CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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 fro m 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, how-
ever, 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. Profes-
sor 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?”
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