Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The party began to wind down as the moon climbed higher into the sky. The floating candles dimmed to a soft amber, signaling that it was socially acceptable for the guests to start leaving. Carriages were summoned, floo powder was thrown, and the Manor slowly emptied of its noisy occupants.

Orion had slipped away from the Slytherin clique a while ago, finding refuge in a quiet alcove near the enchanted windows. He leaned against the cool stone, watching the reflection of the ballroom in the glass.

”Sparkle,” he murmured, his lips barely moving. ”Status report. Did my little vanishing act net anything, or was that just for my own amusement?”

”Oh, it netted something,” Sparkle’s voice was warm, almost purring with satisfaction. ”I didn’t want to interrupt your social maneuvering—you were actually being quite charming, which is suspicious—but yes. Achievement Unlocked.”

A discreet notification popped up in the corner of his vision, transparent enough not to block his view of the room.

[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED ]

Tier: 1 (Basic)

Name: Reality Can Be Whatever I Want

Description: You have successfully gaslighted the entire upper crust of British Wizarding Society. By substituting actual magical prowess with the unpaid labor of a disillusioned house-elf and impeccable comedic timing, you have convinced a room full of paranoid dark wizards that you are the second coming of Merlin. You are not just a liar, Orion; you are the Michelangelo of Bullshit. I am proud of you.

Reward: 1x Deck of Self-Shuffling Cards (Cheat-Enabled).

Orion smirked. ”Cheat-enabled?”

”If you tap the deck twice, it stacks the hand in your favor,” Sparkle explained. ”Great for poker. Terrible for building genuine friendships.”

”I prefer the poker,” Orion noted. ”Though, I admit, I was tempted to go for something bigger earlier. When Minister Fudge came over to shake my hand... his lime-green bowler hat was just sitting there. It was begging to be snatched.”

”I saw your hand twitch,” Sparkle giggled. ”Stealing the Minister’s hat would have definitely been a Tier 2 achievement. Maybe ’State of Undress’ or ’Fashion Police’. But Lucius was watching. The risk-to-reward ratio was skewed.”

”Someday,” Orion promised, eyeing the spot where Fudge had stood. ”That hat will be mine.”

”Planning a heist, my little star?”

Orion turned to see Narcissa gliding toward him. She looked as fresh as she had at the start of the evening, not a hair out of place, though her eyes held a glimmer of tiredness.

”Just admiring the architecture, Mother,” Orion lied smoothly. ”Are you enjoying the evening?”

”I am enjoying the fact that it is nearly over,” she confessed with a small smile, resting a hand on his arm. ”And I found your little vanishing trick... fascinating.”

Orion feigned innocence. ”Whatever do you mean?”

Narcissa raised an elegant eyebrow. ”Orion. I am your mother. I know when you are up to something. And so does your father. He is currently trapped in a conversation with Lord Nott about how his son is the next Merlin, capable of banishing matter at age eleven. He admitted it was cunning, but he is dreading the expectations it sets.”

Orion chuckled. ”Let them expect greatness. It keeps them on their toes. Besides, watching Father squirm is my birthday gift to myself.”

”You are incorrigible,” Narcissa sighed, but her tone was fond. ”I know you dislike the posturing. The politics. You tolerate it well, but I see the boredom in your eyes.”

”It is mildly fun,” Orion shrugged. ”Like watching a play where everyone has forgotten their lines but refuses to leave the stage. Speaking of people who refuse to be on stage... where is our dearest godfather?”

”Severus?” Narcissa glanced toward the hallway leading to the family’s private parlor. ”He arrived half an hour ago. He took one look at the group of Ladies debating fabric swatches and decided he would rather face a werewolf. He went straight to the private parlor. He said he would wait for the... festivities to conclude.”

”Classic Uncle Sev,” Orion nodded. ”He hates joy.”

”He hates crowds,” Narcissa corrected. ”Come. Let us say goodbye to the last few guests, and then we can join him.”

Twenty minutes later, the last carriage rolled away down the gravel drive. The heavy front doors were sealed with a magical thud, and the silence of the Manor returned.

Lucius, looking visibly relieved to be done with the smiling, led his family into the private parlor. A fire was crackling in the hearth, and sitting in a high-backed armchair near the flames was a figure in black.

Severus Snape did not look up immediately. He was staring into the fire, his sallow face illuminated by the dancing orange light. His hook nose cast a long shadow, and his greasy black hair hung like curtains around his face.

”Godfather!” Draco announced, bursting into the room. ”You missed it! I got a Chronoskeeper from Father! And Orion did magic without a wand! And the Minister was here!”

Snape turned slowly, his black eyes fixing on Draco. A thin, barely-there smile touched his lips.

”I am sure it was a riveting display of vanity and noise, Draco,” Snape drawled, his voice deep and smooth. ”Happy Birthday.”

He stood up, his robes billowing around him. He looked at Orion. ”And you, Orion. I trust you managed to avoid setting anyone on fire?”

”It was a near thing, Professor,” Orion said, stepping forward. ”Fudge’s hat was very flammable looking.”

Snape’s lip curled in amusement. ”Indeed. A tragedy averted.”

He reached into his robes and pulled out a leather satchel. He placed it on the low table between them.

”For the both of you,” Snape said. ”Since you will be entering my classroom in September, I thought it prudent to ensure you have... adequate supplies. The school inventory is often lacking in quality.”

Draco opened the satchel. Inside were rows of crystal phials containing rare ingredients: powdered bicorn horn, boomslang skin, lacewing flies that had been stewed for the correct twenty-one days.

”Wow,” Draco breathed. ”These are expensive.”

”They are necessary,” Snape corrected. ”Do not waste them.”

He turned to Lucius, who was pouring himself a generous glass of firewhisky. ”Lucius. A successful evening, I presume?”

”Ideally,” Lucius sighed, taking a sip. ”Though Orion has decided to start rumors about his own magical prowess that I will now have to manage.”

”Ambition is a Slytherin trait,” Snape murmured. ”So, Dumbledore has done it again.”

Lucius looked up sharply. ” The Defense post?”

”Quirrell,” Snape spat the name like a curse. ”The man is a stuttering fool. He returned from his sabbatical in Albania looking like he’s seen a ghost and smelling of garlic. And yet, Dumbledore hands him the position. Again, I am passed over.”

”Dumbledore is a senile old fool who fears your talent, Severus,” Lucius soothed, though his eyes were cold. ”He keeps you close but never gives you the power you deserve.”

”Perhaps,” Snape said tightly. ”But having to tolerate Quirrell’s incompetence... it will be a long year.”

He glanced at the clock on the mantle. ”I must return. I have potions brewing that require attention. Boys.” He nodded to the twins. ”Do not be dunderheads.”

With a swirl of his cloak that was almost theatrical enough to rival a Malfoy, Snape swept out of the room. The floo flared green a moment later, and he was gone.

Lucius finished his drink and set the glass down. The air in the room shifted. It was time for business.

”Sit,” Lucius commanded gently.

Draco and Orion sat on the velvet sofa. Narcissa stood by the fireplace, watching them.

Lucius walked to a cabinet in the corner. He unlocked it with a tap of his cane and retrieved the long, velvet box he had shown them at breakfast.

He returned to the table and opened it. The two wands lay there, innocent and ancient.

”As discussed,” Lucius said gravely. ”These are temporary. They are family heirlooms. They are to be used for practice only. Under supervision. Or in the safety of your rooms.”

He picked up the first wand. It was sleek, made of polished oak, quite smooth.

”Draco,” Lucius handed it to him. ”This belonged to your great-grandfather, Septimus Malfoy. Oakwood. Rigid.”

Draco took the wand. A shower of silver sparks erupted from the tip instantly, illuminating his excited face. The wand hummed in his hand.

”It likes me!” Draco gasped.

”It recognizes the blood,” Lucius nodded, pleased. ”Now, Orion.”

Lucius picked up the second wand. It was darker, a rough-hewn Blackthorn that seemed to swallow the firelight.

”This belonged to a cousin... further back,” Lucius said, handing it over. ”Blackthorn. Temperamental.”

Orion reached out. The moment his fingers closed around the handle, the reaction was instant.

ZAP.

A sharp, static shock crackled up Orion’s arm, making his nerves jump. It wasn’t painful, but it was startling, like a warning bite from a spirited animal. Erratic, indigo sparks didn’t shoot out into the room; instead, they popped and fizzled against Orion’s own skin, stinging his fingers.

The wand recognized the blood—the Malfoy heritage was undeniable—but it seemed confused by the soul piloting the vessel. It was testing him, poking the anomaly to see if he would flinch.

Orion didn’t pull back. He watched the sparks nip at his knuckles with a fascinated smirk, his grip tightening just enough to assert control without crushing it.

”Feisty,” Orion murmured, feeling the wood vibrate against his palm like a cat that might scratch you if you pet it wrong. ”It has a sense of humor.”

Lucius raised an eyebrow at the self-inflicted sparks but nodded. ”It seems to acknowledge you, albeit reluctantly. Control it, Orion.”

”Oh, we’ll get along just fine,” Orion whispered to the wood, pocketing the vibrating wand. ”Happy Birthday to me.”