The heavy iron-bound doors of Hogwarts had barely clicked shut behind Richard Prewett when the low, chaotic murmur of the castle's interior flooded his senses. The air inside smelled of extinguishing tallow candles, burnt pumpkin flesh, and the sharp, ozone tang of lingering defensive magic.
He moved through the shadows of the entrance hall like a phantom, his midnight-blue traveling cloak shifting silently against his dragon-hide boots. The iron-lined pouch at his hip felt noticeably heavier now, cold against his thigh. Inside it, wrapped in a shimmering, silver-threaded cage of parallel space, the Gaunt ring pulsed with a dull, muffled malice that tried—and entirely failed—to pierce his concealment loops.
"Ah, Richard. Returning from the grounds so late?"
Richard paused at the base of the grand staircase. Emerging from the corridor that led to the staff room was Severus Snape. The Potions Master's dark robes billowed slightly, his sallow face drawn into an expression of tightly controlled irritation. His black eyes darted instantly to Richard's traveling cloak, cataloging the silver embroidery at the hemlines.
"The air in the Great Hall was suffocating, Severus," Richard replied, his voice a smooth, unbroken ribbon of indifference. He didn't offer a greeting, nor did he alter his posture. "I prefer the chill of the forest boundaries when the castle gets... hysterical."
Snape's eyes narrowed into slits. "Hysterical. A generous descriptor for a night where a fully grown mountain troll breaches the secondary foundations."
Richard said, "I went to ensure the outer gates hadn't been compromised by whatever circus brought the beast inside. Tell me... did the Headmaster enjoy his trip to the dungeons?"
"The beast was not in the dungeons," Snape hissed, stepping closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "It was neutralized on the second floor. By a trio of first-years. Your nephew among them."
Richard didn't blink. He simply let his gaze drift over Snape's shoulder, toward the upper corridors where the distant light of the hospital wing flickered against the stone. "Then it seems the family name isn't entirely wasted on the boy. If you will excuse me, Severus. Traveling in the damp always makes my shoulder ache."
Without waiting for a response, Richard brushed past the Potions Master, his cloak flaring. Snape spun around, his black eyes locking onto Richard's retreating form with a look of deep, burning suspicion, but he didn't give chase. The arithmetic of the evening didn't add up, and both men knew it.
Up in Room 3B, the fire in the small iron grate had burned down to a pile of glowing, crimson ash. Richard stepped into his quarters, shedding his traveling cloak and hanging it carefully on a peg enchanted to distort the weight of whatever was left in the pockets.
He walked to his desk, took out the iron-lined pouch, and placed it squarely on the dark walnut wood.
Drawing his secondary wand—the short, pale rowan wood he kept for delicate runic manipulation—Richard dissolved the silver-threaded parallel cage. The heavy gold ring spilled onto the desk, its black stone catching the dim embers of the hearth. Instantly, the suffocating, freezing pressure of the Horcrux surged outward, the low, mocking whispers of dead men filling the corners of the room.
Richard didn't hesitate. He didn't listen to the voices.
With a brutal, hyper-compressed twist of his wrist, he drove a stream of dense magic straight into the gold band.
A sharp, high-pitched crack echoed through the room. The ring shattered into 2 separate pieces, the ancient stone, and the gold band. Richard cast a small controlled Fiendfyre on the band, destroying the band and the Horcrux with it.
The curse was broken, the gold destroyed, but the black stone remained perfectly intact.
Richard picked up the raw, incised Stone of Resurrection. Its coldness was no longer malevolent; it was simply dead, an ancient tool stripped of its dark master's stain. He pulled a small, seamless lead cylinder from his vest, dropped the black stone inside, and sealed the cap with a permanent, non-verbal sealing hex. He slipped the hidden cylinder into an inner pocket close to his chest. The piece was off the board.
High above the rest of the castle, the circular office of the Headmaster was bathed in the soft, emerald glow of spinning silver instruments. Delicately carved spindle-legged tables whirred and puffed tiny rings of smoke into the quiet night air.
Albus Dumbledore sat behind his massive desk, his long, silver beard tucked neatly into his belt, his hands clasped beneath his chin. His blue eyes, usually alight with a sharp, twinkling amusement, were entirely somber.
The heavy oak door swung open, and Severus Snape strode into the room, his dark cloak cutting through the calm atmosphere like a blade. He didn't wait for Dumbledore to speak.
"The troll was a diversion, Albus," Snape said flatly, stopping right before the desk. "A clumsy, transparent attempt to draw the staff away from the third-floor corridor. Quirrell's staging was pathetic, but it served its purpose."
"And the third-floor corridor remains perfectly secure?" Dumbledore asked, his voice low and gentle.
"It is," Snape snapped, his hand instinctively drifting to his left leg, where a jagged tear in his robes hid a fresh, bleeding gash from the three-headed dog. "The beast is intact. But Quirrell is not the only variable we miscalculated tonight. Prewett was entirely absent during the containment."
Dumbledore leaned back slightly in his high-backed chair, his expression unreadable. "Richard is a man of precise habits, Severus. He told me he went to inspect the outer boundaries near the Forbidden Forest, which should have been the most likely entry point for a troll, if not for Quirrell."
"And you believe him?" Snape scoffed, his voice tight with disbelief. "I met him in the entrance hall. He was wearing his continental traveling cloak—the one lined with numerous protection charms. He smelled of rot and old rain, Albus. Not the Hogwarts grounds. Not the Forbidden Forest. He had Apparated outside the anti-intruder boundaries and returned only after the threat was neutralized."
Dumbledore remained silent for a long moment, his eyes tracking the steady, rhythmic swing of a silver pendulum on the shelf behind Snape. "Richard has spent the last decade navigating the gray spaces of the continent, Severus. A man who has had to survive the wizarding world as a boy with no backup or support does not easily shed his vigilance. It is natural for him to investigate the perimeter during a breach."
"You are being willfully blind!" Snape hissed, leaning over the desk, his sallow face taut. "Look at what happened on the second floor! The trio—Potter, Granger, and the youngest Weasley boy—neutralized a twelve-foot mountain troll using nothing but blind luck and first year horseplay spells. First-years do not possess that level of tactical thinking, Albus."
Dumbledore's brow furrowed slightly, a shadow passing over his old features. "The boys have been spending time with their uncle, I take it?"
"Worse. They are absorbing his doctrine," Snape said, his black eyes flashing. "He isn't just teaching them how to defend themselves; he is training them to analyze a battlefield. He is teaching them how to overcome superior force through terrain manipulation and structural sabotage. If he continues to influence the boy—"
"Harry is safe, Severus," Dumbledore interrupted softly, though the weight in his voice was absolute.
"For now," Snape countered darkly. "But Richard Prewett did not return to Britain to teach school children. He has an agenda, one that involves his own motives and don't forget the man who has had to survive the wizarding world as a boy with no support, learns to put his own priorities above all else." Sending Dumbledore defence of Richard back for his own argument.
Dumbledore stood up slowly, walking over to the wide window that looked out over the black, silent grounds of the school. The moon cast long, skeletal shadows across the lawn, stretching all the way to the gates where Richard had stood only an hour prior.
"Richard carries a deep, unyielding grief, Severus," Dumbledore said softly, his back to the room. "A man who has lost his brothers to the dark will often look into the abyss to find the levers that broke his world. We must watch him, yes. But do not antagonise him."
Snape let out a short, bitter breath, pulling his dark cloak tightly around himself as he turned toward the door.
The heavy oak door clicked shut, leaving the Headmaster alone with the whirring silver instruments and the silent, mounting storm.