Harry’s fingers trembled slightly as he activated the "Magic Mirror", the surface shimmering like disturbed water before revealing its haunting images. Sirius’s face appeared, thinner than before, his cheekbones sharp against the pallor of his skin. Dark shadows clung beneath his eyes, and his gaze, once fierce and alive, now flickered with a faint, weary light. Behind him, the stone walls of Azkaban loomed, slick with dampness, and the air seemed to ripple with an unseen cold. Harry’s breath caught as he watched Sirius shiver, the dementors’ presence a suffocating weight even through the mirror’s reflection. But then, in a flicker of movement, Sirius shifted—his human form dissolving into the sleek, black shape of a large dog. The transformation was swift, almost instinctive as if the animagus form offered some small refuge from the despair that clung to the air like a second skin.

  The dog’s ears flattened against its skull, its body curling tightly into the corner of the cell. Harry’s chest ached as he realized why Sirius stayed in this form: the dementors’ influence was weaker on animals. They couldn’t feed on joy he didn’t feel as vividly in this state. But even as a dog, Sirius looked diminished, his fur matted and dull, his ribs visible beneath the thin layer of skin. Harry’s jaw tightened, his nails digging crescents into his palms. The urge to act—to storm the fortress, to tear down its walls—thrummed in his veins like a live wire. But then thoughts flicked back to the "Weaver’s Map", the steps it had shown to free Sirius. He was rational enough to know that a reckless move would only tighten the chains around Sirius, branding him a fugitive forever.

  Harry exhaled slowly, as he whispered to himself, “Not yet. Not yet.”

  While monitoring Sirius, Harry also kept a close eye on Pettigrew. Every move the rat made was logged, and Harry used the Weaver’s Map to formulate a precise plan for his capture. The map wasn’t just a tool for tracking the present—it predicted future variables, adjusting the plan in real time to ensure success. Harry marveled at its ability to anticipate and adapt, providing step-by-step instructions that accounted for Pettigrew’s habits, the movements of others in the castle, and even potential disruptions. It was a meticulous plan, leaving nothing to chance.

  Yet even as Harry immersed himself in careful preparation, life had a way of bringing unexpected surprises—surprises like the unexpected array of gifts sprawled across his bed on Christmas morning. Hermione’s self-writing quill was thoughtful and practical, but one gift stood out: an Invisibility Cloak. The note attached read, “Your father left it with me. It’s time I return it to its rightful owner. Use it wisely.” Harry unfolded the cloak, its silvery fabric shimmering faintly in the light. He couldn’t help but smile. This would be incredibly useful.

  Curious about the cloak’s origins, Harry activated his Magic Mirror ability to trace the sender. The mirror’s surface shimmered before revealing the answer—Dumbledore. Intrigued, Harry pressed further and uncovered a startling truth: the cloak was no ordinary heirloom but one of the Deathly Hallows, legendary artifacts said to be gifts from Death itself.

  The mirror unraveled the myth in vivid detail—the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak. According to legend, whoever united all three would become the Master of Death. Skeptical, Harry asked the mirror whether the tale was true. Its response was definitive: the legend of the Master of Death was nothing more than a rumor. But the artifacts? They were real—and their origins traced back to an entity known as Death.

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  Upon learning that Death was real, Harry couldn’t help but wonder—did Fate exist as well? The prophecy weighed heavily on his mind, compelling him to ask the mirror.

  The answer was swift and absolute: no. Fate did not exist. Instead, the mirror revealed a deeper truth—prophecies stemmed from Death itself. ‘Death knows all that has an end,’ it wrote.

  Harry pressed on, his mind racing with possibilities. ‘Were prophecies absolute? Could the future be set in stone?’

  The mirror’s response appeared, its words etched in shimmering light: Prophecies are guidance—mystical or mundane—carefully woven to steer events toward a specific outcome.

  The revelation sent Harry’s thoughts spiraling back to the prophecy about him and Voldemort—the very prophecy that had marked him, that had made Voldemort hunt his family. The weight of it pressed down on him, the implication settling like a cold stone in his chest.

  Anger flared within him, raw and unrelenting. His fate had been orchestrated, his family torn apart by words spoken long before he could understand them. His hands clenched into fists. He was angry—furious.

  Doubt crept into Harry’s mind like a shadow, unsettling and insidious. Had any of his choices ever been his own? Or had his entire life been carefully orchestrated, each step nudged into place by unseen forces?

  He felt like a marionette, bound by the unbreakable strings of prophecy, dancing to a script he never wrote. The thought made his anger burn hotter, but beneath it lurked something worse—a gnawing fear that he had never been free at all.

  A primal desire ignited within him—raw, desperate, uncontrollable. He longed to sever the strings of fate, to break free from the prophecy’s grip. He refused to be a pawn in some grand design, bound to a future he had no hand in shaping. He wanted freedom—true freedom.

  A familiar chime echoed in his mind—a sound he had come to recognize.

  Harry’s eyes flicked to the interface as new text materialized before him: Weaver’s Sight – The user can see the strings of causality, and how events are woven together.

  His breath caught. The very thing he had raged against—the unseen forces shaping his life—was now laid bare before him.

  He activated the ability.

  At once, the world unraveled before him—an intricate chaos of strings, endlessly shifting, intertwining, and diverging. Cause and effect wove together in a tapestry of motion, overwhelming in its complexity.

  His Matryoshka Mind worked furiously, cataloging the endless stream of new stimuli. It was too much at first—too vast, too intricate—but as his mind adapted, the patterns slowly began to make sense.

  In addition to revealing the intricate web of causality, Weaver’s Sight granted Harry an intuitive understanding of the chaotic, ever-shifting patterns within it. The threads represented cause and effect, binding events together, while their constant motion mirrored the fluid, unpredictable nature of time itself.

  Yet, when he examined his own place within this vast tapestry, he found something strange—no threads connected to him. It was as if he stood outside the weave, unseen and untouched by fate. And yet, when he acted, the pattern changed.

  A slow breath escaped his lips, relief washing over him. He had never truly been bound by prophecy. The realization settled deep within him, steady and certain. His power to manifest abilities must have been the reason—there was no other explanation.

  That understanding brought more than just relief; it reinforced his gratitude for the gifts he possessed.

  He made a vow—one he would not break. He would never use his abilities to manipulate others. He refused to become the very thing he despised.