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wunderkind

STUFF GOES IN HERE

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From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth lifts his head - tries to look defiant and nonchalant. He doesn't know why he makes that attempt, honestly; Sirius has been in his head and knows how he thinks. He knows perfectly well how Miles feels about rule-breaking - how every instance makes him feel wretched. Why even feign apathy?

But he feigns it.]

That's what I said, Black. Shall I teach you an ear-cleaning spell? It seems as though you need it. It's a good cloak, brand-new, I suspect; it will serve my purposes admirably well.

From:

doggedly

[He stares at Edgeworth a moment longer, and he's not even sure of what to do, to laugh at him or goad him or accept or what.

Eventually, he just waves his hand, somewhat dismissively.]

Fine. Whatever. Enjoy the thrill. Who confiscated it, tell me that.

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth frowns in confusion, but he does answer.]

Burke. Why does it matter?

From:

doggedly

Because I'll get him to get it.

[And he will, too; it will be easy. Burke, what a troll. He busies himself with getting another cigarette out of his pack. He's smoking them too quickly, but he needs something to steady himself.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[A small frown creases Edgeworth's brow. That might be a clean solution, honestly - if Burke retrieves it from the storage room, then Edgeworth's name won't be attached to it. It won't be traced back to him, and he'll avoid any reprimand for abusing his power. That's best; he wants to make Head Boy, to have a perfect clean record so they'll make him an Auror, but -

But it's not honest.

After a moment's agonized deliberation he shakes his head.]

No. I - have access to it myself. There's no reason to involve him.

From:

doggedly

[He snorts, loudly and dismissively.]

Please. Don't play the fucking martyr, Edgeworth, it doesn't suit you.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And that makes him choke out a single, short laugh of incredulousness, because - what else has he been doing? This whole time? Nothing save martyrdom, truly.

Still, that's not the point.]

It's not being a martyr. If I break the rules, I face consequences for that. I don't try to escape them. That's immoral.

From:

doggedly

Yeah. And God forbid we do anything immoral, 'cos the whole world might fucking end then.

[He pushes his fingers through his hair, with a sigh.]

Fine. Whatever. Get it for yourself, it doesn't actually matter. How d'you plan to get to London?

From:

jurisimpudent

[He relaxes slightly - stupidly, really; of course it would be better if he could escape consequences. But that's...not who he wants to be. Even though it's stupid, even though he's destroying his future - he still feels better about it.]

Floo Network. What of yourself?

From:

doggedly

[He shrugs, bitterly, tapping the ash from the end of his cigarette.]

They'll be a group. So I s'ppose something will be organised. You'll go from the Three Broomsticks?

From:

jurisimpudent

[Miles nods.]

Yes. I'll go early, as well, so that I can wait by the location for you to enter; then I'll follow you inside.

[He hesitates a moment - ]

It's not my intention to intervene. I'll just be there to gather intelligence. And to...watch your back, as it were.

From:

doggedly

[He nods at that first bit, at least, flicking ash from his cigarette again--but the second bit gets his attention, and he looks around at Edgeworth again, first with some mild surprise--but he's quick to sharpen that, to push that away in favor of a sneer.]

To watch my back. Well, thanks. Just don't use any charms you've developed, all right, I don't fancy turning into some animal in front of everyone.

[That's more a Typical Sirius Black thing to say, an insult, worrying about impressions he's going to make in front of others--it comes back to him as easy as slipping on a cloak.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[That's a bit hurtful, but that's good, really: hurtful is something Edgeworth can focus on, so that his voice sharpens just a bit, so that he responds with snappish irritation - ]

It would improve your appearance.

[Because snappish irritation is better than sentimentality and sappiness. It's better than reflecting on how worried he is for the both of them.

Then he nods once.]

If there's nothing else, then I'll see you there.

From:

doggedly

[The insult was weak; Sirius just rolls his eyes at it. Dismissively, he waves the hand holding the cigarette.]

Yeah. That's it.

[And now what do you say, when you've resolved to go into this sort of thing with someone you really sort of detest? He puts his cigarette to his mouth again and sucks at it, careful not to meet Edgeworth's eye, lest he give anything of himself away.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[And Edgeworth lingers just a moment too long there; he pretends to himself that it's just to see if Sirius has anything else to say, but in truth it's to see if there's some last-minute reprieve, some god lowered down from the machine, because he can charge ahead but when he's actually confronted with this he's terrified -

But there's nothing, naturally. So a moment passes in silence, and a second, and a third, and then he turns and leaves.

He's surprised at his ability to put it out of his mind until the day. It's due, really, to the hectic churn of prefect duties, detentions and points deductions and keeping order before the Hufflepuff-Ravenclaw Quiddich match. He only thinks of it when, twice, he sees Dumbledore in the halls; twice he almost takes him aside to tell him, to get this out of his own hands, to pass this onto someone older and wiser.

But Dumbledore will keep him from going. Keep Sirius from going, too. For Sirius, this will shred his standing with his parents - though that's something that seems a little bit less vital removed from the immediacy of Sirius' psyche. For Miles, this will prevent...the uncovering of information. In his heart, he still believes that if he goes there, some great and terrible revelation will occur - that for some reason, they'll be discussing the murder of a Muggle lawyer who had the audacity to have a wizard son, five years before...

So he stays silent. And when the day comes, he's there, at the Three Broomsticks, stepping into the Floo Network, invisibility cloak bundled under his arm, hoping that Sirius hasn't...faltered.]

From:

doggedly

[You're going, aren't you? Regulus kept asking. That was the one thing that kept any of it fixed in Sirius' head. If it wasn't for that constant questioning--hissed between classes, after meals, when Regulus caught his eye in the corridor--Merlin, but his brother's earnestness is embarrassing, even now. He's never been anything more than vaguely affectionate and tolerant of his brother, but Regulus is a little like a dog in the way that he tries anyways.

But if it wasn't for his pursuit, Sirius could happily have forgotten the lot of it. Edgeworth, what he knows of him, and vice-versa--that could be just a bad memory, another thing to bury, and perhaps the invitation could be forgotten as well. He doesn't question how Regulus knows about it. Of course he does. And he's jealous, in this bright-eyed stupid way, and Sirius can't even look him in the face, he just gets angrier and angrier as the question persists--until he finally punches Regulus and tells him to shut it--

But still, that day comes, and Sirius does go, with the others. A select group, people he's known all his life. Gamp, Miss Borgin, a LeStrange cousin--people he tolerates but does not really like. Not that this is different than the way he feels about nearly everyone. But it's easy, to lose them, when they get to London--by train, they have influence enough that their departure from Hogwarts is excused, passage paid for from vaults stuffed with gold.

It's disgusting; even if it's the way that Sirius got here as well, it's still disgusting. Sirius peels off from them on the pretense of getting cigarettes, he'll meet up with them later, he assures them--and they indulge him in his sulky disaffected aloofness, because he's a Black, because he's better than they are.

Disgusting. Sirius slumps off, shoulders hunched. When he's a block off, he gets out his cigarettes and lights one up, then turns toward the Leaky Cauldron. That's where Edgeworth will end up, and sure enough, there he is, Sirius could see him at a distance. Edgeworth, who still sticks out, even after years of living in the wizarding world.]

You made it.

From:

jurisimpudent

[He's tense when he steps out of the fireplace and brushes off his clothes, tense when he makes his way into the Leaky Cauldron, tense when he steps outside. Honestly, truth be told, he never likes stepping outside of Hogwarts. At Hogwarts, you're robes and prefect's badge and academic reputation; you're the points you've won for your house, and the points you've deducted from other houses, and you're a prat and a git but you're still who you are. Inside those walls, there's a division between the Purebloods and the Muggle-borns, sure, and there are hissed insults, but you're still who you are more than what you are; everyone knows you, you know everyone. Out in Hogsmeade, in Diagon Alley, though, you're just a face, and Miles always feels like the wizards around him can identify that face as being a Muggle's. Even though there are a hundred wizards who have a jaw like his, a hundred who have eyes like his, a hundred who have a nose like his, even though his features differ little from those of the purest wizarding families in all of England, somehow people can still...pick him out. He doesn't know what it is, what subtle cue they can sense that marks him as being of a different world, but it's there.

Sometimes he hates this world so much. Sometimes he wishes he'd been a Muggle like Dad before him, like Mum, like all his grandparents and their grandparents all the way back to the rogue wizard or Squib who married an Edgeworth and left this dormant gene that's made its way down to him. He wishes he'd gone to a normal school, a normal university; he wishes he were now preparing his applications to law schools. He wishes, every day, that it was Cambridge he'd ended up at, not Hogwarts. He hates these people, sometimes, hates his school, hates magic, hates Merlin and the Founders and Dumbledore and everyone with a wand in their pocket - wishes that the Muggles would all learn of them and return to the old days, go back to burnings and ruthless hunts for all of magical blood - ]

Ah -

[His thoughts are interrupted by Sirius' now familiar voice. He jerks to the side and nearly drops the parcel containing the cloak, turns to look at him with his face pale. A moment, then he swings his gaze around, searching for the others that ought to be with Black - ]

Why are you here? You...Has something gone wrong?

From:

doggedly

[The look on Edgeworth's face is so profoundly stupid and idiotic that he would laugh, if he weren't in the grip of his own thoughts and tensions. He manages a little smirk, at least, as if he's caught him at something--pleased to make him look at all stupid--and he flicks at his cigarette to ash it, totally casual.]

I wanted to make sure you were actually here, that you weren't going to back out on me.

[Like that was even a question. Edgeworth wouldn't back out. Sirius knows him well enough to be able to say that. He takes a drag on his cigarette, glancing away a moment. There's other reasons, for being here, reasons more real, but he's not about to confess to them.]

Is that the cloak?

From:

jurisimpudent

[Things are weird between them. No question of that. Edgeworth just doesn't know where they stand in his own mind, let alone Sirius'; he doesn't know whether they're supposed to be kind to each other or cruel. Kindness would be better, but cruelty is so much easier and safer, and so he's glad that the comment about backing out pricks his temper enough that he sneers:]

No, I did a bit of shopping. Got you a robe cut in the latest fashion so you can make a grand appearance.

What else would it be?

[And he arranges his shoulders, draws his own robes tighter. Under them he wears Muggle clothing; they're in London, and if things turn sour he can easily blend in on the city streets, amongst normal people. (And there's a stupid sort of vindictiveness in it, in wearing regular trousers and a factory-made sleeveless jumper to Voldemort's grand wizarding party. No one will see him there, no, but knowing that he'll be there and ordinary is...satisfying.)

He doesn't know why, either, but in his pocket, buried deep, is that cigarette Sirius gave him. It's stupid. He only had so much space, and so he filled his pockets with his wand wrapped in cloth and a few potions and a pouch of Floo powder and that damned cigarette.]

It's of a significant size. If it becomes necessary, we could both fit under it, though with a bit of difficulty.

From:

doggedly

[He gives Edgeworth a less than surreptitious once-over, surveying what's before him. There's always a grim earnestness to Edgeworth that he doesn't know what to do with. Even when he's being cutting, there's something just below the surface--maybe it's his goodness, which Sirius has experienced firsthand now. Stupid Edgeworth, in his muggle clothes, ready to die for no good reason.

Merlin, Sirius thinks, wearily. Thank God for the cloak. He doesn't want to have to save Edgeworth's stupid arse--doesn't know that he would, in the end. (A lie. He definitely would.)]

Let me see it.

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth nods, starts to lift his arm to hand it over - and then he hesitates. Black didn't want Edgeworth to come along; without the cloak, as far as he knows, Edgeworth can't. (As far as he knows: one of the stoppered vials in Edgeworth's pocket contains a swallow of Polyjuice potion that shimmers a deep rich amber, and which smells warmly like a clean, happy dog; those purloined hairs did not go to waste. If need be, he can sneak inside with that potion; if need be, he can be a distraction if things go wrong.)

So it's not inconceivable that Black would prevent him going by grabbing that cloak and running. When Edgeworth hands over the cloak, it's cautiously, showing him only one edge of it; he keeps a firm grip on the other side.]

As you can see. It's of uncommon quality; I'm not sure how Potter obtained it.

From:

doggedly

[But Sirius' interest is genuine, if reluctant. There is, somewhere beneath every furious bit of him, someone interested in objects just like this, someone with a respect for good and clever magic. It's James Potter's, that knocks its coolness down a few pegs--but only a few, and only on principle and perhaps a little out of jealousy.]

Inherited.

[He says it absently, as he makes a study of the cloak--running a hand over it, lifting it up a little closer so he can get a good look. Edgeworth's grip on the other end isn't even questioned, he's too busy looking it over--but he catches himself a second later and lets the cloak drop, as if he suddenly could care less.]

You'd better put it on, then. We should be off, and I'm not about to walk around with you in broad daylight.

From:

jurisimpudent

But it can't be inherited, it's flawless; it would be patchy if it were anything but brand-new -

[But he supposes Sirius Black of House Black knows more about fine things than Miles Edgeworth. So he shakes his head a moment after, just accepting that explanation with a sigh.

He drapes the cloak over his shoulders a moment later, fastens it quickly, draws up the hood.]

Doesn't matter. I'll be right behind you.

From:

doggedly

Yeah, don't remind me.

[He says it with a measure of disdain, as he tucks his cigarette back into his mouth and shoves his hands into his pockets. Really, it's brilliant, the perfect way that the cloak works. No one will ever know Edgeworth is there--except Sirius.

And he's still not entirely certain of how he feels about that--about all of this, really. He leads the way, down Diagon Alley--and of course they turn at Knockturn Alley, where the buildings draw close together and almost seem to lean over the cobbled street, huddling nearer, eaves dipping down low to catch whatever dark secrets get bandied around here.

The building in question is towards the end of the alley, down a narrower lane of white stones. Pure white, of course. The mullioned windows glow from within, and even from the end of the street, the low murmur of conversation spills out. A string quartet. Snatches of laughter.

Sirius stops, under the pretext of stubbing out his cigarette.]

Ready?

From:

jurisimpudent

[Miles has never been down this way before. First year had been Dad, hand on Miles' shoulder, saying dubiously that it looked like a bad sort of place; second year, Miles had known just what sort of a bad place it was, and why he particularly had to steer clear. So he keeps close to Sirius as much for fear of this place, always forbidden, always taboo, as for fear of getting lost and to hear anything he might say; so he's only a few inches from him and catches that muttered question, and answers with a murmur of his own:]

Yes.

[And how fine it is inside. How elegant everyone looks; how glittering and beautiful are the windows, the floors, the champagne flutes, the enchanted candles floating overhead. All the best are here, all the most elegant - Malfoy, whom Miles had known only dimly as a prefect when he'd first entered, who spoke to him not at all; Lestrange, an odd and cruel boy; Crabbe, heavyset and brutish - familiar faces, huddled now in conspiracy.

Sirius isn't announced - that's not the way of this - but everyone, it seems, knows when he enters. Faces turn his way. The Black scion is known and respected, and there's eagerness in their eyes when they examine his elegant features, his studied slouch.

Miles feel ill to look on them. They're avaricious. They're monstrous. Would he could curse them all right now - would he could put a stop to them -

But he doesn't see Voldemort. Not yet.]