The next day, The trip to Diagon Alley had been quiet. Aster didn't speak, not out of rudeness, but absence.
Still, the Grangers never pushed. They were Muggles, yes, but not unfeeling. They understood that presence could speak louder than words. And Aster's presence, fragile though it was, had begun to ease the edges of their worry.
It wouldn't last. The school year was coming.
Flourish and Blotts bustled with chatter, parchment, and powdered ink. Aster moved through the stacks like a ghost, until—
"Aster!" It was Ron, waving from beside Harry, both looking awkward beneath armfuls of Lockhart's glossy smiles.
Before Aster could reply, he felt it. Eyes. Cold. Familiar.
Lucius Malfoy.
Hair like starlight, voice like venom, and eyes that sliced through the room with ancestral contempt.
He was speaking softly until he wasn't.
Lucius turned slightly toward the Grangers, his tone laced with disdain.
"A disgrace to wizardkind," he said, not bothering to lower his voice.
Aster blinked. He hadn't realized his hand was clenched.
Pain bloomed.
His nails, longer than they should be, had dug into his palm. Blood slipped between his fingers. Sharp. Almost animal.
He stared.
Was it anger? Or something deeper, older, gnawing beneath his skin?
He was going to punch him, but someone did before he could.
Arthur Weasley's fist connected with Lucius' face, hard.
Aster approved. Arthur seemed like a good person, someone he'd like to have close by.
He said nothing.
But his hand ached. And it wouldn't stop shaking.
Aster walked through Diagon Alley, Nyx perched quietly on his shoulder, a tiny black bird no bigger than a sparrow.
Hermione followed close behind, her worry barely masked as she let her parents handle the Hogwarts shopping list.
Aster's steps were aimless, drifting through the bustling street without clear purpose.
He wanted to go back to his normal self. He really did. He didn't want to worry anyone, not the Grangers, the Weasleys, or the Potters.
Hermione wondered if he was trying to run, fleeing a wizarding world he barely recognized anymore.
The sight of Gilderoy Lockhart signing books barely registered to her; such trivialities felt distant compared to the silence between Aster and Harry.
She felt Harry's growing distance from Aster, like a quiet fear simmering beneath the surface.
Suddenly, Aster stopped.
His gaze locked onto Hermione's, intense and searching.
No words came. His mouth moved, but no sound followed, like the weight of his silence was too heavy to break.
Nyx fluttered her tiny wings and made a small motion, urging him toward something simple. Something human.
Aster's shoulders shifted slightly, and Hermione understood without hesitation.
She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.
In that moment, silence was enough.
Hermione watched Aster from across the shop, standing alone among the bustle of witches and wizards, untouched by the chaos. He hadn't spoken much. Hadn't smiled at all.
Even now, he looked like a ghost, lingering on the edge of a world that no longer knew what to do with him.
She turned to her parents, voice soft.
"Can Aster stay with the Weasleys? Just until school starts. I think… it might help him."
They exchanged a glance, then nodded. There was still time before Hogwarts, and the Grangers trusted her judgment.
After returning to Flourish and Blotts, Hermione gently parted from Aster. He didn't question it. Didn't speak.Just let her go, the way he let most things go these days.
As he wandered alone through the busy street, Nyx shrank herself down, no more than a black spot on his shoulder. Silent as ever.
Then Aster saw her.
A girl with bright red hair, trying to make herself small. She stood off to the side, fidgeting with the sleeves of her hand-me-down robes. They didn't fit quite right.
For a moment, Aster just stared.
Ginevra Molly Weasley.
Ginny.
She hadn't noticed him yet. But something about her, her eyes wide, overwhelmed, unsure, stirred something old in him.
Something from before.
Her hair reminded him of his own once. Before it turned to ash. Before death, and silence.
She looked like someone still fighting to believe the world had space for her.
He saw himself in her, just a flicker.Enough to hurt.
He had known the Weasleys were poor. But now he saw how poor.
—————————————————————————————————————
The Next Day at The Burrow
The Burrow was alive in the way only a Weasley home could be, clattering pots, shouting voices, and the scent of something too sweet baking in the oven.
Mrs. Weasley moved with practiced urgency, waving her wand at a dish that had started to smoke, muttering about boys and their bottomless stomachs. She glanced at Aster, not unkindly, but with a cautious mother's eye, measuring how far to press, how much space to give.
Aster stood just inside the kitchen doorway, still and quiet.
The chaos should have grated on him. But it didn't.
It felt like watching a fire through glass. Dangerously warm. But unreachable.
Hermione brushed past him gently, her fingers curling around his forearm in passing.
"You're not alone," she murmured, barely above the clatter of breakfast.
He nodded once, eyes scanning the room.
Then, he held her hand. Desperately.
Ron was already bickering with Percy, while the twins tossed toast at each other with wandless accuracy. Ginny sat quietly in the corner, sneaking glances between Aster and her plate, unsure what to make of him.
Hermione leaned toward him again, even softer:
"Harry's here too."
Aster could see Harry seeing him, feeling a mix of guilt and fear.
Aster knew what it meant.
He had taken the spell meant for Harry and died. And something… someone took the chance to wear his body, even for a few minutes.
Aster's only answer was the faintest tilt of his head.
—————————————————————————————————————
Dinner time.
Dinner was as chaotic as the rest of the day.
Aster thought maybe the chaos was good. Better than the darkness of his nights.
He wanted to connect. To feel their heat.
Fred and George were telling a story about using Polyjuice to prank Filch.
Hermione was talking with Ginny. Harry and Ron weren't paying much attention.
But Aster was observing. Trying to assimilate this warmth.
—————————————————————————————————————
After Dinner
He found a quiet place beneath the crooked staircase.
The Burrow didn't offer much silence, but this was close.
A stack of books sat beside him, mostly Hogwarts-required reading. But the one he held, Magical Me, felt strange in his hands.
It wasn't just Lockhart's self-praise, sickly sweet like perfume. No, something was off.
The way he described his adventures didn't match theory or fact. There were inconsistencies, names that should've been known but weren't. The details scraped against something instinctive in Aster.
His brow furrowed. He flipped back and reread a passage on confronting banshees. The tactics sounded theatrical. Fabricated.
Aster didn't trust easily. And something about this book made his skin itch.
Nyx, perched like punctuation on the windowsill, let out a low, scoffing caw, as if even she was tired of Lockhart's nonsense.
Without looking up, Aster muttered,
"Yeah. I don't buy it either."
He smiled. Nyx might be the only one he could still truly smile around.
But she wasn't the only one watching.
A small red-haired girl lingered nearby, observing him.
Even if he couldn't be real with them, he should at least act normal.
Not literally, no spell, no glamour. Just the practiced stillness of his face. The calm quiet of restrained breath.
A way to seem whole.
If he couldn't be normal, he could at least appear normal.
It wasn't a solution.
But it was close enough.
He walked toward the room he shared with Harry and Ron, his steps measured. Halfway down the crooked hallway, something inside him shifted.
Subtle.
Like a door closing behind him without sound.
He was still himself.
But not quite.
Part of him wanted to return to before. Before Hermione. Before friendship. Before, connection meant vulnerability.
That simpler time, when silence and sharp glances were enough.
He stepped into the room.
The mirror above the chest of drawers caught his eye.
Uninvited.
He paused.
His gloves were snug, black leather buckled tight. His sleeves covered his arms to the wrist.
Just how he needed it.
But his face—
He leaned closer.
The features were familiar. But wrong.The resemblance to Regulus Black remained, noble jaw, elegant cheekbones, but now something else crept in beneath it. A sharpness in the eyes. A cruelty in the mouth's angle. Ash-gray hair that fell across his face like shadow.
He looked like a ghost dressed in borrowed features.
A boy who no longer existed.
Like someone wearing a version of his father's face.
But not only his father's.
His reflection stared back, unblinking. A hybrid.
Not just Reggie's son.Not just Aster Black.Not Voldemort.
Something in between.
He adjusted his collar, not to smooth it, but to shield his throat. The mirror caught it all.
"You're wearing it again," came Nyx's voice from behind, casual and quiet. Not mocking. Just observant.
Aster didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The silence was a mask too.