(no subject)

[wunderkind]

STUFF GOES IN HERE

Comments

2 lazy 2 musebox

[humanistic]

Hey. George.

[So Annie is off somewhere doing... ghost things? What exactly she's been up to these days, Mitchell isn't sure of. She's getting more independent, that's good to see--probably means her door will show up for her soon, which, well, that one he's not sure of how to feel on. Which is stupid, ghosts are meant to move on, and you're happy for them when they do. But in any case: Annie is off being her own woman (ghost), and George and Mitchell are at home. A real modern family structure, this. Except of course George and Mitchell aren't doing shit, save for sitting around the house reading a book and idly flipping through television channels in a vain quest for a decent programme.

The latter of those is Mitchell, but he shifts his gaze from the TV so he can speak to George--who is very focused on his book, but it won't take much to break his concentration.]

George. Who reads in the same room as the TV, anyways, you're already askin' t' be disturbed--

2 cool 2 musebox

[nebbish]

[He doesn't look up from the book - Turgenev, Fathers and Sons, and they're at Odintsova's for the first time and Bazarov has just forsaken his nihilism to declare his love for the woman, so that's not really something he's going to chuck aside for a repeat of EastEnders. And he and Annie are getting on a bit better nowadays, but a moment when she's out of the house and one need not worry about suddenly being loomed over with a cup of tea and a biscuit and chatter in one's ear is a rare moment indeed.

George responds with a sigh, enunciating each word precisely and pausing between each for emphasis:]

George Sands does.

[And then he turns to the next page.]

[humanistic]

[Oh God he's talking about himself in the third person. And he's not looked up from his book. Mitchell gives him a moment longer, just to see--]

George Sands does.

[George Sands asks to be disturbed, in other words. Without taking his eyes from George, he fumbles to his right, looking for-- ah, here it is, a very old biscuit, and he crumbles off a large crumb and--takes aim--and chucks it, right at George's face.]

[nebbish]

[In a perfect world, George would have looked up, used his book, hit that biscuit, and popped in right back to hit the middle of Mitchell's forehead.

In this world, George looks up in time for the biscuit to hit him in the cheek and fall onto his book.]

Mitchell!

[He stands up and shakes out his book.]

Crumbs, Mitchell! In my book! Look, they're stuck in the spine, look at that -

[And he shows him - crumbs. In the spine of his book. Horrible.]

[humanistic]

Books are sturdy, right, and-- ah, look, you're shakin' it, they're falling out-- all over the floor--

[He observes that second bit rather distantly, and immediately wishes that he hadn't, because now George is going to go and get out the hoover and--if he is feeling particularly vindictive, then he'll pass it over to Mitchell and force him to do it.

Quickly, Mitchell sits forward, leveling his gaze at George. Serious conversation time. No time for hoovering or complaining.]

Look, I wanted to ask you, about-- about Annie.

[nebbish]

[And Mitchell looks serious - quite serious. But there are crumbs in his book, is the issue, and while Annie is an interesting topic of conversation (which is bloody fortunate, considering how much Annie talks about Annie, and how much Mitchell does too) a more interesting topic is his book.]

No, the little bits get trapped down there - and it will look like I was eating while reading, with the book all grubby. I was going to lend this out to Nina, you know! [He half-whines her name.]

[humanistic]

[He lets George get through all of that, but he doesn't bother to change his incredulous expression. Because really. Really, and when George finally comes to his screechy little finish--]

Nina. Nina is not going t' want t' read that book.

[nebbish]

[George gets on his somewhat hurt face, the one where he's a little bit offended but not extremely offended but rather wants to make the other party (and the other party is exclusively Mitchell) feel a little bit bad.]

She will! [He nods, still fostering that impression of wounded righteousness.] She's asked me to share more of myself, my likes and dislikes and all of that, so I'm giving this to her. And don't say that book in that tone! This, Mitchell, is a timeless classic dealing with the strife amongst the generations, thank you very much.

you're all "this isn't actually a musebox hope" and I'm all "la la la can't hear you"

[bitty_justice]

[Dad had always taught him that there were few things in the world more important than politeness. Intelligence would win you success, he said, and determination would too; money would get you a bit more ease in life, and so would help. Politeness, though, and kindness - those were the wheels upon which the world turned. What made people people was their society, and society functioned on goodness and politeness.

So that's why, sitting on that train to Hogwarts, facing down a new life, Miles fell back on what he knew better than anything else. Dad wasn't here with him, but that didn't mean that Dad couldn't continue to guide him, and so he would live by Dad's principles. He'd be all politeness when he turned to the boy standing behind him in line for the cart with snacks and what-have-you, and he'd ask, politely:]

Excuse me. I fear I'm unfamiliar with this currency; could you please help me determine how much I'll have to pay for a, um, bag of chips?

hi do you remember me also please always use this post as our personal museboxy posty thingy

[parumcanis]

[Some of Sirius' coolness has thawed, thanks to spending a few hours in the compartment with James Potter. There's some vestiges of it present, in his eyes, in the way that he holds his shoulders--straight-backed; it will be a better part of the year before he develops his almost signature slouch that flies in the face of all his etiquette lessons. But his careless, aloof air has lifted a little, leaving him a little more himself--not the Sirius of family parties, little better than a trick dog in a show, but the Sirius that put frog spawn in his aunt's tea and teased his cousin's first boyfriend so mercilessly the boy left the house in tears. Everyone in the Black house still refers to the unfortunate kid as Grotty Grimy Greengrass--even the parents, sometimes, when they aren't thinking, but they manage to refrain from affecting the boy's slight lisp when they say it.

But it's more the teasing than the cruelty that's in Sirius right now, still on uncertain ground here on the Hogwarts Express. People recognise his name, and a few key Slytherins have shook his hand, leaving Sirius feeling as if he wants to have a wash--but people mostly avoid him as well, except happy puppyish James Potter, who's practically adopted Sirius as his own straight from the off. It's going to be awkward if he gets into Gryffindor and Sirius follows that predictable Black path towards Slytherin. James has gone off down the train to greet someone else, swearing up and down to be right back, and Sirius is in the queue for sweets, ready to confirm friendship with James over Every-Flavour Beans and chocolate frogs--

And then this kid turns around and asks such a crisp and well-worded question that it takes Sirius by surprise. He blinks, and--second nature by now--makes a quick study of the kid's face. No one he recognises. Lesser family, half-blood, or muggleborn, and he sort of hates that the thought comes into his head at all, and he hates the easy way he can sort him out once he realises the question he's been asked.]

Which ones?

[He stands on his toes to see over the kid's shoulder, peering at the cart. There's a gruffness to him even as he's helping out--but he is going to help, to defy that instinct of pureblood ordering.]

Those, just there? Five knuts. Don't do those, they're total crap. Seven knuts for those, and the bag is larger. [He points, but when the kid doesn't immediately count out the little brass coins, Sirius sighs, irritably, and holds out his hand.] Here. I'll count it out.

Man I had totally forgotten about this so having it suddenly in my inbox is lovely (ps yes)

[bitty_justice]

Thank you.

[He hopes quite keenly that the boy isn't going to just run with his money. He knows that's a possibility when he hands over his coins, and honestly Miles has seen so many people in strange clothes over the past few hours that he'd be challenged to remember the other boy's face if he did just take it. But he's not about to say no, I'm too suspicious of you, not when the boy is being very kind. (And especially not when he's starving and afraid of half the food he's seen so far. There were some kids eating things in the other compartment which he was pretty sure were alive.)

So he tips the money, a mixture of brass and some silver, into the other boy's hand, looks down at the collection and then up into the boy's face.]

Is this also your first year?

it was a beautiful little surprise for me too (ps good)

[parumcanis]

Yeah, but I'm not an idiot.

[Like you are is sort of implied, but Sirius shoots the kid a quick little glance--narrow-eyed and grinning--before he goes back to sorting out the coins.]

I've been down for Hogwarts for ages, and loads of my cousins have already been. I know what I'm doing. [He says it with simple self-assurance, and there isn't a hint of boasting to it. It's just a plain fact.] Here, these ones are knuts--see, the brass ones. 29 knuts in a sickle, and 17 sickles to a galleon--you haven't got any of those, but they're the gold ones. Seven knuts for the crisps is really good--but give her another fifteen and get a chocolate frog. I'll bet you haven't any Famous Witches and Wizards cards, have you.

(ps you are my favorite and I just want you to always have these psls with me)

[bitty_justice]

[And Miles stiffens very slightly, turning his gaze towards the other boy - but he smiles, and Miles understands that he's being teased and relaxes slightly and offers a very slight, shy smile in return. It's gone very quickly, but it's sincere.]

I don't like chocolate very much. But it comes with a card?

[He offers, very earnestly:]

I'll buy it if you promise to eat the chocolate.

(ps you are my favorite what a coincidence and so i think psls always can be arranged...... :3 )

[parumcanis]

You don't like chocolate? Who doesn't like chocolate--

[A little disgusted, he wrinkles his nose--but like hell he's going to pass on the offer of free chocolate. Greed is untempered by generosity, for now, and he nods, folding his arms over his chest.]

Done. Make sure you pick a good one, though, you don't want to get a crap card.

:3 :3 :3

[bitty_justice]

[Miles nods firmly and moves forward in line; two from the front now. After a moment of intense concentration, though, he turns around and nods once more in polite acknowledgement and says:]

I beg your pardon, and apologize. How can you tell which one has which card?

[parumcanis]

[Sirius shakes his head, with a worldly air. Kids these days.]

You can't. You just have to choose. But you'll know, if you concentrate. I never get crap cards.

and then the sorting hat was like SLITHERINNNNnnnn and bam it was an AU

[doggedly]

[All the Blacks go into Slytherin. It's as much a part of being a Black as the easy good looks and the assumptions of superiority, the fattened bank account and the wise investments and the family silver, heavy with age but polished to gleaming every Tuesday. There were threads, in his head, threads of ideas that might have been, given the right person to weave them together and make him see, but instead Sirius was sorted into Slytherin, and went without very much complaint, just as was expected of him. What complaints there were, he has stamped out. Clearly he thought himself more than he is, but the Sorting Hat knew where he belonged, and he went and belonged, thoroughly.

So he is still the heir, six years later. He is still his father's son--his mother loves Regulus more, she is not afraid to show it, even if she would never say it. But Orion Black has raised Sirius as his heir, and even if Sirius hates it sometimes--hates the prescribed predictable life, the march toward graduation, the gradual ceding of affairs that will come, until his father eventually dies, until he is head of the household, throwing a handful of dirt onto his father's ivory coffin, toujours pur, always, and it will go on, just the way it always has, smooth and uninterrupted and unruffled.

Sirius Black, he is a Slytherin troublemaker, sharp and witty and cruel when it suits him. Popular, not only because of his surname; he's made his own name for himself, which helped to found his father's pride and his mother's distaste all at once. Quidditch, exams, girls, professors: these are all things that Sirius handles with ease, and when his mates get really cruel over pureblood superiority-- he laughs, too, he laughs along with them, because it's funny. Because everything can be funny, because it's easy to make things funny. Because it's easier that way.

He swaggers through the school as if he owns the place--because he more or less does, doesn't he. Father on the board of directors, top donors to funds and all--not that Dumbledore pays the proper respects, not that he recognises it, and it's around that point in the discussion at the family parties that everyone begins to mutter, mutinously, about the state of the world, and Sirius slips out into the narrow back garden to have a smoke, to try not to think.

He is, right now, smoking. On school grounds, which is against the rules which--of course--Sirius doesn't care about. He deserves a smoke. Anyone that wants to come along and start shit with him over it is certainly welcome to try, but they would have to be pretty thick to do it. There is a nastiness in the way that he is holding his shoulders, in the way that he stares resolutely across the school grounds, glaring at nothing in particular. This is, of all times, not the time to mess with Sirius Black.]

I looove youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

[jurisimpudent]

[And then there's Miles Edgeworth, who is the thickest of the thick.

Edgeworth knows Black plenty well. After all, Gregory and Sylvia Edgeworth had been muggles, and all Edgeworths going back to the root of the name had been muggles, and all Gardners and everyone else on his mom's side of the family; his blood isn't mud, it's damn well dirt, and he takes a certain pride in that. Perhaps that's why he'd been sorted into Gryffindor those years ago, instead of Ravenclaw, the more natural fit; that train ride to Hogwarts, the elegant young heir to the Black clan had been the first boy he'd talked to - him and a few others who'd ended up in Slytherin, and talk had turned to heritage and Miles hadn't known what you were and weren't supposed to say so he'd naively chattered about everything. By the end of the train ride, he was nearly in tears - but by the ride up to the grand castle, that had hardened into a righteous sort of indignation, and that's what had been in his mind when the Sorting Hat had touched his head.

He's a prefect now. Of course he is. Every moment of every day has been devoted to being a model student - the paragon of what the wizarding world wants, adept with magic and rigorously obedient and eloquent and serious, all while still proudly a mudblood. So when he walks the grounds, and sees Sirius Black breaking a rule, he's hardly not going to approach. That's obvious. Because by confronting him for breaking that rule, Edgeworth will once again prove that the lowly muggle-born is far more righteous and obedient than the wealthy, handsome heir.]

What do you think you're doing, Mr. Black?

[His back is straight; his face is an uncanny imitation of that of the Head of his house when she's displeased.]

Smoking is prohibited; you know that.

not as much as iiiii love youuuuuuuuuuuuu also poor ickle firstie edgeworth :,c

[doggedly]

[That voice. That's a voice like a barky little mutt, and Sirius glances up, dark-eyed, at first--really more of a glare, which his smirk does nothing really to improve. It twists over his mouth and all, yeah, but his eyes stay resolutely cold.

Miles Mudblood Edgeworth, as tenacious as any yappy little dog, wearing that irritating little expression of his--the one he clearly thinks strikes fear in the hearts of troublemakers and wrongdoers, the prefect expression that is meant to turn blood to ice. But Sirius isn't some sniviling little first year. He's taken on Edgeworth before, and today is a day that he feels very capable of doing so. Antagonising him a little first is fair game, and so he crumples the bit of parchment in his fist and shoves it in his pocket, plucking his cigarette from his mouth with an elegant little gesture, holding it just away from his mouth, between index and middle finger.]

Yeah? So why are you reminding me, Miles?

[It isn't any effort at all to replace the cigarette in his mouth, with an air as snide as if he'd outright thumbed his nose at Edgeworth.]

Poor sad Sirius :c :c :c

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth's hatred for Sirius Black is identical to his hatred for all of Sirius Black's friends. The thing is that, when you're mocked that viciously, you never really tend to register who started it and who was just standing by and failing to stop it. Or when you're ambushed in the halls, cursed from behind, you don't really spend much time considering whether the Slytherins in the corner are laughing because they'd participated or merely heard about it. You just grind your teeth and spend a bit of time loathing each of them.

So the sneer that Edgeworth directs towards Black is as hateful as the one he'd give any of the actual perpetrators of real violence. The insult he delivers is as vicious.]

Because for some reason, there's evidently some sort of neural disconnect between your knowledge and your actions. [He narrows his eyes like he's thinking about this proposition:] Must be a result of the inbreeding.

Cigarette out, now, or I'll be taking points from your rotten House.

they will be sad fwen...ds....

[doggedly]

[Sirius stands up, a little straighter--it's not really a conscious action so much as it is an all over thing, that happens. Everything sort of goes sharper, from the lift of his shoulders to the expression on his face.

Slowly, he takes his cigarette from his mouth, but he does not drop it on the ground--just holds it, gently smoldering, between his fingers.]

You'll want to take that back, Edgeworth. Both the insult to Slytherin, and the insult to my family. That last one is especially important.

[In his pocket, the crumpled parchment--thick, heavy stuff--pokes against his leg, a little pressure that's still impossible to ignore.]

In fact, I suggest that you just keep walking, prefect, or perhaps we'll see for ourselves just what colour your blood really is. Muddy, I suspect.

Of course they will they always end up that way

[jurisimpudent]

[Sometimes Edgeworth wonders if he would be so proud, so inflexible, if he hadn't come to Hogwarts. The thing is that when you're a Muggle-born, you're expected to be timid. Pride, dignity - those are supposed to be the sole provenance of the noble and proud Purebloods. So out of spite, out of sheer hatred, Edgeworth has never backed down from a fight, just to prove that bastards like Black aren't the only ones with spines.

So he snorts.]

Oh, truly, Black, where's the insult? We're all forced to put up with your family trees being shoved under our noses, and it's all right there. Written right on them.

[The mockery fades, then, into something hard and cold and angry. It's just the two of them out here. Edgeworth wonders if he can take Sirius Black in a fight. He shifts slightly, so that his wand (oak, dragon heartstring, inflexible) presses against his leg, so that he knows where it is, so that he can have it in his hand in an instant.]

I know you're not very bright, and I know that your family's money usually buys you out of trouble, but it's not precisely the best idea to insult a prefect. I've authority over you.

because they're soulmates who are married on the astral plane

[doggedly]

[He laughs, a short and derisive bark.]

I'm not very bright. Funny, Edgeworth, I'm fairly certain I've outdone you in just about every exam. Are you waiting on N.E.W.T. results to admit complete and total failure, or are you just deluding yourself? Just because I don't wear my results on my shirtfront doesn't mean that I'm not more clever than you--but, then again, I s'ppose you've got precious little else to be proud of. Certainly not your parents, certainly not your name--you have to defend what little scrap of notoriety you have.

[He steps forward, coolly, and gestures with his cigarette toward the prefect badge pinned to Edgeworth's chest--a gesture that comes so close he nearly pokes the ash-end against that silver badge.]

That badge. And your intelligence, slight though it is.

[His eyes flash, as he grins--but it's not a grin that reaches his eyes; it's an expression far too fierce.]

Last chance. Going to take it back?

[And, defiant to the last, he puts his cigarette in his mouth again, and blows the smoke from it right into Edgeworth's face.]

the macaron AU ending

[humanistic]

"george has to do it because he's the best cook"

"i'm doing this [buying macarons] because i love you"
"i know"

[nebbish]