This is the shortest chapter and the saddest. it is more in the format of a poem... without fancy rhymes.
Chapter 10: Azkaban
Flashes of pain burst through Quirrell's stomach, his mind… his heart.
Each of these displayed a different, painful memory.
"Silent slave! Crucio!"
Quirrell fell to ground, reliving every emotion, all the pain.
"I'm going to eat you now…"
Quirrell was shaking from the cold, fright, anger.
"Yes, I knew… but I feel different now…"
"Bullshit…" Quirrell said under his breath, his voice sounding raw.
"… and they call me the butt trumpet…"
Quirrell clenched his fist tightly, his white knuckles shone through the dirty tattered skin
"… we'll live happily ever after…"
Quirrell closed his eyes and sneered, showing his dirty teeth.
"Promise we'll go rollerblading and see that movie?"
Quirrell punched the stone cold wall.
"Oh, man, I promise…"
Blood started to prickle from his knuckles; it burned on his flesh as it froze from the cold on his skin. He didn't care…
He felt sadness, anger, grief, cold, hungry, alone, mad, insane, but most of all, he felt no emotion at all.
He spluttered and choked, he couldn't find the courage, let alone strength, to breathe in between the tears.
Quirrell felt he could pull out every last strand of hair from his head…
Break every bone…
And it wouldn't matter…
Life doesn't matter…
When you are in Azkaban…
Yet, as Quirrell lay there on the icy floor boards,
slippery from the frozen tears,
in the cell with nothing but four walls and a door that would never again open,
he looked at the ceiling which somehow had scratch marks on them,
which just made him more frightened of the lady beyond the door
who would very much like to give him a kiss,
and yet he could still hear that familiar little voice on the back of his head saying…
"Quirrell… everything will be okay…"