Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The morning of September 1st dawned with the crisp, electric promise of autumn. The sun hung low and pale over Wiltshire, casting long, sharp shadows across the manicured lawns of Malfoy Manor.

Orion Malfoy stood in the center of his bedroom, surveying his domain one last time. His bed was made. His wardrobe was empty. In the middle of the room sat his trunk—the massive, multi-compartment behemoth he had purchased in Diagon Alley.

”Right,” Orion said, drawing his Hawthorn wand. ”Let’s not break my back before term even starts.”

He pointed the wand at the trunk. He didn’t need to shout the incantation; he had practiced this enough times that a murmur sufficed.

”Reducio.”

A beam of violet light hit the trunk. The heavy luggage shuddered, then rapidly collapsed in on itself. In the span of three seconds, the trunk, which contained enough books to start a small library and enough potions ingredients to poison a small army, shrank down to the size of a matchbox.

Orion stooped down, picked up the tiny rectangle, and slipped it into the pocket of his trousers.

”Technology is great,” Orion mused, patting the pocket. ”But magic is better.”

”Don’t forget the toiletries,” Sparkle reminded him from her digital perch near the ceiling. ”You don’t want to be the smelly guy in the room. That’s usually Goyle’s role.”

”Packed in Compartment 1,” Orion assured her. ”Toothbrush, soap, and enough hair product to rival Draco, though I refuse to use it.”

He walked out of the room, his hands free, his stride light.

Downstairs, the scene in the entrance hall was a study in contrasts.

Lucius Malfoy stood near the fireplace, checking his pocket watch with an air of impatient nobility. Narcissa was adjusting her gloves, looking serene.

And then there was Draco.

Draco was currently engaged in a wrestling match with gravity. He was dragging his full-sized, un-shrunk trunk across the marble floor with both hands, his face turning a shade of pink that clashed with his platinum hair. To make matters worse, he was also trying to balance the massive cage of Titan, the Eurasian Eagle Owl, on top of the trunk.

Titan did not appreciate the ride. The owl screeched every time the trunk bumped over a grout line, flapping his massive wings and causing the cage to wobble dangerously.

”Stupid... heavy... box!” Draco grunted, heaving the trunk another foot.

Orion stopped at the bottom of the stairs, leaning casually against the banister with his hands in his pockets.

”Morning, Draco,” Orion said cheerfully. ”You look like you’re training for the Strongman competition. Going for gold?”

Draco dropped the handle of his trunk, panting. He glared at Orion. ”Where is your trunk? We leave in ten minutes! Don’t tell me you haven’t packed!”

”I am packed,” Orion tapped his pocket. ”It’s right here.”

Draco blinked. ”What?”

”Shrinking Charm, Draco,” Orion explained as if speaking to a slow child. ”Reducio. It reduces the mass and volume of an object while maintaining its internal integrity. Why would I drag two hundred pounds of luggage when I can carry two ounces?”

Draco’s jaw dropped. He looked at his massive trunk. He looked at Orion’s flat pocket.

”But... but Father said we aren’t allowed to do magic outside of school!” Draco sputtered.

”The trace only activates after we enter the school. Plus, the Ministry can’t track magic inside a wizarding home with ancestral wards, Father mentioned that long ago,” Orion countered. ”And technically, I’m just being efficient. Also, why is Titan in a cage? He’s a raptor, Draco. He has wings. Let him fly.”

”Fly?” Draco looked at the angry owl. ”But... he might get lost.”

”He’s a magical owl. His internal GPS is better than yours,” Orion said. He walked over to the cage and unlatched the door.

Titan didn’t hesitate. With a happy screech, the massive bird burst out of the cage, swooped once around the chandelier—making Lucius duck elegantly—and soared out through the open front door into the morning sky.

”See?” Orion pointed. ”He’ll meet you at the Owlery. Less for you to carry.”

Draco looked bereft. ”But... I wanted to show him off on the train.”

”You can show off your intellect instead,” Orion patted his shoulder. ”Or your hair.”

Narcissa stepped forward, suppressing a smile. ”Orion is right, Draco. It is foolish to struggle.”

She pulled out her wand and tapped Draco’s trunk. It shrank instantly. She then tapped the empty cage, shrinking it to the size of a thimble.

”Here,” she handed the tiny items to Draco. ”Pocket them. It will make the Floo journey much more dignified.”

Draco pocketed his items, looking a mix of grateful and annoyed that Orion had thought of it first.

”A prudent use of magic,” Lucius observed, stepping forward. ”Efficiency is a Malfoy trait, Orion. Well done. It is fortunate we have a direct connection to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. The idea of navigating the Muggle station... mingling with the filth and the tourists...”

Lucius sneered, his lip curling in that practiced way. ”It would be beneath us.”

”Indeed, Father,” Orion nodded, checking his own watch—the Astrum Navigator, which currently showed that the sun was rising in Leo. ”Shall we? The train waits for no one, not even us.”

Lucius took a handful of Floo powder from a crystal jar on the mantle. ”The Malfoy grate is connected to the VIP arrival point. Draco, you first.”

Draco stepped into the green flames. ”Platform Nine and Three-Quarters!”

He vanished.

Orion stepped up next. He grabbed the powder. ”See you on the other side.”

He threw the powder. The world spun. Green fire roared in his ears. He kept his body loose, knees bent, anticipating the exit.

He stumbled out of the grate onto a polished dark wood floor, not the dusty stones of the public fireplaces. He was in a private alcove of the platform, shielded from the main crowd by velvet ropes.

The sights and sounds of the Hogwarts Express hit him instantly.

Steam billowed in thick white clouds, smelling of coal and magic. The scarlet engine gleamed, massive and imposing. The platform was a sea of witches and wizards, cats weaving through legs, owls hooting, and students shouting goodbyes.

Orion brushed a speck of ash from his shoulder. ”Showtime.”

Lucius and Narcissa appeared moments later, stepping out of the fire with impossible grace.

”Stay close,” Lucius commanded, leading them toward the train.

They walked through the crowd, parting the sea of students. People stared. The Malfoys were royalty in these circles, and they knew it.

They reached a carriage near the front, away from the noise of the younger children.

Lucius turned to them. He gripped the silver head of his cane, his posture rigid. He took a breath, his eyes narrowing slightly. Orion knew this look. It was the precursor to The Speech. The one about blood purity, about maintaining the family honor, about not associating with the ”wrong sort.”

”Now, listen closely, my sons,” Lucius began, his voice dropping to a serious octave. ”You are entering a world that is not as... curated as our home. You will encounter all manner of...”

”Right!” Orion clapped his hands together suddenly, startling Lucius. ”Well, Father, Mother, the train is whistling! Can’t be late! Malfoy punctuality and all that! Love you both! Write to us! Bye!”

Orion grabbed Draco’s arm and practically threw him onto the train steps before Lucius could get the words ”Mudblood” or ”Traitor” out of his mouth.

”Orion, wait—” Lucius called, blinking.

”Bye, Father!” Orion waved frantically from the doorway. ”We’ll make you proud! Probably!”

He dragged Draco into the corridor and slammed the door shut just as the whistle blew a deafening blast.

”Orion!” Draco hissed, straightening his robes. ”Father was talking! That was rude!”

”Father was about to give us a lecture that would have lasted twenty minutes,” Orion said, looking out the window at Lucius, who looked mildly annoyed but was waving stiffly at Narcissa’s prompting. ”We saved time. Now, let’s find a compartment before the good ones are taken by Hufflepuffs.”

They moved down the corridor. It was already filling up.

”Here,” Orion pointed to an empty compartment near the middle of the car. ”Strategic location. Close to the trolley witch, far from the prefects.”

They slid the door open and claimed their seats. Draco immediately sat by the window to wave at people. Orion took the seat opposite him, stretching his legs out.

Within minutes, the door slid open.

Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle loomed in the doorway. They looked even larger in their school robes.

”Draco,” Crabbe grunted. ”Orion.”

”Grab a seat,” Draco commanded, patting the space next to him.

The two hulking boys squeezed onto the bench on beside Draco. Draco didn’t seem to mind; he liked having his bodyguards close.

The door opened again.

Pansy Parkinson stood there, her pug-nose crinkled in a smile. Behind her was Millicent Bulstrode, a girl with a heavy jaw and an expression that suggested she’d rather be hitting something.

”Draco!” Pansy chirped. But then her eyes flicked to the crowded bench where Draco was squashed beside the mountains of muscle. She looked at the empty seat next to Orion.

”Orion,” she said, stepping inside and sitting down next to him with a rustle of robes. ”Isn’t this exciting?”

”Sure is, Pansy,” Orion nodded, leaning back. ”You smell like... lilacs? A bold choice.”

Pansy preened. ”It’s French. Daddy bought it for me.”

Millicent grunted and sat next to Pansy, crossing her arms. The compartment was now full. Six Slytherins-to-be, packed in like sardines in expensive tin.

The door slid open a third time.

Blaise Zabini stood there, cool and elegant. Behind him were Theodore Nott, Daphne Greengrass, and Tracey Davis.

Blaise looked at the crowded compartment. He looked at Crabbe picking his teeth. He looked at Pansy fawning about her perfume. He looked at Orion, who gave him a small, apologetic shrug.

”Full house,” Blaise drawled. ”Pity. We’ll find another. Catch you at the feast, Orion. Draco.”

”Save us a seat at the table,” Daphne added, giving Orion a polite nod before the group moved on.

”Elitists,” Millicent muttered.

”They just value personal space,” Orion said. ”Unlike some people.” He looked pointedly at Goyle, whose knee was encroaching into the aisle.

The train lurched. A great cloud of steam rolled past the window, and Platform 9 ¾ began to slide away. They were moving. London accelerated into a blur of brick and concrete, then gave way to green fields.

The journey began with the usual chatter. Draco held court, talking about the Comet 260 versus the Cleansweep. Pansy hung on his every word, occasionally glancing at Orion to see if he was impressed. Orion wasn’t. He was reading The Art of Warding, ignoring the conversation entirely.

Sparkle was quiet, likely saving her energy for the arrival at Hogwarts.

About two hours into the journey, the landscape outside had turned to wilder woods and rolling hills. The door to their compartment rattled and slid open.

Standing there was a round-faced boy with tears in his eyes. He was clutching his clothes nervously.

Neville Longbottom.

”Sorry,” Neville mumbled, his voice trembling. ”I... has anyone seen a toad? I’ve lost him. His name is Trevor.”

The compartment went silent.

Draco scoffed, a cruel sneer twisting his face. ”A toad? Who brings a toad these days? That’s peasant magic. Did he hop away to find a better owner? I would.”

Crabbe and Goyle guffawed, a low, guttural sound. Pansy giggled behind her hand.

Neville shrank back, his face turning red. ”I... I just... sorry to bother you.”

He turned to leave, looking defeated.

”Wait,” Orion’s voice cut through the laughter. It wasn’t loud, but it was sharp enough to silence the room.

Orion lowered his book. He looked at Neville. He didn’t look kind—his expression was bored, almost clinical—but he was engaging.

”You’re searching the train manually?” Orion asked. ”Walking compartment to compartment?”

Neville blinked, sniffling. ”Y-Yes. I don’t know where else to look.”

”Inefficient,” Orion stated. ”The train is massive. The toad is small. By the time you check the last car, the toad could have hopped back to the first one. You are chasing in a closed loop.”

”I... I don’t know what else to do,” Neville whispered.

”Think like a wizard, Longbottom,” Orion sighed, closing his book. ”Go to the front of the train. Find the Prefects’ carriage. The ones with the shiny badges. Ask a Fifth Year or above to cast a Summoning Charm.”

Neville looked confused. ”Summoning Charm?”

”Accio Trevor,” Orion explained slowly. ”It brings the object to the caster. Unless your toad has strong anti-summoning wards—which I doubt, considering it’s a toad—it will fly right to them. It saves time. It saves legwork. And it stops you from interrupting people.”

Neville’s eyes widened. ”Oh! I... I didn’t think of that! I don’t think I can cast a spell like that.”

”That’s why you ask a Prefect,” Orion said, picking up his book again. ”Go on. Shoo.”

”Thank you!” Neville beamed, wiping his eyes. ”Thank you very much!”

”Go find your toad, Longbottom,” Orion dismissed him.

Neville nodded and scrambled away down the corridor, looking hopeful.

Orion slid the door shut.

The silence in the compartment was heavy. Draco was staring at Orion with a mix of confusion and betrayal.

”Why did you do that?” Draco demanded. ”He’s probably a squib! A crybaby! You helped him!”

”Yeah,” Goyle grunted. ”Should’ve let him cry.”

Orion sighed, a long, suffering exhale. He turned to face his brother.

”Draco,” Orion said quietly. ”Use your head for something other than growing hair.”

”What does that mean?”

”You insulted him,” Orion analyzed. ”You called him a peasant. You laughed. What did you achieve?”

”It was funny,” Draco shrugged.

”It was petty,” Orion corrected. ”And it gained you nothing. He leaves thinking you are a bully. If he becomes powerful later—unlikely, but possible—he remembers the insult. If he has powerful friends, they resent you.”

Orion leaned forward, his blue eyes sharp.

”I, on the other hand, gave him a solution. It cost me nothing. Just words. But now? Now he thinks I am helpful. He thinks I am... reasonable. He is grateful.”

”So? Who cares if a Longbottom is grateful?” Draco sneered.

”Gratitude is a currency, Draco,” Orion hissed. ”Indebtedness is a leash. If I am out of bed after curfew and Longbottom sees me, is he going to rat out the boy who helped him find his beloved toad? No. He will look the other way. But if he sees you? He will run to McGonagall screaming.”

Draco opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. He frowned, processing the logic.

”That is how a true Slytherin operates,” Orion said, leaning back and reopening his book. ”We don’t mock people for the sake of amusement. We manipulate them for the sake of advantage. You made an enemy. I made an asset. Who won that interaction?”

The compartment was silent again. Even Crabbe looked like he was trying to think, which was a dangerous pastime for him.

”You’re... devious,” Pansy whispered, looking at Orion with a newfound respect, or perhaps fear.

”I’m practical,” Orion murmured, turning the page. ”Now, be quiet. I’m reading about wards.”

Draco sat back, crossing his arms. He looked out the window, sulking slightly, but Orion could see the wheels turning. The seed had been planted. Whether it would grow in the rocky soil of Draco’s personality remained to be seen.

”Achievement Unlocked: The Machiavellian Tutor,” Sparkle whispered in his ear. ”Teaching ethics through sociopathy. I love it.”

”It’s not sociopathy,” Orion thought back. ”It’s politics.”

”Same thing, darling. Same thing.”