Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

”Are you absolutely certain, Remus?” Dumbledore asked, his voice a low, commanding rumble. His gaze was fixed on the rat, his blue eyes stripping away the layers of the animal form to see the magic beneath.

”I am certain,” Lupin replied, his voice hard. ”I could identify that cowardly behavior anywhere. The missing toe. The specific lifespan. And the sheer, unadulterated panic in its eyes when I called him by his name.”

Dumbledore leaned back slowly, steepling his fingers. ”Unregistered Animagi. To achieve such a feat in your fifth year... it speaks to an extraordinary level of talent. And an extraordinary level of recklessness.”

”We were arrogant,” Lupin admitted, looking down at his hands. ”We planned to register after the war. But then... the prophecy. The hiding. And Halloween.”

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment. He looked at the cage, then at Lupin.

”The official Ministry report stated that Sirius cornered Peter on a crowded Muggle street,” Dumbledore recounted softly. ”That Peter shouted an accusation regarding the Potters’ betrayal, and that Sirius responded by blasting the street apart, killing twelve Muggles and obliterating Peter entirely.”

He paused, the heavy weight of regret settling in his voice. ”Only a finger remained.”

”A severed finger,” Lupin whispered. ”A finger he cut off himself to fake his death before transforming and escaping into the sewers.”

”The war really complicated things back then, Remus,” Dumbledore sighed, rubbing his forehead. ”We were all so eager for justice... so eager for closure... we accepted the simplest, most brutal narrative.”

”But if Peter remained in hiding for the past twelve years,” Lupin reasoned, stepping closer to the desk, ”it means he is terrified. Terrified that the exact truth of the deaths of the twelve muggles might come out, and that Sirius was innocent of that crime. Or...”

Lupin looked at Dumbledore, a spark of desperate hope igniting in his chest.

”...there is a high chance it is related to that night at Godric’s Hollow. If Sirius was not the Secret Keeper. If Peter was...”

Dumbledore nodded slowly, the implications cascading through his mind. ”Then Sirius Black has spent twelve years in Azkaban for crimes he did not commit.”

Dumbledore turned his attention back to the cage. ”And he has been hiding with the Weasley family. A brilliant cover. A magical family, access to news, but largely overlooked.”

He looked up, shifting his gaze past Lupin to the boy leaning against the bookcase.

”And how, exactly, was this phenomenal discovery made?” Dumbledore asked. ”I assume Mr. Malfoy’s presence here is not merely coincidental.”

Lupin coughed awkwardly into his fist. ”Well. Orion... received a gift from a cat. Miss Granger’s cat, specifically. He brought it to me for inspection, fearing that Mr. Weasley might accuse him of being a rat-killer if he was found with the body.”

Lupin paused, grimacing as he heard the words come out of his own mouth. He knew exactly how absurd it sounded.

Dumbledore’s mustache twitched violently. He looked at Orion, his eyes twinkling with bright, unrestrained amusement.

”A gift from a cat,” Dumbledore repeated mildly. ”I see. And you feared accusations of rodent assassination, Orion?”

Lupin shook his head, looking at Orion with profound exasperation. ”We are not using that reasoning, Orion. It does not sound well enough. It sounds like a poor excuse for a prank.”

Orion shrugged gracefully, pushing off the bookcase. ”I prefer to call it a convenient narrative shortcut. But if you desire something more robust for the official Ministry report...”

He stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back.

”Then how about saying: I researched the past. I noticed the unnatural lifespan of the Weasley pet, combined with the physical anomaly of the missing toe, which perfectly matched the missing digit of a presumed-dead war hero. I managed to uncover it with my own deductions.”

Orion offered a slick, confident smile.

”With you and the Headmaster backing my intellectual capabilities, no one in the Ministry is going to question it. My reputation for uncovering obscure truths is already firmly established. We can keep Crookshanks’s involvement completely secret.”

Lupin sighed, running a hand over his face. It was arrogant, it was manipulative, and it was absolutely flawless logic.

”I suppose,” Lupin conceded tiredly.

”Orion’s track record makes it very much believable,” Dumbledore agreed, the twinkle remaining in his eye. ”We shall go with that. A triumph of deductive reasoning.”

Before they could finalize the details of the lie, a sharp, frantic knocking echoed from the heavy oak door.

”Enter,” Dumbledore called out.

The door swung open. Hermione Granger stood there, looking flushed and terrified. Behind her stood Ron Weasley, looking incredibly confused, and Percy Weasley, looking severe and annoyed at being pulled from his Head Boy duties. Harry Potter brought up the rear, his hand resting instinctively near his wand pocket.

And stepping through the door behind the students, looking as though she was preparing for a war, was Professor McGonagall.

McGonagall immediately zeroed in on Dumbledore.

”Albus,” she stated briskly. ”I was wondering what was so incredibly urgent that Miss Granger felt the need to pull Potter and two Weasleys from the dinner table in a panic. So, I tagged along.”

Her sharp gaze swept the room. It landed on Lupin, then on the iron cage on the desk.

Finally, it landed on Orion Malfoy, standing calmly near the center of the room.

McGonagall stopped. Her severe expression crumbled for a fraction of a second, replaced by the exact same look of profound, exhausted resignation that Dumbledore had worn earlier.

”Merlin’s beard, Malfoy,” McGonagall breathed, pinching the bridge of her nose. ”I do hope this time we do not have another monster bigger than a Basilisk discovered lurking in the broom cupboards.”

Orion smirked, a genuine, chaotic light in his blue eyes.

”It is not a giant monster, Professor,” Orion replied politely, gesturing toward the iron cage on the desk. ”In fact, it is quite small. So small, it has been roaming right under everyone’s noses for the past twelve years.”

McGonagall blinked, utterly confused by the riddle. She looked at the cage, recognizing the fat, grey rat cowering inside.

”A rat?” she asked, her brow furrowing. ”Mr. Weasley’s rat? What on earth...”

Lupin stepped forward, placing a hand protectively on the iron cage. He looked at his former Transfiguration professor, his face somber and heavy with the weight of a shattered history.

”I am sorry, Minerva,” Lupin said quietly, his voice echoing in the sudden silence of the office. ”But this is probably worse than any Basilisk could ever be.”