Harry Potter with Technology System

Ch329- What to Do With You?

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Harry turned back to Bellatrix, his voice cutting through the room. "One more thing. If anyone questions my return or doubts the validity of my commands—deal with them. Swiftly. I won’t tolerate hesitation or dissent."

Bellatrix’s lips curled into a faint, almost feral smile. "I understand, my Lord. They’ll be reminded of their place."

"See that they are," Harry replied, already moving toward the door. He paused briefly, his hand resting on the frame as he glanced back. "I’ll be gone for some time. Do not contact me unless absolutely necessary. This stage requires precision."

Bellatrix bowed her head, the fervor in her eyes barely contained. "You have my word, my Lord."

Just before Harry stepped toward the door, he turned back to Bellatrix once again, who was still kneeling, her head bowed low. “Don’t hurt anyone innocent in this while. We don’t want to draw attention.”

Bellatrix’s expression faltered for a brief moment, a flicker of confusion crossing her face before she bowed her head again. “As you command, my Lord,” she murmured, though the reluctance was evident in her tone.

Harry didn’t linger. He left without another word, the door creaking faintly as it swung shut behind him. Once outside, he scanned the surroundings briefly, ensuring he wasn’t followed. The place was secluded, but he couldn’t trust that it would stay that way for long. With a quick flick of his wand and a murmured Disillusionment Charm, he disappeared into the shadows.

As he reached a safe distance, Harry Disapparated with a soft crack, landing on the outskirts of Hogsmeade. Turning his features back to his own, Harry slid the Cloak of Invisibility over his shoulders, vanishing from sight, snuck back to the castle. He approached the hidden path leading back to the castle soon enough.

Arriving at his dorm in the Slytherin common room, Harry dropped onto his bed, his head hitting the pillow with a dull thud. 

What the hell had just happened?

It started with Avery’s message about Bellatrix. She had resurfaced, gathering Death Eaters for something big. Big enough to draw attention from both sides. Harry had taken the bait, setting things in motion by tipping off Mundungus and ensuring the Aurors would crash the party. That part had gone as planned—chaos had broken out, forcing Bellatrix and her lot into a corner.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Then Dumbledore had shown up, turning a calculated mess into a powder keg. Despite that complication, Harry had managed to get Bellatrix out of there. That should have been the end of it—a clean extraction, nothing more. Instead, Bellatrix had thrown him a curveball he hadn’t seen coming.

She thought he was Voldemort.

Harry rubbed his temples, staring at the canopy above him. Somehow, in all the carefully laid plans and misdirections, he had gone from being Harry Potter, teenage wizard with a lot of secrets, to the new Lord Voldemort—or at least, that’s what Bellatrix believed. And worse, she seemed thrilled about it. Devoted. Loyal.

Loyal to him. Harry Potter.

Through her, he discovered more than he expected about Voldemort’s real plans. The fragments of his soul scattered across artifacts, the grand scheme to use the Triwizard Tournament as a trap for Harry himself, and the ritual tied to his blood. It was ambitious, meticulous, and sickeningly clever. It also made Harry’s skin crawl to think how easily he could’ve walked straight into it if he hadn’t stumbled across the truth.

He sighed, kicking off his shoes and letting them thud to the floor. For now, Bellatrix’s misplaced devotion was a tool, one he could use to stay ahead of Voldemort’s scattered remnants. 

He pulled the cup from his pocket, the tarnished metal cool against his palm. The faint moonlight streaming through the window glinted off its surface, catching the intricate design of the badger crest etched into its side—Helga Hufflepuff's mark. The artistry wasn’t just decorative; subtle runes woven around the edges told their own story. Their purpose wasn’t immediately clear, but their complexity hinted at power.

He turned it over in his hands, examining the delicate handles and the gleam of its surface. Though battered by time, the cup felt untouched by wear, its magical aura humming faintly like an afterthought. The faint etchings in ancient runes hinted at pre-mentioned abilities: growth, nourishment, preservation. It wasn’t merely a symbol of Hufflepuff’s legacy; it carried her ideals embedded within its enchantments.

Harry placed the cup on the bedside table, leaning closer to study the runes in detail. Their patterns were familiar—older than most charms used in modern spellwork, their complexity layered in ways that required careful deciphering. He recognized elements of protection magic, charms for purification, and something deeper—something that resonated with the concept of life itself. It wasn’t the kind of magic one stumbled upon in a textbook. This was deliberate, crafted with purpose, and almost benevolent in nature. Almost.

What made it sinister was the way the Horcrux corrupted it. The magic that should have radiated warmth now carried a chill. The soul fragment Voldemort had sealed within the cup twisted its original enchantments, leaving the artifact caught between its intended nature and the darkness imposed upon it.

If someone asked Harry what such a juxtaposition could beget, he’d answer without hesitation: a clash of forces. The pureness of Hufflepuff’s cup and the darkness of Voldemort’s soul fragment should have been at constant war, each trying to destroy the other. But as Harry examined the cup closely, a different picture emerged.

The cup wasn’t just tolerating the fragment—it was nourishing it. The artifact's original purpose, to foster life and vitality, had twisted under the influence of the Horcrux. Despite their opposing natures, the enchantments in the cup had worked over the years to sustain and strengthen the cursed soul piece.

Harry tilted the cup slightly, watching the faint shimmer of runes around its surface. He estimated it had been nearly two decades since Voldemort sealed his soul inside. In that time, the soul fragment had grown stronger—noticeably stronger than what he remembered from the diary. That piece of Voldemort’s soul had been potent, but this one had an edge to it, a density that suggested a more formidable presence.

The diary had been Voldemort’s first Horcrux. According to the notes Harry had pieced together from Salazar’s journal and his studies of ward theory, a first Horcrux was always the most stable. The magic required to split the soul was dangerous, leaving the consecutive pieces weaker and more fragile. In comparison, this fragment was thriving. That alone spoke volumes about the artifact itself. The cup was extraordinary, even among objects of its kind.

Thinking about what to do with the artifact, Harry leaned back against the headboard of his bed. The soul piece inside it wasn’t just a burden—it was an opportunity, one with significant risks attached.

He considered removing the fragment of Voldemort’s soul entirely. The process itself wouldn’t be the issue; he’d already done similar work with the piece in his own body. But that raised a bigger question: should he destroy it outright or absorb it?

Absorbing the fragment would strengthen the sliver of Voldemort’s soul already residing in his wand. That much was clear. However, this piece was denser, its essence more concentrated than the one in his body had been. The cup had preserved it in ways Harry still didn’t fully understand, bolstering its presence. The risk was obvious—if this soul fragment had gained too much independence, merging it into the wand could backfire spectacularly.

Harry scratched his chin absently, the gears in his mind turning. Absorbing the memories wasn’t an option either. He’d learned that lesson the hard way with his own Horcrux. Even with the system's help, managing the overflow of memories had been a nightmare. Adding more to that mess wasn’t just reckless—it was suicidal.

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