The door to their compartment slid open, revealing a boy with slick, pale hair and a pointed face, flanked by two others who were built like boulders.
"They're saying all over the train that Harry Potter is in this compartment," the pale boy said, his voice a self-important drawl. "So, it's you, is it?"
He gestured vaguely at his hulking companions. "This is Crabbe, and this is Goyle. And I," he announced, puffing out his chest, "am Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
From the corner, ron let out a soft snort of derision.
Malfoy's eyes snapped towards him. "Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. Red hair, freckles, and a tatty hand-me-down robe… you must be a Weasley." He turned his sneer back to Harry. "You'll soon find that some wizarding families are better than others, Potter. You don't want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."
"I think he should be able to choose his own friends, thank you very much," said Hermione, her voice prim.
Malfoy looked her up and down dismissively. "And who are you supposed to be?"
"Hermione Granger," she said, jutting her chin out.
"Granger? Never heard of them," he scoffed, before his attention was drawn back to Orion, who was now standing up. "Well, well, the heir of the Black family, I presume. I'd heard you were a boy."
A faint flush crept up Malfoy's pale neck.
CRACK!
In a flash of movement, Orion slammed his fist into the wooden wall of the compartment, splintering the panel. The other occupants gasped.
"Mr. Malfoy," Orion said, his voice dangerously calm as he flexed his fingers. "You seem to know quite a lot about me."
The colour drained from Malfoy's face. He felt a sudden, suffocating pressure, as if a great snake were coiling around his chest. To his horror, Orion moved with startling speed, grabbing Crabbe and Goyle by their collars and unceremoniously turfing them out into the corridor like sacks of potatoes.
SLAM. The compartment door slid shut, the sound echoing like a cell door locking. Malfoy was trapped.
"Now then," Orion said, turning slowly. "You were saying?"
Draco swallowed, his throat dry. "You're the Black family heir. Your mother… she was from a pure-blood line in France, though they deny the connection now."
"Go on," Orion prompted.
"Your father is… indisposed. But he's certainly not one of the werewolf lot."
Orion waved a hand impatiently. "Tell me something useful. Does the Black family have any blood-feuds I should know about?"
"None that I'm aware of," Malfoy stammered.
"Excellent," Orion declared. "Then nothing will distract me from mastering the deepest secrets of magic."
Draco hesitated. "You… you haven't asked if you have any other relatives."
"And why would I? Are you my relative?"
"In a manner of speaking. My mother, Narcissa… her maiden name was Black."
Orion's menacing posture deflated slightly. "Oh, what a rotten shame," he sighed, sounding genuinely disappointed. "And here I was hoping for a proper duel."
"That was a dirty trick!" Malfoy whined.
Orion looked him over. "My little cousin, then. What a thought. Now, tell me, what was the real reason you and your trained trolls came blundering in here?"
"We… we were just saying hello."
"Right. Well, consider us greeted," Orion said, sliding the door open. "Now, if you'll excuse us, we'd like our privacy back. Off you pop."
As Malfoy scrambled out, Orion turned to Hermione. "Go on, have a seat. Don't just stand there gawking."
Harry finally found his voice. "You and Malfoy… you're actually related?"
Orion rolled his eyes. "It seems so. Honestly, I expect all these pure-blood maniacs are tangled up in each other's family trees. It's best not to think about it."
The train's whistle blew, and it began to slow. "We'd best get into our robes," Ron said. "We're nearly there."
Orion stretched. "I've decided I'm a Gryffindor. If that dusty old hat tries to put me in Slytherin, I'll have a word with the Headmaster."
"Firs' years! Firs' years this way!" a booming voice called from the platform. It was Hagrid, who promptly spotted Orion trying to blend in with a crowd of older students and gently but firmly steered him back. "Not so fast, you. Over here with the others!"
They followed Hagrid down a dark, winding path. Ron's face was pale in the lantern light. "My brother Fred told me… he said we have to wrestle a troll for the Sorting Ceremony."
Harry's eyes widened.
"Don't be daft," Orion said loudly. "He's having you on. The Great Hall's enormous, but it's not big enough for that kind of nonsense."
A wave of relief washed over the nearby first-years.
Orion then leaned in conspiratorially. "Besides," he whispered, "it's not a wrestling match. Dumbledore himself let it slip to me this morning. We just have to survive five minutes in a room with it."
Harry and Ron began to tremble. Hermione, meanwhile, started muttering every defensive spell she'd ever read.
"What good will that do?" Orion scoffed. "You're a little witch with a brand-new wand. You think you're going to tickle a Mountain Troll into submission?"
"Well, what's your brilliant plan?" she shot back, her voice tight with anxiety.
"This," Orion said simply, and from within his robes, he produced a long, wickedly sharp-looking knife, its steel glinting in the moonlight. Harry and Ron stared, speechless.
"But… what is that?" Hermione gasped. "That's not a regulation wand!"
"It's called a contingency plan," Orion said with a smirk, tucking the blade away.
They crossed the Black Lake and were led by Professor McGonagall into a small, empty chamber off the entrance hall. Orion knew from his… research… that the Sorting was done by the hat. Dumbledore's story about the troll must have been a jest to test their nerve. He wasn't afraid.
Professor McGonagall returned. "Form a line, and follow me."
As they entered the Great Hall, Orion glanced at his three companions, who looked as if they were marching to the gallows, and rolled his eyes. Professor McGonagagall placed a frayed, patched wizard's hat on a stool. It sang its song, and the Sorting began.
After a few names, Orion heard, "Black, Orion!"
He sauntered up to the stool. "Professor," he said cheekily, "surely we can skip the formalities. We both know where I'm going. Shall I just head over to the Gryffindor table and save us all some time?"
Ignoring him completely, Professor McGonagall placed the ancient hat on his head.
"Hmm," a small voice whispered in his ear. "A very quiet mind. Difficult. Very difficult. Think of something for me, lad."
Orion thought of the thrill of a perfectly executed plan.
"Ah, there we are," the voice said. "Ambition in spades. Cunning, oh yes. There's no doubt where you belong… SLYTHERIN!"
"Hold on," Orion thought back fiercely. "What about my courage? Are you telling me I'm not brave?"
"You have courage, certainly," the Hat conceded. "But your potential would be best realised in Slytherin."
"Absolutely not," Orion retorted. "Not a chance. With that greasy git Snape as Head of House? I'd never get any proper learning done. I'm a Gryffindor, you antiquated piece of felt."
"I have sorted for a thousand years, little wizard. I do not make—"
"Listen here," Orion interrupted, his thoughts sharp as a blade. "You're a hat. A talking hat, yes, but a hat nonetheless. I am an heir of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. Now, how many Galleons did Snape slip under your brim to get you to say that? Tell me the truth, or I swear I will personally petition the Headmaster to have you retired and replaced with a more… discerning piece of headwear. Perhaps a nice, fashionable fedora."
There was a moment of stunned silence in his head. Then the Hat shouted for the whole hall to hear: "Very well, then… GRYFFINDOR!"
As cheers erupted from the red and gold table, Orion hopped off the stool. On his way, he made a brief detour to the Ravenclaw table, stopping beside a pretty girl with long, dark hair.
"Cho," he said in a hushed, conspiratorial tone.
"Orion? What are you doing? I thought you were a Gryffindor now," she whispered back.
"I am," he said with a charming smile. He discreetly passed her a small, ornate jar filled with a shimmering red powder. "A little something to liven up the school fare."
She looked at it quizzically. "What is it?"
"Sun-Dried Ashwinder Eggs, ground to a fine powder," he murmured. "From a private reserve in Cairo. Terribly hard to come by in Britain. Use it sparingly. They say the heat never fades."
He gave her a wink and then continued on his way, finally sliding onto the bench at the Gryffindor table. He immediately felt three pairs of eyes glaring at him.
Harry leaned in close. "So… the troll?"
Orion adopted a look of profound, righteous indignation. "The fault lies not with me, Harry. The Headmaster himself gave me that faulty intelligence. Rest assured," he declared loudly enough for several people to hear, "I shall have a stern word with him about the perils of misleading impressionable youths."
The three of them could only stare, utterly bewildered.
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