Samee-ur/hp_example_data_new · Datasets at Hugging Face

text stringlengths 2 72
see."
Harry walked toward him.
I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I
see, that's all.
Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that
seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in
front of the mirror, and opened them again.
He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment
later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and
pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its
pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his
real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone.
"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"
Harry screwed up his courage.
"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've
won the house cup for Gryffindor."
Quirrell cursed again.
"Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the
Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?
But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though
Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.
"He lies... He lies..."
"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did
you just see?"
The high voice spoke again.
"Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."
"Master, you are not strong enough!"
"I have strength enough... for this...."
Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't
move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to
unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's
head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the
spot.
Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there
should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most
terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red
eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.
"Harry Potter..." it whispered.
Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.
"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I
have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always
been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds.... Unicorn
blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell
drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life,
I will be able to create a 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 Quirrell 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.
"Master, I cannot hold him -- my hands -- my hands!"
And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go
of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms -- Harry could see
they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.
"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.
Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by
instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face --
"AAAARGH!"
Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew:
Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible
pain -- his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough
pain to stop him from doing a curse.
Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as
tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off -- the
pain in Harry's head was building -- he couldn't see -- he could only
hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM!
KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's own head, crying, "Harry!
Harry!"
He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and
fell into blackness, down ... down... down...
Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to
catch it, but his arms were too heavy.
He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How
strange.
He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view
above him.
"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. Then he
remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir,

see."

Harry walked toward him.

I must lie, he thought desperately. I must look and lie about what I

see, that's all.

Quirrell moved close behind him. Harry breathed in the funny smell that

seemed to come from Quirrell's turban. He closed his eyes, stepped in

front of the mirror, and opened them again.

He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. But a moment

later, the reflection smiled at him. It put its hand into its pocket and

pulled out a blood-red stone. It winked and put the Stone back in its

pocket -- and as it did so, Harry felt something heavy drop into his

real pocket. Somehow -- incredibly -- he'd gotten the Stone.

"Well?" said Quirrell impatiently. "What do you see?"

Harry screwed up his courage.

"I see myself shaking hands with Dumbledore," he invented. "I -- I've

won the house cup for Gryffindor."

Quirrell cursed again.

"Get out of the way," he said. As Harry moved aside, he felt the

Sorcerer's Stone against his leg. Dare he make a break for it?

But he hadn't walked five paces before a high voice spoke, though

Quirrell wasn't moving his lips.

"He lies... He lies..."

"Potter, come back here!" Quirrell shouted. "Tell me the truth! What did

you just see?"

The high voice spoke again.

"Let me speak to him... face-to-face..."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough... for this...."

Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't

move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to

unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's

head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the

spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there

should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most

terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red

eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter..." it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I

have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always

been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds.... Unicorn

blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell

drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life,

I will be able to create a 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 Quirrell 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.

"Master, I cannot hold him -- my hands -- my hands!"

And Quirrell, though pinning Harry to the ground with his knees, let go

of his neck and stared, bewildered, at his own palms -- Harry could see

they looked burned, raw, red, and shiny.

"Then kill him, fool, and be done!" screeched Voldemort.

Quirrell raised his hand to perform a deadly curse, but Harry, by

instinct, reached up and grabbed Quirrell's face --

"AAAARGH!"

Quirrell rolled off him, his face blistering, too, and then Harry knew:

Quirrell couldn't touch his bare skin, not without suffering terrible

pain -- his only chance was to keep hold of Quirrell, keep him in enough

pain to stop him from doing a curse.

Harry jumped to his feet, caught Quirrell by the arm, and hung on as

tight as he could. Quirrell screamed and tried to throw Harry off -- the

pain in Harry's head was building -- he couldn't see -- he could only

hear Quirrell's terrible shrieks and Voldemort's yells of, "KILL HIM!

KILL HIM!" and other voices, maybe in Harry's own head, crying, "Harry!

Harry!"

He felt Quirrell's arm wrenched from his grasp, knew all was lost, and

fell into blackness, down ... down... down...

Something gold was glinting just above him. The Snitch! He tried to

catch it, but his arms were too heavy.

He blinked. It wasn't the Snitch at all. It was a pair of glasses. How

strange.

He blinked again. The smiling face of Albus Dumbledore swam into view

above him.

"Good afternoon, Harry," said Dumbledore. Harry stared at him. Then he

remembered: "Sir! The Stone! It was Quirrell! He's got the Stone! Sir,