The revelation of the violent clash in the tavern cast a sudden, chilling shadow over the small table.
Professor McGonagall's usually stern expression crumpled slightly, her brow furrowing with deep, genuine concern. "A civilian taking on Augustus Rookwood..." she murmured, staring blankly at her half-eaten sandwich. "Madness. Pure madness. Albus must be aware of this development."
She shook her head, as if trying to physically dislodge the dark memories the names evoked, and turned her sharp gaze back to Tonks.
"I know you have been quite bored staying here at Hogwarts these past few months, Nymphadora," McGonagall said, her voice softer than usual, lacking its sharp edge. "Even during your school time, I have certainly not forgotten your utter inability to sit still, even during the most complex Transfiguration lectures."
Tonks offered a sheepish, lopsided grin, her hair flashing a brief, apologetic pink. "I was a very enthusiastic learner, Professor."
"You were a menace to classroom stability," McGonagall corrected dryly, though there was undeniable affection in her tone.
She leaned forward, her expression turning incredibly solemn.
"However, on a personal note... I am profoundly glad that you have been posted here, guarding the castle, and not out there leading the search parties."
Tonks blinked, surprised by the sudden, raw honesty. The playful atmosphere vanished entirely.
"The Lestranges. Rookwood. Dolohov," McGonagall listed the names, each one sounding like a curse. "These people are unimaginably dangerous, Nymphadora. And I know of their tendencies intimately, because I taught every single one of them when they were students here."
McGonagall's eyes grew distant, haunted by the ghosts of a war that had claimed too many of her former pupils.
"They do not duel; they butcher," she stated flatly. "I would not want you to face them. Even knowing your capabilities as an Auror, and your impressive dueling scores... I am relieved you are safe within these walls."
Tonks swallowed hard, the vibrant colors bleeding out of her hair until it settled into a muted, serious brown. "Thank you, Professor. I... I understand."
McGonagall didn't stop there. She turned her piercing gaze directly onto the two thirteen-year-old boys sitting across from her.
"And the same warning goes for you two as well," McGonagall said, her voice dropping into a harsh, uncompromising register. "Mr. Potter. Mr. Malfoy."
Harry stiffened, sitting up straighter. Orion met her gaze calmly, sensing the weight of the incoming lecture.
"I know of your shared, frankly terrifying tendencies to go actively searching for trouble instead of reporting it to an adult," McGonagall lectured, her Scottish burr thickening with emotion. "You both seem to possess this uncanny ability to survive catastrophic, lethal situations through a bizarre combination of sheer, dumb luck, reckless bravery, and perhaps, in your case, Mr. Malfoy, an unhealthy dose of manipulative cunning."
Orion didn't object to the characterization. It was remarkably accurate.
"But," McGonagall's voice cracked slightly, the strict disciplinarian facade fracturing to reveal the tired, grieving woman beneath. "As someone who has lost a great many people in the past war... students I taught, colleagues I respected, friends I loved... I would like you to cherish your own lives significantly more than you currently do."
She looked at Harry, her eyes soft with unspoken sorrow for his parents, then looked at Orion, recognizing the heavy burden of the expectations placed upon him by his name and his new medal.
"Dying in a war may grant you fame," McGonagall whispered, the words echoing loudly in the quiet office. "It may make you a martyr in the history books. But fame is cold comfort to the dead. And it certainly does not help the people who love you. Your family members, your friends... they care far more about you simply being there with them, alive and breathing, than they care about you dying a hero's death for them."
The silence that followed was profound. The sheer, raw vulnerability of the usually unshakable Deputy Headmistress left the three younger people stunned.
Harry looked down at his lap, his jaw clenching as he likely thought of his new family member, Sirius, and the parents he had never known.
Orion felt a strange, uncomfortable tightness in his chest. He looked at the old witch, recognizing the absolute, undeniable truth in her words. She wasn't lecturing them; she was pleading with them.
"Yes, Professor," Orion replied softly, his voice devoid of any arrogance or sarcasm. He offered a slow, respectful nod. "We understand."
"We do, Professor," Harry echoed quietly.
McGonagall held their gazes for a long moment, ensuring the message had sunk in. Then, with a visible effort, she drew herself back up, smoothing her tartan robes and rebuilding the walls of her professional persona.
She let out a long, shuddering sigh, picking up her red quill.
"Anyways," McGonagall said briskly, her voice returning to its usual, crisp authority. "Let us get back to our work. The essays will not grade themselves, Nymphadora. And your detentions, gentlemen, continue."
They pushed their plates aside and returned to their respective desks.
As Orion picked up his quill to resume summarizing the mechanics of Untransfiguration, his mind lingered on the story Tonks had shared.
Augustus Rookwood attacked by a heavily charmed civilian in a border tavern, Orion mused, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
Rookwood was a former Unspeakable. A master of obscure magic. To engage him in a destructive brawl and survive... it required an incredible level of skill, or an overwhelming, fanatical motivation.
Who holds a grudge deep enough to tear down a building just to get to Rookwood? Orion wondered. And why keep themselves hidden?
He tapped his quill against his parchment. The variables in his four-year plan were multiplying rapidly. The escaped Death Eaters were moving, the Ministry was failing to catch them, and new, unknown players were entering the board.
The silence of the room was comforting, but outside, the storm was clearly gathering. Orion needed to finalize his preparations for the Horcrux heist sooner rather than later.