Later that night, long after the Prefects had led the sleepy first-years to their dormitories, Richard stood before a stretch of blank wall on the seventh floor. He paced three times, his mind focused with the searing intensity of his mental magic.
I need the place where everything is hidden.
A highly polished door materialized in the stone. Richard stepped inside, and even his seasoned composure wavered. It was a cathedral of forgotten things—mountains of broken furniture, thousands of forbidden books, and the winged remains of long-dead magical experiments.
But Richard wasn't there to browse. He closed his eyes, extending his spiritual senses. To most, the room was a chaotic mess of old magic, but to someone with Richard's high SPR, the curse on the Defense position was a physical weight. It was a pulse, rhythmic and foul, tied to a localized anchor.
He moved deep into the labyrinth of junk, past a stuffed troll and a crate of Fanged Geraniums, until he reached a blistered old cupboard. Resting on top of a nearby crate, obscured by a dusty wig and a tarnished bust, was a faded golden tiara.
The Diadem of Ravenclaw.
Even from several feet away, the Horcrux hissed at his presence. It was the ultimate bypass—Voldemort hadn't cursed the position from the outside; he had left a piece of his own soul within the castle wards to act as a permanent conduit for his spite. Every year, the Diadem's malice leaked into the curriculum, souring the luck of whoever held the office.
Richard drew his wand—not the one the Ministry had checked, but a secondary focus he had crafted during his years in the Black Forest.
"You've overstayed your welcome," Richard whispered.
He didn't use Fiendfyre; he didn't need the uncontrollable destruction. Instead, he channeled his pure magic into a highly compressed Transfiguration variant he had perfected—a spell designed to unmake the molecular bond of cursed objects.
The air in the room grew cold, then white-hot. A scream that wasn't human echoed through the towers of junk as a plume of oily black smoke erupted from the blue stone. The Diadem buckled, the metal melting into a puddle of harmless gold.
The oppressive weight that had hung over the Defense office for decades vanished instantly. Richard exhaled, fatigued momentarily but his mind clear. The curse was broken. He had secured his tenure, but he knew the destruction of a Horcrux wouldn't go unnoticed by the "thing" currently clinging to the back of Quirrell's head.
He turned to leave, but stopped. In the corner of his eye, near a stack of old trunks, he saw a familiar flash of red hair in a moving photograph. He paused, his heart heavy, before turning away. He had a war to prevent, and the first lesson began in the morning.
The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had changed overnight. Gone were the dusty curios and the smell of mothballs from previous years. Instead, the room was sparsely decorated, the desks pushed back to create a wide central aisle, and the air felt remarkably light—as if a window had been opened for the first time in decades.
Richard Prewett stood at the front of the room, his arms crossed over his chest, watching as the third-year Gryffindors and Slytherins filed in. He saw his nephews, Fred and George, whispering to Lee Jordan, their eyes wide as they recognized their "missing" uncle at the head of the class.
When the bell rang, Richard didn't wait for silence. He spoke at a normal volume, yet his voice carried an authority that cut through the chatter instantly.
"My name is Professor Prewett. You will address me as such," he began, his eyes scanning the room. "I do not care for long introductions, so let us establish the rules of this room. We will meet twice a week. One session will be dedicated to Theory: we will discuss combat strategy, spell mechanics, and the nature of the creatures or curses we are facing. The second session will be Practical."
He paced slowly across the front of the room.
"I do not give homework," he stated, prompting a muffled cheer from the Gryffindor side that he silenced with a single look. "And I do not make note-taking mandatory. However, I strongly advise it. You will not be graded on essays or your ability to recite dates. You will be graded on results."
Richard stopped in front of a Slytherin boy who was looking bored.
"In our Theory session, I might teach you a specific spell combination or a strategy for flanking a dark creature. In the following Practical session, I will put you in a simulated encounter. If you succeed using the strategy I taught, you receive an Exceeds Expectations or an Outstanding. If you fail to use the strategy until I am forced to remind you, the highest grade you can hope for is Acceptable. If you cannot perform the magic at all, you fail."
He turned back to the blackboard, and with a sharp flick of his wand, words began to write themselves in a clean, aggressive script.
"Today's Theory: The Redcap. Most of you know they are found where blood has been shed. Most of you think a simple Impedimenta is enough. Most of you would be dead within five minutes."
Richard spent the rest of the hour breaking down the Redcap's psychology. He didn't just talk about their clubs; he talked about their reach, their tendency to move in pairs, and the specific frequency of light that irritates their vision. He taught them a refined version of the Lumos Duo charm—not just a light, but a focused, blinding beam.
"If you don't pay attention on the wand movement for the Duo variation," Richard noted, glancing at Fred and George, who were currently scrambling for parchment, "do not expect me to show you again when the Redcap is swinging a rusted bludgeon at your shins on Thursday."
By the time the class ended, the students didn't leave with the usual sighs of boredom. They left looking slightly terrified, yet strangely focused.
As the room cleared, Fred and George lingered behind.
"Blimey, Uncle Richard," Fred whispered, looking around to make sure the others were gone. "You're a lot scarier than Mum said."
"Your mother thinks I'm a troublemaker," Richard said, his expression softening just a fraction. "I'm simply someone who knows that in a real fight, you don't get to ask for a rewrite. Now, get to your next class. And I suggest you practice that wrist flick—it's a snap, not a wave."
The twins hurried out, and Richard let out a long breath. His mind calm and spirit stable. The curse was gone, but the atmosphere of the school was still thick with tension. He looked toward the door and saw Severus Snape standing in the shadows of the corridor, his eyes fixed on the blackboard.
"An interesting grading system, Prewett," Snape drawled, stepping into the room. "One wonders if you are preparing them for an exam... or a war."
Richard didn't look up from his desk. "In this subject, Severus, there is very little difference between the two."
Richard met Snape's gaze, his own expression remaining unreadable. He had spent years studying the patterns of human behavior, and Snape was a book he had already read—albeit a complex and bitter one.
"Preparation is the only currency that matters," Richard said, finally looking up. "I've found that students often fail because they are taught to fear the subject rather than master the mechanics. Wouldn't you agree, Severus?"
Snape took a slow, deliberate step into the room, his black robes trailing behind him like ink in water. "Fear is a powerful motivator for the mediocre. However, I suspect your 'wealth of experience' has made you soft, Prewett. You speak of results, yet you offer them sugar quills on a train. You treat them like children."
"They are children," Richard replied calmly. "At least for now. I'd prefer they stay that way as long as possible. Though I hear you have a particular interest in the new first-year intake. The Potter boy, specifically."
Snape's eyes flashed, a cold, sharp light appearing in their depths. "The Potter boy is a celebrity. He will undoubtedly arrive with the same arrogance as his father, expecting his fame to substitute for actual talent. I have no patience for those who believe themselves exempt from the rigors of my discipline."
Richard stood up, moving around the desk. "I've seen the boy, Severus. I watched him in the Alley. He doesn't look like a celebrity. He looks like a boy who has spent ten years being told he's nothing. If you go into that classroom looking for his father, you'll find exactly what you want to see—but you'll miss the wizard standing right in front of you."
Snape's lip curled into a sneer. "Your sentimentality is as misplaced as your optimism. I shall treat the boy with the same cold objectivity I afford everyone. If he fails to meet my standards, that is his burden, not mine."
"Objectivity is a fine shield, but a poor lens," Richard said, his voice dropping an octave. "I know Dumbledore has shared his concerns about me with you. I know you're watching my every move, waiting for me to slip. But while you're busy staring at me, don't let your old grudges blind you to what's happening in your own dungeons. Harry Potter isn't James, and I'm not a minion of the Dark Lord. It would be a shame if you wasted your formidable intellect chasing ghosts."
The silence that followed was brittle.
"We shall see, Professor," Snape drawled, the title sounding like an insult. "But do remember: in the Potions classroom, there is no 'Acceptable' for a mistake that causes an explosion. I do not offer second chances."
"The Potter boy," Richard said, his voice cutting through the silence of the empty classroom before Snape could speak. "I assume you're planning a particularly... memorable welcome for his first Potions lesson on Friday?"
Snape's eyes narrowed. "I plan to provide the boy with a necessary education in the difference between fame and aptitude. Why does his schedule concern you, Prewett?"
"It doesn't," Richard replied, finally setting down his quill and walking toward the center of the room. "But professional curiosity does. Since Dumbledore seems to have an interest in how I conduct my curriculum, I was thinking of dropping by the dungeons during your first session with the Gryffindors. To observe your teaching style, of course."
The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Snape's expression shifted from disdain to a sharp, defensive mask. "My classroom is not a theater for your amusement, nor does it require your 'observation'."
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of making it a performance," Richard said with a small, dangerous smile. "But if the Headmaster is encouraging a new era of 'transparency' among the staff, surely the two of us should lead by example. If you're welcome to stand in my doorway and critique my grading system, I assume the courtesy is extended. I'll be in the back of the room. I might even take notes."
Snape's voice was a low, dangerous hiss. "You would find the dungeons quite uncomfortable, Prewett. The fumes can be... disorienting for those unaccustomed to precision."
"I've spent years in the Black Forest, Severus. I've breathed worse than anything you've got simmering in a cauldron," Richard countered. "I'll see you Friday morning. Do try to be on your best behavior. I'd hate to have to report that the Potions Master is letting his 'objectivity' get in the way of a student's education."
Snape didn't respond with words. He gave a sharp, curt nod—a silent acknowledgement of the challenge—and swept out, the door echoing with the force of his departure.
Richard looked at the door for a long moment, then turned back to his blackboard. He erased the notes on Redcaps with a sharp wave of his wand. Snape was a fixed point—bitter, guarded, and fiercely loyal to a dead woman's memory, even if he expressed it through cruelty to her son. Richard couldn't change Snape, but he could provide a counterweight.
If the Potions Master was going to spend the year trying to break Harry Potter's spirit, Richard would spend it teaching the boy how to forge it into something unbreakable.
He focused on recovering from his mental fatigue. It was slow, but steady. Breaking the Diadem had taken more out of him than he'd let on, but the air in the castle felt cleaner already. The curse was gone, and the first lesson with the Gryffindor first-years seemed to show promise.