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.
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.