Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone (31 page)

‘He is with me wherever I go,’ said Quirrell quietly. ‘I met him when I travelled 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 tailed 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 myself finding it – which means I’ll see where it’s hidden! But how can I look without Quirrell realising 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 himself.

‘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 towards him.

‘I must lie,’ he thought desperately. ‘I must look and lie about what I see, that’s all.’

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 got the Stone.

‘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 Philosopher’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 just see?’

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 a snake.

‘Harry Potter …’ it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backwards but his legs wouldn’t move.

‘See what I have become?’ the face said. ‘Mere shadow and vapour … 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 backwards.

‘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 backwards 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.’

‘NEVER!’

Harry sprang towards the flame door, but Voldemort screamed, ‘SEIZE HIM!’ and, 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 in agony.

‘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 burnt, 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 –

‘AAAARGH!’

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 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 realised 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 sweet-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 lavatory 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 sir, 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 mid-air. 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-organised 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 which 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.’

Harry nodded, but stopped quickly, because it made his head hurt. Then he said, ‘Sir, there are some other things I’d like to know, if you can tell me … things I want to know the truth about …’

‘The truth.’ Dumbledore sighed. ‘It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution. However, I shall answer your questions unless I have a very good reason not to, in which case I beg you’ll forgive me. I shall not, of course, lie.’

‘Well … Voldemort said that he only killed my mother because she tried to stop him killing me. But why would he want to kill me in the first place?’

Dumbledore sighed very deeply this time.

‘Alas, the first thing you ask me, I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day … put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older … I know you hate to hear this … when you are ready, you will know.’

And Harry knew it would be no good to argue.

‘But why couldn’t Quirrell touch me?’

‘Your mother died to save you. If there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He didn’t realise that love as powerful as your mother’s for you leaves its own mark. Not a scar, no visible sign … to have been loved so deeply, even though the person who loved us is gone, will give us some protection for ever. It is in your very skin. Quirrell, full of hatred, greed and ambition, sharing his soul with Voldemort, could not touch you for this reason. It was agony to touch a person marked by something so good.’

Dumbledore now became very interested in a bird out on the window-sill, which gave Harry time to dry his eyes on the sheet. When he had found his voice again, Harry said, ‘And the Invisibility Cloak – do you know who sent it to me?’

‘Ah – your father happened to leave it in my possession and I thought you might like it.’ Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled. ‘Useful things … your father used it mainly for sneaking off to the kitchens to steal food when he was here.’

‘And there’s something else …’

‘Fire away.’

‘Quirrell said Snape –’

‘Professor
Snape, Harry.’

‘Yes, him – Quirrell said he hates me because he hated my father. Is that true?’

‘Well, they did rather detest each other. Not unlike yourself and Mr Malfoy. And then, your father did something Snape could never forgive.’

‘What?’

‘He saved his life.’

‘What?’

‘Yes …’ said Dumbledore dreamily. ‘Funny, the way people’s minds work, isn’t it? Professor Snape couldn’t bear being in your father’s debt … I do believe he worked so hard to protect you this year because he felt that would make him and your father quits. Then he could go back to hating your father’s memory in peace …’

Harry tried to understand this but it made his head pound, so he stopped.

‘And sir, there’s one more thing …’

‘Just the one?’

‘How did I get the Stone out of the Mirror?’

‘Ah, now, I’m glad you asked me that. It was one of my more brilliant ideas, and between you and me, that’s saying something. You see, only one who wanted to
find
the Stone – find it, but not use it – would be able to get it, otherwise they’d just see themselves making gold or drinking Elixir of Life. My brain surprises even me sometimes … Now, enough questions. I suggest you make a start on these sweets. Ah! Bertie Bott’s Every-Flavour Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavoured one, and since then I’m afraid I’ve rather lost my liking for them – but I think I’ll be safe with a nice toffee, don’t you?’