Snape's face held a trace of suspicion, but underneath it, something closer to genuine surprise. He was a master Legilimens, and he could tell plainly enough that Altair wasn't lying. He glanced at McGonagall, remembered what she had told him before term began, and arrived at a considerably revised understanding of what Altair's talent actually meant.
McGonagall's expression had gone grim.
She had worried about this. She had worried about it specifically, the possibility that Altair might go the wrong way, and the Sorting had not helped. She'd spent half the night awake over it. And now, on the very first morning of term, before breakfast was even finished, he had pointed his wand at a classmate.
It wasn't the most aggressive spell he could have chosen. But still.
"Miss Granger." McGonagall turned to Hermione, her voice precise and stern. "Perhaps you can tell us what happened."
It seemed clear enough to her who had sparked it. A Gryffindor had wandered into Slytherin territory, and if it had come to a dispute, Hermione would not have had the stronger claim.
Hermione glanced at Altair, then told it straight. She didn't know what Mudblood meant, but she had read Snape's reaction well enough to understand it wasn't harmless, so she repeated Pansy's words exactly as they had been said.
The professors' expressions shifted.
McGonagall looked at Altair and let out a quiet breath. "Even so, pointing your wand at a fellow student was not the right choice. I think you could have done better."
"No one insults a Shelby, Professor McGonagall."
He held her gaze steadily. "I may have come from the Muggle world, but my family is my honor. She should count herself fortunate this happened inside a school. If it had been the Muggle world, and someone said that to a Shelby's face..."
He looked at Pansy. The smile that crossed his face didn't reach his eyes.
"She would already be dead."
He said it the way someone might note the weather. No heat in it, no performance. Just a fact he saw no reason to dress up.
He had lived eleven years in this world, and for most of those years he hadn't known it was the world of Harry Potter. He had simply lived as the Shelby heir. The heir to a family that ran Birmingham's underworld. The people around him growing up had been crime bosses, gunmen, and killers, and they had not pretended otherwise.
When he spoke, everyone around him heard that history in it. No one laughed. No one thought he was exaggerating. They simply believed him, instinctively and completely.
The first-years nearby drew sharp little breaths. Malfoy and the others were already trembling, remembering the dormitory, feeling retroactively grateful for how the night had ended.
Pansy had gone white. She took two steps back and didn't seem to know what to do with herself.
At the staff table, Dumbledore had gone quietly still, a faint furrow forming between his brows. He knew what the Shelby family was. A student like this, sorted into Slytherin, with that level of raw talent on top of everything else. That was the real source of his headache.
"And besides," Altair continued, turning to Dumbledore now, "she was the one who provoked us. I don't believe there is anything wrong with Hermione eating here. This is Hogwarts. Hermione is a Hogwarts student. She has every right to sit wherever she likes. The four houses ought to be friendly with one another, competitive perhaps, but not hostile and divided."
Dumbledore's expression softened. "Well said, Altair."
He let out a slow, quiet breath inwardly. A boy who could say something like that, who could hold that thought alongside everything else he carried, perhaps was not beyond reach after all. The upbringing had been unusual, to put it gently. But Dumbledore had seen stranger histories lead to decent lives. He believed Hogwarts could offer Altair a path worth taking.
"You are quite right. Hermione may eat wherever she wishes. Hogwarts is home to every student here. You are all family." He paused, and his tone became gently firm. "However, your response to Miss Parkinson was somewhat extreme. And Miss Parkinson was speaking without thought. I believe you have both recognized your mistakes. If you can forgive one another, shall we consider the matter closed?"
He looked at Altair and waited.
"I believe she has already received her punishment," Altair said. "And I trust she will think more carefully before speaking that way again." He paused briefly. "I'm willing to apologize for my conduct. She is a girl, and a gentleman shouldn't be so rough with a lady."
He looked at Pansy. The cold hadn't entirely left his eyes.
Pansy felt none of the apology in it. But she could read the room, and she forced a small, careful smile. "I... I forgive you. I was wrong. I apologize. To you, and to Miss Granger."
She looked like she might cry, though whether from shame or fear it was hard to say. Altair felt nothing in particular about it.
"Very well." Dumbledore nodded. "The matter is closed. But if there is a next time, the consequences will be handled properly."
He turned and walked back toward the staff table.
Snape said nothing. He gave Altair one long, measuring look and followed.
McGonagall lingered. She reached out and touched the top of Altair's head, lightly, just for a moment. "If you'd like, you're welcome to join Gryffindor for meals. I think you'd find willing friends there."
She had been thinking it even as she said it. The atmosphere in Slytherin ran cold. A little time among the lions might do him some good.
"Thank you, Professor McGonagall."
"Yes. Now eat your breakfast. You have classes this afternoon."
She smiled at him, then went back to her seat.
Around the table, the other students settled slowly back into their places, still murmuring, still stealing looks across the hall from time to time.