Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The lead harvester, a grizzled wizard with scars crisscrossing his jaw, waved a thick, dragon-hide-gloved hand from across the cavern.

”Madam Bones! Minister!” the harvester bellowed, his voice echoing over the immense, dead serpent. ”We have the initial structural analysis! If you wish to discuss the allocation percentages before we begin the primary incisions...”

Cornelius Fudge’s face lit up with the prospect of bureaucracy. He practically jogged toward the carcass, Rita Skeeter clicking closely at his heels. Amelia Bones followed at a more dignified, professional pace.

Orion didn’t move. He leaned casually against a towering stone pillar, watching the adults gather around the beast like vultures.

”Professor,” Orion called out softly before Snape could follow the Minister.

The Potions Master paused, his black robes swirling as he turned back. His dark eyes narrowed in perpetual suspicion. ”What is it, Malfoy? Do not tell me you have decided you require a bucket of venom for a school project.”

”I am perfectly content with the knowledge that the venom is secure,” Orion lied smoothly, his face a mask of polite innocence. ”However, I do have a modest request regarding my share of the... less volatile remains.”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. ”I would appreciate it if you could secure a substantial portion of the hide for me. And perhaps... a large, intact bone. From the ribcage, if possible.”

Snape’s brow furrowed in genuine confusion. ”A bone? What possible use could you have for a Basilisk bone? It is practically useless in standard brewing.”

”I have no intention of brewing it, sir,” Orion smiled, a touch of genuine artistic pride entering his tone. ”I wish to carve it. A small statue of a Basilisk, crafted from actual Basilisk bone. It seems a fitting commemoration of the evening.”

To prove his point, Orion didn’t reach for his pocket. He simply flicked his wrist.

Snap.

The Hawthorn wand shot from his hidden forearm holster into his palm. He held it up, presenting the base to Snape. The silver-wood handle, intricately carved into the stylized, arrogant head of a peacock with sapphire eyes, gleamed in the dim wand-light.

Snape stared at the handle. He hadn’t noticed it during the chaos of the year. The craftsmanship was undeniable—flawless, precise, and undeniably Malfoy in its vanity.

”You carved this?” Snape asked, a rare flicker of impressed surprise crossing his sallow features.

”I did,” Orion confirmed, retracting the wand with another flick. ”My carving skills are... quite advanced. A Basilisk bone would be a challenging, but rewarding, medium.”

Snape held his gaze for a long moment, searching for a hidden angle. Finding only the quiet confidence of a prodigy, he gave a curt, almost imperceptible nod.

”I shall see what can be salvaged from the carcass, I suppose,” Snape agreed coolly, turning on his heel to join the harvesters.

Albus Dumbledore remained standing near the center of the room, his hands clasped before him. He had also chosen not to join the haggling over monster parts, trusting McGonagall and Snape to fiercely protect the school’s interests.

The Headmaster’s blue eyes were fixed thoughtfully on Orion.

He is an enigma, Dumbledore mused silently, observing the twelve-year-old boy who was currently watching his twin brother poke cautiously at the gaping stone mouth of the Salazar Slytherin statue.

Dumbledore could clearly sense the undeniable good that resulted from Orion’s calculated decisions. The boy had neutralized a lethal threat, exonerated an innocent man, and navigated complex political waters with the ease of a seasoned diplomat. Yet, his methods were consistently, bafflingly antagonistic.

The ruthless pragmatism of his actions last year—treating the third-floor corridor as a personal challenge rather than a deadly peril. The psychological warfare he had waged on the Ravenclaw bullies, locking an entire House in their tower. The deliberate, highly public goading of Harry Potter on the dueling stage.

He does not act out of malice, Dumbledore concluded, stroking his silver beard. He acts out of efficiency. And perhaps... a profound sense of boredom. He orchestrates chaos simply because he can control the outcome.

It was a terrifying intellect for a child to possess.

A few feet away, Harry Potter was experiencing an entirely different, infinitely more agonizing internal crisis.

Harry stood wedged between Ron and Hermione, his green eyes fixed on Orion’s back. His head throbbed with a dull, persistent ache that had nothing to do with the physical bruises he had sustained during their brief, humiliating duel.

He was drowning in cognitive dissonance.

For an entire year, Harry had absolutely believed that Orion Malfoy was the architect of the plot to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. He had staked his life on it, only to discover the thief was an older Slytherin with Voldemort’s shadow behind him.

Then, when the Chamber opened, the logic had seemed infallible again. The cold, brilliant Malfoy heir must be the Heir of Slytherin. He had the motive. He had the means.

Maybe he still is, Harry thought frantically, his hand itching for his wand.

But if Orion was the Heir... why would he lead the Ministry directly to his own monster? Why would he help slaughter his ultimate weapon? And why, just moments ago, had he used a dead Basilisk to blackmail the Minister of Magic into clearing Hagrid’s name—the very man Harry cared about deeply?

The sheer, contradictory nature of Orion Malfoy was breaking Harry’s brain. The boy was cruel, arrogant, and ruthless, yet his actions consistently resulted in saving lives and correcting injustices.

While Harry spiraled in confusion, Orion was operating on a completely different plane of reality.

He leaned against his pillar, his eyes tracking Draco’s exploration of the statue, but his mind was focused entirely on the digital interface hovering invisibly in his peripheral vision.

It’s time, Orion decided.

He opened his mental Inventory grid.

In one slot rested the shimmering, fluid icon of the original Invisibility Cloak. In another slot, the newly acquired [Item Duplicator (Consumable)].

He selected the Duplicator. He selected the Cloak.

Activate.

The process was instantaneous and entirely silent. The icon of the Duplicator vanished from the grid. In its place, a second icon appeared, identical in every visual respect to the first.

Orion inspected the new item carefully.

[Cloak of Invisibility (Perfect Replica)]

He looked at the original.

[Cloak of Invisibility (Deathly Hallow)]

”Figures,” Orion thought, a wry, internal smirk touching his lips. ”The System can replicate the molecular structure and the magical weave flawlessly, but it cannot replicate the soul of an artifact crafted by Death itself. The metaphysical tag remains unique.”

It was exactly as he had predicted. If he had tried to pass the replica off to Dumbledore, the Headmaster’s profound connection to ancient magic would have recognized the absence of that defining ’Hallow’ resonance immediately. The fake was functionally identical, but spiritually hollow.

Which meant the original had to go back.

He didn’t need the true Hallow to hide from Filch or Snape; the perfect replica would do that effortlessly. He only needed to avoid Dumbledore’s direct scrutiny, and his Mind Arts were already handling that.

Orion slipped his right hand smoothly into the expanded, magically enlarged pocket of his dark robes. Robin the Niffler was currently asleep in his rock-burrow back in the dormitory, so the pocket was empty.

He mentally transferred the original [Cloak of Invisibility (Deathly Hallow)] from his Inventory grid directly into the physical space of his pocket.

He pulled his hand out, clutching a bundle of silvery, fluid fabric that seemed to weave in and out of the dim light, shivering like liquid moonlight.

Orion turned away from the pillar. He walked deliberately across the damp flagstones, his footsteps echoing softly, until he stopped directly in front of the Golden Trio.

Harry stiffened instantly, his hand twitching toward his wand. Ron glared, stepping slightly beside Harry and Hermione , who was watching Orion with wide, wary brown eyes.

Orion didn’t sneer. He simply held out his arm, offering the shimmering bundle of fabric to Harry.

”I believe you dropped this at the entrance to the lavatory during our... disagreement earlier tonight, Potter,” Orion said smoothly, his voice polite and utterly devoid of mockery. ”It is a good thing my house-elf spotted it lying in the puddles and retrieved it for me.”

Harry stared at the Cloak, his jaw dropping in absolute shock. He looked from the fabric to Orion’s face, searching for the trick, the insult, the trap.

He reached out slowly, his fingers brushing the cool, unmistakable silk. He snatched it back, clutching it tightly to his chest as if Orion might suddenly demand it back or set it on fire.

He didn’t say a word. The sheer, overwhelming relief of having his father’s cloak returned fought violently with his ingrained suspicion of the boy handing it to him.

Dumbledore, who had been watching the exchange closely, stepped forward. His blue eyes locked onto the silvery fabric in Harry’s arms. He didn’t reach out to touch it, but the intensity of his gaze was palpable.

A few seconds later, a subtle, profound relaxation smoothed the lines around the Headmaster’s eyes.

”Thank you for returning the Cloak so promptly, Orion,” Dumbledore said softly, his voice carrying a genuine, heavy note of gratitude. ”It is a remarkable artifact, and one of the very few tangible connections Harry possesses to his parents. Its loss would have been deeply felt.”

For the first time since the troll incident in their first year, Harry Potter looked at Orion Malfoy without a trace of hatred in his eyes. There was still confusion, still wariness, but the burning, absolute animosity was momentarily extinguished by the return of his most prized possession.

Orion met Harry’s gaze. He could see the conflict. He could see the boy struggling to reconcile the villain he wanted to fight with the person standing in front of him.

Orion let the silence stretch for three seconds. He allowed Harry to feel the gratitude.

And then, with surgical precision, Orion shattered the moment.

A slow, sharp, incredibly arrogant smirk spread across Orion’s face.

”You are quite welcome, Potter,” Orion drawled, his voice regaining its familiar, mocking edge. ”But I suggest you get some rest. You will need your strength for tomorrow morning.”

Harry frowned, the gratitude evaporating instantly. ”Tomorrow?”

”The Daily Prophet, Potter,” Orion clarified, gesturing vaguely toward Rita Skeeter, who was currently interviewing a Curse Breaker. ”Madam Skeeter is a very thorough journalist. Our duel is guaranteed to feature prominently in her coverage of tonight’s events. I imagine the detailed description of your crushing, humiliating defeat will be broadcasted across every breakfast table in Britain.”

Harry’s face flushed a violent, furious scarlet. The green eyes blazed with renewed hatred.

”I’ll see you around, Potter,” Orion smirked, turning his back on the seething Gryffindor.

He walked away, his robes swishing softly as he headed toward Draco, who was still peering into the dark mouth of the Slytherin statue.

Behind him, Dumbledore let out a long, heavy sigh that echoed softly in the damp cavern. The Headmaster watched the young Slytherin retreat, recognizing the deliberate, calculated cruelty of the parting shot.

The boy had handed back a priceless treasure with one hand, and twisted the knife of rivalry with the other. The enigma remained unsolved, and the calculation, Dumbledore realized with a weary certainty, was far from over.