"A letter doesn't prove anything," Rita said, taking the envelope from Paul and examining it with professional calm. "Perhaps Headmaster Dumbledore made a clerical error. He is getting on in years, after all."
She turned the parchment over, studying the seal, the crest, and the address. There was no mistake. It was a genuine Hogwarts acceptance letter, and it had been sent to a boy living inside Azkaban.
"I'll admit Dumbledore is old," Paul said, slamming one hand down on the table hard enough to make the ink bottle jump. "But he isn't Hogwarts. The Book of Admittance doesn't make mistakes."
"So?" Rita asked, lifting a brow. "Have you actually seen this child properly? In a place like this, grown Death Eaters lose their minds. A baby would have no chance, especially if what you wrote is true and he was struck by the Imperius Curse."
"I… I have seen him," Paul said, though the words came out less firmly than he wanted. His eyes flicked away, and for once, his mouth moved faster than his confidence.
Of course he had seen Roger. He had raised him, ordered him around, and punished him whenever irritation got the better of him. But those details could never leave Azkaban, because then he would not look like a weary caretaker exposing a Ministry scandal; he would look like a man who had mistreated a child no one else knew existed.
"Ms. Skeeter, his name is Roger," Paul said quickly. "I assure you, he grew up healthy enough in Azkaban. His mind is normal, and his mother even taught him to read."
"Roger?" Rita repeated, as though testing the name on her tongue. "Mr. Paul, I can't publish only a first name. It would be like writing about John or Tom and expecting the public to gasp. You do understand that, don't you?"
"Wait, Ms. Skeeter. I have a staff ledger and old prison records." Paul suddenly grew flustered and turned toward the shelves. "I can find his surname. I can also prove he isn't on the prisoner list."
He dragged down a thick, dust-covered ledger without even remembering to use magic. The book landed on the desk with a heavy thump, sending grey powder puffing into the air. Paul coughed, waved it away with one hand, and began turning pages with clumsy urgency.
"Roger, Roger… Roger…" he muttered, scanning line after line.
He flipped through the ledger several times, but there was no child named Roger. At last, he looked up and smiled at Rita with nervous satisfaction, as though the absence itself were a treasure. "See? He isn't here. That means he was never legally processed."
Rita smiled faintly. "My name isn't in that ledger either, Mr. Paul. Does that mean I'm being illegally detained by the Ministry too?"
Paul's smile froze. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, because the argument that had seemed so strong a moment ago suddenly looked foolish under Rita's cool gaze.
"You said he was brought in with his mother," Rita continued, her voice smooth and cutting. "Surely you remember her name."
"Right, right. Jessica." Paul brightened at once and bent over the ledger again. "Jessica, that's it."
After several frantic turns of the page, his finger stopped on a line. "Found them. Look here: Jessica Williams and Buck Williams, both recorded as followers of You-Know-Who."
Rita nodded, then cast a cleaning charm before turning the ledger toward herself. The names and notes were faded but legible, and the gaps around them were even more interesting than the words themselves. Her Quick-Quotes Quill hovered eagerly beside her, waiting.
"Tsk, tsk," Rita murmured. "The Williams family tied up in Azkaban, and a child left out of the records entirely. No wonder the Ministry confidently insists every prisoner was reviewed."
She gestured for her quill to begin recording. In Rita's mind, the story took shape at once: the Ministry of Magic had hidden the innocent heir of an old wizarding family for years, all while questions about inheritance, property, and responsibility remained conveniently buried. A child named Roger had become more than a victim; he had become a headline.
"Ms. Skeeter, what do you mean?" Paul asked.
"Use your head, Mr. Paul," Rita said, not bothering to hide all of her disdain. "Most of those who followed You-Know-Who came from old pure-blood families. Have you never heard of how much wealth those families left behind?"
"Of course I know," Paul said, puffing himself up slightly. "The Sacred Twenty-Eight and all that."
"Exactly. Ancient families, long histories, sealed vaults, old properties, heirlooms, investments. Do you have any idea how much money can hide behind a family name?" Rita's eyes gleamed behind her jeweled glasses. "If Lucius Malfoy hadn't paid dearly after the war, do you truly believe he would have walked away so cleanly? The Ministry loves justice, Mr. Paul, but it has never disliked gold."
"Then why did Barty back then…" Paul hesitated, trying to follow her reasoning.
"Barty Crouch?" Rita's smile sharpened. "Perhaps because his own family scandal cost him the position of Minister for Magic. Reputation mattered more to that man than almost anything."
Even ordinary Muggles understood that parents were not meant to sacrifice their own children for appearances. Yet the upright former Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been willing to do exactly that, or so the story went. Rita's mind lingered on old rumors, half-true whispers, and the kind of contradiction that made readers lean closer.
She was referring to Barty Crouch Sr., the man who had sent Jessica and her child into Azkaban. Perhaps it was karma that his own son was later exposed as a Death Eater and sentenced to life imprisonment in the very same prison. Officially, Barty Crouch Jr. had died in 1982.
"I hadn't expected him to be gone already," Rita mused, flipping through the roster with growing interest. "I remember Mrs. Crouch died that same year."
The ledger was packed with names, some familiar and some forgotten. Rita turned the pages slowly, feeling as though she were peeling back the damp stone skin of Azkaban itself. Every entry hinted at secrets, influence, fear, and money, and the thrill of it warmed her more effectively than the cold prison air could chill her.
"Mr. Paul," she said at last, snapping the ledger shut. "Let's meet this new student of Azkaban in Headmaster Dumbledore's name."
She raised the envelope with a charming smile. Her joy drew the hungry attention of the nearby Dementors, who drifted closer as if tempted by the rare taste of excitement. Rita looked at the ugly, faceless creatures and felt another headline bloom in her mind: The Ministry and the Dementors' Sinister Bargain.
"Ms. Skeeter, we should go," Paul said uneasily.
"Not so quickly." Rita lifted her camera and began taking photographs of Azkaban's corridors, towers, rusted doors, and cold windows. She even captured Mr. Paul, the lonely caretaker of the place, standing stiffly beside a wall that looked ready to weep seawater.
"I should change my clothes first," Paul said, suddenly embarrassed. A faint blush crept over his rough face. "I haven't had my picture taken in more than ten years."
"Film is limited, I'm afraid," Rita replied, lowering the camera with a polite smile. "The rest should be saved for Jessica and her son."
"Of course, of course." Paul nodded at once, though disappointment flashed across his face. Two fewer pictures of himself hardly mattered if the story still brought him Galleons.
"The surroundings are rather poor," he said as they started down the corridor. "Please don't mind it."
"It's nothing," Rita said.
It was not merely politeness. As an unregistered Animagus, Rita had transformed into a beetle and crawled through places far worse than any respectable witch would admit visiting. Dirt, damp, and bad smells bothered her far less than wasted opportunity.
"Strange," Paul muttered suddenly. "Why is there light?"
At the end of the corridor, a faint brightness shone from the cell door where Jessica and Roger had been locked together. Rita lifted one hand at once, signaling him to stay quiet. Paul frowned deeply, anger and fear tangling across his face.
Where had that boy found a wand? If Roger escaped now, Paul's chance at reward might vanish with him, and the thought made Paul's heart pound. He wanted to rush forward, but Rita's raised hand stopped him.
"But Ms. Skeeter," Paul whispered harshly. "Their wands were confiscated. There shouldn't be any light in there."
"Perhaps it's wandless magic," Rita said.
"Impossible. Dementors drain people down to nothing here. They shouldn't be able to cast properly at all."
"Quiet," Rita whispered.
She moved to the cell door and motioned for Paul to open the little viewing window. He obeyed, turning the key as softly as he could, and the narrow slot slid open with a faint scrape of metal.
Inside the cramped cell, Roger and Jessica huddled together. They spoke in low voices about the future, about hope, and about a life beyond stone walls and iron doors. In that cold, dark place, their fragile warmth was bright enough to draw the Dementors like moths to flame.
The faceless creatures gathered outside the cell, looming close with greedy hunger. Jessica held Roger with thin, trembling arms, but Roger stood in front of her anyway. Silver-white light bloomed before him, faint but steady, forming a barrier that kept the Dementors from drawing nearer.
"Oh my," Rita breathed. "Expecto Patronum."
She lifted her camera at once and captured the Dementors recoiling from the silver light. The flash lit the corridor for a moment, and Paul stared as though he had never seen the boy before. Wandless magic had been one thing; a Patronus in Azkaban was something else entirely.
Roger watched the Dementors retreat, then collapsed into Jessica's arms. Jessica caught him with a soft cry and held him tightly, rocking him in the corner while quiet sobs shook her shoulders. She stroked his hair and hummed the lullaby she had sung the first time he ever called her Mum.
"Twinkle, twinkle, little star, how I wonder what you are…"
Rita stood outside the door and, for once, did not immediately think of her next sentence. The scene was too perfect, too painful, too useful, and too human all at once. Tears gathered in her eyes, and whether they came from sympathy or instinct hardly mattered anymore.
"So touching," Rita whispered, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. She looked again through the little window and understood that she had to do something for this mother and son.
"Who's there?" Jessica asked sharply.
She heard movement outside and pulled Roger closer, shielding him with her body. Her voice was weak, but there was steel beneath it, the last sharp edge of a mother who had already lost almost everything.
"Jessica, don't be frightened," Rita said gently. "My name is Rita Skeeter. I'm a reporter for The Daily Prophet. May I help you?"
"Rita?" Jessica repeated.
"Yes. Do you recognize this?" Rita lifted the envelope so it could be seen through the window. "Your son's Hogwarts acceptance letter. What you need now is a report, one powerful enough to get you out."
"I know you," Jessica said after a long silence.
She remembered this witch. Rita Skeeter had always been skilled at twisting truth and lies into whatever shape served her best. Jessica lowered her gaze to her frail son and understood at once that Paul must have sent the letter to this woman, hoping to escape Azkaban even if it meant using her child.
In the darkness, Jessica looked past Rita and fixed her eyes on Paul through the damp sea mist. "Yes," she said quietly. "But you cannot photograph my son."
"Of course," Rita replied.
A trace of regret passed through her. The light from the Patronus had hidden Roger's face in the photograph, but there would be other opportunities later.