1990, by a winding river.
A crude wooden puppet knelt by the water's edge, a flickering blue flame emanating from its palm to roast a wild rabbit skewered on a stick. Not far from this strange scene, a small child with long, dark hair lay sprawled in the grass. Whether they were a boy or a girl was anyone's guess.
The child pointed a grimy finger at the half-cooked meal. "You're up awfully early," they said to the puppet. "Still, lucky for you that you ran into me." Their voice was light, but held a world-weary, theatrical tone. "I'm a soft touch, you see. Can't stand to watch a poor creature suffer. There now," the child declared grandly, "no more chewing on flavorless roots for you."
It was a pity the wooden puppet possessed no true consciousness. If it had, it surely would have smacked its shameless creator over the head with a rock.
The child, whose name was Orion, took a bite of the rabbit, winced at the gamy taste, and grabbed a nearby bowl of water. He stared at his reflection, at the delicate features and the long, dark hair, and closed his eyes with a pained expression. It had been ten long years since he'd woken up in this world.
The good news? He'd arrived with a gift, a kind of internal Interface that was supposed to help him.
The bad news? The Interface was mostly useless.
It had two functions. The first was a "Daily Gift," which invariably bestowed upon him utter junk: a mismatched chair, a chipped bowl, a single sock. The second function was to store all that junk. Over the decade, he had amassed enough useless clutter to open a veritable antique shop.
His thoughts drifted back to one particularly unremarkable afternoon. He had received a notification from the Interface. "Daily Gift: Pill of Great Vigor." Hope, an unfamiliar emotion, had surged through him. He'd found the pill in a small wooden box. With the flair of a stage actor, he had roared to the empty woods, "To swallow the sun and command the moon! My destiny is my own!" He'd swallowed the pill in one gulp.
That's when it all went wrong.
Looking in the mirror afterward, he felt that if his Interface displayed character traits, a new one would have appeared right next to "Handsome": "Painfully Adorable." He finally found the small print on the box. The pill was actually a "Beautifying Elixir." The increased strength was merely a side effect.
His world had crumbled.
Even now, the memory made him flinch. He instinctively checked to make sure his… equipment… was still intact. Reassured, he let out a long sigh of relief. This androgynous curse had not taken everything from him.
"Interface, daily gift," he muttered.
Orion rolled his eyes. He was long past being surprised by the strange, knock-off products his personal magic provided. He drained the lukewarm soda in a few gulps, then tossed the empty bottle into the blue fire emanating from his puppet's hand. The heat was so intense the glass vanished without a trace of ash, vitrifying the patch of grass beneath it into a glassy crater.
That fire was the third of his strange, innate skills. The Interface had also provided him with a dusty old tome on the nature of souls, which had allowed him to "innovate." The result was his wooden companion, which he'd nicknamed 'Woody.'
Three skills mastered at such a young age, Orion thought with a touch of melodrama. Surely I am a prodigy.
He let out a small burp and patted his stomach. "Come on, Woody. Let's go home. I'm in the mood for some chips."
The pair turned and walked away, leaving the scattered rabbit bones for the forest scavengers. They hadn't gone far when a small, two-story cottage came into view through the trees. Standing in front of it, peering curiously towards the windows, was an old man with a magnificent white beard.
Well, that's new, Orion thought. Are thieves cosplaying as Gandalf to scout houses these days?
The old man was Albus Dumbledore, and he was even more bewildered than Orion. The day before, he had been idly perusing the Book of Admittance, checking the names of the next year's intake for Hogwarts, when a particular name had given him pause: Orion Black.
A Black? The known descendants of that ancient line were either dead, imprisoned for life in Azkaban, or driven mad. Could this be a Muggle-born who just happened to have the same name? Unlikely. The name Orion Black had a certain resonance, a flavor that was anything but Muggle.
And so, he had decided to see for himself.
He saw the child approaching, with their long black hair and startling grey-blue eyes. There was a faint, almost imperceptible resemblance to Sirius Black in the set of his jaw. Dumbledore, assuming from the long hair he was addressing a girl, spoke first.
"Good morning, little miss. I was wondering if you know a child by the name of Orion Black who lives here?"
The youth pointed a thumb at his own chest. "Barring any cosmic jokes, old-timer, you're looking at him."
Dumbledore.
The name hit Orion like a physical blow. He knew that name. He knew that crooked nose and the half-moon spectacles. Before waking up in this world, he'd seen countless clips and movies about the Boy-Who-Lived.
I woke up in an orphanage with nothing but a slip of paper with my name on it, Orion lamented internally. Why couldn't it have come with an instruction manual?
"Ahem," the old man cleared his throat, his eyes twinkling. "A pleasure to meet you, Orion. I am Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
Now it was Orion's turn to be floored. Hogwarts? Dumbledore? Holy hell. Isn't he supposed to be one of the good guys?
Dumbledore, following some internal protocol for surprising young wizards, gave his wand a casual flick. A pebble at Orion's feet transformed into a little white mouse, which began to squeak and run circles around his ankles.
Orion, startled from his stupor by the sudden appearance of a wriggling creature at his feet, reacted purely on instinct. A torrent of searing, blue-tinged fire erupted from his hand, aimed squarely at the mouse. The Fiendfyre consumed the rodent and a wide patch of earth in an instant, leaving behind nothing but a smoldering, glassy crater.
The astonishment on Orion's face didn't vanish. It simply migrated to Dumbledore's.
"My boy," Dumbledore said, his voice strained. "Where did you learn to do that?"
"I was born with it," Orion lied, with the straightest face he could manage. What was he supposed to say? That his weird internal Interface had gifted him the ability to summon cursed fire?
Dumbledore! The Headmaster's mind was racing. This was no ordinary wizard. This was power on a scale he hadn't seen in a child since… well. He had to know more. He subtly cast his mind forward, trying to read the boy's thoughts.
Legilimency.
He found nothing. It was like peering into a placid, bottomless lake. The boy's mind was utterly calm, organized, and shielded. It was like the boy had somehow blocked him out completely.
Orion, feeling the faint, ticklish intrusion in his mind—and his Interface automatically repelling it—simply gestured to the cottage door. "Please, come in, Headmaster Dumbledore."
The room was tidy, with cheerful if faded wallpaper, but the furniture was old and worn. As they both sat on a lumpy sofa, Dumbledore tried to suppress his shock. He noticed a few books on the low table. He picked one up. It had a plain blue cover depicting an incense burner and script he didn't recognize.
"A young man who enjoys reading, I see," Dumbledore remarked pleasantly.
Orion nodded. The Interface had certainly given him plenty of books over the years. Dumbledore then picked up another volume—a simple, black-covered notebook that seemed to pulse with a faint, dark energy.
Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Dumbledore's friendly demeanor vanished as he flipped through the pages. He closed the notebook, his expression grim.
"Child, do you know what the Dark Arts are?"
Orion feigned ignorance. "Huh? Is that something you can eat?"
Dumbledore's lips thinned. "This notebook. Where did you get it?"
"Found it," Orion said, pointing out the window. Just then, his wooden puppet, Woody, came staggering into view. "I used what I learned in that book to… improve him."
Dumbledore felt a chill crawl up his spine. The notebook was a treatise on the extraction and manipulation of souls. "That… that puppet is powered by a soul?"
Seeing the old man look as though he might faint, Orion quickly added, "Don't worry. I only used rabbit souls. Lots of them."
Hearing that it was only animal souls, Dumbledore managed to catch his breath. "Orion, that is incredibly dark and dangerous magic. You mustn't—" He stopped, looking into the boy's eyes. They were wide, clear, and held an expression of such profound innocence that Dumbledore found himself at a loss for words.
"Your parents, child," Dumbledore said, changing tactics. "I must speak with them."
Orion pointed to a small, framed photograph on the mantelpiece. It showed a stern-looking woman. "I'm an orphan. Grandma Omi took me in. She passed away three years ago."
Blue Fiendfyre. Soul magic. An orphan. The pieces clicked together in Dumbledore's mind with an alarming clang. This boy, left to his own devices, could become a force of unimaginable destruction. He could be another Grindelwald in the making, capable of leveling a city before he was even old enough to shave.
This child cannot be left here, Dumbledore thought, his initial line of thought—this child cannot be allowed to exist—transforming under the weight of his conscience. He cannot be left to grow wild. He must be brought to Hogwarts. He must be guided.
"The puppet and the notebook are far too dangerous, Orion. I will have to confiscate them."
Orion just shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. He didn't need the book; he had long since memorized its contents. And he could always build another Woody.
Dumbledore sighed internally. Voldemort isn't truly gone, I can feel it. And now the world presents me with a promising candidate for the next Dark Lord? I have spent my life walking on thin ice. Will I ever reach the other side?
He looked again at the photo on the wall. "She appears to have been a very stern woman."
"Grandma Omi only looked that way," Orion said softly. "She was actually very kind."
"My boy," Dumbledore said, his voice gentle. "It must have been so difficult for you, these last few years."
You have no idea, Orion thought. If it weren't for the emergency rations the Interface occasionally provided, I would hold the dubious honor of being the only transmigrator to starve to death.
Out loud, he spun a new lie. "She left me a small inheritance. I was supposed to go back to the orphanage, but I… ran away and came back here."
"So you have been living here, all alone?"
He's getting to the point awfully fast, Orion noted.
"Sigh. I cannot, in good conscience, leave a young wizard to fend for himself," Dumbledore said, his decision made. "I've decided to bring you to Hogwarts ahead of schedule." He stood up and, from the depths of his robes, produced a pointed wizard's hat and placed it on Orion's head. It felt surprisingly heavy and looked like it was worth a fortune.
"Go and pack your bags, Orion."
The man who had seemed like a benevolent, if eccentric, grandfather a moment ago now looked like a kidnapper in a hurry. Orion felt he should at least put up a token resistance.
"Um, Headmaster… perhaps it would be better if I just waited for the regular term to begin?"
"Nonsense, my boy! You are due to start in six months anyway. We shall simply consider this an… advanced placement."
Orion sighed. It seemed he had no choice.
Resigned, he went to pack, though there wasn't much to gather. His Interface could conjure nearly any mundane item he needed. In the small bathroom, he looked at his reflection and tied his long hair back. He combed it into a style that he hoped looked more mature, but the face staring back at him was still stubbornly, infuriatingly, pretty.
Just a few more years, he pleaded to whatever cosmic forces were listening. Let me hit a growth spurt. Let this curse of cuteness break and let me look like a man.
The slight, ten-year-old boy turned from the mirror, his shoulders slumped in a picture of weary desolation.
When he returned to the living room, Dumbledore was holding a handsome traveling trunk. With a wave of his wand, the few belongings Orion had gathered flew from his hands and neatly packed themselves inside.
"Come along, child," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling again. "We have a trip to make to Diagon Alley. We must get your school supplies."
He took Orion's arm. With a loud, echoing CRACK, they vanished on the spot.