Chapter Two: The Administrator’s Yearning

“You damned Death Eaters! Get up and eat!” Paul’s heavy footsteps echoed, his curses growing clearer as he approached.

Every day, he faced Dementors and hordes of soulless prisoners, feeling utterly weary and numb inside and out.

A jingling of keys sounded as the small window on the iron door opened automatically. The bag floating beside Paul released several moldy loaves, which zipped into the cell.

For those prisoners who had not yet lost their souls, Paul would hurl the vilest insults at them before tossing a few extra loaves their way, as if in contemptuous charity.

He gazed at the wizards who had lost their reason and sighed deeply. In truth, he was no different from the prisoners, save that he remained outside the cells.

“Go on, clean the room and wash the clothes for me.” Paul spotted Rogue, and a nameless fury rose within him. Why should this boy receive a Hogwarts letter and leave, while Paul, after all these years of hardship, saw no end in sight?

He had sent resignation requests to London many times, only to have them rejected every time. The reason was simple: during the war, he had deserted. If he didn't want to be held accountable, he had to serve as Azkaban’s warden.

“Yes, sir.” Rogue kept his head down, slipping along the wall. Paul was the king here; to anger him meant solitary confinement at best.

“The letter!” Rogue entered the office with a broom in hand, surveying the chaos left by his failed potion experiments. He closed the door gently and furtively opened Paul’s drawer.

Inside, there were some rusted pocket watches and exquisite necklaces—relics left by wizards who had died in Azkaban. Rogue carefully rummaged through them, finally pulling a letter from the very back.

On the front of the parchment envelope was written: To Rogue Travis, Azkaban Castle C2, North Sea.

He turned it over, opened it, and drew out the letter to read quietly.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore;

Dear Mr. Travis,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of required books and equipment.

The term begins on September 1st. We await your owl’s reply by July 31st.

Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall

“You damned little Death Eater, you thieving brat, what are you doing!” Paul kicked open the door and stormed in, grinning wickedly at Rogue. His warding spell had indeed been triggered.

“Accio!” Paul waved his wand and summoned the letter into his hand.

“So you want it, do you? Want to leave here, do you? Want to go to Hogwarts?” He sneered, and tore the letter to shreds right in front of Rogue.

“Go on, why don’t you go?” Paul strode over and slapped Rogue hard. Rogue fell to the ground, blood welling at the corner of his mouth.

“You wretched little thing, you’d better stay put. I haven’t left Azkaban, and you dream of leaving? Ha, keep dreaming!”

“Let me tell you, I saved you! I raised you from a child! From today on, you’re forbidden to see Jessica. And I’ll starve you for three days! If you dare do anything like this again, I’ll feed you to the Dementors!”

Rogue suppressed his rage and hatred, looking at Paul with a quivering voice: “Sir, I know a way for you to leave Azkaban.”

“You? What are you, exactly?” Paul punched him again, grabbing his tattered clothes and lifting him off the ground.

“Sir, just hear me out. If you think it’s false, you can lock me up again.”

“Hm~” Paul paused in his tracks, scratching his nearly bald head in thought.

“Speak.”

Paul threw Rogue to the floor, who sat against the wall.

“Sir, you can’t rely on the Ministry of Magic to leave here. But you could find someone who can influence the Ministry.”

“Hey, you mean Dumbledore? Little one, deep down you just want to leave here alone.”

“Not Dumbledore, Miss Rita Skeeter.” Rogue hurriedly named her, seeing Paul’s clenched fist.

“Rita?” Paul looked at Rogue, puzzled—who was that?

“Sir, there’s a copy of the Daily Prophet in your office.”

“Ha, never thought your mother taught you to read. Damn owl, came over a decade ago, never returned.”

As Paul went to fetch the newspaper, Rogue breathed a sigh of relief.

“You mean this?” He produced the yellowed newspaper, which reported the Wizarding World’s victory over the Dark Lord.

“Yes, the Daily Prophet’s Rita. She’s famous, her words and reports carry weight. If you tell her the Ministry locked up an innocent child in Azkaban, she’ll surely publicize it.”

“And then?” Paul didn’t see the point; in his mind, telling the Prophet seemed less effective than writing to Dumbledore.

“Sir, Miss Rita will criticize the Ministry on our behalf. If it stirs up a storm, the Minister will surely transfer you elsewhere.”

“Transfer? I might be sacked outright!”

“That’s nothing to fear. Think about it: Miss Rita will thank you handsomely for a scoop like this. You’ll have plenty of gold, so why bother with the Ministry’s whims?”

“Hmm... Let me think this over.” Paul tossed Rogue into the little dark cell and paced his office, pondering whether to follow this plan.

If he told Dumbledore, things would end quietly. The Ministry might treat it as a scandal and throw him into Azkaban for dereliction and desertion.

If he sold the news to the Daily Prophet, he could earn a hefty pile of Galleons—anywhere would be better than here. Who’d want to stay counting stars with Dementors?

As for informing the Ministry, Paul sneered; those weak, greedy fools would never come here.

“Mend it!” Paul waved his wand. The boy’s suggestion was indeed practical.

He clenched his fists in excitement, leaving black smudges on the envelope. The crest was still so familiar.

Red-gold lion (Gryffindor), blue-bronze eagle (Ravenclaw), yellow-black badger (Hufflepuff) and green-silver serpent (Slytherin); and Hogwarts’ motto: “Never Tickle a Sleeping Dragon.”

“The Sorting Hat should have placed me in Hufflepuff, not Gryffindor,” Paul muttered. As a deserter, he seemed more like an ordinary, unassuming badger than a brave lion.

He spread the yellowed parchment on the desk, realizing he hadn’t written in years and almost forgot how.

“A child, whose parents were Death Eaters, confined by the Ministry in Azkaban for eleven years. Never saw sunlight, never wore new clothes, spent every day in the company of Dementors.” Paul scrawled, knowing this letter in Rita’s hands would shake the entire Wizarding World!

“No—it must shatter it!” Paul nodded firmly, filling in every detail he knew.

“Thank you, old Barty! Thank you, dear Headmaster Dumbledore!” Paul handed the letter to his owl and watched its silhouette vanish, waving his fists in excitement.

Hogwarts’ new students are recorded by the Book of Admittance and transcribed by the Quill of Acceptance. The Headmaster’s task is merely to sign, then have the school’s owl deliver the letter.

Paul knew perfectly well that Dumbledore’s quill must have signed automatically, or else he would have come to Azkaban himself.

“Magic’s convenience isn’t always a blessing.” Paul kicked his feet onto the desk, playing with Rogue’s letter. With a flick, he tossed it deep into the drawer.

“But since we’re making a big story, the brat should suffer a bit more.” Remembering something, Paul picked up his keys.