v2 Chapter 92： dead defense against the dark arts professor

Soon, the keys filled the sky, emitting scorching 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 else he would be killed.

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

At this time, he had a broken arm, a lame leg, and burned dead skin all over his body. He had 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 timidly opened the last door. Thankfully, there was nothing scary here, just a table with twenty small bottles of the same style lined up.

As soon as Quirrell stepped over the threshold, a flame rose up behind him, sealing the door.

This flame is 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 over to the table, grabbed a roll of parchment on it, and read it carefully several times. Even his eyebrows were burned out, revealing deep wrinkles.

"Dumbledore's number bottle, drink it, send you back to where you came from, Snape's number bottle, lead you forward... 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 himself, and the pain on his body made his head explode.

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

Obviously, Dumbledore used a superb Legilimency! "

"Hypocritical, he said before that he never used 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.

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

Schrödinger's potion!

"What should I do?" Quirrell was anxious.

With a one-half probability, 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. Among the six wands, a death curse was cast on one of them!

The wizard who gambles his life must choose from them, and then point his wand at his head, and then 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 an expert in this field.

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 that Quirrell won't lose.

Looking at the logic question that seemed to be without the slightest danger, Quirrell couldn't laugh no matter what, tears were rolling in his stomach.

"Hurry up!" Voldemort urged.

"But... Master, I might 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 hesitated for five minutes between numbers two and four, and placed his right hand tremblingly on the number four bottle.

He swallowed.

Since this semester, Quirrell has endured all kinds of physical hardships, 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 dying.

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

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

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 clearly.

——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 had left Quirrell's body, and 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 long been fed up with you, fed up with your weakness, and made me suffer so much... Damn you! "

Voldemort babbled, and it seemed that he was 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 with 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 chanting a spell.

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

Just wait for Quirrell to die before making sacrifices!

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

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

That's right, he felt that his body was gradually melting into the mist.

Soon, the pain completely disappeared.

Quirrell laughed happily.

Voldemort laughed too.

In his sight, Quirrell slowly became transparent.

Quirrell became a ghost.

……

……

(Thanks to "Fengling Fifteen" and "Daoist Friends, Please Stay Away" for the rewards of the two bosses)

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