HP: Black's Child

The hall beyond the Slytherin common room had long since quieted, but Aster could still hear Pansy's voice echoing behind his eyes:

"You need a bath."

"Not because you stink, idiot. Just… you look like you haven't felt warm in weeks."

He hadn't argued.

He just walked.

The corridor she pointed him toward twisted oddly through stone, its path unfamiliar even to him, half-forgotten parts of the dungeons, long since avoided by the average student. It smelled faintly of mildew and old copper pipes. But the bathroom door stood at the end, ancient and heavy with green-bronze handles.

The wood groaned open.

Inside, the space was dimly lit by flickering torches and a tall, arched window veiled with dust. The bath itself was old, carved straight into the stone floor, as though Hogwarts had grown it from the rock itself. There were serpents etched along the rim, their eyes glinting faintly with residual charmwork. A quiet, constant trickle of water flowed from a sculpted mouth in the wall, feeding the pool.

The room was empty.

At least, at first glance.

Aster stepped inside, loosening his shirt and robes, setting them neatly over a low bench. He dipped his fingers into the water. It was tepid, but as if sensing his presence, the pool began to warm. Slowly. Silently. Magic responding to magic.

He slid in without a sound.

The warmth closed around him. And he sank lower. Past his ribs. Past his shoulders. Until only his chin, mouth, and empty eyes broke the surface. His dark lashes stuck to his skin.

Time blurred.

—————————————————————————————

Somewhere above, a pipe creaked. Stone shifted. And Myrtle watched.

Her eyes peeked out from the wall near the far sink. She hadn't expected him.

She always spied on boys, most didn't even notice. Some, like Cedric, made her feel warm, made her feel… noticed. This one, though—

He'd been there too long.

Aster sank slowly beneath the warm water, letting it cradle his body, soft and forgiving.

His eyes remained open, staring into the depths, where shadows and light tangled like memories.

He thought of the shallow, murky, bone-chilling water he felt when he died.

That water had been cold. Dead cold. A weight pressing against his chest, turning his lungs to ice.

It had been still, but heavy with silence, a silence that screamed.

Here, the bath water was different.

It was warm, gentle, alive.

It lapped softly against his skin, whispering promises of comfort and temporary reprieve.

Both waters were still.

But one held the finality of death, and the other, the fragile illusion of life.

Aster closed his eyes, breathing slowly.

He could feel the difference beneath his skin, a sharp ache of loss and a dull throb of survival.

He was caught between two worlds: one cold and final, one warm and fleeting.

And in that suspended moment, the water held him, neither life nor death, just quiet, just waiting.

Still. Silent. Barely breathing.

"You're not going to drown yourself, are you?"

Still no answer.

"Because if you are..." she hovered a little closer, eyes gleaming through the mist, "make sure you come back as a ghost. We could share the place. Forever."

She floated higher, the water distorting her translucent reflection.

"It's just, people don't usually stay that long. It makes me think something's wrong."

Still no answer.

She gave a half-laugh—too hopeful, too hollow.

"It's not so bad, really. Gets lonely sometimes. But I am good company."

Still silence. That irked her.

"Oi!"

Aster slowly lifted his head.

Water poured down from his hair, Ash Gray gleaming. He stood, eyes half-lidded, steam rising from his bare shoulders.

And Myrtle froze.

The shape of his cheekbones. The dark hollows beneath his eyes. The mouth. The coldness behind his gaze.

It was him.

But not.

Not quite.

"You..." she whispered, though she didn't mean to say it aloud.

He paused.

She hovered near the ceiling now, uncertain.

"You… look like him. But you're not him."

He raised an eyebrow, indifferent.

But he said nothing.

He left the bath quietly. Head slightly bowed, steam curling behind him.

Myrtle hovered in silence above the now-empty pool, her reflection rippling in the water.

She could no longer tell if she hated him, or if she was afraid that this time, she wouldn't.

—————————————————————————————

The next day.

Myrtle was waiting.

She lingered in her usual hiding spot, the cracked tile beneath the long mirror, eyes darting toward the heavy bathroom door.

"No one else comes here anymore," she whispered to herself. "No one."

The bathroom was empty except for the faint smell of lavender soap and the slow drip of water from the mouth-shaped spout.

Usually, boys came and went. Their voices echoed. Laughter or embarrassed curses would ripple through the stone. But the day passed without a single sound.

Myrtle floated closer to the bath, peering down at the water's still surface.

"Is anyone there?" she called softly, half-hoping for an answer.

No reply.

The water shimmered faintly, warmed by the magic Aster had left behind.

Minutes stretched into hours.

She traced a finger along the bath's edge, where a single ripple disturbed the glassy surface.

A chill ran through the empty room.

She sighed, ghostly and sorrowful.

The bathroom door creaked open just as the last torch flickered low. Aster stepped inside, the faint sound of his footsteps swallowed by the thick stone walls.

Myrtle, hidden behind the cracked mirror, blinked in surprise.

"You're back," she whispered, her voice almost a question.

He didn't answer right away. He moved to the bath, running a hand through his Ash Gray, damp hair, the water shimmering with the warmth of his magic.

He lowered himself into the pool, letting the water envelop him like a protective shroud.

"You don't come here for fun," Myrtle said softly, floating closer. "No one does."

Aster's eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, they held a flicker of something rare: fatigue.

"It's the only place where the weight doesn't press so hard," he admitted quietly. "Where the noise of everything else fades."

Myrtle drifted nearer, curiosity and sympathy mingling in her ghostly gaze.

"Why don't you just leave it behind?" she asked, her voice trembling. "Why carry it so heavily?"

He sank lower, water up to his chin.

"Because some parts... don't go away." His voice was a whisper, almost lost in the gentle splash of water.

For the first time, Myrtle saw past the cold mask, caught a glimpse of the broken boy beneath.

"Maybe that's why you stay." She smiled faintly, sad and understanding. "Because only here, you're not alone."

Aster's lips twitched, almost a smile, before he closed his eyes again and sank deeper into the warmth.

And in that quiet, haunted bathroom, two lost souls shared a fragile moment of peace.