THE MAN
WITH TWO FACES
“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 sud-
denly. “He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to
steal the Stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He pun-
ished 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 myself 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.
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