The journey back to Hogwarts by Portkey was bittersweet. Rowan was exhausted, his silver medal secured in his trunk alongside his other belongings. The tournament had exceeded every expectation. Even if he hadn't won gold, second place at an international championship created opportunities he'd never imagined.

  When they landed in Professor Hecat's office, the sun was setting over Hogwarts' towers, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and purples.

  "Exceptional work, Mr. Ashcroft," Hecat said as they recovered from the Portkey travel. "You've brought great prestige to Hogwarts." She looked at the team. Sterling, Greengrass, and Bones, all still buzzing with energy despite the journey. "All of you have. The Headmistress will want to speak with you tomorrow, I'm sure. But tonight, I think you've earned some rest. Or celebration, if you prefer."

  Sterling grinned. "Professor, with all due respect, we didn't get to properly congratulate Rowan after his win. The Flamels whisked him away immediately. We were thinking the common room—"

  "I think that's an excellent idea, Mr. Sterling. The castle is mostly empty for summer holiday, but those who remain should hear about Hogwarts' victory." Hecat smiled. "Just keep the celebration reasonable, please."

  "Yes, Professor," they chorused.

  As they left Hecat's office and climbed toward Ravenclaw Tower, Sterling clapped Rowan on the shoulder. "Youngest finalist in tournament history. Silver medal at eleven years old. And that wandless magic against Ward. Bet that shocked them."

  "Half the crowd thought you'd somehow studied at Uagadou," Greengrass said. "Wandless magic is their specialty. Not exactly common at Hogwarts."

  "Ward's face when you cast that wandless Finite was priceless," Bones added with a grin. "Completely blindsided him."

  "The final was incredible though," Sterling said. "Beaumont's been competing for years. Seven tournaments. And you very nearly beat her."

  "Those shadow duplicates nearly got me," Rowan said. "And then I overextended at the end. Burned through my reserves too fast."

  "Silver medal is still extraordinary," Greengrass said. "I've been dueling competitively for three years, and I've never seen a younger student compete at that level."

  They reached Ravenclaw Tower. The common room was nearly empty. Most students had left for summer before the tournament team departed for Paris. Only a handful remained, and sitting by the fireplace with a book in her lap was—

  "Iris?"

  Rowan blinked in surprise. Iris looked up as they entered, and her face broke into a relieved smile when she saw him.

  "You're back! I was starting to worry—" She stood quickly, setting the book aside. Then she noticed the medal around his neck and her eyes widened. "Silver. You made the finals."

  "Youngest finalist ever," Sterling said proudly. "Made Hogwarts history."

  Iris's smile was brilliant. "I knew you would."

  The small group gathered around as the tournament team settled into chairs near the fireplace. Sterling launched into an animated retelling of the tournament, with Greengrass and Bones adding commentary and corrections.

  "The finals were something else. Beaumont used Ballerina Mortis. Those shadow duplicates. Four of them, all casting real spells. We've seen her use it before in competitions. Usually ends the match in under a minute."

  "Not this time," Greengrass said with satisfaction. "Rowan went flat on the platform. The duplicates' spells passed right over him, then he picked them off one by one."

  "Then she hit him with Fulmen Saltare," Bones said, grimacing at the memory. "Lightning. We thought it was over. You could see the impact from the stands, see him seize up—"

  "But Occlumency training," Rowan said quietly. "Pushed through the pain, broke the connection."

  Iris's hand had gone to her mouth. "Lightning? You were struck by lightning?"

  "It wasn't pleasant," Rowan said.

  "Fulmen Saltare has hospitalized adult duelists," Sterling said seriously. "The fact that you stayed conscious, let alone kept fighting..." He shook his head. "Incredible."

  They talked for nearly an hour, the tournament team recounting matches, strategies, the reactions of other schools. Iris stayed quiet, but Rowan could see her watching him with an expression he couldn't quite read. Pride mixed with concern.

  It was comfortable. Easy. The kind of celebration that had been impossible in Paris, where everything was formal and scrutinized.

  Then the owls arrived.

  It was unusual. The evening post normally came during breakfast, not after dinner. But dozens of barn owls, tawny owls, and even a few eagle owls swept through the common room windows, dropping newspapers on the tables and floor.

  Sterling caught one mid-air, frowning. "That's odd. Why evening post—" He unfolded the Daily Prophet and his expression changed. "Oh. Oh, bloody hell."

  Greengrass grabbed another copy. Her jaw tightened. "Those bastards."

  Rowan felt his stomach sink. "What is it?"

  Sterling wordlessly handed him the newspaper.

  The headline filled half the front page:

  MUDBLOOD FINALIST: FIRST-YEAR ORPHAN REACHES INTERNATIONAL FINALS IN SHOCKING UPSET

  By Barnabas Flint, Editor

  The photograph beneath showed the final moment of the match, playing on loop. Rowan on his knees as his wand slipped from his fingers, Apolline Beaumont standing over him with her wand leveled and the crowd behind them blurred into a wall of colour.

  Rowan's jaw tightened as he began to read:

  PARIS—In what can only be described as one of the most shocking results in the history of the International Youth Dueling Championship, a first-year student of Muggle birth has reached the finals of individual combat, competing against students from seven nations including several from ancient wizarding families.

  Rowan Ashcroft, aged eleven, a Foundling Hospital orphan with no known magical heritage, defeated opponents up to six years his senior through what witnesses describe as "unconventional tactics" and "disturbingly advanced magic for one so young." Though ultimately defeated by Miss Apolline Beaumont of the distinguished Beaumont family of France in the final match, his performance has raised troubling questions about his training and abilities.

  "Miss Beaumont demonstrated the superiority of proper magical blood and training," said tournament spectator Septimus Malfoy, representing the Ancient and Most Noble House of Malfoy at the championship. "Though one must question how a mere first-year Mudblood reached the finals at all. The boy fights like someone much older, much more experienced. It's almost unsettling."

  Ashcroft's background raises troubling questions about his rapid advancement. Born to unknown parents and raised in a Muggle institution, the boy showed no signs of exceptional ability until his acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry last September. Yet within nine months, he has achieved a level of magical prowess that typically requires years of training and—according to many experts—the advantage of magical bloodlines.

  "It's highly irregular," commented Phineas Nigellus Black, Head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black and member of the Wizengamot. "One wonders what sort of instruction he's receiving, and whether appropriate safeguards are in place. Muggleborns often struggle with the theoretical complexities of advanced magic due to their lack of magical heritage. For one to excel so dramatically suggests either exceptional circumstances or... other explanations."

  When pressed on what "other explanations" might entail, Mr. Black declined to elaborate, though he noted that the Ministry's Department of Mysteries has historically taken interest in cases of unexplained magical ability.

  Tournament officials confirmed that Ashcroft employed several spells beyond standard first-year curriculum, including enhancement charms, advanced transfiguration, and—most remarkably—wandless magic during his semifinal match. The use of wandless casting by a student at Hogwarts has prompted particular interest, as this technique is traditionally associated with the African school of Uagadou rather than European magical education.

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  "Wandless magic is Uagadou's specialty," explained Vindictus Viridian, author of "Counter-Curses and Defensive Magic" and a recognized authority on combat magic. "For a Hogwarts student—particularly a first-year Muggleborn—to demonstrate such capability raises questions about where and from whom he learned this technique."

  Ashcroft's performance has also reignited debate about Muggleborn participation in prestigious magical competitions. Several pure-blood families have expressed concern that allowing Muggleborns to compete against students from established magical lineages potentially exposes ancient family techniques to those who have not earned the right to witness them.

  "These tournaments have historically showcased the best of magical Britain's youth," said Victor Rookwood, patriarch of the Rookwood family. "While Miss Beaumont's victory demonstrated the natural superiority of established magical families, one must question how a first-year Mudblood of unknown origin reached the finals at all. This raises concerns about whether Hogwarts is maintaining appropriate standards."

  The question remains: what does this unprecedented outcome mean for the future of magical Britain? Some see Ashcroft as an inspiring example of Muggleborn potential, proof that magical ability transcends blood status. Others view his rapid advancement and unusual abilities with suspicion and concern.

  One thing is certain—Rowan Ashcroft, the Mudblood orphan from Muggle London, has permanently altered the landscape of youth magical competition. Whether this represents progress or portends darker implications remains to be seen.

  The Daily Prophet will continue to follow this developing story.

  Rowan set down the newspaper carefully, his hands perfectly steady despite the anger simmering beneath his Occlumency shields.

  The article was a masterpiece of subtle poison. Praising his achievement with one hand while questioning everything about him with the other. Every compliment was followed by an insinuation. Every fact was framed to suggest something sinister.

  And that word. Mudblood. Used not as a quote but as the Prophet's own editorial choice. Three times in the headline and body, casual and deliberate.

  Iris had been reading over his shoulder, and she made a small, choked sound. "They used it in the headline. They actually—" Her voice shook with fury. "How is this legal? How can they just print that word like it's normal?"

  "Because to them, it is normal," Rowan said quietly.

  "This is disgusting," Sterling said, his voice tight with controlled fury. "Complete hit piece. 'Mudblood barely out of nappies'? 'Other explanations'? They're practically accusing you of Dark magic."

  Greengrass was reading her own copy, her expression cold. "Look at this. Only pure-blood critics quoted. Malfoy, Black, the Rookwood patriarch. Not a single voice offering balance."

  "Of course," Rowan said quietly. "Blood prejudice is so embedded they wouldn't even think twice about it."

  Bones looked sick. "Half of this is barely-veiled accusations. 'Unexplained magical ability'? 'Department of Mysteries takes interest'? What are they actually implying?"

  "That I'm either using Dark magic, receiving illegal instruction, or I'm some kind of anomaly worth investigating," Rowan said, keeping his voice level through Occlumency discipline. "They can't attack my performance directly. It was witnessed by thousands. So they attack everything around it. My background, my methods, the fact that I'm Muggleborn and dared to excel."

  "So what are you going to do?" Iris asked quietly.

  "Request an interview," Rowan said. "They wrote an entire story about me without asking me a single question. Didn't even try to get my perspective."

  Sterling's eyebrows rose. "You want to talk to them? After this?"

  "They're going to write about me regardless. I'd rather give them my perspective than let them fill the void with speculation and quotes from people like Black and Malfoy."

  "That's actually strategic," Greengrass said, considering. "You're trying to control the narrative."

  "Exactly. And if they edit my words too heavily, it'll be obvious."

  Bones frowned. "But they might twist what you say. And use it against you."

  "They might. But staying silent looks like guilt or weakness, and I'm neither." Rowan met their eyes. "I have to engage with this. I have to control what I can."

  "Just be prepared," Greengrass warned. "Once you engage publicly, you're fair game for everyone. More articles, more scrutiny, or possibly worse."

  "The families who spoke against you have serious power," Sterling added. "Black, Malfoy, Rookwood. They all have Ministry connections, and seats on the Wizengamot. If they decide you're a threat..."

  "Then I'll deal with it when it happens," Rowan said quietly. "But I can't afford to be silent."

  They talked for another hour. Sterling, Greengrass, and Bones offered advice about navigating pure-blood society's prejudices, about the unwritten rules of magical politics, about how to present himself without seeming threatening. They discussed which families to watch out for, which Ministry officials were sympathetic to Muggleborns, which journalists might offer more balanced coverage.

  Rowan listened carefully, filing away every piece of information. These students had lived in the magical world their whole lives; their insights were valuable.

  Eventually, Sterling stood with a yawn. "It's late. We should let you process this." He gripped Rowan's shoulder. "For what it's worth, Ashcroft. You earned that medal. Every bit of it. Don't let these arseholes make you doubt that."

  "I won't."

  "Good man." Sterling headed toward the boys' dormitory, with Bones following. Greengrass lingered a moment longer.

  "Be smart about the interview. They'll try to bait you into saying something they can use. Stay calm, stay factual, don't let them make you angry."

  "I'll be careful."

  She nodded and left.

  That left only Rowan and Iris in the common room, the scattered newspapers lying on tables around them like accusations.

  Iris sat down beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Are you all right?"

  "I'm angry," Rowan admitted. "But I'm controlling it."

  "You don't have to control it with me."

  The quiet understanding in her voice made something in his chest loosen. "They used that word three times. As though it's just normal."

  "It's vile," Iris said fiercely. "The whole article is vile. They're questioning your magic, your abilities, your right to exist in their precious tournament." Her hand found his, squeezing tightly. "But you made the finals, Rowan. At eleven years old, you competed with the best in the world. And that's what really scares them. You're as good as they are, and they can't stand it."

  "Maybe." He looked at her. "Why are you still here, Iris? I thought everyone went home before we left for the tournament."

  She was quiet for a moment. "I wanted to see you before I left for summer. I was going to leave the day you got back, but..." She gestured at the newspapers. "Now I think I'll stay a bit longer."

  "You don't have to do that."

  "I know. But I want to." She met his eyes. "You're going to need someone in your corner when more letters start arriving. Because they will. The Prophet just painted a target on your back."

  "Your parents—"

  "Will understand. I'll owl them tonight. They know what blood prejudice looks like." Her grip on his hand tightened. "You're not alone in this, Rowan. Whatever happens, you have friends who support you."

  The words settled something in Rowan's chest that he hadn't realized was unsettled.

  "Thank you," he said quietly.

  They sat in silence for a while, the fire crackling, the newspapers scattered around them like the aftermath of a battle.

  Finally, Rowan stood. "I need to send an owl."

  "Want company?"

  "Please."

  They walked through the empty corridors together, up the winding stairs to the Owlery. The tower was dark and quiet, filled with the soft hooting of roosting owls. Athena, Rowan's tawny owl, flew down to his shoulder immediately, nibbling his ear affectionately.

  Rowan retrieved parchment and quill from his bag and wrote carefully, considering each word:

  To the Editors of the Daily Prophet:

  I am writing regarding your front-page article of 9 June 1887 concerning my placement at the International Youth Dueling Championship. While I appreciate the coverage of Hogwarts' performance, I note that your article contains numerous statements about my background, abilities, and motivations without including any information gathered from me directly.

  As the subject of your story, I believe I am entitled to provide my own perspective. I would therefore like to request a formal interview with the Daily Prophet, to be conducted at your earliest convenience. I am available at Hogwarts for the next ten days before departing for summer studies.

  I have enclosed payment of two Sickles for a six-month subscription to the Daily Prophet, as I believe it's important to stay informed about matters affecting magical Britain. I trust you will find my request reasonable.

  Yours sincerely,

  Rowan Ashcroft

  First Year, Ravenclaw House Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

  He read it over twice, checking for any trace of anger or defensiveness. The letter was polite, professional, and impossible to refuse without appearing to avoid his perspective. He'd even included the subscription fee. Two Sickles wrapped carefully in parchment, to demonstrate good faith and force them to establish an ongoing relationship with him.

  If they were going to write about him, they would have to engage with him directly. And if they engaged with him, he could begin shaping the narrative instead of merely reacting to it.

  Iris read over his shoulder. "That's good. Professional. You're giving them what they want. More content."

  "And making it harder for them to paint me as hostile or evasive." Rowan attached the letter and coins to Athena's leg, stroking her feathers. "Daily Prophet offices in Diagon Alley. Come back with a response."

  She nipped his finger gently, then launched herself out of the Owlery window, wings catching the night air.

  Rowan watched her disappear into the darkness, his mind already moving to the next challenge.

  Fame was a tool like any other. Dangerous if mishandled, but powerful if wielded correctly. The Prophet had made him famous as a controversy, a question mark, an oddity to be examined and debated.

  His task now was to transform that into something else. Something that served his purposes rather than theirs.

  "Come on," Iris said quietly. "It's late. You need rest."

  "I need to think."

  "You can think tomorrow. After you sleep."

  She was right, though he didn't want to admit it. The exhaustion from the tournament, the journey, and now this. It was catching up with him.

  They descended from the Owlery together. When they reached the point where their paths diverged, Rowan toward the boys' dormitory, Iris toward the girls', she squeezed his hand once more.

  "We'll figure this out," she said. "Together."

  "Together," he agreed.