CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
“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 toward 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 mo-
ment 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 pock et — and as it did so, Harry felt something
heavy drop into his real pocket. Somehow — incredibly — he’d
gotten 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.
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