Orion stood shirtless before the mirror - one of those fancy ones with a soft, expensive backlight that made that made you feel like you were posing for a photo session. The lavatory itself was relatively small, really only the size of a large walk-in closet, but the luxury packed into it made it feel less cramped. The ceiling was only a little higher than his own height, the dark marble tiles cool beneath his bare feet, and every surface gleamed with polished ebony wood veneer broken by fixtures of brushed gold.
He took the black towel draped over his shoulders and scrubbed the water from his face and hair, his reflection fogging and reappearing with each motion. When he was done he hung the towel neatly on the rack, then reached for the generic brand toothpaste sitting by the golden sink bowl. He squeezed a bit onto his disposable toothbrush and flicked the pop-up faucet knob, wetting the bristles.
He could - technically - handle all of this with magic. A simple Scourgify would strip away sweat and grime from skin, mouth, and hair. A few domestic charms would freshen breath, moisturize skin, even clean out his ears. If he were particularly lazy, he wouldn't even have to cast them himself; his watch was calibrated to help with this kind of everyday maintenance. It was designed to prevent the kind of stupid inconveniences that could get someone killed in the field. Chasing a quibungo through forest underbrush only to slip because of mud in your boots or lose track of its movements because dirt got into your eyes was… less than ideal. And smelling like a beacon to every creature with a halfway decent nose? A rookie mistake.
But Orion had spent most of his admittedly young life doing these things the traditional way, and he wasn't about to stop now. Besides, the mundanity of the routine was grounding.
Though, honestly, he could already imagine what would eventually break him out of the habit - one night where he was too tired or in too much of a hurry to bother. Once would become twice. Twice would become a routine. And then he'd turn into one of those lunatics who couldn't even roll out of bed without firing off seven different grooming charms. The thought made him snort.
He bent over the sink to spit out the toothpaste foam, rinsed the bowl clean, and splashed water into his mouth to wash away the mint. When he looked at his reflection again, he grinned to check his teeth - only to freeze at the sight of the faint shadow along his jaw. Tilting his head, he ran his fingers along his cheeks. Stubble. Already. And a quick pass of his hand over his head confirmed what he suspected: his hair had begun to grow past the short, sharp buzzcut he kept.
He glanced around the lavatory for a razor, a blade - anything - and found nothing. Of course. Letting out a dry laugh at the irony, he flicked his wrist. His wand flew cleanly out of its holster and into his waiting hand, the cutting charm already poised at the edge of his tongue-
-And then he stopped.
A crease formed between his brows as he touched his face again, fingertips skimming across the faint rasp of stubble. His eyes glowed softly, tracing the path of his fingers in the mirror. He pushed a hand through his hair and felt it move, longer than he was used to, bending and curling against his knuckles. The sensation brought a nostalgic kind of confort.
His lips tightened. He holstered his wand, wiped the remaining droplets from his mouth and chin with the towel, and finally turned his back on the mirror.
He shrugged into the black social shirt hanging on a hook nearby, buttoning it up as he stepped through the lavatory's wooden door.
The lavatory stood near the back of the private aircraft - an upgraded Gulfstream IV, or something built to resemble one. Orion still wasn't entirely sure. The Order's artificers could easily have taken the blueprints and crafted their own magical analogue. Or perhaps the plane had been "borrowed" from its rightful owners, with some transfigured replica slipped back in place.
It could also have been purchased legitimately; the Order certainly had the money to spare for it. But, in his experience, wizards almost never chose the simplest solution when a more convoluted one was available.
Whatever the truth, it wasn't his concern. What mattered was that the thing flew, and flew comfortably. He could have managed with a cramped economy seat on a Muggle flight, sure - but he wasn't going to pretend the privacy and luxury weren't extremely nice bonuses.
He made his way to his assigned cabin, a lounge-like space dressed in leather and dark wood. The moment he collapsed onto the sinfully soft couch, a low groan escaped him. The cushions swallowed him whole, cool air washing over his still-warm skin in a wave of relief. He let himself melt there for a few indulgent seconds before forcibly peeling his eyes open.
Leaning forward, he reached for the suitcase resting on the polished table before him.
It was a hard-shelled rectangular piece, matte black and elegant in its simplicity. Vertical ridges ran from top to bottom in evenly spaced lines, each corner capped in brushed metal. Four smooth swivel wheels sat at the base, while on top was a telescoping metal handle with a dark plastic grip, paired with a fixed carrying handle.
On the side, two latch-style locks gleamed softly, each equipped with its own rolling number mechanism. Between them sat a recessed pull handle.
Orion adjusted the digits on the two number locks, listening to the soft clicks as the tumblers aligned. Then he slid his fingers into the recessed handle and pulled. With a satisfying snap, both latches released, allowing the suitcase to open.
The inside of the suitcase unfolded into an expanded space, the mundane exterior giving way to a neatly organized wooden interior. Weapons rested in fitted supports - oiled, polished, and precisely arranged.
Orion reached first for his dirk. The familiar weight settled into his palm as he unsheathed it, tilting the blade to catch the cabin's soft lighting. He inspected it carefully, searching for any hint that the preservation charms laid upon it months ago might be weakening. But the steel remained pristine - no dulling, no chips, no trace of the punishment he'd put it through only a few nights earlier. Good. He estimated he still had another month, maybe two, before he'd need to reapply the alchemical coats.
Satisfied, he slid the dirk back into its sheath and fastened it securely at his waist.
Below it lay his machete - long, slightly curved, its broad angled tip gleaming faintly. Its surface shimmered with the unmistakable glow of polished silver. The true core of the blade was tempered steel, but it was coated in a layer of pure silver bound in place by alchemical compounds. A necessity. Against lycanthropes and other creatures with similar vulnerabilities, silver wounds weren't merely damaging - they were debilitating. The coating ensured that every cut delivered trace amounts into their bloodstream, enough to slow, weaken, or poison the target. A practical cruelty, but a necessary one in his line of work.
Above the machete rested an axe. Its handle was long and straight, crafted from pale wood worn smooth by years of use. The head, however, was the true marvel - a crescent blade made from a white stone-like material that seemed to hold its own inner light. Itajasy. Moon Stone. Not the mundane variety known to Muggles, but a magical form possessed of unique properties and shaped only by the Cupendipes - a tribe of bat-featured humanoid magical beings whose stonecrafting techniques remained tightly guarded secrets.
It was a beautiful weapon. And a terrifying one.
After completing his inspection, Orion shut the suitcase again, snapping the latches into place. He spun a new combination into the number locks, then tugged on the recessed handle. Another click. The interior shifted.
When he reopened the case, the weapon rack had reconfigured entirely. In its place lay a selection of firearms.
His revolver rested closest - his modified Taurus .44 Magnum. Its grip had been replaced with polished blackwood, and every metallic surface had undergone alchemical treatment to allow the layering of charms. There was one to dampen the gun's report, one to stabilize recoil, and another linking the chambers to the enchanted recharger he kept elsewhere so he would never have to pause mid-combat to reload. Reliable. Efficient. Mean enough to stop most things, magical or otherwise.
Beside it lay two more firearms treated with the same combination of crafts: A rifle modeled after the Winchester .458 Magnum, and a shotgun patterned after the Boito Miura I.
The trio made for an impressive - and slightly alarming - display.
The temptation to bring them all in his person was strong. But showing up to London armed like he was about to retake a war-torn jungle probably wasn't the best way to endear himself to the locals or the people he was meant to meet.
'Although…' he thought, fingers hovering just a moment too long.
Then he shook his head. 'No. Better not tempt fate.'
In the end, he took only the revolver and the fitted chest holster that went with it.
He shifted the suitcase's configuration once again - new combination, new click - and the interior transformed. Rows of small cylindrical canisters filled the space, each neatly slotted into its own groove. Every one bore a different label along with an accompanying symbol beneath the name, some etched, some painted, all unmistakable.
He exhaled through his nose, considering, then decided to take only the essentials.
The canister labeled "Salt" came first, marked by a circle cleanly split horizontally through its center - good for ghosts, spiritual manifestations, wandering apparitions. Next came "Wood", identified by the sketch of a sharpened stake. A classic. Vampires had plenty of modern counters - UV-lights, aerolised garlic spray - but some traditions stayed because they worked.
The "Iron" canister bore a cross-shaped arrow angled upward to the right. Useful insurance in case he encountered any nature spirits, or elemental beings.
Then "Silver", its symbol a crescent moon, meant for shapeshifters of every stripe.
Erumpent followed, marked by the stylized horn of its namesake beast, explosive rounds that he rather favored when dealing with anything that wouldn't keel over immediatly over it... unless that was the goal.
Finally, "Morpheus", easily identified by a trio of sleepy little Z's. A sleeping-potion payload designed to enter the bloodstream instantly upon impact. Non-lethal, elegant, and dead convenient.
He uncapped each canister in turn, taking a single round from each. The moment a bullet left its place, another slid smoothly upward from the internal mechanism, replacing it. He loaded them one by one into the revolver's drum, rotating the cylinder until the Morpheus round rested in the default firing position. A soft click locked it in place.
He kept going through the suitcase's remaining compartments, occasionally slipping something into a coat pocket or fastening it to one of the pouches at his belt.
He added a set of shackles - one pair for the hands, one for the mouth. Anti-magic restraints designed to immobilize finger movements and silence speech, making spellcasting dramatically more difficult for any wizard bound by them.
Next came his vials: Blood-Replenishing Potion, Bone-Knitting Draft, Flesh-Mending Solution, Pain-Dulling Tonic. Practical, necessary staples. Then the combat enhancers: Strength, Reflex, and Stamina Vigors. After a moment's pause, he added Edurus, Thunderbrew, Galeheart, and Duskwall as well. Better to have them and not need them.
He skipped the explosives. Overkill. And he ignored the more situational odds and ends: dark detectors, enchanted mirrors, the Hand of Glory, chemical tinctures, phoenix pellets, scrying tools, tarot decks, and potion ingredients. All useful in the right context, none likely necessary in this one.
When he finally finished, he shrugged on his coat, tightening the strap that held the holster close to his chest. He checked his wristwatch. Still nearly half an hour before arrival.
With a reluctance that bordered on resignation, he exhaled and accepted that he had enough time for a review.
He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black notebook, its surface matte and smooth to the touch. A delicate golden lock held it closed - until his thumb brushed the metal. It clicked open instantly.
On the first page, written in neat, precise script:
DOSSIER #191.291.210.121.517
Despite flipping it open, he only skimmed the initial pages. He knew them by heart now.
The dossier began with a summary of the primary threat.
Voldemort - also known as "Lord Voldemort."
A Dark Wizard of presumed British origin, responsible for a period of widespread terror across the United Kingdom and parts of continental Europe from the early 1970s until 1981. His reign ended abruptly during a personally conducted attack on the home of the Potter family on 31 October 1981.
For a decade he was believed dead. But according to the evidence provided by Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards and Headmaster of Hogwarts, Voldemort had not truly died. He had been reduced to a disembodied, parasitic shade.
The dossier outlined Dumbledore's proof:
- Copies of his Pensieve memories,
- A personal testimony delivered under Veritaserum,
- And most disturbingly, the presentation of an old, water-damaged diary - pierced clean through its center by something sharp - still radiating dangerous levels of residual dark magic despite testing as inert.
From these, the Order's analysts had come to the reluctant conclusion that Voldemort had indeed survived in some fractured form, and had made repeated attempts to return since 1991.
Worse yet, he had apparently succeeded.
The report cited a ritual performed on the night of 24 June, though its details remained sparse. The Research Division was still dissecting every scrap of information in the hope of finding a method for reversing or neutralizing whatever process Voldemort had used. This portion of the report was marked with bold annotation:
"DUMBLEDORE CLAIMS AUTHENTICITY. NO VERIFIABLE CORROBORATION BEYOND HIS WORD."
Since the alleged restoration, there had been no overt acts of terrorism akin to Voldemort's first rise to power. No massacres. No public murders. No grand displays of force.
Instead, his followers had shifted toward covert mobilization. The dossier stated that their movements suggested preparation for subversive action - something quieter, more insidious. A strategy of infiltration, political influence, and institutional erosion rather than brute magical domination.
'Ironically,' he noted, 'they're trying politics this time.'
The following pages consisted of profiles - summaries of the principal suspects believed to be collaborating with the resurrected Dark Wizard. Many were already familiar names - former Death Eaters who had escaped punishment after claiming coercion under the Imperius Curse, leveraging political favors, blackmail, or generous "donations" to key Ministry officials.
Orion's lips curled in disgust as he flipped the page.
The next profile centered on Lucius Malfoy, listed as the figurehead of Voldemort's political supporters.
Head of the House of Malfoy - old money, old magic, rooted in pureblood ideology. A family originally of French descent who had settled in the British Isles centuries prior. Before the passing of the Statute of Secrecy, they had even held legitimate noble titles within the Muggle aristocracy, with confirmed links to the royal family. They lost all of that prestige when wizards were forced into hiding.
But what they lost in Muggle status, they compensated for through wizarding influence - and then some. The dossier detailed how, over the centuries, the Malfoys had accumulated wealth and political capital by "absorbing" the assets and influence of other pureblood houses that had collapsed, died out, or been quietly bought out.
More accurately, inbreeding, as well as a series of wars, rebellions, blood feuds, and conflicts with Dark Lords, had made the number of pureblood families decrease significantly. And by upholding the agenda of blood supremacy, the Malfoys had managed, through good old social engineering, to convince the lone surviving sons and daughters of nearly-extinct pureblood families to marry into their own - in the name of "preserving purity."
The main dangers associated with his figure were the vast political and economic influence he wielded, though he was noted to be a reasonably good combatant as well, having taken part in the dueling circuit in his youth.
Under him were many other heads of pureblood families, such as Walden Macnair, Cassian Avery, Brutus Crabbe, George Goyle, Septimus Nott, the twins Alecto and Amycus Carrow, Victor Yaxley, and Marcell Mulciber.
…And Peter Pettigrew, alias "Wormtail." Believed to be a national hero who sacrificed himself attempting to confront Sirius Black before being brutally murdered alongside a score of innocent Muggles—but who, according to Dumbledore, was the real guilty party for the betrayal of the Potters, and had spent the last decade hiding as a mundane house pet.
Orion wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
No, actually, he knew exactly how he felt - but his blood was still a tad unstable after his recent encounter with the M'Bae Tatá. If he stayed too long on that line of thought, he was liable to set himself on fire and damage the enchantments placed on the plane, so he simply flipped past the page to the next section. He skimmed over the profile of the werewolf serial-turner Fenrir Greyback - who may or may not have realigned himself with Voldemort and was rumored to be working to bring more of his kind to the Dark Lord's side - and went straight to the part of the dossier detailing the resistance cell he was meant to support: the Order of the Phoenix.
He already knew the story of the organization - a paramilitary group slash militia formed by top-grade wizards and Aurors under the leadership of Albus Dumbledore, created to fight back against Voldemort and his Death Eaters. Nowadays, most of its original members were either dead and remembered as martyrs, or crippled. The current composition consisted of:
Albus Dumbledore, figurehead and de facto leader, with extensive experience leading small, technically outlawed groups against Dark Wizards with far greater numbers. He was, of course, considered the strongest wizard of modern times - especially in large-scale Transfiguration - though even his mastery of Charms was still something few, if any, could match.
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Leader in practice and Dumbledore's former apprentice. Also renowned as a master Transfigurator, with her known specialty being animation.
Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, veteran of the Auror Corps, a member of the original Order, and one of the aforementioned cripples - though this did not seem to have made him any less dangerous. He was currently recovering from spending a year captive while an escaped Death Eater impersonated him, culminating in Voldemort's revival.
Remus Lupin, the Order's own werewolf. One of Lily and James Potter's closest friends, also an original member of the Order, and a top-tier duelist with extensive experience handling Dark Creatures. Orion would very much like to have a chat or two with him.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, Dumbledore's main contact in the Ministry - an active Auror of high enough rank that he was considered next in line to lead the entire Corps. Besides his skills as a double agent, he was also a formidable combatant, though his specialty lay in the direct deployment of combat spells.
Sirius Black-
Orion closed the notebook, locking it and slipping it back into his pocket. With an aggrieved sigh, he glanced down at his wristwatch again - only to see that not even twenty minutes had passed.
A chuckle drew his attention. He looked up to see an Amazonian black woman with long dreadlocks framing a face full of mirth, her eyes glowing blue like his. She wore attire similar to his own, though she carried a sword at her hip.
"Getting anxious?" she asked with a smirk, one hand resting on her tilted waist.
Orion shook his head - then aborted the motion halfway and let it turn into a nod with a shrug. There wasn't really any point in lying.
"A bit. Though I'm not sure anxiety is the best word for it," he admitted.
She hummed, smiling as she gave him a slow once-over, then moved to sit beside him, tossing an arm casually over his shoulder.
"You know, there's something I always do when I get like that," she said, voice dipping into a teasing lilt. "And it always helps."
Having no idea how things had escalated so quickly - but not at all opposed to it - Orion tilted his head, raising an eyebrow as he leaned in slightly.
"Yeah?"
"Mhm." Her fingers traced up his arm, feather-soft. "Though I'm not sure you're up for it. It's very physically demanding. Kinda nerve-wracking too, but… very exciting." She murmured the last word into his ear.
"Exciting sounds good," he said, nodding seriously.
"Oh yeah?" she asked, nipping his earlobe.
"Oh, yeah," he agreed, moving in to press his mouth to her neck-
"Good!" she said brightly, suddenly withdrawing and hopping to her feet. "I'll tell the pilot to release the door, then."
Perplexed and just a touch bamboozled, Orion stared up at her smirking face, his pupils still dilated, his body trying to process the abrupt loss of warmth.
"…What?" he asked blankly.
"So you can fly, silly!" she giggled. "You've got a picture of where you're supposed to meet your contact, right? The pilot told me we're close enough that if you fly in a straight line for a bit, you'll be able to apparate there. Trust me - flying at high altitudes always clears my mind."
Orion blinked, glanced down at the very obvious bulge in his pants, then back at her still-smirking face. His expression flattened.
"Did I kill your dog or something?"
She laughed. "Sorry, sorry! It's just - I'm headed to Germany to get sword lessons from one of the few real masters still alive, and we'll get there a whole lot sooner if we don't have to descend for your stop." She bit her lip, following his line of sight for a second before grinning again. "Tell you what, though. You do this for me, and I'll give you a call when I'm coming back. Deal?"
Orion stared at her flatly. She wiggled her eyebrows at him. He looked down at his wristwatch and scowled.
"Fuck it," he muttered, keying a new combination into his suitcase and pulling his broom from inside.
"Yes!" she whooped, punching the air and sprinting off.
He closed the suitcase again. Another combination made it shrink until it was no larger than a wallet, and he slipped it into his pocket before heading toward the aircraft door, broom in hand.
The door hissed as it opened. The charms woven into the vessel held back the usual violence of pressure shift and wind: instead, an almost invisible membrane shimmered faintly, separating the calm interior from the roaring world outside.
Orion peered down. Far below, patches of cloud drifted over glimmers of dark Atlantic water.
He reached into a pouch and retrieved a small crystal vial swirling with green mist. He tossed it into his mouth and bit down. The crystal dissolved with a burst of sweetness as the gas expanded, and he inhaled through his nose, lungs flooding with the mist until the need to breathe simply… stopped.
Two taps on his shoulder made him turn.
The woman stood there again, grabbed him by the back of the head, and kissed him - biting his lower lip hard enough to nearly draw blood. A ribbon of green mist escaped her mouth when she pulled away. She smirked-
-and shoved him out.
Orion cursed in his head as he tumbled, heart thundering. He tightened his grip on the broom, twisting midair until he could swing it beneath him. The instant it aligned, that instinctive, magical connection snapped into place - its movements settling under his control.
Despite himself, a wide grin broke across his face - though he kept his lips sealed. Clouds rushed up at him; he angled down and accelerated, punching through the vapor in a rush of cold moisture before bursting out the other side. The ocean sprawled beneath him like a sheet of shifting black glass, faintly lit by moon and starlight.
He leaned back, easing his descent, shifting the broom's tilt until he moved from a dive into a forward glide. By the time he reached sea level, he was skimming just above the surface instead of plunging into its icy depths.
A laugh - loud, sharp, exultant - tore itself from his throat as the tail of the broom sliced across the water, parting it and sending a wave curling behind him.