"Considering your exceptional talent in magical theory, and your blind loyalty to your master that transcends all logic, I have tailored an entirely new research project for you."
"The power of magic comes from imagination. And literature is imagination in its most concentrated form."
"From today onward, your task is to study all my works. I need you to systematize and theorize all the unstructured magical concepts mentioned in these novels, along with the languages, cultures, and social structures of those fictional magical races..."
"You need to write papers on them. Rigorous papers that meet Hogwarts' academic standards, the kind that could be published in Transfiguration Today."
"When you can turn these fantasies into a logically consistent reality that other wizards can learn and understand..."
"You may move on to the next stage."
"Oh, right. A reminder."
"Food will be delivered to the island at set times every day. But starting tomorrow, you will need to exchange a paper at least two feet long for your daily rations."
"Start writing, genius."
"Let me see what is left in that brain holding twelve O.W.L.s certificates, besides loyalty and fanaticism."
"Slap."
The parchment slipped from Barty Crouch Jr.'s hands.
He stood there blankly, looking at the books by Douglas Holmes strewn across the ground, then at the emerald-green liquid in the stone basin that was supremely sacred to him.
Finally, he let out an inhuman wail, mingling utter humiliation, complete breakdown, and boundless despair.
The sound seemed to make even the Inferi beneath the lake, long dead and silent for who knew how many years, tremble.
Douglas and Old Crouch stood on the shore, ignoring the heart-rending howls.
Old Crouch's body trembled slightly as he watched the little boat carry his only son toward the solitary island in the middle of the