Hogwarts — Quiet Midday Corridor
The corridors of Hogwarts were mostly silent, save for the faint murmur of distant lessons echoing through the stone walls. The soft tapping of Aster's boots beside Dumbledore's more measured stride was the only sound in their little stretch of hallway.
"Dumbledore," Aster said, glancing sideways, "why did you hire Lockhart? He's a fraud."
There was no hesitation, no sugarcoating. Just quiet accusation from a boy who had no time for lies.
Dumbledore chuckled, his eyes twinkling as if the honesty amused him rather than offended.
"Well," he said lightly, "even a fraud has something to teach. If not through his knowledge, then through his mistakes."
Aster gave a slow blink, unimpressed. Dumbledore smiled all the more.
They reached the stone gargoyle guarding the spiral staircase. A quiet password later, "Pumpkin Pasties", and the stairway began to turn.
Inside the headmaster's office, filled with the warm scent of old parchment, polished wood, and faint traces of lemon drops, Aster paused before the desk.
He spoke again, more serious now.
"Dumbledore. The ring... the one I gave Susan. It teleported me to her. Even when I couldn't use magic."
Dumbledore folded his hands in front of him, nodding.
"Yes," he said. "When Miss Granger came to see me yesterday, I had a feeling where you'd gone."
He gestured to one of the chairs. Aster didn't sit.
"The ring," Dumbledore continued, "was crafted from your intent, your emotions. It wasn't powered by spellwork, but by something far older. That's why the locket didn't react. There was no danger in it."
A pause. Dumbledore's voice gentled further.
"And perhaps... it was a good opportunity to speak with Miss Bones, wasn't it?"
Aster said nothing at first. Then, slowly, he nodded.
There was a beat of quiet between them, broken only by the faint ticking of a clock and the shifting of Fawkes in his perch.
Finally, Aster raised his eyes.
"Dumbledore… Am I the Heir?"
Dumbledore regarded him for a long moment. Not with judgment, never that, but with a quiet gravity.
"I don't know, Aster," he said, voice low. "Are you?"
Aster frowned, but Dumbledore gave him a faint smile and added, "The answer to that isn't in blood or magic or legacy. It's in choice. When the time comes, it is not prophecy or ancestry that defines you. It is who you decide to be."
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Hogwarts — Great Hall, Mid-November
Aster walked through the castle's vast corridors, the cold breath of approaching winter seeping in through the ancient stones. His footsteps echoed faintly as he approached the Great Hall, lost in thought. The torches lining the walls flickered low, casting long shadows that danced across the floor like phantoms of the past.
Of course they feared him. Whispers still followed him through the halls, glances cutting sideways the moment he passed. They were quiet about it now, but Aster could feel it, the way conversations died when he entered, the stiffness in the air. Only the Slytherins looked at him without hesitation. Sometimes with respect. Sometimes with something darker.
He pushed the heavy doors open and stepped into the Great Hall.
The enchanted ceiling was grey, clouds looming overhead like the calm before a blizzard. Aster's eyes swept the tables, half-filled with students halfway through lunch. He barely noticed what was on his plate as he sat at the edge of the Slytherin table, lost in Dumbledore's words from earlier.
The answer to that isn't in blood or magic or legacy. It's in choice.
He could be. If he wanted to be.
That's what the old man had meant. The power, the magic, they didn't decide. He did.
But choices carried weight. If he left Hogwarts over the winter break, even just to search for answers about the Heir of Slytherin or Tom Riddle's legacy, then who would protect the others? Harry. Ron. Hermione. They were staying, they'd told him. What if another attack happened while he was away?
No. He couldn't leave.
They were planning to use the break to question Malfoy. That meant they still needed hair or saliva from Crabbe and Goyle.
Aster let his fingers trail against the cold surface of his goblet, staring into the still water inside.
He could help them. He would help them. Even if they didn't trust him completely. Even if he didn't trust himself.
Because that's the difference between being a monster and being him.
He chose who he wanted to be.
Daphne sat close to him.
"Still thinking of what to do?" The voice was calm, elegant, almost lazy in its refined confidence.
Aster didn't need to look up to know it was Daphne Greengrass. "A bit," he said, eyes still distant, mind ticking through possibilities.
Daphne sat beside him at the Slytherin table, her posture flawless, as though she belonged in a painting. The light from the floating candles shimmered in her pale blonde hair, casting soft gold glints along its edges.
She folded her hands neatly. "You see, we don't even know what the Chamber of Secrets actually is. Tomorrow we have History of Magic, maybe you can corner Professor Binns and ask."
Aster glanced sideways. "You think he'll know?"
Daphne gave a small shrug, lips curving slightly. "He's a ghost, Aster. He was probably alive the last time the Chamber was opened."
Aster finally gave a faint chuckle.
Daphne tilted her head, eyes scanning the hall. Her voice lowered slightly, more thoughtful. "But I'd wager someone else has had that idea too. You won't be the only one looking for answers tomorrow."
Her gaze lingered on the Gryffindor table, specifically on Hermione, hunched over a thick book, eyes sharp with concentration. Then to Harry and Ron, who were deep in a whispered conversation.
She leaned in a little. "If you want answers, you may have to get there first. Or better yet…" she smirked, "be more clever about it."
They finished the talk, and Aster left.
Aster decided to take a bath in the only place within Hogwarts where he truly felt at peace.
The girls' bathroom on the second floor.
He knew it was wrong, technically. But no one used it. No one dared to, not while Myrtle haunts it. Except for him. It was quiet, abandoned, and best of all, no one came looking for him here.
The door creaked faintly as he slipped inside. The air was thick with humidity and the scent of old tile and stagnant water. The cracked mirrors reflected a version of him that he barely recognized, not the boy who once walked into this castle months ago.
He peeled off his clothes with practiced ease, dipping a finger into the water of the large tub that had filled itself magically over the years. It warmed immediately at his touch, gentle steam curling around his skin.
He stepped in and sank beneath the surface, letting the silence fold over him like a second skin.
He was fairly certain Myrtle was watching him, probably floating somewhere behind the cracked stalls or above the pipes, but she didn't say anything. Not anymore.
At first, she'd grumbled about his presence, but over time, she'd grown used to him. Now she sometimes told stories, about the students who dared use this place, or about her ghostly adventures drifting through other bathrooms.
She likes company, Aster thought.
Even ghosts, in their endless echo of living, longed not to be alone.
He leaned his head back against the worn stone and exhaled slowly. For once, the thoughts in his mind quieted. The pressure in his chest eased. He wasn't the Heir, not really, or at least he hoped. Dumbledore's words echoed in his skull: "Are you? Only you can tell."
The water lapped gently against the sides of the tub.
Then, in the blurred edges of the water's surface, he noticed a flicker of red.
A small shape, almost too faint to be noticed, near the edge of his vision.
He didn't move. Didn't react. It could have been the reflection of a torchlight or even just a trick of the water. If it was a student who'd wandered in, he'd deal with it later. After all, this bathroom was technically unused, the "girls'" label was more tradition than truth now, with Myrtle's moaning legacy warding off anyone sensible.
He stayed where he was, submerged and still.
Letting the water, the heat, and the silence hold him a little longer.
He didn't hear the door close, he felt it. A faint shift in air pressure, a ripple through the water, brushing against his skin like a whisper of danger.
Myrtle emerged from her hiding spot, waving her ghostly hand slowly in front of Aster's eyes.
Aster's ears were still full of water, muffling any sound, but he could tell she was trying to get his attention.
He climbed out of the water and raised a hand in a silent "stop" motion.
Grabbing a towel, he began drying his ears.
At last, Myrtle's voice came through. "Hey, the girl dropped something."
She pointed toward a small diary lying on the floor.
"Ominous thing," she muttered, eyes flicking toward his chest. "Didn't like how it felt."
Despite not jogging mornings anymore, his sleepwalking kept his muscles toned, something Myrtle clearly noticed.