-wrinkled clothes, and Kreacher with a judgemental look in his eyes.

Orion makes an effort to thank him for the food. His head is still throbbing; the hangover cure is barely starting to take effect.

Although he only remembers the rough outline of what he said to the elf the night before, Orion knows it wasn’t pleasant. Still, a part of him feels justified in his actions.

Even now, looking at Kreacher, he can’t bring himself to apologise.

“Take me to Malfoy Manor?” he says, voice rough. It’s the closest he comes to making it a request instead of an order.

Kreacher complies.

The little shit apparates him right into the sunroom, where Narcissa and Lucius are having breakfast.

Lucius glances up from behind his paper, bemused. Narcissa, on the other hand, takes one look at him, her eyes turning cold.

She addresses the elf first, in a pointed slight against Orion. “Thank you, Kreacher. You may leave us.”

Orion glares at the elf, who bows deeply before sparing him a look and disapparating. His headache doesn’t help a lick.

“Good morning,” Narcissa voices, finally turning to him and sounding deceptively pleasant, while Lucius leans back, setting the paper down on the table, watching. “Though, is it a good morning for you, Orion? You seem… unwell.”

Orion bristles.

Her tone makes her want to justify herself. Makes him want to lash out before she can. He isn’t her son. He doesn’t owe her any explanations.
Somehow he manages to bite back any response sitting at the tip of his tongue.

Still, in an effort to escape Narcissa’s unforgiving stare, Orion makes the mistake of making eye contact with Lucius.

Orion can’t help but gain the impression that he’s amused by this.

Bastard.

Narcissa sets down her cup of tea, demanding his attention. “I suppose I should thank you for returning to us in a timely manner, although you didn’t deign to notify us of your absence in the first place,” she continues, her cold gaze betraying her tone of voice.

Orion shifts, wrong-footed. He isn’t used to that kind of behaviour. He’d rather she yell or insult him because then he’d be free to do the same. But there’s no opening for anything. No jabs or insults stoking his anger—nothing that would allow him to respond in kind. Arguing now would only make him appear immature. And he doubts icing her out like he did with Walburga in situations like these would have the same effect. Narcissa doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d be baited into losing her composure first. His neck prickles uncomfortably.

“Would you like to contribute to this conversation?” Narcissa asks.

“It won’t happen again,” he eventually voices.

Narcissa rises, walking around the table until she comes to a halt in front of him.

“I’m aware that you are going through a difficult time and that change can be…challenging. I’m not inconsiderate of those facts. Still, regardless of your station, you’re a minor. A child. And Lucius and I have taken responsibility for you. This behaviour,” she says coldly, “is unacceptable.”

A muscle in Orion’s jaw twitches, his eyes darting to the side. Somehow, even through his frustration with this whole situation and the impression of a farce, another part of him regards this as Narcissa's words manage to evoke a feeling of shame, which only makes him more angry.

Narcissa grasps his jaw, her manicured nails pressing into his cheeks as she forces him to look at her. Her face betrays nothing. It’s a perfectly cold mask.

She picks up his hand too, looking at the scabbed-over cut on his palm. It aches.

Orion is trembling with barely suppressed rage.

“You reek of a distillery.”

She lets go of him abruptly and turns back to the breakfast table, reclaiming her earlier spot. “Orion,” she says, just as he makes to leave, fixing him with a look. “I better not catch you drinking again. I'm not Walburga. I won’t resort to shouting at you, nor will I curse you. But I grew up in my father’s house.

And regardless of his cruelty, I haven’t forgotten that Cygnus didn’t have to resort to either of those measures to manage Bellatrix.”

Orion grinds his teeth.

“Go take a shower,” she adds as she picks up her teacup, her derision unmistakable. “And change. You look like a mess.”

Chapter Text

When it becomes time to return to Hogwarts, Kreacher insists on packing his stuff, rambling like mad about the incompetence of Malfoy house elves, and even gets a bit teary-eyed when all is done.

Walburga’s death might’ve rendered him somewhat unstable.

Orion orders him to keep Grimmauld Place in neat condition. No need to let things rot during his absence.

A wry and vaguely vindictive smile quirks his lips when Kreacher mentions that he hung Walburga’s portrait, now that it woke—already placed in the entrance hall, with a permanent sticking charm attached to it, courtesy of her instructions.

Narcissa sees Orion off, kissing both his cheeks, and Lucius nods at him before he steps into the floo.

Snape’s office is as dark and ominous as always, and Orion can almost appreciate it, despite its resemblance to Grimmauld Place being rather negligible.

He feels as if all eyes are on him, the first time he rejoins his classmates for breakfast in the great hall.

It’s likely not the case, especially after the initial greetings having already been done away with in the Slytherin common room.

Orion is glad, though; he wrote his letters now, flanked by his year-mates as he is, a silent sign of support.

“So, what’d I miss?” he asks, over scrambled eggs and toast, forcing himself to make conversation.

“Not much,” Pansy jumps in, intercepting Draco, whose mouth had been in the process of opening.

“Longbottom lost Gryffindor twenty points for melting his cauldron again, Daphne is going through a Lockhart phase, and Nott hexed a Hufflepuff—the annoying one, Smith, you know—so Sprout gave him detention.”

“The usual then?”

“The usual,” Pansy sighs.

Orion does well in his classes. Incredibly so, despite him procrastinating his homework more than is wise.

Even before, the majority of his free time was spent practicing and studying ahead in order to distract himself from Walburga’s impending death. And the aftermath isn’t much better. He’s continuing the practice to the point where he’s checking out books that don’t even pertain to his subjects. And in between, he reads the tomes he has Kreacher deliver to him via owl from the Black family library, mainly to further his study of occlumency.

Odysseus is now a permanent fixture in the owlery.

He knows it’s a crutch. A coping mechanism that takes him out of his head, and since no one confronted him yet about the troll, he’s become somewhat more open with practicing dark spells.

The time spent cursing spiders, bugs, and other critters in unused classrooms is the only thing that keeps him from taking out his anger on the stupendous children around him.

Before long the snow melts and instead is replaced by misty mornings, fogging up the Scottish landscape. Yet even those become rarer as one season bleeds into another.

That his classes start to bore him isn’t an unexpected development.

If Quirrel houses Voldemort, he does not let it show. Though Orion wishes he’d stop faking that cursed stutter that grates on his nerves with every additional lesson.

Flitwick at least has picked up on some of his boredom and gives him special assignments that scrape the third-year theory.

McGonagall, likely, would’ve done the same if it weren’t for her inherent dislike of him. Perhaps it’s petty, but Orion practices his spells to the point where he can flawlessly perform them on the first try in a way that turns Granger green with envy and forces McGonagall to shower him with points regardless of her pinched expression.

Despite that, Orion resents Sirius somewhat for having saddled him with the shadow of his memory being projected onto him, faulty or not.

Unfortunately, his affinity for transfiguration somehow concludes in the Gryffindor girl bumping into him whenever he seeks out the library, peppering him with questions about schoolwork and supplemental reading.

He has to reluctantly acknowledge her guts, what with his reputation as the progeny of two Death Eaters, but that doesn’t make her relentlessness less irksome. Especially now that there’s talk of the end-of-year exams already.

He holds her at bay solely by shoving various complicated books at her and claiming to be busy studying himself.

His fellow Slytherins are weirded out by that strange dynamic, and Draco often and vocally voices his displeasure regarding that new development.

It’s not like Orion is trying to spend more time with that muggleborn, but she simply happens to be in the library when he is. It’s not his fault Draco gets bored half an hour into one of his ‘study sessions.’.

Orion thinks Granger might even consider them something like friends, what with their encounters increasing in frequency and her blatantly sitting down on his table without so much as asking him.

Perhaps he should simply take a page out of Draco’s book and call her mudblood.

Though honestly, he can’t be bothered. It’s not like he believes that her being a muggleborn specifically makes her in any way inferior to their classmates.

We are Blacks. They are all beneath us, Walburga’s voice rings in his mind.

And better Granger than somebody like Smith, who, for all his pedigree, is similarly obnoxious yet without the intellect to balance that trait out.

Besides, a part within him reminds him that being cordial now will only benefit him in the long run.

So he helps her with her schoolwork and explains what Yule and Samhain are, and in turn Granger occasionally functions as his sounding board.

She’s still childish, a know-it-all, and rather self-righteous, but Orion can tolerate these things if it means that he’s got someone who doesn’t look like a startled owl when he starts drawing parallels between potions and chemistry or mathematics with arithmancy.

And somehow, by simply being in her presence, Orion remembers small facets of his prior life. Little things he thought lost, but which led to him borrowing her copy of the Hobbit and unearthing opinions on music he shouldn’t be familiar with.

On another note, Orion’s formed a loose friendship with Zabini now. Mostly for practical reasons, but the boy is rather intelligent for his age, despite his rather opinionated views on certain things, and he possesses a wry humour that Orion can get behind.

If Blaise weren’t so outright annoyed by Draco at all times, Orion thinks they would get on rather well, because both share a penchant for drama and gossip. And while Zabini draws the majority of his knowledge in that regard from Witch Weekly compared to Draco inserting himself into the business of his fellow students, Orion still somehow finds himself drawing parallels between them.

But Orion is busy outside of classes as well. Because while the general population of the school raves about Quidditch, he reads letters sent by his solicitor about the state of affairs and tries to set up offshore muggle accounts to fund some investments that should benefit him in the long run.

Time passes quickly, amidst schoolwork, gossip, and Quidditch games. The Easter Holidays, Orion spends at Malfoy Manor, practicing Quidditch with Draco and riding the Abraxans and learning by shadowing Lucius while he goes over his affairs.

The latter makes an effort to include his son, but once it becomes apparent that Orion displays some aptitude for it—far exceeding his cousin in both understanding and interest—Lucius spares him half an hour every other night to discuss matters more in depth.

The man is a veritable well of political and societal knowledge, and he has the skill to navigate it all. Truly, at times, Orion is astonished by his ingeniousness and what little he can achieve by virtue of having a simple dinner in a casual setting. His connections help too, of course. And so does his money.

During a fundraiser for the ministry, Orion is introduced to Minister Fudge, meets Horace Slughorn—who proudly shakes his hand and raves about Regulus and Orion’s grandfather and proclaims it a pity Sirius ended up in Gryffindor, before catching himself and switching the topic—as well as Pius Thicknesse and Barty Crouch Sr.

The latter of which doesn’t so much as grace him with a look but keeps up a polite, if stiff, conversation with Narcissa about her latest donation to the DMLE.

There's Corban Yaxley—a man whom Lucius honestly seems to like for once and actually holds a decent conversation with Orion about various careers in the Ministry tailored to his interests.

Orion encounters Ludo Bagman, head of the Magical Games and Sports Department, next to the buffet, already absolutely sloshed and making a fool out of himself by trying to flirt with Zabini’s mother despite her being accompanied by a handsome Egyptian wizard ten years her junior before spilling half his drink over Orion.

Since Orion actually tries to make a good impression for the most part, as it can only benefit him in the long run, he doesn’t cause a scene about it, but it’s a near thing.

Walburga would be proud of his self-restraint. Disguising his baring of teeth as a smile, Orion politely draws the attention of Madame Bonaccord—a witch from the ICW Lucius has tried his hardest to catch in a conversation for the last half hour—and asks whether she’d be able to assist him in drying his robes with a spell.

It works out brilliantly, as Lucius takes the chance and promptly inserts himself into the interaction, thanking her profusely for aiding his ‘ward.’. He looks like a satisfied cat for the rest of the evening and produces a bunch of season tickets for the English National Quidditch team the day after, courtesy of Ludo Bagman, alongside an apology.

Orion is rather indifferent, but he supposes Draco is happy, and it’s the thought that counts.

On the Easter night, there’s a large bonfire lit on the grounds of the manor, and Orion gets to listen to the history behind Ostara, told by Narcissa under the clear night sky, huddled side by side next to Draco and wrapped in warm magic while she plants flowers under the waxing moon, manicured hands stained with dirt.

The first week of school after the holidays, Draco promptly catches himself in detention with the Gryffindors of all people.

“He just won’t shut up about the wraith he saw in the woods,” Daphne comments over Gemma Fawley’s cat Perseus perched on the Slytherin house table, as they are regaled by the same tale for the dozenth time.

Orion pulls his plate out of the creature's reach, hoping he won’t find yet another cat hair in his beans.

“It’s all bloody Potter’s fault anyway,” Draco cuts her off, waving his fork dangerously. “Him and that half-breed. Would you believe that he actually had a dragon in that wooden hut of his? And Dumbledore didn’t fire him?! Nor did he expel any of those idiotic Gryffindors for trying to smuggle it out?!”

Orion raises his brows. Draco, who’s apparently been dying to find an audience for his ‘outlandish story’ by the groans of his surrounding Slytherins, jumps on it with ardour once he realises Orion doesn’t dismiss him from the get-go.

After all, he’s got a hunch of what momentous thing his cousin has actually witnessed, and in truth, Draco’s exaggerations about how he almost died are not so outlandish after all.

“It is rather irresponsible,” Orion thus admits at the end.

“Right?” Draco blurts out triumphantly, “Right?!”

“Oh, don’t tell me you believe that drivel,” Blaise drawls from Orion’s left, wiping his hands on a napkin.

“I’ll believe anything if it comes from those three,” Orion voices.

“Just yesterday I saw the mudblood running around like a headless chicken, asking if anybody had a more in-depth text on Gamp’s laws,” Pansy interjects.

Daphne groans. “As if. I haven’t even started with transfiguration yet.”

“The exams are barely three weeks away, and you haven’t gotten to Transfiguration yet? It’s one of the most theory-heavy exams from what Francis told me,” Millicent voices from two spots down.

“Don’t tell me,” Daphne groans, seemingly a second away from letting her head drop onto the table.

“Orion can give you my brother’s notes,” Millicent says.

“I’ve already copied them,” Orion voices. “I can give them to you after Potions.”

“You’re a live saviour.”

Orion is in the library, tucked away into a sunny alcove jotting down the rough outline of a potion’s essay due tomorrow. He’s procrastinated for a bit, and now that distraction bites him in the arse.

But he simply got too caught up in a book Kreacher sent him from the Black library, one on Blood Magic detailing exsanguination from afar. A gruesome ritual, and he’s wondering whether he could add further protection to the charm he still wears around his neck, handed down through the family.

He notices Granger before she speaks to him, but pretends not to, in the hopes that she’ll go away. He’d prefer to finish his essay in peace.

She clears her throat, wringing her hands and throwing a nervous look over her shoulder. Further away, Potter and Weasley are doing a bad job of hiding behind a shelf, elbowing each other and shooting Orion glares.

Granger aside, he doesn’t have the best standing with them. While Orion has never outright hexed or insulted them—Draco does well on his own—he never really bothered to speak up for them either.

He could blame it on not wanting to butterfly all their dynamics away and somehow causing irreparable harm, but the truth is, he just can’t be bothered most of the time.

And since Draco has yet to come up with better insults than “Scarface” and “Bloodtraitor,” he figures it’s not really worth the effort anyway.

“Black,” she says eventually, and Orion looks up.

She’s all nerves hidden under false bravado and wavering self-confidence. Her hair looks like she stabbed a fork into a light socket, and Orion idly wonders whether she’ll ever learn that brushing it out does nothing to help that impression.

“Granger,” Orion replies, setting down his quill.

“I was wondering—you know a lot about wizard stuff, right?”

Orion’s lips twitch, despite himself. “Considering I am one, Granger, yes.”

“Well, I just had a query, you know, a project I’m working on the side—”

“Just spit it out,” Orion says. “This essay is due tomorrow, and I barely have the outline down.”

For a brief moment, Granger seems to forget all about her question in favour of looking at him with wide eyes. “The potions essay? But Professor Snape gave us that homework a week ago!”

Orion’s amusement only grows at her shock. “You see where I’m coming from then.” Catching a glimpse of Potter and Weasley arguing in hushed voices while spying on them, he folds his hands and conjures his best smile. “So, how can I help you, Hermione?”

Granger blushes, but back in between the shelves, Weasley has turned even redder out of anger. He never quite got over their conversation the first week of the year, and Orion can’t say that he cares much for his repetitive comments about his Death Eater parents either. Regardless of the truth of the whispers, it’s a matter of principle.

Orion barely suppresses his smug laughter.

Granger doesn’t let her sudden flustering stop her, though. She forges on unfalteringly, despite her pink cheeks. “Well, I saw the name Nicholas Flamel mentioned in a book, and I was hoping you could point me in the right direction to find out more about him.”

Ah.

Orion smirks in sudden realisation and relaxes back into his seat. “Nicholas Flamel… The name sounds familiar.” He taps the table in feigned thoughtfulness. “In what context was he mentioned? That should help to clear things up a bit.”

Granger blushes again, this time for a different reason. Her eyes dart to the side as she starts to worry her lip with her disproportionately large front teeth. “Uh, I forgot,” she says lamely.

Orion can barely contain his laughter. “Granger, you of all people forgot why you wanted to look someone up?” he asks, in faux shock.

The girl clears her throat, embarrassed. “Yes, well…” She mutters a bit before she catches on to Orion’s amusement and glares at him instead. “It’s none of your business. I don’t even know why I bothered asking you.”

“Granger—” Orion calls out after her while she’s already in the process of turning. “Try the section for Alchemy.”

She aborts her movement and turns back around. Her brown eyes narrow. “Why alchemy?”

“Well, I can’t say I’ve read a lot about Nicholas Flamel—” a blatant lie—“but “he was mostly famous for being the only known person to have successfully created the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Orion can virtually see Granger’s mind working underneath all that bushy hair. “Of course,” she mutters. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

She beams at him. “Thanks, Black. You’ve been a huge help!” She’s gone before Orion can say anything else. He tosses a grin at Weasley, because he’s still glaring, just to be obnoxious before returning to his essay.

Ironically enough, Orion doesn’t learn of their confrontation with Quirrel until after the fact. It’s ridiculous in a way how caught up he was in his own stuff to miss something that momentous, and yet it’s Draco of all people who starts to blab about the rumours to him when Quirrel’s classes are cancelled and the upper years cuss out his name over their stacks of notes, preparing for the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, while Potter is still notably absent thanks to a stint in the hospital wing.

The stories are branching off wildly, telling of how Potter once again fought a troll, of gigantic ice statues coming to life, and of how the Gryffindor trio supposedly took down a manticore in the bowels of the school.

The one coming closest to the truth is by far also the most ridiculous-sounding, and Orion cackles like mad when he overhears some inane Hufflepuff whispering about how Potter killed Professor Quirrel only to be called stupid by her classmates.

For his birthday, Orion receives a new cloak and a note from the Malfoys that they already acquired a Nimbus 2000 for him—like the one Draco got a fortnight earlier, an elaborate chess set, as well as a litany of sweets, a silver quill set, and a bunch of books, the most interesting being one about runes gifted to him by Zabini.

The exams are still held, despite everything, and Orion breezes through them for the most part, safe for Herbology and History of Magic—the subjects he put the least effort into but still manages adequately.

Granger is at the top of their year, which makes Draco spit vitriol for days, only shutting up when Narcissa and Lucius come to pick them up at the train station at the end of the year.

Chapter Text

Staying at Malfoy Manor without an end in sight is… something.

From the large windows and marble interior to the prim hedges, mowed lawns, and the albino peacocks strutting around, nothing feels quite right.

The food tastes off, his bed sheets smell of citrus and lavender, and the guest room ceiling sports bright marble and a sky-blue mural so unlike his own bedroom at Grimmauld Place.

At the first week marker, Orion starts to feel spread thin. Without his classes and schoolmates as a buffer, Draco demands his attention with a persistence he isn’t used to.

Orion misses the gloominess of Grimmauld Place. The solidarity and familiarity of his room, with the books stacked on the bedside table, the carved bedposts with the snakes twining up, and the intricate pattern of his wallpaper. Half of his possessions are still there since he can’t bear moving them into the manor, where he still feels more like a guest than an inhabitant.

He misses the ever-shifting narrow labyrinth of hallways, the ominous backdrop of whispering portraits, and the heavy wooden display cases shoved into every room, stuffed to the brim with knickknacks and cursed items.

And whenever his thoughts drift towards Grimmauld Place, he also thinks of Walburga. Her hands, delicate and long-fingered, twisting her cups to read her tea leaves in an almost absentminded habit. The way her skin had seemed paper-thin, at the end. Wrinkly and age-spotted. The way she would laugh and pet over Orion’s hair whenever he did something that pleased her when he was younger. Her ease at wielding magic. The scent of her perfume.

And while her absence weighs on him like a toothache, more often than not Orion’s thoughts are tinged with resentfulness.

Orion is the last of his name, and their legacy will die with him should he perish. He’s solely responsible for what becomes of the Black family, because Merlin knows his father doesn’t care a lick about it.

On some days he’s dripping with it. Hate and spite and agony. He feels like spitting on her grave.

That selfish bitch of a woman, breaking him and building him up in her image only to abandon him in this world, burdened with a sense of duty to a family name whose fate he’s solely responsible for.

He’s ordering Kreacher to still get him his poisons to build up his immunity—a drop a day in his tea—and keeps up his practice of Occlumency, all the while fantasising about shouting at her portrait to air out all his grievances.

And as much as he appreciates the Malfoys taking him in, they are not and will never be Blacks. Even Narcissa, while family, is not burdened with the same weight he is.

Never mind that every day seems to drag like taffy.

Orion feels bored and perpetually annoyed, and that has never been a good combination for those around him.

It’s not helped by Narcissa being a staunch supporter of him and Draco only using magic when supervised.

Sometimes it feels like a personal slight against him.

He manages to convince Dobby to sneak him into some of the more forbidden rooms, discovering a litany of interesting objects. From a cursed marble windhound statue that moves only when one doesn’t look, a mirror, which shows his own grinning reflection, who promptly puts a razor to its throat, causing Orion to bleed before he swiftly drops the sheet back over it, to a vitrine holding nothing but wands and a collection of Fabergé eggs, as well as a shelf stuffed with small chests containing solely suspiciously glinting phials bedded on straw.

But before long, that type of entertainment is cut short. Orion receives a stern talking to by Lucius, and Dobby hops more than walks around the next couple of days, what with his blistered feet, courtesy of him being forced to hold them into the fire.

Never mind that Narcissa and Lucius have a row over the whole situation; their cold interactions the days after are the only reason Orion even gets wind of it.

And while Narcissa tries her best to make him feel welcome and takes him and Draco on outings, it’s simply not the same.

His weekends are speckled with more galas, charity events, and ministry functions than he ever cared to attend before, smiling vacantly at the adults thinking they’re humouring him by asking him about his broomstick and Quidditch, while stuffing his mouth with hors d'oeuvres and hiding his disparaging expressions behind the rim of a stolen champagne glass, occasionally finding company in Millicent and Francis, or some of his fellow classmates being dragged there by their parents.

Every time he’s clad in new tailored robes, sticking solely to his family colours—black with silver accents. Even Orion draws the line at matching outfits with Draco as much as Narcissa may have politely urged him to do so—likely in an attempt at making a political statement.

He suspects them showing him off alongside the Malfoys at so many events is their odd way of debuting him as their ward while simultaneously staking a claim.

There are more birthday celebrations and tea parties—which Orion has learnt to dread, as ever since Walburga died, people have begun shoving their daughters at Orion via Narcissa, and he’s less than impressed with the litany of snot-nosed girls—some barely even out of elementary school age—being introduced to him.

The most memorable event is probably Theodore Nott’s birthday celebration—he was only invited by virtue of propriety since Theo hasn’t really spoken to him since they were seven—where he and Zabini manage to nick a bottle of firewhisky and get tipsy in the overgrown rose pavilion in the garden.

For all that his social calendar is overflowing with events, Orion and Draco are also left to their own devices quite a bit.

Likely, because they’re too young to attend the balls Narcissa and Lucius are invited to, and whenever Narcissa is busy with her own social life or charity work, Orion and Draco are left in the care of Dobby and sometimes Lucius, who occasionally humours his son but a lot of the time asks to not be disturbed while in his study.

“You’re a right stick in the mud, Orion,” Draco tells him once when he blows him off in favour of reading the books. Kreacher smuggles him. “I thought now that we’re out of school you’d loosen up a bit. But no, day in and day out, you’ve got your nose stuck in your books!”

Draco doesn’t know that he’s half the reason for Orion’s bookwormishness. Because while Orion is fond enough of Draco in small doses, he is just a chatty twelve-year-old with more interest in Quidditch than should be healthy ever since Potter made seeker the first year.

Draco’s got it in his head now that he’ll have to be on the team come autumn, and Lucius encouraging the whole matter doesn’t mean that Orion likes to be forced to play keeper to humour him. Not twice a day.

Lucius, ironically enough, becomes Orion’s out.

The man doesn’t like to be bothered when he works, but he tolerates Orion sitting quietly in an armchair in his office, reading, or on occasion poring over his own paperwork, draughting various letters to his solicitor to start investing into various muggle companies in his name via the accounts he’s had set up by Gringotts.

Technology may work funkily when mixed with magic, but he might as well profit from those advances even if they don’t reach the wizarding world. Orion knows shit all about oil or cars, but he’s got a good enough recollection of the popularity of smartphones, and he won’t miss out on those profit shares once they become a thing.

Through this and overhearing Lucius’ fire calls, he also catches wind of another development, namely the infrequent—yet not to be dismissed—comments about a new Muggle Protection Act being passed in the Wizengamot.

Lucius is in the Ministry now, more often than not, trying to mitigate, but despite his ‘friendship’ with the Minister, the pressure is tangible.

The Fawcetts’ house has been raided already, and so have the Bulstrodes.

“—Just because some of that low-born ilk got themselves arrested Muggle-baiting, I’m supposed to ride out the brunt of their stupidity. Aurelius informed me they stood on his doorstep with a DMLE-issued order not two days ago,” Lucius rants one afternoon, seated in an elaborate armchair in the drawing room, holding onto a glass of whisky. “He is on the Wizengamot for Salazar’s sake!”

Draco is munching on biscuits served with tea, a grass halm stuck in his hair, which Narcissa hasn’t noticed yet and Orion refuses to point out.

Narcissa finishes stirring sugar into her tea with a small silver spoon. “No respect for their betters,” she agrees.

“I say!” Lucius retorts, downing nearly half of his glass in a single swig. “Cornelius is lucky this isn’t an election year! The man is losing his marbles if you ask me. Dumbledore’s influence, I’m certain. No doubt that Arthur Weasley has something to do with that new Muggle protection law—”

“I want to visit Grimmauld,” Orion interjects, drawing their attention.

“We can surely arrange for that,” Narcissa replies after a moment. “But what brings this on?”

“I want to speak to Grandmother’s portrait,” Orion retorts, which is true, but it’s mostly because he misses it. And because he figures that perhaps Sirius had some records hidden away somewhere. After all, Walburga kept it as all but a shrine, the same with Regulus’ room, and he might luck out.

And he is bored.

The next day indeed sees him at Grimmauld Place. Narcissa allowed Kreacher to apparate him under the condition that he’d be back within the hour to all visit Diagon Alley since Draco went through a growth spurt and needs new robes.

Upon arriving, Orion breathes in the dusty air, feels the hum of the wards, takes in the gloomy flickering of the chandelier, and feels promptly more at home than he’s been during the whole time he stayed at Malfoy Manor.

Walburga’s portrait is large and smack in the middle of the entrance hall, overlooking the whole room.

“You kept me waiting” are her first words directed at Orion.

“My apologies, Grandmother,” Orion says formally.

It stings, seeing Walburga in her portrait. She had it painted with her hair tucked under a bonnet and wearing a mourning dress, but otherwise, she looks just the same. Orion has to pull his hand back, having impulsively reached out to touch the canvas. She’s there, but not really, he forcibly reminds himself. A shadow of who she used to be.

“Well. It hardly matters now. Tell me what has happened since my unfortunate demise.”

Orion tells her. Of school. Of his classes and how he’s staying with the Malfoys for now and the people he’s been introduced to.

“Merlin! The disgrace! I suppose Narcissa displayed some good sense for once and took you in, but still. A Black raised by Malfoys! Don’t let Lucius ruin you like he does his son. He’s still the same spineless sprog that he was when I last saw him, is he not?”

Orion shrugs. “Likely.”

“Don’t shrug. It’s unbecoming,” Walburga immediately scolds him.

Somewhere behind him, Kreacher has begun to dust the entrance hall, not so subtly listening in.

Orion hasn’t seen much of him over the summer since he ordered him to mostly keep Grimmauld from rotting away in his absence. The house appears a tad more dusty but otherwise in good condition.

“Lucius isn’t too bad,” Orion acquiesces. “He has started to introduce me to politics.”

Walburga barks a laugh. “That man. Of course he would. Undoubtedly he’s grooming you to take over an influential position once you’re of age, trying to leech off our good name—”

She goes on for a bit about bloodlines and lack of decorum, followed by threats aimed towards Lucius about bringing Orion up right lest she will curse him even from beyond her grave.

It’s all rather impressive, and Orion wallows a bit in melancholy before he extracts himself under the pretence of checking on whether Kreacher kept up his promise of keeping the house in order.

Orion doesn’t find any records in Sirius’ room. Just old school books littered with doodles and notes in the margins, a muggle magazine on motorcycles, and dusty robes in the wardrobe, as well as a box hidden under the bed that bit him the last time he tried to open it—back when Walburga was still alive.

The only new thing he discovers is a crinkled pack of cigarettes stuffed between the space of the mattress and the headboard when he impulsively checks whether Sirius hid a journal or something like it there.

The outdated packaging evokes a spark of amusement in Orion, as he concludes that Sirius must’ve smoked them in secret when he was just fifteen or sixteen—before he left anyway. Though this first impression is swiftly replaced by curiosity when the weight of the pack registers.

Taking a peek inside, Orion finds a muggle Zippo lighter stuffed next to a few dried-up and old cigarettes.

It’s heavy. Silver metal, scratched from wear, the initials S. B. engraved into the side. Flipping it around, he finds a roaring lion’s head on the other.

Unwittingly, Orion’s lips quirk.

Of course, even that would fit the theme of the room.

Clicking it open and running his thumb over the wheel, it still sparks a flame.

Either it held up surprisingly well or was charmed in some way or another.

He says his goodbyes to Walburga’s likeness before he orders Kreacher to apparate him back to Malfoy Manor, a stack of shrunken old school books in his pocket courtesy of Kreacher’s aid, while his fingers play with the lighter stuffed into the pack of fags in the other.

Not even an hour later, both Orion and Draco are standing, bored, on small, dusty, velvet-cushioned stools inside Twilfit and Tattings, surrounded by robes upon robes displayed on moving mannequins, the shiny, dark, wood-panelled walls obscured by rows of shelves stuffed with fabrics and being measured in order to get new leisure robes, while Narcissa thumbs through a catalogue on the latest wizarding fashions, draped over a button-tufted settee shoved against the wall.

They chat about this and that while they’re prodded and pricked, and even then it takes the better half of an hour to figure out what cuts and which colours they’re going to get—dictated mostly by Narcissa.

Luckily, he and Draco are allowed to roam by themselves after that, and once Narcissa gives them some spending money and tells them that she’ll find them in about two hours time, they’re off.

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Orion starts to convince Draco to ditch Diagon and instead venture into Knockturn Alley.

They take a narrow alleyway branching off next to Eeylops Owl Emporium, filthy stone slabs—almost concave from decades of people walking over them having worn them down—before Knockturn Alley opens up in front of them.

It’s the giddiest Orion has felt in a while.

Draco, on the other hand, seems somewhat uneasy, solely fuelled by the false bravado he conjured in reaction to Orion’s taunts goading him into joining this endeavour.

They’re accosted almost immediately by a hag selling fingernails, ragged robes, and breath smelling of old, rotten fish, her moss-green teeth filed to sharp points.

Orion takes a page out of Walburga’s book and looks at her with scalding derision, throwing his family name in her face, all but outright implying that she registers as nothing but dirt under his boots.

The vermin populating Knockturn can sniff out weakness like starving bloodhounds, and it’s better to intimidate them from the get-go than perish after clinging to lessons of politeness and decorum, which would be wasted here anyway.

She backs off, apologising hurriedly with false demureness, but there’s a spark of fear in her eyes.

Aside from everything, he’s still a Black. At his age his connections are nonexistent, but being backed by Lucius, he could have her thrown into Azkaban on a mere affront of perceived assault.

Draco straightens up considerably after that display, the usual self-confidence returning to him, and his eyes dart around hungrily.

Orion grins.

“Where to first?”

They venture into a dingy apothecary, dealing in entrails and creature blood, more resembling a butcher shop, truly, what with the bloodied heads of dead mooncalves on display and a whole albino fawn hanging from a hook, gutted, with its blood dripping into a bucket.

Draco drags him out before Orion can take a proper look at the shapeless things floating in the jars and into a store whose window display consists of dozens of terrariums populated by snakes.

Once inside, Orion tugs at the collar of his shirt in an attempt to improve the airflow. It’s stuffy and hot, the humid air pressing down on them like blankets. The walls are uneven, covered in lichen and branches, mostly kept in the dark, and solely illuminated by the reddish light coming from a handful of the lanterns hanging from the dark ceiling. Snakes are everywhere in the shop. Curled around branches, coiled up in the nooks carved into the wall, and even wrapped around the chains of the lamps.

There’s a fire burning, surrounded by wards so thick, they shimmer like milky sheets in the air, Ashwinders slithering around between the coals.

Amidst the silence, they can even hear the rustling of dried leaves when the snakes move and their quiet hisses.

“Pretty, my darlings, aren’t they?”

Draco jumps, and Orion’s head whips around.

From the most shadowy corner, a woman has risen from a large armchair, only becoming noticeable now that she’s emerged from the shadows. A huge anaconda is twisted around her body, her eyes an odd yellowish colour as she tilts her head. Her voice wasn’t louder than a whisper.

Orion wouldn’t be surprised if she were a vampire. He clears his throat, trying to disguise his startled reaction in the face of her sudden appearance. “Very,” he says, his heart pumping in his chest.

She pets her snake absently, tilting her head as she stares unblinkingly. Her red tongue glides over her bloodless lips, mirroring her pet.

Meanwhile, Draco’s attention has been caught by a large snake coiled up in one of the nooks let into the wall, a pumpkin-sized bump wandering down its length with agonising slowness.

“Looking to buy?” she says, her voice as quiet as a gust of wind.

“Uh, just browsing.”

“I sell venoms, fangs, and sheddings as well,” she whispers.

“No, thank you.”

She settles back down in her dark spot, lighting a thin, long-stemmed pipe that glows in the dark, permeating the room with a sweet scent.

There’s not another word said till they make to leave.

“Come back in a fortnight,” she calls out roughly when they’re opening the door to the alley. “For the feeding.”

As soon as they’re out, Draco turns to look at Orion, who’s inhaling the fresh air, blinking against the sudden influx of light. “Good grief! I swear she was about to have her snakes eat us!”

“You may have a point,” Orion replies, a grin spreading over his face.

They end up in a shop that has no sign and is squeezed between two similarly narrow buildings, manned by a hag so ugly, Orion rather thinks Draco might be onto something when he comments under his breath that she looks like her father procreated with a centaur. She snarls whether they have the money to pay for their services, which they decline and are promptly thrown back out on the streets.

It’s not really a loss.

The fortune teller Walburga liked to frequent is located just a few buildings down, and Orion is almost sure that he recognises the veiled witch in poor clothes slipping through the door as one of Narcissa’s acquaintances—likely attempting to disguise her identity.

About the same distance to the other side, there’s a corner pub, whose entrance lies low, a unicorn skull nailed on top of the door, the horn long stolen, where a few inebriated wizards and witches are loafing about out front—some gravitating towards where a handful of rather scantily clad witches and wizards are smoking and chatting up the drunken patrons.

Orion thinks two of the drunk adolescent wizards stumbling over the cobblestones graduated Hogwarts last year.

They pass a shop selling poisoned candles and, in the process of evading a truly disgusting-looking hag, accidentally venture into a darker alley leading towards the backstreets of Knockturn, which even Orion is apprehensive to explore.

They encounter a haggard, pockmarked man there, clad in robes that make him look like he crawled out of a grave and who sniffs them over as if they were pieces of meat regardless of their station.

“Soft skin. Small bones,” he mutters under his breath. His fingers twitch. “Open your mouths, boys. You’ve still got milk teeth, right?”

Orion bares his teeth in a grin. Something surges under his skin, coiling. “Come closer and check for yourself,” he says, his voice dripping with a promise of violence.

Draco’s hand wraps around Orion’s bicep, the bite of his nails sharp. Orion’s own are wrapped around his wand. He draws it slowly as the man takes a step forward.

“Orion—” Draco whispers.

A curse spills from Orion’s lips, warmth seeping down his fingertips, into his wand.

The vagrant screams, clawing at his eyes. Blood spills past his fingers as he tries to rip them out of his skull, as the sensation of the curse becomes unbearable.

Draco’s mouth parts, shock written into his features as his cheeks drain of colour. Orion takes another step forward, his cousin’s hand slipping off his arm. A dark, satisfied grin splits his lips.

“You’ll think better next time, won't you?” Orion says to the whimpering man.

He doesn’t even answer. Orion curses him again, just because he can, indignant and furious over that vagrant’s audacity, but driven by a kind of heady thrill at testing out some curses he unearthed in Grimmauld’s library and hadn’t had occasion to yet.

In hindsight, it will occur to him that he was lucky; the man wasn’t well versed in magic, least of all appeared to have enough money to afford a wand. But at this moment, all he feels is vindication.

Blackened boils cover the wizard’s filthy body by the time Orion’s done with him, bursting as he yowls with pain at every movement. He’s blinded himself. Fool.

It wasn't even that bad a curse.

Even Kreacher could resist the urge, and Walburga trained it out of Orion during their second year of duelling lessons.

Orion considers casting a flaying curse on a rather vulnerable area when Draco’s insistent ramblings finally pull him out of it, and he looks at his cousin.

Draco appears on the verge of throwing up.

Orion sniffs, pocketing his wand, and relents.

They leave the man where he is. Nobody will blink twice at a sight like this in this part of Knockturn. And it’s not like anyone would suspect them.

Even if they did, they couldn’t touch Orion, not really.

Draco still looks a bit green around the nose when they make it back to Diagon, though, and Orion refrains from teasing him for being so soft.

The man would’ve done worse to them. He had it coming.

After swearing Draco to secrecy, Orion decides it’s time to get some food.

He leads them to the Leaky Cauldron, ordering butterbeer and chips for both him and Draco.

Draco wrinkles his nose over the greasy food, the grimy interior, the ‘common folk’ and muggle parents, but pulls his plate out of Orion’s reach when he jokingly makes a move to steal some of his chips.

However, Draco does have a point, and Orion dares a subtle scouring spell on the cutlery before forgoing it wholly and eating with his fingers.

Afterwards, Draco seems to have returned to his regular assertiveness, especially once they wander past the Quidditch supply shop, where the new Nimbus 2001 is being displayed in the window.

Orion indulges him and endures a solid 20 minutes of Draco fawning over it, going on about the unfairness of Potter owning a broom and being allowed to fly on the Gryffindor Quidditch team, when Narcissa materialises and rescues him from that plight.

That evening, old Mr. Parkinson shows up at Malfoy Manor in a tiff, declaring that he was just raided by the Aurors.

Draco and Orion both listen at the door to the study, fighting over who gets to look through the keyhole, while some painted Malfoy ancestor chides them for their disrespect, before Draco tells him to shut up.

If Orion had dared to do the same in Grimmauld Place, he’d only have been cussed out.

Inside, Lucius goes on about the waste of dispatching the Ministry’s resources in that manner. He vows to speak to the minister about that invasion of privacy—not that he has anything to hide, of course.
The portrait of Lucius’ great-grandfather on the walls hisses about the audacity of those cretins, while Mr. Parkinson paces back and forth next to the fireplace, echoing that sentiment extensively.

“Now is not the time for rash actions,” Lucius eventually voices, never mind his vocal agreement earlier and multiple declarations of pulling his monetary support for Fudge, and he gets up from his armchair.

Draco and Orion both scramble away from the door when Lucius emerges, looking at them with an unimpressed expression.

“Let your mother know I’m heading for the club,” Lucius tells Draco, while Mr. Parkinson has already disappeared through the floo. “I’ll be late.”

He all but storms down the hallway, bellowing for Dobby to put out his robes.

“Do you think they will try to raid Grimmauld Place?” Orion enquires during dinner without any pretence and looks at Narcissa.

She disguises her initial surprise and takes a sip of her wine. “On what grounds, cousin? You are a child under our care. I doubt they would dare.”

“If anybody asks,” Orion voices, with a toothy grin, “I shall simply direct them towards my father for permission.”

Narcissa lets out an uncharacteristic laugh. “So you should,” she says.

At the tail end of August, Orion, Draco, and Narcissa spend a week in Italy. In between splashing around at the beach and sightseeing, Orion enjoys a variety of foods, from simple meals consisting of sun-dried tomatoes and bread soaked with freshly pressed olive oil to seafood dishes and elaborate desserts.

They attend a Quidditch match between two local teams and a gala, where Narcissa discovers a new painter she decides to sponsor and hires a guide to show them around the local wizarding districts of Florence, which sprawl farther and are more interconnected than both the Parisian and the London equivalents.

They arrive back in time for their Hogwarts letters, Draco notably sunburnt and Orion with a constellation of freckles sprawling over his face. The former is quickly rectified with a salve; the latter less so.

Draco’s grades are good but compared to Orion’s they are abysmal. Lucius lets him feel his displeasure.

Rarely has Orion seen tension like this between them, and he does his best to stay out of the whole thing. It doesn’t help that Lucius props him up as a glowing example of wizarding ability, and for once, Orion almost pities Draco. Though that evaporates rather quickly once his cousin starts to vent his anger at his father by virtue of projecting all of his frustration onto Orion. It’s childish and petty, the way he does it, with uninspired insults and trying to show off at Quidditch still. Orion isn’t one to forgive easily.

Their relationship is still strained by the time they apparate to Diagon Alley to buy their school supplies.

It’s bustling with people when they arrive there. A colourful mix of witches, wizards, and Muggle parents are all crowding the narrow cobbled streets running between the crooked buildings of the district, trying to get their shopping done. Owls are hooting, witches on carts crying out advertisements for their wares, and the smells of street food and potion supplies permeating the air.

There’s a line in front of Flourish and Blotts forming already, but Lucius takes both Draco and Orion with him as he ventures down a small and dim alleyway branching off into Knockturn.

It’s shadowed and gloomy as always and grants some breathing room after the mass of people populating Diagon Alley. Hags and twitching wizards scoot back into the twilight when Lucius stalks past them, after the first daring few stretching out their hands to beg for money have been met with his cane.

Lucius strides with his head held high, his feet clacking on the muddy and cracked cobblestones, urging Draco to stay close.

The latter, who seems much more confident wandering through Knockturn Alley when in the presence of his father, has once again picked up the topic of Potter’s place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Orion hums noncommittally, more interested in the adolescent Acromantulas crawling over each other in the window display of the shop next to them and rather glad for Lucius cutting the whole debate short by telling Draco that he’ll buy him a broom.

Said man ushers them past a familiar dust-covered facade and into the largest store on Knockturn Alley opposite a display of shrunken heads stemming from various kinds of creatures.

Borgin and Burkes.

Thanks to Walburga, Orion’s been here a handful of times, but he looks around curiously anyway.

Ash covers the floor in front of the bricks denoting the fireplace, skulls and ominous animal bones displayed openly, next to cursed jewellery, bloodied playing cards, and an elaborate tea set.

The interior is run-down and shabby, though an impression of former wealth still remains. Still, after staying at Malfoy Manor for so long, the difference is stark.

“Don’t touch anything, Draco,” Lucius says swiftly after ringing the small bell on the counter, while his son is already in the process of reaching for a milky glass eye. His gaze drifts towards Orion, who’s kept his fingers to himself, well aware that there are certain items you don’t want to mess with, despite his interest in the bloodied playing cards.

“I thought you wanted to get me a gift,” Draco retorts, put out.

“I said, I’d buy you a racing broom.”

Lucius starts to drum his fingers onto the counter, impatient as he waits for old Mr. Borgin to show up.

“What use is that if I’m not even on the house team?” Draco voices mulishly. “Harry Potter got a Nimbus 2000 last year. Special permission from Dumbledore, so he could play for Gryffindor. He isn’t even that good. Just because he’s famous… famous because of that stupid scar on his forehead—”

“You’d think you were harbouring a crush, the way you’re obsessing over Potter,” Orion cuts him off.

Lucius exhales through his nose, while his cousin sputters wildly, denying the accusations.

Just then, Mr. Borgin emerges from the back rooms, hunched over and bony, his thin hair falling in greasy strands into his pockmarked face and clad in a shabby pinstripe suit.

Though Orion's attention is already piqued by the distinct noise he heard coming from a dark cabinet tucked away in a corner in response to his earlier teasing of Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy. What a pleasure to see you again. What can I do for you? I’ll just have to show you something that just came in—”

Orion ignores them as he reaches the heavy wardrobe.

It creaks when he pulls it open and blinks stupidly.

Looking at him with wide eyes through smudged and cracked glasses is the one and only Harry Potter.

His cheeks are streaked with ash, and he’s clad in hand-me-down muggle clothes at least four sizes too large. With his wild hair, he gives off the impression of a somewhat scorched hedgehog.

Orion overcomes his shock and finds himself delightfully surprised in its wake.

Especially since it appears that he isn’t the only one taken aback, judging by how the bespeckled wonder-boy’s eyes dart around in quiet panic as if he were looking for an escape route.

Orion grins broadly, cheeks dimpling. “Fancy running into you. Had a good summer?”

Said boy stills as if in reflex, staring at him like a deer in headlights.

“Who are you talking to?” Draco asks just then, shouldering his way past Orion and getting on his tiptoes to catch a glimpse past the door of the cabinet.

“Potter!” he exclaims, shock written into his features.

In response, the Gryffindor straightens, and Orion shifts back to give him space as he finally steps out of the cabinet.

Potter meets Draco’s stunned and Orion’s elated face with a defiant look, chin pushed forward stubbornly.

He seems to want to project a strong front—something that is somewhat mitigated by the way ash trickles from his hair onto his face.

Their interaction hasn’t been exactly subtle, and so Lucius has swiftly rolled up his conversation and crossed their distance.

“Ah. If that isn’t the illustrious Harry Potter.” His pale eyes size Potter up before sliding over the cabinet he stepped out of and back again. “I suppose I shan’t be surprised that no one ever taught you that it is quite rude to be listening in to private conversations.”

Potter’s jaw clenches, his green eyes flashing behind his glasses. Before he can put his foot in his mouth, Orion cuts off what would undoubtedly become an ugly conversation and leans curiously toward the Gryffindor.

“What brings you to this lovely establishment, Potter?”

“The floo,” he retorts sassily, squaring his scrawny shoulders.

Orion laughs, while Lucius regards the boy with a pursed mouth.

“I think it would be appropriate to escort Mr. Potter back to the more ... tasteful parts of the Wizarding district. We wouldn’t want him to get lost or accosted by a hag on accident.”

“But, Father—” Draco starts, but Lucius ignores him, turning towards Mr. Borgin.

“We shall resume our conversation at a later time.”

“Of course, Mr. Malfoy. I’ll be waiting,” he says.

“Very well.”

As soon as Lucius has turned his attention off him, Borgin stares unabashedly at Potter.

“You don’t have to do that. I can find my way back myself,” the Gryffindor says hurriedly.

“Oh, please,” Orion interjects. “It’s no trouble.” He flashes a sharp grin as he takes in the scrawny boy. “Besides, you’d get eaten alive in Knockturn on your own, and we wouldn’t want that now, would we, Potter?”

Potter narrows his bright green eyes, glaring at him.

Orion’s grin only broadens as he slings an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders, ignoring the reflexive flinch.

Draco stares at Orion as if he grew another head while he ushers Potter towards the exit. “The whole Wizarding world would be in uproar at your demise,” he continues teasingly.

“Orion, what are you doing?” Draco hisses at him, following hot on their heels.

The bronze bell rings as they exit the shop, Lucius’ cane smacking against the filthy cobblestones as he steps out after them. “I will accompany you to Diagon but not any further. I trust you’ll find your way from there. I’ve got urgent business to attend to.”

Potter mutters something under his breath, but Orion jostles him as he drags him along.

“Knockturn Alley. I have to say, you surprise me, Potter.”

The smaller boy just sniffs, blocking all attempts at continuing that thread of conversation.

“How were your holidays?” he asks, thus, obnoxiously cheerful.

“Peachy,” Potter bites back.

Orion is too amused and delighted by the current events to respond in any way that isn’t flashing a broad grin.

Finally, something interesting is happening. Potter, in Knockturn Alley! The wonder boy might not be so golden as he remembers after all.

“I’ll be on the Quidditch team this year,” Draco interjects from the sidelines, taking long steps to catch up to them. “Just so you know, Potter. You better watch out.”

Orion feels a spark of irritation at the interruption, but he swallows it. Draco may be obnoxious at times, but he’s still his cousin.

The Gryffindor scoffs.

“Does that sound funny to you?” Draco responds aggressively.

“Nah. Not at all, Malfoy,” Potter retorts. His eyes are shifty as he takes in the shabby wizards and witches eyeing their little group.

Orion grins as he pictures the image they must make; likely, they assume Malfoy has all but kidnapped the Potter.

“Harry!” A deep voice rings out suddenly, an imposing figure looming over the general population of Knockturn as they dart aside in the face of the behemoth of a man.

“Hagrid!” Harry exclaims, shaking Orion off and all but sprinting towards the half-giant. Orion wrinkles his nose, disgruntled. He’d have loved to needle Potter about the reason for him eavesdropping on Lucius haggling with Mr. Borgin.

“What are you doing with the Malfoys?”

It makes for a ridiculous sight with Harry barely reaching hip height compared to the wild-haired man.

Lucius’ lips curl with distaste. Draco steps closer to his father.

“I got lost in the floo, and they found me.”

Ah. So not that interesting a reason for Potter ending up in Borgin & Burkes after all. Orion is strangely disappointed.

“Malfoy,” Hagrid grunts out. His beady eyes fixed on the man with equal distaste.

“Look, you don’t have to get me back to Diagon Alley now,” Potter says, appearing vastly more relaxed standing next to the half-giant as he addresses the Malfoys. “Since I’ve found Hagrid.”

“I see,” Lucius says, looking down his nose at Hagrid, despite the obvious difference in height. “If you insist on associating with such…ilk, Mr. Potter, I shan’t keep you.”

“Pah,” Hagrid voices. “Harry’s lucky to have run into me. Merlin knows what you’ would’ve done with him.”

“I resent those implications,” Lucius says coolly. “Though one of your kind may consider steeping so low the norm, I assure you, Mr. Potter’s safety in my presence was never in question. With you, well, one can’t be certain.”

Hagrid almost growls.

“Come on, Draco, Orion. We should move on. Merlin forbid, people are getting the impression that we keep that kind of company.”

Lucius rears his head haughtily, granting Hagrid and Potter a last disparaging look before turning. Draco follows suit, while Orion lingers a moment longer.

“Oi, Potter,” he yells after them, with a provocative grin. “No thanks for saving you? Are your muggle relatives not big on manners?”

Behind Hagrid’s large patchwork leather coat, Potter flips him the bird.

Orion laughs, startled. “You’re welcome,” he shouts anyway. “Give Granger my regards!”

His last statement has Potter’s head whirl around, staring at him like a confused owl.

Orion grins to himself.

He’s forced to take a few long strides to catch up to Draco and Lucius, the latter already caught up in a rant about how that half-breed is even allowed to hold a job.

“Orion,” Lucius says momentarily, looking down at him. “As your guardian, I shan’t be remiss to remind you that it isn't wise to be too taken by Harry Potter. Though many regard him as a hero who has vanquished the Dark Lord, it’s apparent that this feat isn’t something owed to his own merits. You should carefully choose whom you’ll grant your allegiance to, and Potter has neither displayed exceptional power nor the intellect needed to wield his own influence.”

“He’s only twelve, though,” Orion replies, “And was raised by muggles on top of that.”

“That may be so. But as someone of his fame, he cannot afford that kind of ignorance towards the grander wizarding world. Rather foolishly, he’s allowed others to firmly shape his views and take charge. He may not even be aware of this, but it’s no excuse.

He’s so entrenched in Dumbledore’s muggle-loving ways, one must wonder whether that wasn’t by design,” Lucius muses out loud.

“How so?” Orion asks curiously.

Lucius takes a beat to reply.

“Many influential wizarding families offered to take Harry Potter in after the…regretful perishing of his parents, me and Narcissa included. Sirius Black was his godfather, and of course with him in Azkaban, Narcissa basically became his next of kin. And while his mother was a mudblood, James Potter, for all his faults, still came from a respectable family.”

“Dorea Black married Potter’s great uncle, I think, or someone thereabouts,” Orion voices.

“Indeed. While we might not have agreed politically on everything, even Mr. Potter’s grandfather, Fleamont, possessed the wits to marry among his station. Euphemia was a Fawley. Her family put forth a claim as well.

And still, Harry Potter vanished from the wizarding world, only reemerging last year, proclaiming to have been raised by muggles!

I doubt he’ll be anything more than a political puppet come reaching maturity, if he ever even involves himself in politics.”

Orion mulls over those words while Lucius drops them off as soon as they’ve found the nearest alley branching off to Diagon Alley, claiming to be pressed for time.

They find Narcissa before long and reunite with Lucius about an hour later in the Quidditch shop, where he places an order for new brooms to supply the whole Slytherin House team, and Draco finally gets to hold his own Nimbus 2001.

Flourish & Blotts is stuffed to the brim with people when they head there to pick up their pre-ordered books, thanks to the famous Gilderoy Lockhart holding a book signing there.

“I suppose I can see the appeal,” Orion voices, while he and Draco are standing atop the gallery idly overlooking the bustling shop and taking their measure of the golden-haired wizard flashing his trademark ‘Witch Weekly’s most Charming Smile’ at the witches and wizards crowding the floor and attempting to push their way to the front of the queue.

Because if there’s one thing that can’t be denied, it’s that Lockhart is handsome. With that angular jawline, high cheekbones, and straight nose, he makes more than one witch swoon. His hair is meticulously coiffed into waves curling around his ears, a hat sitting daringly at an angle to show it off, his matching tailored robes only bringing out the colour of his eyes.

Orion would bet his left arm that he uses potions to smooth out the crow's feet wrinkling at the corners of his eyes.

Draco leans further over the bannisters. “Who cares about handsome?! He defeated a werewolf single-handedly!”

Orion raises a brow sceptically. He isn’t quite certain, but he’s fairly sure that Lockhart was some kind of fraud.

A narcissist, certainly, going by the dozens of life-sized portraits of himself propped up around him, winking at the crowd while he flashes his pearly white teeth, posing for the camera of the small photographer jumping around, exploding purplish smoke every time the flash goes off.

And it goes off a lot.

“It’s not that impressive a feat,” Orion replies. “My grandfather killed a werewolf in ‘53, and he was barely twenty then. He gifted grandmother its pelt on their anniversary back then. It’s still catching dust, spread out in front of the fireplace in his study.”

Orion never got to see it because that particular room in Grimmauld never unlocked for either of them, and as macabre as abusing a werewolf pelt as a carpet might seem—especially ironic considering his father was friends with Lupin—he figures if a werewolf is dumb enough to get itself killed by trying to murder a Black on a full moon, skinning it is fair game.

“Yeah, well,” Draco says, “I doubt he ever lived with vampires for a month or can claim to have survived hearing a banshee cry.”

“I met a coven in France last year. They were interesting.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Merlin. You’re insufferable sometimes.”

“Ten galleons, that he’s a fraud,” Orion offers, stretching out his hand with a smirk.

Draco shakes it. “I’ll take that bet. Sucker,” he says.

“Careful. Your father might overhear,” Orion needles him, though he’s more than approving of Draco loosening up somewhat.

His insults are an embarrassment most of the time. Hopefully, within the year he’ll get Draco to say ‘fuck’ at one point.

“My, if that isn’t Harry Potter!” Lockhart exclaims loudly, drawing their attention.

The crowd gasps and whispers, parting and revealing a startled-looking Potter, who’s extracted from a litany of redheads by the man himself, cameras flashing as their picture is taken.

“Dear Ladies and Gentlemen,” Lockhart announced, shushing the crowd. “What an extraordinary moment for me! Simply the perfect opportunity for a small announcement—”

“Bloody Potter,” Draco says, his voice drowned out by the applause.

“Sucks to be him, honestly,” Orion says, as he watches the Gryffindor trying to subtly pull away only for Lockhart’s hand to settle on his shoulder.

“As the young Harry entered Flourish and Blotts today, he merely wanted to buy my autobiography—which I love to gift to him, of course.”

More applause rings through the shop, and they watch how the squirming Gryffindor gets Lockhart’s whole book collection shoved at him.

Lockhart turns Potter towards the paparazzi and flashes a smile.

“Of course he’s the centre of attention again,” Draco voices, before pushing himself away from the bannisters. “Come on.”

The blond grabs Orion by the arm and pulls him along, past a few sighing witches and down the stairs, while Lockhart continues his speech.

They’re doused in a cloud of perfume when a witch behind them quickly applies more of some heavy floral scent, and Orion wrinkles his nose.

“—Yes, ladies and gentlemen, with enormous delight and pride, I can announce that I will be the professor for Defence against the Dark Arts in Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry come September!”

“First a possessed Muggle studies professor and now this,” Orion mutters. “Freaking delightful.”

Draco drags him through the crowd, towards where Potter has somehow managed to extract himself and found shelter in a corner next to a young red-headed girl clutching a kettle to her chest, which he dumped all his Lockhart books into.

Her freckled face betrays her resemblance to the Weasley clan.

“Bet you liked that,” Draco declares loudly as he pushes past the last of the crowd and straightens up in front of Potter. “The famous Harry Potter. Can’t even go to a bookshop without getting his face on the front page of the papers!”

“Leave him alone,” the girl exclaims, with surprising anger in her shaky voice as she steps forward. “He didn’t want any of that!” She glares at Draco.

“Potter, you’ve got yourself a girlfriend!” Draco drawls.

Orion smirks, amused by the flaming blush appearing on the girl’s face, clashing horribly with her hair.

Weasley and Granger materialise in that moment, panting and slightly flush from having fought their way through the crowd, their arms laden with books.

“Oh, it’s you,” Weasley says when his eyes fall upon Orion and Draco. “Bet you’re surprised to see Harry here.”

“Not as surprised as seeing you in a shop,” Draco sniffs, haughtily, looking Weasley up and down. “Bet your—”

“You’re misinformed, Weasley,” Orion talks over his cousin. “We encountered Potter here earlier, in Knockturn. Saved his skin from being kidnapped by some unsavoury figures.”

“Like, you’ve got room to talk,” Weasley mutters, looking at him as if he were a particularly slimy toad.

Orion ignores him in favour of smiling at Granger—mainly just to antagonise the redhead. “Granger,” he acknowledges her.

She bites her lip, eyes shifting uncomfortably, torn between being polite or sticking with her friends. “Black,” she greets him eventually, receiving equally disapproving looks from both Potter and Weasley.

Orion turns his attention towards the bespeckled boy. “You should really invest in a solicitor or something. Getting pictures published of a minor without consent of their guardians definitely screams for a lawsuit.”

He doesn’t get an answer from the incredulous-looking Potter, because at the same time, Draco addresses Weasley and says, “I’m assuming your parents have to starve for a whole month to afford all of this,” with a dismissive wave of his hand.

They both turn their heads when a red-faced Weasley drops all his books into his sister’s kettle.

Orion’s wand is in his hand by the time Weasley all but launches himself at Draco, stepping in front of his cousin, while Granger and Potter grab their friend by the robes to hold him back.

“Ron!” a male voice, Orion’s, is never heard to exclaim. “What are you doing?”

A lanky, balding man with brown glasses perched on his nose and red hair forces his way through the crowd flanked by the Weasley twins.

Draco elbows Orion. “I didn’t need your help,” he hisses.

“—Let’s head outside,” Weasley’s father continues.

“Shut up,” Orion retorts. “You barely know how to throw a punch.”

“And you do?” Draco asks, looking at him unimpressed.

“Well, well, well,” Lucius' familiar drawl suddenly sounds behind them, dropping his hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Arthur Weasley.”

“Malfoy,” Mr. Weasley replies coolly.

“Much work in the Ministry, I hear? All these house raids…. I hope you’re paid for the overtime.”

Lucius reaches into the Weasley girl’s kettle, pulling out a handful of shiny new Lockhart books and a rather shabby Transfiguration one.

He holds on to the latter, turning it back and forth in his hand as he looks it over.

“Apparently not. Good grief, what use is being a disgrace to the whole wizarding society if you’re not even paid for it?”

Mr. Weasley turns even redder than both of his children combined. “We’ve got very different opinions on what constitutes being a disgrace to the wizarding world,” he bites out.

“Evidently,” Lucius sniffs. His pale eyes drift over to a couple, who’re obviously muggles, the man sporting the same kind of hair texture Granger does, while he talks animatedly with Mrs. Weasley. “Cavorting with that kind, Weasley, and here I thought your family couldn’t sink any lower—”

A metallic clanging sounds as the Weasley girl’s kettle flies through the air and her father throws himself at Lucius.

“Holy shit!” Orion exclaims, shocked, a disbelieving grin spreading over his face, when Lucius is tossed back first into a shelf, books toppling over their heads.

“Get him, Dad!” the Weasley twins cheer.

“No, Arthur! No!”

The crowd darts apart, more shelves toppling while Mr. Weasley and Lucius are all but brawling in the middle of the shop. Punches are flying.

A book about poisonous mushrooms smacks right into Lucius’ left eye.

Orion doesn’t even bother to contain his cackles. He howls with laughter.

“Sirs, please! – Sirs—” a cashier tries desperately to fight his way towards them over the mess of toppled-over shelves and books littering the floor.

A large shadow suddenly falls over Orion, and he wipes tears away as Hagrid ploughs his way past all of them and breaks the fighting wizards apart.

Lucius’ eye looks a bit red, and the Weasley patriarch’s lips are bloody. Both look to be steaming with anger, Malfoy throwing the girl’s shabby transfigurations book at her.

“Here, girl—take your book—that’s all your father can offer you!” Shaking off Hagrid’s grip, he grabs Draco by the shoulder, stalking towards the exit, and Orion hurries to follow them, still shaking with barely suppressed laughter.

“Unbelievable, the kind that can call themselves wizards, these days! Shameful, that whole clan—” Lucius already raves on and on about the Weasleys, insulting their blood, their political views, and their lack of wealth.

Draco nods, trying to get a word in edgewise but being cut off by his father, who barely even stops to breathe as he rants on.

“—children by the litter—”

Draco opens his mouth as he tries to keep up with his father’s long strides.

“—a disgrace of a pureblood family! A waste of magical blood—”

And is forced to shut it again. Orion is shaking with laughter, stumbling over a cobblestone in the process and bumping into Lucius’ back.

Lucius curses under his breath before he whirls around. “This is no laughing matter, Orion.”

Only when Orion finally looks up does he catch a glimpse of the red skin on Lucius’ face rapidly turning into a proper bruise and lose it even more.

“On the contrary,” he gasps between bursts of laughter, “this was hilarious. Best day I’ve had in weeks.”

Draco eyes him with an odd look on his face, while Lucius stares at him for a moment, while Orion’s belly is starting to ache from the force of his laughter, before he realises where they are.

Some bystanders gawk openly, witches and wizards passing by as they throw them curious glances.

Lucius smoothes his robes down his chest in a decisive gesture and fixes his dishevelled hair. “You will not mention this incident to your mother,” he instructs Draco, and Orion fears he might piss himself with laughter, doubling over.

“Orion!” Lucius snaps coldly. “Get a hold of yourself.”

Orion bites his lip so hard he thinks it might start to bleed. His eyes are sparkling madly with mirth. “I want to do magic during the holidays. Without supervision,” he says instead, not even bothering to be subtle in his manipulation tactics.

Lucius stares at him for a long moment. “I will see what I can do,” he grits out.

“I suppose I’ll see that I won’t forget that I shouldn’t mention this incident to Narcissa then,” he retorts cheekily.

Lucius’ eyes flash as he steps towards Orion, his cane cracking down on the stones. “Mind your tongue, boy,” he hisses in a quiet voice. “I’ve shown enough leniency by even considering your suggestion despite your blatant attempt at blackmail, but I don’t tolerate this kind of disrespect. Especially not from someone who displays an appalling lack of decorum in public. Are you trying to create a scene, or are you simply too immature to rein in your emotions?”

Orion’s mood flips, his bubbling mirth turning into anger with the suddenness of a switch being flicked, tears of his amusement still drying in the corners of his eyes when his face twists. “I would take care of that shiner if I were you,” he says cruelly. “I’m feeling somewhat tired. I shall meet you back at the Manor.”

Draco gapes at him, while Lucius opens his mouth—

“Kreacher.”

The elf appears in a flash next to Orion, curiously taking in the situation.

“Apparate me home,” Orion orders, demanding the elf’s attention.

“Of course, master,” he croaks, grabbing Orion’s hand before Lucius can do anything more than open his mouth, expression twisted with anger, and they disappear in a smear of colours.

Kreacher apparates Orion to Grimmauld Place instead of Malfoy Manor, but that’s just as well.

“Did something happen between the young master and Lucius?” the elf asks, but Orion’s rage is rapidly spilling over.

“The fucking gall of that—motherfucker!” Orion exclaims, incredulous and incensed, as he rips at his tie. “Trying to chide me for my behaviour while he starts a public fistfight with Arthur Weasley of all people?!”

Orion fumbles for his wand, about to hex the closest target—a wall—but curses when it takes too long and kicks out against a side table instead. A candelabra goes flying.

The troll-leg turned umbrella stand follows next.

Walburga appears in the portrait closest to him, pushing aside Arcturus Black II.

“Orion. What a pleasant surprise,” she says dryly. “What brings you here, aside from destroying the furniture that has been in our family for generations?”

Orion just curses instead, but enough of what transpired must translate because Walburga swiftly forgets to chide him in favour of joining him in his outrage.

“How dare he!” Walburga screeches. “The audacity! After behaving like a muggle—“That wyrm of a man—”

She goes on for a bit, and Orion feels his ire simmer down to something more manageable, mollified by his grandmother being angered on his behalf.

He’s sitting on the lower steps of the staircase by the time Walburga finally stops screaming.

“I should head back,” Orion says eventually. “Narcissa doesn’t know where I am.”

“You should tell her how her husband behaved. Would suit him just right. Oh, poor ‘Cissa, I always told her that she should’ve married within the family. If my son hadn’t run away—”

“I wouldn’t have been born,” Orion cuts her off without heat.

Walburga sniffs. “Well. No use lamenting over spilt potions. If I were still alive, I’d teach him to respect his betters.”

She mutters along a similar vein while Orion holds out his hand with a sigh. “Kreacher?”

The elf shuffles over.

“It’s been a delight, Grandmother,” Orion tells Walburga, cutting her off.

“Do come visit again,” she says.

Kreacher apparates him to Malfoy Manor, and Orion doesn’t waste a second before having Dobby point him in Narcissa’s direction and relaying that he’d had Kreacher apparate him back earlier after Lucius brawled with Arthur Weasley and made a scene at Lockhart’s book signing.

“Did he now?” Narcissa says pleasantly. Her grey eyes flicker.

“I’m going to retire,” Orion says. “I’m feeling somewhat drained.”

“Of course, Orion,” she says, and Orion turns, vindicated.

He’s still in his room, fantasising about Narcissa pulling Lucius a new one when Draco knocks.

“There you are,” he voices after Orion tells him to come in, wandering over and flopping down on his bed next to him. “Father’s really mad at you, you know?”

“I don’t care,” Orion says.

Draco’s eyes grow wide. He sits up. “How can you not—Orion!”

Orion works his jaw as his irritation returns with full force, mirroring Draco, facing him. “He was the one who got into a brawl in public, and he tells me to mind the way I talk to him?”

“That was all Arthur Weasley’s fault,” Draco retorts. “Launching himself at Father like a bloody animal!”

Orion scoffs. “Not like Lucius didn’t throw a punch as well.”

“He had to defend himself!”

“Fancy words you’re using there. If they were your own, I might even be able to respect them.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the blond says defensively.

Orion looks at him with all the conceited scorn he feels at that moment. “You’re so fucking dumb sometimes, Draco. You put Lucius on that pedestal, never even questioning the shit he spouts.”

“Shut up!” Draco jumps up.

Orion scoffs, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, a mean grin splitting his face as he faces Draco. “Why? Because I’m right?” He stands up. “You’re so far up his arse, I don’t know how your nose isn’t brown yet…” Orion leans deliberately towards Draco, staring at his face. “Hmm. I can see it, I think—”

Draco slaps him.

Momentarily he appears shocked by his own actions.

Orion is stunned. His cheek stings.

The pain is an afterthought almost as soon as it registers.

Fury wells up deep within him, hot and forceful.

“You better fucking apologise,” Orion says darkly.

Draco, who’s already appeared somewhat regretful, loses that expression in an instant. Instead, he doubles down.

“You’re just jealous,” he argues. “Just because your own father is a pathetic disgrace, rotting away in Azkaban and all your other relatives are dead—”

Orion doesn’t know when he drew his wand. Only feels the way it hums in his hand, brimming with magic even without a spell on his lips.

“Get out,” he says, barely recognising his voice. His face is a cold mask.

“What?”

“Get out, or I swear I’ll hex you.”

Something in his expression seems to finally alert Draco that he’s crossed a line. He scrambles towards the exit but still throws the door shut with a bang.

Orion stares down at his wand. Sets it down. He pulls the heavy lighter out of his pocket with the engraved initials of his father. Clicks it open, staring at the flame, and imagines the way it would eat through wood and fabric, till nothing of Draco’s shiny childhood toys were left.

He snaps it shut and throws the closest thing at the door, which turns out to be a pillow. It flops down pitifully, landing on the floor.

Fuck. The Malfoys.

Walburga was right.

Lucius would be lucky to even share a drop of blood with him.

Chapter Text

During the few days they’ve left before the first of September rolls around, the mood between Orion, Draco, and Lucius is notably icy.

Especially his ire towards Lucius ignites again when it becomes apparent that he’s barred Kreacher from the premises. Orion goes straight to Narcissa, who proclaims her sympathy but cannot or doesn’t want to overrule her husband in that regard.

At least judging by the way Lucius stares at him over the dinner table, whatever went down between them in the aftermath of Orion telling on him couldn’t have been pretty.

But Orion is nothing if not used to uncomfortable meals. He wears his contempt like a badge, solely responding to Narcissa’s words while gracing neither Draco nor Lucius with a single word.

Unfortunately, Narcissa somehow sniffs out that he didn’t go straight to Malfoy Manor after disappearing from Diagon, and the lecture he receives isn’t pretty.

Thus, when she tries to coax him into telling her what exactly happened between him and Lucius, Orion pettily refuses to tell since it won’t make much difference at this point, and he doesn’t need her taking her husband's side after all.

He hexes one of Lucius’ beloved peacocks with a dark curse that the poor creature can’t take.

Lucius' anger only manages to amuse Orion. His words slide off him like water, Orion’s smirk only managing to infuriate him more. The man looks ready to hex him.

That is when Narcissa intervenes. She asks Lucius to leave the room with her.

When Lucius returns, he has Orion standing in a corner, silently facing the walls for hours.

Only when his legs are threatening to buckle and his lower back aches like hell does he send him to his room, grounded a mere three days before they’re set to leave for Hogwarts.

School can’t come soon enough.

Aside from meals, Orion is therefore forced to hole up in his room, feeling rebellious when he flips through Sirius’ old school books, deciphering the loopy cursive crammed into the margins.

There are no books past the fifth year, but those are the most interesting, with spells scribbled in between the pages and vulgar drawings interspersed with conversations between what must’ve been the Marauders.

Little moons doodled into the corners of pages, waxing and waning—a bunny drawn for every full one—comments about how ‘Burbage could stand to lose the stick shoved up her bum’ and fleeting mentions of ‘Doesn’t Evans look hot today?—You’re so fucking whipped, we should stage an intervention’ and whether ‘Prongs’ will manage to get Evans to go out on a date with him this time, with various wagers jotted down beneath. Just everyday conversations about pranks and people and notes about school.

Orion combs through all the books with painstaking attention—he’s got nothing better to do anyhow—and copies all the spells he finds crammed into the margins, from ‘muffliato,’ ‘levicorpus,’ and ‘waddiwasi’ to various others that were obviously meant to map places while walking past them and rather dark spells that imbue the personality of someone onto an inanimate object to the point where it almost gains sentience. There are other, more whimsical ones—a charm to cause skin and/or hair to glow with glaring colours, a spell to give someone a wedgie, or one to tie someone’s shoelaces together.

Even via letters, Kreacher is rather helpful, since he recognises a great many of them. Being as rude as he can get away with, the elf describes how Sirius had tested a great many of his spells on various family members over the years, and those he hasn’t, Orion resorts to trying out at the earliest convenience.

Odesseus is a moody owl, but Orion makes a point to feed him more treats than usual for all the flying he has to do recently.

Two of the most informative of Sirius’ books are stuffed among his other belongings when it’s time to return to Hogwarts.

Narcissa and Lucius apparate Draco and Orion to Kings Cross to see them off.

Orion says goodbye to Cissa and doesn’t exchange a single word with Lucius, despite the man making an effort. Either because Narcissa has put him up to it, or more likely because they’re in public.

Orion hasn’t forgiven Draco yet either, especially since his cousin has firmly taken his father’s side.

Thus, he ditches the blond almost as soon as they’re on the train after letting his owl out of his cage, not seeing a point in forcing the bird to endure a long train ride when it can fly just as well and arrive whenever it wants.

He regrets that choice somewhat by the time he's opening the doors to various compartments and sees the options presented to him. Nervous and excitable first-years, a bunch of older Gryffindors, a group of Hufflepuffs—Smith inviting him to sit with them—god forbid. But spite drives him on, since returning to their usual compartment would only mean announcing his defeat.

Orion’s resorted to sitting with the next bunch of older Slytherins he finds when he opens a compartment and finds himself confronted with two identical freckled redheads and a dark-skinned boy with dreadlocks in an arsenal shirt worn over a garish orange long sleeve.

“Itty-bitty snake got lost, eh?” One of the Weasley twins declares, his brother with an identical smirk on his face.

“Must’ve gotten sick of the company,” the dark-skinned boy says.

“Right on, Lee,” the other twin agrees.

Orion isn’t in the mood and moves to leave before an impulsive idea shoots through his mind. It’s just petty enough, turning towards the Weasley twins that he seriously considers it.

“Now, shoo, Black. You’ve got the wrong compartment.”

Orion looks at whichever Weasley twin is sitting closest to him. “Actually, I don’t think so.”

“Maybe he got dropped a few times too many as a baby.”

“Or licked too much lead off the cradle bars.”

Orion steps into the compartment and calmly closes the door. “I’ve got a proposition for you,” he announces.

“Oho, Black. Aren’t you a little young for that?” Lee says, flashing his teeth.

“Sorry to disappoint—” one Weasley twin says, and the other adds, “—but we generally draw the line at people who haven’t hit their growth spurt yet.”

“Off you pop,” the other Weasley adds, waving his hand.

“I want you to prank Draco,” Orion says, reaping equally stunned expressions from the Gryffindors’before they’re replaced by identical grins on the Weasleys’ and a raised brow by Lee.

“Interesting,” the more freckled one of the twins says, leaning against the back of the seats. “He’s your cousin or something, right?”

“Second cousin, technically.”

“Finally got sick of that blond prat, eh?” The other one says, mirroring his twin.

Orion clenches his teeth and exhales sharply through his nose to rein in his instinctive urge to snap at them for insulting his cousin. “Something like that.”

Snape would have his head if he ever caught Orion pranking someone, but the Weasley twins… Well, no one would ever trace that back to him, would they?

“Not that we don’t think the Malfoy spawn deserves a little pranking…” one twin says, looking at his brother, who picks up where the other left off, “Why should we do what you want? Our brother isn’t exactly fond of you.”

Orion taps his school trunk with his wand, digging around in it for a bit before he produces what he looked for.

It’s Sirius’ former History of Magic book. He weighs it in his hand. “Because of that.”

“Wow. A book. I can’t contain my excitement,” Lee states deadpan.

“Are you serious?” one Weasley twin says, gaze darkening.

“If that’s supposed to be a callback, it’s a fucking awful one, Black.”

“Look at the margins,” Orion all but snaps, resisting the urge to throw it at a redhead’s face and instead handing the book to the closest Weasley. He’s got all the spells copied onto a separate list already, and that book one was mostly interesting because it had the most conversations jotted down between the pages alongside a few discussions of pranks. History of Magic with Binns apparently was as boring in the 70s as it is now.

Lee peers over Fred—or George’s—shoulders. “I don’t get it. It’s still just an old-school book.

“A book someone drew a dick into,” one of the twins adds.

“Classic humour, but we’ve grown to be a tad more sophisticated, Black,” the other redhead says, over the rustling of pages, looking at him with raised brows.

Orion feels his frustration mount, about to just abandon this whole endeavour, when—

“Fred! Look—” George—apparently—elbows his brother in the side. “Look!”

His eyes are wide and disbelieving, and he points at somewhere on a page, and his brother’s mouth drops open.

“Merlin’s saggy underpants!”

“It says Prongs!” He hisses, and then, when he notices his audience, leans in towards his brother, and they both start to whisper furiously.

Orion smirks.

“Where did you get that book?” Fred asks, squinting at him.

“It was my father’s,” Orion reveals freely. “He was friends with Potter’s dad. It has a bunch of their pranks outlined and spells written in the margins you’ll find more use for than I.”

“You’re shitting me,” Fred says after that statement has sunk in.

“He’s shitting us, isn’t he?” George voices.

Orion grins. “So, we’ve got a deal?”

The twins exchange a look. “Deal,” they say.

“Just make sure the prank can’t be tied back to me. I’ll leave the details up to you. And feel free to show Potter the book after you’re through with it… or once he’s old enough to digest his father waxing poetry about how his mother looks in ‘those muggle jeans.’.”

Orion does the air quotes and all, and Lee grins at him.

“Well…” Orion says, trailing off somewhat awkwardly. Despite that interaction, he doesn’t actually want to spend his whole train ride in the presence of a bunch of Gryffindors. “See you around. Weasley. Weasley. Lee,” he says before grabbing his luggage and exiting the compartment.

Through the door he can hear the elated voices of the Weasley twins ardently fawning over the book.

Orion just hopes that this wasn’t a mistake. Luckily the next compartment he tries is populated by a bunch of Slytherins he recognises—fifth and sixth years if he remembers correctly. Flint, Warrington, Pucey, and Snyde.

“Black. Looking for your friends?” Warrington asks, tilting his broad torso towards him.

“No,” Orion says. “Mind if I sit with you?”

The older Slytherins exchange a glance before Snyde shrugs and shuffles aside. “Might be a bit crowded, but I guess we can make it work.”

Flint grumbles disgruntled when it becomes apparent that he has to get his feet off the seat opposite him to make space for Orion, while Warrington, who’s already massive enough as it is, is forced to pull his legs in to give him the room to close the compartment door.

“So, Black, not that we don’t appreciate your company, but why aren’t you sitting with your fellow yearmates?” Warrington asks, helping Orion to stow away his trunk with a murmured spell, while Snyde wriggles her fingers in the holes of the crate where her cat is currently scratching the walls.

“I’m diversifying my social circle,” Orion declares.

Snyde grins, leaning forward. “I see. And why’s that?”

“Fishing for gossip?” Orion retorts as he squeezes himself into the spot next to Pucey.

“Might be,” she says.

Orion considers it for a moment. “Draco’s being a prat.”

“Hah,” Flint says, “When is he not?”

Orion glares at him. Never mind that Flint is right. Still, “You’ll rethink that opinion,” he says.

Flint scoffs.

“You will,” Orion continues, “Because Lucius, as the oh-so-benevolent sponsor of the Slytherin Quidditch team, has ordered every player a Nimbus 2001, on the condition that Draco will make the team.”

Flint straightens so quickly he almost falls off his seat. “He didn’t!” he exclaims disbelievingly.

“Merlin’s balls,” Warrington voices, and Pucey gapes.

Orion nods. “Sure did.”

“Fuck yeah!” Flint pumps his fist. “Nimbus 2001’s! Shit!”

Snyde snorts. “Nepotism at its finest.”

Flint looks at her with a huge grin on his face, displaying his crooked teeth. “Do you think I give a shit? Malfoy can be as shite a player as he wants to be—I’ll put him through drills to the point where he pukes if that’s what it takes to get him into shape—but I’ll fly that Nimbus 2001. Hell, they’re going to start scouting our age bracket this year! The Bulgarian national team just signed a sixteen-year-old for a seeker! Who’s to say the Brits won’t follow?”

Warrington nods. “We’ll take the cup this year, if it’s the last thing we do.”

“Boys and Quidditch,” Snyde scoffs.

“From what I hear, the ‘claws have girls who’re as much of fanatics as Flint is,” Orion interjects.

Snyde throws her hands up. “Well, they’re all bonkers then. Bloody Quidditch. It’s not that great.”

Flint and Pucey both protest vocally, while Warrington is a bit more casual about it, but even he scoffs at the girl.

“Circe, forget I said anything!” Snyde eventually gives in after a five-minute lecture from the Quidditch captain. Glancing at Orion, she mutters, “The only ambition the sorting hat saw in Flint was his goal to toss a Quaffle through a hoop. Nothing but Quidditch inside that thick skull.”

Orion snorts. “If you toss a snitch at his ear, do you think it’ll fly out the other side?”

Snyde giggles. “You bet. If you spelled his head translucent, you’d find three goal posts on each side and nothing but air between.”

“Shut it,” Flint says. “You guys are just too daft to appreciate the game.”

“‘The game,’ he says,” Snyde mocks, “as if it was the only one.”

“The only one that matters,” Pucey says gravely. Flint nods, while Warrington snorts.

“What about Quodpod?” Orion enquires.

That sparks a whole new discussion about the merits of exploding Quaffles and the superiority of British Quidditch regarding the American equivalent.

“You couldn’t have just let it rest, could you?” Snyde asks Orion.

Frankly, Orion is surprised about how long Pucey and Flint can talk about Quidditch before it’s replaced by the topic of this year’s O.W.L.’s, followed by the French girl Warrington met over the summer whom his parents are all but shoving at him as a marriage prospect.

Sometimes, Orion is grateful that Walburga died before he got old enough to consider him for the marriage market.

Snyde just shrugs, unwrapping a chocolate frog and biting its head off. “My parents are traditionalists, but as long as I don’t outright end up with a mudblood, they’ll be fine with it.”

“Lucky you,” Warrington sighs, wrinkling his nose. “My mother doesn’t think I’d be able to pick a ‘suitable match’ for myself, and now she’s about to set me up with that French bitch.”

“She can’t be too bad. French girls are pretty, right?” Flint asks.

“She cried the first time she saw me because I looked uglier than my picture, according to her.”

Orion barks a laugh. Warrington does somewhat resemble a sloth, what with his disproportionately long arms and his widely spaced eyes.

Flint and Pucey don’t bother to restrain themselves either and devolve into laughter.

“Shit,” Flint says, patting Warrington’s shoulder, grinning.

Snyde offers more substantial advice. “Nothing’s signed yet anyway, is it?”

“Thank fucking Merlin,” Warrington voices.

Flint chortles.

“At least she’s pretty,” Pucey adds smirking, causing Warrington to glare at him. “She is, right?” he asks to confirm.

Warrington just grunts.

“Hey, look at it that way. You’ll only have to get through the wedding night, and everything after is negotiable,” Orion says, grinning. “Just lie back and think of England.”

Immediately, the others are thrown into hysterics again.

Warrington tells them all to get fucked and pointedly looks out of the window at the Scottish landscape dragging by. The sun is disappearing behind the horizon at this point, the trees throwing long shadows over the hills.

The train station in Hogsmeade is crowded with students, and Orion gets jostled back and forth before he follows Warrington, who, by virtue of his size, has an advantage and carves a path.

Owls are screeching, cats are meowing, and somewhere over the crowd, Hagrid is calling for the first-years.

It’s a bit of a walk, uphill too, chattering Hogwarts students all around, reuniting and hugging and gossiping over what news has already spread through the train, before they reach the spot of the road where the carriages are pulling up.

“Black!” a voice calls out, and when Orion turns, he finds Blaise Zabini taking quick strides, his hand raised in greeting.

“Zabini,” Orion says, feeling his lips tick up somewhat in return. He waits.

“Malfoy was insufferable on the train,” Blaise says in his accented voice, tugging at his sleeve to fix the shirt under his robes. “You guys aren’t on good terms lately?”

Before Orion can do more than shrug, Zabini stiffens, staring at something behind him. “Dio Mio! What are those?!”

Orion turns. A carriage is just passing them, wheels rattling over the cobbled road, but it’s the creatures drawing them that cause him to pause.

Skeletal black horses with milky eyes are huffing into the night, steam rising from their nostrils, clouding the cold autumn air. There are honest-to-god fangs peeking out from behind their lips.

“Thestrals, I think,” Orion muses.

“They should put up a warning label!” Zabini exclaims. “Merlin and Morgana!”

Orion snorts, looking at the creatures. “I’m going to pet one,” he decides.

“You’re insane,” Blaise declares.

Orion flashes him a grin. “Allons-y.”

“I speak Italian, not French, you moron,” Blaise says, but follows Orion nonetheless.

Orion gets to pet his Thestral, and for all their creepy exterior, they act actually quite a bit like regular horses. Only that he catches a few stray glances from various students who seemingly think he’s lost it—pawing at thin air.

Draco is one of them, as well as Pansy, but not Theo, whose gaze slides over the creatures before he simply follows their example and walks past them without so much as a greeting and enters a carriage.

The carriage ride goes by quicker than the journey via boat Orion remembers from last year. Still, it’s somewhat odd, what with him still not quite on speaking terms with Draco, and Greg and Vince aren't exactly ones to pick up the slack in that department. At least Zabini seems happy to fill the silence by going on about his summer spent in Italy and his trip to South Africa to visit the estate of his mother’s latest lover.

When they enter the Great Hall alongside all the other students, Orion shoves his way into place next to Draco anyway because he doesn’t have to declare they’re on the outs for all his house to see. He’s advertised it enough already by joining the older Slytherins on the train ride, and it wouldn’t do for the firsties to get the wrong impression.

“Where’s Potter?” Draco asks, craning his neck as the last of the Hogwarts students trickle in and the house tables are slowly filling up.

Orion feels like bashing his head against the empty golden platter in front of him.

“Weasley isn’t there either,” Vince says momentarily, having followed Draco’s example in scanning over the Gryffindor table.

“Which one?” Pansy snarks.

“Odd,” Draco says. “That’s odd, right?” He turns to look at Orion instinctively, gaze lingering a second too long before he turns his head further as if he’d meant to look at Nott all along.

“Sure. Very odd,” Theo says without inflection.

“Maybe we got lucky and Potter dropped out,” Pansy voices.

Orion snorts. “I doubt it.”

“How would you know?” Pansy says, with surprising aggression. Orion stares at her. She glares back.

Frowning, Orion lets his gaze drift from her to Draco.

Leaning in, he elbows his cousin in the side. “Did you talk shit about me on the train ride here?” he asks in a low voice.

Draco sniffs, twirling his fork in his hand. “I merely told them the truth. That you angered father and are now taking your aggression out on me. It’s not my fault you weren’t there to speak your truth.”

Orion laughs incredulously. “Fuck, if you came up with that explanation I’ll eat a broomstick. Parroting Lucius again?”

“You should mind your vocabulary. It’s vulgar,” Draco retorts with a haughty voice.

Orion feels a wave of something ugly churn in his stomach. “Hey, Draco?”

The blond turns his head.

Orion conjures his most pleasant fake smile. “Get fucked,” he tells him.

Draco’s eyes twitch, his expression turning sour, but Orion simply ignores him in favour of turning blatantly to Zabini to start a conversation.

So much for keeping things civil.

Seeing the sorting from this side isn’t much different from last year, aside from the persistent urge to stab Draco with a butter knife.

The hat sings a song; nervous first-years are propped up on the ancient stool after Professor McGonagall calls out their names, and they hurry towards their new house tables.

Orion claps politely for all Slytherins, though he doesn’t recognise any of them by name, save for Gertrude Brockenburg, who might be a relation to his elderly tutor. The only other person who stands out is Ambrose Harper, solely because he appears to have a cold and is sneezing intermittently.

Potter and Weasley don’t show up throughout the whole welcome feast, and neither does Snape—a factor which Draco won’t shut up about.

Orion would hex his mouth shut if it weren’t in bad taste to reap a detention the very first day and put Slytherin in the red already.

By the time they’re heading for the dungeons, the whispers about how Potter and Weasley actually flew to school and crashed a car into the Whomping Willow have spread throughout the whole Hogwarts population.

Orion has never been gladder that he didn’t put in a request to be roomed with Draco at the end of summer and instead shares a room with Zabini again. They’re in the same dorms as last year, their trunks already waiting in front of their beds.

Zabini has changed into a purple silk pyjama when Orion emerges from the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower.

“Do you really believe Potter and Weasley flew into school in an automobile?” Blaise asks while he’s placing his wand at his bedside table.

Orion, who vaguely recalls something about a flying car but isn’t quite sure whether it’s just his mind filling the gaps or actual truth, doesn’t remember enough to dispute it. “Sure. If it regards Potter, I’d always assume the most outlandish rumours to have a kernel of truth in them.”

He remembers very little about the events of this year—a diary that ended up being a Horcrux possessing Weasley’s sister and something about Granger turning herself into a cat.

Never mind that he’s rather more worried about that Basilisk.

“Hmm. Wonder if they’d get expelled for that.”

“That’d be the day,” Orion scoffs. “No. Detention maybe, but I doubt there’s a rule written somewhere about how it’s illegal to fly a car into school.”

Zabini shrugs, yawning. “Well, I guess we’ll learn soon enough.

They learn soon enough indeed, because Weasley and Potter show up at breakfast the next day—evidently not expelled—and the rumours are swiftly confirmed in the form of a Howler arriving at the Gryffindor house table, shouting about ‘shame’ and ‘audits’ and how if Weasley even dares to step a toe out of line, he’ll be swiftly taken out of Hogwarts. The whole hall seems to rumble at the noise, dust even coming to trickle from the ceiling.

Draco looks like Christmas has come early, while Orion still rubs at his ears. A few chuckles sound in the silence before the chatter picks up again, and Snape wanders down the house table, skipping over the first years who’ve undoubtedly received his speech earlier, and hands out their schedules.

“Brilliant,” Millicent mutters, with a voice that conveys anything but. “Potions and DADA with the Gryffindors. Again.”

“We’ve got Transfiguration first,” Pansy says. “That’s not too bad.”

Judging by Pansy’s squealing over the beetle she was supposed to turn into a button crawling up her wand—holding on for dear life as she tried to shake it off—she might’ve jinxed herself with those words.

Orion takes two tries to get it right, though even then, his button still displays the same shimmery shade as the beetle’s exoskeleton.

Professor McGonagall simply hands him the box with more crawling bugs to try again. After he manages to transfigure his third one—a nice green button with white polka dots—she awards him a single point.

Herbology, also with the Ravenclaws, isn’t any more pleasant, what with the screaming, wrinkled mandrakes Professor Sprout has them repot.

Marietta Edgecombe faints halfway in because her earmuffs were flicked off her ears by her partner. Blaise, luckily, proves to be more competent, and they get through the lesson without any more incidents.

If one doesn’t count Draco’s biting comments about orphans and fatherless children and whether the bad blood of people who have been disowned can be inherited.

He could do with more subtlety, but nevertheless, Orion feels justified to retaliate at the next best opportunity.

“Autographs? You’re handing out autographs, Potter?” Draco exclaims for everyone on the yard to hear, just as Orion spells the dirt off his hands.

When he looks up, he finds Draco flanked by Vince and Greg, guffawing about Potter standing in front of a tiny first-year Gryffindor, who’s holding onto a camera.

“Everybody queue up! Potter is handing out autographs!”

Many heads are turning, and Potter is already protesting loudly. “I’m not!”

“Oi, Draco!” Orion yells over the crowd, fixing his cousin with a look. “You’re finally doing something about that crush of yours! I couldn’t be prouder! Potter, please, do make sure to sign it with a heart, will you?!”

Draco stares at Orion with wide, startled eyes, flushing pink all the way to the tips of his ears. His complexion really doesn’t do him any favours in hiding his embarrassment.

Orion bares his teeth in a grin.

Potter, funnily enough, wears a similar expression to his cousin, staring between Draco and Orion with horrified eyes, cheeks reddening as well.

“I do not have a crush on Potter!” Draco exclaims as soon as he’s stopped sputtering and regains his wits. Not that his shouting is necessary, considering the whole schoolyard is listening at this point.

“Are you sure? You talked about him incessantly all summer,” Orion continues, striding towards him with a vengeful grin. “Potter here, Potter there—”

The mocking undertone in his voice is present, but he tries to rein it in. After all, rumours don’t start if one sounds too derisive.

From the corner of his eyes he can see Flint and Pucey snickering, where they’re sitting on the wall running between the alcoves.

“Shut up! Who would even have a crush on someone with such a gross scar on their forehead?”

Weasley takes offence to that and steps forward. “Eat slugs, Malfoy!”

Orion’s eyes narrow as he looks at the redhead.

Draco turns his infuriated gaze upon the Gryffindor, “Look out, Weasley. You don’t want to make trouble; otherwise, your mummy will have to come and take you out of school.” He quotes Mrs. Weasley's words from the howler in a mockingly high voice. “—the smallest misstep—”

Some bystanders laugh.

“Don’t tell me you’re changing the topic because you’re embarrassed, Draco?” Orion says, cutting their confrontation short. Regardless of the outcome, he’s itching for that fight, and if it means escalating to the point of drawing wands, at this moment, he wouldn’t mind a bit.

No more Lucius to hide behind.

He uses height to look down at the blond, having a hard time containing a smirk at the blotchy red on Draco’s face.

Potter, meanwhile, looks like an owl in headlights.

Orion turns towards him with feigned chagrin. “My apologies, Potter. I thought you were aware.”

The Gryffindor looks even more bemused.

“My bad, Draco,” Orion tells his cousin.

Vince and Greg exchange uncomfortable looks as Draco glares daggers at him.

“I’m not embarrassed,” Draco hisses.

Orion feels smug vindication welling up, basking in the emotions and his cousin’s reaction. His lips twitch—the only outward sign of the grin threatening to split his face.

He remembers that slap.

“Ah, so you’re in denial,” Orion says.

“I do not have a crush on Potter! Maybe you have a crush!”

Orion laughs, the idea so ridiculous and the comeback so bad, he can’t help himself.

He shoots Draco a patronising look. “You tell yourself whatever you need in order to go to sleep at night.”

Orion salutes Draco and leaves him standing where he is, fuming and humiliated.

It’s funny that both Draco and Potter are united in their hate for once, glaring daggers at Orion during the next class they share.

It’s the only redeeming part of it too.

Because DADA with Lockhart is ridiculous. The man makes for a pretty facade, but he has them take a quiz about his personality, and if that doesn’t scream incompetent, Orion doesn’t know what does.

He’s actually a bit disappointed to see Granger furiously writing on her paper.

She’s called out by Lockhart as well, reaping ten points for Gryffindor for having answered any question correctly.

Good grief.

Orion didn’t even bother to write anything down on the question regarding Gilderoy’s perfect gift and instead doodled a rather undignified picture of the man being eaten by a werewolf.

It doesn’t get any better when he lets loose a cage full of bright blue pixies. Longbottom is tossed through a window by them, raining glass shards upon the class, and Orion barely ducks in time, feeling one scrape his palm held up to shield his face.

The majority of the class legs it as soon as the bell rings, and Orion doesn’t hesitate to follow suit.

“Are you going to join a club this year?” Millicent asks him, where they’re lounging around the common room after classes that day, the girls leaning over a list they took from the board next to the entrance. It was either joining them or sitting with the boys and Pansy, listening to Draco proclaiming loudly that he’d be trying out for the house team soon, showing off his new Nimbus 2001 as if it was a bloody unicorn.

Some first-year is clanking around the grand piano before Ashwood shouts through the common room that she either do it properly or put up a silencing ward.

“I don’t know. Are you?” Orion gets up and wanders over to look over Tracey’s shoulder to get a glimpse of the list.

“You’re joining Gobstones?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Nothing. Just stating a fact. Didn’t know you played.”

“Well, yeah,” she shrugs, her face turning pink.

Orion grins, looking at Lily Moon. “Are you interested in knitting?”

“Morgana, no.” She flicks her ash blonde hair over her shoulders, which glows oddly in the greenish light of the lake. “You try it out if you’re so interested.”

Daphne leans over the list. “I might try out swimming.”

“Who sponsors that one?” Orion enquires.

“I think Professor Sinistra,” she replies, looking up. “Anything catching your fancy?”

Orion shrugs. “Not really. Hex Hex club maybe, but we already duel ourselves.” Or at least they did last year. “I’m not really hung up enough on chess to play it regularly or spend time in the greenhouse outside of classes. And the Broomstix club is basically just a pity version of Quidditch for those who didn’t get on the house team.”

“How about the choir?” Moon teases. “I hear Flitwick is looking for altos.”

“Merlin, no,” Orion protests.

“It’s a shame they never get enough people for the drama club,” Tracey says.

“What with Trelawney as the sponsor, I’m not surprised,” Daphne says. “Have you seen her wandering through the hallways?”

Millicent nods. “A walking cloud of sherry,” she says, shuddering.

“She’s the divination professor, right?” Tracey asks.

Orion hums his agreement.

“I hear she’s predicting the death of a student every year,” Millicent adds. “Francis says, it’s almost become something of a rite of passage.”

Orion throws another look at the list as Tracey turns it over. “Fan clubs?” she says, incredulously.

Daphne, who’s leaning over as well, wrinkles her nose. “Quidditch—Quidditch—another Quidditch club. Good grief.”

“There’s one for the Weird Sisters,” Lily points out.

“They’re not bad,” Orion says.

The girls all turn to look at him simultaneously.

“You listen to the Weird Sisters?”

“What?” Orion stares at them.

“You always seem so—” Tracey waves her hand.

“Uppity,” Daphne says decisively, the same moment Tracey finishes with, “Stuffy.”

“Seriously?” he asks, incredulously.

“Yeah, well,” Daphne shrugs in a what-can-you-do kind of motion, though Orion is mostly looking at Tracey.

“And you’re a swot,” Moon supplies. “Hanging out in the library all the time like that Granger.”

Orion stares at her.

“She’s got a point.” Daphne says. “I don’t remember a time last year when you didn’t have your nose stuck in a book. And whenever you were hanging out in the common room, you barely bothered to exchange a word with anyone who wasn’t your cousin or Zabini.”

“Besides, I’ve heard Draco rave about how his father thinks that the Weird Sisters are a disgrace in the music genre, polluting the WWN,” Tracey adds.

“And?” Orion asks.

“You’re basically attached at the hip,” Daphne says.

“We’re not.”

Daphne stares at him like he’s particularly thick but has yet to realise it. “Aren’t you?”

“Give me the list,” Orion says. He takes Tracey’s abandoned quill and signs his name below the club.

“That’s petty,” Daphne says.

“What? I’m a fan,” Orion proclaims, reclaiming his spot on the sofa. Fawley’s black cat jumps on the arm of it, rubbing around his shoulders. He plucks it off and sets it down next to him before it can get more cat hair all over his robes, petting its head absently.

Quidditch tryouts are a week later, and Draco won’t shut the fuck up about it. He made a seeker for reasons more likely tied to the new brooms Lucius sponsored than anything else.

Though when Orion subtly enquires with Pucey in between classes, it becomes evident that Draco actually displayed some skill.

Not that he’d ever tell him, considering he still isn’t speaking to Draco. Unfortunately, that also means he can’t tell him to shut it.

And Draco already seems to make sure that Orion is within hearing range whenever he brings the topic up.

Orion ignores him as steadfastly as he can while trying to not let on that he’s actually bothered by his blatant bragging. Draco likely would interpret his annoyance as envy, though regardless, it’d only encourage him.

At least, Draco’s persistence in trying to make Orion feel inferior tells him that his tactic is affecting the blond.

Luckily, he’s got a good excuse to escape the common room when Draco once again tries to make him jealous by asking him for the whole room to hear, whether he isn’t ashamed of his own lack of racing broom, since the first club meeting for the Weird Sisters fan club is scheduled in thirty minutes.

Orion just scoffs before stepping through the narrow tunnel and into the dungeons.

Leaving a tad too early works out well, since he’s forced to take a detour to avoid Peeves, who’s wreaking havoc in a hallway, and loses another ten minutes thanks to a moody staircase before he finds the unused classroom where the meeting takes place.

It’s somewhat cosy, with the canopies put up on the ceiling, an ancient-looking settee shoved against a wall, and beanbags and pillows strewn around the room. When he arrives, a gramophone is just being set up by an older student, while a boy in a lumpy home-knitted sweater puts out snacks.

“A new member!” A girl, wearing an oversized Weird Sisters shirt over a long skirt, greets him exuberantly. “Ethel Smeltings,” she introduces herself, enthusiastically shaking his hand, causing a litany of bracelets to click around her wrist, her brown curls bouncing around her head.

“Orion Black,” he returns the greeting, somewhat bemused.

She flashes him a beaming smile, righting her glasses in what seems to be a nervous tic.

“Just brilliant that you’ve found your way here! We rarely get Slytherins; I’m a Ravenclaw myself, you must know. Fifth year. Though I suppose we’ve got Brunhilda over there. But it doesn’t matter, after all; it’s always nice to welcome new fans, regardless of the house.”

Orion nods, slightly overwhelmed by the barrage of words and instead tries to locate the supposed other Slytherin in the club.

Brunhilda Fawcett is a seventh-year girl who Orion very vaguely remembers having seen around before, with ash-blonde, pin-straight hair falling all the way down to her hips and wide Bambi eyes, giving her an innocent quality. A look that clashes rather starkly with the meticulous manner she currently finishes filing her long nails into sharp points, before charming them different colours, eventually settling on a deep burgundy red.

“I’m just trying it out.”

“Ah well. You’ve found your way here anyway,” Smeltings says. “Usually we just listen to music and chat. No pressure.”

“I see,” Orion says for lack of a better answer and looks around. He suppresses the urge to pick at his tie, not having changed out of his school uniform, unlike the other attendees.

“That’s just as well. Go ahead, make yourself comfortable. We’re not going to start until a few minutes later—we’re still waiting on some people.”

And indeed. A few Gryffindors show up in pack formation, as well as two girls who must be Orion’s age.

Smeltings turns out to be heading the fan club, starting a round of introductions once everyone’s arrived. Out of Orion’s year, there’s Megan Jones, a Hufflepuff girl, and Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw who’ve already banded together.

Orion settles on one of the bean bags, somewhat awkwardly, a bag of crisps on his lap that someone shoved at him, the sound of the Weird Sisters’ most recent album sounding through the room as he observes the proceedings.

Roger Malone, an older Ravenclaw is talking animatedly with Katie Bell, discussing the latest game of the Holyhead Harpies, while Patricia Stimpson, another Gryffindor, curses over a chocolate frog card and tosses it on the table functioning as a buffet.

Severin Copper appears to be the only other seventh year. He’s joined by Brunhilda while he flips through vinyls, dark liner surrounding his amber eyes and wearing an outfit that might as well have been from the eighteen hundreds were it not for the many safety pins decorating his shoulders.

Orion sticks to himself at first, as most of the members of the fan club seem to know each other, already chatting about this and that until Smeltings ropes him into a conversation, doing the majority of the talking as she raves about her favourite members of the Weird Sisters.

It’s not too bad from then on, especially since, half an hour in, Copper starts to play some muggle vinyls. And Orion finds himself humming along, memories returning he didn’t even know he possessed. And suddenly he’s roped into a conversation about music with Boris Bernett, a third-year Hufflepuff half-blood, discussing Queen and how they shaped the musical industry.

All in all, he actually has a decent time.

He leaves with more music recommendations than he can remember and the forceful encouragement to get his hands on a gramophone so he can borrow some vinyl.

Meanwhile, his classes fall into familiar patterns.

Lockhart is a disappointment he knew to expect, in Transfigurations the move on from beetles to mice and Snape is, as always, dismissive of Orion’s achievements. Even more so now that he pairs up with Zabini instead of Draco.

Orion tends to hang out more with the Slytherin girls now, since his cousin and he are still on the outs.

In the process, he gets an introduction to the current wizarding fashions, is roped into conversations about who harbours crushes on whom, and learns more about Millicent’s bathroom habits than he ever cared to know about.

He finds out that Tracey has a penchant for collecting bones, that Moon is an avid fan of obscure wizarding punk rock, and that Daphne detests Charms.

Orion drags Moon to the next Weird Sisters fan club meeting, and after he introduces her to Bernett, he wonders whether he hasn’t made a terrible mistake when the two immediately hit it off, with the Hufflepuff raving about the Sex Pistols with an ardour he’s not yet seen matched.

Smeltings congratulates him on recruiting new enthusiasts before cheerfully asking him for the contribution to their fund since he’s apparently now a full-fledged member.

He hands the thirteen sickles over without complaints and watches with morbid fascination how Brunhilda and Copper make out in a corner.

When Copper comes up for air, make-up smeared around his eyes, he catches Orion’s gaze and possesses the audacity to shoot him a wink.

To his own horror, Orion finds himself growing hot under his collar. He stares back unblinkingly because averting his gaze would only be admitting that he’s embarrassed to be caught, but something must be visible on his face because when Copper whispers to Brunhilda, she starts giggling, looking at him over her shoulder with a knowing grin splitting her red lips.

Decisively, Orion turns toward the buffet table, ears warm.

Via Zabini, Orion hears that Draco is still going on about being scouted to become a professional Quidditch player—not that he’d ever settle for a career that low—and thus it comes that by the time September draws to a close, Orion isn’t the only boy amongst the group of girls anymore.

At this point it’s become somewhat common knowledge that Draco and Orion had a falling out. Especially after Orion’s rather public announcement of Draco’s so-called crush on Potter, which led to the inevitable retaliation of his cousin now actively trying to insult him whenever Orion’s in his sight line.

Orion’s content to just laugh at him, mostly because his insults are uninspired and when Draco tries to go for his parentage, he simply calls his cousin a spoiled Daddy’s boy, which gives the blond the complexion of a boiled lobster.

Everybody in Slytherin knows about Draco’s ‘father,’ but nobody’s daring enough to invite his wrath when Lucius still retains so much influence, partially perhaps also owed to Orion hexing a first-year who talked shit about Draco behind his back.

Orion burning Lucius’ letters has become a common sight at the house table, flames devouring the correspondence that started out with scoldings, which turned into threats and are slowly shifting into more polite requests suggesting his mending things with Draco. Reading between the lines, Orion’s rapidly gaining the impression that the man solely bothers writing to him at this point because he’s becoming increasingly exasperated with Draco’s near-daily complaints.

It only manages to amuse him more.

Orion only reins himself in when he receives a letter from Narcissa.

It’s a single page, lacking all pleasantries, reminding him under whose roof he’s living and to whom he owes his loyalty.

Family feuds aren’t to be fought in public, she writes, going on about blood ties and decorum and bonds that should transcend petty disagreements. She mentions how Sirius—while not solely responsible for his disownment—burnt his bridges long before Walburga blasted him off the family tree.

And while she doesn’t explicitly say so, she all but implies that Orion’s lacking as a Black.

And that stings more than anything else she could’ve written.

Your cousin, Narcissa, she’s signed it.

Orion almost burns the letter then and there, seething and humiliated and reminded that for all that the world believes he’s the offspring of two of the most infamous Blacks in recent history, his mother was a McKinnon.

He folds it, tucking it into his school bag out of sight. Never mind that her words are seared into his memory.

For the next two days, Orion displays an expression so icy that even Zabini avoids him.

Orion stops reacting to Draco altogether. He adopts a polite but distant demeanour, ignoring him almost completely.

It affects Draco more than he’d like to admit because he starts escalating again in his behaviour. Bragging and throwing around insults because apparently that double-standard doesn’t apply to Draco.

Though it helps that some of the older Slytherins have taken to teasing his cousin about his ‘crush’ whenever he makes too much of a nuisance of himself in the common room. Every time that happens, Draco flushes an angry red, denying the accusations while the tips of his ears turn pink with embarrassment.

Orion smirks gleefully to himself.

Still, since it’s an open secret that Orion and Draco are on the outs, he doesn’t bother with pretenses, walking to breakfast with Blaise, Daphne, Millie, Moon and Tracey instead.

He’s managed to rope the girls into a duelling circle of their own, claiming a slot on Tuesday instead of the Sunday sessions they adhered to the year before. Though Orion’s noticed that with Draco now holed up in Quidditch practice, and none of the other boys displaying quite the ambition to keep up, those regular Sunday duelling sessions have somewhat fallen to the wayside.

Orion decides not to care. After all, he’s managed to convince Zabini to step off his high horse and duel with them; Daphne is rapidly shaping up to become better than Vince, and Millicent appears to have a lot of repressed anger to channel, which leads to her trying to get her opponents into a headlock whenever it so much as looks like she’s about to lose and only adds to the entertainment value of their small duelling club.

Chapter Text

They’re heading into the second week of October and Orion’s almost forgotten about the deal he struck with the Weasley twins and so he’s as surprised as the rest of the Slytherins’ when on a foggy autumn morning Draco explodes in brilliant neon pink colours, his hair streaked a vibrant red and gold right at the breakfast table.

He doesn’t even realise it at first, only when Daphne and Blaise pause in discussing the latest issue of Witch Weekly and Millicent stops bemoaning her latest Herbology essay, looking up at the sudden giggles sounding around.

Orion almost drops his toast when he catches sight of Draco—who’s yet to notice that he resembles a Gryffindor-themed bubblegum packaging—a wide grin spreading over his face.

Pansy’s shocked, “Draco!” swiftly changes that.

The piercing screech sounding through the great hall seconds later alerts even the most oblivious of onlookers.

Orion starts to howl with laughter when Draco almost falls off the bench, staring horrified at his glowing pink hands, glittering when he turns them in the candlelight.

His fellow Slytherins are more reserved, hiding their chuckles behind their hands, but the Gryffindor table is roaring with laughter.

“Mr. Black,” Snape says pointedly, materialising behind Orion like an unholy creature of the night, his tone of voice alone a bad omen.

At this point, Draco frantically vows to take vengeance on whoever cursed him, all the while insulting Flitwick, who’s trying his best to undo the charm.

Orion turns to face his head of house in all his sallow-faced glory, tears of laughter still brimming in his eyes. “Sir?” he asks, not able to contain his grin.

“My office. Now.”

“I presume you’re going to deny your involvement in Mr. Malfoy's …colourful plight,” Snape drawls darkly when Orion is standing in front of his heavy walnut desk, surrounded by the high shelves filled with phials and preserved curiosities glittering in the dim light.

The air smells of herbs, ink, and smoke coming from the fireplace. Snape’s severe face is carved from shadows, his black eyes piercing Orion with an unblinking stare. Something wild and manic flickers in them.

“Because I didn’t hex him, sir,” Orion says, trying for a serious expression, but his lips are still twitching at the memory.

“Do not lie to me, Black,” Snape retorts. “I happen to recognise that spell you used. I’ve seen it before.”

His potion-stained fingers are spread over the surface of his desk, making him resemble a vulture as he uses his height to loom above Orion.

“Respectfully, sir,” Orion says, now irked, “I’m innocent. You might as well test my wand. But I don’t like to be accused needlessly of things I didn’t do.”

“Wand,” Snape snaps.

Orion’s brows raise an inch as he draws his wand, somewhat hesitant to hand it over.

It’s probably highly illegal for Snape to take him up on the offer, but when Snape casts a spell on it, nothing more than ordinary charms are revealed.

From the tooth cleaning spell he used that morning, an Accio that should be too advanced for him yet, as well as a few household charms, a ‘lumos,’ and a hair-drying spell, he used yesterday evening.

But Snape doesn’t stop, reviewing the history of Orion’s casting to the point where his wand spits out an echo of the spells they went over in the classes the day before.

Only then does he finally cancel his spell.

Orion is lucky that he hasn’t had the opportunity to practice his more illegal hexes in a while, too busy with homework and other endeavours to even think about sneaking off.

He takes his wand back, resisting the urge to wipe it on his sleeve.

“You may have gotten away with it this time, Black, but don’t think that this lucky streak will hold out. If I so much as catch you pranking a fellow Slytherin, you’ll be buried so deeply in detentions that leisure time will become a distant memory to you. Are we understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Orion says, feeling the need to tack on, “But I didn’t hex my cousin. I’m as invested in finding the perpetrators as—”

“Do not bother with these empty platitudes, Black. You cannot fool me. Now out. I don’t want to see you until I’m forced to teach you later this week. Dismissed.”

Orion bites back a smirk. “Yes, sir.”

He leaves Snape's office, trying to keep the bounce out of his gait, but as soon as he’s turned the next corner, his exuberance spills over.

Laughing, he makes his way to Transfiguration.

Once he settles in his spot next to Zabini, the boy almost immediately starts fishing for details, while Moon tips back in her chair, not so subtly listening in.

Orion stays close-lipped, neither confirming nor denying his involvement, before Professor McGonagall calls them to attention.

Though he can feel Blaise’s suspicious eyes on him, especially once Draco shows up half an hour late, still swirling pink and red, glowing like a neon cloud, and with a face so mulish it causes Orion to grin like a lunatic again.

He doesn’t even bother to disguise his amusement when he overhears him complain to Vince that Madame Pomfrey deemed the charm harmless, though she couldn’t do anything against it either and let him know it should wear off by itself sometime within the next day.

Orion thrives on the sight until a few hours later, when he hurries through the castle, mud splattered and wet thanks to the stretch of open skies between the greenhouses, cursing the rain and jogging towards the library before he’s completely missing lunch because he forgot to turn in a book on runes he’d checked out over the summer.

He found it in his trunk this morning, and now he’s hoping it’s not too late to return it without catching Mrs. Pince’s ire, considering it took a while to build an amenable relationship with that harpy.

Orion has come to the surprising revelation that he actually doesn’t spend nearly as much time in the library as he did last year, what with him being roped into hanging out with the Slytherin girls, attending club meetings, and fitting their weekly duelling sessions in between his schoolwork.

He’s seen Granger around a few times, but they haven’t spoken since Potter and Weasley apparently still harbour a grudge against him thanks to him calling Draco out for his supposed crush.

She seemed apologetic any time she passed by him, too loyal to her friends apparently to break their trust to restart their study sessions, though Orion couldn’t care less.

He turns a corner and almost slips on a slimy puddle before he’s suddenly accosted by the Weasley twins, who seemingly materialise out of nowhere.

“Ah, the man of the hour,” the more freckled one says, pushing himself off the wall next to a tapestry depicting grazing unicorns, while the other lets a suspicious piece of parchment disappear in the pockets.

One of them looks mournfully at the puddle before casting a spell to enlarge it.

“We heard Snape cited you to his office after breakfast,” the other twin says, sidling up to him, while Orion continues walking.

He’s joined by his brother, who flanks Orion from the other side.

“Lost some points?”

“Caught detention?”

Both Gryffindors look at Orion with identical grins.

“Neither,” Orion say curtly, continuing his stride, because he’s actually got places to be.

“That’s a pity,” one Weasley voices, falling into step beside him, easily keeping up with his longer legs. “We’d hoped he’d clocked you as the perpetrator.”

“Diverts the suspicion from us, you see,” his brother adds.

“It was glorious though, wasn’t it?” The one whom Orion simply dubs George because trying to tell them apart is a fucking chore, says, seemingly lost in reverie.

“Ron almost choked on a piece of bacon,” Fred says. “I thought he was about to piss himself.”

“An all-around success,” George adds.

Orion’s lips quirk, when he remembers the way Draco kept his hood up all during Herbology and wore his dragon-hide gloves still on the way back. “The glitter was a nice touch,” he concedes.

“Right?” the Weasley to his left says, his eyes sparking with mirth.

“I hope you also appreciate the delayed effect of the charm.”

“It took us a week to modify it.”

“You like the book then, I take it?” Orion voices, sidestepping a helmetless armour rattling past, gauntlets stretched out like a zombie in an 80s horror flick, probably in an attempt to locate its missing visor. Peeves is doing it, most likely.

“Oh, my sneaky snake acquaintance,” Fred says, slinging an arm around Orion’s shoulder. “We usually don’t like to admit these things to the likes of you.”

“But that book,” George says, mirroring his brother, “was a veritable gold mine.”

“You don’t happen to have more of its kind lying around, do you?”

Orion ducks out of their arms and turns a corner. “I do,” he admits freely. “But I don’t just share that knowledge with anybody.”

“You drive a hard bargain,” the Weasley to the right says, crossing his arms as he steps in front of Orion, forcing him to stop.

“I’m sure we could come to an agreement,” his brother tacks on.

Orion is about to refuse them on principle before he reconsiders. “I want to know where the kitchen is. And how to get through the secret tunnel to Hogsmeade.”

Both twins raise their brows. “You’re well informed.”

Orion matches their expressions. “I’m aware.”

“We’ll think of it,” the Weasley to the left says.

“Great,” Orion replies deadpan. “But do so on your own time. I’m rather busy right now.”

“Leaving us behind like dried-up, de-slimed Flobberworms, Fred, can you believe it?“ George clutches his heart dramatically.

“I’m hurt,” his brother adds. “Even after we’ve done all the dirty work for him.” Fred shakes his head, wiping at an invisible tear.

“Yes, yes, I’m the incarnation of evil,” Orion says dryly. They’re still blocking his path. “Now, if you’d kindly step aside.”

“Dear Lord, Fred, I’m shaking in my boots. You better do as he says.”

His twin staggers back in an exaggerated fashion. “A pint-sized second-year! We don’t stand a chance!”

Orion rolls his eyes as he walks past them at a brisk pace. Their dramatic exclamations follow him even into the next hallway.

For all of Gryffindor's supposed impulsiveness, Orion only receives notice of their decision about a week later.

It’s a small scrap of paper delivered to him via school owl once the morning post arrives. It’s not signed, but it contains detailed instructions to find a statue of a one-eyed witch on the third floor alongside the password, ‘dissendium,’ as well as the location of a painting of a fruit bowl and a mention that he’s supposed to tickle the pear.

It explodes into tiny pieces of confetti as soon as he’s read it, showering him in the remnants.

Orion pens a letter to Kreacher to send him the rest of Sirius’ books that night, celebrating with a mug of hot cocoa and biscuits the countless house-elves working in the Hogwarts kitchen shoved at him when he went to confirm the Weasleys’ intel.

He didn’t yet try to follow the secret tunnel leading to Hogsmeade, though the way the one-eyed hag’s marble back had slid open after tapping it with his wand and murmuring the password seemed promising.

The next day a big package arrives at his house table, a small note added from Kreacher enquiring if he’d not rather have Regulus’ books sent instead since they’re in pristine condition instead of the vandalised things his father called his own. Orion ignores Draco’s curious looks—he’s still glittering pinkish when the light hits him at a certain angle—and proceeds to ask Francis to shrink it for him before stuffing it into his satchel, unopened.

He indulges Zabini’s curiosity later that day and allows him to flip through some of the older books within the shelter of their shared room while he ponders which book to give to the Weasley twins.

He picks a fourth-year one because it contains a bunch of spells on mapping out the castle and will undoubtedly be well received. There’s another fifth-year one—Sirius’ Transfigurations book—they’d probably find more use for, but Orion kind of wants to keep it for himself.

There are darker spells in there and a lot about Sirius’ thoughts on becoming an animagus, and he’s toying with the idea of one day trying his hand at it himself. It appears to be a convoluted process, long-winded and rather esoteric, but it seems to be a dead-useful skill to have in one's repertoire.

The next morning, the Weasley twins receive the book via an equally mundane barn owl owned by the school, and Orion watches them gleefully thumb through it before pulling it out from under their older brother’s curious nose.

They grant him a look and a subtle nod over the house tables, and Orion takes a sip of his tea, quietly hoping that they’ll wreak some havoc during Lockhart’s class.

The man is rapidly becoming his least favourite teacher. Even Quirrel, with his annoying stutter and obvious drawback of having housed a parasitic Dark Lord in his body, would be an improvement.

After all, that man at least put up the pretence of teaching his students something of substance.

Meanwhile, Lockhart’s lessons resemble more amateur theatre productions, with him acting out his heroic deeds while reading the corresponding passages in his books out loud and Potter being cast in various supporting roles—from a sneezing Yeti to bewitched Romanian villagers and, on one memorable occasion, a fair maiden who’d been cursed to solely hop on one foot.

Those lessons at least contain a smidge of entertainment value.

But if Orion’s forced to listen to one more monologue about the intellect one needs to possess to tame a banshee, or how a sword can do wonders against a Lethifold, he’s going to deliberately sit next to Finnigan and hope he’ll cause an explosion that’ll bust his eardrums.

Via Brunhilda, during their latest Weird Sister fan club session, he finds out that the upper classes are suffering similarly, if not more, considering they’re actually supposed to be preparing for their N.E.W.T.s.

Smelting relays shudderingly that Lockhart got rather explicit when he went on about the merits of befriending vampires via taking part in their obscure and outdated rituals in their class about them, and Orion raises the theory that the man spent a week as someone’s thrall before he got rescued by someone else and vastly more competent, before claiming their story as their own.

Fawcett agrees, laughing, and Copper tacks on that he wouldn’t be surprised if Lockhart got his brains completely fucked out by that bloodsucker.

Smeltings squeaks, blushing furiously, and shoves Orion towards the younger fan club members, likely in an attempt to preserve whatever perceived innocence he still retains.

He ends up next to Megan Jones and Lisa Turpin, who look at him awkwardly, seemingly not knowing what to do with him.

Luckily, Moon appears to drag him towards a stack of vinyls to rave about a band she newly discovered—Mötley Crüe—and Orion doesn’t have the heart to rob her of the delusion that it isn’t, in fact, a wizarding group.

He exchanges a glance with Bernett, who looks at him pleadingly, undoubtedly having introduced her to it.

Joke’s on him, though, because while Bernett seems to have different motives for expanding Moon’s music taste towards muggle tracks, Orion would hate to lose his only Slytherin companion this year who commiserates with him about the stupendousness of the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs during those meetings.

They’re heading into a stormy season now, fog hanging over the Hogwarts grounds on the rare occasions it’s not pouring from the skies.

Thanks to the continuously falling rain, the paths leading towards the greenhouses turn into mudslides, the black lake is swallowing up more and more of its shores, and Draco’s complaints about the drills Flint has them do at all hours in the ghastly weather come so frequently it’s almost a familiar background noise in the common room now.

Meanwhile, Halloween is rapidly drawing near.

When the day finally comes, the ceiling of the Great Hall has been enchanted to display a terrible lightning storm, jack o’lanterns are floating above every house table, and bats hang from the rafters in such numbers they look like shadows from afar.

When Dumbledore opens the feast with a clap of his hands, they all wake simultaneously, fluttering through the air in a massive swarm while food appears on their house tables.

It’s not as opulent as Yule in Malfoy Manor, but grand nevertheless. Orion chats with Zabini and Millicent about Samhain rituals, overhears a few fourth-years whispering about their plans to sneak out into the Forbidden Forest to summon spirits, and shares the sweets he received earlier that day from Narcissa with his classmates.

His mood is only improved when Lockhart gets targeted by a bat in a manner that can’t quite be natural, and he flails and smacks at his head to get it off until it gets tangled up in his hair, reaping the laughter of the majority of the student population.

It deserves mentioning that not one of the teachers makes a move to lend him a hand.

Before the night comes to an end, the Hogwarts ghosts put on a nice show, scaring the bejesus out of the first-years, and even the Bloody Baron shows his face, rattling his chains and causing Peeves to flit off to the farthest end of the Hufflepuff table.

Pleasantly full, Orion trails after the crowd as they pour out of the Great Hall, hundreds of feet pattering over the stairs when a commotion in the front causes a sudden stop.

It’s the lack of noise that’s actually concerning.

“What’s going on?” Blaise asks, craning his neck.

“I don’t know,” Moon says.

Just then Orion recognises Draco’s distinctive voice. “Enemies of the heir, beware! You’re next, mudbloods!” he exclaims somewhere further ahead, audible to all amidst the oppressive silence.

Orion exchanges a look with Zabini before they push their way to the front.

He elbows his way past a bunch of disgruntled Hufflepuff third-years before he finally sees what caused the whole ruckus.

Potter, Granger, and Weasley stand pale and horrified in a puddle of water next to where Mrs. Norris is strung up at a torch mount on the wall. A wall that’s smeared with bloody letters.

“THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR BEWARE.

Even though Orion isn’t as shocked as the students around him, he nevertheless feels their mood infect him.

Something ominous lies in the air.

“What’s going on!”

Filch elbows his way through the crowd, and Orion barely sidesteps his bony arm before he’s already crying out, “My cat! My cat! What happened to my Mrs. Norris?!”

Potter apparently can’t catch a break, because his guilty face causes Filch to clock him almost immediately. “YOU! You! You murdered her! I’m going to kill you—”

“Bold,” Zabini mutters. “Threatening murder in front of so many witnesses.”

Orion snorts.

“Argus!” Dumbledore’s authoritarian voice cuts off all conversation, followed by Professor McGonnagal rushing to his aid, Snape right behind her, Lockhart, Sprout, and Sinistra in tow.

Dumbledore’s deep purple robes swish with his swift steps as he strides over to the torch mount and relieves the stiff Mrs. Norris from her unfortunate position.

“Follow me, Argus,” he tells Filch with a serious expression. “And you too, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley, and Miss Granger.”

Of course, Lockhart somehow manages to insert himself into the limelight. “My office is closest, headmaster. Just up the stairs, if you would—” he voices eagerly before Dumbledore cuts him off with a, “Thank you, Gilderoy.” The headmaster then strides through the parting crowd, followed by Lockhart, Professor McGonnagal, Snape, and the trio of Gryffindors.

“What the hell was that about?” Moon asks, once they’re gone, while similar whispers pick up all around.

“You don’t mean to tell me you don’t know?” Draco says self-importantly from the sidelines.

“The chamber of secrets,” Orion voices, not unaware of the many eavesdroppers. “It’s a legend about Hogwarts. Slytherin hid a chamber supposedly housing a monster that would rid the castle of anyone unworthy to receive education once his heir opened it.”

“Well, that was a rather dramatic prank then,” Blaise says.

“Prank? I doubt it,” Daphne says, materialising beside them. “I heard a student died last time it was opened.”

Professor Sprout, who remained behind, raises her voice. “Head to your common rooms, please. There’s nothing to see here.”

“Nothing to see,” Millicent parrots her. “The woman has got some nerve.”

The air in the Slytherin common room is pregnant with a strange kind of tension. The whole house seems to be gathered there, occupying the sofas and armchairs, and sitting on the armrest where there’s no more space, other groups leaning against the alcoves where the huge glass windows grant a look at the dark green waters of the lake, and someone is even perched atop the closed wing of the grand piano.

There’s a single topic that’s being discussed in low voices—some awed and disbelieving, others sceptical, and a few, carefully keeping their mouths shut, shifty-eyed in the way they’re listening to the age-old myth being relayed by excited classmates.

A few of the older students have broken out some secretly stashed alcohol, toasting with bottles of firewhisky, the liquor almost red in the firelight.

Orion has claimed an armchair for himself, silently listening to his classmates debating the merits of having the Heir of Slytherin purging the school of all mudbloods.

Next to him, Tracey chews nervously at her thumbnail, while Moon, in an attempt to comfort her, voices loudly that Slytherin half-bloods couldn’t have much to worry about when there are so many Gryffindor mudbloods around to target first.

None of them seem to consider that a beast doesn’t differentiate between whom it kills. Orion, for all that he can claim to be the scion of the purest family on the British Isles, is no less safe from it than any run-of-the-mill hedgewitch.

“Hey, Zabini,” Orion asks, turning towards the boy to his right, “Do you still have that Wixen & Wyvern catalogue?”

Blaise blinks, too absorbed in the current speculations about what the monster in the chamber could be to process what Orion was asking him.

“The catalogue from which you owl-ordered those gloves of yours? Do you still have it?” Orion reiterates pointedly.

“Yeah,” Zabini says, shaking off his confusion. “Do you want to order some for you too? I’m telling you though, the fox-lined ones are superior to mink.”

“Nah. That’s not it. Just lend it to me?”

Zabini shrugs. “I’ll dig it out for you.” He throws Orion a bemused look. “You’re bloody weird, you know that? Talking about catalogues of all things in a night like this.”

Orion doesn’t bother to reply. His priorities lie with not getting himself killed.

Unfortunately, even after a letter was sent to Wixen & Wyvern, the only reply he gets is a printed letter informing him that their summer collection isn’t available until spring, but would he be interested in a complimentary coupon for this year’s “Winter wardrobe for the well-dressed” Wizard”—twenty percent discount for any hats he might purchase.

It’s a load of bullshit, if Orion has ever heard it.

In a similar vein, the rumours that Harry Potter is the Heir of Slytherin spread like wildfire. Ironically enough, Slytherin house is the only part of the Hogwarts population deeming that whole notion ridiculous.

For lack of any better options, Orion approaches Brunhilda when he sees her lounging in front of the fireplace in the common room surrounded by her friends just before the Sunday breakfast, while the rest of the room seems abuzz with the upcoming Quidditch game later that day.

“Am I getting this right, Black?” she asks, while he’s forced to bear the brunt of incredulous looks of her classmates. “You want me to transfigure you a pair of…sunglasses?”

The witch to her left—a teen with icy blue eyes, dark skin, and tightly braided hair winding around her skull—regards Orion with a look that would be more appropriate when cooing over a kitten.

“Yes. I’d do it myself, but I’m having trouble with the tinted glass.”

“And how come you need sunglasses that time of the year?”

“I’m experimenting with fashion,” Orion replies dryly.

“I see,” Brunhilda says, lips quirking. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The other two witches next to her giggle.

The weather for Quidditch that day is atrocious; nevertheless, Orion finds himself trailing after Vince and Greg, somewhat torn about watching Draco’s first ever game.

His hands stuffed deep into his pockets, nose buried in his green and silver scarf, he climbs the stands, bracing himself against the rain, his hair already tousled from the wind.

“Gross,” Milliecent says, tugging at her hood, while Orion has long given up trying to keep it in place despite having charmed it with an ‘impervious’ to repel the falling drops. It’s simply too bothersome to tug it up again and again, and short of using a sticking charm that will plaster it straight to his head—which would ruin his hair for the foreseeable future—he’s out of options. “Why do we have to be here again?”

“It’s the first game of the season,” Pansy declares self-importantly. “We have to support our fellow players.”

Blaise grumbles into his scarf, while Orion steps closer to Vince to take advantage of the small space where his broad body shields him from the wind.

“Let's just find a spot and get this over with,” Daphne says.

The rain hangs like a greying veil upon everything, misting up the air and making it hard to track the players where they’re whizzing between the goal posts.

“Slytherin takes the lead!” Lee Jordan comments, sounding rather put out as his voice is projected all over the stadium.

A wave of cheers rolls over the green-clad side of the stands. Orion honestly thinks about calling it a day, fantasising vividly about the cosy fire in the Slytherin common room, when a new development in the game draws his attention.

It appears as if Potter is being hounded by a bludger.

The Gryffindors call a timeout, but even after that, the bludger still seems intent on slamming Potter into the next week.

Eventually it does connect, and the whole stadium gasps. Gasps, which turn into victorious roars and cries of outrage and disappointment when it becomes evident that Potter still somehow managed to catch the snitch.

“Great,” Daphne says. “Now we can finally go.”

Monday morning comes with an irate Flint dragging down everyone’s mood with his rants about the let-down of the game only to be topped off by the news that a student has now also fallen prey to Slytherin’s curse.

The tiny Gryffindor First year—Potter’s stalker—has been petrified.

Rumours tear through the student population, many claiming that Creevy taking unbidden pictures of Potter before he ended up in the hospital wing was what inspired the deed, while others speak up in his defence, saying that it’s just because Potter has been unconscious since Lockhart apparently vanished all the bones in his arms, that he couldn’t have done it.

Orion is just happy to have received a pair of shades, courtesy of Brunhilda.

They earn him Draco’s ridicule and privately, Orion concedes that Brunhilda could’ve gone for a model that doesn’t resemble Potter’s glasses so closely, but what with Creevy now in the hospital wing, he figures he can’t be arsed to give a shit.

Draco openly declares his support for the heir—whoever they may be—claiming that the school could do with a good purging, while Orion himself keeps his mouth shut, though many assume he’s of a similar opinion.

He’s a Black after all, and it’s not like he’s really associated with Granger to stymie some of those rumours.

Peripherally, he’s also aware that Tracey’s started to isolate herself from their group.

Orion doesn’t blame her, what with the increasing and blatantly displayed derision towards half-bloods and mudbloods, but he’s got too much on his mind to be dealing with her issues on top of his own.

Because although he thinks he’d remember if anyone of note had croaked during Potter’s second year, it doesn’t mean anything. Not when Orion himself is an anomaly after all.

For all his outward indifference regarding the whole matter, Orion is torn.

An anonymous note to Dumbledore could go a long way.

As it stands, he’s fairly certain that the youngest Weasley is the person behind it all, possessed by that diary of hers. And it wouldn’t be too hard to spin some story about having deduced the monster of the chamber is a basilisk.

The association between Slytherin and a snake-like beast isn’t too far-fetched after all.

Never mind that should he decide to act openly, it would make for a good opportunity to reap some positive press.

Though Orion is apprehensive about meddling too much.

Without Potter to open the chamber, there is no dead basilisk, which in turn results in no easy means to destroy Horcruxes later on.

And while Orion doesn’t plan to involve himself in that whole shitshow looming on the horizon more than he’s forced to, he’d like to keep his options open.

Not intervening now is vastly more risky in the short term, though, and the payoff for being the one to ‘discover’ the infamous Chamber of Secrets is not to be underestimated.

Orion resorts to coming to a conclusive decision before the winter break rolls around.

And if the price for survival in the meantime is carrying around sunglasses wherever he goes in case he actually wanders into an abandoned hallway, it’s one he’s willing to pay.

Even if he reaps weird looks when he runs into the occasional straggler and a strange comment from an odd blonde Ravenclaw first year, who voices seriously that he’s got the right idea, shielding himself from the influences of the Ministry's invisible spy-spectres, which—according to her—enter through the corneas and muddle up his thoughts.

Meanwhile, the whole Potter being the Heir of Slytherin debate also finds its way into the weekly Weird Sisters club meetings, and Orion spends that time betting on whether Katie Bell will deck Malone, while Moon, Copper, and Brunhilda are placing their own wagers.

The following week is marked by Greg’s potion exploding, showering half the class in gunk that causes them to sport limbs and features swollen up to the scale of adolescent trolls.

Not even Orion is spared, and Snape takes his sweet time handing him the antidote that turns his legs back to normal.

At least the painful swelling absolves him from suspicion, but he’d rather he was not hit at all, because his robes are ruined, and his shoes are squelching with every step.

Halfway on his way to Charms, he’s so annoyed with it that he tells Zabini to go on without him—being late be damned—he’s going to change.

So caught up in his frustration, it’s a miracle he doesn’t run over the bloody first-year bumbling through the hallway.

“Watch where you’re going,” Orion bites out, before he registers the red hair and shabby robes. “—Weasley.”

She turns to look at him.

Her heart-shaped face is pale and thin, freckles standing out starkly against her skin, and her eyes are underlined by dark circles.

She stares at him vacantly, looking through him more so than at him, before she blinks and focuses.

“Oh. It’s you.” A shy smile appears on her face. “I think I got lost.”

Orion stares at her. Looks at her ink-stained fingers peeking out from under her too-long sleeves.

His eyes slide back up to her face again, fixating on her smile.

Curiosity grips him. The ill-fated kind, which drove him to climb the shelves in Grimmauld when he was small, poking and prodding and opening objects despite having been cursed before.

The hallway is painfully empty aside from them.

He should know better.

Casually, Orion puts his hands in his pockets, knuckles brushing against his wand, feeling reassured.

He should point her towards her classes. Or better yet, ignore her and get changed like he’d planned to.

What comes out of his mouth instead is, “You aren’t Weasley, are you?”

Her smile broadens, and she tilts her head in a bird-like manner. “What makes you say such silly things?”

Orion’s breath hitches at the smug thrill of having found confirmation. Adrenaline is coursing through his veins.

“That response, for one. And second of all, that smile. Weasley would never in a million years smile at me.”

The girl that is and isn’t Weasley doesn’t so much as twitch, but the manner in which her eyes glint is one that Orion would never attribute to her.

There’s a fleeting impulse to compare the real Weasley to the imposter.

That is, until Orion remembers that the Weasley girl herself is the least interesting person in this interaction.

Reflexively, he pictures the gloomy walls of Grimmauld Place, the dark room Walburga spelt him into the one time when he caught her ire by refusing to tell her where he picked up a muggle expression. He doesn’t even remember what he said then, but he recalls staring at dark walls for hours.

The weak intrusion into his mind vanishes with nothing to hold on to.

The girl blinks, without missing a beat. “That’s rather presumptuous. I don’t even know your first name,” she says.

Orion’s tongue darts over his lower lip. “Orion. Black,” he says.

“I think I can find my own way from here, Orion Black,” she replies. She grants him a last smile before walking past him.

Orion watches her disappear around the corner, staring for a few more seconds.

A more rational part of him knows that he really toed the line there, but greater even is the feeling of having gotten away with this.

Unbridled laughter bubbles up in him. Incredulous and smug at the same time.

He fingers the sunglasses in his pocket, pulls them out, and twists them in his hands.

Really, really toed the line there.

Another laugh spills over his lips as he puts them on, feeling rather like Potter defying fate with his unbelievable luck.

That’s when he’s reminded of the squelching of his shoes. Wrinkling his nose, he turns, intent on getting rid of these robes before Flitwick can dock any more points than he’ll already undoubtedly will once he shows up to his class.

There’s no warning.

He didn’t hear the quiet slide of something heavy on the old stones.

Fuck me, he thinks, as his eyes instinctively trail over the gigantic coils of scaly muscle. That is one massive snake.

Its eyes are quite yellow.

Chapter Text

Orion’s limbs feel stiff.

His toes are a bit cold, and that is when he realises that he isn’t wearing his potion-soaked socks anymore. Thank Merlin.

There’s a bitter taste lingering in his mouth, and that is when his memories hit him like a sledgehammer.

“Motherfucker!"

He jackknives up, feeling for his sunglasses that are no longer there.

“Mr. Black. Mind your language, please!” Madame Pomfrey says. When he turns to look at her, though, the matron is smiling.

“Would you mind wiggling your toes for me and your fingers—”

Orion complies with Madam Pomfrey’s instructions as he looks around: white bedding, white curtains granting him privacy, and arches keeping up the ceiling of the long hall.

“Thank you. Rotate your arms, please. Any problems with your range of motion?”

“No.”

He’s in the hospital wing, it appears.

“Very well. Everything seems to be in working order then, Mr. Black.”

“Great.”

“Though some disorientation is to be expected,” she says, before informing him, “You have been petrified.”

“I didn’t notice,” Orion replies sarcastically, returning his gaze onto the matron. “The huge Basilisk wasn’t a tip-off.”

“Ah, Mr. Black. I see you’ve found your way back into the world of the waking.”

Albus Dumbledore is standing to his right, having pulled back the curtain separating his bed from his neighbour’s, where a bemused Hermione Granger is blinking at her surroundings.

“Quite impressive that you managed to recognise the creature before it looked you in the eyes.”

Orion swings his legs over the edge of the bed and shucks off his robes. They appear to have been magically cleaned, but it's the principle of the matter. His bedside table is overflowing with cards and knickknacks and a bouquet of rather sad-looking roses slowly wilting in a vase.

Still a more pleasing sight than Dumbledore’s glaring canary-yellow outfit and matching pointy hat.

“Our house emblem is a snake. Salazar Slytherin was a parselmouth. It wasn’t exactly hard to hazard a guess as to what monster he would’ve hidden in that chamber,” Orion voices.

Dumbledore picks the sunglasses Brunhilda transfigured for him out from amidst his ‘get well’ cards. He twirls them between his long, age-spotted fingers.

“You figured out it was a Basilisk even before Christmas?” Granger pipes up. She’s leaning rather far to the side in order to look past Dumbledore. Apparently, she’s not even bothering to pretend not to eavesdrop.

Orion shrugs. He’s not about to condemn himself in front of Dumbledore.

“May I ask what transpired before you were petrified, Mr. Black?” the headmaster enquires.

That, on the other hand, is fair game. And Orion can’t quite resist pointing out that he knew that something was up with the youngest Weasley before anyone else did. “I encountered the Weasley girl,” Orion says. “Though she didn’t quite seem like herself.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle behind his half-moon glasses. “I was under the assumption that you and Miss Weasley weren’t well acquainted? I may be mistaken, of course.”

“No. You aren’t. Sir,” Orion says.

“What alerted you to her acting out of character then?”

Orion hesitates briefly. “She smiled at me.”

Dumbledore stops twirling Orion’s sunglasses. “Did she now?” His voice sounds pleasant, but his eyes are fixed on Orion with an unblinking intensity.

“Yeah. And then she left, and that bloody snake appeared in the hallway. I do hope someone offed it,” he tacks on to confirm his guesses.

Dumbledore smiles. “Someone did ‘off it’ indeed, as you so aptly put it, Mr. Black. You may assuage your fears.”

Orion bristles instinctively.

“Did Miss Weasley say anything to you before she left?” Dumbledore asks then.

“She just asked for my name,” Orion says, not seeing any drawback in admitting that part. “Why is that relevant?”

Dumbledore pauses momentarily. “Miss Weasley stood under the influence of a dark artefact for a while,” he replies. “That is, probably, why she seemed unlike herself when you last spoke to her. Though the matter has been dealt with, to Miss Weasley’s and her family's relief,” he adds, with a reassuring look at Granger.

“Ron and Harry are alright then?” She asks, her large front teeth worrying her lip in a familiar motion.

“They are alive and well. Bruised but not worse for wear. And thanks to you and your helpful notes, so is Miss Weasley.”

Orion spares a glance at the window and the blue sky and bright golden light falling in through the glass. “How much time did I lose?” he asks.

Dumbledore turns his attention back on him. “It is the fifteenth of June today.”

“Oh god!” Hermione exclaims, horrified. “I missed the exams!”

“The exams have been cancelled due to the extenuating circumstances, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore voices, amused.

“But I missed so many lessons,” she moans, tugging at her bushy hair.

Orion scoffs. “What am I supposed to say then, Granger? It got me before you.”

“I have no doubt that you’ll catch up to your peers. Through all the excitement, schoolwork has been neglected by most, and the professors will take your absence under consideration, I’m certain.”

“I’m going to freshen up, I think,” Orion says, yawning to stretch his stiff jaw.

“How can that be your most pressing issue?” Hermione asks, her voice edging on hysterics.

Orion huffs, amused, despite himself. “We’ve been catching dust in here for months. I, for one, doubt the cleaning charms they used did more than a superficial job, and I’m still wearing the same clothes as the day I was petrified. In November, mind you.”

Granger pales, as if the thought hadn’t even occurred to her.

“I shan’t keep you then, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore says, lifting his hand with the shades before placing them back onto Orion’s side table. “Quite a lucky pair of sunglasses you’ve got there. I might have to look into purchasing a pair of my own,” he voices, implying everything and nothing at the same time.

“You should go for clip-ons,” Orion says. “Really matches the vibe of the whole…” He waves his hand vaguely at Dumbledore and settles on, “aesthetic.”

An odd smile plays around Dumbledore’s lips, which Orion can’t read but seems to be tinged with some kind of emotion anyhow. “I shall take your input under consideration, Mr. Black.” He shifts his head and nods at the Gryffindor. “Miss Granger. Your friends are undoubtedly anxious to see you again. If you feel up for it, there’s a feast being held in the Great Hall. Your parents and guardians have also been notified of your imminent awakening.” He turns back to look at Orion. “In fact, Lucius Malfoy has been adamant in being informed of your recovery immediately. He’s been quite dedicated to his position as a school governor in recent times, going so far as to grace us with his presence multiple times a week. Without a doubt he’s wearing holes into the floor of Severus’ office as we speak.”

Orion snorts. He can only imagine the fallout of him being petrified by the Basilisk. He bites back the impulsive question about whether Draco fell victim to Slytherin’s monster as well.

If he were, Orion doubts the headmaster would be chatting so casually with him about Lucius’ presence in Hogwarts.

He watches Dumbledore wandering off to where Finch-Fletchley is currently cursing up a storm after waking from his own petrification and hops off his bed, intent to get to his room in the dungeons and grab a shower.

He turns at the last moment. “Granger.”

“Yeah?”

“Did you break into the Slytherin common room at one point?”

“What?” She squeaks, flushing. “No.”

He looks at her. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” she says, indignantly. It doesn’t read like a lie.

“I must’ve dreamt it then,” Orion replies and leaves the confused Gryffindor where she is.

Dumbledore’s prediction does come true, and Lucius is indeed pacing in front of Snape’s fireplace when Orion knocks on the door of his office, freshly showered and dressed in a clean jumper and slacks.

“Orion. You can’t imagine how pleased I am to see you up and about,” Lucius says, stepping towards him as soon as he lays eyes upon him, while Snape lets a glass tumbler full of firewhisky disappear in the drawer of his desk.

Orion stares at Lucius with some bemusement at the warm welcome, while the Malfoy patriarch looks him over until he finds him to his satisfaction.

“Lucius. Professor Snape,” Orion greets them.

“I sure hope the incompetence of this school's staff doesn’t extend towards overseeing the care of their students in the hospital wing,” Lucius says, briefly turning towards the other man. “No offence.”

Snape inclines his head towards Malfoy in a dismissing gesture.

“I’m no longer petrified, so I’d say they did a decent job. Though as to what happened while I was indisposed, I cannot comment on,” Orion voices.

“It’s despicable,” Lucius says. “Students being attacked in open hallways, while Dumbledore happily looks on. That the man was allowed to return to his position is a disgrace.”

“You had him fired?” Orion asks, feeling oddly flattered despite knowing that even if he weren’t petrified, Lucius would’ve likely jumped at that chance. His amusement prevails either way.

Lucius exhales through his nose before settling in the heavy armchair in front of Snape’s desk.

“Suspended. For a time. The wrong people on the board of governors retained the opinion that he was the best man to deal with the issue,” he says, drumming his fingers onto Snape’s desk. There’s tension in Lucius’ face, anger brimming beneath the surface. “Though he was under a lot of pressure to close the school down, shortly before things were resolved.”

“You mean Potter slaying the Basilisk.”

Snape tilts his head the same moment Lucius says, “The Basi—”

He jumps up. “Salazar, a basilisk! It’s a miracle anyone survived!” he exclaims, agitatedly.

Orion, who’s under no illusions that Draco’s opinions about the Heir of Slytherin doing away with muggle-born students don’t come from nowhere, takes his affront with a grain of salt.

“Yeah. Huge thing. Twenty feet at the least, I’d hazard. Luckily I only looked at it through sunglasses.”

“Lucky indeed,” Snape drawls, looking between him and Lucius.

“We’re going to sue, of course,” Lucius announces.

“Who?” Orion asks, lips quirking, as he pictures Lucius trying to drag a dead serpent in front of the Wizengamot only to claim its body as spoils and sell it off to potioneers.

“Dumbledore. The school. Whatever applies.” Lucius is pacing again. “Students petrified by a Basilisk! That’s reckless endangerment if I’ve ever heard it. The negligence alone—”

Lucius begins to go on and on about all the things where the school went wrong and how Dumbledore must be going senile and how he’ll have to contact his solicitor.

Orion is rather indifferent. Lucius does have a point after all.

“I would refrain from taking such measures,” Snape interjects. “For a while at least, until the dust settles. I’ve heard Dumbledore has issued a meeting with the school governors in order to discuss the events in more detail, including the diary that led to Miss Weasley opening the chamber in the first place.”

Lucius stills. He stands up. “I appreciate your input, Severus,” he bites out formally.

It occurs to Orion suddenly that he never quite thought about how the Weasley girl got her hands on the diary in the first place.

Lucius’ reaction has him connect the dots.

He finds that he’s probably got more cause to sue Lucius than the school.

The man is indirectly responsible for Orion almost getting murdered. Hell.

Not quite knowing how to take this new information, Orion turns to look at Snape instead. “Nobody died?”

“No. Miss Ginevra Weasley seemed to be in mortal peril at one point but was ultimately recovered from the chamber.”

“I see,” Orion says.

“Though Gilderoy Lockhart appears to be suffering from a bout of amnesia thanks to a misfired spell and has been delivered into the care of St. Mungo’s,” Snape adds with a satisfied smile curling around his lips.

Orion grins. “Good riddance.”

Snape doesn’t like him enough to agree, but his lack of words on the matter speaks volumes.

“I just recalled; I’ve got an urgent appointment I have to keep,” Lucius announces then, breaking his contemplative silence.

Snape rises.

“Orion. My congratulations on your recovery,” Lucius says, “We shall see each other once the school year has come to a close. Give Draco my regards,” before saying his goodbyes to Snape, who escorts him to the floo, which swallows his form up in a flash of green flames.

That leaves Snape and Orion, and momentarily silence falls over them.

“Mr. Black,” he drawls, “the feast is in full swing. You’d do well to make an appearance, lest your classmates think you’ve perished after all.”

“Professor,” Orion says, lips quirking before he sees himself out.

The Slytherin house table welcomes him under great uproar. Or what constitutes as such for them. Flint claps him on the back in passing, Brunhilda smiles at him across the table, and Snide ruffles his hair, which he promptly answers with a stinging hex; she laughs it off.

He was the only one of them who ended up being petrified, and it must’ve scared them more than they’d admit that one of them—a pureblood on top of it all—fell victim to the Heir.

Draco is the most vocal of all of them, almost looking like he wants to drag Orion into a hug before he thinks better of it and barks at Parkinson to make space so he can sit down next to him.

Orion takes that all in with no little amount of bemusement because his latest stance on the matter was that they were still on the outs.

“Glad to have you back,” Zabini says, and the Slytherin girls proclaim similar sentiments as they shuffle around in their seating arrangements. And for once the Slytherin second years are actually united again.

“What was it like to be petrified?” Moon asks him curiously, almost placing her elbow in her plate of mashed potatoes while Daphne elbows her, with an admonishing, “You can’t just ask these kinds of things,” before looking at him and adding, “But really, what was it like?”

“Honestly, one moment I was looking at a massive basilisk, the next I was waking up in the hospital wing.”

That reaps Orion some impressed ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs,’ and then he’s forced to describe what the basilisk looked like, which mostly boils down to huge and green, with yellow eyes.

He’s basking a bit in all the attention, actually, before he turns the tables and asks what he missed in his absence.

It seems his being petrified was a turning point for the Slytherins, who suddenly took the whole matter of the Chamber of Secrets being opened much more seriously.

Apparently, the theory about Potter being Slytherin’s heir gained much more ground after.

Draco relays that he’d originally planned on staying in Hogwarts over the winter break so as to miss nothing of the developments but had been taken out promptly by his father and spent Christmas at home.

Lucius and Narcissa actually cancelled the Yule ball in a show of their upset in light of Orion's circumstances.

Even if it were to come from a place of earnestness, it’s a political statement through and through, and Orion can only imagine them weighing the sympathy points it would garner them behind closed doors against the chance at networking and proclaiming their consternation about their ward being petrified in public.

Enquiring further, Orion learns that they had held a more private celebration anyways and that Dumbledore had been removed from his position as Headmaster only shortly after the winter break before returning barely half a week ago to reclaim his title.

There had been brief rumours apparently about whether Orion was targeted by the Heir because his father had been disowned, but nobody thought to question his parentage or blood status, especially when it had been easier to point their accusing fingers at Potter instead—who’d outed himself as a parselmouth during a duelling club session headed by Snape and Lockhart a mere fortnight after Orion’s petrification.

“Shocking,” he voices dryly in response.

Hagrid apparently had been arrested in the meantime, as he’d been expelled from school the first time the Chamber had been opened for that very reason.

They move on to different topics then, from Moon telling him about the fan club meetings he missed and how they’d all bemoaned his absence—even the Gryffindors had seemed slightly affected, and Draco relays every detail about the Quidditch games he’d played— Of course he’d been put out by Orion’s situation, but he couldn’t have very well left the team hanging, now could he?

Draco side-eyes him for a bit by the time they’re back in the common room, before stretching out his hand and saying, “We’re good, aren’t we?”

Orion takes it, grinning as he asks, “Even if I spread more rumours about your crush on Potter?”

“Not on your life, Black,” Draco retorts, face turning dark.

Orion laughs. “We’re good.”

When they pull apart, Draco bumps his shoulder into his. Apparently Orion’s absence struck him deeper than he’d anticipated.

He sticks with Orion, even once he’s drawn into the hustle of the Slytherin common room, briefly stopping by some of the fifth years he knows and chatting with Fawcett, whose transfigured sunglasses—for all purposes—saved his life.

She, too, tells him that she missed his presence during the fan club meetings, as she and Moon, as the only Slytherins, were forced to hold the fort.

Orion also learns that apparently she has a sister in Hufflepuff, whom he never even knew about but actually signed his ‘get well’ card he got from his friends in the Weird Sisters fan club.

For the others, the everyday life of Hogwarts without an imminent threat present seems to be something to get used to, but for Orion, it just feels like any other week.

His birthday is a small affair, and Draco tells him all about the gifts he received a fortnight prior before handing Orion a book on various types of dragons—you swot don’t like any normal things, and maybe he could perhaps borrow it once he’s read it—while the Slytherin girls and Zabini tossed their money together and got him a gramophone and a few vinyls Moon picked out.

There’s an ostentatious heap of presents waiting for him sent by Narcissa and Lucius as well, and Orion picks through it, feeling like Lucius might be trying to assuage his guilt at causing his petrification in the first place.

Safe for Lockhart's absence and a new free period in his schedule, everything runs as smoothly as ever.

Aside from Lucius being fired from the board of governors, perhaps. It’s a curveball the man should’ve expected, being the sole reason a dark artefact ended up in a school of witless children.

Though Orion being petrified, apparently, also means that Granger—who has gotten over her apprehension of interacting with him—regards him as a fellow victim and hounds him at all hours in the library to catch up with the schoolwork they missed, as he’s apparently the only one in their year who won’t turn her away, and to discuss the electives they’ll have to pick for the coming year.

It’s annoying and exhausting, but a small part of Orion is grateful for it, since she’s already written a study planner summarising all topics they missed, which she so graciously shares.

While Orion has been slacking a bit in the department of studying ahead this year, he’s still actually not as far behind as he thought he’d be thanks to his almost obsessive reading habit during his first year.

At least he’s only picked Arithmancy and Runes to add to Granger’s exhaustive list of electives. She’s chosen every single one. Even Muggle studies, which is frankly ridiculous, considering her upbringing. If Orion were her, he’d simply take the O.W.L.s and call it a day.

Still, the last school weeks during summer are rapidly drawing to a close, and he’s probably checked out about as many books by the end of it to self-study during the holidays as Granger—which is frankly concerning.

Chapter Text

The start of the summer holidays is marked by a heatwave simmering over Wiltshire, and Orion and Draco spend many a day taking their brooms out to the stream running through the sprawling lands belonging to the Malfoys, rolling their pant legs up to wade through the cool waters, trying to catch the wild fairies flitting around the shrubbery with their bare hands, and attempting to dunk each other when the other isn’t looking.

They’re perpetually sunburnt even through the spells Narcissa layers upon them. 

Having ointments shoved at them in the evenings to rectify that state becomes as much as a familiar routine as letting their hair dry in the warm summer breeze, while they race each other back to the manor, their shirts wrinkled and feet bare as they hurry over the lawn to arrive in time for meals or lessons with their tutors. 

Orion is catching up rapidly with the schoolwork he missed, while Draco is being taught French and starts to be familiarised with the responsibilities that come with managing an estate by his father. 

Never mind that Lucius is barely at home, still trying to mitigate the fallout of his firing, networking like there’s no tomorrow, and showering the Ministry in donations. 

That suits Orion just right. Because, once he got over his initial adjustment phase after the Basilisk petrified him, it really sank in just how much Lucius’ impulsive action cost him.

Sure, Lucius likely never intended for Orion to be petrified or in any way affected by him dropping the Dark Lord’s diary on an unsuspecting Weasley, but it still almost killed him.

Perhaps, Orion himself is at fault for baiting Weasley’s possessed form, but that takes a backseat when Lucius was the one to trigger the whole thing in the first place. 

Orion isn’t as outraged as he could be, perhaps because knowing he could’ve been killed is a distanced concept, and he only missed school for the most part. But whenever he broods over his books to study what he never got the chance to learn to catch up, his resentment simmers like a hot brand in his stomach.

On top of it all, Lucius never once brings up the topic of Orion’s petrification—as if he thought reminding Orion might trigger a release of the emotions boiling under the surface. 
But Orion has decided to go by a different approach this time. Pettiness. He relishes Lucius sweating in anticipation of a reaction that won’t come. And unless he comes up with a better solution, Kreacher can be the one to carry out his revenge. 

So far, Lucius is the first to complain about the old elf slinking through the hallways of Malfoy Manor, filling the gap that Dobby left behind amidst their employ. 

After all, Orion has ‘oh-so graciously’ offered up Kreacher’s services and takes great satisfaction in not chiding Kreacher when he’s being a shit towards the Malfoy patriarch by messing up his laundry or serving him shitty whisky, while abiding by Narcissa’s every whim.

He has it on good authority that the elf now habitually spits into Lucius’ food, and from what he’s seen of Kreacher’s passive-aggressive treatment of the man, he may feel even more resentful than Orion himself.

Besides, it’s doing Kreacher some good too, the isolation in Grimmauld having turned him a bit barmy in all honesty. 

Meanwhile, Orion’s face explodes in a splattering of freckles, his hair grows longer, and Draco shoots up in height—turning him into an awkward prepubescent heap of pointy limbs and even sharper angles. 

They spend a miserable afternoon before their first attendance of a gala that summer, during which Narcissa sits them both down to straighten out their teeth with magic, correcting Draco’s vision with a terrifying permanent transfiguration of his eyes—likely highly illegal considering Orion has only ever seen it described in a book bound in human skin somewhere in the depths of Grimmauld’s library—and fussing over their all-around appearance. 

By mid-July, Draco’s overtaken Orion by a half an inch, who’s rather irked by the realisation that his being frozen in time for nearly 7 months straight has set him back quite a bit in that regard. 

Around the same time Narcissa begins to make it a habit to solely converse with them in French during their afternoon teas, she starts to instruct Draco in dancing.

Orion’s schadenfreude at seeing his cousin bumble around the ballroom and stepping on his mother’s feet only lasts so long before it’s his own feet being stepped on when Narcissa decides that their similarity in height makes them more suitable to be paired up. 

They dance and bicker, switching between leading and being led to the point where they collapse, flushed and panting, lying spread-eagle on the cool hardwood floor to catch their breath till Narcissa tells them to get up again. 

In between garden parties, galas, and studying, Orion busies himself with writing to his solicitor to ask about the state of things, secretly duelling Draco in the gardens, and visiting his friends. The summer has the markings of being one of the best in a long time. 

Were it not for one particular issue, which manages to taint the whole experience

Namely, the metaphorical storm of Sirius Black’s impending breakout of Azkaban brewing on the horizon, which dangles above Orion’s head like a Damocles sword and turns him anxious and manic with the incessant urge to search for something to occupy his mind to distract himself from the conflicting mess of emotions churning in his belly.

The notion of Sirius Black being his father is not something Orion is ignorant of. Not when it’s what makes him a Black, what binds him to his family and his blood, and has dictated the trajectory of his life.

He’d be long dead, killed and burnt down alongside his mother, were it not for his ties to that very man. 

And yet, Orion is having a hard time coming to terms with having to confront the existence of his father as something other than a distant concept lurking in the back of his mind. 

It makes him nervous. Apprehensive too in a way, despite firmly deciding that Sirius Black won’t have any bearings on how he’ll conduct his life, regardless of how things will turn out.

Because he knows it’s a vow he won’t be able to uphold. Not when the future feels as shrouded and fragile as opaque glass. 

The day that Sirius Black turns from an abstract idea into an insurmountable fact is marked by a rolling summer thunderstorm that has been building for days and a squad of Aurors apparating in front of the gates of Malfoy Manor. 

Heavy rain is drumming against the windows of the drawing room, Kreacher lurking in a corner like a particularly keen-eyed vulture, while Lucius shows their visitors into the room. 

Narcissa sets down her teacup, nothing but a slight downturn of her lips betraying her displeasure at them dripping water all over the expensive hardwood floors before the expression is wiped away.

Draco looks up in unbridled interest and intrigue, while Orion himself turns stiff as a statue at the sight of the careworn men clad in heavy red coats and mud-splattered boots. 

“Kreacher,” Narcissa says, as she rises, “Would you be so kind as to serve these gentlemen some tea while I escort the children out of the room?” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Lucius says. He walks over to the liquor cabinet and breaks out a bottle of Ogden's finest firewhiskey instead, while the men look around the room with professional curiosity. The better liquor is kept in the basement, the 35-year-old Odgen’s usually reserved for those guests, Lucius doesn’t deem it worthy to taste anything more refined, but it appears as if today, he can’t be bothered to be picky.

Orion can hazard a guess as to why, dreading his suspicions being confirmed. He locks eyes with the closest auror, a keen amber gaze meeting him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles, his wild honey-brown hair streaked with grey.

Narcissa takes stock of the situation, cataloguing the way Lucius is pouring a generous portion into a tumbler before looking at the Aurors again. 

“If I may enquire as to the nature of your visit?”

The Auror who stared at Orion for the longest time tears his gaze away and steps forward. “As of yesterday, the seventh of August, at two p.m., Sirius Black has been declared a man on the run.”

Narcissa looks like she’s been slapped. Draco gasps. Lucius takes a sip of his drink, and Orion-

Orion laughs as the tension he’s felt building over the summer comes to a point. 

Some of the Aurors turn to stare at him, bewildered, before it’s replaced with judgement and apprehension.

“He broke out of Azkaban? I thought that was impossible,” Draco says, shocked. 

Nobody answers him for a long moment. 

“Apparently not,” Lucius voices. 

“Are you implying that we’re housing an escaped convict?” Narcissa asks pleasantly, but her eyes are shooting daggers. 

Lucius doesn’t down his drink in one go, but it’s a near thing.

“No ma’am.” A tall Auror with brown hair and broad shoulders steps forward. “That is not why we’re here.”

Narcissa’s pale gaze drifts towards Orion. Kreacher has sidled up to him at this point. For what reason—be it support or curiosity—he can’t say.

“Enlighten us then,” Narcissa says. 

The amber-eyed Auror answers. “In the process of our investigation, it has come to our attention that in the week before his escape, Sirius Black was muttering incoherently. Not unusual for those incarcerated for a longer duration, which is why it didn’t cause any alarm, but one sentence has been noted to have been said over and over again. ‘He’s in Hogwarts’.”

“You believe he’s looking for Orion,” Narcissa states, pale-faced.

“It is a possibility,” a brunette auror says. 

Orion barks another laugh. This whole situation feels surreal. 

“Why are you laughing?” Draco hisses. “That man is probably insane at this point if he wasn’t already before.”

Orion leans back in his armchair, fingers tracing over the wooden carvings in the front of its armrests. “He isn’t looking for me,” he simply says. 

The brunette Auror steps forward. “What makes you think so?”

Orion snorts. “Well, for one,” he starts, “I’ve never met the man. Besides, I highly doubt he even knows of my existence.”

The Auror looks at Narcissa. “Is that true?” he asks sharply. 

“I don’t know,” she says primly. “I wasn’t exactly close with my cousin at that time.”

The amber-eyed Auror looks at Orion. “Before you were taken in by the Malfoys, you grew up with your grandmother, Walburga Black, isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Orion says. 

“Do you happen to know how old you were when you came under her care?”

“One, one and a half, or thereabouts,” Orion says. 

“And before that?” he asks curtly. 

“He was with my sister,” Narcissa says in lieu of Orion replying. “Bellatrix Lestrange.”

Orion takes quite a bit of satisfaction out of seeing the expressions that statement evokes in the Aurors.

Even the more professional among them seem to pale at that name. 

“Is—” The brunette auror clears his throat. “Is it possible that she knows whether Black is aware of your existence?” 

“She might,” Orion says offhandedly, dragging his nails over the expensive fabric of his armchair. “Merlin knows Grandmother never wrote to him.”

Kreacher keeps silent on the topic. Not that any of the people in this room pay attention to him. Orion exchanges a glance with him. Kreacher tilts his head, a silent question. 

Orion subtly shakes his head. 

“Harry Potter is at Hogwarts as well,” Lucius voices from the sidelines. He’s refilled his drink. “Could it have been him Black was referring to?”

“That is a thought that’s occurred to us as well,” a blonde Auror says, who’d been keeping quiet till now. “But there’s no telling for sure.”

Orion chuckles, reaping a few stray glances.

“They never found Peter Pettigrew’s body.” The impulsive words spill over his lips in response to the reaction before he can think twice about uttering them. He’s got everybody's unbridled attention now. “Who knows, maybe Sirius is innocent?” he adds provocatively, since he’s already opened that can of worms.

“Peter Pettigrew was a hero,” the blond auror states in a grave voice, his brown eyes fixating on Orion. “He was blown to bits by Black, murdered on an open street, and twelve muggles were dragged into death alongside him.”

Orion meets his judgemental stare head-on. “If you say so.”

The distaste in the Auror’s expression clearly conveys what he thinks of his apparent dismissiveness.

“He might be your father,” the golden-eyed Auror says. “But you’d do well to confront the facts. Sirius Black isn’t a good man.”

Are you? 

The words sit on the tip of his tongue. 

The man turns to look at Narcissa. “As we can’t be certain of Black’s intentions, we’d advise you to only leave the house when absolutely necessary. Even then we’d recommend an escort of at least three Aurors at all times during every outing as well as some of our forces be stationed within and around your manor.”

“Surely that is excessive,” Lucius drawls.

The brunette Auror looks at him. “Sirius Black is a very dangerous individual.”

“We have responsibilities. A life,” Narcissa says, “We were planning a trip to France this summer. How can we know that being accompanied by Aurors won’t affect our day-to-day life—how it would affect the children?” she tacks on. 

“One would think their safety takes precedence,” the blond Auror says derisively, and Lucius slides his cool gaze over to him. 

His colleague interjects before the man can put his foot further into his mouth. 

“We understand your apprehension, Mrs. Malfoy.” He folds his hands behind his back. “Nevertheless, in my professional opinion, I’d propose you postpone your holiday. Our jurisdiction only reaches so far, and the French Ministry has already been notably stingy with their resources when it comes to tracking down Black. I can’t promise you that they will offer you the same protection as we would within the country. I urge you to, at the very least, err on the side of caution and employ the services of the Ministry whenever you feel the need to leave the house. It is up to you, of course, but as we cannot predict Black’s movements, we have to follow every lead. It may very well be that the minister will order us to stake out your home, Mrs. Malfoy, regardless of your preferences.”

“I see,” Narcissa says icily.

“We would appreciate your cooperation in those matters,” the brunette Auror says, “It would help us immensely, and I believe we’d all sleep better if we knew you’d be adequately protected.”

“Certainly, Auror Dawlish,” Lucius jumps in, “There’s no question that your department shall receive our unconditional support. We’re as keen to see Black behind bars again as any law-abiding citizen, if not more, considering he may very well be targeting a child under our care. Nonetheless, I believe it would be best if we could pick up this discussion at a later date. It’s a lot to take in, as you’ll understand, and my wife is understandably shaken by the news.”

Orion looks at Narcissa and her infuriated eyes and barely contains a snort.

“Of course,” the man says, only to be heatedly talked over by the blond Auror. 

“Black is at large, and nobody knows where and when he’ll attack next.”

“Savage,” his superior says sharply, cutting him off, before facing Lucius. “I understand. Nevertheless, I’d recommend you don’t take too long. Auror Dawlish does have a point. Black is a dangerous individual, and while it’s unlikely that he’s reached Britain at this point, there’s no predicting whether he isn’t already on the way here.”

“Of course,” Lucius says. 

“We’re spread thin at the moment,” the man continues, “as most of our forces are currently deployed abroad in a country-wide manhunt while others are trying to hash things out with the German Ministry, but I can send a man—”

“No need,” Lucius interrupts. “I can’t very well ask you to waste your resources in that manner. I shall drop by the Ministry to discuss things in detail.”

“If it’s all the same to you,” the Auror replies, while the tall man in the back, who’s kept silent all this time, fishes a pocket watch out from under his coat and checks the time. 

“Sir, we should get going. Mad-Eye’s is set to return within the next quarter hour for the debriefing.”

“Thank you, Gawain.” The greying Auror fixates on Lucius. “As Auror Robards said, we should take our leave.”

“I shall escort you to the floor in the entrance hall then,” Lucius says. “No need to apparate from beyond the wards in this weather.”

“I appreciate it,” the Auror replies.

Lucius guides them outside, and then only Narcissa, Orion, and Draco are left in the drawing room.

“I can’t believe he broke out,” Draco says, breaking the silence. 

“Kreacher,” Narcissa says, tipping her head back and pinching the bridge of her nose, “If you would fetch a bottle of elf-wine from the cellar, I’d be most appreciative.”

“Does the Mistress have a preference?” the elf enquires. 

“White. Whatever we’ve got in stock. I find myself rather indifferent at the moment.”

Kreacher bows and disapparates with a crack. 

“How are you feeling, Orion?” she asks. 

What does he feel?

Everything. 

Nothing. 

“Conflicted,” Orion says. 

The aftermath of the revelation of Sirius’ breakout has Orion lying awake at night. 

It’s not that he’s discomfited by the fact that his father is at large. It’s the possibility of meeting him that makes him feel queasy; every time he imagines it, his stomach flutters with a kind of nervous anticipation that he can’t quite admit he feels outside the cover of the night.

He wonders what his father would think of him. 

Orion Black. Named after a man who wouldn’t disown Sirius even after he abandoned the family, raised by the woman he ran from, and sorted into Slytherin. 

Old insecurities are rearing their head, settling over him like a blanket and sinking into his skin till he bares his teeth and hisses into the dark as if it would change matters in any way. 

Irrationally, he questions whether he will measure up when it should be the other way round.

But while Sirius might be the disgrace of the Black family, he is still a Black. 

More of a Black than Orion anyhow, a voice whispers in his mind.

Orion punches the headboard. 

His knuckles ache. 

He stares up at the dark canopy for a few more moments before he growls, throwing back the duvet with an abrupt motion and sitting up.

The hardwood floor is cool against his bare feet. 

It doesn’t take him long to find the pack of old cigarettes he took from Grimmauld, stuffed carelessly into the back of a drawer—forgotten until now. 

He grabs a discarded robe from a nearby chair and throws it on over his pyjamas. 

The sound of the rain falling onto the carefully trimmed hedges and neat rose beds grows louder as soon as he opens one of the large windows overlooking the grounds behind the manor. 

A cool breeze tugs at his hair, his face dampened by a spray of rain as he settles on the windowsill.

Tucking a cigarette between his lips is a foreign motion accompanied by a distant sense of déjà vu. 

Sirius’ lighter clicks to life at the first try. The heat of the flame briefly warms his face as he lifts it to his mouth.

Smoke slides over his tongue, metallic and harsh, settling irritatingly under his ribs. Orion holds it in spitefully till his lungs feel like they’re bursting. 

Eventually, he can’t bear it any longer. He means to exhale, but as soon as he opens his mouth, he’s rattled by a coughing fit, all but retching when he inhales the smoke doubly and deeper than intended.

He pants, fingers braced against the window. The ashy taste lingers. Saliva collects in his mouth. Orion turns and spits into the night.

Tongue tracing over the inside of his teeth, he stares at the glimmering cigarette in his hand.

A beat goes by. 

His apprehension squashed by his stubbornness, he takes another drag. It goes equally abysmal. Inhaling too little this time, barely producing smoke, and so he follows it up with another, breathing in too deep at once. 

He coughs again. 

After the fourth drag, he’s got the hang of it.

His lungs still burn; the cigarette is old and dry and tastes shitty, but the nicotine starts to hit.
Orion feels lightheaded, his legs heavy and tingling. 

It grounds him in his body, settles him in his skin.

When he’s done, he puts it out on the windowsill, feeling darkly satisfied at the smudge of ash staining the wood.

The smell lingers in the air. It reminds him of his mother. 

Orion tosses the butt into the crinkled pack where it clatters around next to loose tobacco and crooked cigarettes.

He falls asleep to the sounds of rain. 

Lucius concedes to Aurors being stationed outside the gates. 

There are no more flights over the sprawling lands. No more outings, excursions, or evenings spent at restaurants or the club. A gilded cage made of prim hedges, neat lawns, and the bright and decadently furnished walls of Malfoy Manor.

‘Family is family,’ he overhears Narcissa saying to Lucius as he passes by the door of his study. Sirius wouldn’t dare lay a hand upon them in their own house. 

Orion, who grew up with Walburga, acknowledges her words but knows it's more complicated than that. 

Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, but especially with family, it’s sometimes hard to tell which side is which. 

Love didn’t keep his grandmother from telling him she should’ve murdered him in his cradle. Love didn’t keep him from picturing cracking open her ribcage with his bare hands and spilling her blood all over the floor.

They hurt each other viciously, despite everything. 

Perhaps Narcissa knows, because when they talk about his father, she doesn’t bother trying to placate him the same way.

Never mind her earnest assurances that he will be kept safe; Orion can tell that she’s about as much of a believer in his father being a danger to Orion as he himself is.

It’s the circumstances around it that reap Sirius her resentment.

Behind closed doors, she raves about the invasion of privacy, cursing the Ministry and blaming their incompetence rather than her cousin for escaping in the first place.

At one point, she voices offhandedly that of course it would have been a Black who defied expectations and broke out of a prison that was supposedly impossible to break out of. 

Orion hums in agreement around his glass of iced tea. 

Draco follows their conversations with appalled bemusement, wondering out loud how they can be so casual when the man is very likely targeting them.

“Don’t be absurd,” Narcissa says in response to Draco’s consternation and Orion’s amusement.

The Aurors are good for one thing, though, and that is for keeping the press at bay, the occasional stubborn journalist trying to talk their way past the gates. 

At Lucius’ hinting that whether Orion wouldn’t be interested in giving an official statement asking Sirius Black to turn himself in—likely to bolster his claim that they’d support the DMLE in their efforts to recapture the man—both Narcissa and Orion had refused to speak to him for a whole day.

Scrimgeour—the Auror who came by to inform them of Sirius’ breakout—shows up on a Wednesday, alongside Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. 

Scrimgeour looks weary and tired. The amber eyes behind his spectacles are lined with dark circles. His hair could do with a wash. 

Moody himself couldn’t look more out of place in the Manor, his whole demeanour only the icing on the cake.

Stocky and peg-legged, a patchy leather coat granting the impression of an even squarer build, his mauled face and partially missing nose making for a macabre picture. He blatantly implies that Lucius only escaped the same fate as Sirius Black because he lied his way through the Wizengamot and greased the right hands, while his magical eye spins around in its socket, scanning through walls and floors and ceilings in a way that can’t be regarded as anything but rude. 

Orion was cited into the drawing room, Lucius sitting in an armchair, fingers twitching with irritation, while Narcissa’s face resembles that of a porcelain doll—pale, stiff, and unreadable.

“We have questioned Bellatrix Lestrange,” Scrimgeour says, looking down at Orion, a harsh tug around his mouth. “Your mother.”

Orion feels something break open beneath his ribcage. Bittersweet and aching, though it’s accompanied by a stab of irritation at the insult implied in the statement.

“Didn’t care to mention that last time, eh, Black?” Moody tacks on in his gnarled voice.

Orion stares at him, not without some derision and amusement. His true parentage has been all but forgotten. The fact that he remembers most of his life is the only reason he’s even aware that Bellatrix isn’t his actual mother. Narcissa knows, he thinks. Not that she ever told him. Nor does she admit it now. 

She just looks at Orion, her eyes unblinking and intense. Lucius is grinding his jaw. He resembles a marble statue, what with his milk-white lashes, pale hair, and the dove-grey summer robes he picked today. It only underlines the barely disguised anger in his face.

Orion waits, vicious words caged behind his teeth, swallowed down with difficulty. Patience was never his strong suit, but he won’t break the silence first.

Not when he doesn’t know what this is all about. He wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t more to it after all.

“She’s agreed to speak to us,” Scrimgeour says, plucking his glasses from his face and wiping them on his sleeve. The wrinkles around his eyes and between his brows look even more pronounced in its absence. “But she’s set a condition.”

“What condition?” Orion asks, impatient, when nobody seems to want to elaborate. 

“Tell the boy,” Lucius demands.

“She wants to see you.”

Orion feels like he’s been punched in the gut. “In Azkaban,” he manages, his voice sounding like that of a stranger. 

“Yes,” the Auror replies. “Anything else would be a breach of security we cannot afford.”

“I’ve spoken out against it,” Lucius voices. Narcissa keeps quiet, hands folded on her lap as she observes the proceedings with a stoic countenance. 

Only knowing her allows Orion to read her displeasure with having to host Aurors again.

“Thought you’d agreed on having the Death Eater sprog make the decision,” Mad-Eye interjects bluntly.

Orion’s grey eyes flick towards him, anger clawing its way out of his gut, spreading under his skin. Simmering. Moody’s eyes spin madly before zoning in on him.

From the corner of his eye, he sees Narcissa putting a hand on Lucius’ arm. He appears just as furious, but he restrains himself. 

“T’is what it is, kid. Not your fault your parents came from bad blood, but there’s no use in calling a Thestral a unicorn, if you catch my drift.”

Orion’s grinding his teeth as his face turns icy. His fingers are itching for his wand. He feels the weight of Sirius' old lighter in his pocket. Pictures of setting Moody’s coat on fire and watching his artificial eye melt in the heat.

“I still don’t see why you couldn’t just administer veritaserum,” Lucius grits out.

“Never mind that she nearly blinded a man when we attempted to do so; she proceeded to bite her tongue off as soon as the body bind wore off. Multiple times, even after we grew it back,” Scrimgeour replies.

Orion feels a stab of vicious satisfaction at that. 

“Almost impressive, the stones on that bitch, if it weren’t such a huge pain in the—”

“Auror Moody,” Scrimgeour snaps.

Narcissa’s eyes are flickering with ice-cold anger. 

“I apologise for my colleague’s unprofessional behaviour,” Scrimgeour says.

Moody snorts. “I don’t see a reason for beating around the bush.”

“Alastor,” Scrimgeour says stiffly. “Why don’t you step out for a moment?”

Moody snorts. “Works for me.” His eyes whirl in his socket, showing only white as he fixates on something at an angle as he peers through his own skull. “I’ll find a way to occupy myself.”

“He may stay,” Lucius says. After a moment, he adds, “If he minds his language. I wouldn’t want my ward to pick up anything…vulgar.”

“That is very gracious,” Scrimgeour says monotonously.

Moody scoffs, reaching into his inner pocket to pull out a flask. “And I bet it’s got nothing to do with the half a dozen illegal items stowed away in the rooms around us,” he mutters.

Lucius is almost shaking with anger. “Appearances may be deceiving.”

Moody stares at him, his magical eye pointedly fixating on Lucius’ left forearm. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Malfoy?” he says before taking a deep pull of his flask.

Scrimgeour looks pinched. He addresses Orion, likely deeming it wiser to simply move on from the dangerous topic. “Knowing whether Sirius Black is aware of your existence would aid us immensely in narrowing down where he’s headed next.”

“Hogwarts, I’d presume,” Orion replies bitingly.

“Indeed, that isn’t in question,” Scrimgeour voices. “But the beginning of the school year is still almost a month away. Meanwhile, Black strolls Merlin-knows-where around the countryside. If he’s intent on contacting you after all, he might be doing so earlier,” he explains.

“Not exactly a secret; you're living it up with the Malfoys,” Moody says, sliding his gaze over the expensive furnishings of Lucius’ study.

Orion swallows around an immense amount of sudden dislike.

“We’ve discussed the matter extensively,” Scrimgeour adds, “within the department and also just now with your guardians. We were reluctant to even consider the option, and we wouldn’t approach you in that regard if Black weren’t such a threat. It was universally agreed on to leave the choice up to you.”

“So you’re asking me for a favour,” Orion states. 

Scrimgeour looks like he bit into a lemon. “If you’d like to frame it that way… In essence, yes.”

“The legality of that matter—” Lucius starts, only for Moody to interrupt him. 

“—has been extensively covered. Article 8, subsection b regarding imprisoned convicts states that they retain the right to be visited by family members under extenuating circumstances. I’m surprised you don’t know that, considering so many of your old pals are rotting behind bars.”

“Careful, Auror Moody,” Lucius says icily, “This ventures an awful lot into the direction of slander and hearsay. Could your career take another formal complaint, I wonder?”

Mad-Eye scoffs. “Feel free to file as many complaints as you like, Malfoy. You’d only do me a favour. I meant to retire this year, and they all but begged me to stay. I highly doubt any whinging on your part will get you anywhere.”

He wipes his mouth, and his ordinary eye fixes on Orion. 

“So boy, what will it be?”

“This is not a matter to be decided on a whim,” Lucius interjects with a sour expression. “Besides, if I recall correctly, visits to Azkaban are restricted to Ministry personnel only.”

“An exception has been made,” Scrimgeour says. “Considering the severity of Sirius Black’s crimes and the level of threat he poses to society, magical as well as Muggle, any measure taken to speed up his capture was flagged as a priority.”

Lucius scoffs derisively.

Orion absently brushes his thumb over his bottom lip. “When?” he asks. 

Scrimgeour blinks at him before he catches up with what Orion’s asking. 

“At the earliest convenience. Considering the circumstances, a portkey to Azkaban would likely be approved by tomorrow, and security can be arranged as well within that time frame.”

“Orion,” Lucius says, a weighty look in his eyes. 

“I’ll go,” Orion says.

“You are a minor,” Lucius voices authoritatively, “As your guardians, we should have a say in this.”

Orion’s eyes are burning when he turns them upon Lucius. “But I’m the acting head of my house. And this is a family matter—” Lucius’ jaw clenches with suppressed anger—“I’ve “made my decision.”

“You are thirt-”

“You heard the boy, Malfoy,” Moody says. “He’ll go. Showed more spine than the lot of you, too.”

“Get out,” Lucius says icily, rising from his chair. “I’ve tolerated enough of your disrespect. This is my house, and I won’t be spoken to in that manner.”

Moody snorts before turning. 

“Once again, I apologise for the regretful behaviour of my colleague,” Scrimgeour says, while Mad-Eye’s already halfway out of the door.

“See that it won’t happen again,” Narcissa says coldly. “That man is an ill influence on the children in our care.”

“Of course, Mrs. Malfoy. We will keep you updated via owl.” 

“An elf shall see you out,” Lucius states in lieu of acknowledging any of his words.

He snaps his finger, and a house-elf materialises, a small, cowed thing that Orion has rarely ever seen outside the kitchen. “Make sure they find their way to the front door lest they get ... lost,” Lucius orders. The elf bows hastily and hurries after Scrimgeour. 

After closing the carved wooden door, Lucius stands facing it for a moment, exhaling, before he casts a privacy charm and turns. He appears furious when he looks at Orion. 

“Not only did you humiliate me and undermine my authority with your blatant disrespect,” he says in a dangerously low voice, “but worse, your foolishness had you agreeing to something you have not the slightest inkling of.”

“I know exactly what I agreed to,” Orion retorts, heated.

Narcissa, who’s dropped her icy mask, revealing her true ire at the way Moody acted, re-crosses her legs. “Lucius has a point,” she interjects. “Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you owe him a modicum of respect.”

“Oh, now you’re speaking up,” Lucius says, turning to her. “You were awfully quiet the whole time.”

“She’s still my sister,” Narcissa replies coolly. 

“Please,” Lucius exclaims. “No offence to you, dear, but your whole family displays an affinity for insanity, and that is me putting it lightly. And your sister—” he huffs a joyless “laugh—“calling her deranged would be a compliment, and that was before Azkaban. Salazar knows how warped her mind is after a decade in that place!”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Lucius,” Narcissa says icily.

Lucius scoffs, gesturing at her. “You of all people cannot deny that I’m right. And the boy—” he turns to look at Orion, “He doesn’t even know what he agreed to! What in Merlin’s name drove you to this asinine decision?! Azkaban! Men have gone mad within days of staying there! Do you think that’s a price worth paying?” Lucius cuts Orion off before he can so much as think about answering. “And don’t try to tell me it’s because you want to see Sirius Black captured. I know as much as you that neither of you cares about that. You Blacks and family—” Lucius exhales sharply through his nose, snuffing out that train of thought. “So, tell me, because I’m all ears. What is it? Some immature notion of reuniting with your mother? Too keen on knowing where your father spent his days? Or are you simply too starved of attention that you deem heading to this cursed island to visit a woman you don’t even remember an adequate—” 

“I remember her,” Orion cuts him off. He feels deceptively calm, despite the anger brimming behind his skin. Oddly in tune with Narcissa, who appears similarly incensed by her husband's rant.
His wand hums against his thigh even through the folds of his robes.

Lucius scoffs. “Of course, that is what you’d latch on to. Why am I even surprised?”

“Orion, you do not need to lie,” Narcissa says, gently. “It’s alright if you don’t remember. It was a long time ago—”

“I remember everything.”

“Merlin, spare me from deranged Blacks,” Lucius says to nobody in particular.

“She cried the night the Dark Lord died. Wrecked a whole room,” Orion says pointedly. “Rod had to console her.”

Narcissa’s already pale face drains of colour.

Even Lucius’ words seem to forsake him for a moment.

“She used to sing me to sleep,” Orion continues. “Charmed the ceiling over my bed to show the night sky. A bit like the one in Hogwarts’ Great Hall. She had a habit of dressing me up and taking pictures—Merlin knows where they are now.” Orion looks at Narcissa. “Sometimes she took me to the Manor to have tea with you and Draco. It might’ve been the sunroom. There was a blue carpet there then, I think, though I’m not certain.”

“You remember…” Narcissa says, as shocked as he’s ever seen her. 

“I told you,” Orion says. He barely even has it in himself to feel smug about it considering the circumstances. He’s too angry for that.

Narcissa twists her wedding ring on her finger, readjusting the large diamond on her other hand. “How far back do your memories go?”

“Far,” Orion says. 

Narcissa’s face settles back into that mask of hers. “So you know…” 

“That Bellatrix isn’t my mother? Yes,” Orion admits. 

“I am sorry,” Lucius starts, inserting himself back into the conversation, “I must’ve misheard. Otherwise, I would have to question how it came to be that NOBODY IN THIS HOUSE SEEMS TO RESPECT ME ENOUGH TO DEEM IT ADEQUATE TO INFORM ME OF SUCH CRUCIAL INFORMATION!”

Orion and Narcissa both turn to stare at him with identical reactions to his sudden outburst.

“Lucius, please,” Narcissa starts, “This is not the—”

“Don’t,” Lucius says in a dangerously low voice, pointing at her with a finger while holding onto a tumbler of cognac. 

Narcissa folds her hands, and Orion too waits while Lucius exhales sharply, downs his drink, and cards his hand through his hair. “Alright,” he says eventually, fixating Narcissa with a look. “I shall humour you in this. For now. But we will have words.”

“You truly didn’t know?” Orion asks him. 

Lucius' eyes are liquid steel when his gaze lands on Orion. “One more word…” 

“It was an honest question,” Orion says, eyes flicking towards Narcissa.

A vein on Lucius’ forehead pulses. He lifts his bejewelled hands to his temples, rubbing them.

Narcissa takes pity on him, and with a wave of her wand, his glass refills. Lucius sinks into the closest seat. “Who is his mother?” he asks, after a drawn-out moment, his eyes closed.

“The McKinnon girl,” Narcissa reveals. 

Another beat. “I see,” Lucius replies. “And why haven’t we made his parentage official?”

“Why would we?” Orion asks. 

“Why would we? he asks… Lucius opens his eyes and turns to look at him. “Never mind the obvious benefits of claiming relation to one of the pureblood families currently thought to have died out in these parts of Britain; the McKinnons were well regarded. In light of the recent events, it would’ve suited us well to distance ourselves from your assumed parentage and utilise your ties to a well-known light family,” he explains conceitedly. “Not that it matters now. It’s too late. Leaking the information now would only make it appear as if we were trying to save face or to mitigate the damages. Never mind that it’s Sirius on the run and not Bellatrix.” He pinches his nose and rubs over his eyes. “Does nobody in this house retain even a smidge of political awareness? This information should’ve been dealt with ages ago.”

Narcissa shifts. “Walburga didn’t want it to be known. And after her death, I deemed it safer to allow the assumptions to run their course,” she says.

“You could’ve told me,” Lucius replies. “You should have.”

Narcissa appears to have nothing to say to that.

“And you,” Lucius looks at Orion. “Am I to believe that you never even once tried to dispel the rumours around your ill-reputed parentage?”

Orion frowns at him, bemused. “Why would I? She’s a Black."

Lucius stares at him as if his logic escapes him. “Good Lord,” he mutters under his breath, followed by some expletives about madness running in the family and ‘bloody Blacks’ as he lifts his drink to his lips.

“The day she…found you,” Narcissa starts, “You recall it as well?”

Orion stills as the meaning of her words sinks in. “Yes,” he says after a beat. 

“You were there—”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Orion bites out. His fingers are digging into the armrests of his chair. 

Narcissa’s hands are trembling slightly. “You saw…”

Orion’s jaw clenches. He stares at Narcissa. “How did they behead my uncle? The blood on the floor? The bodies?” He bites out. Orion wants his words to cut. Narcissa deserves nothing less for prying.

She looks stiff and pale and takes a sip of her tea instead of responding in any manner. 

Orion feels his anger spread, and he looks at Lucius. “What were their names?” 

“What?” Lucius says. 

Orion fixates on him with steely-eyed determination. “Tall. Short blond hair. Deep voice. Who was he? The Death Eater.”

“I don’t know what you’re—”

“Oh spare me, Lucius,” Orion spits and stands up. “Draco may be ignorant, but don’t try that crap with me.”

“Pardon?” Lucius says in a tone that might as well convey that Orion should rethink very closely the way he speaks to him. 

Orion looks at him for a single moment before abruptly turning and heading out of the drawing room. 

“Where are you going?”

“Elsewhere,” Orion bites out. He leaves the door wide open instead of slamming it shut, taking petty satisfaction in somebody having to make an effort to close it.

Orion is seething as he stalks through the hallways, not even quite knowing why, but unvented anger is coursing through his veins, making him want to scream, while the portraits around him whisper about his moodiness. 

He considers taking his broom out, wants to set something on fire, and wants to hole up somewhere where nobody can bother him for a while. 

That’s before he remembers the Aurors outside the Manor and the wards they put up all around. Gritting his teeth, he heads for his room instead. He grabs the pack of smokes and stuffs it into his pocket before he heads outside. 

At least the grounds around the manor are large enough to get some space. 

It’s sunny today. A few clouds are passing by overhead, throwing large shadows over the neat lawn. 

Lucius had the gardeners come the day before, extensively vetted by the Aurors before they could step onto the premises. 

At a bit of a distance, Draco is zapping through the air on his broom, flying loopings and barrel rolls, pausing every so often to spare the guards posted at the gates a look. 

Orion lights up a smoke while he’s walking, only coughing twice, kicking gravel at a few peacocks to shoo them away.

Eventually, he ends up at one of the fountains. Sitting down on the sun-warm marble, he spitefully rolls up his pant legs and lets his feet dangle into the cool water. A single leaf is floating on the whirling surface, and Orion watches the current drag it around till he’s finished smoking and tosses the butt of his cigarette into the fountain. 

He plays around with Sirius’ lighter, clicking it open and closed without ever properly casting a flame. 

The notion of seeing Bellatrix sets him on edge—makes him nervous, in a different way than what Sirius’ breakout evoked in him, but still. 

He wants to see her. On the other hand, he’s afraid of what he’ll encounter. Azkaban isn’t kind to its inmates.

Orion lights another smoke. It makes him dizzy, two drags in. He’s not used to that much nicotine.

Draco finds him like that, legs in the fountain, shoulders sun-warm, and a cigarette tucked between his fingers. 

The blond lands at a few feet's distance, slinging his broom over his shoulder. Gravel crunches as he draws near.

“What are you doing? Are you...smoking?!”

Orion looks at the cigarette between his fingers and gives up his halfhearted pretence of hiding it between his legs. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Where'd you even get those?” Draco asks, settling down on the fountain, next to him, broom leaning against the marble. 

“Grimmauld,” Orion replies. 

Draco looks at him for a moment. His cheeks are flushed from the exertion, and his sun-bleached hair sticks from his head in dishevelled, sweaty strands. “You're in a mood, aren't you?” he concludes decisively. 

Orion huffs a laugh and takes a drag of the smoke. 

“Want to try?” he asks, holding out the cigarette.

Draco’s eyes flick down to the smoke and back up to Orion’s face.

“Come on,” Orion says, lips quirking. “Don’t be a wuss.”

“I’m not,” Draco says. His eyes drift to the manor for a second before he reaches out and awkwardly picks up the cigarette, staring at it. 

“It’s not going to bite you,” Orion says, amused. “Just put it to your mouth and inhale. If you imagine Lucius suddenly materialising behind you and take a startled breath, it should do the trick.”

Draco looks at Orion before lifting the cigarette to his lips and inhales.

Promptly, he starts coughing. “Merlin, that is ghastly!” he voices when he can. “I don’t know how you can stand it.”

Orion takes the cigarette from his fingers, amused. 

Draco is still coughing. 

“I'm going to see Bellatrix tomorrow,” Orion reveals impulsively. 

Draco's mouth drops open. “You're joking, right?”

“The Aurors asked me to.”

“And you didn’t say no?”

“I didn’t want to.”

Draco stares at him. He drags a hand through the water. “I get that you’re a bit mad, but—Orion—what the hell?!”

Orion coughs around a mouthful of smoke, laughing.

“I know that she’s your mother—”

“She isn’t,” Orion cuts him off. 

“What?”

“She isn’t my mother,” Orion says. 

“But I thought… What?” Draco stares at him, confused. 

“It’s easier to let everyone believe it. Grandmother did her best to spread the rumours lest the truth come out, and I don’t mind,” Orion explains. 

“But then… who?”

Orion rolls the cigarette between his fingers, hesitating. Draco watches the movement. “Marlene McKinnon.”

He doesn’t think he’s ever said her name out loud. 

Draco frowns. “McKinnon…”

“They were killed during the war.”

Draco swallows. “Oh.”

Orion takes another drag. 

“Were they…like us?”

Orion huffs, cynical in his amusement. “Purebloods. Yeah.” He rolls his smoke between his fingers. “Nobody knows,” he says after a moment. “So don’t advertise it.”

“I won’t,” Draco says. 

They sit in silence for a while.

“But Black? “Is he your father?”

“Yes,” Orion says. 

“Ah,” Draco says. The question seems to have weighed on him for some reason.

By the time the cigarette has almost burnt down to the point of scorching his fingers, Orion is slightly nauseous.

He can’t tell whether it’s the smoke or the prospect of meeting Bella again. 

After putting his smoke out on the marble and stuffing the butt into his mostly empty pack, Orion rinses his hands off in the water. “I don’t like the Aurors being here.”

Draco wrinkles his nose. “It’s not so bad. It’s not like they’re on the grounds.”

“It’s confining,” Orion counters.

Draco shrugs. “Mother’s upset; father told her to cancel the holiday.”

“And you?”

“It was mostly just to visit her Rosier cousins anyway. It’s not like I know them,” Draco says offhandedly. He wrinkles his nose. “You stink,” he says. 

Orion snorts. 

“You better shower before supper,” Draco says. “Or I can’t guarantee what Mother will do to you.”

Orion tilts his face towards the sun, basking. “You smoked too,” he says. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Draco subtly sniff his own collar. His cousin is also leaning dangerously over the fountain. Orion gives in to the impulse to grab onto his linen shirt and pull.

Draco topples into the water with a huge splash, screeching before he goes under. He comes up sputtering, with a murderous look in his eyes, which is mostly mitigated by him looking like a drowned rat. 

Orion cackles at the sight. 

Draco kicks his foot and splashes him.

“Oi!” Orion complains, raising his hands defensively, but his front is soaked anyway.

“You’re such a prat,” Draco says, his wet linen shirt clinging to his skinny torso as he pushes his stringy hair out of his face.

“It was kind of funny,” Orion replies, grinning. “Besides, look at it this way: now you’ve got an excuse to shower too.”

Draco sputters. “I—You— I’ll show you—” Draco grabs Orion by his shirt and tries to pull him into the fountain, and Orion does his best to escape. Draco’s taller now, with devilishly pointy elbows. He slings his arm around Orion’s head in a headlock, water soaking through his collar, but Orion uses the knowledge that Draco’s ticklish to his advantage and somehow manages to extract himself, jumping out onto the gravel.

“You’re a dead man, Black!” Draco yells, and Orion thinks it best to steal Draco’s broom to get away as quickly as possible. He’s still laughing when Draco shoots a hex after him.

Chapter Text

A letter arrives the next morning, stating that if Orion is still up to visit Bellatrix, a portkey is waiting for him in the Ministry at eleven a.m. sharp.

Narcissa and Lucius must’ve had a discussion about it, because while Lucius looks like someone pissed into his tea, he doesn’t contest Orion’s decision.

Never mind that Orion himself is hemming and hawing internally about it.

The hours between breakfast and when he has to be in the Ministry, Orion spends smoking the penultimate cigarette of Sirius’ smokes, picking anxiously at his nails, and lounging in the bathtub for an exorbitant amount of time to escape any conversations he might’ve had to hold otherwise.

Besides, he doesn’t need a lecture about the smell of something as plebeian as muggle cigarettes.

Meanwhile, Orion frets over what to wear, what to say and what to expect. He doesn’t think Bella has forgotten him. You don’t forget family. He certainly hasn’t. Still, after he applies another warming charm to the lukewarm water, he calls for Kreacher, ordering him to procure him some chocolates – whichever were Bellatrix’s favourites – and feeling promptly ridiculous about it.

He dunks his head under the surface, holds his breath and lets the quiet drown out his thoughts till his lungs are burning.

Time to face reality.

He dries his hair and dresses himself in his nicest robes – a set lined with acromantula silk and dyed a midnight colour with silver accents that he wore to a Ministry function – and … still has half an hour left till he even has to worry about flooing on time.

He paces in the entrance hall, anxiously chewing at his thumbnail, while Kreacher fusses and bemoans the fate of his ‘dear Bella’ in between chiding him for his disgusting habits and appearing just as invested, if not more, in Orion making a good impression. 

Lucius shows up a quarter to eleven, clad in royal blue robes, his cane in his hands.

“Since you insist on being treated like an adult in this matter, I shall treat you like an adult,” he says. “In all ways regarding this. That means I won’t have you come whining to me afterwards, Orion. You understand?”

“Yes.”

They emerge from the floor in a shower of green flames, and Lucius confidently leads him through the crowded atrium, nodding at one or the other bystander and exchanging a few pleasantries as they head for the elevators. 

It whizzes past a few corners, and eventually the disembodied voice announces, “Level Six, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office and Apparition Test Centre.”

The office for international travels is one where Orion has been before, and today it appears especially busy, as a line seems to reach all the way into the hallway. There’s a witch clad in heavy fur-lined robes fanning herself with her hands, while her husband curses in Russian, trying to deal with their luggage, which seems to have expanded out of its shrinking charm; a family dressed up in matching straw hats; and a sunburnt wizard wearing a heavily embroidered robe blocking the doorway as he gesticulates wildly, arguing with a security wizard wrestling with a magical carpet whose tassels are trying their best to smack him in the face. 

Lucius purses his lips disapprovingly, but just then, a scrawny young witch with oversized glasses and a clipboard in hand clocks them. She eyes them from afar for long moments before puffing up her chest and walking over to them. A name tag pinned to her chest identifies her as “Mary Bobbins, Intern”.

“Mr Malfoy and Mr Black, I presume?” She asks, spine stiff as a board with artificial self-confidence. The tight grip she has on her clipboard betrays her.

“Indeed,” Lucius drawls, tapping the snake-head decorating his cane with an impatient finger.

“You can follow me to the office farther down for internally issued portkeys.” 

She turns around resolutely, striding past the line, before she looks over her shoulder to check whether they’re actually following her. Not paying attention costs her, and she stumbles over a stray suitcase, bumping into the Russian couple, apologising and blushing furiously.

Lucius clicks his tongue disapprovingly. “Good Lord, they seem to be hiring anyone these days,” he says. “One would think they’d send someone more competent. They really must be strained for employees if they order the help to fetch us.”

The girl blushes even more, seemingly having caught at least some of the speech, and as soon as she’s delivered Orion and Lucius to the aforementioned room, she scurries away.

It’s smaller than the office for international travels, less of a hall and instead no bigger than Grimmauld Place’s drawing room, containing a single charmed window displaying a cloudy sky and two desks, only one of them occupied.

It’s manned by a bored-looking office witch in yellow robes and a pointy tweed hat, who’s taking her sweet time inspecting the permission forms of the people at the front of the queue.

A few chairs are shoved against the wall to their left, a group of uniformed Aurors occupying them.

Orion only recognises Scrimgeour, Mad-Eye, Gawain and Dawlish, but there are also two others: a nervous-looking man he believes to have seen around Hogwarts at one point and an equally youthful witch with long white hair sprawled over a chair, who is playing with a galleon she lets run over her knuckles. 

It falls down thrice within the time it takes Dawlish to head over to them and Moody to bark, “About time.”

Something about the witch makes Orion stare. And it’s not her eye colour – a striking pink – but something else. An impression of familiarity he can’t put his finger on, lingering in the shape of her face and cheekbones.

“Mr Malfoy, Mr Black,” Dawlish says, and Orion tears his gaze away, returning Dawlish’s greeting with a nod.

“Auror Dawlish,” Lucius drawls, letting his eyes drift over the assortment of Aurors. “I expect you to return my ward in one piece.”

“Of course,” Dawlish reaffirms. “You may be reassured. I’ll be with Mr Black the whole time.”

“I certainly hope so,” Lucius drawls. “I’m afraid I’ve lingered enough as it is. I’ve got an appointment with Cornelius, and I’d hate to leave him waiting.” He turns his gaze upon Orion. “After all, a person of your maturity should be perfectly capable of handling themselves, isn’t that so?”

Orion pastes an obnoxious smile onto his face as he looks at the man. “Certainly, Lucius.”

He resists the urge to pull a face behind Lucius’ back when the man turns after sniffing haughtily to say his goodbyes.

Even before he’s finished stalking out of the room, Moody shoos them all up and towards the queue. “We’ve wasted enough time twiddling our thumbs waiting for our special guest to arrive.”

“We can’t all look like we rolled out of a gutter and called it a day,” Orion replies, irritated.

“The dementors won’t care whether your nose is powdered or not, lad.” Moody retorts before turning his attention towards Dawlish, who’s flipping through a stack of paperwork he pulled out of his robes.

“So you’re my estranged cousin,” the pink-eyed witch says, sidling up to Orion, who turns, surprised.

It takes him a moment to process her words.

Andromeda’s daughter, he realises suddenly. Her family line blasted off the tapestry before she could even appear. “My grandmother would’ve hexed your balls off for even implying as much.”

Orion doesn’t know how to handle this whole interaction. She doesn’t register as a Black to him, not really. He’s never even spoken to her, yet no that Walburga is dead, it’s up to him whether to follow her example. Orion isn’t ready to make decisions like that yet. Perhaps never. Certainly not now.

“Lucky I don’t have balls then,” she says, flippantly, flashing a cheeky grin.

“Lucky, I don’t give a fuck,” Orion says, turning his eyes to the queue.

She laughs, startled. “I saw you during your sorting,” she continues. “Took your sweet time.”

“What was your name again?” he asks. It’s rude, but he honestly doesn’t remember at the moment, and he can’t be arsed with pleasantries at a time like this.

Her face falls and her lips pinch. “Nymphadora Tonks”, she says.

“Condolences regarding your first name,” Orion replies dryly.

She looks torn between insulting him and conceding to the point. She doesn’t seem to know what to make of him.

Hell, Orion has a hard time figuring out how he feels himself at this moment.

“Got a cigarette?” he asks her thus, the first thought shooting through his mind, which would take the conversation in a different direction.

She stares at him bewildered. “You’re like, eleven,” she says.

“Thank you. I try to keep young,” he replies deadpan.

She laughs again.

“And who are you, exactly?” the nervous-looking young man asks.Orion turns, raising a brow imperceptibly. “It’s usually considered polite to introduce oneself before demanding names of others.”

The man straightens imperceptibly. “Elliot Longfoot,” he says self-importantly. “Auror”.

“Orion Black. Student,” Orion retorts with the exact same inflection. The mocking undertone in it goes right over the other male’s head.

“And what is a Hogwarts student doing, taking a portkey with us?” Longfoot asks.

“Visiting family.”

“Yeah?”

Apparently his curt answer isn’t enough to convey that it’s a topic better left alone. Orion’s hum is the only way the man knows he’s even heard him before he turns his attention back on Tonks.

“Anything you’d like me to relay to your aunt?”

She waves her hands, almost stumbling over her own feet. “Morgana no. Thanks.”

“Who—”

“Quit loafing around. The queue has moved on, if anyone takes care to notice,” Moody barks.

“Yes, sir,” Tonks says, saluting him with a teasing undertone, “Constant vigilance!” She barks at the same time as Moody, her voice matching her superior to a tee, before they catch up. 

Dawlish deals with the office witch for long minutes, arguing while waving around his papers and filling out another form before they’re finally ushered into a side room where another employee hands them an enchanted rope – Ministry standard issue for five or more travellers.

An international portkey is always a horrible sensation, and Orion holds on for dear life before it spits them out on Sylt, an island at the northernmost part of Germany, where they’re greeted and a heavily accented wizard confirms their identities.

Dawlish and Gawain split off from the crowd, who’re being deployed to the German Ministry, while Orion himself is stuck with them.

“We’ll take another portkey,” Dawlish says. “Straight to Azkaban. You’ll be briefed on the details there.”

Orion nods.

Their second portkey is labelled. A heavy and intricate metal plate stamped with the date and time and the ministry logo.

They disappear in a whirl of colours, and Orion braces himself for the impact when they land on the barren shores of a windswept island, waves crashing against the rocky cliffs, jagged and rough, fog hanging over everything and rain drizzling on top of their heads.

The air carries the scent of salt and something else. Older and stranger, which has the hair on Orion’s neck stand up.Overhead, a thick layer of clouds obscures the sun, shrouding the whole island in eternal twilight.

Somehow, despite feeling the warm breeze, it doesn’t register as such.

Instead, an unnatural cold seems to creep past Orion’s clothes, bleeding right through the fabric and sinking into his bones.

Two men are waiting for them, harsh-faced and frowning, clad in equally bleak grey uniformed robes. The hems are white from the salt where they must’ve been dragging through the shallow pools where the endless backsplash of the waves has eaten its way into the rock.

In stark contrast, a bright and happy Patronus is swimming through the air behind them – a fish or eel of some kind – painting it in shimmering streaks.

Though Orion barely pays it any attention, small comfort that it grants, his eyes are irrevocably drawn to the towering prison behind them.

It’s an ancient fortress, tall and blackened, drenched in darkness and bleeding misery. Dark creatures swarm it like flies, ethereal and rotten.

Dementors.

“You’re late,” one of the men says. He reeks of whisky.

“The grinding gears of bureaucracy. You know how it is. We had to wait in a line,” Dawlish says.

“Never mind that. Let’s go,” the other man says. “The sooner we can get this over with, the better.”

Azkaban looms like a dark cenotaph as they climb over the rocks and past dried-up shrubbery, which clings valiantly to life, though Orion can’t shake the feeling that the skeletal-looking branches have been infused by the island's dreadful energy as well.

“Horrible place,” Gawain says, shuddering, drawing his cloak closer around his body.

One of the other men hums in agreement.

Orion feels the bubble of protection the Patronus grants like a physical barrier. Every time it traverses too far ahead, his awareness of the dark thoughts lingering at the edge of his mind grows. He need only give in, and he’d be plunged into an abyss of misery.

Dementors hover above them their hooded heads turning in eerie symmetry to track their movements, ragged cloaks fluttering in the wind, kept at bay solely by the Patronus Charm.

Slimy, corpse-like hands are visible every so often.

Orion is secretly glad that this hive of despicable things is confined to this island by ancient vows.

A large staircase leads up to the gaping maw of an entrance.

“We’ve decided to abstain from relocating Lestrange,” the guard leading them says, turning. “After Black’s breakout, we can’t risk moving her, even for interrogation.”

Gawain hums.

The metal of Orion’s heir ring bites against his skin. It’s riddled with goosebumps.

Two Dementors are flanking the entrance. They float towards them at their approach, and one of the grey-robed men steps forward.

“Aurors Gawain and Dawlish escorting a visitor for Bellatrix Lestrange alongside interrogators Crowdy and Bushwick. You’ve been notified of our arrival.”

The Dementors breathe, long monotonous pulls of rattling inhales. Momentarily it appears as if they haven’t understood a single word before they suddenly retreat.

“God, they give me the creeps every time. Ugly fucking soulsuckers,” Bushwick mutters, side-eyeing the Dementor to his left as he walks past them.

Orion’s breath fogs up the air. He shudders as he passes them, despite Dawlish having cast his own Patronus now.

Their steps echo oddly in the silent entrance hall. Torches flicker on the walls. There’s no furniture aside from a desk that is sitting in the middle of it, old and rickety and still looking out of place. A wand-weighing device is bolted onto it, next to an old wooden box.

Dawlish turns to look at Orion. “Here’s how this will go. You’ve got half an hour. Then I and Gawain will escort you back while the interrogators take over. You may not take your wand into the prison any further than that. You may not enter Lestrange’s cell. You may not give her any information about the current status of Sirius Black. If you get close to her bars, that’s your prerogative, but I highly recommend you keep your distance. Any questions?”

“No,” Orion says.Dawlish offers his empty palm. “Wand, please.”

Orion draws it out of his pocket, reluctantly, before handing it over.

A Dementor observes them from a few feet away.

“I hate this part,” Crowdy says, also producing his wand.

“You don’t have to like it,” Dawlish says, “But protocol is protocol. If you don’t agree with it, you’ll have to take the orientation course.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Crowdy says. Dawlish proceeds to weigh all their wands, ripping off the pieces of parchment it spits out and feeding them into a small box mounted to the desk before putting their wands into the other.He and Bushwick are the only ones who pocket theirs again.

A Dementor floats up to the desk, and they all unanimously shuffle further away despite the fish patronus and Dawlish’s shimmering weasel circling around them.

The prison adheres to a convoluted outlay. A labyrinth of hallways and cells – most of them empty – and deep stairwells. High narrow arches embedded in the wall break up the endless monotony of blackened stone every so often, granting a view of the barren island and grey sea, allowing pale light to illuminate their path. Large enough for a man to fall to his death. Large enough for a Dementor to float through.

Torch mounts line the hallways, most of them empty, a few flickering ominously. Their warmth doesn’t penetrate.

The lower levels lie abandoned and empty, safe for a few Dementors, but the higher they get, the more the prison cells appear to be filled.

Orion builds up walls around his mind, shoring up defences as he stalks past all of them with his head held high.

Internally, he’s fraying. The presence of the Dementors is held at bay by the Patronus charms, but what glimpses he gets from inside the cells is a wholly different matter.

Blood and faeces smeared on the old rocks, catatonic prisoners rocking back and forth, caged in their own minds or bashing their heads against the bars.

A few stir when they pass, the light of the Patronus charm breathing life back into them.

It doesn’t make it better.

Jeers, insults and expletives are thrown their way, and grimy hands are stretching towards them from all sides.

Someone spits at Dawlish.

A man to his left howls like a wolf, the walls of his confinement marred with deep gouges and blood. Two cells further ahead, a hag is licking the bars lecherously when they pass, eyes tracking Orion.

“Bloody stairs,” Gawain mutters as they climb to the next level, panting. Orion’s thighs are also aching. “Can’t wait till we’re out of this shithole.”

The Dementors scurry away and dive out of the arches like rats at their approach.

A man starts screaming.

“Animals”, Gawain mutters before asking, “How much longer?”

“One more level,” Dawlish says.

Orion feels his nervousness thrum under his skin like a living thing.

They navigate through a labyrinth of hallways, reaching another stairwell. Its bottom is shrouded in darkness, and they climb it for long minutes before they eventually pass through an arched doorway and enter another cell block.

It’s the same as on the other levels. Incoherent mumbles, someone banging against the bars in a repeated pattern followed by a return of some coherency when the light of the Patronus spreads around the cells.

“–Is it already time for another inspection?” someone mutters. 

Another voice sounds from a different cell. “Is that you, Black?How was your short stint outside? Fuck anybody?”

Orion spares a few of the grimy and haggard prisoners a look. Someone pulls up the sleeve of their ragged prison uniform, displaying the inflamed red scar of a dark mark and hissing obscenely with his tongue out.

The next cell holds a man who causes the bars to rattle when he grabs hold of them with an abrupt motion, pressing his nose against them.

“Regulus?” he asks shakily.

Orion slows down.

“Regulus, is that you? Have you come to collect me?”

Orion stops and turns to look at the man who spoke, curious despite himself.

He’s as emaciated as the others. Yellow teeth, dark eyes glittering madly. Filthy from head to toe. Yet somehow, beneath all the dirt, his tangled hair and beard still somehow retain a reddish tint.

“Back off, Lestrange, or you won’t like the consequences,” Bushwick barks, slamming his palm against the bars. The man flinches before baring his rotten teeth at the interrogator.

“Move it,” Bushwick tells Orion.

He ignores him. Instead, Orion steps closer to the bars. “Rod?” 

The prisoner stares at him with a wild expression, frantically shaking his head.

“No, no. Don’t you recognise me? It’s Rabastan,” he voices hoarsely.

“Rabastan…” Orion searches his hazy memories until he makes the connection. Rodolphus’ brother. “You met me,” he says. “I’m Orion.”

“Orion. Nonono,” Rabastan starts muttering under his breath. “That can’t be – no. No. Unless – Regulus!” Rabastan suddenly says. A broad smile splits his haggard face, his skin stretching tightly over bone as he shows off his rotting teeth. “Look at you! Strapping young lad. Have you come to get me, Reggie?”

“Black”, the guard says again. “You’re not here to cavort with the prisoners.”

Dawlish circles back to flank Bushwick.

“Funny”, Orion says, not really feeling like joking but doing it anyway because this whole prison sets his teeth on edge, “I thought that was the exact reason for my presence here.”

Rabastan lets out a series of hacking coughs

“But not that one,” Dawlish says and puts a hand on Orion’s shoulder. “Let’s get moving.”

Two cells down, someone has started cackling.

Bellatrix looks awful. As awful as all the other prisoners. She’s all bones and jutting cheekbones. Her black hair has grown wild, knotted strands falling down to her hips, dirtied and without any of the shine Orion remembers.

She presses herself against the bars, her prison uniform hanging off her skinny body like a rag.

She clocks Orion from the second he steps into her sightline, her dark eyes flickering madly, unblinking, as if she were relishing every second of laying eyes upon him.

Her bony hands are wrapped around the bars, nails long and filthy. With some imagination she could slit somebody’s throat with them.

Orion doesn’t doubt that she possesses it.

She’s grinning like a lunatic, chipped and yellowed teeth on display.

“Lestrange”, Gawain says. “Remove yourself from the bars.”

“Come closer, and maybe I will,” she drawls. But she doesn’t even look at him. Her hungry eyes are still drinking in Orion.

He steps closer as if pulled in by an invisible rope.

Dawlish places a hand on his shoulder, holding him back as if in reflex.

Bellatrix almost goes feral. “How dare you put your hands on him!” she screeches. “Take your filthy fingers off him!”

Dawlish’s hand on Orion’s shoulder tightens.

“Unworthy cretin! Vermin! How dare you presume to be even worthy of breathing the same air as a Black?! I’ll teach you –”

Bushwick is drawing his wand while Bellatrix is cursing and hissing about impurity and audacity, doing her best to claw her way through the bars.

“Take your hands off me,” Orion orders Dawlish with quiet authority he didn’t know he could channel.

He does as he was asked, but he sounds concerned when he says, “Mr Black—”

“Bella”, Orion says, ignoring him.

Bellatrix stops and looks at him, her face lighting up like she’s seen the sun. “Orion. My little Orion. All grown up. Come closer so I can look at you.”

“Black-” Gawain starts.“Shut up,” Orion cuts him off. He grits his teeth and steps up to the cell. This isn’t about them.

“Oh, are the itty-bitty Aurors soiling their robes?” Bellatrix coos, stepping up on the bars and pressing her face between them. “Do you see that, Rod?!” she yells, “How they’re cowering before a poor, helpless woman?”

“Helpless my arse,” Crowdy mutters.

Bellatrix’s attention flicks over to him. She grins, the pink of her tongue sticking out between her chipped and rotting teeth. “My, you grew your eyes back. Pity. You looked better without.”

“Cut it out, Lestrange,” Gawain presses out with obvious distaste.

A pair of scarred filthy hands appear between the bars of Bellatrix’s cell to the left, accompanied by a hoarse cough.

As Orion pauses right in front of her, Bellatrix stares with wide, feverish eyes. Her thin arms reach through the gaps, and Orion swallows his disgust at her begrimed hands and filthy nails as she grasps his face between her cold palms.

This close, Orion can smell her and her cell. It makes no difference, really. Cold sweat, dirt, urine and rot. A wooden cot is chained to the wall behind her, covered in thin stained sheets.

The walls are so dirty it’s hard to tell what the scratches in them say or the darkened bloodstains.

He clenches and unclenches his own hands. She used to smell of lavender, he recalls. A scent so intricately tied to her he thinks of it every time the sheets in Malfoy Manor are freshly washed.

“Look at you,” she breathes.

“Look at you,” Orion says. He can’t help himself. She’s a living tragedy. What Azkaban did to her… Orion barely recognises the woman in front of him.

He hooks his hands into the bars, a hesitating hand grasping her forearm. His fingers are almost touching around her skinny wrist.

“You’ve grown so big and handsome. Just like your father,” she coos, petting over his hair and dragging her sharp nails over his scalp.

The sensation drives a tingle down Orion’s spine.

“-disgusting,” someone behind him mutters.

“A whole other level of depravity. Procreating with their cousins,” Gawain whispers back.

Orion’s hand tightens around Bellatrix’s forearm. He lets go and turns. “Gawain, wasn’t it?” he asks, fixating on the blond auror.

The man meets his eyes, his expression not quite yet wiped clean off his disgust. “Yes.”

“Do yourself a favour and keep your opinions to yourself,” Orion voices coldly.

Bellatrix cackles. Her hands are still touching Orion, nails digging into his shoulders even through the thick. “He’s just jealous,” she says, her foul breath brushing past his ear. “Because his mother was a filthy, mudblood whore!”

“My mother is none of your business,” Gawain shoots back angrily.

Bellatrix clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “Manners, manners… Did nobody ever teach you how to address your betters? Oh, I forgot. You lot aren’t better than animals—”

Rodolphus in the neighbouring cell rasps a laugh.

“Shut your mouth!”

“Bushwick. Pay her no mind.”

Bellatrix cackles. “Look at that,” she says, addressing Orion. “Not only is he an idiot; he’s a hypocrite as well.”

“I’m not the one living like an animal,” Bushwick says.

Bellatrix’s eyes flash as she draws herself up with conviction. “Once my Lord returns”, she says, as if she were a queen looking down at mere peasants, “and reinstates the order of how things are meant to be, you’ll be crawling on your knees, like the sniffling pathetic creature you are – begging me to relieve you of the burden of your pitiful existence.” 

“Dream on,” Bushwick says. “Bloody madwoman.”

Bella’s hands tighten around Orion’s shoulders. She jerks forward like a cobra and hisses.

Bushwick flinches back.

Bellatrix devolves into mad laughter. “Coward,” she sing-songs. “Coward, coward. You will see. You will all see! My Lord will reward me for my loyalty, and I shall dance above your corpses when the time is ripe.” Her bony body slams against the bars, the sound ringing through the air as she all but hugs Orion through them.

She smells like death and filth. Something crawls over the back of Orion’s neck. It’s pitiful. Orion is surprised that this is the emotion she evokes in him at this moment. Her conviction is admirable, and so is her devotion. But he doesn’t deserve it. That man, who’s the reason she’s rotting away in Azkaban in the first place. The reason for why she was stripped of all dignity and is forced to live like this.

A spark of anger blooms in Orion’s belly. What was it about that man that made him deserve her loyalty? To let him brand her like cattle. She is a Black. She should’ve been above that.

The audible sound of her inhaling sounds as she sniffs his hair as if she could breathe him in by simply doing so.

“You used to be so little,” she murmurs. “I could lift you with my arms just like that.”

The metal of the bars burns against his skin like ice.

Orion swallows hard. He draws away, and Bellatrix lets him, ever so reluctantly, in favour of looking at him.

She doesn’t seem to be able to stop touching him either, fingers twitching towards him, her hand reverently petting over the fabric of his robes.

It’s no wonder. The living conditions in Azkaban are atrocious. It’s likely the first time in a decade that she’s felt something other than filthy sheets and cold stone.

“Why did you follow him?” Orion asks, the question burning on his tongue. He doesn’t get it.

“Orion, Orion, Orion,” she says, and a beatific smile spreads over her face as her dark eyes take on a feverish glow. “He is just magnificent. If you’ve ever been in his presence, you’ll understand. He’s glorious. Powerful. His magic… it’s indescribable.”

“And? You’re a Black,” Orion says.

Bellatrix looks at him warmly as she says, “You sound just like Sirius. He didn’t understand it either. If he’d just let me show him… But Potter. Always this bloody Potter. If it hadn’t been for Walburga driving him away, he wouldn’t have latched on to that blood traitor… She treats you right? She’s learnt from her mistakes, yes?”

“Walburga is dead,” Orion says.

“Dead,” Bellatrix echoes. “Hag of a woman. Couldn’t even hold up till you turned seventeen.”

Orion barks a surprised laugh, and Bellatrix falls in. When her cackles stop ringing through the hall, she asks, “Who’s taking care of you now? Cissy?”

“Yes.”

“Morgana, Lucius isn’t giving you a hard time, I hope? He always was a pretentious prick.”

Orion feels his lips split into a grin. “They aren’t too bad. And there’s Narcissa and Draco too.”

“Yes, Cissy would take care of you. Good. And Draco. Draco. Just as much of a pointy-nosed brat as his father, isn’t he? I had galleons on that, you know.”

Orion snorts. “In the flesh.”

He uses the opportunity to slip the box of chocolates out from his robes and at her. “Kreacher sends his regards,” he says.

“Kreacher! He’s not yet croaked? That wrinkly old creature! Blessed be!” She laughs maniacally as she takes them, stowing them god-knows-where under her prison robes.

“Now tell me about yourself,” she says.

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

Orion tells her. About his life with Walburga. School, his sorting, his friends and how he was petrified by the Basilisk. She asks about Narcissa, and so he tells her about her sister as well.

Some time in between, the prisoners around have grown silent, listening in. There can’t be much in terms of entertainment around.

“Five minutes,” Dawlish says after Orion feels almost hoarse from all the talking he’s doing. Gawain is leaning against the opposite wall while Bushwick has refreshed his Patronus twice when Dementors showed up at the ends of the hallways, and the small fish grew faint.

Bellatrix grips Orion’s arm with surprising strength.

“Oi, let the boy stay,” someone to their left yells.

“Time’s almost up,” Dawlish tells Orion. “Say your goodbyes.”

Bellatrix’s eyes turn manic.

Orion feels her grip tighten further, her nails digging into his skin. Blood is dripping down his arm.

“Bella”, Orion says calmly. “Bella, you have to let me go.”

“I don’t listen to the words of dogs,” she says haughtily over his shoulder, ignoring him.

Dawlish steps forward, his wand drawn. “Lestrange, step back. This is a warning.”

She waps her other hand around Orion’s neck in an abrupt motion and pulls. Orion hisses as his skull slams against the bars. Her nails are biting into his jugular.

His pulse picks up. He feels like laughing.

“What about now?” she asks, grinning madly. “What are you going to do now? Helpless little Aurors.”

A flash of red. The stunner slams through the bars.

Bellatrix collapses, her fingers leaving scratches on Orion’s neck as she falls.

Orion looks at her, sprawled over the filthy prison floor like a ragdoll.

She didn’t use him as a shield like she could have.

Her dark hair blends with the bricks. Orion feels cold.

“Come on, Black. Time’s over.”

Orion doesn’t move. He stares.

How dare they.

“Black.”

Orion blinks, sparing Bellatrix a glance in favour of ignoring the Aurors.

“Insane bitch,” Gawain mutters.

“One more word and I’ll have your tongue out,” Orion says, his voice strangely calm. He doesn’t feel like he’s inside his body at this moment. Rage is pumping through his veins.

“Black”, Dawlish says. “Contain yourself.”

Orion looks at him, his face like ice. He thinks about the curse he read that rips a person’s tongue out and pulls it right through their throat.

“Go on, boy,” Rodolphus rasps from the neighbour's cell. “We’ll wait. Our time will come.”

The journey out of Azkaban feels shorter than the walk to Bellatrix’s cell.

Dementors seem to breathe down his neck when he collects his wand at the gates.

His neck is stinging. When he touches it, blood stains his fingertips.

Gawain and Dawlish accompany him back to a small office in Sylt, where an international portkey is already set aside for him.

Lucius is waiting for him, making the staff miserable as he complains about the substandard quality of their chairs.

He takes one look at Orion and says nothing. He doesn’t need to. The ‘I told you so’ is written into his features.

Chapter Text

Orion doesn’t know what to feel about his visit to Azkaban. The place is an atrocity. There’s no denying that. And Bella was… He doesn’t know. Not how he remembered her and yet just the same.

Mad, certainly, yes, frayed at the edges but surprisingly sane from what he knows of that prison.

He takes a long bath after, switching his water thrice before he feels like the stench of the place is no longer sticking to his skin like oil.

He knows that he is furious, though. At the Aurors and their behaviour. By the way, the Ministry seems to think Azkaban is an appropriate place to contain any criminal. The horror of the place. He considers writing to his solicitor about the inhumane treatment of its inhabitants and does so after barely a day of contemplation.

He raves about it to Draco too, who likely regrets even asking about his visit to Azkaban in the first place after Orion devolves into a speech about how the prison is no place for any human being, least of all a Black.

It is hypocritical of Orion that it boils down to that point; he knows that. But at the end of the day, he is the head of his house, and his responsibilities lie with his family. Not with the Dark Lord who’s gearing up for a second round, not with any of the laws pertaining to creatures or Muggleborns or any of that lot.

Orion receives an answer from his solicitor – a list of the relevant literature regarding the ethics of relying on Azkaban as a prison, as well as a litany of references to laws and transcribed Wizengamot sessions that go all the way back to 1740 when Minister Eldritch Diggory formed a committee to deal with the issue.

A brief scan of the stack of papers gives him a headache, but he orders the books nevertheless and approves a cheque to have his solicitor look into the laws in his stead. On a whim, he tacks on a note to have the man look up Sirius’ trial as well.

Regardless of whether he’ll use that information, Orion’s come to the decision that no Black deserves to ever get to know Azkaban as intimately as has been the case.

It’s personal now, and Orion finds himself incensed at his father’s treatment out of principle.

Especially since Sirius was innocent of the crime he was accused of. Him deserving compensation is the bare minimum, regardless of how Orion might feel about the man.

Bellatrix is a different matter. She tortured people. Killed people. He knows that, intellectually. But rationality doesn’t apply when it comes to family.

It shows in the way Narcissa enquires about her sister after she heals the ‘disfiguring’ scratches on his neck. Orion lied about where he got them from. He doesn’t know shit about their relationship before Bella was incarcerated. But it must be complicated for sure.

Though Orion does relay the whole interaction, her madness and the comments the Aurors thought prudent to utter. There’s nothing positive he can tell her, save for perhaps mentioning the pralines he snuck to Bella. A part of Narcissa must appreciate it. They’re having crème brûlée for dessert that day – one of his favourites – after all.

Orion approaches the Aurors stationed at the gate too, a few days later, under the pretence of delivering them refreshments – Narcissa must’ve rubbed off on him, though the bribery certainly can’t hurt – curiosity driving him to ask whether Bellatrix adhered to the deal she struck with the DMLE. They give away nothing, likely because they’re too low on the ladder to actually be informed of anything substantial, while happily digging into the sandwiches the elves prepared.

Orion can’t imagine Bella humouring them in any way after the manner in which they parted.

Either way, the Aurors remain.

Malfoy Manor feels more and more like a prison.

The grounds are sprawling and spacious, but there’s only so often you can entertain yourself by shooing around peacocks, playing mock-Quidditch matches and taking out the Abraxans. And even the latter is always stipulated by at least two Aurors accompanying them as guards since their stable is located outside of the secure wards and walls surrounding the Manor.

Orion detests it with a passion. It’s… stifling. Not even books are a welcome reprieve, what with him having spent the majority of his holidays studying and catching up with schoolwork, and now that that’s done, Narcissa has gotten it into her head to have him and Draco read through the driest, dustiest tomes on bloodlines till they can quote them in their sleep.

One wouldn’t want to accidentally humour a second-generation halfblood or some offspring of a disgraced pureblood branch with conversation.

He used to duel Draco secretly out on the grounds to blow off some steam, but that is no longer possible either.

Orion would even welcome a ball. A get-together of any kind. A visit to a restaurant. Anything to break up this monotony. But it’s no use. Narcissa is equally irritated by it all, frequently bringing up their cancelled holiday and escaping every so often by visiting her various acquaintances. Lucius at least gets his fix by dropping by the Ministry and frequently holding three-hour lunches with the minister and his various political acquaintances.

Orion himself is confined to Malfoy Manor like a museum piece locked behind glass.

Zabini replies to Orion’s complaints via letter and proclaims his sympathies before inviting him to join him in Italy for a week.

He already guesses a trip abroad is out of the question, but he asks anyway.

It would make it seem as if they aren’t taking the threat of Sirius Black on the whole seriously, or so Lucius tells him.

Orion knows he’s right, but that doesn’t make him feel any better. He’s bored and irritated by the whole farce.

And when he tries unravelling the curses of various items stowed around the manor, Lucius tells him off for it – since their worth apparently lies in these specific blood curses.

Moon sent him a vinyl of the Ramones alongside her favourite Mötley Crüe album via owl, which Orion takes to blasting whenever he can just to escape the monotony.

The lyrics are vulgar, the music dreadful – worse than even the fact that it was made by muggles – according to both Narcissa and Lucius, and Orion finds he might have to ask Moon to send him her whole collection.

Within the Malfoy household, Lucius and perhaps Draco are the only ones who don’t outright dismiss Sirius’ breakout as an insignificant happenstance.

Though Draco bemoans that he can’t go to any of the Quidditch matches he planned to attend and a broom racing event he’d been looking forward to, he's more irked about being forced to conjugate French verbs on the regular to keep up with his lessons and Narcissa’s demands.

It takes Orion a fortnight to snap. He calls Kreacher and has him apparate him to Grimmauld Place.

Grimmauld Place is dusty and dark and abandoned. The walls close in on him, the floorboards shifting under his feet, urging him towards the basement, greedy for his blood now that no Black inhabits its rooms anymore.

Orion pats the gloomy wallpaper in passing, bleeding over the runes out of nostalgia more than anything else. His childhood home deserves better than to be left to rot.

Afterwards, Orion has Kreacher set up a chair and a small side table in the entrance hall where he’s served tea while he raves to Walburga’s portrait about Azkaban, though she doesn’t muster much care. Not even when he mentions Bellatrix.

His grandmother just says that witch reaped what she sowed when she deigned to follow that half-blood upstart. From bad blood, bad things come, she says.

When Orion dares mention Sirius and his presumed innocence, she predictably launches into a speech littered with curses and insults, and she outright leaves her frame once Orion points out that her late husband never disinherited his father like she did, saying that they share blood, still, regardless of her opinion on it.

It’s a surprising development – maybe less so considering cursing him is no longer an option – but it suits him just right. After all, Orion didn’t come here to simply vent his frustrations. He’s already decided that he’ll venture out into London, since the opportunity presents itself.

Orion finds Walburga’s wand tucked away in a polished wooden case in the attic.

It’s a sleek thing, worn at the handle, with thorns carved around its length, and it pricks uncooperatively in his hand. He looks at it for a long time before pocketing it.

He rationalises the action afterwards. After all, there aren’t many ways to circumvent detection when casting underage magic, and a second wand is the way to go in case he is forced to cast spells during his exploration of Muggle London and has to prove his innocence.

Still, the truth is that it’s more of a memento than anything.

Kreacher all but yells at him when he realises Orion means to leave through the front door to mingle with Muggles, but he can’t go against his orders, even if he shows his displeasure with Orion dismissing his words.

Orion will have to remember to tell him not to spit into his food for the foreseeable future.

Perhaps it’s petty to exit Grimmauld and venture out into the dangerous streets, but it feels liberating. Besides, Orion has run out of cigarettes, and he’s not quite yet willing to give up his new habit.

It’s strange moving through Muggle London after so long. He feels wholly out of place, especially once he ends up in the more populated parts of the city.

He knows of a few wizarding spaces, which are hidden behind Muggle exteriors and powerful wards – a handful of restaurants, Lucius’ gentlemen’s club, shops and the like – but doesn’t bother to seek them out; instead, he simply wanders the streets.

The stench of gullies in summer and exhaust is permeating the air while cars drive by, cabs halt and move on, and Muggles bustle around the streets on bikes and on foot, busy smoking and inefficiently hauling around their many plastic shopping bags.

There are men in ill-fitting suits – all greys and browns compared to the colourful spread of attire dominating wizarding fashion – women in heels stalking through the streets, and teenagers hanging out at corners, donning oversized shirts and gaudy sneakers – listening to music on boomboxes. Orion passes by a group of punks getting shitfaced on shitty beer at the edge of a park and pauses to watch a handful of kids skating over railings only to be glared at by the elderly population for their behaviour.

At one point, Orion even encounters a group of lost tourists crowding around a map, who set down their cameras to ask him for directions to an ‘authentic pub to try fish and chips to round off their experience’ in heavily accented English, which he can’t give them.

Apparently, despite understanding the slang, Orion’s accent has become too posh, too polished to not be viewed as anything but a trustworthy boarding school upstart. Even with his too-long hair and the heels on his shiny leather boots that are spelt to repel dust and dirt, which add about an inch to his height, his attire he picked to resemble muggle clothes – slacks paired with a linen button-up – seems to be enough to do the trick.

He finds that he’s disconnected from what he used to know. Rebellious curiosity drives him still, having him end up in a shop with vinyls in a corner while the rest is overtaken with tapes and CDs, newly flooding the market.

He doesn’t have any Muggle money, and confounding a shop attendant isn’t worth the possible repercussions for a simple vinyl.

That doesn’t stop Orion from swiping half a shelf's worth of cigarette packs from a corner store, easily hidden in his expansion-charmed pockets – the AC mounted above the door whirring – while the exasperated pimply teenager manning the counter left in a fruitless venture to check the back for an imaginary comic book he asked for.

Orion wanders the streets for a while after, smoking a cigarette just because he can and lighting another out of spite when he gets thoroughly lost to the point where he’s forced to dive into a graffitied alleyway stuffed with overflowing dumpsters to call Kreacher to apparate him back.

The elf’s chidings pearl off him like water, his displeasure as well as his reprimands about mingling with filthy muggles, before he simply orders Kreacher to keep his trap shut and to apparate him back to Malfoy Manor.

Between teaching himself the necessary spells to rid himself of the smell of cigarettes clinging to his clothes, humouring Draco with his continuous Quidditch obsession to keep up with Potter, his correspondence, and researching Azkaban, Orion manages to keep himself busy, despite the gap in his social calendar.

Especially writing and responding to letters takes up a surprising amount of time. There’s the almost daily back and forth with his solicitor about his investments into Muggle companies and his urging the man to unearth more about Sirius’ trial – which he found nothing on so far – on top of answering to Blaise’s justified complaints about his mother’s latest lover, Millicent’s ravings about her brother charming all her stockings Gryffindor gold and red, Moon’s detailed description of the latest album published by Metallica and Daphne bemoaning her sister’s nervous ramblings about starting Hogwarts.

He spoils Odesseus with treats if only to get the owl to deliver his letters on time.

Nevertheless, he’s somewhat glad to learn that the week before he and Draco are meant to set out to Hogwarts, Narcissa somehow manages to invite over her French cousins from the Rosier branch for a get-together instead of the vacation they had planned.

Orion remembers them, he thinks, vaguely from a trip taken with Walburga when he was around six or seven, when they’d hosted them at their estate somewhere in the French countryside, with rolling hills covered in grapevines and light-flooded rooms with high, intricately fashioned windows.

Narcissa fusses around the house in preparation, refreshing flower arrangements, switching up the display of portraits in the gallery, and ordering around elves regarding meal arrangements and guest rooms, all the while forcing both Orion and Draco to change twice after she asks them which outfits they’d wear to greet their guests.

Orion can’t shake the feeling that the whole get-together was arranged out of spite, Narcissa having been equally fed up with the restrictions Lucius's compliance with the Ministry placed upon them.

And with the majority of their school supplies having been ordered by owl and a short stint into Diagon Alley, during which an Auror escort was breathing down their neck, Orion is glad for the distraction to break up the monotony of the last few weeks.

The whole Rosier family is vetted by Aurors. Allof them, before they’re so much as allowed to step foot into the manor, and Orion sympathises with their complaints.

Narcissa, being the perfect hostess, greets them at the entrance hall, apologising for the inconvenience, while introducing Draco and Orion, who have been drilled to respond with perfectly conjured smiles before offering to escort the Rosier daughters to the drawing room.

Though any sympathy dissipates like smoke in the wind about an hour into their acquaintance, and Orion finds that he shouldn’t have placed much hope upon their foreign visitors.

The girls are boring, spoilt and painstakingly censoring their words, and too young, really, to have learnt by themselves to flutter their lashes with faux bashfulness at Orion and Draco.

When that isn’t the case, they’re whispering in rapid French behind their manicured hands and looking meaningfully at the piano till Narcissa takes pity on them and enquires whether they have learnt to play any instruments and would like to demonstrate their skill.

It feels like a cattle show, a thinly veiled marriage market, and Orion sits bored, barely managing to feign interest, clapping half-heartedly after an uninspired rendition of ‘Für Elise’ and sipping on his tea, which he has managed to spike with some of Lucius’ scotch when nobody was looking.

Meanwhile their older son barely spares them a glance, inserting himself into the adults' conversation with affected bluster and self-importance, snapping his fingers at Kreacher to refill his glass of wine for the fourth time within an hour.

Following this, Narcissa has arranged a dinner held in the ostentatious dining room. A stiff affair, during which Lucius attempts to network to insert himself into the Rosiers’ businesses in Europe, while Draco’s forced to display his mediocre French skills, and Orion saws into his steak, growing more and more irritated with the Narcissa’s relatives.

Especially the teenage son of that family grates on his nerves. Some insignificant maternal cousin thrice removed on Narcissa’s side, who somehow deigned it acceptable to launch into a speech about the superiority of Beauxbatons to Hogwarts, looking down his nose at Orion while criticising Draco’s pronunciation, the British weather and the food by whining about how his steak wasn’t cooked to his tastes.

Orion quickly comes to the conclusion that it was a blessing in disguise that the boy hadn’t deigned to interact with them earlier.

Nevertheless, Orion could’ve borne it. Could’ve tolerated that smug spoilt upstart sitting next to him enquiring pompously whether they even know of the current European politics and even laughed about his snottiness, if it weren’t for Louis insinuating some time during the third course that truly, it’s an oversight on his side that they haven’t reconnected earlier since they are family.

Orion turns his head from where he’s offered to refill Mirabélle’s glass, like a hound scenting blood.

The boy’s mother, who seems to sense the tension, tries to get her daughter to speak to Orion about her studies, but Orion is barely listening and instead turns his gaze upon the boy who comments in rapid French how it’s regrettable, the current state of their bloodline, in how their best option was the extramarital progeny of two cousins, while shooting Draco another smug glance. The blond stares down at his plate, his complexion blotchy red with humiliation, when Louis enquires whether he should slow down, meaning not to offend, of course, in accented English.

Only then does that Rosier brat seem to realise that Orion is, in fact, paying attention to him.

Nobody contests, of course, that Orion is the heir. Louis voices then, backpedalling rapidly and adding that whatever he said wasn’t reflective of his personal opinion, just mere gossip he picked up on. But by that point Orion is already white-knuckling his steak knife.

When Louis looks at him, smiling, and adds that after all, he’s probably as much as a Black as Draco since his father’s father married a Black, Orion’s blood runs cold.

But not with fear. Rage, unmitigated and unbridled, courses through his body.

As if that wannabe had earned the right to claim their name because his family got their hands on the last witch born to a now-dead European offshoot branch of the Black family some decades ago – as if their watered-down blood could even hold a candle to the child of someone born a Black, even if he’s a Malfoy.

Orion cuts him off mid-sentence by ramming his steak knife into his leg.

It’s mayhem when the boy starts to scream and clutch at the blade buried in his thigh, relatives spewing expletives in French while blood stains the expensive upholstery and pools on the pristine hardwood floor.

The teenager’s mother has already drawn her wand, while Orion is looking at the boy screaming for satisfaction with undisguised derision, Lucius flailing to de-escalate the situation, and Narcissa moves to grab Orion to lead him out of the room.

Orion is still brimming with anger, watching Narcissa cast spells around the room to grant them privacy.

“You can’t imagine the havoc you’ve wrecked with your ill-advised impulsiveness,” she states.

“Did you listen to him? I should've aimed for something more vital,” Orion spits, pacing furiously.

“There are Aurors right outside of our gates,” Narcissa replies coolly.

“Say it was an accident then,” Orion retorts flippantly. “It’s not like I cursed him.”

Narcissa’s hand moves as if she thought to slap him before restraining herself. She closes her eyes briefly before fixating on Orion again.

“If you don’t get your temper in check, Orion, you’ll end up in trouble, regardless of our influence. I warned you of this before. Actions always come with consequences.”

Orion glares at her. “So he got taught a lesson.”

“If I didn’t know about your parentage, I surely wouldn’t question it any longer,” Narcissa voices more to herself than Orion. She smoothes down her robes before folding her hands in front of her, regaining her composure. “But Orion, you must know that your actions just now were unacceptable.”

Orion inspects the specks of red staining the fabric of his sleeve with a scoff. “He disrespected us first. Our family. Our blood.”

Narcissa fixes him with a cool look. “That may be so, and I appreciate you defending Draco, but they are our guests, regardless of distasteful opinions or undignified behaviour. However Louis may have expressed himself, it’s not his faults that concern me at this time. Have you any understanding of how the disgrace of your behaviour reflects –”

Orion scoffs. “I couldn’t give less of a damn about what that French bastard thinks of me.”

“Do not interrupt me,” Narcissa says, with an icy stare.

Orion closes his mouth, a muscle in his jaw jumping, when he realises how serious Narcissa is. He doesn’t think he’s seen her so displeased since he appeared hungover in the sun room after Walburga’s death. Or ever.

“On top of your impulsive and unwise insult rendered towards the heir of an influential family – a boy who will be the head of the Rosier family at one point – it’s not merely your reputation you’re besmirching. Your self-centred and impulsive actions directly reflect on me and Lucius. And it seems we have been too lenient with you. You made a fool out of me, Orion. Behaving like a brute. Acting in this manner, no better than a muggle from the streets. You’re living under my roof. Under our guardianship. Not to mention that you’ve put us in a precarious situation, with the Aurors just outside our door thanks to your father, whose ill reputation alone should give you pause to think on your own actions.”

Her painted lips are pressed in a harsh line as she waits for the words to sink in. Then, in a tone that allows for no debate, she says, “When we return, you shall apologise profusely. You will relay your regrets and say that your temper got the best of you in these upheaving times. And then you’ll remove yourself and stay in your room, while I shall try to mitigate the damages to the best of my abilities. Are we clear?”

“Crystal”, Orion grits out.

Narcissa looks him over, sweeping her wand in a not-too-gentle manner as the blood evaporates from his robes and his buttons fix themselves, almost choking him in the process.

Orion bares his teeth at her.

She looks at him, coldly. “I expect you to take your punishment with more dignity than this. Now fix your face. If you can’t muster a regretful expression, I’d appreciate you at least attempting to somewhat rein in your glare.”

Orion finds himself standing in front of that weaselly Rosier kid, still in his bloody trousers and with a glare so harsh it could melt steel, while his own jaw is grinding. “My temper got the better of me,” he voices. “My reaction was… disproportionate.” He should’ve aimed for his crotch, that miserable, filthy –

Narcissa’s stare is burning holes into his back.

“There is no …excuse for my behaviour,” Orion tacks on. “It was disrespectful.” He lowers his gaze if only to not let his unbridled hate shine through. Just like you, you obnoxious, insignificant-

“We accept the apology,” the boy’s father says in his son’s stead, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder while exchanging a glance with Lucius.

Orion nods and stalks out of the room lest he do something the Malfoys’ reputation can’t recover from.

Somehow Lucius and Narcissa managed to get the Rosiers to leave without causing any more of a scene. They’d meant to stay for a week, but Orion can’t bring himself to regret his actions and is rather glad it led to this outcome, despite Narcissa’s swiftly dealt disciplinary measures.

Lucius, who’s more than incensed with Orion ruining his business opportunities, seems to have gotten most of his anger out of his system after lecturing him for nearly half an hour, but Narcissa is not so lenient.

Orion’s privileges are cut in half. His records have vanished from his room; so have his books, other than those related to school. His broom is locked up in the shed, while Narcissa has him recite the Rosier bloodlines all the way back to the sixteenth century until he knows them by heart while forcing him through lessons on etiquette with painstaking attention to detail.

He’s banned from having dessert – a circumstance Kreacher circumvents since he’s more than approving of his actions – and Draco’s initial mix of impressed awe and respect withers like a wrinkly flower in the face of Orion’s ban from playing Quidditch with him.

Orion wonders whether it’ll become something of a tradition that he and the Malfoys are on the outs when he’s being seen off to Hogwarts.

Platform 9 ¾ is busy as always on the first of September. Screeching owls, stressed-out families saying their teary-eyed goodbyes and the occasional gawking muggle-born.

This year is different, though, in the sense that everybody appears to be more twitchy, looking around every so often, gazes lingering on the ‘Wanted’ posters plastered to the brick, displaying the sunken face of one Sirius Black, half obscured by a shaggy beard and long knotted hair.

Disguised Aurors are stationed on the platform. Orion knows because Dawlish stopped by to inform them of that fact and to reassure the Malfoys of Orion’s safety after that shitshow of an Azkaban visit.

Only knowing allows Orion to clock the odd shimmer of one of the disillusioned guards posted next to a supporting pillar, while Draco bats away Narcissa’s hand as she attempts to fix his hair.

People are staring at Orion too. Half-disguised glances and jerky nods in his direction drawing even more attention, suspicious eyes tracking him.

Orion feels a sudden stab of sympathy for Potter.

Not that it’s a surprising development. After all, it’s widely known that he’s the son of the infamous Sirius Black, and with his father having broken out, people are suddenly remembering that Orion’s relatives are, in fact, not only the pristine and well-established Malfoys but also two of the most infamous wizards and witches incarcerated in Azkaban. Or on the run, as it is.

He makes it a game to look at them unblinkingly whenever he catches a wandering stare and smiles till they look away.

Orion knows for a fact that Lucius and Narcissa have declined multiple enquiries about whether he’d be available for interviews.

Lucius had made a statement. Carefully picked words, proclaiming that they are solely interested in seeing Black behind bars again and that otherwise Orion is not available for a comment.

The stares only increase by the time Orion and Draco make their way through the train in search of their usual compartment.

Vince and Pansy are already there saving them seats.

“How was your holiday?”

“Alright,” Vince grunts, taking the cage holding Draco’s mean eagle owl, who promptly screeches at him. “How about you?”

“Peachy,” Orion replies. His own bird, Odesseus, pecks at his fingers as it gets jostled in its cage as Orion makes his way over to the window. “Cut it out. I’m trying to let you out, you beast,” Orion mutters, fumbling with the window.

“I can only imagine,” Pansy pipes up, flicking to the next page of this week's Witch Weekly. “You’re the most infamous student attending Hogwarts this year.”

“You’ve gathered that much from the five minutes you’ve been here?” Orion says. He fishes an owl treat from his pocket and holds it out to Odesseus, who pecks it from his fingers, not without scratching him with his beak – arsehole that he is – before he disappears through the window.

He always got on better with Walburga than him anyhow. Figures.

“What can I say? Word travels fast,” Pansy says, snapping her magazine shut and against her thigh.

“We’ve had Aurors stationed at the gate ever since Black’s breakout,” Draco says, letting himself fall onto the bench.

“Truly? And how was that?”

“Annoying,” Orion says.

Pansy snorts.

The door to their compartment slides open.

“Gregory! Look at you! You’re, like, twice as big as you were before,” Pansy says.

“What did they feed you?” Draco exclaims at the same moment. “Nutrient potions?”

Greg indeed looks like he’s grown at least three inches in both width and height. “A hand, maybe?” he grunts, as he struggles to fit his trunk through the door alongside his frame.

Orion flicks his wand, and the trunk floats up to where the others are stored. “Thanks,” Greg says.

“I didn’t see you all summer,” Vince voices. “Where’ve you been?”

“Visiting my mum’s relatives,” Greg says. “They invited us to Greece.”

“And you didn’t write me a single letter,” Pansy replies with faux hurt, placing her palm above her chest. “Really, Gregory, where are your manners?”

“Stuff it, Pansy.”

The teenage witch starts to cackle. “I’m just pulling your leg; don’t get upset, Gregory.”

“It’s Greg, you bogwitch.”

The door slides again. “Ah, there you are.”

“Blaise”, Orion greets the dark-skinned boy. “Did Italy treat you right?

“Oh, you know it did,” Zabini voices, promptly shoving his way past Vince and Greg and flashing a pearly grin. “Tuscany – è fantastica,” he kisses his fingers exaggeratingly.

Orion looks at him for a long moment. From what Blaise wrote to him, his mother basically left him to be by himself the whole time, while his new stepfather-to-be treated him like an unfortunate accessory that came attached to her.

“A bit full in here,” Zabini says, scanning over the crowd.

“First come, first serve,” Pansy retorts. “Now—” She leans forward, her black bob bouncing with the movement as she blinks at Orion. “I hear you visited Azkaban.”

Orion looks at Draco. “You told her?”

Draco shrugs. “It came up.”

“In your …letters?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t hound him for it. From what he told me, you were talking about nothing else these last few summer weeks,” Pansy says.

Orion traces his teeth with his tongue. “I did. Visit it. It breaks about every guideline of the IHL.”

“What’s that?”

Orion pauses, surprising himself. “It’s a horrible place for horrible people, but I doubt even the latter deserve to be incarcerated in such a shithole.”

Vince whistles through his teeth.

“Did you see –” Greg lowers his voice conspicuously – “Dementors?”

“Yes,” Orion says. “I don’t recommend it.”

“Do they look like what people say they do?” Pansy asks.

“That and worse,” Orion replies.

The compartment door slides open again, Daphne and Moon sticking their heads through. “Hello gentlemen, lady, rabble,” Moon says, flashing a grin. “Orion, nice to see you around. The Dementors didn’t kiss you, I take it?”

Orion turns to Draco. “Seriously?”

“Hey, don’t look at me,” he retorts, palms raised defensively.

Pansy returns Orion’s gaze flippantly. “What? I may have mentioned it once. Or twice.”

“Surrounded by gossips,” Orion sighs.

“Oh, please,” Moon elbows her way in. “As if you aren’t the same. I don’t know why you’re bothered.”

Orion wrinkles his nose. “It’s the principle of the matter.”

“Har har.”

“Compartment’s full,” Vince grunts out when Moon knocks his feet aside.

“Oh, I see how it is,” she replies. “We shall leave you to your business then.” She points at Orion with a smirk. “I’ll see you at the carriages. I want to hear every detail.”

“Trust me, you don’t,” Draco replies.

“You might want to watch out,” Daphne says. “I’ve heard some Gryffs’ talking. They’ll hound you before the day is over, mark my words,” she tells Orion. “Besides, I only dropped by to introduce you to my sister anyway.” She reaches into the hallway, dragging a petite blonde girl into view.

“We all know Astoria,” Pansy says, rolling her eyes. “We weren’t born yesterday.”

Daphne’s little sister shifts uncomfortably.

“Be nice,” Daphne says. “Astoria, say hello.”

“Hello,” Astoria says, tugging at the dark satin bow in her hair.

“Great,” Pansy says. “We’ll see you around, darling.”

Daphne rolls her eyes, and she and Moon disappear, closing the door behind them.

“Darling?” Zabini asks.

“I’m trying something new. Besides,” Pansy grins, “wasn’t she just darling? So shy. If she ends up in Slytherin, they’ll eat her alive.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Draco says. “She’s quiet, but she’s got bite.”

“Ohh, is somebody harbouring another crush?” Zabini voices.

“Another?” Greg asks.

“You’re forgetting Potter,” Orion interjects, grinning.

“Shut the hell up,” Draco says, his face pink. “She’s eleven.” He bounces his leg. “Mother thinks about drawing up a contract with her family,” Draco blurts out after a moment.

Orion’s humour evaporates. “She is? Already?” He looks at Draco, lanky and thirteen and blond and a child in all but name.

“And? Not like you don’t know how it is,” Draco says. “You’re lucky you’re your own head of house.”

Orion huffs. “By proxy”, he says.

Awkward silence draws out for a long moment.

“Are you playing Quidditch this year again?” Vince asks Draco, and the moment’s gone.

The next couple of hours go by in a blur of conversations about summer, familiar bickering and a brief interlude of Vince and Pansy hexing each other over chocolate frogs of all things.

It’s dark outside when the train starts to slow down.

“Are we there yet?” Zabini asks.

“No. No, I don’t think so,” Draco says, looking out of the window.

“We’re in no-man’s-land,” Vince voices.

“Is it just me, or is it getting cold in here?” Pansy says, frowning.

And indeed. The temperature seems to have dropped. A chilling sensation bleeding past their robes, sinking into their bones.

“No,” Orion says, his spine rigid. “You aren’t.” He swallows. “They’re sending a Dementor to search the train.”

“What?” Zabini asks.

“That can’t be right. They can’t,” Pansy says. “Can they?” She looks at Draco, who appears equally lost. His grey eyes find Orion’s.

“They’ll check here. Because you are here, aren’t they?” Pansy whispers.

Orion doesn’t reply.

One minute ticks over into another and then another. And another.

The light flickers.

After the fourth time, it doesn’t turn on again.

The chill has turned into an icy cold, seeping into Orion’s chest, his lungs, his everything – choking him. A part of him registers surprise that his breath doesn’t fog up the air.

The hairs on his arms stand up. Primal fear sinks into his bones.

He exchanges looks with his classmates, their faces barely visible in the darkness, the whites of their wide eyes shimmering.

The compartment door slides open.

Pansy lets out a small scream.

An inhumanly tall dark figure looms in the doorway, swallowing up the light like a black hole. Rattling breaths sound through the air – the only sound as it ducks through the opening.

Vince bumps into Orion as he tries to scoot back, and Orion grips his arm with iron strength, holding him in place.

There is no charm shielding them now. Orion’s thoughts bleed away into misery and darkness. He blinks against his uncle’s face swimming behind his lids. Gaping mouth, blood dripping from his neck. Dead. And cold. He thought he would never be able to recall Archie’s features, and here they are, searing themselves into his brain.

“G-go away,” Pansy says shakily. She’s pale as a sheet.

The Dementor turns towards her, a rattling breath the only response. A dark, shadowed face obscured by the ragged fabric of its hood leaning closer.

Orion’s vision is overtaken by blood and death. His grandmother is dead, he remembers. Archie. His mother. Bellatrix’s mad eyes blinking at him through the grimy metal bars in Azkaban.

Orion shores up all his mental defences, trying to remember Walburga teaching him.

The images of death are replaced by a dark, miserable room, lightless and windowless. It wavers.

“Sirius Black isn’t here,” Orion says, his voice shaking.

The Dementor tilts its head, slow and silent, as it stares at him. A second ticks by. Another breath. Then it retreats.

“Get the door,” Orion hisses, shoving Vince. “Get it!”

Vince stumbles to his feet, grabbing the handle and slamming it shut.

Zabini is the first to remember that they have wands, lifting his with a muttered ‘lumos’.

Light floods the compartment, harsh shadows painting their faces where the bright beams don’t hit.

“Fuck,” Draco says. Orion can’t even find it in himself to feel gratified that he’s finally got Draco to curse in that manner.

“What in Merlin and Morgana’s name was that?!” Pansy whispers.

“A Dementor”, Orion says. He wipes over his face, carding back his hair as he tries to even out his breaths. His fingers tug right through a tangled curl, the sting of it barely registering. He can feel his heart hammering against his ribs.

Even the familiar hum of his wand when he wraps his fingers around its hilt doesn’t seem to be able to warm him up. He points it at the compartment door and locks it anyway, and when that doesn’t reassure it at all, he cuts into his palm with a charm, smearing the blood over the handle and drawing a few hurried lines, thus warding it with an obscure protective rune. For as long as his blood is wet, he’s the only one who can break the seal. Blaise is cursing violently in a mix of English and Italian.

“It’s going to search the whole train, you think?” Greg says.

Their faces are all stark white, only emphasised by the cool light of the Lumos. Even Zabini lacks colour.

“Yeah,” Orion says.

Draco laughs, high and hysteric. “Do they think we’re hiding Black under our robes?”

“I don’t think they think anything,” Orion says. “They do as they’re told.”

“Who in Merlin’s name thinks that sending a Dementor to search a train full of schoolchildren is a good idea?” Pansy asks.

“I don’t think it’s the last of its kind we’re going to see,” Orion says. He leans forward and steals one of her chocolate frogs.

“Hey! Get your own,” she says.

“It’ll help. With the Dementors,” Orion says. He presses the chocolate frog into Vince’s hand.

Before long, they’re all sitting in silence, chewing, chocolate melting on their tongue, the unnatural chill finally seeping out of their bones.

It seems to take an inordinate amount of time before the train starts to move again and the lights turn back on.

The mood at the train station in Hogsmeade is subdued. Students are moving in clustered groups, first-years shoring up around Hagrid as if his sheer size and the warm light of his lantern could protect them.

While there are no Dementors visible, that also goes for the stars. Even the lights of the castle in the distance seem cold and far away.

Orion fidgets with the lighter in his pocket and the cigarettes stowed away there. He’s itching for something to take the edge off.

“Merlin, there you are,” Daphne voices, elbowing her way closer, Moon and Millicent right behind her, as well as Millie’s older brother Francis and his friends.

“You saw it too, right?” Moon says.

“Yeah,” Pansy replies.

“Word is, Potter even fainted,” Millicent says.

“What? You’re joking,” Draco exclaims.

“Nope. I heard it too,” Francis says. “A Weasley – the new prefect, you know him – was talking about it with this Ravenclaw girl– consoling her. Apparently she puked; can you believe it?”

Millie snorts.

Orion dips his finger into his cigarette pack, thumbing over the rows of filters.

“Let’s get going,” Zabini says. “I don’t want to stay here any longer than I have to.” He looks meaningfully up at the sky where high above – too high to really see – dark inky drops stand out against the shadowy clouds.

The carriage ride to the castle is uneventful. No one asks about Orion’s visit to Azkaban. Before they rattle through the large metal gate with the winged boars sitting atop pillars, a collective shudder goes through them when they pass the tall Dementors hovering above, standing guard.

One by one, they hop out of the carriage, leaving behind the scent of straw and damp wood. Orion pets one of the Thestrals in passinwhen Longbottom bumbles out of a carriage, accompanied by Ginevra Weasley and a blonde Ravenclaw, whom Orion vaguely remembers.

“–Hope he’s doing alright,” Longbottom says.

“Harry’s going to be fine,” Weasley replies, bumping her fist into his shoulder. “Head’s up. I bet Madame Pomfrey will fix him right up.”

“Still. Nobody else fainted,” Longbottom says.

“So it’s true,” Draco pipes up. “Potter fainted. He actually fainted.”

The Gryffindors look up at Draco’s voice.

“Draco,” Orion says warningly. He’s not in the mood. The icy presence of the Dementor still haunts him, his nerves raw and it shows in the way he points his glare. 

Draco looks at him, his lips still pursed. He exhales through his nose in a harsh burst before haughtily turning his head. “Let’s go,” he says, as if it was his idea, and one after the other turn to follow him.

Longbottom sends Orion a considering look, relief stark on his face, but he doesn’t acknowledge him, scratching a nail over the cut on his palm instead. It stings and starts to bleed again, the thin scab broken open.

Orion spreads the blood over the reddened skin. It’s a bad spot to pick. Too many nerve endings. He draws his wand while he follows after his cousin, healing it with a muttered ‘episkey’.

Sighing, he concedes that he’ll have to deal with the phantom itch settling in his palm for the next half hour. He really ought to get better at healing spells.

Orion still scratches at his hand when they follow the crowd pouring in through the large portal into the Entrance Hall.

Hogwarts is as impressive as always, in spite – or perhaps just because – of its age, with its tall ceilings, winding arches holding up ancient walls and an accumulation of portraits acquired over centuries watching them in the flickering torchlight.

The steps of hundreds of students echo from the worn stones as they pass the high marble staircase and the tall hourglasses containing the crystals symbolising their house points, only slowing down as the masses funnel into the Great Hall, where the chatter rings louder.

As third years, they’re seated further towards the middle of the table than they have ever been before, and Orion is somewhat disappointed to not find Brunhilda at the edge of the table with the other seventh years. He nods at Francis, who waves; Flint, Pucey and Warrington return his nod as well, before he swings his legs over the bench to settle next to Draco, Millicent and Moon on the opposite side.

“Scoot,” Daphne orders around some second years, claiming a spot closer to where the first years will be seated, likely in anticipation of her sister’s arrival, while Zabini slides into place to Orion’s left.

Draco is already craning his neck, looking over at the Gryffindor table. “Do you think they had to carry Potter off the train?”

Orion shrugs. “I don’t know. Could be.”

“I don’t see him anywhere.”

Orion exchanges a look with Zabini, silently bemoaning his fate, who rolls his eyes in response. Every year, the same song and dance.

The noise in the hall quiets down once the firsties pour in through a side door, lined up in pairs only to pool in the front.

“I swear, they look smaller every year,” Moon comments idly, while Flitwick floats the familiar rickety stool with an absent wave of his wand and carries the sorting hat in his other hand. It looks comically large in his grasp.

“Weasley is there, but Potter’s missing,” Draco voices. “And Granger.”

“McGonagall too,” Millicent says. “Probably stuffing him with pepper-ups after his fainting spell.” She grins, reaping a snort and a giggle from Moon and Tracey, respectively, while Draco laughs without shame.

“Speaking of”, Pansy says, “Have you seen the new DADA professor? If anyone needs a pep up, it’s that man.” She squints at the teacher's table. “Or some sun. Good grief.”

Orion turns to look over his shoulder, suddenly recalling who their teacher will be this year, a stab of unwitting curiosity having him stare outright.

“He looks like he’s going to resign within a week from stress,” Pansy continues while Orion takes stock of Lupin.

He’s a lanky man, tall but folded into himself, shoulders rolled forward, tired eyes underlined by dark circles and a complexion more ashen than seems healthy. His shabby robes and the grey streaks in his light brown hair distract from how young he actually looks. He must be in his early thirties, Orion knows. Like Snape. Like Sirius.

Flitwick starts to call out the first names.

“Those are some dark circles. Has he never heard of a freshening charm?” Daphne says.

“HUFFLEPUFF,” the sorting hat announces.

“Maybe he’s a vampire,” Zabini comments offhandedly.

Orion barks a loud laugh.

Lupin turns his head just then, as if he’d heard it – an impossibility over the roaring applause – his eyes scanning over the Slytherin’s until his gaze inevitably lands on Orion.

Something changes in his expression, the faint smile on his lips disappearing as he stares unblinkingly.

The next student ends up in Gryffindor.

Orion’s amusement hasn’t yet died down, and so his grin has barely faded.

Lupin looks even paler, if that’s possible.

Impulsively, Orion winks. The opportunity to not mess with him is just too great.

Lupin turns his head away with a swiftness that makes it seem as if he was slapped.

“I’ll bet you ten galleons that he’s not a vampire,” Orion says, grinning as he turns to look at Zabini.

“I don’t wager with you,” the boy says, barely even considering him. “Try to rip someone else off; I know a sucker’s bet when I see one.”

“Pity,” Orion says, sighing in an affected manner, while Morlock Baddock marks the first first-year sorted into Slytherin.

He claps alongside his year-mates, catching Moon’s gaze, who looks at him. “Forget it,” she says momentarily.

“You’re all no fun whatsoever,” Orion complains.

“Says the swot,” Draco mutters.

Orion turns to look at him, opening his mouth when Daphne shushes them.

“Shut up. My sister’s about to be sorted.”

“Branstone, Madeleine,” Flitwick exclaims.

“I don’t recall your sister to be a redhead,” Greg says dryly.

Daphne glares at him over the table.

“HUFFLEPUFF!” The hat yells almost as soon as it’s touching her head.

“What is it this year with Hufflepuff? That’s like half of the firsties being sorted,” Tracey says.

“Bobbins, Brittany,” Flitwick reads from his list.

Daphne huffs as she slumps in her seat. “Who recognises all these mudbloods?”

“RAVENCLAW!”

“Finally,” Daphne mutters when Flitwick calls out, “Greengrass, Astoria.”

Orion turns to watch too. Flitwick is getting on his tiptoes to place the hat on her head.

“You sure she’s going to be a Slytherin?” Pansy faux whispers when the seconds draw by and the hat hasn’t proclaimed anything yet.

Her subsequent yelp betrays Daphne having hit her with a stinging hex below the table.

“SLYTHERIN!” the hat shouts.

Daphne beams. “I knew it!” She claps loudly, and their group falls in, Orion going so far as to whistle through his fingers.

‘Congratulations,’ Daphne mouths at her sister when she slides onto the bench, next to the other first-year with a shy smile on her lips, tugging at her hairband to fix it after the hat misplaced it.

“Told you,” Draco says smugly.

“Well done. You’ve already got a good handle on your future bride’s personality,” Nott drawls monotonously.

“Shut up,” Draco says, blushing while Daphne outright elbows the boy in the side. Theo just blinks at her impassively.

They only get nine Slytherins this year, which is frankly outrageous, and the sorting closes with Vane, Romilda, a girl with dark curly hair, who’s claimed by Gryffindor.

“Look”, Draco says, “There’s Potter. Finally he’s deemed it appropriate to grace us with his presence.”

He points towards where Potter and Granger are hurrying alongside the farther wall in a way that is anything but subtle, joining the group of red-heads clustered at the middle of their house table.

“And we are all grateful for this important titbit of information,” Zabini drawls, cracking Orion up.

Dumbledore’s royal blue robes catch the light of the floating candles as he steps up to the podium, waiting a beat for Flitwick to finish putting away the stool and sorting hat.

“Welcome!” he says, silencing the whole hall, and smiles down at them. “Welcome to a new year in Hogwarts! I’ve got to say a few words, and since I’ve to address something rather serious, I thought it best to come right out with it before we’re all too befuddled from our wonderful feast.”

Dumbledore clears his throat, and when he resumes his speech, his expression is serious. Orion braces himself for a mention of his father.

“How you’ve all gathered, the Hogwarts Express was searched, and at this point you know that a few of the Dementors of Azkaban are currently being hosted by our school, who’re here under orders of the Ministry of Magic. They’re posted at all entries to the grounds, and I have to impress on you that nobody is allowed to leave the school without explicit permission while they are here. Dementors are not to be trifled with, nor tricked or fooled – not even with invisibility cloaks. It’s not in a Dementor’s nature to understand pleas or excuses. I explicitly warn each and every one of you: do not give them a reason to cause you harm. I expect from our prefects and our new pair of head students to make sure that none of our students will get in the way of the Dementors.”

A pregnant pause follows.

“Why do you think they’re here?” Millicent whispers.

“Don’t know,” Moon says. “Unless-” She looks pointedly at Orion, who nods somewhat resignedly.

“I have it on good authority that they think Sirius Black might head for the school,” Draco announces self-importantly.

“Are you serious?”

No, he’s Sirius, sitting on the tip of Orion’s tongue, and he laughs to himself, half hysterical.

“And now to something more pleasant,” Dumbledore continues, interrupting the hushed whispers bouncing back and forth between their group. “I’m pleased to welcome two new professors amongst our staff –”

“Two?” Tracey asks, just as bemused as the rest of them.

“First, Professor Lupin—”

“That’s the shabby-looking one, right?” Pansy says while Dumbledore announces that he’ll take over the spot of the DADA position.

“Professor Snape looks like he’s got it out for him,” Moon comments idly.

“He’s probably pissed Dumbledore hired another professor over him again, especially after last year’s Lockhart debacle,” Millicent voices.

Snape does indeed look like he would like to strangle Lupin with his bare hands.

Scattered applause sounds through the hall.

“Now, regarding our second new appointment,” Dumbledore voices after it has died down. “I regret to inform you that Professor Kettleburn, our teacher for the Care of Magical Creatures, retired at the end of last year to enjoy his remaining limbs. Though I am happy to tell you that his spot will be taken over by none other than Rubeus Hagrid –

The rest of Dumbledore’s speech is drowned out by the shocked whispers sounding around the Slytherin table.

“He can’t be serious!”

“-man was incarcerated in Azkaban just last year.”

“Falsely,” Tracey says, countering Pansy’s point. “But yeah.”

“The man never even finished his education,” Draco says. “Everybody knows. Who do they think they are? I’ve picked it as a subject this year, and this oaf is supposed to teach me?”

“He’s competent, I think,” Orion muses, still somewhat sceptical. “Otherwise Dumbledore wouldn’t have been able to hire him. Or at least I don’t think so.”

“Let’s hope you’re right,” Draco says. “Merlin”.

The applause this time lasts longer, especially thanks to the Gryffindors, who’re all but roaring.

“Circe”, Pansy says, disgust written into her features. “He’s wiping his face on the tablecloth.”

“Manners maketh man,” Vince says seriously, and Orion’s set off again, choking on surprised laughter.

Dumbledore wraps up his speech just then, and within the blink of an eye, the table in front of them is suddenly laden with platters of steaming food and desserts and jugs with juice and water.

“I can already tell that this year is going to be messed up,” Moon says as she loads drumsticks onto her plate, before adding dryly. “And after last year, that’s a low bar.”

Chapter Text

After the feast they make their way to the dungeons, the first years trotting after the prefects like a flock of ducklings, staring while trying not to outright seem awed when the stones grind open and give way to the familiar interior of the Slytherin common room. It’s a welcome sight, the gloomy room bathed in dark green light with its dark furniture and the skulls shrouded in ever-dancing shadows only exacerbated by the flickering of the many candles after the pale marble and polished hardwood floor of Malfoy Manor.

While the firsties are being introduced to the house intern rules, they settle down in front of a flickering fireplace, stretching out their feet and catching up like many of their fellow students.

Orion notices that two topics in particular seem to have caught the Slytherins’ attention. Firstly, Potter’s fainting spell, which Draco refuses to let live down, and another more subtly discussed one, which Orion is vividly aware of in the form of the many eyes lingering on him.

He could blame Draco too for blurting out so easily that Sirius Black is rumoured to be heading for Hogwarts, but it would’ve come out sooner than later. And as cunning and sneaky as the Slytherins like to pretend they are, they’re also gossips, and Orion knows it’s only a matter of time till someone will approach him about it.

His suspicions are confirmed the next morning, and by the time they’re looking at their new schedules for this year over the breakfast table, he’s been asked, not once nor twice but four times what he thinks, or knows or suspects regarding Sirius Black’s goals and whether he’s afraid to be kidnapped, murdered or otherwise approached by his estranged father.

Draco capturing most of their classmates’ attention by acting out Potter fainting on the Hogwarts Express in a rather entertaining manner is a welcome reprieve.

Still, Orion is glad to head to Arithmancy afterwards while a few of their fellow Slytherins split off to make their way to their respective electives.

It’s an armada of stairs he has to climb before he ends up in the classroom, a round, high-ceilinged room with chalkboards plastered all around the walls, covered in geometric drawings, tucked away in a tower that couldn’t have been placed further from the Slytherin common room if they tried.

Professor Vector is a witch he’s only ever seen before in passing, with dark skin and shiny black hair she wears in a braid that reaches all the way down to her calves. Today, she’s opted for something reminiscent of a three-piece muggle suit paired with a set of robes she’s thrown over her shoulders like a cape, solely kept in place by golden cloak clasps catching the light. She introduces herself in a husky voice, sporting the hint of an accent which Orion cannot place, and using her wand like a conductor’s baton as she goes over this year’s curriculum.

The hour that follows passes by Orion in a strange sense of déjà vu as he looks at the tables and chalk lines appearing magically on the blackboards, outlining her subject, which shouldn’t but somehow still resembles mathematics as he remembers.

Granger, two seats in front of him, takes notes with such an eager expression one could think Christmas had come early this year.

That lesson is followed by Charms, and Orion finds it somewhat odd to note that they’re tossed together in seemingly random constellations of houses this year, with one or other stray Hufflepuff joining a group of mostly Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Likely because of their individual schedules, the usual split between houses has to have been shuffled a bit to accommodate everyone.

Yet what’s even stranger is the fact that Theo voluntarily slides into the spot next to Orion, and while he doesn’t talk much, safe for asking for clarification regarding something Flitwick mentioned, it confounds him more than anything else so far, and not even Draco seems to have an answer for that strange development.

Lunch is speckled with talks about Quidditch since Flint has announced that they’re looking for a new beater and chaser, respectively, and Orion tries to get Millicent to try out, who pointedly refuses because she deems it a brutish sport. A frankly ridiculous statement from someone who’s resorted to choking out people whenever she doesn’t get her way in duels.

Though another topic soon overtakes their conversation, brought up when Draco pulls out a truly menacing-looking book from his bag, which is growling and straining against the belt wrapped around it. “Merlin, I cannot deal with this monstrosity,” he says. “This cursed thing has been trying to murder me ever since I picked it up from my trunk.”

Orion leans over the table to get a better look at it. When he pokes a finger in its direction, it tries to bite him. It trembles with rage when he pets over its fur, glaring at him with its many eyes.

“Stop antagonising it,” Draco chides him. “It took ages to catch it.”

Orion pets it some more out of principle before retreating, still fascinated. “Do you think it needs to be fed?”

“I bloody hope not,” Draco says.

“I had Mother petrify mine before packing,” Blaise comments from the sidelines.

Tracey squints at him. “You can’t petrify these books. I know, because we tried too.”

Blaise just grins. “I didn’t say she used a spell.”

Orion is fairly sure that whatever sentience his book possessed was snuffed out in a manner that would be illegal to use on a human being.

“Hindsight is everything,” Blaise adds, switching the topic, “If I’d known the half-breed was teaching this class, I would’ve picked arithmancy.”

Draco nods in agreement.

Orion grins, well aware that he’s got Ancient Runes instead of their first lesson with Hagrid today. “Sucks to suck, eh?”

“Shut it,” Draco tells him. In his defence, Orion would be worried too if he had to go to a lesson taught by a professor who thought this kind of book would be the lecture people want to read instead of keeping it in a terrarium as some kind of macabre pet.

He does feel a bit gleeful when instead of heading outside, he instead joins Theo, Daphne and Tracey for Ancient Runes. Their classroom is on the other end of the castle, and Orion agrees vocally when Daphne voices her distaste about the lack of functional Floo in the castle.

They have to sprint for a bit to escape Peeves’ shenanigans involving ink and multiple waste baskets, leaving a group of Ravenclaw first-years to fend for themselves, but pause to aid Baddock – a lanky Slytherin first-year who still hasn’t got over his cold – by pulling him out of a vanishing step.

Daphne tells him in no uncertain terms that if he sneezes on her again, she’ll personally shove him into every vanishing step for the next four years of his education before pointing him towards the hospital wing for some pepper-up.

The classroom for Ancient Runes is located on the fifth floor, with a grandiose view of the lake and the Quidditch field, which is ruined by the overcast sky and the dark shapes of Dementors floating in the fog right outside the bounds of the castle.

Nevertheless, Orion doesn’t let it bother him because runes is a subject he’d been looking forward to for a while, and although Professor Babbling – a wizard in his late sixties with greying hair and tiny round glasses perched on his bulbous nose – appears to adhere to a no-nonsense approach, shushing all conversation before he starts the obligatory welcome speech, he’s rather hopeful that it’s going to be an interesting subject.

Babbling’s monologue is solely interrupted by a harried-looking Granger showing up ten minutes late, which wouldn’t even have been that noticeable of an issue if she hadn’t apologised profusely and bumped her ridiculously overflowing bag into Patil’s chair before settling embarrassedly on the empty spot right in front of Babbling’s desk.

It’s only later in the Slytherin dungeons after classes that afternoon that he learns that apparently the first Care of Magical Creatures lesson went tits up and that Draco got mauled by a vicious beast and has landed himself in the hospital wing.

“He got scratched by a hippogriff,” Blaise says, in response to Pansy’s dramatic retelling – she’s still got the attention of at least half the Slytherins’ in the common room and has moved on to relay the story to some bored-looking fifth years – “And as far as I could see, his whole arm was still attached.”

“There was a lot of blood, though,” Millicent concedes while rolling a dark gobstone between her fingers, still not having given up trying to rope someone into a game.

Orion, whose initial worry got appeased by Blaise, sighs, the dark leather of the sofa creaking as he sits up straighter. “Anyone up for a visit?” as he looks into the round.

“No thanks,” Moon says, waving a quill over her crossword puzzle, her sphinx cat stretching its claws where it’s sprawled out at her feet. “I’m not going to spoil my first free period by listening to your cousin complain, no offence.”

Zabini nods, flipping a page of the Teen Witches magazine he nicked from Daphne. “He’s going to milk this whole thing for a while, and I, for one, am going to enjoy the silence while it lasts.”

“Fair enough,” Orion replies, half amused, half offended on Draco’s behalf. He uses the opportunity to grab the books from his room, which he had checked out over the summer, resorting to returning them before his visit.

When he passes by the common room again, Moon tells him to not get himself petrified by a basilisk again, and in response he steals a fistful of sweets from her box of Honeydukes mix before flipping her off.

After swinging by the library and returning his books while trying to sweet-talk Madam Pince – as much as one can sweet-talk that witch because he really wants those extensions on some books on Ancient Runes – Orion makes his way over to the hospital wing.

Madame Pomfrey spots him almost as soon as he’s stepped into her domain. She looks suspiciously relieved.

“Ah, Mr Black. I’m assuming you’re here to visit Mr Malfoy,” she greets him, wiping her hands on her apron as she walks over to him, stirring up the dust motes floating in the air within the light-flooded room.

Orion, feeling a sneeze tickling in his nose at the smell of herbs and antiseptic, crunches through an acid drop before it can burn through his tongue. “Yeah.”

“Very well. I believe it can only help his …recovery.”

She points him towards one of the beds in the back, where Orion can already see Draco’s pale blond mop of hair bedded on a pillow reflecting the afternoon sun.

As soon as he draws near, Draco starts to groan. “It hurts,” he moans, “The pain – I think I’m dying…”

Orion pauses next to the bed, his lips twitching as he watches Draco writhe and mutter and groan some more, going on about needing another pain relief potion. He idly unwraps a chocolate frog as he watches before cutting his cousin off by saying, “Careful, you wouldn’t want to develop an addiction,” with a smirk.

Draco finally cracks an eye open and finds it is him instead of Madame Pomfrey. “Orion,” he exclaims, almost sitting up before thinking better of it, his pained grunts suspiciously absent. “So you’ve heard! The beast almost killed me!”

Orion bites the head off the chocolate frog so that it stops moving. “Mhm,” he hums while chewing.

Draco stares at the chocolates.

“Word is you lost a limb,” Orion says momentarily.

“Well, almost!” Draco says, lifting his right arm, which is swathed in pristine white bandages. “Can you believe this?!”

“That you’re in the throes of dying? Not quite,” Orion retorts, before drawing up a chair.

“If it were up to that incompetent oaf, I would’ve almost bled out! Professor Snape already stopped by, and he agreed to write to Father.”

Orion flops down in his seat before pulling out the remainder of his stolen sweets from Moon. It comes down to a single chocolate frog and two Hocus Pocus Pops and some Ice Mice and dumps them on the linen of Draco’s bedsheet before propping up his boots on the frame.

The other boy reaches for the chocolate frog almost immediately.

“Need some help?” Orion offers amusement when Draco fumbles with the packaging.

Draco sniffs. “I’m not an invalid. But I wouldn’t mind a hand with this. I’m injured after all.”

“Of course,” Orion drawls, amused. He unwraps the other chocolate frog, taking a peek at the card but finding it’s one he already has. Morgana. It’s terribly common. He hands it both to Draco, who almost loses the chocolate frog when it tries to hop away.

“So,” Orion starts, “what really happened? The rumours are rather inconclusive.”

Draco sniffs. “That imbecile of a professor thought it would be wise to bring hippogriffs for a first lesson. You should have seen them! Beaks the size of my arm and the claws –” He launches into a speech, detailing every moment from the ‘gruesome’ scene.

“So you didn’t insult it in any way?” Orion eventually interrupts him when the blond takes a moment to breathe between words.

Draco takes a bite from his chocolate frog as he seems to mull his answer over. “I may have said something. But still. Those creatures are way too dangerous!”

“Aren’t they just horses with a bird’s head?”

Draco stares at him incredulously. “Did you listen to a single word I said?”

“Oh, come on,” Orion says, turning to look at Draco. “You’ve been gifting me books on magical creatures for ages. You can’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing. Hell, you’ve been around Abraxans since you were like three.”

Draco mutters something incoherent around a mouthful of chocolate.

“What? I didn’t quite get that,” Orion says, leaning forward.

Draco wrinkles his nose as he looks away. “It’s all Potter’s fault. He was just so – and then – he always has to be the centre of attention.”

Orion throws his head back and laughs. “Potter. Of course,” he voices, his eyes crinkling with his wide grin.

Draco glares at him. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you! You always get like this when I bring it up! For once, could you take my side when it comes to this?”

Orion’s grin fades to a smirk. “What? You think I like Potter better than you?”

Draco huffs. “I knew you wouldn’t get it.” He crosses his arms, absently picking lint off his sleeve with a mulish expression. “Forget it.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t be like that,” Orion says.

“You’re such a prat.”

“Says the one who’s faking being on the deathbed.”

Draco abruptly uncrosses his arms, turning to glare at Orion. “I’m not faking! I got mauled!”

Orion lifts his hands. “Yeah, yeah. I concede. You were attacked. All of this is very serious, and your response isn’t exaggerated at all.”

Draco stares straight ahead, a muscle in his jaw jumping. He blinks. And blinks again. A few times too quickly in a row for it to be normal.

Orion finds himself staring, disbelievingly.

God. Is he about to cry?

A small part of him is suddenly feeling very awkward.

Orion fidgets with the packaging of his chocolate frog, twisting it between his fingers. He hasn’t yet looked at his card. Rowena Ravenclaw. He doesn’t think Draco has it yet. “Here,” he says, tossing it onto the blanket thrown over Draco’s lap. “You still need that one, right?”

Draco wipes at his nose before picking it up, twisting it back and forth. “Yeah,” he says.

Orion clears his throat. They sit in silence for a long moment. “I believe you, alright,” Orion says eventually. “I bet it was pretty scary.”

“I wasn’t scared!” Draco shoots back almost immediately.

Orion has a hard time biting back his smile at Draco’s indignation.

“Shut up,” the blond says after a moment. “I wasn’t.”

“I didn’t say you were,” Orion retorts. “I said the situation was scary. Everyone would be if they were attacked by a vicious hippogriff.” He can’t quite keep his sarcasm out of his voice.

Draco flops his head back against the pillow. “You’re so insufferable.”

Orion cracks a grin. “Says you.”

“A little empathy, Black. That’s all I ask for,” Draco retorts, almost back to his usual self.

“I’ll get Pansy to bring you the notes of the classes you’re going to miss,” Orion says.

“Alright”, Draco says. “Can you write to Mother?” he adds after a moment. “It felt weird to ask Snape.”

Orion nods. “Yeah. I wouldn’t want him to take over my correspondence either. I’ll get you a dicta-quill. I bet Flint has one he can lend you; he can't be needing it yet considering there wasn’t a charms lesson to sleep through. I can send the letters for you.”

“Thanks,” Draco says.

“I’m trying to get Millicent to try out for a beater,” Orion says after a moment, changing the topic to something less delicate.

Draco snorts. “That’s never going to happen.”

“She’d be quite good, I think,” Orion says. “If she didn’t get suspended after the first game, that is.”

Draco snorts again. “She’d pummelled the Gryffindors into the ground.”

“Yeah, she would,” Orion agrees, amused.

Because it’s Draco, that comment devolves into a half-hour discussion about Quidditch, and after, they spend another twenty minutes composing a letter to Narcissa that Draco dictates and which Orion suspects is still somewhat edited because Draco feels embarrassed before he eventually says his goodbyes and makes his way to the owlery to send it off.

Draco’s behemoth of an eagle owl still likes him better than Odesseus, and that says something, though he makes sure to bribe his own bird with treats as soon as the former is gone.

He runs into a few Hufflepuffs and overhears them talking about how Potter's apparent death had been predicted by Professor Trewlaney before they notice him and swiftly pack up and hurry away with pale faces.

Over the course of the next two days, “allegedly,” swiftly becomes Orion’s favourite word when it comes to the rumours surrounding the criminal Sirius Black and his next goals – namely Hogwarts.

Draco’s still in the hospital wing, and partly because he feels guilty, Orion is happy to shove responsibility towards Potter, who may as well be a target if the overall reputation of Sirius as the Dark Lord’s right-hand man is concerned, downplaying his own involvement with Black’s breakout as much as is possible, considering their relation.

He’s playing owl, sending Draco’s letters for him and also writing back to Lucius, who enquires about his opinion on the whole situation. From what he read between the lines, the man is rather outraged by the whole matter.

It’s a miracle no heads have rolled yet.

Still, considering the context of his own petrification, Orion feels slightly bitter. He doesn’t quite know which measures Lucius took afterwards, but he doubts he could’ve been all that involved in punishing the perpetrators, considering he was the one responsible for it in the first place.

And if he did, Orion surely didn’t notice.

It’s somewhat ironic that this whole running back and forth and humouring Draco’s played-up injury during his visits at the hospital wing – which should be some of the most annoying parts of his days – are a welcome break from the manifold whispers trailing after him.

Not that Orion doesn’t relish that whole infamous reputation he’s gaining somewhat, but the novelty is wearing off at this point. So do the hexes some of the more daring Gryffindors send his way.

Hexing them back resulted in a massive loss of points courtesy of McGonagall, and he can only threaten them with his convict parents every so often before he’s dirtying Sirius’ reputation even further.

He didn’t even use any dark hexes. Or at least no outright dark ones.

Merlin, he still doesn’t know what to do about that whole matter.

It doesn’t help that somehow it got out that Orion paid a visit to Azkaban during the summer to see his ‘mother’. And while the Slytherins are mostly indifferent aside from some inherent curiosity, the other houses appear to regard him with a renewed kind of apprehension.

Orion uses the chance after breakfast on Thursday to duck out into some wind-shielded alcoves connecting to a mostly unused wing of the castle to light a smoke and to get some distance from the whole rumour mill surrounding him and his convict father.

Though he should’ve guessed he wouldn’t be the only one. It still surprises him when, half a cigarette in, two older students are turning the corner, looking just as caught as he, their own smokes already in hand.

Orion’s initial startlement leads to him feeling oddly self-aware when he almost chokes on the smoke and is forced to suppress a cough when it tickles against his windpipe.

But then the Ravenclaw boy snorts and proceeds to light his smoke with a plastic Muggle lighter and hands it to his taller friend, who follows suit.

“Black, wasn’t it?” The blond Ravenclaw, says the blond Ravenclaw after a moment.

Orion nods, breathing an internal sigh of relief to be faced with two muggle-borns(?) – he guesses – instead of the less indifferent party within the castle.

Susan Bones, especially, has been pinning him with hateful glares every time he passes her in the hallways. Dead family courtesy of Death Eaters and all that drivel. Orion would like to point out that she doesn’t have a leg to stand on when it comes to him, but that would only result in some questions being raised, which he doesn’t necessarily want to answer.

“Harold Dingle”, the blond introduces himself.

“Bit young to smoke, aren’t you?” the other boy says, smoke pouring from his lips.

Orion takes a deliberate drag. “And you are?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.

“Eddie. Carmichael,” he adds when Orion doesn’t make a move to speak. He’s got a mischievous air around him, which is only underlined by the crooked nature of his smile.

“Well, Eddie. It’s not like I’ve got to worry about lung cancer now, do I?” Orion voices after a moment, flicking ash onto the ground.

Harold snorts. “Didn’t know you even knew what lung cancer was.”

Orion shrugs, settling more comfortably against the alcove before he adds, “And why is that?”

Dingle doesn’t seem to be discouraged by the blatant fishing and instead bluntly says, “Being a stuffy pureblood and all that bull.”

Orion considers what to answer before he simply says, “Touché.”

Dingle cracks a grin. “What is this, then? An early onset of teenage rebellion?”

“Like finds like, or so I hear,” Orion retorts easily.

“Oh no,” Carmichael denies. “I smoke purely for aesthetics.”

Orion snorts, amused. “Well, if you don’t have anything else going on for you, I suppose you have to resort to such desperate measures.”

“Do you ever grow sick of sounding like a pretentious prat?” Carmichael voices with a grin, but there’s some bite behind his words.

Orion mirrors him by baring his teeth in a smile. “It’s part of my charm.”

“Some charm.”

Meanwhile Dingle is fumbling with his lighter, his cigarette only halfway lit. “Damn. My lighter’s crapping out.”

“You do have a wand; you realise that, right?” Orion says.

“My sister burnt her eyebrows clean off with an overpowered incendio. I’m not about to follow in her footsteps. I still have the pictures, and I’m not about to experience the same fate,” Dingle replies.

Orion digs around in his pocket, hesitating briefly, before holding out Sirius’ old lighter. “Here. Use mine.”

“Thanks”, Dingle mouths around his cigarette, drawing it from Orion’s fingers and reigniting his smoke. He clicks it shut and turns it in his hand, briefly inspecting the heavy Zippo lighter.

“A lion?” He looks up. “Did you rip off some poor Gryffindor?”

Orion takes the lighter back. “It was my father’s.” That shuts him up. But only briefly.

“Messed up”, he says and grins. “That’s the guy who escaped from the wizarding prison, right?”

“Azkaban”, Carmichael tacks on.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Dingle says, snapping his fingers.

Orion expels a lungful of smoke with a sigh.

“Rumour has it he’s heading for Hogwarts. That’s why the Dementors are here.” He looks at Orion, curiosity evident on his face.

“Allegedly,” Orion says. It comes almost automatically at this point.

Carmichael snorts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d assume you’d watched too many courtroom dramas.”

“The lingo’s probably bred into your kind from the cradle,” Dingle says. “Can’t imagine your lot sitting down in front of a telly – if you even know what it is.”

“I know what it is,” Orion says, slightly miffed.

“Colour me surprised,” Dingle adds sarcastically.

Orion considers him. “Do you perchance hang around the Weasley twins on occasion?”

“Might”, Dingle says, a grin splitting his face. “Say,” he adds after a moment, his expression turning serious, “You probably know more about Black than either of us. Do you really think that he’s heading for Hogwarts?”

Orion rolls his cigarette between his fingers, sighing. “Probably,” he says after a moment, seeing no real sense in lying.

“What even for?” Carmichael pipes up.

“The Aurors think he’s either trying to contact me or going after Potter,” Orion says for the dozenth time in the last couple of days.

Dingle’s brows rise towards his hairline.

“For real?” Carmichael says.

Orion shrugs, not really willing to delve into matters any deeper.

“Kinda creepy, if you ask me. A grown man heading for a school,” Dingle says.

Carmichael snorts. “I doubt he’s going to pull up in a white van trying to lure you in with a litter of pups.”

Orion takes another drag of his smoke, his brows inching upwards, vaguely entertained. He can’t imagine it either.

“Makes me almost glad for the Dementors,” Dingle says.

“Almost,” Carmichael voices, visibly shuddering. He blows out a cloud of smoke taking on the shape of a star in a display of wandless magic that must’ve taken him ages to get down.

Orion finishes his smoke and puts it out against the wall before drawing his wand and setting the butt on fire, watching it being consumed by the magical flames. “Well, it’s been a pleasure,” he says more out of ingrained habit than anything else, and he spells away the scent of smoke clinging to his persona.

“Sure,” Dingle says.

The other Ravenclaw just nods, and Orion makes his way to the Great Hall, hoping to put a pin in the whole debate surrounding his father. He’s going to have to hire a secretary to file the questions he still gets asked – as if he knew anything more about Sirius’ plans just because they share a last name.

Unfortunately, mere minutes after the morning post arrives, Zabini catches his attention to point out a notice in the Daily Prophet, claiming that Sirius Black has been sighted in the area by a Muggle.

“Do you think it’s legitimate?” He asks over his crumbling toast, angling it so the melting butter won’t drip over his fingers. “It’s a muggle after all. They don’t really know what Black looks like. Sirius, I mean.”

“I’d gathered that much,” Orion says dryly, for some reason not able to shake the image of white vans.

“Whatever. Merlin, this is getting confusing.”

“You tell me,” Orion voices. He instinctively reacts whenever someone refers to his father by his last name, and he’s had to restrain himself multiple times when he overheard whispers in the hallways so as to not swing his head around, thinking someone was trying to get his attention.

“I heard they showed it on the Muggle telly,” Tracey interjects. “Black’s picture, I mean. They said he had a gun. It’s a type of Muggle weapon,” she adds when Pansy shoots her a confused look.

“The Muggle could’ve been confused, though.”

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Orion says. “We won’t know for sure unless he shows up at the castle.”

Blaise eyes him with concern. “And you’re not concerned about that?”

Orion reaches over to pour himself some more tea. “Why would I be?”

Zabini studies him sceptically.

“Please, you can’t claim that you’re not even a little curious,” Pansy interjects. “I know; I would be if I’d never met my father. Especially if it’s someone as infamous as yours.”

Orion turns all his focus on stirring a spot of milk into his tea, watching it fogging up the liquid. Eventually, he says. “If he comes looking for me, I’ll deal with it. If he doesn't, that's just as well. I doubt he will. As far as anyone is concerned, he likely doesn’t even know I exist.”

Pansy stares at him, stunned. “Are you serious?”

“How can he not?” Daphne exclaims, equally bewildered. Astoria is sitting next to her, focused on her plate and cutting into an egg with impeccable technique, her hair braided neatly back, like a quiet, more well-mannered copy of her sister. Orion has yet to hear her utter a single word.

He shrugs. “I don’t remember ever meeting him, and my mother never really mentioned him.”

“Well, of course.” Daphne rolls her eyes. “You were a baby.”

Astoria’s eyes flick up briefly.

When Orion doesn’t make any move to further the conversation, she leans further over the table. “I’m serious,” she adds. “He has to know. He’s been out for what? Two months?”

What Orion doesn’t admit is that he’s harbouring similar thoughts. Not that he knows what to do with them.

“Look. I don’t care,” he lies. “I’ve never met the man, and I doubt he’s all that interested in me. Why would he try to find me now?”

“You don’t have anything of his?” Pansy asks. “Like a personal note or something?”

“Why would I have a note?”

“A note, a keepsake, an heirloom he wanted you to have,” Pansy replies, rolling her eyes as if she thinks him incredibly obtuse, the ends of her pin-straight hair brushing against her jaw with the movement. “Something parents leave their children; I don’t know.”

“Not really,” Orion says. “Only the stuff he left at the house. But he lived with Potter’s dad from when he was sixteen or something like that, so I doubt it’s anything he was really attached to.”

Orion’s suddenly aware that a few more Slytherins have slowed in their conversations and are quietly paying attention.

“Really?” Pansy interjects, and she stares over the tables to locate Potter. “He lived with Potter’s father since he was a teenager? And he still betrayed them to the Dark Lord?”

Daphne kicks her legs under the table, and Blaise stares at her with a pointed look, his eyes flicking back to Orion.

“He didn’t,” Orion says.

“What?”

“He didn’t betray the Potters,” Orion says.

Pansy laughs shrilly, while Blaise and Daphne exchange concerned looks. “Oh, come on, Black,” Pansy voices. “Everybody knows how the story went down. Even you can’t be in that much denial.”

Orion’s eyes narrow.

“I hate to say it”, Daphne says, “But she’s right.”

“No, she isn’t,” Orion says simply. “Not that I care what you think.”

Blaise looks at him in a manner that betrays he doesn’t believe a word Orion says.

“You know,” Daphne starts, “my mother told me that all Blacks are a bit barmy, but I thought it had skipped you so far. It seems I was wrong.”

Her sister stares at her, appalled.

Blaise snorts. “Really? Him?”

“You can talk about me like I’m not here all you want, but you can’t insult me,” Orion says, affectedly haughty.

“Because you’re mad,” Pansy singsongs.

“Hag,” Orion retorts.

“Swot.”

“Pug-face.”

Blaise’s eyes grow large before a delighted grin splits his face.

Pansy sniffs and takes her bag as she gets up at once. “You can speak to me after class, when I’m ready to accept your apology.” She turns her nose up, causing her severe bob to sway dramatically, before leaving them all as she stalks down the table to drop into a spot next to where Vince, Greg and Theo are sitting.

“Oh, Black, now you’ve done it.” Snyde interjects from two seats up. Daphne nods gravely.

“You won’t come back from that,” she says.

In a rather immature manner, Orion flips them both off.

Just then Moon appears, looking harried and wearing an uncharacteristically messy ponytail. Her sleeves are rolled up, the fabric damp for some reason.

“What did I miss?”

“Orion started a blood feud, Parkinson,” Daphne voices.

Moon levels Orion with a gleeful look. “Seriously?”

“Lies and slander,” he says.

Blaise flashes a pearly smile. “He called her pug-face. To her face.”

Moon laughs before she drops down on the bench next to Zabini. “She’s going to complain about you to me, you know? Again,” he says as she reaches over the table for some toast.

“What do you mean, again?” Orion asks, staring at her.

Moon waves him off.

“No, seriously? What did she say to you?”

Moon ignores him. “Pass me the jelly, will you?” she asks Daphne.

“By the way, where’s the rest?” Blaise asks. “You’re already late to breakfast, and if the others aren’t going to show up anytime soon, they’re going to be late to Transfiguration too.”

“McGonagall is going to dock so many points,” Daphne sighs. She shoots Orion a pointed look.

Meanwhile, Moon heaps a generous helping of jelly onto her toast. “Moaning Myrtle showed up in our bathroom this morning, flooding the whole thing, and then wouldn’t leave. The other girls are trying to collect signatures to issue a complaint with Snape to finally get her banished from the school.”

Orion raises his brows. “What about you?”

“I know when I’m betting on an Abraxan with wing-and-mouth disease,” she replies, while chewing.

It reaps her a few judgemental and disgusted looks.

Daphne nods. “They try to have her exorcised every other decade, or so my mother tells me. But no luck.”

“Too expensive?” Orion enquires.

“No. I heard, The closest they ever got was when Dumbledore insisted on asking her if she wanted to leave, and when she declined, he said that was that.”

Blaise scoffs while he stabs a grilled tomato with his fork.

“I don’t know why they insist on keeping all the ghosts around,” Daphne says. I get tolerating a family member sticking around for a while or some of the more historical famous figures, but Peeves? Or Myrtle? Please.”

“Tradition mostly,” Tracey says.

“Tradition is making me want to avada myself before every history lesson,” Daphne says.

Orion snorts into his tea. Moon outright laughs while Tracey exclaims, “Daphne!”

Astoria seems wholly overwhelmed with the situation.

Her older sister just flicks her hair over her shoulder. “I’m right, and you know it.”

Professor McGonagall is gearing up to take some points just like Daphne predicted when the rest of the Slytherin girls show up late to transfiguration, but at their explanation she just sighs and tells them to sit down and open their books on the chapter they’re covering.

Overall, Orion spends a relatively productive morning taking notes on animagi, following an hour of harvesting puffapods in the greenhouses before they’re collectively heading back into the dungeons for potions.

Smoke is hanging under the cavernous ceiling, the soothing backdrop of crackling flames and bubbling cauldrons only interrupted by the occasional clearing of throats, knives knocking against cutting boards and the quiet rustling of Snape’s robes as he stalks around their tables. They’re working on a shrinking solution today, and Orion is chopping methodically through caterpillars while trying to keep the live ones from escaping, and Blaise adds the daisy roots to their base. They’re halfway into the lesson when Draco shows up again, strutting into the dimly lit dungeon as if he’d returned from war. Pansy predictably coos over him and his still bandaged arm, and Orion shoots him an inquisitive look when he sets himself up at a table next to Potter and Weasley instead of his fellow Slytherins.

Draco’s intention becomes clear when he announces loudly that, since he’s still injured, he needs someone to chop his ingredients.

It’s predictable, really.

Snape, being his usual prickish self, puts down Potter and Weasley and makes a scene over Longbottom’s incompetence before taking points from Gryffindor when Granger aids the boy in making a potion that won’t outright kill his toad, although Orion had been rather curious to see the outcome had he failed.

Snape seems to be more irritated by Orion as well this year, glaring at him as if he could set him on fire that way, though luckily his status as a Slytherin grants him some buffer. So far he hasn’t lost their house any points for potions mishaps, at least.

When they pour out of the classroom at the end of the lesson, the Gryffindors’ outraged voices over their loss of points overlap with their echoing steps on the stones.

Blaise stretches his neck, groaning as he rubs at his shoulders, before he readjusts the strap of his bag. “I should’ve invested in learning the featherlight charm,” he complains. “Is it just me, or are we hauling around double the amount of books as last year?”

“Lockhart had us purchase his whole series,” Orion retorts, watching Draco heap his bookbag upon Vince, who doesn’t even blink at hauling twice the weight.

“To be fair”, Moon interjects, as she quickens her steps to catch up with them, “I don’t think any of us bothered to carry those around.”

“I set mine on fire,” Blaise says. “It was rather cathartic.”

“There’s an idea,” Orion replies, slightly put out that he didn’t come up with that as they’re heading for the staircase, following after the Gryffindors, who – as always – were the first to pack up and hurry out of bounds from Snape’s hawkish gaze.

Farther ahead, Longbottom’s shoulders are still shaking while he murmurs comfortingly to his toad. It’s no longer a flapping tadpole, but Orion wonders if it escaped quite unscathed. Not that brain damage would be obvious in that creature.

Just then, Longbottom bumps into Finnigan, causing a chain reaction when the boy stumbles into Thomas, who loses his bookbag, making Millicent slip on a pot of ink and fall into a clanging suit of armour.

It reassembles itself while the portraits on the walls start to scoff over the students, swinging its halberd threateningly.

The Slytherins circle around the group of Gryffindors, who’re subsequently roped into an argument with the portraits hanging on the wall and the gesturing suit of armour, Millicent already having extracted herself.

“What do we have again?” Moon asks.

“Defence,” Zabini replies.

“I wonder how the new professor will shape up,” Moon comments.

Orion hums noncommittally. He’s under the vague impression that Lupin should be competent, but he is rather curious about the man. So far he’s seen him only during lunch, conversing politely with other teachers.

“Francis said he was decent,” Blaise voices. “From what Millicent mentioned.”

“Anyone’s better than Lockhart,” Orion adds.

Moon sighs. “He was very handsome, though.”

Nobody contends that.

Zabini snorts. “I still can’t believe they’re pushing that hippogriff dung of a story that he’s on a sabbatical.”

Orion grins. “I doubt it would aid Dumbledore’s hiring policies if it got out that he’s on an extended stay in St Mungo’s instead.”

“Gosh, would you look at that mess?” Draco voices loudly, craning his head to look over his shoulder.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” Potter bites out.

Draco opens his mouth.

“We’re ignoring this, right?” Zabini says in a low voice.

In response, Orion pointedly picks up his pace, walking past the quarrelling couple while Weasley already looks ready to draw his wand. “Yup.”

Draco is obviously going through something, and with that chip on his shoulder, he’s got to work it out himself. If he needs to put Potter down to feel superior, he might as well do so, but please, on his own time.

“Thank god,” Moon says.

Lupin is notably absent when they reach the classroom.

While last year it was plastered with Lockhart’s own self-portraits, this year it almost seems barren without them, even with the large dragon skeleton hung under the ceiling and glass cases lining the walls.

Briefly Orion spares a thought towards the current lunar cycle, but since their first astrology lesson had been a theoretical revision of what they went over last year, he doesn’t have a good handle on it yet.

Orion, Moon and Blaise find a group of tables in the back, following the example of their classmates, chatting idly about the latest album announcement of the Weird Sisters, while Moon wonders out loud when the first fan club session will take place.

Finally Lupin does show up, wearing a shabby suit and a small smile. His eyes slide over the crowd of students, and Orion feels his amber gaze linger on him before he motions for them to follow him with the mysterious announcement that they’ll only need their wands.

Orion can’t contain his amusement once Peeves materialises through a wall, following them to blatantly mock Lupin.

“Makes you wonder what kind of student he was to receive that kind of disrespect from Peeves,” Moon whispers as they trail after their class. “He looks like a goody-two-shoes.”

“I mean, he ended up as a professor,” Tracey says with a sceptical look trailing Lupin.

“You’d be surprised,” Orion says.

His amusement only lasts so long until they head into an abandoned classroom, and Peeves is put in his place by Lupin with a familiar projectile spell – ‘waddiwasi’.

Because that’s when Lupin announces that they’re going to face a boggart.

“Oh hell no,” Tracey breathes, giving voice to their collective thoughts.

As it comes to them forming a line, the more sensible portion of the students, namely the Slytherins, pool in the very back of the room. Even Draco looks pale, robbed of his usual bravado.

“I can’t properly cast anyway. My arm, you see – I’m still indisposed,” he announces loudly, while Pansy nods in jerky movements, before badgering Vince to switch places with her.

Orion watches with a lump in his throat while their new professor bends down to whisper into Longbottom's ear, inaudible to them in the back, while the Gryffindors crane their necks in anticipation.

“He can’t be serious,” Blaise hisses between clenched teeth.

Orion barely pays attention. Scenarios run through his head. He isn’t a stranger to boggarts, but he’s never had to face one by himself. He wonders what it would show? A beheaded Archie? Walburga dead, or worse, alive, belittling him for his choices? Perhaps he is in Bellatrix’s state, emaciated, behind bars. Maybe Voldemort. Either recruiting him or torturing him for the knowledge buried in his head.

At least nothing he can think of that he’d be willing to expose in such a public space.

The sight of Professor Snape materialising in front of the rickety wardrobe before suddenly looking like a crossdresser briefly draws him out of his gloomy musings. He laughs along with the majority of the Gryffindors, but even to him it sounds stifled.

He watches the line shrink as one Gryffindor after the other makes their house proud by facing their fears – spiders, clowns, and snakes – childish fears, easily dealt with by dousing them in confetti or putting roller-skates on them.

The gap between Millicent and Lavender’s back is growing when she doesn’t make a move to catch up. Nott is subtly slinking to the very back of the crowd.

Orion’s apprehension grows. He doesn’t know his greatest fear, but he is not about to expose it to all of these people. He doesn’t want to know. He has to know. He can’t.

Inwardly he steels himself. He’s fifth in line now.

Occlumency can be used to fool Boggarts.

A throwaway line in a book he had dismissed is now worth more than gold.

He doesn’t think he’s advanced enough to project a false image, but he will have to. Just briefly, long enough to confound the creature with an imaginary fear. He can protect his own corpse, right? It shouldn’t be hard. A fear of death – that’s natural, isn’t it?

Potter steps forward. The boggart turns into a misty cloud, indecipherable in shape as it shifts, when Lupin jumps in front of him.

A shimmering sphere hangs in the air all of a sudden. Lupin stares at it for a moment. It resembles a crystal ball more than a moon at first glance. Not if you don’t know what you’re looking at, yet a mere second later, it’s turned into a balloon zooming through the room, making farting noises to Finnigan’s and Thomas’ endless entertainment, judging by their roaring laughter.

“I think we can cut this lesson short for today,” Lupin says. He wears a reserved smile, but Orion notes the tightness around his eyes and his stiff shoulders.

“Practice your pronunciation and the wand movements,” he says. “And please read the chapter on Boggarts in your school book.”

“Thank Merlin,” Daphne breathes as they leave the dusty classroom, her sentiment echoed by similarly relieved expressions on their classmates’ faces, while the Gryffindors chat excitedly over the new spell they learnt.

“Did you see that snake? It was huge –”

“-and how I silenced that Banshee-”

“The roller-skates, brilliant!”

“Fuck this lesson,” Tracey states bluntly.

Orion doesn’t nod but feels some of the tension bleeding out of his posture. Unconsciously, he’s adapted the stance Walburga drilled him on for years to display in social settings. Spine rigid, shoulders straight, arms relaxed on his sides. Only that they aren’t relaxed. Deliberately he loosens the tight grip he has on his wand and unclenches his jaw.

Twenty minutes later has him lighting a cigarette in an abandoned alcove, sucking smoke into his lungs. The anxiousness and the apprehension he felt facing his fear still linger.

Orion has never regarded himself as a coward. He resents the idea of it, but he’d been frozen at that moment when that boggart had first emerged. That milky cloud, surrounded by an aura reminiscent of that of Dementors.

He curses when he notices that his cigarette went out, half an inch of ash dropping onto the wet grass.

Clicking Sirius’ lighter, he only manages to produce sparks, the wheel rolling twice under his finger before he manages to relight it.

A memory of discussing Tolkien with Granger flashes through his mind, unbidden. Resentfully, Orion takes a long drag of his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before expelling it.

‘A man that flies from his fear may find that he has only taken a shortcut to meet it.’

The classroom is empty when he arrives. As dusty as before. The old wardrobe looms before him as Orion pauses, staring at it like a manticore about to bite, keeping his careful distance.

He drops his book bag, shucks off his robes and rolls up his sleeves as he draws his wand.

Carefully, he inches closer, bit by bit. The wardrobe rattles.

Orion takes a deep breath. He’s the scion of the ancient and noble House of Black. A measly boggart isn’t going to be the end of him. He will face his fear so he may conquer it, come what may.

He takes two large strides, head held high, unconsciously holding his breath when the door suddenly springs open.

The boggart emerges in a shapeless blob of dark fog. It wavers in the air, expanding and contracting like a lung not quite managing to take a shape, till Orion realises he’s kept his mental defences shored high.

He forces himself to open his mind – and freezes.

A man stands in front of him. Haggard, wild-eyed, dark hair dishevelled and dirtied, yellow teeth on display. A scraggly beard falling onto his chest, wearing the same prison-issued robes he wears in the picture of the wanted posters plastered all over Diagon Alley.

They’ve got the same nose.

Mad silver eyes fixate on him. “Who are you supposed to be?” Sirius Black croaks. He takes a menacing step towards Orion, sizing him up before abruptly cracking a toothy grin. “A Black, eh?” And then he says, “Don’t make me laugh.”

Orion stands frozen, in shock, before sudden anger sparks in his belly.

He grits his teeth.

Shackles fixed around Sirius’ ankles rattle with every step. “Pathetic, that’s what you think, right? When you look at me,” Sirius challenges him. “And yet you’re less than that. I’m Black. By birth. By inheritance. By right!” he bellows, spitting. “Who are you?! Some bastard, they plucked from the streets?” Sirius smiles cruelly. “The only reason they picked you was because there was no one else left. Someone they could mould and shape and puppeteer. A Black…” Sirius laughs. He devolves into hoarse cackles, the sound driving into Orion’s bones, stabbing right where it hurts.

He clenches his hands into fists, his whole body trembling.

How dare he, who left everything behind, judge him?

As soon as the thought has shot through his head, Orion sucks in a hissing breath, his memories nudged into sharp focus at finding Sirius’ laughter cut off, his face changing shape, resembling a young woman instead.

Untouched by Azkaban, shiny black tresses falling onto her back and clad in a blood-red dress, the Black insignia around her throat, glinting silver. It seems to bore into his eyes just like her dark gaze.

“Orion, Orion, Orion… Black,” Bellatrix’s sing-songing voice declares. Her necklace glints when she throws her head back and laughs. “As if! Did you really think you could be one of us?!”

Orion stands as if petrified when she stalks towards him.

“Ridiculous. My cousin was right. As if you could ever measure up! As if you could ever be a Black!” Her grin fades as she stops right in front of him, staring at him like a bug, her aristocratic features distorted with anger. “Weaselling your way in. Imposter! Wannabe! I should have rendered your flesh from your bones as soon as I saw you and murdered you like I murdered your mother. That filthy blood-traitor bitch.”

Orion feels the blood drain from his face. He feels sick.

His wand burns in his hand, searing his flesh. The pain shakes him up. “Riddikulus,” he breathes, his voice breaking.

A bang sounds. Bella’s face has abruptly warped, turning her cheekbones sharper, her hair still black but pulled back in a tight bun. Her dress is high-necked now and modest, dyed a charcoal colour.

Orion staggers back, hands trembling as he’s faced with his late grandmother. Her face is a picture of unbridled rage, more furious than he’s ever seen her. “TRAITOR! CHANGELING! FILTH!” she screams. “I CURSE THE DAY I TOOK YOU IN! I SHOULD’VE ORDERED KREACHER TO DROWN YOU LIKE THE RAT YOU ARE!” Her long-nailed hands stretch out like claws, making a grab for his neck. 

Spit sprays as she hisses with familiar sherry-breath, “Nothing more than a muggle wrapped up in snakeskin! You dare steal what does not belong to you, thief!”

It makes everything so much more real. 

Orion feels his eyes haze over. Fear and anger welling up at himself, his self-hatred twisted easily into long-harboured resentment. “Riddikulus!” he spits.

Walburga splits from head to toe, her face comical as a line of blood drips from her forehead. She slides apart with a slick motion, two halves landing on the floor.

A puddle of blood spreads through the grooves.

Orion’s laugh is a joyless, bitter thing, verging on hysterics.

That shut her up. Who knew?

The boggart loses shape. A dark cloud zaps back into the wardrobe.

Orion locks it with a sharp stab of his wand. He casts another spell, as illegal as he dares, imprisoning the boggart further, and when that isn’t enough, an incarcerous has chains springing up, wrapping tightly around the seemingly innocent piece of furniture. The visual proof of the boggart being rendered harmless finally allows him to realise what he’s just seen.

A laugh bubbles up his chest, his heart still pumping against his ribcage as he stares at the empty spot on the dusty floor.

As suddenly as his laugh has come, it vanishes.

His stomach lurches at the memory flashing behind his lids. Orion bends over and vomits right onto the stones.

Eventually he comes up, wiping at his mouth. He spits to get rid of the taste, hands still shaking.

Someone clears their throat. Orion whips around, wand at the ready, a spell on his lips, only to find Lupin standing in the doorway, looking at him with a mix of concern and something else. The premature lines on his face seem to be etched even deeper.

Orion stares, his mouth opening, but no words come out.

What can he even say after this?

Lupin possesses the grace to wordlessly vanish the puddle of vomit with a flick of his wand.

This is fucking embarrassing.

Orion tries to scrape together what’s left of his dignity after a scene like this.

Meanwhile, Lupin reaches into his pocket, like he didn’t just watch Orion throw up all over the floor, and pulls something out.

“Chocolate frog?” he asks.

If the situation weren’t so surreal, Orion would have laughed. Something must still translate, because Lupin’s lips twitch. “It’s not poisoned, if you were wondering.”

“I wasn’t,” Orion replies automatically, wondering if Lupin’s got a few screws loose.

The man tilts his head in something like agreement. He appears amused.

Orion tries to gauge from his expression what he’s thinking. How much exactly has he witnessed?

Meanwhile, Lupin is still holding out his hand, offering up the chocolate frog. The moment draws out. Orion takes pity on him, taking the bloody chocolate frog, even though he doesn’t make a move to open it.

Lupin puts his hands in his pockets and looks past Orion at the wardrobe. Dust motes whirl as his movement stirs them up. His robes look even more shabby in the light. “Impressive spellwork,” he says.

“Worth any points?” Orion quips, still wrong-footed. It comes out less cheeky than he aimed for.

Nevertheless, Lupin’s face goes through an odd twitch. “I don’t think the second spell is one approved by the curriculum,” he says momentarily, subsequently revealing that he’s been here for quite a bit longer than Orion would like.

Just to give himself something to do, Orion unwraps the sweet. Another Dumbledore card. He pockets it anyway, demolishing the chocolate frog in two bites.

Awkwardly he looks at Lupin while the sweetness lingers on his tongue. The man looks as relaxed as he ever could be, his stance unassuming, but for all that he puts on an unthreatening front, Orion is suddenly made aware of the man’s height.

He’s taller than he seems, even behind his shabby oversized robes and folded in on himself. Here in the light of the window, Orion can see faded scars running up his jaw, disturbing his stubble and scraping past his nose.

The only indication that he turns into a bloodthirsty beast every month.

He is also, Orion notes, standing between him and his bag.

The silence draws out. Orion can’t stand it. It crawls up his neck; his insecurities still laid bare after the encounter with the boggart, and any second passing by reminds him that Lupin may have seen everything.

“So, you like teaching?” Orion says, just to break the silence, promptly cringing at his words.

Lupin looks startled for a moment, a smile flashing over his face like he hadn’t meant to display as much, when it takes on a self-deprecating edge a moment later. “I do,” he responds.

“Good. That’s good,” Orion says awkwardly.

Merlin, what is he saying?

Forcefully, he straightens up, his hand in his pocket to not outwardly fidget while he thumbs over Sirius’ lighter. He looks at Lupin askance. “I would congratulate you on an interesting first lesson, but what with the other professors we had, the bar isn’t very high,” he snarks, in an attempt to turn the attention away from the scene Lupin must’ve witnessed.

The man smiles again. “So I’ve heard,” he voices, surprising Orion somewhat in admitting it. Most of the other professors at least try to put up a front of professionalism when it comes to defending Dumbledore’s hiring choices.

“I should get going,” Orion states, looking pointedly at his bag.

“I won’t keep you then,” Lupin says. His eyes are crinkling as if Orion’s underlying awkwardness was plain as day to him for some reason. It rankles him. “Though perhaps you should restrict your extracurricular …studies to theory when it comes to creatures we haven’t thoroughly discussed during lessons yet.”

“Yeah, I think I’ve managed to come to that conclusion myself, thanks,” Orion says prickly.

Lupin’s mouth twitches again. “Very well,” he says.

Orion suddenly gets the impression that Lupin is actually a bit of a dick. His eyes narrow as he looks at his professor before he makes his way over to where his bag and robes are sprawled over the floor.

Lupin takes a polite step back.

Orion can’t help but throw another look over his shoulder when he steps into the hallway, finding Lupin looking at him with a contemplative expression.

What the fuck even was that?

Chapter Text

“Where have you been?” is what Draco greets him with as he steps into the common room.

“Library,” Orion says, approaching the group in front of the fireplace, where Nott, Vince, Greg, Tracey and Pansy are scattered around the couches.

“Never mind,” Draco says. “Look at this.” He picks up a letter with his uninjured hand and waves it at Orion. “Father wrote.”

Orion takes the heavy piece of parchment and scans over the lines. His brows raise. “Lucius is trying to get Hagrid fired by suing the school?”

“Not only that. He’s gotten the Creature Regulations Department involved. They’re going to evaluate that horrid creature.”

“To get it executed,” Orion concludes.

Draco grins. “Father says it's only a matter of time. They just have to slough through all the bureaucracy first.”

Orion looks back at the letter. “It’s going to have a trial? I didn’t know they did that kind of thing for animals.”

“It’s an evaluation of its temper,” Draco says self-importantly. “Dumbledore argued for it. There have been a few precedents for it, but it’s a wicked loophole. Did you know they had one for a dragon in 1657 for razing down a Welsh village only for its shackles to be deemed the culprit at fault? It was a whole thing.”

Orion shakes his head as he sets the letter back down, somehow still surprised by the occasional knowledge Draco drops seemingly out of nowhere, betraying that he’s secretly a little nerd when it comes to certain topics.

He spares a glance at Theo staring at a chessboard while Greg, who’s a surprisingly good player, is currently demolishing him to his delight.

“Anyway. Moon said to tell you the lists are out to sign up for extracurriculars again so you can visit your ridiculous fan club again.”

Orion cracks a grin. “You could join,” he says.

“I would sooner spend a day cursed with ginger hair.” Draco sniffs. “But I will start considering it once you try out for Quidditch.”

“And you better heal up before our first match!” Flint bellows through the common room.

“Heathen”, Pansy voices. “He should really offer you more consideration.”

Draco seems torn between agreeing with her and wanting to put on a strong front for Flint's sake.

Orion shifts. “I think I’m going to call it a day.”

“It’s barely five,” Draco says, turning his head to look up at him.

“And I relish my beauty sleep,” Orion retorts.

Draco scoffs. “You’re lucky I’m above calling you out on your lies.”

“I’m not,” Tracey pipes up.

Orion spares her a deadpan look.

“Liar,” she says. “There. Now you can go.” She flaps her hand at him in a dismissive motion.

Orion rolls his eyes as he heads towards their dorms. As much of a front as he put on, he’s still rather rattled by the boggart.

He’s faced his fear, but if he’s being frank, he’s never been farther from conquering it. In hindsight, it should’ve been obvious what he would face.

The memory is seared into his mind.

Seeing Walburga again shook him up. And Bellatrix too, if he’s being honest. He almost forgot what she used to look like. Before.

Never mind, Lupin. Orion gets he’s acting weird around him – after all, he thinks Sirius betrayed the Potters, but then again, he was strangely kind. In some odd, self-deprecating way.

Zabini’s in the bathroom, the sounds of the shower betraying his presence, but Orion simply draws his curtains shut before he crawls onto his bed.

Drawing his wand, he points it at the dark canopy. “Riddikulus,” he whispers, feeling the magic accumulate before it dissipates into nothingness. Abruptly, he tosses his wand into his lap. “Ridiculous,” he says to himself.

He’s being ridiculous. How the fuck can he still be so insecure about this bloody thing? Walburga is dead. Bellatrix… she doesn’t care. And who else would ever find out?

Sirius knows, a voice whispers in his head. And if he doesn’t yet, it’s only a matter of time till he puts the pieces together.

But what difference does it make? Sirius is a convict. A criminal. The disgraced black sheep of the Black family. Who would listen to him even if he were to reject and disown him?

Orion has proven himself as a better heir already if Walburga is to be believed.

For the first time in a long while, he thinks of his mother. His real mother.

Bellatrix – that false mirage of hers – has dredged up memories, which he’s happily shoved into the furthest recesses of his mind and pushed away whenever they came up – shrouded in a cloud of delusional ignorance.

But he can’t deny that she was there that day the McKinnons were killed. Orion doesn’t know if Bellatrix was the one to do it. A part of him is glad that he doesn’t. It allows him to pretend. But if he truly allows himself to think about it, knowing Bella, he can’t imagine anybody else facing her. Marlene. The Order member. The one who stole and claimed something she wasn’t due.

Bloodline theft, Walburga would call it, in her frequent rants of how mudbloods were a menace to society. A crime she warned him about multiple times: to not let himself be fooled by wicked witches trying to get a leg up by marrying into a pristine family claiming to be birthing heirs.

The irony of the situation doesn’t escape him.

Still, once she had him sat down in front of great-uncle Cygnus’ portrait for an hour, so he may be informed on such matters by a ‘male’ of the family, which turned out to be a half-hour lecture on how to best do away with illegitimate bastards fathered before they could get it in their head that they had any rights to their name and inheritance.

He’d been ten.

A part of him hates Bellatrix for being there that day. Still, he’s grateful that she was the one to find him. To spare him from the same fate.

And blood comes first.

But Marlene was blood too. Even if she wasn’t a Black.

Orion doesn’t know what his mother’s and Sirius’ relationship was, but he can’t imagine her giving a shit about any of the expectations that come with being a Black.

He wonders, for the first time, what she would want for him. Wonders what kind of person she was outside of being a mother confined to a home during war.

Orion feels a sudden wave of grief for never having gotten to know her properly. There’s guilt, too. For discarding her memory. Regret at not remembering her as much as he perhaps should have.

He used to like her, he recalls. When he wasn’t yet who he is now. Before everything, when magic was still ineffable and surprising and – well – magical and the memories of his former life weren't yet a faded thing of the past.

What would’ve been if a fluke of fate had graced him with red hair instead of the black shade he shares with his father?

Would Walburga even have taken him in?

Orion flops his head against the headboard. There’s no use pondering useless things. He’d be dead. It’s as easy as that. Bellatrix wouldn’t have spared him a second look.

His saviour.

His mother’s murderer.

Somewhere in between, he’s lost who he remembered he used to be. Orion doesn’t mourn that person that he was a lifetime ago.

Perhaps he should.

No.

The past is the past.

Orion is a Black.

In name, in blood, in …everything.

But is he?

He’s the last. The one who carries all responsibility.

But there’s still Sirius.

Sirius. What to do about his absent father? The black sheep. The one who fled rather than taking on the mantle of the head of house.

Orion doesn’t want to face him.

(Who are you supposed to be?)

(Changeling)

(Thief)

Now less than ever.

He doesn’t know what to do. He really, really doesn’t know.

He could let things play out.

There are more things to contemplate than just his father’s fate.

Pettigrew. The Dark Lord’s rising.

Though, conveniently, there’s a prophecy already dealing with that matter that’s not related to him at all.

And Orion vowed that he wouldn’t get involved in that shitshow years ago.

It doesn’t concern him.

And yet. Doesn’t it?

Orion needs advice, and he needs it badly.

He sits up, throwing the curtains back, and walks around his bed to throw his trunk open. He digs out a wad of parchment and walks over to the desk shoved against the wall. It’s littered with his haphazard collection of chocolate frogs, lined up against the stone; the expensive inkwells; his eagle-feather quills and a messy stack of various books – most of them on runes and one on magical theory Granger talked him into checking out last year.

‘Dear cousin Narcissa’, he starts, ‘I find myself in need of advice,’ before hesitating. A drop of ink falls onto the draft, smudging the ‘a’. Orion crumples up the letter and starts a new one.

It takes two more attempts and another draft to come to an edited version he feels would be adequate to send, only partially breaching the topic he truly needs advice on.

Dear cousin Narcissa, it reads.

I hope this letter finds you well and that the Aurors aren’t bothering you too much, if they even still linger outside your gates, now that I’m in Hogwarts.

I myself have been well overall, and Draco has recovered from the incident with the Hippogriff, though he still suffers the repercussions, if his own words are to be believed.

My own lessons have been rather uneventful in comparison, though I’ve found my introduction to Ancient Runes rather promising. If you have any interesting books on the subject or recommendations of that nature, I’d welcome them.

On a side note, my father’s reputation has been something of an issue in the way my fellow students regard me, especially considering the current circumstances. The Dementors stationed outside the grounds certainly don’t help. Although I thought it deserved mentioning, I have it well in hand, and you mustn’t concern yourself with it.

Still, perhaps because of this, my father has been on my mind lately, and I’ve been pondering a conundrum surrounding the fact that Sirius never had a proper trial, as my solicitor let me know.

Namely, because this would open up an opportunity to have his case reevaluated.

Should I, in your opinion, act on this?

I eagerly await your reply.

Sincerest regards,

your cousin, Orion.

P.S. Give my regards to Lucius as well.

Orion sends the letter that evening, trudging up the steps to the owlery.

He lights a cigarette after, watching the sun slowly sinking past the horizon, illuminating the foggy grounds before he heads back inside.

Considering he’s still got a few hours to kill before curfew, his legs carry him all the way to the library instead of the dungeons.

He walks between the high shelves, finding himself calming almost reflexively at the quiet and the familiar scent of dust and books. The newspaper section is tucked away in a far corner, yellowed pages stacked against each other, and he thumbs through them in an attempt to find the article about Sirius Black’s apprehension.

It takes him a while to realise that someone else must’ve checked it out, unsurprising considering his father’s face being plastered all over the front pages, but still frustrating.

Narcissa’s reply arrives with the owl post during breakfast the following morning. She must’ve written back right away, and Orion all but tears the letter open in anticipation and under Draco’s curious gaze. He appeases his cousin by shoving over the box of sweets she sent with it.

Considering his already over-sweetened tea, it’s a miracle Draco doesn’t run around in a sugar high most of the time.

Still, Orion dismisses him in favour of scanning over Narcissa’s loopy handwriting.

Dear Orion, she writes.

I’m glad to hear you are well and that you’re enjoying your studies. I myself was more partial towards Arithmancy and Astronomy, but I shall search our library to curate a selection of books that may be of interest to you to send by the end of the week.

Draco has kept me updated on the dreadful attack during his first lesson with that incompetent man, who calls himself a professor. A gamekeeper made to teach a class; I was appalled when I heard it. You are lucky you picked different electives with more sensible professors. Draco paints a rather gruesome picture of the consequences he suffered from it, though I’m happy that his health isn’t in as dire a state as I’d feared. I was already in the process of contacting the healers at St Mungo's for a consult.

Lucius and I have been well; thank you for enquiring. There’s been the occasional visit from the Aurors, but I shan’t complain, considering the circumstances. Others would perhaps find their feathers ruffled by the monitoring of their grounds, but such restrictions regarding privacy are to be expected when one shares a relation to a criminal.

I should very much like to visit with you and Draco during your first Hogwarts weekend to see how you’ve been holding up during such trying times and reassure myself of my son’s health with my own eyes.

Now, regarding what you wrote to me about:

Personally, it is my opinion that family is and will always be our highest priority. To look out for another is as much of a duty as it is ingrained in our blood.

But realistically, what you propose, even with Sirius’ lack of trial, is a fool’s errand. I urge you to let sleeping dragons lie. No one in the Ministry would humour such ideas, and even if – and that is me speaking in hypotheticals – Lucius were to press them to follow through, it’s highly unlikely that anything other than the same result would come of trying Sirius again.

Without a witness and the guilty party absent, another trial will likely end with them pushing for the kiss this time. Especially considering Sirius did defy the law by escaping Azkaban. With no precedent for such a case, he’s been deemed an even more dangerous individual than he was initially.

I try to be delicate, as I’m well aware that the topic is a personal one, and it’s not uncommon for a son to want to see the best in their father.

But, Orion, I’d advise you to confront the facts as we know them. Sirius is being hunted by the Aurors, and for a valid reason, I may add.

His fate is not yours, and you shouldn’t concern yourself with it, nor with attempting to aid him. He is an adult, and his choices are not yours to take responsibility for.

Your father he may be, but his actions shouldn’t have any bearing on how you conduct your life. You are not him, and you’re certainly not responsible for him.

I pray that I could answer your questions and soothe your worries in that regard.

Best wishes,

Your cousin, Narcissa.

Orion sets the letter down, chewing at the inside of his cheek. Not only did her letter clear up nothing, but he also finds himself even more torn.

At first glance, her reply is rather straightforward, but to him, Narcissa’s advice is conflicting at best. She doesn’t have the information he has, after all.

Perhaps he’s overthinking things.

He scans over it again, frowning.

His gaze lingers on the second paragraph. Why in Merlin’s name would she write about the Aurors in that way? She was rather vocal in her complaints after all during the summer.

And now she’s suddenly changed her mind?

Orion taps against the table, thoughtfully.

Could it be that their correspondence might be under threat of surveillance?

No. That can’t be. He is simply being paranoid. The ministry wouldn’t dare … would it?

Orion resists wiping his face with his hands in frustration. Maybe he’s thinking too much and projecting his own worries on his cousin’s letter. Still, he doesn’t want to risk debating sensitive topics if someone were to monitor his correspondence.

For once, he hates that he’s not knowledgeable enough about Auror protocols to outright dismiss the possibility. Surely monitoring mail would be illegal. And Lucius’ reputation should stymie any attempts at such.

On top of that, there are spells to prevent nosy interlopers reading letters not meant for them. And Narcissa undoubtedly is aware of them. Though that may just raise more suspicion.

He’s in a contemplative mood the whole day, torn and frustrated. The first Hogwarts weekend is still a month away. Traditionally set sometime around the end of October, if the fourth years are to be believed.

He smokes two cigarettes that day before he pens his answer, pondering how much he’s willing to reveal even if he’d write in good faith.

Dear cousin Narcissa,

Thank you for your prompt reply. I very much look forward to the books you mentioned. There hasn’t yet been a date set for the first Hogsmeade visit, but I will ask Draco if he’s amenable and write to you as soon as I know more.

Now regarding your letter. I appreciated your insights, and while it has answered some of my questions, it, in turn, has raised others.

In light of the recent circumstances, I’ve found myself questioning what it means to be a Black. Specifically what it means to lead this ancient and noble house and how to do my due diligence as the sole heir and its current acting head.

Should I feel threatened in my position with Sirius at large? Even disgraced as he is, you know the state of his disinheritance and my namesake’s stance on it.

You said you spoke from a personal place. But I feel like I require a different type of advice. And in lieu of other people to turn to, I would ask you to, if ever so briefly, shed your mantle as the Lady Malfoy and advise me as a Black instead.

If, hypothetically speaking, it were any other family member finding themselves at odds with the law and (falsely) accused, and it was up to you to right this – perchance even at your detriment – would you in my stead?

I don’t mean to bother you with this, but I just can’t help but consider it. Still, I ask of you to humour me with this and regard the situation as if it were an actual happenstance instead of a hypothetical, Sirius’ fate aside.

Best regards,

Orion

That afternoon, Orion trails through the castle alongside Moon to their first Weird Sisters fan club meeting.

It feels different now that Copper and Brunhilda are gone. Bernett shows up with the announcement that he’s going to focus on his O.W.L.s this year, so he can’t attend like he did usually, which Moon bets him almost immediately is a lie when he gets roped into an impromptu piercing session when Smeltings – still head of the fan club – shows off her new jewellery dangling from her ears and nose.

Orion can honestly admit that he isn’t too put out to have signed up again, at watching the whole affair, despite Jones and Turpin seeming even more standoffish than last year when it comes to his persona. They share a couch in a corner, bent over a bowl of whippersnappers, whispering about his criminal parents while tossing him unsubtle looks.

A few of the Gryffindors herded by Katie Bell appear to think similarly, creating a barrier between him and the younger members of the other houses – as if he were to snap at any moment.

Moon at least doesn’t seem to mind a bit, making fun of Malone’s ridiculously obvious crush on Stimpson while a gramophone blasts Stevie Nicks.

Ethel plops down next to them, grinning, her usual bubbly persona not stymied whatsoever by Orion’s newfound infamy via association.

Her boots jangle, decorated with a veritable armada of amulets and beads woven into the laces as she props them up on the table.

“Are you looking forward to the new Sister's album?” she asks.

“You bet,” Moon says. “I’m trying to get my father to buy me tickets to the concert in spring.”

Ethel beams. “I know, right? I’ve been writing letters to the band all summer to get them to acknowledge us as an official fan club. Don’t tell anyone,” she leans forward conspiratorially, “but they sent me some pins and autographs. I’m going to hand them out during the next meeting.”

“Wicked”, Moon says. “They actually replied?”

“Well,” Smelting’s bracelets jangle as she waves offhandedly, “their manager did. But it’s cool, right?”

Orion nods along, idly shuffling a deck of exploding snap, after his third attempt at building a house of cards failed in an explosive fashion. “Pretty neat.”

“You should come to the concert too,” Moon says, looking at Orion. “You’ve got the cash.”

“And Lucius as a guardian,” Orion points out. “The Weird Sisters are rubbish, remember?”

Moon scoffs. “Damn. What if you managed to rope Draco into it?”

“I don’t know,” Orion says. “I could always sneak out, I suppose. Kreacher could cover for me.”

“Kreacher?” Smelting enquiries.

“His house elf,” Moon replies in Orion’s stead. “But do you think it’s a smart idea, you know, with Sirius Black on the run?”

Orion hums noncommittally. “I think, if anything, he'd approve.”

“So he can kidnap you?” Smeltings asks bluntly, before she presses a hand against her mouth, startled by her own words. “Sorry. Sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

Orion snorts. “It’s fine.”

“But aren’t you worried? At all?” Ethel asks, lowering her voice as she takes her feet off the desk and leans closer.

Orion shrugs. “He’s not going to kill me. I think.”

“You think,” Moon says, her lips twitching. “What a vote of confidence.”

Orion aims to hit her with a stinging hex, and she dodges to the side.

It strikes one of the new Hufflepuff firsties who’ve joined the club. The girl yelps, turning around before her gaze finds Orion, and she pales, scuffling towards the further end of the wall.

“Great,” Orion sighs, while Moon laughs at him, and Ethel is already waving in their direction, apologising profusely.

Just then Moon dumps the contents of her satchel on the desk, bottles of nail polish clattering all over the surface. “What do you think of these?” she asks, propping up a few bottles. “I got it off Tracey. It’s some kind of muggle thing, to colour your nails if you don’t know the charms yet.”

“It’s …nice?” Orion replies, not knowing what answer she expects.

Ethel, on the other hand, is already gushing. “Oh, I love these,” she voices, inserting herself back into the conversation. She wriggles her fingers. “Do mine.”

“Sure. I need the practice anyway,” Moon says.

Orion watches Moon paints Ethel's nails in a hot pink colour, which clashes horribly with her red skirt, and suddenly finds himself on the other end of two expectant stares.

Orion sighs. “Fine. But if you use any other colour than black, I shall be very cross with you.”

Moon grins. “You got it.”

They start a fad, apparently, because Bernett shows up, his earlobes still slightly red even after a healing charm, and picks alternating yellow and black colours – to show house pride, he says – and before long Orion ponders how he could find himself in the surreal situation of what resembles a girl’s sleepover.

On the other hand, Blaise apparently finds himself rather intrigued by the whole thing, asking him about it during dinner, and Moon and Tracey bond together in shared enthusiasm, discussing whether they could get one of the sixth years to transfigure the colours to get silver and gold.

Orion receives Narcissa’s reply via owl the next day, scratching absently at the already chipping nail polish, while Draco peers over his shoulder.

“What’s your business with Mother? You’ve been writing non-stop over the last couple of days.”

“Family stuff,” Orion replies.

“And?”

Orion looks at him while angling the letter away. “None of your business.”

Draco wrinkles his nose, offended. “Should I be insulted?” He turns to look at Theo. “I feel like I should be.”

“Leave Black be,” Nott says, and Orion raises his brows in surprise. “He’ll share if he wants to.”

Nott looks at Orion with his watery eyes and nods once. Orion nods back, somewhat bewildered but grateful nonetheless.

Draco sniffs, miffed.

Orion, meanwhile, breaks the seal and reads through Narcissa’s reply.

Dear Orion,

I see that the whole situation is still on your mind. In an attempt to relieve you of that burden, I shall humour you, because it appears stubbornness runs in the family, and I’m afraid that you won’t let this matter go until you’ve been fully convinced that this is not a situation that is within your hands.

It is rather simple, if viewed objectively. As the head of your house, it is your responsibility to do what is best for the family and secure its future. That pertains to your name and reputation and extends to the individual family members as well, as long as the former isn’t compromised.

Thus, as long as they haven’t disgraced themselves, you, your house or otherwise tainted your or their reputation in an unforgivable manner, their wellbeing is the family’s wellbeing.

Here, I would like to mention that hardly any of this applies as of now, considering the state of our bloodline, and I will point out that I’m referring to future developments rather than the present.

In a similar vein, let me assuage your worries regarding Sirius Black staking a claim on your inheritance.

Though tradition demands there be a continual line, and skipping a generation is considered unusual, to say the least, it is unlikely that you will have to deal with wagging tongues about you usurping your father’s rightful claim.

Furthermore, while he technically could demand you give up your position as the head of the house, he’s never shown much interest in taking over this responsibility. He all but fled from it when he was younger, and after his years spent in prison, I doubt his mind is of a sound enough nature to even consider as much.

It is much more likely that the law will claim him before he should do anything to compromise your place. And considering the current circumstances, he should have a very difficult, if not impossible, time to bequeath it to anybody else in your stead. The old magic weighs more than the rebellious opinions of a single family member hastily draughting up a will.

Nevertheless, I shall use this opportunity to reiterate that I stand by my opinion that nothing good will come from bringing up Sirius’ trial again and point out that the motives behind the picture you paint with your ‘hypothetical’, as you call it, are rather transparent in nature.

But since you seem to have dug your teeth into that very question, I shall answer you. Speaking as a Black, yes, it should be a head of house’s duty to prove the innocence of a wrongfully accused family member. Then, it would not only be your duty, but it would also be a disservice to see them punished for a crime they haven’t committed and leave their accusers unpunished.

Yet do not confuse this general advice with directions regarding the situation with your father. You ask me for guidance in this hypothetical situation, but one cannot be discussed without taking the other into account. Not when I know this is what you’re thinking about when asking this question. Do not assume I don’t know you, Orion.

No amount of wishful thinking will grant you the result that you hope for.

Sirius Black is guilty, and while I do empathise, there is nothing you can do. As you very well know, my own sister is incarcerated for the atrocities she committed, and as much as I’d wished this wasn’t the case, I’m at peace with what transpired. It is out of our hands.

The sooner you realise that, Orion, the sooner you will be able to move on, difficult as it may be.

You remind me of my sister in that regard. While her own conduct certainly didn’t lend itself to dispelling the image of hers in the public eye, and parts of it are well deserved, it sometimes makes it easy to forget that she possesses traits that are admirable.

She could be kind. Passionate. Loyal to a fault. One may almost say she felt too much when it comes to family. She was the only one who would still speak to Sirius after your grandmother disowned him. I don’t know what transpired between them before she finally stopped defending him, but it took her nearly four years.

He broke her heart, I think. She was not the same afterwards. But I’m digressing.

Even knowing you asked for my opinion as a Black and at the risk of becoming long-winded, I believe you may profit from some advice that comes from a more personal place.

Life is not to be viewed in a clear-cut manner of black and white or dark and light. I assume you already know that adherence to a strict code is sometimes a weakness when it comes to navigating reality.

‘The law that concerns the snake doesn’t concern the basilisk’ was a saying Walburga was fond of after all, if I remember correctly.

But perhaps what you haven’t yet realised is that sometimes this applies to blood ties as well.

As much as I may disagree with Walburga’s manner of raising you at times and the detrimental consequences of her upbringing, which have been reflected in your father, I know she did well when it comes to instilling the core values of our family into you. Therefore, I trust you to interpret what I tell you next with the nuance that it deserves.

I shall be frank, Orion. There are responsibilities and expectations that come with leading a house. But life so rarely reflects the ideal. Tradition has its place, but it’s a difficult business, uniting one's maxims with the factual circumstances around them.

You see where it led to. The tree that does not bend may break, regardless of how strong its roots are.

As you very well know, we Blacks have always valued blood more than typical wizarding stock. And this has its rightful reason when one is born extraordinary. But I have learnt, over the years, that on occasion, this strength may also turn us soft when it comes to our own family.

I had another sister. You may not know of her, or you might. I do not know, though it doesn’t matter either way. All you must know is that she was disinherited for her choices. Much more thoroughly than Sirius ever was.

It hurt to cut all ties. But sometimes protecting one's family means culling a rotten branch if the tree itself is at risk.

Your grandfather may have never disinherited Sirius, but if you fear for your own well-being, it is within your right to secure it. Even if that means turning a blind eye when the law holds Sirius accountable.

I hope you will think on my words.

Warmest regards,

your cousin,

Narcissa

Orion stares at the letter for a long while, rereading it twice before folding it and putting it away. He barely feels Draco’s curious gaze trailing him like a hawk, so lost is he in his own thoughts.

There is no doubt in his mind that Narcissa thinks Sirius committed the crime he was accused of, though from their conversations over the summer, he knows that that’s not what she’s upset about. It’s actually quite surprising that she gave him a justification and her blessing to betray their family values once he hinted that exonerating Sirius may come at his detriment.

He could’ve been more subtle, that is true, but he didn’t want to be. He needed her advice on this. Someone who’d understand his viewpoint and yet be neutral enough to ask about this.

Her response shows her loyalty more so than anything else. He can’t quite dismiss the notion that her advice comes from a self-serving place as well, what with him being their ward and likely more amenable to their influence than Sirius when it comes to shaping the future of the Black family.

But somehow, Orion doubts that’s the case.

After all, at the end of the day, Narcissa is still a Black.

Orion doesn’t quite know what to make of her implying that he is soft-hearted when it comes to their family – likening him to Bellatrix in that case. He’s surprised in a way that she and his father were closer than he considered.

Though Narcissa mentioning Andromeda is more shocking than that.

She’s never mentioned. Never even acknowledged.

And yet Narcissa broke her unspoken rule and mentioned her in this letter.

She gave him a lot to think about, but already he can tell where her words missed the mark.

Because one thing Orion is certain of, which Narcissa isn’t, is Sirius’ innocence. And that advice, perhaps just because of that factor, is one that Orion cannot dismiss since it might just be the most objective of all.

Absently, he chews on the inside of his cheek, restraining his twitching fingers from tapping on the table.

His eyes find the Gryffindor table where Weasley is sitting next to Potter, and Granger is feeding bacon to an ugly behemoth of a ginger cat.

Narcissa gave him the answers he was looking for even though she didn’t mean to. Told him what he already knew, deep down.

He’ll have to get his hands on a rat.

Orion goes through the motions that day, penning a letter to Narcissa, proclaiming his gratitude and moving on from the topic of Sirius Black.

He’s made a decision after all.

That afternoon, he locates Granger in the library.

She’s bent over a table in the corner, stacked high with books and parchments.

Up close, she looks frazzled, her hair a wild and untamed mop frizzing around her face. Dark, bruise-like shadows are painted under her eyes while she flips through an arithmancy book, jotting down notes on a separate paper.

She doesn’t even notice that he sits down at the desk she claimed, startling into awareness after a few minutes and blinking at him stupendously.

“Black! How long have you been sitting here?”

Obrion looks up from the Muggle Studies book he plucked from her stack and thumbs through with idle curiosity. “A while”, he replies, not without some amusement.

She places her quill down and squints at him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

“Can’t I simply spend some time with the only Gryffindor in the vicinity who isn’t quite insufferable?”

A conflicted expression flashes over her face, something between preening and feeling rankled by his words.

“I suppose,” she concedes after a moment, fiddling absently with the rings of her study planner. It’s painfully muggle, with plastic dividers and Post-it notes peeking out between the pages.

“I’m proposing a trade,” he offers after a moment.

“Yeah? What kind?”

“Books”, Orion says.

“What?”

“I get you some wizarding books, and you get me some of your Muggle novels.”

She seems stumped. “Why?” she asks.

“I’m expanding my horizons,” Orion says, feeling rather like he's having a deja-vu. 

She seems to mull his words over for a moment. “Well, that’s great,” she says. “I mean, I could recommend you some stuff. Of course, I’d have to write home; I didn’t bring anything with me this time around, what with so many school books.” She drifts off, seemingly talking more to herself than him. “I’ve only got ‘The Time Machine’, but sci-fi might not be a thing to start with. You’ve read The Hobbit, right?”

“Yeah,” Orion says.

“You should definitely read Lord of the Rings then.”

“You already got me those in first year,” Orion says.

“Oh, that’s right,” she says, twirling a lock of her bushy hair between her fingers. She really looks out of it. “Maybe another classic, then?” She mutters a few titles, some of which sound vaguely familiar while others don’t ring a bell at all.

“You should drop Muggle studies,” Orion adds, lifting the book he flipped through and placing it back on the ridiculously high stack heaped up next to her.

She narrows her eyes at him. “If you come at me with this bigoted pureblood nonsense too, you can stuff it. You know, I thought you were different. I don’t know why I’m actually disappointed; like, I knew you were prejudiced, but I thought maybe you were open to changing your mind – you haven’t once outright insulted me in that way or called me a mudblood, and you don’t think muggles are stupid, like your prat of a cousin. But this? Muggle studies is an essential subject.”

“What the fuck, Granger?” Orion interjects, blinking against the barrage of words, but the Gryffindor talks right over him.

“-after all, muggles make up the majority of the world’s population, and to keep our society running, especially with the current laws on secrecy and no amount of your bigoted-”

“You grew up with Muggle parents,” Orion cuts her off. “Wasting your time with a subject you don’t need seems just plain idiotic if you can just take the O.W.L. anyway.”

Granger flushes, embarrassed, but a small smile plays around her lips. “Oh, but it’s just so fascinating,” she gushes. “The wizarding perspective on it all.”

“There are a few books on it,” Orion tells her, getting up, now that he’s accomplished what he came here for. “Aside from what you read in school, I think. You could read those in your free time. Just take the O.W.L. on it; it’s not like the classes are a requirement. You’d probably ace it. I doubt you’ll be impressed by the literature that’s around anyway.”

“I’ll think of it,” she says dismissively.

Orion spares another look at the many pieces of parchment sticking out of her bag before staring at the suspiciously golden chain around her neck where her loosened tie and unbuttoned collar don’t quite cover it. Something niggles on his memory.

“How many classes are you taking?” he asks her.

“Only those I was interested in,” she says.

“Which would be?”

She snaps her study planner shut and shuffles all her papers together. “You know, I think I should consult Aleister’s Arithmetic tables for this as additional references for the essay,” she says as she stuffs all of her reading material into her already overflowing bag.

Orion hums, watching her shrink under the weight of her bag, already escaping towards the many shelves without so much as a goodbye.

Shaking his head, Orion also gets up and heads for the exit of the library. If she wants to kill herself with schoolwork, that’s her prerogative. It’s actually quite a pity that he didn’t think about signing up for more subjects. If he were Granger, he’d just flunk half his classes and mess around with what interests him to figure out which to keep. But he supposes that’s the difference between him and Granger.

Not to speak of the fact that Snape would’ve simply told him to scrap half of his electives beforehand anyway.

Still, this went fairly well. Approaching Granger to ask her to convince Weasley to get him the rat now would be stupid at best.

But he fashioned himself an opening to approach her again, in case he needs to later on.

Orion isn’t a Slytherin for no reason.

For now, he writes to his solicitor, tasking him with collecting any and all information surrounding the case of Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew, and to Kreacher to get him the name of his late grandfather’s accountant.

Orion isn’t above utilising and collecting blackmail on certain members of the Wizengamot as well should things go downhill. He knows that his namesake had certain influential people in the ministry on their payroll, and there must be documents of money having been exchanged and favours owed. Walburga raved about the hypocrisy of the Ministry often enough, and Orion is smart enough to read between the lines.

Before he can blink, Orion finds himself more than busy, keeping up the correspondence with his solicitor, Gringotts, as well as exchanging letters with his newly rehired accountant – having managed to drag the old man out of retirement in exchange for an exorbitant yearly stipend, courtesy of Kreacher having remembered a certain Frederick Vogt, who’d been under Orion the first’s employ.

It is frustrating that Orion does not dare to be too plain in his instructions for fear of his mail actually being monitored, nor can he meet with them outside of school.

Not until the first Hogsmeade date has been set, and even then he has to fear not being taken seriously.

For now, Orion heaps the majority of his responsibilities upon his solicitor while humouring Granger by lending her a rare first edition of an advanced book on Arithmancy from the Black library she would have otherwise never gotten her hands on.

The muggle novel Granger hands him in exchange is called ‘Pride and Prejudice’ – Orion can’t help but think it’s a hint of some kind – which ends up being tossed carelessly onto the pile of parchments and files containing the information he requested about Azkaban and its history as a prison institution, which he has yet to sort through.

The whole topic has fallen a bit to the wayside in recent times.

Narcissa sends him books from the Malfoy library, like promised – old tomes on runes and their uses – much more interesting than the basics they’re covering in school.

Nevertheless, the subject is rapidly becoming Orion’s favourite, mainly because he starts reading ahead in his free time, glad to have escaped Care of Magical Creatures, which Zabini complains boils down to the caring for nothing but flubber worms ever since Draco’s incident with the Hippogriff.

It’s become somewhat of a hobby to mess around with working on runic tableaus – an obscure practice steeped in blood compared to the cut-and-dry linguistic applications they’re focusing on in lessons – smoothing out the bumps of the crude ward he drew up when he was a mere child to lock Walburga out of his room and creating more complicated ones meant for scrying – mainly during History of Magic to pass the time.

An additional boon of his new obsession is the almost subconscious side effect of his faded knowledge of mathematics and geometry being once again drawn into sharp focus.

More than one table has been “desecrated” by him carving his inventions onto the underside of various tables in the common room and classrooms to test them out.

He reaps his first detention that year for it, forced to scrub scorch marks off a hallway on the third floor where someone let off filibuster firecrackers and worse – a dung bomb – whose smell still lingers in the air, while Filch breathes down his neck, Mrs Norris perched in a corner, whenever the Squib tends to different matters and a letter from Lucius about his conduct.

His initial experiment during his first year at bribing his way into the cat’s graces has flunked spectacularly. And at the most, the payoff wasn’t worth the effort.

For the majority of the Hogwarts population, DADA seems to be the runner-up for this year's favourite class, as Lupin introduces them to various magical creatures in his lessons. And while Orion is still feeling somewhat odd about the werewolf, he makes it a point to shut down Draco’s attempts at discrediting the man for his shabby clothes by comparing him to his former house elf, even if he avoids interacting with Lupin as much as he can.

Orion doesn’t know why he feels like he owes his professor, but it’s something more than Lupin simply keeping the whole Boggart incident a secret. Perhaps it’s because he’s mostly decided that he will attempt to rescue Sirius from his fate, and integrating himself with the werewolf will only pay off in the long run.

It doesn’t stop him from sneaking wolf puns in, half the time when he’s called on during lessons – the few times Lupin deigns to call on him, that is – if only to see the suspicious expression on Lupin’s face when Orion starts yet another sentence with, “As you are aware –”. After handing in an essay where every other paragraph resembled the phrasing of how the “silver lining” of Hendrick Howl’s encounter with a lethifold was his quick thinking to get out of a “hairy situation”, Lupin almost looked like he wanted to hold him back after class.

It’s gratifying in a way that almost makes him forget about his irritation at being ignored by the professor for the most part, hypocritical as it is in his own avoidance of interacting with the man.

Orion finds he does not do well with being ignored when he’s not deliberately avoiding people out of his own volition.

By the beginning of October, he’s put a sizable dent into his cigarette stash, and he realises that his long-awaited growth spurt has finally hit, mainly because now his shins are aching perpetually to the point where he casts a deliberate stinging hex onto his thigh to distract himself from it.

They’ve picked up duelling again on Sundays, roping the second years into the tradition courtesy of Daphne telling them they have to include her sister more, and Moon hounds him to get his nails repainted every Wednesday during fan club sessions.

The weekly meetings seem to be turning into something of an arts and crafts club on top of it all, what with Ethel pushing her hobby of transfiguring her own jewellery, the club members sitting down to make their own pins and patches, declaring their support for the Weird Sisters, and painting posters and decorating their boots and bracelets with amulets and charms. Even Orion has Kreacher send him some proper protective amulets to weave into his boot laces, to match the silver necklace littered with protection spells which he wears habitually ever since Walburga gave it to him.

Somehow that fad becomes a gateway into bewitching the pendants the muggleborns haul in to become actually useful protective amulets – with rather illegal blood magic, only a select group consisting of Moon, Malone, Orion and Bernett as the only Hufflepuff are in the know about.

It leads to two runic circles blowing up on Orion and a complicated story involving half their fan club members trying to sneak a destroyed table out of the window to dispose of the evidence while the other half is occupying Professor Hooch – the sponsor of their club – when she makes a first and never-before-seen surprise visit to check in on their activities.

On another high note, Draco has finally gotten rid of his bandages thanks to Orion’s continued teasing, displaying what is basically a Muggle friendship bracelet on his scarred arm, proudly telling anyone who asks – and who doesn’t – that it’s an ancient wizarding custom, thanks to Orion and Moon’s passionate speech about reviving old traditions.

Zabini wasn’t as easy to fool, but he wears his bracelet anyway, rolling his eyes behind their backs, all the while making fun of Draco alongside them.

Meanwhile, Orion has yet to stop pondering about how to go about getting Weasley to hand over his rat. Buying it would certainly be the easiest way to do so, but any offer would likely be taken as an insult. He doubts bribing the Weasley twins into getting it for him would be possible either. Not with his current reputation.

And stealing it himself is risky. Even if he knew where Pettigrew was holed up, breaking into the Gryffindor dorm in the middle of the night was something he’d consider feasible without reaping negative repercussions.

Especially when it means that this whole operation could go to the dogs by tipping that rat off. Better Pettigrew suspects nothing until Orion has enough dirt on him to get the ball rolling, and Sirius is exonerated in front of the Wizengamot. He’ll have to have a viable defence ready by the time the rat is exposed.

If he’s going to do this, he’s going to do it properly.

Likely his best bet is to ask a teacher to expose Pettigrew. But whom?

Snape would be competent, but he cannot risk revealing Pettigrew's status as an animagus without giving Sirius away, and that means he’d have to convince Snape to confiscate Weasley's rat in the first place and force him out of his form.

And that is if Snape would get over his history between him and his father in the first place.

He’s reluctant to ask Lupin for similar reasons. The man is too emotionally compromised, and Orion can’t risk him outright murdering Pettigrew if he uncovers him. Or worse, freeze up in shock and have him escape on the small chance that he’ll even believe Orion.

Dumbledore may just be his best bet. But that means he would have to come up with a believable and viable question for why he knows or at least suspects what he does.

But what to do in the meantime? Orion isn’t certain on the timeline, but he doesn’t want Pettigrew to tuck his tail and flee before he’s secure in his position.

There is also the option of using the Imperius on Weasley. Orion has never cast it, but he has Walburga’s wand tucked away in his trunk.

It would make for a good alibi. On top of getting the boy to hand over Pettigrew, Orion could simply secure the Animagus in a cage and bide his time until he was ready to set all his plans in motion.

He would have to come up with a story about how he got his hands on that rat, but any excuse would likely do once the truth was revealed.

Though in light of having everything go as smoothly as possible, it would likely be best to veer away from illegal methods. Especially taking into consideration that if Pettigrew were being questioned, he may snitch on him. Scrap that. He would definitely snitch on him.

And Orion could do without a one-way trip to Azkaban, thank you very much.

A love potion, on the other hand, may just be enough of a grey area, as long as he steers clear from Amortentia.

Perhaps he could get Weasley to ‘lend’ him his rat.

But that would mean he’d have to find a way to douse Weasley in the first place. Perhaps using the Weasley twins, if they thought it a fun enough prank. But if not – it would heighten the risk of exposure exponentially, once Weasley’s strange acting came to light.

And there’s still always Granger. She might just be the opening he needs. He hasn’t interacted with her ever since she asked him about the muggle novel in passing while he gave superficial answers. He might convince her of Sirius’ innocence by virtue of her lack of involvement and bias regarding the whole thing. And she also just might run straight to the teachers if she suspected Pettigrew as an animagus, which would allow him to remain in obscurity. Probably. If she didn’t believe him and went to Weasley and Potter instead, Orion would be fucked and Pettigrew would be gone in the wind.

Thus, before long, Orion finds himself traversing similar paths again, using hours spent in the library as a cover, when instead, he heads towards the farther end of the pebbly shores surrounding the black lake to practise dark magic on unsuspecting animals.

It’s foggier this year than usual, with the Dementors floating about. Colder too. People steer clear of the grounds unless they absolutely have to go outside, and it’s something Orion gladly uses to his advantage.

He figures even if he doesn’t use the Imperius on Weasley, it’s still a useful spell to have in his repertoire. And if he’s being honest, he’s somewhat missed messing around with the old curses he read about in dusty tomes and has nowhere else to practise. It reminds him of Walburga leading him into the depths of the Black Library for the first time and telling him to pick any book he wanted, and she’d instruct him in the magic.

Never mind that it’s quite a rush to see Dementors hovering in the distance while he blatantly breaks a law that has landed many a wizard before in Azkaban when he casts the Imperius successfully for the first time.

It’s just one of these excursions when he heads back to the castle and diverts his path to sneak yet another smoke to chase away the feeling of dark magic bleeding out of his limbs.

He’s shot up at least two inches since September. Even now, he’s aware of the ache in his bones – growing pains, ever present.

Orion heads for the space between greenhouse four and five, daringly lighting a fag while he’s walking, his storky legs and tousled hair as he sucks on his cigarette, forced to lean against the wind sweeping over the Scottish highlands, and his robes flap around his ankles.

The smoke spills back out of his lungs, tugged away by the wind as soon as it leaves his lips, when he stops dead in his tracks as soon as he’s turned the corner of the large glass walls.

There’s a dark hound pressed against the wall of greenhouse four that contains some tropical plants – the one whose heating charms bleed through – huddling for warmth in the most wind-shielded corner.

Scraggly fur, knotted together, a beast of a dog, even starved as it looks.

If he were superstitious, he’d think it a Grim.

Orion knows better.

The dog has spotted him too. It stands, still as a statue, as it stares at him.

Orion doesn’t fumble his cigarette. His hands don’t tremble. But he takes another drag anyway, sucking in the smoke because he doesn’t know what else to do.

They regard each other – boy and hound.

It’s the dog who moves first. Inching closer warily, tail sweeping back and forth – not quite wagging.

Orion doesn’t bother to hold out his hand to let it sniff him, like he would’ve done with an ordinary dog. He simply watches as the hound scents the air.

It's huge, even starved. If it were to come closer, it would undoubtedly come up to his ribs.

Orion swallows.

Merlin. He isn’t ready.

He finishes his cigarette and chains another, leaving only three more smokes in his pack. He sets it aside on an upside-down stack of large flowerpots propped up on some mossy crates, twisting Sirius’ metal lighter between his fingers.

The hound sits. Still staring. Orion stares back unabashedly while he smokes his cigarette in silence. Down to the filter, to the point where it tastes scorched.

Only then does he throw it to the ground, putting it out with his heel, before pulling out a wand. His own, not Walburga’s, thorny branch, which seems to burn a hole into his pocket, humming in the aftermath of seeing some use.

The dog’s ears pivot, pinning back, but Orion only spells away the lingering scent of smoke clinging to his hands and robes with a practised motion before putting it away.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he turns, heading back to the castle, deliberately forgetting to pocket his pack of Muggle cigarettes.

It’s the only concession he allows himself.

The dog doesn’t follow him.

Chapter Text

Orion crosses the threshold of the castle, hands shaking and his heart beating against his ribs. Sucking in sharp, hyperventilating breaths, he ducks into the closest secret passage and gives in to his hysterics.

Already he regrets having gotten rid of his smokes.

Holy shit. This was his father. His father.

Orion stares at his nails, chipped with dark green polish, before burying them in his hair and tugging till it stings.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up from his chest.

Luckily, Sirius was disguised as a dog.

He doesn’t want to imagine what he would’ve said to him otherwise.

(A Black?)

(Don’t make me laugh.)

The next morning, Orion wakes, looking like a mess, only having found sleep in the late hours of the morning.

He still looks like a mess, even after having dressed himself, at least going by the standards his subconscious holds him to – which really are Walburga’s standards – meaning that his tie is looser than usual, his top buttons aren’t done up impeccably, his collar is bunching against his vest, and that hair is falling around his ears in wilder waves, while dark circles underline his eyes even through a freshening charm.

There’s a small commotion in the common room, and it isn’t long till Orion learns that the date for the first trip to Hogsmeade has been announced on a notice pinned to the board.

The excited voices of his fellow third-years surround him while Orion pushes his way to the front.

Snape’s spidery handwriting states that they are to hand in their signed permission slips before the set date a fortnight from now.

Halloween.

Orion pens two letters, one to his solicitor and one to his accountant, setting up meetings with both for the day, before he locates Draco to ask whether he’s thought about having tea with Narcissa too.

His cousin stands by his opinion that it’s terribly embarrassing but doesn’t protest when Orion says that he’s already confirmed his attendance and that he might as well come with, lest he disappoint his mother by skipping the opportunity.

Things are looking up. Orion is both nervous and excited as the date of their first Hogsmeade weekend draws near.

On the morning of the 31st, excited conversations about their first visit to Hogsmeade prevail among the third years.

Daphne promises her sister to bring her souvenirs and sweets, while Zabini ponders out loud whether Zonko’s is really worth the hype and Orion watches with morbid fascination how Draco manages to stir his fourth spoonful of sugar into his cup of tea.

Once breakfast comes to a close, they, alongside the majority of the older students, line up outside the castle, where Filch goes through a list, glaring at any student he suspects of giving him a wrong name.

They pool around the exit, standing in the lee of the ancient alcoves, protecting them from the biting wind. The fountain in the forecourt isn’t yet frozen over, but the carved stone mermaids shake themselves every so often to get rid of the budding frost, small fairies darting across the water carrying sticks in their small arms for their nests.

Next to Orion, Zabini breathes into his hands, his breath fogging up the air. “Do you think I’ve still got enough time to run back and grab my gloves?”

Orion shrugs, briefly considering offering his own before deciding he’s not that selfless. Instead, he smirks, deliberately pulling out his own fur-lined gloves from the pocket of his winter robes and putting them on. It is rather chilly today after all.

“Prat,” Blaise mutters.

Orion huffs and casts a charm on Zabini’s hands.

“I shall forever be in your debt,” his fellow Slytherin says sarcastically. “Stronzo.”

“What was that?” Orion asks, turning to face his friend with an obnoxious smirk.

Blaise is about to flip him off when the crowd behind them jostles apart thanks to Draco, followed by Vince, Greg and Pansy pushing their way to the front, a grin on his lips.

“Potter doesn’t have a permission slip. I shouldn’t be surprised, what with him being an orphan.” He says orphan as if it were an insult of some kind, reaping him a rare glare from Susan Bones, a bit further ahead.

Orion says nothing, knowing it's not worth the effort. “When did Narcissa say she wanted to meet up again?” he asks instead.

“Eleven,” Draco says.

“You’re meeting with your mother?” Pansy pipes up.

Draco’s cheeks flush pink. “Well-”

“You will have to take me with you, Draco,” she cuts him right off. “I haven’t seen Narcissa in ages.”

Orion and Draco exchange a glance of equal dismay. “Sure,” Draco mutters dispassionately when Pansy seems to expect an answer.

“Great,” she purrs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Her nails are painted a cherry red. Tracey must’ve won her over.

They shuffle forward when the line moves on, rattling off their names before Filch allows them to pass through the large gate.

The ground has frosted over, the grass shimmering silvery while the gravel crunches under their feet as they trail after the crowd of students.

Farther ahead, above the statues of the winged boars perched on their stone pillars, two Dementors float.

They hasten their steps accordingly as soon as their ominous aura starts to creep towards them.

“Bloody hell,” Blaise voices. “These things are creepy as fuck.”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Orion says, eyeing the soul-sucking creatures.

Their whole group huddles closer together almost subconsciously, and Draco’s shoulders brush against Orion’s as they hurry towards the village. Their blind eyes seem to follow them long after.

The walk feels long, partially because of the cold weather and the wind sweeping over the lands as they follow the cobbled road winding itself past the hilly landscape.

By the time they reach Hogsmeade, the presence of the Dementors has all but been forgotten at the sight of the brightly lit windows of crooked wooden houses squeezed next to one another, smoking chimneys and winding cobbled streets in between.

Hogsmeade turns out to be a quaint little village at the foot of the Hogwarts grounds, the castle standing high above in some distance, overlooking the accumulation of colourful buildings like a regal queen.

Orion feels somewhat like he’s entered an old mediaeval town, what with the cobbled roads, lopsided buildings lining them, and the occasional building sporting a thatched roof and leaning dangerously close over the path.

The village’s only true novelty is that it’s one of the rare homesteads solely populated by witches and wizards in Britain, and it shows in the blatant way magic is woven into its very bricks.

From the billywig hive they pass, the crooked architecture and magical plants in the gardens or the occasional birdhouse nailed beneath an eaves being populated by fairies instead of standing empty, to the more noticeable things, like hooting owls zooming above their heads, delivering packages and letters as they take flight, and wares are advertising themselves, hopping up and down in a way a muggle couldn’t ignore.

The men and women wandering the streets are wearing clothes that would be outrageous in any Muggle city – colourful robes, pointy hats, and laced boots made from scaly dragonhide – while discussing the uptake in prices of potion ingredients.

A few kneazles are scurrying between their feet, a crup barks on a doorstep next to a pot of obnoxiously singing begonias blooming out of season, and crows squawk in the trees between whose branches are wound strings of wizarding candles to illuminate their path.

And all around, busy Hogwarts students are grouping up, laughing and chatting as they make their way to the centre on the worn stones and trampled-down earth making the roads.

“Where to first?” Pansy asks, hooking her arm into Draco’s, who makes a good impression of a startled deer.

“Hondedukes?” Vince proposes, as he glances at a crooked post sporting signs upon signs stuck together with magic and pointing down various streets, while Draco shakes off his new companion. “Or Zonko’s. I’m not picky.”

“Actually”, Orion says, “I’ve got an appointment.”

Multiple heads turn.

“You’ve got an appointment,” Draco says deadpan.

“Yes,” Orion says.

“With whom?” Zabini enquires curiously.

“My solicitor.”

“Seriously?” Pansy asks, readjusting the golden clasps of her dark robes.

Draco groans. “Don’t tell me it’s about that whole Azkaban thing.”

A gust of wind drives through the street, tousling their hair and causing their robes to flap around their ankles. Orion smirks, his boots clacking against the cobblestones. “If you must know, it’s business related.”

Greg grunts as if that was all that needed to be said.

“What kind of business?” Blaise enquires as he sidles up to Orion, rounding a rain barrel and stirring up a few chocolate frogs on the loose, who’re jumping in, startled.

“Investments”, Orion lies.

Zabini whistles.

“Whatever.” Draco rolls his eyes before he evades a few straggling shoppers. “Don’t be late to our meeting with Mother. You’re the one who pushed for it, and if you ditch us, she’ll take it out on me.”

Orion snorts. “I doubt it. Besides,” he grins, “You can take Pansy.”

‘Shut. Up,’ Draco mouths at Orion, glaring, while Pansy grins like a cat that got the cream.

“I’d love to,” she chirps.

“I’ll catch you later?” Orion says instead.

Greg shoots him a small wave, Vince nods and Draco rolls his eyes again. “Suit yourself.”

It’s slightly awkward when it turns out they’re still headed in the same direction, but by the time they reach the marketplace, where the crowd of students is already pouring into the more popular shops, Orion sequesters himself, trying to recall the location his solicitor described – a restaurant in a side street, three doors down from Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop, with red-painted bow windows.

He locates it easily enough after a few minutes of looking, Madam Puddifoot’s rather distinct kitschy exterior and pink curtains guiding his way.

The sign dangling above the door is weathered, golden letters spelling out ‘The Looking Glass’, which glimmer, as if they noticed his eyes on it.

As soon as he steps through the door, a large-eared house-elf hurries over the floor. It inclines its head in greeting, an embroidered dish towel displaying the name of the restaurant fashioned into some kind of toga wrapped around its skinny body.

“Do you have a reservation?” the elf asks.

“Yes,” Orion says, while he takes in the interior with idle curiosity.

Dark wooden panelling on the walls, chandeliers hanging from the ceiling keeping the light dim and white tablecloths topped off with expensively wrought candelabras.

It’s almost empty around this time of the day, barely a table occupied, but a wizard is manning the bar, wearing an old-fashioned vest and sleeve garters over his shirt, as well as a rather distinct pointy hat while polishing a glass the Muggle way behind the dark wooden counter.

“Name?” the elf asks.

“Black.”

The house-elf nods. “Follow me.”

Orion feels the eyes of the bartender briefly flick up before he busies himself with restocking the bar. He can appreciate that kind of discretion.

They pass an elderly witch seated at a table, nursing a cocktail of some kind, large bejewelled earrings dangling from her lobes, matching her bracelets. They catch the light when she feeds some of her drink to the small toad seated on a velvet pillow on its own chair.

There’s another couple arguing heatedly with low voices, and then Orion recognises his solicitor, a middle-aged wizard in high-collared professional robes in a booth in the back, who gets up as soon as he spots Orion.

“Mr Black”, he says, shaking Orion’s hand.

“Mr Ackroyd”, Orion returns the greeting.

“Please, call me Charles,” the man says, gesturing at the empty side of the booth. “After all, we’ve been corresponding for quite a while now, not to mention that our families have been working together for many years at this point.”

“Charles, then,” Orion says, taking a seat but not offering the same familiarity in return. Their dynamic feels lopsided enough as it is, what with him having to crane his neck to look the man in the eyes. A beat goes by before his solicitor follows suit.

“Do the gentlemen require a moment to look over the menu?” the elf asks, already snapping its fingers, materialising the menus on the table.

“Just some tea for now,” Orion says, pushing them to the side before looking at his solicitor, who shakes his head.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Ackroyd voices. “Perhaps a glass of water.”

“Any preference?” the elf asks, turning back to Orion.

“Some English breakfast tea will do.”

“Very well, Sir,” the elf says before leaving them alone.

Moments later, a steaming pot of tea appears on the table and two cups alongside a plate of complimentary biscuits, milk, and sugar.

Ackroyd’s water materialises as well, but he simply pushes it aside before drawing his wand.

“I adhere to the practice of placing some wards before discussing business. It’s been proven to be effective in the past, and I like to offer my clients the comfort of full privacy.”

“I appreciate it,” Orion says, observing Ackroyd’s wand movements curiously, pondering which spells exactly he’s using, while he slips off his gloves and cloak.

Only afterwards, the man appears to relax somewhat, plastering on a shark-like smile. “Mr Black, it’s been a while,” he says.

“Indeed,” Orion replies.

“May I just say, it’s a pleasure to speak in person.”

“Rather,” Orion admits. “Penning letters becomes quite tedious after a while.”

“I can imagine,” Ackroyd says, neither confirming nor denying that he’s fed up with the practice as well.

“So,” Orion says. “Where do we stand?”

“Straight to business. A wizard after my own heart,” Ackroyd says. He lifts a leather briefcase from the bench and snaps it open, drawing out an impressive stack of papers which shouldn’t be able to fit.

Pulling a monocle from his inner breast pocket and clamping it over his nose, he begins to shuffle through them and separate them into piles.

Orion pours himself some tea in the meantime. The patterns on the china begin to swirl alongside the liquid. He briefly ponders whether Narcissa would enjoy the novelty of it, keeping it in the back of his mind for later reference.

“Well, let me begin by saying that after your renewed instruction, I’ve dedicated my whole focus to the case of Sirius Black. And I’ve found extensive information – my contact in the DMLE mentioned it took quite some digging to unearth certain records. What they found, well – Ackroyd looks up, readjusting his monocle. “I want to say it’s not bad news per se, but nothing of real use either. Petty crimes, drunken disorderly, disturbance of the public, bewitchment of muggles – no criminal records, of course, and nothing logged.”

Orion looks at the impressive stack. “May I?” he asks, and Ackroyd nods, handing over the papers.

“What am I looking at?” Orion asks, flipping through them.

“Arrest reports, for the most part. The DMLE keeps an impressive archive. Things tend to …get lost, on occasion. I took the liberty to have them erase anything that would be considered detrimental to Mr Black’s – that is, your father’s – character if it were to be discovered, but considering the crime he was imprisoned for, it would hardly make a difference, I’m afraid. What I have with me are the sole copies of these documents.”

“I see,” Orion says, brows rising as he scans over a paragraph penned by an Auror detailing the litany of insults Sirius used when he got detained.

“As for Mr Pettigrew”, Ackroyd continues, “he stems from a simple background. He was raised by his late mother, who suffered from a scattered mind in later years, as one hears. Mediocre grades. A completely mundane life, safe for its end. He received an Order of the Merlin, First Class, posthumously, which was accepted by his mother, who passed away a year later. Nothing else on him, I’m afraid.”

Orion hands the arrest reports back. “And this?” he nods at the stack of papers, which Ackroyd is about to stuff back into his briefcase.

“Tabloids and articles from society columns. Nothing important, but I pride myself on being thorough.”

Orion nods.

“It’s mostly more of the same. Sirius Black’s personal file also didn’t unearth anything of note unless one counts impressive O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. scores.”

“So you’ve got nothing,” Orion says.

“I didn’t say that,” Ackroyd replies. He plucks his monocle from his face and folds his hands in front of him. “If I may speak freely –” Orion gestures for him to go on. “This is a difficult matter to handle. It’s like I mentioned to you before; there is a case to be made about Sirius Black never having received a proper trial before being incarcerated. He was not resisting when he was taken into custody, as the report of the Aurors arresting him that night states, which would be a boon in our favour if we were angling for a defence based on the Imperius curse, considering You-Know-Who’s vanquishment that night. To our detriment, a defence based on the Imperius curse, as has been done manifold after that day, is all but impossible. The Fidelius Charm is notoriously difficult to cast, but when it’s done successfully, it is impossible to extract the secret from someone by force. It has to be given willingly.”

“There’s no wiggle room?” Orion asks, just to cover all his bases.

“I’ve researched it extensively,” Ackroyd says. “And even the Imperius Curse would not be able to change the subconscious mind of the caster.”

Orion nods, tapping the rim of his teacup. ”Did you prepare the other defence?” he asks, abruptly changing the topic.

“I did, but I have to say, this is really going out on a limb,” Ackroyd says. A valid point, considering how paranoid Orion was about sharing his reasons behind his instructions via letter. “Even if one were to grease the right hands, I highly doubt a case of that prominence – Harry Potter-”

“I know,” Orion cuts him off. Briefly he scans through the room. “The wards are secure?

“Very,” Ackroyd says. Despite keeping up an air of professionalism, he doesn’t quite seem to be able to keep a spark of curiosity out of his eyes, and he angles his torso towards Orion.

“I’ve got it on good authority that my father is innocent of the crime he’s accused of.”

A beat goes by.

“And there is …proof?” Ackroyd voices. He keeps his tone carefully bland, but Orion assumes that’s as much a tell of his scepticism as anything else.

“Yes,” he states. “Peter Pettigrew was the Potters’ secret keeper. They switched at the last possible moment. And more than that, he's alive. He’s been hiding out with a wizarding family for years.”

Ackroyd perks up like a hound scenting blood. “Truly?”

“They were unaware, as far as I know. He is an unregistered Animagus,” Orion reveals. “He posed as their children’s pet.”

Orion can see why the Ackroyds have been kept on retainer by the Blacks for as long as they have when instead of disgust, Charles’ initial reaction is a sharp-toothed smile. Out loud he says, “My, how scandalous. The public will be appalled when this comes to light.”

“Quite,” Orion replies. “I plan to expose him as soon as we’re adequately prepared. I expect you to contact me once you deem this the case, though preferably within the year, if possible.”

“Certainly,” Ackroyd says, propping his monocle up on his nose again. “My, my. What a turn of events.” The solicitor summons a piece of parchment from his briefcase before he starts to jot down notes rapidly with a pointy quill. “Yes, hiding out with a wizarding family – of good standing?” He looks at Orion.

“Not tainted by the war, if that’s what you’re alluding to.”

“And their name?”

“I can count on your discretion? I would hate to flush Pettigrew out before,” Orion voices.

“Certainly, Mr Black. My word is my bond. Literally.”

Orion knows. The contracts are ironclad. Lucius looked them over and assured him of such.

“Weasley”, Orion reveals.

Ackroyd’s brows inch up briefly. “Not Weasley, like Arthur Weasley, working in the Bureau regarding the misuse of Muggle artefacts?”

“You’re familiar?”

Ackroyd gestures offhandedly. “In the farthest sense. My father knew his father.”

Orion hums about the rim of his teacup. The usual, then.

“May I enquire about how you came about this information?” the solicitor asks after scratching down another note.

“I’d rather not say,” Orion replies.

“That’s perfectly understandable. Shall I come up with a reason then? In case it comes up? It would be beneficial if we could quote a source,” the man says, readjusting his monocle.

“I suppose my house-elf may be cited,” Orion says. “Pettigrew was a friend of my father’s, and he did become an Animagus during school. He may have overheard a thing or two. My father may have forgotten he mentioned it offhandedly in a letter sometime.”

Ackroyd hums. “Hypothetically, could one assume that this extracurricular activity extended farther within the friend group?”

“Hypothetically,” Orion says.

There’s the hint of a smirk playing around the solicitor’s lips. “And hypothetically, if one were to speculate that an unregistered Animagus may be able to slip past the guards of Azkaban…”

“One may be on the right track. Hypothetically speaking,” Orion says, picking up a biscuit and tapping it absently against his saucer.

“I see,” Ackroyd says. “I shall take it into account.” He’s back to scribbling onto his parchment. “I assume you plan on Mr Pettigrew being apprehended by the Aurors?”

“If everything goes smoothly.”

“I don’t doubt that you will handle matters, Mr Black, if your family history is anything to go by.”

Orion barks a laugh. The biscuit crumbles and breaks. “One can hope.”

Ackroyd smiles pleasantly. “Let’s see,” he starts, putting his quill down. “If Peter Pettigrew were indeed found alive, that would implicate him in quite the awkward manner. Still, he could deny any involvement. If he’s smart – and I believe we can assume as much if he managed to trick the authorities in that way – he will likely claim to have been afraid of Black or followers of You-Know-Who who’re still at large.”

“He’s marked,” Orion says.

“Marked?” Ackroyd looks up.

“Branded. With the symbol of the Dark Lord.”

Ackroyd’s brow furrows.

Orion’s own confusion mirrors his solicitor’s. “That’s not common knowledge?”

Ackroyd folds his hands. “I’m afraid I do not know what you’re referring to.”

Huh.

“All members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle were branded with the dark mark on their left forearm,” Orion reveals.

“How curious,” Ackroyd replies. “If this was known to the courts, they hid it well. And you’re certain that Pettigrew is marked in that manner?”

Orion pauses. “Reasonably,” he says.

Ackroyd jots down some notes, absently scratching his chin. “I’ve made a note, but I’m afraid I don’t know insofar as this is applicable as evidence where the Council of Magical Law is concerned. I will have to look into it.”

“That’s fine,” Orion concedes with a sigh before he takes another sip of his tea. “In your opinion”, he starts after setting down his cup, “how likely do you think it is that they’ll try to sweep this whole thing under the carpet?”

His solicitor huffs. “A scandal of that calibre? Very,” he says momentarily, but his budding smirk betrays his words. “If Lucius Malfoy were to be won for our cause…?” He raises a brow at Orion.

“I’d rather keep him in the dark for now. After Pettigrew’s discovery, we shall see.”

“Very well. Either way, we shan’t let them,” Ackroyd states. “I have some journalists on retainer. The letters are already draughted, but with the new information, I shall amend them and have them ready to be sent at a moment's notice. Furthermore, I could stretch out my feelers and get in touch with my contact in the DMLE.”

Orion pauses. “They’re trustworthy?”

“As much as galleons are concerned,” Ackroyd says offhandedly. “But there are some persons in the DMLE not quite outside of our reach who could act in our favour if they were in the know. I believe Mafalda Hopkirk would be appalled at hearing an innocent was wrongfully convicted of such a crime. Perhaps some Aurors…”

Orion worries his lip between his teeth. “Alastor Moody”, he proposes reluctantly. “If Dumbledore can be convinced of Sirius’ innocence, he would likely back us.”

“And Albus Dumbledore can be convinced?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Orion says. At least once Pettigrew is exposed, he can’t deny something fishy is going on.

“Alastor Moody then. A curious choice,” Ackroyd says and nothing more. “Did you have anyone else in mind?”

“I’m not certain. Nymphadora Tonks, perhaps? I can’t say for sure. But perhaps her mother’s situation would turn her sympathetic towards Sirius’ fate. Once the truth is out.”

“We shall keep it in the back of our mind then,” the solicitor states, jotting down names. “But the initial response is of the essence. It would be quite unfortunate if Mr Pettigrew were apprehended only to receive the kiss. Am I right in assuming that he is currently hiding out at Hogwarts with one of the Weasley children?”

Orion inclines his head noncommittally.

Ackroyd hums as he blows on the ink to cause it to dry. “Very well. I would recommend you speak to Mr Vogt in regards to recruiting certain ministry personnel to our cause since things will have to move fast once Mr Pettigrew’s identity is revealed. This is more his cup of tea than mine, I’m afraid.”

Ackroyd reaches out for his glass of water, which he hadn’t touched for the whole duration of their conversation, and downs it in one go.

“Is there anything else you'd like to add or discuss?”

Orion considers that for a moment. “I can’t think of anything from the top of my head.”

“Well, I’m always available via owl, Mr Black, if anything comes to mind.”

“Of course.”

“If that is all, then I’d amend a few of the points I’d already prepared in regard to Sirius Black’s defence. This is quite the news you’ve revealed today, Mr Black.” Ackroyd grins a shark-toothed grin. “I think we shall do very well. Yes. Things are looking quite auspicious, indeed.”

He picks up his wand and swishes it in a sharp motion, causing all his papers to straighten themselves before flying back into his briefcase.

“I’m estimating about a month till my initial strategy has been ironed out. I can work faster, but I’d prefer some additional time to work out the kinks and smooth things over preventatively in the Ministry. I would assume you’d like to speak to Mr Vogt as well and consider his input?”

Orion hums. He’s got a time frame now. One month. That’s faster than he anticipated; on the other hand, it’s best to move quickly. The sooner Pettigrew’s caught, the sooner the ball will get rolling. “Let’s hope the circumstances allow it,” Orion says.

Ackroyd nods. He takes off his monocle, letting it disappear into his pocket before he considers Orion with keen eyes. “It’s a pity that your father himself is not available to discuss things. Especially once Peter Pettigrew has been apprehended, going over the strategy personally would grant us a large advantage. Like my mother always said, Being prepared is half the duel.”

“A pity then”, Orion drawls, “that his whereabouts are a mystery. One can only hope that he’ll contact you by himself once his innocence becomes clear to the public.”

Ackroyd smirks. “One can hope.”

Orion draws a few coins out of his pocket and places them on the table. Acroyd rises, holding out his hand.

“Mr Black”.

“Charles,” Orion says, shaking it.

“It was a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” Orion says.

Acroyd grins before he swings his wand, dispelling the privacy ward, and heads for the exit.

Orion remains where he is, stretching out his legs beneath the table, slowly finishing his tea before staring at the leaves. He’s never gained a real aptitude in reading tea leaves, despite Walburga trying to teach him from time to time. If he squints, though, he can almost imagine it’s a hound mauling a rat.

Orion finishes all the biscuits to pass the time until his next appointment. It took less time than he anticipated, but some twenty minutes later, the elf shows up again, but not to check in on him, but instead with an unfamiliar witch in tow.

“Mr Black, I presume,” she says. “My name is Karoline Vogt. I’m here to represent my father. Unfortunately, his health has made it so that he cannot take flu for such long distances. A quite nasty version of the snapping cough. He conveys his regrets that he couldn’t take the journey by himself. I’ve brought a letter, stating as such. You’re free to confirm the validity yourself, though you’ll find that I’m well informed regarding the contents discussed in your letters.”

Orion sizes her up for a moment. She’s a short, stout woman, about as tall as him perhaps, with a pair of cat-eye glasses propped up on her nose, burgundy hair pinned in braids beneath the brim of her hat and deep violet robes above which she wears a long knitted cardigan.

She looks a bit like a librarian, actually.

He shakes her proffered hand and finds that her grip is surprisingly firm. “You have to excuse my presumption, but I’d assumed you were quite a bit older,” she says as she slides into the booth, where Ackroyd vacated his spot earlier.

That statement doesn’t necessarily endear her to Orion. “Tea?” he asks anyway and gestures at the untouched cup.

“Yes, thank you,” she says, pouring herself a cup. She doesn’t take milk or sugar.

Karoline Vogt is an unexpected development and a rather irksome one at that. Orion only knows the bare bones in terms of spells confirming identity, and most of them involve blood of some kind.

He’ll have to either cut this meeting short or trust that Karoline Vogt is who she says.

She hands over the aforementioned letter, and Orion casts a few spells to see whether it’s cursed first before taking and opening it.

He recognises the handwriting, but that doesn’t say much when magic is concerned.

Looking up at the witch, he conjures a polite smile. “Miss … Vogt, was it?”

“Mrs Vogt, actually.” She wriggles her fingers where a large ruby is fixed onto a gold band.

“Well, Mrs Vogt. Would you consent to a blood oath to confirm your identity with me? Otherwise, I’m afraid we will have to reschedule.”

“A blood oath.” Mrs Vogt grins. “How archaic. But of course, Mr Black. If it will ease your mind, I shall swear an oath.”

She snaps her fingers, catching the attention of the elf who materialises next to their table. “A knife, if you’d please. A sharp one.”

The elf stares at her for a moment. “Of course, Miss.”

Mrs Vogt looks at Orion, propping her head up in her hand. “I prefer blades to wands when working in such mediums. An athame would be preferable, but alas,” she sighs. “I shall make do. Wands are far less …precise sometimes, don’t you agree?”

Orion does a good job of hiding his surprise. Mrs Vogt, it appears, is much less unassuming than she appears at first glance.

Especially once she pulls out an array of rune stones from her purse, setting them up around the table in a meticulous pattern before sticking them to the wood with magic. “That shall do the trick.”

“A silencing ward?” Orion asks, intrigued as he tries to figure out the configuration.

“That and more. Once activated, of course.”

About a minute later, the elf reappears just, presenting what is obviously a kitchen knife.

“You may leave us,” Mrs Vogt says.

She doesn’t so much as twitch when she cuts her palm before handing the knife over. While Orion follows suit, she lets a drop of blood fall onto a rune. They light up briefly before turning dormant again.

Blood wells up in the palm of his hand, the cut stinging still as he wipes the knife on his sleeve and places it down.

Mrs Vogt offers her hand, and Orion clasps it firmly. “I, Karoline Vogt, daughter of Frederick Vogt, swear on my blood that I am who I say and do not intend to deceive, trick or lie to you in any way during this meeting.”

There’s a light tingle as the magic takes hold and they move apart. “During this meeting,” Orion echoes.

She smiles pleasantly. “One has to keep their options open.”

Orion cracks a grin, charmed, despite himself. “A healthy mindset.”

She laughs while she reaches into her purse, drawing out a heavy black ledger, and Orion heals his hand.

“Since my father let me know you’re somewhat pressed for time today, let’s not waste any with pleasantries. I hear you are planning for an eventual retrial of one Sirius Black?”

“Yes. That’s the case. I plan to prove his innocence,” Orion says, trying to gauge her reaction.

Her pleasant smile doesn’t waver, giving nothing away. “An ambitious undertaking,” she replies momentarily. Then, she flips the ledger open, and Orion catches a glimpse of tightly written rows and tables, which seem to swim in front of his eyes the closer he tries to look.

Pages rustle as she turns them with nimble fingers. “Ah yes. Here we are.” Mrs Vogt takes a sip of her tea while she peers down at the pages which seem only legible to her. “I’ve taken the liberty to assemble a list of members within the Wizengamot and personas otherwise employed by the Ministry who may be swayed due to certain debts owed to your family.”

“I’m all ears,” Orion says.

“Well, the majority of them have retired, unfortunately, at this point. Two have perished, and for others, the debt has been handed down the family and may or may not be heeded or even known of. The leverage as well might not carry the same weight considering your family's current reputation.”

“Why, thanks,” Orion says dryly.

“My personal recommendation would be Tiberius Odgen. You may be familiar with his nephew, Cormac McLaggen. He’s Hogwarts age, I believe.”

“The name rings a bell,” Orion says.

“Mr Odgen is a decorated member of the Wizengamot and has been serving for nearly a century in that capacity, and he’s been helped out by your great-uncle Cygnus Black after some unsightly business with an illegal dragon-hide smuggling business in 1941.”

Orion scrunches his brows. “And that’s enough to convince him to vote in our favour?”

“He plans to retire within the next two years, so I doubt he’d like to stain his white robes with an allegation as such, even one as old as that.”

Orion nods. “I see.”

“Corvus Fawley as well has dabbled extensively in the potions trade and has turned a blind eye towards the import of restricted ingredients for years in exchange for a veritable mountain of galleons.”

“I presume my family benefitted from that as well?”

The witch smiles. “Indeed. Though after the passing of your grandfather, Mr Fawley has taken over sole management of the business. It wouldn’t be hard to create a comprehensive timeline of the current cash flow to hand over to the Department of Creature Regulation.”

Orion nods, but if he’s being honest, this doesn’t sound very promising. “Don’t we have access to better options?”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mr Black,” the witch says, smiling. She finishes her cup of tea before pouring herself another portion. “But yes. Those were the two options I could offer you regarding the Wizengamot. Though Mr Ackroyd let me know you were more interested in interpersonal contacts within the DMLE.”

“And?”

“Well, there are a few Aurors I could conceivably convince to handle Sirius Black with demiguise gloves, so to speak.”

“Yeah? Who?” Orion asks.

“Victor Proudfoot, to name one. Notoriously incompetent at times despite a meticulous record, but when one digs deeper, one would find the cause is almost always galleons. Colin O’Brian may be convinced as well. He’s rather dependent on his widowed mother, who at one point gifted several priceless family heirlooms to Walburga Black – the reason for which I’m unfortunately not aware of, but I believe a letter reminding her of the services rendered may entice her to press her son to act favourably towards Mr Sirius Black. There is also Achilles Tolliver, whose family was harbouring a blood feud against the Pettigrews for years prior to Peter Pettigrew’s unfortunate demise.”

Orion considers that. He contemplates whether he can get around revealing more but decides to risk it. “I believe that in the near future it will be found that Peter Pettigrew is still alive and that he framed my father for betraying the Potters. The problem with that now is that certain ministry personnel might not want to advertise that political blunder, especially considering my father never received a trial in the first place.”

If Mrs Vogt is surprised, it only shows in her blinking twice before turning professional once more. “So time is of the essence,” she says, “And that those who take Mr Pettigrew and perhaps Sirius Black into custody are aware of how to handle the matter?”

“Peter Pettigrew cannot under any circumstances receive the kiss before the trial to exonerate my father has been held,” Orion voices.

“So we shall focus on the Aurors then.”

“Yeah, I think that’d be best,” Orion replies.

“Understood. It may not be cheap,” Mrs Vogt says, peering up at him from under her glasses.

As a Black, that is hardly a problem. “Money shouldn’t be a concern,” he says with an offhanded wave of his hand.

“Alright. What time frame are we speaking of?”

“A month, or thereabouts.” Orion says. “Perhaps less, perhaps more.”

“Then I will set roughly four weeks as a deadline.” Mrs Vogt clicks her tongue after she’s jotted it down. “A rather short timeframe. I will have to work overtime, and I can’t guarantee the results. Some individuals require a …more complex approach.”

“You’ll be compensated for it,” Orion says.

Mrs Vogt hums. “I take it you’d prefer for me to handle everything instead of you personally?”

Orion bites back a snort. That’s a rhetorical question at best. He frankly wouldn’t even know how to go about it, nor would he feasibly be able to. He’s got classes to attend after all.

“That’d be preferable, yes.”

“I shall add it to the agenda,” Mrs Vogt says. She flips pages, scribbling around in her ledger, before she writes down a sum on a piece of parchment and slides it across the table.

Orion flips it over and promptly has to keep himself from choking on his spit.

“A rough estimate of my rate,” the witch says.

Merlin.

He already knew he’d have to shuck out a fortune, but all this just to prove his father is innocent when that’s already a fact?

Briefly Orion considers whether his paranoia is worth it when this should be a clear-cut case from the get-go.

Preparedness is half the duel, Ackroyd had said.

Let’s hope his work pays off. And if it doesn’t… Better to be safe than sorry.

He throws a glance over his shoulder at the windows overlooking the streets. He’s got an appointment with Narcissa to keep too. “Do you happen to have the time?” he asks Mrs Vogt.

She pulls out a pocket watch, which, upon opening, displays a small hourglass turning in its frame.

“It’s quarter to eleven.”

Shit. “I’m afraid I’ll have to run soon,” he says.

The witch opposite him hums. “Pity. I’d have liked to discuss matters in more detail. But time waits for nobody.”

For those without a time turner, at least. “Unfortunately,” Orion says, just as the realisation of how exactly Granger managed to take so many classes hits him over the head like a brick. He curses himself once again for not following in her footsteps.

“Well. If you like, I could perhaps try and smooth over things with certain other Ministry employees within the DMLE. I have a list with me to go over, but if time is running out, and you don’t mind me adhering to my own judgement in the matter, I doubt you’ll be disappointed. At the very least, it would bring the case to their attention. That is, if your budget is open-ended?” Mrs Vogt asks with glinting eyes.

Orion sighs. “I suppose,” he says, his leg bouncing beneath the table. It’s unfortunate that he has to get going, but he really doesn’t want to face Narcissa after missing their outing.

“Great,” Mrs Vogt says, while Orion already pulls on his gloves and grabs his cloak.

The witch collects her rune stones, blood smeared over them. She never bothered to close the cut on her palm.

“Thanks for the tea,” she says, while Orion throws on his cloak.

“You’re welcome.”

“To a lasting business relationship,” she says, toasting him with her cup.

Orion musters a fleeting smile, nodding and he turns to leave.

The bartender tips his head at him when he passes, and the elf opens the door with a snap of its fingers.

Outside, Orion breathes in the crisp air, the hoots of owls and distant chatter of students reaching his ears again before he swiftly gets going.

He navigates the narrow streets of Hogsmeade, passing by a stuffed-to-the-brim Honeydukes, where the combined scents of sweets and candy floss waft into his nose.

Overall, he feels like this has been productive. Still, somehow he’d rather he had more time with Mrs Vogt to gain a greater insight into the ‘hows’ of all that she proposed. This is not Orion’s first venture into illegality, not by far – he remembers the dead troll after all, and it’s not like his spell practices are in any way defensible should he be questioned – but this feels different somehow.

He’s in deep now. Let’s just hope that nothing will come back to bite him in the arse.

Orion runs into Draco halfway to reaching the Three Broomsticks, laden with a bag of sweets and a new broom care set.

“Where’s Pansy?” Orion can’t help but tease him, and Draco grabs him by the elbow to drag him quickly down the street.

“Don’t start,” his cousin says, throwing a look over his shoulder. “I just managed to lose her in the crowd by bribing Zabini to distract her.”

Orion humours him and follows along, his lips quirking. “What’d you bribe Zabini with?”

“Money”, Draco says, frowning at him. “What did you think?”

“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.” Orion replies, while the Three Broomsticks seemingly grows taller as they approach. It’s one of the larger buildings in the village, second perhaps only to the post office and the other more run-down pub – the Hog’s Head. Two stories, with rooms in the back and a stable attached on the side, an ancient-looking broom mounted over the door below the sign spelling out ‘The Three Broomstix’ in antiquated lettering. Though at one point someone must’ve stripped the paint off the ‘x' and overpainted it with the modern spelling instead, although the imprint in the wood still speaks to its original name.

When they enter, it’s already stuffed to the brim with noisy students, cheeks flushed from the cold and exuberant over their butterbeers. Somewhere a firework goes off, and a busty blonde witch in red skirts and an apron threatens to throw them out over the heads of the crowd. That must be Madame Rosmerta.

Draco uses his sharp elbows to his advantage and carves a way for them to a round table in the corner, which already turns out to be occupied.

Orion scrunches his nose, looking around. “I don’t think we’ll get a table here.”

“You may be right.” Draco sighs. “I wanted to try a butterbeer,” he bemoans.

“We could sit at the bar?” Orion suggests half-heartedly. Though he can’t really imagine Narcissa taking a place on a stool surrounded by teenagers.

Draco sniffs. “I’m not going to mingle like a peasant.”

The lack of sarcasm in his voice should be concerning, but Orion chokes on a laugh instead. “Perhaps we should simply head outside and wait for Narcissa there.”

“That may be for the best.”

They turn around, and just when the fresh air replaces the sweat-warm heat from inside, Draco catches his attention by raising his arm in greeting.

Narcissa is approaching from the street, a high-collared cloak fastened around her neck, her blond hair as much of an identifier as her face as she steps over the cobblestones, boots clacking.

A reserved smile appears on her lips as she spots them. “Draco, Orion. What a pleasure to see you again.”

She grabs Draco’s face and brushes a kiss on each of his cheeks, while he protests with a sputtering, “Mother!” already looking left and right to see whether someone he knew witnessed this affectionate display.

Narcissa bends down to give Orion the same treatment, her hair tickling against his jaw as she breathes a kiss against his cheek, shrouding him in a cloud of her perfume.

“I forgot what it looked like, with all the students around,” she says, turning her head and looking down the street with a faint smile on her lips. “I admit, I’m almost nostalgic.”

“Well…” Draco says.

“It’s got its charm,” Orion admits.

“It’s quite …quaint,” Narcissa says, “I suppose there’s something to the saying of how you never forget where you spent your school times.” She turns her gaze back upon them. “Shall we head inside?”

“All the tables are occupied,” Orion voices.

“Never mind then. I so despise a crowd,” she says as she takes in their surroundings once more. “I haven’t been here in quite some time; I should like to enjoy a walk.”

They do as Narcissa proposed, meandering down the streets for a bit and checking out the store fronts while she tells them small anecdotes like, “This used to be an apothecary back then”, “Pity that they closed this perfumery”, and “Lucius had to break up a duel there between your father and Severus once – he was head boy at the time, I believe,” before they end up sitting down inside a small café, where Lucius apparently took her on a date a few times.

There are a couple of students seated at various of the round tables and the benches running along the windows with pillows fluffed up against their backs.

“Draco, darling, how are you doing? How’s your arm?” She asks once they’re all served with drinks and a platter of small cucumber sandwiches.

“It still aches,” Draco replies. “I’ll be lucky if I should regain proper motion. Flint – the Slytherin Quidditch captain – says it’d be a pity to kiss my professional Quidditch career goodbye. Not that I ever would’ve seriously considered it as a profession,” he hurries to add. “But still.”

“It’s appalling, the standards Dumbledore retains for his employees,” Narcissa says. “And you, Orion? You haven’t been given too much trouble by your classmates, I hope?”

“It’s fine,” Orion says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate.

“I know you wrote that I shouldn’t concern myself too much, but I just can’t help but worry.”

“He’s fine, Mother,” Draco says. “It’s mostly the Gryffindors anyway, and I, Vince and Greg have been keeping them in check.”

Orion’s brows inch up with surprise. He wasn’t aware of that.

“Vince, Greg and I,” Narcissa says. “But that’s rather commendable of you, Draco. Family is important after all.” She eyes Orion from the corner of her eye.

“Say, Orion. Regarding your father. You’ve considered my advice?” His face must show something because she adds, “You mustn’t trouble yourself so.”

“What advice?” Draco asks curiously. “Is that what you wrote about?”

Narcissa waves him off. “It is of no import. Merely a son concerned about the reputation of their father.”

Orion feels a stab of irritation at that. He huffs into his mug.

“Really. That was what it was all about?” Draco turns to look at Orion. “And I worried for nothing.”

“You were worried?” Orion cracks a grin.

“Psh.” Draco grabs a cucumber sandwich and takes a bite, so a proper answer never follows. “How’d your meeting go anyway?” he asks after swallowing.

“A meeting?” Narcissa enquires.

“He said he was meeting up with his solicitor. For business,” Draco voices.

“It went well,” Orion says stiffly. “Thanks for asking,” he tacks on, glaring at Draco, who stares at him with a bemused expression.

‘What?!’ he mimes.

Narcissa purses her lips over her cappuccino. “Orion”, she says disapprovingly. After all, she can likely guess that it’s not business they were speaking about.

Orion smiles stiffly. “My investments are going well, if you were interested to hear.”

Draco rolls his eyes, while Narcissa looks right through him. “Congratulations are in order then, cousin,” she says, humouring his farce. “What are you investing in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Technology”, Orion replies.

That throws her off. “Technology. That …muggle invention they use to compensate for magic?”

Orion’s smile becomes more authentic as he relays what he and Ackroyd had discussed months ago via owl post. “Why, yes. I think there’s a profit there. It’s an untapped market, which is bound to grow, and my solicitor tells me that Gringotts has approved of connecting a vault to the muggle fronts of the shell companies I had him set up abroad. Their exchange rate is rather outrageous, but that alone tells me that they figure my undertaking is founded on sound arguments.”

“I see,” Narcissa says, as if he were a whole new mystery. “Lucius would likely be interested to hear of your exploits.”

Orion hums noncommittally. They skirt around the topic for a while, but luckily the direction of their conversation shifts, and they end up chatting about various things, from schoolwork, professors, and what they think of Hogsmeade to Narcissa’s latest fascination with Lisbon wizarding fashion – apparently lace collars are all the rage back in Portugal – and Lucius’ endeavours in the Ministry and that he bought ten more peacocks to Narcissa’s endless exasperation.

Before they say their goodbyes, Narcissa hands them both a purse with additional spending money with the words to enjoy their first visit to Hogsmeade and extracting a promise to not forget to write to her.

Orion lets Draco drag him into the various shops he already visited, where they run into their classmates. Tracey and Daphne are comparing sweets; Pansy complains to Draco about him not taking her to see Narcissa; Greg is wearing a new and ridiculous-looking fur hat while Moon gushes about the antique shop she discovered; and Orion questions Zabini about how much money exactly he managed to weasel off his cousin.

Before long, they end up squeezed around a table at the Three Broomsticks, trying free samples of syrup and the homemade butterbeer.

Despite having snacked on sweets, they’re all starving by the time they follow the crowds back to Hogwarts, looking forward to the warmth of the castle and the food served during the Halloween feast.

By the time they’ve stowed away their souvenirs, changed into more appropriate attire and settled around their house table, the enchanted ceiling displays the last faded pinks of a dawning sky. The mood is exuberant, and everyone excitedly relays their stories about what they experienced in Hogsmeade.

The great hall is decorated similarly to last year, with floating jack-o’-lanterns, candles and swarming bats, while flaming orange bands are snaking through the air, softly fluttering beneath the darkening ceiling.

It’s a nice feast, overall, coming to an end with an impressive show of the Hogwarts ghosts floating in formation – after which even the Bloody Baron deigned to exchange a few words with some of the Slytherins – and a notice from Dumbledore at Filch’s behest to not use their newly purchased Zonko’s products too liberally in the hallways.

After heading back to the dungeons, it’s late but not late enough for some of the older students to break out the firewhisky they managed to smuggle into the castle.

The prefects take care to shoo off the firsties and second years trying to stick around, and before long it’s turned into something of a party, with a few sixth years having set up a gramophone blasting music, fifth years practising cheering charms on anyone who volunteers – causing fits of laughter when they purposefully and not so purposefully overdo it – and a jovial mood takes hold of the Slytherins.

Moon and Tracey somehow manage to nick some butterbeers, and they split them among the third years while Orion tests out his rusty piano skills on the grand piano at Moon’s insistence – “You ought to learn something modern, really,” she says, already tipsy, just when Snape materialises at the entrance like an unholy omen of doom.

A wave of his wand, and the music stops abruptly, while everybody tries to hide the evidence of their activities with varying success.

“Attention, Slytherins,” Snape barks, and even the last stragglers finally catch on to the happenings.

Moon bends down to whisper, “We’re fucked, aren’t we? I haven’t seen him this upset since the last time someone mentioned Longbottom’s boggart in his vicinity.”

Orion shakes his head while trying to gauge whether there’s anything around that would indicate that he’s somehow incriminated himself.

“I’ve come with a serious announcement,” Snape says, glaring into the round. “Tonight, shortly before the end of the feast, an attempt has been made to break into the Gryffindor common room.”

The conversations pick up again; here and there, a jeering laugh sounds. “And why does this concern us?” Gemma Fawley asks, her prefect badge shimmering as she steps forward, braving Snape’s unrelenting glare.

The man stares her down with his dark eyes as he pauses. “It’s being suspected that the intruder has been none other than Sirius Black.”

Immediately, whispers sound, hushed conversations and questions bouncing through the room as the gravity of the situation sinks in.

“Silence!” Snape barks.

Fawley still stares at Snape. “Has he been apprehended?” she asks.

“No. As of now, there’s been no sight of him,” Snape says. “But be assured that the staff will do everything in its power to have Sirius Black captured and handed over to the Dementors.”

No one dares to speak after Snape’s prior call to attention, but Orion feels the stares of his fellow classmates prickling down his back like spider legs.

Moon stares at him wide-eyed. “Damn,” she whispers.

“I would ask you all to head to your dorms immediately, while the professors search the castle.” Snape says. “No dallying. The prefects shall make sure that all are accounted for and squared away. Afterwards they may come and see me for further instructions. I’ll be waiting. And clean this mess up while you’re at it.”

Couches creak and whispers start to sound as one by one the Slytherins pack up their things, turning their heads to stare at Orion as they do.

He is about to follow suit when Snape says, “Mr Black. A word.”

More stares. More whispers. Orion catches Draco’s concerned look over the crowd.

“You’re going to be alright?” Moon asks.

Orion nods at her, already making his way over to Snape. He stares up at the tall man who glares into the room, where more than one Slytherin is taking their sweet time collecting their belongings.

“Did I stutter?!” Snape bellows.

Before long, the common room has cleared.

Orion stares at Snape, who stares back, his black eyes boring into Orion’s own. Neither of them seems to be willing to break the silence first.

“So my father broke into the castle,” Orion starts eventually, wanting to get this over with. “What has this got to do with me?”

“You are many things, Mr Black, but I didn’t take you for an imbecile.”

“I’m flattered,” Orion snarks. “But, judging by the fact that he headed for the Gryffindor common room, I think it’s safe to conclude that Sirius Black wasn’t after me.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised that this kind of rash assumption-making is the approach you favour, Mr Black,” Snape retorts, his lip curling up, displaying crooked yellow teeth. ”Any half-wit could discern as much. I suppose I should credit you for basing your conclusions on a halfway reasonable deduction, but you’re forgetting that you aren’t dealing with a reasonable individual. Sirius Black has never been what one would call sane, and undoubtedly, his years in Azkaban have rendered him even more unstable.

Likely, he’s acting as desperate and erratic as any deranged criminal after their mind was flayed by Dementors for over a decade.”

Orion huffs, a muscle in his jaw jumping.

Snape smiles thinly. “Now, say we follow the string of your imprudent theories and assume Black has indeed somehow managed the impossible and retained a smidge of rationale. Say he indeed meant to target the Gryffindor common room this evening. There still remains a glaring flaw in your theory.”

Orion’s teeth grind some more, vividly aware of his rising temper, as Snape bores into him with his dark stare, his own distaste for the man only growing as he’s forced to listen to him continuing his lecture and poking at Orion’s intelligence.

“Has it at any point occurred to you that Mr Potter was meant to be only the first victim of Black's murderous plans tonight?” Snape asks pointedly. “Or perhaps, Mr Black, you consider yourself above such things. Perhaps you arrogantly assume that you’re immune to being harmed by Black; that he’ll spare you from his violent tendencies out of some congenital paternal affection… Or perhaps – Snape pauses as he leans closer, his black stringy hair falling into his face, and the waft of sour breath invades Orion’s nose – “There is a reason for why you are so sure of your own safety.”

Orion definitely meets his stare head-on, his defences shoring up.

“You see,” Snape says quietly, staring intensely into Orion’s eyes, “it is almost impossible that Sirius Black has gained entry to the castle without help.”

A burst of defensive aggression prickles down Orion’s spine. “Are you accusing me of aiding him?” he bites out.

Snape huffs. “I doubt a mere third-year student would possess the wit needed to deceive the Dementors. And even if they attempted it, they would be a fool to try,” Snape says before straightening up. “Nevertheless, your ... personal entanglement may drive you to act in a manner highly inadvisable. Reckless, even. One cannot tell which traits are inherent, after all.”

Orion feels his lips twitch, a litany of insults caged behind them.

“I heard you visited Bellatrix Lestrange in Azkaban this summer,” Snape continues. “But there are no Aurors here, nor bars to protect you. You may find that Sirius Black is no less unhinged than she was. And vastly more dangerous, considering the circumstances.”

It takes all of Orion’s self-control to not do something inadvisable.

“Stay in your dorm tonight, Mr Black. And do not leave your rooms under any circumstances. Are we understood?”

“Yes, Sir,” Orion grits out. He turns, lest he hexes Snape, cursing his father within his mind for being that bloody stupid and fucking up his carefully laid plans.

He passes by Ashwood, on his way to his dorm, the prefect shooting him an inquisitive look.

Orion ignores him, heading for the room he shares with Zabini and slamming the door shut behind him once he’s entered.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he spits, as soon as the lock has clicked shut.

“It went well with Snape then, I take it,” Blaise voices sarcastically from where he’s propped up against his headboard, a butter beer bottle propped up between his knees.

“Aside from him insinuating I smuggled my father into the castle? Or that I may be trying to seek him out? Oh. Just brilliant,” Orion retorts as he paces towards his desk and back again before he deflates somewhat. “I suppose it could’ve gone worse.”

“What’s got you so incensed then?”

Orion turns and pulls his trunk open. “My father is a fucking idiot.”

Zabini hums, sounding amused. “I’ve heard the term ‘insane’ being thrown around before. Dangerous. Deranged. Lunatic. But idiot? That’s a new one.”

Orion huffs as he reflexively reaches for a pack of cigarettes before tossing it back inside. “You don’t get it—”

Weeks of work, potentially ruined. If that fucking rat flees now –

“I suppose I don’t,” Zabini says. “Unless you care to enlighten me?”

Orion slams his trunk shut in response. Sighing, Blaise sits up. “Look,” he starts. “I have a complicated family.”

Orion turns around and stares at him.

Oh, do you?

The retort sits on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them. Zabini’s situation with his mother may not be comparable, but he does know complicated family dynamics.

“It’s of no use now anyway,” Orion says.

Blaise eyes him before he sighs again. “We could play Exploding Snap?”

“I’d rather duel,” Orion says. His fingers are itching to do something.

“And cause another uproar?” Zabini says.

Orion exhales, forcibly calming himself.

They play exploding Snap.

At least the small explosions and the smoke abate some of the urge to set something on fire.

Chapter Text

The news of Sirius Black having invaded the castle is the only topic tearing through the school gossip mill.

Lupin looks notably sicker, Snape seems to be on a warpath, and nobody wants to poke at Orion with so much as a broomstick handle.

Half the rumours circulating appear to put him as his father’s inside man, while the theories about how Sirius entered the castle blow more and more out of proportion in terms of the ridiculous. While at first, disillusion was still in the talk, now it’s whispers about Sirius being able to turn into fog or him having disguised himself by hiding beneath a Dementor’s cloak, an Orion’s personal favourite so far; Sirius having transfigured himself into a bottle of sherry hopped onto an inconspicuous section of wall and enticed Professor Trelawney into slipping it into her pockets on her way inside.

Meanwhile, Orion catches himself watching the Gryffindor trio like a hawk, trying to figure out whether Weasley is upset about a missing rat.

A fact that doesn’t go unnoticed and does not endear him to the Hogwarts population, only stoking the rumours about him having sent his father to murder Potter in his sleep.

Narcissa wrote to him, as did Lucius, the former with concern about his feelings and not so subtly probing whether he’s still considering his ‘foolish plans' of exonerating Sirius, the latter with more concrete enquiries about his well-being and whether he’d like him to put in a word with the Ministry to get Orion and Draco Auror escorts for their next Hogsmeade outing.

His solicitor penned a note himself, enquiring whether they’re still on track, and Orion replies with the affirmative, for lack of anything better to say.

It’s a mess.

Meanwhile, the practical aspects of their astronomy class have almost become obsolete with the increasing Dementor presence, at fault for a perpetually overcast sky. Arithmancy is gearing up to become a drag, what with them only covering increasingly complicated tables. Snape holds a rather transparent lesson on werewolves in DADA, covering for a ‘sick’ Lupin, and both McGonagall and Professor Babbling heap homework on them like there’s no tomorrow.

It pours buckets when the next Slytherin versus Gryffindor match is announced, dark thunder clouds rolling over the lands, lightning crackling while the Black Lake swells and swallows up the pebbly shores.

The Slytherins wisely put forth a notice about them unfortunately not being able to play, courtesy of Draco’s ‘injury’ – who found it in himself to redon his bandages at Flint’s request under the pretence of the cold weather having weakened his injured arm – to try their luck with the Ravenclaws the next time.

Unsurprisingly, that game ends in mayhem, with Potter in the hospital wing – again – and Dementors invading the stands, causing a wave of mass panic.

Madame Pomfrey has to give first aid to a veritable armada of students with scrapes and sprained ankles, who got caught up in the jostling and hurried scrambling to get away.

Safe to say, the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor is back to an all-time high.

As if that was in any way their fault.

Orion would smoke like a chimney, were he not now constantly flanked by various of his classmates, who seem to have made it their mission to accompany him at all times to protect him from stray hexes.

Orion would rather he’d be able to vent some of his frustrations by duelling in the hallways.

A fortnight following Sirius’ inadvisable break-in, he bites the bullet and corners Potter after a potions lesson, yet not before asking Draco to distract Weasley for him.

It doesn’t take much.

After all, the redhead managed to slap his cousin in the face with a crocodile heart on Monday in response to some Dementor-related mockery aimed at Potter, costing Gryffindor 50 points, which Weasley loudly claimed was worth it.

“Potter," Orion says, sidling up to the boy.

Harry turns his head away from where his friend is turning into the equivalent of a crab at Draco’s goading, his eyes switching to immediate suspicion. “Black. What do you want?”

“I need the map,” Orion says, figuring it’s better to come right out with it.

Potter stares at him, his body turned at an angle, a hand on his wand. “What map?” he says.

“The Map," Orion repeats impatiently. “Don’t play dumb. I know you have it. I just need to borrow it. For a day or so.”

“I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” Potter says.

Orion stares at him. There’s apprehension in Potter’s green gaze and a load of suspicion, but he really doesn’t seem to know what Orion is talking about. “You don’t know about the map,” Orion states unnecessarily.

“I said, ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Potter reiterates.

Orion curses, dragging a hand through his hair. He was sure Potter had the map. If he doesn’t, that means it still belongs to the Weasley twins. “Sure. Alright. You can leave,” he adds, already elsewhere with his thoughts.

“Thanks for the permission,” Potter snarks. He turns, but not without shooting Orion another weirded-out look.

This went abysmal. Potter didn’t even have the map yet, and Orion doubts he can convince the Weasley twins to part with it for him.

It would’ve been the easiest way to confirm whether Pettigrew was still in the castle and potentially get his hands on him.

Now he’s back to his original plan – going in blind – unless he somehow manages to convince the Weasley twins to lend him the map.

It was a foolish notion anyway. Apprehending Pettigrew himself. What was he thinking? What would he have done, in the first place, had Pettigrew still been in the common room? Follow in his father's footsteps by breaking in?

He doubts it would endear him much to his fellow students, not to speak of the staff, should he get caught. With his luck they’d probably think he was trying to off Potter personally now that his father has failed.

And it’s not like he has access to an invisibility cloak at the moment. Not until he orders one for an exorbitant sum.

He’s just sick of feeling like he’s sitting on his thumbs. Orion wants to do something. Anything before his plans are fully thrown into disarray. And confirming that Pettigrew is still in the castle would’ve abated at least some of his restlessness.

Orion sighs, catching Draco’s gaze, telling him with a look to wrap it up. Draco gets another jab in, just because he can, before he turns away from Weasley as if this whole thing was beneath him and sidles up to Orion.

“And? Did you talk about whatever important thing you needed to talk to Potter about?”

“It was a dead end,” Orion says, brushing his ever-growing hair out of his face. It almost reaches his shoulders now.

“I could’ve told you that before,” Draco says. “Potter would rather jump to that oaf Hagrid’s aid than cast so much as a healing charm on a Slytherin.”

“Black!” Potter yells.

Farther ahead, Lavender Brown squeaks, “Where?!” before she spots her fellow Gryffindor jogging towards Orion.

Weasley follows at a more measured pace, glaring daggers at Draco.

“What is it?” Orion says, turning around, nudging Draco when he moves his hands to raise his hood up, likely in another attempt to mock Potter by pretending to be a Dementor.

“Can we talk? Privately?” Potter says, unconsciously flattening his hair in a nervous motion, only for it to spring back up into the wild mess he usually calls his own.

Draco raises his eyebrows at Orion, who contemplates that renewed approach with no small measure of surprise. “Alright,” he says. Just then, Weasley catches up to them.

“I’m not going to leave you alone with the likes of him,” Weasley says.

“Like you’re any better,” Draco snarks back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“If Potter wants to talk, we can talk,” Orion says. “When’d you have in mind?”

Potter bounces on his heels, seemingly attempting to work up to something. His eyes dart around briefly. “Might as well get it over with,” he says, wetting his lip.

Orion considers him, trying to gauge what this would be about.

Draco outright scoffs. “Please,” he says. “Why should he humour you now?”

“Hate to agree, but the git has a point,” Weasley says. “You don’t need him, Harry.”

“You can stay guard if you’re so worried about Potter’s wellbeing,” Orion interjects. Draco shoots him a look. “There’s that tapestry with a secret alcove a hallway down.”

“The centaur one,” Potter mutters. “Right.”

Draco heaves a sigh, but he moves to follow after Orion anyway, motioning for Vince and Greg to move on without him.

They walk silently till they’ve turned the corner, Weasley hovering protectively over Potter, as if him being a physical barrier would in any way mean that neither of the Slytherin’s would dare hex him if they wanted to.

The walls are covered with tall tapestries reaching all the way to the ceiling, a statue of a centaur next to a half-broken bust rounding off the images of swaying forests and creatures woven into the fabric.

Orion ducks behind the tapestry where two hounds are snapping at the ankles of a centaur poking a spear at them and into the spacy alcove behind, leaving Draco and Weasley to hash it out by themselves – unwise as that decision may be – and Potter follows after him.

Leaning against the wall, Orion looks at Potter. He’s still scrawny, and with his additional growth spurt, Orion looms more than half a head taller than him.

“You wanted to talk?” He asks, not quite able to stave off a spark of interest.

Potter shushes him, glancing at the tapestry as if he could look through it with an X-ray vision to make sure nobody was eavesdropping.

Orion, feeling magnanimous, draws his wand, casting a quiet ‘muffliato’, capturing them in a bubble of privacy. Besides, he’s rather curious about what Potter has to say that has to be so terribly secret.

“What spell was that?” the Gryffindor asks.

“Now nobody will be able to listen in. Since it seems you don’t even want Weasley to know what we’re talking about.”

Potter ruffles through his hair. “It’s not like that,” he says, before he pins Orion with a look. “You said I would have a map.”

“Which you don’t,” Orion points out and crosses his arms. Shifting his stance against the wall behind him, he blows a strand of hair out of his face.

“But you thought I did,” Potter says, staring at him with keen eyes. “Which means you think I can get my hands on it.”

Orion snorts – considering the twins handed it – or will hand it to him at one point –“That’s very likely,” he says.

“What do you want it for?” Potter demands to know then.

Orion looks at him with a grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Potter huffs, his frustration evident. “Say,” he starts. “I could get my hands on that map…”

“Out of pure selflessness, of course,” Orion drawls.

Potter works his jaw. “Sirius Black is your father, right?” he asks, abruptly changing the topic.

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Orion replies, his amusement at needling Potter dying down in the face of sudden wariness.

“He is, right?”

“Yes, Potter, he is my father.”

“So you know why he’s after me.”

Oh. “Oh.” That’s where this is going. “You don’t know yet,” Orion states, smug in his realisation.

“Why is it that everybody seems to know but I?” Potter bites out angrily.

“You asked the wrong people, it seems,” Orion retorts.

“I’m asking you now,” Potter says. His glasses glint in the dim light.

“In exchange for the map,” Orion guesses.

“Yeah,” Potter says.

Orion feels his mood suddenly do a one-eighty. Had Potter asked him right from the get-go, he’d likely have told him. But he’s not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The map would be a huge boon when it comes to Pettigrew. His lips quirk. “Sure. I’ll tell you the whole story if you want. But I want the map.”

“What kind of map is it?”

“Having second thoughts?” Orion questions, amused.

Potter glares at him.

Orion huffs. “I suppose you’ll find out sooner than later anyway,” he admits. His hands slide down to his sides as he uncrosses his arms. “It’s a map of the castle.”

“A map of Hogwarts?” Potter voices, intrigued.

“Yeah. Secret passages and all that,” Orion says, waving his hand. No need to advertise the feature he really wants it for, lest Potter goes back on his word and tries to hunt down Sirius by himself.

“Alright,” Potter voices, bouncing on his heels, seemingly talking more to himself in some form of reassurance than to Orion. “Alright, I can do that.”

“Good,” Orion retorts. “Because you’ll have to convince the Weasley twins to give it to you. Preferably without mentioning me.”

“Fred and George have the map?”

“Try to keep up, Potter,” Orion says.

“Okay. So Fred and George have the map.” He squints at Orion from beneath his choppy bangs. “You said you only needed to borrow it. For a day.”

“Or longer. My price has increased.” At the face Potter pulls, Orion smirks. He’s enjoying this a bit too much, perhaps. “Supply and demand, Potter,” he adds. “That’s the way of the world. Take it or leave it.”

“I can’t steal it,” Potter contemplates out loud. “They’d notice it missing. I can ask the twins to lend it to me. Maybe. But I’ll have to give it back.”

Orion pauses for a moment, considering this before nodding. “If there’s no other way—” Potter looks notably less tense. “But—if you get your hands on it permanently, I’m owed at least fifty-fifty custody,” he adds. An offer that is more than generous, in his opinion.

“Fifty-fifty… Why?”

“It’s an inheritance thing,” Orion says, waving his hand offhandedly.

Potter stares at him as if he were trying to figure out his angle. “That sounds fair,” he admits reluctantly after a moment, but it’s accompanied by a healthy dose of suspicion.

“Great.” Orion bares his teeth in a sharp grin as he leans forward. “So we have a deal.”

“Tell me about why Sirius Black is after me. Then we’ll talk.”

“My Potter,” Orion can’t help but needle him. “One would almost think you were sorted into the wrong house. What happened to chivalry and helping for the sake of it?”

Potter looks like he swallowed a lemon. “Well?” he bites out.

“Sirius Black isn’t after you,” Orion reveals.

Potter stares at him, confused.

“But everybody thought—”

“They’re wrong,” Orion cuts him off resolutely.

“That doesn’t make any sense…” Potter stares at Orion. “You’re trying to trick me! You only want me to steal that map for you –”

“Calm your Abraxans, Christ,” Orion replies, rolling his eyes.

“You lot believe in Jesus?”

“Seriously?” Orion retorts. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Never mind. Don’t answer that.” Orion fixates on the Gryffindor with a look. “Alright, Potter. Let me be frank. Sirius Black is innocent. But I can tell you why everyone thinks he’s after you.”

Potter seems to grow an inch as he straightens up eagerly. “Tell me,” he demands.

“Sirius Black went to school with your father, you know? And more than that, they were friends – Potter gasps, “Him, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew and Lupin –”

“Professor Lupin?!”

Orion pauses. “Yes,” he says, somewhat irked at having been interrupted. “You should ask him about your father if you’re interested. But I’m digressing,” he says. “They were school friends, is what I’m getting at, inseparable, the four of them,” he voices sardonically, before it occurs to him that he’s perhaps already said too much. Paranoid, he slides his gaze to the floor, checking whether there isn’t a rat hiding in some corner.

“What does that have to do with Sirius Black being after me?” Potter says, demanding his attention again.

Orion decides, for his own good and that of his plans, to stick to the original story. “When the time came that the Potters went into hiding, they cast a spell that hides a secret, like, say, a location from everybody. Only the Secret Keeper can reveal that secret.”

“They hid the house where they stayed,” Potter voices. “In a person?”

Orion blinks at being faced with that kind of stupidity. “The knowledge of that house’s location, its existence. Not the house itself.”

Honestly.

“So nobody could find them,” Potter concludes.

“Exactly. And whom should they pick as a secret keeper but one of their closest friends?” Orion says. “You catch my drift?”

“Sirius Black,” Potter breathes as realisation hits home.

Close enough, at least.

“They were hidden for well a year when their Secret Keeper betrayed their location to the Dark Lord,” Orion continues.

Potter’s face drains of all colour. “No,” he whispers. “Their best friend betrayed them to Voldemort? He led him right to their doorstep…” Potter’s voice is tinged with rage when he all but shouts, “He might as well have killed them himself!”

Orion watches Potter go through it for a few moments, rage, grief and more rage playing out on his face. “That is the general opinion, yes,” he voices eventually. “And that’s why everybody thinks my father is after you. To finish the job, so to say.”

Potter’s eyes are telling a whole story in the emotions playing out in them when he fixates on Orion. “How can you believe he’s innocent? Knowing all this?!” He looks like he’s about to cry. Or to set something on fire. More the latter, actually.

Orion can relate as he observes Potter at that moment. He wouldn’t stop at mere arson if someone had murdered Walburga, regardless of their tumultuous relationship.

Despite that, it’s a distant kind of relation as he looks at the Gryffindor. Objectively, if someone deserves to know the truth, it’s Potter. But that’s not an option. Not when he’s sleeping with Pettigrew just a bed away. So Orion simply says, “Because he’s my father.”

Potter huffs bitterly. But after a moment, his expression changes. “I understand, I think,” he says to Orion after a long pause, his voice kind. “But I don’t think he’s innocent. I’m sorry, though. I really am.”

Orion feels a sudden stab of rage.

He doesn’t need Potter’s fucking pity.

With his dead parents, whom he can idolise and put on a pedestal and who expect fuck-all from him, that fucking – “Oh fuck off! You don’t know shit about my family!” he spits.

Potter stares at him, shocked, before his eyes turn to steel. “You—”

“Oh boo-hoo. You’re not the only one who’s got shit going on.”

“You’re such a git,” Potter bites out. He opens his mouth as if he wants to add something before closing it and stalking out.

Orion exhales sharply before he leans against the walls of the alcove once more. A few more breaths, and he can feel his temper settle.

Especially at the realisation that Potter never promised he’d get him the map.

Shit.

Here's to hoping he'll get over himself and keep their deal anyway.

Orion wipes over his face. He wants a bloody smoke.

Draco peeks his head past the tapestry. “How’d it go?”

“Don’t ask,” Orion snaps.

“Temper, temper,” Draco says, clicking his tongue. “I told you, Potter—”

“Would you please – just – shut up?”

Draco looks Orion over, more attentively this time. “Merlin. What the hell did you talk about?”

“I told Potter about my father and his parents.”

Draco forms an ‘o’ with his mouth before wisely biting his lips. “Ah,” he says. He eyes Orion from the corner of his vision the whole way to lunch.

When Orion feels Weasley’s glare on him by the time he’s listlessly pushing potatoes back and forth on his plate, he feels ready to slam his head against the table.

Fucking great.

He already regrets that he spoke to Potter in the first place – map or not.

Forcibly, he inhales. Two more weeks. That’s all he’ll grant himself.

Pettigrew’s a dead rat. He just doesn’t know it yet.

The next week passes in a blur of schoolwork and a tense fan club meeting, where the only one humouring Orion is Moon. She paints his nails black, trying to entertain him with tales and gossip, while even Bernett and Ethel keep their distance.

Orion ends up leaving early, stealing a Fleetwood Mac vinyl, which he listens to by himself in his dorm, like a hormonal teen he doesn’t identify himself with, before Millicent, Draco, Vince and Blaise set themselves up on Zabini’s bed, playing exploding Snap and tossing Bertie Bott’s beans at Orion to drag him out of his mood.

They succeed by annoying him to the point where he gets up with a huff and challenges them all to a duel.

Oddly enough, even Nott somehow finds it in himself to watch, leaning against a pillar and commenting on their duels, all but complimenting Orion’s stance.

“Okay, what’s his deal lately?” Orion asks afterwards, watching the boy stride over to one of the couches before cracking open a book.

“Hell if I know,” Blaise says.

“What do you mean?” Millicent asks, fixing her dishevelled appearance after hexing Vince into the ground, while Greg practises his abysmal counter curses on the other boy.

“He’s being …nice,” Orion voices, with the appropriate tone that statement deserves.

Pansy, who’s been sidling up to Draco for the last ten minutes, laughs as she inserts herself into the conversation. “You’re seriously telling me you don’t know?”

“What?” Orion asks, turning to look at her.

Pansy grins, basking in the unbridled attention of the Slytherins looking at her.

“Well, spit it out,” Draco addresses her impatiently.

She giggles. “Isn’t it obvious? His father asked him to.”

Orion stares at her, befuddled.

“Really,” she drawls before leaning in conspiratorially and lowering her voice. “You know who Theo’s father supported during the war. Don’t you think that gaining his right-hand man’s favour by fostering a connection with you wouldn’t be a good idea?”

Orio takes a moment to digest that information. “Are you kidding me?” he voices out loud.

“Yeah, yeah,” Blaise says, “We all know what stance you’ve taken on the topic. But hey, why not enjoy the rewards in the meantime?”

Orion rolls his eyes. “I don’t know if I want to.”

“I don’t see the problem,” Draco says, shrugging.

“Honestly,” Millicent says, “he’s right. You, I mean,” she clarifies at Orion’s look. “Theo being nice is just plain creepy.”

On Friday evening, they’re gathered around the fire in the Slytherin common room, bending over star maps and jotting down notes on the planetary movement of Venus, when a knock at the secret entrance sounds.

There’s some hemming and hawing around the tables closest to the door, till eventually Flint shoves Pucey off the arm of the couch. The boy shuffles over with a huff and an insult on his lips, disappearing into the tunnel.

He reemerges, just as Daphne asks Orion to switch over his already finished map in exchange for her history notes, approaching their group.

“Black, it’s for you,” Pucey says, stopping next to their couches.

Orion looks up. “Who is it?”

“Lupin.”

“Lupin? What does he want from you?” Daphne asks.

Millicent stops chewing on her quill.

“You didn’t get detention or something and forget about it?” Zabini drawls, amused.

“He’s right,” Moon voices. “You’re more scatterbrained than usual.”

“Tell me about it,” Draco says. “And he won’t breathe a word as to why.” He looks pointedly at Orion.

“I didn’t get detention,” Orion says.

“Not that you know of,” Blaise points out.

“Maybe it’s about his father,” Vince says.

Orion dreads that that’s the case. He’s been waiting in tense anxiousness for the last few days, and this is the last thing that he needs.

For all that he knows, he’ll have to get back to his fall-out plan and dose Weasley with a love potion after all to get his hands on Pettigrew before he tucks tail and runs.

Orion packs up his stuff while the others devolve into a discussion, theorising what it could be about Sirius Black that needs his urgent attention.

“Maybe it’s about his schoolwork,” Tracey says. “I don’t know why you’re all getting so worked up about this when that’s the most likely explanation.”

“For the drama, darling,” Pansy says. “School work—” She scoffs.

Orion shakes his head as he leaves his classmates behind, nodding his thanks at Pucey before he steps out of the Slytherin common room and into the torch-lit hallway.

Lupin is waiting for him, in shabby brown robes – a pair he seems to favour with a patch on his elbow. The expression he wears is rather serious.

Somehow Orion’s getting the feeling that he’s in deep shit. And he really doesn’t like not knowing what for.

Orion tries to look as unassuming as possible as he stares up at Lupin. “So,” he says, shrugging his shoulders to get the strap of his bag to settle more comfortably, “what is it, professor?”

A mix of emotions plays out on Lupin’s face before he conjures a smile. “There were just a few questions that were brought up to me. I was wondering if you minded joining me in my office for a few minutes?”

“That’s pretty far away from the dungeons,” Orion voices suspiciously.

Lupin smiles ruefully. “Yes, but I figured it would be more comfortable. And private.”

Orion stares at the man. “Right…” he says. “Is that how you usually ask people to join you in your ‘office’?” he says, drawing air quotes with his fingers.

Lupin blinks, clearly taken aback. There’s a faint blush dusting his usually bloodless cheeks. He clears his throat, gesturing at the hallway. “If you would, Mr Black,” he says.

Orion sighs and gets moving.

“And to answer your question,” Lupin speaks up surprisingly after a few of their steps have echoed off the walls. “My office is reserved for school-related matters only. Personally, though, I've found that inviting people to a drink works best.

Now it’s Orion’s time to gape at the man. Lupin’s lip twitches.

Touché.

They reach Lupin’s office after long minutes of climbing stairs, and no needling of the man has gotten Orion any more information on why he was asked to join him there.

When Lupin opens the door for him and Orion steps inside, he all but steps back out when he sees Potter and both of the Weasley twins already sitting in chairs in front of Lupin’s desk, a few mismatched cups with tea in hand. Though from the way the left-most Weasley drops back into his chair and burns his tongue when taking a hurried sip of his drink, it appears as if he’d been doing something else just moments before. Snooping, most likely.

“Ah, Mr and Mr Weasley, thank you for waiting,” Lupin says as he makes his way over to his desk. “Thank you, Harry, for fetching them. I hope you haven’t been too bored in the meantime.”

“No, not at all,” the left Weasley says.

“We’ve been happy as a pot of cucumbers,” the other Weasley says asininely.

“Have you brought it?” Lupin asks, walking up to them.

The twins exchange a glance. “We’d like her back in perfect condition.”

“She’s a dear family friend, you see,” the other Weasley says.

Lupin appears amused. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says, before he holds out his palm.

The twins seem to hesitate before the more freckled one produces a long piece of folded parchment and places it in Lupin’s hand.

The man looks at it for a moment with something like nostalgia in his eyes before the expression vanishes.

“Thank you,” he says to the twins. “You may leave. I bet you’ve got better plans than to hang out in some boring old professor’s office on a Friday evening.”

“I’ve got a free hour,” the Weasley to the right says before looking at his brother. “Are you George?”

“No plans whatsoever, Fred.”

Lupin’s eyes are kind but firm when he says, “I’m afraid I must insist.”

“We’d rather stay,” Fred says daringly.

“In case you do unspeakable things to her,” George adds.

Lupin seems to contemplate something before nodding.

Orion stands stiffly next to the door, feeling the nonsensical urge to suddenly launch into a speech starting with, ‘You’re probably wondering why I’ve gathered all of you here today,’ to break this silence.

“Alright. You may stay,” Lupin tells the twins. “For the time being.” Then he looks at Orion. “Mr Black, why don’t you join us?”

Orion tongues the inside of his teeth for a moment before he sets himself in motion.

“Could you tell me whether you recognise this?” He asks, holding out the blank Marauder’s Map.

This reeks of a trap from a mile away.

The Weasley twins are elbowing each other, putting their heads together and whispering.

Perhaps he hesitates for too long, because Lupin seems to read it as an answer anyway. Still, he says, “This is very important, Mr Black. I need to know if you know what this is.”

“I know what it is,” Orion says.

“And what do you think it is that I’m holding?”

Orion chews at the inside of his cheek, trying to figure out Lupin’s angle.

“Come on,” Potter blurts out, seemingly not able to take the silence. “That’s the map you wanted me to steal, right?! And now you’re pretending you don’t even know about it!”

Orion grits his teeth.

“Harry,” Lupin says, “I needed Mr Black to tell me.”

“Sorry, Professor,” Harry says, ducking his head with embarrassment.

“It’s the Marauder’s Map,” Orion says, figuring the cat’s out of the bag anyway. And they won’t get anywhere if he continues playing chicken. And he wants to know what the fuck is going on.

“The Marauder’s Map?” Harry asks, while the twins stare at Orion as if he’d grown a second head.

“How do you know that?” Fred asks.

“We never showed it to anyone,” his brother says.

Orion pointedly flicks his eyes between them and Harry.

“He came and asked us about it,” George replies, as soon as he picks up on what Orion is implying.

“After you told him about it, apparently,” Fred says, narrowing his eyes at Orion.

Lupin watches them like another would follow a tennis match. “It seems," he begins, “that all of you are in the know about this piece of enchanted parchment.”

The twins protest vocally.

“-Parchment! Who is he calling a parchment?”

“–It’s called the Marauder’s Map!”

Lupin looks indulgently at them. Orion scoffs. How would they react, knowing one of its creators was standing right in front of them?

“Now,” Lupin continues, “the question is how you came to know of its existence.”

Harry’s the first to break. “Black told me about it.”

Lupin stills briefly before he follows Potter’s accusing glare directed at Orion. “I see.”

Orion keeps his mouth shut. He enters a staring match with the twins, who seem equally reluctant to share their secrets.

“We found it,” Fred eventually voices after exchanging a look with his brother. “In our second year.”

“Nabbed it from Filch’s office during a detention,” George adds.

“It was just there. In a drawer. For anyone to take,” his brother continues.

“Really not our fault it was lying around,” George adds.

Lupin turns his expectant gaze upon Orion. He really doesn’t have a good answer to the question.

“I learnt about it from an old school book,” he lies.

Lupin looks at him, studying his face, his lips pressed tight.

And Orion realises suddenly that he fucked up.

Because if there’s a person who knows as well as Orion that there’s not a single mention of the Marauder's Map in any of Sirius’ old books, it would be Lupin.

Shit.

He should’ve said he saw the twins use it.

“And," Lupin says, his voice tight, “did it also tell you how it functions?”

It takes Orion another second before the realisation of what this all is about hits him like a brick to the face.

It fucking figures that now would be the moment Lupin and Snape have something in common.

Orion laughs. He can’t help it.

The twins and Harry stare at him confused, while Lupin’s face grows pinched.

“Why not get past this whole farce and call it like it is?” Orion bites out, a joyless grin on his lips. The Gryffindors watch confused, while he stares at Lupin. “You think my father taught me how to use the map.”

The werewolf swallows, his expression pained, guilt written all over his careworn features, but his eyes are full of determination.

“-What? Why?”

“–Doesn’t make any sense!”

“-How would he eve-”

The twins start to talk over each other, while Harry stares at Orion, pale-faced. “I thought you wanted it so you could find Sirius Black,” Potter says quietly.

“So you told Lupin about it?” Orion questions, turning to him, an easy target to aim his frustrations at for causing this whole situation. “What the hell, Potter?!”

The twins watch them like a game of tennis.

Lupin doesn’t even have it in himself to tell him to mind his language. “It’s not an accusation I’d make lightly,” he voices. “Or without concrete proof.”

Orion grits his teeth.

Lupin continues, “But unless you can tell me how else you learnt of the map…”

The open-ended question hangs in the air.

Orion exhales sharply through his nose, huffing, before he deflates with a heavy sigh.

He’s a week ahead of the schedule, but whatever.

The stars have aligned or some crap, tossing him headfirst into this heap of shit, and lying now doesn’t seem worth it when in a few days' time, everything’s going to go tits up anyways.

“Alright,” he concedes, with a huff, throwing his hands in the air. “Fine. Let’s go to Dumbledore. I’ll explain everything then.”

“Mr Black,” Lupin voices hoarsely, eyes wide, “Are you insinuating-”

“No,” Orion cuts him off, glaring, although it’s more mercy than what he deserves for tucking tail now after being confronted with the possibility of Orion actually having done what he accused him of. “I want Dumbledore there, because I won’t have you fuck it all up now.”

Lupin clears his throat, while the Gryffindors look at him with a mix of curiosity and confusion – and in the twins’ case, a hint of awe at cursing at a teacher. “Misters Weasley and Harry, I think you should head back—”

“No, they should come too,” Orion says. He can’t have them blabbing now. Not when everything hinges on this moment.

Lupin studies him for a long moment. “If you insist.”

The walk to the Headmaster’s office is a tense affair, which isn’t helped by the fact that it takes them nearly twenty minutes to get there. The twins are whispering; Potter seems oddly quiet, while Orion takes one step after the other with determination.

Portraits on the walls watch them curiously before they’re replaced by sets of stomping armours standing guard and later panelled walls when they start to climb yet again more stairs.

Orion doesn’t remember ever having been in the headmaster’s office. A large gargoyle guards the entrance. When it turns its head towards Lupin, it does so with a sound like chewing gravel.

“Is Headmaster Dumbledore available? It’s important,” Lupin says. “Tell him Professor Lupin would like to speak to him. With me are Harry Potter, Orion Black and Fred and George Weasley.”

He’s barely finished speaking when the statue jumps aside and a long winding staircase is revealed. They climb it, one after the other like a row of lost ducklings, before Lupin knocks on the door, the Marauder's Map still in hand.

“Enter,” Dumbledore’s voice sounds.

Lupin opens the door, and they all pool into the tall circular room. The windows high up look like skylights almost, the fading light illuminating the dust motes floating in the air. The fireplace is cold – likely Dumbledore’s way of fielding Floo calls when he isn’t in the mood.

All around, the walls are lined with tall bookshelves, display cases and vitrines containing many delicate, strange and complicated contraptions and knickknacks, some whirring, others glittering metallic in the light, and a few emitting small puffs of smoke. What free space remains is occupied by large portraits of the many headmasters and mistresses coming before Dumbledore.

How he can stand the feeling of being watched at all times, Orion doesn’t know.

A large red bird is perched on a golden stand, preening its shimmering feathers – that must be his famous Phoenix.

Dumbledore himself is seated behind a large polished desk, which is littered with high stacks of papers he appears to have shoved to the side, next to a bunch of other clutter.

A bowl of sherbet lemons perched dangerously close to the end of the table.

He’s wearing his half-moon glasses but no hat and deep sea-green robes embroidered with a complicated-looking array of flowers and grasses. Compared to his usual attire, they could almost be considered tasteful.

“Remus,” Dumbledore says, folding his old hands in front of him. “What brings you here on this lovely Friday evening? And our young guests.”

His blue eyes twinkle at them from beneath his white brows.

“Mr Black here insisted he only speak with you present, sir,” Lupin says.

“Oh please, Remus. We’ve been over this. We’re colleagues now. Albus is a perfectly adequate name, and you’re free to use it.”

Lupin’s jaw twitches. “Headmaster,” he voices in lieu of replying to Dumbledore’s statement, “We are here in a matter regarding Sirius Black.”

Dumbledore’s phoenix has finished preening and is now boring into them with his creepily intelligent gaze.

“Are you now?” Dumbledore says. And Orion can tell all of a sudden that this whole show of an interaction was for their benefit, rather than Lupin's.

Orion inhales and steps forward, suddenly impatient. “Sirius Black is innocent,” he announces, forgetting all the speeches he’d prepared for this moment. “And I can prove it.”

A portrait on the wall moves suddenly to a lower frame to get a better look. Orion peers over at it and recognises the man at once. Phineas Nigellus Black. A cantankerous old man with a black goatee and old-fashioned robes, he is recognisable from his ever-present nitpicky ravings. There’s a reason for why Walburga had his portrait put up in the guest room in Grimmauld – the place to put those relatives up she’s harbouring a grudge against.

“Well, Mr Black,” Dumbledore says, and Orion tears his gaze away to look at the Headmaster who peers at him from over his glasses. “If that is indeed the case, then I think we shan’t waste another moment.”

“We’re going to need the map,” Orion says.

Dumbledore raises a brow as Lupin pulls out the seemingly innocent parchment. Lupin hesitates for a moment before he hands it over to Orion.

“Why don’t you do the honours?” he says.

Probably trying to gauge whether Orion actually knows how to use it. Still, he takes the map from his professor’s hands, the parchment weighing heavy in his grasp. This feels significant somehow. Orion swallows. “I figure I should probably lead with an explanation,” he starts, his fingers subconsciously brushing over the parchment. He feels a bit uneasy now, with all the expectant eyes boring into him.

“I believe we’re all quite eager to know what you have to say,” Dumbledore voices encouragingly and flashes him a smile.

Orion clears his throat. “As you all know – or maybe not,” he adds with a look at the twins, who stare at him with expressions of unbridled curiosity, “the Potters went into hiding when it became clear that the Dark Lord was after them. They chose the Fidelius charm to hide their home, and for that reason, they had to pick a secret keeper. Who else would they pick but one of James Potter’s best friends?”

Dumbledore nods, while Lupin’s jaw seems to grind on steel wool.

“Sirius Black,” Potter spits angrily.

Orion inclines his head. “Sirius Black," he confirms. “And he agreed. Until they came up with a better idea, that is. Because wouldn’t it be grand if everybody thought he was the secret keeper when instead a more unassuming person was picked? Someone whom nobody would suspect?” Orion looks into the round, meeting the gazes of all listening to him. “Peter Pettigrew," he reveals.

Lupin stares at him. “No. It’s impossible.” His voice is laden with grief. “I would’ve known.”

“Would you?” Orion prods cruelly.

Dumbledore hums, his fingers folded in front of him. “Is there really no room for doubt, Remus?” he asks calmly.

Lupin’s eyes drift towards him before deflating. “Either way, Peter is dead,” he says, his voice breaking as his shoulders curl back in on themselves.

“That rat is alive.” Orion spits with so much venom, Lupin’s eyes snap to Orion.

“How—”

“Potter,” Orion says, looking at the boy who startles at the attention. “Ron’s still got his pet rat? It hasn't run off yet?”

Lupin sucks in a sharp breath.

Potter blinks at Orion, bemused. “Yeah, I guess so. It’s been sick for a while, and Hermione’s cat tried to eat it a couple of times –” Orion smirks – “but he should be fine. Why?”

“Because Peter Pettigrew was the one to betray the Potters. And he is a rat Animagus who has been hiding for years.”

“No!” one of the twins pipes up. “You can’t be serious.”

“Obviously not. That’s my father,” Orion retorts, not quite able to resist the bait.

Lupin lets out a burst of strangled laughter. He looks close to having a breakdown.

“That can’t be right,” Fred says. “Scabbers has been in the family for years!”

“Makes you wonder, eh?”

“It can’t be,” Lupin mutters.

“I don’t believe it,” Potter whispers.

“And that’s why we need the map,” Orion states.

“Yes, the illustrious map,” Dumbledore interjects. “I’ve been wondering when that would come in. That is quite the tale you told, Mr Black. If it is indeed true, then a grave injustice has been carried out.”

Lupin takes a few breaths before he seems to have gathered himself. “The map, of course.” At Dumbledore’s questioning look, he takes the map from Orion’s grasp and pulls out his wand with the other hand. “The map is an invention me and my friends came up with during our school years –”

“No way!” Fred exclaims. George is gaping at Lupin.

“A silly little thing,” Lupin continues, “It’s a map of Hogwarts, showing every secret passage and every nook we ever discovered. And we added a feature. You see, it allows you to find every person anywhere and anytime within the castle.” Lupin huffs a wet laugh. “What a great prank we thought it was when it turned out not even James could hide behind his invisibility cloak. Because that’s the joke with the map; you can’t trick it.”

“And am I right in assuming,” Dumbledore says, “that it displays the name even when one were to be disguised as an Animagus?”

Lupin looks at him. “The map never lies,” he says. Then, he draws his wand, placing the tip in the middle of the empty piece of parchment. “I swear solemnly that I’m up to no good,” he whispers.

Inky lines begin to sprawl out from underneath his wand, and Orion leans closer, with bated breath. He’s never seen this happen before. In front of his eyes, letters scrawl themselves across the map.

Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs
Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers
are proud to present

THE MARAUDER’S MAP

The curling letters have barely appeared before the ink bleeds back into the parchment, only to reappear, but this time in lines and sharp angles as the walls of Hogwarts are taking form, rooms and secret passages and dots.

“If I may,” Dumbledore says, and Lupin hands over the map.

“Delightful,” Dumbledore exclaims, turning the map this and that way as he looks at it. “That would be me, I presume. An abridged version of the homunculus charm?”

“Yes,” Lupin says, a small smile playing around his lips despite himself.

“That is quite an accomplishment,” Dumbledore says, looking up at Lupin. “To come up with this during your school years.”

“Well," Lupin says, looking slightly embarrassed, “it wasn’t an easy undertaking.”

Dumbledore hands the map back to Lupin. “I’d like to study it sometime. But perhaps we should move back to the matters at hand.”

“Yes, quite,” Lupin says, his smile wiped away. “Harry,” he says, turning his head to address the Gryffindor. During Dumbledore’s inspection of the map, all of them have unconsciously crowded around the Headmaster’s desk to get closer. “Where would you say … Scabbers would be around that time of day.”

Harry shrugs. “I guess Ron’s taken to carrying him around lately. Because of Crookshanks – that’s Hermione’s cat, you know,” he says, scratching at his neck. “So probably at the Gryffindor tower?”

Lupin pales once more. It seems for Potter it has yet to properly sink in what it means that Weasley has been carrying around a grown man for the better part of his childhood. The twins, on the other hand, look a bit green around the nose.

Lupin taps the map, and it flips and refolds, displaying the telltale map of a round tower in a complicated array of multiple floors. “Show me, Peter Pettigrew,” he says.

“Wicked,” Fred whispers.

“I never knew about that feature,” George adds, leaning closer.

An arrow appears in the middle of the map, larger at first before it shrinks and shrinks, zooming over the parchment, till it eventually points at a small dot amidst an array scattered around the Gryffindor common room, bouncing against a labelled dot.

Insignificant, safe for the unmistakable name “Peter Pettigrew” curling above it in a familiar handwriting.

Lupin’s hands are trembling. “God…”

Dumbledore bends his head over the map, holding onto his beard so it won’t obscure most of the castle displayed. “I say. That is quite the conundrum.”

“It can’t—” Lupin chokes out. “Peter.”

Dumbledore straightens up. “Well. Even if it is like you say, Remus, and the map never lies, I deem it best that we should check for ourselves.”

Orion studies Lupin’s profile. He’s still staring at the map, looking like he just saw a ghost – which is not too far off, actually – while the twins exchange wide-eyed glances behind his back.

Meanwhile, Dumbledore is all business. He turns to face the wall with the many portraits. “Phineas,” he says, “As you seem to have a stake in this, would you be so kind as to fetch Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall and inform them of the situation and tell them to meet me in front of the Gryffindor common room at a moment’s notice?”

“Certainly, Headmaster,” Phineas croons. He catches Orion’s gaze. “I say, I never thought you’d amount to much, what with that father of yours, but for once, lad, you’ve acted in a manner befitting your house.”

Once Phineas disappears from his frame, Orion gives in to the immature urge to pull a grimace at the empty painting.

“Let’s not waste any more time. Shall we?” Dumbledore voices deceptively cheerfully.

“We’re coming with you!” the twins pipe up at the same time.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle at them. “I believe I have said nothing to the contrary now, have I? In fact, I believe your assistance could prove to be rather beneficial when it comes to convincing young Ronald Weasley to hand over his pet rat. Mr Potter’s as well.”

“If you think I’m sitting that one out,” Orion states darkly, “you haven’t taken into account how unfortunately flammable this carpet looks.”

He stares at Dumbledore. He’s dead serious too.

“Why,” Dumbledore replies, amused, “I suppose I should count myself lucky then to not have to pay for any damages today.”

Dumbledore spearheads their small group, his robes swishing as he sets a swift pace, Lupin right on his heels, wearing an expression so dangerous he’s almost unrecognisable as the kindly teacher he’s presented himself as.

Orion, Potter and the Weasley twins have to fight to keep up, trying their best to match the long strides of the tall men hurrying down the hallway.

“How did you even know all that?” a freckled redhead asks Orion in between pants.

“I’d like to know that too,” Potter adds.

“Tough,” Orion voices and picks up his pace, dignity be damned.

Snape is already waiting in front of the entrance to the Gryffindor common room, pacing back and forth to the crunching sounds of moving staircases. His head snaps up as soon as he spots them. “Headmaster,” he says, heading towards them. “Is it true?”

“Ah, Severus,” Dumbledore says. “We shall find out shortly.”

The many portraits on the walls start to whisper among each other.

Snape and Lupin regard each other, scarily in tune for once.

Just then, McGonagall comes jogging up some stairs. “Albus! I came as soon as I heard!”

A few Gryffindors in the process of climbing the very same pause, staring at them. “What’s going on?”

“Alicia,” one of the twins starts. “Believe me, you don’t want to know.”

“I want to know very much,” she says, planting her hands on her hips.

Dumbledore turns to look at them. “Miss Spinnet, I would task you with clearing the area and making sure that nobody enters the common room at this time.”

“Suuure,” she replies, looking at them suspiciously. Still, she draws her wand, her friend following suit momentarily.

“Shall we?” Dumbledore says into the round.

McGonagall has already drawn her wand. “I say!”

Orion follows her and Snape’s example, figuring it’s better to be safe than sorry.

“Sir Cadogan, would you be so kind as to let us in?” Dumbledore addresses the painted figure of a clunking knight in the process of shoving a fat pony out of the frame of the portrait marking the hidden entrance.

“What’s going on? Murder? A dark knight? Sir Cadogan is at your service!”

“Nothing of that kind, hopefully, no,” Dumbledore says. “If you would, Sir Cadogan.”

“I shall not let you pass so easily. The password, professors,” the knight bellows, throwing his chest out self-importantly. The effect of his authority is somewhat stymied by the pony nudging him to the side. “Otherwise I will find myself forced to drive thee away with my lance! And I know no mercy –”

“Pouncing Petunias,” McGonagall voices pointedly over his shoulders. “Now you may step aside and let us in.”

The small knight is still raving about valiance and honour when the portrait swings open at Dumbledore’s nod, and he steps through the portal with surprising nimbleness for his age.

Orion follows after Snape, his dark figure a strange comfort, especially once they enter the glaringly red of the Lion’s den. He’s never been in here, and his first impression is a sudden gratefulness that he ended up in Slytherin.

The common room looks like a niffler threw up all over it before offing itself, what with all the gold and red everywhere. A wide circular room, furnished with various scattered seating areas consisting of worn-out couches, mismatched chairs and tables, with bunting strung up overhead, roaring lions depicted on tapestries and a warm crackling fire. While cosy, it lacks a distinct amount of skulls and shadowy corners, and they actually seem to let their owls in through the windows here, putting themselves under threat of being shat on on a regular basis.

Orion would’ve lost his mind within a month.

The noise dies down as the Gryffindors seated in the area all look up at the unexpected visitors, save for a gramophone playing a Celestina Warbeck song.

“What’s going on?”

“Has something happened?”

“Is Black back?”

“What’s a Slytherin doing in here?”

A few Gryffindors have stood up, a small crowd of onlookers forming, while Weasley is still standing in front of one of the couches where he’d been interrupted in what appears to be a fight of some kind, judging by Granger at a few feet distance, holding on to a hissing and spitting cat.

“How fortunate,” Dumbledore declares. “It seems we shan’t have to look for long.”

Because Weasley holds on to a squealing and squirming rat, his arms all scratched up. Orion resolves to sending Granger a gift basket full of catnip.

“Professors,” Percy Weasley says, stepping to the front. “What is going on? What can I do?”

“Nothing, Mr Weasley, thank you. We have it well in hand. It’s actually the younger Mr Weasley I would like to speak to.”

“Me?” Weasley says. Potter has already halfway crossed the distance between them before thinking better of it, now hovering awkwardly between his friend and the professors.

“Yes, Mr Weasley. If you would be so kind as to hand over your pet rat for a moment.”

“Scabbers?” Said rat begins to squirm more viciously and squeak like a pig being skewered before biting Weasley’s hand.

“Ouch!” He lets out an impressive string of curses, letting go at once. Dumbledore’s wand is a blur. The animal is swept up in a ball of translucent magic, wriggling its limbs as it floats in its cage.

“What’s going on with Scabbers?” the Weasley girl voices, standing at the bottom of a staircase, a similarly aged girl peering over her shoulder. The other Gryffindors talk confusedly amongst each other.

“Just a small issue,” Dumbledore says casually, as if he hadn’t just kidnapped a child’s pet. “It should be dealt with soon enough. Why don’t you come and join us, Misters Weasley and Miss Weasley? It shall be explained soon enough. Who knows, perhaps it’s nothing after all.”

Then he turns and steps back out of the portrait hole, the bubble with a captured Pettigrew floating after him. Orion joins the crowd of professors and redheads, while the conversations behind them explode.

“My office is closest,” McGonagall says, as soon as the entrance has closed and they’re walking down the tall staircase.

Orion expertly skips over a trick step.

“Thank you, Minerva. Yes, I think this should be amenable,” Dumbledore replies.

“The children should wait outside, just in case,” Orion overhears McGonagall say.

Fuck that.

He’s not about to miss this. He hasn’t even realised that he’s sporting a huge grin.

Thus, as soon as McGonagall has opened the door to her office, he slips inside even before Dumbledore can.

“Mr Black,” she starts exasperated.

Orion stares at her, daring her to throw him out with a stubborn expression.

She sighs. “Very well.”

One after the other, they pour into the office, Ronald loudly announcing that he won’t have anything untoward happen to Scabbers. Still, the whole Weasley brood seem to have been caught up as to what’s going on by their brothers and are now anxiously huddling together, with Potter, the only dark-haired of the bunch. Somehow, Granger also must’ve managed to slip in alongside them, because that bushy mop can’t belong to anybody else.

“It should be a simple matter now to prove whether your theory holds water, Mr Black,” Dumbledore says, floating the bubble containing the rat towards the middle of the room, where they all subconsciously seem to have left some space. “The spell to force an Animagus out of their form is a simple one. If Scabbers is indeed a mere garden rat, nothing should happen. He won’t be harmed by it whatsoever,” he adds, with a look at the pale, freckled faces of the Weasleys.

Orion is angling his torso forward with bated breath. Dumbledore releases the bubble with a simple swing of his wand.

Scabbers squeaks, already running.

But Dumbledore seems to have been prepared. A swift jab of his wand is followed by a bright flash of white light.

Everybody takes a step back, gasps, and lets out cries sounding, when the skinny rat suddenly contorts. Fur retracts into its body, hair grows in other places and limbs lengthen, growing and growing until eventually, there’s a fully grown wizard standing in front of them.

He looks haggard, in the way someone who’s lost a lot of weight in a short time looks, trembling and shifty-eyed, a bald patch on his head, with prominent ears and yellowed teeth that stand out over his lips, clad in a pair of old robes – shabby and ill-fitting.

“Peter,” Lupin gasps at the same moment Snape whips his wand and catches Pettigrew in a body bind.

Nobody seems to be able to find the words to speak, too stunned.

“Check his arm,” Orion voices, the first to break the silence. He was the only one properly prepared for this outcome after all. But even through his vindication, he feels an intense wave of dislike.

Pettigrew’s eyes fall upon him, the sole part of him that can move.

Snape’s eyes snap towards Orion, but he steps forward nevertheless, pulling at Pettigrew’s ragged sleeve, revealing his left arm.

It’s contorted oddly, caught in the petrification, but nevertheless, there it is. Like a brand, more so than a tattoo, a reddish, faded scar burnt into his skin in the shape of a skull and a snake. The Dark Mark.

McGonagall slaps a hand against her mouth.

Lupin is shaking, a sound akin to a growl rumbling in his chest.

“Merlin,” Ron breathes, pale as a sheet save for his freckles. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

Percy bends over and vomits onto the floor.

“Oh dear,” McGonagall says. She walks over, gesturing at the students. “I think it best if you children were to head to the hospital wing. Poppy will look after you. Something for the nerves, yes, and – oh, Miss Granger. What are you doing here?”

“Minerva,” Dumbledore says with a grave voice. “Would you be so kind as to contact the Aurors after you’ve escorted the children to the hospital wing?”

The twins are patting their brother’s back, helping him stand up straight. Their wide eyes bounce back and forth between their brother and Pettigrew.

Orion remembers with a suddenness that he has to alert his solicitor. Promptly.

But Pettigrew…

For now McGonagall is busy aiding a rather green-nosed Percy Weasley, so he slips past her and rounds Lupin till he’s standing right in front of the rat-turned man.

“Black-” Snape starts, but Orion doesn't heed him. He looks into the watery eyes of that pathetic creature in front of him. Helpless. Motionless.

His mouth curls with a dark sneer. Pettigrew’s eyes widen.

Orion huffs, shaking his head slightly. “Merlin,” he says, “you’re pathetic,” voicing his thoughts. “You are lucky I got to you before Sirius.”

He looks at Pettigrew, nose wrinkling at the smell. He still reeks of rat. Still, Orion grins. “You are so fucked. You don’t even know.”

Pettigrew’s watery irises dart from side to side.

“If you think you can weasel your way out of this – and I have no doubt you’re going to try – you’re wrong. But in that infinitesimal chance, I shall ask my dear mother Bellatrix to do me a favour.”

Pettigrew’s eyes grow wide as goose eggs. His whole focus is on Orion now.

“Mr Black,” Dumbledore says. “I think that’s quite enough now.”

Orion ignores him in favour of leaning closer to Pettigrew.

“I know what you think right now. She is in prison. Locked up. She can’t do anything to you. But Sirius was in prison too. And now he’s not,” Orion says viciously, enjoying the look in Pettigrew’s eyes. “She was never fond of you, you know,” he adds, “And she loves me very dearly. She might even keep you around for me.”

“Mr Black,” Dumbledore repeats, authoritatively. “That’s enough.”

Orion steps back, almost turns, before it occurs to him that he’ll likely never get an opportunity like this again. He uses his half turn to gain momentum and decks Pettigrew as hard as he can. Blood spurts from the man’s nose as he topples over, and Orion spits on him. “That’s for my father,” he says.

“Mr Black,” Dumbledore voices.

Orion turns his back on Pettigrew, stepping away. “I’m done with him anyway,” he says dismissively.

Dumbledore’s judgemental gaze slides off him like water. The whole Weasley brood stares at him wide-eyed, Potter, even with something like approval.

Lupin blinks at him stupidly. Snape stares at Pettigrew with eyes that may as well be black holes.

“Come now, Mr Black,” McGonagall says, sweeping her arm wide. She ushers the students out of the room.

“I can’t believe you decked him,” one of the twins says, impressed.

“And spit on him,” his sister says, grinning.

“Mr Weasley,” Professor McGonagall tuts. “Kicking a man when he’s already down is not in good taste and certainly not a matter to take joy out of.”

The Gryffindors stare at her like she’s lost her marbles.

She clears her throat before looking at Orion. Her lips twitch. “Though I suppose circumstances should be considered. ‘I think fifty points to Slytherin are in order for having alerted us of the presence of an intruder in the castle.”

Orion finds that he may like Professor McGonagall after all.

She returns his look with a smile before turning professional once more, sweeping her arm in a wide gesture. “Now, off to the hospital wing.”

“I can’t,” Orion says. His knuckles are aching, and his technique could use some more work, but boy was this cathartic. After all the stress Pettigrew caused him.

Besides, nobody fucks with a Black who isn’t a Black and gets away with it.

“Nonsense,” Professor McGonagall says. “Your hand needs looking at.”

“I have to send a letter. It’s urgent,” Orion says.

“It can certainly wait,” Professor McGonagall says sternly before something seems to occur to her. “Mr Black, you don’t mean to contact –”

“I’m writing to my solicitor,” Orion says. “I believe my father will need legal support in the near future.”

“Oh. Well – I suppose –” Professor McGonagall says as if the far-reaching consequences of this whole situation were only now occurring to her. “But surely –”

Orion doesn’t hear the rest. He’s already sprinting towards the owlery, dignity be damned.

Orion is panting like mad by the time his aching lungs finally get a break, surrounded by owl droppings and hooting birds. He whistles for Odesseus while already pulling out a piece of parchment, ripping the edge off and scribbling a short message down.

Pettigrew has been unmasked.
Aurors are being alerted.
Inform Vogt.

O. Black

Odesseus lands on his shoulder, causing him to stagger, heavy claws digging through his robes.

“I need you to be fast,” Orion tells him as he tears a piece of twine from one of the rolls lying around for that purpose, tying it around his owl's leg. “To Charles Ackroyd.”

Odesseus clacks his beak as Orion stares seriously into his yellow eyes. “I know we’ve not always seen eye to eye, but if you get this done quickly, I will buy you a year’s worth of owl treats.”

Odesseus clacks his beak, turning his head as if this was all beneath him, but then he takes off with a sudden silent beat of his wings, disappearing through one of the openings in the ceiling.

Orion takes another deep breath, feeling the tension bleed out of him.

Holy shit.

He did it. He actually did it.

Orion feels so buoyed by the whole experience that he actually lights a smoke right then and there and steps out onto the platform where the stairs wind around the owlery, leading to the trampled path snaking towards the castle.

He stares out at the grounds, cold autumn wind tugging on his hair, looking out at the Dementors floating in the distance.

Now it’s up to the Ministry.

Orion strolls back to the castle, perfectly content, laughing to himself every so often and waving cheerfully at the few classmates he passes.

He skips heading to the hospital wing altogether, despite his hand hurting like a bitch now that the anger and adrenaline have worn off. His knuckles are bruised, but every time he looks at them, he feels a wave of vicious pleasure and vindication.

Instead, Orion heads back to where Professor McGonagall’s office is located and sets himself up in a nearby alcove to have a good view of the door.

He passes the time waiting by penning a letter to Lucius and Narcissa, explaining things and waiting for the ink to dry.

His waiting pays off, because when he hears the approach of multiple steps echoing from the stones, he stuffs his letter back into his bag before swiftly ducking out of the alcove, catching the approaching crowd just before they turn the corner.

Professor McGonagall comes into view first, followed by Minister Fudge and a squad of Aurors. He recognises Dawlish but nobody else.

Fudge is so caught up in his conversation with McGonagall that he doesn’t even see Orion, busy twisting a lime green bowler between his nervous hands, until one of the Aurors clears their throat.

“Mr Black!” Professor McGonagall exclaims. “Why aren’t you in the hospital wing? Never mind. Quick. This is no place for a student. Even one as invested as you.”

Orion smiles at her but dismisses her words wholly in favour of looking at Fudge. “Minister Fudge,” Orion greets him. “We’ve met before.”

Fudge clears his throat nervously, blinking at him. “Ah yes, Mr Black…”

“Last year during a function at the Ministry around Easter. It was a fundraiser.” Orion helps him out, conveniently blocking his way.

“I recall. Lucius introduced us, no?” Fudge clears his throat, looking at Professor McGonagall. “Convey my regards to him, will you? I’m afraid I can’t spare much time, and it seems you have to be elsewhere as well. Your head of house seemed insistent you should seek out the hospital wing. I wouldn’t want to keep you.”

“Oh, but Professor McGonagall isn’t my head of house,” Orion says pleasantly. “I’m a Slytherin, you see.” He indicates his green tie. “Am I right to assume you’re here because of Peter Pettigrew?”

“Oh. Yes. I suppose,” Fudge says. He looks rather uncomfortable.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the other persons accompanying you,” Orion says. “Safe for Auror Dawlish, of course.” He sends a cheerful smile at the man, who stares back blandly.

“Aurors O’Brian, Kingsley and Proudfoot,” McGonagall voices after a moment, indicating the men behind them.

Orion feels a breath of relief escape him. So Vogt pulled through. He ought to pay her a bonus.

“They’re here regarding the matter of Peter Pettigrew,” McGonagall voices, “But really, Mr Black—”

Fudge cuts her off. “I hate to interrupt, but we really are quite pressed for time,” he says, while Orion steps obnoxiously back in front of him as if he hadn’t noticed the man trying to pass.

Orion briefly sizes up the Aurors before turning to look up at Fudge. “You’re going to arrest him, right? He is a Death Eater.”

Fudge seems at a loss for words. “Well, that remains to be seen. We shall have to confirm his identity, of course, and such allegations –”

“Oh, it is Peter Pettigrew,” Orion says. “He has been thoroughly identified by a former classmate and multiple of his former professors,” he states.

“Yes, Minister,” Professor McGonagall speaks up. “I’ve seen him with my own eyes.”

Fudge coughs. “Well, of course we’ll thoroughly investigate the matter.” He lets out a forced laugh.

Orion feels his hackles rise. “Of course, Minister,” he backpedals with a polite smile, straightening his spine unconsciously. “You may confirm it, but I have no doubt that it is indeed Mr Pettigrew – who posed as a child's pet for years, at that. I can only imagine the public’s outrage once the news hits the papers. Terrible.”

Fudge twists his bowler faster. “Yes. Terrible business, indeed.”

Orion takes a step towards him. It’s almost comical how uncomfortable Fudge looks being faced with a thirteen-year-old.

“Quite,” Orion says, “Though I would be rather upset if this criminal that we’ve apprehended – be it Mr Pettigrew or not – weren’t adequately questioned. You see,” Orion continues as Fudge stops twirling his bowler, actually paying him attention now, “if there’s even the slightest chance that this person is indeed Peter Pettigrew, this concerns me in a rather personal way. What with the regretful circumstances surrounding my father. You’ll understand that I have quite the stake in this matter being handled with the care it deserves.
Especially considering Sirius Black never even received a proper trial.” Orion conjures a rueful expression. “My solicitor advised me to launch a lawsuit, though I’d been hesitant after I heard it could drag on for years. Of course, now that my father’s innocence is on the table, I’m certain we could sort out this faux pas and resolve the whole matter within a much swifter time frame, don’t you?”

Fudge blinks at him after being barraged by this unexpected monologue.

Orion uses his pause to jump in to add, “And my guardian, Lucius Malfoy, you’re familiar, of course – he’ll be relieved as well, I have no doubt. He’s been rather troubled by the whole situation after learning of it. Especially since he’s such a staunch supporter of the ministry. He reassured me that this must’ve been a simple blunder, that there couldn’t be any fault in its leadership, though departments are messy, I hear. One oversight…” Orion sighs dramatically. “A pity… That reminds me, are you planning to run for minister again? Elections aren’t far away after all – ah. Never mind.” Orion laughs. “Just a stray thought of mine. I’ve been thinking of entering politics myself, you see.” He fixes Fudge with a toothy grin.

“Ah.” Fudge clears his throat again. “That’s quite …ambitious.”

Professor McGonagall looks at Orion with a mixed look of befuddled awe and horror.

One of the Aurors leans forward, whispering into Fudge’s ear. He nods, swallowing.

“Do you need a pepper-up, Minister?” Orion asks.

“Pardon?” Fudge says.

“You’ve been clearing your throat a few times. I’m sure Madame Pomfrey would be happy to fix you up with a potion. They are quite well stocked up there in the infirmary.”

Fudge looks at him as if he grew a second head.

“I could escort you,” Orion says. “I’m sure it’s been quite some time since you’ve visited Hogwarts and taken it in from a student’s point of view.”

Professor McGonagall makes a strange hiccuping sound before clearing her throat.

“Or perhaps Professor McGonagall could join us, since you seem to share the same affliction. Nasty, these cold spells in autumn, isn’t that right?”

Professor McGonagall's lips are pressed into a tight line. Orion suspects she’s actually trying to hide a laugh.

Fudge shakes his head, staring at him bewildered. This whole interaction seems to have thrown him off his game. “That shouldn’t be necessary,” he says after a moment.

“If you say so. I have to run anyway. I’ve got a letter to send to my guardians. Narcissa and Lucius will be thrilled to hear the news that my father may have been innocent all along,” Orion says pleasantly. “And to think what it would mean to Harry Potter,” he voices, as the thought occurs to him. “If he were to find out that his godfather may not be lost to him after all!”

“...Yes, quite,” Fudge says before he seems to regain his equilibrium. “ You may be assured, Mr Black, that we’ll investigate the matter with the attention to detail it deserves. One wouldn’t want to jump to hasty conclusions before the matter is handled accordingly. In any case, Mr Black, I shan’t keep you. I’m afraid I really have to get going; do give Lucius my regards.”

“Of course, Minister,” Orion says. He steps towards the wall when Fudge walks past him, followed by his gaggle of Aurors. The dark-skinned one looks at Orion with raised brows, while Professor McGonagall hesitates as well, shooting Orion a look before she hurries after them.

They disappear through the door leading into McGonagall’s office at the farther end of the hallway, till eventually only the blond Auror remains behind, posted at the door.

He spares Orion a look, who’s still lingering in the hallway. “So you’re Black’s bairn,” he says.

Orion bares his teeth in a sharp smile, daring him to say anything else. “The observational skills of the Aurors never fail to disappoint,” he replies sarcastically as he meanders closer to the man. “Proudfoot, I presume?”

The man nods, considering Orion, while he does the same, sizing up the blond Auror in his red Ministry-issued robes. He could do with a shave, day-old stubble decorating his jaw as he squints down at Orion. A thin scar interrupts the line of his brow.

“Quite the rhetoric you managed to pull out of your arse,” Proudfoot voices after a moment. “Impressive for someone whose balls haven’t dropped yet.”

“Why, thank you.”

Proudfoot sighs and turns to rummage around in his robes. “I hope you know that you didn’t make any friends today,” he says, palming a pipe he drew out of his pocket.

“I know,” Orion says. “But I wasn’t lying about getting into politics. If my father ends up being exonerated, it won’t matter either way. If he remains on the run or is killed, I’ll still be the sole heir to the Black fortune. With a vendetta, at that. And I won’t get myself caught up and thrown into Azkaban over something as foolish as my relatives.”

Proudfoot snorts while he stuffs tobacco into his pipe. “If you say so.” Then he looks up at Orion. “Now bugger off. You still have a letter to send, right? Chop chop before curfew hits.”

Orion seriously ponders whether he could get away with hexing an Auror. But the man has a point. He turns and leaves the man to his devices – without a curse stuck to his shadow.

Orion rather feels like he’s running in circles today as he makes his way to the owlery once again. Still, he’s glad he lingered around the office, if only for this interaction. He knows what he said to Fudge couldn’t have been taken as anything but blatant blackmail and intimidation and a crude attempt at that. Likely dropping Lucius’ name was worth more than any mentions of lawsuits or political scandals.

Now he’ll only have to get Lucius to back him.

This is going to suck.

Still, Orion figures it probably couldn’t have hurt to speak to Fudge.

It’s not a fix-all, but perhaps hopefully having impressed on him that sweeping the whole Pettigrew situation under the carpet is a bad idea is enough, paired with Dumbledore bamboozling Fudge into actually taking the matter seriously so that he’ll properly interrogate the man.

Back up in the owlery, Orion pulls out his draughted letter and adds another paragraph roughly outlining the bullet points of what he said to Fudge, appealing to Narcissa more so than Lucius to not outright discredit him with the Minister if they can’t find it in themselves to support him in his endeavours.

He sends the letter with a school owl, and despite hesitating for long minutes, he pens another brief note.

Pettigrew apprehended.
Contact Charles Ackroyd, solicitor.

Orion doesn’t sign it. Whether Sirius heeds his advice or not, he’s done what he can.

He sends the letter with a small ancient-looking owl, who looks like it’s about to keel over, so when it’s found hanging around a dog, any unsuspecting witnesses would likely think it mauled rather than actually delivering a letter.

He just hopes it’s actually going to manage that flight and that it can locate Sirius. But when he calls it over, the owl actually perks up, eagerly stretching out its leg. Likely it’s not being picked a lot to send letters for the very same reason it caught Orion’s eye. He whispers the instructions at it, careful to pitch his voice low when he breathes, that its recipient might resemble a large black hound instead of a man.

Orion watches it take off with wobbly beats of its wings and crosses his fingers.

Chapter Text

When Orion ducks back into the Slytherin common room, he finds his classmates sitting in front of the fire just as he left them.

“The prodigal son has returned,” Zabini drawls, as he looks up from a magazine. “And from your face, I can tell that it likely wasn’t a forgotten detention.”

“What’s got you in such a chipper mood?” Draco asks, looking up from where he’s sharing notes with Theo.

Orion laughs; he can’t help it.

“Care to share?” Moon says, shifting in her seat.

“Oh please,” Daphne voices, looking at him, while Tracey next to her blows on her drying nails, a silver polish glittering on them. “I don’t think I even want to know.”

“Oh, you want to know,” Orion says, nudging Millicent and Vince aside to drop onto the couch. “You are dying to know, in fact,” he says mysteriously.

“Oh, am I?” Daphne says.

“Pray tell,” Pansy says, leaning forward.

“What happened to your hand?” Greg asks, surprisingly perceptive for him. Orion stretches his bruised hand, relishing the ache, and closes it into a fist again.

“Guess who I got to punch in the face today?”

“No,” Pansy says, drawing out the word, a delighted expression on her face. “You didn’t.”

“Please, tell me it was Potter,” Draco interjects.

“If you haven’t got detention now, you’ll certainly catch one later,” Zabini says, though he appears equally curious.

“McGonagall awarded me points, in fact,” Orion says. He feels almost giddy.

“Come on, out with it,” Moon says.

“Yeah,” Draco says, “You’re already turning insufferable again.”

Orion turns and grins at him. “Oh, but what I’m telling you will be the juiciest piece of gossip you’ll have heard in years. Let me enjoy the moment.”

“Years?” Zabini enquires, arching a dark eyebrow.

“Years,” Orion confirms.

“Black,” Nott says in his monotonous voice. “If you draw your moment out any longer, Parkinson is going to piss herself from excitement, and I’m sitting in the vicinity.”

“I beg your pardon,” Pansy replies, offended before she slaps his shoulder. He doesn’t so much as blink.

Orion rubs his hands, laughing again. Draco snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Oi, Orion. Snap out of it and fucking tell us.”

“You said ‘fuck,” Orion exclaims excitedly. “I think this might be the greatest day of my life yet.”

“Okay,” Moon says. “Daphne, you hold him down while I curse him.”

“Alright, alright,” Orion says, holding his hands up. He leans forward, smiling. “It was Peter Pettigrew.”

He’s faced with owlish looks all around.

“Who?” Tracey says so, likely just to be obnoxious.

“He’s finally lost it,” Pansy says, looking at Draco. “Your cousin has lost his mind.”

Millicent nods gravely. “The family madness has gotten to him.”

“My condolences, Malfoy,” Zabini joins in.

Orion grins unbothered as he says, “Peter Pettigrew faked his death after framing my father for betraying the Potters to the Dark Lord. And tonight he was unmasked.”

Silence meets him.

“Are you shitting me?” Moon says the first person to regain their voice.

“Nope,” Orion says. “He was an unregistered Animagus. A rat. And where do you think he lived a cushy life for all of twelve years, posing as a pet?”

While his year-mates are still digesting the information, Draco’s eyes widen in sudden realisation. Figures that he’d be the first to get it, what with his almost stalkerish obsession with Potter.

“No. No way. No fucking way. You can’t be serious?” He gasps, and when he sees Orion’s grin, he throws his head back and laughs. “I can’t believe it!” he chokes out. There are honest-to-god tears streaming out of his eyes as he cackles like a madman.

“I see the relation now,” Daphne says in a faux whisper as she leans over to Blaise.

“Mhm,” Zabini says, equally disturbed.

“Wait,” Pansy says. “Didn’t Weasley have this ugly pet rat?”

Draco is gasping for air as he’s set off even more. Pansy’s mouth drops open.

“Handed down through the family,” Orion confirms.

“Merlin and Morgana!” Pansy exclaims.

Draco falls off the couch, crying with laughter.

“Oh god,” Tracey says, her eyes wide. One by one, their faces turn various expressions of horrified, disgusted, shocked and amused.

Even Nott looks something other than bored for once.

“When did you have time to punch him?” Millicent pipes up after the initial reactions have died down.

“Asking the real questions,” Moon says. Greg grunts in agreement. Draco climbs back into his seat. He’s still giggling occasionally.

“Once Snape had him in a body bind,” Orion reveals. And so he’s forced to tell the whole story, from Dumbledore leading them all into the Gryffindor common room to the point of Percy Weasley barfing onto the floor of McGonagall’s office.

And then he has to tell it again because, over the duration of his story, more Slytherins around them have caught on that something happened, and then again when those fetch their classmates from their dorms and stragglers enter through the secret entrance.

By the time they’re heading down to breakfast the next morning, the news has spread like wildfire. And even though the Hufflepuffs and the Ravenclaws don’t quite seem to know what is up yet, save for them having gotten wind of the Aurors’ presence on the grounds the prior night, it takes barely half an hour for them to have heard the whole story.

Dumbledore is absent, but Orion catches Lupin’s gaze over the house tables, and the man sends him a fleeting smile. He appears rather worn, despite the next full moon being still a fortnight away, his eyes red, as he sips delicately from his goblet.

McGonagall also musters a smile for him, while Snape looks his usual dour self. He stares surly at Orion, who grins at him in response.

The Weasley kids are huddled together at their house table, Potter among their midst, while Ronald is carefully holding out a piece of bacon to Granger’s ugly cat, the girl beaming at him.

And then the morning post arrives, owls swooping in from above.

Draco’s eagle owl circles them twice before dropping a letter in front of the blond.

All around, the usual bustle grows to a crescendo of conversations, and Daphne nudges Orion, who’s about to bite into a piece of toast, to hand him the Daily Prophet.

“Look,” she says.

The dark headline stares up at him, taking over half the front page.

PETER PETTIGREW FOUND ALIVE!

Towards the end of last night, the 25th of November, a man rumoured to be the decorated war hero Peter Pettigrew, who’d been awarded an Order of Merlin, First Class, for exceptional services in the war effort (more on page 2), was taken into Ministry custody.

An Auror (who wished to remain anonymous) made a statement, confirming that it was indeed Peter Pettigrew, who’d been discovered to be alive in the late hours of the evening at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and taken into custody for questioning.

Pettigrew had been assumed to be dead since 1981, following his confrontation with the criminal Sirius Black, who regained infamy after his breakout earlier this year and has since been on the run (see page 2).

When we enquired with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, we were told that no exact information could be given at this time as it was an open investigation.

At this time there are no more details known-

The article is obscured when Moon suddenly slaps an issue of Witch Weekly over the paper. Orion looks up, startled. “I was reading that,” he protests.

“The article in the Prophet is rubbish,” Moon replies. “Look at this one. I think you’ll like it better.”

“Thanks,” Orion replies dryly.

Moon nudges the magazine at him.

Sighing, Orion picks it up. His brows inch upwards. The title is certainly more eye-catching.

PETER PETTIGREW UNMASKED! SIRIUS BLACK FRAMED?

Dear readers, what I have to tell you now has the makings of the biggest scandal in the British Isles since Oberon Ockery's brutal murder of his own daughter!

Last night, none other than decorated war hero Peter Pettigrew was arrested!

Yes, dear readers, I could hardly believe it myself, but this is the truth and nothing but the truth!

The once celebrated war hero, Peter Pettigrew – known for confronting the escaped convict Sirius Black the night of the Potters’ murder at the hand of he-who-must-not-be-named, bravely standing up against Black and heroically fighting back against the alleged(?) dark wizard, only to be horrifically blown up alongside twelve innocent muggles, with only a single finger remaining – is indeed alive!

According to an anonymous source, Pettigrew not only faked his death but also took up residence with a respected wizarding family, disguising himself as their pet for more than twelve years!

And who are these people, you ask, who were so blatantly deceived and taken advantage of? None other than Ministry employee Artus Weasley, working in the Bureau for Misuse of Muggle artefacts, his wife Molly Weasley and their sons Bilius, Charles, and Hogwarts-aged children Percival, Frederick, George, Ronald and Ginevra.

Allegedly, Pettigrew (34) posed as their pet rat for years, utilising his skill as an unregistered Animagus to pretend to be nothing more than an ordinary animal and playmate to the innocent children.

Why?

Well, this is a question that even I, your courageous author, shudder to answer.

But that isn’t yet the most shocking news I have to report!

Because whispers abound in the halls of the Ministry despite the strict 'no comment' policy of the DMLE has been brought to light that Pettigrew was all but confirmed to be a follower of YOU-KNOW-WHO!

You heard right, dear readers. The man we thought to be a hero, the man who received an Order of the Merlin, First Class, posthumously, whom we all collectively grieved, has all hoodwinked us!

But is it only us who have suffered unjustly due to Pettigrew’s deceptions?

Widely regarded as the villain of the story, Sirius Black had been convicted for cold-bloodedly murdering a dozen Muggles and Peter Pettigrew himself in a stand-off between the two wizards the fateful night of You-Know-Who’s vanquishing at the hands of Harry Potter.

Following his brave deeds at confronting the (alleged) Death Eater Sirius Black and giving his life in an attempt to hold him at bay, Peter Pettigrew was hailed a hero.

But why then, I ask you, did Pettigrew never come forward and publicly address the false rumours of his murder at Sirius Black's hand?

In light of Peter Pettigrew’s unmasking as a follower of You-Know-Who himself, the nature of this famous duel has been shrouded in new mystery.

Could it have come down to something as simple as a spat between “colleagues”?

Or perhaps we have to confront the facts and consider that they have been twisted all along.

Has Sirius Black been framed?

Was it, in fact, an innocent man who broke his chains, rearing up against the injustice bestowed upon him after spending over a decade locked up in Azkaban?

And if so, what measures can we expect the ministry to take? How will Minister Fudge address these scandalous developments?

Will his tenure come to an end after this glaring blunder?

I'm just as eager to find out as you are, dear readers, and I'll do everything I can to keep you up to date with the latest news.

Always truthful,

Your Rita Skeeter

Orion looks up from the magazine.

“She must’ve been pressed for time,” Moon says, “Usually she goes on for about two pages if she can, especially in her Witches Weekly edition. So what do you think?”

“I think I’d like my magazine back,” Blaise inserts himself into the conversation, plucking it from Orion’s fingers. “Thanks.”

Orion snorts, turning back to his toast. “Aside from Skeeter butchering some of the Weasleys’ names? Surprisingly accurate,” he says, taking a bite.

Moon grins. “Malfoy’s going to have a field day with them. Look. It seems they’ve read the Skeeter article too.”

Orion turns, and indeed. The whole Weasley brood stares sullenly at their breakfast, while Lee Jordan gestures angrily at the crowd scooting up to them, only for a flash to go off from where a startled Creevey holds onto his camera.

Another brief burst of light flashes, this time purple, and suddenly Creevey is swarmed with a flock of bats trying to climb out of his nose.

“Orion”. Draco’s voice has Orion turn his head. The blond is holding out a sealed letter. His face is serious. “Mother wrote.”

Orion reaches over the table, taking it.

He scans Draco from below his lashes. “What did they write to you about?”

Draco scoffs. “Nothing substantial. Asked me whether I was aware of what you’d been planning, and Merlin knows you were about as vocal as someone cursed with a tongue-shrivelling hex. Go on,” he gestures, “read it. And for Merlin’s sake, tell me what she said. I feel like a third wheel with your secrecy.”

Orion huffs, amused. The letter rustles under his fingers as he breaks the seal and unfolds the parchment.

Dear Orion,

We have received your letter. Lucius has confirmed the information with a contact of his in the DMLE.

I hardly want to ask how you came to unearth this information, and I shall keep my educated guesses to myself until you’ve confirmed them – for better or worse.

Regardless, Orion, you must know that this is not a matter to be skirted around in letters with thinly veiled enquiries.

I suppose you aren’t solely to blame for not approaching me sooner; still, I find myself disappointed that you did not come to me with this.
I would like to believe I would’ve heard you out had you approached me in a serious manner.

Advice is only as good as the questions it’s tailored to.

But hindsight is a vexatious mistress.

Had we known, we could’ve been vastly better prepared.

But there is no use shedding tears over a split potion.

In any case, now that Pettigrew has been apprehended, we have to act swiftly.

I find myself reiterating that this is not a matter you have to stem by yourself. Our resources are at your discretion, as is our guidance, should you need or simply want it.

Please feel free to contact either me or Lucius at all times.

Your position as the current acting head of house aside, we would have and will support you in shouldering what will undoubtedly come your way.

Lucius is contacting our solicitors as we speak, as well as attempting to smooth over things with Cornelius Fudge.

Regarding your confrontation with the minister – Lucius would likely want me to convey his displeasure with you since he’s currently attempting to mitigate the fallout, but I believe he’s less annoyed with it than he puts on.

Your actions were impulsive and foolish at best.

I anticipate the fallout will be chaotic, but at the end of the day, blood comes first.

That being said, I expect a detailed account of everything that transpired and what you know. Your explanations were superficial at best.

I expect your answer posthaste.

Kind regards,

Narcissa

When Orion looks up from Narcissa’s letter, Draco stares at him expectantly, waving his open palm at him. Sighing, Orion hands it over.

He’s spearing up his second serving of buttery mushrooms on his fork by the time his cousin has finished reading. Draco stares at him over his mother’s letter, wholly ignorant of his eagle owl stealing a piece of bacon from his plate.

“We are going to have a talk,” Draco states in a tone of voice that has never let Orion see the resemblance between him and Narcissa more.

It’s oddly unsettling. Resignedly, he takes a sip of his tea. It appears he's not going to get out of this one.

Draco corners him between lessons, catching him by the sleeve on their way back from Herbology, all but shooing their classmates away, telling them to go on.

Orion lets himself be dragged between the tall glass windows of the greenhouses, plastered with green and flourishing vines even visible from the outside.

Stuck on the narrow stomped-out path between, Draco crosses his arms expectantly, while Orion digs into his bookbag for a pack of cigarettes, which he opens under the blond’s disapproving eyes and lights a smoke.

“Now spill,” Draco starts, watching him take the first drag.

Orion rolls the cigarette somewhat nervously between his fingers. “What do you want to know?”

Draco huffs exasperatedly. “Everything. You’ve been keeping me out of the loop for far too long.”

“I wasn’t aware there was a loop.”

“Orion,” Draco says warningly.

“What?”

Draco kicks at his shin.

Orion evades him. “Fine. I knew Sirius Black was innocent.”

Draco looks at him unimpressed. “I had guessed as much.” The cold wind is tousling his hair, disheveling his carefully arranged coif. “Go on.”

“I knew Peter Pettigrew was hiding out as a rat.”

“No, what a surprise,” Draco shoots back sarcastically. “How?”

Orion considers him, his foot on a discarded flowerpot, absently bouncing it back and forth. “That’s not important.”

“I disagree.”

“Drop it, Draco.”

“Why? What is so important about it that you don’t want to share? It can’t be that much of a secret.”

Draco is right. Kind of. But Orion has never considered sharing his rather unique experience, and he isn’t about to be laughed out of the room now.

“It’s complicated and long, and I don’t want to delve into it.”

Draco huffs. “Fine. Have it your way, then. For how long did you know then? Weeks? Months?”

Years.

“A while.”

“Do hold back with the details. I can barely keep up,” Draco retorts dryly.

Orion tongues at the inside of his molars, flicking some ash off the front of his cigarette.

“This is like pulling teeth. I feel like I should've dosed you with veritaserum beforehand.” Draco says.

Orion smirks. “Should’ve thought about that earlier.”

“Merlin”. Draco rolls his eyes, hard. “So, you wrote to Mother. A couple of times.”

“Yeah.”

Draco shifts his weight, staring Orion down. “About what?”

“I wanted to know what to do with that information. Whether I should try and help exonerate my father or just… leave it be.”

Draco’s confusion is evident. “Why would you leave it be?” he asks, a small frown between his bros.

Orion shrugs.

Draco looks at him askance. “Sometimes, I wonder about the way your mind works.”

Fair enough, without context. Orion puts his smoke to his mouth, thumbing at his bottom lip as he exhales.

“So,” his cousin continues. “You just thought you'd let your father rot. In prison. Or on the run, or whatever, for a crime he didn’t commit?”

Put like that, it sounds rather bad.

“...Yeah?” Orion voices.

Draco stares at him blinking. “Were you worried about your inheritance or something?”

Orion exhales a lungful of smoke. “Kind of. I don’t know. Not really. I mean, I did ask Narcissa about it. I mentioned it in a letter in hypotheticals. What if Sirius were innocent, that kind of stuff.”

Draco hums, rubbing a thumb over his lip. “I suppose it is something of a concern. Your father may be innocent, but he is undoubtedly mad at this point. I guess, if he loses it and disowns you after everything, we could take you in.”

Orion’s lips quirk, amused despite himself. “You would offer to be my benefactor – disgraced and all?”

“Of course we’d try and denounce him to leverage you back into the position as head of house,” Draco retorts as if it was obvious. His lips twitch when he adds with an affected haughtiness, “Though if that fails, Father could probably be convinced to allow you to found your own house, as a vassal of the Malfoy name, of course. In exchange for your eternal gratitude.”

Orion grins. “How very generous of you.”

“Hear, hear,” Draco replies.

They stand for a few moments in silence, their shared amusement slowly dissipating into the wind, until Draco says, “You exposed Pettigrew then.”

“The opportunity came up. I’d have liked to wait. I’d been writing to my solicitor for a while to set things up so everything would go smoothly. Prepare Sirius’ defence and so on.”

“That’s what the meeting was about in Hogsmeade,” Draco deduces momentarily. “I can’t believe you let me think you were seriously talking about business.”

Orion smirks. “Well, it was business.”

“Whatever you say,” Draco drawls.

Amused, Orion inhales a lungful of scorching smoke, watching the end of his cigarette glow like an ember.

Draco wrinkles his nose over the smell when he exhales. “By the way," he says after a moment, “why did Mother say that Father was handling a fallout with the minister?”

“I may have said a few things to him.”

“The minister?” Draco raises his brows.

Orion finds himself roughly outlining their whole interaction, while Draco’s incredulity seems to take over more and more of his expression before he snorts.

“That was certainly something,” Draco says. “I can’t believe you got away with it. No wonder Father’s upset with you.”

“Yeah, well, what can you do?” Orion replies.

“Apart from attempting to blackmail the Minister,” Draco comments dryly.

“What? It worked,” Orion shoots back.

“Hardly,” Draco scoffs. “You said it yourself; it was likely Father’s influence that saved your arse. That or you annoyed him to the point where he just wanted to be left alone.”

“Oi. Where does that come from?” Orion asks, feigning offence.

“A multitude of reasons I don’t care to list, because then we’d stand here till nightfall,” Draco snarks. “But as for the obvious – tell me the next time you come up with such mad theories –”

“Facts, more like,” Orion interjects, as the blond takes a step towards him, ignoring his comment.

“Do you even know how much trouble you gave me with all that secrecy and brooding about?” Draco pokes him in the chest with an accusing finger. “It was almost as bad as when great-aunt Walburga was sick, but then at least I knew what was going on. I almost thought that all that talk about your mad father was getting to – hell, I almost caught a detention for hexing McLaggen –”

“I didn’t know you cared, Draco. How sweet,” Orion drawls, with a toothy grin after overcoming his initial startlement. He’s put on a mocking tone, though he can’t deny the spark of fondness he experiences for the boy.

Still, he’s wholly unprepared when Draco moves and slaps him over the back of his head.

“What the hell, Draco?!” Orion manages between coughs, smoke puffing out of his lungs.

“You’re an absolute pain,” Draco tells him, while Orion is still staring at him, taken aback. “For all that you’re lording about your intelligence and superiority, you’re so obstinate at times. Merlin.”

“You’re obstinate,” Orion grumbles.

Draco looks smug at his lack of a good comeback.

In the distance the clock chimes. They both turn their heads reflexively.

“We’re going to be late,” Orion states the obvious. His cigarette is almost smoked down all the way to the filter anyway.

Draco smoothes over his robes. “At least now that we’ve established that keeping me in the dark is an abysmal idea –”

Orion looks at him amused. “Because you’ll slap me?”

Draco turns his nose up at him, holding out his school bag. “And because you’ll carry my bag. That will teach you a lesson.”

Orion outright laughs at him. “Who am I? Your elf?”

Draco smirks, his eyes glinting. “Haven’t you heard? My arm has been acting up again lately.”

Orion snorts. “Yeah, right.” Deliberately he takes the last drag of his smoke, stomping it out under his heel, before exhaling in Draco’s direction.

The blond coughs, pulling a grimace. “This is foul,” he says. “I don’t know why you even like these.”

Orion just smirks provocatively.

“I rather think I should tell Mother about this habit of yours,” Draco drawls.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Orion retorts, but his smile is wavering. Narcissa is a threat to be taken seriously.

“How kind of you to volunteer to carry my stuff after all,” Draco voices with a mean grin, heaping his bag at Orion’s feet. He doesn’t even look back before turning and walking away.

Orion blinks at the audacity. A snort escapes him despite himself before he shoulders the strap alongside his own. “Obnoxious little shit,” he says.

Farther ahead, Draco laughs.

Out of principle, Orion pauses on the steps leading up to the portal, digging out Draco’s latest essay draft, and scribbles a large heart into the corner, into which he writes ‘HP + DM’. For good measure he adds a few more loopy signatures reading 'Draco Potter' and 'Harry Malfoy' alongside a few hyphenated versions.

He’s almost forgotten about it until they set out to work on their homework that evening in the common room, scattered around the couches and tables next to the gloomy light of the lake.

Orion looks up at the strangled sound he hears Draco make, his bag in one hand, the piece of parchment in the other shortly after they’ve sat down.

“Is that a heart, Draco?” Pansy asks, craning her neck. Draco yelps, red as a lobster, and promptly sets his essay draft on fire.

Pansy squeals. “Draco!”

Theo, Blaise and Vince all stared owlishly at the flames devouring the parchment, ash flaking through the air.

Millicent is the one who casts an aguamenti, soaking the whole table.

Draco stares at the mess, mournfully, when it seems to occur to him that he has to start all over again. The expression he pulls sets Orion off, and he cackles, to the point of almost falling off his chair.

“Orion,” Draco growls, drawing his wand.

Two hexes and half a duel in the common room later, Orion magnanimously shares his notes.

Like so often, the gossip mill of Hogwarts is overrun with haphazard theories, talk and increasingly obscure rumours surrounding Peter Pettigrew’s discovery.
Orion relishes the ‘I told you so’s’, claiming his father’s innocence for everyone who wants to hear and goes about his day with a smug air about him.

Two days after Pettigrew’s apprehension, Dumbledore returns to the castle, and that same afternoon, Ashwood fetches Orion to tell him that he’s being cited to the headmaster’s office.

At his inquiry what for, Cecil just shakes his head, telling him to figure it out himself. Orion can hazard a guess.

He ends up seated in a ridiculously plush armchair, opposite Dumbledore’s desk, conjured by the man himself in an effortless show of skill and power. Even the threads of the upholstery are interwoven rather than simply appearing as such, topped off with a complicated embroidery of a multitude of birds picking at berries. As unnecessary as it is flashy, despite the casual manner he did it in. As a Black, Orion is no stranger to enjoying dramatics once in a while, but right now it rubs him the wrong way.

Especially because Dumbledore seems content prattling on about idle things while he offers Orion tea, delivered by an elderly Hogwarts elf clad in an embroidered dish towel, chit-chatting about this and that, seemingly oblivious to Orion’s growing impatience replacing his initial curiosity.

Subconsciously, he starts to tap away at the armrest before noting his action and stilling his fingers.

“Is the tea not to your liking?” the old man asks, his eyes twinkling when Orion hasn’t deigned to reply for more than a minute. “Feel free to help yourself to this bowl of sherbet lemons, by the way. I’m rather partial towards them myself.”

The cup in front of Orion sits untouched, steam curling above.

“I’m not particularly thirsty right now.”

Dumbledore seems mirthful as he picks up a cup of the lemon-patterned china and blows onto the steaming surface. He takes a sip.

Orion doesn’t make a move to follow suit.

Phineas Nigellus scoffs from the sidelines, muttering something about manners.

Dumbledore hums around the rim of his cup as he savours another sip. “Are you sure you don’t want to try the tea? I was assured it’s quite a treat. An acquaintance from India gifted it to me. A rather talented young witch. She’s been coming up with a new method of dismantling runic circles warding old tombs; you may have read about it in Transfigurations Today.”

Orion finds himself growing annoyed. “Why am I here?” he asks bluntly.

Dumbledore takes his time to answer, setting down his cup. He looks at Orion. “I was wondering how you were taking in the most recent developments. Peter Pettigrew’s discovery is quite the news after all.”

Orion raises his brows. “I’d assume the Weasleys would be rather more in need of a tea session than I. Unless, of course, they’ve already run this particular gauntlet in the form of chatting about the weather.”

Dumbledore nods in acquiescence, setting down his cup. “Indeed, the Weasleys have been understandably upset at the revelation of the true identity of their pet rat and undoubtedly will be for quite a while. Still, that doesn’t mean that the impact of Peter Pettigrew’s discovery in Hogwarts doesn’t affect you as well, especially in connection with your father’s apparent innocence. It must’ve come as quite the shock, discovering this.”

Orion hums noncommittally, as he eyes the man in front of him. Dumbledore studies him in turn, folding his age-spotted hands as he peers at Orion through his half-moon glasses.

“How are they taking it in the ministry? Pettigrew has yet to be confirmed to be a Death Eater in the Daily Prophet,” Orion voices after a moment.

“A matter of time, I’d think,” Dumbledore replies after a beat. “After all, the public already seems to be informed thanks to a rather popular Witch Weekly article, from what I hear.”

“Quite the whistleblower, this anonymous Auror,” Orion voices.

Dumbledore just smiles. “Indeed.”

“How are things in the DMLE?” Orion enquires, using the opportunity to fish for information. Without a doubt, that’s where Dumbledore spent the last two days, being questioned on the whole matter and pulling strings and swaying opinions – as to which direction – he doesn’t quite know. “They are interrogating Pettigrew as we speak, I hope.”

“Indeed, they are,” Dumbledore replies. “It also appears a motion has been filed to request a new trial for Sirius Black, which seems to have put the Ministry into quite a tizzy.”

Orion figures he’s going to have to order Kreacher to nick a bottle of Lucius' good whisky to send to Ackroyd in thanks. “His first trial, I believe,” he replies out loud, not without accusation in his voice.

Dumbledore inclines his head in acknowledgement. “A speedy action, taken by a Mr Charles Ackroyd, I believe. He introduced himself as the solicitor representing your family name.”

Orion doesn’t see a reason to deny it. He nods.

“I was familiar with his father, Perseus Ackroyd,” Dumbledore continues. He floats a piece of sugar into his tea with a mere wave of his hand before stirring it with a tiny golden spoon. “He was quite well regarded in his circles for his competence. Still, I found myself surprised just how efficient Mr Ackroyd was in getting all his paperwork in order. The DMLE is a large gear in the body of our ministry, but it’s just as slow-moving as any other machinery where bureaucracy is concerned.”

Orion hums. “I think that’s a trait inherent to any government.”

Dumbledore inclines his head in agreement. “It’s rather lucky, then, that Mr Ackroyd was so prepared.”

“Preparation is half the duel, or so I hear,” Orion replies, not without amusement.

“An apt saying,” Dumbledore retorts, his half-moon glasses catching the light as he regards Orion. “One you adhere to as well, it seems.”

“One tries,” Orion says.

“Yes, that is the best one can do oftentimes,” Dumbledore says, smiling. “But luckily, it appears, the circumstances have aligned in a favourable outcome. After all, it led to the discovery of Peter Pettigrew in the first place.”

He looks up at Orion. “I shan’t be amiss to express my gratitude for your actions, Mr Black. You have not only done the Weasley family a great service but also every student of this school by protecting them from further harm.”

Orion smiles politely. “Anyone would’ve done it.”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore says. “Perhaps not. Either way, your actions are commendable.”

Orion’s smile turns toothy.

“Though," Dumbledore starts, “I was wondering why it was that you didn’t approach the staff earlier regarding the suspicions you harboured against Mr Weasley’s pet rat?”

Orion stills, for the fraction of a second, before relaxing into his seat again. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“I can guess,” Dumbledore replies. “Though I’ve found it to be beneficial to listen rather than to assume.”

Orion wets his lip. “It’s a rather outlandish story, and I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” he voices momentarily. “Not without actual proof.”

Dumbledore acquiesces that point with a nod. “I presume Misters Weasleys’ magnificent map played a part in your reasoning to expose Mr Pettigrew when you did.”

Orion inclines his head.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Dumbledore voices, “I had wondered how you came to suspect that Peter Pettigrew was hiding out as an Animagus in the first place?”

Orion hesitates. The headmaster smiles amicably, waiting patiently for him to gather his thoughts. And there are many thoughts running through Orion’s head, possible explanations, lies and half-truths strung together, while a part of him considers spilling everything right this second.

When he doesn’t answer for a long minute, Dumbledore breaks the silence first. “Let me assure you, Mr Black, that anything discussed within this room at this time will remain confidential if you so wish. I do not intend to betray your confidence. If you like, you may simply regard this as indulging an old man’s curiosity.”

Orion sits up straighter without even consciously being aware of it, as he fixes Dumbledore with a look.

“If I were to hazard a guess,” Dumbledore voices, his lips quirking, “I’d presume that Sirius Black’s innocence wasn’t as much of a surprise to you as it was for the majority of us.”

Orion says nothing.

“Perhaps you won’t mind hearing the theories I’ve come up with,” Dumbledore says, “as they are merely hypothetical musings of a wizard with too much time on his hands.”

If that isn’t a blatant lie, Orion’s going to eat his fucking hat.

Dumbledore shifts in his chair. “As far as I’m aware, the knowledge that Peter Pettigrew is a rat Animagus was confined to a rather small group. Reasonably, one can assume that this was known by James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and, of course, Peter Pettigrew himself, and very likely, Voldemort,” Dumbledore says. “Now, for rather obvious reasons, it’s unlikely that three of these individuals have shared this knowledge, and through my conversations with Professor Lupin, I can almost certainly say that he didn’t reveal this information either. Thus, the most likely suspect in giving away Peter Pettigrew’s status as an animagus is Sirius Black, who shared this information either by accident or on purpose.” Dumbledore pauses at this point, looking at Orion with a pleasant expression.

Orion’s jaw locks. It would be an easy out. Pretending Sirius had informed him, but that is a story that won’t hold up under scrutiny. Especially on his father’s end. Kreacher would be his best approach, the easiest explanation, but Orion would rather avoid getting caught up in a web of lies which might collapse as easily as a house of cards.

“An interesting theory, headmaster,” he says in lieu of replying. And that is when it occurs to Orion that the only reason why he’s still sitting here is because he’s indulging this whole thing. Because, when he thinks about it, his personal motives are actually none of Dumbledore’s fucking business.

Orion finds himself smiling reflexively, the polite, fixed smile he’s conjured many a time in various social settings while the tension he hasn’t felt building in his shoulders bleeds out of him. “This has been rather enlightening,” Orion says and rises. “If that is all, I’d like to return to my studies.”

Professor Dumbledore blinks. After a moment, he stands as well. “As you wish, Mr Black. Though if you’d like an open ear, you’re very welcome to approach me at any time and, of course, Severus as your head of house, should you feel more comfortable.”

Orion’s false smile broadens. “I shall keep it in mind, sir.”

Phineas Nigellus clears his throat around a snort.

“Have a nice afternoon,” Orion voices, “And thanks for the tea.”

Dumbledore’s eyes follow him all the way out of the office.

Orion receives a letter from his solicitor, short and to the point, the following day at breakfast, during which Ackroyd outlines the rough situation. Pettigrew is being questioned, though the DMLEmains tight-lipped as to the developments of the case. He’s filed the necessary paperwork to get the ball rolling in regard to Sirius’ trial and has met with Amelia Bones, who seems to have been convinced that Sirius is very likely a wronged party in the whole mess. Furthermore, Ackroyd will contact Orion as soon as he’s got something more substantial. From Vogt, Orion hears nothing, but Gringotts sends him a missive with a massive bill, which he signs off on, without much of the chagrin it probably deserves, considering the witch had come through the way she promised.

As for Hogwarts’ student population, Skeeter’s article has become the most discussed piece of literature in the latest history of the school, even outweighing the many assigned chapters in their books they’re supposed to study.

Orion’s initial eagerness to point people in its direction has waned somewhat, and it’s becoming tedious to repeat himself and regurgitate the same story again and again when students come to him to ask him to confirm what Skeeter wrote. At least while the Slytherins seem to have caught on that he’s simply taken to quoting the article itself at this point, there’s a rather large chunk of the student population who only now seems to realise that Orion was involved in the whole matter and think it a good idea to approach him at all times during the day. At this point he rather considers hexing the next person approaching him to ask him about his father or beating them with the Skeeter article till it sinks into their head.

Draco’s taking some heat off him by virtue of pointing out the Weasley brood and their former ‘pet’ at any opportunity, but it’s not quite enough to keep at bay the more persistent individuals who sniffed out via the rumours circulating around the school that Orion may know more than he lets on.

Not even during his classes is he left in peace, and Orion finds himself almost appreciating Snape’s militant approach during his lessons, docking points for every whisper that even vaguely pertains to something unrelated to his subject. Flitwick and even McGonagall seem to have a hard time keeping the gossip at bay and pushing on with their curriculum, while Lupin appears scatterbrained and distracted, eyeing Orion oddly, like he wants to approach him but doesn’t quite know how.

He receives another letter from Narcissa, reiterating once again that she’s expecting his reply, and Orion puts off writing back anything of substance other than relaying what his solicitor told him and that Lucius should contact Ackroyd if he wants to get involved with the whole matter.

A surprising development is Percy Weasley knocking onto their common room door Thursday evening, his polished prefect badge pinned to his chest, catching the torchlight.

He’s a lanky boy, just as freckled as his brothers but taller, his hair coiffed back neatly, horn-rimmed spectacles on his nose as he somewhat nervously and very formally thanks Orion for exposing Pettigrew’s true nature on his family's behalf before offering his hand up to shake.

Orion takes it, somewhat bewildered, and taking care not to wipe the clammy sweat sticking to his palm afterwards on his robes like he wants to.

“If there is anything I can do," Percy says, “to show my gratitude, please let me know. We are in your debt, truly.”

That’s a sentence any Slytherin likes to hear, but Orion just smiles and replies he’ll think on it.

November ends in a flurry of snowfalls, schoolwork work and letters raining down on Orion, the most interesting being a brief missive sent by Ackroyd, containing only a single piece of information, hidden between pleasantries and vague allusions as to the progress on the case.

It appears Sirius Black has found it in himself to make a reasonable decision and has actually contacted him via letter.

Outwardly, nothing much has changed. Since Pettigrew’s discovery, the papers have been silent, and even Skeeter is grasping for straws in publishing various small articles, alongside a column, in which readers could send in their own theories regarding the matter.

Thus, it’s not surprising that the interest among the student body in Peter Pettigrew’s discovery takes a backseat in the face of the next Quidditch game and a third-floor corridor being bombarded with stink bombs, as well as Lupin’s ‘bout of the flu’, which leads to Snape taking over his classes yet once again.

Officially, the manhunt against Sirius Black has yet to be called off – the Dementors' continued presence around Hogwarts is as much an indicator as any – but from what Orion learns from Ackroyd’s helpful letters, the majority of the forces stationed all over Britain have been called back to London.

His father, apparently a paranoid bastard to the bone, has yet to meet with Ackroyd in person, but the latter, at Orion’s permission, has sent a box of supplies in good faith, from foodto clothes and galleons, alongside the address of one of the Black’s country houses with the offer to stay there. Not that Orion thinks Sirius will take it, considering his trepidation regarding Ackroyd.

Either way, it’s not Orion’s problem.

From Narcissa, he learns that Lucius is working behind the scenes, Ackroyd keeping them in the loop – to a point – while Fudge apparently has alluded to holding a press conference in the near future.

By the middle of December, Hogwarts has been swallowed in thick blankets of snow, dappling its towers like white hats, and the dungeons have become so cold that the whole Slytherin population seems to be wandering about in their winter cloaks, the spots in front of the fireplace perpetually crowded.

Orion gets used to tuning out Draco’s complaints about the snow they have to plough through every time they have to venture outside of the castle for their Care of Magical Creatures lessons, though they spend a rather nice afternoon ice-skating out on the Black Lake, the upper years magnanimously offering to transfigure their shoes for them, where it becomes a habit to watch out for stray snowballs launched in their direction.

The new first years seem to be caught up in a prank war that stretches over the different houses, and while pondering what gifts to order over the catalogues he nicked from Zabini, he finds himself rather distracted watching a few bald firsties caught up in a heated discussion about who among them should approach Ashwood in regard to fixing their unfortunate hair situation.

Orion has already anonymously ordered a basket full of catnip from Hogsmeade’s branch of Bufo’s to send to Granger – the fallout of which he somewhat regrets he won’t be able to witness. He’d considered adding a note, but the idea of Granger fretting over opening a random box full of catnip in the middle of the Gryffindor common room with no explanation was too funny to pass up.

School work is piling up, alongside Orion’s letters, while the pile of presents tucked away in his trunk steadily grows.

The day they’re set out to leave for Malfoy Manor for the winter holidays, their year-mates meet up in the early hours of the day to exchange Yule gifts in front of the fireplace in the Slytherin common room.

Orion receives a lovely wide-brimmed hat from Zabini, sweets from both Greg and Vince, a selection of magazines and nail polishes from Tracey and Pansy, a new amulet from Moon, a book from Daphne, some vinyls from Ethel and a very nice chessboard from Theo with ivory pieces.

He counts himself lucky to have an interesting book on curses in his trunk to return Nott’s gift in kind, though he wraps it a bit hurriedly while handing out various trinkets and useful items, and sends a bunch of amulets to Ethel to hand out to their fan club over the hols, as well as a few owl-ordered mind-sharpening potions to the older Prefects, because it can’t hurt to get them on his good side.

After breakfast, they’re seen off with a new headline printed in bold ink onto the very first page of the Daily Prophet, which they’re circulating while sitting in the Thestral-drawn carriage bringing them down to the station.

RETRIAL FOR BLACK – MINISTRY KEEPS MUM
“No comment,” says Fudge in response to the rumours surrounding Peter Pettigrew’s status as a crown witness.

“Someone’s getting fired,” Draco comments idly, fidgeting with the scarf he received from Greg earlier that day, at long last about as informed as Orion thanks to his continuing pestering for him to share the details and his correspondence unless he wants to be irritated to death.

“Perhaps,” Orion replies, cracking through an acid pop, as he watches the snowy landscape draw by.

Pansy sticks her nose over Draco’s elbow, trying to read the article as well.

“They barely say anything new,” she voices, before looking up at Orion. “Did you know about that?”

“Not in detail.” Ackroyd didn’t write as much, at least. This seems to be an honest leak. “Someone in the department probably blabbed about some insider info.”

Zabini crosses his legs as he rearranges himself against the hard backrest of their seats. “I expect you to keep me up to date during the holidays, you hear?”

Orion snorts. “If you insist.”

“Mother’s been invited to the Yule ball. I’ll see to it that I can accompany her to remind you in person if you don’t,” the dark-skinned boy adds.

“That’s totally unfair,” Pansy whines, crossing her arms with a pout. “Mother says I’m too young to attend, at least until I’ve officially entered society. And that’s still ages away.”

Orion, who’s vaguely aware of the balls held in summer that Narcissa mentions offhandedly every so often, frowns. “So, like …July?”

Pansy huffs, looking at him. “Like I said: Ages. Besides, Mother wants to wait till I’ve turned at least fourteen…unless,” she flutters her lashes at Draco. “We could revive our sleepover parties. You could invite us?”

Draco and Orion exchange a brief look before the blond turns back to the girl. “That wouldn’t get you into the ball either if your parents are against it,” he retorts before pausing for the dramatic effect and adding with affected indifference, “Besides. I’m attending this year. Father said I’m old enough now to partake in the Yule ritual.”

That’s news to Orion. “When did he say so?”

“Last year,” Draco says.

That makes sense. Considering Orion was petrified for most of his second year. “Wait,” he starts momentarily, “does that mean I’m attending too?” when the thought occurs to him.

“I would assume so,” Draco says, seeming bemused now. “You didn’t know?”

“I was a bit preoccupied with other things, you understand,” Orion drawls.

Draco scoffs.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor’s cool and airy entrance hall is a welcome reprieve after hours spent in an unventilated train compartment populated by teenagers. Orion feels himself deflate as he steps over the threshold, tracking snow in, the sounds of his boots scuffing over the polished floor echoing from the marble walls as a few portraits proclaim idle greetings.

Lucius snaps his fingers, and an elf appears to take their trunks, disappearing with a quiet pop, while Draco already makes a beeline to the closest settee shoved against a wall, throwing himself over it with an exhausted sigh.

Orion is ready to follow suit, the long train ride having taken it out of him as well. He’s been itching for a smoke ever since they arrived on the crowded platform, playing with Sirius’ lighter in his pocket, but refraining to look the part with Narcissa’s eyes on him. He’s fairly sure he could talk his way out of being chastised by Lucius.

“Why don’t you boys freshen up? Dinner should be ready momentarily,” Narcissa proposes as she turns to them with a smile, while Lucius takes her cloak off her shoulders.

Draco sighs again, suffering, disheveling his hair even further by dragging a hand through it with a mulish expression. “Must we?” he whines.

“Draco," she says, chidingly. “Besides, you’ll feel more refreshed once you’ve rid yourself of the scent of the journey.”

She does have a point. If Vince ever heard of freshening charms or deodorant, he doesn’t show it.

There is a lot magic can do to deal with the plights of ordinary teenagers caught up in the throes of early puberty, but it takes a modicum of effort some of them have yet to discover.

Orion exchanges a look with Draco, who sighs and heaves himself up with a drawn-out, “Fine.” He toes off his shoes, leaving them scattered right in the entrance hall for the elves to pick up before he pads over to the grand staircase on socked feet, evading the already forming puddles of melting snow.

Orion huffs, amused, and makes moves to follow him.

“Is this a new fashion, Orion?” Narcissa asks, causing him to pause. He follows her gaze towards his boots, the jangling of the amulets barely even registering with him anymore.

“We came up with it in our club.” Orion shrugs, shaking his leg, making the charms jangle. “It’s just amulets and charms.”

Narcissa looks him over momentarily. “I think there are more efficient ways to …style these. Why don’t you leave them with the elves? We can have them fashioned into a bracelet. I know just the jeweller.”

“I kind of like it,” Orion replies, frowning.

“It’s really no trouble, Orion. They don’t suit your casual robes at all. We can have them forged into a girdle if you prefer. I’ll write to my jeweller; we can discuss it after dinner.”

Orion briefly considers whether this is worth the argument and decides he can’t be arsed to die on that hill right now.

Still, he suppresses the urge to roll his eyes at Narcissa, humming noncommittally in lieu of replying before following Draco upstairs.

After a shower and dressing himself in a casual house robe – a gift from one of Lucius’ business acquaintances imported from Egypt, woven from a light fabric with phoenixes stitched alongside the hem – he heads towards the dining room.

Dinner is a casual affair, and they chat about school and the upcoming Yule ball while they’re served poached salmon paired with a white wine, which both Draco and Orion get to try while Lucius quizzes them on the flavour profile, intermittently enquiring about school.

Nevertheless, Orion doesn’t quite escape discussing his father, what with the most recent news article declaring Sirius’ trial being rolled up again. Partially because Ackroyd apparently asked for a meeting at their earliest convenience.

At least it’s a better alternative than facing Narcissa’s pursed mouth at the chipping nail polish on his fingers, which she mistook for dirt at first.

By the end of it, Orion honestly feels slightly tipsy from the wine and ready to hole up in his room and sneak the cigarette he’s been itching for for hours.

As they move into the sitting room, he sits next to Lucius, not without harbouring a little bit of resentment while the man enjoys a cigar, sweet smoke permeating the room.

Orion’s boredly thumbing through Narcissa’s jewellery collection, halfheartedly listening to her suggestions in how he could have his amulets refashioned into something more suitable, while Draco is sprawled over an armchair in a similar manner, seemingly over his mother’s fussing regarding which alterations need to be done to the traditional robes she had made for them for their annual ball.

“We’ve scheduled your meeting with Mr Ackroyd tomorrow morning,” Narcissa announces offhandedly, in between tugging on Draco’s hair and musing that he should get it cut for the upcoming event, seemingly indifferent to her son’s attempts to push her hands away. “Lucius and I will sit in, of course. After lunch, we’ll head to Twilfitt and Tattings to have your robes altered so they’ll be ready in time.”

Orion sighs and tosses a pair of diamond earrings back into the box. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Speak properly, Orion. Please. You’re no longer mingling with your peers.”

Draco cuts a grimace at him from behind his mother’s back, smirking as he sees right through Orion’s attempt at restraining himself from flipping the blond off.

“May I be excused?” Orion drawls deliberately and exaggeratedly. “I would like to retire for the night.”

“You may,” Narcissa says graciously. “Breakfast will be served early tomorrow. Make sure to be on time; we’re on a strict schedule.”

Orion grunts something unintelligible in response and receives a pursed lip from Narcissa, and finally gets to flip Draco off on his way out of the room.

He’s tired the next morning, having stayed up way too long reading and smoking on the windowsill while freezing his arse off, staring down the second cup of coffee he had Kreacher switch out his tea for.

Draco, who's got the luxury of actually having been able to sleep in a bit, arrives at the breakfast table late, with mussed hair, in morning robes, and still manages to look more put together than Orion feels.

He laughs at Orion, who doesn’t even try to suppress the urge to throw a bread roll at his face in response, while Lucius' view is obscured by his paper.

Unfortunately, Draco’s ongoing stint as the Slytherin Quidditch seeker seems to have actually paid off as he easily plucks it from the air. He laughs even more at Orion’s disgruntled expression when he does so.

“Impressed?” the blond asks.

“Fuck off,” Orion mutters at Draco, reaping him an amused look from Lucius, despite his disapproving. “Boys,” before the man sets aside the morning paper and checks his pocket watch.

“It’s about time,” Lucius voices. He calls an elf to let Narcissa know, who’s been fielding Floo calls all morning – how that woman manages to get up at this ungodly hour is a mystery to him.

Groaning, Orion downs his coffee before he heaves himself up. Draco grins sharply at Orion over the toast he’s slathering with strawberry jam.

Ackroyd arrives punctually as the owl post. “Mr Malfoy, Mrs Malfoy, Mr Black,” his solicitor greets them as soon as he steps foot into the light-flooded drawing room, shaking Lucius hand and nodding at Narcissa before moving on to clap Orion’s offered palm, setting down his leather briefcase next to the armchair and taking a seat.

“Can I offer you a refreshment, Mr Ackroyd?” Narcissa offers politely, just as she sits back down, smoothing over her robes. Not a speck of ash mars her clothes.

“Thank you, water will do.”

“Kreacher, if you would,” Narcissa voices, the elf appearing and disappearing within the blink of an eye to comply with the request that didn’t even need to be voiced.

Nosy fucker, Orion muses with equal resentment and fondness.

Ackroyd clears his throat, facing Lucius’ keen-eyed stare.

“As I understand, you’re here in matters regarding Sirius Black?” Lucius asks, propping up his ankle on his knee.

“Indeed. That is the case,” Ackroyd voices. “As well as Mr Black’s inheritance.” He nods at Orion.

“Why’s that?” Orion asks, sitting up straighter, while a crystal glass and a carafe appear on the side table next to Ackroyd.

“Yes,” Narcissa adds, shifting in her seat, “I, as well, was under the impression that matters had been handled after my great-aunt’s death.”

“We had,” Ackroyd folds his hands, “But at the time of Walburga Black’s passing, we assumed that Sirius Black would remain in Azkaban for the foreseeable future.”

“Until he inevitably croaked, and the inheritance would be mine anyway,” Orion says.

Ackroyd nods, not at all bothered by Orion’s bluntness. “Indeed. Though him possibly being reinstated as a member of society changes things. Your late grandfather’s will was very clear in whom he would leave his estate to, and although your grandmother’s wishes will certainly be taken into account, and the trust she set up in your name may only be claimed by you, given the conditions she set are fulfilled, Sirius Black, technically, is the heir to the estate and the family vaults.”

Narcissa nods dainty. “I see.”

“I took the liberty of bringing the corresponding paperwork. I had my assistant handling the matter; you’ll have to excuse me, but I’ve been rather busy lately.”

Lucius sits up straighter. “Your assistant was vetted, I presume.”

“Certainly,” Ackroyd says. “I pride myself on being professional.”

Orion can attest to that.

“If you’d prefer, we can go over the matters of the estate first to get it out of the way.”

“Sure,” Orion says and promptly regrets it as the next thirty minutes feel like a briefing on anything he already knew, only to be elaborated on whenever Lucius and Narcissa throw in a comment, only to conclude in him having to sign a bunch of papers and Ackroyd offering to separate his own investments from the main vaults.
That in turn leads into a gateway into another conversation, dominated by Lucius' curious enquiries and Orion having to explain his whole portfolio.

Already this meeting is dragging on, and Orion feels the effects of the caffeine losing its potency. He should’ve ordered Kreacher to sneak a potion into his tea from the get-go.

“In any case, I deemed it prudent to …discuss things before Mr Black's trial.” Ackroyd voices finally, glancing at Narcissa and Orion.

Lucius leans forward. “Has there a date been set yet? The papers weren't conclusive in that regard.”

Ackroyd nods. “Nothing concrete; even the departments remain tight-lipped, but one hears the twenty-third has been in the talk.”

“That’s soon,” Orion points out, frowning. Less than a week away. While he can’t deny that it’s a relief to hear that all his efforts are finally paying off, he can’t shake a certain apprehension and nervousness either.

“It is,” Ackroyd agrees. “Which is why I approached you at such short notice. I appreciate you seeing me.”

“Of course,” Narcissa voices, while Lucius seems to regard Ackroyd with newfound approval. He’s got that kind of look about him, and Orion wouldn’t be surprised if he was thinking about hiring Ackroyd himself.

The solicitor, meanwhile, reaches over, pausing to take a sip of his water. “As it is, I’ve been deemed the official representative of Sirius Black during his trial.”

It takes Orion a moment to catch on when Lucius perks up imperceptibly. “You’ve been in contact with him.”

Ah. So Ackroyd had been holding back on that information when corresponding with the Malfoys. A part of Orion feels smugly vindicated in his choice of solicitor.

“Yes,” Ackroyd freely admits after briefly glancing at Orion. “Not in person, but I’ve been corresponding with him via owl. Mr Black is rather careful, as you’ll understand.”

Orion snorts.

Narcissa’s manicured hands twitch on her lap.

“Will he show up? For the trial?” Lucius asks.

“I believe so,” Ackroyd voices carefully after a moment. “A lot hinges on it.”

Orion huffs. “That’s one way to put it.”

“Quite. And not without its risks,” Narcissa voices. “Have there been assurances that my cousin won’t be taken into custody as soon as he steps foot in the Ministry?”

“That is a work in process,” Ackroyd says.

“One that will hopefully pay off,” Orion interjects.

“Of that, I have no doubt,” his solicitor replies, a smirk playing around his lips. He looks at Orion. “It will be a media spectacle.”

Lucius’ brows raise.

Ackroyd grins his shark-like grin. “I personally made sure of that.”

Even Narcissa can’t quite restrain a smile at that. Still, she says, “I presumed it would be closed to the public?”

“It is,” Ackroyd voices. “But Britain hasn’t seen a trial such as this for a decade. Spiting the public by not allowing them to take part wouldn’t be a wise decision on Minister Fudge’s part, and he knows that.”

Lucius hums as he resettles himself, his robes rustling against the upholstery.

“Though, of course, one has to observe tradition,” Ackroyd adds, reaping an approving nod from the man. “If you so wish,” he turns his head toward Orion, “it is your right to observe proceedings, considering you are at this time considered the head of your family.”

“I want to,” Orion says, without even thinking a second about it.

“Surely, as his guardians, we’ll have to accompany him,” Lucius voices.

Ackroyd doesn’t show it, but Orion gets the impression that he’s surrounded by an air of amusement when he replies, “Indeed. I’ve already arranged for a situation such as this.”

Lucius leans back, seeming smug. “Very well.”

“I presume you are perhaps not familiar with what to expect,” Ackroyd tells Orion, who tilts his head, motioning for him to go on.

“Usually,” Ackroyd begins, crossing his legs and folding his hands on his impeccably pressed trousers, “a trial like this would be overseen by the Council of Magical Law, consisting of a panel of members which is presided over by the head of the DMLE.”

“Who would be?” Orion enquires.

“Amelia Bones,” Lucius says, his expression taking on a less favourable note. “I assume, considering her recent promotion.”

“Indeed,” Ackroyd says. “But taking into consideration the high profile of the trial, I believe it likely that instead of the board, it will be handled by the Wizard High Court and the minister personally.”

Lucius hums.

“That sounds unusual,” Orion muses out loud.

Narcissa lets out a small scoff. “Regardless of Sirius’ political inclination or his lack thereof, this trial may very well reinstate him as the head of an influential family. Certainly, should Cornelius fumble this ball, he will not recover. If the Wizengamot presides, I have no doubt he already knows of the outcome and will attempt to integrate himself into our family’s good graces. It’s one of the few wise decisions he’s made in those recent years.”

Orion can’t quite disguise his surprise at Narcissa’s open derision.

“Darling,” Lucius says, “Cornelius is a close friend.”

Narcissa grants him a long look in lieu of a verbal answer. “Of course,” she says after a long pause.

Orion feigns a cough to mask his inappropriate snort.

Ackroyd keeps his composure admirably. “They’re trying to keep their press leaks at bay as well,” he voices, all professional tone. “The belt has been tightened in the DMLE, and heads have rolled already, one hears.”

“One does?” Lucius voices.

Ackroyd nods. “If the demotion of Aurors Brown and Chadwick is anything to go by, indeed.”

Lucius hums, his eyes glinting. “Interesting,” he says.

Ackroyd takes a sip of his water. “Regarding the process,” he continues, addressing Orion, “It’s quite simple, really. I don’t expect it to last longer than a few hours.”

“Unusually long," Lucius says, “but expected.”

“What’s unusual,” Narcissa voices, “is that Peter Pettigrew’s hearing hasn’t been scheduled yet.”

“That seems like an oversight,” Orion retorts with a huff.

Ackroyd tilts his head in a half-nod. “Yes, and no. The motives behind it aside, it’s an unspoken secret that he’s regarded as a crown witness, even if he’s only listed as the latter. Either way, it grants us the opportunity to present our view to an unbiased panel of members.”

“So, how would we go about that?” Orion enquires.

“Well,” Ackroyd says, “the members of the Wizengamot will be presented with evidence against the accused, likely by the Aurors arresting Sirius Black that night. Lastly, Mr Black will be called to give his testimony – should he deign to attend – before the panel of judges to get judged, and we may present our own witnesses.”

Orion huffs. “What witnesses? The muggles who were obliviated?”

Ackroyd’s lips twitch. “We will call Peter Pettigrew on the witness stand, of course.”

“A reliable testimony, I have no doubt,” Orion bites out sarcastically. “Considering veritaserum is still considered inadmissible in court.”

“Orion does have a point,” Narcissa interjects. “What if the outcome isn’t the one we expect?”

“The press will be present. If they arrest Mr Black, it shan’t be without consequences,” Ackroyd voices.

Lucius nods approvingly.

“Besides,” Ackroyd adds, “I expect that it will be a clear-cut case even should Pettigrew refuse to speak the truth. Albus Dumbledore appears rather invested in the matter. He’s written to me twice offering his aid should it be required.”

“Did he now?” Lucius says. Undoubtedly he’s already weighing the advantages of Dumbledore’s involvement against his dislike of the man.

“I believe he was fishing for information as well. Unsuccessfully, I might add,” Ackroyd voices.

Orion feels a stab of spiteful satisfaction at that, not quite knowing where it stems from.

“He mentioned that he would use his rights as the Supreme Mugwump, even if he isn’t overseeing the trial in that capacity.”

Lucius scoffs.

Ackroyd makes a noise that could convey agreement or nothing of the like if one would like to interpret it as such. “In any case, I believe we’ve covered the essentials,” he says. “I will owl you the time and date as soon as I’ve received confirmation.”

Lucius gets up to shake Ackroyd’s hand. “We appreciate it.”

“Mr Black, Mrs Malfoy,” Ackroyd acknowledges them afterwards.

“If you have the time to spare,” Lucius says, “we’d be happy to have you join us for lunch.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Ackroyd says, somehow managing to sound humble even when he looks anything but, what with his broad smile.

“Oh, not at all. It would be our pleasure,” Lucius replies, his voice dripping with effortless charm.

“Well, in that case, I believe I’ve got a few hours to spare,” Ackroyd says. “I would just alert my assistant to cancel my lunch reservation with a brief Floo call, if it’s no trouble.”

Lucius laughs. “Nonsense, I’ll have an elf send out a notice. I was quite impressed with the portfolio you’ve set up for my ward. Why, I have some drafts of my own I wouldn’t mind hearing your opinion on. I do believe I have a box of excellent cigars that is collecting dust in a drawer of my study, if you’d like to join me.”

“How can I refuse an offer such as this?” Ackroyd replies, matching Lucius’ tone to a tee.

Orion watches the smooth personality shift with avid fascination.

Before long, Lucius escorts Ackroyd out of the drawing room, Lucius’ muffled laughter sounding through the door.

Narcissa sheds her own mask with a sigh. “Men,” she mutters.

Then she gets up with a decisive motion before looking Orion up and down. “You should get changed before lunch into something more appropriate for an outing. We’ll leave right after.”

Shopping with Narcissa is always an experience. He and Draco suffer her attentions in the stuffy fitting room of Twilfitt and Tattings, propped up on small stools like dolls, while pins fix fabric bunching around their waists and hems gets magically lengthened and altered to fit their robes for the Yule ball.

All the while Narcissa coaches them on how to act and who to talk to and which people they should take care to make a good impression on. Her advice to Orion specifically is to be on his best behaviour, considering this is his first and only chance to enter society before his father can taint his reputation. “We can’t expect your father to act in a manner befitting of the good family name, and your impression will stay with people more so if you’re known beforehand and not by Sirius’ association. Never mind that a few young ladies will be making their debut, and what is gained now will benefit you when you’re looking for a good match in a couple years' time. That goes for you too, Draco,” she adds pointedly, looking at her son. “And stop tugging on the fabric.”

“The needles are poking me,” Draco whines. “And my legs are tired.”

“You don’t hear me complaining,” Orion retorts acerbically from his stool, even though he shares Draco’s opinion.

“It’s only a few more minutes,” Narcissa says, saving the harried-looking shop apprentice from having to speak up. She seems nervous enough as it is hemming Draco’s cloak.

“Though on second thought,” Narcissa says, “perhaps we should go with the arctic fox after all.”

“Mother, please,” Draco retorts mulishly, “It’s been an hour. It’s fine like it is.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Merlin.” Draco shoots Orion a suffering look.

“Cissa,” Orion starts after a moment, “Who’re the witches you mentioned earlier, the ones who’re debuting?”

Draco shoots Orion a look, arching a pale eyebrow.

Narcissa, on the other hand, seems positively delighted. She starts to list family names, some vaguely familiar from Hogwarts, but Orion’s got another aim in mind.

“Actually, could you issue an invitation to the Fawcetts as well?”

“The Fawcetts?” Narcissa enquires with raised brows.

“My, Orion,” Draco drawls, “Already looking for a bride?”

Orion shoots him a look, barely refraining from flipping him off – mostly because he’s got his arms spread eagle while the shop girl compares the lengths of his sleeves. “Their eldest daughter did me a favour once. I’d like to repay it,” he says, deliberately speaking to Narcissa.

“They live in Devon,” Draco provides unhelpfully. “Basically neighbouring with the Weasleys.”

“So do the Diggorys,” Orion counters.

“So what?”

Orion rolls his eyes at the blond.

Meanwhile, Narcissa seems to mull the decision over. “The Fawcetts. They haven’t really been seen in society since – well, it’s been ages. I believe I met Miriam Fawcett once at a function when I was a girl – before her father lost all their money gambling. Quite the scandal back then. So they’ve moved to Devon? A pity. They had a nice townhouse in Liverpool before.”

“It appears so,” Orion says. “What’s it matter?”

Narcissa hums. “What favour did she do for you?” you said.

“She transfigured my sunglasses,” Orion replies prickly. “The ones I wore before I got petrified; you may remember the occasion.”

Narcissa doesn’t so much as twitch an eyelid. “They have two daughters, do they not?” she muses.

“I guess,” Orion replies.

“Very well then. You may invite them.”

Orion breathes a sigh of relief. If he has to suffer through what seems to be gearing up to be a pain in the arse of a social obligation where he’s forced to network all night long, he’d rather it be with people he actually enjoys being around.

Hopefully Zabini keeps to his word and abandons whatever mansion in Italy his mother’s latest lover has acquired and portkeys over. And if not, he’ll at least be able to talk shit with Brunhilda.

They split up afterwards, Draco getting up to some last-minute gift shopping, during which Orion accompanies him and comments on his pick of jewellery he tries to pick out for his mother and for a brief stint into Knockturn Alley and Orion seeking out his vault in Gringotts to pick up a golden cloak clasp catching dust in an old box which he’d intended to gift to Lucius, before reuniting in a restaurant at the farther end of Diagon.

Yule approaches rapidly, and the morning of, Orion has Kreacher accompany him in order to pick out a rare bottle of Scotch from Lucius’ cabinets to send to Ackroyd with an accompanying note of thanks.

They exchange gifts later that day in a casual fashion – Narcissa compliments him thoroughly on his tastes in fine china – before heading for an outing with the Crabbes and Goyles to watch the English national team destroy the Moroccan Quidditch players with a memorable score of 510 to 40.

Though the afternoon turns rather stressful before long, since as soon as they arrive back home, Narcissa is ushering them to their rooms to take baths and change into their robes, while she fusses over last-minute changes in the set-up of the ballroom, ordering around the harried staff and the elves who’ve yet to finish decorating the outside.

Regardless of Orion preemptively complaining about the stuffy politicking and him already having resigned himself to the boredom of forced socialisation, the annual Yule Ball held at Malfoy Manor is in fact quite the societal event, going by the fame of various attendees and the selective invitations sent out weeks beforehand.

Nevertheless, Orion was only reminded of that fact when Brunhilda of all people sent him a letter proclaiming her gratitude and a whole page dedicated to her outfit choices and which of her dresses would be the most appropriate to wear.

And Orion has to admit that, objectively, he can see the appeal.

The ballroom is a sight to behold.

Narcissa had it enchanted professionally yet again, and it shows. The high walls are lined with ice sculptures this year, mermaids and fairies and phoenixes who’re so lifelike they seem to sing their last lament even while still, breaking up the glittering light of the large chandeliers. Even the floor looks like a frozen lake, reflecting the colourful crowd like a mirror, just like the tall windows granting a view of the enchanting sight of the snowy grounds.

Laughing guests in exquisite gowns are mingling on the floor, bejewelled hands wound around the dainty stems of wine glasses, as they move through the room, where snowflakes have been frozen in time, stirring ever so slightly with every movement, breaking up the candlelight light like crystals.

Enormous Yule wreaths are hung from the ceiling, while an enchanted quartet is providing a backdrop to the manifold chatter of the guests seated at the farther end of the ballroom and the couples whirling over the dance floor.

In the middle of it all, an icy fountain has been set up, spewing bubbling champagne, bottles diving in magically to refill the man-high pyramid of stacked glasses.

But it’s different when standing next to it, hiding behind a stolen flute of champagne in a stuffy robe with a restrictive high collar, shoes buffed to the nines, watching guests circle around platters of canapés like sharks to get a word in with the minister or otherwise pitch their entrepreneurial ideas to anyone with the muse to listen and enough money to sponsor them.

At this point, Orion has been introduced to a veritable armada of people. To his great annoyance, the hottest topic of this night seems to be Sirius Black’s upcoming trial, which his presence seems to bring to the forefront of everybody's mind. So far, more than half of them have been proclaiming either their great condolences or trying to weasel their way into his good graces, depending on whether they’re expecting Sirius Black’s potential exoneration or doom. Still, regardless of their respective opinions, they’ve all been fishing for information on what is apparently ‘the greatest trial this decade has seen'.

Orion’s cheeks are aching from the fixed smile accompanying his regurgitating the same story ad nauseam. Soley Narcissa’s pointed reminders to be on his best behaviour have kept him from outright insulting some of them. Unfortunately, that also means that Orion’s been forced to dance with half a dozen people, the most awkward interaction perhaps with the elder Rosier sister, whom he already was introduced to earlier this summer.

Her obnoxious brother Louis is present too but has deigned to ignore Orion and his glares completely, which is probably one of the wiser decisions the boy has ever made in his life.

While Orion has extracted himself from the obligatory social talk, Draco is still trailing Lucius like a kneazle pup, puffing up with every other interaction where he’s introduced by his father, basically laying the groundwork for his later success in life.

He watches on for a bit, locating Zabini at the farther end of the ballroom, and considers calling him over until Brunhilda suddenly materialises next to him, fanning her flushed face. Her ashen hair is pinned up in an elaborate hairdo sparkling with gems, exposing her slender neck, even more accentuated by the tailored cut of her wine-red ballgown.

“There you are,” she voices, sounding slightly out of breath as she flashes a sharp grin. “I almost thought I had to step in earlier and save the young ladies from the indignity of having to deal with your disgruntled self.”

“Har har,” Orion retorts. “Where is your date? I thought I saw you drag Copper along. However you managed that.”

“Oh, he’s around,” Brunhilda says unbothered, gesturing offhandedly with her sharp-nailed hand. “Thanks again for the invitation, by the way.”

“It’s fine,” Orion replies. “At least one of us gets to appreciate this peacocking.”

Brunhilda laughs while he takes a sip of his champagne, kind of hating it, but it’s better than nothing.

When she steals his glass, downing it in one go, he finds that she’s probably more tipsy than her initial impression belies. His theory gains more ground when she throws an arm over his shoulder in a manner that is more than unbecoming in a setting such as this.

Luckily, Orion doesn’t give a shit. “No, for real, thanks,” she reiterates. Orion is drowned by her perfume and her champagne-sweet breath brushing his cheek when she turns to look at him. “I talked to the head of the healer department; can you believe it?”

A few strands are escaping her hairdo, though Orion is more aware of how her cleavage is pressing against his shoulders. “Good for you,” he voices absently.

Just then Copper appears with two crystal glasses filled with dark wine. His dark hair is combed back today instead of in his usual spiked-up style, yet still sporting glittering makeup around his eyes and a dark military-style coat, which is draped over his shoulders like a cape.

“Black! Don’t you look spruced up?” he grins in greeting. “Come on. Where’s your drink? You’re way too sober!”

“Your girlfriend drank it,” Orion replies, but his unimpressed delivery is ruined by his reflexive smile.

“I did you a favour,” Brunhilda voices, stepping away from Orion and liberating Copper from one of his wine glasses. “You were begging to be caught with your champagne. Really, such blatant provocation in the form of underage drinking. What will society think?” She grins viciously.

Orion sniffs, tugging at the girdle. Narcissa had handed him in a box earlier that day – delicately wrought goblin silver, incorporating his charms and amulets, which he hadn’t even noticed missing from his boots. That shrewd hag.

“Where’s the fun in that?” he says.

Copper grins. “Exactly. I hear you know Yaxley,” he adds momentarily. “You’ll have to introduce me. The prick didn’t so much look in my direction when I tried to approach him earlier.”

Orion snorts at his bluntness before noticing Fawley's daughters veering in his direction. “I’ll introduce you to whoever you like as long as you keep those girls off my back.”

Brunhilda grins. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Orion spends the next hour leading Copper and Brunhilda around the ballroom, introducing them to various Ministry employees, chatting with his classmate’s parents and exchanging rather impressed looks with Copper over his girlfriend’s aptitude at networking, before somehow ending up in a group consisting of a Swiss alchemist, a German potioneer and a Greek vampire discussing the merits of underground broom racing of all things.

Eventually, he congregates with Draco and Zabini at one of the tables when the crowd grows progressively drunker and more exuberant, stretching out his legs under the white tablecloth with a sigh and poking at some of the oysters bedded on an enchanted ice platter in front of them.

“Anything new on the front of your father’s trial?” Blaise asks.

Orion fixes Zabini with a deadpan stare. “My, what an inspired query. Not like I haven’t heard it half a dozen times today already. Oh, wait.”

Draco pipes up with an affected voice, “How are you faring in regard to the recent developments concerning your criminal cousin?”

Blaise raises a brow.

Orion groans. Apparently Draco didn’t escape this query either. “Did you happen to read the latest article in the paper? Truly? Anything they didn’t report?” he quotes from memory, joining Draco in mimicking the voice of an elderly wizard.

“I can’t believe it! Black, receiving another trial! The audacity!” Draco adds, pitching his voice ridiculously high. In a normal tone he says, “You should’ve seen the mug of that witch when I informed her that we’re related.”

Orion snorts.

Zabini flashes a sharp smile. “Well, I did warn you.”

Orion shifts to face him with a sigh. “The trial is on the 23rd. I’m going to attend. Pettigrew is the main witness. No, I don’t know anything. No, I haven’t spoken to my father. Please direct any further questions to my solicitor.”

“You’re going to attend?” Blaise asks, wholly ignoring the rest of his speech.

“I’m still put out that I’m not allowed,” Draco says, sniffing. “I should be. He’s my cousin too.”

“A distant cousin,” Orion replies.

Draco huffs.

Just then Zabini’s mother appears, Narcissa in tow, both seeming a bit tipsy.

“There you are, darling,” Blaise’s mother greets her son. “You boys are having fun, I hope?”

“Sure,” Blaise drawls. Draco flashes a reflexive smile that falls as soon as her back is turned.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Narcissa adds, smiling.

“Oh, you’ve quite outdone yourself again,” Mrs Zabini’s mother purrs, plucking one of the oysters from the tray. “I do so love oysters. They keep my figure,” she voices, as if she had any need to complain.

Narcissa laughs. “Perhaps I ought to keep that in mind.” She picks one up too, drawing one of the lemon slices out of the ice, pressing out the juice.

“Never mind that it’s an aphrodisiac,” Blaise comments, suffering under his breath.

Draco shudders. “Don’t put that image in my mind,” he voices, watching his mother poke into the shell with a small fork.

They continue to exchange pleasantries for a bit, the women checking in on them, enquiring about whom they talked and danced with as well as gauging their moods, but before long, they’ve disappeared back into the crowd again.

Meanwhile the music picks up, and Orion spots Narcissa and Lucius laughing as they whirl over the dancefloor.

“I’m going for a smoke,” he proclaims abruptly, reaping somewhat vocal agreement from both Draco and Blaise for lack of anything better to do.

On the way outside, they’re joined by Copper, who seems to have lost his girlfriend somewhere in the masses, a champagne bottle in hand, before they end up on the terrace, populated by a few of the guests catching fresh air before settling in a more hidden corner overlooking the fairy lights strung up in the trees of the snowy garden and the many braziers illuminating the night just within the borders of the warming charms.

Behind them, through the windows, the muffled sounds of laughter and music sound through the walls, while their evening takes on a more casual air.

Some twenty minutes later, Brunhilda manages to find them anyway, a tall dark witch on her arm, wearing a fully feathered cloak over her gown. “This is my new friend Melisandre.”

“Melisandre Agrippa,” the woman introduces herself in a heavily accented voice, while Brunhilda intercepts Copper handing Zabini the half-empty bottle of champagne and settling down next to Orion.

Her last name is vaguely familiar, and Orion believes to have heard it before in connection with some ICW member Lucius invited. Must be his daughter or something of the like.

“Right,” Brunhilda says. “She’s currently trying to apply to get to do a ritual in Stonehenge. Fascinating, really.”

“What kind?” Copper enquires curiously over his smoke.

“A mediaeval weather ritual,” the young woman elaborates. “It’s really a group effort. We’re exploring the influence old ritual spaces have on the strength of wandless rituals.”

“She’s studying in Alexandria,” Brunhilda says. “Getting her mastery in ritual magic. Quite impressive, really. You should tell him about the blood sacrifices you were observing in South America last year. You see, Severin likes to play humble, but he’s quite the scholar himself. He’s been applying for a sponsored scholarship abroad as well.”

Behind Mellisandre’s back, she throws Orion a wink.

For a while, Orion listens in to their conversation, rather interested himself in Melissandre's explanations, while Brunhilda throws in one or other comment to steer the direction in ways that would enable Copper to get his hands on a reference.

Eventually, though they talk about different things, from Zabini spending his holiday in Britain for a change, Brunhilda’s goal to become a Healer – which weirdly enough fits once she elaborates a bit on her interest in rare diseases – the Weird Sisters’ upcoming concert in March and all the gossip they overheard so far.

Turns out, Melisandre is indeed accompanying her uncle tonight, mostly owing to her personal interest in the proceedings later that night, veiled insinuations regarding the Yule ritual speckling her speech – apparently an ancient practice rarely observed these days in Britain.

Unfortunately, that discussion leads to Brunhilda and Copper curiously enquiring before Orion finally simply tells them about it.

Apparently though, Draco hadn’t really been aware of what exactly he agreed to when he volunteered for the part of leading the whole procession.

To Orion’s endless entertainment, somehow that realisation becomes a gateway into Draco getting drunk on champagne for the very first time, which reaps him much ridicule from both Zabini and Orion.

Before long, Brunhilda disappears only to come back with three more bottles, and their mood turns vastly more cheerful.

By the time Zabini’s leaning heavily onto Brunhilda – likely without some ulterior motives – and Orion tries to get Melisandre to teach him curse words in her native language, their activities are brought to an abrupt halt by the appearance of Lucius materialising on the terrace.

What follows is a hurried scramble to get Draco back into shape while Brunhilda takes up the brunt of Lucius’ attention when he lets them know that the majority of their guests are leaving.

It’s almost three a.m..

Lucius retains his charming demeanour, pointing Melisandre, Brunhilda and Copper inside in case they want to say their goodbyes, and lets Zabini know that his mother is looking for him before he casts a privacy ward and faces Draco and Orion with an unimpressed expression.

“Father-” Draco starts, but Lucius cuts him off almost immediately.

“Do you think I can’t tell that the two of you are drunk?! Do you take me for a fool, Draco?”

“No—”

“Merlin, what were you thinking?!” Lucius interrupts.

Orion has to bite his lip to stifle his laughter at Draco’s face, his eyes wide, cheeks flushed from the alcohol and his hair in disarray where he ruffled it earlier. That is until Lucius faces him.

“This is no laughing matter! I don’t doubt that this is your influence. Merlin knows, I know what your father was like at this age.” His lips are pressed thin as he gestures at the cigarette butts on the ground. “Look at this mess,” he exclaims with obvious disgust.

Draco rather makes the impression of a startled owl, and he scrambles to grab the goblet Lucius conjures before shoving it at his son. A silent ‘aguamenti’ follows.

“Drink this,” Lucius all but orders him.

Orion bites his lip. His mouth is twitching.

“Empty your pockets. Now,” Lucius says sharply.

His smile wavers.

“I won’t stand here all night,” Lucius voices coldly.

As soon as Orion’s smokes are revealed, Lucius takes them from him. He twists them in his hand, looking them over. “Muggle,” he comments derisively. “I don’t know why I’m surprised.” He vanishes them with a flick of his wand. His cool blue eyes fixed on Orion, he says, “I’ve tolerated a lot of your rebellious behaviour, but I draw the line at you lowering yourself onto the level of a mudblood. This is the last time I catch you with these; are we understood?!”

Orion glares defiantly up at Lucius.

Draco chokes on some of the water, coughing violently.

Lucius makes no move to aid him, looking down at him with cold indifference instead.

Orion is rather occupied with keeping still and not swaying too much. He’s not half as bad as Draco but more tipsy than he thought.

Lucius seems to see right through him. Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “I remember what it used to be like at your age, but for the love of… Today. Of all things. Salazar. You’re lucky your mother didn’t find you like this.”

Orion blanches at the notion. Draco finishes his goblet, and Lucius refills it promptly.

Draco doesn’t need to be asked twice to down that one too.

“I guess anything I say will be lost on you,” Lucius says, before he looks the two of them over. “Fix yourselves up. The ritual takes place in half an hour. I won’t have my son embarrass me by staggering through the snow.” His lips twist into a sneer as he looks down at the blond. “I suppose you’ve ingested enough liquid courage to assist with the ritual, Draco, don’t you?”

Draco nods, pale and a bit green around the nose, clutching the goblet.

Just then, Lucius straightens up. “I shall keep Narcissa occupied for a while, but you both are on thin ice; have I made myself clear?!”

Both Draco and Orion nod.

Lucius shoots them both a last look before turning on his heel, walking up to a group of wizards chatting animatedly in front of the door leading out to the terrace, greeting them with a smile, his presence welcomed with great brouhaha.

“Holly crap,” Orion says eventually, breaking the silence.

“This is all your fault,” Draco hisses, meaning to turn quickly but instead staggering, spilling half his water in the process. He curses over getting his robes wet.

“My fault?!” Orion exclaims, facing him. “I wasn’t the one who got shitfaced on champagne.”

“I’m not shitfaced,” Draco retorts with a glare, patting over his robes. The vulgar phrasing sounds odd coming from him.

“Buzzed then, whatever.” Orion huffs. He grinds his teeth, sparing Draco a glance. Sighing, he takes pity on him. He pulls out his wand, drying the stain before he resolutely reaches out and fixes Draco’s lapels and cravat in a less than gentle manner. “There,” he says, smoothing his robes out. “Your hair is another matter. If we don’t want to get chewed out by Narcissa as well, I’d advise you to fix it.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Draco asks, eyes wide, a self-conscious hand coming up to touch it.

Orion shakes his head, taking stock of his own appearance. He tugs his robes back into shape. “Drink your water. I’ll see if I can get Kreacher to get us a sobering potion.”

By the time the remaining guests have congregated outside, meandering through the snow towards the large pine tree and the music having died down, Orion hasn’t unearthed a sobering potion, but Draco looks passable enough to fool Narcissa.

Lucius’ fixed smile speaks volumes while she fusses over Draco’s appearance, smiling widely as she crouches in front of him, explaining what will happen.

“Are you sure you want to assist with the ritual?” she asks, smoothing over Draco’s robes. Orion watches him exchange a look with Lucius.

“Yes, Mother,” he replies. Perhaps laying it on a bit too thick, but Narcissa herself appears inebriated enough to overlook it.

“My little boy, all grown up,” she says nostalgically before rising.

Orion spots Melisandre standing with her uncle in the shadows of the arching branches of the tall tree, Blaise not too far away chatting with his mother, and he makes his way over there to escape Lucius’ judgemental glance.

Braziers are crackling, the cold winter air tasting of pines and smoke, while Draco follows Narcissa.

Blaise leans closer to Orion, whispering, “How’d it go with Lucius?” while the circle around the tree closes up.

Looking at the dark goat tied to a small post, Orion replies, “Better than it could have gone. He took my smokes, though.”

Zabini laughs, his mother’s head turning briefly to look at him with a fond smile playing around her ruby-painted lips.

“Figures. He didn’t tell Draco’s mother then?”

“God forbid,” Orion says.

Nott’s father to his right shushes him.

“Prick,” Orion mutters under his breath. Zabini smirks.

But indeed, a hush falls over the crowd, and Orion turns his attention upon Narcissa and Draco standing under the tree. She’s begun to chant.

Draco looks rather like he’d love to be anywhere but here.

It’s different observing the ritual instead of being in the middle of it. Orion notices more things than he did last time, watching the people looking on as well.

They seem happy and casual, rather than so very serious as he’d thought when he was the one standing in Draco’s place.

His cousin almost fumbles the athame when it’s handed to him, the whites of his eyes reflecting the light of the fires set up around as he takes it with shaking palms.

Narcissa is holding the goat’s horns, looking encouragingly at Draco, who steps forward. His shaking breath paints clouds into the cold winter air.

The goat bleats when he cuts, not deeply enough at first, until Narcissa grasps his wrist and helps him along.

Draco seems a bit helpless, watching it all with wide eyes, swaying slightly, when Pansy’s mother steps forward. His cousin clutches the steaming liver as if it would fall from his hands any moment, palms dripping with blood, while the woman whispers words in a guttural voice.

The scent of the butchered animal permeates the air when Narcissa proceeds to cut its belly open. Orion feels the magic brimming in space like a physical presence blanketing his shoulders.

From the corner of his eye, he spots Melissandre leaning forward.

Mrs Parkinson is about to voice the second foretelling of the night when Draco steps out of the circle, dropping the liver as soon as he’s crossed it.

Lucius is already approaching him, clapping on his shoulders with a proud smile, while Nott and Greg’s father toast at him with their drinks.

Draco blinks, mustering a faint smile.

Orion is so distracted by watching them that he only catches fragments of the prophecy. “Excuse me,” he tells Blaise, already setting himself in motion as he walks towards his cousin.

“I think I just need a moment to digest it,” Draco says just then, Orion catching the tail end of a conversation he wasn’t privy to.

He jogs a bit to catch up with the blond, who’s rapidly walking away from the small group, his father calling after him.

“Draco,” Orion tries.

“Shut up,” Draco presses out between gritted teeth, picking up his pace.

“Oh, come on,” Orion says. “It couldn’t have been that bad,” as he matches the blond’s pace.

Draco pulls a funny face.

“What’d she say to you?” Orion can’t help but enquire curiously.

“Some cryptic hippogriff dung,” Draco grits out.

“Then what’s got you so bothered?” Orion asks, turning to walk sideways, as Draco doesn’t head for the terrace but instead walks around it towards where the hedges are covered in snow.

“Shut the hell up, Orion. I have to puke.”

Orion chokes on a surprised laugh, and two seconds later, Draco is bent over, throwing up into the snow-covered bushes.

He gags and retches while Orion laughs, though he feels magnanimous enough to look over his shoulder to check on whether someone’s watching them.

Draco spits before coming up again, his face still drained of all blood but rapidly gaining colour. “You’re such a git,” he hisses before drawing out his wand and casting an ‘aguamenti’ right into his mouth before swishing and spitting it out again, looking disgusted and somewhat mournfully at the puddle staining the snow.

Orion leans forward, looking at it too. “Chin up,” he says, amused, “It was mostly liquid anyway.”

“No thanks to you,” Draco shoots back.

Orion decides to be in a forgiving mood, because honestly, Draco looks rather embarrassed behind his angry facade.

Still slightly buzzed, Orion pats Draco’s shoulder. “You know, my uncle Regulus also puked afterwards if the stories are true.”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better?” His expression changes into worry as he suddenly turns to look at the crowd still gathered around the tree. Melisandre is lining up to get her own reading. “Did anyone see?” he asks.

“No, I don’t think so.”

Draco cards an agitated hand through his hair.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Orion voices with a grin, pondering whether it would be a good idea to point out that Draco’s hands are still stained with blood.

Draco turns to face him. “Well, it won’t matter, will it?” he exclaims, almost hysterically, gesturing widely. “Since anyone can see the proof right there.” He indicates the mess on the snow.

“Relax,” Orion says. “There were enough drunk people around to blame it on.”

He puts his hands in his pockets as he watches Draco nevertheless try to scoop fresh snow over it to obscure the evidence.

“And hey,” Orion drawls, feeling terribly amused. “If anyone accuses you of being soft, you can just tell them it was the champagne instead.”

Draco pauses in his endeavour to glare at him. “Shut up.” His vicious tone is somewhat offset by the fact that he’s got a streak of blood on his cheek where he brushed it with his fingers. It stands out starkly against his complexion.

Orion finds himself strangely fascinated by it.

Meanwhile, Draco still toes snow over the puddle of sick before he deems it an adequate enough job. “We should head back,” he says, straightening up and smoothing over his hair in an attempt to turn it back into something resembling the neat coif from earlier.

It looks pink now thanks to his efforts.

“What?” Draco snaps just when Orion realises that he’s been staring.

He smirks despite himself. “You know, you’ve got blood on your hands.”

“So what?” Draco bites out.

Orion just continues to look at him amused. Draco stares, befuddled for a moment, the thoughts turning in his head until suddenly he blanches.

“Oh no – no, Salazar. Please, don’t tell me –”

Orion grins broadly. It’s an answer in itself.

Draco curses violently, scrambling for his wand. “Well, don’t just stand there! Fix it,” he hisses at Orion, who’s fighting back laughter before giving in.

They manage to get Draco back into a halfway respectable state, though Orion is still breaking out into uncontrollable chuckles every so often by the time they rejoin the crowd.

They’ve missed the whole ritual.

“What’d they say?” Orion asks Blaise when he meanders over to them.

“A lot of drivel about change,” Blaise says, while Draco tries to save face in front of his father and his friends, talking animatedly. “Mentioning a path with three forks. The Grim – something about a hydra, I think. Nothing substantial, really.”

“I wouldn’t quite put it that way,” Zabini’s mother says, as she materialises, wrapping a fur coat around her shoulders. “It was very enlightening.”

“Really?” Orion asks. “How?”

“A change is in the air, that is true,” she says in her deep voice, a faint accent causing her to pronounce the ‘r’s more prominently.

“Didn’t they say that two years ago?” Orion enquires.

“And last year,” Blaise adds.

“The board has shifted,” Mrs Zabini says. “A new figure emerges, another one taking a more prominent place.”

“Right,” Orion says. This tells him literally nothing.

The light of the braziers paints the woman’s face in ominous shadows. Her smile glints white as the snow. “A pack of wolves behind a hill. Lying in wait. A grim leaving a graveyard,” she says. “The King of Seven, King of Six. Shadows stretching. A memory shrouded in fog, stepping past a dead rodent. A Hydra, losing a head, replaced by another. A serpent’s pit. A maelstrom churning up the centre.”

“You forgot to mention the river. If you’re all but quoting the bloody thing, at least do it right,” Blaise says. His mother puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Evershifting, darling. Details matter.”

“Says you,” Blaise retorts, stifling a yawn.

His mother sighs fondly. “The arts are lost on you, angelo,” she voices. “But luckily your talents lie elsewhere.”

Blaise looks at Orion and rolls his eyes. “We’re leaving,” he announces.

Orion hums, turning his gaze heavenward. Stars are twinkling in the tears between the clouds.

“Good seeing you,” Orion says, looking back down and facing Zabini. His mother smiles.

“It was quite nice. Please give Narcissa my compliments.”

“Will do,” Orion says, yawning, privately thinking she could do so herself if she were to just take a few steps to the left.

The crowd is dispersing slowly but surely, and Orion trails back over to where Narcissa and Draco are quietly talking.

“Why don’t you boys head to bed? It’s rather late,” Narcissa says in greeting. Farther ahead, Lucius is conversing animatedly with Melisandre's uncle and Nott Sr.

Draco nods in agreement.

The ballroom is a mess when they enter, glasses and stained cutlery everywhere. A few elves are already in the process of cleaning up.

“Do the young masters require anything?” Kreacher croons as he materialises next to Orion.

“No, it’s fine,” Orion says, feeling exhaustion settle in his bones. “You can leave the clean-up to the other elves,” he adds after a moment, and Kreacher starts to protest, though his ears perk up like they do whenever he’s preening.

Orion figures it’s his prerogative, too tired to muster much care. Draco looks to be dead on his feet, lingering just for his benefit.

Orion too doesn’t manage much more than shucking off his robes once he’s in his room and dropping them on the floor in a messy heap before he falls into his pillows.

Chapter Text

He wakes sometime around noon the next day, sunbeams flooding his room, and neither Narcissa nor Lucius are up yet when he drags himself to the sunroom for a very belated breakfast.

It’s sunny that day, he notes, cool light falling in through the windows. Outside, the frostbitten trees are sparkling, icicles catching the light, and the snow blanketing the lands resembles a white sea, glittering where the sun hits it.

The perfect day for Quidditch, apparently.

Orion already regrets letting himself be roped into a one-on-one seeker’s game with Draco. Because despite the sunshine, it’s ice-cold outside. Every breath burns, his exhales fogging up the air, and his fingers are freezing even through two consecutive warming charms layered on top of his gloves. His face feels numb before he wraps his scarf around his mouth and nose.

From how red Draco’s ears are where the wind is nipping at them, one would believe he feels similarly, but instead he grins exuberantly, showing off his third catch of the day, while Orion breathes miserably into his palms, sitting back on his broom where he’s hovering in the sky.

It deserves mentioning, though, that he looks vastly less like he’s enjoying himself when Orion tries to bring up the ritual, even though the blond deliberately pretends not to hear him, already darting back after the recently released snitch.

Orion sees both Narcissa and Lucius the first time that day during lunch, after experiencing a painful and rather embarrassing loss of 1 to 13 against Draco.

Both adults lounge in more casual wear than they usually deign to don for meals, and Orion all but inhales the warm soup served as an entrée. It’s one of Kreacher’s recipes, he notes with delight.

Before long, he ends up sprawled over a settee in the sun room, laid up cosily in front of the crackling fireplace, with Kreacher delivering a spiced hot chocolate seemingly out of his own accord.

He proceeds to bustle around Orion, stoking the fire, tucking a blanket around his legs, and overall fretting an awful lot over him, in his own surly way, before Orion tells him to take a break and get himself a tea or something from the kitchen.

The upcoming trial must be making him feel nostalgic.

Sighing, Orion abandons his book and stares into the flames, his thoughts trailing off. He can’t focus on the words anyhow.

Tomorrow. All he worked so hard to achieve is going to conclude in a single day.

He’s going to see his father, in all likelihood. Properly this time. He’s itching for a smoke before remembering that Lucius took them. The prick. He’s got half a pack still stashed in his trunk, if the man didn’t order them to rifle through his things, that is.

Nervously, he chews at a thumbnail.

He finds himself restless, to the point where he even braves the cold again and seeks out Odesseus in the small owlery outside. The owls are drowsy, their feathers puffed up to stave off the cold. It smells of birds, hay and dust, thin stripes of light penetrating through the wooden slats, the only light in the dim building.

Odesseus only lets himself be roused when Orion produces a few treats, holding them out with his open palm.

His beak nips at his skin, sharp to the point of being painful. Orion looks numbly at the red welt marking his palm, a cloud of breath dissipating in the air before him.

The light outside is glaring, but Orion’s feet carry him without conscious thought.

Before long, he’s walking past the frozen-over fountains in the garden and then further out, past the gate and onto the snowy grounds belonging to Malfoy Manor.

Aimlessly, he walks, following a barely-there trail meandering down the hills.

The snow muffles all sounds, safe for his breath, the crunch of his boots stirring up powdery snow and the occasional caw of a crow perched on the skeletal feet.

The quiet before the storm.

He only realises he's wandered farther than he meant to when he notices a fox jumping away from the corpse of a half-eaten carcass of a deer, scurrying back into the underbrush surrounding a copse of trees.

He can see the village nestled into a dell in the distance, smoke rising above. The colourful coats of a few children playing stand out against the white backdrop, dragging sleds up a hill and rolling around.

Orion looks on for a while, his hands buried deep in his pockets, until he finally takes notice of the chill creeping in through the fabric of his damp pants, the hems weighted down by snow clumping around the bunched fabric above his boots.

He wishes he’d brought a broom. But this far away from the manor, he can’t risk using magic.

And his walk didn’t help in clearing his mind. Instead, somehow, he brain dredges up old forgotten memories of both Walburga and Bellatrix.

Back in the manor, he shucks off his snow-damp clothes, slipping into a comfortable leisure robe and settling in his room, vinyls crackling as they play in the background, lost in nostalgia and broody melancholy.

Not that he’s able to wallow in it for long, what with Draco finding him, proclaiming his boredom.

They spend the late hours of the afternoon with games and idle chit-chat, once again discussing the Yule Ball, what they talked about with whom, which famous people they noticed and what rumours are coursing around before eventually flipping through Draco’s varied collection of Quidditch magazines and comic books.

Ackroyd’s letter arrives just before dinner with a confirmation for the time and location for Sirius’ trial.

It’s a strange mood which takes hold of them while they take their meal, which not even Lucius’ professional debate nor Narcissa’s enquiries about what he intends to wear make him feel any better.

The next morning, Orion, despite all expectations, wakes later than he anticipated. He’d thought he’d be up at the crack of dawn, but it’s still bad enough to have to kill two hours before they have to be in the Ministry.

His skin feels too tight for his body, ants seemingly crawling beneath as he takes a shower, picking at his food while Narcissa enquires about his constitution, before he climbs the stairs back up to his room to find a suitable outfit.

He hems and haws over it to the point where Draco, who’s sprawled out over his bed charming his ceiling with increasingly experimental spells – small clouds have already formed, warbling above the bed like a canopy – gets up and picks a formal robe from his wardrobe at random.

“Just put on the bloody thing and be done with it. It’s not like you’re the one on trial.”

Orion exhales, staring at the dark robes before picking them up. It’s a ridiculously old-fashioned set, formal to the point where Walburga would’ve managed an almost-smile at seeing him in them.

Orion walks over to the mirror, holding the robes against his frame. A ridiculous habit. Still, he decides he might as well follow Draco’s suggestion. “I’m going to see my father,” he says nonsensically. He doesn’t know why.

He shouldn’t have worried though, because Draco just shrugs.

“And?” he retorts breezily. “Do you think you’re going to be judged on looks? Merlin, Orion. It’s a trial. He’s got his own mess to deal with.”

Orion turns and loosens his tunic. “I guess,” he voices.

“Besides, I’m more interested in the outcome,” Draco voices. “And I expect details, you hear me?” The blond flops back onto the bed, bouncing briefly thanks to its springs, before he takes out his wand again, continuing with his idle spellcasting. Out of the blue, the tiny clouds floating above him rumble ominously, a sound like a firecracker going off, and then small glittering frogs start to fall like raindrops from the ceiling.

Orion freezes in surprise. Draco yelps, scrambling off the bed to evade being hit, only for the frogs to burst like bubbles upon impact. An odd scent starts to fill the room. Like algae and pines.

Momentarily, Orion and Draco stare equally befuddled at the strange workings of the spells.

“That’s odd, isn’t it?” Draco voices, breaking the silence.

Orion blinks, watching a frog jump off the bed before bursting. The critters seem to adjust to the impact, bouncing off the sheets and hopping once or twice before dissipating. “Unique for sure,” Orion eventually says, after he regains his voice.

One of the frogs makes a sound that’s almost reminiscent of a squawk. “Best to get rid of them before they start to unionise.”

Draco waves his wand, muttering a few ‘finite’s’ until the clouds dissipate and with them, the frogs.

Nobody considers the topic worth commenting on. Nor that his room still smells faintly like a creek running through a forest.

While Orion changes, Draco starts to wander through the room, rifling through his possessions without a care in the world, picking up various pieces of Orion’s collection of obscure and cursed knickknacks stuffed into a shelf stolen from Grimmauld Place.

The blond’s got a habit of touching things, especially those he shouldn’t, even after his various visits in Grimmauld when they were younger. It’s actually impressive that that didn’t put him off.

“That one bites,” Orion warns him, just as Draco reaches for an old pocket watch. Mostly because he doesn’t have the means to deal with the fallout.

Draco hums, simply skipping over it in favour of looking closer at a sealed jar preserving a fully intact doxy.

“It’s frankly ridiculous that I can’t join you,” he says, picking the jar out of the shelf and twisting it in his hands. “Like, why even? My whole family’s going to be there. It’s not like one more person would make a difference.” Sighing, Draco puts the jar back.

“I know,” Orion says. “It’s the law, though.”

“A stupid law,” Draco voices mulishly, blowing a strand of hair out of his face. “Your elf was throwing a fit earlier, by the way.”

Orion snorts. “I’m not surprised. He isn’t thrilled, I take it?”

Draco huffs. “That’s an understatement. He was going on and on about your father and what a disgrace he was. Seems less than impressed that he may have to deal with him again.”

“Figures,” Orion says, as he finishes slipping into the set of formal robes and starts buttoning them up, tossing the ridiculously ruffled jabot going with it back into the wardrobe. 

Without it, he looks like he was going to a funeral.

Black robes, silver trim and matching buttons running up his chest, the sharp seam at his shoulders making it appear as if they were broader than they are. He lifts his necklace out from under the collar before deciding it looks better if it’s tucked away. When he goes to put on his favourite silver cufflinks sporting the Black family crest, his eyes fall upon the silver girdle Narcissa had fashioned for him, rolled up in a drawer.

Perhaps it’s too much, but he picks it out on a whim anyway, a silver tail hanging down all the way to his knees. It will still fit him years down the line.

Either way, today he can use all the protection and luck he can get today.

Draco’s still in something of a mood when they congregate in front of the floo, both Narcissa and Lucius dressed equally formally in subdued colours. Or what constitutes as subdued in the Wizarding World. Despite that, Draco seems to brim with energy like an excitable puppy, only exacerbated by his fretting, before making Orion promise once again to relay every detail, with unbridled jealousy and curiosity audible in his voice.

Kreacher is fussing over Orion’s appearance, proclaiming his approval and muttering about how much he resembles the young master Regulus and whether he wouldn’t like him to fetch the jabot since it would go so well with the set, while Lucius checks his pocket watch once again, announcing that they should get going now. Narcissa reaches out to adjust the bow tying Lucius’ hair back with a casual gesture before she pets over his shoulders and turns to Draco.

“If we’re out past noon, the elves are instructed to make lunch. Whatever you want. Just make sure to tell them beforehand.”

“I know.”

“And you’re sure you’ll be alright?”

“Mother, I’m not a child,” Draco retorts, rolling his eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’ve heard the lad,” Lucius says, turning impatiently.

“Alright.” Narcissa straightens up. “You know where we are in case you need to reach us.”

“Yes, yes,” Draco says. “I’ve got it.”

“Well,” Narcissa voices, “We shall be back shortly after lunch, if everything goes as expected.”

“I know,” Draco drawls exasperatedly. “We’ve been over it a thousand times.”

Lucius spares his son a look before turning towards Orion. He grabs a handful of Floo powder and grips his cane tighter with the other hand before tossing it into the flames. They hiss as they turn green.

“I’ll see you there,” he says, before stepping right into the fireplace. “The Ministry of Magic.” Lucius disappears in a whirl of emerald fire.

“See you later,” Orion tells Draco before he follows Lucius’ example.

Using the floo is always somewhat nauseating, but he’s long gotten used to all the spinning.

He steps out into the vast atrium of the ministry and right into the lightning-quick flashes of dozens of cameras, multicoloured smoke rising up.

It’s off-putting, the sudden noise and the light. He’s forced to blink rapidly to adjust, Lucius already at his side, sponging off the soot clinging to his robes.

“Mr Black! Mr Black!” the journalists shout, falling over themselves to get his attention. “What is your opinion on your father being tried today?”

“-Malfoy! As guardian to Mr Black –

“—Mr Black, do you harbour apprehensions towards meeting—”

“Can you tell us anything?”

Narcissa materialises, stepping out of the fire with not a single hair out of place, while Lucius grips Orion’s shoulder with a stoic mask, already steering him through the crowd.

They’re hounded by journalists and gawkers as they stalk through the atrium in quick strides.

“-any hopes regarding the outcome of the trial of the century-”

“–have been speculating on Bellatrix Lestrange and Black’s relationship!”

“-comments, Mrs Malfoy?”

“-Black as a known supporter of You-Know-Who, but-”

“-Mr Pettigrew’s involvement?”

“No comment,” Lucius voices in response to a rather insistent paparazzi getting right into his face, pushing him aside with his cane.

It doesn’t let up even while they’re weighing their wands and receiving visitor badges, nor while their identity is confirmed by a tense-looking security wizard screening them.

There are more guards stationed at the lifts, pushing back against the crowd while they’re let through. Only once the door closes, they’re granted some peace. The silence inside is almost deafening in comparison. Orion’s palms are damp with cold sweat.

“Leeches,” Narcissa voices derogatorily. The lift zooms past corners, dropping down at a pace impossible to reach without magic, before the genderless voice announces they’ve reached the lower level.

There, the walls are fashioned of old stones instead of shiny tile and wood, torches flickering on the walls as they head down the hallway, passing one or other Ministry employee clad in purple garb, still caught up in conversation. 

A few exchange nods with Lucius, whose cane clicks over the floor before eventually, they reach a wide winged wooden door, flanked by Aurors. Once again, they’re questioned, the female Auror to the left checking some sort of list before they’re waved through.

The doors open up to reveal a high-ceilinged and old-fashioned courtroom, with wooden benches set up like a colosseum, overseeing the circular space in the middle, a single chair with chains bolted onto the worn stone, facing a tall podium.

Already, the benches are crowded by a veritable armada of people. Wizengamot members in purple robes, Aurors are stationed all around, journalists on the lower benches scribbling into notebooks.

No cameras though.

Orion spots Moody in the crowd, a few other people clad differently flanking him, whom he doesn’t recognise. Likely other Aurors or Ministry employees with a high enough clearance to be able to attend. There is Dumbledore, conversing with an ancient-looking man in purple robes and Madame Bones, Scrimgeour, Mr Crouch and Minister Fudge talking behind the podium.

“Excuse me,” Lucius says, before parting from them and heading over to greet the minister. Orion takes the opportunity to take everything in.

Ackroyd is nowhere to be seen, but the whispers of the many conversations taking place make the room seem abuzz like a beehive.

Narcissa gently places a hand on his back. “How are you holding up?” she asks quietly.

“Fine,” Orion replies curtly. “And annoyed. You?”

Narcissa manages a brief amused smile. “It’s not the first time I’ve been observing a trail in this capacity, and I imagine this time around the circumstances are vastly more pleasant.”

Orion snorts.

Fair enough.

Just then, Lucius reappears. “We’re to be seated over there.” He leads them to a few benches close to the journalists but distinctly cut off by virtue of their higher placement.

Orion climbs the stairs after Narcissa, shuffling past a few people before eventually settling on one of the uncomfortable wooden seats. Narcissa and Lucius sit on either side of him, effectively flanking him. He takes note of a few of the journalists jotting down rapid notes, intermittently glancing up at them and Moody’s ever-moving eye fixating on him.

Orion refuses to react, sitting prim and proper, appropriating a cold mask of indifference as best as he can, in an attempt to mirror Narcissa, who’s perfected that feat, almost resembling an ice statue in how she conducts herself. 

Meanwhile, Lucius tosses his cane back and forth between his hands. “Twenty minutes,” he says to nobody in particular.

Time seems to drag on like syrup. A few more people pour in through the doors, chatting briefly before claiming their seats. The stands are filling up; not a single empty space is left. Fudge climbs up the stairs to seat himself behind the podium, followed by Madame Bones and Crouch. Papers are being shuffled, brief chats echoing from the walls. The mood shifts, the conversations turning quieter.

The doors have been closed for a while now.

Orion’s gaze idly follows the pattern of stones making up the floor. They’re arranged in a mosaic-like pattern. Old magic embedded in them without spells or complicated runic patterns.

Lucius checks his pocket watch for the third time.

The hands inch closer and closer towards the full hour. Then past.

The whispers pick up again.

“They’re late,” Narcissa voices.

Orion twists his heir ring around his finger.

Then the doors creak open. 

Hundreds of heads turn simultaneously, people leaning forward with morbid curiosity and tense anticipation.

But it’s only Ackroyd, clad in dark blue robes and wearing spectacles for a change. He ignores everybody, instead approaching the podium. He bends down to exchange a few muffled words with Fudge, shaking his head before eventually they seem to come to some sort of accord. Ackroyd straightens up, swiftly stepping down the stairs and crossing the courtroom to take a seat close to the door on the lowest benches available.

The tension in the air could be cut by a knife.

Ackroyd looks up, as if he’d felt Orion’s gaze on him. He nods once before turning his attention elsewhere.

Another minute ticks by.

Someone coughs.

The cold is the first thing Orion takes note of. A familiar chill driving right into his bones, without any obvious source.

On the walls, the torches flicker.

Narcissa shifts in her seat.

The doors to the courtroom slam open, the sound bouncing from the walls.

A squad of peaked Aurors steps in first, three patroni floating in the air behind them, fanning out before a Dementor glides over the floor. Dark and tall, in its ragged cloak, rattling breaths echoing through the air.

The courtroom collectively shivers.

And then, Orion lays eyes upon his father.

Next to him, Narcissa gasps quietly.

All around, her sentiment is echoed, sharp inhales, outcries and avid whispers taking over the crowd as Sirius steps through the doorway, flanked by Aurors, another Dementor behind him.

It’s odd, but Orion’s first impression of him is that he’s less tall than he thought he’d be.

He’s wearing simple black robes as opposed to the ragged Azkaban-issued ones, but that’s the only positive thing one could say about his appearance. He’s haggard, gaunt, a shade of a man. His bony limbs are encased in dark shackles, chains connecting his wrists and ankles, rattling with every step. His wild beard is as unkempt as the uncombed mess falling onto his back, and Orion thinks that cutting it all off would’ve been a better decision than walking in like that. 

He catches a glimpse of his father’s face, the whites of his eyes shining, pale silver irises darting back and forth shiftily, apprehension written into every feature.

A few daring jeers sound from amidst the chatter of the masses.

Orion’s chest feels tight, even as he takes a few deep breaths.

The noise continues to pick up, growing louder, journalists rapidly taking notes. A camera flash illuminates the room before an Auror bodily manoeuvres the guilty party out of the stands and through the door.

It’s barely noticeable amidst all the upheaval.

Fudge slams a gavel down on his podium. “Silence!” he bellows. “Silence!” Two more knocks sound before he makes himself heard.

“Bring forth the accused,” he demands loudly.

The Dementors float towards the door, barring the exit, while two Aurors escort Sirius towards the chair in the middle.

A moment of hesitation before the broader of the two Aurors taps his shackles with his wand. They clatter onto the floor, the sound like a gunshot amidst the silence.

Sirius rubs his wrists.

The other Auror – Orion thinks he remembers him from his visit in Azkaban – moves to escort Sirius into the chair, but the latter evades his reaching hands, batting them away with a mere hissed word, spoken too quietly to understand. 

Sirius’ expression has changed. There’s apprehension but no longer steeped in paranoia but something else. Something more rooted in self-confidence.

Sirius turns, approaching the chair as if he didn’t have a care in the world, before sitting down.

Immediately, the chains embedded on the armrests come to life, snaking around his limbs, restraining him.

Sirius just stares up at Fudge with an indifference that seems wholly inappropriate. Crouch all but impales him with his glare.

A brief pause follows, during which Fudge clears his throat. “Shall we?” he asks, reaping a nod from a court scribe and Bones. The one or other stray comment is still audible. “Well then.” He clears his throat again. “Trial on December twenty-third regarding the violation of the Statute of Secrecy, malicious murder of twelve muggles, the attempted murder of Peter Pettigrew on the thirty-first of October 1981, as well as breaking out of Azkaban and escaping lawful custody by one Sirius Black. Current residency…” Fudge pauses, looking at the scribe. “Unknown. Last known residence, Azkaban. Judges: Cornelius Oswald Fudge, Minister of Magic; Amelia Susan Bones, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Barty Crouch Sr –

Lucius leans over just at that moment, scoffing. “Crouch, really. One would think Cornelius possesses more sense than that.”

“-court scribe,” Fudge continues, “Conrad Applewood; witness of defence Charles Eduard Ackroyd.”

The voices have finally quieted down

Fudge leans forward. “You are Sirius Black, currently on the run from lawful detainment?”

Sirius scoffs. “Not anymore, am I?” he says. His voice sounds rough and unused. Narcissa grabs Orion’s forearm.

“Please, answer the question,” Bones jumps in. “You are Sirius Black?”

Sirius sighs. “I am,” he drawls, leaning back into his chair. The shackles around his arms tighten, creeping over his torso as well. He hisses quietly.

“You’re here to stand trial for various violations of the law. And I have to say, crimes of this severity haven't been seen or heard of inside this courtroom for nigh a decade.” Approving murmurs echo his sentiment.

Fudge leans forward. “Do you deny having engaged in a duel with Peter Pettigrew the night of the 31st of October 1981?”

“I do not.”

Ackroyd stands up, approaching the chair.

“Do you deny that in the process twelve innocent muggles were murdered?”

Sirius opens his mouth, but Ackroyd interjects before he can reply. “I would like to object to the question, Minister. Respectfully, it is somewhat vague.”

“I don’t deny it,” Sirius pipes up hoarsely, ignoring Ackroyd’s intervention on his behalf. “But I didn’t kill them. They were caught up in the crossfire, if that, and were done for once Peter fired off a blasting curse, blowing up half the street! Where is he, eh? Where’s that filthy rat traitor?” He raises his voice, his eyes manic as he whips his head around, regardless of his shackles restricting him further. “Where are you, Peter?! Where are you hiding, you despicable—”

All around, the whispers pick up again.

“Order!” Fudge bellows, knocking his gavel, “Order in the court!”

Ackroyd leans down, frantically whispering to Sirius, who does himself no favours by looking like he’s being talked down from the verge of a murder spree, witnesses or not.

“We apologise for the disruption,” Ackroyd voices eventually, not helped by the way Sirius scoffs, but he continues on anyway, “Nevertheless, I believe this kind of questioning is not conducive to representing the situation properly. Sirius Black is innocent of the crime he was accused of. Peter Pettigrew was the one who murdered these muggles and faked his death to escape justice, framing Mr Black in the process.”

You could hear a needle drop.

Crouch scoffs.

“The happenings of that night have never been properly investigated,” Ackroyd continues confidently, “And by virtue of Sirius Black never having been granted the courtesy of a trial, I believe it more productive if the witness himself were to relay what happened that night.”

The courtroom is abuzz with whispers once again. The journalists are all but elbowing each other for a better view.

Fudge slams his gavel down. “Silence!”

Bones shifts in her seat. “Mr Black,” she says. “I believe we’re all curious to hear what you have to say on the matter.”

Sirius exchanges a look with Ackroyd, who nods at him.

“Proceed, Mr Black,” Crouch bites out.

Sirius wets his lips. “I wanted to confront Peter. That’s why I tracked him down.”

“For the benefit of those present, I’d think it more productive to relay the circumstances chronologically.” Ackroyd interrupts him.

Sirius seems ready to jump out of his skin. The chains around him rattle as he grasps the armrests, sinews standing out starkly against his emaciated limbs. “Lily and James –”

“–Potter,” Ackroyd amends.

“At the tail end of the war, around the autumn of 1980, Lily and James Potter," Sirius says, “went into hiding from Voldemort –”

A collective flinch goes through the room.

“They decided on the Fidelius Charm to hide them and their home. It was the best and most thorough option, we thought.”

The rapid scratching of quill on parchment is the only sound within the silence as everyone seems to be listening to Sirius with bated breath.

“Peter ended up being their secret keeper.”

A few shocked inhales and gasps disturb the quiet.

“Did I understand correctly?” Crouch says, “You, Mr Black, claim that Peter Pettigrew was the secret keeper of Lily and James Potter?”

“Yes,” Sirius grits out.

“Not you?” Crouch needles further, “When it’s such common knowledge that James Potter claimed you as his best friend?”

“We considered it,” Sirius says in a low, strained voice. “But then again, who would ever suspect Peter? It was the perfect plan,” he tacks on bitterly.

“Oh yes,” Fudge comments. “It’s simple to appeal to the sympathies of the Wizards and Witches present by coming up with that tale and spinning a story about how Mr Pettigrew was their secret keeper, but why should we believe this conspiracy? Especially when you fail to produce witnesses supporting the claim?”

“On the contrary,” Ackroyd interjects, “I have a written statement signed by Augusta Longbottom, confirming that the Potters went into hiding concurrently with her own son and daughter-in-law.” He produces a slip of paper, which is promptly called to the podium by Crouch. Ackroyd waits patiently while the judges whisper as they inspect the statement.

“Mr Ackroyd,” Bones says eventually. “While the statement of Mrs Longbottom confirms that the Potters went into hiding, as well as the usage of the Fidelius, there is no information on the identity of their secret keeper.”

Ackroyd nods, though he continues as if he’d already expected that question. “Many of you likely remember the dark times back then, and as uncomfortable as it may be, I ask you to put yourself in Mr and Mrs Potter’s shoes.” He walks around the courtroom, speaking now directly to the Wizengamot members in the stands. “Remember what it was like back then. The fear and the uncertainty you felt during the war.” He pauses then. “I ask you to look to your left. To look to your right. Nowadays, we all stand united in a stand to unveil the truth, in a duty to find justice. But back then, you’d have looked upon your neighbours with suspicion. Wondering, asking yourself whether your friends, your schoolmates and colleagues were to be trusted. Perhaps without fault of their own, being bewitched-"

Lucius nods visibly.

“-or whether they deliberately obfuscated their true intentions and loyalties. Whether a moment of inattention would mean a hex to the back. I ask you, is it unreasonable to assume that the Potters would only trust their closest friends with that information? Even if that trust was placed in the wrong person. Peter Pettigrew. A man who would never be suspected of keeping such a secret. Not when the late James Potter and Sirius Black claimed such a close bond, a friendship, publicly known, as Mr Crouch put so avidly. Casting Mr Pettigrew in the position of secret keeper was the perfect disguise to lay a false trail for those sympathetic to You-Know-Who’s aims, while Sirius Black took on the dangerous position of drawing their attention onto him. I ask you, would you have gone so far as to risk the attention of You-Know-Who to protect a friend?”

A few whispers pick up following that monologue, sympathetic and uncomfortable faces intermingling with agreeing nods.

“You may continue, Mr Black,” Bones says, after a pause drawing out longer than probably intended.

Sirius wets his lips. “Peter was James’ and Lily’s secret keeper. We never suspected him to betray us. Meek as he was. Tagging along. Always playing into expectations… But that Halloween,” Sirius’ face hardens, his voice turning more hoarse as he presses out, “I knew.” He shakes his head, his jaw tight. “I just knew something was up. He’d been acting shifty all day. Looking at the clock. And then… when I went there…” he trails off.

“What location are you referring to?” Ackroyd asks.

“Peter’s place,” Sirius voices, swallowing. “It was turned over. Spellfire scorching the walls. It looked like there’d been a fight. I went to Godric’s Hollow right after. To James’ and Lily’s.”

Ackroyd nods.

Sirius’ jaw is working before, strangely enough, he huffs in something akin to bitter amusement. “It’s funny. The wards were intact when I arrived. You could feel it. But – he pauses to expel another laugh, his voice odd. “Half the upper floor was just …gone. The whole wall. Blasted out.” And then any hint of a smile vanishes from his face. “I was too late,” he says. “They were already dead.”

His gaze is locked onto something far away, and he makes no move to follow up.

Bones shifts behind the podium, leaning forward. “What did you encounter when you entered the house?” she asks, not quite able to keep her curiosity from showing in her expression.

She isn’t the only one.

Sirius has the whole courtroom’s attention, even when he continues in a monotonous tone. “James was dead,” he relays as if he were reading it off a report. “Sprawled out in the hallway. Lily was upstairs. In the nursery.” Only then does his tone regain some emotion when he spits, “Next to that wretched fucking monster.” Sirius starts to cackle maniacally then. It reminds Orion of Bella. “He’d crashed against the wall. Looked kind of funny. Like a puppet, covered in dust and rubble…” Sirius laughs, oblivious to the reaction it evokes in those present.

Lucius is white-knuckling his cane.

Eventually, Sirius continues, in his hoarse voice. “Harry was alive. In the crib. Crying. I picked him up. He wouldn’t stop crying,” he echoes, seemingly talking to himself. His hands jolt against the chains as if he meant to make a subconscious movement, but they tighten instead. Sirius blinks, shaking his head. Then he coughs. “I ran into Hagrid outside.”

“Hagrid?” Fudge enquires.

“Rubeus Hagrid. Currently under Hogwarts employment as the gamekeeper,” Ackroyd clarifies. Crouch jots down a note.

“He said he’d take care of Harry,” Sirius adds hoarsely.

“And what happened then?” Bones asks. Sirius doesn’t seem to hear her. Too far away, lost in thoughts.

“Mr Black”.

“Hm?”

“What happened then?”

“What do you think?” Sirius bites out. “I went after Peter; that’s what happened.”

“Mr Black pursued Peter Pettigrew to confront him about his betrayal of the Potters’ location to You-Know-Who,” Ackroyd rephrases.

“I tracked him down,” Sirius says, his words coming with a vicious quality. “I found him. He told me he was sorry.” A mad laugh echoes from the room, bitter, as Sirius seemingly starts to lose it.

Lucius looks at Orion. He barely notices. He’s too caught up in observing his father, shaken by hysterical laughter.

“Continue, Mr Black,” Fudge orders loudly.

Sirius pants, his breaths rough as he regains his composure.

“I sent a curse after him,” he voices between coughs.

“A blasting curse?” Crouch enquires keenly.

Sirius shakes his head. “No.” He huffs a laugh. “No, not a blasting curse.” The malicious smile on his face displays a row of foul teeth, barely obscured by his beard. Orion recognises the cruel edge in it.

Ackroyd jumps in, leaning down to talk to Sirius.

A moment later, Sirius straightens up, straining against the shackles, seemingly reluctant before he starts to rattle off the story. “We proceeded to duel. It drew attention. The muggles showed up. I was distracted. He cast a blasting curse, blowing up half the street and twelve muggles in the process. Used it as a distraction to cut off a finger and fake his death, changing into his Animagus form and scurrying off into the sewers just before the Aurors apparated in.”

That statement sparks a few hushed conversations.

“Just to clarify,” Crouch starts, “You were aware that Mr Pettigrew could turn into a rat? Previous to your incarceration.”

Sirius huffs. “Yeah. I knew,” he blatantly admits.

“And you never thought to bring it to the Ministry’s attention?” Fudge asks, piercing Sirius with a look.

Sirius laughs again, hoarse laughter, reminiscent of barking coughs. “When? When was I arrested? In Azkaban? I heard you all thought I’d murdered him. What use would it have been?”

Fudge clears his throat, shuffling some papers. “That is a serious transgression against the law, and you not calling it to attention, even before your incarceration, calls your trustworthiness into question, Mr Black. You are aware of that?”

Sirius devolves into laughter again, before it trails off into yet another hoarse cough.

Ackroyd steps forward, trying to save the moment. “As it stands, Mr Black claims innocence in the crimes he was accused of. Therefore, his breakout from Azkaban – where he was unlawfully incarcerated for twelve years – cannot be counted as a crime.”

“We shall see how truthful these tellings are,” Fudge pronounces.

“Yes, regarding that,” Bones adds, “The question still stands: how were you able to escape from Azkaban?”

Ackroyd fidgets with his spectacles. Sirius wets his lips again.

“Mr Black would like to refrain from answering that question, as it’s not relevant to the matter being discussed,” Ackroyd says.

“On the contrary,” Fudge shoots back. “How do you expect us to believe a single word this man sprouts if he doesn’t meet us with full transparency?”

He reaps vocal agreement all around, many Wizengamot members nodding, a few stray ‘Aye’s’ sounding.

“Elaborate, Mr Black,” Bones says.