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𝐀 𝐒 𝐓 𝐑 𝐈 𝐋 𝐎 𝐐 𝐔 𝐔 𝐒
( latin : the talking of the stars )
𝐓𝐇𝐄 stars can certainly speak.
They soar, positioned atop their central stage in the cosmos, wearing crowns of effervescent diamond and gowns of dazzling satin. Nighttime shadows promise some dark, rich entity of commonality between them, however sinister the distance may be. Between the inverted arrowhead of Aquila, Hydra's serpentine figure, or the northern cross of Cygnus, their tragedies turn to myth; their martyrdoms to sainthoods.
Far past the fickle promises of strong-shouldered gods and galaxial rulers, they rise, creating their own Elysian fields along the never-ending highway. There is a system to the madness, each one poised at exactly the right mark to tell a cohesive story — and although soft, how beautiful those stories have proven to be.
Yes, the stars can certainly speak, and if you listen carefully enough, their whispers are eternal.
So it was, on that fateful Halloween, the clouds of a budding storm curtaining the skyscape. The murmurs of those heavenly bodies above were innumerable, the asperity of the night swallowing them up like some great, ever-expanding void. They knew what lay ahead: the hellish flame of October 31st, 1981, burning onwards with a cruel, unforgiving laugh.
"You knew this was coming," the night says, "don't lament — it was carved into your very configuration, dribbled into the nebulae of your very birth."
But the stars did lament, desperately searching for some measly, brief promise of hope, anything to impart on the mortals below.
Nothing came.
That flame burned on, as forcibly as ever, and although a fire swears to bring warmth, comfort, safety, and light, this night had cursed those oaths. Instead, there was cold, agony, danger, and below, even Cocoa Prewett knew that it was far too dark.
She stood in the nursery of a quaint house in Godric's Hollow, letting her smooth, consoling hum fill the quiet. A plait of chocolate brown fell into the cradle as she traced a loving hand over her baby girl's forehead, but little Melody, oblivious of her imminent destiny, was already fast asleep.
Cocoa turned, and started towards the window. She was a nocturnal being, but she could feel the tragedy woven into the air; the chilled, murky stillness around her. When she parted the curtain, she didn't think of her husband, Fabian, nor her mother, the stern Transfiguration professor — she only thought of her one dazzling Dog star beneath those clouds, and how someday, when the universe was on their side, she'd meet him again.
Her star waited uneasily in the southern stratosphere, hissing warnings to its neighbors and watching them spread — across the night, they twinkled and shone with the stinging honesty of death, somehow sounding holy in their horror.
After all, when the trumpets sounded and her last die was cast, couldn't the most unforgivable sins become the most divine virtues, blessed enough to free her?
If Sirius is out there, she willed, let him know — we'll find each other, even if it takes a thousand more lifetimes, and we'll do things right.
That was the last time Cocoa would look at the sky, and she trembled, feeling the familiar droplets of forgotten moonlights welling up in her gaze.
So much would be taken from her, torn from her supple fingertips — she wouldn't see Hagrid save her daughter from the wreckage, nor Minerva take the beloved baby in; one last sacrifice for her blood.
She wouldn't see her lover's fall from grace, and perhaps that was the universe's parting jest — for she, too, had betrayed those she loved; she, too, had watched others sweep up the ruins with a distant stare.
She wouldn't see Melody persisting without her embrace, growing without her support, and living without the tangible love of a mother; two parent-shaped holes in her small heart. Her daughter would be alone, only the light of the stars to guide her through the deepest, darkest pitfalls of such a beastly, remorseless world.
But Cocoa's time was coming to a close, now, trapped between the light years of her crystallized truths and meteoric lies. She'd remember an emerald light, then the marble pillars and wildflower fields of the endmost world beyond —
And so, in return for her sorrows and suffering, the stars sent their blessings.
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