Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The path from the castle doors to the Hogsmeade station was a ribbon of slush and ice, winding through the snow-covered grounds. Orion adjusted his scarf, the biting wind whipping at his face as he walked alongside Draco, who was complaining loudly about the cold seeping through his boots.

A line of carriages waited for them at the gates. To the average student, they appeared to be swaying gently in the wind, empty shafts hanging in the air, waiting to be pulled by invisible magic.

”I love these,” Draco chattered, his breath puffing out in white clouds. ”Self-propelling charms are fascinating. Father says they use a variant of the Locomotor spell, but keyed to the destination.”

Orion stopped.

He didn’t see empty shafts.

Standing between the shafts of the nearest carriage was a creature that looked like it had been sculpted from midnight and nightmares. It was a skeletal, winged horse, its skin clinging so tightly to its frame that every bone was visible. It had leathery wings folded against its flanks like a giant bat, and its eyes were white, pupil-less orbs that stared unseeingly into the void.

A Thestral.

Orion stared at the beast. It let out a huff, a plume of steam escaping its nostrils, and stamped a hoof on the frozen ground. It turned its reptilian head and looked directly at him.

For a moment, the world seemed to tilt.

”You see them, don’t you?” Sparkle whispered, her voice unusually soft.

”Yes,” Orion murmured, his gaze locked with the skeletal creature. ”I thought... I thought you had to witness death to see them.”

”You did,” Sparkle reminded him gently. ”You witnessed your own. You remember dying, Orion. You remember the end of your last life. The transition. The void. You are a soul that has walked through the door and come back. Of course you see the carriage drivers.”

Orion felt a strange chill that had nothing to do with the winter wind. It was a stark, physical reminder of his anomaly. He wasn’t just a prodigy; he was a ghost in a new body.

”Orion?” Draco called out, already climbing into the carriage. ”What are you staring at?”

Orion blinked, breaking eye contact with the beast. He forced a smile onto his face, burying the unease deep down.

”Nothing, Draco,” Orion said, stepping up and patting the invisible-to-Draco flank of the Thestral as he passed. The creature’s skin felt cold and leathery. ”Just admiring the... weather.”

He climbed into the carriage, the door shutting out the sight of death’s horses, but the image remained burned into his mind. He was different. And the world knew it.

The journey back to London was a study in contrasts. Outside the frosted windows of the Hogwarts Express, the world was a blur of aggressive white snow and grey skies. Inside the compartment, however, it was a warm, sugar-fueled sanctuary of Slytherin indulgence.

Orion sat near the window, watching the snowy landscape rush by, a half-eaten Chocolate Frog in one hand. Opposite him, Draco was holding court, gesturing wildly with a Licorice Wand as he recounted a Quidditch maneuver that he definitely hadn’t performed but certainly wished he had.

”...and then I would have pulled the downward dive,” Draco declared, spraying a few crumbs. ”Potter wouldn’t have known what hit him. He’d be pulling splinters out of his teeth!”

”Amazing, Draco,” Pansy sighed, resting her chin on her hands, gazing at him as if he were a war hero rather than a boy with a sugar rush.

Millicent Bulstrode was making polite small talk with Tracey Davis about the merits of winter cloaks, while Crabbe and Goyle were communicating entirely in grunts as they demolished a pile of Cauldron Cakes that Orion had bought from the trolley witch just to keep them quiet.

It was peaceful. It was banal. It was exactly the kind of low-stakes environment Orion needed after a term of troll-slaying and map-stealing.

SLAM.

The compartment door slid open with a violence that made Goyle drop his cake.

Orion didn’t jump. He slowly turned his head.

Standing in the doorway, chest heaving slightly as if she had run the length of the train, was Hermione Granger. Her bushy hair was even wilder than usual, likely due to the static in the air. She looked frantic.

She scanned the compartment, her eyes darting over Draco (who sneered), Crabbe (who grunted), and Pansy (who looked ready to hex her).

Then, her gaze landed on Orion.

She froze. Her eyes widened, a flicker of genuine shock crossing her face. She opened her mouth, her hand raising slightly as if to point or ask a question. She looked like she had just solved a puzzle only to find the last piece didn’t fit.

”Granger?” Draco spat. ”Do you mind? We’re eating.”

Hermione didn’t look at Draco. She kept her eyes locked on Orion for another second, a thousand questions burning in her gaze. Then, as quickly as she had arrived, her resolve crumbled. She clamped her mouth shut, shook her head as if clearing a fog, and backed out.

Click. She slid the door shut, vanishing into the corridor.

The silence in the compartment lingered for a moment.

”Weirdo,” Pansy muttered, reaching for another sweet. ”What was that about?”

”Probably looking for her toad-faced friend,” Draco dismissed, taking a bite of his licorice. ”Or maybe she wanted to ask Orion for an autograph since he’s so ’helpful’ to Gryffindors.”

Orion turned back to the window, watching the snow.

”That was suspicious,” Sparkle noted. ”She looked like she saw a ghost. Or a glitch.”

”She probably expected me to stay at Hogwarts,” Orion mused internally. ”Potter and Weasley are staying for this Christmas. She might have assumed I was plotting something at the castle while the school was empty. Seeing me on the train... it breaks her theory.”

”Or she just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas and panicked because you look intimidating,” Sparkle suggested.

”Let’s go with the intimidation theory,” Orion decided. ”It’s better for my brand.”

King’s Cross Station was a chaotic mess of steam, parents, and owls. The barrier between Platform 9 ¾ and the Muggle world was working overtime as students flooded out.

Orion stepped onto the platform, his shrunken trunk safely in his pocket. He spotted them immediately.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stood apart from the rabble, an island of pristine black wool and silver fur in a sea of chaotic colors. Lucius held his cane like a scepter; Narcissa looked elegant and relieved.

”Mother! Father!” Draco called out, forgetting his ’cool’ persona for a second to hurry toward them.

”Draco,” Narcissa smiled, opening her arms for a brief, dignified embrace. ”Orion.”

”Mother,” Orion nodded, accepting a lighter hug. ”You look well.”

”And you look tired,” she noted, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. ”The castle air is dry.”

”Lucius!” a booming voice interrupted.

Lord Parkinson, a heavy-set man with a red face, strode over, shaking Lucius’s hand. ”Good to see you. The boys home for the holidays?”

”Indeed,” Lucius smiled, the politician mask slipping seamlessly into place. ”We must catch up, Parkinson. Perhaps at the Gala?”

”Wouldn’t miss it,” Parkinson grinned. ”Pansy has been talking about nothing but young Draco’s flying.”

”Excellent,” Lucius preened. He nodded to the Greengrasses passing by. ”Cyrus. Lovely to see you. Until the Ball.”

”The Yule Ball,” Orion whispered to Draco. ”The annual Gala. I forgot about the social obligations.”

”It’s going to be grand,” Draco whispered back. ”The Minister will also be there probably.”

”Joy,” Orion deadpanned.

They used the private Floo connection in the VIP lounge of the station. In a swirl of green flames, they were whisked from the grime of London directly to the polished marble receiving room of Malfoy Manor.

The transition was jarring. One moment, steam and noise; the next, the silence of centuries and the smell of beeswax and sandalwood.

Lucius stepped out of the grate, dusting a non-existent speck of ash from his shoulder. He turned to his sons, his expression serious.

”Welcome home,” Lucius said. ”I trust the journey was... educational.”

”It was long,” Draco complained, flopping onto a chaise lounge. ”But we’re back!”

”Indeed,” Lucius walked to the center of the room, leaning on his cane. ”I have received your letters, Draco. And the reports from Severus. I must say... I am pleased.”

He looked at Orion.

”Top of the class in Charms and Potions. Commendations from Flitwick. Ignoring that business with the... trolls.”

Lucius began to pace.

”It proves that the Malfoy name still commands respect. We are not merely participants in this society; we are architects. It is vital, boys, that you remember this during the holiday. The Gala is not just a party; it is a statement. We must show the Sacred Twenty-Eight that despite the... current political climate... the House of Malfoy remains unblemished. We must project power. We must project—”

Orion felt his soul trying to leave his body. The Lecture. The ’We Are Malfoys’ speech. He had heard it a thousand times. It was usually followed by a twenty-minute monologue on the inferiority of Muggles and the importance of posture.

”Father,” Orion interrupted, stepping forward briskly.

Lucius paused mid-gesture. ”Orion?”

”As much as I wish to discuss the geopolitical ramifications of our social standing,” Orion said, speaking fast and with absolute conviction, ”I have just spent six hours on a train surrounded by teenagers eating sugar. I feel... inefficient.”

He checked his Astrum Navigator watch.

”A Malfoy should never waste precious time, Father. You taught me that. Stagnation is the enemy of progress. I must unpack. I must organize my holiday reading. I must... sanitize my robes.”

Lucius blinked. The appeal to efficiency and cleanliness was... well, it was very Malfoy.

”Well,” Lucius stammered slightly. ”Yes. Organization is... paramount.”

”I knew you’d understand,” Orion nodded sharply. ”I shall report for dinner. Until then—efficiency!”

He spun on his heel and bolted.

He marched out of the receiving room, across the hall, and up the grand staircase before Lucius could restart his sentence.

”Orion, wait—” Draco called.

”See you later, Draco!” Orion shouted back without stopping. ”Endure the lecture for the both of us!”

Orion reached his bedroom—the second-largest in the East Wing. He threw the door open and stepped inside.

It was exactly as he had left it. The high ceiling with the painted cherubs (the fat one still chasing the butterfly). The massive four-poster bed. The silence.

”Oh, thank god,” Orion groaned, closing the door and leaning against it.

He walked over to the bed and collapsed face-first onto the silk duvet. It smelled of lavender and home.

”He talks so much,” Orion muffled into the pillow. ”How does he breathe? Does he have a second set of lungs just for monologuing?”

He rolled over, staring at the ceiling.

”This must be why Draco is so insufferable,” Orion mused aloud. ”He’s been conditioned. It’s Pavlovian. Lucius starts speaking, and Draco’s brain just shuts down and accepts the programming. ’Yes, Father. Pureblood, Father. Prestige, Father.’”

”You escaped pretty cleanly, though,” Sparkle’s interface appeared above him, looking like a festive snowflake. ”The ’Efficiency’ card. Well played.”

”It’s his weakness,” Orion yawned. ”He can’t argue with his own rhetoric.”

He felt the exhaustion of the term catching up to him. The adrenaline of the schemes, the pranks, and the constant vigilance required at Hogwarts was fading, replaced by the heavy, comfortable gravity of home.

”I need a nap,” Orion decided, kicking off his boots. ”A real nap. In a bed that isn’t under a lake.”

He gestured vaguely at the blue screen.

”Sparkle, set an alarm for dinner. If I’m late, Lucius will come up here and lecture me about punctuality, and I might actually jump off the balcony.”

”Alarm set. 7:00 PM. Enjoy your beauty sleep, Sleeping Beauty.”

”Shut up, Sparkle.”

Orion closed his eyes. The room was quiet. The cherubs watched silently. And for the first time in months, Orion Malfoy slept without a plan.