CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
body of my own. . . . Now . . . why don’t you give me that Stone in
your pocket?”
So he knew. The feeling suddenly surged back into Harry’s legs.
He stumbled backward.
“Don’t be a fool,” snarled the face. “Better save your own life and
join me . . . or you’ll meet the same end as your parents. . . . They
died begging me for mercy. . . .”
“LIAR!” Harry shouted suddenly.
Quirrell was walking backward at him, so that Voldemort could
still see him. The evil face was now smiling.
“How touching . . .” it hissed. “I always value bravery. . . . Yes,
boy, your parents were brave. . . . I killed your father first, and
he put up a courageous fight . . . but your mother needn’t have
died . . . she was trying to protect you. . . . Now give me the Stone,
unless you want her to have died in vain.”
“NEVER!”
Harry sprang toward the flame door, but Voldemort screamed
“SEIZE HIM!” and the next second, Harry felt Quirrell’s hand
close on his wrist. At once, a needle-sharp pain seared across
Harry’s scar; his head felt as though it was about to split in two; he
yelled, struggling with all his might, and to his surprise, Quirrell let
go of him. The pain in his head lessened — he looked around
wildly to see where Quirrell had gone, and saw him hunched in
pain, looking at his fingers — they were blistering before his eyes.
“Seize him! SEIZE HIM!” shrieked Voldemort again, and Quir-
rell lunged, knocking Harry clean off his feet, landing on top of
him, both hands around Harry’s neck — Harry’s scar was almost
blinding him with pain, yet he could see Quirrell howling in agony.
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