Altair found a girl waiting in the common room when he came downstairs.
She had brownish hair and carried herself with the particular arrogance of someone who had been told too many times that she mattered. Her face was fine enough, but her eyes had something unpleasant sitting in them.
Pansy Parkinson. He knew who she was. She and Draco had circled each other for a while at some point, nothing that ever amounted to anything. She was his most loyal follower, which said something about both of them.
She'd been waiting for Malfoy. When she heard footsteps on the stairs she looked up, already pleased with herself, and then saw Altair and let her expression drop into something contemptuous.
"Although the prefect said Slytherin doesn't only admit pure-bloods, in the eyes of most people, some really don't deserve to appear here."
Altair didn't break stride or look at her. "Very true. I think so too. Especially little bitches who think they're better than everyone else."
He walked out.
Behind him, Pansy's face went red. She stood there with her mouth open, reaching for something to throw back, and found nothing. The insults she'd grown up with ran along lines like low-born and filthy Mudblood. She had never encountered that particular word before. She understood it perfectly well anyway.
"I won't let you get away with this!"
She held it as long as she could, which wasn't long.
By then Altair was already out of the dungeons.
...
The Great Hall was filling up. Altair took a seat at the Slytherin table. A few of the older students glanced over and offered polite nods. Most gave him a brief, cool look and went back to their own conversations. The first-years didn't bother with greetings either, but that was simply because no one knew anyone yet.
Altair didn't particularly mind. He hadn't had many friends growing up at Shelby Manor. The quiet suited him.
"Breakfast."
He said it to the plate in front of him and food appeared. He picked out toast, a boiled potato, a glass of hot milk, two fried eggs, and settled in.
He took a sip of milk and considered the potato. Even something that simple had more to it than it had any right to. The house-elves knew what they were doing.
Hermione came in while he was eating.
The Gryffindors called out to her straight away. A few of the first-years waved her over. She was moving toward them when she saw Altair sitting alone at the Slytherin table, and her steps slowed.
She gave the others an apologetic smile. Then she came and sat down next to him.
"Breakfast!"
She slapped the table. A spread of dishes appeared in front of her. She picked up a slice of toast and began eating without ceremony.
Altair looked at her. She seemed well enough, bright-eyed in the way of someone who was both excited and slightly terrified. "You probably shouldn't be sitting here."
"I like it here," Hermione said, and her tone did not invite further discussion.
He wasn't going to argue. He turned back to his plate.
Then Pansy's voice came from diagonally across the table, pointed and carrying. "So you can just sit here because you like it? This is Slytherin territory. What right does a Gryffindor have to come over here? No manners at all. No wonder you're with that Mudbl..."
Altair raised his wand.
"Langlock."
The light hit before Pansy could finish the word. Her expression shifted from mockery to shock to something closer to fear. Her tongue had fixed itself to the roof of her mouth. She pushed at it and got nothing.
The table erupted. Several students got to their feet. Prefect Gemma came over quickly, looking pained before she'd even arrived.
"This is really too much," she muttered, and lifted her wand to counter it.
The jinx held.
Gemma stared at Altair. She tried again. Still nothing. The embarrassment on her face was visible. A prefect, unable to undo a spell cast by a first-year.
The commotion had reached the staff table. Dumbledore, Snape, and McGonagall all came over.
Snape looked at Pansy. Something moved across his face, an expression difficult to read. He touched his wand to her once, lightly, and her tongue came free.
"Ahhh! You filthy Mudbl..."
"Be quiet, Miss Parkinson." Snape's voice cut through her cleanly. "I do not want to hear that word again. If I do, the punishment will be severe."
He held her with a look until she pressed her lips together and dropped her gaze.
Then he turned to Altair. "Where did you learn that jinx?"
Langlock was his own invention, worked out during his own years at Hogwarts. It had never been shared with anyone.
"I worked it out myself."
It wasn't a lie.
Knowing an incantation was one thing. Actually casting the spell was another. But Altair carried Sauron's gift, and in matters of dark magic and jinxes, his aptitude went well beyond what most wizards could reach in a lifetime. In this world, if Altair placed second in that regard, no one would dare put their hand up for first.
He had only needed to think about the spell for a short while before it reconstructed itself in his mind, complete and usable.
Drinking water required him to pick up the glass. Reconstructing a spell required only the thought.