Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone Read online

Page 25


  “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.”

  “NEVER!”

  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 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 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 —

  “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 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 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 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.”

  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 from 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 realize 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 forever. 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 windowsill, 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 even. 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 Flavor Beans! I was unfortunate enough in my youth to come across a vomit-flavored 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?”

  He smiled and popped the golden-brown bean into his mouth. Then he choked and said, “Alas! Ear wax!”

  Madam Pomfrey, the nurse, was a nice woman, but very strict.

  “Just five minutes,” Harry pleaded.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You let Professor Dumbledore in. . . .”

  “Well, of course, that was the headmaster, quite different. You need rest.”

  “I am resting, look, lying down and everything. Oh, go on, Madam Pomfrey . . .”

  “Oh, very well,” she said. “But five minutes only.”

  And she let Ron and Hermione in.

  “Harry!”

  Hermione looked ready to fling her arms around him again, but Harry was glad she held herself in as his head was still very sore.

  “Oh, Harry, we were sure you were going to — Dumbledore was so worried —”

  “The whole school’s talking about it,” said Ron. “What really happened?”

  It was one of those rare occasions when the true story is even more strange and exciting than the wild rumors. Harry told them everything: Quirrell; the mirror; the Stone; and Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were a very good audience; they gasped in all the right places, and when Harry told them what was under Quirrell’s turban, Hermione screamed out loud.

  “So the Stone’s gone?” said Ron finally. “Flamel’s just going to die?”

  “That’s what I said, but Dumbledore thinks that — what was it? —‘to the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure.’”

  “I always said he was off his rocker,” said Ron, looking quite impressed at how crazy his hero was.

  “So what happened to you two?” said Harry.

  “Well, I got back all right,” said Hermione. “I brought Ron round — that took a while — and we were dashing up to the owlery to contact Dumbledore when we met him in the entrance hall — he already knew — he just said, ‘Harry’s gone after him, hasn’t he?’ and hurtled off to the third floor.”

  “D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. “Sending you your father’s Cloak and everything?”

  “Well,” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say — that’s terrible — you could have been killed.”

  “No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could. . . .”

  “Yeah, Dumbledore’s off his rocker, all right,” said Ron proudly. “Listen, you’ve got to be up for the end-of-year feast tomorrow. The points are all in and Slytherin won, of course — you missed the last Quidditch match, we were steamrollered by Ravenclaw without you — but the food’ll be good.”

  At that moment, Madam Pomfrey bustled over.

  “You’ve had nearly fifteen minutes, now OUT,” she said firmly.

  After a good night’s sleep, Harry felt nearly back to normal.

  “I want to go to the feast,” he told Madam Pomfrey as she straightened his many candy boxes. “I can, can’t I?”

  “Professor Dumbledore says you are to be allowed to go,” she said sniffily, as though in her opinion Professor Dumbledore didn’t realize how risky feasts could be. “And you have another visitor.”

  “Oh, good,” said Harry. “Who is it?”

  Hagrid sidled through the door as he spoke. As usual when he was indoors, Hagrid looked too big to be allowed. He sat down next to Harry, took one look at him, and burst into tears.

  “It’s — all — my — ruddy — fault!” he sobbed, his face in his hands. “I told the evil git how ter get past Fluffy! I told him! It was the only thing he didn’t know, an’ I told him! Yeh could’ve died! All fer a dragon egg! I’ll never drink again! I should be chucked out an’ made ter live as a Muggle!”

  “Hagrid!” said Harry, shocked to see Hagrid shaking with grief and remorse, great tears leaking down into his beard. “Hagrid, he’d have found out somehow, this is Voldemort we’re talking about, he’d have found out even if you hadn’t told him.”

  “Yeh could’ve died!” sobbed Hagrid. “An’ don’ say the name!”

  “VOLDEMORT!” Harry bellowed, and Hagrid was so shocked, he stopped crying. “I’ve met him and I’m calling him by his name. Please cheer up, Hagrid, we saved the Stone, it’s gone, he can’t use it. Have a Chocolate Frog, I’ve got loads. . . .”

  Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, “That reminds me. I’ve got yeh a present.”

  “It’s not a stoat sandwich, is it?” said Harry anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.

  “Nah. Dumb
ledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. ’Course, he shoulda sacked me instead — anyway, got yeh this . . .”

  It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.

  “Sent owls off ter all yer parents’ old school friends, askin’ fer photos . . . knew yeh didn’ have any . . . d’yeh like it?”

  Harry couldn’t speak, but Hagrid understood.

  Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. He had been held up by Madam Pomfrey’s fussing about, insisting on giving him one last checkup, so the Great Hall was already full. It was decked out in the Slytherin colors of green and silver to celebrate Slytherin’s winning the House Cup for the seventh year in a row. A huge banner showing the Slytherin serpent covered the wall behind the High Table.

  When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Ron and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the fact that people were standing up to look at him.

  Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away.

  “Another year gone!” Dumbledore said cheerfully. “And I must trouble you with an old man’s wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were . . . you have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts. . . .

  “Now, as I understand it, the House Cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and twelve points; in third, Hufflepuff, with three hundred and fifty-two; Ravenclaw has four hundred and twenty-six and Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two.”

  A storm of cheering and stamping broke out from the Slytherin table. Harry could see Draco Malfoy banging his goblet on the table. It was a sickening sight.

  “Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin,” said Dumbledore. “However, recent events must be taken into account.”

  The room went very still. The Slytherins’ smiles faded a little.

  “Ahem,” said Dumbledore. “I have a few last-minute points to dish out. Let me see. Yes . . .

 

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