Aster's gaze dropped to the diary lying near the base of the sink. He stepped out of the water, wrapping a towel around his waist with fluid indifference, then bent to pick it up.
"Did she leave this?" he asked, glancing at the door, droplets still trailing from his hair.
Myrtle floated nearer, sulking as her eyes flicked away from his now-covered lower half.[1] "No," she muttered, clearly disappointed. "She saw you in the water, turned bright red, and ran. Must've dropped it in her panic."
Aster flipped the small book in his hand, reading the name etched in fading ink across the front: Tom Marvolo Riddle.
"Doesn't sound like a girl's name," he murmured, more to himself than to Myrtle.
Myrtle tilted her head, touching her chin in exaggerated thought. "Red hair… small, like, tiny. Probably a first year?"
Aster gave her a flat look. "That's… not helpful. That could be half the first year in Gryffindor alone."
He turned the diary in his hands again, fingers tracing the spine. His eyes narrowed slightly.
Myrtle hovered a little closer. "It's an odd thing, that book. Gave me a strange feeling even before she dropped it…"
Aster sat on the edge of the nearest sink, the diary resting in his damp palm. It felt strangely warm, almost pulsing faintly like something alive.
He cracked it open.
Blank.
The pages were clean, crisp. No writing at all. Just… empty parchment.
Then, a flicker. A faint shift in the air. Words began to form—inky black letters curling onto the page as if written by an invisible quill.
Hello.
Aster raised an eyebrow.
My name is Tom Riddle. Who are you?
He didn't respond. Instead, he flipped a few pages forward, blank. Then back to the first page. The words were still there, waiting, as if the book itself were watching him.
More ink seeped in.
Do you want to know about the Slytherin heir? I can help you.
Aster snorted faintly, unimpressed. "Pathetic bait," he muttered under his breath. The kind of trap that expected desperation. He'd seen better manipulation from first-year Slytherins.
He shut the diary with a dry snap.
Myrtle floated behind him, peering over his shoulder. "Oooh, I knew there was something weird about that book! It was looking at me."
Aster glanced back at her. "Books don't have eyes, Myrtle."
She gave him a dramatic pout, ignoring his sarcasm. "You're no fun when you've got your towel on."[2]
He sighed, standing up and walking over to his robes. As he dressed, he tucked the diary inside with a deliberate calmness, as if caging something that hadn't earned his interest yet.
At the door, he paused.
"I'll be back. Don't let anyone else mess with the water."
Myrtle twirled midair, hands on her hips. "Please, as if anyone else bathes here. You're the only decent show I get all year."
"You know… it wouldn't be so bad, being dead. If someone stayed." She said half jokingly.
He didn't bother replying, just walked out, boots echoing slightly as the door swung shut behind him, the diary silent once more.
Aster entered the Slytherin common room, the greenish hue of the lake rippling gently outside the stone-framed windows. Shadows danced as merfolk glided past, but inside, it was quiet. A place built for whispers.
He sat near the fireplace, empty at this hour, and placed the diary on his lap.
Opening it, the page remained blank for a breath, and then:
Hello. Who might you be?
Aster tilted his head. "Aster Evans Black," he said out loud.
The page stayed blank.
His brows drew together. A few heartbeats passed. Then a flicker of understanding. He stood, walked calmly to his dorm, and retrieved a quill and ink from his satchel. Back at his seat, he uncapped the bottle and wrote:
Aster Evans Black.
This time, the response was swift.
Hello, Aster. What do you need?
He hesitated. The locket at his chest was faintly warm, watchful.
Aster dipped the quill again.
You mentioned you know something about the Slytherin Heir… and the Chamber of Secrets. What do you know?
The pause before the response was longer this time.
I was at Hogwarts when the Chamber was first opened. I saw everything. Would you like me to show you?
The letters dissolved, reformed.
Put your face to the page.
Aster narrowed his eyes. The words pulsed once, then stilled. It wasn't a command, it was an invitation.
He sat perfectly still.
The locket hummed softly. Not alarmed, but present.
Aster's fingers tapped once on the diary's edge.
Is something supposed to happen? He wrote instead.
The ink shimmered and answered:
The locket may be interfering. Its magic is old… protective.
Aster's gaze darkened.
He leaned back in his seat, the diary still open on his lap. He could feel the quiet strain between the diary's will and the locket's silent defense. There was something behind the words, a hook waiting for his consent.
He thought carefully.
And then wrote:
Can you write it down instead?
A beat.
Then, with what almost felt like a sigh, the diary responded:
Sure.
Words began forming on the page again, slowly this time, as if the memory being shared resisted confinement to ink. But they came nonetheless. Scene by scene. Name by name. Bit by bit.
Aster watched.
Silent. Careful.
And just a little more curious than he should have been.
...
Aster closed the diary slowly, fingers lingering on the edges like it might bite.
It had shown him everything, names, a memory painted in ink. The shadow of a younger Dumbledore, a frightened Tom Riddle, and Hagrid hiding a creature.
Aster understood.
More than most would, perhaps more than he should.
He wasn't close to Hagrid. They'd exchanged only brief, awkward nods when crossing paths, Aster didn't seek out warmth often, and Hagrid, to his credit, seemed to sense that. But even from a distance, Aster could tell one thing:
This wasn't the full story.
The diary had a slant, a flavor. Every word soaked in subtle suggestion.
Aster could feel it.
It wanted him to believe. Not just to see, but to agree.
But the logic was too flawed.
If Hagrid had truly been behind it, if he were the Heir of Slytherin, he wouldn't still be here. Not under Dumbledore's watch. Not after a student had died. Not when he was already feared for his blood.
And then there was Myrtle.
Aster didn't pity her, not quite. But he respected the finality of death—and the story she'd told him, as odd as she was, didn't match the diary's tone. She hadn't feared Hagrid. Not then, not now.
The more he thought about it, the colder the diary felt in his hands.
Aster wasn't the kind to jump to conclusions, but this? This wasn't a tool. It was bait.
Still, he needed answers. And he couldn't question Hagrid directly, at least, not without rousing suspicion. But Hermione might see the inconsistencies too, and Harry, well, he trusted Hagrid[3].
If Hermione planted the right doubt in Harry's ear, Harry might ask what Aster couldn't.
He stared at the diary once more.
His trust in it, never strong to begin with, had now all but evaporated.
He slipped it into his satchel like a poisonous snake he hadn't quite killed yet.
Then he stood. Calm, expression unreadable, the locket pressing faintly against his chest.
[1] Myrtle is accurate from canon, btw.
[2] Book accurate Myrtle, btw.
[3] In canon, Harry was the first to accuse Hagrid, he only stopped doing it when Ron said, "Mate, it makes no sense, it's Hagrid we are talking about, we can ask him directly."