Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

March blew into Hogwarts with gale-force winds that shrieked around the castle turrets, bringing a chaotic, restless energy to the student body. For Orion Malfoy, however, the month was defined by a conspicuous silence.

Specifically, a digital silence.

”It’s been weeks,” Sparkle complained one blustery Tuesday afternoon, her blue interface hovering near the ceiling of the Slytherin common room, projecting a slow-spinning hourglass. ”Not a single achievement. Not even a Tier 1 for tying your shoelaces exceptionally well. I’m running on low-power mode here, Orion.”

”Patience, Sparkle,” Orion replied silently, turning a page of his Arithmancy text. ”We are in the build-up phase. The calm before the storm. You don’t get achievements for sitting in a trench; you get them for going over the top. We are preparing for a major event. A little layoff from the daily dopamine hits is an acceptable trade-off.”

It wasn’t as if nothing was happening in Hogwarts. It was just that the drama was localized entirely outside of Orion’s immediate sphere of influence. He had effectively created a localized reality distortion field simply by minding his own business and letting the consequences of his earlier actions ripple outward.

And nowhere were those ripples more visible than at the Gryffindor table.

Orion could literally sit at his spot in the Great Hall and watch the slow, agonizing decline of the lions. Without the adrenaline shot of having the ”Youngest Seeker in a Century” to rally behind, and without the unifying threat of a cohesive Slytherin bullying campaign (since Orion kept Draco largely in check), Gryffindor House was devouring itself.

The House points hourglasses told the story in stark, undeniable rubies and emeralds.

The Weasley twins were still operating, of course. Fred and George were fundamentally incapable of going entirely dormant. There had been an incident involving bouncing teacups in the Great Hall, and another where the suits of armor randomly sang bawdy sea shanties. But their frequency had dropped drastically. Earning two months of hard labor with Argus Filch over the ”McGonagall Cat” incident had tempered their enthusiasm, and Orion knew they were still obsessively burning their free time hunting for the mysterious ”Twilight” who had stolen their map.

Then there was Harry Potter.

To the rest of the school, the Boy Who Lived was rapidly becoming the Boy Who Just Sat There. He was a thoroughly average first-year student. He struggled in Potions under Snape’s relentless glare, he managed adequately in Charms, and his flying skills were completely unutilized since first-years were banned from the house teams. Orion would occasionally catch Harry and Ron eyeing him suspiciously across the Great Hall, but without any direct confrontation, their interest was waning, replaced by the sheer fatigue of academic life.

But the true crown jewel of Gryffindor’s misery was their Quidditch team.

”Did you hear?” Pansy Parkinson gossiped gleefully over lunch one afternoon. ”Oliver Wood and Cormac McLaggen actually had a fistfight behind the locker rooms yesterday.”

”A fistfight?” Daphne Greengrass raised an elegant eyebrow. ”How plebeian. Over what?”

”McLaggen missed the Snitch during a scrimmage because he was too busy yelling at the Beaters,” Blaise Zabini supplied, buttering a roll. ”Wood told him he was the worst Seeker Gryffindor had fielded in a decade. McLaggen threw a punch. I hear Wood gave him a black eye before Angelina Johnson separated them.”

”They play Hufflepuff next week,” Orion noted, taking a sip of tea. ”A team with low morale, a fractured leadership structure, and a Seeker with compromised depth perception. Hufflepuff will route them.”

Slytherin, by contrast, was a well-oiled machine. Terence Higgs was still a nervous, sweaty wreck outside of hours, but Marcus Flint had quite literally backed the boy into a corner and threatened him with physical dismemberment if he cost them the Cup. Sufficiently cowed by the immediate threat of his Captain, Higgs was managing to catch Snitches through sheer, panicked adrenaline.

The three-hundred-point gap Orion had engineered was holding steady. Professor McGonagall was visibly stressed, trying her best to award points to her house whenever possible. Hermione Granger had seemingly taken this as a personal crusade. She was a one-woman point-gathering militia, her hand shooting into the air so fast in classes that Orion half-expected her shoulder to dislocate.

But for every ten points Hermione earned with a brilliant Transfiguration essay, Snape would deduct fifteen from Ron Weasley for breathing too loudly, or Savage would deduct five from Neville Longbottom for accidentally setting his desk on fire. It was an unwinnable war of attrition.

The Gryffindor situation was delicate, fragile, and absolutely hilarious to the Slytherins.

It was a quiet Thursday evening. Orion was lounging on his bed in the dormitory, the heavy green curtains pulled back just enough to let the light from the rippling lake filter in.

He had the Marauder’s Map spread across his lap, shielded from view by the raised covers of a thick history tome.

”I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Orion whispered, tapping the parchment.

The ink spread outward. Orion systematically checked his points of interest.

Albus Dumbledore - In his office, probably making his next year plans and backup plans already.

Severus Snape - In the dungeons, likely grading.

Terence Higgs - In the common room. Stationary.

”Nothing,” Orion muttered. ”Everyone is exactly where they should be.”

SLAM.

The heavy oak door of the dormitory burst open.

Orion didn’t jump. With a practiced, lightning-fast flick of his wrist, he tapped the parchment. ”Mischief managed.” The ink vanished instantly, reverting to a blank sheet of old paper just as he slid it under the history book.

Draco Malfoy practically threw himself into the room. He didn’t just walk; he vibrated. He slammed the door shut behind him and leaned against it, his chest heaving, his pale face flushed a brilliant shade of pink.

”Orion,” Draco gasped, his grey eyes wide and manic.

”Draco,” Orion replied calmly, marking his page and closing the book. ”You look as though you’ve run a marathon. Or successfully dodged a Bludger. What is it?”

Draco pushed off the door and rushed over to Orion’s bed, flopping down onto the mattress. He leaned in close, his voice dropping to an excited, conspiratorial whisper.

”I’ve got it,” Draco hissed, grinning so hard it looked like his face might split. ”I’ve got the biggest piece of information in the entire castle.”

Orion raised an eyebrow, mildly amused by his brother’s dramatics. ”Did you discover that Professor Binns is actually a projection? Or that Filch is secretly a tap dancer?”

”Better,” Draco crowed. ”I was coming back from the library and I saw Potter, Weasley, and Granger sneaking out of the castle. Heading toward the grounds. It’s still freezing out there! So, I followed them.”

Orion’s internal radar pinged. The Trio. Sneaking out. Toward the grounds. Hardly surprising there.

”I tracked them to that oaf’s hut,” Draco continued, practically bouncing on the mattress. ”Hagrid. They knocked, and he let them in, but he looked incredibly paranoid. He checked the perimeter before closing the door. So, naturally, I crept up to the window.”

”Naturally,” Orion murmured. ”Eavesdropping in the snow. Very dignified.”

”Shut up and listen!” Draco swatted at Orion’s arm. ”The curtains were drawn, but there was a gap. I looked inside. The fire in the grate was roaring—way too hot for a wooden hut. And sitting right in the middle of the fire... was a massive, black egg.”

Orion stilled.

”An egg,” Orion repeated softly.

”An egg!” Draco confirmed excitedly. ”Potter and Weasley were hovering over it like mother hens. And Granger was reading from a book—I recognized the cover! It was Dragons and their Behavior Patternst! I saw it in the library last month, when I was searching for Owl books!”

Draco grabbed Orion’s shoulder, shaking him slightly. ”It’s a dragon egg, Orion! That idiot Groundskeeper is trying to hatch a live dragon inside a wooden shack!”

The implications cascaded through Orion’s mind like falling dominoes.

Quirrell was dead. The original timeline had dictated that Quirrell gave Hagrid the egg in exchange for information on how to get past Fluffy. Without Quirrell, Orion had wondered if the dragon subplot would simply vanish.

But it hadn’t.

”Voldemort,” Sparkle’s voice echoed in his head, sharp and clinical. ”He still needed the intel on the dog. He just used a different proxy to deliver the egg to Hagrid at the Hog’s Head pub.”

”The plot is self-correcting,” Orion realized with a cold thrill. The actors had changed, but the script demanded a dragon. It meant Voldemort was actively moving. He had the information now. The endgame was approaching.

”Isn’t it brilliant?” Draco was saying, misinterpreting Orion’s silent intensity for shock. ”It’s highly illegal! Breeding dragons carries a massive sentence in Azkaban!”

”And what,” Orion asked slowly, fixing Draco with a piercing stare, ”do you intend to do with this information, brother?”

Draco’s grin turned vicious. ”I’m going to ruin them. All of them. Potter, the Weasel, the Mudblood, and that giant oaf.”

”By running to McGonagall right now?” Orion inquired.

”No!” Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes as if Orion were the idiot. ”If I tell them now, Hagrid just says he found a weird rock in the forest. Plausible deniability. No, I am going to wait.”

Draco leaned back, steepling his fingers in a surprisingly good imitation of their father.

”I am going to keep an eye on them. I’m going to wait until that beast hatches. And the moment it breaks out of its shell—the moment it breathes fire and proves exactly what it is—then I catch them red-handed. I’ll get a teacher. We’ll burst in. Hagrid gets sacked, and the Golden Trio gets expelled for harboring a Class XXXXX magical creature!”

Draco let out a harsh, triumphant laugh. ”It’s perfect! Slytherin wins the Cup, and Potter is sent packing back to the Muggles before his second year even starts!”

Orion looked at his twin. The plan was petty, spiteful, and completely in character for an eleven-year-old Draco Malfoy. In the original timeline, Draco’s interference had led to the midnight tower rendezvous, the detention in the Forbidden Forest, and Harry’s first encounter with the wraith of Voldemort. Which actually might not come true since Voldemort was not at Hogwarts to begin with.

”It is... a delightfully wicked plan, Draco,” Orion said smoothly, masking his rapidly calculating mind with a proud smile.

”Right?” Draco beamed, standing up. ”I have to tell Crabbe and Goyle! Wait, no, they might blab. I’ll just keep watch myself. You have to help me, Orion! We can take turns spying on the hut!”

”I will certainly keep my eyes open,” Orion promised, placing a hand over the hidden Marauder’s Map.

Draco strutted over to his own bed, humming a cheerful tune, entirely oblivious to the monumental gears he had just set into motion.

Orion lay back against his pillows.

”Sparkle,” Orion whispered into the dim light of the canopy.

”I’m here.”

”Cancel the standby mode,” Orion ordered, a sharp, predatory smile curving his lips. ”The dragon is in play. We need a plan to take advantage of this.”