As Orion regained his bearings, the room seemed to hold its breath—though whether out of awe or sheer confusion was debatable. Sea remained poised at his side, his unwavering loyalty shining brighter than any candlelight. Every movement the golden service dog made was deliberate, precise—a symphony of care in motion, though if anyone asked, he'd probably say, I'm just doing my job, hooman.
Sea leaned against Orion with the practiced ease of someone who had done this far too many times. His nudge was firm, steady, and just a little impatient, as if saying, Alright, buddy, up you go. We've done this before, let's not make a scene… well, more of a scene. Orion, still trembling from the aftershocks of his seizure, responded to the silent command with a groggy kind of trust, gripping the harness like it was the last chocolate frog at Honeydukes.
Every step was a masterclass in teamwork. Sea moved with calculated grace, his Counter Balance handle firm under Orion's grip, guiding him with a purpose that transcended mere instinct—perhaps divine patience. As Orion leaned into the rhythm of the dog's support, Cainis—the majestic, ever-stoic black Kangal—joined them. The hulking beast followed close behind, exuding an aura of quiet authority, as if daring anyone to even think about commenting.
The trio made their way down the hall in synchronized strides, though Orion's shuffle occasionally disrupted their near-perfect harmony. Sea, ever the professional, merely adjusted without complaint, while Cainis trailed behind like a disapproving security detail. When they reached the bedroom door, Sea paused, shot Cainis a meaningful glance, and in the great language of service dogs, it probably meant: Cover me, I'm going in.
Cainis, taking his job just as seriously, stepped forward, his presence alone filling the room with a comforting Don't worry, I've got this energy. The moment Orion sank onto the bed, Sea wasted no time pressing against his leg, his warm body grounding him further. Orion's hand drifted into Sea's fur, fingers gripping the golden strands like they were his last thread to reality. "You saved me again, Sea," he muttered, voice thick with exhaustion and gratitude.
Sea, the ultimate professional, simply nudged Orion's hand and blinked at him with an expression that translated to: Obviously. Now scratch behind my ears like a good hooman.
Cainis settled at the foot of the bed, his sharp eyes scanning the room as though expecting an intruder at any moment. Because clearly, the biggest threat here was a rogue throw pillow.
Meanwhile, back in the dining hall, the once-lively atmosphere had transformed into something more akin to a courtroom drama. The guests, rattled by the earlier commotion, exchanged hushed murmurs with the kind of dramatic gravitas usually reserved for scandalous gossip.
Abraxas Malfoy, his sharp features now edged with something dangerously close to concern, was the first to speak. "Will he be alright?" he asked, his tone less dramatic inquiry and more investigative journalist. "It's evident he's kept this hidden for quite some time. How on earth did he manage to conceal something so significant?"
The room paused, as if collectively realizing that yes, Orion had, in fact, been dealing with this under their very noses.
Walburga, seated at the head of the table with an expression that suggested she was contemplating hexing the entire room just for existing, sighed. "Orion has always been fiercely private about his health," she admitted, her voice steady but tinged with weary resignation. "He never wanted his struggles to burden anyone else. He's… resilient to a fault."
Charlus Potter, ever the voice of reason, nodded. "He's mastered the art of discretion," he agreed. "Orion's always been careful to keep his personal challenges just that—personal. But tonight…" He trailed off, clearly still processing.
Dorea Potter, with the patience of a woman who had clearly seen too much, added, "It's not about secrecy; it's about control. He wanted to live on his own terms, without pity or unnecessary attention."
James, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke. "I've seen him handle this with a strength that's hard to describe. He doesn't talk about it, doesn't ask for help—he just… manages. But seeing him tonight, it's clear just how much weight he's been carrying."
Abraxas, ever the tactician, nodded slowly. "I can respect that," he mused. "But managing something of this magnitude alone… It's unimaginable. It speaks to his strength, yes, but also to the isolation it must bring."
Walburga exhaled sharply, as though trying to release years' worth of pent-up why is my husband like this energy. "It hasn't been easy," she admitted. "But Sea and Cainis have changed everything. They're more than service animals—they're lifelines."
Abraxas tilted his head thoughtfully. "Those dogs," he mused, "are extraordinary. The way they responded tonight was nothing short of remarkable."
Sirius, who had up until now been watching the conversation unfold like a spectator at a Quidditch match, finally scoffed. "They're not just dogs. They're family." His voice carried an edge of fierce pride, as if daring anyone to challenge him. "They've seen Dad through his worst moments, and they've never once faltered."
Regulus, ever the quieter counterpart, nodded in agreement. "Their training is unparalleled," he said softly. "But it's more than that. It's their bond with Dad. It's… instinctual, like they know what he needs before he even realizes it."
As the conversation continued, the tone in the room shifted. What had begun as a tense, almost scandalous incident had morphed into something… different. Not pity, not mere admiration, but a profound, almost reverent respect—not just for Orion, but for the quiet, unshakable loyalty of the two dogs that never left his side.
By the time the evening wound down, the mood had softened. The guests left the dining hall not with whispers of scandal but with something far more enduring: an appreciation for the quiet resilience of a man who had spent a lifetime carrying burdens alone—and for the two steadfast companions who had, without words, reminded them all what true loyalty looked like.
And, as if on cue, back in the bedroom, Sea let out a mighty harumph of satisfaction, stretched luxuriously, and promptly flopped onto Orion's legs. Because yes, he was a hero, but also? A very, very good boy.
Cainis merely sighed, shook his massive head, and resumed his post—because someone in this house had to maintain some dignity.
And thus, the night ended—not in scandal or fear, but in a quiet, steady glow of understanding, loyalty, and the steadfast presence of two heroes on four legs.