News traveled through Hogwarts faster than a racing broom, usually carried by the twin currents of gossip and ghosts. By dinner that evening, the Great Hall was buzzing with a delicious piece of intelligence that warmed Orion's heart.
"Detention," Draco whispered gleefully, leaning over his shepherd's pie. "For two months. With Filch."
"Who?" Orion asked innocently, keeping his eyes firmly on his plate and decidedly away from the High Table, where Professor McGonagall was currently stabbing a sausage with uncharacteristic aggression.
"The Weasley twins!" Draco crowed. "Apparently, McGonagall hauled them into her office about some prank involving her cat. They didn't even do anything specific, they just laughed at her, and she snapped! Can you believe it? The Gryffindor Quidditch Beaters, scrubbing trophies until Halloween."
"Tragic," Orion drawled, suppressing a smirk. "It seems a lack of respect for authority has consequences. A valuable lesson."
He took a sip of pumpkin juice, feeling the weight of a job well done. He had weaponized a rumor, secured house points for Slytherin (for the needle), and neutralized the school's premier pranksters for the first quarter of the term.
That night, safe behind the velvet curtains of his four-poster bed, Orion laid out the next phase of operations.
"Sparkle," he murmured. "Phase One is complete. The board is set. Now, we move to the next event."
The blue interface hummed into existence.
"You mean the Flying Lesson?" Sparkle guessed. "The one where Longbottom tries to embrace gravity?"
"Precisely," Orion nodded. "It is a canonical event. In the original timeline, Neville falls, breaks his wrist, and Madam Hooch takes him away. This leaves Draco unsupervised to steal the Remembrall, which leads to Harry flying, which leads to Harry becoming Seeker."
"So you want to stop it?"
"I want to alter it," Orion corrected. "I don't care about Neville's wrist, personally. But a broken bone is messy. And if I save him... it creates a debt. It also displays exceptional reflex and magical competence in front of a witness—Madam Hooch."
"So, you're going to catch him?" Sparkle asked. "Arresto Momentum? That's a Second Year spell at least. Maybe Third. Dumbledore used it in the third year to save Harry, but that was high-level stuff."
"Too risky," Orion agreed. "It requires covering a moving target with a magical field. If I miss, he splats. And it drains too much core stability for a first-year."
He tapped his wand against his palm.
"I'm going to use Spongify. The Softening Charm."
"On Neville?"
"On the ground," Orion explained. "It's a stationary target. It's a larger surface area. If I turn the grass into a trampoline right before he hits, he bounces. No broken bones. Just a bit of whiplash."
"But you need aim," Sparkle noted. "And timing. You have a window of about two seconds."
"That," Orion smiled, "is why I'm going to practice."
"And," he added, his voice dropping lower, "I have another goal in mind. Something involving the aftermath. But let's keep that vague for now."
The following week was a study in clandestine dedication.
Orion found an abandoned classroom on the fourth floor, unused since a specialized Alchemy elective was cancelled decades ago. It was dusty, empty, and perfect.
Every evening after dinner, while Draco held court in the common room and Hermione Granger was likely reading the library, Orion slipped away.
He spent hours casting Spongify.
He started with books. He would levitate a heavy tome, cancel the charm, and then try to soften the floor before it hit.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
"Too slow," Orion growled, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He practiced the snap-draw. The Dragon-hide holster on his forearm was a marvel of engineering. A flick of the wrist, and the Hawthorn wand was in his hand.
Snap. Swish. "Spongify!"
By Wednesday, the books were bouncing.
By Thursday, he was dropping heavy iron cauldron weights from the top of a desk.
Snap. "Spongify!"
BOING.
The iron weight hit the stone flagstones, which rippled like purple gelatin, and bounced harmlessly into the air.
"Target acquisition, lock, cast," Orion muttered, holstering his wand. "0.8 seconds. Acceptable."
Thursday afternoon arrived with a clear, breezy sky—perfect flying weather, if not for Orion's fore-knowledge.
The Slytherins and Gryffindors gathered on a flat stretch of lawn near the Forbidden Forest. The grass rippled in the wind. Lying in two neat lines were twenty broomsticks.
Orion stood next to Draco, looking down at the school brooms.
"Disgraceful," Orion murmured. "Look at the twig alignment on that Shooting Star. It's bent to the left. The aerodynamics are ruined. And that Cleansweep has twigs sticking out at a forty-five-degree angle. It's a safety hazard."
"It's a broom, Orion," Draco scoffed, though he looked nervous. "It flies. That's the point."
Madam Hooch arrived. She had short, grey hair and yellow eyes like a hawk.
"Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "Everyone stand by a broomstick. Come on, hurry up."
Orion stepped up to a broom that looked slightly less decrepit than the others.
"Stick out your right hand over your broom," Hooch called, "and say 'Up!'"
"UP!" everyone shouted.
Orion's broom flew into his hand instantly, slapping against his palm with a solid thwack. It recognized authority.
Harry Potter's broom did the same.
Draco's broom hovered, then slowly drifted into his hand.
"Up!" Ron Weasley shouted. His broom smacked him in the face. Draco snickered.
Madam Hooch then walked down the line, correcting grips.
"Mr. Malfoy," she critiqued Draco. "You're holding it too tight. You'll lose maneuverability. And your knuckles are white."
"But I've always held it like this," Draco argued, looking affronted. "At the Manor, I fly—"
"You are at Hogwarts now," Orion cut in quietly, not looking at his brother. "She is the professional instructor, Draco. If she says your grip is wrong, it is wrong. Adjust."
Draco glared at Orion but loosened his grip. "Traitor," he muttered.
"Now," Hooch commanded. "When I blow my whistle, you kick off from the ground, hard. Keep your brooms steady, rise a few feet, and then come straight back down by leaning forward. On my whistle. Three—two—"
Neville Longbottom, whose face was a mask of sheer terror, didn't wait. His nerves got the better of him. Before the whistle touched Hooch's lips, Neville kicked off.
"Mr. Longbottom!" Hooch shouted. "Come back down!"
He didn't come down. He went up. Fast.
The broom, sensing the boy's panic, reacted erratically. It shot upward like a cork from a bottle. Twelve feet. Twenty feet.
Neville's face was white. He gasped, slipping sideways. The broom jerked, carrying him higher, toward the castle wall.
"Help!" Neville screamed.
He zoomed toward the stone wall, bounced off it with a sickening thud, and then the broom bucked wildly. Neville slipped. His hands scrambled for purchase on the polished handle, but he missed.
He fell.
From thirty feet up, gravity took hold.
The class screamed. Madam Hooch gasped, her wand halfway out but clearly too slow.
Orion didn't scream. He didn't gasp.
He moved.
Snap.
The Hawthorn wand shot from his sleeve into his hand with a audible click. His arm snapped up, tracking not the falling boy, but the patch of grass directly beneath him.
He visualized the purple gel. He visualized the bounce.
"Spongify!"
A jet of violet light shot from Orion's wand. It didn't hit Neville. It hit the earth just a split second before Neville did.
The ground rippled. The grass and dirt instantly lost their solidity, turning into a glowing, purple cushion of magical rubber.
Neville hit the ground.
Instead of the crunch of bone and the snap of a wrist, there was a loud, comical BOING.
Neville sank into the ground as if falling into a giant marshmallow, his momentum absorbed. Then, physics asserted itself, and he was launched back into the air about five feet, flipping over once in a ragdoll somersault, before landing on his back in the normal grass beside the charmed patch.
He lay there, eyes wide, chest heaving.
"I'm alive?" Neville squeaked.
Silence descended on the grounds. The violet glow on the grass faded, returning to normal turf.
Madam Hooch was the first to move. She ran over to Neville, bending over him.
"Mr. Longbottom! Are you alright?"
Neville sat up shakily. He checked his arms. He checked his legs. He felt his hands.
"I think so," Neville stammered. "My... my back hurts from the wall. But... I didn't break anything."
Hooch let out a breath of relief, then turned her hawk-like yellow eyes toward the line of students. Her gaze landed squarely on Orion, who was calmly retracting his wand into his holster with a flick of his wrist.
"Mr. Malfoy," Hooch said, her voice filled with a mixture of shock and professional approval. "That was... incredibly quick thinking. And a Spongify charm? I do not believe it is taught yet to First Year, so soon at that."
"I read ahead, Madam," Orion said smoothly, his face a mask of polite concern. "Reflexes."
"Ten points to Slytherin," Hooch announced, helping Neville to his feet. "For quick thinking and excellent aim. You saved him a nasty break."
She turned back to Neville, who was trembling like a leaf.
"Come on, boy. You're shaking like a tambourine. Off to the Hospital Wing, just to be safe. That impact with the wall might have caused a concussion."
"A dislocated shoulder, perhaps not though, no broken bones," Hooch diagnosed, her face pale with shock. "Incredible. Absolutely incredible. Another Ten points to Slytherin for... for exceptional use of a basic charm under pressure!"
She turned and began to lead the whimpering, shaken Neville toward the castle.