Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

While Orion Malfoy slept the deep, dreamless sleep of the victorious, the lights in the highest tower of Hogwarts burned bright.

The Headmaster’s office was quiet, though it was a silence filled with heavy thoughts. On the center of Albus Dumbledore’s desk, resting on a velvet cushion, lay the fake Philosopher’s Stone. It glinted dully in the candlelight—a ruby of exceptional quality, yet hollow of the alchemical magic it mimicked. It was a perfect metaphor for the night: a convincing surface hiding a deeper, more complex reality.

Professor McGonagall sat in her tartan armchair, looking older than her years. She had just returned from the Hospital Wing, where she had settled a frantic Harry Potter, a confused Ron Weasley, and a subdued Hermione Granger into beds.

The green flames of the fireplace roared, and Severus Snape stepped out, brushing soot from his immaculate robes. His face was unreadable, a mask of occluded calm.

”Severus,” Dumbledore greeted him softly. ”You have spoken with the family?”

”I have,” Snape replied, his voice clipped. ”I contacted Mrs. Higgs via the Floo network. It was... illuminating.”

He moved to the shadows near the window, away from the warmth of the fire.

”The Higgs Manor is under a total lockdown,” Snape reported. ”Anti-Apparition wards are up. Portkeys are blocked. The Floo is restricted to calls only, and by restricted, I mean heavily so. Mrs. Higgs was... strained. She claimed her husband was indisposed with a contagious malady and that she was overwhelmed with his care. She stated she would come to Hogwarts tomorrow to collect Terence personally.”

”No mention of Lord Higgs himself coming?” McGonagall asked sharply.

”None,” Snape shook his head. ”But I know fear when I hear it, Minerva. The woman was terrified. She was reciting a script.”

Dumbledore hummed, tapping his fingers against the desk. ”It confirms our suspicions. Tom has not fled. He has entrenched himself. He is holding the family hostage to force young Terence’s hand.”

”A coward’s tactic,” McGonagall spat. ”Sending a child to do a Dark Lord’s dirty work.”

”But effective,” Dumbledore noted grimly. ”It kept him hidden. Had Mr. Malfoy not intervened, we might not have known until the Stone was gone.”

The conversation shifted to the events in the chamber.

”The boy,” McGonagall said, shaking her head. ”Harry. He was... hysterical, Albus. He kept insisting that Orion stole the Stone from the mirror. He was adamant that Orion was the villain.”

”Trauma,” Snape sneered, though not unkindly. ”Potter has a hero complex. He sees enemies where he wants them. He cannot accept that a Malfoy—specifically that Malfoy—saved the day while he failed.”

”It is concerning,” Dumbledore agreed. ”Harry’s perception of reality seems... distorted by his rivalry. To attack a student who had just secured the objective... it speaks of a fragile state of mind.”

McGonagall stood up, smoothing her robes. ”I should return to the infirmary. If the Higgs parents arrive tomorrow, I want to be there. I also hope that Harry’s friends can shed some light on his current outlook.”

”Thank you, Minerva,” Dumbledore nodded.

Once the door clicked shut behind the Deputy Headmistress, Dumbledore turned his blue eyes toward his Potions Master. The twinkle was gone, replaced by a piercing, analytical gaze.

”Severus,” Dumbledore said quietly. ”I need you to be honest with me. Not as a teacher, and not as a godfather. But as a judge of character.”

Snape stiffened slightly.

”Orion Malfoy,” Dumbledore said the name carefully. ”Tonight, he displayed... remarkable capabilities. He navigated well designed traps, efficiently at that. He deduced a plot that eluded most of the staff. And he subdued an older student and the Boy Who Lived without a scratch.”

Dumbledore leaned forward.

”Tell me about him. Who is he, really?”

Snape was silent for a long moment. He stared into the fire, his black eyes reflecting the flames.

”He is an outlier,” Snape said finally. ”Draco is a Malfoy through and through—vain, loud, seeking validation, parroting Lucius’s rhetoric. He is predictable.”

Snape turned to face Dumbledore.

”Orion is different. Narcissa named him well. He has the Malfoy ambition, yes... but he has the Black madness. The Black brilliance.”

”Sirius,” Dumbledore murmured. ”Bellatrix.”

”He is not like them in temperament,” Snape corrected. ”He is not cruel like Bellatrix, nor reckless like Black. But he possesses their... intensity. Their disregard for norms.”

Snape walked to the desk, looking down at the fake stone.

”I have watched him for years, Albus. Since he was a child. He is a cipher. No one knows what goes on in that mind. He smiles, he charms, he plays the role of the dutiful son... but there is a cold, hard logic underneath it all.”

Snape’s lip curled in a ghost of a memory.

”When he was seven,” Snape recounted quietly, ”he had his first bout of significant accidental magic. Most children levitate a toy or break a vase. Orion... he blew out every window in the East Wing of the Manor. It was a shockwave of pure force.”

Dumbledore listened intently.

”Lucius was furious,” Snape continued. ”Narcissa was terrified. But Orion? He sat in the middle of the glass shards and laughed. Not a maniacal laugh... but a laugh of pure, unadulterated delight. He wasn’t scared of his power. He enjoyed the carnage. He enjoyed the result.”

Snape looked up.

”He is dangerous, Albus. Not because he is evil—I have seen no evidence of darkness in him. He protects his brother. He helps his housemates. He cares about his mother, even his father in some regards. But he is dangerous because he follows his own internal compass, and I do not believe that compass points North like ours does.”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, absorbing the assessment. ”He operates outside the expected parameters.”

”He operates,” Snape corrected, ”as if he is playing a game where only he knows the rules.”

”Thank you, Severus,” Dumbledore whispered. ”That is... most helpful.”

Snape bowed stiffly and swept out of the room, his cloak billowing behind him.

Dumbledore was left alone. The portraits of past Headmasters were snoozing in their frames. Fawkes the Phoenix was awake, preening his feathers on his perch.

”A game,” Dumbledore murmured to the bird. ”Yes. That feels apt.”

He picked up the fake stone. It was a good decoy. But tonight, it felt less like a trap for Voldemort and more like a prop in a play he hadn’t written.

”Orion Malfoy,” Dumbledore mused. ”Capable. Charismatic. Secretive. And Harry... paranoid. Jealous. Fragile.”

He stood up, moving to the window to look out at the dark grounds.

”I must speak with the boy,” Dumbledore decided. ”Before the term ends. I need to look him in the eye properly.”

Fawkes trilled a soft note of agreement.

”And Harry,” Dumbledore sighed, the weight of the prophecy pressing down on him. ”I have let him run wild too long, perhaps. He needs guidance. Or perhaps... he needs to heal.”

The Headmaster stood vigil over his school as the night waned, wondering if the pieces on his chessboard had started moving themselves.