The Prettiest Star
Chapter 1 – The Prettiest Star
20/11/1979
S.B.
Sirius gazed at the woven star chart on his desk. His eyes lingered on the names of the constellations sewn into the fabric. Sirius grinned, looking at his “own” constellation: Canis Major. The brightest star in that constellation was Sirius. Certainly, amongst his friends, he wasn’t the brightest one. During his time at Hogwarts, Sirius had been focused on the social aspect… the Marauders, Quidditch, girls in broom closets, and Severus Snape. Of course, Snivellus wasn’t a social perk. Snape was an ugly, greasy know-it-all. Snape loved the dark arts; this thought made Sirius grimace. Sirius hated Severus Snape. He hated the way his family wanted him to be in Slytherin, that everyone thought he wasn’t bright, and most of all, hated that he craved attention.
Sirius’ eyes drifted to the Leo constellation. Regulus. Regulus was the brightest star in that constellation. His fingers grazed over the fabric, his shoulders sagging slightly. When was the last time he had talked to his younger brother? 1978? Right before Sirius had graduated from Hogwarts? Sirius looked away from the star chart, swallowing a sorrowful lump in his throat. He was certain that Regulus had joined Lord Voldemort. For many nights, Sirius cried in his bed, praying to any higher being that Regulus would turn down the offer.
He looked around his apartment, noticing the touches his friends had made amongst the decorations. Sirius sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. Never in a million years had he felt this lonely. James and Lily were planning their wedding, Peter hadn’t responded to any of his letters, and Remus… oh… Remus. Sirius and Remus quarrelled the last time they spoke. Sirius closed his eyes, the memory of Remus’ hurt expression flashing in his mind.
“You said you didn’t like blokes!” Remus bargained, his voice sharp as he paced back and forth in front of Sirius. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, as if trying to hold himself together, though his fingers twitched with barely restrained frustration. His boots scuffed against the wooden floor with each step, the rhythmic sound filling the tense air between them.
“Yeah, but…” Sirius trailed off, his voice uncharacteristically quiet as he looked away, unwilling—no, unable—to meet Remus’ eyes just yet. His jaw clenched as he struggled to find the right words, but none seemed to come.
When Remus stopped abruptly in front of him, Sirius’ stormy grey eyes finally lifted, locking onto Remus’ warm brown ones. A pang of guilt twisted in his chest. Merlin, he hated that look—the hurt barely masked by anger, the flicker of something unspoken lingering beneath it.
“You’re like a brother to me, Moony,” Sirius continued, voice wavering despite his efforts to keep steady. “And well… the more I think about it, I do like them.” The words hung heavy in the air, as if admitting them out loud made them real in a way they hadn’t been before.
“Oh, don’t ‘Moony’ me, Sirius.” Remus snapped back, his voice edged with something dangerously close to heartbreak. His brows were furrowed, and his lips pressed into a thin, tight line, his entire posture stiff with rejection. “You think I haven’t noticed how you look at other men? I see it, Sirius. The way your eyes linger, the way you smirk at them like you’re daring them to fall at your feet. Sometimes, I can’t tell if you want them to worship you or if you want them to love you.” He scoffed, shaking his head bitterly. “I thought we had something, Sirius. But no—I was just as delusional as all those girls you strung along at Hogwarts.”
“Remus!” Sirius blurted out, stepping forward instinctively, reaching toward him, but stopping short when Remus stiffened. His fingers curled into his palms instead. “I didn’t know! I thought—I mean, we grew up together. I didn’t—” He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face.
“Whatever, Sirius. You lied to me.”
“How did I lie to you, Moony?” Sirius demanded, his voice rising in distress, desperation creeping in. “I said I didn’t like men, and now I do. How is that a lie?”
“You said that to reject me,” Remus spat, his voice cracking slightly, though he quickly masked it with anger. “You do it to everyone. You always find some excuse, some little lie that makes it easier for you to push people away. Remember when Candice Forbes asked you to be her Valentine? What did you say to her? ‘I don’t go out with people who’ve been with my brother.’ That was a lie, Siri. Wanna know how I know?” Remus let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his eyes dark with something Sirius didn’t quite recognize. “I found Gwenyth Davidson’s tie in your trunk. Last time I checked, they dated.”
Sirius’ jaw slackened, his mouth suddenly dry. He tried to form words, an excuse, an explanation—anything. But nothing came.
Remus was right.
He had done those things.
A heavy silence fell between them, thick with everything neither of them had said before. Sirius inhaled deeply, but his lungs felt tight, like they were being crushed under the weight of his own guilt. His shoulders curled inward, like he could somehow shrink away from the truth.
“Remus…” he started, voice quieter now, almost pleading.
“No, Siri,” Remus interrupted, his voice weary, raw. “I don’t want to hear it. I‘ll talk to you later, okay? I just… I just need some time.”
With that, Remus turned on his heel, his steps brisk but unsteady as he made his way to the door. He hesitated for the briefest second—Sirius saw it, saw the way his fingers hovered near the doorknob as if debating something—but then he twisted it open and stepped out.
The door shut with a soft click.
Sirius stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the empty space where Remus had just been. The room suddenly felt too big, too quiet. His chest ached, and for the first time in a long while, he wasn’t sure what to do.
Sirius stood in his apartment, his fists clenched to his sides. He needed to get out of the apartment, to do something. Anything. Sirius grabbed his wand, wallet, a black leather jacket. Without another thought, he opened the door to his apartment and descended the stairs.
S.S.
A stroke. After the service, Severus’ mom laid in her casket, the cosmetic colour on her face didn’t look natural. It didn’t look like his ma. Severus sat in the front row of the funeral home, the wooden rows felt cold on his black pants. Of course, nobody else was in the front row. This wasn’t even his suit… It was his dad’s that he had transfigured to fit him. His ma would’ve scolded him for that. On the bright side, his father wasn’t in attendance. If Severus saw that man’s face, he would have sent several hexes his way. Granted, he hadn’t seen his father since he had graduated from Hogwarts. For years, Severus sat in his closet, wishing that his father would just shut up. Despite witnessing and being a victim of his father’s abuse, he loved his mother and would do what she asked. When Severus grew older, he would walk into the house before his mother, go downstairs when his father called for his mother, and soon the violence from his dad turned to him.
Now that Severus had looked around the funeral home, there weren’t very many people in attendance. In the back row, there sat Lucius Malfoy, Regulus Black, and Evan Rosier. On the other side of the funeral home Severus recognized some of his mother’s friends. They sent Severus sympathetic and pitiful glances, which made Severus look back down to his lap.
“Snape.”
Severus turned to look over his shoulder. Lucius Malfoy stood behind him, dressed fully in black silk, and his hair tied back with a black ribbon. Regulus and Rosier stood behind Lucius but were engaged in their own conversation.
“Malfoy.” Snape grunted back, trying to find his own voice.
“Thought we’d go out for drinks.” Lucius offered, but the tone of his voice made it seem like it wasn’t a request.
Severus fiddled with the tie around his neck. Was it hard for everyone to breathe in here?
“Where?” Severus asked a little too quickly.
“Somewhere in Diagon Alley. The Leaky Cauldron, perhaps?”
“Thought you avoided that place.” Severus grunted, knowing that Lucius was, sometimes, too ostentatious for his own good.
Lucius shrugged while placing a hand on Severus’ shoulder. “Figured you needed someone to talk to.”
Severus didn’t have the energy to respond and simply nodded his head in reluctance. He slowly stood from the wooden row and gave an acknowledging nod with Rosier and Regulus.
---
The Leaky Cauldron was a shabby pub, but it was popular—so popular that no one seemed to overhear the boy’s conversation. The warm glow of candlelight flickered over the stained wooden tables, and the scent of butterbeer and pipe smoke clung thickly to the air. Laughter and clinking glasses filled the space, masking the weight of the words being spoken in the dim corner where four figures sat.
“He has requested you, Severus.”
Lucius Malfoy’s voice was deliberate, measured, as he leaned forward, the soft rustle of his fine robes barely audible over the murmur of the crowd. He twirled the stem of his goblet between pale fingers, watching Severus with sharp, calculating eyes. He knew what those words meant. And so did Severus.
Severus swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and fiddled with his tie again—a nervous tic Lucius did not fail to notice. His fingers curled around the fabric, tightening slightly before he released it.
“The Dark Lord has requested me?” He echoed, scoffing in a poor attempt to mask the unease curling in his gut. His voice, however, lacked its usual sneer. “I am a half-blood. Surely, the Dark Lord hasn’t requested me.”
Lucius’s smile was slow, almost amused, as if he had expected this reaction. His fingers tapped against his goblet, rhythmic, deliberate.
“The Dark Lord has heard of your potion skills, your interest in the Dark Arts,” he said, his voice velvety smooth. “I might have slipped that you’ve created a few spells already.”
Severus’s grip on his tie tightened again. His mind raced. Of course, he wanted power—knowledge. That had always been his aim. He had spent years bent over ancient texts, crafting spells that could wound, that could protect, that could do things even the most seasoned wizards wouldn’t dare. But this… this was something else entirely.
The Dark Lord did not simply request people. He claimed them.
The din of the pub faded slightly, as if the weight of the conversation dulled everything else. Severus glanced around, half-expecting someone to be eavesdropping, but no one paid them any mind. The warmth of the room felt suffocating now, the flickering candles casting shadows that stretched and curled like whispers of something unseen.
He licked his lips, forcing his expression into something unreadable. “And what, exactly, does he expect of me?”
Lucius tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Why don’t you come and find out?”
Silence stretched between them, taut as a bowstring.
Severus looked down at his hands, fingers still curled around the knot of his tie, “Don’t you need to prove yourself to be able to join?”
Lucius nodded, the smirk on his face widening, his fingers idly swirling around the top of his glass. His eyes gleamed with amusement, enjoying the way Severus stiffened under his gaze.
“Yes. The Dark Lord wishes to have… preliminary tasks for those who seek to prove their worth. A mere formality, really. I, for example, demonstrated my loyalty by torturing a Mudblood.” His tone was light, almost casual, as if speaking of the weather rather than of cruelty. “Small tasks, nothing too strenuous. However, the Dark Lord has something… different in mind for you.” Lucius leaned in slightly, lowering his voice, as though savoring the moment. “He wishes for you to infiltrate the Order of the Phoenix. That little army Dumbledore is building.”
Severus felt his stomach drop. His fingers twitched at his tie, instinctively itching to run, but he forced himself to stay still. He couldn’t afford to betray his emotions.
“But—” Severus started, his voice unsteady.
His mind raced. The Order? The Marauders were a part of the Order… Lily, too. There was no way in hell they’d believe for a second that he wanted to fight for a "good cause.” The mere idea was laughable. He had been known as a “budding Death Eater” since his fourth year at Hogwarts, his affinity for the Dark Arts marking him as different, dangerous, one of them. When the incident by the lake occurred, when Potter humiliated him, and he— Severus —in his rage and shame, had uttered that unforgivable word, and the damage had been done. Whatever chance he had at convincing people of his innocence had shattered that day. The looks in their eyes, the murmurs in the corridors—he had been damned long before he ever made a choice.
And yet, here was Lucius, telling him to waltz into the Order and make them believe he was one of them? Impossible.
Lucius watched him, the smirk never leaving his lips, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. He could see the hesitation, the turmoil flickering behind Severus’ dark eyes, and he let the silence stretch just long enough to let the weight of the request settle.
“Think about it, Severus,” Lucius murmured, voice smooth, persuasive. “That’s all we ask.”
But Severus knew better. This wasn’t a suggestion.
“We should go.” Lucius states, looking at Rosier and Regulus.
Lucius turned on his heel, his polished boots clicking softly against the wooden floor as he strode toward the exit. Evan Rosier followed, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. He hadn’t spoken the entire time, but his silence had not been passive—his sharp, watchful eyes had taken in everything, assessing Severus like a specimen under a microscope.
Regulus Black trailed behind them, his movements more hesitant, more deliberate. He wasn’t as self-assured as Lucius, nor as arrogant as Rosier, but there was a quiet intensity about him, a weight behind his careful steps. He also hadn’t spoken a word, but as he reached Severus, he hesitated.
Severus, still seated, caught the flicker of hesitation in Regulus’ gray eyes—darker than Sirius’, more subdued, but no less piercing. Lucius and Rosier had already stepped towards the door, their voices murmuring lowly to one another, oblivious to the moment lingering between the two younger men.
Regulus turned slightly, just enough so that his words would reach only Severus. “You don’t have to do this,” he murmured, his voice steady but quiet, meant only for him. “It’s not what you think it is.”
Severus stiffened, his dark eyes narrowing. Was this a warning? A plea? The weight of Regulus’ words settled into his bones, but he kept his expression unreadable. He could feel the pressure of expectation closing in on all sides, the choice that wasn’t really a choice at all.
Before Severus could respond, Lucius’ voice called impatiently from the pub. “Regulus.”
Regulus held Severus’ gaze for a second longer, something unreadable flickering across his face—regret, maybe, or something dangerously close to doubt. Then, without another word, he turned and followed the others, his footsteps fading into the distance.
Severus exhaled slowly, his fingers ghosting over the rim of his untouched glass. The room felt emptier now, but the weight of Regulus’ words remained, lingering in the silence like an unspoken truth.
After several, long minutes of silence, Severus felt a pair of eyes burning into the back of his head. His shoulders tensed, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides as an all-too-familiar sensation of unwelcome attention crept over him. He turned his head, already knowing who he would see.
By Merlin, if there’s a god above, please strike me down.
Sirius Black stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk curling at the edges of his lips. His dark hair fell messily into his eyes, but there was no mistaking the amusement gleaming beneath them. This was a game to him—just another moment to revel in Severus’ discomfort.
Severus swallowed hard and quickly turned his head back toward the stone wall in front of him. Ignore him. If I keep to myself, perhaps he’ll leave me be.
But Sirius was never one to let things go so easily.
“All alone, are we, Snivellus?” Sirius drawled, his voice laced with mock sympathy. His footsteps were slow and deliberate as he approached, savoring every second of the torment.
Severus clenched his jaw, his fingers curling into fists beneath the folds of his suit. “Black,” he sneered under his breath, keeping his gaze fixed forward. His voice was low, edged with warning, but Sirius only chuckled in response.
“Oh, don’t sound so miserable,” Sirius said, coming to a stop directly behind him. His voice was light, teasing, but there was something sharper beneath the surface, something mean-spirited and taunting. “Such a shame to see you by yourself. I’m sure you’re used to it, though.”
Severus felt the heat rise to his face, though whether it was from anger or humiliation, he wasn’t sure. His grip tightened around the edge of his sleeve, nails pressing into his palm. He knew how this worked—Sirius would prod and poke until he got a reaction, until Severus lost his temper, giving him exactly what he wanted.
He inhaled slowly, exhaling just as deliberately through his nose. “You must be terribly bored, Black, if you’ve got nothing better to do than bother me.” His voice was even, carefully measured, but there was an edge to it, a warning that he was holding onto his patience by a thread.
Sirius hummed, as if considering that for a moment. Then he grinned, tilting his head. “Bother you? Oh, come on, Snape. I’m just making conversation. You don’t have many friends—someone’s got to keep you company.”
Severus’ grip tightened, his knuckles going white. He would not let Black get to him. Not this time. But then, Sirius leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice.
“Or is it that your friends are too busy cozying up to the Dark Lord to bother with you?”
“Piss off, Black," Severus snapped, turning his face to look at him.
Now, at twenty years old, Sirius Black’s curly brown locks framed his chiseled face, wilder than ever, as if he had abandoned any attempt to tame them. The years of Quidditch had broadened his shoulders, giving him a lean, toned frame that made it impossible to ignore how much he had changed since their school days. He was also taller now—noticeably so—which made Severus’ throat tighten involuntarily. But those piercing grey eyes? They had stayed the same.
The same eyes that had gleamed with laughter as Severus dangled helplessly in the air without his trousers. The same eyes that had looked down on him with amusement, with cruelty, with the reckless arrogance that had made Severus’ life hell for seven years.
And yet, there was something else there now, something unreadable beneath the smirk.
Sirius chuckled, brushing a stray strand of hair out of his face with an air of easy confidence. “Why the long face, Snivellus? I mean, it matches your nose.” His tone was light, mocking, but Severus could hear the familiar challenge beneath it, the unspoken invitation to bite back.
Severus inhaled sharply through his nose, fists curling at his sides. He should ignore him, walk away, refuse to give Sirius the satisfaction of a reaction. But damn it, Sirius had always known exactly how to get under his skin, and the way he was looking at him now—with that infuriating smirk, that maddening glint in his eyes—made Severus' blood simmer.
Severus exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the edge of his sleeve. He wasn’t in the mood for this—not tonight. Not after the day he had just endured. The weight of the funeral still clung to him, the scent of the funeral home fresh in his mind. His mother was gone. Whatever complicated, strained love had existed between them had been buried with her just hours ago, and now he was here, drowning himself in the dimly lit solitude of the Leaky Cauldron, only to have Sirius Black ruin the last shred of peace he had left.
His lip curled as he turned to face Sirius fully. “Do you ever shut up, Black?” He said, his voice quieter now, but sharper. “Or is it just second nature for you to hurl insults at people without thinking?” He tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with something dangerous. “Forgive me if I’m not in the mood for your childish antics—I just returned from my mother’s funeral.”
Sirius’ smirk faltered.
For a brief, fleeting moment, the ever-present glint of mischief in his eyes dulled, replaced by something unreadable. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but for once in his miserable, insufferable life, Sirius Black had nothing to say.
Severus relished the silence.
He let the words settle, let Sirius feel the weight of them before scoffing under his breath and turning back toward his drink.
“Go find someone else to bother,” He muttered, lifting the glass to his lips. “I’m sure Potter’s waiting to stroke your ego.”
To Severus’ dismay, Sirius’ stayed silent for only a second before he recovered, tilting his head with a mock pout. “Your mother’s funeral? Well, damn, Snivellus, you really know how to kill the mood.”
Severus shot him a glare so sharp it could have cut glass. “Go to hell, Black.”
But Sirius didn’t budge. If anything, he seemed to settle in more comfortably, leaning an arm against the wall beside Severus, utterly unbothered by the venom in Severus’ voice. “Relax, I’m not that much of a git,” he said, though his usual arrogance was laced with something else—something Severus was unable to make out. “Didn’t know she’d… you know. Kicked it.”
Severus rolled his eyes, gripping his glass a little tighter. “Spare me your sympathy.”
Sirius huffed a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” He eyed Severus for a moment, then nudged Severus’ shoulder lightly with his elbow. “But if it makes you feel any better, I know what it’s like.”
Severus stiffened, casting him a sideways glance. “What are you on about?”
Sirius grinned, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’re not the only one whose dear old mum is dead to them. Well, mine’s still technically breathing, but I’d argue yours is the luckier one.” He tapped the side of his temple with two fingers. “At least yours won’t be screaming insults at you from beyond the grave.”
Severus wanted to ignore him. He should ignore Black. But something about the way Sirius said it—lighthearted, joking, but with a bitterness that wasn’t entirely feigned—made him pause.
Sirius drummed his fingers against the table and let out an exaggerated sigh. “Tell you what, Snape, since I’m such a charitable soul, I’ll let you wallow in misery alone this time. But don’t think this gets you off the hook.” He shot Severus a lazy smirk. “You still look like you could use a proper hexing.”
Severus exhaled through his nose, staring down into his drink. “If you don’t leave in the next five seconds, I’ll be the one doing the hexing.”
Sirius chuckled, pushing off the wall. “There’s the Snivellus I know and hate.” He gave Severus a mock salute before turning on his heel, striding away with that same maddening confidence he always carried.
Severus rolled his eyes, but for some reason—one he refused to acknowledge—the room didn’t feel quite as suffocating as before.