Orion stepped up to the table, his eyes sweeping over the seven intricately shaped bottles and the roll of parchment. He didn't even bother reading Snape's riddle to the end. The logic puzzle was elementary, a simple deduction grid that he could have solved in his sleep.
More importantly, he noted that the smallest bottle—the one that allowed forward passage—was completely full.
"Self-refilling charms," Orion murmured, tracing his wand over the table's edge. "Of course. If there are multiple intruders, the trap resets. Efficient, Uncle Sev."
He didn't need the premium Flame-Freezing potions resting in his inventory. He would use the potions here itself.
Orion took a steadying breath. "Dobby."
With a soft, muffled pop that barely disturbed the air, the house-elf appeared.
"Status, Dobby," Orion whispered, keeping his eyes on the black flames dancing in the doorway.
"The Trio is in the room with the flying keys, Master Orion!" Dobby squeaked quietly. "They are looking for the brooms. They are very slow."
"Good," Orion nodded. "The buffer holds. Now, Dobby, I need you to stay exactly by my side. Do not let yourself be seen."
Dobby snapped his fingers, and his form shimmered, turning completely invisible. Even his magical signature seemed to mute itself.
"I am here, Master," Dobby's disembodied voice whispered near Orion's knee.
"Excellent," Orion said, his tone turning cold and clinical. "Inside this next room is the real thief. When we enter, I am going to talk to him. The moment you hear me snap my fingers, I want you to hit him with everything you have. Freeze him solid. Do not let him cast a spell. Understand?"
"Dobby will freeze the bad thief!" the invisible elf promised fiercely.
Orion reached forward and uncorked the smallest bottle. He downed the potion in a single gulp. It tasted like ice-cold liquid metal, sending a profound, unnatural chill rushing through his veins.
He set the empty bottle back onto the table, where he notices a tell tale activation which will immediately begin to refill itself from the bottom up.
Without a moment's hesitation, Orion stepped through the curtain of black fire.
The flames licked at his robes and his skin, but he felt nothing but a cool breeze. He stepped out of the fire and into the final chamber.
It was a vast, circular room. In the very center stood the Mirror of Erised, its ornate gold frame gleaming in the dim light.
And standing directly in front of it, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles were white, was Terence Higgs.
The older boy whirled around at the sound of the flames, his wand snapping up to point directly at Orion's chest. Higgs looked terrible. His face was gaunt, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was trembling with a mixture of exhaustion and raw terror.
"Malfoy?" Higgs breathed, his voice cracking. "What... what are you doing here?"
Orion didn't draw his wand. He kept his hands visible, raised slightly in a gesture of non-aggression, and walked forward with a slow, measured, completely unbothered stride.
"Hello, Terence," Orion said, his voice calm, echoing slightly in the large chamber. "You look awful."
"Stay back!" Higgs warned, his wand shaking. "I'll curse you! I swear it! How did you get past the dog?"
"I walked," Orion lied smoothly. He stopped about ten feet away from the older Slytherin. He tilted his head, adopting a look of mild disappointment.
"Did you really think," Orion pitched his voice lower, injecting it with a chilling, knowing edge, "that He would entrust a mission of this magnitude solely to a stressed, sleep-deprived teenager?"
Higgs froze. The color drained completely from his face. "What?"
"The Dark Lord is a brilliant strategist," Orion continued, weaving the bluff flawlessly. "You are the primary operative, yes. But you are also a single variable. He needed a contingency. A shadow. Someone unsuspected to ensure the task was completed if you faltered."
Orion lowered his hands, clasping them behind his back.
"I was told to help you, Terence. To make sure you get the Stone."
Higgs stared at the eleven-year-old boy. The story made a terrifying amount of sense to his panicked mind. Orion Malfoy—a prodigy, a pureblood heir, a boy who had already shown an uncanny ability to manipulate the school. Of course Voldemort would have a backup plan. Of course the Malfoys were involved.
"You..." Higgs lowered his wand a fraction of an inch, his mind whirling. "You were always too smart for your own good. I should have known."
Higgs let out a ragged breath, turning slightly back toward the mirror while keeping Orion in his peripheral vision.
"Too bad you aren't needed," Higgs spat, a desperate bravado entering his voice. "I'm going to crack open this mirror and get the Stone myself. I need it... for my family. You stay exactly where you are, Malfoy, or I will kill you."
"By all means," Orion nodded graciously, not moving a muscle. "The floor is yours."
Higgs turned back to the Mirror of Erised. He stared into the glass, muttering to himself, his reflection mocking him.
"I see myself getting the stone... but how do I get it out?" Higgs tapped the glass with his wand. "Do I smash it?"
He raised his wand, preparing a blasting curse.
"No, what if it locks?" Higgs argued with himself, running a hand through his sweaty hair, his attention entirely consumed by the puzzle of the mirror. "What if it shatters the Stone? I should just—"
It was the lapse in attention Orion had been waiting for.
Snap.
Orion snapped his fingers.
A sharp, crackling sound—unlike any wizarding spell—echoed in the room. Elf magic, raw and unpredictable, slammed into Terence Higgs.
Higgs went rigid instantly, his arms snapping to his sides, his eyes wide with shock. He tipped backward like a felled tree, hitting the stone floor with a heavy, painful thud. He lay there, completely paralyzed, his eyes darting frantically but unable to move a single muscle.
Orion drew his Hawthorn wand in a flash.
"Incarcerous."
Thick ropes shot from the wand tip, binding the paralyzed Sixth-Year from his ankles to his neck, effectively turning him into a very stressed mummy.
Orion walked over, grabbed Higgs by the collar of his robes, and unceremoniously dragged him across the smooth floor, depositing him in the darkest corner of the room, well out of the immediate line of sight.
"Good boy, Dobby," Orion murmured.
"Dobby did it!" the invisible elf whispered proudly.
"Yes, you did. Now, I have one final task for you."
Orion reached into his robes and pulled out a small, sealed piece of parchment he had prepared earlier.
"Take this note to Professor McGonagall," Orion instructed. "Do not appear in front of her. Slip it under her door, or drop it on her desk, and leave immediately. Understand? Just make sure she gets it."
"Dobby understands. Dobby will be a shadow."
"Wait," Orion said, looking around the cavernous, empty room. "Before you deliver the letter... can you bring me a chair? My legs are tired."
A beat of silence passed. Then, with a soft pop, a plush, green-velvet armchair materialized directly in the center of the room, facing the Mirror of Erised.
"Thank you, Dobby. You are dismissed."
CRACK.
The elf was gone. The letter was on its way. The trap was set.
Orion walked over to the armchair and sat down, sinking into the comfortable cushions. He crossed one leg over the other, resting his elbows on the armrests, and looked into the Mirror of Erised.
The glass rippled like water.
Orion didn't see his parents. He didn't see Quirrell. He didn't see Voldemort dead.
He saw himself.
The Orion in the mirror was older—perhaps in his mid-twenties. He looked sharp, powerful, and utterly in control. He wore impeccably tailored robes of midnight blue, and his eyes held a calm, terrifying intelligence.
But he wasn't alone.
Standing behind the chair of the older Orion was a woman. Her arms were draped affectionately over his shoulders, her chin resting near his neck.
Orion squinted. The woman's face was blurred, shifting out of focus whenever he tried to discern her features. But her hair... her hair was cycling through colors like a slow-motion kaleidoscope. Black. Then a honey-blonde. Then a frizzy brown. Then a vibrant pink.
It cycled through the possibilities, reflecting a desire for companionship, for a partner, without locking onto a specific identity.
"Fascinating," Orion murmured aloud. "The heart wants what the mind hasn't decided on yet."
He shifted his focus from the blurred woman to his older self.
Dumbledore's enchantment on the mirror was absolute. Only one who wanted to find the Stone—find it, but not use it—would be able to get it. Voldemort wanted to use it for a body. Quirrell wanted to use it for his master. Higgs wanted to use it for his father.
But Orion?
Orion had no desire for immortality. He had already died once; he knew it wasn't the end of the world. He didn't need infinite gold; he was the heir to the Malfoy fortune.
He just wanted the Stone because it was a masterpiece of magical engineering. He wanted to study it. He wanted to understand the alchemy. He wanted to solve the puzzle.
In the mirror, the older Orion smirked.
The reflection reached into its air and a heavy, blood-red stone materialized in his hand. The reflection tossed it lightly in the air, caught it, and then held it out toward the real Orion.
Orion raised his hand.
Suddenly, a heavy weight dropped into his palm.
Orion looked down.
Sitting in his hand, glowing with a faint, internal heat, was the Philosopher's Stone. It was jagged, unpolished, and pulsed with a raw, ancient magic.
"Well," Orion smiled, admiring the legendary artifact. "That was easy."
He didn't put it in his pocket. He didn't put it in his Inventory. He just sat there, holding the blood-red stone, turning it over in the dim light.
He leaned back in the plush armchair, facing the black flames of the doorway, and waited for the protagonist to arrive.