Cornelius Fudge, unable to contain his nervous, vibrating energy, excused himself to "ensure the press positioning is absolutely optimal," leaving the Malfoys, Amelia Bones, and a seething Dolores Umbridge in the office.
The heavy doors clicked shut behind the Minister.
Amelia Bones took a slow sip of her tea, her sharp eyes flicking to the clock on the wall.
"Pettigrew is likely on his way to Azkaban right now," Amelia stated, her voice brisk and devoid of the political fluff Fudge favored. "The transport team left the holding cells twenty minutes ago."
Lucius offered a slow, approving nod. "A swift and necessary conclusion to a rather embarrassing chapter of Ministry history."
"Fudge has timed it exceptionally well," Amelia noted, a hint of dry cynicism in her tone. "He wants the Daily Prophet to run the headlines simultaneously. The Minister bestowing the highest honor upon a brilliant young citizen, at the exact same moment that justice is finally being executed against a true traitor. It is a very clean, very compelling narrative."
"It is the narrative the public requires," Lucius agreed smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass.
Orion listened in silence. It is the narrative I built for them, he thought, adjusting his cuffs. Fudge is just playing the role I cast him in.
Ten minutes later, the heavy oak doors swung open again. A young, nervous-looking Auror stepped into the room, offering a sharp salute to Madam Bones.
"They are ready for all of you," the Auror announced. "The Minister requests the presence of the Malfoy family in the Atrium."
Lucius set his glass down with a definitive clack. He turned to his sons, his grey eyes piercing.
"It is time," Lucius said softly.
He offered a curt nod to Orion.
Orion stood up. He reached out and grabbed Draco by the sleeve, pulling his brother up with him.
"Remember what we discussed, Draco," Orion murmured, his voice low enough that only his twin could hear. "Be sure to stand where the cameras can see you, but do not look overly ecstatic. We are not Gryffindors winning a Quidditch match. Maintain the decorum. You are going to be focused on as well; do not let your posture slip."
Draco swallowed hard, smoothing his dark green robes and lifting his chin. "I won't. I'm ready."
Narcissa stepped forward, flanking Orion on his right, while Lucius took his left. Draco walked a half-step behind them, completing the phalanx of aristocratic perfection.
They followed the Auror out of the office and into the wide, gleaming corridors of the Ministry.
As they approached the main Atrium, the ambient noise shifted from the quiet hum of bureaucracy to a low, massive roar of anticipation. They stepped out of the private corridors and into the vast, open space of the Atrium.
It was packed.
Hundreds of Ministry workers, reporters, and curious onlookers were gathered behind velvet ropes. The Fountain of Magical Brethren in the center of the hall had been temporarily deactivated, its waters stilled to accommodate the massive crowd.
As the Malfoy family emerged, a ripple of excitement surged through the masses.
"There he is!"
"It's the Malfoy boy!"
"Look how young he is!"
People were waving, trying to catch Orion's eye. Flashes from heavy, brass-rimmed magical cameras exploded in rapid succession, temporarily blinding.
Orion didn't flinch. He didn't wave back enthusiastically. He offered slow, polite, acknowledging nods to the crowd, walking with a measured, unhurried grace that commanded absolute respect. He looked every inch the pureblood prince stepping into his birthright.
Lucius and Narcissa glided beside him, perfectly comfortable in the overwhelming scrutiny. Draco, following Orion's advice, kept his face impassive, though his eyes darted excitedly over the massive crowd.
They reached the center of the Atrium, where a large, raised, golden pedestal had been erected.
Hovering high above the pedestal were massive, enchanted cloth screens. They acted as enormous magical projectors, mirroring the feed from the press cameras so that even those in the very back of the Atrium could see the ceremony clearly. As Orion approached the steps, his own face—calm, handsome, and intensely focused—loomed fifty feet high above the crowd.
He ascended the stairs to the podium.
Lucius, Narcissa, and Draco took their places on a designated riser to the side, looking on with fierce, unyielding pride.
Waiting at the center of the podium was Cornelius Fudge, practically glowing under the magical spotlights. Standing slightly to the side, wearing robes of a deep, serene violet, was Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster offered Orion a small, genuine smile as he approached.
Fudge stepped up to the enchanted podium, raising his hands. A sonorous charm amplified his voice, booming across the vast Atrium.
"Witches and Wizards of Britain!" Fudge bellowed, waiting for the applause to die down. "We are gathered here today to witness history! We are here to honor a young man whose intellect, bravery, and unwavering dedication to the truth have made our world a safer place!"
The crowd cheered.
Fudge launched into a grandiose, highly embellished speech. He spoke of the Chamber of Secrets (vaguely, to avoid panic), he spoke of the unmasking of a decades-old deception (praising the Ministry's swift action in the aftermath), and he lauded the brilliance of the youth standing beside him.
Orion tuned most of it out, maintaining a look of humble attention for the cameras.
"He really loves the sound of his own voice," Sparkle noted dryly in Orion's mind.
Let him speak, Orion replied silently. The longer he talks, the better the photos look.
Finally, Fudge turned to Orion.
"Therefore," Fudge announced, his voice reaching a crescendo, "it is my profound honor, as Minister of Magic, to present this award. An award usually reserved for a lifetime of achievement, but today, awarded for highly monumental contributions to magical society."
Fudge gestured to a nervous-looking Ministry attendant who hurried forward, carrying a flat, velvet-lined box.
The attendant opened the box.
Resting on the dark velvet was a heavy, gleaming gold medal. It was intricately carved with ancient runes of protection and valor. But it was the ribbon attached to it that drew the eye.
It wasn't the standard purple of the Second Class, or the white of the Third.
It was a vibrant, unmistakable, emerald green.
The symbol of the Order of Merlin, First Class.