Aster walked out of the forest, limping slightly.
At the edge of the trees, Ron and Harry stood waiting for him. They looked sheepish, like boys who'd barely escaped detention and knew someone else had paid the price.
Pain bloomed in his ribs with every breath. His side, where the bloody Ford Anglia had slammed into him while he was in his Animagus form, throbbed with sharp defiance.
'I'm going to destroy that car,' Aster thought, grimacing. 'It did that on purpose. Probably still mad I broke its door last time.'
Above him, Nyx circled, cawing in what could only be described as laughter. When she dipped lower, Aster noticed something new: her wings shimmered darker than before. Each flap left behind a faint trail of black flame, flickering briefly in the air before vanishing.
Another change. He made a mental note to ask her if she ever gave him a straight answer.
Then came the hurried sound of footsteps. Hermione.
She ran toward him across the lawn, eyes wide, breath fast. "They told me the car ran over you! Do you have any idea how worried I was?!"
Aster winced and instinctively stepped back. "Mione…" he started, wary. He'd seen her when she was mad before. He still remembered the time she hexed Draco without blinking.
But instead of yelling, she surged forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight, shaking hug.
It startled him. Hugging wasn't… common. Not for him.
His arms hesitated in the air before settling awkwardly around her. For a moment, her warmth made the pain fade.
And just beyond them, unnoticed at first, Ginny stood near the stone steps.
She didn't speak. Didn't move. But her eyes, fixed on the way Hermione held Aster, shimmered strangely.
A flicker of red bled into the brown of her irises, like a light behind glass.
Maybe it was the setting sun.
Maybe it was something else.
They walked to the castle, still divided by fear and worry, but together.
That night, back in the Slytherin common room, Aster sat by the hearth, testing his magic in silence. He'd forgotten to take the locket back from Hermione. Not that it mattered. He didn't feel any disturbance, no pull in his thoughts, no voice that wasn't his.
For once, the quiet felt... safe.
Then the moment shattered.
Pansy came running down the stairs, breathless. "Aster," she said, her voice uneven, "Hermione, she's—"
She didn't finish.
She didn't need to.
The warmth of the fireplace flickered once and went out. A gust of unnatural cold swept the chamber. Frost formed over the windows. Somewhere beyond the walls, the Black Lake groaned and cracked, freezing over in a breath.
No one moved.
No one said a word.
Aster was already gone.
Magic reacted to his emotions now, wild and old and rooted in things deeper than words. He didn't bother to restrain it.
He reached the hospital wing in moments.
Madam Pomfrey looked up as he burst in, her expression firm but not unkind. "She's stable," she said gently. "Petrified. But she'll recover once the Mandrake Draught is ready."
Aster didn't answer. He barely heard her.
He crossed the room and sat beside Hermione's bed, as if drawn there by some tether.
She lay still, her features frozen in an expression of terror and urgency.
He didn't touch it.
He didn't speak.
He just sat there, eyes fixed on her face, trying to remember the sound of her voice.
Mandrakes... he thought. You can't just buy grown ones. They take time, care. Weeks. Months.
Time he didn't have.
Time she might not.
Nyx appeared in the window, silent and still, like a shadow watching over grief.
The locket wasn't with her.
And so, Aster knew: someone had stolen it. The Heir of Slytherin.
Days passed in a tense haze. Aster questioned everyone he could. Then, Hermione was found, unconscious, near the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, a small mirror clutched tightly in her hand. No one had seen anyone near her.
He ruled out Draco Malfoy and his usual shadows, Crabbe and Goyle. They were all talk, no real threat. And everyone could see it wasn't him. Not after how he reacted to Hermione's attack. And it couldn't be Harry, either.
But no one had other suspects. Just the same two names passed around in whispers, matching their own biases.
No one except Aster.
He thought of Hermione, Muggle-born, yet close to both boys. Too close. Too trusting.Too vulnerable.
And then Valentine's Day arrived.
February 14 – Great Hall
The ceiling glowed soft pink. Garlands of red and blush roses floated in the air, tangled in glittering lace. Cherubs drifted about, plucking harps and sprinkling confetti, but no one was really smiling, at least, not at the Slytherin table.
Despite the tension haunting the school, Hermione still in the hospital wing, petrified, the Heir of Slytherin still unknown—Gilderoy Lockhart stood beaming at the front of the room.
"I organized this myself!" he proclaimed proudly. "A celebration of love and friendship, even in dark times!"
"A day for chocolate and flowers!" Lockhart beamed.Aster said nothing, watching pink rose petals drift over his untouched plate like snow settling over a grave.
Aster barely touched his food. His gaze was flat, his presence distant. The moment he walked into the Hall, one of Lockhart's hired dwarves had started following him.
"I said no," he growled after the third attempt to sing.
It didn't help.
The dwarf was eventually intercepted, not by a teacher, but by Draco Malfoy, who snatched the card with a sneer and read it out loud for the entire table to hear:
"His eyes are as violet as a gem, His hair is as ash as a cinder of a reborn phoenix. I wish he was mine, he's commanding, The lord who returned from death."[1]
A low hush fell over the table.
Draco's smirk deepened. "Wow. Did you pay them, Black? How appropriate for the Slytherin Heir to get love letters from obsessed lunatics. I suppose it's no surprise. Who else would attack their little mud—"
He didn't finish.
Aster's fist connected with Draco's face with a crack that echoed off the enchanted ceiling. Draco flew backwards, crashing over the bench, nose bleeding.
Gasps erupted across the hall.
Nyx, perched high above, echoed in a perfect mimic of Draco's voice:
"You should've stopped at gems, Malfoy boy."
Professor McGonagall's voice rang out stern and clipped from across the room.
"Mr. Black! I know your mood hasn't been good since last month, but today is not the day for barbaric actions. One month detention."
Aster didn't argue.
He walked over to the fallen Malfoy, bent down, and picked up the Valentine card. Without a word, he folded the card and tucked it into his robe pocket.
But what Aster didn't notice… were the eyes watching him.
Two bright brown eyes, locked on him with a strange mix of longing and something far darker. Obsession, maybe. Or something else entirely.
She didn't blink. Didn't flinch. Even when he turned and walked out of the Great Hall, she kept staring, as if tethered to him by something invisible.
And just for a moment, deep in her irises, there was a flicker of red.
Not reflection. Not trick of the light.
She tilted her head, as if responding to a voice only she could hear.Then, without a word, Ginny Weasley rose from the bench and followed Aster out into the corridor, the echoes of lace and laughter fading behind her.
[1] I am not good with poem, fuck it, still in general I think an 11yo would do the same.