The arrival of the New Year signaled the swift, unceremonious conclusion of the winter holidays.
Before descending to the main foyer for departure, Orion stood in his bedroom, surveying his packed luggage. He sighed before calling out softly into the quiet room.
"Kreacher."
POP.
The ancient house-elf materialized instantly. Unlike his initial, wretched appearance in the trunk weeks ago, Kreacher looked remarkably revitalized. He was dressed in a rather clean, neatly pressed white linen towel, and his bloodshot eyes shone with a sharp, fanatical clarity. Working under Narcissa's direct supervision at the Manor had clearly restored his sense of ancestral pride.
"Master Orion calls Kreacher," the old elf rasped, bowing low until his bulbous nose brushed the carpet. "Kreacher is honored to serve."
"Kreacher," Orion instructed calmly, gesturing toward the empty corner beside his wardrobe. "I need you to go up to the attic. Retrieve the large, restored cabinet hidden beneath the charmed tarps and transport it back down here. Place it right in that corner."
Kreacher's ears perked up. "The fine, royal box? Kreacher will move it immediately! Kreacher will make sure not a speck of dust touches it!"
POP.
The elf vanished, reappearing less than ten seconds later with a muffled clatter, carefully lowering the towering, polished mahogany Vanishing Cabinet into the designated space.
Orion looked at the gleaming wood and the delicate gold-leaf runes lining the frame, letting out a dry, self-deprecating chuckle.
Honestly, Orion mused, shaking his head. The sheer number of times that cabinet has been dragged, shrunk, shoved into the attic, and moved back down to this bedroom is absurd. And I have yet to actually step through the spatial tether myself. The portal has traveled across this estate more than I have through it.
Still, having the Manor's end of the link securely anchored in his private quarters—now that Bellatrix was safely roaming the continent—was a critical strategic asset.
"Well done, Kreacher," Orion said, nodding at the elf. "Keep the room clean while I am away, and ensure no one tampers with the things here."
"Kreacher lives to serve the noble blood!" the elf bowed low, before vanishing with a pop.
Orion grabbed his trunk, shrinking it into his inner pocket alongside Robin, and headed downstairs.
The transition from the Manor to Platform 9 ¾ was a tense, heavily coordinated operation.
Lucius had barely spoken three words over breakfast, his face gaunt with the relentless strain of backroom Ministry negotiations. The Daily Prophet had spent the last week actively burying the details of the Hogsmeade attack beneath an avalanche of fluff pieces regarding economic stimulus, ensuring Cornelius Fudge's political career didn't crumble under the weight of an escaped Death Eater detonating an entire village.
Narcissa personally escorted her sons through the private Floo network to King's Cross.
The atmosphere on the platform was palpably suffocating. The jovial holiday spirit had vanished entirely, replaced by cold winter mist and the grim, imposing presence of double the usual Auror guards patrolling the train carriages. Parents hovered over their children, issuing hushed, panicked warnings, while students boarded the scarlet engine with subdued, nervous steps.
"Stay inside the castle," Narcissa whispered fiercely, pulling both Orion and Draco into a tight, lingering embrace near the train doors. "Do not wander the grounds after dusk. Your father and I have enough to manage without fearing for your safety."
"We will be careful, Mother," Orion assured her smoothly, offering a reassuring smile.
They boarded the train, quickly claiming their usual compartment near the middle of the carriage.
Within minutes, the door slid open. Daphne Greengrass entered first, shaking the snow from her silver-trimmed cloak, followed closely by Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle.
Daphne sank onto the velvet bench beside Orion, letting out a long, heavy breath that spoke volumes of her domestic stress.
"My parents were beside themselves," Daphne murmured quietly, glancing toward the corridor to ensure no one was eavesdropping. "They spent the entire second half of the holiday pacing the parlor. Before Astoria and I left this morning, Father made us swear on the family name that we would not set a single foot outside the castle walls for the rest of the term. No perimeter walks, no visits to the greenhouses after dark, and absolutely no Hogsmeade weekends, even if the faculty permits them."
"A predictable reaction," Orion noted calmly, watching the frozen landscape begin to roll past the window as the engine whistled. "Families value self-preservation above all else. With Dolohov actively slinging curses in broad daylight, trying to keep the heirs locked within the ancient wards is standard procedure."
Pansy shuddered, wrapping her woolen scarf tighter. "It feels like a war is brewing. Everyone is terrified."
Crabbe, who was currently unwrapping a massive pasty with his thick fingers, suddenly grunted around a mouthful of pastry.
"Not Potter, though," Crabbe mumbled, crumbs falling onto his lap.
Draco, who had been sitting quietly in the corner, suddenly perked up. For the past twenty minutes, Draco had been mentally agonizing over how to brag about his magnificent, life-changing trip to the Muggle theme park without explicitly admitting that he had spent eight hours shrieking with joy on Muggle-engineered rollercoasters and eating greasy diner food.
The mention of his eternal rival completely derailed his train of thought.
"What about Potter?" Draco demanded, his eyes narrowing sharply.
Crabbe swallowed hard. "Saw him on the platform. With Black and that shabby professor, Lupin. Laughing like it was bloody Christmas morning."
Crabbe leaned in, his small, piggy eyes wide with rare, genuine awe.
"He was carrying a broom, Draco. Black bought him the new Firebolt as a Christmas gift. Saw the gold registration plate gleaming on the handle with me own eyes."
The silence that dropped over the compartment was absolute.
Draco froze. The color drained from his face, only to be replaced by a sudden, violent, volcanic surge of crimson fury that rushed from his collar straight to the tips of his ears.
His jaw worked soundlessly for three seconds, his hands gripping his knees so hard the fabric of his trousers strained.
"A... a what?!" Draco shrieked, his voice cracking into a high-pitched, furious squawk that startled Pansy.
"A Firebolt," Goyle helpfully confirmed, nodding slowly. "Looked wicked fast. Ash wood handle. Diamond-polished."
"WHAT THE HECK?!" Draco exploded, leaping half-out of his seat, his fists clenched as he began aggressively pacing the tiny strip of carpet between the benches. "A FIREBOLT?! An international, professional-grade racing broom?!"
Draco's face was practically purple with pure, unadulterated indignation.
"When I asked him last year why he bought and flew that pathetic, outdated Nimbus 2000 instead of upgrading to the 2001 like the rest of the civilized world," Draco yelled, waving his arms wildly, "he had the absolute, hypocritical gall to look me in the eye and say he thought buying the newer broom was a waste of money! He smugly told everyone that 'not everyone was as rich as the Malfoys', acting like he was some humble, noble saint who didn't care about luxury!"
Draco slammed his hand flat against the luggage rack.
"And now?! Now his convict godfather throws a mountain of Ministry compensation gold at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and he strolls onto the train carrying a broom that costs more than a small manor house?! He's a fraud! A complete, arrogant, hypocritical fraud!"
Pansy looked thoroughly bewildered by the sheer intensity of the meltdown, while Crabbe and Goyle merely blinked, accustomed to their leader's dramatic outbursts.
Orion let out a long, slow, exceedingly quiet sigh.
He leaned his head back against the cool glass of the window, crossed his legs, and closed his eyes, entirely detaching his consciousness from the localized hurricane of adolescent jealousy consuming the compartment.
Some things, Orion thought, letting the sound of Draco's furious, high-pitched screeching fade into white noise beneath the rhythmic clatter of the train tracks, never truly change. I suppose that is a good thing, mostly.