Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The transition from the Headmaster’s office to the bustling, grimy atmosphere of the Leaky Cauldron was instantaneous. The green flames spat them out into the pub’s main hearth.

Tom, the toothless, hunchbacked barkeep, paused mid-wipe of a glass. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the Headmaster, but widened significantly more when he recognized the dark-haired, recognizable teenager standing beside him.

”Headmaster Dumbledore! And young Mr. Malfoy!” Tom wheezed, offering a remarkably deep bow. ”An honor, an absolute honor. Can I get you a private parlor? A butterbeer?”

”Just passing through today, Tom, thank you,” Dumbledore smiled pleasantly, guiding Orion toward the back exit that led to the small, walled courtyard. ”Merely on my way for some personal work in the city.”

”Of course, Headmaster. Of course.”

They stepped out into the chill November air of the courtyard.

Dumbledore didn’t draw his wand to tap the bricks leading to Diagon Alley. Instead, he offered his arm to Orion.

”Side-Along Apparition, Orion,” Dumbledore instructed softly. ”Keep a firm grip. The destination is an alleyway near the entrance of St. Mungo’s.”

Orion grasped the Headmaster’s forearm. He braced himself for the bone-crushing squeeze, familiar with the sensation from his travels with Dobby.

CRACK.

The compression hit, dragging the air from his lungs, but Dumbledore’s Apparition was significantly smoother and less violent than an elf’s. A moment later, they materialized in a shadowed, damp alleyway in Muggle London, the roar of traffic from the nearby street filling their ears.

Dumbledore led him out of the alley and toward a large, incredibly ugly, red-brick department store labeled Purge & Dowse Ltd. It looked entirely abandoned, with a few chipped, neglected mannequins standing in the grimy display windows.

They approached the window. Dumbledore spoke clearly to an incredibly ugly dummy wearing a green nylon pinafore.

”Albus Dumbledore and Orion Malfoy, here to visit Sirius Black in the Creatures induced injuries ward.”

The dummy gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

Dumbledore stepped straight through the glass window, vanishing instantly. Orion followed without hesitation, passing through the cold, magical barrier and emerging into the chaotic, bustling reception area of St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries.

The transition from Muggle street to magical hospital was jarring. Witches and wizards in various states of magical disrepair crowded the wooden benches. Healers in lime-green robes rushed back and forth, carrying clipboards and vials of potion.

As they made their way toward the elevators, the reaction was immediate.

”Headmaster!” a passing Healer called out respectfully.

”Is that the Malfoy boy?” a wizard with a teapot stuck to his hand whispered loudly to his companion.

Orion ignored the stares and the hushed murmurs, maintaining his polite, unbothered facade. They entered the rickety elevator, Dumbledore pressing the button for the first floor.

The doors chimed open on the Creature-Induced Injuries ward. Dumbledore led the way down a quiet, heavily secured corridor. Two Aurors stood guard outside a heavy oak door at the very end. They nodded respectfully to the Headmaster and stepped aside.

As they approached the door, a loud, barking laugh echoed from within the room.

It was followed by a raspy, deeply amused voice, and the sounds of a rather aggressive, flirtatious banter.

”Come now, Helen,” the voice cajoled. ”Surely a healer of your exquisite talents can find a way to expedite this recovery process? A few less potions, a few more visits from you, and I’ll be back to my ruggedly handsome self by next Friday.”

”Mr. Black,” a sharp, exasperated female voice snapped back, ”I would like to advise you to allow me to work, and to stop getting in the way of my checkup. Your charm might have worked on the Dementors, but it has absolutely zero effect on my diagnostic charms.”

”Sheesh,” the male voice laughed again. ”Feisty enough to be a Gryffindor, are you?”

Dumbledore paused with his hand on the doorknob, his eyes twinkling madly as he glanced down at Orion. ”It appears Sirius is regaining his vitality rather quickly.”

Before Dumbledore could turn the handle, the door was yanked open from the inside.

A young Healer, her face flushed a brilliant shade of pink and her lips pressed into a thin line of profound irritation, huffed past them. She clutched a clipboard to her chest, muttering under her breath about ”insufferable, arrogant, pureblood convicts” as she marched down the corridor.

Dumbledore chuckled softly and pushed the door fully open.

The private room was bright and sterile. In the center, sitting propped up in a hospital bed, was Sirius Black.

He looked significantly better than the gaunt, terrifying photographs the Prophet had run in the summer. His matted hair had been washed and trimmed, his face was filling out, and the haunted, hollow look in his grey eyes was largely replaced by a manic, fiery energy.

Sitting in a chair beside the bed was Remus Lupin, looking deeply exasperated as he scolded his friend.

”Honestly, Sirius,” Lupin sighed, rubbing his forehead. ”Must you antagonize every medical professional who enters this room?”

Sitting on the other side of the bed, a massive, genuine smile on his face, was Harry Potter. He looked happier than Orion had ever seen him.

”Come on, Moony,” Sirius grinned, his teeth still slightly yellowed but his spirit unbroken. ”It gets boring in here, Remus! Twelve years with nothing but Dementors for company... surely they can cut me some slack. Besides, the girl was clearly enjoying it.”

”She looked ready to hex you into a bedpan,” Lupin retorted dryly.

Dumbledore stepped fully into the room. ”I do hope you are not causing an international incident in the recovery ward, Sirius.”

Sirius’s head snapped toward the door. The grin widened. ”Dumbledore! Excellent timing. I was just plotting a breakout from this sterile prison.”

He stopped talking as his grey eyes shifted past the Headmaster, landing squarely on Orion. The manic energy faded for a second, replaced by a sharp, calculating intensity that reminded Orion fiercely of his mother, Narcissa.

”Ah,” Sirius murmured, sitting up slightly straighter. ”So this is the young man who managed to orchestrate my freedom.”

Sirius swung his legs over the side of the bed, ignoring Lupin’s protest to lie back down. He looked at Orion with a mixture of profound disbelief and undeniable, grudging respect.

”I must admit,” Sirius said, his voice dropping the playful tone, ”when Remus told me the whole story in the Shrieking Shack on that first night... I was shocked beyond belief. Stunned.”

He let out a short, harsh bark of a laugh that held no humor.

”Freedom, I will admit, was not my first thought,” Sirius confessed, his eyes darkening with the memory of his twelve-year obsession. ”All I wanted was to nab that cowardly, sniveling traitor and kill him myself. I didn’t care about a trial. At least if I ripped his throat out, I would have finally been arrested for something I actually did, and not rotting in a cell on false charges while he slept in a warm bed.”

”Revenge hardly helps, Sirius,” Dumbledore interjected softly, moving closer to the bed. ”You know that better than anyone now. You chose to chase after Peter in a blind rage instead of coming to me, or to the Aurors, and explaining your situation. If I had known of the switch in Secret Keeper...”

Dumbledore sighed, a heavy, sorrowful sound. ”...maybe the last twelve years would have been entirely different. Maybe.”

Sirius flinched slightly at the gentle reprimand, looking away for a second before his gaze snapped back to Orion.

”Anyways,” Sirius continued, shaking his head. ”Like I said, I was shocked when Remus told me the truth of the capture. That Cissy’s son—a thirteen-year-old Slytherin—was the reason for capturing Peter. And that Lucius bloody Malfoy... of all people... was the one helping to exonerate me in the Wizengamot.”

Sirius let out a long, incredulous whistle.

”But now, seeing the papers...” Sirius pointed a finger at Orion’s chest, where the medal would hang during official functions. ”With you becoming the youngest Order of Merlin holder in history, and Lucius’s ego riding high in the sky... I kind of understand why he would do it.”

Sirius offered a wry, cynical smirk.

”He must have orchestrated the entire political narrative behind closed doors. Flown gold around like confetti. Bribed half the Wizengamot to ensure the ’heroic Malfoy’ narrative stuck.”

He raised his hands defensively as Dumbledore opened his mouth to protest.

”Not saying you didn’t deserve it, kiddo,” Sirius added quickly, looking directly at Orion. ”You caught the rat. You basically saved my life from being sucked by a dementor. I know that. Just saying... an Order of Merlin back in my school days would never have been handed out so smoothly without a massive political machine pushing it through.”

Orion maintained his polite, impassive facade, though internally, he was incredibly amused by Sirius’s accurate assessment of Lucius’s methods.

”No offense taken, Mr. Black,” Orion replied smoothly, his voice calm and melodic. ”You know how money and influence move the world. The mechanics of justice often require... lubrication.”

Sirius barked another laugh, this one genuine. He slapped his knee. ”Merlin, you are definitely a Slytherin. You sound just like your mother used to when she was winning an argument.”

He sobered, looking at Harry, then back to Orion. The gratitude in his eyes was raw and unfiltered.

”Whatever the case may be,” Sirius said softly, leaning forward. ”Thanks, kiddo. Truly.”

He gestured toward Harry, who was watching the exchange with a complex, unreadable expression.

”Since I can now talk to Harry freely,” Sirius continued, his voice thick with emotion. ”And since I will soon be able to walk the magical world freely, as a recognized, innocent man...”

Sirius Black offered a solemn, undeniable nod to the young Slytherin.

”...I owe you one.”

Orion held the Marauder’s gaze, acknowledging the immense, unspoken weight of a debt from the Last scion of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black.

”No problem, Mr. Black,” Orion said smoothly, offering a polite, final bow. ”I was glad to help.”