The Great Hall was alive with laughter and chatter, the enchanted ceiling reflecting a starry night sky. Pumpkins floated overhead, and the aroma of roasted meats and sweets filled the air. But Harry sat quietly, pushing his food around his plate. The joy around him felt distant, almost foreign. It was the day his parents had been murdered, and no amount of celebration could ever make this day feel anything but hollow.

  He glanced up at the staff table, his eyes sweeping over the professors. Dumbledore sat at the center, his usual twinkle in his eyes as he surveyed the hall, but one seat was glaringly empty. Harry’s brow furrowed. ‘Where’s Quirrell?’ His stomach tightened, the weight of the thought sharpening his focus in spite of the heavy mood pressing on him. As the laughter and chatter swirled around him, a cold realization gripped him. ‘The feast… everyone’s distracted. If Quirrell wants the stone, now’s the perfect time.’ His heart raced, the possibility settling into his mind with an icy certainty.

  Harry slipped a hand into his robe pocket and carefully withdrew a small, round fragment of mirror. The edges were smooth from handling, the surface cloudy, reflecting only the dim shimmer of candlelight. He brought it a little closer, his gaze intent, his thoughts deliberate.

  He brought it a little closer, his gaze intent, his thoughts deliberate.

  ’Where is the stone?’ He willed the mirror to respond, his breath catching as something flickered across its clouded surface. A faint shimmer, a ripple—then, slowly, a line of text emerged, delicate yet unmistakable: “It is with Dumbledore, hidden in his robe’s pocket."

  From the side, Hermione’s sharp gaze caught the movement. She paused mid-bite, setting down her fork with practiced precision. “Why do you always carry that mirror?” she asked, her voice laced with curiosity.

  Harry blinked, the spell of his thoughts breaking. His lips curled into a smirk, masking the moment of disappointment. “It’s my divination mirror,” he quipped, twirling the fragment between his fingers. “Tells me my future every time I look into it.”

  Hermione exhaled sharply, unimpressed. “Hmph.” She turned back to her meal, the conversation dismissed as easily as a stray bit of parchment.

  Harry chuckled under his breath, slipping the mirror back into his pocket.

  His gaze flicked back to Dumbledore, ‘The stone’s with him. Quirrell’s going to be disappointed.’

  Still, a nagging unease lingered.

  Suddenly, a deep, guttural roar echoed through the corridors, followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy, thudding footsteps. The students froze, their laughter dying in their throats.

  Harry’s eyes narrowed, their usual bright green darkening with focus as his clairvoyance activated, a subtle but unmistakable shift in his demeanor. His clairvoyant field, an invisible extension of his senses, surged outward, not as a static, spherical dome of perception, but as a dynamic, malleable force that bent to his will. Its shape and reach were entirely dependent on Harry’s intent, stretching and contorting like an ethereal tendril toward the source of the sound.

  In his mind’s eye, the scene unfolded with terrifying clarity. Massive, hulking trolls loomed in the darkness, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the faint glow of torchlight. Thick, knotted muscles rippled beneath their leathery skin as they moved, their enormous clubs scraping against the stone floors with a grating, bone-chilling sound. Each step they took sent tremors through the ground, their heavy breaths echoing like the growl of a storm. Dozens of them, a nightmarish horde, marched forward with single-minded fury, their beady eyes glinting with rage as they closed in on the unsuspecting professors.

  Harry’s breath hitched as the vision solidified. “Trolls,” he muttered under his breath, the word barely audible, swallowed by the cacophony of panicked shouts and frantic footsteps around him.

  Meanwhile, Dumbledore rose from his seat, his movements unhurried yet absolute. His voice carried through the Great Hall, calm but laced with unspoken urgency. “Prefects, ensure the students remain here. Staff, with me.”

  Chairs scraped against stone as the professors rose in unison. Wands flicked into ready hands, their tips pulsing with barely restrained magic. Hagrid cracked his knuckles, his massive frame shifting like a living wall of muscle—he needed no wand.

  Harry glanced at Hermione. Hermione’s eyes were wide with fear, but she gripped her wand tightly. “What’s happening?” she whispered.

  “Maybe some kind of creature entered the castle,” Harry whispered back. Meanwhile, he stacked his enhanced perception ability – “Now I see You”, on top of his clairvoyance.

  Harry watched, transfixed, as Dumbledore and the professors sprang into action with a grace and precision that spoke of years of experience. The Headmaster’s robes billowed like a storm cloud as he raised his wand, his movements calm and deliberate, yet brimming with power. Spells erupted from the tips of the professors’ wands, arcs of light cutting through the chaos like shooting stars. Stunning spells, binding charms, and shimmering barriers filled the air, a symphony of magic that danced with deadly elegance. The trolls, for all their brute strength, were no match for the combined might of Hogwarts’ defenders. One by one, their hulking forms froze mid-stride, limbs locking, eyes glazing over until they toppled to the ground with thunderous thuds that shook the very foundations of the castle.

  After the battle, Dumbledore strode back into the Great Hall, the professors following closely behind him like a retinue of seasoned warriors. The room, still buzzing with the residual energy of the fight, fell into hushed anticipation as the Headmaster raised a hand. “The immediate threat has been neutralized,” he declared, his voice carrying the weight of authority and reassurance. The hall erupted in relieved murmurs and scattered applause, the tension in the air dissolving like mist under the morning sun.

  But Harry wasn’t focused on the celebration. His sharp eyes, always attuned to the subtleties others missed, caught the fleeting shift in Dumbledore’s demeanor. For a split second, the Headmaster’s usual calm fa?ade faltered. His piercing blue eyes, so often filled with twinkling wisdom, flickered with something darker, his gaze darting upward as if sensing something no one else could.

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  ‘What’s he looking at?’ Harry wondered, his instincts on high alert.

  Dumbledore turned to the other professors, his voice low but urgent. “Keep the students safe. I must attend to something.” Before anyone could respond, a sharp, melodic trill echoed through the hall. Harry’s eyes widened as a phoenix, its feathers glowing like molten gold, swooped down from above. The phoenix flew straight toward Dumbledore, who raised his hands in a swift, vertical clap. In an instant, both the phoenix and the headmaster were engulfed in a brilliant burst of flame. When the light faded, they were gone.

  The hall erupted in gasps and exclamations of wonder. Even the Slytherins, who prided themselves on their composure, couldn’t hide their amazement. “Did you see that?” someone whispered. “That was incredible!”

  Harry stared at the spot where Dumbledore had stood, his mind racing. ‘How did he do that? Can I manifest similar abilities?’ The thought filled him with a mix of admiration and determination.

  A minute later, another burst of flame announced Dumbledore’s return. His robes were slightly singed, and his face was grave, the usual twinkle in his eyes replaced by a steely resolve. The hall fell silent as all eyes turned to him.

  Dumbledore’s voice carried across the hall, calm but firm. “Heads of houses, please escort the students to their dormitories. Ensure everyone is accounted for. Once the students are settled, join me in my office.” He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. “Prefects, assist your housemates. Stay vigilant.”

  As the professors began organizing the students, Harry’s mind was still reeling. He glanced at Hermione and Ron, who looked just as stunned as he felt. “What do you think happened?” Hermione whispered, her voice tinged with worry.

  “I don’t know,” Harry replied, his tone thoughtful. “But whatever it is, it’s serious.”

  As the students began filing out of the Great Hall, Harry couldn’t shake the feeling that the night’s events were far from over. The trolls, Dumbledore’s sudden departure, and the headmaster’s somber return all pointed to something much bigger.

  …

  The next morning, the Great Hall was alive with its usual bustle, though the air carried an undercurrent of tension that hadn’t fully dissipated. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, casting long golden beams across the long tables where students sat, their voices a steady hum of chatter. Owls swooped in through the doors, their wings fluttering as they delivered letters and parcels, the rhythmic rustle of parchment and the occasional hoot adding to the morning’s symphony. Plates clinked, goblets clattered, and the scent of toast and bacon mingled with the faint, earthy aroma of owl feathers.

  When Dumbledore rose from his seat, his presence commanded immediate silence. “I have an announcement to make,” he began, his voice calm but carrying a weight that held everyone’s attention. “Last night, Professor Quirrell bravely sacrificed himself in defense of the castle. Thanks to his actions, the castle is no longer in danger.”

  A wave of murmurs swept through the hall. “Quirrell? Sacrificed himself?” someone whispered. “I didn’t think he had it in him,” another added. Despite the shock, the students seemed relieved by Dumbledore’s reassurance. If the headmaster said the danger had passed, they believed him.

  Dumbledore’s reputation as one of the greatest wizards of all time lent his words an air of finality. Some students even compared him to Merlin, their voices filled with admiration. “If Dumbledore says it’s over, it’s over,” a Hufflepuff said confidently.

  Harry sat quietly, his food untouched. He knew the truth—Quirrell hadn’t been a hero. He’d been a threat, a servant of Voldemort who’d tried to steal the Philosopher’s Stone. Dumbledore had set a trap, and Quirrell had fallen into it. The headmaster’s announcement felt like a carefully crafted lie, to bury the truth.

  The previous night, before going to bed, Harry had used his magic mirror ability to uncover the full story. He’d seen Quirrell’s failed attempt to bypass Dumbledore’s safeguards, the headmaster’s swift intervention, and the trap that had ultimately led to Quirrell’s demise.

  He glanced up at the staff table, where Dumbledore sat calmly, his twinkling eyes surveying the hall.

  Dumbledore’s next announcement was met with even greater enthusiasm. “In light of recent events, classes will be canceled for the day. I encourage you all to rest and reflect.” The Great Hall erupted in cheers, the tension of the previous night momentarily forgotten.

  Harry, however, wasn’t in the mood to celebrate.

  The incident on the night of Halloween had left him on edge, his thoughts spinning as he replayed the scene again and again—the Headmaster and the professors moving with calm precision, subduing the trolls without breaking a sweat. ‘They made it look so easy,’ Harry thought, his hands tightening into fists under the table. The images of their swift movements, the way they handled the chaos, flickered in his mind. ‘But if I were in their place... could I have done the same?’ The question lingered, unanswered, gnawing at him, making his stomach churn with doubt.

  Harry’s fingers twitched slightly as he summoned his interface, the translucent screen materializing before his eyes, visible only to him. The list of abilities glowed softly, each one a testament to the strange, ever-evolving power that had become a part of him. His gaze flicked over the entries, each one more surreal than the last:

  - Reduced Presence: Become unnoticeable to others.

  - Emotional Masking: Suppress or hide emotions.

  - Environmental Camouflage: Blend into surroundings.

  - Unnoticed Presence in Memories: Erase presence from others’ memories.

  - Clairvoyance: Expanded perception.

  - Superior Understanding: Comprehend complex concepts with ease.

  - Shroud: Hide from magical divination or divining devices.

  - Look at Me, I See You: The people who look at you, think about you—you can know about them.

  - Matryoshka Mind of Babel: A layered mind with an infinite library that stores memory at the core.

  - Mirror, Mirror on the Wall: The heart’s inquiry is reflected in any mirror the user faces.

  - Expel: The power to forcibly eject foreign entities or influences from his body or mind.

  - I Am What I Think I Am: The power to control what others know about him.

  - Now I See You: Nothing—visible or invisible, living or non-living, threat or not—can escape his perception.

  A faint, incredulous smile tugged at his lips as he scanned the list. ‘I’ve acquired so many abilities, huh,’ he thought, a mix of pride and unease settling in his chest. It was really staggering how much had changed since he’d first arrived at Hogwarts. But as he mentally cataloged them, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.

  The "Somebody Else’s Problem (SEP) Field" and "Reduced Presence" were perfect for slipping past enemies unnoticed, but they were useless in a direct confrontation. ‘I can avoid detection,’ he realized with a pang of frustration, ‘but I can’t stop them directly.’ The thought gnawed at him, a reminder of the gaps in his growing arsenal.

  As he pondered, a familiar tingling sensation began to build at the edges of his consciousness, like the first notes of a song he couldn’t quite place. It was the signal of a new ability forming, but this time, Harry resisted it. He wasn’t ready to let it manifest blindly—not when he had a chance to shape it, to mold it into something he truly needed.

  Since coming to Hogwarts, the frequent emergence of new abilities had taught him to recognize the process. It was like a puzzle coming together in his mind, piece by piece, each thought and intention guiding the final shape. The key, he’d found, was to stay focused. His thoughts had to be clear and deliberate, or the ability would form on its own, often in ways he hadn’t intended.

  Not all of his abilities waited for him to be ready. Some sprang to life without warning, sparked by his emotions or instincts. They were the hardest to control, slipping through his fingers like smoke no matter how tightly he tried to grasp them. But this time, he had space to prepare, to shape the power before it took hold, to create something that could shore up the weaknesses in his defenses.

  His thoughts grounded him in the present. What did he need most? "Something offensive," he decided, the thought sharp and clear. "Something that can stop an enemy in their tracks."

  His mind settled on the idea of immobilization. "If I could freeze them in place, just by thinking about it..." The thought hummed through him, the sense of control more tangible now. "That would give me the upper hand."

  As the idea took root, a soft chime resonated in his mind, like the distant toll of a bell. The ability snapped into focus, its form and intent clear:

  Rooted to the Spot: Freeze any target in place, preventing it from moving an inch.