The aftermath of the Remembrall incident settled into a strange, tense rhythm within the castle. While Orion was content to rest on his laurels having successfully grounded Harry Potter from the Quidditch pitch, the gears of the original timeline continued to grind on, fueled by the sheer stupidity of eleven-year-old boys.
It started on Tuesday evening in the Slytherin Common Room. Draco was holding court near the fireplace, his voice pitched just loud enough to be annoying.
"So I told him," Draco bragged to a captive audience of Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy, "if you're so big, Potter, meet me in the Trophy Room at midnight. Wizard's duel. Wands only."
"And did he accept?" Pansy asked, eyes wide.
"Of course he did," Draco sneered, though there was a flicker of nervousness in his eyes. "Weasley accepted for him. They're going to be there tonight."
From his armchair in the corner, where he was cross-referencing a map of the third floor with The Unedited History, Orion didn't even look up.
"And let me guess," Orion's voice cut through the air, cool and detached. "You have absolutely no intention of going."
Draco blinked, turning to his brother. "Why would I? I'm not going to duel him. I'm going to tell Filch. Let the old squib catch them out of bed. They'll be expelled by breakfast."
"Snitching," Orion mused, turning a page. "How... prosaic. But effective, I suppose."
"It's cunning!" Draco insisted.
"It's betting the house on Filch's competence," Orion corrected. "Which is a gamble I wouldn't take with fake money, let alone my reputation. But proceed, brother. Let the Gryffindors wander the dark corridors. It builds character."
Orion washed his hands of the affair. He knew what would happen. Filch wouldn't catch them. Peeves would alert them. They would panic, run, unlock a forbidden door, and come face-to-three-faces with Fluffy, the Cerberus. It was a pivotal moment for the Golden Trio's bonding. Orion had no interest in interfering with their trauma bonding; let them find the dog. It would keep them busy and distracted while Orion prepared for the real threat.
Halloween was coming.
And with Halloween came the Troll.
Later that night, while Draco was gleefully whispering to a portrait near the dungeons to pass a message to Filch, Orion was deep in his "Mind Palace"—or rather, sitting inside his expanded trunk, debating with a blue hologram.
"You seem tense," Sparkle noted. Her waveform was bouncing erratically, mimicking a heartbeat. "You derailed the flying lesson with a bounce-pad spell. Why are you worried about a Troll? It's just a big, smelly guy with a club. You deal with Crabbe and Goyle every day; it's basically the same demographic."
Orion was pacing the length of his trunk-study, his Hawthorn wand tapping a rhythm against his thigh.
"Crabbe and Goyle are human," Orion said. "They are squishy. If I hit them with a Stinging Hex, they cry. A Mountain Troll is a twelve-foot biological tank. Their hide is magic-resistant. Stunners bounce off unless you hit them in the eye or the ear. Simple hexes just annoy them."
"So hit them harder," Sparkle suggested.
"I am eleven, Sparkle," Orion stopped pacing to gesture at his own frame. "My magical core is potent, yes. My wand is a masterpiece, yes. But I lack the raw horsepower to bludgeon a troll through its natural armor. In the books, Ron knocked it out by levitating its own club onto its head. That was luck. Sheer, blind luck."
"And Harry stuck his wand up its nose," Sparkle giggled. "Don't forget that tactical genius."
"Exactly," Orion grimaced. "Harry survived because he has the Protagonist Halo. The narrative bends around him to ensure he doesn't die in Book One. I don't have that assurance."
He paused, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. He looked at the blue screen.
"Or... do I?"
Sparkle's interface zoomed in on his face. "Explain."
"Well," Orion reasoned, a smirk touching his lips. "Technically, in this scenario, I am the protagonist of my own story. The User. The Reincarnate. Doesn't that give me my own Plot Armor? If I walk into the bathroom to fight that Troll, does the universe conspire to keep me alive because the story ends if I die?"
Sparkle let out a sound that was half-scoff, half-static.
"Don't count on it, pretty boy," she warned. "Your Plot Armor is maintained by me, and my battery runs on Achievements. If you do something terminally stupid, like trying to wrestle a troll, the System might just decide to reboot and find a smarter host. Your halo is held up by horns, Orion. It's precarious."
"Comforting," Orion dryly remarked. "So, we assume mortality. Which brings me back to the plan."
He moved to the small chalkboard he had installed on the wall of the trunk. He picked up a piece of chalk.
"I cannot out-muscle the Troll," he wrote STRENGTH: FAIL.
"I cannot out-tank the Troll," he wrote DURABILITY: FAIL.
"Therefore," he wrote TACTICS: DISTRACTION & ENVIRONMENT 101, "I must out-think it."
He began to list spells.
Wingardium Leviosa (The Classic. Reliable. Must practice on heavy objects).Lumos Solem (Sunlight Charm. Trolls hate sunlight. It blinds them. Flashbang effect).Verdimillious or Periculum (Fireworks/Sparks. Noise and light to confuse).Avis / Oppugno (The Drone Strike).
"The Drone Strike?" Sparkle queried.
"Birds," Orion explained, tapping the fourth item. "Avis conjures a flock of small birds. Oppugno orders them to attack. A troll has thick skin, but it has eyes. If I can summon a dozen canaries to peck at its face, it creates a window of opportunity. It's crowd control."
"Avis is N.E.W.T level stuff, Orion," Sparkle warned. "Conjuration is hard. Creating life—even temporary bird-constructs—from thin air? That's not First Year curriculum. That's not even Fourth Year."
"I have a month," Orion said, his jaw set in a line of stubborn determination. "And I have a wand that craves power. We start tomorrow."
The following weeks were a blur of academic deception and private exhaustion.
During the official classes, Orion was the perfect student. He brewed flawless potions for Snape, transfigured his beetle into a button for McGonagall (getting extra points for the intricate pattern on the button), and charmed Flitwick with his theory essays.
In his off time, he disappeared.
The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor became his second home.
Week 1: The Heavy Lifting.
Orion stood before a heavy oak desk.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The desk floated. It was easy.
"Heavier," Orion muttered.
He stacked three desks on top of each other. He visualized the combined mass. He focused his intent not on lifting, but on negating gravity.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
The stack wobbled, then rose. Sweat beaded on Orion's forehead. The Hawthorn wand hummed, eager to prove it could handle the load.
"Control," Orion gritted his teeth. "Not just up. Move it."
He guided the floating tower of furniture around the room. It was sluggish, like steering a boat through treacle, but it moved.
"Acceptable," Orion panted, dropping the desks with a crash. "If I can lift three desks, I can lift a troll's club."
Week 2: The Light Show.
Orion stood in the dark classroom. He pointed his wand at the far wall.
"Lumos Solem."
He didn't want a flashlight. He wanted a supernova. He pushed his magic into the wand, visualizing the raw, searing intensity of the sun at noon.
FLASH.
The room vanished in a wash of blinding, white-hot light. It was so intense that Orion had to squeeze his eyes shut and turn away, seeing spots for minutes afterward. The heat was palpable.
"My sensors are overloaded!" Sparkle shrieked. "Warning! Retinal damage imminent!"
"It works," Orion laughed, blinking tears from his eyes. "If that doesn't blind the troll, nothing will."
Next came the fireworks. He practiced the Verdimillious charm, tweaking it to produce not just green sparks, but loud, cracking explosions.
BANG. CRACK. WHIZZ.
"Distraction checks out," Orion noted, the smell of gunpowder filling the room.
Week 3: The Wall.
Then came Avis.
Orion stood in the center of the room, feeling confident. He had mastered levitation. He had mastered light. He was a prodigy. Surely, a few birds were within his grasp.
He performed the complex wand movement—a spiral followed by a sharp upward thrust.
"Avis!"
Nothing happened.
Orion frowned. He checked his grip. He checked his stance.
"Avis!"
A faint puff of blue smoke emerged from the wand tip. No birds. Not even a feather.
"Come on," Orion growled. "I know the theory. It's conjuration. Magic into matter. Matter into life."
He tried again. And again. And again.
For three days, he stood in that room, shouting at the air.
He visualized the birds. He visualized their wings, their beaks, their heartbeats. He poured his magic into the spell until his arm shook and his core felt like a wrung-out sponge.
"Avis!"
Poof. A single, grey feather drifted sadly to the floor.
Orion stared at the feather. It was a mockery.
"Why?" Orion slammed his hand against a desk. "Why isn't it working? The Hawthorn wand is powerful! My core is mature enough! Why can't I make a damn canary?"
"Because you're hitting the ceiling, genius," Sparkle said softly. She wasn't mocking him this time.
Orion looked up at the interface.
"Conjuration isn't just power," Sparkle explained. "It's complexity. You are trying to create a biological system from nothing. Muscles, nerves, instinct. Even if they are magical constructs, the blueprint is massive. Your magical core has the battery life, sure. But your 'RAM' isn't there yet. You're trying to run a 4K video on a calculator."
"My mind is adult," Orion argued.
"Your soul is adult. Your brain is eleven," Sparkle corrected. "The neural pathways for magic this dense haven't formed yet. You can destroy things easily—destruction is simple entropy. You can alter things—Transfiguration uses existing matter. But creation? Creation is the realm of the gods, Orion. You need to level up. You need to grow into it."
Orion slumped against the desk, sliding down to sit on the floor. He picked up the single grey feather.
It was perfect. Soft, detailed. But it was just one feather.
"So that's it," Orion sighed, twirling the feather. "I have a limit. I'm not all-powerful."
"Did you really think you were?"
"I hoped," Orion admitted. "I hoped that because I knew the spells, because I practiced... I could skip the grind."
"There are no shortcuts to mastery," Sparkle quoted, sounding like a fortune cookie. "But hey, look on the bright side. You made a feather. That's more than Draco can do. He's still trying to turn a beetle into a button without squashing it."
Orion chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He banished the feather with a flick of his wand.
"Fine," he said, standing up. "No drone strike. No Alfred Hitchcock reenactment."
He looked at his list on the blackboard.
Wingardium Leviosa - Check.
Lumos Solem - Check.
Fireworks - Check.
Avis - X.
"Three out of four," Orion summarized. "It will have to be enough."
He holstered his wand. His arm was sore. His head throbbed. He felt the limitations of his current existence pressing down on him like a physical weight. It was a humbling experience, and Orion Malfoy hated being humbled.
But it was also necessary. It reminded him that this wasn't a game he could just breeze through. The danger was real. The magic was hard.