The corridors of Hogwarts changed depending on who walked them.
To most students, they were simply paths—stone floors worn smooth by generations of feet, walls lined with portraits that gossiped or napped, staircases that moved when they felt like it. To Lookon, every step felt like crossing a threshold he wasn't entirely sure he belonged on the other side of.
He moved deliberately, not hurrying. The castle's magic seemed to respond to pace; rush, and a staircase might decide to lead you in circles just to remind you who was in charge. Walk slowly, and it let you see the small things: a suit of armor that creaked as if breathing, a tapestry whose embroidered unicorn flicked an ear when no one was looking, faint scorch marks on a wall from some long-ago misfired spell.
McGonagall's office was on the second floor, near the Transfiguration classroom. He had twenty-three minutes until ten o'clock. Plenty of time.
He paused outside a tall window that overlooked the Quidditch pitch. The morning light slanted through thin clouds, turning the grass a pale, almost silver green. A few brooms were already out—early practice, probably Gryffindor or Slytherin trying to steal an advantage before classes swallowed the day.
Lookon pressed his palm against the cool glass.
The world outside looked peaceful.
Inside his head, the System continued its quiet commentary.
**Time to Appointment: 22 minutes 14 seconds**
**McGonagall, Minerva – Threat Assessment: Low (high observational acuity, strong sense of duty)**
**Recommended Approach: Truth-adjacent honesty. Avoid fabrication where possible; partial truths reduce cognitive dissonance risk.**
**Documentation Integrity: 100% (forged seals match Ministry standard as of 1991)**
**Aura Calibration: Stable (Ilvermorny signature holding at 98.7%)**
He let his hand drop.
Truth-adjacent.
That was going to be tricky.
He wasn't lying about being Luka Orion. The name felt real enough now, like a coat he'd worn long enough to forget it wasn't his original skin. But the backstory—family relocation, MACUSA audit, sealed records—was smoke. Useful smoke, but smoke nonetheless.
He turned away from the window and continued down the corridor.
A group of third-year Hufflepuffs passed him, laughing about something involving exploding Snap cards. One girl glanced at him curiously—new face, unfamiliar robes—but didn't stop. He gave a small nod, the kind that said *I see you, I'm harmless, carry on.*
They did.
The door to McGonagall's office was heavy oak, polished to a deep gleam, with a brass knocker shaped like a snarling cat. Lookon stood in front of it for a full minute, breathing evenly.
He raised his hand to knock.
Before his knuckles touched wood, the door swung inward.
Professor McGonagall stood framed in the doorway, tall, severe, emerald robes immaculate, hair pulled back so tightly it looked like it hurt.
"Mr. Orion," she said. Her voice was crisp, Scottish accent cutting through the morning quiet like a knife through parchment. "You are punctual. Come in."
Lookon stepped inside.
The office smelled of ink, old books, and a faint trace of lemon. A fire crackled in the hearth despite the mild weather—probably for comfort more than warmth. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with volumes whose titles he recognized from late-night Wikipedia dives back in Leekelo: *Advanced Transfiguration*, *The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 7)*, a thick tome simply titled *Animagus: Theory and Practice*.
A large desk dominated the center of the room. On it sat a teapot, two cups, a small plate of shortbread, and the Ministry parchment he had received at breakfast.
McGonagall gestured to the chair opposite her desk.
"Sit."
He sat.
She remained standing for a moment longer, studying him with the same focused intensity she gave a student who had just turned their teacup into a tortoise instead of a teapot.
"You arrived without prior notice," she said at last. "No owl from Ilvermorny, no advance correspondence from MACUSA. Only this—" she tapped the parchment "—delivered by an exhausted Ministry owl at half-past eight this morning."
Lookon met her gaze steadily.
"I apologize for the inconvenience, Professor. It was… sudden."
McGonagall raised one eyebrow a fraction of an inch.
"Sudden," she repeated. "A word that rarely applies to bureaucracy."
She moved behind her desk and sat, folding her hands on the blotter.
"Explain."
Lookon had rehearsed variations of this in his head while walking the grounds. He chose the simplest version.
"My family was transferred. My father works in the Department of International Magical Cooperation. There was an internal review—something about cross-border artifact tracking. They needed to relocate quickly. Ilvermorny couldn't accommodate a mid-year shift without disrupting the curriculum, so MACUSA reached out to Hogwarts. Dumbledore approved it last week. The paperwork was supposed to arrive before me. Clearly it didn't."
He kept his voice calm, even. No defensiveness. No over-explanation.
McGonagall listened without interrupting.
When he finished, she leaned back slightly.
"You understand that Hogwarts does not accept students on verbal assurances alone."
"I do."
"And yet here you sit."
"The owl arrived," he said simply. "I assumed that counted as assurance."
A long silence.
McGonagall studied him again—longer this time.
"You speak with an accent I cannot quite place. Not quite American, not quite anything else."
Lookon allowed a small, self-deprecating smile.
"Raised in a mixed household. My mother's family has roots in… various places. I pick up odd inflections."
It wasn't a lie. Leekelo's Chennai had layered accents the way other cities layered history. Tamil inflections mixed with English schoolroom precision, Bollywood cadence, the occasional Americanism from dubbed cartoons. Close enough to pass.
McGonagall hummed—a neutral sound.
She lifted the teapot.
"Tea?"
Lookon hesitated only a second.
"Yes. Thank you."
She poured two cups. No milk, no sugar. Just dark, steaming liquid that smelled faintly of bergamot.
He took his cup. The porcelain was warm against his palms.
She sipped once, set the cup down.
"Albus has already reviewed your file. He is… intrigued by the haste. He has granted provisional enrollment on the condition that you report any unusual magical activity immediately, and that you submit to a basic diagnostic charm tomorrow morning in the Hospital Wing. To confirm no curses, no compulsions, no lingering Portkey sickness."
Lookon nodded.
"Understood."
McGonagall's expression softened by the smallest degree—not kindness, exactly, but the absence of active suspicion.
"You will be sorted tonight at dinner. The Hat has already been informed. Until then, you are to attend classes as a provisional seventh-year. I have assigned you to Ravenclaw tower for lodging—neutral ground, easier to monitor. Your timetable will be delivered by owl before lunch."
She slid a small folded note across the desk.
"Password to the common room: 'Wit beyond measure.' Do not share it."
Lookon took the note, tucked it into his robe pocket.
"Thank you, Professor."
McGonagall regarded him for another long moment.
"One more thing, Mr. Orion."
He waited.
"Hogwarts is a place of safety for many who have not found it elsewhere. If you are here because you are running from something—be it family, Ministry, or your own past—I expect you to leave that trouble at the gates. We have enough of our own."
Lookon met her eyes.
"I'm not running, Professor. I'm… trying to understand where I fit."
It was the most honest thing he had said since stepping through the rift.
McGonagall held his gaze.
Then she nodded once.
"Very well. You are dismissed. First class begins in twelve minutes—Transfiguration, here. Do not be late."
Lookon stood.
He paused at the door.
"Professor?"
She looked up.
"If I may ask—how is Harry Potter settling in?"
McGonagall's expression tightened, just for a second.
"He is adjusting. As well as can be expected."
Lookon nodded.
"Thank you."
He left the office.
The door closed softly behind him.
The corridor felt wider now. Brighter.
He had twelve minutes.
He walked toward the Transfiguration classroom without rushing.
The castle hummed around him.
And for the first time, a small, quiet part of him thought:
Maybe I can do this.
One careful step.
One careful lie.
One careful truth.
At a time.