February swept over the Scottish Highlands with a vengeance, burying Hogwarts Castle under thick drifts of snow and freezing the Black Lake into a solid sheet of milky ice. Inside the castle, the fires roared higher, and the students wrapped their scarves a little tighter, but the bitterest chill wasn't coming from the weather. It was coming from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
Albus Dumbledore, true to his word, had secured a replacement for the late, unlamented Professor Quirrell. However, given the mid-year timing and the position's notoriously lethal reputation, his options had been severely limited.
The new professor was a Junior Auror named Savage—a young man likely on some sort of probationary lease agreement from the Ministry of Magic. He had short, sharply cropped hair, nervous eyes, and an absolute, unshakeable devotion to the Ministry-approved curriculum.
"Please turn your textbooks to page one hundred and twelve," Professor Savage droned, standing rigidly behind his desk. He didn't pace. He didn't demonstrate. He read aloud. "The Smokescreen Spell. A highly effective, non-lethal deterrent for breaking line of sight..."
Orion sat in the second row next to Draco, his chin resting in his hand. He wasn't looking at the textbook; he was staring blankly at the blackboard, dissecting runic matrices in his head.
"This is excruciating," Draco whispered, his head resting on his crossed arms. "He hasn't even shown us how to hold the wand for it. Father said the Aurors were the elite. This guy looks like he's afraid of his own shadow."
"He's a junior recruit, Draco," Orion murmured without moving his lips. "Fudge likely sent him as a political favor to Dumbledore, or simply to get him out of the way at the Auror Office. He's here to act as a placeholder. A warm body to fulfill the educational mandate."
For the first-years, it was merely boring. Savage taught basic, elementary spells—the Knockback Jinx, the Wand-Extinguishing Charm, the Smokescreen—and required them to write endless inches of parchment on the theoretical applications. It was safe. It was dull.
But for the older students, it was a catastrophe.
That evening in the Slytherin Common Room, the atmosphere was fraught with panic. Gemma Farley, the Fifth-Year Prefect, was surrounded by a mountain of reference books, her usually immaculate hair frizzy with stress.
"He told us to read a chapter on counter-curses!" Gemma was hissing to Marcus Flint, who looked equally grim. "Just read it! The O.W.L. practicals are in four months! How are we supposed to defend against a Boggart or a Red Cap if we've never actually seen one? If I fail Defense, my application to the Department of International Magical Cooperation is dead."
"The N.E.W.T. students are organizing a self-study group in the empty classrooms," Flint grunted, cracking his knuckles. "We'll have to join them. Savage is useless. He jumped when Pucey dropped a textbook today."
Orion watched the older students panic from his armchair by the fire. He felt a fleeting pang of sympathy, quickly squashed by pragmatism. The systematic failure of the Hogwarts educational standard wasn't his problem to solve. He had his own extracurricular syllabus to master.
He pulled the folded parchment of the Marauder's Map from his pocket, hiding it behind the cover of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1.
"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," Orion whispered, tapping the map with his wand under the table.
The ink bloomed. Orion's eyes immediately tracked to the Sixth-Year boys' dormitory.
Terence Higgs.
The ink dot representing the Slytherin Seeker was pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, from his bed to the window. It was a pattern Orion had grown accustomed to over the past week. Higgs was under immense psychological pressure. The dark wraith possessing his father was likely sending him threatening letters via unmarked owls, tightening the noose.
"Pace all you want, Terence," Orion thought coldly. "Just don't make your move until I'm ready."
"He's going to snap soon," Sparkle's voice buzzed in his ear, an overlay of digital insight. "Human psychology can only endure that level of constant threat for so long before it mandates action. Fight or flight. And since he can't flee without endangering his mother..."
"He'll fight," Orion agreed silently. "He'll go for the Stone. I just need a little more time."
He tapped the map again. "Mischief managed."
Orion stood up, stretching his limbs. It was time for his nightly routine.
The abandoned classroom on the fourth floor had become a sanctuary of destruction.
Orion stood in the center of the dusty space, his dragon-hide holster strapped tight to his forearm. He took a deep breath, grounding himself, feeling the deep, indigo reservoir of magic turning like a turbine in his chest.
"Let's start with the easy one," Orion said.
He focused on the pile of broken wooden desks he had accumulated in the corner. He didn't just want a spark; he wanted raw, elemental thermal output.
He snapped his arm forward. "Incendio!"
A torrent of roaring, orange-red flame erupted from the tip of the Hawthorn wand. It wasn't a jet; it was a localized inferno. The dragon heartstring core sang with pleasure, resonating with the destructive, primal nature of the spell. The flames struck the wooden desks, igniting them instantly. The heat washed over Orion's face, baking the chill out of his bones.
"Finite," Orion commanded smoothly. The flames vanished, leaving behind glowing, charred embers.
"Fire is easy," Orion muttered. "The wand wants to burn things. The Devil's Snare won't be an issue."
He turned his attention to a solid, heavy stone gargoyle he had levitated from a disused corridor. This was his next target.
"Now for the brute force," he said, adjusting his stance.
He aimed the wand squarely at the gargoyle's chest. The wand movement for Bombarda was an aggressive, stabbing thrust, coupled with a sharp, explosive intent.
"Bombarda!"
KRA-THOOM!
The sound was deafening in the enclosed space, a concussive shockwave that made Orion's ears ring. A flash of white light struck the gargoyle.
The stone beast didn't shatter into dust, but a massive chunk of its chest was blown inward, sending jagged shrapnel clattering against the walls. The gargoyle tipped backward and crashed to the floor, missing an arm and half its torso.
Orion lowered his wand, coughing slightly as the dust settled.
"Decent yield," Sparkle assessed, her waveform spiking with the loud noise. "But will it work on the giant chess pieces? Those things are magically reinforced. They aren't just decorative stone; they're animated constructs."
"It's a concern," Orion admitted, inspecting the damage. "I can blast a chair to splinters, and I can cripple a standard gargoyle. But a ten-foot marble knight? Bombarda might just chip its armor and make it angry."
He ran a hand through his dark hair. "I'll have to aim for the structural weak points. The joints. The knees. If I blow out the pivot points, the construct collapses under its own weight regardless of the magic animating it. Physics still applies to gravity, Right?"
He stepped away from the debris, moving to the far end of the classroom. He set a heavy, leather-bound dictionary on a desk about thirty feet away.
"Which brings us to the physics of Accio," Orion sighed.
The Summoning Charm was proving to be a headache of Newtonian proportions. In the books, wizards summoned things, and the objects floated gently into their waiting hands. In reality, Orion was discovering that applying magical velocity to an object without programming a deceleration curve turned everyday items into lethal projectiles.
"Focus," Orion told himself. "Clear visualization. I want the book. But I want it to stop."
He pointed his wand. "Accio Dictionary!"
The spell took hold. The heavy book didn't just slide off the desk; it launched. It rocketed across the thirty-foot gap with the speed of a Bludger, the pages fluttering wildly.
Orion's eyes widened. "Too fast—!"
He tried to catch it, but the kinetic energy was too high. The book slammed into his stomach with a heavy, breathless thwack. Orion doubled over, stumbling backward and landing hard on his rear on the dusty floor.
"Oof," Orion groaned, clutching his midsection.
Above him, Sparkle's interface was vibrating erratically—the digital equivalent of hysterical laughter.
"Oh my god," she cackled. "Target acquired! Target neutralized! You just got drop-kicked by a thesaurus!"
"Shut up," Orion wheezed, rolling onto his side and pushing himself up. "The acceleration vector is tied directly to my willpower. I wanted it too badly, so it moved too fast. I need to feather the intent as it approaches."
"You realize the irony here, right?" Sparkle teased as Orion rubbed his sore stomach. "You can generate explosions that crack stone. You can summon a heavy book fast enough to break a rib. Your raw power is terrifying. Yet, if you cast 'Avis', you conjure a squeaking rubber duck. You are a walking weapon of mass destruction who can't do arts and crafts."
"Magic is intent," Orion scowled, picking up the dictionary and tossing it back onto the desk. "My mind understands destruction. It understands kinetic force. It apparently does not understand the delicate nuances of avian biology. I've accepted this. Which is why we are pivoting our tactical loadout."
Orion walked over to his chalkboard and picked up a piece of chalk.
He drew a line under Bombarda and Accio.
Beneath it, he wrote three new incantations:
Incarcerous (Binding)Expelliarmus (Disarming)Petrificus Totalus (Paralysis)
"Wait," Sparkle's waveform slowed in confusion. "Dueling spells? Why? You have a localized flamethrower and a bomb on your wrist. Why do you need ropes?"
"Because of the target," Orion explained, tapping the board with the chalk. "When I go down the trapdoor, my final obstacle isn't the Troll. It isn't the dog. It's Terence Higgs."
He turned to face the empty room.
"Higgs isn't Quirrell. He isn't a dark wizard with a Lord strapped to his skull. He's a scared, desperate sixteen-year-old boy who thinks he's fighting for his family's lives. If I hit him with Bombarda, I kill him. Or permanently maim him. I have no desire to murder a hostage."
Orion's blue eyes were cold and calculating.
"I need to take him down cleanly. I need to incapacitate him before he can react, secure the Stone, and leave him tied up for Dumbledore to find. A Full Body-Bind or a conjured rope is efficient, non-lethal, and keeps my conscience relatively clear."
"Mercy," Sparkle noted. "A rare drop for a Slytherin."
"It's not mercy, it's risk management," Orion corrected. "Murdering a Sacred Twenty-Eight heir inside Hogwarts is a fast track to Azkaban, Dumbledore's protection or not."
With the spellwork mapped out, Orion turned to the final piece of his logistical puzzle.
He sat down on the floor, pulling his knees up.
The Potions challenge.
Snape's puzzle required drinking a specific potion to walk through the black fire to the final chamber. Orion knew the logic puzzle inside and out; it was a simple deduction grid. But relying on the provided potion was a variable he couldn't trust. What if Higgs drank it all? What if Dumbledore had modified the amounts?
Orion needed his own supply. Specifically, a Flame-Freezing Potion or an Ice-Blood Draught.
He had considered brewing it himself. He had the skill, and thanks to Snape's early tutoring, he had the foundational knowledge.
But brewing a high-grade Flame-Freezing potion took three weeks. It required simmering ashwinder eggs under specific lunar phases, and the fumes smelled distinctly of peppermint and sulfur. If Snape walked past the dungeon dormitory and caught a whiff, Orion's cover was blown.
"Why do manual labor," Orion whispered to himself, "when capitalism exists?"
He tapped his fingers on the stone floor. "Dobby."
CRACK.
The house-elf appeared instantly, practically vibrating with eagerness. He was wearing a slightly cleaner tea-towel today.
"Master Orion calls Dobby!" the elf squeaked, bowing low. "Is there another world-saving mission? Does Master need more maps swapped? Or more meat for the big dog?"
"Neither, Dobby," Orion smiled. "But this mission is equally vital to my survival."
Orion reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy, clinking leather pouch. He had visited his vault during the winter holidays and withdrawn a substantial sum. He tossed the bag; Dobby caught it, nearly toppling over from the weight of the galleons.
"I need a procurement run," Orion instructed, his tone businesslike. "I need you to go to Knockturn Alley. Or, if you prefer less unsavory locales, there is a premium apothecary in the Magical Section of Paris—L'Élixir Doré. Use this gold. I need three vials of premium-grade Flame-Freezing Potion. I also want two vials of Wiggenweld Potion, and one concentrated Pepperup Potion."
Dobby's eyes widened at the amount of gold. "Dobby can do this! Dobby knows the best apothecaries! But... why does Master Orion need fire potions? Is Master playing with dragons?"
"Let's just say I am preparing for a very warm environment," Orion said cryptically. "I need them completely untraceable. No Ministry stamps, no Hogwarts supply labels. And Dobby?"
"Yes, Master?"
"Buy a secure potion box to carry them in. Padded velvet interior. I don't want them shattering in my pocket."
"Dobby understands! Premium potions in a safe box! Dobby will return before midnight!"
With a sharp crack, the elf was gone.
Orion leaned back against a desk, letting out a long breath.
"Outsourcing," Sparkle chuckled. "The true superpower of the wealthy. Harry Potter is out there sneaking around libraries under an invisibility cloak, and you're just throwing galleons at your personal delivery service."
"Work smarter, not harder, Sparkle," Orion closed his eyes, resting his head against the wood. "I have the spells. I am procuring the potions. The map tracks the target."
He opened his eyes, the indigo irises sharp in the dim light.
"The trap is laid. The tools are gathered. Now... we just wait for Higgs to make his move."