Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The heavy, metallic scent of rain hung in the air as Hagrid slowly coaxed the terrified class back to the paddock fence. The near-miss with Draco had thoroughly shattered the idyllic illusion of the lesson; the students now looked at the magnificent beasts with the healthy, fearful respect they deserved.

Orion didn’t retreat with the rest of the Slytherins. He stood his ground near the front, watching Buckbeak. The Hippogriff was still pacing restlessly, its orange eyes glaring at the spot where Draco had been.

”The absolute audacity,” Buckbeak grumbled telepathically, clicking his beak sharply. ”I demand satisfaction. A duel at dawn. Or at least a very large, fresh ferret as recompense.”

Orion stepped forward, moving with deliberate, unhurried grace. He stopped at the required distance and offered a deep, formal bow, keeping his eyes fixed on the creature.

Buckbeak stopped pacing. He stared at the dark-haired boy, assessing him.

”Well, at least this one understands protocol,” the Hippogriff sniffed, lowering his massive, feathery head into a stiff, reciprocating bow.

Orion slowly closed the distance, raising a hand and gently stroking the soft feathers near the base of the creature’s beak.

”My apologies for the disturbance, my lord,” Orion murmured softly, ensuring only the beast—and Hagrid, who was watching with wide, surprised eyes—could hear him. ”My brother is a creature of habit, and his habits are incredibly rude. He lacks the refinement to appreciate true majesty.”

Buckbeak let out a soft, trilling sound, leaning into the touch. ”Apology accepted, small human. Your groveling is adequate. Now, scratch slightly to the left. Yes, right there.”

”He likes yeh, Orion,” Hagrid beamed, clearly relieved that the lesson hadn’t ended in a complete disaster. ”Yeh got a real way with ’em. Just like with Fluffy.”

”They just appreciate good manners, Mr. Hagrid,” Orion said smoothly, giving Buckbeak one last scratch before stepping back.

The rest of the lesson proceeded without incident, though the students were exceptionally polite to the beasts.

That evening, the atmosphere in the third-year dormitory was strained.

Draco sat cross-legged on his bed, nursing his perfectly healthy shoulder and muttering darkly about ’dangerous oafs’ and ’incompetent staff’.

”I’m telling Father,” Draco declared, glaring at his pillow. ”He’ll have that beast executed. And Hagrid sacked. It’s unacceptable.”

Orion, sitting on his bed reviewing a rune matrix, didn’t even look up.

”You will do no such thing, Draco,” Orion said, his voice cold and flat, slicing through Draco’s self-righteous anger.

Draco bristled. ”Why not?! It nearly took my head off!”

”Because it was entirely your own fault,” Orion stated, finally turning to face his twin. ”Hagrid gave explicit instructions on how to approach the creature. Instructions you blatantly ignored to show off in front of Potter. You insulted a dangerous magical beast to its face. The fact that you aren’t currently headless is a testament to my reflexes, not your survival skills.”

He held up a hand as Draco opened his mouth to argue.

”If you complain to Father, and he investigates, the entire class will testify that you acted like a fool. You will look weak, Draco. You will look like a spoiled child who cried to his parents because he couldn’t follow simple directions. Do you want that reputation?”

Draco’s mouth snapped shut. His face flushed a dull red, the logic piercing his vanity. He glared at Orion for a long moment, then muttered something highly uncomplimentary under his breath and flopped backward onto his mattress, drawing the curtains with a sharp, angry tug.

Orion sighed, turning back to his runes. He is exhausting, Orion thought. But manageable.

The following two weeks fell into a rigorous academic rhythm.

The introduction of new electives proved to be a refreshing challenge. Study of Ancient Runes, taught by Professor Babbling, was exactly the kind of structured, theoretical puzzle Orion craved. His extensive independent study meant he breezed through the introductory translation exercises, earning several confused but impressed looks from the professor.

Defense Against the Dark Arts, conversely, began as a slow, methodical assessment.

Professor Lupin did not start with flashy duels or dangerous creatures. He spent the first few classes quietly, almost gently, quizzing the third-years on their foundational knowledge.

”It seems your practical instruction over the last two years has been... somewhat inconsistent, just like every other year students,” Lupin noted wryly during their second lesson, reviewing the results of a diagnostic quiz. ”Professor Quirrell focused heavily on theory, and Professor Lockhart focused heavily on... himself. We shall have to rebuild the foundation.”

It was a sensible approach, and Orion appreciated the man’s competence, even if he was someone who needed a wardrobe upgrade.

The only genuinely amusing aspect of the first two weeks was the impossible schedule of Hermione Granger.

She was everywhere. She would appear in Arithmancy, sitting next to Padma Patil, and then, five minutes later, Orion would see her rushing into Care of Magical Creatures on the other side of the castle, looking slightly breathless and disheveled. She materialized in corridors as if popping out of thin air, often startling her classmates.

”She’s going to snap,” Orion spoke softly to Sparkle as he watched Hermione frantically searching her bag for a textbook she had clearly left in a different timeline. ”A mind as brilliant as hers, yet she entirely fails to understand basic physical and psychological limitations. Relying on a Time-Turner to take every elective is a recipe for a nervous breakdown, or at least a burnout.”

”Well, that is Hermione Granger for you,” Sparkle spoke, as if it were entirely normal. ”That’s literally the girl who considers expulsion, worse than death.”

But academic burnout was a problem for later. Today, a far more pressing and anticipated event was scheduled.

It was Thursday afternoon. The third-year Slytherins and Gryffindors were gathered in the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.

The desks had been pushed to the edges of the room, leaving a wide, open space in the center.

Standing in the middle of the room was an old, battered wardrobe. It was shaking violently, heavy thuds echoing from inside as if someone—or something—was desperately trying to break out. The brass handle rattled aggressively.

Professor Lupin stood near the wardrobe, his shabby robes hanging loosely on his frame, a mild, encouraging smile on his scarred face.

”Intriguing, isn’t it?” Lupin asked, his eyes scanning the nervous faces of the students. ”Would anyone care to venture a guess as to what is inside?”