The great oak doors swung open with a theatrical groan that Orion suspected was entirely intentional—nothing set the mood like a bit of gothic drama. Professor McGonagall led the way, and the gaggle of first-years shuffled across the threshold, their collective anxiety practically thickening the air.
Orion stepped inside, and for a moment, his cynicism paused.
It wasn't just a room; it was an architectural flex. The Great Hall was designed to make you feel small, insignificant, and awestruck all at once. Thousands of floating candles hovered in mid-air, defying wax physics, casting a warm, golden glow over the four long house tables that stretched into the distance.
But it was the ceiling that demanded attention. Or rather, the absence of one.
Orion tilted his head back, ignoring Draco's gasp beside him. The stone vaulting vanished, replaced by a perfect, high-definition rendering of the night sky outside. It was a velvety, boundless indigo scattered with diamond-hard stars.
"Atmospheric Charms," Orion murmured, analyzing the spellwork. "Layered with a weather-syncing ward and a localized projection illusion. It's a masterclass in environmental magic. If they put this much effort into the plumbing, I might actually enjoy living here."
*"Achievement Check: Star Gazer,"* Sparkle hummed in his ear. *"It is pretty, isn't it? Better than the plaster cherubs at home?"*
"Significantly," Orion agreed silently.
His gaze lowered from the heavens to the High Table on the raised dais at the far end of the hall. The staff were seated there, a lineup of magical prowess and eccentric fashion choices.
In the center sat Albus Dumbledore on a golden throne-like chair. He looked exactly as the stories described: ancient, benevolent, and dressed in robes that could only be described as 'aggressive purple.' His long silver beard flowed like a river, and his eyes twinkled behind half-moon spectacles. To the uninitiated, he was a kindly grandfather. To Orion, he looked like a general surveying a chessboard.
Further down the line sat Severus Snape. Orion's lips twitched. His godfather looked miserable. Snape's sallow face was set in a permanent sneer, his black eyes scanning the incoming students as if mentally calculating how many cauldrons they would melt before Christmas. He looked like he had just swallowed a lemon and was now being asked to write an essay about how delicious it was.
But Orion's attention didn't linger on Snape. It drifted to the twitchy, purple-turbaned figure beside him.
Quirinus Quirrell.
The man was a nervous wreck. He was pale, trembling slightly, and drinking from his goblet with a shaking hand. But it was the turban that fascinated Orion. It was massive, smelling faintly of garlic even from this distance, and wrapped with unnecessary tightness.
"Fascinating," Orion thought, his eyes narrowing. "That isn't just fabric. How does the concealment work? Is it a standard disillusionment layer woven into the cloth? Or is it a parasitic masking charm to hide the Dark Lord's soul signature? Carrying a second soul on the back of your head must be a logistical nightmare for neck support."
As Orion watched, he noticed a pattern.
Dumbledore's twinkling gaze wasn't scanning the crowd randomly. Snape's dark stare wasn't general loathing. Even Quirrell's terrified eyes were locked onto a single coordinate.
They were all staring at a small, scrawny boy with messy black hair and broken glasses who was shuffling nervously near the front of the line.
Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived was practically glowing with narrative gravity. He was the center of the universe. The Headmaster, the Potions Master, and the possessed Defense Professor were all fixated on him like moths to a very famous flame.
A slow, predatory smirk curled the corner of Orion's mouth.
*"Look at them,"* Orion thought, sliding his hands into his pockets. *"They are so distracted. The chessboard pieces are all watching the Queen."*
*"And what does the Knight do when everyone is watching the Queen?"* Sparkle asked, her tone gleeful.
*"The Knight moves unseen,"* Orion replied. *"This is perfect. As long as the Golden Boy is the center of attention, I am invisible. While the Eye of Sauron is fixed on Potter, I have free real estate to loot the pantry, map the secret passages, and break every rule of reality I can find."*
His attention was back to the ongoing process of Sorting. The Great Hall was admittedly impressive, a feat of atmospheric charm work that Orion could appreciate from an engineering standpoint, even if the floating candles were a fire hazard waiting to happen. But the spectacle was currently being ruined by a hat.
The Sorting Hat, a battered, patchworked nightmare of haberdashery sitting on a three-legged stool, had torn its brim open to sing. It wasn't a short song. It was a rambling, rhythmic ballad about the four founders, their distinct qualities, and the importance of unity. It rhymed "Gryffindor" with "more" and "Slytherin" with "kin" in a display of lyrical laziness that offended Orion's ears.
Orion tuned it out instantly. He had read the lyrics back in his original world Harry Potter books. The meter was consistent, but the thematic content was redundant. It was essentially a sentient piece of dirty laundry lecturing a room full of children about school spirit.
"Inefficient," Orion thought, inspecting his fingernails. "It has a whole year to prepare new material, and this is what we get? A history lesson set to the tune of a funeral dirge."
Finally, the Hat fell silent. The hall applauded, mostly out of relief that it was over.
Professor McGonagall stepped forward, unrolling a scroll of parchment that looked long enough to wallpaper a small room. Her expression was severe, the kind of look that silenced a room without a word. Orion respected that. Efficiency.
"When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted," she announced clearly.
The cattle call began.
Orion leaned back slightly, his arms crossed, keeping half an ear on the names while he mentally cataloged the room. He wasn't interested in the fodder; he was tracking the players.
"Abbott, Hannah!"
A girl with pigtails stumbled up. HUFFLEPUFF.
"Bones, Susan!"
HUFFLEPUFF.
"Safe bets," Orion mused. "The House of the Loyal. Good for networking if you want people who won't stab you in the back, but terribly boring at parties."
"Bulstrode, Millicent!"
Millicent lumbered to the stool with the grace of a siege engine. The Hat barely grazed her head before shouting "SLYTHERIN!" She stomped off to the table of green and silver, already carving out a territory near the potatoes.
Then came the trio of Draco's sycophants.
"Crabbe, Vincent!"
The Hat touched his head. There was a pause—Orion suspected the Hat was desperately searching for a brain wave, any brain wave, to analyze. Finding only the echo of vast emptiness and a desire for cake, it resigned itself. "SLYTHERIN!"
"Davis, Tracey!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
"Goyle, Gregory!"
"SLYTHERIN!"
"The goon squad is assembling," Orion noted. "Excellent. Draco will have his meat shields."
"Granger, Hermione!"
Orion's eyes sharpened. The girl with the enormous, bushy hair practically sprinted to the stool, clutching her robes as if she were afraid they'd escape. She jammed the Hat onto her head.
Silence stretched. The Hat was clearly debating.
"Intelligence versus courage," Orion analyzed. "She's brilliant, clearly, but she's neurotic. The Hat is likely trying to decide if her need to be right outweighs her need to be a hero."
Finally, the Hat made its choice. "GRYFFINDOR!"
The Gryffindor table erupted. Hermione looked faintly relieved and slightly shell-shocked as she hurried off, muttering to herself. Orion shook his head slightly. "A waste. Ravenclaw would have sharpened her mind. Guess she followed the great Albus Dumbledore's house as in the Canon."
"Greengrass, Daphne!"
The Ice Queen ascended. She sat gracefully. The Hat didn't hesitate. "SLYTHERIN!"
"Longbottom, Neville!"
The boy tripped on his way to the stool. The hall tittered. Neville looked like he was walking to the gallows. He sat down, jamming the Hat over his eyes.
It took a long time. Longer than Granger.
"Interesting," Orion thought, watching the boy's trembling hands. "The Hat sees the fear, obviously. But it's digging deeper. It's looking for that spark probably. The potential to be more than a victim."
"GRYFFINDOR!"
Neville ran off wearing the Hat, had to run back to give it to McGonagall, and then collapsed at the Gryffindor table looking like he'd narrowly escaped a dragon.
"Malfoy, Draco!"
The whisper that ran through the hall was audible. The Malfoy name carried weight. Necks craned.
Draco swaggered to the stool. He didn't walk; he strutted. He looked at the Hat with a sneer of entitlement. He barely let the fabric touch his platinum, gel-hardened hair.
"SLYTHERIN!" the Hat shrieked instantly.
It was faster than a blinking spell. The Hat hadn't even bothered to deliberate; it had sensed the overwhelming aura of pureblood elitism and daddy issues from six inches away.
The Slytherin table offered polite, superior applause. Draco beamed, strutting to his seat next to Crabbe and Goyle, looking immensely pleased with himself. He immediately turned back to the front, trying to catch Orion's eye, mouthing, 'Told you!'
Orion rolled his eyes. "Subtlety is dead, and my brother killed it."
"Malfoy, Orion!"
McGonagall's voice rang out again. The whispering in the hall doubled.
"Another one?"
"Twins?"
"He looks different. Look at the eyes."
Orion pushed himself forward. He didn't swagger like Draco. He walked with a relaxed fluidity, his hands loose at his sides. He kept his face blank, a mask of polite indifference, but his dark blue eyes scanned the room.
He approached the stool. He picked up the Hat. It smelled of old dust and ancient thoughts.
"Well," Orion thought, turning to face the crowd before sitting down. "Let's see if you can handle a reincarnated soul with a penchant for chaos, you old rag."
He lowered the Hat over his eyes, plunging the world into darkness.