Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

While pushing the boundaries of elemental combat magic and redefining the aesthetic properties of intent were thrilling, Orion was also a pragmatist. A wizard could not live on explosions alone. The minutiae of daily magical life required a vast repertoire of utility spells, and Orion was determined to master those as well.

One such spell he had unearthed in a dusty corner of the library was Vocare Captis, the Audio-Recording Charm.

It was a delicate, nuanced piece of magic, structurally similar to the Mem extraction technique, but instead of pulling a memory from a mind, it pulled ambient sound from the immediate environment. The result was a thin, shimmering, silver thread of condensed audio that could be bottled and preserved.

Orion saw the immediate, practical application of this.

”History of Magic,” Orion declared to Sparkle one Tuesday morning, holding up a small, empty crystal phial. ”It is a colossal waste of my active cognitive hours. Professor Binns drones on about 14th-century trade disputes, and I fight a losing battle against narcolepsy.”

”So, you’re going to record it?”

”I am going to capture his lecture in this vial,” Orion explained, slipping the phial into his pocket. ”I will sleep through the class, preserving my energy. Tonight, I will shake the vial, pop the cork, and listen to the lecture while I do my Arithmancy homework. Passive absorption.”

It was a brilliant plan.

During the History of Magic class, while Draco snored softly beside him and Hermione Granger looked like she was trying to prop her eyelids open with toothpicks, Orion subtly drew his wand. He whispered the incantation, pointing the tip at Professor Binns’ ghostly form.

Slowly, over the course of the hour, a thin, silvery thread spooled out of the air and into the open phial in his lap. By the time the bell rang, the vial was full of swirling, luminescent mist. Orion corked it securely, feeling quite pleased with himself.

That night, in the quiet of his dormitory, Orion set up his desk. He had his Arithmancy charts ready. He took out the phial.

”Let the education commence,” he whispered.

He shook the vial vigorously, as the book instructed, and popped the cork.

The voice of Professor Binns drifted out of the glass, thin and reedy, filling the small space around Orion’s bed. ”The Goblin Rebellion of 1378, contrary to popular belief, was not sparked by a dispute over mining rights, but rather a disagreement regarding the taxation of magical fungus...”

Orion picked up his quill. He began to calculate an equation.

Five minutes passed. The voice droned on. It was a monotonous, hypnotic hum that lacked any inflection or passion. It was auditory anesthesia.

Orion’s eyelids drooped. He blinked hard, trying to focus on the numbers. He dipped his quill.

Ten minutes passed.

”...and thus, the treaty of Gringotts was drafted under the light of a waxing moon...”

Orion’s head nodded. He jerked it back up. He slapped his own cheek. ”Focus. Arithmancy.”

Fifteen minutes passed.

The quill slipped from his fingers, rolling across the parchment. Orion’s head hit the pillow.

The next morning, Orion woke with a start, sunshine streaming through a gap in the curtains. He bolted upright.

The crystal phial on his desk was empty. The silver mist was gone. His Arithmancy chart was blank, save for a long, trailing ink smear where his hand had fallen.

”Good morning, sunshine,” Sparkle’s voice was painfully cheerful. ”How was the study session?”

Orion rubbed his eyes, groaning. ”I fell asleep. The second time. His voice is a biological weapon, Sparkle. It doesn’t matter if he’s in the room or in a bottle; the man is a cure for insomnia.”

He looked at his blank homework.

”Whatever,” Orion sighed, climbing out of bed. ”At least I got a solid eight hours of sleep. I’ll just copy Draco’s notes. He probably bought them from a Ravenclaw anyway.”

If the recording spell was a lesson in passive failure, his next endeavor was a lesson in active, painful physics.

The spell was Carpe Retractum.

It was a standard third-year utility spell, designed to create a magical rope of light that could either pull an object toward the caster or, if the object was immovable, pull the caster toward the object. It was, as Orion described it, ”a budget Accio.”

Given Orion’s proficiency with Accio, mastering Carpe Retractum was trivial. He could shoot the glowing orange rope from his wand and yank chairs across the room with ease.

But simply pulling chairs was boring. Orion had a different, highly ambitious plan for the spell’s application.

He returned to the abandoned fourth-floor classroom. He spent twenty minutes meticulously stacking heavy wooden desks. He created two towers, about fifteen feet high, on opposite sides of the room.

”Okay,” Orion said, standing on the floor and looking up at the ceiling. High above, a thick, iron chandelier chain hung from the rafters.

”What exactly are we doing?” Sparkle asked, sounding suspicious.

”Mobility training,” Orion said, stretching his arms. ”In a duel, or in the Forbidden Forest, terrain traversal is vital. Walking is slow. Flying a broom is conspicuous. But if I can use Carpe Retractum as a grappling hook...”

He climbed up the unstable stack of desks on the left side of the room. It swayed slightly under his weight, but he reached the top, balancing carefully. He was now fifteen feet in the air.

He looked across the vast, dusty gap to the other stack of desks.

”The objective,” Orion narrated, sounding like a sports commentator, ”is to cast the spell at the iron chain in the center of the ceiling, swing across the chasm like a pendulum, release the spell at the apex of the arc, and land gracefully on the opposite tower.”

”You realize you weigh ninety pounds and are wearing slippery dragon-hide boots, right?” Sparkle pointed out. ”This is not a superhero movie.”

”Physics is just a suggestion,” Orion said confidently.

He raised his Hawthorn wand, aiming at the iron chain.

”Carpe Retractum!”

A thick, glowing orange rope of pure magic shot from his wand tip and wrapped securely around the iron chain. Orion gave it a hard tug. It held fast.

”Here goes nothing,” Orion grinned.

He stepped off the desk.

For half a second, it was glorious. The sensation of weightlessness, the rush of air, the sheer, exhilarating speed of the swing. He was flying without a broom. He was the master of his domain.

He reached the apex of the swing, directly over the center of the room. He was moving fast. Very fast.

”Release!” Orion commanded, pulling his magic back.

The orange rope vanished.

Orion was suddenly a projectile governed entirely by momentum and gravity.

He flew through the air, his arms flailing. He realized, with a sickening jolt of clarity, that he had drastically overestimated his own aerodynamic grace and completely miscalculated his trajectory.

He wasn’t going to land on top of the desks. He was going to hit them dead center.

”Oh, sh—”

CRASH.

Orion slammed into the tower of desks like a cannonball. The entire structure imploded instantly. Desks splintered, wood shrieked, and Orion was caught in a chaotic avalanche of falling furniture.

He hit the stone floor hard, a desk landing heavily across his shins, knocking the wind out of him entirely.

Silence descended on the room, save for the sound of a single, remaining desk leg snapping and hitting the floor.

Orion lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. His back throbbed with a dull, spreading ache.

”Nailed it,” Sparkle said dryly.

DING.

The sound echoed painfully in his skull.

[ ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED! ]

Tier: 1 (Basic)

Name: My Back, My Back!

Description: You tried to be your friendly neighborhood Spider-Wizard. You discovered that swinging from the ceiling requires upper body strength, spatial awareness, and a distinct lack of heavy furniture in your landing zone. Next time, take the stairs.

Reward: 1x Mask of the Crimson Clown (The eyes glow red. Highly unsettling).

Orion let out a wheezing groan, slowly pushing the desk off his legs.

”Inventory,” he croaked.

He pulled out the Mask of the Crimson Clown. It was exactly as described—a terrifying, painted plastic face with a red nose and eyeholes that pulsed with an eerie, glowing red light.

He stared at it.

”I’m going to wear this to Lockhart’s class tomorrow,” Orion wheezed, wincing as he sat up. ”If I have to suffer, everyone has to suffer.”

He gingerly climbed to his feet, rubbing his lower back. The ”Spider-Wizard” mobility training was officially on hold until he learned a Cushioning Charm strong enough to cover an entire room.