Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The Christmas holidays concluded with a strange, strained quietness within the Slytherin dungeons. The euphoria of the successful trap had faded, replaced by Draco’s newfound, hyper-vigilant paranoia.

For the last three days of the break, Draco refused to go anywhere without abruptly turning and demanding a password or a complex piece of trivia from his bodyguards.

They were sitting in the common room, staring into the emerald flames, when Draco suddenly rounded on Crabbe.

”Quick!” Draco snapped, pointing a finger. ”What is the primary ingredient in a Swelling Solution, and how many counter-clockwise stirs does it require before adding the dried nettles?”

Crabbe stared at him. His mouth opened slightly. His brow furrowed so deeply it looked like he was trying to solve a complex algebraic equation using only his ears. He blinked twice, a profound, empty silence emanating from him.

Draco exhaled a sharp breath of relief, slumping back into his armchair. ”Okay. It’s you. A Polyjuiced imposter would have at least tried to guess.”

Orion, lounging on the adjacent sofa with Robin asleep in his lap, had to bite his lip to keep from laughing aloud.

You idiot, Orion thought, scratching the Niffler’s head. If you asked Potter or Weasley that exact same question, they would give you the exact same dumbfounded expression. The only difference is that Weasley might actually drool a little.

”You are being paranoid, Draco,” Orion said smoothly, not looking up from his book on advanced shielding charms. ”The Polyjuice Potion takes a month to brew. They do not have a constant supply. And considering their current situation, I highly doubt they have the freedom to set up a new laboratory.”

The ’situation’ Orion referred to was the ongoing, brutal reality of the Golden Trio’s punishment.

The hundred and fifty points McGonagall had docked them over the ’Norbert’ incident last year seemed like a light reprimand compared to the consequences of the Polyjuice debacle. They had not only broken curfew and invaded a rival house; they had stolen restricted ingredients from Snape’s private stores.

Snape had been absolutely merciless.

During the few times Orion had seen Harry and Ron at meals, they looked hollowed out. They were serving double detentions. Every evening was split between scrubbing cauldrons without magic under Snape’s venomous supervision, and enduring whatever grueling, character-building tasks McGonagall had devised for them.

Hermione Granger was still confined to the Hospital Wing, her feline features taking a notoriously long time to reverse. But Orion knew, given McGonagall’s furious sense of fairness, that Hermione would not escape the wrath. The moment Madam Pomfrey discharged her, she would likely be joining her friends in the dungeons, scrubbing alongside them.

Orion watched Harry push a piece of dry toast around his plate at breakfast. He almost felt a flicker of pity for the boy.

Keyword: almost, Orion thought, sipping his tea. They made their bed with stolen boomslang skin. Now they have to sleep in it.

With the Gryffindor threat effectively neutralized for the foreseeable future, Orion shifted his entire focus to the primary objective.

The Diary.

The timeline was accelerating toward its critical juncture. Ginny Weasley, according to canon, was slowly waking up to the terrifying reality that she was the one opening the Chamber of Secrets. The blackouts, the blood on her robes, the dead roosters—the cognitive dissonance was reaching a breaking point.

Soon, she would panic. She would realize the small, black diary she had been pouring her soul into was the source of the evil. She would try to destroy it, or at least, discard it.

And she would choose Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Orion had already laid the groundwork. He sat in his dormitory on the eve of the students’ return, the heavy curtains drawn, summoning his most reliable asset.

”Dobby.”

CRACK.

The elf appeared, practically vibrating with nervous energy. He was wearing a fresh, remarkably clean tea towel, a stark contrast to his usual grimy attire.

”Master Orion calls Dobby!” the elf squeaked, bowing low. ”Dobby is watching! Dobby is always watching!”

”I know you are, Dobby,” Orion said softly, leaning forward. ”And your diligence is about to be rewarded. We are entering the endgame.”

Dobby’s large eyes widened. ”The bad book?”

”Yes,” Orion confirmed, his voice dropping to a serious, commanding whisper. ”Ginny Weasley is reaching her limit. The entity inside the diary is draining her, but she is fighting back. Sometime in the next ten to fifteen days, she is going to break. She will try to throw the diary away.”

Orion held up a single finger, ensuring the elf’s complete attention.

”You must be extra vigilant, Dobby. Especially when you are near the second-floor girls’ lavatory—Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. That is where she will likely attempt to flush it down the drain.”

”Dobby will wait in the U-bend if he has to!” the elf declared fiercely.

”Do not go near the plumbing,” Orion corrected sharply. ”Just watch the door. And Dobby... listen to me very carefully.”

He leaned closer, his blue eyes cold and hard in the dim light.

”If you are watching that bathroom, and you hear any kind of hissing... a sound like water boiling on hot stones, or a dry, slithering noise...”

”Dobby remembers the Master’s promise,” Dobby whispered, trembling slightly.

”You close your eyes immediately,” Orion ordered, his tone brokering no argument. ”You close your eyes, and you Apparate out of that corridor. I do not care if you see the diary sitting on the sink. I do not care if the mission fails. If you hear the hissing, you leave.”

Orion sat back, letting the command sink in.

”We can always check for the diary later,” Orion reasoned. ”I can track it. But I cannot track a dead elf. Staying alive is the priority. The Basilisk is not something you can fight.”

Tears welled up in Dobby’s tennis-ball eyes. He sniffled loudly, wiping his nose with the corner of his tea towel. ”Master Orion... cares for Dobby’s life more than the bad book.”

”Of course I do,” Orion said, though it was as much pragmatism as it was compassion. A petrified spy was useless to him. ”Now, go. The rest of the school returns tomorrow. The corridors will be crowded. Use the chaos to your advantage.”

”Dobby will not fail!”

CRACK.

Orion was alone again. He let out a long, slow breath, pulling the Marauder’s Map from his inventory and spreading it across his lap.

Tomorrow, the Hogwarts Express would disgorge hundreds of loud, energetic students back into the castle. The quiet sanctuary of the holidays would end, replaced by the suffocating rumor mill and the creeping dread of the Heir of Slytherin.

Orion tapped the map with his wand. ”I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

The ink bloomed across the parchment. He scanned the Gryffindor common room.

He wondered, idly, what the reaction of the returning Gryffindors would be when they realized their house points had plummeted into the abyss once again, courtesy of their three most famous members.

”It’s going to be a bloodbath at that table,” Orion smirked, folding the map away. ”Welcome back to Hogwarts, everyone.”