The scarlet steam engine roared through the English countryside, a rhythmic clack-clack that usually lulled students to sleep. Richard, however, was wide awake. He moved through the final carriage, his footsteps silenced by the thick carpet, until he reached a compartment near the very end of the train.
Through the glass, he saw him.
A small, scrawny boy with messy black hair was staring out at the rolling hills. He wore a pair of round glasses held together by a substantial amount of Sellotape, and his clothes were several sizes too large, hanging off his thin frame. Beside him sat Ron, his face smudged with soot, mid-sentence and gesturing wildly.
Richard paused, his hand hovering over the door handle. Seeing the boy in person brought back the sharp clarity of his observation in Diagon Alley just a week prior.
He had been standing outside Twilfitt and Tatting's, leaning against the cool stone wall while nursing a self-chilling ginger beer, when the crowd had parted to reveal the unmistakable, towering form of Rubeus Hagrid. Trailing behind the half-giant was the boy.
Richard had kept his distance, his subtle Notice-Me-Not spell making it easy to fade into the background—a shadow among shadows. He had watched as the boy looked at the colorful displays of the wizarding world with a mix of profound wonder and a heartbreakingly guarded caution. It was the expression of a child who had spent his life waiting for the other shoe to drop, expecting at any moment to be told that this was all a cruel joke.
He had followed them silently, watching from the edge of the crowd as they entered Ollivanders. When the boy emerged, clutching a thin rectangular box as if it were made of glass, Richard had felt the shift in the air. The boy was the catalyst for everything Dumbledore feared, and yet, looking at him then, he was just a child who had finally been given a piece of his own identity.
Richard had noted the boy's suppressed magical core—a byproduct of years of accidental magic being punished or ignored. It would take work to steady that power. He had also noted that Dumbledore's "watchers" were nowhere to be seen, likely assuming Hagrid was protection enough.
The Great Hall
Before the first-years arrived, the Great Hall was filled with the low hum of the returning students. The older years, particularly the seventh-years who had been children when Richard vanished, whispered frantically. They saw a man in his mid-twenties, looking far more rugged and experienced than the usual string of Defense professors, sitting comfortably at the high table.
At the staff table, the atmosphere was a mix of polite curiosity and underlying tension. Professor Flitwick had already squeaked a cheerful welcome, asking about Richard's time in the Black Forest, while Professor Sprout had patted his hand, remembering his early talent in Herbology.
"It is good to see a Prewett back in these halls, Richard," she whispered kindly.
However, the warmth ended there. To Richard's left sat Severus Snape. The Potions Master was several years Richard's senior; there was no schoolyard rivalry between them, only the cold, professional disdain Snape reserved for anyone he deemed a potential threat. Snape sat rigid, his dark eyes flickering toward Richard with a calculated, subtle hostility. He was the only one at the table, save for Dumbledore, who seemed to share the Headmaster's deep-seated suspicion.
To Richard's other side sat Quirinus Quirrell. The man was a twitching wreck, his purple turban smelling faintly of garlic. He stammered through a greeting, his eyes darting toward Richard's hands as if expecting a hex at any moment. Richard watched him closely; Dumbledore might see a "jumpy" teacher back from sabbatical, but Richard's magical sense were screaming that something was fundamentally fractured in the man's aura—a jagged, dark edge hidden behind the stutter.
Then, the doors opened.
Professor McGonagall led the line of frightened first-years toward the front. Richard watched as Harry Potter stepped forward, the Hall falling into a hushed, expectant silence. When the Sorting Hat cried out "GRYFFINDOR!", the table of lions erupted in a roar that shook the windowpanes.
Richard caught Dumbledore's eye. The Headmaster was applauding politely, but his gaze shifted almost immediately to Richard, then to Quirrell, then back to Richard. It was a silent interrogation. Dumbledore was looking for a reaction—a sign of recognition or the subtle shift of a subordinate reporting for duty.
Richard gave him nothing. He simply leaned back, his face a mask of professional curiosity, and watched as the feast appeared. He didn't look at Harry again that night. He didn't need to. The board was set. Dumbledore suspected the Prewett of dark designs, while the real darkness sat two seats away, stuttering into a bowl of soup. Richard picked up his goblet, the golden rim catching the candlelight.
The feast was a magnificent display of culinary magic, but for Richard, the food was secondary to the intricate dance of observation taking place at the high table. While the students gorged themselves on roast beef and treacle tart, Richard remained acutely aware of the weight of Dumbledore's gaze and the cold, oily presence of Snape's scrutiny.
The Potions Master didn't speak. He merely pushed a kidney pie around his plate with surgical precision, his eyes occasionally darting toward the Gryffindor table where Harry Potter was laughing with the Weasley boy. Each time Snape looked at Harry, his gaze would flick back to Richard, as if trying to weave a thread of conspiracy between the new professor and the Boy Who Lived.
As the remains of the dessert faded from the golden platters, the Great Hall grew quiet. Albus Dumbledore stood, his presence commanding instant attention.
"Ahem — just a few more words now that we are all fed and watered," Dumbledore began, his voice echoing clearly through the hall. "I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
He moved through the standard warnings—the Forbidden Forest being off-limits and Argus Filch's ever-growing list of banned items. Richard noticed the twins, Fred and George, exchange a knowing smirk at the mention of the forest.
"I must also announce," Dumbledore continued, his tone shifting slightly, "that the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
A few students laughed, but Richard didn't join them. His SPR stat felt a localized ripple of heavy, ancient magic emanating from that direction. It wasn't just a warning; it was a lure. He glanced at Quirrell, who was currently twitching so violently that his turban nearly slipped. The man's fear felt performative—a layer of grease over a much deeper, colder intent.
"And finally," Dumbledore said, turning his head slightly toward the staff table, "I am delighted to welcome back Professor Quirinus Quirrell, who will be taking up his post as Professor of Muggle Studies after a most... illuminating sabbatical."
Quirrell gave a shaky, pathetic bow.
"Furthermore," Dumbledore's eyes locked onto Richard, "I am pleased to introduce Professor Richard Prewett, who has agreed to fill the vacancy for Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Prewett returns to us after many years abroad, bringing with him a wealth of... unique experiences."
The applause from the student body was polite, though the older years were still scrutinizing Richard with intense curiosity. He stood briefly, offering a sharp, professional nod to the hall. He didn't smile. He caught Harry Potter looking at him from the Gryffindor table, the boy's brow furrowed in thought, likely wondering who this man was that Dumbledore introduced with such measured, weighted words.
"As you were!" Dumbledore shouted, and with a wave of his hand, the students began to file out.
Richard remained seated for a moment as the hall emptied. He felt the cold air of the dungeons as Snape stood up, his robes billowing like a giant bat.
"A wealth of unique experiences," Snape drawled, his voice a low silken threat meant only for Richard's ears. "One wonders, Prewett, if those experiences included learning how to survive the 'cursed' nature of your new office... or if you simply believe yourself to be above the consequences that claimed your predecessors."
Richard stood, meeting Snape's dark gaze with the calm of a man who had seen things the Potions Master couldn't begin to fathom. "I've found that consequences are usually reserved for those who aren't prepared, Severus. I assure you, I am very well prepared."
Snape's eyes narrowed, a flash of genuine loathing crossing his features before he turned and swept away without another word.
Richard watched him go, then felt a faint, prickling sensation on the back of his neck. He turned to see Dumbledore watching him from the center of the hall, his hand resting on the back of his golden chair. The Headmaster didn't say anything, but the message was clear: I am watching.
Richard adjusted his cuffs and began to walk toward the stairs. He had a curriculum to finalize, and a class of first-years who needed to learn that the Dark Arts weren't just stories in a textbook—they were a living, breathing hunger.
At the Gryffindor table, Harry watched the new professor with a growing sense of unease. Beside him, Ron was staring at the staff table, his mouth slightly open, a piece of half-eaten chicken dangling from his fork.
"Harry," Ron whispered, leaning in close. "I saw that man on the train. I passed him in the corridor while I was looking for the trolley. He didn't say anything, just looked at me—it was like he was seeing a ghost."
"He looks… different from the others," Harry murmured. Unlike the stuttering Quirrell or the severe McGonagall, the man called Prewett sat with a stillness that reminded Harry of a coiled spring.
"And finally," Dumbledore's voice boomed, "I am pleased to introduce Professor Richard Prewett, who has agreed to fill the vacancy for Defense Against the Dark Arts."
Ron's fork hit his plate with a loud clack.
"Prewett?" Ron gasped, his ears turning a vivid shade of red. "That's him! That's my Uncle Richard! The one Mum says vanished into thin air! I can't believe it—he's actually back. And he's teaching?"
Harry looked back at the high table. Richard Prewett was standing now, giving a sharp, professional nod. His eyes swept over the Gryffindor table, and for a split second, Harry felt a strange jolt, as if a faint electric current had passed through the air. The professor didn't smile; he looked like a man who was counting the seconds until he could be elsewhere.