While Orion Malfoy spent his Saturday lounging in the Slytherin Common Room, leisurely reading through The Unedited History of Hogwarts and occasionally correcting Crabbe's grip on a quill, a very different kind of gathering was taking place several floors above.
The Staff Room at Hogwarts was a sanctuary. It was a long, panelled room lined with mismatched, squashy armchairs that had seen centuries of terrified students and exhausted professors. A magical fire roared in the grate, keeping the Scottish chill at bay, and a large pot of Earl Grey tea was steaming on a central table, flanked by a plate of ginger newts.
Albus Dumbledore sat at the head of the room in a high-backed chintz armchair. He wore robes of midnight blue embroidered with golden stars, and his half-moon spectacles twinkled in the firelight.
"Sherbet lemon, anyone?" Dumbledore offered, holding out a small silver tin.
Professor McGonagall, sitting stiffly to his right, declined with a sharp shake of her head. Professor Snape, lurking in a shadow near the window, merely curled his lip in disgust. Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick, however, accepted a sweet each, settling into their chairs. The others were also all seated as well.
"Now," Dumbledore began, his voice calm and pleasant. "We have survived the first week. The castle is still standing, the poltergeist has only flooded one bathroom, and Mr. Filch reports that the number of prohibited items confiscated is within standard deviations. A successful start, I would say."
He folded his hands in his lap. "As is our custom, let us review the operational status of the year before we discuss our new charges. Filius?"
Professor Flitwick, his feet barely touching the floor, cleared his throat. "Yes, Headmaster. As I bring up every September... the matter of the Dueling Club."
A collective, weary sigh seemed to pass through the room, though Snape looked mildly interested.
"The students require practical defense skills," Flitwick squeaked passionately. "With the... current climate... and the rumors... I believe re-instating the club is vital. I have the curriculum ready. I have the safety wards designed."
"And as I tell you every September, Filius," Dumbledore said gently, "The Ministry—specifically the Department of Magical Education—is still enforcing the ban on 'Unsupervised Combat Training' following the incident in 1978. Minister Fudge is... sensitive about students firing hexes at one another. He fears it breeds unrest."
"It breeds competence," Flitwick muttered, crossing his arms. "But very well. I shall shelve the proposal. Again."
"Rolanda?" Dumbledore turned to the hawk-eyed flying instructor.
Madam Hooch set down her teacup with a clatter. "The brooms, Albus. They are a disgrace. The school Cleansweeps are vibrating so badly in high winds that I fear a student will be shaken loose. And the Comets? They have a drift to the left that no amount of charm-work can fix. We need funding for a new fleet. Even the Nimbus 1000s would be an upgrade."
Dumbledore sighed, a shadow crossing his face. "The Board of Governors is... tightening the purse strings this year. Lucius Malfoy has raised concerns about 'frivolous spending' on athletic equipment when the library roof requires repairs. I shall endeavor to squeeze some Galleons from the discretionary fund, but I can promise nothing."
The staff nodded. They knew the code. Lucius Malfoy didn't want the school buying brooms, or anything for that matter. He likely wanted the school to close, so that a new institution catering to only purebloods would rise.
The meeting moved on, glossing over the usual non-issues from the other staff. Professor Binns was not present, as he likely didn't know the meeting was happening (or that it was Saturday). Sybill Trelawney remained in her tower, predicting death for the tea leaves. Quirinus Quirrell sat in the corner, twitching and stammering something about "s-s-supplies for d-d-defense," which everyone politely ignored.
"Now," Dumbledore said, the twinkle returning to his eyes. "The First Years. We have a particularly... interesting crop this year, do we not?"
He looked at his Deputy Headmistress. "Minerva?"
Minerva McGonagall adjusted her spectacles, her expression shifting from administrative sternness to a mix of pride and worry.
"Gryffindor House is... energetic," she chose the word carefully. "Having Harry Potter in the house has acted as a potent catalyst for morale. The older students are doting on him, and the first years look to him as a leader, though he seems largely bewildered by the attention."
She took a sip of tea. "Academically, Mr. Potter is adequate. He has talent, clearly, but lacks discipline. However, I do have a standout. Miss Hermione Granger. Her theoretical knowledge is formidable. She has memorized the textbooks. A bit rigid, perhaps, but promising."
Her brow furrowed. "I am, however, concerned about Neville Longbottom. His magic is... erratic. In Transfiguration, he barely managed to change the color of his match, let alone the composition. He seems terrified of his own wand. I fear he may struggle significantly with the practicals."
"I concur," Flitwick piped up. "In Charms, Mr. Longbottom lacks confidence. His wrist movements are stiff with fear. He anticipates failure before he even casts. And Mr. Weasley... Ronald Weasley... he is charming enough, but his wand is a hand-me-down with the core protruding. It is affecting his spellwork. He is also... easily distracted."
"By Potter," Snape interjected, his voice cutting through the warmth of the room like an icy draught.
Everyone turned to the Potions Master.
"Potter," Snape sneered, "is a mediocrity. He struts around the castle as if he owns it, basking in his celebrity. He pays no attention in my class. He is arrogant, just like his father."
"Severus," Dumbledore warned softly.
"It is the truth," Snape persisted, his black eyes glittering. "He and Weasley are a disruptive influence. They are lazy. And Longbottom? The boy is a disaster waiting to happen. If he does not melt a cauldron by Christmas, it will be a miracle. The Gryffindor cohort is comprised entirely of dunderheads."
"And Slytherin?" Dumbledore asked, hiding a smile.
Snape straightened, looking smug. "My Slytherins are exceptional. Disciplined. Punctual. They work in silence. They brew with precision. Even the less... intellectually gifted ones, like Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle, are showing surprising competence this week. They are turning in assignments that are actually legible. It is a refreshing exprerience."
"Of course they are," McGonagall sniffed. "You terrify them into competence, Severus."
"Fear is an excellent motivator," Snape replied smoothly.
"Actually," Flitwick interrupted, leaning forward. "Speaking of Slytherins... I must mention Orion Malfoy."
Snape's expression didn't change, but his attention sharpened.
"The boy is... special," Flitwick said, struggling for the right word. "His charm work is not just correct; it is masterful. He cast the Wand-Lighting Charm on his first attempt, and it was a perfect sphere of light. Stable. Pure. He holds his wand with the confidence of a fifth year. And he was helping the other students—even the Hufflepuffs—with their pronunciation."
"I have noticed this as well," Pomona Sprout chimed in, smiling warmly. "In Herbology, he was the first to identify the Devil's Snare. And he stopped a Ravenclaw girl from touching a Venomous Tentacula seedling. He has a very... practical head on his shoulders."
McGonagall sighed, rubbing her temples. "I cannot deny the boy's talent. In Transfiguration, he turned his match into a needle that was not only sharp but had a fully formed eye. It was O.W.L. standard transfiguration for a simple match."
She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. "However... I do believe he focuses too much on... social engineering. And rumors."
"Social engineering?" Sprout blinked. "He seems so polite."
"It is the... 'Grimalkin' incident," McGonagall admitted, her cheeks flushing a faint pink.
Dumbledore leaned forward, fascinated. "Do tell, Minerva. I heard whispers of a cat, but the portraits were rather vague."
McGonagall took a deep breath, looking as though she would rather be facing a dragon.
"On the first day," she began, her voice tight. "During the Slytherin and Ravenclaw session. I was, as is my custom, observing the class in my Animagus form. Sitting on the desk. Assessing their demeanor before the lesson began."
"A standard intimidation tactic of yours." Snape noted dryly.
"Mr. Orion Malfoy entered," she continued, ignoring Snape. "He began speaking to his housemates. Loudly. He claimed that he had heard a rumor from the Weasley twins. A rumor that the cat on the desk—me—was not a normal cat, but a 'Grimalkin of Good Fortune'."
Flitwick stifled a giggle.
"He claimed," McGonagall glared at the Charms Master, "that if a student scratched the cat behind the left ear, they would receive a blessing of good grades for the year."
Dumbledore's mustache twitched. He placed a hand over his mouth.
"And?" Snape asked, raising an eyebrow.
"And he did it," McGonagall hissed. "He walked right up to the desk and scratched me behind the ear. Before I could even react! And then... then the Ravenclaws descended. Miss Patil. Mr. Boot. They all wanted the 'blessing'. I was surrounded by eleven-year-olds trying to pet me!"
"Oh dear," Sprout chuckled.
"I had to flee," McGonagall admitted, looking mortified. "I had to run out of my own classroom. I couldn't transform in front of them without explaining why I had allowed myself to be scratched. It would have been undignified."
"So you ran away," Snape summarized, looking delighted.
"I made a strategic retreat!" McGonagall snapped. "But that wasn't the end of it. The rumor spread. By the following day session with the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, the entire First Year cohort believed it. Even Miss Granger—the sensible one—approached the desk with a look of determination and an extended hand!"
The room was silent for a moment, save for the crackling fire. Then, Dumbledore let out a soft chuckle.
"It seems Mr. Malfoy has a talent for... narrative," Dumbledore mused.
"He said he heard it from the Weasley twins," McGonagall said firmly. "And frankly, it sounds exactly like something Fred and George would invent. So, naturally, I summoned them to my office that evening."
"And?" Flitwick asked eagerly.
"I confronted them," McGonagall said, her eyes narrowing at the memory. "I asked them if they were responsible for spreading rumors about my Animagus form being a lucky charm."
"Did they confess?"
"They laughed," McGonagall said, her voice dropping to a dangerous low. "They laughed until they cried. They didn't deny it. They didn't confirm it. They just looked at each other and howled. The audacity! To treat the Deputy Headmistress's dignity as a joke!"
She slammed her hand on the armrest.
"So, I gave them detention. Every Friday night for September and October. With Filch. Perhaps scrubbing trophies without magic will teach them to respect their professors."
"A harsh punishment," Sprout noted.
"Deserved," McGonagall insisted. "As for Mr. Malfoy... I believe he was simply gullible. He heard a rumor from older students and acted on it. He seemed genuinely respectful when I questioned him later. He even apologized for 'disturbing the teaching aid'. He is a victim of the Weasleys' pranks, nothing more."
Snape made a noise that sounded like a scoff trapped in his throat.
"You disagree, Severus?" Dumbledore asked, his eyes sharp.
"Orion Malfoy," Snape said slowly, "is Draco's twin, but they are night and day. Draco is loud, boastful, and wears his heart on his sleeve. Orion... Orion observes. He is quiet. He calculates. The idea that he was 'gullible' enough to believe a Weasley rumor..."
Snape shook his head. "It is unlikely. However, if he successfully framed the Weasley twins for his own amusement... that is... remarkably Slytherin."
"You think he orchestrated it?" McGonagall frowned. "But he looked so innocent."
"The most dangerous snakes often do," Snape murmured, though there was a grudging respect in his tone. "Regardless, the Weasleys are being punished. I see no downside to this outcome."
"Well," Dumbledore said, clapping his hands together. "It seems we have a lively year ahead of us. Mr. Potter bringing hope, Mr. Malfoy bringing... creativity, and the Weasleys bringing chaos. I suggest we all keep a close eye on our charges."
He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting.
"And Minerva," Dumbledore added, his eyes twinkling madly. "If you ever do feel the need to dispense luck, I find a scratch behind the ear is quite relaxing."
"Albus!" McGonagall turned a vivid shade of crimson.
As the staff filed out, Snape lingered for a moment. He thought about Orion Malfoy. He thought about the perfect potion the boy had brewed—better than Draco's, a whole lot better than Potter's. And he thought about the boy orchestrating a campus-wide prank that landed the Gryffindor pranksters in detention while he walked away with house points.
For the first time in a long time, Severus Snape walked back to the dungeons with something approaching a good mood. The boy was dangerous, yes. But how he uses that dangerous mind of his was important. And that made all the difference.