Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The social fallout of the ”Norbert the Rooster” incident was nothing short of catastrophic for the Gryffindor Golden Trio.

Within twenty-four hours, the news had permeated every stone of the castle: Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and Hermione Granger had lost their House one hundred and fifty points in a single night. In the hyper-competitive ecosystem of Hogwarts, where the House Cup was treated with the reverence of a holy grail, committing such an act was tantamount to treason.

The Gryffindor hourglass, which had been struggling but surviving on Granger’s frantic hand-raising and Wood’s Quidditch points, was decimated. The rubies evaporated, leaving a depressing void at the bottom of the glass. They were firmly in last place, mathematically eliminated from the running.

Orion sat at the Slytherin table, casually sipping his morning tea, and watched the ecosystem adapt to the new reality.

The Gryffindor table resembled a funeral procession. The usual raucous laughter was gone. The older students—the prefects, the Quidditch team, the seventh years—had enacted a swift, brutal, and silent excommunication.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were relegated to the far end of the long table, a localized quarantine zone of misery. The only person brave—or perhaps awkward—enough to sit within ten feet of them was Neville Longbottom, who simply chewed his toast while looking like he wanted to apologize for existing.

”It’s beautiful,” Draco murmured, his grey eyes glittering with vindictive pleasure as he spread marmalade on his scone. ”Look at them. Even the Weasley twins won’t sit with them. They are pariahs.”

”They brought it upon themselves, Draco,” Pansy Parkinson chimed in, tossing her dark hair. ”Harboring illegal livestock? Trying to cover for that oaf Hagrid? They’re lucky they weren’t expelled.”

Draco’s smile wavered slightly at the mention of the ”livestock.” He was still suffering from a mild existential crisis regarding his own eyesight. He knew he had seen a dragon egg. He knew the book Hermione was reading was about dragons. Yet, reality had produced a crowing rooster. The cognitive dissonance was eating at him, but his involvement in their downfall was a comforting balm.

”I still say it was a dragon,” Draco muttered, more to himself than anyone else. ”A transfigured dragon. Or... or a very ugly chicken.”

”Let it go, Draco,” Orion said smoothly, buttering his own toast. ”The result is what matters. Gryffindor is ruined. Slytherin’s lead is insurmountable.”

Orion hid a smile behind his teacup. He had spent the last three days occasionally replaying the memory of the rooster crowing in Snape’s face. Every time he recalled the sheer, unadulterated shock on Draco’s, Snape’s, and Hagrid’s faces, a warm glow of satisfaction settled in his chest. It was his masterpiece.

The Trio’s punishment was also a source of quiet amusement. In the original timeline, their midnight wandering would have earned them a terrifying detention in the Forbidden Forest, hunting a unicorn-killer alongside Hagrid.

But Voldemort wasn’t in the forest. He wasn’t drinking unicorn blood to sustain Quirrell’s failing body. He was comfortably (or uncomfortably) possessing Lord Higgs miles away. With no dead unicorns to investigate, Professor McGonagall had defaulted to traditional discipline.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione were spending their evenings under the sadistic supervision of Argus Filch, scrubbing a century’s worth of grime from the Trophy Room without magic. According to the Slytherin grapevine, Ron had spent three hours polishing a plaque dedicated to Tom Riddle, which Orion found particularly poetic.

”They’ll be scrubbing until their fingers bleed,” Draco gloated, earning a venomous, red-eyed glare from Ron across the hall. Draco merely raised his goblet in a mock toast.

But while Draco reveled in petty victories, Orion knew the clock was ticking.

April arrived and was soon drawing to close as well, months going by quickly as the tension in the castle was shifting towards end-of-year exams.

Orion had doubled his training in the abandoned fourth-floor classroom. His Incendio was now a controlled, roaring blast capable of incinerating anything it touched. His Bombarda could shatter stone pillars with pinpoint accuracy. He had spent weeks mastering the precise wrist-flick of Expelliarmus and the rigid snap of Petrificus Totalus.

His Accio, while still slightly aggressive, no longer resulted in books turning into lethal projectiles. He had learned to atleast catch the summoned objects without breaking his fingers.

He was as ready as an eleven-year-old could possibly be to breach a fortress designed by the greatest wizards of the age, technically for students his age.

But the key to the entire operation was timing. He had to wait for Terence Higgs to make his move.

Orion utilized the Marauder’s Map almost nightly, tracking the older Slytherin’s erratic pacing. Higgs was unraveling. His Quidditch performance had completely tanked, his eyes were sunken, and he flinched whenever an owl delivered the mail. The breaking point was imminent.

But Orion also had another variable to manage: the Golden Trio.

Harry Potter’s protagonist instinct was a force of nature. Even without the dragon plot, without the broomstick heroics, and without Snape’s barbs, Orion knew the universe would somehow drag Potter toward the trapdoor.

”Dobby,” Orion had whispered into the dark of his dormitory a week prior.

CRACK.

”Master Orion calls?”

”I need you on surveillance, Dobby,” Orion instructed. ”The Gryffindor trio—Potter, Weasley, Granger. They are prone to finding themselves in life-threatening situations. For their own safety, I need to know their movements. If they decide to seek out a teacher to discuss the Philosopher’s Stone, or if they talk about going to the third-floor corridor... you tell me immediately.”

”Dobby will watch the good Harry Potter!” the elf promised, tears in his eyes at Orion’s apparent nobility. ”Dobby will keep them safe for Master Orion!”

And so, the trap was set. Orion waited.

It happened on a quiet, unremarkable Sunday afternoon in early May.

The weather outside was unusually warm, prompting most of the school to lounge near the lake, enjoying the weak Scottish sun. Orion was sitting on his bed, the curtains drawn, meticulously cleaning the silver-wood peacock handle of his wand.

CRACK.

Orion didn’t flinch. He looked up as Dobby appeared, wringing his tea towel, his large eyes wide with frantic urgency.

”Master Orion!” Dobby squeaked, his voice pitching high enough to shatter glass. ”Dobby brings news! Terrible news!”

”Report, Dobby,” Orion said, setting his cleaning cloth aside and giving the elf his full attention.

”The Trio! They went to the stern cat-Professor! Professor McGonagall!” Dobby babbled, hopping from foot to foot. ”Dobby listened from behind the armor!”

Orion’s eyes narrowed. ”They went to McGonagall? What did they say?”

”They said the Stone is in danger! The special Stone!” Dobby cried. ”They told the Professor that someone is going to steal it tonight! They said they had to talk to Headmaster Dumbledore!”

Orion nodded slowly. The timeline had snapped back into place. ”And what did Professor McGonagall say?”

”She was very cross!” Dobby recounted. ”She asked how they knew about the Stone. Then she told them the Headmaster is gone! He received an urgent owl from the Ministry of Magic and left ten minutes ago!”

Orion felt a surge of cold adrenaline. Dumbledore is gone. A fake Ministry summons. Voldemort has cleared the board rather quickly.

This was it. Tonight was the night. Higgs would move, and Orion would follow.

”Good work, Dobby,” Orion said, standing up and moving to his trunk. ”Did McGonagall reassure them?”

”Yes! She told them the Stone is perfectly safe and told them to go back to their dormitory and stay out of trouble!” Dobby nodded vigorously. ”But Master Orion... Dobby must tell you the worst part.”

Orion paused, his hand on the lid of his trunk. ”The worst part?”

”Yes,” Dobby swallowed hard, looking up at Orion with a mixture of confusion and fierce loyalty. ”When they told the Professor someone was going to steal the Stone... they didn’t say it was the scary Potions Master as you told.”

Orion frowned. In canon, the Trio suspected Snape. Snape’s limp from Fluffy, Snape’s general unpleasantness—it all pointed to him. But Snape hadn’t been limping this year. Snape had been the one to catch Orion and Flitwick. Snape had been thoroughly professional.

”Who did they name, Dobby?” Orion asked, a strange feeling settling in his stomach.

Dobby pointed a trembling finger at him.

”They named you, Master Orion. Harry Potter said Orion Malfoy is going to steal the Philosopher’s Stone.”

Silence.

Absolute, ringing silence filled the dormitory.

Orion stared at the house-elf. He blinked once. Twice.

”What?” Orion’s voice was completely flat.

”Whaaaat?” Sparkle’s voice erupted in his head, a digital shriek of sheer, uncontrollable laughter. ”Oh my god! You! You’re the villain!”

”How the hell am I the villain?” Orion demanded aloud, throwing his hands up in utter bewilderment. ”I am eleven years old! I am a First Year! I barely reach Snape’s ribcage!”

”Dobby does not know, Master!” Dobby wailed, tugging his ears. ”Dobby thinks they are crazy!”

”They are beyond crazy, they are structurally deficient in logic!” Orion paced the small space between the beds. ”Shouldn’t it be Snape? He’s the dark, brooding Potions Master who actually knows Dark Arts! I am a child! Do they think I want the Elixir of Life before I even hit puberty? I haven’t even gone through a growth spurt yet!”

”Let’s break down the Gryffindor math,” Sparkle giggled, her interface flashing with amusement. ”Carry the one, divide by bias... okay, here it is: One, you’re a Malfoy. Therefore, evil. Two, you fed the three-headed dog. You told Dumbledore you did it, and they did know about that thanks to Hagrid. You know how to bypass the first defense. Three, you used advanced, flashy magic (the fireworks) to defeat the troll, showing you have ’dark’ capabilities.”

”I used fireworks!” Orion argued. ”That’s not Dark Arts, that’s a party trick!”

”Four,” Sparkle continued mercilessly, ”you ’tricked’ them into getting caught with a rooster, resulting in their social execution. Sure it was Draco, but you were there too, and you were laughing clearly. You are a criminal mastermind in their eyes. You have the motive (being evil), the means (you know about the dog), and the opportunity. To Harry Potter, you are basically a miniature Voldemort.”

Orion stopped pacing. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a long, slow breath.

”The absolute arrogance of protagonist logic,” Orion muttered. ”They don’t have a scary, turban-wearing teacher to suspect. Snape has been perfectly normal. So they just default to the person who embarrassed them. They think I am the Dark Lord’s apprentice.”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh. It was absurd. It was insulting.

And it was incredibly convenient.

”If they think I’m the one stealing it,” Orion said, his eyes narrowing, ”then they are going to try and stop me.”

”They are planning something, Master Orion,” Dobby confirmed. ”The red-haired one said they have to go down the trapdoor tonight to stop you.”

”Of course they do,” Orion sighed. ”Because telling a teacher didn’t work, so three eleven-year-olds are going to navigate a lethal obstacle course to stop another eleven-year-old from achieving immortality. Makes perfect sense.”

He turned to the elf.

”Dobby. This changes the timetable. Dumbledore is gone. That means the real thief is moving tonight. The Trio is moving tonight. Which means I am moving tonight.”

”What can Dobby do?”

”Go back to Gryffindor Tower,” Orion ordered, his voice dropping into the cool, authoritative register of a general marshaling his troops. ”Stay hidden. The moment Potter, Weasley, and Granger leave their common room heading for the third floor... you pop back here and tell me. Understand? For their safety, we must know when they breach the corridor.”

”Dobby understands! Dobby will watch!”

With a crack, the elf was gone.

Orion turned to his trunk. He didn’t have much time. Terence Higgs was likely already preparing his own descent.

”Sparkle,” Orion said, opening the trunk and summoning his gear. ”Boot up combat protocols. It seems we aren’t just racing a possessed teenager tonight. We’re racing the Golden Trio as well.”

He strapped the dragon-hide holster to his right forearm, the Hawthorn wand sliding into place with a satisfying click. He reached into his inventory and pulled out the small, velvet-lined box Dobby had procured from Paris months ago. He opened it, verifying the contents: three vials of icy-blue Flame-Freezing Potion, glowing faintly in the dim light.

He slid the box into an inner pocket of his robes.

”I’m going to have to deal with Higgs,” Orion muttered, pulling on a sleek black cloak. ”And then, I am going to have to explain to Harry Potter that just because I don’t like him, doesn’t mean I want to conquer the world.”

”Achievement Pending: The Misunderstood Mastermind,” Sparkle chimed. ”Good luck, boss. Don’t let the dog bite you.”

Orion checked his Astrum Navigator. The stars were aligning. The castle was quiet.

”Let them come,” Orion whispered, stepping out of the dormitory into the shadows of the dungeon. ”I’ve been preparing for this all year.”