When young witches and wizards entered Hogwarts, they were allowed to bring one pet. Generally that meant a cat, an owl, or a toad. Ron's rat was already considered an oddity.
Dogs were another matter. The only ones Altair could recall, aside from the three-headed dog, were Fang lounging outside Hagrid's hut. No student kept a dog at school. And Charlie was a Doberman who'd had hunting training. Hogwarts wouldn't allow it.
"Poor little fellow."
Altair patted him on the head. Charlie leaned into the touch, then went back to tearing into his steak.
...
After the walk, Altair returned to the castle, watched television for a while, went to lunch, rested, and made his way to the shooting range.
Afternoon training ran every other day. Marksmanship, riding, combat. He used a PPK for its lighter recoil, and by the end his wrist ached from it anyway.
"Every moving target hit. Every stationary shot dead center." Jerome lowered his glass. "The Shelby family will be proud of you."
Jerome had served alongside Freddy for years, saved his life more than once. Altair had grown up watching him the way some boys watch their fathers.
"Thank you, Uncle Jerome. I wouldn't have results like these without you."
Jerome laughed, refilled his glass, and spent the better part of an hour telling old stories from Birmingham. When they finally parted, Altair went straight to the pool behind the castle. He soaked, ate a few pastries, swam his laps, and came back in as the light was going flat.
He switched on the television.
...
Half a month went by like that.
Every evening, Altair checked his window.
Then one night the owl came back, a letter tied to its leg. Professor McGonagall would arrive at three in the afternoon on July 30. The tone of the letter was measured but not cold. He read it twice.
He looked at the calendar. A week.
"One more week."
He said it quietly, to no one. Just the thought of it, the spells, the world sitting just beneath this one, made it hard to stand still.
He found Michael the next morning and told him a distinguished guest was coming on the thirtieth. Desserts, drinks, afternoon tea. And a word to the gunmen posted around the grounds. He didn't want Professor McGonagall walking through the gates and finding armed men at every corner.
...
July 30. 2:50 in the afternoon.
Altair stood at the main gate with Sofia beside him, the rest of the Shelbys fanned out behind, a handful of servants further back. The road was quiet.
At 2:58, a silver tabby appeared at the far end of the lane.
Altair watched it. He knew about McGonagall's Animagus form. The cat moved with a particular kind of deliberateness, and he was almost certain when it stopped dead in the middle of the road and bolted into the tree line.
McGonagall hadn't expected a crowd. As a witch she couldn't perform magic in front of Muggles, not beyond what the admissions visit required. There were too many people here, too many strangers. She slipped into the woods.
Michael drew out his pocket watch. "It's almost time."
"She'll be here."
He'd barely said it when a woman in emerald-green robes stepped out from between the trees and stopped at the gate. Several people flinched. She was tall and thin, somewhere in her sixties or seventies, black hair pinned up tight, spectacles, the kind of expression that didn't invite small talk. She looked at Altair.
He stared back. His face went through several things in quick succession.
McGonagall had no way of knowing what caused it.
Ding.
The host has made contact with an important character from the main plot of the Harry Potter world. System activated. Please select a divine artifact to forge.
"A divine artifact?"
So it was real. He'd half-believed it, the way you half-believe something you can't afford to be wrong about. But here it was. A system, and it had been waiting for this exact moment, this exact person.
Because this was the world of Harry Potter.
"Mr. Altair Shelby?"
McGonagall studied him. "You seem rather... pleasantly surprised."
"Yes." He gathered himself and gave a small bow. "Forgive me, Professor. I'll be honest. In most stories, witches are grim figures. Curses and death. I had built up a certain expectation." He paused, a little awkward. "Meeting you in person, I find I was wrong. You look stern, yes. But there's something else there too. That's what surprised me."
McGonagall was quiet for a moment. Then a faint smile crossed her face.
"Thank you, Altair."
Around them, no one quite knew what to make of it. Michael's jaw had tightened. He was fairly certain he'd heard the word witch. His eyes cut to Jimmy.
Jimmy gave the smallest nod.
Altair was already gesturing toward the castle, and after a brief internal calculation Michael said nothing, just fell into step.
The grounds were large enough that everyone took the transport carts from the gate. McGonagall rode with Altair. Michael drove. Jimmy took the front passenger seat and watched the road ahead for a few seconds before glancing back through the mirror.
"Professor McGonagall... Which university do you teach at?"