Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The morning after the Ravenclaw lockdown dawned crisp and bright, but the Great Hall was noticeably unbalanced.

Orion sat at the Slytherin table, slowly stirring a cup of Earl Grey. He watched the empty expanse of blue and bronze banners with an expression of mild, detached interest. The usual hum of academic debate and frantic last-minute homework copying was entirely absent from that quadrant of the hall.

”Where are the Eagles?” Draco asked, his voice cutting through the noise as he buttered a crumpet. He looked around, genuinely puzzled. ”Did they all sleep in? Or is this some new study trend I don’t know about?”

”Perhaps they discovered a particularly fascinating colony of wrackspurts in the ceiling,” Orion offered dryly, not looking up from his tea.

Pansy giggled, though she looked slightly unnerved. ”It is odd.”

The absence went largely unquestioned for the first half of breakfast. The school was still vibrating with the tension of the petrifications. A missing house was easily written off as collective paranoia or a late-night study session gone wrong.

But as the meal wound down and the first bells began to chime, Professor Flitwick, seated at the High Table, finally looked up from his oatmeal. He frowned, his tiny brow furrowing as he surveyed the empty benches of his own house.

With a squeak of concern, he hopped down from his stack of cushions and scurried out of the Great Hall, his robes trailing behind him.

By lunch, the news had exploded.

The entire Ravenclaw house—first years to seventh years, boys and girls—was trapped. The heavy wooden door of the common room refused to open from the inside. The windows, usually a source of airy inspiration, were sealed shut by an invisible, impenetrable barrier. No owls could leave; no brooms could fly out. It was a perfect, magical quarantine.

The rumor mill instantly shifted into overdrive.

”It’s the Heir!” a terrified Hufflepuff whispered loudly near the courtyard. ”He’s sealed them in! He’s going to petrify them all at once!”

”It’s a curse,” a Gryffindor fifth-year argued. ”A dark ward. I bet Snape did it to guarantee Slytherin the House Cup.”

Orion walked through the corridors, listening to the panicked theories with a sense of profound, internal amusement. The sheer, terrifying efficiency of Dobby’s elven magic was a marvel to behold. It wasn’t dark magic; it was just a localized, absolute refusal of passage.

The panic wasn’t about stolen shoes or cryptic love letters anymore. It was about the terrifying realization that they were trapped in their own sanctuary.

”You know,” Sparkle’s voice buzzed in his ear as he sat through a particularly boring Transfiguration lecture that afternoon. ”This is escalating. You essentially took an entire house hostage.”

”I put them in timeout,” Orion corrected mentally, carefully transfiguring a teacup into a gerbil. ”A very strict, inescapable timeout. They needed a moment for quiet reflection on their recent behavior.”

”And you don’t think this will blow back on you?”

”I am twelve, Sparkle,” Orion smirked internally. ”A prank of this magnitude requires power and motive. They will suspect the twins, or the Heir, or a rogue poltergeist long before they suspect the quiet, studious Second-Year Malfoy.”

He was confident. Perhaps a little too confident.

Just before dinner, as the shadows lengthened in the dungeons, a first-year Slytherin boy scampered up to Orion’s armchair. He looked nervous, clutching a small piece of parchment.

”M-Malfoy?” the boy squeaked. ”Professor Flitwick sent me. He wants to see you in his office.”

Orion paused mid-page of Advanced Runic Alignments.

”Uh oh,” Sparkle chimed instantly, her interface flashing a warning yellow. ”The Charms Master summons the mastermind. Are you panicking on the inside? Because you look very calm on the outside.”

”I am not panicking,” Orion replied silently, marking his page and closing the book with a soft snap. ”I decided over the summer that I was done playing the perfect, invisible student. Last year, I stayed in the shadows. This year, I plan to go nuts anyway.”

He stood up, offering the first-year a polite nod. ”Thank you. I will be on my way.”

Professor Flitwick’s office on the seventh floor was a cozy, cluttered sanctuary of books, comfortable cushions, and softly glowing charm-work. When Orion knocked and entered, the tiny professor was seated behind his large desk, looking uncharacteristically grave.

”Mr. Malfoy,” Flitwick said, his voice lacking its usual squeaky enthusiasm. ”Please, take a seat.”

Orion sat in the plush armchair opposite the desk, his posture relaxed but alert.

”Good evening, Professor,” Orion greeted him smoothly. ”I trust the situation in Ravenclaw Tower has been... resolved?”

”It has,” Flitwick sighed, adjusting his spectacles. ”A fascinating piece of warding, truly. It required me a few minutes of understanding to finally dissolve the barrier from the outside. Whoever cast it possessed a remarkable grasp of spatial lockdown.”

He looked at Orion, his eyes sharp. ”But that is not why I called you here.”

Flitwick leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands. ”Your studies, Orion. They are progressing well? Minerva frequently mentions how you go far beyond the standard curriculum. And your... light show during the Dueling Club was certainly the talk of the staff room, despite the unfortunate ending.”

”My studies are satisfactory, Professor,” Orion replied modestly. ”I find the library to be an endless source of inspiration.”

”Indeed,” Flitwick murmured.

He reached into a drawer of his desk. When his hand emerged, he placed two pieces of parchment side-by-side on the polished wood.

One was a recent Charms essay Orion had submitted on the theoretical applications of the Hover Charm. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and perfectly spaced.

The second piece of parchment was smaller. It was slightly crumpled.

Hello, love of my life...

Orion’s eyes didn’t widen. His breathing didn’t hitch. He merely looked at the letter, recognizing the ”Secret Admirer” note he had written for Marietta Edgecombe.

”I have spent the last few days uncovering several... interesting discoveries regarding the recent happenings in my House,” Flitwick said softly. ”The missing shoes. The mountain of robes. The terrified students.”

He tapped the smaller parchment with a short, stubby finger.

”While the handwriting on this letter is deliberately altered—the slant is different, the pressure is heavier—there are inherent structural similarities that a teacher grading hundreds of essays a week can easily identify, if they pay close attention to it. The loop of the ’y’, the cross of the ’t’. It is a fascinating study in attempted disguise.”

Flitwick looked up, his gaze piercing through the polite facade.

”Are you the one who wrote these letters, Orion?”

The silence in the office was absolute. Orion could feel Sparkle’s interface vibrating with digital anxiety in his peripheral vision. Denying it was the logical, Slytherin move. Feign ignorance. Demand proof.

But Orion looked at the tiny, brilliant professor who had taught him how to create thunderstorms, and he made a different calculation.

”Yes, Professor,” Orion said calmly, his voice steady. ”I wrote them.”

Flitwick blinked, clearly taken aback by the immediate, unapologetic confession. He let out a long, slow breath, a mixture of relief and profound confusion washing over his face.

”I am glad you chose not to lie, Orion,” Flitwick said quietly. ”It saves us both a great deal of tedious maneuvering.”

Orion leaned forward slightly, resting his hands on his knees. ”Am I in trouble because of this, Professor? Am I to face disciplinary action for... creative writing?”

Flitwick didn’t answer immediately. He looked at the essay, then at the threatening love letter, then back to the twelve-year-old boy sitting opposite him.

”Not... exactly,” Flitwick said carefully. ”The situation is complex. As I mentioned, I have made several discoveries over the past week. I have spoken with Miss Edgecombe. I have spoken with several other girls. And... I have spoken with Miss Lovegood.”

He folded his hands, his expression turning grave.

”I simply wish to speak with you, Orion. To understand the complete picture of what has occurred. Because right now, I have a very brilliant, very dangerous puzzle in front of me, and I believe you hold all the missing pieces.”

”I am an open book, Professor,” Orion offered a small, enigmatic smile. ”I will answer whatever you need to know.”