As Orion stood in the shadow of the orphanage, the rain had subsided, leaving behind the faint scent of wet earth and rusted iron. His gaze lingered on the warped windows and the cracked bricks that seemed to sag under the weight of years.
He wondered if any of the others were awake, staring out at him from those windows. Timothy's friends, perhaps, their breath held as they whispered about the devil who had left their bully to drown.
Good.
They feared him, and fear was a useful thing. But it wasn't enough. Not anymore.
With a soft murmur of Parseltongue, he stretched out his hand. The iron gate shuddered, its bars twisting and contorting until they formed the coiled shape of a serpent, fangs bared. It would remain long after he was gone, a silent warning to anyone who dared cross him again.
Turning away, Orion called softly, "Kreeky."
With a faint pop, the house-elf appeared, bowing so low its nose nearly touched the ground.
"Are we ready, Master?" Kreeky asked, its voice trembling with reverence.
"Yes," Orion said, his voice cold but resolute. He looked over his shoulder one last time. The orphanage, with all its rot and decay, belonged to a life he was leaving behind.
"Take me to Gringotts."
Claiming the Vaults: Awe and Calculation
The first time Orion stepped into the Black family vault, he felt a ripple of something foreign—awe, perhaps, or something close to it. The room seemed to hum with restrained power, every artifact radiating a sense of history and danger.
He ran his fingers over the spines of the books stacked high on the shelves. Hexes of the Darkest Depths. The Black Grimoire. Secrets of the Veil. Each one promised knowledge that called to him like a siren song.
But it was the Slytherin vault that truly seized his breath.
Graknar led him down a narrow corridor, darker and colder than the rest of the bank, until they stood before an ancient, serpentine door. The goblin hesitated, glancing at Orion. "The door will only open for a Parselmouth."
Orion's lips curved into a smirk. "Good."
He stepped forward, hissing the words that came to him instinctively. The door creaked open, and the air inside felt heavy, charged with old magic.
At the center of the room, two wands rested on a pedestal, their handles intricately carved with serpentine patterns.
Graknar's eyes widened. "The Slytherin wands," he murmured. "Both crafted by Salazar himself, activated only by his bloodline."
Orion reached out, his fingers brushing over the cold wood. A thrill shot through him as the wands recognized him, their magic flaring to life.
"Take them both," Graknar urged. "Such a thing has not happened in centuries."
Orion did, the weight of the wands in his hands feeling both natural and profound. As the magic thrummed through him, he felt something awaken inside—a connection to Salazar Slytherin himself.
Arrival at Slytherin Manor: A New Beginning
The manor was vast and ancient, its walls lined with portraits of Slytherin descendants, their eyes following him as he walked through the halls. Kreeky scampered ahead, pointing out rooms and features, but Orion barely listened.
He stopped in the study, his gaze falling on a massive fireplace framed by shelves of books and artifacts. He sat in the high-backed chair, staring into the flames as Kreeky approached.
"Does Master wish for Kreeky to prepare the study?" the elf asked nervously.
Orion nodded absently, his mind already racing with thoughts of what lay ahead.
"Kreeky," he said, his voice soft but firm.
"Yes, Master?"
"Do you know why I chose you?"
The elf's ears twitched. "Kreeky does not know."
"Because loyalty is the most important quality," Orion said, his dark eyes meeting Kreeky's. "And I will require absolute loyalty if I am to achieve my goals."
Kreeky bowed low, his voice trembling. "Kreeky is loyal to Master Orion. Always."
"Good," Orion said, leaning back in his chair. "Then let us begin."
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That night, Orion sat in the study, the two Slytherin wands resting on the table before him. He had spent hours exploring the manor, each room revealing new treasures—potions ingredients, enchanted weapons, and a library brimming with forbidden knowledge.
Yet, as he stared into the fire, a strange sense of emptiness settled over him. The manor, the vaults, the wands—they were all tools. Tools for what?
The world was broken. Wizarding society clung to outdated notions of blood purity, while muggles continued their ceaseless cycles of war and destruction.
He would be the one to break the cycle.
Not for purity. Not for tradition. But for strength.