Harry Potter with Technology System

Ch326- Fake Voldemort!

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Bellatrix, emboldened by his apparent approval, stood slowly, her knees shaky. Her eyes, however, burned with fervent energy. “My Lord,” she began hesitantly, wringing her hands, “forgive me, but… how? How have you… recovered?”

Harry paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Recovered?” he repeated, buying time as his mind raced. He didn’t know what she’d seen or believed about Voldemort’s state, but he couldn’t afford to show ignorance. He turned fully to face her, tilting his head slightly as if evaluating her question.

“Yes,” she said quickly, her words tumbling over each other. “When I left you in Albania… you were not… you were—” She faltered, as if struggling to describe what she had seen. “You were… diminished,” she settled on finally, her voice lowering into a near-whisper. “Barely able to speak. Barely able to… to survive.”

Harry’s thoughts sharpened. Albania. That made sense—Quirrell had been there before his possession, after all. Voldemort must have been hiding there. Harry’s mind pieced the fragments together:  Quirrell’s altered behavior after his travels, and now this. Voldemort had been in Albania, and Bellatrix had been there with him after her escape from Azkaban.

“And yet,” she continued, her voice trembling slightly with awe, “here you are. Restored… powerful… magnificent.” She took a step closer, her hands trembling as if she wanted to touch him but didn’t dare. “How, my Lord? How did you regain your strength?”

Harry schooled his expression, his mind racing for an answer. If he admitted ignorance, she might question him. He needed to lead her into revealing more. “Bellatrix,” he said smoothly, his voice adopting a tone of mild reprimand, “do you doubt my power? My ability to overcome even the greatest of obstacles?”n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

Her eyes widened, and she immediately dropped to her knees again, bowing her head so low it almost touched the floor. “Never, my Lord!” she cried. “Forgive me for my foolishness. I could never doubt you.”

“Good,” Harry said curtly, crossing his arms as he watched her grovel. “But I am curious, Bellatrix. When you left me in Albania, what was your role?”

She hesitated, her forehead still pressed to the floor. “I… I was to serve you, my Lord,” she admitted. “To gather the item… to ensure your rise while you recovered your strength.”

“And yet you left,” Harry pointed out, his tone sharp. “Why?”

Bellatrix’s confusion was almost palpable as she raised her head slightly, her lips parting but no words coming out. She looked utterly lost, her gaze flicking between Harry’s face and the floor as if trying to reconcile her memories with the accusation. “But… my Lord,” she stammered, her voice hesitant, almost pleading, “wasn’t it you who sent me on that mission?”

Harry didn’t respond immediately, tilting his head slightly as if waiting for her to elaborate. The silence dragged on, and Bellatrix, trembling slightly, reached into the pocket of her robes. Her fingers fumbled for a moment before she produced an object wrapped in cloth. She hesitated, clutching it tightly to her chest, before holding it out toward him with reverence.

The cloth fell away to reveal a small, ornate cup. It was golden, with finely etched designs curling around its surface. Two delicate handles framed its sides with a badger engraved on the side and its surface shimmered faintly even in the dim light of the room. There was something unnervingly pristine about it, as though time and grime couldn’t touch it. As soon as the object left Bellatrix’s hand, Harry felt it—a faint, oppressive aura emanating from the cup, familiar and chilling.

His eyes narrowed as he extended his hand to take it. The moment his fingers brushed against the cold metal, the feeling intensified. It wasn’t just a magical artifact; it was something far more sinister. ‘A Horcrux,’ Harry thought grimly, the realization striking like a thunderclap. 

He mentally activated Observe: [System Message: Hufflepuff's Cup. A masterpiece of magical craftsmanship, the cup was once Helga Hufflepuff's treasured companion, renowned for its many enchantments. It graced her table as a wine goblet for honored guests, carried faithfully by her devoted house-elf. Whispers of its magic speak of strengthening bonds and loyalty among those who share its touch, alongside the rumored power to nourish vitality. Now, its brilliance is shadowed by the curse of a fractured soul, bringing unease to the unworthy.]

Reading the system message, Harry’s mind churned with possibilities. Accidentally stumbling upon one of the Founders’ artifacts was a twist he hadn’t anticipated. A few weeks ago, this discovery would’ve thrilled him—he could have used it to manipulate the wards at Hogwarts. But this wasn’t the time for daydreaming. 

Harry didn’t let his surprise show, even as Bellatrix knelt before him, her devotion practically oozing from every pore. She was clearly affected by the Cup’s aura, the faint magical pressure that could unsettle even the strongest minds. Yet here he was, holding it as if it were nothing more than a common trinket.

He decided to gamble—big. If this went wrong, it could spiral into a mess he would have to clean up, but the alternative wasn’t much better. Worse came to worst, he could kill her here and now. He wanted Neville to have his revenge, but that didn’t mean Harry would hesitate if Bellatrix’s continued existence became more trouble than it was worth. All this misunderstanding wasn’t part of Harry’s plan to begin with.

“Do you know why you were entrusted with this cup, Bella?” Harry asked.

Bellatrix shook her head immediately, her curls bouncing as she replied, “No, my Lord. I… I only followed your orders.”

Harry nodded, his gaze still on the cup. “This item carries part of my soul.”

Bellatrix gasped audibly, her hands flying to her mouth. Her face shifted between awe and shock, as though she were trying to process what that meant. As a Black, she would have been exposed to dark magic through her family, but even for her, anything involving the soul was beyond the bounds of ordinary practice.

Harry waited a beat, then continued, “This item is a Horcrux. I sealed part of my soul inside it, ensuring that even Death couldn’t take me from the realm of the living.”

Bellatrix’s hands trembled slightly as they lowered from her mouth. “A Horcrux…” she whispered, almost reverently. Her mind raced through the implications, piecing together scraps of knowledge from ancient texts she had studied in her youth. Soul magic was considered the pinnacle of the dark arts—a realm so dangerous and complex that even the most skilled practitioners feared it. Yet here he was, speaking of it as if it were a matter of strategy.

“You—” she hesitated, licking her lips nervously, “you defied death, my Lord. Of course you did. Only you could master such magic.”

Harry made no effort to confirm or deny her flattery. Instead, he studied her. “This cup,” he said, holding it up slightly, “is more than just a trinket, Bella. It represents my foresight and my power. By entrusting you with it, I demonstrated my faith in your abilities. Yet…” He let the word hang, allowing the weight of his disappointment to settle in the air.

Bellatrix froze, her wide eyes locked on him as her breath caught. “My Lord, I—”

Harry shook his head, cutting Bellatrix off before her stammering could descend into further pleading. "The wraith you saw in Albania," he began, his tone sharp enough to silence her immediately, "was a fragment—an escaped part of my soul. Not my main body. Do you honestly think I would descend into something so unsightly?"

Harry didn’t know exactly what form Voldemort had taken when Bellatrix last saw him, but her earlier words about him "recovering" when they first appeared in the hideout gave him a hint. Coupling that with his own encounter with the wraith-like form in his first year, he decided to take a calculated gamble.

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