The Death of the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor

Soon, keys filled the sky, radiating intense heat, turning the entire room into a furnace.

In this situation, Quirrell had no way of knowing which key was the one to open the door, and he himself was caught in a sea of keys.

Voldemort, his face covered in blisters, howled in pain, urging Quirrell to leave immediately or he would kill him.

An hour later, Quirrell, a patient with third-degree burns, finally managed to get through Professor McGonagall's challenge.

At this point, he had lost an arm and was lame in one leg. His entire body was covered in burns and dead skin. He was barely clinging to life, and like a zombie, he struggled to reach the last room.

A long trail of blood stretched across the ground.

Quirrell shakily opened the last door, and thankfully, there was nothing frightening inside, only a table with twenty identical small bottles arranged on it.

As Quirrell stepped across the threshold, a burst of flames erupted behind him, sealing the doorway.

This flame was unusual; it was purple. At the same time, black flames also sprang up from the doorway leading to the front.

He was trapped in the middle.

Quirrell walked to the table, picked up a roll of parchment, and read it carefully several times. His eyebrows, which had been burned away, revealed deep wrinkles.

"The bottle with the Dumbledore number, drink it and it will send you back to where you started; the bottle with the Snape number, it will lead you forward... other poisons."

Quirrell pondered for a long time, then asked in a hoarse voice, "Master, do you know which bottle contains the Potions allows you to pass through flames?"

Quirrell was barely able to think; the pain in his body made his head feel like it was going to explode.

"How would I know?" Voldemort glanced at the parchment scroll and said dismissively, "Snape doesn't know, Dumbledore doesn't know, and Snape knows, then Dumbledore knows..."

It's obvious that Dumbledore used a masterful Legilimency!

"Hypocritical. He used to say he never used Legilimency..."

Quirrell was speechless. Was this the time to discuss whether Dumbledore was hypocritical or not?

Left with no other option, Quirrell produced a quill and began writing and drawing on the parchment.

In the end, he still couldn't determine whether Snape's number was two or four!

Schrödinger's Potions!

"What should I do?" Quirrell thought anxiously.

With a one-in-half probability, should I go all in?

But failure meant drinking poison and dying at this final hurdle!

At that moment, Quirrell was reminded of roulette, a popular game in the Eastern European Wizarding World.

It was a cruel gambling game with simple rules: one of the six wands was cursed with Killing Curse!

The wizard, gambling with his life, must repeatedly choose from these options, then point his wand at his head to activate the magic within.

The survivor can take all the prizes, the loser leaves their life behind!

It is said that the previous Dark Lord, Grindelwald, was an expert in this field.

While he was at Durmstrang Institute, he constantly gambled with the students, but he never lost!

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

Looking at the seemingly harmless logic puzzle, Quirrell couldn't bring himself to laugh; tears welled up inside him.

"Hurry up!" Voldemort urged.

"But... Master, I might die, and then no one will be there to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone for you," Quirrell pleaded.

"No, I promised you eternal life. Even if you die, I can resurrect you."

Voldemort whispered gently:

"Hurry, Quirrell, choose one! The important thing now is to get the Philosopher's Stone; time is really precious."

Quirrell stared at Snape's row of bottles, and finally hesitated for a full five minutes between numbers two and four, his right hand trembling as he placed it on bottle number four.

He swallowed it in one gulp.

Throughout the semester, Quirrell had endured all sorts of physical suffering, but after the Potions entered his stomach, the scorching heat emanating from his chest gave him a very strange feeling.

It penetrates deep into the lungs, yet it pierces the heart.

He knows he made the wrong choice!

Wrong.

That means he's going to die.

Quirrell doesn't want to die yet; otherwise, why would he have survived in the Albania forests until now?

But the feeling of death was so real; Quirrell could feel life slipping away. It wasn't like physical pain, but rather a kind of mental ordeal.

Suddenly, Quirrell felt a pair of hands take his 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 in his eyes, and finally saw the person's face clearly.

--Voldemort.

Voldemort's body was the size of an infant. He sat on the ground, panting, his hideous face taking up almost half of his body. His face was as white as chalk, his red eyes gleaming, and below them were two long, thin nostrils like snakes.

Voldemort had separated from Quirrell's body and returned to his Albania form, sitting on the ground, staring at Quirrell.

"Unfortunately, Merlin isn't with you, Quirrell," Voldemort said coldly. "You made the wrong choice; you've lost an opportunity."

"But it's better if you die, I never thought you would succeed."

Did you know, Quirrell?

I've been fed up with you for a long time, fed up with your weakness, the way you've hurt me so much... You deserve to die!

Voldemort started rambling on and on, and at this moment he seemed to be talking more.

"If only I had come a year earlier. Tywin was an excellent servant, but unfortunately he's already in Azkaban..."

Quirrell stared intently at Voldemort with bloodshot eyes, tears streaming down his pale, blood- Scabbers face.

"You promised me," Quirrell murmured.

His face was contorted with extreme pain. "Master, I'm so sorry, but you promised me..."

"Yes, merciful Voldemort did indeed promise to grant you eternal life, and he will not break his promise."

Voldemort, holding Quirrell's wand, began to chant a spell.

A green light suddenly shone from Quirrell's body; this was a spell that Voldemort had cast long ago.

They'll sacrifice him just before Quirrell dies!

Quirrell was a useless servant, but he still held a place in the upcoming plans.

As Voldemort cast his spell, smoke drifted out of Quirrell's body.

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

He was bleeding almost dry.

Quirrell suddenly felt some strength returning to him. He raised his blood-stained hands, which were even paler than before, as if they were about to turn into a thin mist.

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

Soon, the pain completely disappeared.

Quirrell laughed happily.

Voldemort laughed too.

In his vision, Quirrell slowly became transparent.

Quirrell became a ghost.

(Thanks to "Fengling Shiwu" and "Daoyou Qing Liubu You" for their generous donations)