Even among Ministry Aurors and the best Hogwarts graduates of each year, only a small number of witches and wizards could truly master wandless magic. Using it to summon a Patronus was even more extraordinary. The Patronus Charm was one of the oldest and most powerful defensive spells in the wizarding world, and though Roger's Patronus was still incomplete, little more than a silver phantom, its existence in Azkaban was enough to silence every adult in the corridor.
He was eleven years old, half-starved, exhausted, and surrounded by Dementors. By all logic, he should barely have been able to stand, let alone perform magic that many trained wizards never mastered. Yet there he was, pale and trembling in his mother's arms, with silver light still fading around him like the last glow of dawn.
Cornelius Fudge was filled with regret. If he had known Azkaban was hiding a young wizard with talent like this, he would have handled everything differently. Any method, any excuse, any carefully staged rescue would have been better than allowing Rita Skeeter to turn the matter into a public disaster.
When Roger saw Dumbledore and the others standing before him, he knew he had won his gamble. The Patronus had done what words could not. His body gave out at last, and he slumped back into Jessica's arms with a faint, relieved smile on his face.
"It's all right, child," Dumbledore said gently. "The Dementors have been driven away."
He waved his wand, and warm, brilliant magic spread through the cell. The dampness vanished from the walls, the stale air cleared, and the small room filled with clean light. For the first time Roger could remember, the cell looked less like a grave and more like a place human beings might survive.
"Ms. Skeeter," Dumbledore said, turning his gaze toward Rita. His voice remained polite, but his eyes were sharp enough to make the corridor feel colder. "I do not believe young Roger is suitable material for further public display."
"I… of course," Rita said quickly. "Protecting privacy is a basic standard for responsible journalism."
She lifted her wand and used Incendio to burn the negative into ash. Whether she meant the gesture as sincerity or calculation, no one pressed her. Even Rita understood that some images, if printed too greedily, could turn public sympathy against the person holding the camera.
"Child, your name is Roger, isn't it?" Dumbledore extended a hand, his expression kind. "Come with me."
"Headmaster Dumbledore," Lucius Malfoy said smoothly, stepping forward before Roger could answer. "I'm not certain Hogwarts is the most suitable place for him right now."
He looked toward Jessica, offering mother and son another path with a single polished smile. Jessica's eyes brightened at the sight of Dumbledore, and for a moment she seemed ready to speak, but Roger asked first.
"Is Mum coming with me?"
He held Jessica's hand and did not look at Dumbledore or Malfoy. His gaze passed between them and settled on Cornelius Fudge, who stood behind them with a strained expression. Roger knew exactly where the real decision would be made.
He knew the original story too well. Choosing Dumbledore meant keeping distance from the pure-blood families and stepping into the old man's orbit. Perhaps one day that path would place him near the Order of the Phoenix, but it might also leave the Ministry offering only an apology, a hospital bed, and a neat little ending that kept Jessica locked behind bars.
Roger had spent eleven years in prison, growing from an infant into a frail boy beneath the shadow of Dementors. Every day had been damp stone, fear, hunger, and the knowledge that the world outside did not know he existed. Worse, Jessica was so weak now that even standing for long was difficult.
He also knew Dumbledore cared for Harry Potter more deeply than almost anyone. If Roger stepped fully into that side of the board, he might become another loyal piece, useful, protected, and expected to endure whatever sacrifice the greater good demanded. Roger hated the thought of living at another person's mercy, hated being someone's companion or shield, and hated the idea of dying one day for someone else's glory.
As for Malfoy, Roger found him no more comforting. Pure-blood pride filled Lucius Malfoy's narrow mind, and his past loyalty to Voldemort proved that his cunning had never been strong enough to overcome his arrogance.
I need my own position, Roger thought, staring at the stunned Minister. For myself, and for Mum.
"Clever child," Lucius murmured, following Roger's gaze. As expected of a child from an old wizarding line, he understood how to seek the greatest benefit even at such a young age.
"Cough, cough." Fudge cleared his throat, startled by Roger's soft question and unsure how to respond.
If only Roger needed to leave, Fudge would not have cared whether the boy went to Hogwarts, Malfoy Manor, or the far side of the moon. The Ministry was the least suitable place for him now. But Jessica was still a registered Death Eater, and by procedure, she could not simply walk out of Azkaban.
Yet if Fudge followed the rules and separated this poor mother and son in front of Dumbledore, Malfoy, Rita Skeeter, and half the Ministry's political enemies, he knew he would be chased out of office by the next morning. Just as he stood trapped between law and survival, his assistant Albert quickly tugged his sleeve and whispered into his ear.
Fudge's eyes lit up. He stepped forward and positioned himself between Dumbledore and Malfoy with the confidence of a man who had just been handed a rope.
"Gentlemen, I believe what Jessica and her son need most right now is treatment," Fudge said. "At St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries."
He did not mention whether Jessica was innocent. A prisoner receiving medical parole was procedurally acceptable, and no reasonable wizard could criticize him for sending a dangerously ill woman to hospital. It was not mercy, not exactly, but it was close enough for public consumption.
"Headmaster Dumbledore, I don't believe their physical condition is suitable for Apparition," Fudge added.
"I brought a flying carpet," Rita said at once.
"Ms. Skeeter, you should know that flying carpets are prohibited as transport in Britain," Lucius said, giving her a cool look.
Rita pursed her lips, but said nothing. Privately, she made a mental note of the interruption, because Lucius Malfoy's name could always be useful later.
Seeing that Dumbledore did not object, Lucius smiled brilliantly. "The House of Malfoy has a magical ship stationed in the North Sea."
Dumbledore considered it for a moment. "Mr. Malfoy, the magical ship you mentioned is a sensible idea."
Lucius summoned one of his accompanying wizards and gave a few quiet instructions. Before long, a magnificent magical ship appeared near the shore below Azkaban. Its hull bore the Malfoy family crest, and its tall mast cut proudly through the mist, looking far too elegant to be a simple transport vessel.
The ship sailed steadily across the waves of the North Sea. Behind them, Azkaban slowly shrank into the distance, its towers fading through sea spray and fog until a wave hid the prison from view altogether.
Inside the cabin, Dumbledore gently cast basic healing spells over Roger and Jessica. "Vulnera Sanentur," he murmured, moving his wand with care, and the worst of their cuts and bruises began to fade.
"Aguamenti."
A cool stream of clean water washed away layers of grime. "Episkey," he added, and swelling receded from Roger's face and hands. The treatment was careful and restrained, enough to ease pain without shocking bodies that had been neglected for too long.
"Blood-Replenishing Potion," Dumbledore said, taking out a crimson vial and helping both mother and son drink.
Warmth spread through Roger's body. The pain dulled, his thoughts cleared slightly, and the world stopped tilting at the edges. He leaned against Jessica, still weak but no longer feeling as though a single breath might break him apart.
"Thank you, sir," Roger said, giving Dumbledore a faint smile.
"Only basic treatment, child," Dumbledore said kindly. "True recovery will take time. But knowing you are safe is already enough to bring me comfort."
The ship passed through layers of mist, and at last the outline of the city appeared on the horizon. Roger gripped his mother's hand as a shaft of golden light broke through the thick clouds overhead. For the first time in his life, the sky did not look like something that belonged only to other people.
By the time they disembarked, Rita's newest report had already reached the newspaper office. The whole wizarding world was waiting for news of the mother and son, and copies of the paper were snatched up almost as soon as they touched the stands.
The headline read: We Sail Home.
On the stormy sea, a magical ship slowly sailed toward St. Mungo's Hospital. The Malfoy crest at the bow rocked gently above the waves, marking the participation of an ancient pure-blood family in this rescue operation. I stood aboard that ship and witnessed a testament to life, love, and the fragile power of justice when people finally choose to act.
That poor boy and his brave mother, after years of wrongful confinement, were at last brought into the light with the help of Warden Paul. Thanks to Headmaster Dumbledore's compassion and the Ministry of Magic's timely action, a grave mistake has begun to be corrected. The journey was not simple, and the questions left behind will not vanish overnight.
As the ship docked, the child's weak figure leaned against his mother's arms, and the sight filled me with deep pity. This child, who endured years beneath the shadow of Azkaban, can finally receive care and treatment. At the same time, I am comforted by the courage and responsibility shown today by those who chose to act.
The road toward justice may be winding, but this voyage across violent waves stands as a hymn to life and hope. When justice is truly served, our shared humanity shines all the brighter. I sincerely hope this is only the first step toward happiness, and that a better future waits ahead.
Reporter, Rita Skeeter.
Once the wizarding public learned that Roger and Jessica were at St. Mungo's, owls carrying gifts began arriving in endless streams. The enthusiasm quickly overwhelmed the hospital staff. Thankfully, the healers announced that the patients had been discharged, and the visitors left with regret.
The top floor of St. Mungo's held private wards, several of which belonged to the House of Malfoy, who donated generously to the hospital each year. The most luxurious of those rooms now housed Roger and Jessica. At first, it had been packed with gifts from strangers, but at Roger's request, they were returned one by one.
"Roger, how is your recovery?" Lucius asked, entering with a smile. It was obvious from his expression that he was in an excellent mood.
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