Chapter Text
Harry writhed under the itchy blanket, the very feel of it pressed against his skin sent a raw, crawling sensation through his body. He tossed and turned, clenching his eyes shut as he tried to ignore the way his body racked with shuddering breaths.
He let out a gasp as he felt cold, smooth skin pressing against his forehead.
His eyes snapped open and emerald green eyes met a stormy gray gaze. He froze as he looked at his godfather. “Sirius?” He rasped, disbelief coloring his tone.
His mind raced—how did Sirius manage to sneak into Hogwarts with all the Ministry officials racing about? He struggled to make sense of it, a distressed whine leaving his throat. He didn’t want his godfather to risk his freedom just to check on him. Harry refused to be the reason Sirius was thrown back in Azkaban.
Harry watched as Sirius pulled away from him.
No, not Sirius. His consciousness sang, yet the presence next to him felt rather similar to his beloved godfather. His head hurt, trying to make sense of it. He reached for the table next to the bed, feeling for his glasses. “Sirius?” He repeats groggily.
“Altair.” A crisp, alluring voice corrects. Harry felt his glasses, Altair having pressed them into his calloused hands. He slipped on his glasses, waiting for his vision to adjust to the darkness and his glasses. He looked at this mysterious ‘Altair’ and was met with the sight of a girl that looked how Harry imagined Sirius had in his youth. Dark wavy hair, pale skin and sharp, aristocratic features. The same hauntingly ethereal features that Sirius had—the same features he had seen on Narcissa Malfoy this summer.
Harry was snapped from his musings when a glass was shoved into his field of vision, Altair holding it out for him to take. “Have a sip,” Altair instructs, all but thrusting the glass into his hand. Harry grasped the cup, bringing it up to his mouth. He took a sip and was hit with the realization of just how thirsty he had unknowingly been.
He tilted his head back and downed the rest of the cool, soothing liquid without another thought. In the back of his mind, something felt wrong—why was he so at ease around such a stranger?
Altair remained silent, hovering near the end of the bed. Harry set the glass cup down on the table beside him, then folded his hands into his lap. Even the small act of lifting a cup had left his arms feeling like lead.
For a moment, the girl before him looked as if she was going to inquire about what happened at the graveyard—she had the same look in her eye as Dumbledore had—and Harry braced himself for a hard conversation.
“Eat,” She said promptly and Harry looked at her, brows furrowed, confused as there was no food in her hands, but with a faint ‘pop’ a tray appeared on his lap with a sock accompanying it.
Harry looked down at the array of food—fruits, mostly, with a few pieces of jerky and another glass of water. Strawberries, blueberries, apples and grapes were all recognizable—but there was a strange, rough textured fruit cubed up and mixed with cinnamon in a small dish. Altair propped up on the bed opposite of him, a tray in her own lap.
“Why..” Harry wondered aloud, trailing off. Why was she being so weird? He wanted to know, but he also refused to voice his question in fear of her lashing out at him whilst he was still bedbound and weak from his encounter with Voldemort and his goons.
She paused, her fork hovering midair as she glanced up at him. She frowned. “Why, what?” She pressed, setting her fork down on her tray.
Harry swallowed hard. His mind raced as he thought up a different question—a safer question, he hoped.
“Why do you look like Sirius?” He bursted. It was the first question to come to mind and something that had been bothering him internally. He wanted to know badly, since Sirius had never mentioned anything about a brother or sister who might’ve had children.
Altair placed her tray down behind her, on the bed, and crossed her legs. “That would be genetics, I’d say.” She spoke, clicking her tongue. “Firstborn daughters tend to look like their fathers, or so I’ve heard.”
Harry scrunched up his nose. “Daughter?” He squinted at her, scrutinizing her appearance. There were the obvious similarities between them—their features, the haughty air around them, the accent that accompanied their words.
“ Daughter ,” She repeats softly, watching as he mixes his fruit around instead of eating it. “Oldest of two children.”
Harry was stunned into silence, processing the information. He shifted uncomfortably, becoming overly aware of the fact his hands trembled slightly when he picked up his glass.
Harry had racked his memory from the prior year—and the letters that followed meeting his godfather—but could not remember any mention of a daughter, or any children at that. It made him curious, wanting to know why.
Then again, Harry thought, there had been barely any time for such personal information to come out during their first meeting and any letters they sent were forced to be vague due to Sirius status as an Azkaban escapee.
“Eat,” Altair repeats, breaking the silence as she picks up her tray and begins picking at her fruits with vigor. “It’s rather delicious,” She added when she saw his skeptical look at the cinnamon-mystery fruit mixture. “My Oret sent it to me, but an enthusiastic house-elf was the one to prepare it. Dobby, I believe his name was.”
“Oret?” Harry’s mind latched onto the unfamiliar word. He grunted as he shifted in his hospital bed, then he hesitantly brought a piece of the mysterious fruit to his mouth. He sniffed it, only getting a strong whiff of cinnamon.
Altair watched with amusement as he finally spooned the cubed piece of fruit into his mouth. He moaned in delight, turning his attention back to the bowl of fruits. It was easy on his stomach and appealed to his taste buds—a surprise due to his usual lack of appetite. The small bowl was picked at as Harry savored the curious taste of the simple snack.
Once he had eaten his fill, he set his tray to the side. Keen, silver eyes glanced over at his tray and Altair frowned, but said nothing about his seemingly small appetite. Afterall, he had endured a great deal of torment just hours before.
“What does ‘Oret’ mean?” Harry questioned, remembering the word from before he had focused on his food. Altair set her own tray down.
“Oret is a term of respect, it’s..” Altair stopped, eyes narrowing. Harry shifted uncomfortably as she focused on him so intensely.
Harry waited for her to finish, but as silence reigned on he began to think she wouldn't. She was observing him, carefully, and just as he was about to open his mouth she finished her sentence. “..a term a certain type of wizard uses for their mentor.”
He hadn’t heard of wizards having mentors before, but perhaps he hadn’t been paying attention to other conversations. He had been made aware of the fact that he tended to distance himself from anyone who wasn’t Ron, Hermione or his roommates.
It had made him feel rather lonely and excluded this year, when the school had turned against him a second time.
“Is having a mentor common in the wizarding world?” Harry questioned, watching as the trays vanished—a house-elf no doubt behind it, seeing as an extra sugary hot chocolate was left on the table. Happily, he took the cup in his trembling hands.
Chocolate made things better, he had once been told. Taking a sip of the hot liquid, Harry couldn’t help but agree with Professor Lupin.
“No, not usually. There are special cases,” Altair murmured. “I’m sure you’ll have one.”
Her comment came off as odd and out of place to Harry— how would she know? Then it came to him. ‘Special cases’. It probably had occurred to her that he wasn’t normal . His freakish nature, his unnatural unfavorable luck. Of course he would have a mentor, if being special is all that was required.
She went silent, sipping at her own steaming mug of hot chocolate.
Harry waited as patiently as he could for Altair to finish her sentence, but she never did. She observed him over the lip of her cup.
Harry felt his eyes growing heavier and he tried to fight it off, but he slumped against his pillow. He was so tired. Tired of being a freak, even in wizarding terms. A parselmouth in need of a mentor. Then he frowned. He didn’t know what to think of the girl sitting near him. His instincts were telling him to trust her, but he was wary.
How could he have never noticed her before? How could Sirius have never mentioned her? Harry would’ve mentioned having children at least once, if he were in Sirius’s shoes.
Faintly, Harry remembered Ron growing snappy and tense in third year after someone had made an attempt to sneak into the Hospital room. Ron had said it was a sneakish slytherin coming to make trouble and Harry hadn’t inquired further, still on edge from the dementors. Maybe it had been Altair. Maybe it had been a random slytherin. He would never know now, he supposed.
With that last train of thought, he was embraced by exhaustion despite his silent protests.
Altair slinked closer, taking his glasses and setting them to the side. She looked him over with a critical eye, pursing her lips together. She didn’t know what to think of him just yet.