CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Below, in a shadowy clearing, stood Snape, but he wasn’t alone.
Quirrell was there, too. Harry couldn’t make out the look on his
face, but he was stuttering worse than ever. Harry strained to catch
what they were saying.
“. . . d-don’t know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all
p-places, Severus . . .”
“Oh, I thought we’d keep this private,” said Snape, his voice
icy. “Students aren’t supposed to know about the Sorcerer’s Stone,
after all.”
Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something.
Snape interrupted him.
“Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid’s yet?”
“B-b-but Severus, I —”
“You don’t want me as your enemy, Quirrell,” said Snape, taking
a step toward him.
“I-I don’t know what you —”
“You know perfectly well what I mean.”
An owl hooted loudly, and Harry nearly fell out of the tree. He
steadied himself in time to hear Snape say, “— your little bit of
hocus-pocus. I’m waiting.”
“B-but I d-d-don’t —”
“Very well,” Snape cut in. “We’ll have another little chat soon,
when you’ve had time to think things over and decided where your
loyalties lie.”
He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.
It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing
quite still as though he was petrified.
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