HP: Black's Child

Aster moved quietly down the corridor, long strides echoing in the stone hall. The flickering torchlight caught the pale edges beneath his eyes; he hadn't slept again.

Behind him, soft footsteps.

He stopped.

"I'm not hard to notice," he said without turning. "Are you sure you want to keep following me?"

Hermione stepped out from around the corner, arms crossed over her jumper, determined but clearly tired too.

"You don't have magic."

Aster finally turned to face her.

His dark eyes1 held no sharpness, just quiet exhaustion. A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth, not a real smile, just a flicker of amusement or resignation.

"Don't worry," he murmured. "You're ahead of me in marks."

He paused, letting the silence stretch for just a second too long.

"At least in everything that uses magic."

Hermione opened her mouth, but nothing came out right away.

Because it was true. In Herbology, History of Magic, Potions, Defense Against the Dark Arts, thanks to Lockhart's awful but memorized books, and Astronomy, they were neck and neck.

But Charms. Transfiguration. Spellwork. He wasn't on the board.

She hadn't realized until now that he'd been keeping up not because he could practice, but because he read more than anyone else.

Because he had to.

Her expression softened.

"That's not the point," she said.

"Isn't it?" he replied, but without challenge.

Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle stepped out from around the corner, smirking like they'd been waiting for the perfect dramatic entrance.

"Oh, so it was true, Black1?" Draco's voice dripped with smug satisfaction.

Aster didn't even glance at him.

"Malfoy, about what?"

Draco sauntered a bit closer, like he was rehearsing a performance in front of Crabbe and Goyle.

"You know… That the Heir of Slytherin is so special he's collecting consorts."

Aster's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. He didn't need to guess where that rumor had come from.

Peeves. I swear, when I can deal with that poltergeist…

Draco faltered for a moment, just enough to show he'd felt it. The pressure in the air. The stillness before a storm. He instinctively stepped back. Crabbe and Goyle took half-steps forward, blocking Aster.

Draco recovered with a sneer.

"A Weasley, a Lovegood, a Bones, and a Parkinson? No standards at all. Oh—and Granger as well? What's next? Greengrass? Another Ravenclaw? Or maybe a new little Hufflepuff?"

Then, twisting his lips into something crueler: "I guess the Heir of Slytherin isn't that special after all. Even courts mudbloods."

But before the final word fully left his mouth—

Crack.

Crabbe was sent flying into a suit of armor, which crashed down like thunder.

Draco reached for his wand—

Too late.

Aster was in front of him, holding his wrist with one hand. Calm. Controlled. But his grip was like iron.

"Malfoy," Aster said quietly, voice low and cold, "you only still have influence in Slytherin because I let you have it."

He leaned in just slightly, eyes half-lidded in irritation.

"Don't tempt me into being unfair."1

Draco's wand clattered to the ground.

Behind him, Goyle looked too stunned to move. Hermione, a few steps behind Aster, said nothing, but the way she stared at his back said everything.

Malfoy didn't answer. He didn't dare.

Aster let go.

Draco struggled as Crabbe leaned heavily against him.

"My father will hear about this!" Malfoy spat, eyes blazing.

Aster's gaze didn't waver. "He'll hear you got beaten by someone who didn't use magic. You sure that's the story you want him to know?"

Draco growled, jaw clenched.

Aster glanced over at Hermione. Her face was flushed, deep in thought, her expression unreadable.

"See," Aster said softly, "I don't need magic to deal with people like them."

He raised a hand and gently waved his fingers in front of Hermione's face.

No reaction.

Then she blinked, looked at him, and wordlessly turned and sprinted down the corridor.

Aster glanced down at his hands. They didn't look quite like his own—sharper, claw-like, almost reptilian. Lizard claws? He thought, watching as they slowly shifted back to normal. What he didn't notice was his eyes flickering golden for a brief moment before returning to violet.

What he didn't notice was his eyes flickering golden for a brief moment before returning to their usual violet.

He didn't call after her. Part of him didn't want to know if she'd seen his hands shift—or if she'd just finally believed what everyone else whispered.

——————————————————————————————

Aster glanced down at his hands. They didn't look quite like his own, sharper, claw-like, almost reptilian.

Lizard claws? he thought, watching as they slowly shifted back to normal.

What he didn't notice was his eyes flickering golden for a brief moment before returning to their usual violet.

Later that night, as Aster got ready for bed, he closed his eyes.

'Maybe tonight I'll sleep normally,' he thought.

But his vision blurred. He was running down a dark corridor, sounds and smells swirling around him, hissing, whispers, but no clear direction. The moon hung bright overhead.

And then—no transition—he stood in the forest. The scent of earth, raw magic underfoot, the sky too bright. Not a dream. A memory? A warning?

And then he woke up.

"H-yer okay, Aster?" Hagrid's gruff voice broke through the early morning stillness.

Aster looked around, his pajamas dirty but intact, and realized he was in the middle of the forest.

The sun was just beginning to rise.

What just happened? he wondered, still unsure how he ended up there.

On the ground, footprints were scattered—varying in size and shape, not belonging to any single creature.

Hagrid bent down, peering closely. "Doesn't seem like any creature from this forest," he muttered, eyes narrowing.

Then he looked up, meeting Aster's gaze. Carefully, he lifted Aster's arm, checking for any injuries.

He sighed in relief. "Yer lucky, no marks or scratches."

"Be careful, Aster," Hagrid warned. "There've been attacks around here lately. My roosters… they've been gettin' killed these past few days."

Aster closed his eyes, a heavy guilt settling in.

'No. That can't be…' But the clawed hands. The dreams. The roosters.What if it was me?

Aster decided to tell everything to someone who might know how to help him.