Chapter 92 Death of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor

Soon, the keys filled the sky, emitting blazing heat, and the whole room was like a stove.

In this case, Quirrell couldn't tell which one was the key to open the door, and he himself was caught in the sea of ​​keys.

Voldemort, with blisters all over his face, howled in pain, urging Quirrell to leave quickly or kill him.

An hour later, Quirrell, a third-degree burn patient, finally made his way through Professor McGonagall's level.

At this moment, he had a broken arm, a lame leg, and his whole body was covered with burnt dead skin, with only one life left, and he walked to the last room with difficulty, like a zombie.

There was a long line of blood on the ground.

Quirrell timidly opened the last door. Thankfully, there was nothing scary here, just a table with twenty small bottles of the same style lined up.

Quirrell had just stepped over the threshold when a burst of flames rose behind him and sealed the door.

The flame was unusual, purple. At the same time, the door leading to the front also burst into black flames.

He was stuck in the middle.

Quirrell walked to the table, grabbed the roll of parchment that was on it, and read it carefully several times. Even his eyebrows were burnt out, revealing deep wrinkles.

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

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

Quirrell could barely think on his own, the pain on his body made his head explode.

"How do I know?" Voldemort glanced at the parchment scroll and said disdainfully: "Snape doesn't know, Dumbledore doesn't know, Snape knows, Dumbledore knows...

Clearly, Dumbledore used a superb Legilimency! "

"Hypocritical, he said before that he would never use Legilimency..."

Quirrell was speechless. Is this the time to discuss Dumbledore's hypocrisy?

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

By the end, he still couldn't be sure whether Snape's number was two or four!

Schrödinger's potion!

"What should I do?" Quirrell was anxious.

The probability of 1/2, do you want a stud?

But the result of failure is to drink poison and die in this last level!

At this moment, Quirrell actually remembered the popular roulette game in Eastern European magic circles.

It was a cruel gambling game, and the rules were very simple. Of the six wands, a death curse was cast on one of them!

The life-threatening wizard must choose from among them, and then point his wand at his head to activate the magic inside.

The one who survives can take all the prizes, and the one who loses will stay!

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

When he was at Durmstrang School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he kept gambling with students, but he never lost!

Grindelwald has never lost, but that doesn't mean Quirrell won't lose.

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

"Hurry up!" Voldemort urged.

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

"No, I said I would give you eternal life. Even if you die, I can resurrect you."

Voldemort whispered softly:

"Come on, 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, hesitating for five minutes between numbers two and four, his right hand tremblingly rested on bottle number four.

He swallowed.

Quirrell had endured all kinds of physical hardships this semester, but after the potion was in his stomach, the scorching heat that came out of his chest made him feel a very strange feeling.

It goes deep into the heart, but it hurts the heart.

He knew he had made the wrong choice!

wrong,

It means to die.

Quirrell didn't want to die yet, otherwise why would he survive the forests of Albania?

But the feeling of death was so real, Quirrell could feel the passing of life, not a physical pain but a spiritual one.

Suddenly Quirrell felt a pair of hands and took the wand from his pocket.

Quirrell fell to the ground, trying to see who it was, but tears came out of his eyes, blurring his vision.

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

- Voldemort.

Voldemort's body was as big as a baby. He was panting and sitting on the ground. A hideous face almost took up most of his body, the color was as dead white as chalk, his red eyes glowed, and below it were two thin snakes. long nostrils.

Voldemort was out of Quirrell's body. He was back in Albania, sitting on the ground, staring at Quirrell.

"Unfortunately, Merlin couldn't be with you, Quirrell." Voldemort said coldly, "You made the wrong choice and lost a chance."

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

You know what, Quirrell?

I've been sick of you for a long time, sick of your weakness and hurt me so much... Damn you! "

Voldemort babbled, 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's red eyes stared at Voldemort, tears streaming down his pale, blood-stained face.

"You promised me," Quirrell murmured.

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

"Yes, the merciful Voldemort did say that he would give you eternal life, and he would not break his promise."

Voldemort took Quirrell's wand and began to chant.

Quirrell suddenly glowed green, the magic that Voldemort had cast a long time ago.

Just wait for Quirrell to die before making sacrifices!

Quirrell was a useless servant, but he still had his place in the next plan.

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

Quirrell lay on the icy ground, feeling hot blood flowing from the wound below his ribs.

Quirrell suddenly felt himself regain some strength, and he raised his blood-stained hands, feeling as if he had turned into a mist too.

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

Soon, the pain completely disappeared.

Quirrell laughed happily.

Voldemort laughed too.

Quirrell slowly became transparent in his sight.

Quirrell became a ghost.

...

...

(Thanks to "Feng Ling 15" and "Fellow Daoist, please stay behind" for the rewards of the two bosses)