The bell above the door of Flourish and Blotts chimed with a cheery, intellectual ring, welcoming them into a cathedral of paper and ink. The air smelled of binding glue, aging parchment, and the faint, dusty scent of knowledge waiting to be consumed. To Orion, it smelled like victory.
"Right," Orion said, stopping just inside the entrance and turning to Draco. "Strategy meeting. Draco, you have the school list. It contains standard texts: The Standard Book of Spells, A History of Magic, Magical Drafts and Potions. It is a list of requirements. It is boring. But you, my brother, are efficient."
Draco preened slightly, adjusting his new robes. "I am."
"Excellent. I am entrusting you with the acquisition of our school curriculum," Orion said solemnly, handing Draco a basket. "Mother will assist you in ensuring the editions are current. I, however, need to browse the supplementary sections. I intend to find books that will put us ahead of the curve. You want us to be the best in Slytherin, don't you?"
"Obviously," Draco sniffed. "We can't let Nott beat us in grades."
"Exactly. Go forth, Draco. Conquer the curriculum."
Draco nodded, looking like he'd been given a knighthood, and marched off toward the 'First Year' display, with Narcissa following him, an amused glint in her eyes. She knew exactly what Orion was doing, but she allowed it.
Orion, liberated from the drudgery of hunting for Standard book of spells, slipped into the aisles.
He bypassed the Fiction section. He ignored the Autobiography section (Gilderoy Lockhart's smiling face was already plastering the shelves, which made Orion nauseous). He headed straight for 'Magical Theory' and 'Advanced Defenses'.
He pulled The Art of Warding: A Geometric Approach from the shelf. He added Legal Loopholes in the Decree for Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery (a very thin, very expensive book).
As he rounded the corner into the 'Transfiguration' aisle, aiming for a text on animate-to-inanimate transformations, he nearly collided with a moving pile of books.
"Oh! I am terribly sorry," a young boy's voice piped up.
Orion looked behind the pile of books. A boy with curly hair and a bewildered expression was standing there, clutching the stack of books that looked ready to topple. Beside him stood a woman who radiated stern authority like a heat lamp.
She wore square spectacles, her black hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and her expression was one of practiced patience.
Professor Minerva McGonagall.
Orion didn't flinch. He didn't gasp. He simply straightened his spine and offered a polite, aristocratic nod.
"No harm done," Orion said smoothly to the boy—Justin Finch-Fletchley, if memory served. He then turned his gaze to the witch. "Good afternoon, Professor."
McGonagall blinked, her eyes sharpening behind her glasses. She looked at the small, black-haired boy who carried himself with the confidence of an adult. "You have me at a disadvantage, young man. I do not believe we have met, though you bear a striking resemblance to a student I taught years ago."
"Orion Malfoy," he introduced himself, offering a hand which she took automatically. "And yes, I imagine my father made quite the impression. Hopefully, I can improve upon the legacy."
McGonagall's eyebrows rose toward her hairline. A Malfoy who joked about his father's reputation? That was... new.
"Indeed," she said dryly. "I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. I am currently assisting Mr. Finch-Fletchley and his... parents with their introduction to our world."
She gestured to a couple of Muggles standing nearby, looking at a Monster Book of Monsters with terrified fascination.
"A pleasure," Orion nodded to Justin. "Welcome to the madness. Try not to let the books bite. Literally."
"I... uh, thanks," Justin stammered. "You're starting this year too? I'm a little overwhelmed, honestly... well, I was going to go to a local school studying maths. Now I'm a wizard. It's all a bit mad, isn't it?"
"Completely," Orion agreed.
"Is your father with you, Mr. Malfoy?" McGonagall asked, her gaze sweeping the aisle, clearly bracing herself for Lucius.
"Father is indisposed," Orion said lightly, checking the spine of a book on the shelf. "He is currently at the Ministry. I believe he is engaged in one of his usual schemes involving Minister Fudge. Something about broomstick regulations, though I suspect it's mostly just him enjoying the sound of his own voice in a heavy oak office."
McGonagall's lips twitched. She fought it, but a small spark of amusement betrayed her.
"I see," she said, composing herself. "Well. It is... refreshing to see a student eager for the term to start. You have your books?"
"Draco—my brother—is procuring the standard list. I was just looking for some light reading," Orion held up The geometric approach to Warding.
McGonagall looked at the title. "That is O.W.L. level theory, Mr. Malfoy."
"I enjoy shapes," Orion deadpanned. "Well, I won't disturb your orientation, Professor. See you at the feast."
"Good day, Mr. Malfoy," McGonagall murmured, watching him walk away. She had a feeling that the next seven years were going to be exhausting in a completely different way than she was used to.
Orion regrouped with Narcissa and Draco at the counter. He added his four books to the pile.
The Art of Warding.
Legal Loopholes.
Silent Casting: A Guide to Mental Discipline.
The geometric approach to Warding.
Narcissa raised an eyebrow at Legal Loopholes but said nothing as she paid. The books were shrunk and packed into their new trunks.
"Now," Narcissa said, checking her watch. "That concludes the list. Ice cream at Fortescue's?"
"Actually, Mother," Orion interjected. "We need one more thing. Wand holsters."
"Holsters?" Narcissa frowned. "You have pockets."
"Pockets are for lint and loose change," Orion argued. "A wand is a weapon. It should be secured. And I don't want a standard leather strap from the apothecary. I want quality. I want Borgin and Burkes."
Narcissa stiffened. The bustling cheer of Diagon Alley seemed to fade at the mention of the name.
"Knockturn Alley," she lowered her voice. "Orion, that is not a place for children."
"We are Malfoys," Orion countered quietly. "We own half the dark artifacts in the country. Pretending we don't shop there is just... gauche. Besides, they have the best dragon-hide work. Do you want Draco to accidentally sit on his new wand and snap it because it was in his back pocket?"
Draco's eyes widened, his hands flying to his back pocket protectively. "I don't want to snap my wand!"
Narcissa sighed, the logic undeniable. "Very well. But you stay close. Do not touch anything. And do not speak to the hags."
They left the sunlight of Diagon Alley and slipped through the narrow archway into Knockturn Alley. The temperature dropped instantly. The shadows lengthened. The shops here didn't display broomsticks or owls; they displayed shrunken heads, cursed necklaces, and jars of things that floated in murky liquid.
They reached Borgin and Burkes, the largest and most infamous shop on the street.
The bell here didn't chime; it tolled, a deep, mournful sound.
The shop was large, dimly lit, and smelled of dust and old sins. Display cases were filled with skulls, rusty daggers, and masks.
Mr. Borgin appeared from behind the counter. He was a stooped man with greasy hair and a voice like oil sliding over gravel.
"Mrs. Malfoy," he bowed low, rubbing his hands together. "An honor. And the young sirs. How... delightful. Is Lucius with you?"
"My husband is occupied," Narcissa said coldly, her wand hand loose at her side. "We are here for holsters. Dragon hide. Forearm mounts. The best you have."
"Ah, naturally, naturally," Borgin fawned. "I have just received a shipment of Hungarian Horntail hide. exquisite. Resistant to summoning charms. Quick-draw mechanisms. Let me fetch them."
He scuttled into the back room.
"Draco, don't," Orion said sharply.
Draco was reaching out to touch a withered, claw-like hand on a velvet cushion—the Hand of Glory.
"But it looks cool," Draco whispered.
"It gives light only to the holder," Orion explained. "It's useful for thieves. But if you touch it without the enchantment, it might just grab you and never let go. Do you want to spend the rest of your life attached to a severed hand?"
Draco recoiled. "Gross."
Narcissa stepped forward and lightly smacked the back of Draco's head. "Listen to your brother. Hands in pockets."
Orion wandered away from the counter, his eyes scanning the cluttered shop. He saw the Opal Necklace (cursed, nasty business). He saw a skull with jewels in its eyes.
And then, looming in the corner like a dark monolith, he saw it.
The Vanishing Cabinet.
It was tall, black, and imposing. It looked dormant. It was dormant, of course, because its twin at Hogwarts was broken. Or maybe this one was the broken one? It didn't matter. The connection was severed.
Orion walked up to it. He ran a hand over the dark wood. This was the gateway. This was how the Death Eaters would enter in the sixth year. This was the object that would nearly destroy Draco's soul.
He needed it. Not to fix it—at least, not for Voldemort. He needed it for himself. He needed to study the magic of spatial displacement. If he could reverse-engineer it...
Mr. Borgin returned with two sleek, black leather bracers.
"Here we are," he purred. "Snap-Flash mechanism. A flick of the wrist and a thought sends the wand into the hand. Another thought retracts it. Invisible at all times under robes."
Narcissa inspected them. "Adequate."
"Mother," Orion called out. "I want this."
He patted the Cabinet.
Borgin looked over. His eyes narrowed. "Ah. The Cabinet. A fine piece. Eighteenth century. Though, I must be honest... it is temperamental. The runes on it are... faulty."
"I want it for target practice," Orion lied smoothly, looking at the cabinet with a bored expression. "It's big. It's sturdy. I want to test my blasting curses on something that won't shatter after one hit. The training dummies at the Manor are so... flimsy."
Narcissa looked at him, surprised. "Orion? An antique?"
"It's broken, isn't it?" Orion challenged Borgin. "It's essentially expensive firewood. I like the aesthetic. It will look good in my room until I destroy it."
Borgin hesitated. He knew the cabinet had value, but he also knew it was currently useless. And selling "useless" junk to a Malfoy for a high markup was his favorite pastime.
"For you, young master? Fifty Galleons."
"Twenty," Orion countered instantly. "It's broken. I'll have to pay my elves to haul it."
"Forty."
"Thirty. And you throw in a jar of polishing wax alongside the holsters."
Borgin sighed, feigning defeat. "Thirty-five. And the wax."
"Deal," Orion nodded. "Mother?"
Narcissa looked between her son and the cabinet. She suspected there was more to this than "target practice"—Orion rarely did anything without a reason—but she also saw the glint in his eye.
"Very well," she sighed, pulling out the gold. "But it goes in the storage room, Orion. I will not have that dusty monstrosity in your bedroom."
"Fine by me," Orion shrugged. "We'll send Dobby to retrieve it later. It's too big to shrink safely without damaging the remaining runes."
"A wise choice," Borgin nodded, accepting the coins. "I shall await the elf."
They fitted the holsters. The leather was cool and supple. Orion strapped his to his right forearm. He slid his new Hawthorn wand into the sheath. It clicked into place, vanishing from sight.
He flicked his wrist. Snap. The wand shot into his palm instantly.
"Nice," Draco grinned, equipping his own. "I look like an assassin."
"You look like a child with a toy," Narcissa corrected, ushering them out. "Come. Home."
The return to the Manor was peaceful. They had dinner in the small dining room, as Lucius was still "delayed" (likely drinking expensive wine with Fudge to seal the deal).
Orion ate his roast duck with a sense of immense satisfaction. He had his wand. He had his books. He had the Cabinet secured.
"You were quiet today, Orion," Narcissa observed, pouring tea. "Apart from buying furniture to destroy."
"Just thinking, Mother," Orion said. "About Hogwarts. It's going to be... interesting."
"I'm going to be the best flyer Slytherin has ever seen," Draco declared around a mouthful of potatoes.
"Don't talk with your mouth full," Narcissa chided gently.
Later that night, Orion lay in bed. The room was silent. His new wand was in its invisible holster on his arm—he refused to take it off even to sleep. The Cabinet would be arriving tomorrow; Dobby had been dispatched with instructions to put it in the unused storage room in the East Wing, under a dust sheet.
"Okay, Sparkle," Orion whispered to the darkness. "Show me the goods."
"Finally," Sparkle's interface bloomed into existence, glowing a soft, celebratory gold. "I thought you'd never ask. Today was productive. We spent money, we intimidated a teacher, and we bought a plot device."
"The achievement," Orion prompted.
"Right. The one from Ollivanders."
[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! ]
Tier: 1 (Basic)
Name: The Wand Chooses the Wizard (Finally)
Description: You found it. The needle in the haystack. The soulmate in a stick. After trying to use a suicidal blackthorn branch for a month, you have finally acquired a magical focus that doesn't actively hate your guts. It's Hawthorn! It's Dragon Heartstring! It's Unyielding! It's basically you, but in wood form. Now you can actually cast spells without fear of blowing up your own eyebrows.
Reward: 1x Deluxe Wand Polishing Kit (Auto-Grooming Edition).
Orion chuckled. "A polishing kit. I lied to Draco about needing one, and the System gives me one. The irony is palpable."
"It's not just a kit," Sparkle added. "It's auto-grooming. You open the tin, and little brushes come out and clean the wand for you. It's very satisfying to watch."
"Useful," Orion admitted.
"But wait," Orion sat up. "You asked about the Holster a while back, when we were returning from the Alley."
"Oh, I remember," Sparkle said. "You said 'Inventory is fine, but I require my wand on hand.' Why? Afraid of a lag spike?"
"Muscle memory," Orion explained, flexing his wrist. The wand popped into his hand instantly. He flicked his wrist back, and it retracted. "The Inventory is mental. It requires a conscious thought: 'Open Inventory, Select Item, Retrieve.' It takes... maybe a second at best. But in a duel, a second too late is death."
He snapped the wand out again.
"The holster is physical. It works on reflex. If I'm startled, my body reacts before my mind does. Plus," he smirked, "if people see me pulling a wand out of thin air (Inventory), they ask questions. If they see me pull it from a holster, they just think I bought expensive gear. Which I did. Hiding in plain sight."
"Valid," Sparkle conceded. "Paranoid, but valid. You really are preparing for war, aren't you?"
"I'm entering a school where the staircases move, the forest is full of spiders, and a possessed teacher is trying to steal a rock," Orion said, preparing to sleep. "I'm not paranoid, Sparkle. I'm just paying attention."
He settled back into the pillows, the Hawthorn wand warm against his forearm.
"Goodnight, Sparkle."
"Goodnight, Orion. Dream of storms."
Orion closed his eyes. He had his gear. He had his studies. Now, all that was left was to board the train.
And maybe figure out how to open that Cabinet without letting anything nasty out. But that was a problem for tomorrow.