The aftermath of Mrs. Norris's petrification settled over Hogwarts not with a scream, but with a suffocating, paranoid whisper. The corridors, usually ringing with the chaotic energy of hundreds of teenagers, became hushed. Students walked in packs, casting nervous glances at the dark alcoves and the towering suits of armor.
But the most fascinating phenomenon, to Orion Malfoy at least, was the sheer, unadulterated absurdity of the Hogwarts rumor mill.
Within forty-eight hours of the attack, the student body had reached a collective, baffling consensus: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the emblem of Gryffindor bravery, was the Heir of Slytherin.
It was an educational experience for Orion, primarily in the study of mass hysteria.
He sat in the library on a Thursday afternoon, a heavy tome on advanced structural wards open before him. However, his attention was firmly fixed on a group of third-year Hufflepuffs whispering furiously behind a stack of Hogwarts: A History.
"I'm telling you," a boy with a badger-crest tie muttered. "He was standing right there! He hates that cat. Everyone knows it. And think about it... he's powerful enough to survive You-Know-Who as a baby. Who else could open the Chamber?"
Orion closed his book with a soft, exasperated snap.
Even within the stone walls of the Slytherin common room, the theory had found traction. Some older students genuinely believed Potter was playing a deep, multi-layered game of deception. 'Hide in the lion's den,' a had mused by the fire. 'It's the perfect cover for a snake.'
It was a staggering display of cognitive dissonance.
The breaking point arrived when Draco threw himself onto the sofa next to Orion, his face flushed with a mixture of excitement and vindictive glee.
"It's brilliant," Draco announced, leaning in. "Half the school thinks Potter did it. Have you confronted him yet, Orion? Are you going to ask him if he's the Heir?"
Orion slowly turned his head to look at his twin. His blue eyes were perfectly flat, devoid of any amusement.
"Draco," Orion said, his voice deadly calm. "Shut up."
Draco blinked, taken aback. "What? Why? It makes sense! He's always sneaking around! And he hates Filch!"
"The Quidditch air has addled your brain," Orion scoffed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "If you truly believe that Harry Potter—the boy who can barely brew a Boil Cure Potion without blowing up his eyebrows—is the Heir of Slytherin, then our standards have plummeted to subterranean levels."
Draco opened his mouth to argue, but Orion raised a hand, silencing him.
"Believe me, Draco," Orion said, his tone dripping with aristocratic disdain. "If Potter were the Heir, I would be throwing a party in this very room. Because at least that would mean I had a rival in this school who possessed more than a single brain cell."
He leaned forward, poking Draco in the chest.
"Right now, Potter is, at best, mediocre. He is reactionary, impulsive, and entirely reliant on Granger for his homework. To call him the Heir of Slytherin is an insult to Salazar himself, and a profound insult to this House."
Draco frowned, looking genuinely confused. "But... he was there! With the blood!"
"Being at the scene of a crime does not make one the architect of it," Orion stated, standing up and gathering his books. "It usually just makes them unlucky. Or stupid."
He turned and walked toward the dormitories, leaving Draco to process the sudden verbal beatdown.
Once inside his empty room, Orion threw his books onto his desk and let out a long, frustrated sigh.
"You are surrounded by idiots," Sparkle noted sympathetically, her interface glowing a soothing blue.
"They just don't have the capacity to think critically," Orion muttered, pacing the small space between the beds. "It's infuriating. Let's break it down."
He ticked the points off on his fingers.
"One: Potter was raised by Muggles. He didn't even know magic existed until he was eleven. Two: His mother was a Muggleborn. Why would the Heir of Slytherin—a bloodline obsessed with purity—target his own mother's demographic? Three: His best friends are a Muggleborn and a blood-traitor. Four: If he were the Heir, why didn't he start the attacks last year when he first arrived?"
He threw his hands up.
"What are these students smoking in Herbology to think he is the mastermind behind a millennia-old ethnic cleansing plot?!"
"People love a good conspiracy theory," Sparkle giggled. "Especially when it involves the local celebrity. It's dramatic irony."
"It's a failure of the educational system," Orion corrected sharply.
Despite the stupidity of his peers, the week did offer some interesting data points.
The most entertaining was Hermione Granger's sudden, desperate interrogation of Professor Binns during History of Magic. Watching the ghostly professor break out of his centuries-old loop of Goblin Rebellions to actually answer a question about the Chamber of Secrets was a rare treat. It proved that even the dead could be startled by a Gryffindor's sheer force of will.
The most concerning data point, however, was Ginny Weasley.
Orion had taken to observing her from a distance in the Great Hall. She looked skittish, jumping at loud noises and staring blankly at her porridge. But she didn't look haunted. She didn't have the hollow, sunken eyes of someone who was fully aware they were losing their soul to a dark artifact.
She's confused, Orion deduced. She's probably experiencing blackouts or fugue states, but she has no idea she's involved in the attacks. She thinks she's just going crazy or forgetting things. The bond is strong enough to control her body, but not yet deep enough to consume her mind entirely.
The timeline was holding. The diary was working slowly.
Amidst this rising tension, the first Quidditch match of the season was scheduled. Gryffindor versus Slytherin.
The rivalry, fueled by the new Nimbus 2001s and the underlying tension of the petrification, had reached a fever pitch. Draco had practically cornered Orion in the common room on Friday night.
"You have to come," Draco pleaded, entirely forgetting his earlier scolding. "You missed the entire season last year! You have to see me fly. I'm going to humiliate him, Orion. I'm going to catch the Snitch right over his head!"
Orion looked at his brother's desperate, eager face. Draco wanted validation. He wanted his twin to witness his moment of glory.
Orion sighed, resigning himself to two hours of freezing winds and screaming teenagers.
"Fine," Orion conceded. "Tomorrow, I will be in the stands."
Draco beamed, pumping his fist. "Yes! I knew it! It's going to be epic!"
"But," Orion added, his voice dropping to a low, warning register that made Draco freeze. "You had better focus on the game, Draco."
Orion stepped closer, narrowing his eyes.
"Do not get distracted by Potter. Do not spend the match trying to insult him or show off your broom. Because if Potter manages to swipe that Snitch from behind your ear while you are busy taunting him..."
Orion let a perfectly crafted, mocking smirk cross his face.
"...I am going to assume you have a crush on his messy hair and tragic backstory, and that is why you subconsciously allow him to beat you."
Draco's face turned a violent, explosive shade of red. He looked utterly horrified by the implication.
"I do not!" Draco sputtered, backing away as if Orion had hexed him. "I hate him! I'm going to crush him! I'm going to make him swallow the Snitch!"
"We shall see," Orion said smoothly, turning back to his Arithmancy chart. "Don't disappoint me, Seeker."
Draco stormed out of the common room, muttering furious promises of Quidditch dominance.
Orion smiled, picking up his quill. Sometimes, the best way to motivate a Malfoy was to threaten their fragile masculinity with the worst possible accusation.
Tomorrow was going to be an interesting match. The rogue Bludger was coming. And Orion had a front-row seat to the chaos.