The last few days of the winter term descended upon Hogwarts like a heavy, snow-laden blanket. The castle, usually a drafty fortress of stone, became a cozy refuge of roaring fires and roasting chestnuts. But for Orion Malfoy, the warmth wasn't coming from the hearths; it was coming from the sheer, unadulterated satisfaction of a heist well executed.
Breakfast in the Great Hall had become his favorite form of entertainment.
While Draco was busy constructing a fortress out of toast slices to defend against Crabbe's reaching hands, Orion sat calmly with his tea, his eyes fixed on a specific spot at the Gryffindor table.
Fred and George Weasley looked... haunted.
Usually, the twins were the vibrant, chaotic heart of their house. They were loud, they were brash, and they were constantly plotting. But for the last three days, they had been huddled together like conspirators in a failing coup. They weren't eating. They weren't joking. They were staring at a scrap of parchment—the fake note Orion had planted—with expressions of profound confusion and paranoia.
Orion watched as Fred looked over his shoulder, scanning the Hufflepuff table suspiciously. George was whispering furiously, pointing at a Ravenclaw who was simply tying his shoe.
"They're losing it," Sparkle giggled, her interface zooming in on the dark circles under George's eyes. "Look at them. They think everyone is an agent of 'Westalis'. You broke them, Orion."
"I gave them a puzzle they can't solve," Orion corrected, hiding his smirk behind his teacup. "They are looking for 'Loid Forger'. They are looking for 'Twilight'. They are scouring the library for maps of 'Ostania'. They are so busy chasing ghosts that they haven't pranked a single Slytherin since Tuesday."
"It's beautiful," Sparkle agreed. "Cruel, but beautiful. So, are we going to tell them eventually?"
"Maybe in Seventh Year," Orion mused. "Or maybe never. Let it be the great mystery of their lives. The one prank that pranked the pranksters."
He set his cup down. The map was safe in his Inventory. The twins were neutralized. The first half of this term was effectively a clean sweep for Slytherin House.
The day of departure arrived with a biting frost. The Black Lake was frozen solid, a sheet of iron-grey ice that stretched to the horizon. The students were buzzing with the frantic energy of the holidays, trunks being dragged down staircases and owls hooting in displeasure at being caged.
Orion stood in the center of his dormitory, his trunk packed and shrunk in his pocket. He was dressed in thick winter robes of charcoal wool, lined with silver fur—Narcissa's choice, naturally.
"So," Sparkle's voice buzzed, sounding a bit like a nagging conscience, if a conscience was obsessed with loot. "We are leaving. Going home to the Manor."
"Yes," Orion replied, checking his reflection in the mirror. "Home. Good food. No curfew. And a broken Vanishing Cabinet waiting for my attention."
"But we're leaving something behind," Sparkle pressed. "Something big. Something shiny. Something Silvery."
Orion paused. He knew exactly what she was talking about.
"The Cloak," Orion said flatly.
"The Invisibility Cloak," Sparkle corrected with reverence. "One of the Deathly Hallows. The ultimate stealth item. Impervious to Summoning Charms. Resistant to most hexes. It hides you from Death himself, Orion! And it's going to be delivered to Harry Potter tomorrow morning. Wrapped in paper, just sitting there at the foot of his bed."
Sparkle's interface turned a greedy shade of gold.
"Think about it. We could stay. We could sneak into the Gryffindor tower tonight—you have the Skeleton Key, remember? We swap the package. We take the Cloak. Potter thinks he got nothing for Christmas. We get a God-Tier item."
Orion sighed, turning away from the mirror. He walked to the window, looking out at the frozen lake.
"No," Orion said.
"No?" Sparkle sounded scandalized. "Are you feeling okay? Did the pumpkin juice affect your brain? It's a Hallow! It's loot! It's right there!"
"It's bait," Orion said sharply.
He leaned against the cold stone sill.
"Think, Sparkle. Use your processing power. The Marauder's Map? That was a toy. A piece of clever parchment created by four talented schoolboys. Dumbledore knows it exists, sure, but he doesn't care about it. To him, it's just a tool for mischief. Filch had it for years and nobody batted an eye. Its theft affects two third-year boys and maybe Filch's pride. The heat is minimal."
Orion held up a finger.
"The Cloak is different. It is a Hallow. It belonged to James Potter. Dumbledore borrowed it before James died to study it. He has kept it safe for ten years. He is returning it to Harry now, specifically now, for a reason."
"To let him sneak around?"
"To test him," Orion corrected. "Dumbledore wants Harry to find the Mirror of Erised. He wants Harry to explore. He wants to see if the boy has the restraint to use the Cloak responsibly, or if he abuses it. It is part of the grooming process."
Orion pushed off the windowsill and began to pace the small room.
"If that Cloak vanishes... Dumbledore won't just shrug and say 'Oh well'. He will investigate. He will tear this castle apart. He knows the magical signature of that Cloak. He knows its value. If it goes missing before Harry even touches it, Dumbledore will know a third party is involved. A third party who knows about the Hallows. A third party who can bypass Gryffindor security."
Orion stopped, his eyes cold.
"That paints a target on my back the size of a dragon. I am smart, Sparkle, but I am not ready to play hide-and-seek with Albus Dumbledore over an artifact I don't even need."
"You don't need it?" Sparkle argued. "It's perfect invisibility!"
"I have the recipe of potion of invisibility," Orion tapped his chest. "I have the Disillusionment Charm in my repertoire, which I will master eventually. And frankly, the Cloak is a crutch. Relying on it makes you careless. Potter uses it to wander around aimlessly. I prefer to move unseen because I belong in the shadows, not because I'm wearing a blanket."
"You're no fun," Sparkle pouted. "It's still a Hallow. The Master of Death and all that."
"The Master of Death is a fairy tale title for people who collect rocks and sticks," Orion scoffed. "The Wand is powerful, yes. The Stone is psychological torture. The Cloak is useful, but replaceable. The risk-to-reward ratio is skewed heavily toward 'fatal error'. I'm not touching it."
"Fine," Sparkle relented, her waveform turning blue again. "You win. Logic wins. But if Potter drops it in a puddle, I'm going to scream."
"If he drops it, we steal it then," Orion smirked. "Opportunism is different from theft."
The door to the dormitory banged open.
"Orion!" Draco burst in, wrapped in a scarf so long he looked like a mummy. "Are you ready? The carriages are waiting! I want to get a good compartment on the train! Pansy says she's brought homemade fudge!"
"I am ready, Draco," Orion said, grabbing his gloves. "Let's go home."