Chapter Text
Orion Cygnus Black remembered being Harry Potter.
He remembered being born in 1980.
He remembered James and Lily Potter.
He remembered Hogwarts.
Voldemort.
The war.
The cupboard.
Sirius.
Remus.
Severus Snape.
He remembered dying.
And then he remembered being born again.
That was the strange cruelty—and occasionally the strange mercy—of being the Master of Death.
It did not make him immortal.
Orion could bleed.
He could break bones.
He could grow old.
He could be murdered.
Death had never promised that he couldn't die.
It had merely made dying considerably less permanent.
When one life ended, eventually another began.
Sometimes decades later.
Sometimes centuries earlier.
Sometimes in a body belonging to a family Harry had once read about in a history book.
Time did not matter.
History did not matter.
Death did not appear particularly concerned with chronology.
His soul moved.
That was all.
And this time—
Harry Potter opened his newborn eyes to see Walburga Black staring down at him.
He had precisely enough time to think—
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.
—before another infant started screaming beside him.
Sirius.
His twin.
His younger twin, technically, by eleven minutes.
Orion decided those eleven minutes were extremely important and would remind Sirius of them for the rest of their lives.
He discovered very quickly that being reborn with an adult mind did not mean having an adult body.
This was deeply offensive.
He could think.
He could remember.
He understood exactly where he was, roughly when he was, and precisely how spectacularly complicated his new family would become.
Unfortunately, he could not hold his own head up.
Orion found infancy humiliating.
Sirius appeared to find infancy personally insulting.
He screamed about it.
Constantly.
Orion didn't remember Sirius being mentioned as a particularly difficult baby in his first life, but then again, nobody had ever told Harry much about Sirius as a baby.
Perhaps this was why.
Sirius hated being put down.
Hated being wrapped too tightly.
Hated unfamiliar people holding him.
Hated being hungry for even six seconds.
Hated sleeping when other people expected him to.
Orion would be lying quietly in his cot contemplating the horrifying implications of having Walburga Black as his mother when Sirius would begin wailing beside him.
Orion would stare.
Sirius would scream.
Orion would stare harder.
Sirius would somehow scream louder.
Eventually Orion would manage to wriggle close enough that their hands touched through the bars separating their cots.
Sirius would stop.
Immediately.
The first time it happened, Walburga thought it coincidence.
The fifth time, she noticed.
Their father noticed earlier.
Orion Black stood in the nursery doorway one night and watched his two infant sons.
Sirius had been screaming.
Little Orion reached clumsily between the cots.
Sirius grabbed his fingers.
Silence.
Their father stared.
Then smiled.
"They know each other."
Walburga, exhausted, said:
"They shared a womb."
"No."
Orion Black moved closer.
He looked down at them.
"They know each other."
Baby Orion stared up at the man whose name he had been given.
You have absolutely no idea.
Orion loved Sirius before either of them could speak.
It was immediate.
Instinctive.
Terrifying.
Harry Potter had loved Sirius Black once as a godfather.
As one of the first adults who had ever truly felt like his.
Now Sirius was tiny.
Loud.
Frequently furious.
And Orion's little brother.
It did something strange to his heart.
Then Regulus was born.
And Orion was completely doomed.
Regulus was different from Sirius almost immediately.
Sirius had arrived in the world furious.
Regulus seemed to arrive apologising for taking up space in it.
He was quieter.
Watchful.
A baby who could spend enormous amounts of time staring at people.
Sirius, still very young himself, was initially unimpressed.
"Small."
Orion, who was barely better at speaking, stared at him.
"Baby."
"Small baby."
"Yes."
Sirius poked Regulus's foot.
Regulus kicked him.
Sirius gasped.
Orion laughed.
"Mean."
Sirius looked delighted.
"I like him."
That was that.
Regulus was theirs.
The three Black brothers grew up in a house that could be beautiful when it wanted to be.
That was something Orion hadn't understood in his first life.
Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had existed in Harry Potter's memory as a mausoleum.
Dark.
Dusty.
Bitter.
Filled with the echoes of a family that had destroyed itself.
But when Orion was young—
it lived.
Fires burned properly.
Silver gleamed.
The old wood was polished.
Portraits spoke instead of merely screamed.
The library smelled of parchment and leather and cedar.
The dining room hosted people rather than ghosts.
House-elves moved through corridors.
Relatives came and went.
The Black family was still alive.
Complicated.
Arrogant.
Frequently prejudiced.
Sometimes cruel.
But alive.
And Orion understood something he hadn't when he'd first seen the house decades later.
The ruin had never been inherent.
People had ruined it.
Which meant people could change it.
Orion loved his brothers more than he loved the Black name.
More than he loved magic.
More, perhaps, than he valued his own skin.
That became obvious very early.
Sirius was defiant in the obvious way.
Sirius shouted.
Sirius argued.
Sirius broke rules specifically because someone had told him there was a rule.
Walburga would say:
"You will."
Sirius would say:
"No."
Orion, standing nearby, would close his eyes.
Subtle, Sirius.
Regulus was different.
Quieter.
More frightened of disappointing people.
Desperate to be good.
Desperate to be what their mother wanted because he was young enough to mistake approval for safety.
Orion understood both of them.
So Orion fought differently.
He learned family politics before most children learned multiplication.
He learned which relatives Walburga respected.
Which ones she merely tolerated.
Which ancient traditions contradicted the newer prejudices she tried presenting as sacred.
He learned inheritance law.
Family charters.
Etiquette.
Pure-blood customs.
Old magical contracts.
The exact wording of Black family rules.
And whenever Walburga tried to corner one of her sons—
Orion smiled.
Perfect posture.
Perfect diction.
Perfect little aristocrat.
And dismantled her argument.
"Mother, surely you aren't suggesting Grandfather's interpretation of the covenant is incorrect."
Walburga's eyes narrowed.
Orion smiled pleasantly.
"I would never presume to understand it better than either of you, of course."
Sirius, sitting behind him, had to bite the inside of his cheek.
Walburga couldn't attack without implicitly insulting her father.
Orion won.
Again.
He became very good at winning.
Part of that skill came from the Black family library.
Orion discovered it properly when he was four.
He had already been sneaking into it before then.
Kreacher caught him.
The little house-elf appeared beside a shelf with a crack.
Orion nearly dropped the book he'd been dragging down.
Kreacher stared.
Orion stared back.
Kreacher's eyes narrowed.
"Young Master Orion should be in bed."
Orion considered lying.
Then remembered house-elves were extraordinarily difficult to fool in their own houses.
"I couldn't sleep."
"Young Master is not permitted in the library alone after bedtime."
"I know."
Kreacher looked scandalised.
"Then Young Master should—"
"I wanted to know what Mother meant by entailment."
Kreacher stopped.
Orion held up the book.
It was approximately half his size.
A Compendium of British Magical Inheritance, Bloodline, Entailment and Succession.
Kreacher stared at the book.
Then at the four-year-old.
"Young Master is reading that?"
"Trying."
Kreacher's enormous ears twitched.
Orion sighed.
"I know most of the words."
Kreacher remained suspicious.
"Most?"
"Some."
Kreacher looked deeply unimpressed.
Orion sat on the rug.
"Will you help me?"
That changed everything.
Not immediately.
Kreacher was still Kreacher.
But Orion had one advantage Harry Potter had never possessed when he'd first known the elf.
He understood house-elves now.
Not perfectly.
But better.
He knew Kreacher's loyalty was not stupidity.
He knew the Black family mattered to him.
He knew the house mattered.
Its traditions mattered.
Its children mattered.
And Orion never treated him like furniture.
"Kreacher?"
The elf hesitated.
Then shuffled closer.
"Which word?"
Orion pointed.
Kreacher explained.
Then another.
And another.
Eventually Kreacher sat beside him.
At some point, Orion fell asleep with his cheek against the book.
Kreacher stared at him.
Then snapped his fingers.
A blanket appeared.
That became routine.
Not always at night.
Orion started spending hours in the library.
At five, he read children's magical histories.
At six, he began family genealogies.
At seven, law.
At eight, political history.
At nine, increasingly advanced magical theory.
He couldn't perform everything.
His body and magic were still developing.
But knowledge?
Knowledge had no age restriction.
Orion devoured it.
And this wasn't the Hogwarts library Harry remembered.
This was the Black library.
Ancient.
Private.
Occasionally dangerous.
There were books Hogwarts would never allow children to touch.
Books on family magic.
Wards.
Old forms of ritual.
Magical contracts.
Duelling traditions.
Healing.
Curses.
Counter-curses.
Enchantments that had fallen out of common practice centuries earlier.
Books written before Hogwarts existed.
Orion read everything Kreacher allowed him to reach.
And several things Kreacher absolutely did not.
"Young Master Orion!"
Orion froze.
Kreacher appeared.
His ears were practically horizontal.
Orion slowly closed Blood and Bone: Foundational Sacrificial Principles in Pre-Ministry British Magic.
"I was reading."
"Kreacher can see that!"
"Then why did you ask?"
Kreacher made an outraged noise.
Orion smiled.
"Young Master is too young!"
"I'm eight."
"Exactly!"
"That's nearly nine."
"It is not!"
"It mathematically is."
Kreacher snatched the book.
Orion let him.
He had already finished it.
Kreacher narrowed his eyes.
"You finished it."
Orion smiled innocently.
Kreacher pointed a long finger.
"Young Master is a menace."
"Thank you."
"That was not praise."
"I chose to receive it as such."
Years later, Severus would tell him almost exactly the same thing.
Kreacher became Orion's.
Not in ownership.
Not really.
The Blacks would have described it that way.
Orion wouldn't.
Kreacher simply became his person within the household.
When Orion was injured, Kreacher appeared.
When Orion was ill, Kreacher hovered.
When Orion stayed up too late reading, Kreacher brought tea he was technically too young to be drinking and complained while doing it.
When Walburga punished him—
Kreacher was frequently the one who quietly tended to him afterward.
The first time Orion realised that, he was six.
Sirius had broken a ceremonial vase.
It had been an accident.
He'd been running.
Walburga had told him not to run inside.
The vase shattered.
Sirius went white.
Orion heard the crash from the library.
He arrived before Walburga.
Saw Sirius.
Saw the pieces.
"Did you cut yourself?"
Sirius shook his head.
"Good."
"Orion—"
"Go."
"What?"
"Go upstairs."
"But—"
"Now."
Sirius stared.
Then:
"No."
Orion's heart warmed and broke simultaneously.
"Sirius."
"She'll know."
"No, she won't."
"You weren't even here."
"She doesn't know that."
"Orion."
Footsteps.
Too late.
Walburga appeared.
She looked at the shattered vase.
Then Sirius.
Then Orion.
"What happened?"
Sirius opened his mouth.
Orion spoke first.
"I broke it."
Sirius's head snapped around.
Walburga stared.
"You."
"Yes."
"How?"
"I was trying a Summoning Charm."
At six.
It was ridiculous.
It was also exactly the kind of ridiculous thing Orion might actually have attempted.
Walburga's eyes flashed.
"You were told not to practise unsupervised."
"Yes."
"Orion, don't—"
Orion turned on Sirius.
"Be quiet."
Sirius stared.
Orion deliberately hardened his face.
"Go."
Walburga accepted it.
Not happily.
But she accepted it.
The punishment was Orion's.
Later, Kreacher found him sitting very still in his bedroom.
The elf's face crumpled.
"Young Master."
"I'm fine."
Kreacher hated that phrase.
He would hate it for years.
"Kreacher knows Young Master did not break the vase."
Orion looked at him.
Kreacher knew everything that happened in Grimmauld Place.
Of course he knew.
"Don't tell."
"Kreacher would not betray Young Master Orion."
Orion smiled faintly.
"Thank you."
Kreacher tended to him.
Neither mentioned Sirius.
Another time it was Regulus.
Regulus was five.
Orion seven.
Their mother had been teaching them family names.
Not simply names.
Connections.
Marriages.
Bloodlines.
Which family branch belonged where.
Regulus became overwhelmed.
Walburga pointed to a portrait.
"Who?"
Regulus stared.
His little hands clenched.
"I—"
"Regulus."
He looked frightened.
Orion knew that look.
"Arcturus Cygnus Black," Orion said.
Walburga looked at him.
"I asked Regulus."
"I know."
"Then be silent."
Regulus swallowed.
Walburga pointed elsewhere.
"And her?"
Regulus knew.
Orion could see that he knew.
But fear had emptied his mind.
"I..."
Walburga's voice sharpened.
"Regulus."
Orion deliberately knocked the inkpot from the table.
Black ink spilled across an old family genealogy.
Walburga went utterly silent.
Regulus forgot his fear.
He stared at Orion in horror.
Orion looked down.
"Oh."
"Orion Cygnus Black."
There it was.
Full name.
Excellent.
Orion stood.
"My apologies."
Regulus was forgotten.
That was the point.
Later Regulus found Orion in the library.
"You did that on purpose."
Orion looked up from his book.
"No."
"You did."
"Prove it."
Regulus's lower lip trembled.
Orion immediately put the book aside.
"Hey."
Regulus launched himself at him.
Orion caught him.
"You shouldn't."
Regulus's voice broke.
"You shouldn't always do that."
Orion held him.
"Do what?"
"Make her mad at you."
Orion closed his eyes.
Regulus whispered:
"I don't like it."
"I know."
"Stop."
Orion couldn't promise that.
So he kissed Regulus's hair.
"I'll be more careful."
Regulus was young enough to accept the compromise.
Orion hated himself a little for exploiting that.
Sirius understood earlier.
And Sirius became furious.
At eight, after Orion claimed responsibility for a hex Sirius had cast at one of Walburga's decorative silver candlesticks, Sirius waited until they were alone.
Then shoved him.
Hard.
Orion stumbled.
"What?"
"Stop it!"
Orion frowned.
"Stop what?"
"You know!"
Sirius's eyes were wet.
Orion's heart sank.
"Sirius—"
"I don't need you doing that!"
"I know."
"No, you don't!"
"I do."
"Then stop!"
Orion went quiet.
Sirius hit his chest with both hands.
"You always do it!"
Orion caught his wrists.
"Sirius."
"I hate it!"
"I know."
"Why?!"
Because Harry Potter remembered Azkaban.
Because Harry Potter remembered Sirius saying he would rather die than become like his family.
Because he remembered Sirius's recklessness.
His loneliness.
His desperate need to escape.
Because Orion knew what happened when children were taught pain was simply the price of being themselves.
Because Orion was older inside than anyone could know.
Because he could take it.
Because Sirius shouldn't have to.
Because Regulus shouldn't have to.
Because—
"You're my brother."
Sirius stared.
"That doesn't mean you get hurt instead!"
Orion had no answer.
Sirius yanked free.
"I hate when you do that."
Then he stormed away.
Orion sat alone for a long time.
He continued doing it anyway.
Always.
His father noticed.
Orion had expected his relationship with Orion Black to be difficult.
In Harry's memories, Sirius had spoken about his parents with bitterness.
Walburga was the louder monster in every story.
Orion Black had often been reduced to an absence beside her.
But being reborn into history taught Orion something he should perhaps have learned earlier.
People were rarely as simple as the dead remembered them.
His father was not gentle in the conventional sense.
He was a Black.
Reserved.
Formal.
Proud.
He believed in family.
Tradition.
Old magic.
Bloodlines.
There were opinions Orion disliked.
Some deeply.
They argued.
But his father loved his sons.
Orion never doubted that.
And Orion Black understood his eldest son in ways Walburga did not.
Not completely.
Nobody could.
But enough.
His father found him in the library frequently.
"You've been here four hours."
Orion didn't look up.
"Have I?"
"Yes."
"Interesting."
"Your mother is looking for you."
That made Orion look up.
His father smiled faintly.
"Ah. Suddenly time matters."
"What does she want?"
"Your robes fitted."
Orion groaned.
His father sat opposite him.
"What are you reading?"
Orion showed him.
His father's eyebrows rose.
"Contractual family magic?"
"Yes."
"You're nine."
"So people keep telling me."
His father took the book.
Read the page.
Then looked at Orion.
"Why?"
Orion considered lying.
Instead:
"Because contracts are power."
His father went very still.
Orion continued.
"If someone agrees to something without understanding the language, whoever wrote it controls the agreement."
A pause.
His father's mouth curved.
"Your grandfather has been talking to you."
"Frequently."
"I can tell."
Orion leaned back.
"Am I wrong?"
"No."
His father returned the book.
"You're not."
Then he tapped a paragraph.
"But this interpretation is."
Orion frowned.
"Why?"
And just like that—
the robe fitting was forgotten for another hour.
His father taught him family magic.
Not spells.
Not yet.
Theory.
He taught Orion how old houses worked.
Why some wards recognised blood and others recognised intent.
Why certain rooms in Grimmauld Place behaved differently for different family members.
How portraits could be bound.
How heirship worked.
Why the Black family ring was not merely jewellery.
He taught him to read financial ledgers.
Property records.
Political correspondence.
And Orion discovered his father possessed a dry, vicious sense of humour.
One evening, Orion was reading a letter from a distant cousin.
He frowned.
"This says nothing."
His father looked over.
"It says three pages."
"Three pages of nothing."
"Correct."
"Why?"
"Because Cassius wishes to insult your grandfather without technically insulting him."
Orion reread it.
Then saw it.
"Oh."
His father smiled.
"Exactly."
"That's pathetic."
"That's politics."
"I repeat my statement."
His father laughed.
Walburga disliked how close they became.
Not because she didn't want Orion close to his father.
Because Orion Black encouraged things she considered inconvenient.
Questions.
Debate.
Independence—within limits, certainly, but far more than she liked.
At dinner:
"Orion has been reading Ministry voting records," his father once said.
Walburga looked sharply at their son.
"Why?"
Orion continued eating.
"I was curious."
"Children do not need to concern themselves with Ministry politics."
His father lifted his wine.
"He will be voting by proxy for family interests one day."
"One day."
"Then perhaps he should understand them before that day."
Walburga's mouth tightened.
Orion looked at his father.
His father winked.
Barely.
Orion hid his smile behind his glass.
His grandfather noticed too.
More importantly—
his grandfather approved.
Orion was close with him in a way he was close with almost nobody else in the older generations.
His grandfather recognised what Orion was doing.
Not the reincarnation.
Never that.
But the strategy.
The restraint.
The way Orion could enter a room full of adults at nine years old, say six sentences, and quietly change the direction of an argument.
"You would have made an excellent politician," his grandfather told him once.
Orion looked horrified.
"Don't insult me."
There was silence.
Then his grandfather laughed so hard he started coughing.
Orion grinned.
His grandfather took him to pure-blood functions.
That was where Orion truly learned politics.
The first grand party Orion remembered clearly happened when he was seven.
Malfoy Manor.
Of course.
White peacocks.
Of course.
Orion stared at one.
Sirius whispered:
"Why?"
Orion whispered back:
"Money."
"We have money."
"We have taste."
Sirius snorted.
Walburga looked over.
Both boys immediately became angelic.
Regulus, five and holding Orion's hand, whispered:
"I like them."
Orion looked down.
"Then they're beautiful."
Sirius stared.
"You just said—"
Orion kicked him.
Pure-blood parties were warfare with champagne.
Orion adored them.
Not the ideology.
Not the posturing.
The game.
Adults underestimated children.
That was their first mistake.
Orion listened.
He learned which families were genuinely powerful and which were surviving entirely on reputation.
The Malfoys had money and influence.
The Blacks had age, property, connections and a name that opened almost any door.
The Lestranges were increasingly extreme.
The Rosiers smiled too easily.
The Averys liked being near whoever seemed strongest.
The Longbottoms were old blood without the same obsession over purity.
The Potters were wealthy, respected and increasingly viewed by certain circles as annoyingly progressive.
Orion catalogued everything.
At seven.
At eight.
At nine.
He danced when required.
Bowed.
Kissed elderly witches' hands.
Used titles properly.
Remembered everyone's children.
And weaponised the fact that adults thought he was adorable.
"Your son is charming, Walburga."
"Thank you."
Orion smiled.
"Lady Nott, Grandfather says your family's greenhouses are the finest in Wiltshire."
Lady Nott brightened.
Walburga looked pleased.
Orion had acquired information.
Later he would ask about rare potion ingredients.
Everything connected.
Sirius hated the parties.
Regulus feared making mistakes.
Orion managed both.
Before every function, he would go into their room.
"Rules."
Sirius groaned.
"No."
"Rules."
"I hate rules."
"I know."
Regulus sat attentively.
Orion counted.
"Don't insult anyone whose grandparents control Wizengamot votes Grandfather wants."
Sirius rolled his eyes.
"Fine."
"Don't touch cursed antiques."
"That happened once."
"Twice."
"The second one wasn't cursed."
"It screamed for twenty minutes."
"That's not a curse."
"Don't test that argument tonight."
Regulus giggled.
Orion continued.
"If either of you needs to leave, find me."
Sirius frowned.
"What if you're talking to someone?"
"Interrupt."
"Mother hates that."
"I don't care."
Regulus looked relieved.
"Any time?"
Orion looked at him.
"Any time."
Always.
At one Rosier function, Regulus became overwhelmed.
Too many adults.
Too many questions.
A witch Orion barely knew had Regulus cornered.
"And which House will you be in, young man?"
Regulus was six.
He stared.
"Slytherin, naturally," she said.
Regulus swallowed.
"Yes."
"And you'll make your mother proud."
"Yes."
"And you won't follow your brother's dreadful habit of questioning your elders."
She meant Sirius.
Regulus looked toward Orion.
Orion crossed the room.
"Lady Rosier."
She smiled.
"Orion."
"Grandfather was looking for you."
He absolutely was not.
"Was he?"
"Something about your husband's proposal."
Her attention vanished from Regulus instantly.
"Where?"
"West drawing room."
She hurried away.
Regulus stared.
"Grandfather isn't in the west drawing room."
"No."
"You're going to get in trouble."
"Probably."
"Why?"
Orion offered his arm.
"Because you looked like you wanted rescuing."
Regulus took it.
At another, Sirius got into an argument with Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius was older.
Smug.
Already practised at making cruelty sound like etiquette.
Sirius was nine.
Subtlety remained theoretical.
"You're a prick."
The room went silent.
Orion closed his eyes.
For fuck's sake, Sirius.
Lucius's eyebrows rose.
Walburga turned.
Orion stepped forward.
"My apologies, Mr Malfoy."
Sirius looked betrayed.
Orion continued:
"My brother has misunderstood something I said earlier."
Lucius looked amused.
"Oh?"
"Yes."
Orion smiled.
"I described the mating habits of peacocks."
Silence.
Sirius choked.
Lucius's smile disappeared.
Orion remained perfectly pleasant.
"I believe Sirius confused the conversation."
His grandfather coughed into his fist.
His father looked away.
Walburga's eyes promised murder.
Orion bowed.
"Entirely my fault."
He took the punishment later.
Worth it.
Sirius laughed about it for three days.
The cousins were different.
Family parties became considerably more tolerable when Andromeda, Bellatrix and Narcissa were present.
They were older.
All three fascinated Orion for different reasons.
Bellatrix was fire.
Even young.
Brilliant.
Intense.
Possessive.
She loved magic with an almost frightening hunger.
Before Voldemort had fully consumed her ideology, before fanaticism hollowed everything else out, Orion could see the person underneath.
That hurt.
Because Harry remembered what she became.
He remembered Sirius falling through the Veil.
Her laugh.
He remembered Hermione on the floor of Malfoy Manor.
He remembered Dobby.
But this Bellatrix had not done those things.
Not yet.
Perhaps never.
Orion refused to punish people for futures that no longer had to exist.
So when Bellatrix challenged him—
he challenged her back.
"You cheat."
Orion looked up.
Bellatrix stood over the chessboard.
"I won."
"You cheat."
"Prove it."
"You distracted me."
"That isn't cheating."
"You asked about my Transfiguration essay."
"You answered."
"Because you knew I'd answer."
"Then perhaps your weakness is conversation."
Bellatrix's eyes narrowed.
Orion smiled.
She lunged.
Orion ran.
Bellatrix chased him through three rooms.
Sirius joined for no reason other than chaos.
Regulus followed because Sirius was involved.
Narcissa shouted that they were going to break something.
Andromeda sat in an armchair reading and made no attempt whatsoever to intervene.
Kreacher watched them pass.
"Young masters and mistress must not run!"
A vase rattled.
Kreacher screamed.
Orion caught it with accidental magic before it fell.
Everyone stopped.
Bellatrix stared.
Orion stared at the hovering vase.
At seven.
"Oh."
Andromeda slowly lowered her book.
Narcissa whispered:
"You're going to be terrifying."
Orion smiled.
"Thank you."
Andromeda was Orion's favourite cousin to talk to.
He would never tell the others.
Andromeda listened.
Actually listened.
She questioned things.
Quietly.
She didn't always agree with Orion.
That made him like her more.
At ten, Orion found her on a balcony during a party.
"Escaping?"
She looked over.
"Temporarily."
"May I?"
She moved.
Orion joined her.
For several minutes they watched people through the windows.
Then Andromeda said:
"You don't believe half the things Aunt Walburga says."
Orion glanced at her.
"That's a dangerous observation."
"Is it wrong?"
"No."
She smiled faintly.
"I knew it."
Orion looked back through the glass.
"Neither do you."
Andromeda went still.
Orion didn't look at her.
Didn't demand.
Didn't push.
Eventually:
"No."
Orion nodded.
That was all.
Years later, when Andromeda needed someone in the family who would not condemn her for loving Ted Tonks—
Orion intended to be there.
Narcissa liked beautiful things.
Orion had once dismissed that trait in his first life.
He understood it differently now.
Narcissa liked control.
Order.
Presentation.
She could enter a chaotic room and somehow make herself look as though chaos had been arranged specifically to frame her.
She taught Orion more about clothing and social presentation than he would ever admit.
"No."
Orion looked down.
"What?"
"That waistcoat."
"What's wrong with it?"
"It makes you look ill."
"I'm nine."
"You can be nine without looking consumptive."
Sirius started laughing.
Narcissa turned.
"And you."
Sirius stopped.
"What?"
"Your collar."
"My collar is fine."
"It is an atrocity."
"You're an atrocity."
Narcissa gasped.
Orion quietly left while she was distracted.
She caught him before the stairs.
"Get back here."
"Damn."
"I heard that."
Bellatrix taught him duelling footwork before he had any business learning it.
Andromeda taught him when silence was more useful than argument.
Narcissa taught him that appearance was armour.
His grandfather taught him politics.
His father taught him family magic.
Kreacher taught him the house.
Sirius taught him that chaos could occasionally be worthwhile.
Regulus taught him exactly how terrifying it was to love someone who looked at you like you could fix everything.
And Orion—
Orion tried to teach all of them something too.
That the Black name didn't have to mean cruelty.
Not explicitly.
He wasn't foolish enough to stand in the drawing room at eight and announce:
Blood purity is idiotic and Voldemort will eventually destroy half this family.
He changed things sideways.
Questions.
"Why?"
That was his favourite weapon.
"Muggle-borns are inferior."
"Why?"
"They lack magical heritage."
"But they have magic."
"Yes, but—"
"Then magic doesn't require magical parents."
Silence.
Or:
"Blood traitors weaken old families."
"How?"
"They marry improperly."
"Do their children lose magic?"
"No."
"Then what is weakened?"
Adults hated him.
His grandfather loved watching.
The Parseltongue emerged when Orion was four.
He hid it immediately.
Not because he was ashamed.
Harry Potter had long since stopped caring about the ridiculous stigma surrounding speaking to snakes.
He hid it because information was power.
And Orion Black had learned very young that the most useful weapon was the one nobody knew you possessed.
The snakes around Grimmauld Place became informants.
An old grass snake beneath the garden wall told him when visitors arrived.
A tiny snake in the cellar learned which house-elves were frightened.
Another once overheard Walburga discussing Sirius's punishment.
Orion appeared in the drawing room eleven minutes before Sirius was summoned.
"I did it."
Walburga stared.
Sirius stared harder.
"You don't even know what she's talking about," Sirius hissed.
Orion didn't look at him.
"I did it."
Whatever punishment was intended for Sirius became Orion's.
That happened often.
Too often.
Sirius hated it.
Regulus hated it more.
Orion did it anyway.
Always.
If Sirius broke something—
Orion had instructed him.
If Regulus failed something—
Orion had distracted him.
If Sirius embarrassed the family—
Orion had encouraged him.
If Regulus questioned something—
Orion had planted the question.
Eventually Walburga understood that punishing the younger boys meant fighting through Orion first.
Good.
That was exactly what he wanted.
There were worse punishments.
Orion did not romanticise them.
He didn't think taking them made him noble.
He knew, in some ways, it was unhealthy.
He knew Sirius was right to hate watching it.
He knew Regulus was beginning to learn the dangerous lesson that Orion would always put himself between them and pain.
But Orion had been Harry Potter.
Once.
He knew what it was to be a child and have no one step in.
He couldn't stand aside now.
One evening Sirius openly refused to repeat something Walburga wanted him to say about Muggle-borns.
"I won't."
Walburga went cold.
"Excuse me?"
"I said no."
Orion was across the room.
He knew that tone.
"Sirius."
"No."
Sirius looked at their mother.
"They're people."
Walburga stood.
Orion moved.
"Mother."
"This does not concern you."
"It does."
"Stay out of it."
"No."
Sirius grabbed his arm.
"Orion."
Orion stepped in front of him.
Walburga's expression became murderous.
"You indulge him."
"I disagree with him frequently."
"Then move."
"No."
"Orion."
He stood perfectly straight.
"No."
It was one of the rare times he fought her without politics.
Without loopholes.
Without elegant wording.
Just—
no.
The punishment became his.
Sirius screamed at him afterward.
Regulus cried.
Their father found out.
And that was one of the first times Orion ever saw his parents have a truly vicious argument about him.
His father's voice carried through the corridor.
"He is a child, Walburga."
"He challenged me."
"He stood in front of his brother."
"He undermined my authority."
"Perhaps ask yourself why he believed he needed to."
Silence.
Then shouting again.
Orion sat in the library.
Kreacher beside him.
Sirius on the floor.
Regulus pressed against Orion's side.
Nobody spoke.
Eventually Sirius whispered:
"Dad's angry."
Orion stared at the fire.
"Yes."
"At Mother."
"Yes."
"Because of you."
Orion swallowed.
"Yes."
Sirius leaned against his other side.
For once, he didn't tell Orion to stop protecting him.
His father came in later.
Kreacher disappeared discreetly.
Sirius and Regulus were sent to bed.
Orion remained.
His father sat opposite him.
For a while—
nothing.
Then:
"You cannot keep doing this."
Orion looked down.
"Doing what?"
"Don't."
Orion looked up.
His father's expression was exhausted.
"You know precisely what."
Orion said nothing.
"Every time one of your brothers is threatened with consequences, you put yourself between them."
"They're younger."
"Sirius is eleven minutes younger."
"Still younger."
His father's mouth twitched despite himself.
Then flattened.
"You are their brother."
"I know."
"Not their shield."
Orion looked away.
His father studied him.
"You think it is your responsibility."
Orion said quietly:
"If I can stop it—"
"No."
His father leaned forward.
"If you can help, help."
Orion looked back.
"If you can argue, argue. If you can protect them from genuine danger, protect them. Merlin knows Sirius needs someone preventing him from walking off cliffs."
Orion almost smiled.
"But pain is not a debt you can simply keep paying for everyone else."
Orion went very still.
His father could not possibly know how close that landed.
Harry Potter had done exactly that.
Again.
And again.
And again.
His father reached across the table.
Put a hand over his.
"You are my son too."
Orion's throat tightened.
"You understand?"
No.
Yes.
Perhaps.
His father squeezed his hand.
"I don't want Sirius hurt."
Orion nodded.
"I don't want Regulus hurt."
Another nod.
"And I do not want you hurt merely because you have convinced yourself you can endure it better."
Orion looked at their joined hands.
For one terrible moment he was not an ancient soul.
Not Harry Potter.
Not the Master of Death.
Not someone who had already lived and died.
He was simply a boy.
His father's son.
"I'll try."
His father sighed.
"That is not a promise."
"It's the most honest answer I have."
Years later, Severus Snape would receive the same answer.
For almost the same reason.
By ten, Orion had built himself a strange position within the Black family.
He was the heir people expected.
And absolutely nothing like the heir Walburga had intended.
He knew the traditions.
Better than many adults.
He could name ancestors.
Quote family law.
Navigate formal dinners.
Speak politely to people he despised.
He understood pure-blood politics.
He knew how to dress.
How to bow.
How to dance.
How to write formal correspondence.
How to insult someone without using a single technically offensive word.
His grandfather adored him.
His father was proud of him.
Kreacher would probably have helped him conceal a body by then, though Orion sincerely hoped never to test the theory.
His cousins regarded him with varying combinations of affection, irritation and fascination.
Regulus worshipped him a little too much.
Sirius loved him violently and argued with him constantly.
Walburga—
Walburga couldn't decide what to do with him.
Because Orion was everything she wanted on paper.
Powerful.
Brilliant.
Composed.
Politically astute.
Deeply connected to Black tradition.
An heir who could walk into a pure-blood gathering and have adults commenting on him afterward.
But he would not obey blindly.
That was the flaw she could never forgive.
Orion didn't reject the Black family.
That would almost have been easier.
He claimed it.
That was worse.
He learned every rule and then demanded everyone else follow them too.
He learned every tradition and asked who had invented it.
He learned every political argument and found its weakness.
He loved the family fiercely enough to refuse to pretend its worst instincts were virtues.
And because he didn't reject being a Black—
Walburga couldn't dismiss him as simply rebellious.
Sirius could be called wayward.
Orion couldn't.
Orion was the heir.
He wore the ring.
He knew the laws.
He respected his grandfather.
He loved his father.
He cared for the house.
Kreacher adored him.
He attended every function.
He knew every cousin.
He could behave flawlessly for six consecutive hours if necessary.
And then, smiling pleasantly, he could ask one question that made an entire dinner table go silent.
The night before Hogwarts, Orion couldn't sleep.
That was ironic.
He'd been to Hogwarts before.
Another life.
Another name.
Another century—or technically not, because chronology around his reincarnations was increasingly meaningless.
He knew the castle.
Or had known it.
He knew teachers who wouldn't yet be there.
Corridors that might be different.
Secrets that might not have been discovered.
People who were children now who had once been adults in his memory.
Severus.
Lily.
James.
Remus.
Peter.
He would meet them.
His stomach twisted.
A knock sounded.
Orion looked toward the door.
"Sirius?"
The door opened.
Sirius entered.
Pillow under one arm.
Orion stared.
"No."
Sirius glared.
"You don't know what I'm asking."
"You're not sleeping in here."
"Why?"
"Because you're ten."
"So are you!"
"Eleven minutes older."
"I hate you."
"Get out."
Sirius climbed into his bed.
Orion sighed.
A second knock.
Both looked.
Regulus stood there.
Holding his blanket.
Orion closed his eyes.
"Absolutely not."
Regulus looked devastated.
Orion lasted half a second.
"Fine."
Regulus climbed in.
Orion's bed was not designed for three boys.
They made it work.
Sirius on one side.
Regulus on the other.
Orion trapped in the middle.
"This is uncomfortable."
"Shut up," Sirius muttered.
Regulus held Orion's sleeve.
"Will you write?"
"Yes."
"Every week?"
"More."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Sirius was quiet.
Then:
"What if we're in different Houses?"
Orion looked at him.
There it was.
The real fear.
Walburga had spent years telling them what they would be.
Slytherin.
Obviously.
Blacks belonged in Slytherin.
Sirius already knew enough about himself to suspect Hogwarts might disagree.
Orion turned his head.
"Then we're in different Houses."
Sirius frowned.
"That's it?"
"What else would happen?"
"Mother—"
"Isn't being Sorted."
"Orion."
"Sirius."
"What if I'm in Gryffindor?"
Orion smiled.
"Red will look terrible on you."
Sirius punched his arm.
Orion laughed quietly.
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
He reached over.
Caught Sirius's wrist.
"If you're in Gryffindor, I'll find you at breakfast."
Sirius stared.
"If you're in Ravenclaw, I'll find you."
Regulus whispered:
"Hufflepuff?"
Orion looked down.
"Hufflepuff too."
Sirius made a face.
"Never."
Orion smiled.
"Wherever you go, you're still my brother."
Sirius went quiet.
Regulus pressed closer.
"What about me?"
Orion looked at him.
"When you come next year?"
Regulus nodded.
"Same rule."
"What if I'm not Slytherin?"
"Same rule."
Regulus relaxed.
Orion stared into the darkness.
His brothers on either side.
The future ahead.
He knew some of what history had once done to them.
Sirius—
Azkaban.
The Veil.
Regulus—
the Mark.
The cave.
A lonely death at eighteen.
No.
Orion's arms tightened around both boys.
Sirius grumbled.
"Can't breathe."
"Tragic."
"Orion."
Regulus giggled.
Orion loosened his hold slightly.
He looked at the ceiling.
He could not control everything.
He knew that.
He couldn't prevent every mistake.
Couldn't make Sirius agree with him.
Couldn't make Regulus immune to manipulation.
Couldn't save everyone merely because he'd seen one version of how they died.
And he would not turn his brothers into prisoners in the name of keeping them safe.
But he could give them something Harry Potter had desperately needed when he was young.
A person.
One person who would answer.
One person who would come.
One person whose love was not conditional upon obedience.
Sirius's breathing slowly evened out.
Regulus fell asleep still holding Orion's sleeve.
Orion remained awake longest.
Eventually the bedroom door opened.
His father stood there.
He looked at the three boys crammed into one bed.
Orion looked back.
His father smiled.
Didn't say anything.
He quietly closed the door again.
The next morning, Kreacher cried.
He denied it.
Violently.
"Kreacher does not cry."
Orion crouched in front of him.
"Of course not."
"Kreacher merely has dust."
"In both eyes?"
"Grimmauld Place is very dusty."
Orion looked around at the immaculately maintained entrance hall.
"Obviously."
Kreacher glared.
Orion smiled.
Then hugged him.
Kreacher froze.
"Young Master—"
"Look after Regulus."
Kreacher's arms slowly closed around him.
"Kreacher always looks after the young masters."
"And Father."
"Kreacher will."
Orion pulled back.
"And Mother."
Kreacher blinked.
Orion sighed.
"Even when she's horrible."
"Kreacher would never call Mistress horrible."
"I know."
A pause.
"Young Master Sirius does."
"Constantly."
Kreacher's mouth twitched.
Orion stood.
Aquila waited in his travelling cage, deeply offended by the indignity.
The tiny black kitten Orion had acquired only weeks earlier was curled inside his coat despite everyone having told him repeatedly that this was not how one transported a cat.
His father adjusted Orion's collar.
"You have everything?"
"Yes."
"Wand?"
"Yes."
"Books?"
"Yes."
"Money?"
"Yes."
"Your mother's letters of introduction?"
Orion grimaced.
"Unfortunately."
His father smiled.
Then his expression softened.
"I'm proud of you."
Orion went still.
His father put one hand behind his neck.
"Not because you're the heir."
Orion swallowed.
"Not because of your marks, or what your grandfather thinks you'll become, or because half the old families are already discussing you."
His father's thumb brushed briefly against his hair.
"Because you're my son."
Orion looked down.
"Father."
"I know."
His father drew him into a brief hug.
Formal by anyone else's standards.
For a Black?
Almost embarrassingly affectionate.
Orion held on.
Then Sirius shouted from the front door:
"ARE WE GOING OR NOT?"
Orion's father closed his eyes.
"Your brother."
"Unfortunately."
"I heard that!"
Orion smiled.
His father released him.
"Go."
Orion turned.
Regulus stood near the door.
Trying very hard not to cry.
Sirius was pretending not to notice.
Walburga was issuing instructions.
Kreacher was muttering.
Aquila looked murderous.
The kitten poked its head out of Orion's coat.
And Orion Cygnus Black—
Harry Potter—
the Master of Death—
the eldest Black brother by eleven extremely important minutes—
looked at his family.
Messy.
Difficult.
Damaged in places they didn't even understand yet.
Alive.
All of them alive.
For now, that was enough.
Hogwarts could come next.