Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The silence in the East Wing of Malfoy Manor was absolute, heavy with the oppressive weight of a fortress preparing for a siege.

Orion lay flat on his back on his massive four-poster bed, staring up at the painted ceiling. The fat, Renaissance-style cherub was currently hovering near the molding, playing a silent, gilded harp.

Orion hated that cherub. He hated this room. He hated the damp, miserable country of Britain. He hated the magical world, with its broken justice system and its reliance on school children to solve its crises. He hated the universe that constantly threw a bulldozer sized wrench in every issue he tries to take advantage of.

But above all else, with a burning, intense passion that rivaled the heat of Fiendfyre, he hated Peter fucking Pettigrew.

”I should have killed him,” Orion muttered into the quiet darkness of the room, his voice a low, raspy whisper. ”I had him in a jar. I had him by the scruff of the neck. I could have snapped his neck with a flick of my wrist and vanished the body into the void. It would have been clean. It would have been easy.”

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples furiously.

”But no. I had to go for the political leverage. I had to go for the stupid, shiny medal.”

He was beginning to understand, with a profound, bitter clarity, the motivations of the people he usually mocked.

He sympathized with Sirius Black and Harry Potter. He finally understood the visceral, overwhelming urge to hunt down a cowardly, sniveling rat and blast him into a thousand pieces regardless of the legal consequences.

And he sympathized with Albus Dumbledore. The Headmaster had off-handedly said that the Order of Merlin was a flimsy note of respect, meaningless without the actions to back it up. Dumbledore was right. The heavy gold medal, currently hanging on a velvet display mount on Orion’s bedside table, looked impressive, but it was practically useless in the face of a psychotic prison break. It wasn’t a shield. It wouldn’t stop a Killing Curse from Bellatrix Lestrange.

It was just a piece of metal bought with the freedom of mass murderers.

Orion let out a long, shuddering sigh, opening his eyes to glare at the cherub again.

The soft click of his bedroom door opening broke his bitter reverie.

He didn’t jump. He turned his head slowly.

Narcissa Malfoy slipped into the room. She was prepared for bed, her blonde hair unpinned and cascading down her back, wrapped in a soft, pale blue silk shawl. She looked incredibly tired, the elegant, aristocratic mask she had worn all day at the Ministry finally set aside.

She walked quietly over to the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress near his hip.

”Congratulations, Orion,” Narcissa said softly, her voice barely a whisper. She reached out and gently smoothed a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. ”Your father and I are very, very proud of you. The award is a monumental achievement.”

She offered a sad, weary smile. ”It really was a tragedy that the news broke right when you were on stage. They stole your moment.”

Orion sat up, pushing the duvet aside and crossing his legs. He didn’t care about the moment.

”I am fine, Mother,” Orion replied, his voice steady. He looked at her, noting the faint shadows under her eyes. ”But how are you? You must be incredibly worried. It is Aunt Bella who escaped.”

Narcissa sighed, a heavy sound that seemed to carry years of repressed grief and terror. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders, looking away from him, toward the dark window.

”I am not worried for myself, Orion,” Narcissa admitted, her voice trembling slightly. She turned her blue eyes back to him, filled with a fierce, terrified protectiveness. ”I am worried for you.”

Orion blinked, genuinely confused. ”Me? What does she have to do with me and Draco? Other than the fact that she is our aunt, of course. She’s a fanatic, yes, but we are purebloods. We are her family.”

”For Draco, yes. That is all she is. An aunt. A distant, terrifying relative he has never met,” Narcissa agreed, her hands wringing the edge of her shawl.

She took a deep, shaky breath, her eyes locking onto his.

”But for you, Orion... it is different.”

Narcissa hesitated, clearly struggling to voice a secret she had buried for thirteen years.

”I never mentioned this before, because I hoped I would never have to,” Narcissa whispered, the words tumbling out in a rush of anxiety. ”But she is designated as your godmother in the official Ministry archives at your birth, Orion.”

Orion froze. The air in the room seemed to vanish.

”Huh?” Orion gaped, the sheer, staggering absurdity of the statement breaking his usually flawless composure. ”Bellatrix Lestrange is my godmother?!”

”Oh, this timeline is just actively trolling you now,” Sparkle gasped in his mind.

”Yes,” Narcissa confirmed, her face pale. ”I think it is high time to inform you of this, given the current... circumstances.”

She leaned forward, her expression intense, searching his face.

”Have you never wondered, Orion,” Narcissa asked softly, the question hanging in the quiet room, ”why your father even chose to have a godfather enlisted for you in the first place? Have you never thought it strange that we participated in what is, essentially, a Muggle tradition?”