Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

Halloween arrived at Hogwarts with a distinct lack of subtlety. The Great Hall was transformed into a masterpiece of macabre celebration; a thousand live bats fluttered from the walls and ceiling, while storm clouds made of enchanted grey mist swirled overhead. The air smelled strongly of roasting pumpkin, cinnamon, and the metallic tang of static magic.

To the average student, the atmosphere was thrilling. To Orion Malfoy, it was simply Tuesday.

He sat at the Slytherin table, systematically dismantling a slice of pumpkin pasty. Around him, the House was engaged in the usual festive banter. Draco was loudly predicting a Gryffindor Quidditch collapse, while Pansy and Millicent were debating the merits of various hexes for dealing with irritating Hufflepuffs.

Orion’s eyes, however, performed their customary sweep of the hall.

The Gryffindor table was boisterous, Fred and George currently attempting to juggle a plate of treacle tarts. But there was a noticeable gap near the center.

Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Hermione Granger were missing.

”Right,” Orion murmured, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. ”Nearly Headless Nick’s Deathday Party. A social event entirely devoid of edible food and warmth. How very... Gryffindor of them to attend.”

It was a minor detail, but it confirmed the timeline was holding. The trio was currently suffering through a buffet of rotten fish and maggoty haggis in the dungeons while the rest of the school enjoyed a feast. It also meant they were perfectly positioned to intercept the first real crisis of the year.

As dinner concluded, Dumbledore stood to dismiss the students. The hall erupted into a chaotic exodus of black robes heading toward the Grand Staircase.

The Slytherins moved in a pack, Draco swaggering near the front, flanked by his usual muscle. Orion brought up the rear, his hands loosely clasped behind his back, his mind already drifting toward the runic arrays waiting in his trunk.

They reached the first landing of the Grand Staircase. The stairs, which usually aligned to provide a direct route down to the dungeons after meals, were stubbornly fixed in place, connecting to a corridor leading upward.

Marcus Flint, leading the procession, let out a frustrated grunt.

”Stairs are locked,” Flint announced, crossing his thick arms. ”Probably some stupid prank by the ghosts for Halloween. We’ll have to take the detour through the second-floor passageway and cut down the spiraling backstairs.”

”I hate the second floor,” Pansy complained. ”It always smells like damp stone and old mops.”

”Just keep moving,” Flint commanded.

Orion fell into step behind Draco as the house diverted its path. The mystery of why Draco had been present at the scene of the crime in the original timeline was suddenly solved by architectural inconvenience.

”A moving staircase,” Orion thought dryly. ”The ultimate plot device for ensuring characters are in the wrong place at the exact wrong time.”

The Slytherin procession wound its way through the dimly lit corridors of the second floor. The chatter died down as they moved further from the Great Hall, the silence of the castle pressing in.

As they rounded a sharp corner, the procession ground to a sudden, chaotic halt.

Students bumped into one another. Flint threw an arm out to stop those behind him. The air grew instantly colder, and a sharp, metallic smell cut through the dampness of the stone.

”What’s going on?” Draco demanded, pushing his way past a group of third-years to get to the front.

Orion followed, slipping through the crowd with practiced ease.

They emerged into a wide, deserted corridor. At the far end, a single torch flickered ominously. But it wasn’t the lighting that had stopped the students in their tracks.

Standing in the center of the corridor, looking like deer caught in wand-light, were Harry, Ron, and Hermione. They were frozen, staring at the wall opposite a large, heavily barred window.

Orion’s eyes tracked past them.

Hanging by her tail from a torch bracket, stiff as a board and entirely motionless, was Mrs. Norris. The caretaker’s skeletal cat looked more dead than alive, her yellow eyes wide and unblinking.

But the cat was merely the punctuation. The main sentence was written on the wall between two high windows, glowing with a visceral, horrifying crimson light.

THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE.

A collective gasp ripped through the gathered students. Whispers of terror broke out, overlapping in a frantic hum.

Draco, stepping fully into the corridor, took one look at the writing, then at the petrified cat, and finally at the frozen trio of Gryffindors. A vicious, triumphant grin split his face. The pureblood supremacy drilled into him since birth overrode any sense of self-preservation or decorum.

He opened his mouth, clearly preparing to deliver the iconic, terrible line that would cement him as the premier antagonist for the rest of the year.

Orion moved faster.

Before Draco could utter a single syllable, Orion’s hand lashed out. He didn’t use a spell. He didn’t use diplomacy. He simply reached over and smacked Draco hard on the back of his gelled head.

THWACK.

”Ow!” Draco yelped, stumbling forward and clutching his skull. He spun around, furious. ”What is your problem tonight?!”

”Keep your trap shut, Draco,” Orion hissed, his voice dropping into a deadly, icy register that froze the students immediately surrounding them. ”And stop spouting nonsense before you implicate yourself in a crime scene.”

Draco glared, rubbing his head, but the raw authority in Orion’s tone made him snap his mouth shut.

Orion turned his gaze back to the Gryffindors. Harry was staring at Draco with a mixture of hatred and shock, while Ron looked ready to throw a punch. Hermione was staring at the writing, trembling.

”Fascinating,” Orion murmured, analyzing the scene with detached, clinical precision. ”Not paint. The viscosity is wrong. That is blood.”

Before the tension could escalate further, a wheezing, frantic shout echoed from the opposite end of the corridor.

”What’s going on here? What’s going on?!”

Argus Filch hobbled into view, pushing his way through the gathering crowd of students from other houses who had also taken the detour. He took one look at the wall, then his eyes snapped to the torch bracket.

”My cat!” Filch shrieked, his face turning a mottled, terrifying shade of purple. He lunged forward, grabbing Harry by the front of his robes. ”You! You killed my cat! You’ve killed her! I’ll kill you! I’ll—”

”Argus!”

Albus Dumbledore had arrived, flanked by Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape. The Headmaster’s presence commanded instant silence. He strode forward, prying Filch’s hands off Harry’s robes with surprising strength.

Dumbledore took one look at the cat, then at the writing on the wall. His face was a mask of grave, terrible sorrow.

”She is not dead, Argus,” Dumbledore said softly, examining the stiff feline without touching her. ”She has been Petrified. But how... I cannot say.”

”Ask him!” Filch howled, pointing a shaking finger at Harry.

”No second-year student could have done this,” Dumbledore said firmly. ”It would take Dark Magic of the most advanced kind.”

Lockhart arrives with his own natural charm, if one can call it that. He immediately suggests they move to his office as it is the closest.

Snape shot a lingering, suspicious look at the Gryffindors, while McGonagall began herding the students away.

”Return to your dormitories! Immediately!” McGonagall ordered, her voice echoing off the stone.

The Slytherins didn’t need to be told twice. Marcus Flint barked an order, and the procession turned, hurrying back toward the safety of the dungeons.

Orion walked in silence, his mind racing. The adrenaline was fading, replaced by a cold, heavy stone in his gut.

They reached the common room. Draco immediately began whispering to Pansy and Crabbe, speculating on who the Heir was and looking entirely too excited about the prospect of a purge.

Orion bypassed them all. He went straight to his dormitory and shut the heavy curtains around his bed.

He sat cross-legged on his mattress, staring at the dark fabric.

*”That was intense,”* Sparkle’s voice broke the silence, her interface glowing a subdued blue. *”You stopped Draco from delivering his signature line. ’You’ll be next, Mudbloods’. Good call. That would have looked really bad on a disciplinary record.”*

”It was a cinematic experience,” Orion muttered, running a hand over his face. ”Seeing the writing on the wall in first-person view... it’s entirely different from reading about it. The blood smells sharp.”

He leaned back, staring up into the shadows.

”Well, whatever,” Orion said with a firm, dismissive wave of his hand. ”We have a plan. We stick to it. We secure the Diary, we map the entrance, and we maintain the timeline as a controlled environment.”

The blue interface pulsed rapidly, shifting to a brighter, anxious shade.

*”Are you completely detached?”* Sparkle demanded, sounding genuinely appalled. *”How are you not worried about the Basilisk killing someone? A twelve-foot, ancient killing machine is actively hunting in the plumbing while children are sleeping!”*

Orion didn’t flinch. His dark blue eyes remained cold and analytical.

”I am not detached, Sparkle. I am realistic,” Orion corrected sharply. ”My mere presence and actions have already changed things. We saw that vividly when Lord Higgs died. I don’t know exactly when, or even if, his death occurred in the canon timeline, but it happened *now* because of my interference with Quirrell. The butterfly effect is real.”

He crossed his arms, his jaw tightening.

”Worrying about every possible permutation will not benefit me at all. It will only make me hesitant. If I try to save everyone prematurely, I risk fracturing the narrative further, introducing variables I cannot anticipate.”

*”So, you just let it hunt?”*

”I let the game play out until my designated intervention point,” Orion stated with chilling pragmatism. ”Besides, I have a plan. I will stick to it. I secure the Diary before the major casualties occur.”

He paused, a dark, lethal glint entering his eyes. He reached into his holster, drawing his Hawthorn wand and letting it rest heavily across his lap.

”However,” Orion added softly, his voice dropping an octave. ”I am not foolish enough to trust the universe implicitly. If the timeline breaks... worst-case scenario, if the Basilisk actually kills someone instead of just petrifying them...”

He gripped the wand tightly.

”...well, then I will prepare myself to kill the Basilisk. Even before Christmas, if necessary.”