Aster made a decision.
He wouldn't let Draco control Slytherin. Not through fear, not through his father's name. Not anymore.
It wasn't some grand act of rebellion. There was no master plan behind it. He simply didn't like incompetence wearing the mask of power.
The locket at his chest gave a faint hiss, contented, approving. It didn't speak in words, but he could feel the satisfaction thrumming through it. Like it understood him completely.
The days that followed blurred by, carried on the strange current of early friendships and first lessons. And then came Halloween.
Aster spent more time with the Slytherins now. With Blaise, with Daphne, even with Draco. But especially with Pansy.
Harry noticed. But it was Hermione who felt it.
Even though every night still ended in the library, Aster and Hermione in their familiar quiet corner, it wasn't the same. Pansy had started showing up, always with some excuse. A book she couldn't understand. A lesson she needed help reviewing. A topic she "happened to hear" Aster talking about earlier.
At first Hermione tried to ignore it. Then she tried to be polite. But lately, she just buried herself deeper in her books, hoping the tension would go away if she ignored it hard enough.
Aster, for his part, didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he did, and chose not to react. He calmly helped Pansy find the right chapter or corrected her pronunciation of a charm, without the mockery she was used to from others.
He wasn't being cruel. That somehow made it worse.
Hermione turned a page a bit too hard, the paper snapping as it bent. Aster looked up.
"That book has feelings too, you know," he said, tone flat but eyes amused.
Hermione didn't smile.
Pansy glanced between them, but said nothing. She simply leaned a little closer to Aster and whispered something about the paragraph she still didn't get.
He turned his attention to her again, and Hermione looked away.
It was Halloween. The night would end with screams and chaos.
But for now, the silence in the library said enough.
Pansy stepped close, too close, and murmured something to Hermione. Aster didn't catch the words, only the flicker of Hermione's expression. Her eyes went wide, then immediately hardened, lips pressing into a tight line.
She stood, shoved her chair back too fast, and stormed out of the library.
Aster blinked.
He turned slowly to Pansy. "What did you say?"
She looked up at him, deceptively innocent. "Just a small thing. Girl thing."
He raised an eyebrow. His silence lingered, heavy. The look in his eyes wasn't annoyed—it was cold. Calculating.
He understood.
She was a snake. Not like the rest of them, Draco, who flaunted his lineage like armor, or Blaise, who simply didn't care, but a true Slytherin. One who smiled as she set the knife in.
Aster stood. With a lazy flick of his wand, the books soared back to their shelves, spines landing neatly. The page Hermione had torn in frustration earlier fluttered back into place with a soft snap under a quiet "Reparo."
Then he walked out of the library. He didn't say a word to Pansy.
She followed anyway.
Aster didn't know where he was going, just that he needed distance. The castle was cooling into twilight, its stone corridors bathed in gold. Halloween meant noise, sugar and jokes, none of which appealed right now.
Behind him, Pansy kept pace, quiet for once.
What he didn't know, what she didn't say, was what she'd whispered to Hermione.
"How much longer do you think he'll be your friend?"
"Boys like him don't stay with girls like you."
It had been enough. Enough to shake Hermione, who had been hearing whispers already, about Aster and Pansy in the common room, Aster with the Slytherins more than his "actual friends."
Enough to make her wonder if she'd been replaced.
Hermione didn't go to the Great Hall that night.
She locked herself in the bathroom instead, tears silent, pride unyielding.
She wasn't crying because of what Pansy said. Not really.
She was crying because she'd believed deeply that Aster would never drift away.
And now… she wasn't sure.
Soon enough, Professor Quirrell passed by, cloak flapping, eyes wild.
Aster blinked. Something tugged in his locket, not magic exactly, but awareness. A pressure. A warning.
He stepped into the corridor, eyes narrowing. "What happened?"
Quirrell slowed. Just for a moment.
He looked straight at Aster.
There was no stutter. No shaking hands. His voice was smooth. Too smooth.
"Troll in the dungeon," he said flatly. "I saw a crying student close by."
And then, just as quickly, he flinched, twisted his face, and resumed his normal panicked expression. He turned on his heel and bolted toward the Great Hall, shouting the same words again, louder, messier.
"T-troll! TROLL—IN THE DUNGEON!"
Aster's eyes didn't leave him for a second.
He watched the man disappear.
His jaw tightened. His locket hissed against his chest.
Turning, he saw Pansy hovering behind him, visibly unsettled.
"It's close to our dormitory," Aster said calmly. "It's still a troll. Resistant to magic. And we only know light magic, projectiles, not actual spells."
He looked at her properly, eyes dark. "Go to the Great Hall. Stay with the other Slytherins."
Pansy grabbed his sleeve. "What are you going to do?"
He didn't stop walking.
But his mouth opened. His breath steamed in the cool air. Not like smoke. Like something older. His teeth flashed fully in the dim torchlight, no longer hidden.
He didn't answer her with words.
He was furious.
Not because he knew what had happened.
But because someone, anyone, might have hurt Hermione.
And that wasn't something Aster could ignore.
The stone corridor shuddered with the weight of something massive.
Aster saw it, just ahead.
The troll was lumbering toward a door, dragging its foul-smelling club behind it. Across the hallway, Ron and Harry were panting, having clearly followed the creature without thinking much further.
Ron scrambled forward, eyes wide, and slammed the door shut.
"That should hold it!" he gasped.
Aster's eyes narrowed.
'No, it won't,' he thought.
And then, a scream.
Not just any scream.
Hermione.
Ron paled immediately. Harry's jaw dropped.
Aster was already moving before they flung the door open.
It was the girls' bathroom.
Tiles cracked beneath the troll's steps. The creature turned, dumb and slow, toward the girl huddled near the sinks.
Harry ran in first, yelling something meaningless. Ron followed.
Aster stepped inside last, his eyes sharp and calculating. He took in everything in a second.
Hermione was cornered.
Ron and Harry were first-years, untrained.
The troll was enormous, and its thick hide resisted most simple spells.
Our magic is rudimentary. Quirrell taught nothing. We know levitation, light. Utility spells.
I could try elven magic, but it's unstable, especially with people this close.
The troll roared and grabbed Harry like a rag doll.
Time seemed to slow.
Ron stood frozen, his wand raised but words caught in his throat.
The troll lifted its enormous spiked mace high over Harry's head.
Now.
Aster's voice rang clear and emotionless:
"Flipendo."
The blast of energy didn't push; it punched.
The troll's arm snapped backward unnaturally fast, and the mace struck down hard—
—on the troll's own head.
A sickening crack echoed off the stone walls.
The troll swayed.
And dropped.
The club rolled out of its hand with a dull thud. Its body slumped across half the bathroom, unconscious.
Aster didn't blink. His wand was still aimed forward, steam rising faintly from his fingertips.
Harry slowly sat up, panting.
Ron stared. "That was bloody mental. What was that spell?!"
Aster didn't answer. He was already kneeling beside Hermione.
She was shaking, eyes glassy. But alive.
He gently took her wrist, checking her pulse without a word. Then he whispered something, too quiet for the others to hear. Her eyes fluttered, and her breathing began to slow.
Only then did he look at Harry and Ron.
"The teachers will be here soon," he said. "You two better come up with something convincing."
His voice was cold.
But his hands still trembled slightly as he helped Hermione to sit up, just out of sight.
Soon enough, the teachers arrived.
"Took them long enough," Aster thought, glancing down at the unconscious troll, then back to Hermione, who was shakily getting to her feet.
He offered her a hand without a word. She took it.
Before anyone else could speak, Dumbledore stepped forward.
His tone was calm, measured, but his eyes flicked over the wreckage, and each of the children sharply.
"Aster," he said first, "a friend of yours in Slytherin informed me you were seen heading this way. Flipendo, was it? A creative and effective use of a simple charm. Fifteen points to Slytherin, for presence of mind and sound execution. "He gave a small nod, almost approving.
Then he turned his gaze to Harry and Ron.
"And you two," he continued, "ran into danger for a friend who hadn't even known there was danger to begin with. Fifteen points each to Gryffindor[1], for loyalty and courage, where it truly matters."
Finally, his gaze settled on Hermione.
She met his eyes, uncertain, her lip trembling slightly from the shock.
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said gently, "I hope you will remember, in future, that words spoken by others do not always carry truth. A false friend would not have run headfirst into danger for your sake."
Hermione blinked, stunned.
She understood.
He wasn't just talking about Ron or Harry.
He was talking about Aster.
The way he came. The fire in his voice. The rage that left steam trailing from his lips. And how he'd made it all the way there, without hesitation.
[1] Aster did all the work, old man is unfair AF