Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The morning after the disastrous Polyjuice incident dawned with a pale, wintery light that struggled to penetrate the heavy frost on the dungeon windows.

Orion awoke to his usual, meticulously structured routine. He sat cross-legged on his four-poster bed, the green velvet curtains sealed, and descended into the quiet, organized architecture of his Mind Arts. He spent an hour reinforcing the mental barriers by simply meditating in peace.

When the mental exercises were complete, he unsealed the curtains, went to freshen himself and once the necessities were over, retrieved Robin from the rock-burrow on his nightstand. He spent ten minutes playing a localized game of ’fetch the Sickle’ with the energetic Niffler, letting the creature burn off some steam before stuffing him safely into his robe pocket.

Orion was dressed, composed, and halfway through a plate of kippers in the Great Hall by the time Draco finally made an appearance.

Draco looked terrible. The bruise on his jaw from Ron’s punch had darkened into an angry shade of plum, and there were distinct bags under his grey eyes. He slumped onto the bench beside Orion, glaring at a rack of toast as if it had personally offended him.

”You look like you wrestled a Hippogriff, Draco,” Orion observed mildly, pouring his brother a cup of strong tea. ”Rough night?”

”I couldn’t sleep,” Draco grumbled, rubbing his temples. ”I woke up twice in a cold sweat. I kept dreaming that Potter had sneaked into the dormitory and was rummaging through my trunk looking for dark artifacts to frame me with.”

Orion raised a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow, but kept his expression carefully neutral. ”The paranoia is setting in. Excellent,” he thought.

”The second time I woke up,” Draco continued, his voice dropping to an irritated hiss, ”I actually heard rustling. I grabbed my wand, threw back the curtains... and it was that bloody rat of yours.”

Draco pointed an accusing finger at Orion’s pocket.

”Robin,” Orion corrected softly.

”Whatever! He was elbow-deep in my bedside drawer,” Draco complained. ”I picked the rascal up by the scruff of his neck and threw him back into that rock-pile thing you built him. You had better return my silver-handled hairbrush after breakfast, Orion. I was too tired to argue with the beast at three in the morning.”

Orion suppressed a smirk. ”My apologies, Draco. Robin has a refined appreciation for quality grooming tools. I shall ensure it is returned.”

Draco grunted, taking a sip of his tea and wincing as the hot liquid hit his bruised lip. His gaze drifted across the Great Hall, inevitably landing on the Gryffindor table.

It was virtually empty, save for a few stragglers. The Golden Trio was conspicuously absent.

”Where are they?” Draco muttered, a vindictive gleam replacing the exhaustion in his eyes. ”Probably packing their trunks. Snape said he was going to demand expulsion.”

”You should try and avoid obsessing over the Trio, Draco,” Orion advised smoothly, slicing his sausage. ”Otherwise, you might actually start getting nightmares of them crawling into your bedsheets next. It’s unhealthy to let peasants occupy so much of your mental real estate.”

Draco shuddered visibly at the imagery. ”Don’t even joke about that. The thought of Weasley’s hand-me-down robes touching my silk sheets...”

Before Draco could elaborate on his aristocratic disgust, a tall, imposing shadow fell across their section of the table.

Professor Snape stood there, his black robes perfectly motionless despite the drafty hall. His dark eyes flicked over Draco’s bruised face with barely concealed disdain before locking onto Orion.

”Mr. Malfoy,” Snape said softly. ”Finish your breakfast. The Headmaster wishes to speak with you in his office.”

Draco’s eyes widened, the smugness evaporating. ”Again? What did he do now?”

Orion calmly wiped his mouth with a linen napkin and stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder. ”Nothing, Draco. Enjoy your toast.”

Orion fell into step beside his Head of House, navigating the crowded aisles of the Great Hall. The walk toward the marble staircase was silent for several minutes, the tension radiating from the Potions Master almost palpable.

”I am beginning to wonder,” Snape murmured dryly, not looking at Orion, ”exactly how many times you are going to be summoned for private audiences with the Headmaster before you even reach your third year. You are treating his office like a common room.”

Orion let out a soft, theatrical sigh.

”Being famous is such a terrible hassle, Professor,” Orion replied, his tone laced with heavy, aristocratic sarcasm. ”Who knew the people would adore me so much? Between Potter stalking me, Weasley trying to tackle me, and Dumbledore constantly demanding my company... I fear my future wife is bound to get terribly jealous of all the attention I am receiving.”

Snape stopped walking for a fraction of a second. He looked down at the twelve-year-old boy, his lip curling in a mixture of profound annoyance and unwilling amusement.

”Do not test my patience with your vanity, Malfoy,” Snape sneered, though the underlying threat was absent.

They reached the stone gargoyle on the second floor.

”Cockroach Clusters,” Snape spat at the statue.

The gargoyle leaped aside with a grinding of stone. Snape did not accompany him up the stairs, simply gesturing for Orion to ascend.

”Try not to give him any more reasons to meddle in Slytherin affairs,” Snape warned softly as the stairs began to move.

Orion offered a polite nod and rode the spiral staircase to the top.

The heavy oak door was already slightly ajar. Orion pushed it open and stepped into the sunlit, circular office.

This time, the golden perch by the window was occupied. Fawkes the Phoenix let out a soft, melodic trill as Orion entered.

”The shiny-thief is quiet today,” Fawkes sang, the notes translating into a casual observation in Orion’s mind. ”Did you feed it brass?”

Orion ignored the bird, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the center of the room.

Albus Dumbledore was seated behind his massive claw-footed desk. He was wearing robes of a startlingly bright magenta, but his demeanor was far from festive. He looked tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than they had been in September.

However, sitting squarely in the middle of the desk, next to a stack of parchment, was the elegant, embossed tin of Swiss lemon boiled sweets Orion had sent him for Christmas.

”Ah, Orion. Good morning,” Dumbledore greeted him, gesturing to the chair opposite the desk. ”Please, have a seat.”

Orion sat down, his posture perfectly straight. ”Good morning, Headmaster. I trust you had a pleasant Christmas?”

Dumbledore smiled, reaching out to tap the tin. The lid popped open, revealing the glittering, yellow candies inside. He picked one up and popped it into his mouth, his eyes twinkling briefly.

”I did indeed, Orion. And I must thank you for these. They possess a remarkable... tartness... that the local varieties often lack. A very thoughtful, if surprisingly specific, gift.”

”I am glad they meet your exact standards, sir,” Orion replied smoothly.

Dumbledore’s smile faded slowly as he leaned back in his chair, the candy clicking softly against his teeth.

”The festive atmosphere of the Yule season always fills me with a profound joy,” Dumbledore murmured, looking toward the window. ”It is a time for unity. For family. Which makes the events of the past few days... quite upsetting.”

He turned his piercing blue gaze back to Orion.

”I have spoken with Harry and Mr. Weasley at length last night and this morning,” Dumbledore said, his voice quiet but carrying the unmistakable weight of a judge delivering a verdict. ”And Professor McGonagall has had a rather... tearful conversation with Miss Granger in the Hospital Wing.”

Orion nodded slowly, his expression one of polite, serious concern.

”I must admit, Headmaster,” Orion said carefully, ”I am struggling to understand the logic of it all. Last year, I pointed out my concerns regarding Potter’s ’heroic’ attitude creating problems with student safety. But this...”

Orion shook his head, looking genuinely bewildered.

”This truly takes the cake. Stealing restricted, highly dangerous ingredients from a professor’s private reserve? Brewing an illegal, N.E.W.T. level potion in an abandoned, flooded bathroom? And using it to sneak into a rival House’s common room on Christmas night?”

He let out a short, incredulous laugh.

”I sometimes wonder if Gryffindors are built entirely of muscle and are fundamentally allergic to brains. But then, I look at Granger. She clearly has intellect. That cannot be true for the entire house. I can only assume that Potter and Weasley are... one of a kind.”

Dumbledore chuckled, a dry, weary sound that echoed in the quiet office.

”Sometimes, Orion, yes,” Dumbledore agreed softly. ”Truly just muscles and a surplus of guts. It is a potent combination, but a highly volatile one when not tempered by wisdom.”

The Headmaster sighed, removing his half-moon spectacles and pinching the bridge of his nose. He looked every inch his age in that moment.

”I truly believe that Harry will eventually understand the gravity of his actions,” Dumbledore said, replacing his glasses and looking at Orion with a pleading intensity. ”Right now, he is a boy acting almost entirely on emotion, driven by a desperate need to solve a mystery he feels responsible for. He is not thinking clearly.”

Dumbledore leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.

”I have disciplined them severely. But I must ask you, Orion... as I asked you last year... to be the bigger man. To forgive this intrusion.”

Orion met Dumbledore’s gaze. The Legilimency probe was there—a faint, feather-light pressure against the surface of his mind. Perhaps it was just passive Legilimency, not something even Dumbledore himself was willingly doing. Orion let his Level 1 Mind Arts handle it.

”I understand, Headmaster,” Orion said quietly. ”Truly, I do. I am not angry about the intrusion. It was clumsy, and ultimately harmless to me.”

He paused, letting a shadow of genuine worry cross his face. He leaned forward slightly, matching Dumbledore’s posture.

”But my concern remains the same, sir. The paranoia is escalating. They broke into my home—my common room—because they are convinced I am a dark wizard orchestrating a terror campaign. They brewed a restricted potion to do it.”

Orion tapped his fingers against the armrest of his chair.

”I am worried that someday, Potter is going to abandon deduction entirely. He is going to decide that the only way to ’stop’ me is to... well, attack me directly. Or attack Draco. I cannot simply walk the corridors looking over my shoulder, wondering if the ’Chosen One’ is going to throw a curse at my back because he had a bad nightmare.”