wunderkind | (no subject)

wunderkind

STUFF GOES IN HERE

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.]

From:

doggedly

[It's the same as it always is, the same as their every party. A younger set, his age, a little older--but it's the same people anyways, as if they're all filling in the places that their parents usually fill. Just playing parts written in a play hundreds of years before their time, wearing the same dress robes, having the same conversations.

Sirius gets a glass of champagne and downs it, quickly. A second, but it doesn't help. The glitter on the jewelry matches the glittering of the eyes--dangerous eyes, narrow smirks. God, he hates these people.

And no Voldemort. Not yet. Narcissa sights him from across the room--in conversation with Avery, but she gives him a wave, and she'll be over any minute, the young Mrs Malfoy, and Sirius turns away towards a window, plucking his third glass of champagne off the tray.]

And if he doesn't actually come?

[He says it in an undertone--maybe to himself.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[Then it will all have been for nothing. Then Edgeworth will have gotten himself in trouble all for stealing this stupid bloody cloak, and he'll be formally reprimanded and never make Head Boy and never make Auror and everything will come to ruination and he'll have destroyed the one chance he had to actually make a difference chasing some stupid boyhood dream of being a hero, of taking revenge -

He doesn't answer the question, though. It's idle chatter, idle speculation, and Edgeworth isn't going to risk Sirius' cover by being some disembodied voice - besides which, the question is immediately taken up by Rowle, off to Sirius' right - though the answer isn't verbal, just comes in the form of a vicious grin and a low chuckle.

Narcissa Black, Miles recognizes; she'd been ahead of him at school by a few years, graduated only a little while back. So many of these Purebloods look so uniform - pale skin, high cheekbones, dressed absurdly - that it's sometimes hard to keep one straight from the other, but he saw her enough and she featured enough in Sirius' memories that Miles knows. She comes over and smiles at her cousin, canting her head to the side, her voice altogether without warmth:

You came, Sirius. Bella was afraid you wouldn't.]

From:

doggedly

[He returns that smile, similarly cold. Of the three daughters of Cygnus Black, Narcissa is not the favourite. Cool and aloof and poised, perfect in her every movement. She's wearing gloves right now, smooth, with her wedding ring fixed over the fingers so it isn't missed.

Sirius takes her hand when she offers it and makes the perfunctory bow over it. His own courtesies come easily to him, route memory, and he brushes his lips over her knuckles before he drops her hand.]

Yeah, I'm sure she was. Where is she, this party is so far distinctly lacking in insane chatter.

[Please. Narcissa's lips purse a little, as she loops her arm through his, leading him away from the wall and towards a small knot of people. Not tonight. She will be along later, and you would do better to remain in her good graces.]

That's what I've always wanted. [Sirius' skin crawls a little where Narcissa's hand is laid. He doesn't look around to see if Edgeworth is following--not that he'd be able to see. Instead, he drops his tone, with the vague hope that Edgeworth will be near enough to hear.] And I've heard there's the chance she'll be accompanied by a guest of honour. Am I trying for his good graces as well?

Edited Date: 2013-10-02 01:54 pm (UTC)

From:

jurisimpudent

[The House of Black is already in his good graces. The answer is proud, haughty; a Malfoy she might be by name, but a Black still by birth, and the nobility of that house is part and parcel of what lifts her chin so high. It will fall to you to keep it that way this evening.

The answer is also clear. There's no ambiguity. And Edgeworth is indeed close to Sirius, close enough to hear that; his throat tightens, and he draws in a breath, and his hand goes to his pocket to clench around his wand. The heartstring inside seems to jump in return, as though it too craves justice.

Perhaps that's an over-romanticization of it. Still.

Narcissa draws Sirius into the orbit of several of the men - her husband, three others. She presses cold dry lips to her husband's cheek and then melts away, to continue being the glittering, cold hostess. Edgeworth glances around, considers following her - but no; she's just going to mingle. So Edgeworth says instead with Sirius, hears one of the other men saying - Things will be moving faster now. He'll be looking for more to come to his side. And then the man looks at Sirius, including him in the conversation by broadening the topic - You and yours will be leaving that filthy fucking school, won't you? As soon as he calls. No more spending your days pretending to love Mudbloods and listening to the propaganda of filth. You've got a higher calling than that.]

From:

doggedly

[Travers, the second son of the Mulciber family, the younger Selwyn, and Malfoy. Their names are all on the peerage lists, the best of the pureblood wizarding families. But the Blacks are better, despite Travers' tone, and Sirius' lip curls a little, something of his old self returning to him as he cooly observes his conversational partners. The haughtiness, the superiority--they slide over him easily, and help to legitimise his disdain.]

Oh, yeah. I can't wait. [The sarcasm is a little too strong; Selwyn smiles, uncertainly, glancing to Malfoy. But Sirius can get away with a little bit of aloofness and sneering; it's allowed by the power of his name.] Anything's better than that school. Especially if every meeting is going to be as well-appointed as this one.

[The ladies truly have outdone themselves, Mulciber agrees, lifting his glass, but then, he deserves no less. We deserve no less, truly. The others follow suit in that toast--except Travers, who is staring piercingly at Sirius. Sirius takes a sip of champagne, elegantly, and stares back at him.]

Something on my face, Travers?

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth sees that look, and he reads into it malicious intent. Suspicion. Dislike. He's amongst enemies here, so it's easy - beyond easy - to feel the creep of paranoia along his spine. His understanding, too, of the social stratification here is fragmentary at best; he got some snatch of that from Sirius' memories, some comprehension of Black superiority - but Miles Edgeworth was born in America; he was raised amongst Muggles; and he was bullied by every one of these boys in equal measure. To him, a Pureblood is a Pureblood; a Slytherin is a Slytherin; he can perceive the faint angling of shoulders and spines towards Sirius Black but he cannot quite comprehend it. So underneath his cloak, moving silently, he draws his wand forth; if there is to be some challenge, some fight, he'll be prepared to deal with it.

But there won't be, of course. That's not the way here. Travers keeps staring, but he doesn't draw attention to that sarcasm. Instead, his comment is roundabout.

Surprising this is the first time we've seen you at one of these, Black.]

From:

doggedly

We do things a certain way, in my family.

[Sirius is entirely cool about this. His sarcasm might be questionable, but he's high enough in status and stature that he hardly needs to worry about being questioned by the likes of Travers. In fact, he smiles, right in his face, taking another sip of champagne.]

You don't want to be the first ones at the party. You let all the little bootlickers fill in first, right? I'm sure you'd know all about that.

[Mulciber actually laughs at that--of course he does, the swot hasn't got much sense. Sirius doesn't so much as look at him, he just keeps smiling, right at Travers.]

It's not how soon you arrive. It's your entrance.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And that hard, suspicious look turns into something more mulish and resentful - not at Black's words, but at Mulciber's laugh, Malfoy's tight look of studied condescension. As ever, the power in a conversation has nothing to do with what you say, everything to do with how others hear it; by the reactions of those around him, the comments fell on receptive ears. (Which is remarkable, truly; Black had to have known, instantly, who was an early joiner and would be insulted - Travers - and who was a later arrival and would look pleased - Malfoy. Bull-headed and socially maladroit, Edgeworth doesn't understand how Black knew, and he doesn't even precisely admire that skill, but he...marvels at it. A bit.)

(And perhaps it's a bit satisfying to hear Black's nasty, cruel wit turned against people Edgeworth despises for once.)

Your cousin is thriving of late. Selwyn speaks; he's a cunning-looking man, with a crafty face. Small. She was one of the first, as I recall. There's something nearly acrobatic about the way he sidesteps calling Black a liar, making the conversation instead this: She's become quite the powerful witch with his guidance. It's wonderful to see.]

From:

doggedly

Ah, well, Bellatrix, she always was enthusiastic. It's inspiring, we're all really proud.

[There's never been any great love between Sirius and Bellatrix, not even from childhood. No matter how closely their parents raised them, there's always been something--a competitiveness, perhaps, or just simple dislike. They don't get on.

But everyone is proud of Bellatrix, who they've never particularly had reason to be proud of before. Sirius glances across the room, to where Narcissa is laughing politely at some joke Nott's just made. They've both made something of themselves, his cousins. Andromeda is as good as forgotten. Two out of three isn't bad.]

Ambition, and cleverness, and devotion. She adds something to her husband's family, with those qualities.

[LeStrange. Mulciber nods, with another sip of champagne. Good man. He's always had strength to him. Theirs was a good match. Which is what everyone always says, and silently adds fervent wishes for more pureblood children. Sirius smiles somewhat bitterly as he gets another sip of champagne himself. The same idiotic conversations, played out in drawing rooms, century after century.

There's a certain commotion by one of the side doors, then; conversation begins to die away as everyone turns to look. Sirius keeps hold of his glass and turns as well, his fingers clutching tight at nothing, at the delicate fluted stem of the glass.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[The tight, rangy fear, the boiling paranoia, the itch of adrenaline, have started to subside for Edgeworth, giving way to simple...It seems impossible to be bored, surrounded by Dark wizards who would use the killing curse on him without a moment's hesitation if they found him here, but he glances around restlessly when they subside into chatter about who married whom. Miles cannot possibly give less of a damn about good matches and all that nonsense. Even more than that, he doesn't understand how Sirius Black, strutting king of the Quiddich pitch, the boy who would hex people out of - as far as Miles could tell - sheer boredom, can stand there and look so keenly interested.

For a moment, there's a wash of contempt. He fears Purebloods; he hates them; but never before has he realized that what he ought to be feeling, far beyond either of those things, is a pitying sort of contempt. How dull and small these people are, with their gossip and their pettiness. No wonder they hate Muggle-borns; people like Edgeworth are outside their stupid, self-congratulatory system, so naturally they're people to resent. They just live better -

There's a sudden flurry of motion. Edgeworth turns with everyone else, his heart suddenly seeming to seize with terror, with anxiety. The first in is a beautiful, elegant woman; with her dark and aristocratic features, she would be recognizable as Black's cousin even if Edgeworth hadn't known of her before. After her -

He's so strange-looking. If there weren't a primal sort of terror awoken by everything this man has done, Miles would just think of Voldemort as an oddity - an extension of the strange fashions of the wizarding world gone wrong. Because his pale snakelike visage, his bald head - they're not frightening; they're just silly, really, just ugly and strange...

But he is what he is. He's a summary of all that he's done. The wand at his waist has killed so many helpless, innocent people it ought to be contorted and black. The adulation in the face of the Purebloods is so absolute that he could command them to fall on one of their number and they would. So Edgeworth wishes he could laugh at the phenomenally stupid-looking man, but instead he just draws in a breath, hard enough that someone to his left looks vaguely in his direction, and clutches his wand hard. Avada kedavra are the words - those are the words, hard and brittle and twisted - an instant sentence to Azkaban, but worth it, worth it a hundred thousand times over.

Voldemort turns. He looks - at first Edgeworth thinks he's looking right at him, but no - thank God, no - he's looking directly through him, at Sirius standing behind him. And he begins to move, without pause, without even discreetly and couthly disguising his intention or interest: he comes right for Sirius Black.]

From:

doggedly

[For his whole life, people have looked at Sirius with calculated interest and intent. The world is about measuring up, about arranging yourself according to rank and standing, and the closer you are to those ahead of you, the better off you are. It isn't a sad fact of life: it is life, a circumstance.

So he can remain cool, under scrutiny, because that's part of what being at the top means. He's studied in in coolness, practiced at it. Being looked at is nothing.

But no one has ever looked at him like this, with eyes so open and raw, with interest so raw and eager. Sirius Black is something that Voldemort is interested in, something that he wants. There are many footholds in pureblood society, and he has them all convinced--their fawning reaction now is testament to that--but the Black family name solidifies that. Sirius, the heir, solidifies it. This is why he was invited, but knowing that, generally, is one thing. Being faced with that open intent is entirely different.

He doesn't flinch. He sets his glass on the waiting tray of one of the servingmen, and he lifts his chin a little, as haughty a movement as it is brave. Malfoy might be nearly genuflecting, but Sirius Black doesn't so much as twitch towards a bow.]

Sir.

From:

jurisimpudent

[Voldemort stops four feet from Edgeworth. Two steps and he could grasp those long, bony hands. Two steps and he could wrench that wand from his waist. He could take it back to the Ministry, and they could examine it, see what spells had been cast in its history (the killing curse, Miles knows for certain, and he wishes deeply that he could know whether one of those had been turned on a kind, loving, gentle Muggle lawyer whose greatest pleasure in life was taking pro bono cases, and who had been so proud of his son - so bemused by everything going on, but so so proud, and it had taken months for Miles to remember that he couldn't write home anymore telling Dad about everything he'd accomplished, the new spell he'd mastered, that there wasn't anyone to brag to any longer, no one who cared...) -

Maybe he would, if circumstances had been different. Maybe he'd grab that wand and run, take it back to the Ministry and do things the decent way, compiling proof against this monster. Maybe he'd step forth and cast the killing curse, accept being torn apart or accept a term in Azkaban. If he'd been alone, he might have risked it. But he's not; Sirius Black is here, too, and Sirius Black is proudly refusing to bow to Lord Voldemort, and even if Miles didn't know all he knew about him that would be enough to earn his respect.

Bellatrix hisses at her cousin -

Bow -

But Voldemort holds up one of those long hands and countermands this.

No, Bellatrix.

The smile on his face is strange, lipless; he looks like a snake that some quirk of evolution has given a blankly friendly expression. It's unnatural; it does nothing to disguise the danger.

Haven't I promised all of you? The era of the Purebloods bowing to anyone is over.

Which is pure base manipulation, complete lies; Edgeworth knows that perfectly well. One can see it from the downturned eyes and held breaths of all those around him. All of these proud Purebloods are slaves to their terror; this is a calculated statement. Something to ensnare the haughty scion of the family Black.]

From:

doggedly

[And maybe, once, that would have been a start towards enough. Even if he's never completely bought in to the pureblood mania that his family subscribes to, Sirius has always towed the line, always fallen in with it--agreed to it, on the surface, and tried to convince himself that it was right and good. And he likes power. He wouldn't deny that. He likes being the best, being better, so far beyond nearly everyone else. It's the way that it's always been, but the feeling is no less heady.

But Edgeworth has planted a seed of doubt in Sirius, and that seed is festering even now. Purebloods will bow. They're all bowing now, no matter what Voldemort says, and he's not correcting them. Lord, they call him lord. How can they fawn over him and think that they're free, that they'll be any freer afterwards?

And there is something in his eyes, something dark and glittering, wordless, nameless--but it's more unnerving than anything Sirius has seen in his life.

But he fights down that feeling, and he fights down the urge to look towards Edgeworth--who he can't even see, who he doesn't want to see--

No, instead, he smiles, just a little, as if Voldemort's said something he approves of. And he doesn't bow, still, but inclines his head slightly. Acknowledgement, at least.]

An era long time in coming, I think. When does it start?

[Bellatrix's face is white with anger, but she stands, stayed by Voldemort's command. It isn't enough to silence her just yet. It has already begun. Lord Voldemort asks only our allegiance.]

Allegiance, that's easily given. But I think we'll have to do a bit more than that.

From:

jurisimpudent

[It's a mark of confidence, perhaps, or arrogance, that this is being done openly. Perhaps Voldemort doesn't know of the animosity between Sirius and his cousin and thinks Bellatrix will be enough to win Sirius' loyalty - but no; that's not the case; Voldemort silenced her quickly enough. Perhaps he's simply that certain of his power. McNair had been taken off to be talked to in private, but McNair is of a lesser sort, and that had been some months ago...No. Voldemort believes that Sirius will accept; he believes that this is not an interaction in which he'll lose any face; he wants this to be public, so that everyone can see Sirius accepting Voldemort's...influence.

Voldemort's yoke, perhaps, would be a better way of thinking of it.

Nothing you won't enjoy.

The man looks like a snake, and he mesmerizes like one; his gaze is unblinking, his voice sibilant and soft. Everyone watches him; even across the ballroom, where people stand too far away to hear, attention is paid to the two figures in the middle of the parquet marble, standing in black against the glittering white.

You've a reputation already. Even at that school, you've already begun to do your parents proud. You can't tell me you'd be so very sad to continue that work.]

From:

doggedly

[He knows what he should say. He knows what answer is expected of him, what answer Voldemort thinks that he will give. It's the same answer as the one that everyone here has already given, because this, finally, is what they've waited for. This is their savior. And he comes like a snake, like some creation of Salazar Slytherin himself, with a name strange and foreboding, a name that thrills with the power it holds. It's like a spell in of itself.

But it's not a spell Sirius feels any particular connection to. No, his magic words are--stupidly, sentimentally--far simpler. You've already begun to do your parents proud, and his fingers constrict, just a little, curling into fists. Absurdly, he nearly looks for Edgeworth again, as if this is somehow his fault, as if by giving him access to that thought--that desire, so deep it cuts at him even now--he has freed it, shared it, showed it to everyone. Sirius Black, so cool, practically begging for approval, in ways so stupid and secret and subtle no one would ever guess.

Is this only a guess? Bellatrix might have said--but no, if Bellatrix had ever thought Sirius guilty of that need, she'd have said something to him long ago, used it against him. But then he just knows, Voldemort knows, and Sirius is so careful to keep his face silent and composed, still wearing that small, small smile--]

Whatever brings honour to the House of Black, and to the Purebloods. That's always where our interest has been.

[Narcissa, hovering at the edge of the crowd, smiles, quick, pleased. Bellatrix's face is drawn, still pale, but something of a smile twists over her mouth as her eyes jump again to the Dark Lord.]

If you're asking me to share in that honour, and glory--then how could I say no?

From:

jurisimpudent

[There's a sound of three dozen breaths being released at once; it's a low wispy sound of approval and gladness. No one doubted, but everyone, it seems, is glad.

He's using legilimency is Edgeworth's first thought, because nothing else could account for the way that Voldemort had said, without hesitation, without doubt, the thing that would cut deepest to Sirius' core. And Edgeworth himself had only known about this need of Sirius' as an accident of that spell. If it hadn't happened, and someone came to ask Miles what Sirius Black wanted more than anything else in the world, Miles would have guessed glory or blood purity or, if he were being quite rude and very honest, a swift kick in the arse. Familial approval isn't something one would guess...

But it's not that. He realizes that a moment after, looking at Sirius' curled fists and that look of satisfaction in those cold eyes. No: it's something far more mundane, something that leaders of Muggles have had as well. It's simple intuition. It's simple manipulation. Nothing more and nothing less.

How glad I am to hear that, the Dark Lord hisses, and nods and smiles go around.

But this is ill. Edgeworth realizes this. Sirius has committed himself - tentatively, quietly - and that's...the opposite of what Edgeworth wanted. Even if he's going to spy - But no. If he's spying, that's ideal, isn't it, it's...

God, Miles doesn't want Sirius to die.

We'll speak more, is Voldemort's promise. For now, enjoy the company of your equals, and enjoy the entertainment.

And that last comment - that last sends a jolt of dread to the pit of Edgeworth's stomach. And rightly so: Voldemort waves his hand; a door flies open; in march two men. They're Muggles, Miles can see that at once - the first is an older man with an ill-fitting suit and the inky hands of an accountant or clerk, the other a youth, a punk by the look of it - both with blank faces, the blissful look of those under the Imperius curse. There's a loud wave of tittering from the Purebloods, a little anticipatory applause - and Edgeworth's hand, under his cloak, tightens about his wand like he's strangling it.]

From:

doggedly

[There is some hollow little hole in Sirius that sinks, abruptly, when he sees those muggles. A sickening pitch, a twisting in his gut, and the very worst of it is he can't show it--

No. The very, very worst: that these muggles are here at all. Their circumstances are so dire, in a way that Sirius can't possibly comprehend or understand, because he isn't them, and will never, ever be them. Because his blood affords him something around these people, whereas these two muggles--stumbling, moon-faced--and Edgeworth, even, and so many like them--

He doesn't have any love for them. Not for Edgeworth, hidden somewhere in this very room--and Merlin knows how long that will last, before he decides to throw off his cloak and react, because he will, he has to be thinking of it by now--Sirius has been in his head and knows that of him--or is he thinking more of himself, he who would have reacted long ago, unable to suppress temper or stupidity--so, all right, yes, he hasn't any love for the muggles, the muggle-borns, the halfbloods. But this is-- wrong.

He feels strange thinking the word. All around him, everyone is smiling, pleased, and his own smile feels frozen onto his face.

Bellatrix laughs, once, loudly. With your permission, my lord, she says, grinning around at Voldemort. Her bow is deep but not fawning. Her devotion goes somewhere beyond the others in this room, somewhere dark and mad. May I-- introduce, our guests to these two-- Her teeth flash, quick. --Specimens?]

From:

jurisimpudent

[There's blood pounding in his ears in a great roar, drowning out Bellatrix's sneering, cold voice. He feels dizzy. He draws in a sharp, sickened breath when the two men bow to the grinning mass jerkily, like a pair of marionettes manipulated by a puppeteer practicing with the lowest and most contemptible of his toys; they straighten up unsteadily, turn to each other as Bellatrix continues talking, going on maliciously and cruelly about how they'd come near the Leaky Cauldron, trespassed on wizarding territory, how they'd learn not to disrespect their betters...

The last comments are accompanied by the two Muggles dropping to their knees and kowtowing to the assembled Purebloods. There's a ripple of nasty laughter - louder when one of the closer Purebloods leans in and upends her glass of champagne over the head of the older man, and the dazed man just looks up at her and smiles (false and blank-eyed and awkward) and thanks her.

Edgeworth wants to retch. He wants to kill. It's only the sight of Sirius Black next to him that keeps him from acting. It's only the knowledge that if he acts, his life won't be the only one forfeit.

But then the younger man, the punk, starts crawling on his belly to kiss the shoes of Rodolphus Lestrange, and Edgeworth decides to hell with it.

He grips his wand hard, moves forward, wildly formulating some sort of plan - trying to formulate some sort of plan - really, it just comes down to curse all of them into oblivion - But he's so focused on his goal that he doesn't see that there's a house-elf whose path intersects his, and he trips over himself avoiding stepping on her and falls, hard, into Narcissa Malfoy.

The cloak stays in place admirably. But the woman's not going to miss some thirteen stone of invisibility crashing into her from the side.]

From:

doggedly

[There's a ringing in his ears, loud and persistent and heavy, and Sirius is staring, hard, at those muggles, and his fingertips feel numb. No, everything feels numb, entirely detatched from him. Champagne runs down the man's face, onto his collar, and everyone is laughing--

At first, Sirius doesn't see what's happened. A woman cries out--the sound cuts through the laughter, but it takes some time for anyone to notice--

Narcissa's cheeks are bright with a sudden pink, and she's staring around, wildly, like a madwoman. Who did that? she demands, and Sirius' stomach twists with an entirely new dread. Edgeworth. It must be, it has to be, there's no one around Narcissa--

Elf! she demands, rounding on the poor house-elf. How dare you! People are beginning to look away from the muggles now, murmuring to themselves--some of them are smiling at the spectacle of Narcissa Malfoy, behaving like this. Explain yourself!

It wasn't Milly, miss! The house-elf is stuck in a bow, her nose nearly scraping the floor. There are tears in her voice. It wasn't Milly! Milly was only passing by, with the tray, and someone--

Don't make excuses! Narcissa snaps. And for a moment it seems as if a house-elf will be blamed--how easily; vermin, beasts, too stupid to be of much use--but that hope ends abruptly as Bellatrix looks over.

Someone's here.]