The ascent from the Slytherin dungeons was surprisingly quiet, the ambient tension of the castle seemingly holding its breath. Orion walked with a smooth, unhurried stride, ignoring Draco's frantic, barely contained excitement beside him.
"You didn't tell me what it actually looks like," Draco whispered for the fifth time, adjusting the collar of his expensive, dark green cloak. "Is it really sixty feet long? Does it have horns? I heard someone say Basilisks have crowns of feathers."
"You will see it shortly, Draco," Orion replied mildly, his eyes scanning the corridor ahead. "And it has scales, not feathers. It is not a decorative peacock."
They reached the Entrance Hall, the massive front doors closed against the biting February chill. The space was mostly deserted, the student body either in their common rooms or huddled in the library, avoiding the patrols.
However, drifting across the flagstones with the airy, unbothered grace of a ghost, was a small figure with straggly, dirty-blonde hair.
Luna Lovegood was humming a disjointed tune, her oversized, radish-shaped earrings bobbing cheerfully. She wore her Ravenclaw robes, but her feet were clad in a pair of bright, violently purple knitted socks, and mismatched shoes.
She spotted Orion and stopped humming. Her silvery, protuberant eyes widened in a bright, genuine smile.
Instead of shrinking away or offering a polite, distant nod as most students did when encountering a Malfoy, Luna practically skipped toward them.
"Hello, Orion," Luna greeted him musically.
Draco stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the girl as if she had just sprouted a second head. He opened his mouth to deliver a scathing insult about her socks, but the words died in his throat when Luna did something utterly inexplicable.
She stepped right into Orion's personal space. Rising onto her tiptoes, she reached out a small, pale hand and patted Orion gently, affectionately, on the top of his dark, perfectly styled hair.
"Congratulations," Luna said softly, her voice carrying a profound, absolute sincerity. "You did very well yesterday night. The castle feels much lighter."
Orion didn't flinch. He actually lowered his head a fraction of an inch to accommodate her, a rare, genuine softness touching his blue eyes.
"Thank you, Luna," Orion murmured, entirely ignoring his brother's spluttering shock. "It was... a necessary chore."
Draco's jaw was resting somewhere near his collarbone. He looked from Orion to the strange Ravenclaw girl, his mind completely failing to process the interaction. Orion Malfoy, the aloof, untouchable prodigy, was allowing 'Loony' Lovegood to pat him like a Kneazle kitten.
"I trust you are well?" Orion asked, stepping back slightly but maintaining his focused attention on her. "Are you still being troubled by the Nargles?"
"Oh, no," Luna smiled brightly, rocking back on her shoe heels. "The Nargles have been very, very quiet lately. They seem to have lost their appetite for mischief."
She tilted her head, her gaze drifting toward the ceiling for a moment before returning to Orion.
"In fact," Luna confided, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "one of them actually tried to take my hairbrush one morning, a few days ago. But... they seemed to change their mind. I found it placed very neatly right back on the center of my bed that same evening. I think they might be learning manners."
Orion's lips twitched into a suppressed smirk. The Ravenclaw bullies were officially too terrified of the phantom stalker to commit to a theft.
"That is excellent news," Orion said smoothly. "Polite Nargles are the best kind."
"They are," Luna agreed cheerfully. She looked past Orion's shoulder, sensing the urgency radiating from Draco. "Anyway, you are going somewhere important right now, aren't you? We can talk later."
She gave him a small, airy wave. "Bye, Orion. Bye, Draco."
With a final, cheerful hum, she turned and skipped away toward the kitchens.
Draco stared after her, completely bewildered. He slowly turned his head to look at his twin.
"What... what was that?" Draco demanded, his voice a harsh, confused hiss. "Did she just pat your head? Why are you talking to Lovegood? She's completely cracked!"
Orion sighed, adjusting his robes and where her hand had ruffled his hair. He didn't offer an explanation.
"Snape is probably waiting, Draco," Orion said coldly, pivoting toward the stairs. "It is best not to keep him standing. He tends to deduct points for tardiness, even from us."
Draco opened his mouth to argue, still thoroughly confused, but the threat of Snape's wrath overrode his curiosity. He hurried after Orion, muttering under his breath about the decline of wizarding standards.
They found Professor Snape waiting impatiently at the base of the Grand Staircase, his arms crossed over his chest, his black robes billowing slightly in the draft. He checked a pocket watch with a sharp, irritated snap of the lid.
"You are late by five minutes, Orion," Snape sneered, his dark eyes locking onto Orion.
"Sorry, Professor," Draco started, eager to throw blame. "Lovegood stopped us and—"
"Draco spent an inordinate amount of time in front of the mirror, Professor," Orion interrupted smoothly, his voice drowning out his brother's excuse entirely. "He was ensuring his hair possessed the appropriate level of gloss for the upcoming expedition."
Draco choked on his own spit, turning a violent shade of pink. "I did not! I was—!"
"Let us go," Snape scoffed, rolling his eyes in profound disgust, effectively cutting off the argument. "The Ministry is already assembling."
They ascended to the second floor in tense silence. The corridor leading to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom was heavily guarded. A pair of stern-looking Aurors stood at the intersection, their wands drawn and glowing softly.
They recognized Snape instantly and nodded respectfully. They glanced at Orion with a mixture of wariness and professional curiosity, having undoubtedly heard the rumors of his involvement in the Basilisk's defeat. But when they saw Draco trailing behind, one of the Aurors frowned, stepping forward to block the path.
"Hold on, Severus," the Auror grunted. "No unauthorized personnel. The perimeter is locked down for the harvesting team."
"We have permission for my brother to accompany us," Orion stated firmly, not breaking stride. "The Headmaster and the Minister approved it personallyt. You may verify it with them; they are currently stationed at the entrance."
The Auror hesitated, looking at the confident twelve-year-old, then at Snape's impatient scowl. He lowered his wand, stepping aside. "Very well."
They moved down the damp corridor, the smell of mildew and tension growing stronger.
A crowd was gathered outside the heavy wooden door of the out-of-order lavatory.
Cornelius Fudge stood in the center, looking incredibly uncomfortable in his lime-green bowler hat, surrounded by the severe, capable presence of Amelia Bones and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall were conversing quietly near the wall. A team of five rough-looking wizards and witches—the high-profile harvesting team, clad in thick, stained dragon-hide aprons and carrying heavy, iron-bound cases—waited impatiently. Also a squad of Aurors was standing there alert.
And, buzzing around the Minister like a highly caffeinated, predatory insect, was Rita Skeeter.
The notorious Daily Prophet journalist was clutching a violently green, jewel-encrusted handbag, a Quick-Quotes Quill hovering eagerly over a notepad in the air beside her. Her blonde hair was styled in elaborate, rigid curls, and her heavily painted lips were stretched into a terrifying, hungry smile.
Rita was mid-sentence, trying to badger Fudge for a quote about Ministry response times, when she spotted the approaching Slytherins over the Minister's shoulder.
Her eyes instantly locked onto Orion.
She stopped talking. Her predatory smile widened into something truly alarming.
"Oh, my!" Rita gasped, her voice shrill and dripping with manufactured charm. She completely abandoned the Minister of Magic and practically darted across the corridor, her high heels clicking sharply on the stone.
She knew exactly who Orion Malfoy was. Not just because of the Malfoy name and the endless galas she had covered, but because Lucius Malfoy had spent the last twelve years keeping her far away from his youngest children. Lucius controlled the press; he didn't feed his children to it, unless they are ready.
But this wasn't a society gala. This was a legendary monster hunt. And Orion was the unconfirmed, mythical star. She had no interest in badmouthing a Malfoy—that was career suicide—but an exclusive interview with the boy who supposedly participated in defeating the Beast of Slytherin? An article designed to bolster the Malfoy name, full of heroism and pureblood grit? Lucius would likely pay her a small fortune for the good press.
"Look who we have here!" Rita cooed, her Quick-Quotes Quill zooming forward, poised to capture every syllable. "One of our brave, tragic child stars! Orion Malfoy, isn't it? The boy who looked death in the eye and lived to tell the tale! Tell me, Orion, how did it feel to—"
"Do you want to be petrified?"
The question cut through the corridor like a cracking whip.
It wasn't shouted. It was spoken in a low, cold, utterly conversational tone that carried a chilling, deadpan sincerity.
The entire corridor froze.
Rita Skeeter's manic smile vanished. Her quill stopped mid-air, a drop of acid-green ink falling onto the stone floor with a loud splat. Fudge stopped fidgeting. Amelia Bones turned her head sharply, her monocle glinting. Even the grizzled harvesting team paused their equipment checks.
Everyone stared at the twelve-year-old boy.
Orion didn't blink. He stared directly into Rita Skeeter's heavily painted eyes, his own blue gaze flat and devoid of any emotion.
"I ask because," Orion continued, his voice echoing softly in the stunned silence, "after defeating the Basilisk in close-quarters combat last night, I discovered a rather unfortunate side effect."
He took a slow, deliberate step toward the journalist. Rita instinctively took a step back, her jeweled handbag clutched tightly to her chest.
"It appears," Orion murmured, leaning in slightly, "that I have somehow absorbed the creature's residual magic. I have gained the power to petrify people with my gaze. Just by looking at them."
He let the silence stretch for three agonizing seconds. The absurdity of the claim hung heavy in the damp air, warring violently with the sheer, terrifying conviction in his voice.
"I would very much like a test subject to verify this hypothesis," Orion offered, tilting his head slightly, his eyes never leaving hers. "Do you volunteer, Madam Skeeter?"
Rita swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. She looked at the boy's unblinking stare. She knew it was impossible. She knew it was a lie. But the cold, sociopathic calmness of his delivery made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.
No one spoke. The tension was palpable.
"No?" Orion sighed softly, breaking the eye contact and stepping back, his posture returning to one of relaxed, aristocratic boredom. He shook his head mournfully. "Pity. I suppose my newfound, terrifying power will never be properly tested in the field."
Professor McGonagall was the first to recover her voice.
"Mr. Malfoy!" McGonagall gasped, her hand flying to her chest, her Scottish accent thick with shock. "What on earth do you mean by that?! You have absorbed the creature's power?"
Orion turned to look at the Deputy Headmistress. He let the silence hang for a moment, enjoying the sheer, unadulterated panic radiating from the adults.
Then, a slow, brilliant, entirely wicked smirk spread across his face.
"Wait," Orion said, his voice dripping with condescending amusement. "You actually believed me?"
He let out a short, incredulous laugh.
"I was joking, of course, Professor," Orion drawled, waving a dismissive hand. "The idea of absorbing a biological gaze-attack through proximity is scientifically and magically preposterous. It's a fairy tale."
He turned back toward the bathroom door, preparing to enter.
But as he moved, his cold, blue gaze flicked back over his shoulder, landing squarely on Rita Skeeter one last time. The smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a dark, knowing intensity that chilled the corridor all over again.
"Or," Orion murmured, his voice dropping to a whisper that only she could hear, "is it?"
He didn't wait for her to answer. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped into the gloom of Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, leaving a profoundly rattled journalist and a very confused Ministry delegation in his wake.