For a second, there was silence.
And then, a voice—dry as parchment and sharp as a tack—echoed inside skull, bypassing his auditory nerves entirely.
"Oh... now this is unexpected."
Orion wondered just how the Hat's mind-reading magic worked. Was it just a method of Legillimency engraved via runes or was it some kind of Oracle like magic.
"I have sorted Malfoys for centuries," the Hat murmured, its tone shifting from professional curiosity to genuine intrigue. "I know the texture of your bloodline. Arrogance. Pride. A desperate need for validation masked as superiority. But you... you are a glitch in the pattern, aren't you?"
"I prefer the term 'anomaly'," Orion projected the thought clearly. "And if you could stay out of the 'Private' folder, that would be appreciated. There are things in there that might traumatize a hat."
The Hat chuckled, a dusty, wheezing sound in his mind.
"Privacy is a luxury the sorted do not possess, Mr. Malfoy. And—oh? What is this? Two sets of memories? A life of steel and silicon overlaid upon a life of magic?"
The mental fingers paused, hovering over the burning core of Orion's reincarnation.
"A traveler," the Hat whispered, awestruck. "You possess the wisdom of a man twice your age, and the cynicism of one three times that. You see this world not as a home, but as a system. A machine to be taken apart, analyzed, and reassembled."
"You see the future," the Hat realized, its voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "You know the paths. You know the dangers. You know the story of the snake-faced man and the boy with the scar. You could be a hero, Orion Malfoy. You have the knowledge to save them all. There is a Gryffindor streak in here—a willingness to challenge fate itself. But..."
"But I'm not a martyr," Orion interjected mentally. "And I don't look good in gold and red."
"No," the Hat agreed, shifting its focus. "Your bravery is not moral; it is hubris. It is the confidence of an engineer who believes he can fix the engine while the plane is crashing. So, Ravenclaw? I see a voracious appetite for knowledge. You want to devour the library. You want to understand the arithmancy of the universe. You would thrive among the eagles."
"Too passive," Orion countered. "Ravenclaws learn for the sake of learning. I learn for the sake of leverage, only for my goals and ambition."
"Precise," the Hat purred. "You view knowledge as ammunition. You observe. You calculate. You manipulated the Longbottom boy on the train not out of kindness, but to create a debt. You view loyalty as a transactional commodity. Cold. Pragmatic. Ruthless."
"And yet," the Hat paused, touching a softer part of Orion's psyche. "There is an anchor. Your brother. The loud, boisterous, foolish reflection of yourself. You would burn the world to keep him from burning himself, wouldn't you? It is not a loyalty to a cause, but to a person. It is possessive. It is fierce."
"He's an idiot," Orion thought fondly. "But he's my idiot."
"Ambition," the Hat concluded, the word ringing like a bell. "Deep, cold, and unrelenting. You seek power not to rule, but to ensure that no one can rule you. You want to control the variables. You want to sit in the shadows and pull the strings, laughing as the puppets dance."
"There is no doubt. There is no other place for a mind that treats life like a game of chess where you have already memorized the moves."
The Hat took a deep breath—metaphorically speaking—and roared to the silent hall.
"SLYTHERIN!"
The word hung in the air for a heartbeat before the table on the far right erupted into applause.
Orion smirked, taking the Hat off and handing it back to McGonagall with a polite nod. He hadn't broken a sweat.
He walked toward the Slytherin table. The green and silver banners seemed to shimmer in welcome. Draco was already standing, practically vibrating, his bruised eye forgotten in his excitement.
"I knew it!" Draco cheered, grabbing Orion's arm as he approached. "I knew it! We're together! Malfoys stick together!"
"Sit down, Draco, you're making a scene," Orion said, though he allowed Draco to thump him on the back. He slid onto the bench next to his brother, adjusting his robes. "It was never in doubt. Green brings out my eyes."
"You took a while," Daphne leaned over, her voice curious. " The Hat and you were having quite the chat. What did it say?"
"It told me I have excellent fashion sense and that I was too cool for Hufflepuff." Orion lied effortlessly.
Pansy and Nott joined the table after him. Theodore Nott nodded at him while sitting across the table. "Welcome to the snake pit, Orion."
"Glad to be here, Theo," Orion replied. "Let the games begin."
And then, Professor McGonagall looked down at her scroll. The hall went deadly silent.
"Potter, Harry!"
Orion leaned back, crossing his arms, a small, predatory smile touching his lips.
"Watch closely, Draco," Orion whispered to his brother. "The protagonist has entered the stage."
The name didn't just ripple through the hall; it detonated. The collective intake of breath was so sharp it probably sucked the oxygen out of the room for a solid three seconds. Whispers hissed like steam escaping a pipe—*The Harry Potter? The Boy Who Lived? Does he really have the scar?*
Harry walked to the stool looking like he was marching to a tribunal. He sat. The Hat dropped over his eyes, swallowing his head whole.
And then... nothing.
The silence stretched. One minute. Two minutes. The Hall was vibrating with tension.
Orion leaned back against the Slytherin table, swirling his empty goblet, watching the scene with the detached amusement of someone watching a movie they've already memorized.
*"He's arguing,"* Orion thought, tapping his finger on the wood. *"Right now, the Hat is saying 'Slytherin would make you great,' and Potter is mentally screaming 'Not Slytherin, not Slytherin' because Hagrid told him we're all baby-eating villains."*
*"Achievement Opportunity: Yell 'Slytherin' and startle him?"* Sparkle suggested, her interface flickering over Dumbledore's head.
"Too risky. McGonagall looks ready to hex anyone who sneezes," Orion murmured back.
Finally, the Hat ripped open its brim.
"GRYFFINDOR!"
The table on the far left didn't just cheer; they practically declared war on silence. The Weasley twins were standing on the benches, chanting "WE GOT POTTER!" like they'd just won the lottery.
Draco let out a noise that was half-scoff, half-sneer. He crossed his arms so tightly his robes bunched up. "Pathetic. Look at them. You'd think they just discovered fire. Saint Potter ends up with the Lions. Predictable."
"It fits his hero complex, Draco," Orion said lazily. "Let him go save kittens from trees. We have better things to do."
The Sorting concluded with Blaise Zabini strolling over to the Slytherin table with the air of a prince claiming his throne. He sat next to Orion, nodded once, and checked his fingernails.
Then, Albus Dumbledore stood.
He opened his arms wide, his purple robes shimmering under the enchanted sky. "Welcome! Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our magnificent feast, I have a few start-of-term notices."
Orion tuned out the Headmaster's twinkling platitudes with the practiced ease of someone who had sat through ten years of Lucius Malfoy's dinner table monologues. He leaned his chin on his palm, his eyes scanning the staff table rather than the old man at the podium.
"The Forbidden Forest is out of bounds," Orion mentally recited along with Dumbledore, ticking items off a mental checklist. "The third-floor corridor is certain death. No magic in the hallways between classes."
"That sounds less like a safety warning and more like a tourist itinerary," Sparkle observed dryly. "'Visit the Forest! Die in the Corridor! Experience the thrill of rule-breaking!'"
"Exactly," Orion thought back. "He's practically daring us. It's reverse psychology 101. If he really didn't want us to go there, he'd ward the door with something stronger than a rusty locking spell. He wants curiosity. He wants a hero."
He looked down at his table. It was aggressively empty. The wait for the Sorting had been long, the stool had been uncomfortable, and Orion's blood sugar was dropping to levels where his sarcasm was becoming less witty and more homicidal.
Dumbledore finally concluded his warnings with a spread of his arms and a cheerful, "And now, let the feast begin! Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak!"
"Did he just have a stroke?" Sparkle asked. "Or are those the activation codes for the sleeper agents?"
"Don't analyze it, just feed me," Orion grumbled.
In a blink, the tables were no longer empty. Mountains of roast beef, lakes of gravy, towers of Yorkshire puddings, and platters of chicken materialized from the aether. It wasn't a slow fade-in; it was instant displacement. House-elf magic, efficient and terrifying in its scale.
The Great Hall erupted in a cacophony of scraping forks and delighted chatter.
"Eat up, Orion!" Draco commanded, his eyes wide with carnivorous glee. He immediately speared three pork chops and a mound of mashed potatoes that defied gravity. "We have to be strong! The Slytherin Quidditch team won't captain itself in a few years!"
Orion watched his brother inhale carbohydrates with the grace of a starving niffler.
"Draco, you are going to enter a food coma before dessert arrives," Orion noted, reaching for a modest serving of grilled chicken and a selection of steamed greens. "I, however, prefer to remain conscious."
"You eat like a rabbit," Draco scoffed, gravy already threatening his chin.
"I eat like an engineer," Orion corrected, cutting his chicken with surgical precision. "Heavy carbs induce lethargy. I need peak cognitive function to analyze the common room wards tonight. You can be the brawn, brother. I'll be the brain that keeps you from falling off your broom."
He ate quickly and efficiently, ignoring the treacle tarts that appeared later in favor of a crisp apple. As he chewed, his gaze drifted back to the High Table. His eyes locked onto a figure clad in black, whose greasy hair framed a sallow face that was currently scowling at the back of Harry Potter's head with laser-like intensity.
"Uncle Sev looks particularly cheerful tonight," Orion murmured, sipping his pumpkin juice.
"Who?" Draco mumbled around a mouthful of éclair.
"Professor Snape," Orion clarified, nodding toward the head of their house. "Look at him. He hates Potter with a passion that borders on artistic. That is our leverage."
Draco swallowed, looking confused. "He's our Godfather, Orion. He's already our ally. We don't need leverage. We have family connections."
"That is nepotism, Draco," Orion sighed, wiping his mouth with a linen napkin. "Nepotism is a blunt instrument. It's messy and breeds resentment. I prefer... transaction."
He lowered his voice, leaning in closer. "Snape loves Potions. He values competence. If I excel in his class—if I am the one student who doesn't make him want to bang his head against a cauldron—he won't just protect me because of a vow. He'll protect me because I am useful. I intend to be his prize stallion in a stable of donkeys."
Draco blinked. "I just want him to give me points for breathing."
"Aim higher, Draco. That much is basic."
Orion turned away, trying to find intelligent life elsewhere at the table. He turned to Blaise Zabini, who was peeling a grape with an air of profound boredom.
"Zabini," Orion started. "I was observing the ceiling enchantment. The atmospheric refraction is impressive, but don't you think the star mapping is slightly off? It seems to be lagging behind the actual solstice by about three degrees."
Blaise looked up, his dark eyes lidded. "Malfoy, are you talking about math? During dinner? I was just contemplating whether these robes would look better in a midnight silk rather than this standard issue polyester blend. The drape is tragic."
Orion stared at him. "Right. The drape. Tragic. My mistake."
"Social Link failed," Sparkle chimed in. "Maybe try talking about money? Or blood status? You know, the classics."
"I refuse to lower my IQ just to fit in," Orion thought, turning back to his apple.
Eventually, the desserts vanished, leaving the plates sparkling clean. The heavy sensation of hundreds of full bellies settled over the hall. Dumbledore rose again, his expression turning serious for the dismissal.
"Bedtime," Orion whispered, a small smirk playing on his lips as the benches scraped back. "Finally. Let's go see if the dungeons are as gloomy as promised."