The corridors of Malfoy Manor were designed to make one feel small. It was an architectural flex that had persisted for centuries—high vaulted ceilings, stone floors that echoed every footstep with accusing clarity, and walls lined with the judgmental stares of the dead.
Orion walked down the main hallway of the east wing, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his emerald robes. He moved with a casual slouch that was a direct insult to the posture lessons he'd been forced to endure since he was four.
On either side of him, the painted ancestors of the Malfoy lines stirred. They were usually asleep at this hour, or pretending to be, but the arrival of the "Spare Heir" always seemed to wake them up.
"Slouching again," muttered a portrait of Abraxas Malfoy, his silver hair perfectly coiffed even in oil paint. "In my day, we would have strapped a board to your back."
"In your day, you died of Dragon Pox because you thought a mud-bath was a cure, Grandfather," Orion shot back without breaking stride. "Go back to sleep."
"Ooh, sick burn," Sparkle chimed in, her waveform flickering in the upper right corner of his vision. "Achievement Unlocked: Disrespecting Your Elders. Just kidding. That's too easy for you. No reward."
"I don't need a reward for speaking the truth," Orion muttered under his breath.
He reached the grand staircase, the smell of sizzling bacon and fresh coffee wafting up from the ground floor. It was a scent that transcended magical politics. Bacon was bacon, whether you were a Dark Lord or a squib.
Pushing open the double doors to the dining hall, Orion was immediately assaulted by a wall of noise—mostly coming from one person.
"And then I told Crabbe that if he didn't get me the limited edition seeker set, I wouldn't let him fly my Comet!" Draco was saying, his mouth half-full of a blueberry muffin. He was bouncing in his chair, his platinum hair already perfectly gelled into a sleek helmet.
Narcissa was seated beside him, sipping tea with an air of serene patience. Lucius, seated at the head of the table, was hidden behind a copy of the Daily Prophet, though the occasional twitch of the paper suggested he was trying very hard to ignore his son's chatter.
"Good morning, the joyful people of Wiltshire," Orion announced, stepping into the room.
Draco's head snapped around. His grey eyes lit up, and he swallowed his muffin with a gulp that looked painful.
"Orion!" Draco practically shouted. "Happy Birthday! We're eleven! Can you believe it? Mother says the owls might come early, but Father says we have to wait, but—"
"Happy Birthday, Draco," Orion interrupted, walking over and ruffling Draco's immaculate hair. Draco squawked and batted his hand away, immediately pulling a pocket mirror out to fix the damage. "You're vibrating. Did you drink a potion of Haste, or are you just naturally this annoying at 8:00 AM?"
"I am excited!" Draco huffed, smoothing his hair. "It's the big one, Orion! Hogwarts!"
"Yes, yes. School. Homework. Terrible food. It sounds delightful." Orion slid into his seat opposite Draco. A house-elf popped into existence beside him, placing a plate of pancakes stacked precariously high in front of him.
"Happy Birthday, Master Orion!" the elf squeaked, bowing so low its nose touched the floor. "Dobby has made extra syrup!"
"Thanks, Dobby. You're the only one who understands my needs," Orion said solemnly, stabbing the stack with a fork.
At the far end of the table, the Daily Prophet was lowered. Lucius Malfoy revealed himself. He looked tired, likely from dealing with party preparations, but his gaze was sharp as it landed on Orion.
"Happy Birthday, Orion," Lucius said smoothly. His voice was like cold velvet. "Try not to get syrup on the robes. They are silk."
"Father," Orion nodded, taking a bite. "I make no promises. Syrup is a treacherous substance."
Lucius sighed, folding the newspaper and placing it on the table. He clasped his hands together, the picture of pureblood aristocracy. "Now that the two of you are awake... we must discuss the coming weeks."
Draco immediately stopped chewing. Orion continued to eat, though he kept one ear open.
"As you know," Lucius began, his eyes flicking between the twins, "your Hogwarts letters are scheduled to arrive during the first week of July. That is standard procedure."
"Four weeks," Draco groaned. "That's forever."
"Patience, Draco," Lucius chided gently, before turning his gaze to Orion, who was currently dissecting a sausage. "However, today marks a significant biological milestone. Your eleventh birthday signifies the maturation of your magical cores. The trace will be active only once you arrive at Hogwarts, legally speaking, though the Ministry cannot track magic performed within the Manor due to our... extensive wards."
Orion looked up. "So what you're saying is, we can blow things up, and the Ministry won't send us a nasty letter?"
"What I am saying," Lucius corrected, his voice hardening slightly, "is that it would not be remiss to allow you to begin familiarizing yourselves with a focus."
Draco gasped. "Wands? We're getting wands?"
"Not your personal wands," Lucius clarified quickly. "The wand chooses the wizard, as Mr. Ollivander is so fond of saying. We will visit Diagon Alley after your letters arrive to purchase your bonded wands. However... for the purpose of basic instruction and to ensure you do not embarrass the House of Malfoy on your first day of school..."
Lucius reached into his robes and pulled out a long, velvet-lined box. He placed it on the table and opened it. Inside lay two wands. They looked old, the wood darkened with age, but they hummed with a faint power that Orion could feel from across the table.
"These are family wands," Lucius explained. "Ancestral spares. They will not respond to you as perfectly as a bonded wand, but they will suffice for learning the incantations and wrist movements."
Draco looked like he was about to faint from happiness. He reached out a trembling hand.
Lucius snapped the box shut, narrowly missing Draco's fingers.
"Tonight," Lucius said firmly. "After the guests have departed. I will not have you waving them around during the gala and accidentally turning the Minister of Magic into a ferret."
"Oddly specific," Sparkle noted. "Foreshadowing? Or just a wish?"
Orion ignored the voice and looked at his father. "A temporary wand is better than no stick at all, I suppose. Who did they belong to? Great-Uncle I-Hate-Muggles and Auntie Poison-Tea?"
Lucius narrowed his eyes. "They belonged to your great-grandparents. And you will treat them with respect, Orion. Magic is not a toy. It is a weapon, a tool, and a birthright."
He leaned forward, his grey eyes locking onto Orion's blue ones. "And I want to make one thing perfectly clear, Orion. This manor has stood for six hundred years. It is filled with priceless artifacts, dark objects, and volatile enchantments. If you use that wand to damage the structural integrity of this house..."
"I know, I know," Orion waved his fork dismissively. "Disownment, torture, death. The usual Tuesday schedule."
"I was going to say I would confiscate the wand," Lucius said icily. "But yes, do not test me."
"Don't worry, Father," Orion smirked, leaning back in his chair. "If I burn down the East Wing, we can just rebuild it. The Malfoys aren't poor, are we? I saw the vault last time. We have enough gold to build a second manor out of solid gold bricks. Why are you so attached to the wood and stone? It's very... sentimental of you."
The table went quiet. Narcissa hid a smile behind her teacup. Draco looked back and forth between his father and brother, sensing the danger but not quite understanding the tension.
Lucius's jaw tightened. The vein in his temple, the one that only Orion seemed capable of activating, throbbed.
"It is not about the money, Orion," Lucius hissed. "It is about history. It is about legacy. Something you seem determined to mock at every turn."
He took a breath, composing himself. He was about to launch into the lecture—The Lecture. The one about the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the purity of blood, and the burden of nobility. Orion knew the script by heart.
"Actually," Orion interrupted, shoving the last bite of pancake into his mouth and standing up abruptly. The chair scraped loud and harsh against the stone floor. "Speaking of legacy, I'm going to the library. I need to read up on... history. Yes. History."
Lucius blinked, his lecture derailed. "Orion, sit down. We are not finished."
"I am," Orion said, wiping his mouth with a silk napkin and throwing it on the table. "Draco can listen to the speech. He likes the part about how we're better than everyone else. I, however, have a date with a book."
"Orion—"
"Bye, Mum! Love you!" Orion called out, already walking toward the door. "Happy Birthday again, Draco!"
"But—" Lucius started.
"Lucius, let him go," Narcissa's voice cut through the tension, soft but firm.
Lucius exhaled through his nose, a sound of profound irritation. "He is unmanageable, Narcissa. He treats everything like a joke."
"He is eleven, Lucius. And he is a Black more than a Malfoy," Narcissa replied calmly. "Let him be."
Orion didn't hear the rest. He was already out the door, grinning.
As he walked away, he heard Draco's voice pipe up again from the dining room.
"Father? About the party preparations... I want to see the ballroom! Are the ice sculptures there yet? And what about the gifts?"
Orion paused near a suit of armor to listen.
"The gifts will be presented during the party, Draco," Lucius sounded weary. "It is part of the spectacle. We must show our guests that we appreciate their... tribute. You will open them tonight."
"But I want to know if Crabbe got me the seeker set!" Draco whined.
"Patience," Lucius commanded. "Go with your mother. Check the ballroom. Ensure the elves haven't placed the hydrangeas next to the lilies. You know how the Parkinsons sneeze."
Orion chuckled and turned away. Spectacle. Pomp. Posturing. It was all so exhausting.
He navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the manor, heading for the one place where the portraits kept their mouths shut and the only noise was the turning of pages.
The Malfoy Library was a masterpiece of gothic design. It was a massive, two-story room lined floor-to-ceiling with books. Rolling ladders attached to brass rails lined the shelves. The air here was cool and smelled of old parchment, leather, and binding glue—the best smell in the world.
Orion pushed the heavy oak doors open and stepped inside. The room was empty, save for the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light filtering through the high, arched windows.
"Finally," Orion exhaled, the tension of the breakfast table draining away. "Peace."
He walked to the center of the room, near a large mahogany reading table. He didn't sit down immediately. He stood there, looking around at the thousands of spines, titles gleaming in gold and silver leaf. Curses and Counter-Curses, Moste Potente Potions, The History of Magic, Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy.
"So," Sparkle's voice broke the silence. "We have escaped the parental units. We have ignored the obnoxious brother. We are in a library full of dark and dangerous knowledge. What is the plan, oh great wizard?"
Orion smirked. "The plan, Sparkle, is to test a hypothesis."
"Hypothesis?"
"Lucius said our cores are matured," Orion said, pacing slowly around the table. "He said we need wands to focus."
He stopped and looked at a shelf about ten feet away. On it sat a thick, black tome titled The Theory of Transubstantial Charms.
"But I'm not a normal eleven-year-old," Orion murmured. "I have an adult mind. I have intent. I have understanding of physics and mechanics. Magic is just energy manipulation, right? If I focus hard enough... if I push the energy... I shouldn't need a stick."
"You're going to try wandless magic?" Sparkle sounded skeptical. "On your first day? With zero training?"
"Go big or go home," Orion replied. "And I'm already home, so..."
He turned to face the bookshelf. He planted his feet shoulder-width apart, grounding himself. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment to find that well of indigo power he felt in the morning.
It was there. Turbulent. chaotic. Strong.
He opened his eyes, his dark blue irises narrowing in concentration. He extended his right hand toward the book.
"Come on," he whispered.
He didn't use the incantation. Accio was just a word. He needed the intent. He visualized the book flying off the shelf. He visualized the magical energy extending from his core, down his arm, out his fingers, wrapping around the leather spine, and pulling.
He pushed the magic. He felt the strain in his head, a pressure building behind his eyes.
"Come... to... me," he gritted out.
He stood there for a full minute, hand outstretched, face contorted in a mask of sheer willpower. He looked like he was trying to use the Force to pull an X-Wing out of a swamp.
The book... did not move.
It didn't even wiggle. The dust on top of it remained undisturbed.
Orion pushed harder. He pushed until his ears rang. He pushed until he felt like he might pop a blood vessel.
Nothing.
The library remained silent, save for the distant sound of a peacock screaming outside.
Slowly, Orion lowered his hand. He exhaled a long, shaky breath. His head throbbed slightly.
"Well," Sparkle said after a beat of silence. "That was anti-climactic."
Orion stared at the book, betraying no emotion. "It didn't budge."
"Not even a millimeter," Sparkle confirmed cheerfully. "It was actually kind of embarrassing to watch. You looked like you were trying to constipate yourself."
"I thought... I thought the intent would be enough," Orion admitted, rubbing his wrist. "I thought because I remember my past life, because I have better mental discipline... it would work."
"Magic isn't just willpower, Orion," Sparkle lectured, her tone shifting to something slightly more educational. "It's a muscle. You have the battery power, sure. You have a nuclear reactor in your gut. But you have no transmission lines. You have no outlet. You're trying to power a toaster by throwing a lightning bolt at it. You need a wand to channel it, to shape it. Wandless magic requires decades of discipline to build those internal channels."
Orion sighed, the disappointment bitter on his tongue. He had hoped for a prodigy moment. He had hoped to be the exception.
"So I'm just a normal wizard with a snarky UI," he muttered.
"For now," Sparkle corrected. "But hey, you tried. That's the first step to not sucking."
Orion looked at the book one last time. He glared at it, as if his annoyance alone could summon it. The book remained unimpressed.
"Fine," Orion grumbled.
He walked over to the shelf, grabbed the book with his physical, non-magical hand, and yanked it off the shelf. He carried it back to the table and dropped it with a heavy thud.
"Manual labor it is," he said, pulling out a chair. "If I can't brute force it, I'll have to learn the theory. Let's see what Transubstantial Charms has to say about why I'm a failure."
"That's the spirit!" Sparkle chirped. "Achievement Unlocked: The Walk of Shame. Reward: Humility. Value: Priceless."
"Shut up, Sparkle," Orion opened the book. "Unless you have a Tier 3 reward hidden in here, let me read."
"Reading is good. Reading is safe," she hummed. "Just don't forget, the party starts in six hours. And you still have to pretend to like people."
"Don't remind me," Orion groaned, turning the first page. "Do not disturb me unless the world ends. Or if there's cake. But mostly the world ending."