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 FlintEditor, 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.