CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
mured, tapping his way around the frame. “Trust Dumbledore to
come up with something like this . . . but he’s in London . . . I’ll be
far away by the time he gets back. . . .”
All Harry could think of doing was to keep Quirrell talking and
stop him from concentrating on the mirror.
“I saw you and Snape in the forest —” he blurted out.
“Yes,” said Quirrell idly, walking around the mirror to look at
the back. “He was on to me by that time, trying to find out how far
I’d got. He suspected me all along. Tried to frighten me — as
though he could, when I had Lord Voldemort on my side. . . .”
Quirrell came back out from behind the mirror and stared hun-
grily into it.
“I see the Stone . . . I’m presenting it to my master . . . but
where is it?”
Harry struggled against the ropes binding him, but they didn’t
give. He had to keep Quirrell from giving his whole attention to
the mirror.
“But Snape always seemed to hate me so much.”
“Oh, he does,” said Quirrell casually, “heavens, yes. He was at
Hogwarts with your father, didn’t you know? They loathed each
other. But he never wanted you dead.”
“But I heard you a few days ago, sobbing — I thought Snape
was threatening you.
For the first time, a spasm of fear flitted across Quirrell’s face.
“Sometimes,” he said, “I find it hard to follow my master’s in-
structions — he is a great wizard and I am weak —”
“You mean he was there in the classroom with you?” Harry
gasped.
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