Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The sun had barely begun to paint the peaks of the Scottish Highlands with pale gold when the dungeons of Hogwarts stirred. While other houses might have relied on alarm clocks or the gentle prodding of roommates, Slytherin House operated on a schedule of competitive punctuality.

Orion woke before his roommates, as was his habit. He slid out from behind his green velvet curtains, noting with satisfaction that the Giant Squid was currently sleeping—or at least hovering motionless—near the window, looking like a submerged kraken guarding the dorm.

By the time the group ascended the stone steps to the Entrance Hall, they were a phalanx of pressed robes and slicked hair.

Entering the Great Hall for breakfast, Orion noted the disparity immediately.

The Slytherin table was full. Every single student, from the terrified first-years to the hulking seventh-years, was seated and eating. It was a display of military discipline, likely enforced by the Prefects and the terrifying specter of Snape’s disapproval.

The Ravenclaw table was nearly full, filled with students propping books open against milk jugs.

The Hufflepuff table was a chaotic but cheerful bustle of toast passing.

The Gryffindor table, however, was a wasteland. Maybe half the house was present. The rest were presumably still battling their alarm clocks or looking for lost ties.

”Look at them,” Draco sneered, buttering his toast with precision. ”Sloth. Pure sloth. Imagine being late on the first day.”

”It’s a cultural difference,” Orion noted, pouring pumpkin juice. ”They value ’rest’ and ’spontaneity’. We value ’not being murdered by our Head of House’.”

Gemma Farley, the female Prefect from the night before, moved down the table distributing parchment timetables. She handed them out with the efficiency of a dealer in a casino.

”Malfoy. Malfoy. Parkinson. Zabini,” she recited, slapping the schedules onto the wood. ”Do not lose these. If you are late, do not blame the stairs. Learn the patterns.”

Orion picked up his schedule.

MONDAY

9:00 AM -Charms (with Hufflepuff)

11:00 AM - History of Magic (with Gryffindor)

12:00 PM - Lunch

2:00 PM - Transfiguration (with Ravenclaw)

”Charms first,” Orion noted. ”Professor Flitwick. Third floor.”

”Where is the Charms corridor?” Tracey Davis asked, looking at the high ceiling nervously. ”The castle is huge. We’ll get lost.”

Orion stood up, finishing his juice. He walked straight over to Gemma Farley, who was currently berating a second-year for a crooked tie.

”Excuse me, Prefect Farley,” Orion said smoothly.

Gemma turned, raising an eyebrow. ”What is it, Malfoy?”

”The precise location of the Charms classroom,” Orion requested. ”And the optimal route to avoid the trick step on the Grand Staircase I read about.”

Gemma blinked. Usually, first-years were too terrified to speak to her, or too proud to ask for help until they were already hopelessly lost.

”Third floor, east corridor, fifth door on the left,” she said automatically. ”Take the marble staircase to the first landing, then the side stairs. The trick step is the fourth from the top. Jump it.”

”Appreciated,” Orion nodded. He turned back to his group. ”Let’s move. We have a route.”

”You just... asked her?” Tracey whispered as they filed out of the hall, ignoring the few sleepy Gryffindors just stumbling in. ”Isn’t that showing weakness?”

”Tracey,” Orion sighed, leading the way up the marble staircase. ”Walking in circles for twenty minutes is weakness. Arriving five minutes early and securing the back row seats is strategy. Never confuse ignorance with pride.”

Draco nodded sagely, as if he had known this all along. ”Exactly, Tracey. Strategy. That’s why I trust Orion.”

Charms was... loud.

The Hufflepuffs were a friendly bunch, eager to learn but somewhat clumsy. Within the first ten minutes, the boy named Justin Finch-Fletchley had managed to knock his inkwell onto the floor.

Professor Flitwick was a tiny little wizard who had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. When he took the roll call, he paused and squeaked excitedly when he saw the Malfoy names.

”Twins! Oh, how wonderful. Double the charm, I hope!”

”Double the trouble, more likely,” Orion muttered under his breath.

The lesson was theoretical. Flitwick lectured them on the fundamental nature of Charms—adding properties to objects—versus Transfiguration, which changed the nature of the object. He spoke about intent, pronunciation, and wand movement.

”Now,” Flitwick squeaked near the end of the lesson. ”We shall try a very simple spell. The Wand-Lighting Charm. Lumos.”

The class erupted in the swishing of wands.

”Loo-mos,” a Hufflepuff girl chanted, waving her wand like a baton. Nothing happened.

Draco, sitting next to Orion, furrowed his brow. ”Lumos!”

His Hawthorn wand sparked silver, then emitted a faint, flickering grey light, like a dying bulb.

”Not bad,” Orion critiqued. ”But your wrist is too stiff. It’s a loop, Draco, not a jab.”

Orion drew his own wand—the Peacock-handled beauty. He didn’t shout. He barely moved. A casual flick of the wrist.

”Lumos.”

A bright, steady sphere of pure white light bloomed instantly. It was blindingly clear, illuminating the dusty corners of the classroom.

”Oh! beautifully done, Mr. Malfoy!” Flitwick cried out, clapping his hands. ”Look here, class! A perfect sphere! Five points to Slytherin!”

Draco scowled at his flickering wand. ”Show-off.”

”It’s the Dragon Heartstring,” Orion lied smoothly. ”It’s flashy. Your Unicorn hair is consistent. Give it a second.”

Orion extinguished his light. He felt the hum of the magic. It was easy. Too easy. The weeks of struggle with the Blackthorn wand had turned his magical core into a pressurized hose. Using a compliant wand now felt like effortless breathing.

History of Magic was exactly as Orion expected: a nap.

Professor Binns, the ghost, droned on about Goblin rebellions in a voice that sounded like an old vacuum cleaner. Within ten minutes, half of the Slytherins and almost all of the Gryffindors were asleep. Even Hermione Granger looked like she was struggling to keep her eyes open as she furiously took notes.

Orion opened The Art of Warding inside his textbook and read about anti-intrusion barriers.

Then came lunch (Shepherd’s Pie), followed by the trek to Transfiguration.

”This is the big one,” Draco said nervously as they navigated the corridors. ”Father says McGonagall is strict. She turns students into pocket watches if they’re late.”

”Father exaggerates,” Orion said. ”Though she is strict. She’s the Deputy Headmistress.”

They arrived at the Transfiguration classroom early. The door was open.

Orion walked in first. The room was large, airy, and smelled of chalk and old parchment. It was mostly empty, save for a few Ravenclaws who had arrived early to secure the front seats.

And, sitting perfectly still on the teacher’s desk, was a stiff, tabby cat with spectacle markings around its eyes.

The cat was watching them with an intensity that would have unnerved a lesser student. Its tail was wrapped neatly around its paws, and its gaze tracked every movement. Orion stopped. He looked at the cat. He knew the cat. The cat was Minerva McGonagall.

But the Orion Malfoy was not supposed to know that.

Orion’s eyes narrowed. A plan formed. A wicked, terrible, Slytherin plan.

He leaned in close to Tracey Davis and Pansy Parkinson, pitching his voice just loud enough to carry across the quiet room—loud enough for a cat with sensitive hearing to pick up.

”You know,” Orion said, his tone dripping with casual intrigue, ”I heard the Weasley twins shouting about this at lunch. They were taking bets.”

”The Weasleys?” Pansy wrinkled her nose. ”Why were you listening to those blood-traitors?”

”Hard to ignore them when they’re shouting about ’Professor McGonagall’s Secret’,” Orion shrugged, glancing pointedly at the cat.

The cat’s ears swiveled. Minerva McGonagall, currently in feline form, stiffened. What were those boys saying now? she wondered. If they are spreading rumors about my class...

”Apparently,” Orion continued, walking slowly toward the desk, keeping his body language non-threatening but his voice clear, ”this isn’t a normal cat. Fred Weasley claimed it’s a ’Grimalkin of Good Fortune’. He said the Professor leaves it here to test the students.”

The cat’s eyes narrowed. Grimalkin? What nonsense is this?

”Test us?” Tracey asked, following Orion curiously. ”How?”

”Bravery,” Orion lied smoothly. ”They said the cat can smell fear. If you approach it and it doesn’t hiss, it means you have a strong magical core. But the trick... the trick to getting on McGonagall’s good side early...”

He paused. The Ravenclaws in the front row—Terry Boot and Padma Patil—had stopped setting up their quills and were now listening intently. Even the cat seemed to be leaning forward slightly, waiting to hear the punchline of the Weasleys’ alleged prank.

”The trick,” Orion whispered, now standing directly in front of the desk, ”is to scratch it right behind the left ear. The Weasleys said if you do that, the cat marks you with a scent that makes the Professor give you better grades. It’s some sort of old Transfiguration blessing.”

The cat was paralyzed. McGonagall was processing the sheer absurdity of the lie. Blessing? Better grades? The Weasley twins had gone too far this time. She was so busy mentally drafting a detention slip for Fred and George that she missed the moment Orion moved.

”Let’s test the theory,” Orion murmured.

He didn’t hesitate at all. He moved with the sudden, confident speed of a boy snatching a Snitch.

His hand made contact.

He scratched. Right behind the left ear. Firmly.

McGonagall froze. It was the shock. The absolute shock that a student would dare touch her without permission. She was a Professor! She was the Deputy Headmistress!

But she was also a cat. And biologically, the spot behind the left ear was incredibly itchy.

For one traitorous second, her eyes half-closed and her head leaned into his hand before her human mind screamed in outrage. But that second was all Orion needed.

”See?” Orion announced to the room, pulling his hand back before she could swipe at him. ”She loves it! Look at that purr! I feel smarter already.”

”It works!” Padma Patil gasped, her Ravenclaw curiosity overriding her survival instincts. ”I want to try!”

”Me too!” Terry Boot scrambled up.

The dam broke. The Ravenclaws, driven by the desire for good grades, and the Slytherins, driven by the desire to not be outdone, crowded the desk.

”Here kitty, kitty!”

”Let me get the blessing!”

”Soft kitty!”

Minerva McGonagall stared at the wall of reaching hands. She realized, with a jolt of horror, that she was trapped. If she transformed now, she would explode out of a cat form directly into a group of eleven-year-olds, likely traumatizing them for life. If she stayed, she was going to be petted by the entire First Year cohort.

There was only one tactical option. Retreat.

With a yowl that sounded suspiciously like a human shout of frustration, the tabby cat leaped from the desk, narrowly avoiding Pansy’s manicured nails. She scrambled over Terry Boot’s shoulder, hissed at a boy reaching for her tail, and bolted out the open door into the corridor, claws scrabbling on the stone.

”Aw,” Tracey pouted. ”You scared her off, Orion.”

”She probably went to recharge her luck,” Orion said solemnly, patting Tracey’s head. ”Don’t worry. I’m sure the blessing counts for everyone who had the intent to pet her.”

The class settled into their seats, buzzing with disappointment about the fleeing ”Grimalkin.”

Two minutes later, the door swung open.

Professor McGonagall swept into the room. She was human again. Her robes were perfectly straightened, but her hair was slightly askew on the left side, and her face was flushed with a very distinct shade of pink. She looked flustered, indignant, and keenly aware that she couldn’t punish anyone without admitting she had been running away from children like a frightened stray.

She marched to the front of the room. She stopped at her desk. She glared at the class.

Her eyes locked onto Orion.

Orion offered her a polite, innocent smile. ”Good afternoon, Professor. We were just admiring the cat that was here. I believe the Weasley twins mentioned it was a special... teaching aid?”

McGonagall’s nostrils flared. She was going to deal with those Weasley twins, alright. Detentions for the next five years, until they graduate.

”Indeed,” she said, her voice tight and clipped. ”Mr. Weasley and Mr. Weasley often have... colorful imaginations. I would advise the class to refrain from listening to rumors. And to refrain from... molesting the wildlife in the future.”

She took a deep breath, composing herself.

”Transfiguration,” she began, her voice returning to its usual stern cadence, ”is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts. Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned.”

She tapped the desk with her wand, turning it into a pig and back again. The class gasped.

”Now, I will explain the basics of converting materials,” she said. ”specifically using the conversion of matches into needles.”

As she moved through the rows handing out matches, Orion felt that familiar resonance.

DING.

He kept his face neutral, staring at the match in front of him, but summoned the interface in his mind’s eye.

[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! ]

”You are terrible,” Sparkle’s voice was crying with laughter. ”You weaponized her own dignity against her. She literally couldn’t transform without causing a scandal. Tactical genius.”

Tier: 1 (Basic)

Name: Who’s a Good Professor?

Description: You successfully outmaneuvered a Transfiguration Master by leveraging the curiosity of Ravenclaws and the gullibility of Slytherins. You tricked the Deputy Headmistress into fleeing her own classroom to escape unauthorized cuddles. You have established dominance in the strangest way possible.

Reward: 1x Box of ”Feline Fancies” (Consumable).

”Feline Fancies?” Orion questioned internally.

”Eat one, and you get cat ears for an hour,” Sparkle explained. ”Different colors. They twitch based on your mood. Useless, but adorable.”

”I’ll give them to Pansy,” Orion decided. ”She’ll love them.”

”Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts. She was standing right in front of his desk. ”I see you are staring at your match. Are you expecting it to transform out of fear?”

”Visualizing the change, Professor,” Orion lied smoothly. ”Silver. Sharp. Metal.”

He raised his Hawthorn wand.

”Flintifors,” he whispered.

He pushed his magic into the match. He didn’t just want it to look like a needle; he wanted the molecular structure to shift. Wood to metal. Sulfur to eye.

The match shimmered. In the blink of an eye, the wooden stick vanished, replaced by a gleaming, silver sewing needle. It was perfectly tapered, sharp enough to draw blood.

McGonagall picked it up. She inspected it closely. Her eyebrows rose.

”Perfect,” she announced, sounding grudgingly impressed. ”Texture, point, and even the eye is fully formed. Five points to Slytherin, Mr. Malfoy.”

She looked at him over her spectacles. ”Though perhaps less time listening to Weasley rumors and more time studying would yield even better results.”

”I shall endeavor to filter my sources, Professor,” Orion inclined his head.

Beside him, Draco was poking his match, which had turned silver but was still unmistakably made of wood.

”It’s pointy,” Draco argued to the match. ”Change, you stupid stick.”

Orion leaned over. ”Visualize the cold, Draco. Metal is cold. Wood is warm. Push the cold into it.”

Draco frowned, closed his eyes, and tried again. The match sharpened.

”Better,” Orion nodded.

As the class ended and they filed out, Orion felt a gaze boring into the back of his head. He glanced back to see McGonagall watching him, rubbing the spot behind her left ear absently.

He smirked and walked out into the corridor.

”That,” Orion told Draco, ”was a productive afternoon.”

”I hate needles,” Draco grumbled. ”And I never saw the cat come back.”

”Maybe she’s shy,” Orion laughed. ”Maybe she’s plotting revenge.”

”She’s definitely plotting revenge,” Sparkle noted. ”Watch your back, kitty-boy.”