Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

Saturday morning arrived with a sky the color of a robin’s egg, a stark contrast to the gloom that usually hung over the British Isles. Orion Malfoy stood before his full-length mirror, adjusting the collar of his charcoal-grey traveling robes. He looked sharp. He looked ready. He looked like a child soldier preparing to invade a shopping mall.

”Orion!” Draco’s voice echoed from the hallway. ”Are you coming? Mother has the Floo powder!”

”Patience is a virtue, Draco,” Orion called back, smoothing a stray lock of black hair. ”Rushing leads to soot stains.”

He checked his pockets. Empty, save for a handkerchief. He checked his inventory. The Blackthorn wand was safely tucked away in digital space, along with his deck of cards and cupcake.

”Right,” Orion whispered. ”Let’s go stimulate the economy.”

He walked downstairs to the main parlor. Narcissa was waiting by the massive fireplace, dressed in robes of deep navy blue that looked simple but likely cost more than a Weasley’s annual income. Draco was bouncing on the balls of his feet, clutching a small bag of coins he had saved from his allowance.

”Finally,” Draco huffed. ”I thought you were re-decorating your room.”

”Just perfecting the aesthetic,” Orion smirked.

Narcissa held out a pot of glittering green powder. ”Now, remember. Speak clearly. ’Diagon Alley.’ Do not mumble, do not cough, and for the love of Merlin, do not try to look around while spinning. I do not wish to retrieve you from a fireplace in Knockturn Alley.”

”Yes, Mother,” they chorused.

Narcissa went first, vanishing in a roar of emerald flames. Draco followed, shouting ”Diagon Alley!” with enthusiasm.

Orion stepped into the grate. The ash tickled his nose. He grabbed a handful of powder.

”Here goes nothing,” he muttered. ”Diagon Alley.”

He threw the powder. The world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of green fire and spinning grates. He kept his elbows tucked, eyes shut tight, feeling the lurch of magical transportation that felt suspiciously like being flushed down a toilet.

He stumbled out of the grate at the Leaky Cauldron, managing to stay on his feet thanks to a quick grab of a nearby chair. Narcissa was already there, dusting soot off Draco’s shoulder.

”Impeccable landing, Orion,” Narcissa praised, tapping his robes with her wand to siphon away the ash. ”Come. The entrance is this way.”

They navigated the gloomy, dark pub. Tom the barman gave a toothless grin and a bow, which Narcissa acknowledged with a regal nod. They stepped out into the small, walled courtyard in the back.

Orion watched with bated breath as Narcissa drew her wand—a slender, blonde wood—and tapped a specific brick in the wall. Three up, two across.

Click.

The brick wriggled. A hole appeared. The hole widened, the bricks folding back on themselves like an intricate origami puzzle, revealing an archway onto a cobbled street bathed in sunlight.

Diagon Alley.

It was exactly like the movies, yet infinitely more vibrant. The smell hit him first—a mix of cauldron smoke, roasting herbs, expensive parchment, and the underlying ozone scent of raw magic. Cauldrons were stacked outside shops; owls hooted from Eeylops; children pressed their noses against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies.

”Welcome to the tutorial zone,” Sparkle chirped, her interface appearing briefly to frame the bustling street. ”Try not to get pickpocketed.”

”Focus, boys,” Narcissa said, her hand resting gently on Draco’s shoulder. ”First stop, Gringotts. We require funds.”

They walked up the street, the crowd parting slightly for the Malfoy matriarch. At the end of the alley stood the snowy white building of Gringotts Wizarding Bank, towering over the crooked shops.

As they ascended the white stone steps, passing the goblin guards in their scarlet and gold uniforms, Orion felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature.

”Enter, stranger, but take heed,” Orion recited the poem in his head as they passed the silver doors.

Inside, the vast marble hall was filled with goblins sitting on high stools, weighing rubies and scribbling in ledgers.

Orion looked at the goblins. In another life, in the anime he used to watch, goblins were low-level pests to be exterminated. Here, they controlled the economy.

”Goblin Slayer would have a field day,” Orion thought, eyeing a goblin with long fingers counting a stack of Galleons. ”But then again, these guys have dragons in the basement. I think I’ll keep my sword sheathed.”

”Smart choice,” Sparkle agreed. ”Also, don’t stare. They charge for staring. Probably.”

Orion’s gaze drifted to the floor. Somewhere deep below them was the Lestrange Vault. Inside was the Cup of Hufflepuff. A Horcrux.

”You thinking about the Cup?” Sparkle asked.

”I’m thinking about how ’unbreachable’ this bank is,” Orion mused. ”And yet, in a few months, Quirrell is going to break in. And in seven years, three teenagers on a dragon are going to break out. Security theater at its finest.”

”Orion, keep up,” Narcissa called.

They approached a counter. A goblin with a monocle peered down at them.

”Mrs. Malfoy,” the goblin sneered politely. ”And the young masters.”

”We wish to make a withdrawal from the Malfoy Educational Trust Vault,” Narcissa said, presenting a tiny golden key.

Orion raised an eyebrow. ”Educational Trust?”

”Your father has the main key,” Narcissa murmured as they followed a goblin named Griphook toward the carts. ”And while the main vault is... impressive, it is also filled with items that require... explanation. I preferred to set up a separate fund for your school years. It is simpler. And safer.”

Orion smiled. Sensible woman. Lucius would have taken them to the main vault just to show off the mountains of gold and perhaps a few dark artifacts ”by accident.” Narcissa just wanted to buy books without being eaten by a cursed necklace.

The cart ride was a blur of wind and rattling tracks. Draco screamed with joy, throwing his hands up like he was on a roller coaster. Orion held on tight, analyzing the centrifugal force and wondering if the rust on the tracks was structural or aesthetic.

When they arrived at the vault, Griphook unlocked it. Green smoke billowed. Inside, piles of Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts were stacked in neat mounds. It wasn’t the dragon-hoard of the main vault, but it was still more money than most wizards saw in a lifetime.

”Take what you need for the list,” Narcissa instructed, handing them each a bag. ”And perhaps a little extra for... discretions.”

Orion scooped handfuls of gold coins into his bag. The weight was satisfying. Cold, heavy gold.

”Achievement Check: Scrooge McDuck,” Sparkle noted. ”Swimming in gold? No? Okay, moving on.”

Back in the sunlight, weighed down by gold, the shopping began in earnest.

”Madam Malkin’s first,” Narcissa decided. ”Fittings take time.”

The robe shop was busy, but Narcissa Malfoy did not wait in lines. A sharp look and a heavy purse ensured they were whisked to the back of the shop immediately.

Madam Malkin, a squat witch dressed in mauve, bustled around them.

”Hogwarts, dear? Got the lot here,” she said, measuring tape flying around Draco’s chest on its own.

”We require the finest silk blend for the linings,” Narcissa instructed, examining a bolt of black cloth. ”And durability charms on the cuffs. Boys are destructive.”

”And Acromantula silk for the winter cloaks?” Madam Malkin suggested, her eyes gleaming with the upsell.

”Naturally,” Narcissa nodded.

”I want the one with the silver buckles!” Draco demanded, standing on the stool.

Orion stood on the stool next to him, letting the tape measure his inseam. ”Just standard black for me, Madam. Though if you have a self-cleaning charm that actually works, weave that in double.”

”It will take an hour for the custom stitching,” Madam Malkin said, pinning Orion’s hem. ”If you’d like to return?”

”Perfect,” Narcissa said.

They left the shop and descended upon the rest of the alley.

They bought pewter cauldrons (standard size 2) from Potage’s.

They bought glass phials and brass scales from the Apothecary, where Orion spent an extra ten minutes sniffing jars of dried beetles much to Draco’s disgust.

They went to Scribbulus Writing Implements, where Draco bought a peacock-feather quill because of course he did. Orion bought a set of self-inking quills and a notebook that claimed to be ”Indestructible.”

Then, the trunk shop.

”I need capacity,” Orion told the shopkeeper, a man with spectacles so thick his eyes looked like giant bugs. ”I don’t want to carry books. I want to carry a library.”

”Ah, the Undetectable Extension Charm model,” the shopkeeper nodded. ”Seven compartments. Climate controlled. Password protected. You could live in it.”

”I’ll take it,” Orion said.

”Me too!” Draco chimed in. ”Does it come in green?”

By the time they returned to Madam Malkin’s, the afternoon sun was dipping. They collected their finished robes—which fit like second skins—and stepped back out onto the street. Everything was shrunken for better carrying purpose.

”Only one thing left,” Narcissa said, her voice softening slightly.

Orion’s heart skipped a beat. Draco stopped bouncing.

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C.

The shop was narrow and shabby. Peeling gold letters over the door. The window displayed a single wand on a faded purple cushion.

”Go on,” Narcissa urged gently. ”I will wait here. It is... a personal moment.”

Orion and Draco pushed open the door. A tinkling bell rang somewhere in the depths of the shop.

The air inside was thick with dust and silence. Thousands of narrow boxes were piled neatly right up to the ceiling. It felt like a library, but instead of words, the shelves held potential.

”Good afternoon,” a soft voice spoke.

Draco jumped. Orion merely turned.

Garrick Ollivander stepped out from the shadows of the shelves. His pale eyes shone like moons in the gloom.

”Malfoy,” Ollivander whispered. ”I wondered when I’d be seeing you. Twins. Interesting.”

He moved closer, his gaze piercing. ”Lucius... Elm and dragon heartstring. Eighteen inches. Excellent for charms. Narcissa... didn’t buy hers from me, if I recall. A French wand? Or perhaps an heirloom?”

”Heirloom,” Draco answered, trying to sound confident but looking a bit spooked.

”And now, the next generation,” Ollivander smiled. ”Who wishes to go first?”

”Me,” Draco stepped forward, puffing out his chest.

”Arm out.”

The magical tape measure sprang into action, measuring Draco from shoulder to finger, then wrist to elbow, then nostril to nostril (which Draco found offensive).

Ollivander flitted through the shelves, pulling down boxes.

”Try this one. Maple and Phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy.”

Draco waved it. Nothing happened.

”No, no. Try this. Ebony and Unicorn hair. Eight and a half inches. Springy.”

Draco waved it. A vase shattered.

”Repairing charms will be needed,” Ollivander murmured, snatching it back.

It took four tries.

”Here,” Ollivander said, handing Draco a reddish-brown wand. ”Hawthorn and Unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy.”

Draco took it. He hadn’t even fully gripped it when a stream of silver sparks erupted from the tip, illuminating the dusty shop.

”Bravo!” Ollivander clapped. ”Hawthorn. A complex wood. Excellent for healing... and curses. And Unicorn hair. Consistent. Loyal. Hard to turn to the Dark Arts. An interesting combination for a Malfoy.”

Draco grinned, admiring his wand. ”It feels... right.”

”It usually does,” Ollivander said. He turned his moon-like eyes to Orion. ”And now... the other.”

Orion stepped forward. He felt the weight of the moment. The ”Stick of Spite” in his inventory would probably vibrate in protest.

”Right arm,” Orion said, holding it out.

The tape measure did its dance. Ollivander watched him.

”You are... distinct from your brother,” Ollivander observed. ”Same face. Different... hum.”

He went to the shelves.

”Let’s try... Walnut and Dragon heartstring. Twelve inches. Unyielding.”

Orion took it. He waved.

The wand flew out of his hand and hit the wall.

”Too aggressive,” Ollivander noted.

”Cherry and Unicorn hair. Eleven inches.”

Orion touched it, and the wand instantly wilted like a dead flower.

”Too... cheerful,” Ollivander frowned. ”It didn’t like your cynicism.”

”Did the wand just judge my personality?” Orion thought.

”Yes,” Sparkle confirmed. ”You’re too emo for Cherry wood.”

The process continued. Orion tried Elm (too noble). He tried Yew (too dark). He tried Vine (too subtle). The pile of rejected wands grew on the spindly chair.

Ollivander’s excitement grew with every failure. ”Tricky customer, eh? I like tricky customers.”

He tapped his chin, staring at Orion. Then, he stared at Draco’s wand box. Then back to Orion.

”Curious,” Ollivander whispered. ”Perhaps... symmetry? Or perhaps... contrast?”

He disappeared into the very back of the shop. He returned with a black box, wiping dust from the lid.

”Hawthorn,” Ollivander said softly, placing the box on the counter. ”Like your brother. Hawthorn makes a strange, contradictory wand, full of paradoxes. It is comfortable with healing magic, but also adept at curses. It generally takes a wizard of... conflicted nature.”

Orion looked at the box. Conflicted. A reincarnated soul living a lie in a world of magic. A Malfoy who hated bigotry. An engineer who loved chaos. Yeah, that fit.

”But the core...” Ollivander opened the lid.

The wand inside was beautiful. It was a pale, honey-colored wood, polished to a glass-like sheen. It was streamlined, devoid of the carvings that adorned Draco’s. It looked sharp.

”Dragon Heartstring,” Ollivander said. ”But not a Common Welsh Green. No. This is from a Hebridean Black. A particularly nasty dragon. Native to Britain. Wild. Powerful. And prone to accidents if mishandled.”

”Hawthorn and Dragon Heartstring,” Ollivander murmured. ”Ten and a half inches. Unyielding.”

Orion reached into the box.

His fingers brushed the wood.

There was no static shock. No resistance. No fighting.

Instead, a warmth rushed up his arm—a deep, searing heat that felt like swallowing a mouthful of hot tea on a freezing day. It wasn’t just power; it was recognition. It was a handshake. It was a locking of gears.

He lifted the wand.

A soft, indigo glow emanated from the tip, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The dust motes in the air stopped moving, suspended in the field of magic he was projecting. The air smelled of ozone and burning wood.

It felt... perfect.

”Oh, yes,” Ollivander whispered, his eyes wide. ”Powerful. Very powerful. That wand will not tolerate laziness, Mr. Malfoy. Dragon heartstring is the most powerful of the cores, and capable of the most flamboyant spells. But combined with Hawthorn? And unyielding flexibility?”

He leaned in close.

”You will do great things with that wand. Terribly amazing, perhaps. Chaotic, certainly. But great.”

Orion lowered the wand, the glow fading but the warmth remaining. He looked at the pale wood.

”It feels like an extension of my arm,” Orion said quietly.

”It is,” Ollivander said. ”Seven Galleons, per wand, please.”