some magical Hogwarts

Chapter 191 Death's Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor
Soon, the keys filled the sky, exuding blazing heat, and the whole room was like a furnace.

Under such circumstances, Quirrell couldn't tell which one was the key to open the door, and he himself fell into the ocean of keys.

Voldemort, with blisters all over his face, howled in pain, urging Quirrell to leave quickly, or he would be killed.

An hour later, Quirrell, a patient with third-degree burns, finally passed Professor McGonagall's level with difficulty.

At this time, he had a broken arm, a limped leg, burnt dead skin all over his body, and only one life left. Like a zombie, he walked to the last room with difficulty.

There was a long line of blood on the ground.

Quirrell opened the last door tremblingly. Fortunately, there was nothing scary here, only a table with twenty small bottles of the same style.

As soon as Quirrell crossed the threshold, a flame rose from behind him, sealing the door.

This flame is unusual, it is purple.At the same time, black flames shot up from the door leading to the front.

He's stuck in the middle.

Quirrell walked to the table, grabbed a roll of parchment on top, and read it carefully several times. Even his eyebrows were burned off, showing deep wrinkles.

"Dumbledore's numbered bottle, drink it and send you back to where you came from, Snape's numbered bottle, lead you onwards... other poisons."

Quirrell pondered for a long time, and asked in a hoarse voice: "Master, do you know which bottle the potion that passes through the flames is in?"

Quirrell could hardly think by himself, and the pain in his body made his head explode.

"How do I know?" Voldemort glanced at the parchment and said disdainfully, "Snape didn't know, and neither did Dumbledore. Snape knew, and Dumbledore knew...

Obviously, Dumbledore used superb Legilimency! "

"Hypocrisy, he used to say that he never used Legilimency..."

Quirrell was speechless, is it time to discuss Dumbledore's hypocrisy?

In desperation, Quirrell conjured up a quill and began to write and draw on the parchment.

At the end of writing, he was still not sure whether the number in Snape's hand was two or four!
Schrödinger's potion!
"What should I do?" Quirrell was anxious.

With a [-]/[-] probability, do you need a stud?
But the result of failure is to drink poison and die in this last level!
At this moment, Quirrell thought of the popular roulette in the magic world of Eastern Europe.

It was a cruel gambling game with simple rules. Among the six wands, one of them was cursed with death!

A wizard who is risking his life must choose from among them, then point his wand at his head, and then activate the magic inside.

Those who live can take all the prizes, and those who lose will keep their lives!

It is said that Grindelwald, the Dark Lord of the previous generation, was a master in this area.

When he was at the Durmstrang School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he kept gambling with the students, but he never lost!
Grindelwald has never lost, but it doesn't mean that Quirrell will not lose.

Looking at the seemingly harmless logic question, Quirrell couldn't laugh no matter what, tears rolled in his stomach.

"Hurry up!" urged Voldemort.

"But...Master, I may die, and no one will help you get the Philosopher's Stone." Quirrell begged.

"No, I said that I will give you eternal life, even if you die, I can resurrect you."

Voldemort whispered softly:
"Hurry up, Quirrell, choose one! The important thing now is to get the Philosopher's Stone, time is really precious."

Quirrell looked at Snape's row of bottles, and finally, among the numbers two and four, hesitated for a full five minutes, with his right hand trembling on the number four bottle.

He swallowed it in one gulp.

Since this semester, Quirrell has experienced various physical sufferings, but after the potion entered his stomach, the scorching heat from his chest gave him a very strange feeling.

It goes deep into the lungs, but it hurts deeply.

He knew he made the wrong choice!
wrong,

It means dying.

Quirrell still doesn't want to die, otherwise why would he have survived from the Albanian forest to this day?

But the feeling of death is so real, Quirrell can feel that life is passing by, that feeling is not like physical pain, but almost spiritual suffering.

Suddenly, Quirrell felt a hand take the wand from his pocket.

Quirrell fell to the ground, trying to see who it was, but tears streamed from his eyes, blurring his vision.

He raised his weak arm, wiped away the tears from his eyes, and finally saw the man's face clearly.

— Voldemort.

Voldemort's body was as big as a baby's. He sat on the ground panting. A ferocious face almost occupied most of his body. The color was as dead white as chalk. His red eyes shone with light. Below were two thin, snake-like lines. long nostrils.

Voldemort had left Quirrell's body, and he was back in Albania, sitting on the ground, staring at Quirrell.

"Unfortunately, Merlin was not able to be with you, Quirrell." Voldemort said coldly: "You made a wrong choice and lost an opportunity."

"But, even if you die, I don't think you will succeed.

You know, Quirrell?

I've been tired of you for a long time, tired of your weakness, for causing me to suffer so much...Damn you! "

Voldemort was chattering, and seemed to be talking more at this time.

"If only I had come a year earlier, Tywin is an excellent servant, but it's a pity that he has entered Azkaban now..."

Quirrell stared intently at Voldemort with his red eyes, and unstoppable tears streamed down his pale, blood-stained face.

"You promised me." Quirrell murmured.

The expression on his face was contorted with excruciating pain. "Master, I'm really sorry, but you promised me..."

"Yes, kind Voldemort did say that he would give you eternal life, and he would not break his word."

Voldemort took Quirrell's wand and began to chant a spell.

A green light suddenly lit up on Quirrell's body. This is the magic that Voldemort cast a long time ago.

Just wait for Quirrell to sacrifice before he dies!

Quirrell is a useless servant, but he still occupies a place in the next plan.

Smoke drifted from Quirrell's body as Voldemort cast his magic.

Quirrell lay on the cold ground, feeling warm blood pouring from the wound below his ribs.

His blood was about to run dry.

Quirrell suddenly felt that he had regained some strength. He raised his blood-stained hands, and his hands became paler, as if they were about to turn into mist.

Yes, he felt his body gradually melting into the mist.

Soon, the pain completely disappeared.

Quirrell laughed happily.

Voldemort laughed too.

In his line of sight, Quirrell slowly became transparent.

Quirrell turns into a ghost.

……

……

(Thanks to "Fengling Fifteen" and "Fellow Daoists, please stay behind" for their rewards)

(End of this chapter)