The next morning, Rowan was summoned to Headmistress Mole's office.

  He climbed the spiral staircase and knocked on the heavy oak door. Mole's voice called for him to enter, and he stepped inside to find both the Headmistress and Professor Hecat waiting.

  Mole sat behind her desk, a copy of the Daily Prophet spread before her, her expression thunderous. Hecat stood by the window, arms crossed, looking equally angry.

  "Mr. Ashcroft," Mole said without preamble. "I assume you've seen this morning's Prophet?"

  "Last night, Headmistress. They sent an evening post."

  "Of course they did. Maximum impact, minimum time for response." Mole tapped the newspaper with one finger. "This article is a disgrace to journalism. Using that word as though it's acceptable editorial language. Quoting only critics. Implying Dark magic or fraud without a shred of evidence."

  "The wandless magic section is particularly insidious," Hecat added. "Implying you somehow studied at Uagadou or learned from suspicious sources, when in reality I introduced the theory and you practiced it yourself."

  "I've drafted a letter to the Prophet expressing Hogwarts' displeasure," Mole continued. "I will not have my students subjected to this treatment. However, I wanted to discuss with you how you intend to respond personally. Have you given any thought to it?"

  "Yes, Headmistress. I've requested an interview with them."

  Hecat's eyebrows rose. "You want to engage with them? After this?"

  "I'd rather control part of the narrative than let them define me entirely through speculation and hostile quotes."

  Mole was quiet for a moment, studying him. "That's surprisingly mature thinking for an eleven-year-old. Most students would either hide or lash out. You're doing neither."

  "Hiding looks like guilt. Lashing out gives them ammunition. A calm, professional interview is my best option."

  "Indeed." Mole leaned back in her chair. "Very well. That's a sound strategy. When you receive their response, you have my permission to conduct the interview here at Hogwarts. Professor Hecat has offered her classroom, and she'll remain nearby during the meeting."

  "Thank you, Headmistress."

  "Just be careful, Mr. Ashcroft. The Prophet has destroyed reputations before. Don't give them anything they can twist."

  "I'll be careful."

  "Good." Mole's expression shifted slightly. "Now, to the other matter. I received an owl this morning from Nicholas Flamel."

  Rowan's attention sharpened.

  "He has requested permission to host you for the summer months," Mole continued. "He assures me you will be well supervised, educated in subjects beyond our curriculum, and returned to Hogwarts in September in one piece."

  "The Flamels offered to teach me alchemy and provide guidance on my studies," Rowan explained. "I accepted."

  Mole and Hecat exchanged a glance.

  "Mr. Ashcroft," Mole said slowly, "do you understand what an extraordinary honor this is? Nicholas Flamel hasn't taken a student in over a century. You've only just finished your first year."

  "I'm aware, Headmistress. I don't intend to waste the opportunity."

  "No, I don't expect you will." Mole was quiet for a moment. "You won a silver medal at an international tournament at eleven years old, defeated students five years your senior, and impressed one of the most influential wizards alive enough that he's breaking a century-long precedent to teach you." Her expression was unreadable. "I'm not certain whether to be proud or concerned."

  "Both would be reasonable, Headmistress."

  The corner of her mouth twitched. It might have been the beginning of a smile. "Indeed. Well, permission is granted. You'll remain at Hogwarts until arrangements are finalized, then travel by Portkey to the Flamel residence. I trust you'll represent Hogwarts well during your studies?"

  "I will, Headmistress."

  "See that you do. And Mr. Ashcroft—" Mole's expression grew more serious. "The Prophet article will not be the last you hear of this. There will be more scrutiny, more criticism, possibly more direct attacks. The pure-blood families quoted in that article. Black, Malfoy, Rookwood. They're powerful. They have connections throughout the Ministry and Wizengamot."

  "I understand, Headmistress."

  "Do you?" Mole leaned forward. "Because I'm not certain you do. You're eleven years old. You've been in the magical world for less than a year. And you've just made enemies of some of the most influential families in Britain by having the audacity to be better than they expect Muggleborns to be."

  "Then I'll have to be careful," Rowan said quietly.

  "I hope you're right." Mole sat back. "Very well. You're dismissed, Mr. Ashcroft."

  "Thank you, Headmistress. Professor Hecat."

  Rowan left the office and descended the spiral staircase, his mind churning. The Flamel arrangement was confirmed. The interview would happen. And both Mole and Hecat had made clear the danger he was in. Not physical danger, but political, social danger from families who saw him as a threat.

  He'd known this was coming. Had planned for it, prepared for it.

  But knowing something intellectually and experiencing it directly were very different things.

  When he reached the Great Hall, Iris was waiting at the Ravenclaw table, a stack of letters beside her plate.

  "The morning post arrived," she said quietly. "More letters. A lot more."

  Rowan sat down and looked at the pile. At least fifty letters, all addressed to him.

  "Same as yesterday?" he asked.

  "Probably. I haven't opened any. I wanted to wait for you."

  Rowan pulled out his wand and the wooden box he'd transfigured last night. He cast Filtrum Intentione on it, setting the parameters he'd designed. Then he began feeding letters into the box one by one.

  The spell sorted them automatically. Some went into a compartment marked "supportive." Letters of congratulations and encouragement. Others went into "neutral." Requests for autographs, questions about technique, general curiosity. A third category filled with "hostile" letters. Insults, threats, accusations.

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  Three letters were immediately ejected from the box entirely, smoking slightly where the protective charm had activated against hexed parchment.

  "Clever," Iris said admiringly. "That's sixth-year spell work."

  "Adapted from existing charms. I just modified the parameters." Rowan looked at the hostile pile. "About a third are hostile or threatening. Better ratio than yesterday."

  "That's not better, Rowan. That's still awful."

  "Better than half, at least." He picked up one of the supportive letters and opened it:

  Dear Mr. Ashcroft,

  I'm a second-year Muggleborn at Hogwarts (Hufflepuff), and I wanted to write to tell you how much your performance meant to me. Seeing someone like us win gave me hope that maybe things can change...

  Rowan set it aside and opened another from the hostile pile:

  You think reaching the finals of one tournament makes you equal to real wizards? You're nothing but a jumped-up mudblood who got lucky. Don't get too comfortable at Hogwarts—accidents happen...

  He showed both to Iris. "This is what I'm dealing with. All because I won a dueling match."

  "All because you're Muggleborn and won," Iris corrected. "If you were pure-blood, they'd be calling you a prodigy. Instead they're calling you suspicious and questioning how you learned magic they don't think you should know."

  "Which is exactly why the interview is important. I need to frame this myself before they bury me in implications."

  The response from the Prophet arrived that afternoon. Athena swept through the library window where Rowan was studying, landing on his table with a scroll tied to her leg and looking enormously pleased with herself.

  He gave her an owl treat and unrolled the parchment:

  Dear Mr. Ashcroft,

  Thank you for your letter and subscription payment. We are delighted to count you among our readers.

  The Daily Prophet would indeed be very interested in conducting an interview with you regarding your recent tournament performance. Such an interview would provide valuable perspective on what has become one of the most discussed stories in magical Britain this week.

  Our journalist Sophronia Inkwood is available to meet with you at Hogwarts this Saturday at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, if this is convenient. Please respond via return owl with confirmation and a suitable location for the interview.

  We look forward to hearing your story in your own words.

  Sincerely, Barnabas Flint Editor, Daily Prophet

  Rowan read the letter twice, analyzing every word choice. "Most discussed stories in magical Britain" was interesting. They were acknowledging that their article had generated significant attention. "Your story in your own words" suggested they were at least nominally committed to letting him speak.

  Or it was a trap to get him to say something incriminating.

  The signature at the bottom was the same name from the article's byline: Barnabas Flint, Editor. The man who'd written that scathing piece was now offering him an interview. That could mean the editor wanted to be fair, or it could mean he wanted more ammunition.

  Iris had been reading over his shoulder. "Saturday. That gives you four days."

  "Time to think about what I want to say and how I want to say it." Rowan pulled out fresh parchment and wrote his confirmation:

  Dear Mr. Flint,

  Saturday at 2 o'clock is acceptable. Headmistress Mole has granted permission for Miss Inkwood to enter Hogwarts grounds. I suggest we meet in Professor Hecat's Defense classroom on the third floor—Professor Hecat has kindly offered the space and will be nearby should any questions arise about my training.

  I look forward to the interview.

  Sincerely, Rowan Ashcroft

  Short, professional, confident. He sent Athena off again and then sat back, considering his strategy.

  They would ask about his background. Orphan, Muggle-raised, no magical heritage. He couldn't change those facts, so he'd embrace them. Frame himself as someone who'd had to work harder than anyone else, who'd earned everything through dedication and skill rather than inheritance.

  His rapid advancement would come up too, and he'd need to credit his professors generously. Hecat's private instruction, the duelling curriculum, the resources Hogwarts made available to any student willing to put in the hours. The wandless magic and enhancement spells were trickier, but the truth served him well enough: Hecat introduced the theory, the books were all in the Hogwarts library, and he'd simply studied more than most students bothered to.

  Blood politics was the dangerous ground. He'd have to acknowledge the prejudice he'd faced without sounding bitter about it, and show competence without making people wonder where it came from.

  Most importantly, he needed to come across as what he was: an eleven-year-old who worked hard and succeeded, not some prodigy with abilities no one could explain.

  "You're already planning it out, aren't you?" Iris observed.

  "Trying to. They'll want me to seem either incompetent or threatening. I need to be neither. Just a hardworking student who happened to win a tournament."

  "That's exactly what you are."

  "I know. But they don't want to believe that. So I have to make it impossible for them to believe anything else."

  Over the next few days, Rowan thought carefully about how to present himself. He couldn't practice without making the actual conversation feel rehearsed, but he could organize his thoughts, prepare clear explanations for the techniques he'd used, and plan how to deflect the most hostile questions.

  Iris helped by discussing potential topics, suggesting ways to frame his answers, pointing out when his explanations sounded defensive rather than factual.

  On Thursday morning, another wave of letters arrived. Sixty this time, the filtering spell sorting them into roughly equal piles of support and hostility. Rowan read a few from each category, getting a sense of how people were responding to the Prophet article.

  The supportive letters were encouraging. Muggleborns grateful for representation, students impressed by his skills, people who saw the article's bias and wanted to offer solidarity.

  The hostile letters ranged from mildly critical to openly threatening, most repeating the same themes: he didn't belong, he must have cheated, he was suspicious, he should know his place.

  He saved the worst threats to show Professor Hecat, as Iris insisted. The rest he filed away, making note of the names and families when they were signed.

  Knowledge was power. Knowing who his enemies were, and who his allies might be, would matter in the long term.

  Saturday arrived with surprisingly good weather. Rowan spent the morning in quiet preparation, reviewing his mental organization of topics, practicing his Occlumency to ensure he could maintain calm under pressure.

  At quarter to two, he made his way to Professor Hecat's classroom. She was already there, arranging chairs for the interview.

  "Nervous?" she asked.

  "No," Rowan said. Then, more honestly: "Maybe a little."

  "Good. A little nervousness keeps you sharp." She gestured to the chairs she'd set up. Two facing each other, with a small table between them. "I'll be in my office next door if you need me. If at any point you feel the interview is going badly or Miss Inkwood is being inappropriately hostile, you can end it."

  "I understand, Professor. Thank you."

  "And Rowan—" Hecat's expression softened slightly. "You've already won. The tournament, the medal, the invitation from the Flamels. Those are real achievements that can't be taken away by newspaper articles. Whatever they write, remember that."

  "I will, Professor."

  She left for her office, and Rowan sat down in one of the chairs to wait.

  At precisely two o'clock, there was a knock on the classroom door.

  "Come in," Rowan called.

  The door opened, and Sophronia Inkwood entered.

  She was younger than Rowan expected. Mid-twenties, perhaps, with sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses and a Quick-Quotes Quill floating beside her shoulder. She wore professional robes in deep blue, and her expression was carefully neutral.

  "Mr. Ashcroft," she said, extending her hand. "Sophronia Inkwood, Daily Prophet. Thank you for agreeing to this interview."

  Rowan shook her hand, noting the firm grip and direct eye contact. "Thank you for coming, Miss Inkwood."

  "May I?" She gestured to the chair across from him.

  "Of course."

  They sat, and Inkwood produced a notebook and quill. The Quick-Quotes Quill hovered nearby, ready to record.

  "I'll be taking notes the traditional way as well," Inkwood explained. "The Quick-Quotes Quill sometimes... embellishes. I prefer accuracy."

  That was a good sign. Rowan relaxed fractionally.

  "Shall we begin?" Inkwood asked.

  "Please."

  She opened her notebook. "Let's start at the beginning. You're eleven years old, first year at Hogwarts, and you just won the silver medal at the International Youth Dueling Championship. How does that feel?"

  Rowan considered his answer carefully. The interview had begun.

  His response, and every response after, would shape how magical Britain saw him.

  He took a breath and started talking.