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

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

Voldemort, whose face was covered in water, howled in pain, urging Quirrell to leave or kill him.

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

At this time, he broke an arm, was lame, his whole body was burned and dead, and only one life remained, like a zombie, and he struggled to the last room.

There was a long line of blood dragging on the ground.

Quirrell shuddered open the last door, thankfully, there wasn't anything terrible here, just a table with twenty small bottles of the same style lined up.

No sooner had Quirrell crossed the threshold than a burst of flame rose from behind him, sealing the doorway.

The flame was unusual and purple. At the same time, black flames burst out from the doorway leading to the front.

He was trapped in the middle.

Quirrell walked over to the table, grabbed a roll of parchment that had been placed on it, and read it several times, revealing deep wrinkles as his eyebrows were burned.

"Dumbledore's bottle, drink it down, send you back to where you came, Snape's bottle, lead you forward...... Other poisons. ”

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

Quirrell could barely think to himself, and the pain in his body made his head explode.

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

It's clear that Dumbledore used a masterful Templar! ”

"Hypocrisy, he used to say that he never used to take the mind of the gods......"

Quirrell was speechless, was it time to discuss whether Dumbledore was hypocritical or not?

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

At the end of the day, he still couldn't decide if Snape had the number two or four!

Schrödinger's potion!

"What should I do?" Quirrell was in a hurry.

With a one-in-half probability, do you want to stud it?

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

At this moment, Quirrell actually remembered the roulette wheel that was popular in the wizarding world of Eastern Europe.

It was a cruel gambling game, and the rules were simple, one of the six wands had a death curse cast!

The sorcerer who gambled his life had to choose between them, then set his wand to his head and activate the magic within.

Those who live can take all the prizes, and those who lose will be left behind!

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

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

Grindelwald hasn't lost, but that doesn't mean he Quirrell won't lose.

Looking at the logic question, which seemed not to be in the slightest danger, Quirrell couldn't laugh anyway, tears rolling in his stomach.

"Hurry up!" Voldemort urged.

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

"No, I said I would give you eternal life, and even if I die, I will be able to resurrect you."

Voldemort whispered softly:

"Hurry up, Quirrell, pick one! The important thing now is to get your hands on the Philosopher's Stone, time is really precious. ”

Quirrell looked at Snape's line of bottles, and finally hesitated for a full five minutes between the numbers two and four, and placed his right hand tremblingly on the fourth bottle.

He swallowed it in one gulp.

Over the course of the semester, Quirrell had endured all sorts of physical sufferings, but the scorching heat coming out of his chest after the potion had been in his stomach had given him 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 that you are going to die.

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

But death felt so real that Quirrell could feel life passing, not so much physical pain as mental torment.

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

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

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

―Lord Voldemort.

Voldemort's body was as big as a baby, and he sat on the ground gasping for breath, a hideous face that took up almost half of his body, dead white as chalk, red eyes glowing, and two long, snake-like nostrils below.

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

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

"But, dead or dead, I didn't think you'd succeed.

You know, Quirrell?

I've been sick of you for a long time, tired of your weakness, which has hurt me so much...... You're damned! ”

Voldemort babbled, and at this time there seemed to be a lot of talk.

"If only I had come a year earlier, Tywin is a wonderful servant, but it's a pity that he is now in Azkaban......"

Quirrell's red eyes stared at Voldemort as tears flowed down his pale, bloodstained face.

"You promised me." Quirrell muttered.

The expression on his face was distorted by 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 word."

Voldemort took Quirrell's wand and began to chant incantations.

Quirrell's body suddenly lit up with a green glow, a magic that Voldemort had cast a long time ago.

Just wait for Quirrell to die before he makes the sacrifice!

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

As Voldemort cast his magic, smoke wafted out of Quirrell's body.

Quirrell lay on the cold ground, feeling a stream of hot blood flowing from the wound below his ribs.

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

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

Soon, the pain was gone completely.

Quirrell laughed happily.

Voldemort laughed too.

In his line of sight, Quirrell slowly became transparent.

Quirrell turned into a ghost.

……

……

(Thanks to the "Wind Spirit Fifteen", "Friends Please Stay" two big guys for the reward)