Chapter 313: The Feline Courier and The Seventh-Floor Summons

The brass casing of the Wayfinder Compass clicked softly open in the palm of Orion’s hand. The enchanted needle spun for half a second before locking firmly onto a vector pointing down the fifth-floor corridor.

Orion walked with an easy, unhurried stride, his dark robes swishing against the stone floor.

"I have to ask, boss," Sparkle’s interface manifested at his ear, glowing with intense, baffled curiosity. "What exactly is this about? You woke up at dawn, assigned household chores for your clone, and now you’re actively tracking down a half-Kneazle through the castle. Since when did you decide to play unlicensed therapist to Hermione Granger?"

"Since today," Orion replied smoothly in his mind, keeping his eyes on the needle.

"What brought this on?" Sparkle pressed. "You usually operate on pure, cold self-interest. Why the sudden interest in her?"

"Remember back in our first year?" Orion murmured, turning a sharp corner past a suit of armor. "When I went completely out of my way to approach Nymphadora Tonks in the corridor, purely to introduce myself and challenge her preconceptions?"

"Yeah. And you got insulted by Hestia Jones for your trouble."

"Exactly," Orion thought back, a faint smirk touching his lips. "It was just something I wanted to do. No grand, twenty-step geopolitical calculation. Simply a whim. I find people of genuine, extraordinary competence to be rare in this world. Granger possesses a brilliant intellect, and watching her slowly implode beneath a mountain of trauma and temporal exhaustion is an offensive waste of potential."

"You do realize the social optics of this, right?" Sparkle pointed out dryly. "She is a Muggle-born. You are a Malfoy. She is a Gryffindor who literally just punched a fourth-year in the face. What on earth makes you think she will even want to talk to you instead of running to Potter?"

"I don’t know," Orion admitted freely, pocketing the compass as the needle began to spin in erratic circles, signaling proximity. "But I intend to find out. And this is how I will get her attention."

He stopped at an arched intersection near a statue of Gregory the Smarmy.

Curled at the base of the stone pedestal was a massive, bowlegged ginger furball. Crookshanks was currently leaping upward in frantic, uncoordinated bursts, his bottle-brush tail lashing aggressively as he hissed at an empty crevice in the statue’s stone robes, where a mouse had clearly just vanished into a hidden passage.

The cat paused mid-leap, his flat, squashed face turning toward Orion. His yellow eyes narrowed into slits of profound feline judgment.

"Oh," Crookshanks grumbled in Orion’s mind, sitting back on his haunches. "It’s you. I don’t want to talk with you."

Orion raised an eyebrow, stepping closer. "What for? I thought we had an established, mutually beneficial business relationship."

"You stopped sending the fish!" Crookshanks accused loudly, letting out an angry, sharp yowl that echoed down the empty corridor. "Weeks ago! Not a single trout! Not even a sliver of salmon! You are an unreliable brother!"

"I was temporarily indisposed with family affairs in Wiltshire," Orion reasoned calmly, kneeling down to the cat’s level. "However... if you assist me right now with a very simple errand, I will personally command a house-elf to deliver three fresh salmon to your favorite sleeping spot in the common room by this evening."

Crookshanks twitched his ears, his predatory demeanor instantly dissolving into mercantile greed.

"Three?" the cat purred suspiciously. "Fresh? Not the salted rubbish from the Great Hall?"

"Directly from the river," Orion promised.

"What do you want?"

"Up," Orion said.

Before the cat could protest, Orion scooped the heavy, fifteen-pound half-Kneazle up into his arms, tucking the purring beast securely against his chest like an oversized infant.

He didn’t bother using the Invisibility Cloak. He simply turned and began ascending the Grand Staircase, carrying the massive orange cat openly through the castle.

The few students they passed—a pair of sixth-year Hufflepuffs and a nervous first-year Ravenclaw—stopped dead in their tracks, staring in utter bewilderment. Seeing the aloof, intimidating, Order-of-Merlin-holding Slytherin prodigy casually strolling through the corridors cradling an extraordinarily ugly ginger cat was a visual that completely broke their brains. They quickly looked away and hurried past, not daring to question it.

Orion reached the seventh-floor corridor and walked until he stood opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

He bent down, placing Crookshanks gently onto the cold stone floor.

"Here," Orion instructed, pointing down the corridor. "I will remain right here for the next twenty minutes. I need you to go find your ’sister’. Drag her by her sleeve, bite her ankle, do whatever feline dramatics you must... but bring her here."

Crookshanks stretched his front paws, letting out a sharp, decisive meow.

"Consider it done," the cat replied, turning on his padded paws. "Don’t forget my salmon, human."

Crookshanks trotted away, his bottle-brush tail held high, rounding the corner toward the stairs.

"You better know what you’re doing," Sparkle chimed in the moment the cat vanished. "Hermione Granger’s knuckles are literally bruised from shattering Cormac McLaggen’s nose yesterday. She is emotionally unstable, exhausted, and she won’t hesitate to throw a right hook at a Malfoy."

"Let her try," Orion chuckled softly. "My Universal Sense can dodge a punch in my sleep."

"And another thing," Sparkle pressed, her digital tone sharpening with tactical critique. "Why are you bringing her to the seventh floor? Are you seriously planning on revealing the Room of Requirement to her?! That is one of your absolute greatest structural aces! Why give it away to a Gryffindor?!"

"Because it is not a loss, Sparkle," Orion answered calmly, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall. "I have already extracted the Diadem. I have already cataloged the treasures, and my clone has nearly finished sorting the valuable tomes, which can be moved to the manor by the end of the year if required. The room holds no secrets that compromise my long-term plans. And frankly... she needs a sanctuary far more than I need an empty closet right now."

He checked the hallway. Empty.

"Dobby," Orion called softly.

CRACK.

The free elf appeared, wearing a bright purple knitted hat that clashed violently with his eyes. "Master Orion calls!"

Orion leaned down, whispering a rapid, highly specific sequence of instructions into the elf’s ear regarding the staging and refreshments he required.

Dobby’s large eyes lit up, he nodded vigorously, and vanished with a quiet pop to execute the task.

Ten minutes passed in peaceful silence.

Then, the frantic, shuffling sound of running footsteps echoed from the Grand Staircase.

Hermione Granger burst into the corridor, clutching a heavy wool cardigan tightly around her chest, looking completely flushed and out of breath from following her strangely agile cat. Her bushy brown hair was a chaotic, untamed bird’s nest, and dark, violet shadows bruised the skin beneath her eyes.

She had been placed on mandatory medical resting leave by Professor McGonagall that morning—strictly forbidden from attending lectures, ordered to remain in Gryffindor Tower to sleep off the lingering shock of her violent outburst in the Great Hall.

And then Crookshanks had burst into her dormitory, grabbed the hem of her jeans in his teeth, and relentlessly, aggressively dragged her down four flights of stairs until she had no choice but to follow him to the seventh floor to ensure he wasn’t eating a poisoned rat.

Hermione rounded the final pillar, panting heavily.

She stopped dead.

Crookshanks was sitting calmly on the stone floor, licking his front paw with absolute serenity.

And standing directly beside him, leaning casually against the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy with his hands in his pockets, looking effortlessly composed and entirely unbothered by her presence, was Orion Malfoy.

Hermione’s mouth fell open, her eyes darting from her traitorous cat to the Slytherin prodigy.

"Wait..." Hermione breathed, her voice cracking with exhaustion and sudden, defensive outrage.

"Malfoy?!"