"You let the troll in?"
"Certainly. I have a special gift with trolls — you must have seen what I did
to the one in the chamber back there? Unfortunately, while everyone else was running
around looking for it, Snape, who already suspected me, went straight to the third
floor to head me off — and not only did my troll fail to beat you to death, that
three-headed dog didn't even manage to bite Snape's leg off properly.
"Now, wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror.
It was only then that Harry realized what was standing behind Quirrell. It was
the Mirror of Erised.
"This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell murmured, tapping his
way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this... but
he's in London... I'll be far away by the time he gets back...."
All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and stop him from
concentrating on the mirror.
"I saw you and Snape in the forest - — " he blurted out.
"Yes," said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at the back. "He
was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far I'd got. He suspected me all
along. Tried to frighten me — as though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my
Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hungrily into it.
"I see the Stone... I'm presenting it to my master... but where is it?"
Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn't give. He had to
keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to the mirror.
"But Snape always seemed to hate me so much."
"Oh, he does," said Quirrell casually, "heavens, yes. He was at Hogwarts with
your father, didn't you know? They loathed each other. But he never wanted you dead."
"But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Snape was threatening you...."
For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell's face.
"Sometimes," he said, "I find it hard to follow my master's instructions -- he
is a great wizard and I am weak - — "
"You mean he was there in the classroom with you?" Harry gasped.
"He is with me wherever I go," said Quirrell quietly. "I met him when I traveled
around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about
good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. There is no good and evil,
there is only power, and those too weak to seek it.... Since then, I have served
him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard
on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I
failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me...
decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me...."
Quirrell's voice trailed away. Harry was remembering his trip to Diagon Alley
-how could he have been so stupid? He'd seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken
hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron.
Quirrell cursed under his breath.
"I don't understand... is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it?"
Harry's mind was racing.
What I want more than anything else in the world at the moment, he thought, is
to find the Stone before Quirrell does. So if I look in the mirror, I should see
myseff finding it — which means I'll see where it's hidden! But how can I look without
Quirrell realizing what I'm up to?
He tried to edge to the left, to get in front of the glass without Quirrell noticing,
but the ropes around his ankles were too tight: he tripped and fell over. Quirrell
ignored him. He was still talking to himself. "What does this mirror do? How does
it work? Help me, Master!"
And to Harry's horror, a voice answered, and the voice seemed to come from Quirrell
"Use the boy... Use the boy..."
Quirrell rounded on Harry.
"Yes — Potter — come here."
He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry got slowly
to his feet.
"Come here," Quirrell repeated. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."
Harry walked toward him.
I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I see, that's
Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that seemed
to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in front of the mirror,
and opened them again.
He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment later,
the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and pulled out a blood-red
stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its pocket — and as it did so, Harry
felt something heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — he'd gotten
"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"
Harry screwed up his courage.
"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I — I've won the
house cup for Gryffindor."
Quirrell cursed again.
"Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the Sorcerer's Stone
against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?
But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though Quirrell wasn't
moving his lips.
"He lies... He lies..."
"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did you
The high voice spoke again.
"Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."
"Master, you are not strong enough!"
"I have strength enough... for this...."
Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move
a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban.
What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small
without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have
been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had
ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like
"Harry Potter..." it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.
"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor... I have form
only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing
to let me into their hearts and minds.... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these
past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and
once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own.... Now...
why don't you give me that Stone in your pocket?"
So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry's legs. He stumbled backward.
"Don't be a fool," snarled the face. "Better save your own life and join me...
or you'll meet the same end as your parents.... They died begging me for mercy..."
"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could still see him.
The evil face was now smiling.
"How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents
were brave.... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight... but
your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you.... Now give me the
Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain."
Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed "SEIZE HIM!" and the
next second, Harry felt Quirrell's hand close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp
pain seared across Harry's scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in
two; he yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let
go of him. The pain in his head lessened — he looked around wildly to see where
Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in pain, looking at his fingers — they were
blistering before his eyes.
"Seize him! SEIZE HIM!" shrieked Voldemort again, and Quirrell lunged, knocking
Harry clean off his feet' landing on top of him, both hands around Harry's neck
— Harry's scar was almost blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling
"Master, I cannot hold him — my hands — my hands!"
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go of his
neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms — Harry could see they looked burned,
raw, red, and shiny.
"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by instinct, reached
up and grabbed Quirrell's face --
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew: Quirrell
couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible pain — his only chance
was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough pain to stop him from doing a curse.
Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as tight as
he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off — the pain in Harry's head
was building — he couldn't see — he could only hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks
and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM! KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's
own head, crying, "Harry! Harry!"
He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and fell into
blackness, down... down... down...
Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to catch it,
but his arms were too heavy.
He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How strange.
He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view above him.
"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. Then he remembered:
"Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir, quick - — "
"Calm yourself, dear boy, you are a little behind the times," said Dumbledore.
"Quirrell does not have the Stone."
"Then who does? Sir, I - — "
"Harry, please relax, or Madam Pomfrey will have me thrown out.
Harry swallowed and looked around him. He realized he must be in the hospital
wing. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table
piled high with what looked like half the candy shop.
"Tokens from your friends and admirers," said Dumbledore, beaming. "What happened
down in the dungeons between you and Professor Quirrell is a complete secret, so,
naturally, the whole school knows. I believe your friends Misters Fred and George
Weasley were responsible for trying to send you a toilet seat. No doubt they thought
it would amuse you. Madam Pomfrey, however, felt it might not be very hygienic,
and confiscated it."
"How long have I been in here?"
"Three days. Mr. Ronald Weasley and Miss Granger will be most relieved you have
come round, they have been extremely worried."
"But sit, the Stone
I see you are not to be distracted. Very well, the Stone. Professor Quirrell
did not manage to take it from you. I arrived in time to prevent that, although
you were doing very well on your own, I must say.
"You got there? You got Hermione's owl?"
"We must have crossed in midair. No sooner had I reached London than it became
clear to me that the place I should be was the one I had just left. I arrived just
in time to pull Quirrell off you."
"It was you."
"I feared I might be too late."
"You nearly were, I couldn't have kept him off the Stone much longer - — "
"Not the Stone, boy, you — the effort involved nearly killed you. For one terrible
moment there, I was afraid it had. As for the Stone, it has been destroyed."
"Destroyed?" said Harry blankly. "But your friend — Nicolas Flamel - — "
"Oh, you know about Nicolas?" said Dumbledore, sounding quite delighted. "You
did do the thing properly, didn't you? Well, Nicolas and I have had a little chat,
and agreed it's all for the best."
"But that means he and his wife will die, won't they?"
"They have enough Elixir stored to set their affairs in order and then, yes,
they will die."
Dumbledore smiled at the look of amazement on Harry's face.
"To one as young as you, I'm sure it seems incredible, but to Nicolas and Perenelle,
it really is like going to bed after a very, very long day. After all, to the well-organized
mind, death is but the next great adventure. You know, the Stone was really not
such a wonderful thing. As much money and life as you could want! The two things
most human beings would choose above all — the trouble is, humans do have a knack
of choosing precisely those things that are worst for them." Harry lay there, lost
for words. Dumbledore hummed a little and smiled at the ceiling.
"Sir?" said Harry. "I've been thinking... sir — even if the Stone's gone, Vol-,
I mean, You-Know-Who - — "
"Call him Voldemort, Harry. Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a
name increases fear of the thing itself."
"Yes, sir. Well, Voldemort's going to try other ways of coming back, isn't he?
I mean, he hasn't gone, has he?"
"No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for
another body to share... not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell
to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies. Nevertheless,
Harry, while you may only have delayed his return to power, it will merely take
someone else who is prepared to fight what seems a losing battle next time — and
if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."