Harry Potter with Technology System

Harry sat in his room, his gaze shifting between the three objects on the desk in front of him—the Cup, the Diadem, and the Diary. With himself included, that made four Horcruxes.

Of course, all the souls had been absorbed, leaving the objects intact—except for the Diary, which had lost all function once the soul inside was gone. The Cup and the Diadem, on the other hand, were still active.

He tapped a finger against the Cup. He had already tested its abilities on Bellatrix and a handful of Death Eaters. The loyalty magic embedded in the artifact had worked just as intended, bending them to his will. More importantly, he had been using it on Petunia, though for it's other purpose. The Cup was well-known for restoring vitality, and while she wasn’t aging backward or anything ridiculous, there was a noticeable change. Her skin had regained some of its youthful glow, and she had more energy than before. Given enough time, he suspected she’d look years younger than her actual age.

"Analyze," he said.

A translucent screen appeared in front of him.

[Item: Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem

— Enchanted to enhance the wearer’s intellect and magical comprehension.

— Stores accumulated knowledge from past users.

— Secondary effect: Increased efficiency in spellcasting.

— Status: Conditions met, artifact fully functional.]

The soul inside the Diadem had been the hardest to deal with by far. Unlike the others, it wasn’t just a fragment of Voldemort—it was enhanced. Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup had strengthened his soul, but Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem had done something far worse. It had made it smarter.

This piece of Voldemort’s soul was sharper, more calculating. If Harry hadn’t already absorbed the others, along with the memories that came with them, he might’ve failed entirely. The sheer resistance it put up was nothing like what he had dealt with before. It fought back with every ounce of intelligence it had gained from the Diadem, forcing Harry into a battle of will and control that lasted far longer than any of the previous ones.

In the end, what gave him the edge wasn’t raw power or even experience. It was something Voldemort never had—Rowena’s secret rune language.

Last year, Harry had stumbled upon a hidden room buried deep within Hogwarts, filled with Rowena Ravenclaw’s personal study notes. At first, he hadn’t realized what he was looking at—half the parchments were filled with incomprehensible markings, symbols that didn’t match any standard rune set. It took weeks before he understood what he was dealing with.

Rowena had developed a system beyond traditional spellcasting. Every spell, whether cast by a human or a magical creature, had a cadence, a unique tone. Magic wasn’t just energy; it was a language. Rowena had found a way to conduct it like an orchestra, weaving different spells together into a single, overwhelming force.

Harry had spent months trying to replicate it, and he had failed. Over and over. The coordination it required was near impossible—controlling multiple spells at once, aligning them perfectly so they didn’t interfere with one another but instead amplified into something stronger. It was beyond human capability.

Then he found the footnotes.

Rowena hadn’t done it alone. She had used the Diadem.

That was why the fragment inside it had been so dangerous. It had been learning the entire time, growing stronger, smarter, adapting. It wasn’t just Voldemort—it was Voldemort with access to Rowena’s knowledge, her way of thinking. And it had used that knowledge to fight back.

For hours, Harry had wrestled with it, forcing it under his control, dragging it into himself piece by piece. The experience had been different from the others. The Diary had been simple—young, emotional, easy to overpower. The Cup had resisted, but it hadn’t been particularly intelligent. The Diadem, though? It had nearly turned the tables on him.

But nearly wasn’t enough.

In the end, the same thing that had made it strong had been its downfall. It was smart—too smart. It had relied on strategy, on calculated defenses. It hadn’t been prepared for someone who had already studied Rowena’s work, someone who could anticipate its methods.

So Harry had done what Rowena would have. He had orchestrated. He had woven the magic, controlled the flow, forced the fragment into submission. It had taken time—far more time than he was comfortable admitting—but in the end, he had won.

The Diadem was his now.

It no longer carried Voldemort’s taint. The soul inside had been consumed, leaving behind only the artifact’s original enchantments. And they were… impressive. It wasn’t just a passive boost to intelligence. It actively enhanced magical comprehension, improving spell efficiency, sharpening instinctive casting.

Wearing it wasn’t even necessary. Once attuned, the effects remained.

Harry sat back in his chair, rubbing his temples. The absorption had taken a toll, but it had been worth it. With the Cup’s loyalty magic and the Diadem’s intelligence, he had gained something Voldemort had never managed—true synergy between magic and mind.

“He tore his soul seven times to escape death. And now I’m carrying half of them within me.” He muttered as he sent three items into his briefcase, “I need to figure out how many more Horcruxes there are.”

Nigel cut in. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, Harry?”

Harry leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the table. “I found a memory of young Voldemort speaking to Slughorn. He asked if a soul could be split into seven.” He paused, tilting his head slightly. “Not sure if he meant a total of seven, meaning six Horcruxes, or if he planned for seven Horcruxes plus his main soul. Either way, by the time he got to me, he’d already made at least six. I was the accidental seventh, which either ruined his magical balance or just meant he got wrecked by Mum’s ritual.”

Nigel hummed. “And what if he made more while he was in Albania?”

Harry sighed, rubbing his temple. “Wouldn’t be surprising. He spent over a decade as a wraith. He must have done something to keep himself stable. Even a twisted soul like his wouldn’t last forever without an anchor.”

“Mm,” Nigel muttered. “When do you plan on taking the ring and the locket?”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me Voldemort used his old Head Boy badge in Albania to come back to life?”

Nigel let out a chuckle. “Most certainly. Everything else was in Britain or Scotland. He wouldn’t risk running into Dumbledore. The badge was the safest option. A simple badge, tarnished with time. Once pinned to Tom Riddle’s chest,rotting in a hollow tree somewhere in Albania for a long time. That was what kept him tethered.”

Harry leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers against the desk. A Head Boy badge. That was the anchor Voldemort had used to keep himself tethered while he was nothing more than a wraith? Pathetic.

Harry had learned everything there was to know about Horcruxes by now. When the main body died, any of the split souls could be activated, no matter the distance. The consciousness traveled, seeking the anchor, and the body was reconstructed from it—though never perfectly. If Voldemort had understood just how powerful some of his fragments had become, his resurrection would have gone very differently.

The soul inside the Cup had the strongest vitality by far. If he’d used that, he wouldn’t have needed a complex ritual—his body would have practically rebuilt itself the moment he latched onto it. The Diadem’s fragment, on the other hand, was the most intelligent. If Voldemort had chosen that one, he wouldn’t just be back; he’d be back with an even sharper mind, capable of more complex magic than before. Either option would have been disastrous, not just for Britain, but for Harry himself.

Lucky for him, the coward had picked the one farthest away.

It wasn’t hard to figure out why. The Diary had been with Lucius Malfoy, and Voldemort had never truly trusted his followers—not with his life. The Diadem had been in Hogwarts, sitting under Dumbledore’s nose. The Cup had been locked deep in Bellatrix’s vault, protected by goblins who would have destroyed any intruder without a second thought. The Locket and the Ring were in places Dumbledore knew of. If either had been found, it could have spelled trouble.

No, Voldemort had gone for the safest bet. Something no one would stumble upon.

Nigel hummed. "Now that the badge is gone, Voldemort must have two more, assuming he hasn't made any new ones."

Harry nodded. "The ring was in the Gaunt shack. The locket, buried somewhere in that cursed cave. If Dumbledore hadn’t found them first, he would soon. Time to beat him to it before going to South America."

It was possible Voldemort had made more, but if he had any common sense—debatable—he wouldn’t have risked stretching his soul too thin. Even now, after taking in four fragments, Harry could tell Voldemort had made a mess of himself. The man had shredded his soul so much that it barely held together, the edges fraying like old parchment.

Harry stayed with his aunt and the Flamels for a week, spending most of his time with Petunia while also discussing magical theory and old-world spellcraft with Nicolas and Perenelle. It wasn’t a bad way to pass the time, but Britain wasn’t going to deal with itself.

Perenelle kept Petunia occupied with magical theory, and Harry left them to it. If nothing else, it kept his aunt from worrying about the absolute disaster the wizarding world had turned into overnight. Misty had taken a liking to the Flamel elves, though she still insisted on taking care of Harry herself, and Hedwig had settled into the estate with the kind of regal authority only she could manage.

But eventually, he had to leave.

Using the same enchanted ring Nicolas had given him in his first year, Harry activated the rune and reappeared in Privet Drive. The quiet hum of the Flamel estate was replaced with the dull suburban silence of Little Whinging.

"Let’s get my Apparition license first," he muttered, pulling his cloak over his head and vanishing from sight.