The morning after Valentine's Day. Just after dawn.
Aster sat at the Slytherin table, silent, still, and cold. So cold that even the nearby first-years didn't dare whisper. No one did. Not after yesterday. Draco, still nursing a swollen cheekbone, kept his distance.
Then came Gilderoy Lockhart, grinning with the usual unbearable confidence."Splendid way to get attention yesterday, boy," he said, waving his hands dramatically. "But let's not forget—I was in charge of the event."
Aster didn't look up. He felt a heat coil in his chest, not from embarrassment, but fury. He knew this man had spent the entire year trying to leech fame from Harry.
Not everyone cares about being seen. He said nothing.
Pansy Parkinson quickly jumped in, "Professor! Could I get one of your autographs, please?"Daphne, without missing a beat, joined her. If Aster punched a teacher, they figured, the fallout would be worse than detention.
Before anything else could happen, Professor McGonagall, now Headmistress after Dumbledore had been stripped of his post, approached the table.
"Mr. Black," she said quietly but firmly, "Lucius Malfoy is petitioning the Board to have you expelled. I'm working to revoke the appeal, but at most, I can buy you a month."
Aster looked up and locked eyes with her. "Let him try," Aster said calmly. "The coward's never raised a wand without someone richer behind him." His tone was his. But the cadence wasn't.
It was his voice. But it wasn't him who answered.
McGonagall's eyes narrowed, just briefly, and Aster realized the slip. He shook his head slightly and added, "Sorry, Professor. Like you said yesterday, my mood's been heavy… since last month."
Then came a disturbance, Ron Weasley bursting into the hall. He didn't hesitate. He stormed to Aster, grabbed him by the collar, fury in his face.
"What did you do!?" Ron snapped.
The entire room froze.
Professor McGonagall made to step forward, but didn't—something in the air had shifted. Something old. Something wrong.
"What do you think the boy did, Ronald?" Aster's voice asked, smooth as glass, but not quite his own.
Harry arrived moments later, chest heaving."Ginny," he said. "She's… missing."
The temperature dropped. As if frost had crept across the Great Hall.
Aster didn't breathe. He didn't blink. He just felt it, that cold, crawling guilt again, laced with something darker.
"What makes you think I had anything to do with it?" he asked, voice like ice.
Harry hesitated, unwilling to speak it aloud.
"We found a parchment in Hermione's hand," he finally said. "It said basilisk. That's what's been attacking everyone…"
He glanced down, almost apologetic now. "Your wand… has a basilisk scale core."
Aster nodded. "Yes. It is basilisk scale."
Ron still had him by the collar, knuckles white with tension.
"But why would it have been me?" Aster continued, his tone level. "I've barely spoken to her. The last time was with both of you. The same day Herm—"
He stopped.
His breath caught in his throat. A thought, sharp as a blade, cut through his composure.
Without another word, he reached up and effortlessly pulled Ron's hands off his robes. The movement wasn't violent, just firm. Inevitable.
Then he turned and walked out of the Great Hall.
No one tried to stop him.
His steps were slow, almost casual. But each footfall carried unease like a shadow, measured, heavy, too calm to be calm.
He made his way through the dungeons until he reached the entrance to the girls' bathroom on the second floor.
——————————————————————————————
Earlier, just moments before…
Harry and Ron had been close enough to hear the professors' whispers.
A girl was missing. A pureblood. Ginny.
And in that moment, something clicked.
Hermione had left them information before she was attacked—not much, but enough. A crumpled piece of parchment clutched in her hand. The word "basilisk." The mirrored shard. A hint buried in her silence.
They had seen Aster's reaction too. The stillness. The way his voice broke off mid-sentence like a thread pulled too tight. He knew.
It wasn't just random. It wasn't chaos. The answer was close.
They followed instinct and rumor.
It was no secret that Aster spent time near the second-floor girls' bathroom. A strange choice, even by his standards. Myrtle's place. Peeves never stopped mocking him for it.
"The Harem King doesn't even leave ghosts behind! AHAHAHA!"
Everyone had laughed. Even Harry once.
But now it didn't seem funny.
Hermione had told them Myrtle was the victim. The one who died last time the Chamber was opened. The first casualty, buried under silence and fear.
They didn't want a repeat. Not with Ginny.
Not with anyone.
They moved quickly through the halls, heading to the Defense Against the Dark Arts office, only to see Professor Lockhart shoving cloaks and framed photos of himself into a suitcase.
Harry stared. "You're leaving?"
Lockhart jumped and spun with a forced smile. "Ah—boys! I was just… preparing for a daring rescue. Packing some essentials. Field gear."
Ron's face darkened. "You're running away."
"Nonsense!" Lockhart insisted, flustered. "I was just—"
"You were bragging to the professors ten minutes ago about how you knew where the Chamber was," Harry interrupted, stepping forward.
"Yes, well, I—"
Ron grabbed Lockhart by the front of his robes. "My sister's down there. And you're going to help us."
For once, Lockhart had nothing to say.
They didn't wait for permission. They dragged him toward Myrtle's bathroom, where the sink was open, a cold, serpentine tunnel yawning downward like the throat of a beast.
The descent had already begun.
Aster was below.
And so was Ginny.
——————————————————————————————
The door creaked as he pushed it open. "Myrtle," he said evenly.
From one of the stalls, the ghost floated upward. She had prepared some teasing comment about boys in girls' bathrooms—but when she saw his face, she fell silent.
"You saw her yesterday," Aster said. "Ginny. Red hair. Dropped the diary last year. She came here, didn't she?
Myrtle blinked. Slowly, she nodded. Then pointed to the far corner, the sink.
"She said something weird," she added. "Weird words, in a strange voice." She opened her mouth to continue, and then stopped.
Something silenced her. Not fear. Something older. A compulsion. A weight.
Aster's eyes narrowed. He nodded once.
Then he whispered, not to her, but to the air: "Open."
Aster's voice hissed in Parseltongue, low, ancient, and utterly unnatural.
Myrtle's eyes widened, and though she didn't speak, she nodded once, slowly. She understood what he was.
Aster stepped toward the sink.
"Open," he said again, more firmly. The hissing syllables of Parseltongue echoed strangely against the stone walls.
With a deep rumble, the sink began to shift and pull back, revealing the entrance, dark, circular, yawning like a wound in the earth.
Far away, just outside the bathroom, the professors debated in hushed voices. The school was no longer just dealing with petrified Muggle-borns; now, a pureblood was missing. Panic would rise quickly. The Malfoys would stir. The Ministry would sniff blood.
But Aster didn't know that. And even if he did, it wouldn't have mattered.
He stepped toward the gaping hole in the floor.
Then he jumped.
And the Chamber took him in like it had been waiting.