As the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall finally swung shut behind Molly Prewett-Weasley, the suffocating silence that had gripped the room broke all at once. The clatter of silverware, the scraping of plates, and the frantic buzzing of hundreds of whispering students rushed back to fill the void.
Richard calmly walked back to the staff table, smoothing his robes as he sat down. He picked up his teacup, noting with an internal grimace that his tea had gone entirely cold during his sister's interrogation.
Down at the Gryffindor table, the reaction was immediate.
Ron Weasley slowly lifted his head from his arms, his face a pale, pasty white that made his freckles stand out like bursts of copper. He looked left and right, blinking as if he had just survived a localized natural disaster.
"Is she gone?" Ron croaked, his voice cracking horribly. "Tell me she's gone."
"She's gone, Ronniekins," Fred said, though the usual mocking bounce in his voice was entirely absent. He was sitting upright now, exchanging a deeply unnerved look with his twin.
"Blimey," George muttered, wiping a hand across his forehead. "I thought for sure she'd found the stash of Dungbombs we ordered from Zonko's. My heart nearly stopped when she marched past the table."
"Did you hear what they were talking about, though?" Lee Jordan asked, leaning over Fred's shoulder, his eyes wide with scandalous delight. "Professor Prewett has a redirection ward on his mail because he's hiding from a woman. A terrifying woman with a 'fiery temperament.'"
"Shut up, Lee," Ron groaned, finally reaching for a piece of toast with a trembling hand. "Do you know what this means? If Mum is this unhinged over Uncle Richard's mail, imagine what she's going to be like when she realizes Fred and George blew up that toilet seat last week. She's going to come back. I know it."
"Oh, stop being so dramatic, Ron," Hermione Granger said, neatly folding her copy of the Daily Prophet and setting it aside. "Your mother was simply worried. Though... I must admit, the magical theory behind a redirection ward that can selectively incinerate Howlers based on the sender's emotional intent is quite sophisticated. I wonder if Professor Prewett would explain the runic sequence if I asked."
"Don't you dare ask him about his love life, Granger," George warned, a slow, wicked grin replacing his dread. "Did you see Uncle Richard's face? He looked completely cornered. I've never seen the man look anything less than terrifyingly calm, and Mum managed it in under two minutes."
"A fiery temperament," Fred repeated, nudging his brother. "A masterful grasp of vocabulary. George, do you think it's that French duelist he met in Paris? The one who allegedly threw a silver candelabra at his head?"
"Could be," George mused, his eyes gleaming. "Or that spell-developer from the Ministry who tried to track him into the Black Forest. Either way, Uncle Richard has a weakness. We have leverage."
"You have nothing," Percy Weasley's stiff, pompous voice cut through their plotting from further up the table. He adjusted his prefect badge, looking down his nose at his younger brothers. "And if either of you attempts to use our mother's family visit to disrupt Professor Prewett's curriculum, I will not hesitate to write to her myself. Honestly, the lack of decorum in this Hall is appalling. Bringing family grievances to the staff table..."
"Oh, bugger off, Percy," Ron muttered, though he said it quietly enough that Percy didn't hear him over the din of the hall.
Harry, who had sat quietly next to Ron throughout the ordeal, looked up toward the staff table. He watched Professor Prewett, who was having a quiet, intense conversation with Professor McGonagall, completely ignoring the lingering stares from the student body.
Harry felt a strange, comforting warmth in his chest. Seeing the formidable, effortlessly powerful Defense professor get flustered by his own sister made him seem... human. It was a bizarre realization for Harry, who had only ever known the Dursleys' transactional, hostile version of family. Here, amidst the shouting and the scorched letters, was a family that clearly cared, even if they expressed it through localized magical weather events.
Up at the staff table, Richard felt the weight of Harry's gaze, but he didn't look down. He was focusing on resetting his internal balance. His sister Molly had always possessed a unique ability to bypass his carefully constructed defenses—a side effect of growing up under the same roof, no doubt.
He waved his wand over his teacup, a silent siphon draining the cold liquid and replacing it with a fresh, steaming pour of Earl Grey. The diary was ash, the school was adapting to his methods, and Lucius Malfoy's vault was sitting empty in Wiltshire. He could handle a temporary breach of his privacy if it meant the pieces on his board remained exactly where he wanted them.
He took a slow sip, his eyes tracking Fred and George as they began whispering frantically again. Let them plot, he thought, a cold, amused certainty settling back in. They still have to survive Thursday's practical on defensive shield transitions.