August, 3 months after Voldemort's second fall - Grangers House.
The sound of breath, shallow and sharp. Then silence.
Aster sat upright in the dark.
No gasp. No scream. Just a quiet, jolting awakening, like surfacing from beneath ice.
He could still feel it. That in-between place. Still water. Still breathless.A memory of death, not a dream. A return.
Now the air was dry, the darkness less absolute. But the cold… remained.
The room was familiar. Neat. Carpeted. Sterile. Muggle.
There were posters of planets on the wall. A bookshelf stacked with dictionaries and atlases. A globe sat in the corner, lit faintly by moonlight. The Grangers' guest rooms.
He swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold, like the water in his dream, but not quite.
He didn't remember falling asleep. He rarely did anymore.
Something always followed him now. Never speaking. Never touching. Just watching.
He looked down.
He sighed.
And reached for the basin.
Gulp.
The water ran down his throat like gravel. He hadn't realized how dry it had become until the cup was empty.
Outside the window, the street lay still.
Not quiet.
Lifeless.
Not a single car. No barking dogs. No clatter of morning routines. Just wind brushing against the glass, and the soft creak of an old house holding its breath.
Aster sat cross-legged on the window ledge, a blanket around his shoulders but no warmth behind his eyes.
He wasn't waiting for anything. He was hoping for someone.
Someone to break the silence.To give shape to the thing he couldn't name.
In the morning, Hermione pushed open the door quietly.
Aster sat by the window, his gaze fixed on the empty street below. The pale morning light spilled over his features, and for a moment, Hermione froze. His face seemed different, sharper somehow, like a familiar mask worn at a strange angle.
His cheekbones caught the light with an unfamiliar hardness.
His eyes, once warm and steady, now held an unsettling chill, a quiet intensity that made Hermione's skin prickle. Handsome, yes, but dangerous.
Aster didn't turn when she entered. He didn't smile. His mouth was set in a line, calm but distant.
"Aster?" Hermione's voice was tentative, like the room itself might reject sound.
She stepped in slowly, dressed already, hair pulled back into a sleepy braid.
Aster was still by the window. Same blanket. Same clothes. Same stare.
"Aster..." she said again, quieter this time. She swallowed her nerves. "Please. Come eat breakfast."
She then said, "Lily, Harry and Ron wrote to you, won't you answer?"
He didn't move. Just blinked, once.
But that was enough. She exhaled softly and waited.
He didn't answer at first. Then, with a slight, almost imperceptible nod, he stood and followed her.
As he moved, the ash-gray streak in his hair caught the light again, a silent reminder of the storm within.
Minutes Later - Downstairs.
The kitchen smelled like toast and tea. The clatter of plates, a kettle whistling softly, the quiet hum of a morning trying its best to be normal.
Aster sat at the end of the table. His blanket gone, but still wrapped in silence.
Hermione sat across from him. Her mother gave her a reassuring look before setting a plate in front of Aster. Eggs, toast, a slice of tomato. Everything warm. Everything untouched.
"Would you like anything else, dear?" Mrs. Granger asked gently.
Aster shook his head once. Still no words. His eyes drifted across the table, then out the window again.
Across from him, Hermione picked at her toast. She kept glancing at him, quick, small looks, like she was trying to memorize a face she no longer recognized.
He looked… older, not in age, but in something deeper. Like something inside him had already lived through too much, and didn't quite come back whole.
Finally, she said, "You didn't sleep again."
It wasn't a question.
Aster didn't answer.
Hermione pushed her plate aside. "You should talk to someone."
His fingers twitched around the fork. The dirt under his nails hadn't come off completely.
She lowered her fork. "It's alright if you need to talk."
Aster blinked, slow and glassy-eyed.
She tried again. "You could go out with me later. Just for a walk."
Still silence.
Hermione opened her mouth to press further, but paused.
Aster's lips moved. Barely.
So soft that Mrs. Granger didn't notice.
Hermione leaned in slightly, frowning.
"Alright."
It wasn't his voice. Not exactly.
It was Aster's mouth, but something echoed in the sound. Deep, layered, like two voices overlapped. One was his. The other, calm, ancient, whispering through the seams of the air. Nyx.
Hermione went still.
Aster's eyes hadn't moved. He still stared out the window, but now his fingers tapped lightly against the mug. Not nervous, just… grounded. Present. Barely.
She nodded once.
"Okay. After lunch?"
He didn't answer, but she thought she saw the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, something looser. Like his face remembering how to live.
Jean glanced between them, puzzled. "Are you two planning something?"
Hermione smiled, faint and careful. "Just a short walk."
"Well, just don't go far. And take a jumper, the forecast says it'll rain."
Hermione stood and picked up her plate. Before leaving the kitchen, she turned back.
"Aster. Thank you."
No reply.
But Nyx's whisper curled quietly in the space between them, unheard by anyone else:
"He doesn't know how to ask. But he wants to try."
Hermione nodded and stepped into the hall.
The kitchen returned to stillness.
The tea cooled.
Aster slowly closed his eyes, as if memorizing the sound of quiet.
Later that afternoon.
They didn't walk far, just to the edge of the park.
Hermione walked beside him in silence, letting their steps fill the quiet. She glanced at him once or twice, but he didn't meet her eyes.
He hadn't called her "Mione" since that day.
She noticed.
It shouldn't have meant anything. But it did.
It was her name. But not his. "Hermione" was what everyone else used. "Mione" was something that belonged to the space between just them, softened, warm, trusted.
Now it was gone.
She didn't say anything. Not about that.
But he must have felt the silence shift.
He didn't answer.
A gust of wind moved through the trees, brushing his longer ash-grey hair into his eyes. He made no move to push it away.
Hermione sighed. "You have to talk with someone about it someday, Aster."
He flinched.
He wanted to talk, but he didn't know how to explain his own feelings.
She came closer to him, held his hand softly, and said, "Even if it's not me, anyone, you can talk with anyone..."
She didn't see it, but he felt it.
Like his own name was a wound..
She stepped closer, her voice gentle. "Do you want to come with me to Diagon Alley tomorrow?"
Nyx stirred, a flicker of presence at the edge of the park, a shadow ready to speak.
But Hermione didn't look away from Aster. "I want to hear him," she said softly. Not demanding. Just… asking.
Nyx nodded in understanding.
"I know you changed, we are friends, I can see that," said Hermione with tears in her eyes.
Aster didn't answer right away.
Seconds passed. The silence stretched.
He closed his eyes as if taking courage and nodded.
It wasn't much. But to Hermione, who had watched him survive, but not live, for weeks, it was everything. For now.
Only fourteen days remained before everything changed again.