Loren touched Ravenclaw's diadem with a fingertip but didn't put it on. Who would really dare to slap an unknown magical artifact straight onto their head? Yes, Ravenclaw's Diadem was a founder's relic and shouldn't be inherently lethal, but you can't judge ancient wizards by modern standards. Gryffindor's sword had already taught him a lesson—don't trip twice on the same stone.
Keeping one hand on the diadem, he did as he had with the Sword of Gryffindor and channeled magic into its interior, feeling his way through. In the histories of the wizarding world, Rowena Ravenclaw was said to surpass even Godric Gryffindor in brilliance; a little extra caution was only sensible.
As his magic seeped in, Loren began to perceive the diadem's inner state. Suddenly a thread of intent brushed against his power and sent a message. His hand twitched; he almost flipped on the anti-magic field, but he held back—his sixth sense hadn't sounded an alarm.
"Are you a student of Hogwarts?"
He steadied himself and sent a thought back.
"I am Rowena Ravenclaw."
The reply made him start. Had Rowena turned the diadem into a Horcrux? But the aura wasn't black—and not red, yellow, or green either. It was a clear, thoughtless blue.
"Rowena Ravenclaw has been dead for a thousand years," Loren asked the intent again. "Who are you really?"
"I am Rowena Ravenclaw."
Exactly the same answer. Paired with what his magical sight showed, a hypothesis took shape. To test it, Loren tried a different question.
"Who gave you that name?"
"Helena Ravenclaw."
That answer fit what he'd begun to suspect.
"What is the purpose of your existence?"
"To help the diadem's master organize and solve problems."
"May I give you a new name?"
"Of course."
Step by step, the picture was forming. Loren sat down at the machine, one hand still on the anti-magic switch. With the other, he lifted the diadem and set it on his brow.
The moment it touched, he was in a strange space. A ghostlike figure drifted before him—its face the spitting image of Rowena Ravenclaw in her portraits. If not for his earlier suspicion, he would have thought it was Rowena's soul.
Probing carefully with his magic, Loren finally understood what "Rowena Ravenclaw" here truly was: an artificial ghost—no true intelligence, only scripted behavior. Calling it artificial intelligence would be flattery.
After a thorough examination, the traces told their story. This "Rowena" had been crafted in Rowena's likeness. All signs suggested it was a half-finished construct meant to be completed by injecting Rowena's own mind—much as the founders had done with the Sorting Hat.
With scattered data bubbling up in his mind, Loren sketched the story. Rowena, sensing her end, combined all she had learned to forge this diadem: inside, a half-finished ghost in her image, planned to receive a copy of her thoughts at the moment of death. Then she could watch over Helena's growth—and when Helena neared death, she could do the same, creating a ghost and copying her thoughts, continuing to accompany their descendants.
This wasn't wild guesswork. The "inside" of the diadem felt vast—like standing within Hogwarts Castle itself. Perhaps out of curiosity—or some other impulse—Helena had secretly worn the half-finished diadem and discovered the mother-shaped "soul" within. Not realizing it was an artificial ghost, she took it for a Horcrux. Fearing her mother might set foot on a dark path, she stole the diadem.
Rowena told none of this to the other founders. She asked the man who loved Helena—the Baron—to find her. But Helena, burdened by the misunderstanding over the diadem, refused to return and face her mother.
Voldemort, when he gained the diadem, could have uncovered its secret; but as a half-finished piece it didn't grant enough benefit to satisfy him, so the "upperclassman" simply made it a Horcrux. By a fluke, turning it into a Horcrux let him inherit permissions Rowena had left in the diadem, and together with the other relics' permissions he managed to curse Defense Against the Dark Arts—leaving even headmasters unable to break it.
Loren couldn't help admiring Rowena's mind, and musing on how magic and technology can reach the same ends by different roads. A thousand years ago she had tried to build an artificial intelligence and upload consciousness; on the tech side that's the preface to a full-blown AI crisis. For Loren, it was a windfall. He'd long wanted an intelligent assistant but had lacked the references. Now he had a half-finished model—and its notes. Mixed with what he knew of technology, a usable AI wouldn't be far off.
That could wait. First he needed Ravenclaw's permissions, then he could hide this room inside Hogwarts. He already had experience. Imitating his earlier method, he bathed the diadem in his magic, colonizing it and reshaping it in his image. Compared to the sword, the diadem absorbed more easily; in short order it surrendered its permissions.
With those in hand, Loren immediately combined permissions and began peeling this chamber loose and sinking it deep within Hogwarts—hidden from anyone not his equal in authority. Then he started laying out the server room; this would be the root for the magical network.
After a stretch of work, the arcane network's first shape stood ready—enough for a Hogwarts-wide local connection. He didn't enable it yet. Instead, he slipped into the alchemy workshop box and began the long, fiddly task of handcrafting the gemstone.
Time flew. Before he knew it, evening had fallen. He'd skipped lunch and lost himself in cutting stone; after six hours he finally produced a gem that met his standard. The magic-tech network needed both kinds of storage. The technological side's devices had been finished early by alchemy; the magical side's storage came from the diadem's inspiration—the gemstone was where it kept knowledge and soul.
He mounted the gem into the rack and prepared to leave. Rome wasn't built in a day; he'd already worked through lunch, and missing dinner too would be pushing it. A glance at the time—just after four-thirty. Sensing Hermione in the library, he left the server room and headed there.
At five o'clock, Loren and Hermione sat down at the Gryffindor table. Hermione kept serving him food; one look at him at noon had told her he'd been lost in research again and forgotten to eat. It had happened often enough at home that she was used to it.
Once he'd eaten his fill—say, sixty percent—he slowed down and told Hermione what he'd done today. "I've almost finished laying the network. Soon you'll be able to use the Magic Notepad inside Hogwarts."
"The internet has been around since the eighties," he added, "but so far it's just passing data—like mail. The real blossoming hasn't started yet. With this—"
"You actually pulled it off?" Hermione's eyes widened. "Then can we use the Magic Notepad to talk to our families?"
"Not that fast," he said. "For now it's only the campus network. Once the backbone's complete, we can talk about wider access."
It wasn't the answer she wanted, but she knew work like this didn't happen overnight. "You can do it," she said softly. "I believe in you."
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