The first two weeks of the second year dissolved into a comfortable, albeit demanding, routine. Hogwarts had a way of recalibrating itself after a scandal, and with the flying car incident safely filed away under "Gryffindor Stupidity," the student body turned its collective attention back to the grind of academia.
For Orion, the start of the term was a playground for his new capabilities.
Every morning, long before the sun had cleared the horizon and while the Giant Squid was still a dormant shadow in the lake depths, Orion sat cross-legged on his bed behind drawn curtains. He practiced his Level 1 Mind Arts with the discipline of a monk. He spent an hour in meditation, utilizing his "Safe Room" to categorize the memories of the summer, hardening the barrier between his surface thoughts and his deeper intentions.
His visualization skills were sharpening. He no longer just imagined a result; he perceived the atmosphere required to manifest it. In Transfiguration, while other students were struggling to turn beetles into buttons, Orion was analyzing the shift from beetle to a delicate plastic button. He didn't just cast the spell; he guided it with a precision that made Professor McGonagall watch him with an expression of profound, silent intrigue.
His first Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, however, was a masterclass in disappointment.
The classroom was plastered with portraits of Gilderoy Lockhart—Lockhart painting Lockhart, Lockhart winking at Lockhart, Lockhart wearing a particularly daring shade of turquoise.
Having already caused a localized catastrophe with a cage of Cornish Pixies during the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff session, Lockhart had apparently decided to pivot his teaching strategy toward "Safe Narcissism."
"I see the reputation of my earlier... practical demonstration... has preceded me," Lockhart announced, flashing a brilliant, pearly-white smile that seemed to have its own lighting crew. "So, for today, we shall focus on the theoretical foundation of greatness! A short quiz to see how much you've absorbed from my bibliography, followed by a reading from my latest triumph, Magical Me!"
Lockhart handed out papers. Orion looked down at the questions.
What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite color?
2. What is Gilderoy Lockhart's greatest ambition?
3. When is Gilderoy Lockhart's birthday, and what would be his ideal gift?
Orion didn't even pick up his quill. He reached into his bag and pulled out the heavily annotated Transfiguration textbook that had belonged to Albus Dumbledore—the reward from his end-of-year achievement.
He propped the book up behind Lockhart's quiz and began to read Dumbledore's handwritten notes on Transmutation Loops. It was infinitely more useful than knowing Lockhart's favorite flower (Lilac, probably).
Beside him, Draco was scribbling furiously, his face a mask of profound irritation.
"This is an insult," Draco hissed, halfway through Question 12. "Father didn't pay for the entire Lockhart collection just so I could learn about his dental routine."
"Think of it as a rest period, Draco," Orion whispered, not taking his eyes off Dumbledore's notes. "A time to let your brain cool down before we hit the real magic."
Lockhart spent the rest of the hour acting out a dramatic encounter with a Wagga Wagga Werewolf, using a terrified Ravenclaw student as a stand-in for the beast.
"I feel my brain cells dying," Sparkle complained, her interface flickering in a bored grey. "Can we please go back to stealing artifacts? This is physical torture."
"Soon," Orion promised.
The weekend brought a welcome shift from theory to action.
Saturday morning was crisp and clear, the grass on the Quidditch pitch still sparkling with dew. The Slytherin team had been granted a private block for tryouts, and the air of the locker rooms was thick with the scent of broom polish and nervous sweat.
Professor Snape was there, standing near the entrance with his arms crossed, looking remarkably smug. Beside him sat a large, heavy crate stamped with the Quality Quidditch Supplies logo.
"Gather round," Marcus Flint barked, his tusklike teeth bared in a grin.
The team huddled. Draco stood at the front, his chest puffed out, eyeing the crate with the hunger of a starving wolf.
"As you know," Flint announced, "Terence Higgs did not return for his seventh year. A tragedy, given his... sudden family issues. That leaves the Seeker position open. Furthermore, thanks to a very generous donation from the House of Malfoy..."
Flint kicked the latch of the crate open.
Seven sleek, gleaming broomsticks lay nestled in velvet. They were jet black, with silver-etched handles and perfectly aligned twigs that looked like they had been crafted by a jeweler.
Nimbus 2001.
The team let out a collective gasp. Even the beaters, who usually only cared about hitting things, looked awestruck.
"These are for the starting lineup," Flint said, handing a broom to each of the Chasers and Beaters. He then turned to Draco. "And this... is for whoever wins the Seeker trials today."
Draco's hand twitched, reaching for the broom.
"Wait," Flint said, holding the broom just out of reach. "I told Lord Malfoy I would accept the donation. I did not say the Seeker spot was sold."
Draco blinked, his face flushing. "But... Father said—"
"I don't care what your father said, Malfoy," Flint grunted. "This is Slytherin. We value ambition, but we value results more. You can try out for the position. Higgs is gone, so the slot is yours to win. But you have to earn it. If you can't catch a Snitch, you aren't on my team, regardless of how much gold is in your vault. Understood?"
Orion, standing at the edge of the group with Robin peeking out of his pocket, felt a surge of respect for the brutish Captain.
"He's right, Draco," Orion spoke up, his voice calm and steady. "Money buys you the opportunity to stand on the pitch. Skill is what allows you to retain the position and the respect of your peers. If you want to lead, you have to be the best."
Draco swallowed, his eyes darting between the Nimbus and the Snitch fluttering in Flint's other hand. The spoiled child in him wanted to scream, but the Malfoy pride Orion had been cultivating all summer took over.
"Fine," Draco said, his voice hardening. "Release the Snitch. I'll show you."
Flint nodded, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. He turned to Orion. "What about you, Malfoy? You're a flyer too, I suppose. You've got the reflexes and the required build. You want to try out for the spot as well?"
Orion looked at the black brooms. They were beautiful machines—engineering marvels of aerodynamic charms. He enjoyed the feeling of weightlessness, the rush of air.
But he wasn't a competitor. He didn't care about the roar of the crowd or the glory of the Cup. He had bigger goals that required his weekends to be free of four-hour practice sessions.
"I appreciate the offer, Captain," Orion said, offering a polite incline of his head. "I enjoy flying, certainly, but I am not an enthusiast of the sport. My interests lie in... other departments. Besides," Orion glanced at his brother, "I have full trust in Draco. He has spent the last three months doing nothing but training. He doesn't need me taking up space on his pitch."
"Suit yourself," Flint shrugged. "Malfoy! On your broom! Let's see if you're worth the wood!"
Orion walked to the stands, sitting down and pulling Robin onto his lap. The Niffler immediately began trying to pry a silver button off Orion's cuff.
"He's nervous," Sparkle noted, watching Draco kick off the ground on a training broom.
"He should be," Orion murmured, scratching Robin's head. "This is the first thing in his life he's had to actually earn without Lucius's shadow doing the heavy lifting. It'll be the making of him."
Orion watched as Draco dived, his platinum hair a streak of white against the green of the pitch. He was fast. He was focused. And for the first time, he looked like a wizard who knew exactly where he was going.
Orion smiled, leaning back. The team was equipped. The pieces were moving. And he had a front-row seat to the transformation of the Malfoy legacy.
"Go get 'em, Draco," Orion whispered. "Catch the Snitch."