Reluctantly, Orion had to admit that flying did help. He let himself sink into the rush of air tearing past him and the salty scent of the sea rising beneath his glide.
His eyes cut cleanly through the darkness, leaving the greatest challenge less about seeing and more about discipline - keeping himself flying in a straight line so he didn't do something catastrophically stupid like drift too far off course and end up lost somewhere over the Atlantic… or in Iceland.
Thankfully, his alchemy training had forced him to learn more Astronomy than he'd ever intended. Combined with a few navigation charms and the familiar constellations above, he managed to keep himself oriented, and before long - well, still longer than the flight would've taken by plane - he finally saw it:
The soft orange scatter of coastal lights blooming along the shoreline. Pale beams from lighthouses sweeping the water in slow arcs. Ships anchored offshore—some dark silhouettes against the moonlit sea, others with decks glowing faintly like floating embers. The coastline itself unfurled in a crescent of cliffs and beaches, the land rising gently into the hilly countryside beyond. South-west England: Cornwall… or maybe Devon. He wasn't familiar enough with either to tell the difference.
But it meant he was close enough to finish the trip.
Now, the sensible thing - the thing he should have done - was simple: land on the beach, put the broom away, and then apparate.
Unfortunately, he had just jumped - been thrown, actually - from an airplane, plummeted kilometers in a barely controlled free-fall, then flown like a maniac for several dozen minutes above the cold Atlantic with the moon at his back. Which is to say: there had been few moments in his entire life where he'd felt quite as alive - and manly - as he did right now.
So, filled with adrenaline and all the other delightful little hormones responsible for the universal trend of shorter male life expectancy, Orion whooped a cowboy call and kicked the broom into a burst of speed. He spun in wild, joyous spirals, his eyes leaving a trail of blazing blue light across the night sky as he released his magical grip, letting the broom slip from strict control. He dropped into a shallow tumble, losing height and speed in an exhilarating blur-
-and then vanished, apparating mid-air.
-~=~-
Apparition was one of the oldest forms of magic available to wizards, even if, for most of history, the secret behind its use had been unknown.
A millennium ago, most people who used it were actually children, performing it through Accidental Magic - though adults, in sufficiently desperate moments, could manifest it as well. And, of course, several magical creatures naturally performed something identical or close enough to be indistinguishable: House-Elves, Phoenixes, and Diricawls.
But, with time, humanity did what humanity always does: it studied the phenomenon, dissected it, and eventually learned to replicate it.
Theoretically, Apparition is considered its own branch of magic - though it does share similarities with certain branches of Transfiguration, specifically Vanishment and Materialization. In crude terms, the process consists of dissolving the physical form of an individual at the same time as a "portal" - a twisted puncture in the fabric of reality -is created to connect two separate points in space. The dissolution is a required component; without it, the individual would effectively be forced through the magical equivalent of a needle's eye and die in the attempt. The process reverses itself instantly once the portal collapses.
Visually, Apparition looks as though a person splits into mist-like shreds, fragments of their body flickering across multiple positions at once before being sucked inward through an imploding spiral and vanishing. The reverse happens at the destination.
Failure to properly stabilize one's physical form shows itself as a delay - a moment where the individual remains trapped in that contorted, "glitching" half-state for longer than they should.
Thankfully, stabilization is mostly instinctual - but a witch or wizard must have strong control over their magic to do it safely, because magic is the only thing keeping their body held together during the transition. Without that control, they risk leaving parts of themselves behind, which then attempt to reform independently. And depending on how well the person's magic maintains the integrity of their splintered form, the severed parts may even stay partially "connected" - blood still flowing through them, nerves still responding, the separated limb still movable from afar.
Even then, the clock is ticking. The splintered individual must retrieve every piece of themselves before the residual magic fades and mundane reality snaps back into place.
There were several factors that could make the process of Apparition easier or harder. Stillness, for one - not only did remaining motionless help a witch or wizard focus entirely on the act, it also provided the necessary physical stability. Beginning with a twisting motion helped settle the mind into the right state for creating the hole. Holding a clear, sharp image of the intended destination eased the strain on one's magic by guiding it toward the correct point. And, of course, proximity: the closer the target, the less magic needed, the less effort required, and the less "time" one had to spend in that state of being which was, by all accounts, profoundly unnatural for a living creature.
Given that, it was easy to understand why being in motion - as Orion currently was - complicated everything. Movement added variables, disrupted concentration, introduced noise into the mind. Worse still, it had been over half a decade since his last visit to the Galafuz base in Britain, and the moving photo he'd once memorized for emergencies was the last thing on his mind. And to make matters even worse, he was barely at the outer edge of what he considered his safe Apparition range.
Orion knew all of that. Despite his reckless stunt, he wasn't stupid - just behaving like it.
So, instead of leaping blindly and hoping luck would catch him, he engaged the protocols the Caçadores were taught to follow if they ever had to Apparate while in motion at high speed.
First: spin - spin fast enough that the rotating sensation drowned out everything else.
Second: activate the eyes - turn them inward, sift through memory, drag every detail of the destination to the forefront.
Third: stop the active flow of magic - dispel any charms, undo any transformations, pull every thread of power tight against the body and compress it until nothing leaked.
And fourth… pray.
It was an emergency protocol for a reason, after all.
-~=~-
Orion reappeared with a deafening crack, hitting the ground running - almost literally. He immediately wrestled control of his broom, angling it down to bleed off speed. His wand snapped from its wrist-holster into his hand, and he shouted, breathless and urgent:
"Spongify!"
The spell struck the concrete landing stretch before him, softening it just in time. He crashed a heartbeat later, the impact exploding the air from his lungs. The magically flexible surface warped under the force, acting like a trampoline and launching him back upward. He barely avoided smashing into his own broom - something that would have certainly broken it and possibly him.
Disoriented by the sheer amount of things happening in the span of two seconds, Orion still moved on reflex: twisting midair, wand raised, preparing to cast again-
-but then he froze.
He wasn't falling anymore.
Or rather… he was, technically. He was simply descending so slowly it was nearly imperceptible.
Blinking, he glanced to the side. A short distance away stood the massive blackwood manor of the Galafuz family, its silhouette deep and imposing against the British twilight. Caçadores used it whenever they came to the country on official business.
Much closer, however, sat an old man in shock-pink robes sprinkled with golden stars and glitter, calmly rocking in a chair as though watching a pleasant summer afternoon.
His long white beard flowed down his weathered face nearly to his waist. Behind half-moon spectacles, his eyes sparkled with unmistakable amusement. One hand was raised toward Orion, holding a long, bone-white wand made of bulbous protrusions dotted with dark indentations.
They stared at one another - Orion still riding the tail end of his adrenaline spike, and Dumbledore wearing the bemused delight of someone who has just witnessed an unexpectedly entertaining spectacle.
"I must say, Mr. Montenegro," Dumbledore called, chuckling as he stroked his beard, "that was quite a dynamic entry. Why, I'll be hard-pressed now to come up with something more impressive than that."
Orion let out a strangled, embarrassed cough, cheeks flaming as he looked away while drifting lazily toward the softened ground.
Once his feet finally touched down, he said nothing. He simply fished his shrunken suitcase from his pocket, extended the handle to restore it to full size, tucked his broom safely inside, then shrank the case again with brisk efficiency.
Dumbledore watched this entire sequence with steadily growing amusement.
Orion took a deep breath, straightened his posture, cleared his throat, and clung to professionalism as a shield for his dignity.
"Good evening, Senhor Dumbledore," he said, discreetly tapping a button on his watch to trigger a dust-expelling charm.
"Ah, please - call me Albus," the old wizard replied warmly. "Or, if you feel the need for formality, then 'Professor' will do nicely. It's the only title I truly enjoy, even if I haven't been doing much teaching as of late."
Orion nodded gravely. "As you say, Professor." Then he gestured toward the manor. "Before we proceed - would you care for some refreshments? I'm certain the staff will be more than happy to accommodate someone as illustrious as yourself."
Dumbledore chuckled good-naturedly.
"I fear it is already too late, in more than one way. The lovely ladies who work here have already seen fit to stuff me with all manner of snacks and beverages once it became clear your flight had been delayed. Though…" His voice drifted off, a teasing glint passing through his eyes as he glanced toward the spot where Orion had crashed. "I suspect there was more involved than a mere technical problem."
Orion flushed again, though he managed not to let any expression slip.
"There were some… changes of plans," he said diplomatically.
"Of course, of course." Dumbledore's smile widened far too much to be innocent. Then, without warning, he stood. The rocking chair vanished beneath him as though it had never existed. "Forgive my rudeness, but as I said - time presses on. And if we tarry any longer, dear Molly will have my head."
Orion blinked.
"That would be Molly Weasley, previously Prewett, yes? I remember her brothers served in the former Order of the Phoenix. But I wasn't aware she had joined this time around."
Dumbledore hummed, eyes twinkling.
"I see you've been doing your homework," he said with a conspiratorial wink. "Well - calling Molly a member of the Order would be something of an exaggeration. But her husband and eldest sons are, and it was decided that it would be simpler - and safer - for the whole family to live at headquarters."
"It is safer to live at the base of an insurrectionist cell conspiring against key government officials and an immortal terrorist?" Orion raised an eyebrow.
Dumbledore laughed softly.
"You will understand soon," he promised. Then he extended his arm toward Orion.
Orion stared at it for a moment, confused, before realization sank in - and with it a faint green tinge of nausea.
"I'd, uh, prefer to follow your trail rather than go side-along. I… have a problem with being moved by things outside my control."
"Ah! You are skilled enough for that?" Dumbledore's expression brightened with genuine wonder. "Quite the impressive feat - even with the assistance of those remarkable eyes of yours."
Orion shrugged.
"Practicality born of necessity."
"Indeed." Dumbledore chuckled again. "Well then - see you shortly."
With a sharp crack and a rush of displaced air, he vanished.
Orion exhaled, then activated his eyes. His pupils elongated into narrow slits, the blue of his irises flaring with an unearthly glow as the sclera darkened. The world shifted. The ground shimmered with the faint lingering colors of the Spongify charm he had cast earlier, and suspended in the air ahead of him was a spiderweb of glass-fine cracks in reality, radiating from a pinprick of absolute nothingness.
In the distance, he spotted two blazing blue signatures similar to his own. Deactivating his eyes, he saw the two women - maids of the manor - with the same inhuman gaze. He lifted a hand in greeting, receiving a pair of perfectly synchronized curtseys.
Then Orion stepped forward into the invisible fracture in space, let himself feel the connection to the distortion-
-and vanished.
-~=~-
He reappeared at Dumbledore's side on a narrow residential road lined with tall, uniform brick townhouses. Each building rose several stories high, with evenly spaced windows framed by arched brickwork, many of them glowing warmly from within and casting soft, golden light across the façades, while the entrances sat behind short staircases bordered by wrought-iron railings.
Old-fashioned streetlamps stood along the pavement, their yellow glow reflected on the wet ground and in the small puddles scattered across the cobblestones.
It was the kind of scene Orion had only ever seen in films - particularly Christmas ones. It was wildly different from the individualistic architecture of most Brazilian cities, where it was rare to find even two houses exactly alike, let alone entire rows repeating the same structure. It felt closer to Aritaya, where uniformity in architecture was the norm - yet even then, this was distinct.
Dumbledore watched Orion's silent inspection with a bright shimmer of amusement in his eyes, noting the way the young Caçador scanned the street for positions where an ambusher might hide, or where he himself could lay traps if needed.
"Finished?" Dumbledore asked once Orion finally paused, earning a small nod in return. "In that case, you should know that the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place."
Orion froze - not only at the recognition of the name, but at the sudden shift in his perception.
It felt as though a deep, resonant groan rolled through the street, as if the very foundations of the townhouses vibrated underfoot. The buildings before him began to stretch apart, heaving away from one another with impossible elasticity.
Between them, the dark, featureless gap swelled - then solidified. Brick by brick, floor by floor, a new townhouse assembled itself out of nothingness. Number Twelve emerged from invisibility, rising into place.
Windows thrust outward as they formed, their frames shuddering into alignment. A black front door snapped into being with a hollow metallic thud, its serpent-shaped knocker gleaming faintly.
The entire house inhaled once - an invisible, uncanny swell of presence as if waking from a centuries-long sleep.
Then it stilled. Quiet. Ordinary. As though nothing at all had happened.
Orion released a small, awed breath.
He knew, of course, that nothing had truly happened- and yet it had. The house had always been there, and yet it hadn't. What he had just witnessed was merely his mind's attempt to reconcile its own blindness, to ease his psyche into accepting the existence of something it had been unable to acknowledge before. And at the same time, it was real: Number Twelve being slotted neatly into his personal microcosm.
The Fidelius Charm.
An actual ancient spell, one whose origins were lost even to the most diligent historians. One of the rare examples of old magic that Orion recognized as - at least until - truly laying beyond the reach of modern spellcraft. It hid a secret inside the soul of an individual - the Secret-Keeper - and that secret could be any piece of information.
In theory.
In practice, the more widely known the information, the more impossibly difficult the charm became.
Considering that even in its simplest form it was so fiendishly complex that only the greatest charm masters could hope to cast it?
Well…
Hiding the location of an object, or an obscure place? Relatively easy.
Hiding the location of a local fast-food joint? Pushing it.
Hiding the location of an entire village?
That was the stuff of legends.
There were also those metaphysical components so common in older magics - rules that felt less like spellcraft and more like mythic law. For example: it was always easier to hide something you personally owned; the "average" level of difficulty applied when hiding something with the owner's permission; hiding something from a stranger was already a Herculean task; and hiding something from an enemy was, by all functional standards, impossible.
Honestly, Orion didn't like meddling with this kind of magic. It always felt like the stuff of fairy tales in the worst possible way - or maybe like the opening act of a Greek tragedy.
Not to mention the existential dread it stirred up when you thought about it too hard.
Yes, he knew the spell's limitations. He could list them, diagram them, explain them.
But he also knew enough to consider the horrifying possibility that there were no limitations - and that the reason humanity believed there were was because someone had used a Fidelius Charm to hide the key knowledge that made the spell truly boundless. If that were the case… what else might exist that people literally could not imagine because the very concept was sealed away? A new color? A lost sense? A continent? An entire species of reptilian humanoids?
His spiraling paranoia was cut short by a chuckle. Dumbledore was watching him with an amused smile.
"It never fails to amuse me, seeing people react to this, though I've never seen this particular reaction," the old wizard said with warm delight, then gestured toward the front door. "Shall we?"
Orion nodded, forcibly shoving aside the conspiracy theories he'd been using to distract himself from the far more personal anxiety of what awaited inside. He mentally filed them away into the proper place - namely, the list of things to ponder during a thirty-minute hot shower.
Dumbledore tapped his wand to the doorknob. The lock clicked open, letting them step inside and away from the cold.
Orion followed him through the dark, narrow entrance corridor, noting the moldy state of the carpet, the serpent-patterned wallpaper, and a large shape on the wall concealed behind heavy, pitch-black curtains.
Deeper within the house, bright light flickered, accompanied by laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the mouthwatering aroma of cooked meat and vegetables.
"Seems like everyone's already having supper," Dumbledore remarked cheerfully. "I suppose this makes it easier to introduce you. And don't worry - I suspect you've not eaten yet, but don't worry, I asked Molly to save a plate for our newest guest."
Orion liked the sound of that. The smell alone was doing things to his soul. Unfortunately, he wasn't sure he'd be able to enjoy it with how violently his stomach was twisting.
They descended the stairs, and Orion found himself baffled all over again. Who in their right mind put a kitchen underground? And why? Was it for heating? Letting the warmth of cooking drift upward to warm the rest of the house?
…Actually, that sounded more practical than he'd expected.
And he was definitely not distracting himself with architectural speculation to avoid acknowledging the heavy weight in his chest with every step downward.
Not that it mattered. Even if he was trying - poorly - they had already reached the bottom.
They had arrived.
The view that greeted them was that of a long, low-ceilinged room paved in flagstone. To the side, a black-iron fireplace crackled, filling the space with warm light, and a door on the far wall led to what Orion suspected to be the pantry. A smaller door in the back stood shut, its purpose unknown to him.
Around the large wooden table in the center sat several faces he recognized from the Dossier: a head crowned with shock-pink hair; a small horde of redheads; a girl with a mane of wild curls; a man whose face was crossed by old scars. Many others were missing, which was only natural -most of the Order had lives to maintain outside of this safe house.
Still, Orion could barely process any of it. His eyes refused to focus on anyone except him, no matter how he tried to look elsewhere.
"Oh, Albus! I'm so sorry - I knew you'd be arriving soon, but those little-"
He didn't want to act out. He had a plan. He had rehearsed how this was supposed to happen. He would be polite and professional. He would greet everyone, sit for supper, and keep his accusations and questions to himself until later - when there was privacy, when he could speak without throwing a tantrum.
"Not to worry, Molly, it's no problem at all. We ended up delayed due to a few complications-"
He clenched his hands. Breathed steadily. Engaged every occlumency trick he knew. None of it stopped the hammering in his chest. None of it cut through the sour burn in his gut or the fire rushing through his blood.
"And this must be our new guest, yes? Hello, dear. I'm Molly Weasley - would you like to join us for supper?"
Orion blinked - hours upon hours of etiquette drilled into him along with his mother's lessons on always showing respect, especially toward women, and even more so toward mothers - moments of training that momentarily smothered his indignation and granted him a sliver of lucidity.
"Hello, I- I'm- I'm sorry, I just need to-"
It still wasn't enough to pull him fully back to himself.
He sidestepped the portly, kind-looking woman, his steps heavy and deliberate as he moved toward the figure at the end of the table. The man looked up at him with grey eyes that first held mischief and curiosity, then shifted to analysis… then doubt… then wide, dawning terror.
Sirius Black shot to his feet like a startled cat, his chair clattering to the floor with a sharp bang, drawing whispered questions and several confused stares.
Orion looked him over.
His hair was shorter than Orion remembered, but tamed now, and fuller - alive in a way it hadn't been the last time they met, no longer the brittle curtain of a death shroud. His eyes still sat dark against his face, but they were no longer sunken into a skull. There were more lines along his skin, yes, but they sat easier: some from age, many from laughter. His skin was still much paler than Orion's, but no longer sickly yellow. Even his teeth - visible in his gaping, speechless mouth as he looked between Orion and Dumbledore - were white again instead of prison-stained.
His open coat and loose trousers revealed tattoos Orion had never known existed - runes, star charts, Latin inscriptions, and mundane sketches. And beneath them, Sirius was… well-fed. His skin no longer clung to bone; lean, defined muscle filled out the places where death had once tried to hollow him.
Overall, Sirius Black looked like a man who had been dragged back from the grave and had somehow returned better for it - warmer, healthier, even content.
Well… normally.
Right now, he looked like he desperately wished he were dead.
"You're looking better," Orion said, voice low and heavy.
Sirius's mouth worked, but no sound came - his words bottlenecked in his throat no matter how he tried.
Idly, Orion realized that now that Sirius no longer resembled a walking corpse, the similarities between them were actually visible.
"Clench your teeth," Orion warned, finally earning a flicker of genuine reaction.
"Wha-"
Unfortunately, Sirius didn't get to finish his question. Or follow the instruction.
Because in the next second, Orion's fist slammed into his jaw, sending him flying backward and dropping him to the floor, instantly unconscious.
Chairs scraped. People shouted. Wands lit the room with sudden, trembling light as half the table surged to its feet.
And Orion sighed - relieved.
He really did feel better after that. Whoever said violence never solved anything didn't know shit.