Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The return to Hogwarts was a sensory embrace. Leaving the biting, icy winds of the Hogsmeade station for the stone warmth of the castle felt like stepping into a well-heated bath. The Great Hall was alive with the roar of reunited friends, the clatter of golden plates, and the comforting, omnipresent scent of roasting meat and woodsmoke.

Orion sat at his usual spot at the Slytherin table, feeling the tension of the holidays melt away. Here, in the structured chaos of the school, he was in control.

”Pass the potatoes,” Draco commanded, looking regal in his winter robes.

Orion nudged the bowl toward his brother, his gaze drifting lazily across the hall. It landed, inevitably, on the Gryffindor table.

Harry Potter and Ron Weasley were there. They weren’t eating. They were glaring. The intensity of their stare was almost impressive; if looks could hex, Orion would have sprouted antlers by now.

”They are still at it,” Orion noted, amused. ”You would think they’d get bored of scowling.”

Draco glanced over and sneered. ”Potter looks miserable. And Weasley looks like he’s lost his last Knut.”

”He looks distraught,” Orion agreed, observing the redhead’s slumped shoulders. ”I wonder... did something happen to that fat, shapeless rat of his? Scabbers? Maybe I stepped on it on the train and didn’t notice. It would explain the look of tragic loss.”

”We can only hope,” Pansy giggled from across the table. ”That thing was a health hazard.”

Orion smirked, turning back to his dinner. The ”rat”—Peter Pettigrew—was a variable he hadn’t touched yet. If the rat was missing or hiding, it was likely due to the proximity of a certain cat-loving Deputy Headmistress, or perhaps the rat sensed the shifting tides of the timeline. Either way, Gryffindor misery was a fine appetizer.

The routine of school reasserted itself with brutal efficiency. Potions, Transfiguration, Charms. The days blurred into weeks as January froze into February.

Orion kept his eyes open. He watched the staff. He watched the students. He waited for the sign of the parasite—someone stuttering, someone wearing a new turban, someone sporting the blank stare of the Imperius Curse.

But the castle remained stubbornly normal. No teachers were acting out of character (Snape was still mean, McGonagall still strict). No students were wandering into the Forbidden Forest in a trance.

Orion was beginning to wonder if Voldemort had simply decided to take a gap year, when the clue finally presented itself not in the shadows, but in the middle of the Slytherin Common Room.

It was a Tuesday evening. The dungeon was peaceful, students scattered around tables finishing homework.

Suddenly, a shout shattered the calm.

”You’re useless!”

Orion looked up from his book. Near the notice board, Marcus Flint, the burly Quidditch Captain, was towering over Terence Higgs, the Slytherin Seeker.

Flint was red in the face, veins bulging in his neck. Higgs, usually a calm and collected boy, looked pale, sweaty, and cornered.

”I saw you at practice!” Flint roared, shoving Higgs in the chest. ”You missed the Snitch three times! It was buzzing right by your ear, and you were staring at the clouds! What is wrong with you?”

”I... I was distracted,” Higgs stammered, his voice trembling. ” The sun... the wind...”

”The wind?” Flint scoffed. ”We play in storms, Higgs! We are Slytherins! If you can’t focus, get off the team! I have Malfoy here”—he gestured vaguely at Draco—”itching for your spot next year. Don’t think you’re irreplaceable!”

”I am trying!” Higgs shouted back, a flash of desperate anger cutting through his fear. ”Back off, Flint! You don’t know what—you don’t know anything!”

Flint growled and stepped forward, raising a fist.

Before he could swing, two older students—a sixth-year prefect and Adrian Pucey—grabbed Flint’s arms, hauling him back.

”Calm down, Marcus,” Pucey warned. ”Not in the common room. Snape will skin us.”

Higgs didn’t wait. He turned and bolted toward the boys’ dormitories, his face a mask of sheer misery.

The common room slowly returned to normal, though the whispers lingered.

”Drama,” Draco muttered, looking pleased. ”Higgs is cracking. Maybe I will get on the team early.”

Orion, however, wasn’t looking at Draco. He was looking at the corridor where Higgs had vanished.

”That wasn’t just bad form,” Daphne Greengrass murmured, leaning in from the adjacent armchair. Her blue eyes were sharp with gossip. ”Higgs has been a ghost since we got back.”

”A ghost?” Orion asked softly.

”His family,” Daphne lowered her voice further. ”My father tried to contact Lord Higgs about a trade agreement regarding potion ingredients. Total radio silence. The Floo is closed. Owls are returned unopened.”

She paused, checking to make sure no one else was listening.

”The only contact anyone has had was a brief note from his mother to the Minister, excusing them from the New Year’s Gala. She said Lord Higgs was ’gravely ill’ with a contagious spattergroit variant and they were under self-imposed quarantine.”

”Spattergroit,” Orion mused. ”Convenient. It explains the isolation. It explains the silence.”

”Exactly,” Daphne nodded. ”But Terence... he doesn’t look like someone worried about a sick father. He looks like someone who is waiting for an execution.”

”Let him worry,” Draco dismissed, flipping a page of his magazine. ”If he drops out, I’m Seeker. End of story.”

Orion stood up. ”I need a walk.”

He found a quiet alcove near the dungeon entrance. He leaned against the cold stone, closing his eyes to consult with his digital partner.

”Sparkle,” Orion thought. ”Analysis.”

”Subject: Terence Higgs,” Sparkle responded instantly. ”Symptoms: Extreme anxiety, distraction, defensive aggression. Notable lack of Imperius symptoms—no glazed eyes, no monotone voice. He’s scared, Orion. Terrified.”

”He isn’t possessed,” Orion deduced. ”If Voldemort were inhabiting his body, Higgs wouldn’t be missing Snitches; he would be catching them with wandless magic to maintain cover. And he wouldn’t be arguing with Flint; he would have cursed him silent.”

”So, not a host.”

”And not Mind-Controlled,” Orion continued. ”The Imperius Curse makes you calm. Blissful. Higgs is a nervous wreck.”

He thought about the ”sick” father. The closed manor. The isolation.

”It’s a hostage situation,” Orion realized, a cold clarity settling over him.

”Explain.”

”Voldemort is a wraith. He is weak. He needs a place to recover, a place to hide, and servants to do his bidding. Why possess a student and live in a dormitory with four other boys? It’s risky. It’s undignified.”

Orion opened his eyes, staring into the dark.

”But possess a Lord? A wealthy Pureblood with a secluded manor and a high standing? That is a base of operations. Voldemort is likely at the Higgs Manor. He has possessed the father—Lord Higgs. He is holding the mother hostage.”

”And Terence?”

”Terence is the mule,” Orion concluded grimly. ”He is being sent to school with instructions. ’Do exactly as I say, find out about the Stone, help me get inside... or Mommy dies’.”

”That’s dark,” Sparkle whispered. ”Well, to be expected from a Dark Lord, I suppose.”

”It’s tactical,” Orion corrected. ”It explains everything. Why Higgs is distracted—he’s worried about his parents. Why he hasn’t gone to Dumbledore—fear of retaliation against his family. He is the perfect, unwilling spy.”

Orion pushed off the wall. He wasn’t flying blind anymore. He had a target.

”The enemy isn’t inside the walls,” Orion whispered. ”He’s remote-controlling a student. Which means... if I want to stop him, I don’t need to fight Higgs.”

He smirked.

”I need to break the leverage.”

He walked back toward the common room. This was no longer about monsters anymore; it was about hostages. And Orion Malfoy had just found the loose thread he needed to pull.