Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The dining room of Malfoy Manor was usually a masterclass in quiet, aristocratic elegance. Tonight, however, the silence was so thick and suffocating it felt as though someone had cast an Imperturbable Charm over the entire room.

Orion sat comfortably, casually cutting into a tender, herb-crusted lamb cutlet. He chewed slowly, utilizing his Universal Sense in the background to quietly map the room’s tension.

It was utterly hilarious.

Across the long, polished mahogany table, Narcissa sat upright, cutting her roasted asparagus with prim, mechanical precision. To an outsider, she appeared the very picture of high-society composure, but Orion could see the razor-thin tension in her jaw. Her eyes flicked across the table with every clink of silver against porcelain, coiled like a serpent waiting to strike if anyone made a wrong move.

Lucius, beside her, was faring significantly worse. The Patriarch of the House of Malfoy was desperately trying to maintain his haughty, unimpressed sneer. He was failing miserably. His spine was rigid, his knuckles white around the stem of his wine goblet, and his pale grey eyes were fixed stubbornly on his plate.

The most telling sign of his absolute humiliation, however, was the seating arrangement itself.

Lucius was not sitting at the head of his own dining table.

That seat—the high-backed, silver-crested throne of the Malfoy family—was currently occupied by Bellatrix Lestrange.

She was sprawled across the chair with complete, insolent disregard for pureblood etiquette. One heavily booted foot was tucked under her thigh, her dark, tailored robes pooling around her, and she was casually twirling an ornate silver butter knife between her long fingers, watching the room with heavy-lidded, manic amusement.

Beside Orion, Draco looked as though he was on the verge of spontaneous cardiac arrest. Every time Bellatrix breathed too loudly or shifted her knife, Draco gave a microscopic, terrified flinch, his fork clattering against his plate.

Orion took another bite of lamb, chewing with deliberate, slightly exaggerated loudness. The crunch of the crust echoed like a firecracker in the tomb-like silence.

Lucius twitched. Draco froze entirely.

Orion swallowed smoothly, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and looked straight down the length of the table toward the woman sitting in his father’s chair.

"Say, Aunt Bella," Orion asked, his voice easy, conversational, and entirely devoid of fear. "Where are the others right now? You know... Dolohov, Rookwood, your husband, for that matter?"

Draco choked on his pumpkin juice, coughing violently into his napkin. Lucius looked as if he was about to faint.

Bellatrix paused her knife-twirling. The blade stopped, balanced precisely on the tip of her forefinger. Her dark eyes snapped toward Orion, a wild, sharp spark igniting in their depths.

"Out and about," Bellatrix drawled, her voice a raspy, dismissive purr. "Scouring the countryside. Searching for the Dark Lord, securing safe houses, managing their miserable little lives."

"You didn’t want them here at the Manor?" Orion inquired mildly, picking up his goblet. "I’m sure Father has plenty of guest suites to spare."

Lucius looked ready to vomit.

Bellatrix let out a sharp, mocking laugh that made the crystal chandelier above chime nervously.

"Too much to handle," Bellatrix scoffed, rolling her eyes with theatrical disgust. "All of them are so terribly, dreadfully stupid. The moment I look at Rodolphus or Antonin, I get the overwhelming, uncontrollable urge to cast a Cruciatus Curse on each and every one of them just to make them stop talking."

She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the mahogany, the silver knife held loosely in her palm.

"Without the Dark Lord here to direct their pathetic little efforts, I would rather not deal with their presence at all," she sneered. "It is much better to let them run themselves ragged playing search hounds across the moors while I enjoy the comforts of Cissy’s home."

"A remarkably sound division of labor," Orion smiled, taking a sip of his wine. "Well, I am certainly glad you chose to grace us with your company instead. By the way... where are you sleeping?"

Bellatrix lifted her chin, fixing him with an arrogant, daring smirk. "Your father is not nearly brave enough to dismantle my private quarters in the West Wing just because I was away on an extended holiday in Azkaban. Does that surprise you, godson?"

"Not at all," Orion replied smoothly, shooting a brief, amused glance toward Lucius, who looked like a man being slowly crushed by an invisible boulder. "I’m just mildly amused you didn’t kick Father entirely out of the master bedroom. It seems like a missed opportunity for theatrical dominance."

Narcissa bit the inside of her lip, deliberately looking down at her plate to hide what was undoubtedly a tremor of a smile. Lucius closed his eyes, his breathing shallow and furious, but he dared not speak.

Bellatrix barked a laugh, genuinely delighted by the insolence. "Oh, don’t tempt me, little star. The night is still young."

"Speaking of the night," Orion set his goblet down, leaning his elbows on the table and matching her posture. "I was actually hoping we could have a proper, extended conversation. Away from the suffocating decorum of the dining hall."

Bellatrix raised a delicate, arched eyebrow. "Were you now?"

"How about an all-nighter in your quarters?" Orion proposed, his tone dropping into an enticing, conspiratorial register. "I would love to hear all about your Azkaban exploits. The warding, the security, the thrilling weather on the North Sea. I find the architectural logistics of high-security prisons fascinating."

Bellatrix tilted her head, clearly intrigued by the request, but her eyes held a challenge. "And what could a thirteen-year-old schoolboy possibly offer me in exchange for my memoirs?"

Orion’s smile turned into a slow, razor-sharp smirk.

"In return," Orion said, his voice dropping an octave, carrying an undeniable, magnetic weight across the silent room, "I could tell you about my own adventures at Hogwarts. The unedited version. The version the Ministry and the newspapers were too cowardly to print."

He leaned in slightly, his indigo eyes locking onto hers with unwavering intensity.

"I am sure you would be profoundly entertained to hear the precise, detailed breakdown of how I soundly defeated Harry Potter in a lethal, high-stakes duel right outside the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets."

Bellatrix went utterly, completely motionless.

"I disarmed him, bound him, and left him flat on his back in a puddle before he could even blink," Orion added casually, as if recounting the weather. "I even kept the Daily Prophet clipping of his public humiliation. Framed it, actually."

The silence in the dining room became absolute.

Bellatrix Lestrange didn’t move. Her manic smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated, microscopic analysis. Her dark eyes dilated, fixed entirely on the thirteen-year-old boy sitting across from her.

Inside his mind, Orion leaned back, a triumphant smirk spreading across his mental consciousness.

Hook, line, and sinker.

"Oh, you magnificent, manipulative bastard!" Sparkle’s voice erupted in his head, her digital waveform practically dancing with fireworks. "You absolutely nailed it! The familiar bond just spiked by at least fifteen percent!"

"You think so?" Orion thought back calmly.

"Of course! Think about who she is!" Sparkle cackled. "The Dark Lord, the absolute pinnacle of magical power in her twisted, fanatical worldview, was famously struck down by Harry Potter as a mere infant. For twelve years in Azkaban, she has festered on the humiliation of the ’Boy Who Lived’ defeating her master. It’s a psychological scar on the entire Death Eater ideology."

The progress bar of the familiar bond pulsed with an intense, radiant silver light.

"And now? Her dark-haired, handsome godson—a true Black in her eyes—casually drops the fact that he faced down that very same Savior in single combat, dismantled him, and stepped on his chest before his second year was even over. Illogical as it may be to standard minds, in Bella’s warped, power-worshipping psyche, that singular feat elevates you above the Dark Lord on at least one historic metric. You conquered the one thing Tom Riddle couldn’t touch."

Bellatrix slowly lowered the butter knife, placing it flat against the mahogany. Her lips parted, a slow, wild, utterly breath-taking smile curling her pale mouth.

"Harry Potter," Bellatrix whispered, the name rolling off her tongue like dark velvet. She looked at Orion not as a child, but as an awakening anomaly of pure blood and raw dominance. "On his back... in a puddle?"

"Crying, practically," Orion confirmed smoothly, picking up his fork again. "Shall we say ten o’clock, Aunt Bella? I’ll bring the clipping."

Bellatrix let out a low, purring laugh that made the fine hairs on Draco’s neck stand straight up.

"Ten o’clock, my dear godson," Bellatrix breathed, her dark eyes glittering with a terrifying, newfound obsession. "Do not be late."

Orion smiled, taking another bite of his lamb. Tonight was going to be exceptionally productive.