Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The clatter of golden plates filling with roasted meats and steaming vegetables was the usual symphony of the Great Hall at dinnertime. Conversations buzzed, laughter echoed, and the tension of the impending exams was momentarily forgotten in the face of a good meal.

Orion sat perfectly still, a dinner roll half-buttered in his hand, his eyes tracking the peace in the room.

SMASH.

The sound of shattering crystal echoed sharply near the front of the Great Hall, cutting through the chatter like a gunshot. It originated from the empty space hovering just between the High Table and the front rows of the student benches.

Every head in the room snapped toward the noise.

Thick, swirling, silvery-white mist erupted from the point of impact. It didn’t dissipate into the air; it gathered, condensed, and rapidly expanded into a massive, glowing cloud that hovered ten feet off the ground, visible to the entire hall.

Silence slammed down on the room. Forks hung suspended. Students froze.

Then, a voice boomed from the heart of the mist.

Orion had utilized his Mind Arts to layer a synthesized auditory introduction onto the memory file—a deep, resonant, theatrical baritone that sounded like a cross between a vengeful spirit and a cinema trailer voiceover.

”Gilderoy Lockhart.”

The voice vibrated the flagstones. At the High Table, Lockhart jumped so violently he nearly knocked his goblet over, his aquamarine robes shimmering as he stared wide-eyed at the cloud.

”You might have thought you could fool everyone. But you were wrong.”

The mist began to swirl faster, coalescing into shapes.

”I saw you that day. Boasting about your triumphs built on the backs of others. This time, you will not escape.”

The mist snapped into sharp, high-definition focus. The disembodied head and shoulders of Gilderoy Lockhart appeared in the center of the cloud, massive and undeniably clear. The background was a fuzzy grey, isolating the man entirely.

The projection began to move. It leaned forward, flashing a brilliant, arrogant smile.

”My dear boy,” the projected Lockhart crooned, his actual voice echoing perfectly through the hall. ”You simply do not understand the burden of greatness...”

The real Lockhart went ashen. He grabbed the edge of the High Table, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. ”Th-that’s a fabrication! A dark illusion!”

No one listened to him. The entire school, the faculty, and the stationed Aurors were entirely captivated by the confession playing out above them.

They listened in horrified, fascinated silence as the projected Lockhart detailed his cowardly avoidance of danger. They listened as he explicitly admitted to hunting down the true heroes, extracting their stories, and erasing their minds.

”...a simple Memory Charm. Poof! They forget they ever lifted a finger. I write the books, I provide the face the public desperately needs, and everyone is happy.”

The memory projection concluded its boast with a smug, self-satisfied chuckle.

The image held for a second, then dissolved back into swirling mist.

The deep, synthesized voice returned for the finale.

”This time, there will be Justice. You have used the Obliviation charm before to silence your victims. But can you really use it to silence an entire room? No. This time, you lose.”

The mist vanished entirely, leaving the Great Hall in a silence so profound you could hear a pin drop.

Then, pandemonium erupted.

Students began shouting, some in outrage, some in disbelief. The female Lockhart fan club looked as though they had just witnessed a murder.

Orion sat back, a serene, utterly satisfied smile on his face. The introduction was a stroke of genius, he noted mentally. It frames the memory as a deliberate act of whistleblowing from a hidden victim, completely masking the fact that it was extracted from a painting.

At the High Table, the reaction was instantaneous.

Snape looked like Christmas had come early, a rare, terrifying smirk curving his lips. McGonagall looked apoplectic with fury. Dumbledore remained seated, his face grave, his blue eyes sweeping the hall before settling thoughtfully on the mist’s origin point.

But the most important reaction came from the perimeter.

The trainee Aurors stationed at the ends of the tables didn’t hesitate. They were young, but they knew procedure.

Tonks, her hair currently a serious shade of regulation black, stood up from the Hufflepuff table, drawing her wand. Beside her, two others did the same. They moved swiftly toward the High Table, flanking Lockhart before he could even attempt to stand.

”Professor Lockhart,” Tonks announced, her voice ringing with newfound, authoritative steel. ”Please remain seated and keep your hands where we can see them.”

”This is an outrage!” Lockhart sputtered, his voice cracking. He tried to muster his usual charm, flashing a weak smile at Tonks. ”My dear girl, surely you don’t believe that... that parlor trick? It was clearly a dark hex! A prank by a jealous rival!”

”We do not determine guilt, sir,” One of the aurors said gruffly, stepping closer. ”But a public confession to multiple counts of unauthorized Obliviation and fraud is probable cause for detainment.”

”I refuse!” Lockhart shrieked, panic finally overriding his vanity. He reached for his pocket, his fingers grasping for his wand.

”Expelliarmus!” Tonks cast instantly.

Lockhart’s wand flew from his robes, clattering harmlessly onto the stone floor near Snape, who made absolutely no move to retrieve it for him.

”You have no proof!” Lockhart wailed, shrinking back into his chair as the Aurors surrounded him. ”Memories can be faked! That is inadmissible!”

”While it is true that memories are not definitive proof in a court of law,” The previous Auror stated calmly, citing Ministry protocol, ”in cases involving suspected, habitual Memory Charm abuse where physical evidence is absent, standard procedure mandates detainment and interrogation.”

He looked at the sweating, terrified fraud.

”You will be asked to voluntarily submit to Veritaserum questioning, Mr. Lockhart. If you are innocent, as you claim, the serum will prove it, and you will be released with apologies and the charges will be dropped immediately. Do you consent?”

Lockhart stared at the Auror, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror. Veritaserum would destroy him. He couldn’t lie under its influence. He couldn’t spin a narrative.

”I... I demand to speak to my lawyer!” Lockhart squeaked.

”Headmaster,” The auror turned to Dumbledore. ”Requesting permission to use the Floo Network to contact Madam Bones and Senior Auror Shacklebolt. This situation requires escalation to major crimes.”

”Permission granted, Auror Dumont,” Dumbledore said gravely.

Orion watched the scene unfold from the Slytherin table. He turned slightly, catching Daphne Greengrass’s eye. She was staring at Lockhart, her hands trembling, a fierce, victorious light in her blue eyes.

Orion leaned across the table, pitching his voice so only she could hear.

”Go,” Orion instructed softly, nodding toward the High Table. ”Push for your own part. Tell the Aurors you already had suspicions. Show them the diary. Offer it as a starting point for their investigation.”

He offered a sharp, encouraging smile.

”Go for the kill while the iron is hot, Daphne. Reclaim your uncle’s legacy.”

Daphne didn’t hesitate. She stood up, clutching her bag tightly, and marched toward the Headmaster’s desk with the rigid, terrifying posture of a pureblood heiress seeking blood.

While the arrest proceeded, Orion leaned back, picking up his cupcake. He was thoroughly enjoying the show. The fraud was exposed, and he had secured a major favor from the Greengrass family without lifting his wand.

But as he lifted the cup to his lips, he felt a prickle of awareness on the back of his neck.

He lowered the cup and scanned the room.

He noticed them immediately. Four pairs of eyes were fixed directly on him, cutting through the chaos of the Great Hall.

The first was Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster was watching him with a calm, penetrating gaze, the twinkle entirely absent.

The second was Minerva McGonagall. She looked from the dissipating mist to Orion, her brow furrowed in deep, troubled thought.

The third was Severus Snape. The Potions Master wasn’t glaring; he was simply observing his godson with a look of profound, exhausted resignation.

And the fourth...

Orion’s gaze shifted to the Gryffindor table.

Harry Potter was sitting dead still, ignoring the arrest happening twenty feet away from him. His green eyes were locked onto Orion, filled with a sudden, startling clarity.

Huh, Orion thought, a genuine flicker of surprise crossing his features. Has Potter actually managed to add two and two together and generate the answer four?

It seemed the Boy Who Lived was finally starting to recognize the pattern. The troll, the stone, the Basilisk, and now the miraculous, theatrical exposure of a fraud. The protagonist was beginning to realize that the ’evil Slytherin’ he hated was operating on a parameters he didn’t comprehend.

Amazing, Orion mused, a slow smirk returning to his face as he met Harry’s stare evenly. He’s evolving.

”Well,” Orion whispered to himself, setting his teacup down as Daphne reached the Aurors and presented the diary. ”Sooner or later, I suppose I am going to find myself sitting in that chintz armchair in the Headmaster’s office again.”

He dusted a non-existent crumb from his robes, preparing his mental defenses.

”Best prepare myself mentally for the interrogation. The old man is definitely going to ask questions this time.”