After the encounter with Fred and George, Harry’s mind raced. How had they known about his clone ability? Had they used magic to detect him? And what about the future? He couldn’t always rely on his “I am what I think I am” ability to alter others’ memories.

  The thought gnawed at him as Harry made his way to the Great Hall for breakfast. The chatter of students and the clatter of cutlery filled the air, but it all felt distant as if he were walking through a fog. He barely noticed the enchanted ceiling reflecting a clear blue sky or the smell of freshly baked bread wafting from the long tables. His thoughts were consumed by the twins’ discovery and the implications it carried.

  “Harry! Over here!” Hermione’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and insistent. She was seated at the Gryffindor table, her bushy hair catching the morning light as she waved at him.

  Harry blinked, pulled from his thoughts. He gave her a simple nod and made his way over, sliding into the seat across from her.

  “You alright, Harry?” Hermione asked, her brow furrowed. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I’m fine,” Harry muttered, reaching for a piece of toast. He spread a thin layer of jam on it, his movements mechanical, as if his body were on autopilot.

  Hermione eyed him suspiciously. “You don’t look fine. Did something happen?”

  Harry shook his head, avoiding her gaze. “Just tired. Didn’t sleep well.”

  After breakfast, Harry slipped away from the Great Hall, his footsteps echoing softly in the deserted corridor as he made his way to a secluded corner of the castle. The morning light filtered through narrow windows, casting long shadows on the stone walls. He paused, checking with his “Clairvoyance” to ensure he was alone, then pulled the small mirror from his pocket. Its surface was cool against his palm, the edges smooth and worn from use. With a quiet murmur, he activated his Mirror, Mirror on the Wall ability. The glass shimmered like liquid silver, and an image began to form—Fred and George, huddled together in their dormitory, their heads bent over a piece of parchment.

  Harry leaned in closer, his breath fogging the edge of the mirror as his eyes narrowed. The parchment was no ordinary sheet of paper. Lines and labels shifted and moved, forming a detailed map of Hogwarts. And there, in the center of it all, was his name—Harry Potter—written in bold, looping script. It wasn’t static; it moved, as if the map itself were alive, tracking his every step. Beneath his name, a stream of information appeared, revealing the artifact’s identity: the Marauder’s Map, a magical tool that displayed the location of every person within the castle.

  “That’s how they saw me,” Harry muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. A flicker of frustration sparked in his chest, mingling with a grudging admiration for the twins’ ingenuity. He clenched his free hand into a fist. “If only I’d used the Shroud ability with the clone, the map wouldn’t have detected me.” The thought gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of his carelessness.

  He lowered the mirror, his reflection staring back at him—pale, tired, and troubled. His mind drifted to the limitations of his “Clairvoyance.” It had always been his most reliable ability, a lifeline in the chaos of his childhood. It had saved him from Dudley’s ambushes, from Aunt Marge’s snarling dogs, from countless other dangers. But here, in the wizarding world, it felt… insufficient. It couldn’t pierce through invisibility or detect those who actively hid themselves with magic. The castle was full of house elves, their presence completely invisible to him, their movements silent and unseen. The realization settled over him like a heavy cloak, a quiet but persistent unease that he couldn’t shake.

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  Harry sighed, slipping the mirror back into his pocket. The corridor was still empty, the silence almost oppressive. He leaned against the cold stone wall, his mind racing. He needed to adapt, to find a way to bridge the gap between his abilities and the magic of this world.

  Harry’s fingers brushed against the cool stone wall as he walked, his mind churning with frustration. ‘If only I had something like the Marauder’s Map,’ he thought, the image of the twins huddled over the magical parchment lingering in his mind. He clenched his jaw, wishing his ability to manifest powers would grant him something similar—maybe even something better. Something that would level the playing field in this world of hidden dangers and unseen threats.

  As if in response to his silent plea, a soft chime echoed in his mind, delicate and resonant, like the distant ringing of a bell. It was a sound he had never heard before, yet it felt familiar, as though it had been waiting for this moment. A new ability unlocked.

  Now I See You: The name floated into his interface, accompanied by a flood of understanding. It was a passive ability, one that ensured nothing—visible or invisible, living or non-living, threat or not—could escape his perception. The moment it activated, the world around him shifted.

  Colors became more vivid, the muted tones of the castle’s stone walls now alive with subtle hues he had never noticed before. The air itself seemed to hum, charged with unseen energy, as though the universe had opened its arms to him. He could sense the faint, rhythmic pulse of magic embedded in the walls, the distant swish-swish of a house-elf scrubbing a floor two corridors away, and even the subtle disturbance in the air as Peeves floated through a nearby wall, his mischievous laughter a faint echo in Harry’s mind.

  The sheer volume of information was overwhelming. His head spun, his breath catching in his throat as the world expanded around him, revealing layers of existence he had never been aware of. For a moment, he felt as though he might faint, the weight of it all pressing down on him.

  But then, like a well-oiled machine, his Matryoshka Mind of Babel sprang into action. A new layer formed, seamless and efficient, cataloging and organizing the flood of sensory input. The chaos in his mind settled, the information flowing into neat, manageable streams. He marveled at the clarity it brought, the way it allowed him to process everything without being overwhelmed. For the first time, he felt truly in control.

  Yet, even as he reveled in the newfound power, he recognized its limitations. The range of “Now I See You” was tied to his perception, which, while broader than most due to his Clairvoyance, was still finite. He couldn’t detect anyone spying from outside his range, and that realization chewed at him. The ability was incredible, but it wasn’t perfect.

  ‘Looks like I need to use my Shroud ability more often,’ he thought, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The world around him still shimmered with newfound clarity, but Harry knew better than to let his guard down.

  Meanwhile, deep within the shadows of Hogwarts, the expulsion of the Horcrux from Harry’s scar had sent ripples through the fragile connection binding Voldemort to Quirrell. The wraith-like fragment of the Dark Lord, tethered to Quirrell’s weakening body, had felt the loss like a searing wound. Though he couldn’t pinpoint the cause, the destruction of the fragment left him restless, his essence writhing with desperate, gnawing hunger. His whispers to Quirrell grew sharper, more insistent, each word laced with venom and impatience.

  “The Stone,” Voldemort hissed, his voice a cold, slithering whisper that echoed in the darkest corners of Quirrell’s mind. The professor flinched, his hands gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles turned white. “We must have it. There is no time to waste, you fool!”

  Quirrell’s breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling as though he were drowning in the weight of his master’s command. His turban, usually wrapped tightly around his head, felt suffocating, and beads of sweat trickled down his temples. “Y-yes, Master,” he stammered, his voice trembling like a leaf in a storm. “I—I will redouble my efforts. The Stone will be yours.”

  “See that it is,” Voldemort snarled, the words dripping with menace, each syllable a blade pressed against Quirrell’s fragile resolve. “Or you will regret your incompetence.”

  Quirrell nodded jerkily, his face pale and slick with perspiration. His reflection in the dimly lit window showed a man on the brink, his eyes wide and haunted. “I understand, Master,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I won’t fail you.”

  The plan to steal the Philosopher’s Stone was set into motion, a desperate gambit born of Voldemort’s growing desperation and Quirrell’s crumbling will. Yet, neither of them realized just how much Harry had already altered the game.