The Atrium of the Ministry of Magic was a whirlwind of activity, but a heavy, stifling tension hung over the office of the Head of the Department of Magical Transport. Outside the door, a twenty-six-year-old man sat on a bench, his shock of red hair marking him as a Prewett. He appeared entirely unbothered, though the muffled roars of a furious argument rattled the frosted glass behind him.
Passing Ministry employees cast sideways glances at the stranger. It wasn't every day that a lone wizard caused a diplomatic conflagration involving the Heads of Magical Law Enforcement, International Magical Cooperation, and the Minister for Magic himself.
I should have just taken a Muggle plane, Richard Prewett thought, leaning his head back against the stone wall. Or even an illegal Portkey. Anything would have been more discreet than a Ministry-sanctioned arrival.
Richard was the youngest son of the Prewett line, a family of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. While they weren't as politically powerful as the Malfoys, they possessed a long lineage and a powerful magical bloodline, valuing their bonds and the joy of a life well-lived far more than the gold and cold prestige favored by the more superficial pureblood houses. When his twin brothers, Fabian and Gideon, were killed in the war, the mantle of Lord Prewett had fallen onto his sixteen-year-old shoulders.
But Richard had been branded a pariah. Accused of fleeing Hogwarts and suspected of the vigilante killings of several Death Eaters who had orchestrated his brothers' deaths, he had been expelled. Finding no protection from Dumbledore and wary of the animosity between them, Richard knew that as soon as he stepped off Hogwarts grounds, he would be a target for the vengeful Pureblood supremacists. He had chosen to vanish, fully capable of bypassing the Trace and remaining off the grid.
Six months later, his sister Molly had received a blank postcard from Germany. The moment her fingers touched the parchment, she had known the warmth of the magic; her brother was alive.
Now, ten years later, the prodigal son had returned.
"He murdered my son and fled! I want him arrested right now and given the Dementor's Kiss!"
The screeching voice of Barty Crouch Sr. echoed through the heavy oak door.
"Barty, he was never convicted," came the cool, steady tone of Amelia Bones. "There wasn't a shred of evidence linking him to those deaths."
"DEATHS! DEATHS! My son was murdered!"
"Barty, Barty, calm down," Cornelius Fudge's voice interjected, sounding eager to assert his authority. "The law is clear, Mr. Prewett was cleared of the murders. No other crimes have been linked to him. He has every right to enter Britain. Moreover, he was invited to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts by Dumbledore himself. Do you really think he would invite a criminal to teach?"
"But—"
"This is final," Fudge interrupted, his voice gaining a sudden, desperate strength as he glanced at Crouch. "Amelia, please release Mr. Prewett and apologize to him on behalf of the DMT for any inconvenience. THAT IS AN ORDER."
A moment later, the door swung open. The Head of the DMT stumbled out, clearly flustered. He had been having a perfectly normal day until Crouch, passing by, had spotted the returning wizard and initiated a frantic, public assault.
The subsequent skirmish had been a display of terrifying control. Hit-Wizards had swarmed in, but Richard had moved with fluid efficiency, defending and disarming the attackers without ever escalating the violence. Amelia Bones had ordered everyone to stop the moment she realized Richard was merely defending himself.
The Head of the DMT approached Richard, visibly shaken by the scene he had been forced to witness. "Mr. Prewett, on behalf of the DMT, I sincerely apolo—"
"No," Richard interrupted gently, offering a polite, weary smile. "This is not your fault. Some delusional people are the ones behind this. If the Ministry is not going to punish them, what good is an apology from someone who was simply doing their job?"
The Department Head let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, genuinely grateful for the young man's grace. After a few more pleasantries, Richard picked up his suitcase, stepped into a Floo fireplace, and vanished.