Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

Cornelius Fudge, beaming so widely his face looked in danger of splitting, lifted the heavy gold medal from the velvet box.

Orion dipped his head, a graceful, practiced motion. The vibrant emerald-green ribbon slipped over his neck, the cool, weighty gold of the Order of Merlin, First Class settling perfectly against the midnight-blue silk of his robes.

He straightened up, turning to face the sprawling, packed expanse of the Ministry Atrium.

The applause was thunderous. It rolled through the vast hall like a physical wave. Several wizards and witches toward the back of the crowd raised their wands, firing celebratory sparks high into the air. They exploded near the enchanted ceiling in brilliant, cascading showers of Slytherin green.

Orion caught Dumbledore’s eye. The Headmaster was applauding, his expression of genuine congratulation and pride. Lucius Malfoy looked as though he had conquered the world, while Draco was practically vibrating with secondhand glory, ensuring he was standing at the perfect angle for the massive, floating projection screens.

It was the pinnacle of public validation. Orion raised a hand in a modest, measured wave, playing the part of the humble prodigy to absolute perfection.

But beneath the roar of the crowd, the sharp, trained ear of a strategist picked up a dissonance.

There was a shout near the back of the Atrium. Then another. They were not shouts of celebration.

Orion maintained his impeccable poker face, but he subtly shifted his gaze toward the perimeter of the crowd, where the Ministry security details were stationed.

The Aurors were moving. The stoic, unmoving line of red-robed guards had suddenly broken formation. Several of them were holding their wands up, looking down at their chests. Small, silver badges pinned to their lapels were pulsing with a harsh, frantic white light.

Emergency recall, Orion diagnosed instantly. A mass alert.

Fudge noticed the commotion a second later. His smile faltered slightly, but the politician’s instinct kicked in immediately to suppress the panic.

He stepped forward, raising his hands and casting a quick Sonorus.

”Please, ladies and gentlemen, enjoy the celebration!” Fudge boomed, his voice echoing over the growing murmur of confusion. ”There is no cause for alarm. It is merely customary for our brave Auror department to prioritize their duties and respond to minor logistical alerts. Nothing to be concerned about!”

Despite the Minister’s assurances, the tension in the room spiked.

Two high-ranking Ministry officials flanked the podium, gesturing discreetly to the Malfoy family. ”Lord Malfoy, Mr. Malfoy. Please, if you would follow us back to the Minister’s office. A brief... administrative pause.”

Orion offered a brief nod to the crowd and turned away, his hand resting lightly over the heavy gold medal on his chest.

Something is catastrophically wrong, Orion concluded as they were hastily ushered out of the Atrium and back into the private corridors. Aurors don’t trigger mass alerts for ’logistical’ issues during a highly publicized medal ceremony.

They were escorted back into Fudge’s opulent office. The heavy doors clicked shut, muffling the distant noise of the Atrium.

Fudge entered a moment later, looking distinctly peaky, the jovial bravado entirely stripped away. He paced behind his desk, dabbing his sweating forehead with a handkerchief. Dolores Umbridge stood rigidly in the corner, clutching her clipboard, her face scrunched into a poker face.

Dumbledore arrived next, stepping through the door with an unnatural, terrifying stillness. The twinkle was completely gone from his eyes.

The room waited in suffocating silence for five agonizing minutes.

The fireplace roared, and Amelia Bones stepped out of the green flames.

She looked devastated. The sharp, unyielding Head of the DMLE seemed to have aged a decade in the span of half an hour. She was breathing heavily, her monocle slightly askew, her dark cloak dusted with ash.

She looked around the room, her gaze passing over the Malfoys and Dumbledore, before letting out a long, shuddering sigh that conveyed absolute disaster.

”Amelia?” Fudge asked, his voice trembling. ”What is it? A riot in Diagon Alley?”

”Pettigrew has escaped,” Amelia stated flatly, the words dropping like stones onto a glass table.

Fudge’s jaw dropped. ”Escaped? How?! He was en route to Azkaban! He was surrounded by Aurors!”

”He reached the island, Minister,” Amelia said, her voice hard and bitter. ”But the transfer failed. The Dementors guarding Azkaban... they went on a rampage.”

Dumbledore stiffened, taking a slow step forward. ”A rampage? Unprovoked?”

”Complete chaos,” Amelia confirmed, rubbing her face tiredly. ”A mass panic event on the island. We are still compiling the casualty lists, but preliminary reports indicate several of the inmates and at least two of the transferring Aurors were Kissed during the confusion, among others.”

Lucius inhaled sharply, pulling Draco closer to him.

”Pettigrew escaped during the chaos,” Amelia continued, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unadulterated dread. ”But... it is much, much worse than a single fugitive.”

She looked directly at Dumbledore, the horror stark in her eyes.

”Pettigrew, upon securing his freedom, did not simply flee the island to save his own skin. He utilized the absolute breakdown in security. He got inside the maximum-security wing. He managed to open the cells of several high-profile criminals before finally escaping the perimeter.”

Orion closed his eyes. He didn’t need to hear the names. He knew exactly who Peter Pettigrew, desperate and seeking favor with a bodiless Dark Lord, would choose to liberate.

”Who?” Dumbledore asked, his voice cold as ice.

”The Lestranges,” Amelia listed, her voice shaking slightly. ”Bellatrix, Rodolphus, and Rabastan. Augustus Rookwood. Antonin Dolohov. They are all out, Albus. They are all out of Azkaban.”

Draco whimpered. Lucius stood paralyzed, his face entirely drained of color.

Orion kept his eyes closed. He utilized his Level 2 Mind Arts with brutal efficiency, slamming the iron doors of his Occlumency shields shut, locking his facial features into a mask of calm, collected shock suitable for a child hearing bad news.

But inside the fortified vault of his mind, absolute, raging chaos erupted.

”Fuck you, Sparkle,” Orion screamed internally, his mental voice tearing through the digital space. ”Fuck you and your damned Protagonist Halo!”

”Hey!” Sparkle’s interface manifested, flashing defensively in a harsh, bright red. ”It’s not like I personally marched over to Azkaban and opened the cell doors! The Halo is not this blatant! It bends probability; it doesn’t mind-control Dementors! This was the result of your own actions!”

”Fuck it, Sparkle, I don’t care about the semantics!” Orion roared back, pacing furiously within his own consciousness while his physical body remained perfectly still in the Minister’s office.

”You captured Pettigrew early! You altered the timeline! The Halo did not even have to lift a finger, the scales were already tilted beyond measure!” Sparkle argued back.

”Bloody Bellatrix Lestrange is out of Azkaban!” Orion interrupted, the sheer, terrifying reality of the situation crushing down on him. ”She is out two years early! And worse... she is out without Voldemort here to control her!”

He stopped pacing, staring at the digital blue screen.

”The Dark Lord is a wraith,” Orion reasoned frantically. ”He cannot hold a wand. He cannot cast the Cruciatus Curse. He cannot command a room. Bellatrix Lestrange without a master to leash her madness is not a Death Eater... she is a live, psychotic, walking weapon of mass destruction on permanent berserk mode!”

He knew what this meant. The quiet, shadowy hunt for Horcruxes he had planned for his Third and Fourth years was going to be heavily altered. The board had been flipped, the pieces scattered, and the most dangerous, unpredictable zealots in magical history were now roaming free, angry, and looking for vengeance.

Orion slowly opened his physical eyes, looking at the heavy gold Order of Merlin resting against his chest. It felt like a tombstone.

Fuck my life, Orion sighed deeply, offering a small, appropriate grimace of worry to the room at large. Can this possibly get any worse?