Harry Potter with Technology System

Harry reappeared in an abandoned courtyard just outside of London, near one of the old, crumbling manors he’d been using as a safe house.

From within, Bellatrix appeared, her face almost fanatical. "My Lord." She dropped to her knees without a second thought, eyes shining with twisted devotion.

Harry gave her a brief pat on the head, as if humoring an overeager dog. "We have a task, Bella. We’re hunting down your old lord’s last two Horcruxes."

Bellatrix’s face twisted with barely concealed disgust at the mention of her old master. The thought of serving that noseless wretch now felt like a stain on her pride. Her lips curled into a sneer, almost as if she could taste the bitterness on her tongue. There was a time when she would have killed for him without question, but now? Now she saw him for what he truly was—a pathetic, half-blood parasite clinging to his stolen immortality.

"With pleasure, my Lord," she said, her tone dripping with contempt.

She fell into step behind him as they apperated, her movements fluid and silent, like a shadow waiting for orders. They moved through the overgrown path toward the Gaunt Shack, and the closer they got, the more the air felt wrong—like the land itself was sick. Thorny vines and dense, tangled roots choked the narrow trail, and the air reeked of decay. The old shack loomed ahead, barely holding itself together, a miserable heap of rotting wood and crumbling stone.

Bellatrix glanced at the wreckage, an unimpressed look crossing her face. "He made this place his sanctuary?" she scoffed, sounding almost insulted. "Pathetic."

Harry didn’t answer, just approached the door. He reached out and pressed his hand against the worn wood, feeling the faint pulse of magic behind it. The wards were rudimentary but vicious, designed more to maim intruders than keep them out. He ignored the sharp tug of dark magic clawing at his skin and muttered a single word in Parseltongue.

The door groaned as it unlocked, and the air around them seemed to breathe in relief. As they stepped inside, the scent of mildew and something worse assaulted their senses. Harry didn’t flinch, but Bellatrix wrinkled her nose, disdain evident on her face.

The inside was just as miserable as the outside—broken furniture, a grimy floor covered in dirt and rat droppings, and the faint shimmer of layered wards. At the center of the room, half-buried in dust, sat a cracked stone basin—a crude, hand-carved thing.

He could feel the trap within it—a layer of blood magic, old and angry. Without missing a beat, he spoke another word in Parseltongue, and the magic twisted, recoiled, and then dissolved like mist in sunlight. A sharp crack split the air, and the basin split down the middle, revealing a small, rusted box tucked inside.

Bellatrix eyed the box with barely restrained curiosity. "Is that it?"

"One of them," Harry replied. He pulled the box free, examining it carefully. There was still magic clinging to it, but it felt weak and fragmented, probably degraded over time. With a sharp flick of his wand, he shattered the final ward and pried the lid open.

Inside lay a ring with a dark, cracked stone embedded in it. Bellatrix stiffened, her eyes fixed on it with fear and reverence.

Harry could sense the soul fragment within the ring, writhing and agitated, like a caged animal clawing to get out. The feeling was unmistakable—dark, foul, and oppressive. He muttered, “Observe.”

“This feeling…” he muttered, trying to make sense of it. “No doubt about it.”

He could feel it tugging at the edges of his thoughts — not the soul fragment, but the stone itself — like a whisper promising him a face he missed.

He raised his hand, whispering, "Observe."

[System Message: Item cannot be seen through.]

"Same as the Invisibility Cloak," Harry mused. He’d long since figured out that the Cloak carried a distinct magical imprint—something that Dumbledore and Voldemort could sense. Back in his first year, even while hidden under the cloak during his sneaking into the room where the Philosopher’s Stone was kept, Quirrell—possessed by Voldemort—had sensed him. And during the final task of the Triwizard Tournament, Voldemort had spotted him despite being hidden.

When Harry mastered Astral Sight, he noticed the same energy on Dumbledore too. Just to be sure, he’d run several tests—hiding Crookshanks, Hedwig, Misty, and even Petunia under the cloak. Despite using Astral Sight, he couldn’t see any of them. Yet, he could feel that same imprint—a sort of faint, otherworldly resonance. He didn’t know what it was for certain, but he had a theory. One of the Three Entities of Creation, perhaps. If the Cloak was one, was this ring another?

He examined the ring more closely. The soul fragment clung to the ring itself rather than the stone. The stone... it looked like a plain black gem, but something about it felt off. The crack running through it seemed unnatural, as if the stone itself had been damaged during some powerful ritual. Harry could almost feel a whispering presence from it, as if the stone was pulling at him, testing his will.

Bellatrix remained kneeling behind him, almost reverent, her eyes fixed on the ring. Harry glanced back at her, noticing the way she seemed entranced, but also slightly unnerved.

"Ever seen this before?" he asked, holding it up.

She licked her lips, hesitant. "No, my Lord. He never mentioned anything like it. But... it feels foul. As if the air itself recoils from it."

Harry hummed thoughtfully. "He probably kept it to himself. Considering what it is, I don’t blame him."

Bellatrix tilted her head, curiosity getting the better of her. "Is it... important, my Lord?"

"Very," Harry replied, tucking the ring into his pocket. "But not something you need to worry about."

She nodded obediently, though her eyes lingered on his pocket. Harry ignored it, grabbing her shoulder and vanishing with a sharp crack, reappearing at the hideout. The dilapidated mansion stood silent and grim, the air thick with the remnants of old curses.

“You stay here,” Harry said, releasing her shoulder. “Remember what I told you before. I’m leaving Britain in a week.”

Bellatrix nodded without hesitation, her eyes still burning with that unhinged devotion. “Yes, My Lord. It will be done.”

Harry gave her one last glance before disappearing again, this time arriving on a rocky coast overlooking a cave. He took a moment to gauge his surroundings—the crash of waves, the wind cutting through the air, and the salty scent that hung thick around him. A rough, jagged path led down to the water, where a barely noticeable trail snaked through the rocky outcrop. He turned his attention to the island in the distance.

"Nigel, you previously said my cloak was linked to one of the three entities of creation. Is this stone one of them as well?"

A hum echoed in his mind, almost thoughtful. "Yes, but I cannot say more than that. Sorry, Harry."

Harry didn’t bother pushing for more. If Nigel couldn’t say, then there was no point wasting time on it. The cave itself wasn’t much of a challenge, especially compared to the Gaunt Shack. Most of the defenses were straightforward—traps designed to keep out idiots or scare off the curious. The Inferi, though, would have been a problem if he didn’t already know what to expect.

Eventually, he reached the vast underground lake. The black water lay still, like polished obsidian, reflecting the jagged stone ceiling above. In the center of the lake stood a small, rocky island with a faint green glow. Harry eyed it with a frown, already knowing what lay there—the basin that held Voldemort’s potion trap.

He didn’t bother trying to summon the boat manually. Instead, he scanned the cave with Astral Sight, picking out the magical triggers woven into the surroundings. With a flick of his wand, he tapped the stone by the water's edge, muttering a low incantation.

The lake rippled, and a small, ancient boat surfaced, gliding to the shore. It looked old and battered, like it had been there for centuries. He stepped inside, ignoring the faint rocking, and gave it a nudge with his wand. The boat moved on its own, cutting silently through the black water.

Halfway across, he noticed faint movements beneath the surface—pale, distorted shapes lurking just out of sight. Inferi. Their dead, empty eyes stared up at him, but they didn’t move to attack. He knew better than to provoke them. As long as he didn’t touch the water, they wouldn’t rise.

The boat scraped against the stone of the island, and Harry stepped out. The basin was right in the center, filled with that sickly green liquid, glowing faintly in the dim light. He could feel the dark magic radiating from it, like a lingering curse woven into the very air.

He didn’t waste time wondering if there was a way around it. Voldemort wasn’t stupid—there was no trick, no clever loophole. The potion had to be consumed to get to the Horcrux. With a sigh, he conjured a simple silver goblet and dipped it into the basin. The liquid filled the cup, swirling sluggishly as if reluctant to be disturbed.

Harry released a Dementor from Potter Haven, and the creature loomed over him, its tattered robes billowing in the stale, suffocating air. The foul stench of decay filled the cave as it let out a rattling breath, clearly displeased with being summoned. It looked around in annoyance, dread seeping from its very presence.

Harry barely flinched, holding out the goblet filled with the sickly green potion. "Time has arrived. Drink this, and you’re free."

The Dementor fixed its empty, lifeless sockets on him, a low hiss escaping its gaping maw. "You promised," it rasped, the voice hollow and grating.

Harry nodded, not bothered by its presence. "Yeah, yeah. Drink all of this, and you're free to go."

The Dementor’s skeletal hand reached out, bony fingers wrapping around the cup. With a slow, almost resentful movement, it brought the goblet to where its mouth would be. The liquid drained rapidly, as if absorbed by the void within its hood. Harry just watched, arms crossed, as the creature chugged it down without pause.

When it had drained the last drop, the Dementor let out a guttural sound, almost like a pained groan. Its form seemed to waver, becoming even more tattered and insubstantial. Then it turned back to Harry, almost expectantly.

"It’s done," Harry said plainly. "Go. You’re free."

The creature hesitated for a moment, like it couldn’t quite believe it, before dissolving into shadow, vanishing from sight. The cold in the cave lessened, but the eerie stillness remained. Harry gave the empty goblet a glance before kicking it aside.

He turned his attention back to the basin. As expected, the Horcrux sat at the bottom—the locket of Salazar Slytherin. He reached in and snatched it up without ceremony, feeling the faint pulse of the soul fragment trapped within. Its chain was still glinting despite the grime, as if refusing to tarnish even in this pit of decay.

Harry stared at the locket in his hand, something gnawing at the back of his mind. He frowned, turning it over in his palm. Something was wrong. He was familiar enough with Horcruxes by now to sense the soul fragment within, but this one didn’t have the same foul, cloying presence. It felt empty.

He scowled. “Did the soul piece die?” he muttered. That didn’t make sense. Soul fragments didn’t just die out. They were resilient, clinging to life even in the most hostile conditions. He examined the locket more closely, his fingers tracing the worn etchings along the edges before deciding to cut to the chase.

“Observe.”

[System Message: Object identified - Locket of Salazar Slytherin (Fake). Enchanted with minor protective charms. Contains a message addressed to the Dark Lord. Signature: Regulus Arcturus Black]