Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any associated characters, places and events.
The Vision of His Dream
"Damn it, Sirius, you almost hit me!" Regs yelled at his brother, swerving wildly. He corkscrewed tightly and spiraled up and over his older sibling, yanking a fistful of the idiot's hair as he whizzed across him, perpendicular to Sirius' path in order to make a return swipe impossible. Sirius' broomstick oscillated crazily as he jerked away, hissing.
"Oi! Play fair! I didn't even get you, moron!"
"What are you, a sniveling, high-horsed rule-stickler?" Regs jeered. "Afraid to get your hands a bit dirty? It's the result that counts!"
Sirius growled and took off after Regs, who laughed and used his lighter weight against his would-be tormentor, retreating in true Slytherin style to the other end of the field. Sirius couldn't catch him and tried to cut him off on his return pass. He swore loudly as Regs skimmed past, missing him by a meter.
Regs was having the time of his life. He knew Sirius lived for these weekend sessions where they toed the line of freedom. For Regs it was good exercise but as much as he enjoyed them, he could survive without them. Sirius on the other hand, would rather pull out all his hair before missing them. Which was why Regs had so much fun making them as frustrating as possible for his older brother. He knew many – probably all, in fact – of Sirius' weaknesses, and how to exploit them. A few years ago, maybe he wouldn't have done so – but this sort of thing was harmless and Regs simply couldn't resist – like a good little Slytherin, he was using these situations to train himself to exploit weaknesses. Mother would have been proud. It was a little cruel to do so at Sirius' expense perhaps, but he would certainly survive – and if it helped Regs to survive at some later point, then Sirius' surely wouldn't begrudge him a little practice. They both knew they'd never really hurt each other. Nothing would be worth that.
A whistling sound was all that alerted him to the sudden incoming bludger that Sirius had pelted at him. Regs didn't even have time to gasp. He flattened himself in a half sloth-roll maneuver and realized a millisecond later that it wasn't going to be enough. He let go of his broom, throwing himself off to the side of the narrow wood and heard the streaking whistle shoot inches from his head. Without stopping to think of the fact that he was fifty feet above the ground, he used his momentum to swing himself back over the other side of the broom from the single pivot point of the ankle he had still hooked over the handle near the bristles. He felt his feet fly off as he came back round on top and pointed the broom to the ground so he could fall easily back on. He came up smirking and raised an eyebrow at Sirius.
"Not fair," came the grumpy reply. "If you don't hit bludgers at me, I can't pull that sort of thing off."
"I'm not a beater, Sirius," Regs rejoined. They wove side by side, threading through the cool air.
"What's with the sneak cheating anyway?" Sirius tossed at him. "What about the honour of the nobility that Mother always goes on about?"
"She does go on a bit, doesn't she?" Regs mused. "Well, I'm simply getting results, brother dear. One must learn to be resourceful, know when to execute a tactical retreat and get the desired outcome. It's about being smart, as I'm sure you'll understand."
The barb didn't stick because Sirius was smart, but he scowled anyway.
"Merlin, you sound just like her. Proper little Slytherin you'll turn out to be."
"I prefer the term renegade – if you're heading into 'cheating' territory."
"Well, you would, wouldn't you?"
"And you're just the perfect honour-bound rule-follower, aren't you?" Regs sneered a little. Turn the tables back on Sirius and he would always abandon his own line of attack.
"Well, I'm trying to do what Father wants and he's not easy to please," Sirius fired back. The smile Regs had waiting died on his lips. The look he shot at his brother was dark with understanding. Sirius almost glared in return; he hated pity. But this was more empathy than sympathy and Sirius knew it. They were silent. Words were often needless between them.
"Think we'll be ready for the school team when we get there, Uncle Alphard?" Sirius spoke suddenly. It took Regs a moment to realise he wasn't talking to Regs and that they had already reached the ground. He looked up for the reply.
"Well, I've no doubt that upon reaching school you'll both certainly qualify for reserves, if not the team itself. You aren't the only good flyers out there, after all." Uncle Alphard was bouncing on his feet like a youngster in Diagon Alley for the first time. His graying hair was trimmed stylishly and he beamed down at them, still sitting propped on their brooms.
"Well, only two years and I'll be there," Sirius said with determination.
"Three, my boy," Uncle Alphard said reprovingly. "First years don't fly on the team, remember?"
Sirius seemed to droop dejectedly.
"You can get there before your brother and clear the way for him as the seeker – then the team will be unstoppable!"
Regs and Sirius caught each others' eye and grinned together at the thought. There was something floating around them that they both ignored, a whisper that perhaps they'd play against, rather than together… but they'd sooner allow for the possibility that one of them may simply not make the team. Sirius was a Black - and the heir – there's no way on earth he'd ever be anywhere but Slytherin. Obviously.
Dinner that night was as stiff and uncomfortable as usual. It had never been anything else. Sirius and Regs had to content themselves with silence and eating – speech was never encouraged at dinner without the extended family. They listened instead to Father's long-winded and passionate outpouring on the subject of the blood-purist movement that had been heating up in the last few months. Regs listened intently as Mother grunted her agreement here and there, injecting a sharp comment or anecdote wherever she felt the conversation was either too one-sided or lacked the wit she required for a stimulating discussion. It seemed that his parents were completely in favour of any strong action taken against the weak and feeble-minded ministry, which was only fit to be manipulated by the likes of those of the Noble houses, whose wealth could be invested into malleable puppet politicians – that was the only way anything worthwhile ever got done. As long as the blood-purists weren't interfering too much in the machinations of the Noble houses, the Black family was all for their cause. They had the same motives at heart, it seemed; blood purity, of course, and the rise of the worthy by the standards of Slytherin, and power to those with the ambition and desire to get it. They wanted to reshape the magical world away from the delicate muggle-pandering ways that current figures of authority were inclined to favour – Albus Dumbledore, for example. Regs' cousins had been disgusted with his particular brand of frivolous and idiosyncratic mannerisms, when they, who had studied the ancient and grand histories of the school and castle, knew how far it had fallen. Hogwarts, once a towering legacy of knowledge and power, the pinnacle of pride and education, now turned to ashes and dust in the hands of this man who replaced grandeur with cheap and gaudy displays. Never in the days of the founders had suits of armour been anything but dignified, spirits haunting its deepest corners with terrible solemnity and horror, not reciting rude rhymes or weeping in lavatories. Now there were floating candles instead of flaming brackets, dank dungeons where once there had been shadowy caverns of secrets and potential. And this man, with so much power – magical and political – was influencing their entire world away from its roots in might and magic to the exact, insipid frivolity that muggles expected when they considered magic. It was not just a scandal – it was like chipping away at jewels to covet mere glass. His flawed philosophy would lead them all into an age of loss – and bloodshed; glorious, ancient battle and combat that would soon be the only way to reclaim the lost kingdom of splendeur they once had known. If he did not revoke his claim to influence, then they would remove it, and its spokesperson too. Blood purity was the only avenue of true power – and he was obliterating it piece by piece.
Regs was so caught up in the exhilaration of righteousness and the painted picture of such a magnificent repercussion to those who opposed the true nature of magic that he didn't even look to see if Sirius was pulling faces like he normally did during boring meals. Mother noticed his enraptured expression and her lips twitched in the faint semblance of an indulgent smile. Regs looked at her with his eyes blazing, and told her with all his heart that that was what he would do, in the name of magic and all its innate power, to recover the lost art they once had known. He said nothing; never opened his mouth, for the dinner table was a place for adult conversations, with all the wit, maturity and self-assured opinions of those who have lived long enough to be allowed such things. His mother heard it anyway, and for one long unbroken moment when their silent conversation drowned out Father's verbose convictions on the superiority of anonymous contenders for power as long as they had pure lineage, Regs forgot Sirius and his expectations and saw his own life stretched ahead of him in a glorious rise of power and influence. He could join these people and change the fortunes of the worthy; he could lead the world into a new age of magic. Immediately the vision subsided and he was a seven year old child once more, untempered by the feuds of his ancestors. And Sirius was about as bored as he could be, slouching and liable to be reprimanded for negligence to his posture. Regs straightened his own back minutely but the change in Regs' direction to face Sirius was enough for his brother to notice and he quickly followed suit. Almost at once, Father sneered.
"If you can't keep your back proud at home, what hope do you have for public appearances, boy? Did you think I wouldn't notice? What will it take for you to obey us?" The low hiss cut through the air. Sirius dropped his head, hiding either sullenness or submission behind his dark hair.
"Look at me, boy, when I am speaking to you!" Sirius snapped his head straight and his eyes were dark grey, defiance flashing baldly. Regs shut down everything and watched the world out of cold emotionless eyes.
"I think," Mother interjected snidely, "that Sirius would benefit from a week in an upper body bind."
To his credit, Regs didn't even twitch on his brother's behalf, though inside, locked far away was a tangled mess of cringing despair. Sirius' chest was heaving as though he was about to protest, but then the fight went out of his eyes and he blanked his face.
"Yes, ma'am," he replied stiffly. Before he could even blink, Orion had flicked his wand at Sirius wordlessly and Sirius was straighter-backed than he'd ever been before. His spine was so rigid that he nearly toppled out of his chair. His chin was held high and his face was a traumatised mask of numb horror and pain. He tried to swivel back to face his plate but had to swing his whole body with his legs in order to do so. His eyes were overbright but he managed to lift his arm smoothly from the shoulder joint to continue eating. Regs did not pause in his own food consumption, but he noticed his brother's hand was shaking. This was Sirius' curse – always to be the bane of the parent. He was taking his curses – he could not send them back to Mother and Father. He was learning.
That night, Regs waited until Mother and Father were both in bed and shrugged on the black silk robe over his pajamas. He padded silently up the stairs and along the hall, knocking softly on his brother's door. He did not wait for an answer but slipped through the door into the gloom of Sirius' haven, lined with heavy tapestries and silver-framed portraits of Regs, or Uncle Alphard on the Quidditch pitch. A little moan whispered across the breadth of the room and Regs melted like a shadow to Sirius' side, placing a light hand on his shoulder. Sirius would have flinched, Regs knew, if he could have. Instead, he shuffled his legs and tried to roll over with his neck still held as high as a haughty pureblood examining a slug with a house elf waiting on hand with a bucket of flesh-eating slug repellant. Regs reached to his aid at once, propping a pillow behind Sirius' back on one side and another behind his head.
"Thanks," came the agonized reply, softly breathed. The pain, Regs guessed, would come from the tightness of muscles frozen into positions that were uncomfortable and not in the usual range of motion for Sirius. Regs would have stayed to do more, but there was little more he could do, and the chances of being caught by Mother would increase the longer he stayed.
"Sleep – as well as you can," he whispered and with a last light touch on his brother's shoulder he left as silently as he'd come, shutting the door behind him. He did not disapprove of Father's actions at all; it was not his place to say, after all; but he could not help but feel that he was condemning his brother to a personal hell by leaving him alone in a darkened room with a ramrod spine that would last a week.
If the week was hell for Sirius, he did not let it show. After the first day, he managed to maintain an expression as stiff as his torso, moved little and spoke less. Perhaps the worst was Sirius' obligation to his astronomy studies which required him to climb the stairs to the roof view to map stars and planets. Instead of bending over his telescope and parchment, he was forced to kneel and rise every time, tiny whimpers perhaps repressed behind tightly closed lips. Regs thought that if Sirius had to hold that expression any longer he would have premature lines permanently etched into his face. His movements were slow and his usual exuberant activities replaced by an almost decrepit shuffle, particularly on the stairs, where Regs wished he could whisk his brother up and away from the discomfort of seeing their parents turn a blind eye to Sirius' pain. Meals were tense and Sirius' shoulders became tenser every day. His lessons made his eyes haggard and shadows lurked there without relief. Regs learnt Charms and History always with a mind to Sirius' discomfort somewhere else in the house. The weekend passed without a Quidditch session, much to Sirius' misery. Regs pressed his lips tightly together when he considered the ramifications of that, but said nothing. He agreed with his parents by default. It was his birthright, his defense and his choice – in that order.
The end of the week came much too slowly for the younger inhabitants of the house. Regs had been wallowing in a sensation of helplessness all week and Sirius' silent agony was like a constant ache in his own chest. They sat at dinner once more, the tension like rock between them all. Regs did no more than blink and eat; he let nothing show on his face, so it fell naturally into haughty lines. The minutes ticked by like hours and Regs could see tiny droplets of sweat beading Sirius' face the longer they sat.
Finally, the house elves took away the last dish. Mother rose to leave and Father rose with her, and for one heart-stopping moment, Regs thought they were going to leave Sirius in the bind yet longer, but as they got to the door, Mother flicked her wand over her shoulder before they left the room without looking back.
At once Sirius gave a great shuddering gasp and slid bonelessly out of his seat. He crumpled to the floor, shaking as he panted and Regs leapt to assist him. Sirius tried to shake him off, but needed Regs support to get back into his chair. He sat there, quivering and gulping in huge lungfuls of air. Regs went cold thinking that perhaps the restriction on Sirius' chest meant he had not been able to breathe properly all week – that he had been slowly suffocating in his own home. He put it to the back of his mind, because he had to, because it was his duty, and gave his brother's shoulder a last squeeze. He left the room, knowing that Sirius needed the space. And counting on the fact that he would know if his brother needed him again.
All through that awful week, Regs had been thinking constantly of his brother's comfort and welfare, but he had not forgotten the topic of conversation at the dinner table on the night when it had all begun. He could not remove the memory of his fantasy, of the things he had imagined for himself. He did not care to take centre stage, but if his name, and his honour, could become a driving force for a magical-political revolution, then he would gladly take the credit. Gryffindors bravely led the charge; Slytherins conducted business from the sidelines. Regs could dream of taking school by storm, creating new magical concepts and purifying magic; of being offered positions of power and leadership and uniting the blood-purist factions with noble pureblood ideals to lead them all into a new golden age – he could dream it all, but the best thing about it all was that was possible. He was smart; Sirius had always told him so. Wizards had made great discoveries during school – like Albus Dumbledore for example. But it didn't have to be during school – the laws of Transfiguration had been amassed over time by experts and prodigies – he could do that, but he needed to make a name for himself at school so the world would open up after he graduated. He was from a noble family, so he had the pureblood background and didn't have to worry about running the family as well – he could just mesh their political allies with the forces of the gathered blood-purists. It would be incredible. He did not elucidate too expansively to himself but let the vision rest cosily in the back of his mind so that it could be cultivated by time and experience. It was no use trying to follow a predetermined path when he knew not what factors may influence its turns. He would let it ripen by itself until he could put everything into place. Then he would earn his place in the history books as one of the great wizards of his generation.
If anyone were to ask him what fueled his dream, he would say that it originated in the ideals of his parents and was nurtured buy his own obligation to his family, but secretly it went deeper than that. There was a small part that could be identified as appealing to authority – he wished to prove himself as worthy in his parents' eyes, and also to Sirius, who saw him as no more than a competitive younger brother. But that still wasn't it. He didn't really have to prove anything to them; he knew that Sirius wouldn't really care, and his parents would be satisfied as long as he did what they expected of him. He wasn't even trying to prove anything to himself. It was more like – he wanted to be known in the world – he wanted to be significant, renowned and memorable. He wanted to prove himself to the world. It was ambition, pure and simple, and made him worthy, he knew, of Slytherin. And that was really the ultimate goal. To be as known in name as Salazar himself.
But as weeks and eventually months went by, Regs nestling his vibrant dream deep inside his chest, the more he heard about the blood-purist movement – only from snippets he overheard from his parents and uncles talking – and the more it seemed like they already had a leader. That was fine – Regs had allowed for that possibility. He would simply coordinate on behalf of the nobility and direct them into new magical pathways – once he invented them of course. But in the meantime, it certainly seemed like the fellow who was campaigning was a proud sort – as expected, of course – and was probably not really the sort to be trifled with. Regs would have to bargain hard to get into that circle. When he was older, too, because there was nothing he could do while he sat in History lessons or learned about why Charms motions were so different from Transfiguration ones.
So he would wait and bide his time – let himself age a little, until he was of power and years enough to add worth to his actions. And day by day, that time grew closer.
