Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever Chapter 98 98: The Rogue Bludger and The Limitations of Hard

Saturday morning broke over the Scottish Highlands with a sky the color of bruised iron. The wind howled across the Great Lake, whipping the water into a frenzy and carrying the promise of a freezing, miserable afternoon.

To the student body, this was perfect Quidditch weather.

Orion Malfoy stood near the entrance of the stadium, wrapping his thick, silver-trimd cloak tighter around himself. He watched the sea of green and silver scarves surge up the wooden stairs toward the Slytherin stands.

"It's going to be a massacre," Pansy Parkinson shrieked happily, her cheeks pink from the cold as she linked arms with Millicent Bulstrode. "Draco looks incredible in his gear."

Orion joined his usual collective: Pansy, Millicent, Crabbe, Goyle, Daphne Greengrass, Tracey Davis, Theodore Nott, and Blaise Zabini. They secured a pri block of seats near the center of the pitch, offering a clear, unobstructed view of the goalposts.

Orion sat down, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He wasn't there for the school spirit; he was there for the data.

"He does look focused," Daphne noted, nodding toward the pitch where Draco was currently doing warm-up laps on his sleek black Nimbus 2001, executing sharp turns that drew cheers from their section.

"Focus is relative," Orion murmured, his gaze shifting to the Gryffindor end of the pitch.

Harry Potter erged, holding his older Nimbus 2000. He looked small against the vastness of the stadium, but there was a palpable, nervous energy vibrating around him.

The whistle blew.

Madam Hooch released the Bludgers, the Golden Snitch, and finally, threw the red Quaffle high into the air.

Fourteen players rocketed upward, a chaotic blur of green and scarlet.

Orion watched the initial skirmishes with analytical detachnt. The Nimbus 2001s were undeniably faster, granting the Slytherin Chasers an imdiate tactical advantage in straightaways. But Quidditch wasn't just drag racing; it was maneuvering.

And then, Orion's attention narrowed entirely on the Seekers.

Draco was flying high above the main action, scanning the pitch. But as Orion watched, a familiar, frustrating pattern erged. Draco wasn't systematically searching the airspace for the golden glimr of the Snitch; he was tracking Harry Potter.

Every ti Harry altered his flight path to investigate a glint of light, Draco swooped down, cutting him off, throwing a taunt that Orion couldn't hear over the roaring wind, but could easily guess.

Orion let out a long, heavy sigh, a bead of sweat forming on his brow despite the cold.

"He's not looking for the objective," Sparkle observed from her digital overlay, projecting a tiny, disappointed face emoji. "He's playing player-versus-player in a capture-the-flag ga."

"He's arrogant," Orion thought back, rubbing his temples. "I explicitly warned him not to get distracted by Potter's existence, and yet, there he goes. Circling him like a moth to a fla."

It was infuriating. Draco had the superior broom. He had the training. But his obsession with humiliating his rival was overriding his strategic imperative to win the ga.

About twenty minutes into the match, the dynamic on the pitch shifted violently.

Orion noticed it first. A heavy, iron Bludger—usually chaotic in its targeting—had suddenly developed a terrifyingly singular focus.

It ignored a Slytherin Chaser perfectly lined up for a hit. It ignored the Gryffindor Keeper. It rocketed across the pitch, homing in directly on Harry Potter's head.

Harry rolled into a sharp dive, narrowly avoiding decapitation. The Bludger didn't continue on a random trajectory; it banked sharply like a heat-seeking missile and surged back toward him.

"Interesting," Orion murmured, leaning forward slightly.

"What's wrong with that Bludger?" Tracey gasped, pointing as Fred and George Weasley furiously beat the iron ball away from Harry, only for it to imdiately turn and attack him again like a boorang.

"It's gone rogue," Blaise deduced, his dark eyes wide. "Soone tampered with it."

Orion knew exactly who had tampered with it.

Dobby, Orion thought, a mixture of exasperation and dark amusent swirling in his chest. You psychotic, well-aning little elf. You actually went through with it. Trying to save his life by attempting to beat him to death.

Orion watched the aerial ballet unfold. And despite his prejudices, he had to admit—Potter was magnificent.

The boy wasn't just flying; he was surviving. He was executing dives, barrel rolls, and hairpin turns that defied physics, all while being relentlessly hunted by a magical cannonball. His reflexes were instinctive, raw, and undeniably brilliant.

"He is a natural," Orion analyzed silently. "Draco is a trained flyer. Potter is an aerial entity."

It was a sobering realization. The boy who would eventually outfly a Hungarian Horntail dragon was currently putting on a masterclass in evasion.

And Draco?

Draco was hovering near the Gryffindor goalposts, watching Potter struggle, laughing so hard he was practically doubled over his broom handle.

Orion buried his face in his hands. He felt a profound, familial embarrassnt.

"He's gloating," Sparkle whispered. "While a lethal projectile is loose on the field. This isn't going to end well."

"I know," Orion groaned into his palms.

The climax arrived with brutal, inevitable speed.

Harry, executing a desperate, twisting dive to evade the Bludger, suddenly leveled out. He had spotted the Snitch. It was hovering just inches behind Draco's left ear.

Draco, entirely consud by his own mockery, didn't notice the golden glint. He didn't notice the sudden, terrifying acceleration of the Gryffindor Seeker.

Harry shot forward, his hand outstretched.

CRACK.

The rogue Bludger finally found its mark, slamming into Harry's right arm with a sickening, audible snap.

Harry spun wildly on his broom, his face contorted in agony, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side. But he didn't pull out of the dive. He didn't retreat.

With an agonizing burst of sheer willpower, Harry drove his knees into his broom handle, steering with his legs, and lunged forward with his uninjured left hand.

He snatched the Snitch directly out of the air behind Draco's head.

Draco jumped, finally noticing the blur of scarlet and gold passing him. He looked confused, then horrified, as Harry plumted toward the ground, the golden ball clutched in his fist.

Harry hit the muddy pitch hard, rolling to a stop, but he held his left arm high. The Snitch wings fluttered weakly between his fingers.

The whistle blew.

"GRYFFINDOR WINS!" Lee Jordan's voice bood over the magical speakers.

The Gryffindor stands erupted into a frenzy of red and gold. The Slytherin section fell deathly silent.

Orion stood up instantly, smoothing his cloak. His face was a mask of cold, absolute detachnt. He didn't look at the celebrating lions, nor did he look at his devastated housemates.

He certainly didn't stay to watch Gilderoy Lockhart push through the crowd on the pitch, brandishing his wand to "fix" Potter's broken arm by vanishing the bones entirely.

"I'm leaving," Orion announced to his group, his voice devoid of emotion.

"But Orion, Draco—" Pansy started, looking stricken.

"Draco," Orion interrupted, his tone chillingly flat, "is going to have a very long, very unpleasant conversation with later. Excuse ."

Orion turned and walked down the wooden stairs, his mind already disconnecting from the failure on the pitch.

He had gathered his data. He had seen Potter's capabilities under pressure. He had seen Draco's fundantal flaws.

The canon was proceeding, but it was too slow. It was too reliant on the incompetence of others.

"You look like you're plotting a coup," Sparkle noted as they descended into the quiet, deserted corridors of the castle.

"No coup, Sparkle," Orion murmured, his indigo eyes dark and calculating. "Just a change of plans."

He walked toward the dungeons, his steps silent against the stone.

"I am no longer waiting for the diary to run its course," Orion decided, the gears of a new, aggressive strategy locking into place. "It is ti to force a safety protocol of my own."