Christmas morning at Malfoy Manor was less about the joy of giving and more about the performative art of wealth distribution. The sun glinted off the snow-covered hedges, casting a blinding white light through the windows, but inside, the temperature was perfectly regulated by centuries of warming charms.
Orion woke to the sound of a crack.
"Master Orion!" Dobby squeaked, wearing a tea cozy topped with a festive sprig of holly. "Dobby has delivered the packages! All of them!"
"Excellent work, Dobby," Orion yawned, stretching his arms. "No mix-ups? You didn't give Crabbe the rare orchid and Mother the box of chocolates?"
"Dobby is careful!" the elf promised, looking affronted. "Dobby checked the tags twice!"
Orion dismissed the elf and moved to the pile of gifts at the foot of his bed. As expected, they were tasteful, expensive, and largely uninspired. A set of silver cauldron stirring rods from Draco (or rather, bought by Narcissa with Draco's name attached). A new set of dress robes from his parents. A box of crystallized pineapple from Blaise.
"Mediocre," Orion noted, tossing a pair of dragon-hide gloves onto the pile. "Acceptable, but safe."
He was far more interested in the gifts he had sent out.
Downstairs in the drawing room, the scene was one of aristocratic leisure. A massive tree, decorated with live fairies and silver ornaments, dominated the room.
"Orion," Narcissa smiled from her armchair, holding a potted plant with shimmering, translucent leaves. "This Lunaria Etheris is exquisite. It only blooms under starlight. How did you know?"
"I noticed you admiring the one in the Herbology encyclopedia, Mother," Orion lied smoothly. In reality, he had just asked the owner of the magical plant shop for the most "finicky, high-maintenance, and expensive" flower they had. It suited her perfectly.
"And this!" Lucius held up a thick, leather-bound tome titled The Unbroken Line: A History of Pure Blood. "A first edition. A thoughtful choice, Orion. It is vital we remember our roots in these... diluted times."
"I thought you would appreciate the genealogy charts, Father," Orion said, keeping his face neutral. To him, the book was a doorstop filled with inbred propaganda, but giving Lucius what he wanted was the easiest way to ensure a peaceful holiday. Hopefully, he will be too busy reading too give lectures to Orion.
"Look at this!" Draco shouted, ignoring the adults.
He released a Golden Snitch from a velvet box. It zoomed into the air, buzzing angrily.
"It's a Training Snitch!" Draco cheered, chasing it around the sofa. "Orion, you're the best! It's even faster than the standard ones!"
"I had it enchanted to be elusive," Orion said, sipping his tea. "It should keep you busy."
"And out of my hair," he added mentally.
But the gift he was most curious about was currently being opened miles away at Parkinson Manor.
Orion had sent Pansy the box of Feline Fancies—the reward from the McGonagall incident. He had, however, removed three of the pink cupcakes for "quality assurance testing" (which meant dissecting them in his trunk to reverse-engineer the transfiguration matrix).
To the remaining cakes, he had attached a note: For when you want to embrace your inner predator. Effects are temporary, adorable, and highly fashionable. Enjoy. - O.
"You're using her as a guinea pig," Sparkle noted.
"I'm a pioneer of magical cosmetics," Orion corrected. "Besides, she'll love it. Pansy enjoys attention. Walking around with changing-color cat ears for an hour? She'll be the talk of her family gathering."
The afternoon descended into a rare moment of unstructured play. Crabbe and Goyle had arrived via Floo to pay their respects (and eat the Malfoy pastries), and the boys were dispatched to the gardens.
The snow was deep and pristine.
"I bet I can hit that statue from here," Draco bragged, packing a snowball. He was wearing a mink-lined cloak that cost more than a racing broom.
"Bet you can't," Goyle grunted.
Draco wound up. He threw. The snowball sailed wide, hitting a peacock instead. The bird shrieked and strutted away indignantly.
"The wind took it!" Draco insisted, bending down to make another. "It was a gust! A freak gust!"
While Draco was busy explaining the aerodynamics of the garden to a confused Crabbe, Orion stood ten feet away, calmly molding a perfect sphere of snow. He didn't use magic to harden it—that would be cheating—but he did use physics to pack it to maximum density.
"Hey, Draco," Orion called out.
Draco turned. "What?"
THWACK.
The snowball caught Draco squarely in the face. It exploded in a cloud of white powder, leaving Draco sputtering, snow clinging to his eyelashes and filling his mouth.
Crabbe and Goyle stared, open-mouthed.
Draco wiped the snow from his eyes, blinking in shock. "You... you hit me!"
"Headshot," Orion smirked, tossing a second snowball lightly in his hand. "Constant vigilance, brother."
"Get him!" Draco shrieked.
It devolved into chaos. Draco, Crabbe, and Goyle formed a clumsy alliance, hurling snow with brute force but terrible aim. Orion moved like a dancer, dodging behind statues, using the hedges for cover, and returning fire with sniper-like precision.
For an hour, he wasn't a reincarnated engineer or a Slytherin schemer. He was just a boy throwing ice at his brother.
It was... nice.
But all holidays must end, and in the world of the Malfoys, they ended with politics.
New Year's Eve arrived with a flurry of house-elves magically ironing dress robes and polishing silver buckles. This year, the annual Ministry Gala was not being held in the Ministry Atrium, but at Minister Fudge's private villa in the countryside—a move clearly designed to show off his "personal wealth" (which everyone knew was mostly "donations" from people like Lucius).
Orion stood in front of his mirror. He wore robes of midnight blue velvet, cut in a sharp, modern style that contrasted with the stuffy, frilly robes most wizards favored. His hair was brushed back, not gelled like Draco's helmet, but styled to look effortlessly windswept.
"You look like a miniature politician," the mirror commented wheezily. "I don't trust you."
"Good," Orion straightened his cuffs. "That's the look I'm going for."
He descended the stairs. Narcissa looked radiant in silver silk, and Lucius was the picture of pureblood arrogance in high-collared black robes with a diamond clasp.
"Orion," Lucius nodded approvingly. "Sharp. Presentable. Remember, tonight is about connections. The Minister will be there. Department Heads. Do not spend the evening hiding in a corner."
"I wouldn't dream of it, Father," Orion promised. "I plan to be very... social."
They gathered at the main fireplace. The fire had been turned purple for the occasion—a direct line to the Minister's residence.
"Draco, stop fidgeting with your collar," Narcissa chided gently.
"It itches," Draco complained. "Do I really have to stay beside you? It's boring. It's just old people talking about laws. I'd rather talk with my friends."
"It is power, Draco," Lucius said, grabbing a handful of Floo powder. "And power is never boring if you know how to wield it."
Lucius stepped into the fire. "The Minister's Merit!"
He vanished.
Narcissa followed.
Orion stepped up. He grabbed the powder. The purple flames licked at his fingers, cool and harmless.
He looked back at the quiet, empty manor. Then he looked at Draco, who was looking miserable.
"Cheer up, Draco," Orion said, a glint in his eye. "Maybe someone will get drunk and fall into the punch bowl. We can take bets."
Draco cracked a smile. "Five Galleons says it's Bagman."
"You're on."
Orion threw the powder.
"The Minister's Merit!"
The world spun into a blur of purple fire. Orion closed his eyes, centering himself. He was leaving the sanctuary of home and stepping back onto the chessboard. The Gala was going to be boring, yes. But it was also a room full of the most powerful people in Britain, most of them drunk on champagne and their own self-importance.
Secrets would be spilled. Alliances would be tested.
And Orion Malfoy was bringing his mind into the equation.