The Eyes of Power

The cold, damp air of the dungeon clung to Harry's skin as he stood, facing the man who had terrorized him for almost a year. Professor Quirrell—no, it wasn't just Quirrell anymore. It was something darker, something that made Harry's very soul burn with fury.

"Foolish boy," the hoarse voice from Quirrell's turban sneered, a voice that Harry knew all too well by now. **Voldemort.**

The mention of his mother, the cruel words about her sacrifice being meaningless, tore at Harry's heart. His hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. He could feel his anger, his grief, rising like a tidal wave. How dare he—how dare this monster mock her?

"You're nothing but a child, Potter," Voldemort hissed. "Did you think love would save you? Did you think your parents' deaths meant anything?"

Quirrell moved forward, wand raised, and Harry's feet froze. His body, young and inexperienced, felt heavy, like it was trapped in molasses. Fear swirled around him, but the anger—it consumed everything. He could see the flash of green in his memory, the cold laugh of Voldemort, the sight of his mother crumpling to the floor.

Harry's vision blurred, not from tears, but from something deeper, something stirring inside him.

**The Sharingan.**

At first, it was subtle—just a prickling at the back of his eyes. But then, the pain struck, sharp and searing, as if his very vision was being torn apart and rebuilt. His mind raced as the world around him slowed. Quirrell's movements became sluggish, almost laughably predictable. Harry could see the wand movements, the incantations forming on Quirrell's lips—**everything.**

For the first time, Harry felt control. Not just of his body, but over everything happening around him.

Quirrell's wand came down, but Harry had already moved. He ducked, sidestepped, his body acting on instinct as if it had done this a thousand times. He wasn't just reacting—he was seeing the future, predicting every move before it happened.

"Impossible…" Voldemort's voice hissed through the dungeon, sharp with disbelief.

Harry didn't know what was happening to him, but it didn't matter. All he could think about was the rage burning in his chest—the hatred for the man who took his parents from him, the same man who now dared to mock them. His body moved with newfound precision, dodging the curses that Quirrell hurled at him.

The stone beneath his feet cracked as he dodged another hex, his movements faster than even he could comprehend. His eyes, blazing with the red glow of the newly awakened Sharingan, tracked every flick of Quirrell's wrist, every breath he took.

And then, Harry struck.

With a burst of speed, he lunged at Quirrell, hands outstretched. He barely felt the burning pain as he grabbed hold of the man's skin, the dark magic coursing through his fingers. All he knew was that Quirrell had to be stopped, Voldemort had to be stopped—**no matter the cost.**

Quirrell screamed, the sound echoing through the chamber as his body began to burn under Harry's touch. Voldemort's voice grew more desperate, more furious, but Harry didn't care. He had the power now. Power he had never known before.

With one final scream, Quirrell collapsed to the ground, his body withering under the force of the magic that consumed him.

For a moment, everything was still.

Harry stood there, breathing heavily, his hands trembling as the last echoes of the battle faded. He looked down at Quirrell's lifeless form, but it was Voldemort's words that still rang in his ears—**mocking his mother, belittling her sacrifice**.

He wanted to scream, to tear everything apart, to—

The door to the chamber slammed open, and Dumbledore rushed in, robes billowing behind him.

But Harry didn't feel relief at the sight of the headmaster. He didn't feel gratitude or even comfort. All he felt was a cold, simmering anger.

"Harry," Dumbledore said softly, his voice filled with concern as he took in the scene before him. "You did well, my boy. Come, let's—"

"No," Harry interrupted, his voice sharp and distant. He turned his head slowly toward Dumbledore, and the headmaster froze when he saw Harry's eyes—red, spinning with the strange, ominous pattern of the Sharingan.

For a brief moment, something flickered in Dumbledore's eyes—concern, perhaps even fear. But it was gone just as quickly.

"We need to get you to the hospital wing," Dumbledore said, though his voice had lost some of its usual warmth. "You've been through much tonight."

Harry said nothing as he allowed himself to be led away, but the coldness in his gaze never wavered. As they reached the hospital wing, Hermione and Ron rushed to his side, their faces full of worry.

"Harry!" Hermione cried. "Are you alright?"

But Harry didn't respond. He barely looked at her. His eyes—those burning, crimson eyes—stayed focused on the path ahead. Something had changed inside him, something darker, something more dangerous.

As Madame Pomfrey fussed over him, Harry lay back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He could hear Hermione and Ron talking in hushed voices, but their words felt distant, unimportant.

All that mattered now was the power he had felt in that chamber. The Sharingan. The power to see, to anticipate, to control.

Sleep did not come easily that night. And when it did, it was filled with shadows—whispers of vengeance, of power, of magic beyond anything he had ever known.

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### **Scene: The Library**

The next day, when the castle was quiet and the other students still slept, Harry slipped out of bed. The cool stone floors of Hogwarts barely registered under his feet as he made his way toward the one place he knew he could find answers—the library.

But not just any section of the library. He needed the **Restricted Section**.

Under the cover of his invisibility cloak, Harry moved silently, his heart pounding in his chest as he navigated the darkened halls. The words of Voldemort echoed in his mind, taunting him, mocking his mother's sacrifice. And then there were the whispers—the dark, insidious whispers that seemed to come from deep within him, urging him forward, urging him to seek out more power.

As he slipped into the library, his Sharingan activated almost instinctively, allowing him to scan the shelves quickly, efficiently. His mind felt sharper than it ever had before, his senses heightened. He moved with purpose, pulling book after book from the shelves, searching for anything that could explain what had happened to him.

The Sharingan had awakened something in him—something he couldn't ignore.

A noise from behind startled him, and Harry spun around, his eyes narrowing as they focused on the figure emerging from the shadows.

It was Professor Snape.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Snape's black eyes scanned Harry with an intensity that made Harry's skin prickle.

"You're not the only one who's changed, Potter," Snape said quietly, his voice low and dangerous. "The power you've tapped into—it's dangerous. More dangerous than you can imagine."

Harry met his gaze, unflinching. The Sharingan spun slowly in his eyes, the power pulsing through him, making him feel invincible.

"Be careful," Snape added cryptically, his lips curling into the barest hint of a smile. "Lest you find yourself consumed by it."

Without another word, Snape turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

But Harry wasn't afraid. Not anymore. He would find the answers he sought, and when he did—he would never be weak again.

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