As the last of the students filed in, Professor Quirrell stood up, his movements jerky and uncertain. He cleared his throat, his voice trembling as he began to speak. “G-g-good afternoon, class,” he stuttered, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected an attack at any moment. “I am P-p-professor Quirrell, your D-Defence Against the Dark Arts t-teacher. This s-subject is one of the m-most important you will s-study at Hogwarts. The d-dark arts are m-many and varied, and it is my j-job to p-prepare you for the d-dangers you may f-face.”
Harry listened intently, though the professor’s stuttering made it difficult to follow. If he hadn’t been sure before, he was now: there was a connection between Professor Quirrell and the pain in his scar. Every time the professor came near him or turned his back, the itch intensified, sometimes flaring into a stinging sensation. Harry kept his "Look at Me, I See You" ability active, letting it gather information while his "Matryoshka Mind" cataloged everything seamlessly. He didn’t look at the data about Quirrell during class, though. Instead, he focused on his textbook and tried to make sense of the professor’s disjointed lecture.
The class dragged on, feeling much longer than it was. Professor Quirrell’s nervous energy and constant stuttering made it hard to concentrate, and by the time the bell rang, the students were visibly relieved. As they filed out of the classroom, Harry overheard muttered complaints. “That was the most boring lecture ever,” Ron grumbled to Seamus.
Hermione turned to Harry as they stepped into the corridor. “Do you want to go to the library together?” she asked, her tone hopeful.
Harry shook his head politely. “I think I’ll head to the dormitory for a bit. There’s something I need to do. I’ll join you later if you’re still there.”
Hermione beamed. “I’ll be in the library until Astronomy class. I want to do some quick reading on the subject before tonight.”
With that, they parted ways. Harry made his way to the Gryffindor dormitory, his mind already racing. He needed privacy to process the information he had gathered during class. When he reached his bed, he closed the curtains around it, ensuring no one could see him. His "Clairvoyance" remained active, alerting him to any approaching presence.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Harry finally allowed himself to access the information his ability had gathered about Professor Quirrell. The data flowed into his mind, organized and cataloged by "Matryoshka Mind". He braced himself, ready to uncover the truth about the man who seemed to have such a strange effect on him.
Harry carefully reached for the information about Professor Quirrell in his mental library, the "Matryoshka Mind" organizing the data into neat, accessible sections. The first piece of information hit him like a thunderbolt: "Quirinus Quirrell. Host of the wraith of Voldemort. Cursed to a half-dying state because of drinking unicorn blood."
Harry froze, his breath catching in his throat. He had to double-check the information, but it was there, clear and undeniable. Voldemort—the Dark Lord who had supposedly been defeated that fateful night in 1981—was still alive. Or at least, some part of him was. The realization sent a chill down Harry’s spine. "How is he alive?" Harry thought, his mind racing. "Did he even die that night?" The questions came flooding in, one after another. "Is that why my scar hurts? Because Voldemort is still out there, and he’s connected to me somehow?"
Harry’s reaction was surprisingly tame, given the enormity of what he had just discovered.
It was because he hadn’t lived through the war, and hadn’t experienced the terror that Voldemort had wrought. If anyone from the wizarding world had learned that the Dark Lord wasn’t truly gone, they might have fainted from sheer fright. Even some of Voldemort’s followers, who had gone on with their lives after his supposed demise, would have been shaken to their core.
Harry took a deep breath and continued to sift through the information about Quirrell. "Quirrell seeks to obtain the Philosopher’s Stone, which he suspects is hidden in the castle by Dumbledore." There was more about Quirrell’s psyche—his desire to prove his magical excellence, his ambition to rise above his perceived mediocrity. It was this ambition that had led him to the Dark Forest, where he had encountered the shade of Voldemort. The encounter had left him cursed, his body weakened by the consumption of unicorn blood, and his mind enslaved to the Dark Lord’s will.
Harry paused, his thoughts swirling. Quirrell was a pawn, a vessel for Voldemort’s return. But what did that mean for Harry? For Hogwarts? He needed to know more.
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Then, an idea struck him. If Voldemort’s wraith had been present in the classroom, even in a diminished form, perhaps his information was also stored in Harry’s mental library. He focused, willing the information on Voldemort to appear. Almost immediately, a new entry materialized: “Tom Marvolo Riddle (Lord Voldemort)”
Harry’s eyes widened as he began to read. The sheer volume of information was staggering. “Tom Marvolo Riddle. Mother: Merope Gaunt, a witch from the House of Gaunt, descendants of Salazar Slytherin. Father: Tom Riddle Sr., a wealthy Muggle whom Merope enchanted with a love potion. Merope gave birth to Tom in a Muggle orphanage in London and died shortly after. Tom grew up in the orphanage, resenting his abandonment and Muggle roots.”
The details kept coming. Harry learned about Voldemort’s fear of death and his obsessive quest for immortality. He discovered how Voldemort had learned about Horcruxes from Professor Slughorn, the former Potions master and head of Slytherin House. He read about the creation of Voldemort’s first Horcrux—a diary—after he murdered a girl named Myrtle in the Chamber of Secrets. There were mentions of other Horcruxes, each created through acts of unspeakable evil, including the murder of his own family.
Harry’s stomach churned as he delved deeper into the Dark Lord’s history. Voldemort’s rise to power, his creation of the Death Eaters, his reign of terror—it was all there, laid bare in Harry’s mind. But what struck him most was the mention of a prophecy. “A prophecy foretold the downfall of the Dark Lord at the hands of a boy born at the end of July. A Death Eater had informed Voldemort of this prophecy, leading him to target the Potters.”
But it was not the most important part. Someone his parents trusted had betrayed them and led the Dark Lord to their residence, hidden under the Fidelius Charm.
Harry’s hands clenched into fists as anger flared within him. His parents had been betrayed by someone they trusted, someone who had pretended to be their friend. That betrayal had led to their deaths and left Harry an orphan, raised in a cupboard under the stairs by people who despised him. The weight of it all pressed down on him, threatening to overwhelm even his well-organized mind.
He stopped reading and took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The gravity of the situation was staggering. Voldemort was still alive, sustained by Horcruxes that made him immortal. And now, he was here, at Hogwarts, using Quirrell as a puppet to seek the Philosopher’s Stone.
Harry didn’t fully understand what the Stone was, but one thing was crystal clear: he couldn’t let the Dark Lord succeed. It wasn’t because Harry saw himself as a hero, destined to save the world or fulfill some grand prophecy. No, his resolve was rooted in something far more visceral—pure, unfiltered vengeance. Voldemort had taken everything from him: his parents, his childhood, and the chance at a normal life. Harry’s years of loneliness, the endless ache of never knowing his family, and the weight of being "the Boy Who Lived" had forged a well of frustration and anger within him. All of that anger now crystallized into an unrelenting hatred for the one who had robbed him of so much.
Just as his thoughts began to spiral, his “Clairvoyance” pinged, alerting him to someone approaching. It was Neville Longbottom, the soft-spoken, clumsy boy from Gryffindor. Harry quickly composed himself, pushing the flood of information to the back of his mind. He needed a distraction, something to ground him.
He got out of bed and greeted Neville with a nod. “Hey, Neville. Everything alright?”
Neville looked a little startled but smiled nervously. “Oh, uh, yeah. Just heading to the common room. You?”
“I’m off to the library,” Harry said, forcing a smile. “Promised Hermione I’d meet her there.”
With that, Harry left the dormitory and made his way to the library. His head was still spinning, but he pushed the thoughts aside for now. He needed to focus on something else, even if just for a little while. The library, with its quiet shelves and endless books, seemed like the perfect place to clear his mind. He would deal with Voldemort and Quirrell later. For now, he just needed to breathe.
…
During the night.
Harry stared up at the canopy of his bed, his thoughts clearer now after an evening spent in the library with Hermione. Their conversation had been a mix of homework and magical theory, her enthusiasm contagious even when the subject itself felt mundane. While she rattled off incantations and theories, Harry had let his mind wander, organizing the tangled web of problems he faced. Now, lying in the stillness of the dormitory, he felt the weight of everything pressing down on him.
He would stop Voldemort from getting the Philosopher’s Stone.
The thought was stark and unyielding, but as soon as it formed, Harry felt his doubts creep in. His first instinct was to tell Dumbledore. The headmaster was wise and powerful—surely, he would know what to do. But then Harry paused, unease prickling at the edges of his mind.
Why would Dumbledore hide the Stone in a school of all places? The idea seemed reckless, almost absurd. And how had Voldemort learned about it? Harry’s scar twinged faintly as the questions swirled in his mind.
His thoughts shifted to the Horcruxes—the key to Voldemort’s immortality. Harry didn’t know exactly what they were, but he knew how many he made. Six. Voldemort had made six.
If he could find them and destroy them, he could stop Voldemort for good.
The enormity of the task was overwhelming, but Harry forced himself to focus. He couldn’t afford to feel daunted. He needed a way to track down the Horcruxes, to destroy them without drawing attention to himself. And he had to do it alone. His abilities were his secret, his advantage. To reveal them would be to risk everything.
Harry’s thoughts turned to his latest ability: “Matryoshka Mind”. It had transformed the way he processed information, giving him a sense of clarity and control he had never experienced before. More importantly, it came with a new awareness—a subtle, almost intuitive understanding of how his abilities developed. For the first time, Harry felt he could guide the process, shaping his powers to fit the challenges ahead.
Closing his eyes, Harry sank into the layered architecture of his mind, letting “Matryoshka Mind” take over. Ideas and possibilities unfolded like branches on a tree, each one illuminating a different path.
The most limiting factor in his quest was the lack of information. Where were the Horcruxes? How could he destroy them? Was destroying them enough to end Voldemort once and for all? Harry didn’t have anyone to turn to. He didn’t trust anyone. His lonely childhood had taught him to rely only on himself.
As he focused, a new ability began to form, its purpose clear and precise. The faint chime of a bell echoed in his mind as the ability took shape.
New Ability Unlocked: Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
Description: The heart’s inquiry is reflected in any mirror the user faces. Only the user can see the information.
Harry’s breath caught. This was exactly what he needed—a way to uncover hidden truths without relying on others. He could use this to find the Horcruxes, to learn how to destroy them, and to uncover the secrets Voldemort had buried.
His abilities had brought him this far, and he would rely on them to see him through. The pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, and Harry was ready to move forward.
I wonder what would Harry find if he used the "Look at me, I See You" ability in the presence of one Ginny Weasley.