The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting long, shifting shadows across the Persian rug. Bellatrix remained seated in the plush armchair, her gaze fixed intently on Orion, waiting for his guidance as if he were an oracle of pure blood.
Orion pulled out the wooden chair by his desk and turned it around to sit facing her, resting his arms along the backrest.
"What is his next move, Aunt Bella?" Orion inquired, his tone shifting into the cool, measured cadence of a master strategist reviewing a war room map. "What are his immediate operational priorities?"
Bellatrix let out a slow, breathy sigh, twirling a stray lock of dark hair around her finger.
"His absolute priority," she answered, a fanatical reverie creeping back into her voice, "is a true vessel. A new body for himself. But... he refuses to rush the process. He has spent twelve long years existing as less than the meanest ghost; he made it exceedingly clear that he is entirely willing to wait a few more months, or even another year, if it guarantees a vessel worthy of his glory."
She leaned forward, her dark eyes flashing. "He will not settle for a fragile, decaying construct. He demands perfection."
"To be expected," Orion nodded calmly, his Level 2 Mind Arts effortlessly retrieving the corresponding sections from his clone's independent reading on soul based alchemy from books in the room of requirement. "There are numerous ancient rituals designed to graft flesh onto a roaming spirit or summon an avatar for a wraith. However, almost all of them possess extraordinarily niche, volatile prerequisites. Many extract catastrophic physical tolls—withered limbs, accelerated cellular rot, or unstable magical cores that collapse under high-yield casting."
He offered a dry, cynical smirk.
"The Dark Lord is many things, but he is not an idiot when it comes to self-preservation. He is smart enough not to rush into a dark ritual when the scales are not overwhelmingly tipped in his favor. He will want a body that enhances his power, not one that binds it."
Orion paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Is he still in Albania? Or has he relocated to a secondary safe house?"
"He remains in the forest," Bellatrix revealed, a hint of frustration coloring her tone. "Hidden deep within the foliage. He has explicitly commanded me to keep an eye on the political movements within the Ministry of Magic and the security adjustments at Hogwarts. That is my primary task."
She scoffed, crossing her legs. "And he was exceptionally clear regarding our other subordinate members. He ordered me not to reveal his location to anyone. Not to Antonin, not to Augustus, not even to Rabastan or my own husband. Only the rat and I know where he breathes."
Orion's brow arched in genuine amusement. "A complete information blackout. He is keeping the circle deliberately severed."
He leaned in, the next deduction clicking into place like clockwork. "I take it he flatly denied your suggestion to seek sanctuary here at the Manor?"
Bellatrix's jaw tightened, and she gave a stiff, reluctant nod. "He refused. He stated that the time was not right."
Orion let out a quiet, mocking chuckle, shaking his head.
"Again, Aunt Bella... entirely to be expected," Orion drawled, leaning his chin against his crossed arms. "Think about his psychology. For someone with an ego as gargantuan as the Dark Lord, the mere concept of appearing weak, deformed, and helpless in front of his former followers is a torment worse than death. His violent, unhinged reaction to your own arrival—an arrival he could not control or predict—demonstrated that perfectly. He cannot bear to be seen as an invalid needing to be spoon-fed potion."
He raised a finger, pivoting to the political angle.
"And for a creature that paranoid, the ancestral home of Lucius Malfoy represents an unacceptable mortal risk."
Bellatrix sneered, a flash of pure disdain for her brother-in-law crossing her face.
"Father used the Imperius Curse defense twelve years ago to walk away from the Wizengamot without a scratch," Orion explained with brutal honesty. "He paid massive fines, smiled for the Ministry photographers, and kept his wealth intact. In the eyes of the Dark Lord, that does not scream loyalty; it screams cowardice. And, in many ways, it screams treason."
Orion met her dark gaze with absolute, chilling clarity.
"In his current, crippled state—unable to properly cast a lethal curse without draining his fragile infant form—the Dark Lord would be utterly terrified that Lucius would simply poison his broth or hand him over to Amelia Bones on a silver platter just to secure another official pardon and polish his public reputation. He fears Father would betray him for profit."
Bellatrix stared at him, her manic expression softening into profound, respectful silence. The clarity with which the boy dissected the deepest, unspoken paranoias of both her master and her family was breath-taking.
"You see through everyone, don't you, my little star?" she murmured softly, genuine awe lacing her voice.
"I see the world as it exists, Aunt Bella, not as people wish it to be," Orion smiled, a charming, disarming expression. He stood up from his chair, smoothing down his lounge robes.
"Anyways," Orion concluded, waving a dismissive hand, "his paranoia does not matter to us. In fact, it works entirely to our advantage."
He stretched his shoulders, feeling the tension in the room completely dissolve.
"Since he has given you the task of monitoring the Ministry and Hogwarts, we will dutifully 'work' on it while continuing to advance our own private agendas. You remain safely anchored here in the lap of luxury, and I remain safely in control of the information pipeline."
Orion's lips curved into a sharp, predatory grin.
"If the great Dark Lord wishes to sit in a damp, muddy Albanian forest, nursing a milk bottle and relying on an untrustworthy rat for company... that is entirely his own prerogative. It suits our purposes wonderfully."