THE MAN
WITH TWO FACES
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 power-
ful 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 per-
son 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 rea-
son. 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 Invisi-
bility 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.”
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