ELISABETH stood watching him, saying not a word to him, yet she was a vision of loveliness in a flowing long white dress, though his friend's face was so sullen and miserable that it sent a chill down Quirinus's spine. The redhead was just as beautiful standing in front of the entrance to the Forbidden Forest as she was the first time he had laid eyes on her when he'd found her in the sitting room of his home, her back paraded to him as she'd poured over his books. Yet the expression of misery was plastered all over her pretty features like a Permanent Sticking Charm.
There was nothing he thought he would not give to see the forlorn look on her face go away, to see her smile at him, just once more. This was the second time in his life that he thought he wished he would have just been killed. As he looked at her now, there was an odd pressure in his chest that seeped warmth throughout his entire body, from the tips of his toes up to the roots of his dark hair.
It was one of the strangest feelings he had ever encountered, but it was not altogether unpleasant. He was stricken with a strange urge to take the witch by the face and kiss her, though he lacked the courage to make such a bold move. He was not even sure if Elisabeth would allow it.
Quirinus teetered on the brink of reality and his dreams as he watched Elisabeth stand in front of the entrance to the Forbidden Forest, looking like the vision of loveliness he knew the witch to be in her flowing white dress that hit the ground. The wind in his hair tousled his wavy dark hair gently and blew his bangs off his forehead, and he closed his eyes. He thought he could remain here forever with Elisabeth by his side for the end of his days, never wanting to open them again, for he felt for sure when he did, just like most in his life who ever mattered to him, Elisabeth would be gone.
He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut, wanting to remain there, and yet, he knew that something was wrong, he could tell by the heat that filled the air, despite the cold spritzes of raindrops that moistened his cheeks as a light mist of rain began to fall.
He opened his eyes and nearly cried out in shock to find the Forbidden Forest behind Elisabeth laying in a smoldering ruin. It looked as though someone had set fire to the Forest with Fiendfyre.
Flames seemed to spring up from the ground beneath his feet, the flashes of harrowing light so bright that it very nearly blinded him.
A strangled cry was ripped from his lips as he raised a hand to shield his face, but it had no effect. The flames kissed his hands in their searching caresses and nipped at his hair as if teasing him.
Somewhere, in the distance, a man could be heard laughing, the cruel sound laced with mocking amusement and judgment. The horrible sound flooded the air and filled his eardrums, which were pounding with the rush of his blood, with the sound. He turned on his heels, searching…seeing nothing through the haze of black smoke and flames that filled the air.
"Elisabeth!" He screamed hoarsely at the top of his lungs, nearly hysterical. His voice broke as he called her name. Then, he found her. Flames had engulfed her, yet never once did she scream, by a miracle of Merlin Himself, perhaps she had the quick thinking to perform a Flame-Freezing Charm, but he would never know the truth. Her deep brown eyes pleaded with him to help her, penetrating his very soul.
He screamed her name, reaching out a shaking hand to pull her away from the flames, to try to save her, as she had saved him, and yet the distance between them only grew with each attempt.
Suddenly, Elisabeth Raywood began to fade from his sight.
Again, Quirinus screamed the witch's name, powerless to stop it from happening. As she vanished, her image was replaced by that of a single fine tress of red hair, the hue of colors a myriad, ranging from dark burgundy red, bright cherry, and a dark auburn blend, the only thing left of her, and a plain silver wedding band that sparkled in the dim light, even on the ground. He knelt to pick up the small ring.
His fingers curled into a tight fist as he brought the single strand of Elisabeth's hair to his nose to inhale intimately, though instead of the perfume of whatever witch's shampoo she used that smelled like pears, he smelled iron. His eyes flung open quickly, and his hand was covered in sticky blood. Fresh, warm, and putrid. Quirinus grimaced, tearing his terrified eyes away from the alarming image.
Before he could even fathom where the blood had come from, whose it was, black spots began to dance at the edge of his vision and blur, as though he were awakening to yet another nightmare.
But with it this time, he was met with the image of a wizard's back paraded to him and the sounds of his coughing jolting him out of his stupor as alarmed, his mind swam to the surface of reality and whatever might be waiting for him there. The first thing that spun into focus as his vision slowly but surely cleared, he took in another ragged gasping breath and coughed, a jabbing pain in his ribcage that made him double over and clutch at it in agony as he sat up.
"Here." The voice was not Elisabeth's as he had been hoping for. He had hoped his neighbor would be by his side when he woke and recognized the voice was that of Father.
The wizard's voice was monotonous and almost cold, sending chills down his spine. Father had grown more distant ever since Mother had died, Merlin blesses her soul. Quinton Quirrell was standing to the left of his bedside looking down on him, clutching a glass of water in the one good hand he still had left, handing it over, the other, a cloth meant to wipe the sweat from his brow was draped over his stump.
All the while, the older wizard's expression remained impassive, though if he squinted to see as he slowly sat up and rested his head against the mountain of pillows piled against the bed's headboard, he thought he saw a flicker of concern pass through Father's eyes.
It took a few moments of the fog of confusion Quirinus found himself in to dissipate and he came to understand that he was no longer living in a dream. He was pulled back to the harsh world of his new reality, and everything came back to him all at once, and suddenly.
It was such a shock that it nearly stole the breath from his lungs. He could not even find the strength in his throat to be able to manage to greet Father. He felt as though he were being buried alive.
Slowly, he stretched out a trembling hand to take the glass of ice water his father expected him to take, raising it to his lips and pretended not to twitch to his side as he sat up a bit straighter. And yet, no matter how hard he tried to hide the pains that ravaged his body, he knew that his father was seeing it.
He drank the water carefully, the ice-cold liquid soothing his burning throat as it went down as he took his time. His throat felt like shards of glass, and he did his best not to flinch. In truth, he was stalling to greet his father, for he did not know what to say. He had not seen him since the night he left for Albania.
Some of the water trickled out of the sides of his mouth as his movements were clumsy, though he eventually finished his drink and set it down on the night table beside his bed.
He looked around the otherwise deserted Hospital Wing to find that he and his father were the only two souls present in the room. He wondered where Madame Pomfrey had disappeared to, and for a moment, a streak of meanness came over him as he wondered if it would be inappropriate to order his father removed from the room.
After what seemed an interminable silence, and when Quirinus could stand the silence between them no longer, he parted his lips as if to speak to him, though before he could, his father's curt voice cut him off, preventing him from speaking.
"You've been unconscious the last half-hour, son," Quinton Quirrell broke the awkward silence. "Your Head Matron, Madame Pomfrey, says you aren't to allow yourself to be delved into too much anxiety. You fainted, she says that your body became too taxed from stress," he informed his son.
Quirinus could not manage to lift his gaze, for he knew if he did, he would lock eyes with Father and see the high-ranking Ministry official looking at him with such scrutiny, as though he were a disappointment. He felt as though his mind were reeling. A wave of anger slowly overtook his hurt.
He'd had more than enough knowledge that he would always be a disappointment to Father, never following in the wizard's footsteps by taking a career with the Ministry of Magic, instead pursuing a life in academia, and surely, whatever had happened to him to cause Dumbledore to order his memories over the last year to be modified completely, Father was sure to hold him in low repute, he was sure of it.
Quirinus was too petrified to even form a coherent thought in his mind as he recalled their last heated argument with one another, how they had rowed, and then, months later, he had gotten a letter from Father saying that Mother had died of the sickness that had long since plagued her and turned her body against her at too young an age.
Perhaps Quinton sensed this, and if he did, the more Quirinus was vexed.
Why had Father come to see him now, after all this time?
Why had he not come when he had supposedly been attacked and nearly killed by the Hungarian Horntail?
He presumed his father was waiting for him to speak, but he remained silent as a rock, his lips pursed shut. He wanted neither to speak nor, at this point, to live.
Perhaps it was in the heavy silence that passed between them that Quinton Quirrell realized that it would take at least another century to put what had happened behind them and fumbled for the reason that he had been there all along now.
Quirinus wondered how long Father had stayed by his side, hearing him speak to him in low tones, mumbling among his dreams. A minute? Five? Fifteen?
As if it mattered to Quinton, as if he mattered all, he thought, as an abrupt bitterness swooped and nestled its way into the pit of his belly.
He flinched as the older wizard's dark eyes flashed as Quinton waved his wand to conjure a chair and sat down without waiting for an invitation.
Quirinus stiffened, recognizing he was not in the mood for company right now, not with Father, and he gave a startled jolt when he came to understand that the only one he wanted to see now, was her.
"Please don't," Quirinus whispered in a soft voice that sounded waxy, reedy, and he cringed as the words left his hoarse throat and he came to rest a hand over his throat.
But Quinton's eyes did not change as his father shook his head, the edges of the man's mouth turning down in a scowl, his brow furrowed in contemplation as he thought over his words for a moment before he decided to start small.
"How are you feeling?" Quinton asked, waving his wand to refill the water glass that rested by his son's bedside.
Quirinus begrudgingly accepted the refilled glass with a curt nod of thanks and took his time taking a drink of water and swallowing before summoning enough strength in his throat to answer his father.
"Well enough, Father, th-thank you for asking. I—I was hoping if you…if you had…if you had seen a-a friend of mine, my...my neighbor," He paused, hesitantly and so unsure of himself, huffing in frustration. "Where is Elisabeth? I—I hoped that she—that she would be here," he stammered, his tongue suddenly feeling like heavy clay in his mouth.
He flinched as a shadow passed over his father's lined and careworn features, a cloud settling over his face at just the mention of Elisabeth's name. He wondered why that was.
It was obvious from the look on his father's face and how his face was turning mottled and pink in the cheeks that he was familiar with the witch. He furrowed his brow in contemplative thought and regarded his father curiously, wondering why it was that his father disliked her so badly.
"You hate her, don't you, Father? Elisabeth," he asked softly. When his father did not respond, he pressed on. "Why?"
He felt a budding sense of annoyance flare to life in his veins, burning him hotter than any dragon fire could if he had even been injured by a dragon at all, he thought bitterly.
His father would not speak to him about Elisabeth or even look him in the eye, instead keeping his gaze fixated on the window, at the rain now pouring its deluge onto the grounds of the school.
A muscle in his father's jaw twitched, signaling to Quirinus just how vexed and agitated the man was becoming. It seemed to take Quinton an eternity to find his voice, and when he did, his voice was barely a whisper.
"I am…glad that you are feeling better and that you are alive, son. When I got word that you were… that you were very nearly killed, I—I cannot even begin to tell you what went through my mind."
Quinton trailed off as his voice warbled and lowered an octave, tears coming to his eyes as he continued to keep his gaze affixed to the window, not wishing for his son to see him in a moment of weakness as he was now.
But his aversion to looking into his son's face did not stop him from groping for Quirinus's hand and holding it tightly for a moment as the man scooted his chair closer.
"D-Don't cry, Father, I am alive, there's nothing to be afraid of anymore. I am still here. Always," he whispered understandingly. His father responded to his words by squeezing tightly onto his fingers and letting out a bitter laugh.
"I can't help it, Quirinus." He breathed a heavy scattered sigh and slowly tore his gaze away from the window and turned to look at his only son, warm water misting his eyes. "I have made you feel unwelcome in my own home, Quirinus, since your mother died. I only ever wanted to give you my blessings to follow your path and live your own life, though I'd hoped you would follow in my footsteps," he lamented remorsefully. "I was…disappointed when you chose to enter into academia instead and took up your post as Muggle Studies Professor, but your mother was so very proud of everything you've done."
Quinton closed his tired eyes for a moment and breathed deeply, wishing the tears that now swamped his throat to dissipate and his racing heart to relax.
"But…you are my only child. I already lost your mother, and son, and I cannot bear the thought of losing you, so please do not ever put me through this again. And forgive me, but I would be remorseful if I did not tell you the truth. What I think of her. Elisabeth Raywood, is not good for you. You would do well to keep your distance from her. She will bring you nothing but pain, Quirinus. Stay away," he told his son through gritted teeth.
Contempt dripped from his voice as once again, Elisabeth Raywood entered into the conversation. Quirinus was quick to deduce that his father did not like it. Did not like her.
Nevertheless, nothing could be solved if he did not want to talk. Despite the complicated feelings of resentment Quirinus still held for his father, who had been driven to drink more and more since Mother's death, developing an acquired taste for Firewhisky that he'd not while his mother had still been alive, nevertheless, it made his heart ache for him, to see Quinton so distraught over him.
He wanted to ease his mind.
"I've always been grateful, to you and Mother, Father, that you've let me follow my path. I-I know how hard it was for you, after…a-after she died, and I know that you care for me, that you do love me in your way," he declared, tears beginning to well in his eyes that mirrored that of his father's.
Quirinus let out a shaky breath as he continued, another person's image coming to his mind as he was beginning to remember someone else's strength that had seen him through the fight for his life.
He thought he was beginning to remember fragments of images, things that had come before he had woken in his home to find his neighbor in his sitting room.
He thought he could hear Elisabeth Raywood's voice, sweet and shy, speaking to him in hushed whispers, pleading with him to wake, and telling him how sorry she was.
"E-even as I lay in St. Mungo's, I knew I would be fine," he told Quinton, his tone solemn, his expression grim as a grave. He leaned forward and squeezed Quinton's hand tighter. His father for a moment looked rather confused.
"How could you possibly be certain of such a thing?" he demanded, though not out of anger, but curiosity.
Quinton had to know the truth, though he suspected his son's answer was not going to be one that he was particularly going to like, as he feared that once again, Elisabeth Raywood would be responsible for worming her way into his son's life where the witch was not needed. His suspicions were confirmed, and the older wizard's heart was in his throat as Quirinus's dark eyes grew dreamy and distant. His already pleasant and hopeful little smile softened even more, as he thought he began to remember.
The images of her face through his fluttering eyelids as he had opened them once or twice, barely perceptively, in the ward of St. Mungo's, began to flit through his mind just then.
It was as though he were viewing the fleeting images through the silvery liquid of Dumbledore's Pensieve in his office. He let himself enjoy the images of his friend's sweet face for another moment longer before he answered his father.
"Because…because Elisabeth was with me, Father."
Even now, he thought he could see her face so vividly in his mind, it was as if the witch had Apparated in the Hospital Wing and was standing right next to him. For a moment, he wished that she were, and struggled to conceal his immense disappointment. He forced his mind to return to the matter at hand, and looked at his father, shocked to see such anger and hurt pulling the skin of his father's brow taut.
When he spoke, he hissed his words through gritted teeth more than spoke them, and his voice shook.
"You loved her, son, and she hurt you. She hurt you more than I could bear to watch. She broke your heart when she told you that she was engaged to Crouch," Quinton exclaimed in judgment. "Yet, you still love her, despite the only thing she has done is hurt you, and cause you grief. You left that night after you fought, I did not think you would ever come back, and for that, I don't think I could forgive her," he announced. His father's voice now carried more anger for Elisabeth than concern for Quirinus, and it alarmed Quirinus.
Quirinus sat against his pillows pensively for a moment, his mind reeling with so many conflicting thoughts that it almost overwhelmed him. His mind turned over the many dozens of paths that his life could have gone wrong and he had to know why his memories were modified.
Dumbledore would surely have informed his father as to the true reasons why.
"Level with me, Father, please," Quirinus's tone was solemn, and the wizard's expression was as grim as a grave as he steadily lifted his gaze and managed to lock eyes with his father. "No one will be honest with me, not even Elisabeth as to why Dumbledore ordered my mind to be Obliviated. I can remember nothing of the last year. Nothing of my life. I...I don't understand. Why?" he demanded, his dark eyes pained as they swam with the beginnings of fresh tears. He swallowed down past a hard knot in his throat. "Please, tell me the truth. What was so horrible that happened to me that I was not given the choice to remember?" he begged, his tone hopeful. He hoped his father would be forthcoming with him, no matter how painful.
Fear began to build behind Quirinus's eyes as his father hesitated, and suddenly, the man looked to have aged five years as he slumped against his chair, looking like he was about to be sick as the older wizard's face turned an interesting shade of green.
"F-Father?" he whispered, only able to stare at Quinton with a confused and furrowed brow. "Tell me the truth. Please, I beg of you, I-I have to know what happened, no one will tell me anything. Please," he pleaded, lowering his tone, and trying a softer approach.
Quinton inhaled deeply, letting out the breath he had been holding. Suddenly, he felt sick.
The time had finally come to tell his son the truth. That, in a moment of weakness, he had grown obsessed to the point of madness with the notion of earning respect amongst his peers he worked with. His son had foolishly fled for Albania, to the Black Forest, and away from Doveport, desperate to rid himself of the pain of a broken heart when Elisabeth Raywood had announced her then-engagement to Barty Crouch Jr., and burying his pain in his work.
Quirinus had naively believed that he thought he could achieve fame and recognition for locating the Dark Lord and learn things from the greatest Dark wizard of all time to ensure no one mocked him ever again. However, Voldemort had taken over his body upon learning that Quirinus taught at Hogwarts, though his son had put up a mild resistance, his son was no match for Voldemort.
He had nearly been killed when the Potter boy laid hands on him, quite literally.
The Potter boy's mother and her love for her son had nearly been his own son's undoing, though, by the grace of Merlin and the Muggle God, he'd lived. How, was a miracle, though one Quinton hoped he never took for granted, just relieved that Quirinus still lived. How could he find the right words to divulge such truth to his son? However, he forced himself to carry on, reluctantly. His son had asked him to tell the truth and he had never been one to deny Quirinus anything.
He would see it through to the very end, no matter how unpleasant the matter became.
"Lord Voldemort possessed your body and took over control of your entire being. Your body, your mind, son. You were nearly killed by the Potter boy, though somehow, you survived, though the scar on your face will always be permanent. No amount of Dittany will ever mend it, Quirinus. I don't know how you survived, but it is a miracle." Quinton felt hollow at finally speaking the truth. Quirinus could only stare at his father, his head spinning as the hospital room around him began to close in on him.
Surely, he had heard his father wrong.
"Wh-what?" he spluttered. "What did you say?" he demanded, his mouth, already dry, went dryer still, and he licked his lips to moisten them, though it did not help. His tongue was heavy and useless.
His black eyes flooded with tears and were red-rimmed and cracked at the edges and wild. He lifted his gaze to his father's and desperately searched his for understanding.
But by the look on his father's face, Quirinus could tell he had not misunderstood.
"Lord Voldemort took over your body. You were nearly killed in a confrontation with Harry Potter, though you somehow survived. In his letter to me, Dumbledore was not clear as to how, though the man has his suspicions," his father repeated compassionately, his expression pained, and he was suddenly having trouble meeting his gaze.
The shock of Father's news still rang in his eardrums, drowning out all sounds until all Quirinus could hear was the rush of his blood pounding in his ears.
"The—the Dark Lord…possessed….he…we…Elisabeth, we….we argued…?"
Quirinus struggled to comprehend the weighted severity of the circumstances that swirled in his confused mind until he was able to piece together the missing components and it all began to make sense.
He realized with a sickening jolt in his stomach what it all had meant. He had loved Elisabeth Raywood, once, in his past life, a life that he could no longer remember, and had abandoned his dear friend, a witch whom he must have thought he could have loved had their circumstances turned out differently, had she chosen him over Barty, in search of fame and admiration, only to nearly meet his near-demise at the hands of both his master and the Potter boy.
He had done it all out of his heart's selfishness and desire to be respected, and the lie he had told himself that he could not possibly love a witch, nor earn that witch's love in return, and had run away from the truth, from the best thing that had ever happened to him.
And now, his memory had been Obliviated, and he no longer remembered her or their time spent together, as friends.
Still reeling, Quirinus looked up at his father, though his eyes did not truly see.
"Oh, Father, no, tell me it's not true," he gasped, nearly choking on the sounds that erupted from the back of his throat, and for a moment, Quinton thought he would have to conjure a basin for his son to shove it as his chest as he choked. He was sure it was all his son could do not to vomit. "Wh—what have I done? What have I done?" he begged his father as if he thought one of his only surviving family members left still alive had any answers to give. He didn't.
Quinton could only look at his son with sympathy and relief brimming behind his eyes.
He wished he had the solutions that would give Quirinus the peace he desperately needed and deserved, though, for the moment, there were none. Quirinus collapsed back against the pillows, fleeting images of Elisabeth's sweet face coming back to him then in a flash of knowing so strong, it stole the breath from his lungs.
If he had not gone, if he would have stayed, he wondered if he would have ever confessed his feelings for her, or if there was even the slightest possibility she reciprocated any inklings of romantic feelings he might have held for her.
He pictured the two of them holding hands while on a walk either through the bustling downtown streets of London, blending in amongst the Muggles with ease while on a date, or perhaps browsing through the various shops in Hogsmeade, spending a night of glorious passion in one another's arms…
The fleeting blissful images in his mind changed and he pictured himself grasping her hand, whispering sweet words of encouragement to her as she would struggle to bring their child into the world if they were fortunate enough to ever marry and have children.
And he had nearly given all of it up and thrown away the one good thing in his life, for the Dark Lord.
"I-is she…? Elisabeth, Father, is she nearby? I—I need to see her," he rasped weakly, his voice choked with emotion.
His father was currently looking at him now as though his son were dirt on the bottom of his show. His face was scrunched as though he had caught a whiff of something unpleasant and his nose twitched at the mention of the witch.
"She should have stayed away, she should not have come back into your life, Quirinus, Dumbledore is a brilliant man, a gifted man, of that I can't dispute it, though he was sorely mistaken in calling for her to be at your side. I don't know what he thought summoning her here would achieve, except to cause more misery and strife for you. He should have called me, but I am here now, come to take you home with me. You will spend the summer with me, at our home in the countryside. You will heal and return to your post here at Hogwarts come the fall and be even stronger for it," Quinton declared, hatred seething behind the older wizard's dark brown eyes as he thought of the Raywood witch.
Quirinus watched, stricken, as his father's one good hand clenched at his side as he unfurled his good hand and gripped the edges of his chair. He was seemingly fighting against the swell of his fierce temper. His brow was creased with deep lines, and it was at that moment that Quirinus realized how gaunt and drawn his father's face was.
Father looked like a scared old man, hiding behind his arrogant blustering as he made it quite plain what he thought of his friend, the witch he thought he could love.
His father was looking as though he'd not slept, judging by the deep purple bags that clung to the skin underneath his eyes.
This at least, the two of them had in common, it seemed.
Quirinus shook his head, his desperation getting the better of him, and again, he pleaded with his father to set aside the grudge he held against his friend, to attempt to start fresh. He hesitated, unsure whether or not he should say what was on his mind and whether or not to bring his mother into the conversation at this point, but before he could stop himself, the words were ripped from his lips of their own accord.
"Wh-what about Mum, Father, she—she wouldn't have wanted this for me, I don't think. She-she would have liked Elisabeth, I know she would have, i-if I could remember. I-I need to be allowed to see her, please, Dumbledore assigned Elisabeth as my Healer, she-she has to be able to see me, Father. I-I will go home with you if that's what you want, i-if it would make you happy, I will come, b-but let me see her. Let Elisabeth visit me. Please." Quirinus, a man who, at the age of twenty-five, about to turn twenty-six come this September, and unused to begging for anything from his father, begged now, and he looked almost to the point of near tears as the warm salty liquid brimmed at the edges of his eyes.
Quinton could hold his wrath no longer and bolted upright so fast from the chair he had been occupying that the piece of furniture toppled to the floor with a loud clang that flooded the otherwise deserted Hospital Room with the noise.
Quirinus flinched, but only because his father kicked aside the chair he had overturned and began to seize at tufts of his greying brown hair.
As he turned to face his son, he looked quite deranged.
"She is the last person you need to see right now!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs, not caring if the sound of his voice rising brought Madame Pomfrey running.
Before Quirinus could plead with his father again, a horrible harrowing scream laced with pain, and guttural, echoed from the corridor outside of the Hospital Wing.
The sound was muffled as if it came from behind a closed door from somewhere that Quirinus could not see, but the sound was unmistakable and the familiar lilt in the witch's voice that had screamed just now, he thought he would know it anywhere. It was Elisabeth.
He was suddenly frantic, and a vent of adrenaline coursed through his veins, rejuvenating him with newfound energy and it pushed him towards the exit.
"That was Elisabeth!" His panic-filled black eyes desperately searched Quinton's face for any sign of explanation. "Wh—what's wrong with her?" he shouted, his eyes growing wild with panic for his friend that he'd so horribly wronged and feared he would never be given the chance to make up for his past mistakes.
But Quinton flat out refused to answer and turned to leave his son standing there by the bed, already drawing his wand from around his belt.
His father was halfway across the threshold of the door, as was Madame Pomfrey, having emerged from her office where she had been taking inventory of her remaining supplies for the year, her wand drawn as well.
It was a few seconds before Quirinus, shocked, could move again. Once the grueling reality that his friend was either in danger or gravely injured hit the wizard hard enough, he raced out of the Hospital Wing on his father and the Head Matron's heels, desperate to reach Elisabeth's side.
Clutching at Madame Pomfrey's arm, Quirinus attempted feebly to spin the older, grey-haired witch around to face him.
He was desperate for answers, but the Lead Matron's momentum could not be stopped as she followed the sounds of the ear-piercing yet muffled screams that Quirinus knew would haunt his dreams for many nights to come, if not the rest of his life.
But thankfully, Madame Pomfrey, like his father, and like he was, was also heading in the direction of Elisabeth's pain-filled screams.
He felt a fleeting moment of relief that Elisabeth would have least have help, when they found her, though he prayed with every fiber of his being that his friend was not seriously hurt. Bile rose in his throat at the very idea.
"Please!" he yelled, trying again desperately. "Why is she hurt? Tell me why she's in such pain, what's happening?"
His urgent plea had not completely left his mouth when the air around them was filled with another harrowing scream, this one more urgent than the last, also coming from Elisabeth's mouth, somewhere to the left of him, and then he realized where it was the witch had barricaded herself.
One of the bathrooms on this floor, he realized with a jolt.
Another wail that came from her broke his heart.
Madame Pomfrey and Quinton both quickened their paces and tightened their grips on the handles of their wands, and Quirinus followed, nearly half out of his mind with worry.
His father and Madame Pomfrey reached the end of the corridor and turned left, all but nearly sprinting down the long and narrow hallway until they came to the witch's bathroom on the first floor, the same room, unbeknownst to Quirinus, where his fully-grown mountain troll had been defeated.
Fear wormed its way into his heart and a thousand and one terrible scenarios flitted through the wizard's mind. He needed to be with her, to help her through whatever was happening to her, to save her, as she had him.
Though his progress as his eyes made a quick scan of the room was halted, his breaths caught in his throat as he finally spotted Elisabeth, huddled in the corner.
Dark red blood trickled down her hand and was pooling around her on the tile.
Madame Pomfrey let out an audible gasp of horror, barely disguising her reflexive gasp of disgust that almost sounded like a gag.
The older witch rushed forward, eager to stem the crimson flow from her wound.
All the color had faded from Elisabeth's face due to blood loss. She had lost so much blood for some reason, that there was barely any left in the young witch's veins. Her lips violently trembled and were slowly turning blue.
She looked like a ghost. Her screams had tapered off to pitiful, pain-filled whimpers that caused the feeble quivering muscle within Quirinus's chest to nearly stop beating there on the spot. Quirinus had to stare at her chest to make sure it rose and fell each time his dear friend took in a shallow breath.
Her eyes were glossy and distant as she stared up at the ceiling, mumbling something incoherently as Madame Pomfrey exclaimed over her wound and fussed over Elisabeth as slick tears poured down her face.
Quirinus realized that Elisabeth did not see him. He felt all the blood drain from his face at the blood that coated her hand.
He wondered what had happened, what the witch had done to herself.
Quirinus was about to rush to her side, to help Madame Pomfrey in any way that he could, though before he could move, the faint sparkle of something glittering caught his eye on the tile beneath his feet, having seemingly landed just in front of his shoe. He looked down and grimaced.
He immediately wished he had not looked, as bile rose in the back of his throat.
He thought he was going to be sick.
Crouch's wedding band lingered a few feet from the sole of his shoe, bloodied, yet somehow, still glittering through the thick crimson blood that now stained the delicate piece of jewelry.
To save herself, to save him, though he was not worth her life or her pain, Elisabeth Raywood had done the unthinkable.
Elisabeth had cut off her ring finger.