Orion stood silently in the hallway, watching the fading embers of green glow vanish from the Floo as his sons disappeared. The empty space left behind felt heavier than any battlefield. He knew—truly knew—that he had broken something precious. His sons, the last living pieces of him and of Vishaka, had become strangers to him because of his fear. Because instead of grieving, he had run. Instead of breaking and rebuilding, he had shattered and hid.
Maybe he hadn't just failed them.Maybe he had failed her.
They were his.His blood.His and hers.
Lost in thought, he wandered toward his study. His steps were slow, unthinking. Before he could even sit, his house-elf appeared with a soft pop.
Poppy gently tugged off his outer robes, her voice soft yet firm—one of the few beings who dared speak to him without fear.
"All the guests have left, Master," Poppy murmured. "Poppy insists Master rest. If Mistress returns… Poppy cannot face her if Master is not well."
Orion closed his eyes at the word.
Mistress.
Vishaka.
The hollow inside his chest throbbed.
With a delicate snap of her fingers, his clothes melted into nightwear.
"I don't want anything else, Poppy," Orion murmured, voice low and distant. "Leave."
Poppy bowed, eyes wet with worry, and disappeared.
Orion lay back against the pillows, staring blankly at the ceiling. A glass of whiskey hovered beside him—summoned purely out of habit. He didn't drink it.
Not yet.
Because memory—merciless and vivid—pulled him backward.
A decade ago…
Warm lamp light. The soft rustle of silk. The perfume of jasmine and sandalwood—her perfume—wrapped around him before he even touched her.
Vishaka stood before her mirror, fingers working meticulously through the pleats of her saree. She always insisted on dressing herself—on feeling fabric, pins, jewelry with her own hands rather than magic.
Orion leaned against the doorway, watching her like a man witnessing sunrise for the first time. The wolf-cut strands of his hair fell over molten silver eyes, and in his hand, as always, was a glass of whiskey.
He approached silently, one hand sliding around her waist while the other held a glass of whiskey. His reflection towered behind hers—molten silver eyes already softening in her presence.
He dipped his head, brushing his lips along the curve of her neck. Her breath hitched—just slightly.
"Why won't you ever let me help dress you?" he murmured, voice low and velvety. "You know I'd gladly do it."
Vishaka paused midsentence in her pleating, meeting his eyes through the mirror.
"It's not the help I mind, ji," she said, mock annoyance lacing her tone. "It's that glass of whiskey you never put down." She narrowed her doe-like eyes. "Sometimes I think you love it more than me."
The faintest smirk touched his lips—dangerous, amused, and unbearably soft all at once—before he made the glass disappear with a flick.
Then he took over, fingers brushing against the warm silk at her waist. His touch was slow—careful, reverent. Yet the air between them vibrated with a tension that threatened to ignite the room.
"I swear on my magic," he whispered, voice unexpectedly solemn, "I won't touch alcohol unless you allow it. Not while you walk beside me."
Her breath caught—visible, audible. Oaths sealed by magic were not casual things.
"Orion…" she whispered, stunned.
He turned her toward him fully, threading his fingers through hers.
"Your wish is my command," he murmured, lips brushing her knuckles. "After all—aren't I entirely yours?"
The words were teasing, but his eyes were not. His gaze—hot, unwavering—was a silent vow.
"So don't ever leave me," he added softly, almost fragile beneath the velvet tone. "I don't know how to exist without you."
The look she gave him could have set entire worlds ablaze—soft, fierce, and overflowing with a love so consuming it bordered on dangerous.
She leaned in until their foreheads touched, breath mingled—just shy of a kiss.
"I will love you, ji… through everything—and even through nothing."
Whatever intention she had to continue dressing vanished in the next heartbeat.
Because Orion—slow, with the certainty of a man who knew worship better than war—pressed his forehead against hers.
Orion's hands lingered.Lower.Slower.
Her breath trembled.
The saree was finished. Beautiful. Perfect.
And utterly pointless—because in the next breath, her bangles chimed, the jasmine shifted, and all that careful effort began to unravel beneath his hands.
Present
Orion exhaled shakily.
The whiskey glass trembled in his grip.
His vow echoed in the dark.
And somewhere deep inside, a flame long smothered—long starved—flared again.
Weak.
But alive.
******
The next morning at Hogwarts was unusually quiet for the Gryffindor table.
Sirius sat rigidly, eating his toast in a silence that felt wrong. His posture was too deliberate, too composed—too much like Orion Black. The sharpness in his jaw, the stillness in his shoulders, the air of restrained power around him—it unsettled more than a few students who stole cautious glances.
Remus sat to his left, James on his right—both watching him like one might watch a lit fuse.
Peter was nowhere in sight.
Sirius moved with controlled precision, the silver fork barely making sound against the plate. The soft, aristocratic refinement—paired with the simmering tension beneath—made him look older, colder… and haunted.
Remus finally spoke, breaking the silence.
"So," he said carefully, tearing his scone in half, "are you going to tell us anything about what happened last night?"
James didn't speak—not yet. He wasn't flirting with Lily. He wasn't joking. He wasn't bouncing with Quidditch energy. He was just staring at Sirius, worry darkening his hazel eyes.
Sirius continued chewing—slow, deliberate. Then, without looking up, he cut James off before he could speak.
"I'm fine. And no—my father didn't hurt me." His tone was flat, but beneath it something trembled. "A lot happened. Too much. I'll explain later."
He finally lifted his gaze.
His voice stayed calm—his eyes did not.
"I feel… relieved. Angry. Scared. Hopeful." He exhaled, jaw tensing. "Like something I've waited for my whole bloody life is finally here—but I can't trust it."
James's breath hitched—not because of the words, but because of what he saw.
For the first time since they'd met—
Sirius Black's eyes glinted with the same unhinged, powerful spark James had seen in Orion the night before.
The infamous Black madness.
"Sirius…" James whispered.
Sirius turned fully toward him, expression unreadable but gaze burning.
"Tell me, Jamie," he said softly, voice edged like a blade dragging slowly across silk, "this isn't a dream, right?"
Magic pulsed around him—dark, dense, suffocating. Plates rattled. Candles flickered. Several first-years glanced over nervously.
Magic shifted around him—wild, unstable, cold. The temperature around the table dipped. Conversations nearby faltered.
Remus stiffened.
Being a werewolf meant he could feel magic—taste its pressure, sense its imbalance. And Sirius's magic—usually brazen and fiery—had become volatile, ancient, and dangerous.
Like blood magic.Like inheritance.Like awakening.
Remus swallowed and leaned forward, voice low, steady, steadying.
"It's not a dream, Sirius," he murmured. "Everything is real. Your mother—she's real. She exists. She loves you."
Sirius slowly turned toward Remus.
"You think so?" His voice was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that hid centuries of generational violence behind polished manners and a beautiful smile.
Remus nodded firmly.
"I know so."
A long silence stretched between them—heavy, fragile.
Then Remus forced a shift before Sirius's emotions erupted into something magical and catastrophic.
"How about we finish breakfast," he suggested gently, "and then get to Arithmancy before Vector murders us for being late?"
James cleared his throat—catching Remus's silent signal—and jumped in quickly.
"Yeah—and I still have to tell you the plan for the next Quidditch match," he said loudly, forcing cheer into his voice. "McLaggen thinks he can replace me as Chaser—can you believe that?"
Sirius blinked—his gaze loosening, tension easing by degrees.
The Great Hall resumed its noise.
He didn't smile.But he breathed.
For now, that was enough.