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 AshcroftFirst Year, Ravenclaw HouseHogwarts 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.