The air inside Orion's expanded trunk-study was cool and smelled of parchment and ink. He sat at his heavy oak desk, a blank roll of parchment rolled out before him, tapping a silver quill rhythmically against his chin.
"The objective is absolute, public exposure," Orion murmured, his eyes fixed on the blank page as if trying to force the solution to materialize. "But the execution requires finesse. Lockhart is an idiot, but he is a paranoid idiot who has successfully hidden his crimes for years. He won't simply confess to Daphne, or anyone."
"Veritaserum?" Sparkle suggested, her blue interface hovering near the ceiling.
"Difficult," Orion countered, shaking his head. "Snape likely has a vial in his private stores, but breaching those stores is incredibly risky, even for me. Furthermore, if I get caught stealing Veritaserum, the consequences are severe. Even Severus won't leave me, without punishing me for it. And strategically... Veritaserum requires an interrogator. It requires a setting where he is forced to answer questions. If I drug him in his office, I just get a private confession. If I drug him in the Great Hall, it's highly illegal, and the Ministry would likely declare the confession invalid due to the unauthorized use of restricted substances on a teacher, and will punish me instead."
He began to write on the parchment, crossing options out as quickly as he listed them.
"I need him to voluntarily provide the information. Technically, I do have the Phial of the Silver Tongue."
"You do," Sparkle agreed. "It grants supernatural persuasion. Just talk him into confessing."
"The potion has limitations," Orion sighed, drawing a heavy line through the word 'Persuasion'. "It requires the target to have a positive or neutral disposition toward the user. Lockhart likes me, yes, because I stroke his ego. But the persuasion isn't mind control. It cannot force someone to act directly against their core survival instincts. Asking him to walk into the Great Hall and declare himself a fraud is the equivalent of asking Voldemort to take up knitting. The self-preservation instinct will override the persuasion."
He set the quill down, leaning back and lacing his fingers behind his head.
"Memories are usually inadmissible in court," Orion reasoned aloud, shifting his thoughts toward the legal aspect. "They can be modified, forged, or faked by a skilled Legilimens. The Wizengamot rarely accepts them as definitive proof of a crime."
He paused, a slow, predatory smile beginning to curve his lips.
"But I don't need a memory to prove he is a fake in a court of law. I just need a memory to cast enough public suspicion on the man to force the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to start digging. Once Amelia Bones starts looking into the actual dates of his 'adventures' versus the locations of the real heroes... the house of cards collapses instantly."
"Okay," Sparkle's waveform bounced skeptically. "But what memory are you going to use? A memory of him confessing? Good luck getting that. As you just established, the man will take his secrets to the grave unless he's backed into a corner."
"True," Orion's smile widened into something genuinely wicked. "The physical Gilderoy Lockhart will not confess unless threatened with extreme violence or a Basilisk."
He leaned forward, his blue eyes flashing with inspiration in the dim light of the trunk.
"Thankfully," Orion whispered, "we have access to a version of Gilderoy Lockhart that is much easier to back into a corner. A version that shares his memories, his ego, and his cowardice, but lacks his physical agency."
The next day passed with the excruciating, slow pace of an ordinary Wednesday.
Orion attended his classes, maintaining his facade of the attentive, slightly bored prodigy. He listened with half an ear as rumors circulated the Slytherin common room about Lockhart's latest boast: claiming he could have dispatched the Basilisk with a single, well-placed punch, had he not been busy 'coordinating the Ministry response'.
It is endlessly amusing, Orion thought during lunch, comparing Lockhart's absurd, fabricated bragging to Draco's exaggerated tales of the Chamber. They operate on the exact same frequency of narcissism. They just have different target audiences.
While Lockhart was busy 'teaching' the fourth-year Hufflepuffs the intricacies of his hair-care routine, Orion made his move.
"Dobby," Orion whispered, slipping into an empty alcove near the Defense Against the Dark Arts corridor.
CRACK.
The house-elf appeared, wearing a fresh, remarkably clean tea towel. "Master Orion calls Dobby for stealth?"
"Ultimate stealth today, Dobby," Orion instructed.
He reached into his mental Inventory grid. Retrieve.
The shimmering, liquid-silver fabric of the Invisibility Cloak materialized in his hands. He swung it over his shoulders, ensuring his entire body was covered. He vanished instantly from sight, though Dobby, attuned to his master's magic, remained facing him perfectly.
"I need you to Side-Along Apparate us directly into Professor Lockhart's office," Orion's disembodied voice commanded softly. "He is currently teaching a class on the floor below. The office should be empty. Keep yourself completely invisible."
"Dobby will be a ghost!" the elf promised, turning invisible himself before grabbing the sleeve of the invisible cloak.
CRACK.
The violent compression of elven Apparition squeezed Orion, and instantly, the dusty alcove was replaced by the overwhelming, suffocating scent of lilac perfume and polished wood.
Orion stood perfectly still, his eyes sweeping the Defense Against the Dark Arts office.
It was a shrine. Every available surface—the desk, the walls, the mantelpiece—was covered in framed, moving photographs and oil paintings of Gilderoy Lockhart. Lockhart battling a vampire. Lockhart smiling on a beach. Lockhart waving a wand.
Since Orion was completely shielded by the Cloak of Invisibility, none of the dozens of painted Lockharts noticed the intrusion. They continued to preen, adjust their hair, or flash dazzling smiles at the empty room.
Orion moved silently, his dragon-hide boots making no sound on the thick rugs.
He didn't want a large portrait; it would be too suspicious if a massive painting vanished from the wall. He needed something small, easily overlooked, but fully animated.
His invisible gaze landed on a small, gilded frame resting on a side table near the window. The painting depicted Lockhart sitting in an ornate armchair, looking incredibly smug, occasionally lifting a painted mirror to check his reflection.
"Perfect," Orion whispered.
He reached out an invisible hand beneath the cloak. He didn't touch the frame. He simply focused his perception on the object.
Store.
ZAP.
The small, gilded painting vanished instantly in a flash of non-existent digital light, secured safely within the fourth slot of his Inventory grid.
The other portraits in the room didn't react. They were too busy admiring themselves to notice that one of their clones had just been deleted from reality.
"We are done here, Dobby," Orion's voice murmured near the floor. "Extract."
An invisible, spindly hand grabbed his cloak.
CRACK.
The lilac-scented office vanished, and Orion stumbled slightly as he landed back on the soft rug of his four-poster bed in the Slytherin dungeon, the heavy green curtains already drawn tight around him.
He pulled the Invisibility Cloak off, letting it pool around his knees. He dismissed Dobby with a quick word of thanks.
Orion leaned back against his pillows, letting out a long, satisfied breath.
"Phase One complete," Orion said, his eyes glittering in the dim light. "The acquisition. Considering the man has a literal shrine of himself, he won't even realize one small portrait is missing. And even if he did... who is he going to blame? The ghosts?"
"So you kidnapped a painting," Sparkle's interface bloomed, buzzing with curiosity. "What exactly are you going to do with it? Torture it for information?"
"I'm going to interrogate it," Orion corrected smoothly. "A portrait possesses the memories and personality of its subject up until the moment it was painted. If that painting is from last year, it knows about the Banshee. It knows about the ghouls. It knows he's a fraud."
He reached into his Inventory and pulled the gilded frame out, setting it on the bed sheets. The painted Lockhart blinked, looking around the dark, enclosed space of the bed curtains with sudden, painted confusion.
"And unlike the real Lockhart," Orion smirked, drawing his Hawthorn wand, "this one can't cast an Obliviate charm to save its life."