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The night Antares was born, the Black family home was unusually quiet, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. Sirius, a curious and restless seven-year-old, had been shooed away from the commotion by Kreacher, their family's devoted house-elf. Despite his protests, he found himself tucked away in his room, staring at the ceiling, wondering what the fuss was all about.
A month had passed since that night. Antares, named after the brightest star in the Scorpius constellation, was now a permanent fixture in the house. Sirius had watched, initially with curiosity, as their mother fussed over the new baby. Her usually stern face seemed to soften whenever she was with Antares, her lips curling into smiles that Sirius had rarely seen before.
"She's always with him," Sirius muttered one evening, peeking around the doorframe of the nursery. Their mother was sitting in the rocking chair, gently humming an old lullaby. Kreacher stood nearby, ready to attend to her every whim.
Sirius felt a pang of something he couldn't quite name—something sharp and uncomfortable. He was used to being the centre of her attention, even if that attention often came in the form of stern lectures and disapproving looks. He was the eldest son, the firstborn. Shouldn't that mean something?
But with Antares, it seemed different. Their mother, Walburga, never smiled at Sirius or Regulus like she did at Antares. He watched her coo and cradle the baby, a tenderness in her eyes that made his chest ache with envy and confusion.
He remembered the day Antares had been brought home. Sirius had stood on tiptoe, trying to get a glimpse of his new brother, but Walburga had barely noticed him, her attention wholly absorbed by the tiny, wriggling bundle in her arms.
"Isn't he perfect, Sirius?" she'd said, not looking up. "Your brother Antares. He'll bring honour to our family name."
Sirius had nodded, but even then, a seed of resentment had begun to take root. He already had a brother, Regulus, and that had seemed enough. Now, with Antares' arrival, he felt displaced, pushed aside in his own home. It wasn't long before he realised that having another brother meant having less of everything else—less attention, less approval, less love.
Days turned into weeks, and Sirius watched with growing bitterness as their mother doted on Antares. She was never one to smile, but with Antares, she smiled more than a few times. Each rare smile felt like a wound, a reminder that her affection had a new focus.
One evening, as Sirius sat in the dimly lit parlour, he overheard a conversation between his parents. His father, Orion, was praising Walburga for her dedication to Antares, calling him their "shining star."
"And what about me?" Sirius thought bitterly. "Aren't I supposed to be the firstborn, the heir?"
At seven years old, Sirius decided he didn't like having another brother. Antares had turned his world upside down, and he didn't know how to set it right. He was the firstborn, but it seemed that in the eyes of his mother, he was just another son.
Antares, the littlest star, had become the centre of their mother's universe, and Sirius was left to orbit on the fringes, struggling to find his place.
"The littlest star," Sirius had come to call him, more so out of spite than affection. Antares would always be the last, the youngest. Sirius was the oldest, the one who should have mattered most. But in the eyes of their mother, it seemed Antares had eclipsed him entirely.
As the months passed, Sirius's resentment festered. Every coo, every gentle touch their mother bestowed upon Antares felt like a betrayal. He watched as she lavished attention on the baby, her face softening in ways it never did for him or Regulus.
One evening, Sirius found himself lingering outside the nursery again. He could hear his mother singing softly, a lullaby she had never sung for him. His small hands clenched into fists as he leaned against the doorframe, the wood digging into his palm. The injustice of it all burned within him.
"Sirius?" Regulus's voice broke through his thoughts. His younger brother, just a year his junior, stood behind him, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "What are you doing?"
"Nothing," Sirius muttered, pushing himself away from the door. "Just watching."
Regulus glanced into the nursery, then back at Sirius. "Do you think she loves him more than us?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortable. Sirius didn't have an answer. He wanted to say no, to reassure his brother that their mother's love was equally distributed. But he couldn't lie. Not when the evidence was so clear.
"Maybe," Sirius said finally, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Maybe she does."
Regulus looked troubled, but he didn't press the matter further. Instead, he followed Sirius down the hallway, their footsteps echoing softly on the wooden floor.
That night, Sirius stared up at the ceiling, listening to the faint sounds of Antares's cries and their mother's soothing voice drifting down the hall. He wondered what it was about the littlest star that had captured their mother's heart so completely.
Days turned into weeks, and Sirius tried to bury his resentment, but it was a difficult task. Antares's presence was a constant reminder of his own perceived inadequacies. He threw himself into his lessons, trying to excel in everything he did, hoping to earn back some of the attention that had been stolen from him.
One evening at dinner, Sirius resolved to impress his parents. He sat up straight, his posture rigid with determination, and began recounting details from his History of Magic lesson, where he had learned about the ancient wizards and their exploits. His voice, usually buoyant with excitement when sharing tales, was now laced with a hint of desperation.
"And then Mr Reign told me about the Goblin Rebellions of 1612," Sirius explained, eyes flicking between his mother and father at the head of the table.
Walburga Black, her attention seemingly fixed on stirring her soup, gave no response. Sirius's heart sank, but he pressed on, hoping for a flicker of interest.
Orion Black, sitting tall and imposing in his high-backed chair, listened with a distant gaze. His brow furrowed momentarily, as if trying to summon an appropriate response. "Yes, yes," he finally said, his tone lacking enthusiasm. "Important history, indeed."
Sirius's shoulders slumped imperceptibly. His father's tepid acknowledgment stung more than outright dismissal. He was the heir, after all—the one destined to carry on the Black name with honour and pride. But how could he when even his best efforts failed to capture their attention?
"You should know these things, Sirius," Orion continued in a more paternal tone, though it felt hollow to Sirius's ears. "One day, you'll be Lord Black. You must be better than everyone else."
Sirius nodded, a tightness forming in his chest. He glanced at Regulus, who sat silently beside him, pushing his peas around his plate with a small fork. His younger brother's lack of engagement mirrored Sirius's own struggle for recognition.
As the dinner dragged on, Sirius's attempts to impress dwindled into strained silence. He picked at his food, the taste of disappointment bitter on his tongue. Antares's name was mentioned once or twice, drawing warm smiles from their mother and brief nods from their father. It was as if Antares's very presence demanded their attention effortlessly, leaving Sirius to feel like a forgotten shadow in his own home.
After dinner, Sirius retreated to his room, the weight of his parents' indifference heavy on his shoulders. He sat at his desk, staring blankly at his textbooks. His mind raced with thoughts of inadequacy, of the ever-looming expectations that seemed unattainable.
Regulus, sensing his brother's despondency, tiptoed into the room. He perched on the edge of Sirius's bed, holding out a small toy dragon as a tentative offering. "Want to play?"
"Not now, Reg," Sirius replied, trying to sound patient despite the frustration building inside him.
Regulus hesitated, his shoulders slumping slightly. "But playing will make you feel better," he insisted, his voice wavering with disappointment.
Sirius felt a pang of annoyance. He had been struggling with his own feelings of inadequacy, and Regulus's well-meaning but persistent attempts to cheer him up were beginning to grate on his nerves.
"Reg, I said not now," Sirius snapped, his frustration bubbling over. "Why do you always annoy me? I don't want to play with your stupid dragon."
Regulus's eyes widened, hurt flashing across his face before he quickly masked it. He withdrew the toy dragon, his lower lip trembling slightly. "I... I just thought... sorry," he muttered, turning away and retreating from the room.
Sirius watched him go, a twinge of guilt creeping into his chest. He hadn't meant to lash out at Regulus, especially not over something as trivial as a toy. But the weight of his own insecurities had clouded his judgment, making him blind to his brother's attempt to reach out to him.
Alone in his room once more, Sirius leaned heavily against his desk, his anger dissipating into a hollow feeling of regret. He knew Regulus looked up to him, admired him even. Yet, in his quest for validation from their parents, Sirius had inadvertently pushed away the one person who had always looked out for him.
Regulus's words echoed in his mind—playing will make you feel better. Sirius rubbed a hand over his face, battling with conflicting emotions. He knew Regulus was right in his own innocent way, but pride kept him from admitting it.
Months later, Sirius was still trying to bury his resentment, but it was a difficult task. Antares's presence was a constant reminder of his own perceived inadequacies. He threw himself into his lessons, trying to excel in everything he did, hoping to earn back some of the attention that had been stolen from him.
One afternoon, Sirius found himself lingering in the parlour, boredom gnawing at him. He watched as his mother cradled Antares in her arms, her face soft and serene. A sharp pang of jealousy cut through him, and before he could stop himself, he let out a loud, exaggerated sigh.
Walburga glanced up, her expression immediately hardening. "What is it, Sirius?" she snapped, her tone sharp.
Sirius bristled. "I'm bored. You never spend time with me anymore."
Walburga's eyes narrowed. "Don't be ridiculous, Sirius. You're old enough to entertain yourself."
"But you used to read to me," Sirius insisted, his voice rising. "You used to—"
"Enough!" Walburga's shout cut through the air, startling both Sirius and Antares. The baby began to cry, his wails piercing the sudden silence. Walburga turned her attention to him, her face softening as she rocked him gently. "There, there, my precious. Mummy's here."
Sirius felt his heart sink. It had been a while since his mother had gotten so annoyed at him, her patience frayed by his outburst. He watched as she soothed Antares, her anger at Sirius seeming to dissolve the moment she looked at the baby.
"Go to your room, Sirius," Walburga said without looking up. "I don't have time for your tantrums."
Sirius's fists clenched at his sides. "It's not fair," he muttered under his breath, but he didn't move.
Walburga's head snapped up, her eyes blazing. "What did you say?"
"It's not fair!" Sirius repeated, louder this time. "You don't care about me or Regulus anymore. You only care about Antares!"
Walburga stood, her face a mask of fury. "How dare you speak to me like that?" she hissed. "You ungrateful child!"
Sirius felt the hot sting of tears in his eyes, but he refused to back down. "It's true! You never spend time with me anymore. You never—"
The slap came out of nowhere, sharp and sudden. Walburga's hand cracked across Sirius's cheek, the force of it turning his head to the side. For a moment, there was only stunned silence, broken only by Antares's continued crying.
"How dare you," Walburga repeated, her voice trembling with rage. "You will not speak to me in that manner. Ever."
Sirius's cheek burned, both from the slap and the humiliation. He could taste the metallic tang of blood where his teeth had cut into his cheek. Blinking back tears, he met his mother's furious gaze.
"Go to your room," she said, her voice cold and hard. "Now."
Without another word, Sirius turned and fled, his steps heavy with a mixture of anger, shame, and heartbreak. As he reached his room, he slammed the door behind him, the sound echoing through the empty halls.
In the quiet moments, when no one was watching, Sirius would sometimes sneak into the nursery. He would stand over Antares's crib, watching his baby brother sleep. He wondered if things would ever change, if their mother would ever look at him the way she looked at Antares.
But for now, the littlest star continued to shine the brightest in their mother's eyes, and Sirius, the eldest, could only watch from the shadows.
In the quiet moments, when no one was watching, Sirius would sometimes sneak into the nursery. Tonight was one of those nights. He crept through the dimly lit halls, his cheek still stinging from the slap, and pushed open the door to Antares's room.
The nursery was bathed in soft moonlight, casting gentle shadows on the walls. Antares lay in his crib, his tiny face serene. But as Sirius approached, the baby's eyes fluttered open. Curious, innocent grey eyes—so much like their mother's—looked up at Sirius. Antares's small hands reached out, making grabby motions towards him.
Sirius stood there, his heart a mix of emotions. He wanted to hate his baby brother, to blame him for everything that had changed. But as he looked into those trusting eyes, he found it hard to hold onto his anger.
"Why do they love you so much?" Sirius whispered, leaning over the crib. "What makes you so special?"
Antares gurgled, his hands still reaching for Sirius. Tentatively, Sirius extended a finger, and Antares's tiny hand closed around it with surprising strength. The warmth of the baby's grip sent a confusing mix of feelings through him.
"I don't like you," Sirius said softly, his voice trembling. "I don't like you at all."
Antares responded with a happy coo, his eyes never leaving Sirius's face. It was as if he could sense the conflict within his older brother but was too young to understand it.
Sirius sighed, pulling his hand away. "You took everything," he continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "You took Mother's smiles, her time, her love. Before you, it was different. She... she used to care about me. Now it's just you."
The baby continued to look at him, uncomprehending but calm. Sirius felt a lump rise in his throat. It wasn't fair to blame Antares. He was just a baby, unaware of the turmoil he had caused.
"But it's not your fault, is it?" Sirius admitted, the anger draining from his voice. "You're just here, being a baby. And I'm the one who's supposed to be strong."
He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of his father's words settling heavily on his shoulders. "You probably won't remember any of this," he said, his tone softening. "But I will. And maybe one day, I'll understand why things changed. Maybe one day, I'll forgive you."
Antares yawned, his tiny mouth opening wide, and Sirius couldn't help but smile a little. Despite everything, there was something undeniably endearing about his baby brother.
"Goodnight, Antares," Sirius whispered, gently brushing a hand over the baby's soft hair. "Sleep well, littlest star."
As he left the nursery, Sirius felt a strange mix of emotions. The bitterness was still there, but it was tempered by a flicker of understanding and a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, in time, things would change. For now, he would continue to watch from the shadows, trying to find his place in a family that seemed to have forgotten him.
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