"You Death Eater lot, get up and eat," Paul shouted, his heavy footsteps growing louder in the corridor. His curses reached the cells before he did, rough and familiar, scraping over the stone like rusted iron.
Every day, he faced Dementors and rows of prisoners who had already lost too much of themselves to scream. The work had hollowed him out from the inside, leaving him tired, numb, and bitter enough to poison anything that still looked alive.
The keys at his belt jingled, and the small window in the iron door opened by itself. A few pieces of mouldy bread flew from the floating pouch beside him and landed inside the cell. For prisoners who had not yet lost their minds completely, Paul liked to add insults first, then toss the food as if he were granting mercy.
He looked at the half-mad witches and wizards in the cells and gave a heavy sigh. In truth, he was not so different from them. The only difference was that he stood outside the bars.
"Go clean the office, then wash my clothes," Paul snapped when he spotted Roger.
An inexplicable anger flared inside him at the sight of the boy. Why did that skinny little thing get an acceptance letter from Hogwarts? Why did he get even the faintest chance to leave, while Paul had worked here for years with no end in sight?
He had sent resignation requests to London more than once, and every time, they had been rejected. The reason was always simple and merciless: he had deserted during the war. If he did not want the old charge reopened, then he had better remain a good administrator of Azkaban.
"Yes, sir," Roger said quietly.
He lowered his head and slipped along the wall, careful not to meet Paul's eyes. Paul was the king of this place, and if Roger angered him, solitary confinement would be the lightest punishment waiting for him.
The office was once again a mess from Paul's failed potion attempts. Stained cauldrons, cracked bottles, dirty robes, and piles of old parchment cluttered every corner. Roger entered with a broom, listened until Paul's footsteps faded, and quietly closed the door behind him.
The acceptance letter.
He moved to the desk and opened Paul's drawer with practiced care. Inside lay rusty pocket watches, delicate necklaces, rings with missing stones, and other small belongings left behind by witches and wizards who had died in Azkaban. Roger searched slowly through the stolen keepsakes until his fingers brushed parchment hidden at the very back.
The front of the envelope read: Mr. Roger Williams, Cell C2, Azkaban, North Sea.
Roger turned it over and opened it. He drew out the letter inside and read the words softly, as if saying them too loudly might make them disappear.
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore.
Dear Mr. Williams,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A list of required books and equipment is enclosed.
Term begins on 1 September. We await your owl by 31 July.
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress.
"You little Death Eater brat. You little thief. What are you doing?"
Paul kicked the door open and stormed into the room. His face twisted into a sneer, because the alert charm he had placed on the drawer had indeed been triggered by the boy.
"Accio."
He waved his wand, and the acceptance letter flew straight into his hand. Roger reached out instinctively, but Paul lifted it higher, enjoying the desperate flicker in the child's eyes.
"You want this, don't you?" Paul said, laughing. "You want to leave here, don't you? You want to go to Hogwarts?"
Right in front of Roger, he tore the letter to pieces.
"Go, then," Paul mocked. "Why don't you go?"
He crossed the room in a few strides and struck Roger hard enough to knock him to the floor. Pain burst across Roger's face, and the taste of blood filled his mouth. He stayed down, one hand pressed to the stone, forcing himself not to show the hatred burning behind his eyes.
"You stay here where you belong," Paul hissed. "I haven't left Azkaban, and you think you can? Dream on."
He bent over Roger, his voice thick with resentment. "I saved you. I raised you from a tiny useless thing. From today onward, you are not allowed to see Jessica. And you can go hungry for three days. Try this again, and I'll hand you to the Dementors myself."
Roger swallowed the anger in his throat and let his eyes fill instead with frightened tears. "Sir," he whispered, "I know a way for you to leave Azkaban."
"You?" Paul snapped. "What could you possibly know?"
He punched him again, then grabbed Roger by his torn clothes and hauled him partly off the ground. Roger let himself hang weakly in Paul's grip, careful to sound scared rather than clever.
"Sir, you can listen first," Roger said quickly. "If you think I'm lying, you can put me back in solitary confinement."
Paul froze. He scratched at the few remaining hairs on his head, suspicion and temptation wrestling across his face.
"Talk," he said at last.
Roger was thrown back to the floor. He sat there against the wall, one arm curled around his stomach, and chose each word with care.
"Sir, if you ask the Ministry to let you leave, they won't agree," Roger said. "But you can find someone who can influence the Ministry."
"Oh? Are you talking about Dumbledore?" Paul narrowed his eyes. "In the end, you still want someone to rescue you."
"Not Dumbledore," Roger said quickly when he saw Paul's fist clench again. "Rita Skeeter."
"Rita?" Paul frowned. "Who's that?"
"Sir, there is a copy of The Daily Prophet in your office."
Paul snorted. "I didn't expect your mother to teach you how to read. Those cursed owls came once more than ten years ago, then never again."
Roger watched him turn to search for the newspaper and quietly breathed out. For the moment, he had bought himself a little time.
"You mean this?" Paul pulled out an old yellowed copy of The Daily Prophet. Its front page still carried triumphant news about the wizarding world's victory over You-Know-Who.
"Yes. Rita Skeeter from The Daily Prophet," Roger said. "She is famous, and her reports have great influence. You only need to tell her that the Ministry imprisoned an innocent child in Azkaban. She will definitely report it everywhere."
"And then?" Paul asked. In his mind, telling a newspaper sounded far less useful than writing to Dumbledore.
"Then Ms. Skeeter will help criticise the Ministry," Roger said. "As long as the matter causes enough uproar, the Minister for Magic will definitely transfer you away from here."
"Transfer?" Paul scoffed. "They'll probably fire me."
"That isn't something to fear," Roger said softly. "Think about it, sir. If your information helps Ms. Skeeter sell newspapers across the whole wizarding world, she will thank you properly. By then, you'll have a large sum of Galleons. Why would you care about the Ministry's attitude after that?"
Paul clicked his tongue and began pacing. "Let me think."
He dragged Roger to the dark room and locked him inside, then returned to the office. For a long while, he walked back and forth, weighing whether the boy's suggestion could work.
If he told Dumbledore, the matter would likely be resolved quietly. The Ministry might even treat it as a scandal and throw him into Azkaban for dereliction of duty, or dig up his desertion during the war. If he sold the news to The Daily Prophet, however, he could make a fortune and leave before anyone decided what to do with him.
With money, anywhere would be better than here. Only a fool would stay in Azkaban counting stars with Dementors.
As for telling the Ministry directly, Paul sneered at the thought. Those weak, greedy fools would never come here unless forced.
"Reparo."
Paul waved his wand, and the torn Hogwarts letter knitted itself back together. The method the boy suggested was indeed possible, and the thought filled him with sudden excitement. As he clenched his fist, a dark handprint smeared across the envelope.
The Hogwarts crest on the parchment still stirred old memories. Red and gold for Gryffindor, blue and bronze for Ravenclaw, yellow and black for Hufflepuff, green and silver for Slytherin. Beneath them sat the school motto, quiet and familiar: Never tickle a sleeping dragon.
"The Sorting Hat should have put me in Hufflepuff, not Gryffindor," Paul muttered.
A deserter like him had never been a lion. He was far more like a small, ordinary badger, one that wanted only a safe burrow and enough food to survive.
Paul spread a sheet of yellowed parchment across the table. He had not written properly in years, and his hand felt clumsy around the quill. The first lines came crookedly, but the more he wrote, the faster his excitement grew.
A child, despite his parents' past with the Death Eaters, has been imprisoned in Azkaban by the Ministry of Magic for eleven full years. He has never seen the sun, has no new clothes, and spends his days surrounded by Dementors.
Paul paused, grinned, and continued writing everything he knew. Once this letter reached Rita Skeeter, it would shake the entire wizarding world.
No, Paul thought, it will shatter it.
"Thank you, old Barty," he muttered, sealing the letter. "Thank you, dear Headmaster Dumbledore."
He handed the letter to his owl and watched the black dot vanish into the grey sky. Then he waved his fists in excitement, already imagining gold, freedom, and warm rooms far from the sea.
New Hogwarts students were recorded by the Book of Admittance and written down by the Quill of Acceptance. All the headmaster had to do was sign and let the school owls carry the letters out.
Paul knew without needing proof that Dumbledore's signature must have been automatic. Otherwise, the old wizard would surely have come to Azkaban personally after seeing the address.
"Magic being too convenient isn't always a good thing," Paul said comfortably.
He propped his legs on the table and toyed with Roger's repaired acceptance letter. With a flick of his fingers, he tossed it back into the deepest part of the drawer.
"But since I'm going to make a big story, the little thing needs to look even more miserable," Paul murmured.
Then he remembered something and picked up the keys.