Sauron was a Dark Lord that made Voldemort look like a footnote. Immortal, patient, thousands of years spent in hiding, waiting. And Altair was going to build his legend for him.
Trolls. Uruk-hai. Balrogs. Nazgûl...
By the time Sauron was finally summoned, the wizarding world would understand that Voldemort had been nothing, that Harry Potter was no savior, and that the real threat had been waiting in the dark long before either of them existed.
And at that moment, Altair would step forward.
"Fame, power, and strength, all at once. A perfect path of supremacy."
He said it quietly, to no one, and smiled. He wrapped the parchment carefully and set it aside. He'd find the right book in the library when the opportunity came. Then he settled back and returned to Saruman's experimental notes.
...
When the hour felt right, Altair left the dormitory and went up to the Great Hall for afternoon tea. It was a habit he'd carried over from years in the Shelby household, and he saw no reason to drop it now.
He was most of the way through a pudding and a cup of black tea when the Gryffindors came in from History of Magic. Hermione spotted him from across the hall and crossed toward him with a look of someone who had survived something.
"Good heavens, Altair, you would absolutely hate History of Magic. I'm convinced Professor Binns was casting some kind of sleeping spell. I had to physically stop myself from closing my eyes."
She sat beside him and launched into a full account of Professor Binns, the ghost who apparently taught by droning. Neville settled nearby, nodding along. There were faint marks from a textbook pressed into the side of his face.
Harry and Ron looked alert enough. They had probably slept well.
Altair tapped the table and asked for another Darjeeling, then passed it across to Hermione before glancing at the others.
"Would you like afternoon tea?"
"Brilliant idea!" Ron slapped the table with his palm. "I need cheesecake, chocolate muffins, pineapple buns, fruit cream puffs, and two Earl Greys."
Hermione looked at him without words for a moment. She set her cup down and turned to Altair.
"Come outside with me. I need to wake up properly."
"All right."
He stood and followed her out.
Ron watched them go, took a large bite of a pineapple bun, and spoke through it. "I'd bet money on it, Harry. Those two are definitely dating."
"They're eleven, Ron."
Harry rolled his eyes, though he kept watching the door they'd walked through. He wasn't sure Ron was entirely wrong, even if the word was too much. There was something between Altair and Hermione that Harry couldn't place exactly. One in Gryffindor, one in Slytherin, and already that morning several older Gryffindors had started looking at Hermione differently because of it.
He pressed his lips together.
His parents had been wizards. He'd grown up Muggle. And yet Altair, who had also grown up Muggle, kept a distance from him that Harry couldn't quite account for.
Maybe it was just Hermione.
...
Outside the main doors, a wide lawn opened up toward Hagrid's hut, the Forbidden Forest dark behind it. From where they stood, they could see a corner of the Quidditch pitch and a slice of the Black Lake. Hufflepuffs were running drills on the field, their uniforms bright in the afternoon light.
Altair and Hermione walked without much direction, letting the breeze come in off the grass. The air smelled clean in the way that outdoor air rarely did, and by the time they found a clear patch of lawn and sat down, Hermione looked like herself again.
"I really don't think the students who grew up in wizarding families are anything special," she said. There was a slightly embarrassed quality to the smile, but her eyes were steady and bright. "Honestly, I was nervous before we started."
"Hermione, you're the best."
Altair laughed and ruffled her hair. It was, not for the first time, a remarkable amount of hair.
"You sound like my father when you say that."
She gave him a look that tried to be reproving and didn't quite manage it.
"I know your talent is better than mine. You've probably already mastered intermediate spells." She lifted her chin. "But spells aren't everything. I earned five more points today, even in History of Magic. Because I was the only one who knew Gaspard Shingleton. The inventor of the Self-Stirring Cauldron."
"Another five points."
The corner of his mouth moved.
Good. Keep adding them.
Harry and Ron would start throwing themselves into trouble within the week. The points would sort themselves out.
"You didn't know who Gaspard Shingleton was, did you?"
She had a particular look when she was pleased with herself.
Altair shook his head. "I genuinely didn't. I don't enjoy reading about that sort of thing." He paused. "But since you've told me his name, let me teach you a spell."
The change in her was immediate. The smugness dropped away and something sharper replaced it, her eyes fixed on him with full attention.
"An intermediate spell?"
"More or less. It isn't in any standard text. I found it in an old notebook, written by a wizard named Saruman."
He drew his wand and tapped the grass lightly.
"Entangling Thorns."