The morning after the Great Hall Aquatic Assault dawned crisp and bright, the winter sun reflecting harshly off the frosted windows of the Slytherin common room.
Orion completed his morning Occlumency meditations, his mind feeling remarkably sharp and expansive. The new Universal Sense hummed faintly at the edges of his consciousness, a quiet, reassuring presence that currently registered absolutely zero threats in his immediate vicinity. After sending out his clone in the confines of his trunk, he decided to inform Draco of his detention.
He found Draco near his own bed, attempting to flatten a stubborn piece of hair with a copious amount of styling gel.
"I won't be available for the majority of the day, Draco," Orion informed him smoothly, adjusting his own cuffs. "I have detention with Professor McGonagall."
Draco stopped mid-comb, staring at his brother in genuine bewilderment. "Detention? You? Why? Because you hit Potter with that balloon? But that was after stupid Potter hit Snape! You were just defending our Head of House! It was practically a public service!"
Orion hid a smile. Draco's unwavering loyalty, even when his logic was entirely fabricated, was amusing.
"The Headmaster felt my reaction was... disproportionately chaotic," Orion replied diplomatically. He patted Draco firmly on the shoulder. "It is fine, Draco. No need to worry too much about it. You had fun yesterday, right?"
Draco's confusion melted into a wicked grin. "Are you kidding? Getting to pelt Weasley in the face was the highlight of my term so far."
"Then that is all that matters," Orion said. "Enjoy your Saturday."
He headed up to the Great Hall for breakfast. The atmosphere was still buoyant, students trading exaggerated stories of their watery exploits. Harry Potter, sitting at the Gryffindor table, looked distinctly less jovial. He caught Orion's eye and shot him a dark, resentful glare.
Orion merely raised his teacup in a silent, mocking toast.
Promptly at nine o'clock, Orion made his way up to the Transfiguration corridor. He walked with a relaxed, unhurried stride, turning a corner to find Harry Potter already there, leaning against the stone wall.
"Morning, Potter," Orion greeted him cheerfully. "Ready to face the music?"
Harry scowled, pushing off the wall. "This is entirely your fault, Malfoy."
"I provided the opportunity," Orion corrected mildly. "You provided the throwing arm. We are partners in crime."
Before Harry could argue the semantics of extortion, a loud, frustrated groan echoed down the hall.
Nymphadora Tonks trudged toward them, her usually vibrant hair a dull, depressed shade of dishwater brown. She was wearing her Auror trainee robes, looking as though she was marching to the gallows.
She stopped in front of Orion, jabbing a finger aggressively at his chest.
"Look at me," Tonks demanded, her voice tight with indignation. "Look at me! I am a graduated Hogwarts student. I am a fully qualified trainee Auror for the Ministry of Magic. And I am here, on a Saturday morning, to attend a bloody school detention... because of your ridiculous shenanigans."
Orion didn't flinch. He looked down at her pointing finger, then up at her face, his expression perfectly calm.
"It was my choice to inform you about the prank as a courtesy, Tonks," Orion reasoned, his voice smooth and logical. "I never explicitly suggested that you keep the information to yourself. Your decision not to act on that intelligence, or your failure to inform any active professor of a scheduled disruption, was entirely your own professional failing."
He offered a small, infuriatingly polite smile.
"You are here because of your own inaction, cousin. Not my actions."
Tonks glared at him so hard her eyes seemed to spark. Her hair flared a violent, angry red for a split second before she let out a long, heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Whatever," Tonks grumbled, rubbing her temples. "Just... don't talk to me."
Orion smirked, stepping forward to knock firmly on the heavy oak door of Professor McGonagall's office.
"Come in," the crisp, familiar voice called out.
The three of them entered.
The office was neat, warmed by a crackling fire, but Professor McGonagall looked incredibly weary. She was seated behind her desk, a towering stack of parchment resting precariously near her inkwell. She regarded the three of them over the rim of her square spectacles. Her eyes held a mixture of wariness and deep, profound exhaustion.
"Take a seat, Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Potter," McGonagall instructed, gesturing to two desks that had been conjured facing the wall, away from her own workspace. She looked at Tonks. "Nymphadora, you may take the small table near the window."
Once they were seated, McGonagall stood up, smoothing her tartan robes.
"While my initial inclination," McGonagall began, her voice tight, "was to assign you both to grueling, repetitive manual labor—such as scrubbing the owlery or polishing the trophy room without magic—I have determined, upon further reflection, that such a punishment would likely have little to no actual disciplinary effect on either of you."
Orion raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised.
"Therefore," McGonagall continued, stepping around her desk. "You will not be scrubbing cauldrons. Instead, you will be utilizing your minds."
She waved her wand, and two heavy, leather-bound tomes floated from a shelf, landing softly on their respective desks.
"You will be writing extensive essays on the theories of Advanced Untransfiguration," McGonagall announced. "You will read the provided chapters and summarize your understanding of the precise magical mechanics required to revert a complex transmutation back to its original state."
Orion stared at the book in front of him. Advanced Untransfiguration.
He realized instantly what she was doing. This wasn't a punishment; this was an enforced study session. She was basically giving them dedicated, supervised time to study their own current, advanced syllabus.
Wow, Orion thought, a flicker of genuine amusement piercing his calm. Is this the legendary Harry Potter bias at work? Or does she just genuinely hate the idea of wasting academic potential on manual labor?
He wasn't going to argue. A quiet morning reading Transfiguration theory was vastly preferable to freezing in the Owlery.
"As for you, Nymphadora," McGonagall turned her attention to the miserable-looking Auror.
McGonagall waved her wand again. A massive, teetering stack of parchment detached itself from her main desk and flew across the room, landing with a heavy, intimidating thud on Tonks's small table.
"You will be assisting me," McGonagall stated firmly. "You will be grading the second-year and fourth-year Transfiguration essays and homework assignments. I expect thorough, legible corrections."
Orion had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh from escaping.
Ah, Orion smirked internally, watching McGonagall return to her own, now significantly smaller stack of grading. Delegating her own workload under the guise of punishment. Brilliant, Professor. How very Slytherin of you.
Tonks stared at the towering pile of essays, her mouth hanging open in sheer horror. She let out a low, agonizing groan, her hair turning a sickly, pale grey.
But at a sharp, warning glare from her former Professor, Tonks snapped her mouth shut and nodded miserably.
"Begin," McGonagall ordered, taking her seat and picking up her red quill.
The room fell into silence, broken only by the scratching of quills on parchment and the occasional, deeply depressed sigh from the Auror trainee in the corner. Orion opened his book, finding the punishment entirely, comfortably acceptable.