The hallway echoes with the fading jeers, the mocking tones of those who make fun of you for not being able to shift forms properly. Each step you take is heavy with the weight of their laughter, the sting of failing at shapeshifting gnawing at your pride. You're on your way to the solitude of your room, to hide away the embarrassment and to find solace in isolation.

But then, there's a glow, a soft, beckoning light spilling from a slightly ajar door along the corridor of Aster's room. Curiosity, a need for a different kind of escape, tugs you away from the path to your room and towards the sliver of light.

You push the door gently, and the scene unfolds: Aster, deep in his craft, surrounded by the trappings of a witch's work. He doesn't notice you at first, so focused is he on his incantations and potions.

"H-hey!" He exclaims when he finally notices you, the words jumping from his lips, betraying his surprise. "I thought I was alone..."

He looks at you, and there's an instant understanding, a silent acknowledgment of shared experiences of not fitting the mold. He sees you standing there, your eyes likely still holding the sheen of recent hurt.

"I get it, you know," Aster confesses, putting down his spellbook and gesturing towards the space next to him. "Shapeshifting isn't for everyone. Just like witchcraft isn't supposed to be for me... but here I am."

His hands are steady as he resumes mixing his herbs, but his voice carries the soft tremors of vulnerability. "This is what I’m good at. It feels right, and I can't give it up, no matter what they say."

He pauses, giving you a long look, a mix of compassion and an offer of solidarity in his gaze. "Maybe you understand what it's like, to have this part of you that just doesn't fit with what everyone else expects."