The Great Hall was a study in profound, heavily guarded paranoia.
Unlike previous terms, the warm golden light of the floating candles did little to dispel the lingering chill of the castle. Stationed at each of the main exits, flanked against the stone pillars, were full-fledged Ministry Aurors—not the nervous trainees who had fumbled in Hogsmeade, but hardened, tight-lipped veterans in heavy crimson traveling cloaks, their wands visibly holstered at their waists.
Orion sat calmly at the Slytherin table, casually spearing a roasted potato. He caught a glimpse of silver-blonde hair across the hall; Luna Lovegood was seated at the Ravenclaw table, peacefully wearing a pair of blue spectrespecs while eating her pudding. She spotted him through the lenses and offered a cheerful, airy little wave.
Orion returned the greeting with a small, polite nod, before turning his analytical gaze toward the Gryffindor table.
The social fractures within the Golden Trio were starkly, visibly apparent.
Harry Potter was sitting nearly four feet away from Ronald Weasley. The gap was an intentional, hostile no-man's-land. Harry was engaged in an animated, remarkably cheerful conversation with Neville Longbottom, gesturing with his hands as he undoubtedly described the balance and aerodynamic perfection of his new Firebolt.
Ron, on the other hand, was hunched miserably over an empty plate, stabbing a piece of bread with a butter knife, looking as though he were actively trying to set his best friend on fire with his mind. His face was a thundercloud of resentment, made infinitely worse by the fact that Harry seemed completely, blissfully indifferent to his sulking.
Beside Orion, Draco was mirroring Ron's posture almost identically, shooting venomous, narrowed glares across the aisle at Harry's smiling face.
Adolescent pettiness is truly a universal constant, Orion mused dryly, taking a sip of his pumpkin juice.
Hermione Granger was nowhere to be seen. Her absence was expected; the psychological shock of nearly having her soul forcibly extracted by a Dementor in a freezing alley was not something one simply brushed off in a week or two. Her parents had undoubtedly demanded she remain home until the Healers certified her recovery.
Orion had fully anticipated a post-holiday summons. He had spent the latter half of the feast waiting for Snape to tap him on the shoulder, or for a note from Dumbledore to arrive with the desserts. It was the standard operational protocol whenever the wizarding world caught fire.
Yet, nothing came.
The moment the plates vanished, Professor McGonagall stepped forward, her voice brisk and no-nonsense as she strictly ordered all students to proceed directly to their common rooms under the watchful supervision of the prefects and the Aurors. No wandering. No lingering.
"Bedtime, it seems," Orion murmured to Draco, rising smoothly from the bench.
He slept soundly that night, letting the rhythmic slosh of the Black Lake outside the dungeon windows lull him into a deep, uninterrupted rest.
The next morning, while the rest of the dormitory was still snoring through the early January gloom, Orion slipped out of bed, dressed in a set of heavy, dark traveling clothes beneath his standard robes, and stepped directly into his expanded trunk.
He didn't walk to his desk. He walked straight toward the corner where the restored Vanishing Cabinet loomed, its deep mahogany wood gleaming softly in the blue light of his ring.
He closed his eyes and channeled his magical core.
Reflection Clone.
The silver, ethereal mist pulled away from his chest, coalescing into his exact duplicate.
The clone rolled its shoulders, looking at the towering cabinet, then back at Orion with an identical, knowing smirk.
"Don't worry," the clone assured him smoothly, adjusting the collar of its Slytherin uniform. "I will handle school perfectly today. Double Potions with Snape, followed by Runes. And if time permits this afternoon, I'll slip up to the seventh floor and tackle another quadrant of the Room of Requirement."
"Be thorough with the books of soul magic," Orion instructed.
"Always," the clone gave a sharp, confident nod. "See you for the night sync. Try not to get caught by your father."
"He's in London until dinner," Orion dismissed.
He took a slow, deep breath, turning to face the cabinet.
Months of research. Endless calculations. Carving runes with silver chisels, testing transits with apples and a treacherous rat. It all culminated in this single, critical threshold.
Orion pulled open the heavy mahogany door. The interior was pitch black, smelling faintly of cedar and cold, compressed ozone.
He stepped inside.
The space was surprisingly comfortable, just wide enough to stand upright without his shoulders brushing the wood. He reached back and pulled the door shut until the iron latch engaged with a heavy, definitive click.
Total darkness swallowed him.
Orion drew his Hawthorn wand, holding it against the cold interior wall of the doorframe where he had etched the primary activation glyph.
He tapped the glyph with the tip of his wand.
Instantly, the dormant runic sequences lining the interior erupted with a brilliant, blinding azure light.
A deep, vibrating hum rose through the floorboards beneath his boots, rattling the very marrow of his bones. Orion braced himself, expecting the violent, gut-wrenching compression of Apparition or the dizzying, spinning vortex of a Floo network.
Instead, he felt... weightless.
For a single, breathless microsecond, the physical laws of space simply released their hold on him. The air went ice-cold. A sensation like falling upward washed over his senses, silent and completely smooth.
The azure glow flared once, brightly, and then extinguished.
The hum died instantly.
Silence rushed back into the darkness.
Orion stood still for three seconds, letting his equilibrium settle. He reached forward, his fingers wrapping around the brass interior handle of the door.
He pushed.
The door swung outward with a soft, well-oiled creak.
Pale winter sunlight spilled into the cabinet, illuminating his face. Orion stepped out, his dragon-hide boots hitting a soft, thick Persian rug.
He blinked, looking around.
The heavy velvet curtains of his four-poster bed hung nearby. The hand-painted cherubs on the ceiling hovered above him, looking as annoyingly smug as ever. The scent of beeswax, old parchment, and delicate floral enchantments filled his lungs.
He was standing in the center of his private bedroom in the East Wing of Malfoy Manor.
Orion turned around, looking back at the open door of the cabinet, a massive, brilliant, completely unhinged smirk spreading across his face.
He had bypassed the ancient, impenetrable wards of Hogwarts Castle. He had ignored the Ministry Aurors stationed at the gates, skipped the perimeter checks, and crossed hundreds of miles of magical space in the span of a single heartbeat.
"Awesome," Orion whispered to the empty room.
The back door to the world was officially open.