Harry Potter: Most Annoying System Ever

The Hogwarts corridors were blissfully quiet on a Saturday morning. The vast majority of the student body, recovering from the grueling academic week and the lingering tension of the petrifications, had chosen to sleep in.

Orion Malfoy, however, was on a schedule.

He navigated the shifting staircases with practiced ease, his dragon-hide boots silent on the stone.

He reached the seventh-floor corridor and stopped before the blank stretch of wall opposite the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

”I need a room that looks exactly like the Defense Against the Dark Arts office,” Orion whispered to himself, pacing slowly. ”I need the exact lighting, the exact furniture, and the exact overwhelming scent of lilac.”

He paced three times. The stone rippled, and the highly polished door materialized.

Orion stepped inside and closed the door, sealing himself away from the castle.

The Room of Requirement had delivered flawlessly. It was a perfect, nauseatingly accurate replica of Lockhart’s sanctuary. The walls were plastered with photographs of the man himself (though here they were stationary and not moving), the desk was cluttered with signed copies of Magical Me, and the air was thick with the scent of expensive, floral cologne.

”Excellent,” Orion noted, moving to the center of the room.

He removed the dark silk covering from the portrait and set the gilded frame down on a conjured easel near the desk.

The painted Lockhart blinked against the sudden, bright light. He looked around the room, his face initially breaking into a relieved smile. ”My office! You brought me back!”

”I brought you to a facsimile of your office,” Orion corrected smoothly, drawing his Hawthorn wand. ”An incredibly accurate stage set. Now, for the performance.”

He pointed his wand at the small portrait. ”Engorgio.”

The painting swelled rapidly, the canvas and frame expanding until it was life-sized. The painted Lockhart stumbled backward in his painted armchair, suddenly realizing he was almost eye-level with his captor.

”Right,” Orion said, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his pocket. ”Here is your script.”

He levitated the parchment so it hovered just outside the frame, perfectly legible for the painted man.

Lockhart squinted at the text. His painted face paled as he read the words.

”This... this is a confession!” Lockhart gasped, looking horrified. ”You want me to admit to Memory Charms? To stealing the accomplishments of the Bandon Banshee banisher? Of the Wagga Wagga werewolf hunter? I won’t do it! It will ruin my reputation!”

”You will do it,” Orion stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy whisper, ”or your reputation will be the least of your concerns. Your physical existence is currently entirely dependent on my goodwill.”

He let his wand tip drift menacingly close to the charred, blackened edge of the canvas. The smell of burnt paint wafted into the air.

Lockhart gulped, shrinking back into his chair. ”F-fine. But my fans will be devastated.”

”They will recover,” Orion said dryly. ”Now, listen to the direction. You are not reading a speech. You are boasting. You are conversing with an unseen individual—perhaps a sycophantic fan, or a dimwitted student you intend to obliviate anyway. You must sound arrogant, self-satisfied, and entirely unapologetic about your methods. Act like the genius you claim to be.”

Orion stepped back, positioning himself slightly to the side, out of the direct line of sight of the painting.

”I will obscure the burned edges of your frame with a localized fog charm,” Orion explained, adjusting his stance. ”When the recording begins, I need you to lean forward, smile your award-winning smile, and deliver the lines. Understand?”

Lockhart gave a trembling, reluctant nod. He smoothed his painted robes and ran a hand through his golden hair, preparing his features.

”Good,” Orion murmured. He pointed his wand at the perimeter of the life-sized frame. ”Nebulus Minima.”

A soft, grey mist rolled over the edges of the canvas, perfectly concealing the charred, burned wood and the lack of a continuous background, making it look as though the man was simply sitting in a chair within the room.

Orion raised his wand high, preparing the dual-recording process. He needed both the audio and the memory extract.

”Vocare Captis,” Orion whispered, establishing the auditory tether. The silver thread of sound began to spool from the air, waiting.

He closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, tapping into his Level 1 Mind Arts. He created a sterile, isolated ’room’ within his own consciousness—a blank slate waiting to be painted with the sensory input he was about to receive.

He opened his eyes, staring fixedly at the performance.

”Action,” Orion commanded.

The painted Lockhart took a deep breath. And then, the transformation occurred. The terror vanished, replaced instantly by a staggering, blinding arrogance. The man was a fraud, yes, but he was undeniably a masterclass actor when it came to his own ego.

”My dear boy,” Lockhart began, his voice dripping with condescending affection, flashing a brilliant, pearly-white smile directly at the empty space in front of him. ”You simply do not understand the burden of greatness. Do you honestly think I have the time to go tramping around Armenian mud-swamps fighting warlocks? Or sitting in freezing caves waiting for vampires? Heavens, no. My hair would be ruined in a week.”

He leaned forward in his chair, chuckling softly as if sharing an intimate, delightful secret.

”The true magic, the true genius, lies in me. I find these... rugged, unmarketable individuals who actually do the dirty work. I listen to their stories. And then...” Lockhart made a casual, elegant swishing motion with his hand, imitating a wand movement. ”...a simple Memory Charm. Poof! They forget they ever lifted a finger. I write the books, I provide the face the public desperately needs, and everyone is happy. It’s a public service, really. I am supplying inspiration.”

Lockhart leaned back, crossing his legs and looking immensely satisfied with his own brilliance.

”Why, the wizard who banished the Bandon Banshee had a harelip and terrible breath! No one wants to read about him. But Gilderoy Lockhart? Ah, that is a story worth buying.”

Orion cut the recording spells instantly.

”Cut,” Orion said. ”Flawless delivery, Professor. Truly, you missed your calling on the stage.”

He capped the crystal vial containing the silver, swirling thread of audio. He then closed his eyes, focusing intensely on his own mind.

He isolated the exact memory of the last two minutes—the visual of Lockhart leaning forward in the chair, the specific intonation of the boast, the background details of the room. He didn’t want to remove the memory from his own head; he just needed a copy.

Thanks to his foundational grasp of Occlumency and mental structuring via the Mind Arts perk, he was able to partition the memory, creating a pristine duplicate.

He placed the tip of his Hawthorn wand to his temple. He visualized extracting the duplicate.

He slowly pulled the wand away. A thick, glowing, silvery-white strand of memory clung to the wood, pulling free from his mind like a physical thread.

He deposited the memory strand into a second crystal vial, corking it tightly. The vial glowed with a faint, pulsing light.

”Perfect,” Orion whispered, holding the two vials up. The evidence was secured.

He turned back to the life-sized portrait. The fog charm was dissipating, revealing the charred edges of the canvas once more.

Lockhart looked nervously from the vials to Orion. ”Well? I performed my part flawlessly. The emotion was raw, the lighting was acceptable. Now, you must let me go. Return me to my office before someone notices I am missing.”

Orion stared at the painted man, a cold, empty smile forming on his lips.

”I never kept you, Professor,” Orion said simply. ”You are perfectly free to go.”

He stepped aside, gesturing expansively toward the door of the Room of Requirement.

Lockhart tried to stand up within the painting, moving toward the edge of his canvas. He hit the invisible, burned barrier and bounced back, stumbling into his armchair.

”But I can’t!” Lockhart cried, panic rising again. ”You burned the borders! I am trapped here! You must repair the frame or carry me back!”

”The fact that you physically cannot leave is your own logistical problem, not a failure of my hospitality,” Orion drawled, utterly unsympathetic. ”I said you were free to go. I did not promise to provide transportation or structural repairs.”

He waved his wand. ”Reducio.”

The life-sized painting shrank instantly, reverting back to its original, easily manageable size.

Orion walked over, picking up the small, gilded frame. Lockhart was banging his painted fists against the invisible barrier, shouting muffled protests.

”Well,” Orion mused, looking down at the tiny, furious fraud. ”Since you cannot go anywhere, it is best you stay somewhere secure. I wouldn’t want you getting dusty.”

”Inventory.”

The grid appeared. Orion tossed the small portrait into the void. It vanished in a flash of digital blue light.

”Welcome to the shadow realm, Gilderoy,” Sparkle giggled, the interface flashing as the item registered. ”He’s going to be very confused sitting next to a dead snake’s venom and a bucket of popcorn. Though, he will be too frozen to realize it.”

”He’ll have plenty of time to work on his memoirs,” Orion noted, closing the grid.

He looked down at the glowing vial of memory in his hand. The acquisition phase was complete. Now came the implementation.

”I need to learn how to project this,” Orion murmured, pacing the replicated office. ”A Pensieve is the standard method, but gaining access to Dumbledore’s is impossible. I need a public projection. A localized, three-dimensional playback spell.”

He walked toward the door, his mind already shifting to the library catalogs.

”Time to practice the projection charms,” Orion decided. ”The premiere of this little cinematic masterpiece is going to require a very specific audience.”