The sunless cave at Hogwarts now had a new name-"Holmes's Collection Room."
Or, in the words of the devil himself, "the Hogwarts Special Talent Reform Center."
There were no Dementors here, none of that rotten stench that could suck every bit of happiness out of a person, but there was something more terrifying than Dementors: deathly silence, and the omnipresent humiliation of having one's intelligence insulted.
Barty Crouch Jr. had spent three whole days curled up on that wet black rock on the Island in the Middle of the Lake.
Three days, without a drop to drink.
His stomach was like a wrung-out, ragged dishcloth, stomach acid churning inside it, but even that paled in comparison to his sense of humiliation.
"I am the Dark Lord's most loyal servant..."
Barty Crouch Jr. muttered to the ink-black lake, his voice as hoarse as though he were chewing gravel.
"I won't accept charity... I won't submit to this humiliation from that Mudblood..."
Pop.
A sharp crack sounded in the air.
A House-elf appeared out of thin air, carrying a silver tray.
On the tray sat a steak still sizzling with fat, a glass of chilled pumpkin juice, and a bowl of steaming mashed potatoes.
In this cave, filled with the smell of mold and the briny reek of seawater, that aroma was nothing short of a violent invasion.
Barty Crouch Jr.'s Adam's apple bobbed violently despite himself.
"Sir,"
The House-elf spoke in a high, businesslike voice, without any of an ordinary House-elf's servility.
"According to clause three of the 'Prisoner Survival Guide' drawn up by Professor Holmes, you have been on hunger strike for over seventy-two hours."
The elf paused, something close to cold concern flickering in those large eyes.
"The professor said that if you continue like this, we will have