Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

If there was one thing Orion Malfoy despised more than the texture of velvet against dry skin, it was bureaucracy. And the Hogwarts acceptance letter delivery system was, fundamentally, a bureaucratic nightmare disguised as whimsical magic.

The third week of July had come and gone.

Orion had spent the initial two days in a state of high-alert agitation. Every shadow that crossed the sun was a potential owl. Every rustle of leaves was a potential delivery. He had sat on the balcony for hours, staring at the horizon with the intensity of a castaway looking for a ship, only to be disappointed by a passing pigeon or, on one occasion, a very confused bat.

”It’s the third week,” Orion had grumbled to his reflection on July 16th. ”They said the letter comes on the third week.”

Narcissa had been the voice of reason, which was unfortunate because Orion didn’t want reason; he wanted his letter.

”Technically, darling,” she had explained over tea, looking amused by his pacing, ”the quill begins the addressing process on the first. The owls are dispatched in waves. It is not an instantaneous mass mailing. The British magical population is small, but the geography is wide. Be patient.”

”Patient,” Orion had scoffed, kicking a pebble across the terrace. ”Mother, if Amazon Prime existed in this world, this school would have been sued into bankruptcy by now. Two-day shipping. That’s the standard. This is medieval.”

Getting closer to the end of the week, Orion’s patience had evaporated. He was no longer excited; he was litigious. He was mentally drafting a complaint letter to the Department of Magical Education, citing emotional distress and false advertising.

”If it doesn’t come by Friday,” Orion told Sparkle, ”I am going to assume I’m a Squib with a hallucination problem and I’m going to run away to join a Muggle circus.”

”You’d make a terrible clown,” Sparkle had replied helpfully. ”You’re too cynical. You’d make the children cry.”

But then, Friday morning arrived.

Breakfast was a somber affair—at least for Orion. He was stabbing a sausage with unnecessary violence. Draco, on the other hand, was chattering about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, blissfully unbothered by the delay.

”And Father says Bulgaria has a new Seeker, a real prodigy, but I bet he’s just—”

Swoosh.

The sound of rushing air cut through the room.

Orion froze. He didn’t look up immediately, afraid it was just another false alarm. But the sound was distinct. It was the heavy, rhythmic beat of large wings.

Two barn owls swooped through the open windows of the dining hall. They didn’t flutter or hesitate. They were professionals. They banked sharply over the table, dropping two thick, yellowish envelopes with military precision.

One landed directly in Draco’s bowl of oatmeal, splashing milk onto his face.

The other landed neatly on Orion’s empty plate.

Silence filled the room.

Draco wiped oatmeal from his eye, blinking at the envelope. ”It... It’s here!”

Orion slowly put down his fork. He picked up the envelope. It was heavy parchment, textured and warm. The ink was emerald green.

Mr. O. Malfoy

The East Bedroom

Malfoy Manor

Wiltshire

He turned it over. The wax seal was purple, bearing the crest of the lion, the snake, the badger, and the eagle.

Orion let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since he was born.

”About. Bloody. Time,” he whispered.

”Language, Orion,” Lucius chided automatically from behind his newspaper, though he lowered the Prophet to watch them with a hint of a smile.

”I got mine!” Draco cheered, ripping his envelope open with zero regard for the wax seal. ”Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore! Look, Father! Look, Mother!”

”We see it, Draco,” Narcissa beamed, reaching out to pat his hand. ”Congratulations.”

Orion was more clinical. He slid his finger under the seal, preserving it, and unfolded the parchment. He scanned the familiar text. Dear Mr. Malfoy, We are pleased to inform you...

It was real. It wasn’t a fanfiction. It wasn’t a dream. He was actually going.

DING.

The sound was sharp and immediate. The blue screen popped into existence right over his plate, obscuring the list of required spellbooks.

[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! ]

Orion twitched. ”Not now, Sparkle.”

”Oh, absolutely now,” Sparkle’s voice cackled. ”You’ve been whining about this for weeks. You deserve this.”

Tier: 1 (Basic)

Name: Orion, Yer a Wizard

Description: You finally got the letter. Yes, you. The boy who has been staring out the window like a Victorian widow waiting for her husband to return from the war. It took ten years and an agonizing extra week of administrative delay, but here we are. You are officially a student. Try not to let the power go to your head immediately.

Reward: 1x Chocolate Frosted Cupcake (Sprinkles Included).

Orion stared at the screen. ”A cupcake?”

”It’s a celebration!” Sparkle chirped. ”And it has sprinkles. Rainbow ones.”

”I am holding the key to my magical education, and you give me a baked good,” Orion muttered, shaking his head.

”Did you say something, Orion?” Narcissa asked, looking at him curiously.

”Just reading the list, Mother,” Orion lied smoothly, banishing the screen with a thought. ”Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. A cauldron. Phials. It seems we have a lot of shopping to do.”

He looked up, his eyes locking onto his father. ”When do we leave?”

Lucius finished his coffee and dabbed his mouth with a napkin. He looked... shifty. It was a subtle look, one that only a family member would notice. It was the look of a man who was calculating how to tell someone he had better things to do.

”Ah,” Lucius started, clasping his hands. ”Yes. The shopping. An important rite of passage.”

He paused, clearing his throat. ”Unfortunately, my schedule for the immediate future is... compromised.”

”Compromised?” Orion repeated, raising an eyebrow.

”The Ministry,” Lucius sighed, the weight of the world apparently on his shoulders. ”Minister Fudge is currently pushing for a new regulation regarding the flying speed safety regulations—a ludicrous idea that threatens the broomstick industry. As a governor and a concerned citizen, I must be present to... guide him.”

”Guide him,” Orion translated internally. ”He means bribe him. Or blackmail him. Or simply stand there and look menacing until Fudge wets himself and agrees.”

”Definitely bribery,” Sparkle agreed. ”Lucius loves a good lobbyist moment.”

”I anticipate,” Lucius continued, oblivious to his son’s internal monologue, ”that I will be occupied for this weekend, maybe even next. Perhaps... the last week of July would be suitable? It would allow the crowds to thin out.”

Orion frowned. The last week of July? That was when Harry Potter went in the canon timeline. That was when Hagrid took him.

If they went then, Draco would inevitably run into Harry at Madam Malkin’s. He would make his ”right sort of wizard” comment. He would insult Hagrid. He would set the tone for a seven-year rivalry based on a bad first impression.

Orion didn’t want that. Or rather, he wanted to control the variables. If they went late, they were just following the script. If they went now, the script broke.

Besides, Orion wanted his wand. He wanted it yesterday. He wasn’t waiting two more weeks to get rid of the Stick of Spite.

”Two weeks?” Orion said, putting on his best disappointed-child face. ”But Father... the list says we should begin preparations immediately. And the best stocks will be gone by then. Surely, we don’t want to buy the picked-over cauldrons? The dented ones? The ones the Weasleys might have touched?”

He saw Draco recoil at the thought. ”Ew! I don’t want a Weasley cauldron! Father, we have to go now!”

”It is a matter of quality,” Orion pressed, leaning forward. ”And efficiency. We are Malfoys. We should be first, not last.”

Lucius hesitated. The appeal to his vanity was strong, but the appeal of Ministry gold was stronger. ”Orion, I understand your enthusiasm, but—”

”Mother could take us,” Orion interjected, turning his blue eyes toward Narcissa.

Narcissa blinked, then smiled. It was a genuine smile. She enjoyed shopping. She enjoyed dressing her sons up. And she probably enjoyed a break from Lucius’s political ramblings.

”I think that is a splendid idea,” Narcissa said, setting down her teacup. ”I have been meaning to visit Twilfitt and Tattings anyway. And I can ensure the boys get their robes fitted properly without you hovering over the tailor, Lucius.”

”I do not hover,” Lucius sniffed. ”I supervise.”

”You hover,” Narcissa said firmly. ”I can take them this weekend, Lucius. Saturday. It will be a lovely outing.”

Lucius looked between his wife and his sons. He saw the united front. He saw the logic. And, most importantly, he saw a way to do his shady business without having to drag two eleven-year-olds around Diagon Alley.

”Very well,” Lucius conceded with a graceful nod. ”If you are willing, Narcissa. But I expect a full report. And do not let them buy anything... garish.”

”We wouldn’t dream of it,” Orion promised, grinning.

”Excellent,” Lucius stood up, smoothing his robes. ”Now, before I depart for the Ministry, I feel I must impart upon you the importance of this journey. You are not merely buying books; you are acquiring the tools of your heritage. A Malfoy does not simply shop; he acquires. He selects. He—”

”Father,” Orion interrupted, jumping out of his chair. ”I just realized. I need to cross-reference my personal library with the school list to ensure I don’t buy duplicates. Efficiency, you know. I must go make a list.”

Lucius blinked, his speech interrupted. ”A... list? Yes. Well. Organization is laudable...”

”Thanks, Father! Bye!”

Orion bolted.

”I want to make a list too!” Draco yelled, scrambling down from his chair, a trail of oatmeal falling from his lap. ”Wait for me, Orion!”

Orion was already out the door before Lucius could get to the part about ”Blood Traitors and Half-Breeds.”

That night, the air in Orion’s room felt different. It was charged with anticipation.

Orion sat at his desk, a piece of parchment spread out before him. He had written ”HOGWARTS SHOPPING LIST” at the top in elegant calligraphy.

Below it, however, the items were not standard.

1. A Wand (Priority Alpha. Must not hate me.)

2. Potions Ingredients (The stuff Snape didn’t give us).

3. Books (Advanced Spells, Useful Runes, ’How to legally hex people’).

4. Owl (Must be smarter than Draco, which means any owl will do).

5. Trunk (Multi-compartment, undetectable expansion charm if possible).

”It’s a good start,” Orion mused, tapping the quill against his chin.

”You forgot ’Cupcake’,”_ Sparkle reminded him. ”You still have that in your inventory.”

”That’s for an emergency sugar crash,” Orion replied.

He opened the drawer of his bedside table.

There it was. The Blackthorn wand.

It lay on the velvet lining, looking dark and unassuming. When Orion reached out, he could feel the faint static hum coming off it, like a low-level radiation.

”So,” Orion whispered to the wand. ”Tomorrow, I get my real wand. Which means you are officially retired.”

He picked it up.

ZAP.

”Ow,” Orion hissed, shaking his hand. ”Still biting. You really are a nasty piece of work.”

Lucius had been clear: ”Temporary wands are to be returned to the family vault once a bonded wand is acquired.” It was a rule. A reasonable rule. The wand was dangerous, temperamental, and frankly, a liability.

Orion looked at the wand. Then he looked at his Inventory screen, which was hovering silently in the air.

”Father expects me to give this back,” Orion murmured. ”He expects me to hand over a magical weapon that, while disobedient, is still a powerful conduit of dark magic.”

”And?” Sparkle asked.

”And... I’m not going to do that,” Orion decided.

A spare wand was the ultimate Ace in the hole. If he was disarmed in a duel, if his main wand broke, if he needed to cast a spell that couldn’t be traced back to his primary magical signature... the Blackthorn wand was invaluable.

Sure, it might blow up his hand. Sure, it might turn a stunning spell into a flashbang grenade. But it was magic. And Orion wasn’t about to give up a source of magic just because his dad said so.

”Besides,” Orion reasoned, ”who’s going to check? Lucius barely remembers this thing exists. He thinks it’s trash because it doesn’t work for me. If I tell him I put it back in the vault, he’ll believe me. Or I’ll tell him I dropped it in the lake. He’ll probably thank me.”

”Embezzlement of family heirlooms,” Sparkle noted. ”I like it. Put it in the box.”

Orion focused. Inventory.

The grid appeared. He looked at the third slot.

He pushed the Blackthorn wand toward the screen.

In a flash of digital light, the physical wand vanished from his hand. A pixelated icon of a dark, thorny stick appeared in the slot.

[ Blackthorn Wand (Volatile) - Stored ]

Orion closed the empty drawer.

”Perfect,” he grinned.

He stood up and stretched, walking over to the window. The moon was high and full, bathing the grounds in silver light. Somewhere out there, Diagon Alley was waiting. Ollivander was waiting. The world was waiting.

For ten years, he had been playing the prologue. He had been constrained by his age, by his parents, by his lack of a focus.

Tomorrow, the constraints started to fall away.

”Get some sleep, Orion,” he told himself, climbing into bed—which was gratefully solid and not liquid goo. ”We have a big day. We need to be sharp. We need to be charming.”

”And we need to not let Draco buy anything shiny,” Sparkle added.

”That too.”

Orion closed his eyes, a smile lingering on his face. The waiting was over. The game was afoot. And he had a pocketful of cheats and a head full of bad ideas.

It was going to be glorious.