Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The corridors of the second floor were quiet and drafty, the shadows dancing in time with the flickering torchlight. Professor McGonagall’s usually immaculate emerald robes were slightly rumpled, her stride brisk but heavy with the exasperation of a teacher forced to deal with student idiocy on a holiday.

Orion walked a half-step behind her, his footsteps perfectly silent. He maintained an expression of polite, concerned curiosity, but internally, his mind was operating at maximum efficiency.

He wasn’t here just to witness the humiliation of Hermione Granger. That was merely a highly entertaining bonus. He was here for reconnaissance.

Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom was the nexus of the entire Second Year narrative. It was the laboratory, the hideout, and most importantly, the gateway to the Chamber of Secrets. By establishing a legitimate, faculty-sanctioned reason for being there tonight, Orion was laying the groundwork for his future, solo expeditions. If anyone ever questioned why he was seen near the out-of-order lavatory later in the year, he had his alibi: ’I was assisting Professor McGonagall with the cleanup of the illicit potion lab.’

McGonagall pushed open the heavy wooden door. The hinges shrieked in protest.

The bathroom was exactly as depressing as advertised. The air was damp and smelled strongly of mildew, old plumbing, and the sharp, unmistakable tang of simmering Fluxweed. The mirrors above the cracked sinks were stained and clouded, reflecting the gloom of the flickering, half-dead candles in the sconces.

”Myrtle?” McGonagall called out sharply, her voice echoing off the grimy tiles.

There was a loud, dramatic wail from one of the far stalls, followed by a splash that sent a wave of murky water surging across the floor. Moaning Myrtle, clearly recognizing the authoritative tone of the Deputy Headmistress, had opted for a strategic retreat down the U-bend.

”Good,” McGonagall muttered, stepping carefully over a puddle. ”The last thing I need tonight is hysterics.”

She surveyed the scene. In the center of the room, set up over a small, conjured blue flame, was a pewter cauldron. A complex array of brass scales, crystal phials, and silver stirring rods were scattered haphazardly around it.

”A fully functional brewing station,” McGonagall sighed, her lips thinning as she inspected a jar of shredded Boomslang skin. ”Severus will be apoplectic. This is not the work of two boys who still struggle to turn a feather into a needle.”

Orion remained quiet near the door, his eyes sweeping the room. He wasn’t looking at the potion setup. He was looking at the sinks. Specifically, the large, central pillar of sinks adorned with the tarnished copper taps.

There it is, Orion thought, a thrill of anticipation buzzing in his chest. The entrance.

”Miss Granger!” McGonagall’s voice cracked like a whip, shattering his reverie.

She had stopped in front of a closed stall door near the back of the room.

”I know you are in there, Hermione,” McGonagall said sternly. ”Mr. Potter and Mr. Weasley have been apprehended in the Slytherin common room. The deception is over. The Polyjuice Potion has been discovered.”

From behind the closed door, a small, muffled sniffle echoed.

”I am... I am so sorry, Professor,” a distraught, watery voice wailed.

Hearing the sheer panic in the usually confident Gryffindor’s voice was, admittedly, slightly upsetting. She actually cares about the rules she breaks, Orion analyzed. Potter and Weasley just break them because they’re impulsive. Granger breaks them and then suffers a nervous breakdown over the ethical implications.

”Apologies will not suffice, Miss Granger,” McGonagall replied, though her tone softened a fraction. ”This is a severe breach of school rules and a monumental theft from a professor’s private stores. Now, come out. We must go to the Headmaster’s office immediately.”

”I... I can’t, Professor,” Hermione sobbed. ”I can’t come out.”

”Miss Granger, this is not a request. Open the door.”

”You don’t understand!” Hermione shrieked, the panic escalating into full-blown hysteria. ”It went wrong! I used a hair from Millicent Bulstrode’s robes, but... but it wasn’t her hair! I think it was a cat’s!”

The heavy silence in the bathroom was broken only by the bubbling of the cauldron.

McGonagall closed her eyes, letting out a long, weary breath. The sheer, compounding stupidity of her house was reaching astronomical levels tonight.

”Open the door, Hermione,” McGonagall ordered quietly. ”I am a Transfiguration Master. I can handle a partial trans-species mutation. Do not make me unlock it.”

The latch clicked. The door slowly swung open.

Hermione Granger stepped out into the dim light.

Orion had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop a laugh from escaping.

It was glorious.

Hermione’s face was completely covered in thick, black fur. Her usually brown eyes had turned a startling, luminescent yellow, complete with slit pupils. Two pointed, furry ears poked out from the top of her head, twitching nervously, and a long, black, bushy tail swished aggressively from beneath the hem of her oversized Slytherin robes. She was half-girl, half-feline, and entirely miserable.

She looked at McGonagall, fresh tears tracking through the black fur on her cheeks.

Then, her slit-pupil gaze shifted. She saw the boy standing near the door, leaning casually against the tiled wall, watching her.

Hermione gasped, a sound that was half-shriek, half-hiss.

”You!” she yelped, her furry ears flattening against her head. ”What is he doing here?! He can’t see me like this!”

She scrambled backward, throwing herself back into the relative safety of the cubicle and slamming the door shut with a loud bang.

”Professor, make him leave!” Hermione’s voice sobbed from behind the wood. ”Please!”

Orion sighed, pushing off the wall. He adjusted his cuffs, his expression a mask of polite, aristocratic indifference.

”I have already seen it, Granger,” Orion called out smoothly, his voice carrying easily over her wailing. ”And for what it’s worth, I will admit that you look surprisingly elegant. Black fur suits your complexion far better than Millicent’s actual face ever would. Even as a cat, you possess a certain... feline grace.”

He paused, a tiny smirk touching his lips.

”But, since I am a gentleman, and clearly my presence is causing you undue distress, I shall turn my back.”

He turned on his heel, facing the other side wall and the murky puddles on the floor.

”Thank you, Mr. Malfoy,” McGonagall said, sounding relieved that he wasn’t capitalizing on the humiliation. She stepped closer to the stall. ”Come out, Hermione. He is not looking.”

The door creaked open again. Hermione emerged, keeping her furry face ducked low, her tail wrapped defensively around her leg.

”Professor,” Orion said to the wall, ”I shall remain here and collect this apparatus. I will carefully pack the cauldron, the remaining ingredients, and the evidence, and have it delivered directly to Professor Snape’s classroom so he may accurately calculate his losses.”

McGonagall nodded gratefully, wrapping a protective arm around the sobbing cat-girl. ”A sensible precaution, Orion. Do not touch the potion itself with your bare skin. It is highly volatile.”

”I am aware of the risks, Professor. I shall see you at the evening feast.”

”Come, Hermione. To the Hospital Wing first, I think. Madam Pomfrey will have to handle this.”

McGonagall led the miserable, furry Gryffindor out of the bathroom. The heavy door groaned shut, leaving Orion alone in the silence, the sound of their retreating footsteps fading into the stone corridor.

Orion turned around. The smile he had been suppressing broke free, wide and triumphant.

”Dobby,” Orion whispered into the damp air.

CRACK.

The invisible elf materialized beside the sinks, dropping his concealment charm. ”Dobby is here, Master Orion!”

”Good,” Orion agreed, striding toward the bubbling cauldron in the center of the room. He looked down into the thick, mud-like substance. Polyjuice Potion. N.E.W.T. level, brewed perfectly by a second-year.

”Granger is a prodigy,” Orion murmured, genuine respect in his voice. ”Annoying, but brilliant.”

He reached into his robe pocket and pulled out three empty crystal vials he had grabbed from his dormitory before following Draco.

”Dobby, fetch me a ladle from the setup,” Orion instructed.

He carefully ladled out the murky liquid, filling all three vials to the brim. He corked them securely and vanished them straight into his mental Inventory grid.

”Loot acquired,” Sparkle chimed, the interface glowing a soft, satisfied blue. ”Polyjuice Potion. Duration: One hour per dose. Three doses secured. That is a game-changer, Orion.”

”It’s an insurance policy,” Orion corrected. ”Never know when I might need to be someone else for an hour.”

He looked at the remaining quarter of the potion bubbling in the bottom of the cauldron.

”Dobby,” Orion commanded, stepping back. ”Pack up the scales, the ingredients, and the cauldron. Leave the remaining potion inside it. Deliver everything to the Potions classroom, exactly as Professor McGonagall requested.”

”Dobby will deliver the bad soup, Master!” The elf began snapping his fingers, levitating the brass scales and silver knives into a neat pile.

Orion didn’t help him pack. His attention was drawn back to the center of the room, to the large, ornate pillar of sinks that stood beneath a cracked, grimy mirror.

He walked toward it slowly. The sound of Dobby packing faded into the background.

He stopped in front of the sinks. He examined the copper taps. They were tarnished green with age, but the craftsmanship was intricate. He traced a finger over the side of one specific tap.

There it was. Barely visible under decades of grime.

A tiny, perfectly carved snake.

Orion stared at the symbol. The entrance to Salazar Slytherin’s legendary Chamber of Secrets. A myth hidden in plain sight, disguised as a mundane piece of plumbing in a girl’s lavatory. It was brilliant. It was arrogant.

”You going to open it?” Sparkle whispered, the digital waveform spiking with tension. ”You have the All-Speak. We could go down there.”

”No,” Orion breathed, his hand dropping from the copper tap.

He took a step back, the cold, calculating logic overriding the sudden rush of adrenaline.

”Not today. I don’t have the gear. I don’t have the plan finalized. I only have the knowledge of the entrance, and Dumbledore focused on Gryffindor rule-breaking.”

He looked at his reflection in the clouded mirror. The blue eyes staring back were sharp, disciplined, and patient.

”I will be back soon,” Orion promised the snake carved into the copper. ”When I am ready to slay a king.”

He turned away from the sinks. ”Are you finished, Dobby?”

”All packed, Master!” The elf stood next to a floating pile of potion-making equipment.

”Take it to Snape. Then return to your duties.”

CRACK.

The bathroom was empty, save for the dripping of a leaky faucet and the lingering smell of Fluxweed.

Orion checked his watch. It was nearing time for the evening feast. He adjusted his collar, smoothed his robes, and walked out into the corridor. The recon mission was a complete success, and the Chamber was waiting.