A Certain Magical Hogwarts

Soon, the room was filled with keys, glowing with intense heat. The air grew stifling, turning the chamber into a furnace.

Amid this chaos, Quirrell couldn't discern which key opened the door. He was utterly lost in the sea of flying keys.

The blistered face of Voldemort contorted in agony as he screeched, ordering Quirrell to hurry—or else face his wrath.

An hour later, after suffering third-degree burns, Quirrell finally limped out of Professor McGonagall's trap.

By now, he had a broken arm, a crippled leg, and severe burns covering his body. Barely clinging to life, he resembled a walking corpse as he staggered to the final chamber.

A long trail of blood marked his path.

With trembling hands, Quirrell opened the last door. To his relief, no terrifying creatures awaited him—only a table with twenty identical bottles neatly arranged on top.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, purple flames erupted behind him, sealing the door.

Simultaneously, black flames rose at the doorway leading forward.

He was trapped.

Quirrell approached the table and picked up a roll of parchment lying beside the bottles. 

He read it carefully, his expression growing even darker with his eyebrows scrunched up—if such a thing were possible for someone who had already lost his eyebrows to the earlier flames.

"Dumbledore's bottle will send you back. Snape's bottle will take you forward. The rest are poison."

Quirrell stared at the parchment, then asked in a hoarse voice, "Master, do you know which bottle contains the potion to pass through the flames?"

Quirell could barely think on his own with the pain wracking his body.

"How would I know?" Voldemort scoffed after glancing at the parchment. "If Snape knows, then Dumbledore knows. If Dumbledore knows, he'd have read Snape's mind using Legilimency.

"Hypocrite. He always claims he never uses Legilimency…"

Quirrell was speechless. Is now really the time to debate Dumbledore's hypocrisy?

Helpless, Quirrell conjured a quill and began scribbling notes on the parchment, trying to work out the puzzle.

Despite his efforts, he couldn't determine whether Snape's bottle was the second or the fourth.

Schrödinger's potion.

"What should I do?" Quirrell thought anxiously.

The odds were fifty-fifty. Should he take the gamble?

Failure meant death, to die at the final hurdle.

The situation reminded him of a grim gambling game popular in the Eastern European wizarding world: Russian wand roulette.

The rules were simple and brutal: six wands, one of which carried a Killing Curse.

Participants would take turns choosing wands, pointing them at their heads, and casting the spell.

The winner walked away with the prize, while the loser left their life behind.

It was said that the last Dark Lord, Grindelwald, had been a master of this game.

As a student at Durmstrang, Grindelwald constantly challenged others but never lost.

But Grindelwald's invincibility didn't mean Quirrell wouldn't lose.

Staring at what seemed like a harmless logic puzzle, Quirrell felt like crying.

"Hurry up!" Voldemort demanded.

"But Master, I might die! Then there'll be no one to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone for you!" Quirrell pleaded.

"You won't die. I promised you immortality. Even if you do, I can revive you."

Voldemort's voice turned chillingly soft, almost comforting. "Come on, Quirrell, just pick one! The Stone is what matters most now—time is running out."

Quirrell stared at the bottles in Snape's row, hesitating between the second and fourth.

After five agonizing minutes, he placed his trembling hand on the fourth bottle and gulped it down.

This semester, Quirrell had endured countless physical torments. 

But as the potion seared through his chest, the sensation was unlike anything he'd ever experienced. It was a burning heat that reached deep into his lungs, yet tore at his very soul.

He knew he'd chosen wrong.

And the wrong choice meant death.

Quirrell didn't want to die. Why else had he clung to life since fleeing the Albanian forests?

But death felt undeniable now. His body weakened as his life force ebbed away.

It wasn't just the physical pain of his injuries, it was something far deeper, an agony of the spirit.

Suddenly, Quirrell felt a hand reach into his pocket and take his wand.

Lying on the cold floor, he strained to see who it was. Tears blurred his vision as he raised a feeble arm to wipe them away.

Finally, he saw the face.

Voldemort.

Voldemort's body was no larger than a baby's. He sat on the ground, his monstrous face, chalk white with glowing red eyes and slit-like nostrils, dominating his tiny frame.

No longer tethered to Quirrell's body, Voldemort had returned to his ghostly, parasitic form, as he had been in Albania. He stared coldly at Quirrell.

"Merlin was not with you, Quirrell," Voldemort said icily. "You chose poorly and squandered your chance."

"But… perhaps it's better this way. I never believed you would succeed.

"Did you know, Quirrell? I've grown tired of you, tired of your weakness and the harm it has caused me. You deserve death!"

Voldemort's voice, usually sharp and commanding, now carried a strange, bitter eloquence.

"If only I'd come a year earlier. Tywin was a far better servant—but alas, he's in Azkaban now…"

Quirrell's bloodshot eyes fixed on Voldemort, tears streaming down his battered, bloodied face.

"You promised me," Quirrell whispered, his voice trembling with pain and despair.

His face contorted in anguish. "Master, I'm so sorry… but you promised me…"

"Yes, the merciful Voldemort keeps his word," Voldemort replied mockingly, holding Quirrell's wand as he began chanting a spell.

Green light emanated from Quirrell's body—magic Voldemort had cast long ago, awaiting this exact moment to activate.

It was a sacrificial spell. Though Quirrell was a useless servant, his role in Voldemort's plans wasn't finished.

As Voldemort's magic took hold, wisps of smoke began rising from Quirrell's body.

Lying on the cold stone floor, Quirrell felt the heat of his blood pooling beneath his ribs. He could feel it draining away.

Strangely, he also felt a renewed strength—a fleeting sensation.

He raised his bloodied hands, now turning pale and translucent, almost like mist.

Yes, his body was dissolving into a ghostly vapor.

The pain vanished entirely.

Quirrell began to laugh.

Voldemort laughed too.

Before his eyes, Quirrell slowly became transparent.

Quirrell had become a ghost.

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[tl/n: ngl I really feel bad for Quirrel now! Have a great day/night!]