Christmas at Hogwarts was an exercise in contradictions. The physical castle was draped in roaring fires, towering evergreens dusted with unmelting snow, and the smell of roasting turkey that permeated the stone walls. Yet, the student body was hollowed out. Only a handful of students remained, their voices echoing strangely in the vast, empty corridors.
For Orion Malfoy, it was the perfect environment for uninterrupted scheming, punctuated by the obligatory exchange of material affection.
A few days prior, he had dispatched Dobby on a high-speed, multi-stop shopping spree across Britain and beyond. The house-elf had returned exhausted but triumphant, laden with shrinking-charmed parcels.
The distribution of the loot was precise. For his housemates and acquaintances (Pansy, Daphne, Blaise, Theo), Orion had opted for premium, imported chocolates from Paris—a step above Honeydukes, but not overly personal.
For his family, the gifts were carefully curated statements. Narcissa received a rare, self-illuminating Star-Blight Orchid, a plant so finicky it required a specific lullaby to bloom, which Dobby had assured him she would enjoy deciphering. Lucius received a first edition, leather-bound treatise on The Geopolitical Failings of the Muggle Monarchy in the 15th Century—a book so dry and validation-heavy that Lucius would likely read it cover to cover while ignoring his actual problems. For Draco, Orion had spared no expense, securing a full set of professional-grade, dragon-hide Quidditch armor, complete with reinforced shin guards and a self-polishing aerodynamic helmet.
For his godfather, he ordered a set of ethically sourced, perfectly preserved Acromantula venom glands for Snape's private stores. Orion mentally promised himself to check on the Acromantula colony before the end of the year, maybe he could gift a complete Acromantula for next Christmas.
And, in a move that Sparkle had called "a masterclass in subtle brown-nosing," Orion had tasked Dobby with acquiring a tin of the finest, most obscure lemon-flavored boiled sweets available in the Swiss Alps, addressing the package directly to Albus Dumbledore.
"It never hurts to grease the wheels of authority with citrus," Orion had reasoned, watching Dobby pop away.
Christmas morning dawned with the aggressive, unapologetic enthusiasm of Draco Malfoy.
For 364 days of the year, Orion was the first to rise. But on Christmas, the promise of presents overrode Draco's desire for sleep.
"Orion! Wake up!" Draco was practically bouncing on the end of Orion's bed before the sun had even fully breached the horizon. He had already torn into half of his pile at the foot of his own four-poster. "Look! Father sent me the new Comet model for practice!"
Orion groaned, rubbing his eyes and casting a quick, silent charm to dim the harsh morning light streaming through the lake windows.
"It is barely dawn, Draco," Orion mumbled, sitting up and reaching for his own modest pile. "The Giant Squid hasn't even had breakfast yet."
"Open yours!" Draco demanded, already strapping on one of the dragon-hide shin guards Orion had sent him. "These are brilliant, by the way. I'm going to look terrifying on the pitch."
"That was the goal," Orion murmured.
His own haul was exactly as he expected. High-quality, functional, and largely predictable. A new set of silver scales from his parents. A box of crystallized pineapple from Blaise. A rather ostentatious, emerald-studded quill from Pansy that wrote in sparkling green ink.
The morning passed in a flurry of torn wrapping paper and sugar consumption. The Great Hall lunch was a magnificent affair, with Dumbledore leading a few off-key carols and Hagrid looking dangerously close to tears of joy after downing several goblets of eggnog.
After lunch, Orion excused himself. While Draco dragged Crabbe and Goyle out to the snowy courtyards to test his new Quidditch gear, Orion slipped into the shadows of the library. He spent a quiet, productive two hours in the Restricted Section, cross-referencing spatial displacement runes with ancient Egyptian tomb wards.
By late afternoon, he returned to the Slytherin dungeons, his mind buzzing with arithmantic equations and the comforting weight of his new knowledge.
He expected the common room to be empty, or at least quiet.
Instead, as he stepped through the concealed stone door, he was greeted by the loud, conspiratorial voices of his brother and his two muscle-bound shadows.
They were huddled around the main fireplace. Draco was reclining in a high-backed leather chair, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, holding a goblet of what looked like pumpkin juice. Crabbe and Goyle sat on the sofa opposite him, leaning forward with expressions of intense, uncharacteristic focus.
Orion paused near a tapestry, slipping into the shadows to observe.
"...and it has to be him," Draco was saying, his voice dripping with condescension. "I'm telling you, Potter is a lunatic. He speaks to snakes. He's always where he shouldn't be. The Heir of Slytherin is just another title for him to parade around."
"But Draco," Crabbe grunted, his thick brow furrowing so deeply it looked painful. "Come on. Don't you think your brother is acting more suspicious than Potter?"
Orion froze. Well, well, he thought. The boulders are trying to roll uphill.
"Yeah," Goyle chimed in, cracking his knuckles slowly. "I mean... think about it. He's certainly more capable than Potter. The way he uses his spells and the magic he is capable of. And he's always sneaking around. Surely he is more sus at being the Heir of Slytherin."
Draco rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. He looked entirely unimpressed by their deductive reasoning.
"Don't be thick," Draco scoffed. "Orion is capable, sure. He's brilliant. But he's not the Heir."
"Why not?" Crabbe challenged, leaning closer. "You know you can trust us, right? If he is, we won't tell anyone."
"Because," Draco sighed, sounding like a tired teacher explaining basic addition, "he doesn't hate Muggle-borns the same way Father does. Or the way the Heir is supposed to. I've heard him talk about it. He thinks hating them is 'inefficient'. He wouldn't care about cleansing the school; he only cares about passing his exams and proving he's smarter than everyone else. For some reason, he thinks pureblood ideology is a waste of energy."
Draco swirled his goblet. "Besides, if Orion had a giant, lethal monster at his command, he wouldn't use it to petrify a cat or a kid with a camera. He'd probably use it to do his heavy lifting or guard his stupid books. He'd probably just ride on top of it's back or something. No, it's Potter. He's unhinged."
Orion stood in the shadows, a slow, genuine smirk spreading across his face.
He actually listens, Orion realized, feeling a strange surge of pride. He doesn't understand the nuance, but he absorbed the core philosophy. He knows I'm too practical for a hate crime. My brother actually understands me.
But the conversation was too entertaining to simply observe. It was time to join the game.
Orion stepped out of the shadows, his footsteps utterly silent on the stone floor until he was right behind Goyle.
He reached out and slung a casual, companionable arm around Goyle's thick neck, leaning heavily onto the larger boy's shoulder.
Goyle jumped, letting out a startled squawk that sounded entirely unbecoming of a bodyguard, nearly knocking Crabbe off the sofa.
"Come on, Draco," Orion drawled, his voice smooth and laced with dark amusement. "You shouldn't burst their bubble like this."
He released a trembling Goyle and stepped smoothly in front of them, turning to face the group. He leaned back against the heavy arm of an empty leather chair, crossing his ankles and folding his arms.
"They are playing a game," Orion continued, his blue eyes glinting in the firelight. "A surprising one, sure, given their usual intellectual pursuits, but we should play along. It's good exercise for the brain."
Crabbe and Goyle stared at him, looking like deer caught in wand-light. They weren't sure if they were about to be praised or hexed into oblivion.
"So," Orion said, adopting a tone of mock seriousness, "we are playing 'Who is the Heir of Slytherin', hm?"
He looked directly at Crabbe, offering a sharp, predatory smile.
"If you two truly think I am the mastermind behind a millennia-old monster... then thank you for the vote of confidence, gentlemen. I always knew you were hiding your smarts beneath those thick skulls. It's flattering, really, to be considered capable of such a flawless, undetected terror campaign."
Crabbe swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "We... we were just guessing, Orion."
"And a fine guess it was," Orion nodded graciously. He turned his gaze to his brother.
"Draco, here," Orion sighed theatrically, "thinks it's Potter. Hah! What a joke. The boy who couldn't find his own shoes without Granger pointing them out is supposed to be coordinating a basilisk?"
Draco bristled, sitting up straighter. "He speaks Parseltongue! It's the only logical conclusion!"
"Logic is a tool you clearly need more practice with, brother," Orion chided gently. "If Potter were the Heir, he would have used the monster to eat Snape by now, not a cat. No, Potter is a red herring. A convenient, hissing distraction."
Orion uncrossed his arms and pushed off the chair. He took a slow, deliberate step toward the center of the group, leaning in close. The fire crackled, casting dancing green light across his face, making him look every inch the dark wizard they were just accusing him of being.
"Do you want to know," Orion whispered, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, thrilling hush that forced them all to lean in, "who I think is the Heir of Slytherin?"
Draco's eyes were wide. Crabbe and Goyle were holding their breath. Even Sparkle, in Orion's mind, went silent, waiting for the punchline.
Orion held the dramatic pause for a full three seconds.
"It's Hermione," Orion declared, his face completely deadpan. "Hermione Granger."