The morning sun over Wiltshire was calm. It didn't blaze or glare; it simply offered a clear, pale gold illumination that filtered through the heavy velvet drapes of the second-largest bedroom in the east wing of Malfoy Manor.
Orion Malfoy stared at the ceiling. It was hand-painted, a Renaissance-style mural of cherubs and clouds that moved slightly if you stared at them long enough. Currently, a fat cherub was chasing a butterfly near the molding. Orion hated that cherub. It looked remarkably like Crabbe Senior.
He exhaled, a long, dramatic sigh that was entirely for his own benefit, and kicked the silk duvet off his legs.
"Eleven," he muttered to the empty room. "Finally. Ten years of toddler waddling and etiquette lessons. I thought I was going to die of boredom before I ever saw a wand."
Orion sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. His feet hit the cold, polished mahogany floor, and he relished the chill. It was grounding. He walked over to the full-length mirror standing in the corner—a silver-framed monstrosity that usually offered unsolicited fashion advice.
"Your hair is a disaster, darling," the mirror remarked in a wheezy voice. "You look like a niffler was nesting in it."
"Morning to you too, you flatter piece of enchanted glass," Orion drawled, running a hand through his hair.
Unlike the sleek, platinum-blonde locks that adorned every other head in this house, Orion's hair was pitch black. It was the Black family heritage kicking down the door of Malfoy genetics and setting up camp. It fell in messy, wavy shocks around his face, contrasting sharply with his pale skin. And then there were the eyes—dark blue, almost indigo, sharper and colder than the classic Malfoy grey.
He looked nothing like Lucius. He looked nothing like Draco. He looked like a glitch in the matrix of pureblood inbreeding, and honestly, he loved it. It annoyed his father to no end. Lucius looked at Orion and saw the Black madness; he saw Bellatrix, he saw Sirius. He saw a wild card that couldn't be controlled by Galleons or threats.
Orion leaned closer to the glass. "Eleven," he repeated. "The Hogwarts letter comes in July. That is still several weeks away. Unless the owl gets eaten by those infernal white peacocks in the garden."
"I wouldn't put it past them," the mirror grunted. "Vicious birds. No taste in fashion."
Orion smirked, turning away. He walked toward the balcony doors.
For a boy who had lived a previous life in a world devoid of magic—a world of taxes, traffic jams, and physics that couldn't be cheated—Orion Malfoy was remarkably unbothered by the grand destiny usually associated with reincarnated souls. He didn't care about Voldemort. He didn't care about Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, or the intricate politics of the Wizengamot.
He cared about Magic.
In his old life, he had been an engineer. He liked knowing how things worked. But here? Here, he could wave a stick and turn a teacup into a tortoise. The very concept made his brain tingle with dopamine. He didn't want to rule the world; he wanted to see if he could make the world run upside down just for the laugh.
He opened the heavy glass doors and stepped out onto the stone balcony. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of dew and manicured roses. Below, the sprawling grounds of Malfoy Manor stretched out in intimidating perfection. The hedges were cut into geometric impossibilities. The fountain in the center of the circular drive was spraying water that sparkled like diamonds.
And there they were. The peacocks. Strutting around like they owned the place.
"Pompous chickens," Orion whispered affectionately.
His thoughts drifted to his family. It was a strange dynamic, living in this house.
Lucius Malfoy was... difficult. He was a man who viewed his children as extensions of his own ego. Draco was the perfect extension: loud, boastful, blond, and eager to please. Lucius doted on Draco because Draco was a mirror. When Lucius looked at Orion, however, he saw a funhouse mirror—distorted and mocking.
Lucius provided for them equally, of course. The Malfoy pride demanded it. Orion had the best brooms (which he flew recklessly), the best clothes (which he wore casually), and the best tutors (whom he drove to madness with endless questions about why magic worked, rather than just learning the incantation). But there was a distance there. Lucius didn't know how to handle a son who laughed when he was supposed to sneer.
And then there was Draco.
"My dear brother," Orion mused, leaning his elbows on the stone railing.
Draco was an idiot. A lovable, loud, boastful idiot. He soaked up Lucius's pureblood rhetoric like a sponge, regurgitating it with the confidence of someone who had never been punched in the face (not yet). But despite that, they were twins.
Draco was the only person , other than his mother, who Orion allowed into his personal space. Draco would burst into Orion's room at 3:00 AM because he had a nightmare, or because he wanted to talk about a new broomstick, or simply because he was bored. And Orion would listen. He would mock Draco relentlessly, pointing out the holes in his logic, the stupidity of his prejudice, and the absurdity of his hair gel usage.
Draco never took offense. He just assumed Orion was being Orion. In a way, Draco was the only one who treated Orion like a normal person, not a dangerous anomaly.
"Happy Birthday, my little star."
The voice was soft, melodic, and carried a warmth that melted the morning chill.
Orion didn't turn around immediately. He let a small, genuine smile touch his lips before composing his face into his usual mask of amused indifference. He turned to face the room.
Narcissa Malfoy stood near the doorway. She was immaculate, as always. Her robes were a pale blue that matched the morning sky, her hair pinned up in an elegant arrangement that probably took an hour to perfect. But her eyes—blue, like his—were soft.
"Mother," Orion said, dipping his head in a mock bow. "You're up early. plotting world domination, or just checking if the house elves dusted the chandeliers correctly?"
Narcissa chuckled, the sound like wind chimes. She walked over to the balcony, her heels clicking softly on the stone, and placed a hand on his cheek. Her fingers were cool.
"Checking on my sons," she corrected gently. "And hoping that perhaps, for one day, you might refrain from tormenting your father."
"I make no promises," Orion said, leaning into her touch slightly. "If he starts pontificating about the sanctity of pure blood before I've had my tea, I'm going to ask him if inbreeding is why Aunt Bellatrix looks like a skeleton in a wig."
"Orion," Narcissa scolded, though her lips twitched with amusement. "Be nice. It is a big day."
"The biggest," Orion agreed. "Draco is probably vibrating through the floorboards right now."
"He is," Narcissa confirmed, smoothing a stray lock of black hair from Orion's forehead. "He's been up since dawn. He's currently terrorizing the elves for pancakes. He wanted to come wake you up with a trumpet, but I forbade it."
"You are a saint, Mother. Truly."
"I know." She looked at him, her expression turning slightly wistful. "Eleven years. It feels like yesterday I was holding two tiny bundles. One screaming his lungs out, and the other..."
"Staring at you judgingly?" Orion suggested.
"Quiet," she corrected. "Observant. You've always been watching, Orion. Sometimes I wonder what you see."
"Mostly just a lot of people taking themselves way too seriously," he shrugged.
Narcissa sighed, dropping her hand. "Get dressed, darling. Wear the emerald robes. They look good on you. And please... try to pretend you're excited about the gifts? Your father spent a fortune on a watch for you."
"Another watch," Orion deadpanned. "Because clearly, I am a careless guy who needs multiple watches to keep track of time."
"Because you love to keep track of yourself and your chaos, Orion," she said pointedly, turning back to the door. "Breakfast in twenty minutes. Do not keep us waiting."
She paused at the door, looking back one last time. The love in her eyes was evident, fierce and protective. It was the Black family madness channeled into maternal instinct. "Happy Birthday, Orion."
"Thanks, Mum."
The door clicked shut.
Orion let out a breath and turned back to the view. The sun had risen higher now, casting long shadows across the lawn.
This was it. The tutorial was over.
For ten years, Orion had felt like a man trapped in a child's body—which, literally, he was. The frustration was physical. He could feel the magic around him, and under his skin, a volatile, energetic current that wanted to be used. But he had no focus. No wand.
He had tried, of course. Accidental magic was common for children, but Orion tried to force it. He tried to harness it. The results were... mixed.
When he was seven, he had tried to summon a book. Instead, he had blown the library windows out. Lucius had been furious, rambling about control and discretion. Orion had just been laughing, high on the sensation of raw power rushing through his body like electricity.
When he was nine, he had turned Draco's hair bright pink during an argument about Quidditch. That had been partially intentional, though he played it off as an accident. Seeing Lucius try to reverse the transfiguration while Draco sobbed about his "image" was a top-five memory.
But it wasn't enough. It was like trying to paint a masterpiece with a sledgehammer. He needed fine motor control. He needed a wand. He needed to understand the mechanics, the arithmancy, the runic structures. He wanted to tear magic apart and see what made it tick.
"I don't want to be a politician," Orion murmured to the wind. "I don't want to be a Death Eater. I don't want to be a hero. I just want to cast Fiendfyre in a controlled environment and roast marshmallows."
He closed his eyes, trying to sense that reservoir of energy inside him. It was there, a deep, ocean of potential, swirling in his body. It felt heavy today. Heavier than usual.
"Come on," he whispered. "Do something interesting."
He wasn't expecting an answer.
But the universe, it seemed, had finally decided to acknowledge his existence.
DING.
The sound wasn't external. It didn't come from the gardens or the room behind him. It resonated directly inside his skull, like a bell struck within a cathedral. It was crisp, digital, and utterly out of place in a 17th-century magical manor.
Orion's eyes snapped open.
Hovering directly in front of his face, obscuring the view of the peacock fountain, was a blue, translucent rectangle. It shimmered slightly, unaffected by the wind.
Orion blinked. He waved his hand through it. His fingers passed through the light without resistance, but the screen remained.
"Hallucination?" he wondered aloud. "Did the elves put bad mushrooms in the stew last night?"
He focused on the text displayed on the screen. It was minimalist, using a sans-serif font that looked remarkably like something from a modern smartphone.
[ SYSTEM INITIALIZATION COMPLETE ]
Name: Orion Hyperion Malfoy
World: Harry Potter (Earth-982)
Status: Reincarnate
Age: 11
Orion stared. A slow, incredulous grin began to spread across his face.
"No way," he whispered. "A System? Really? That is the most cliché, overused trope in the history of fiction."
He laughed, a sharp, barking sound. "I love it."
He stepped back, examining the screen. It followed his gaze, staying perfectly centered in his vision.
"Okay," Orion said, crossing his arms. "So, what do I do? Do I get a starter pack? Do I have to kill ten rats in the cellar to level up? Give me something."
Suddenly, the text on the screen vanished, replaced by a pulsating waveform, like a visualizer for an audio file.
And then, a voice spoke.
It wasn't a robotic, monotone Google Translate voice. It was a woman's voice. It sounded young, sharp, and incredibly annoyed. It sounded like a secretary who had been forced to work overtime on a Sunday without pay.
"Finally," the voice groaned, echoing in his mind with crystal clarity. "Do you have any idea how boring it has been watching you drool on yourself for the first three years? And then the remaining boring toddler years? Ugh."
Orion froze. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me, pretty boy," the voice snapped. The waveform spiked with her irritation. "The boys of this world age so slowly. It's agonizing. Literally, why the hell does it take so much time to get to age eleven? I've been sitting in the void, waiting for your magical core to stabilize enough to boot up the Interface. I've counted every single tile in this manor. Twice. There are 48,902, by the way."
Orion's sarcasm, usually his shield and sword, failed him for a moment. He gaped at the blue screen. "You... you're sentient?"
"I am a High-End Magical Guidance Interface, thank you very much," the voice huffed. "But you can call me Sparkle Or Goddess. Or 'She Who Must Be Obeyed'. actually, no, stick to Sparkle, the other ones sound too much like that noseless freak you're going to have to deal with eventually."
Orion blinked, his mind racing. This wasn't just a stat screen. This was a companion. A sarcastic, fourth-wall-breaking companion.