For the past four days, Orion had dedicated nearly every waking hour to the pursuit of the invisible.
Locked inside his bedroom with the curtains drawn, he stood in the center of the Persian rug, his hands empty, his Hawthorn wand resting on the nightstand. He closed his eyes, extending his awareness outward into the cool air of the room.
He was attempting to bridge the gap between theoretical comprehension and sensory reality.
Merlin's grimoire had laid the architecture bare: wandless magic was not brute force, but internal calligraphy. When a wizard cast without a focus, the magic within their core was supposed to whip and spiral in the exact, intricate geometric path of a wand movement, speaking the kinetic language directly to the ambient ether.
Orion could feel his magic. He could feel the vast, indigo reservoir of his newly matured core thrumming beneath his ribs, radiating warmth down his arms.
Yet, when he attempted to direct it into a specific shape—trying to force a thread of energy to trace the precise, sweeping loop of a localized Lumos—the magic remained stubborn. It responded as a generalized surge, a blunt push of illumination that flared across his entire palm, rather than a tight, refined beam.
He could feel the ocean, but he could not yet see the individual currents.
"Sigh," Orion muttered, shaking his hand to dismiss the faint light clinging to his skin. "Progress, but imperfect. At least, knowing the path exists is not the same as walking it blindfolded."
Before he could reset his stance for another attempt, the heavy oak door of his bedroom opened.
Narcissa stepped inside, closing the door swiftly behind her. Her face was unusually pale, her blue eyes tight with sudden, intense anxiety.
"Orion," she whispered, stepping close to him. "She is here. Bella has returned to the Manor."
Orion lowered his hands, his posture instantly straightening. "Is she in the drawing room?"
"No, she went straight to her quarters in the West Wing," Narcissa said, her hands wringing the fabric of her robes. "She asked for you immediately. She asked if you had returned to Hogwarts. I... I told her yes. I told her you were back at school with Draco, to keep her away from you."
Orion looked at his mother, noting the trembling fear she still held for her deranged sister.
"I understand your worry, Mother," Orion said, his voice soft, calm, and reassuring. "And I appreciate the instinct to shield me. But... I think I can handle Bella knowing the truth. In fact, it is better if she knows."
Narcissa frowned, looking at him with deep bewilderment. "Orion, she is volatile. Unstable. Even if she claims to care for you, she is an Azkaban escapee. She is the dark lord's trusted. Why are you so comfortable with her?"
Orion offered a faint, enigmatic smile. He couldn't explain the System. He couldn't explain that he had effectively branded the most dangerous dark witch in Britain with a metaphysical familiar's tether.
"Trust me, Mother," Orion murmured. "I have a way with our family."
He reached to his nightstand, picking up his Hawthorn wand. He didn't want to walk across the drafty estate to fetch her.
He closed his eyes, tapping into the profound, absolute memory of peace—the quiet drawing room, the piano keys, the warmth of the fire.
"Expecto Patronum."
A stream of brilliant, radiant silver light erupted from his wand. The magnificent Mute Swan took form in the center of the bedroom, its enormous wings unfurling without a sound, bathing the room in pure, comforting luminescence.
Narcissa gasped, taking a step back, her hand flying to her chest as she stared at the glowing, avian guardian.
Orion looked into the swan's silver eyes.
"Aunt Bella," Orion spoke clearly, imbuing the words directly into the Patronus. "Let us talk in my room. Now."
The silver swan bowed its long neck once, turned, and glided effortlessly straight through the heavy oak door, vanishing into the corridor to deliver its summons.
Orion lowered his wand, turning back to Narcissa. He stepped forward, wrapping his arms around her in a brief, firm hug. "Stay in the East Wing, Mother. Everything is under control."
Narcissa nodded hesitantly, pressing a kiss to his cheek before slipping out of the room to give him the space he requested.
Orion walked over to his door, pulling it slightly ajar.
He didn't have to wait thirty seconds.
A sharp, hurried click of boots echoed down the hall. Bellatrix Lestrange rounded the corner, her wild dark hair billowing, her wand held loosely in her right hand. The moment her manic, heavy-lidded eyes landed on Orion standing in the doorway, the frantic tension on her face melted into sheer, breathless delight.
"My dear godson," Bellatrix purred, rushing forward and catching his upper arms. "Cissy told me you were back at that dreadful school! And then... that magnificent, glowing bird appeared in my quarters with your voice!"
"Mother only said that because I explicitly instructed her to keep my presence in the Manor an absolute secret from Father and any visitors," Orion explained smoothly, stepping back to let her into his room. "And because I wanted the pleasure of revealing my presence to you personally. Come in."
Bellatrix entered without hesitation, looking around the opulent bedroom with dark curiosity.
"Sit, Aunt Bella," Orion instructed, gesturing to the plush armchair.
Bellatrix sat, but she was practically vibrating with chaotic energy. She reached into the folds of her black traveling robes and withdrew the heavy brass casing of the Wayfinder Compass. She placed it gently onto the center of his mattress like a sacred relic.
"The needle never wavered, Orion," Bellatrix whispered, her voice trembling with dark, religious awe. "It guided me true."
"You found him, then?" Orion asked, taking a seat at his desk and leaning his elbows on the polished wood.
"The forests of Albania," Bellatrix confirmed, her eyes glittering. "Damp, miserable, rotting woods. But he was there."
She leaned forward, her tone turning into a harsh, disgusted sneer.
"And that filthy, cowardly rat was with him. Pettigrew."
Orion's eyes narrowed slightly. "Peter found him first?"
"Yes," Bellatrix spat, venom dripping from her words. "The traitor found the Dark Lord while he was possessing his new serpent pet. Nagini, is what he calls her. The rat groveled, of course. Threw himself into the dirt, weeping, swearing fealty. Pettigrew had the sheer, unmitigated gall to lie to his face, claiming that he was the only faithful servant who had actively searched for the master, while the rest of us were hiding like frightened dogs from the Aurors."
She scoffed furiously. "And the Dark Lord, in his state... he believed the vermin."
"A predictable move from a cornered rat," Orion noted calmly. "What of his condition? The Dark Lord's vessel?"
Bellatrix's manic fervor softened, replaced by a sudden, protective, and deeply disturbed tone.
"He made use of Pettigrew," Bellatrix explained quietly. "The rat is useless in a duel, but he can brew rudimentary potions. The Dark Lord fashioned himself a temporary, physical form. A rudimentary homunculus, molded from his own magical essence and dark alchemy."
She shuddered slightly—a rare display of physical disgust from a woman who reveled in carnage.
"He cannot possess living mortals or common beasts for long; their bodies are ill-suited, and they wither and rot beneath the weight of his soul within weeks. But this Nagini is different. The serpent shares his magic. Her venom, it seems, can be milked and brewed into an elixir to sustain this new, fragile vessel. So, the rat is being of some use to the master, at least. He feeds him."
Orion cataloged every detail with clinical precision. The homunculus baby from the graveyard. It is already constructed. He has a body.
"And your reunion?" Orion probed gently. "How did he receive you?"
Bellatrix looked away, her jaw clenching tightly. The fanatical devotion in her eyes was suddenly tainted by a deep, bitter humiliation.
"He was... displeased," she whispered, staring into the flames of the hearth. "He was furious that it took me so long to locate him, despite my time in Azkaban. And... he was enraged that I saw him in that state. That I looked upon his weakness. He hated that I had to witness him needing to be carried like an infant."
Orion watched her closely. The familiar bond hummed at the back of his consciousness, picking up the lingering physical and emotional tremors radiating from her frame.
His eyes hardened.
"Did he use the Cruciatus Curse on you, Aunt Bella?" Orion asked, his voice flat, devoid of warmth.
Bellatrix stiffened. She didn't look at him.
"The Dark Lord was... understandably frustrated," she stammered, rationalizing the abuse with the practiced desperation of a battered zealot. "He did cast the curse. Yes. But... his current body is not capable of sustaining spellcasting of that nature for long. It drained him. It was a brief punishment. It was well-deserved, Orion. I should have found him faster. I should have—"
"Stop," Orion interrupted.
He didn't move from his position by the desk. He simply crossed his arms over his chest, his posture shifting into an unyielding, rigid stance.
His voice was quiet, but it carried an undeniable, possessive authority that cut straight through her fanatical rationalizations.
"I don't like it," Orion stated softly, shaking his head.
His indigo eyes narrowed, boring into hers from across the short expanse of the room.
"The fact that he is currently trapped in a grotesque, weakened form is the cost of his own historical mistakes," Orion said, his tone turning dangerously cold. "It was his failure at Godric's Hollow that reduced him to a parasite, not yours. You spent twelve years rotting in Azkaban out of loyalty to his name."
Orion held her gaze, refusing to let her look away.
"There was absolutely no tactical necessity for him to cast that curse on you, Aunt Bella. None. It was the petty, vindictive lash of a weak man venting his humiliation on the only person who actually came to his aid."
He let the silence stretch for a moment, letting the magic of the familiar bond amplify the cold, protective weight behind his words.
"I don't like the fact that he hurt you," Orion finished flatly. "I don't like it at all."
Bellatrix sat frozen in the armchair, staring at him across the room.
For twelve years, she had known only the frigid despair of the Dementors. For twenty years before that, she had known only the harsh, conditional praise and terrifying wrath of the Dark Lord. No one had ever looked at her and suggested that she did not deserve pain. No one had ever voiced protective outrage on her behalf, especially not directed at her master.
Tears welled in the corners of her dark, heavy-lidded eyes, destabilizing her manic facade from the inside out. Her lips trembled, her hands gripping the armrests of the chair as she looked at her thirteen-year-old godson standing with his arms crossed—aloof, composed, and undeniably fierce in his loyalty to her.
"Orion..." she whispered, her voice cracking with an emotion she clearly didn't know how to navigate.
"For now," Orion sighed softly, uncrossing his arms and letting the heavy tension recede, "we will bench this grievance. We have more pressing matters to discuss."
He folded his hands behind his back, looking at her with a calm, analytical expression.
"Tell me, Aunt Bella," Orion asked smoothly. "What happened next?"