Lumos was simple enough in theory. In practice, without proper concentration, you were more likely to set your wand on fire than light it. Professor Flitwick walked them through it carefully, and most of the class managed something, even if half the results were barely brighter than a candle stub. Flitwick was pleased regardless.
Altair cast it without speaking the incantation. He turned the brightness up and down as though adjusting a lamp, until at its peak the light made people look away. Flitwick gave him ten points and looked like he wanted to applaud.
Hermione's performance was genuinely good. It just wasn't that, and Flitwick didn't award points for good.
She didn't argue with herself about it for long. After Transfiguration, after Entangling Thorns, she had a reasonably clear picture of where the gap was. Charms and Transfiguration, she'd concede. The reading-heavy subjects were another matter. Altair had said himself that he didn't enjoy reading. She filed that away.
...
Gryffindor had the afternoon free. Slytherin had History of Magic.
Hermione went to the library. Altair went to history, and finally understood what she had meant the day before.
He lasted twenty minutes before Professor Binns's voice, flat and rhythmless and completely indifferent to whether anyone was listening, pulled him under. He woke up when the class was already filing out.
He watched Binns drift through the wall.
"What a waste."
It reminded him of philosophy lectures from his previous life. The same quality of sound, the same helpless slide into unconsciousness. He'd never once managed to stay awake for those either.
...
It was still early in the term. Harry and Ron had gone somewhere after lunch, nobody seemed to know where, and the shape of things hadn't settled yet. In the original story, the troll on Halloween had been what finally bound the three of them together. Ron had said something unkind about Hermione, she'd overheard it, hidden in the bathroom, missed the feast, and then Harry and Ron had gone in after her when Quirrell let the troll loose. That was the night that made them friends.
With Altair in the picture, it was an open question whether any of that would happen at all.
Today was Wednesday.
...
After dinner, the first-years made their way up to the Astronomy Tower. The telescopes were out, the sky was clear, and Professor Sinistra moved through the lesson methodically, names and positions and the slow paths the stars traced across the year. Ancient astrology held that those paths meant something.
Most of the students weren't thinking about that. They were looking at the view.
Hermione pulled Altair to a corner and watched the stars while she talked about her childhood, unhurried, the kind of talking that doesn't need much of a reason.
...
When they got back to the dormitory, Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle were sitting on their beds. Not reading. Not playing chess. Just sitting, occasionally glancing at each other, occasionally glancing at the door.
Altair looked at them once.
All three flinched.
"Why aren't you sleeping?"
He'd changed into his nightclothes and was watching them with mild curiosity. Having people stare at him while he slept was not something he could tolerate.
"We're... not sleepy," Goyle said. The smile he produced was painful to look at.
"Then do something. Read, play chess, talk. You don't have to sit there like that."
He studied them for a moment. They weren't entirely without potential, these three. Malfoy had disarmed Dumbledore, and even if Dumbledore had allowed it, he wouldn't have created an opening for someone completely useless. Voldemort himself had acknowledged the boy. That meant something. And Goyle had later managed Fiendfyre, however poorly, which was not a spell that mediocre wizards could touch at all.
"We didn't want to disturb you," Crabbe said. His round face was sheened with sweat. His small eyes didn't quite settle anywhere.
"I'll put a spell around my bed. You could hold a dance in here and it wouldn't reach me."
Altair reached out and tapped the air around his bed. A brief curtain of light moved through the space and then his bed was simply gone, as though the corner of the room had been neatly removed.
"Sleep early. We have Potions tomorrow, and the professor is Snape."
He said it without looking up.
"Good night."
"Ah... yes. Good night. Good night."
Malfoy's voice cracked slightly on the second one. By the time he'd recovered, there was nothing to look at. Just a corner of a room.
Malfoy turned to his two companions. Both were sitting on the floor. Crabbe had his sleeve pressed to his forehead.
"He's actually..." Crabbe started, then lowered his voice further. "He's kind of all right. We were the ones who went for him first. And whatever he did to Goyle, it didn't hurt him. He slept better than any of us."