THE MAN
WITH TWO FACES
“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.
295