[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.]
[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.
[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.]
[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?
[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.]
[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?]
[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.]
[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.
[Perhaps it's strange; perhaps it's stupid; but Bellatrix Lestrange's realization is actually a bit of a relief. It would have been easy to save his own skin at the expense of the poor house-elf's, but the decision is taken out of his hands; no opportunity is afforded for moral failure. And that's good.
Less good is the sudden alert on the faces of the Purebloods.
Not everyone is paying attention to what's going on. Some have looked back to the Muggles - idle, puppets abandoned and untended - in anticipation of more entertainment; but Voldemort is attentive, Bellatrix is attentive, Narcissa, two dozen others getting their wands out...
He gets slowly to his feet, trying hard to avoid treading on any outstretched limbs. He takes in a breath, holds it; he backs away just in time to avoid Rosier's hand as he grasps at the place where Miles had been.
There's some low discussion. Bellatrix interrogating Narcissa, Narcissa's attention on the house-elf like the poor creature will have some intuition or answers. Edgeworth tries to think quickly - grips his wand, whispers a quick charm - and halfway across the room, some man's cloak tugs hard around his neck, and he gives a cry of surprise. The noise ceases altogether, and attention turns towards him - he announces Someone trod on my cloak - ]
[The muggles are still kneeling on the floor, wearing those dazed smiles--and all the party guests are staring around themselves, suspicious, nervous, or else watching the man with the cloak--Narcissa's face is still pink, Bellatrix is grinning, hard, mirthless--
And Sirius, for a moment, could laugh--because this is suddenly weirdly familiar. Once his parents had a dinner party, and determined to cause trouble and make a scene if only for the purpose of causing trouble and making a scene--Sirius had waged war on the party guests. Traps, tugged-off hats, gloves that went missing, chair legs that collapsed--it was soon apparent that there was someone working mischief, and it didn't take much work to suss out who--but for a few minutes, at least, there had been nothing but glorious confusion.
And that's what this is. Higher stakes confusion, perhaps, but still the same. They've not learnt wordless spellwork so far, but Sirius is far beyond the normal coursework in certain subjects. He has no idea where Edgeworth is, if he's fled the room, if he's indeed over there tugging at the cloak--but Sirius can work mischief just as well; he can be that distraction. He fights down the sick feeling as his eyes sweep the room--and there, perched on the table draped with that crisp white tablecloth, the place of honour. A massive cake, white, glistening with candied sugar--
And suddenly on fire. Narcissa is still in conversation with her sister, but her eyes round in horror. Oh, she says, and then, a shout: Oh! The, the cake--
People turn, people take notice--chaos begins, as some rush for the cake to put it out, and some try to rush away--Sirius cuts through the crowds, towards the door, trying to look grim, trying to look as if he's joining in the effort to ferret out their spy--which he is, but for entirely different reasons. The hall is quickly filling with smoke--and he's nearly to the doors when he feels a prickle of unease, right at the back of his neck.
Voldemort is still standing near the muggles, entirely unbothered, as still as a pillar of stone. And he is looking at Sirius; Sirius realises that as he turns. Their eyes meet, even through the haze, and it's like stepping into an icy lake.
Where the fuck is Edgeworth? But the thought is distant, right now--right now, he's entirely arrested.]
[Miles Edgeworth has never really considered himself a brave man. Temperamental, is how he thinks of himself. Someone carried along past cowardice by righteous anger. He assumes, really, that the Sorting Hat was fooled by this: that it had thought him brave because it mistook his tendency towards desperate action and stupidity as courage.
Edgeworth has moved, of course - he's about ten meters behind Sirius now, with Sirius between him and Voldemort. So he sees that cold and glittering look. He sees that chill, that clarity, and knows that Voldemort sees through him. And he knows the danger. He knows that for a man like this, the name Black will be no defense - that Voldemort will not accept being made a fool of, that he will not tolerate this mockery. And a wave of numb terror hits Miles: he can see, in a moment, the Cruciatus curse, tormenting Sirius until he admits his true intention - or a killing curse, worse - and if Sirius gives up Miles, that's fine, but for him to undergo such torment, no -
So here's his stupid, desperate, not-brave action. It's a thing that shouldn't work. It's a thing that shouldn't come close to working. Voldemort is the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, they say, a man with abilities beyond anything fathomable by commonplace wizards like himself. He is invincible - he scoffs at death; some say he has indeed parlayed with Death himself, that he is invincible, that he will bring ruination to the Muggle-born community, that the best they can do is surrender and hope for mercy. And Miles Edgeworth - Miles Edgeworth is a stodgy, clumsy boy whose ability at Potions is somewhat questionable, who has no name of any note, who grew up studying biology and spelling and grammar and not spellwork. The very thought that it could ever work is laughable, absurd -
But Voldemort's not hanging onto his wand. It's right there at his waist, unattended. So Miles Edgeworth sticks his own wand out from under the cover of the cloak, and madly casts a single simple charm, Accio -
And then he has Voldemort's wand in his hand.
How absurd.
He takes off running a moment later - God, God, this is insane, he's invisible but making noise, they'll be able to find him - but Voldemort will not be paying a whit of attention to Sirius any longer, that much is certain - ]
[It's like a release, when Voldemort turns his gaze from Sirius--like something's held him pinned to the wall and he's finally been allowed to drop--
Voldemort's eyes blaze, as he turns, as if he's seeing something, as if he's scented something--his wand, that's his wand, it's like it happens in slow motion--and the commotion of the room is such that it goes unnoticed--except by Sirius, and by Voldemort himself, who seems nearly to swell, to grow with rage.
Edgeworth. It has to be, and Sirius can't even think in swearwords. They are beyond fucked, they are so far beyond it, and he draws his own wand even as Voldemort raises one cold and bloodless hand, a gesture so completely of summoning it's amazing the whole room doesn't turn towards him in that instance. If he's summoning his wand, or Edgeworth himself--or the cloak, but it can't be the cloak, he can't know about the cloak--and Sirius draws his wand as he shoulders back towards the Dark Lord, pushing through the crowd--]
[The wand jerks strangely in his grip. It's like a snake, strangely - rigid, unmoving, yes, but somehow it gives the impression of coiling and uncoiling, writhing in his hand. It's cold. But he keeps his grip on it, because if he can just bring it to the Ministry - if they can just know, if they can just see the spells this wand has cast, they'll declare outright war against Voldemort - they'll stop at nothing to capture him, where before they'd waffled, because this proof - it's -
It jerks so hard in his grip that his arms are wrenched forward. His jaw clacks shut with the force of the pull. He pulls it into his chest, and Edgeworth himself is drawn forward, inexorably, by the sheer force of that spell. He digs in his heels - no good - tries to walk away - but he's being drawn in, closer and closer, dragged by the spell, and he looks up and sees that Voldemort is looking right at him and there is murder in his eyes -
God -
There's no getting this wand to the Ministry. There's no question of that. Just holding onto it will pull him into arm's reach of Voldemort. So he makes a quick decision - casts it down on the marble floor, brings his heel down hard upon it - doesn't even see whether that's had an effect, whether he's done any damage before he's tripping backwards, falling on his rear end onto the marble floor as the wand skitters out from under his cloak and into full view and to Edgeworth -
He's still invisible under the cloak. In a moment, surely, someone will trip over him - there's such chaos, and so many people running around madly, that it's all but inevitable. But for a moment, he gets a full view of the tableau: Voldemort, every line of him stiff with rage; the two Muggles blinking in confusion and growing awareness with, perhaps, Voldemort's spell broken; a cake aflame (and good God, Sirius Black, that was an impressive charm); Purebloods running about squawking, perfect hair in disarray, perfect cloaks knocked askew; mud on the perfect marble floor; spilled champagne, a band disrupted; and Sirius Black himself, wand drawn, ready to take a stand against these people -
Within the hour, Edgeworth will die. No doubt of that. It will no doubt be horrible. But for the moment - for that one moment - he's able to look out on that whole absurd business. And for the first time in some five years, he smiles in pure, proud delight.]
[He can guess where Edgeworth is--the force of Voldemort's stare, the line of his arm--the break in the crowd--and that's where he goes, heedless of everything around him. If he's planning to save Edgeworth or get there before Voldemort, even he couldn't say--if Edgeworth is found out--and he will be found out, now--then whatever he gets will be worse than a clean death. If he has to, can he do it? It would be a mercy--
And then there's a CRUNCH, loud even in the chaos of the room. Louder still is the howl that Voldemort gives, and now there is nothing human in his face. Rage twists at him, pulls his skin taut over his skull--a death's head, a cobra, rearing back to strike--his hand still grasps at the air, useless, and Sirius has no idea what's just happened--Edgeworth, he's thinking of Edgeworth--stupid and brave and stupid, stupid, stupid--and as Voldemort raises his hand again, the very air in the room seems to thin, and the hair on the back of Sirius' neck all stands up--
And Voldemort's wand is laying on the white marble floor, in two pieces. In two pieces.]
[It seems like it ought to be fake. Doesn't it? Some illusion to entrap him. It doesn't seem possible that that stupid, reckless plan, decided in the fraction of a second, could truly have undone Lord Voldemort. But those two halves of the wand skitter still, rolling uselessly across the ground, connected only by the core of red feather trailing loosely from it. The wood is splintered. Bits of it are left behind.
And it's all so stupid and petty. Voldemort can find another wand. He can go and buy another. But maybe that new wand will be a fraction less powerful. Maybe Voldemort's confidence will be shaken. And even if it's not...then this entire room full of Purebloods will have seen him undone by the errant heel of a reckless Mudblood.
And here's the completely absurd part: Miles sees, suddenly, clearly, an escape route. He knows the laws of physics and has learned, though practice and bruised knees, that an Accio cast on an immovable object will bring you to it. The chandelier still floats overhead; if he alights onto it, he'll be out of the way of the crowd - a reducto cast on the doorway will give the impression of having fled - and if luck remains on his side - and how absurd, that he, perpetually lucky, has had luck on his side - they'll chase after him before someone thinks to cast a presence-revealing charm - he can grab the Muggles while they're distracted, apparate them to the best of his ability to somewhere safe...
But what of Sirius?
Everyone still stands frozen. A whispered spell, and he's hoisted up, up, to the ceiling of the room; the chandelier sways when he lands on it, but no one looks up. All eyes are on Voldemort, his frightful visage; everyone is paralyzed by terror. And all flinch when he says, his voice terrible:
[Sirius has had dark looks cast upon him, in the past--black, hateful glares, looks of disapproval--never disdain, just dislike. He is no one's friend but everyone's superior, their better--
But none of that compares one jot to the look that Voldemort turns on him. Sirius has no idea where Edgeworth is. He's barely conscious of the things going on around him, of the way that people begin to move at Voldemort's command. It's like the world has narrowed, down to this, to the wand snapped cleanly in two and the Dark Lord, staring at him--and somewhere, the idiot muggle-born that made all of this possible.
Sirius stands, his hand on his wand. He doesn't flinch. He looks back at Voldemort--not at the broken wand, though he might, but he doesn't need to. Everyone knows that it's there, even if they're pretending not to, and surely they must be thinking--]
It's a hell of a party.
[He smiles, grimly. It's not been said, but it's been guessed, and known. Blood traitor, and he hasn't actually done a fucking thing. (Untrue: he has sympathised.)]
[Some are beginning the search commanded by Voldemort. At an opportune time, Edgeworth casts the reductor curse across the room; the door is blasted off its hinges, and a dozen or so of them charge out through that door, into the night. The Presence-Revealing Charm is first cast about a minute into the search, but the charm just manifests itself as a wash of light; there's some squinting at the flickering of the chandelier, but after a moment the charm is being cast with such regularity that Edgeworth's form just becomes part of the illumination.
There's murder on Voldemort's face, perhaps, and perhaps there would be murder in his future, save for one thing: his hand makes a single abortive gesture downwards, reaching for the wand that's no longer there. And without that, there can be no curses -
Malfoy, your wand.
The order is given with sharp contempt. Malfoy, who not five minute earlier, looked so pleased to be receiving the Dark Lord's presence and his commands, suddenly turns reticent.
My lord...
Your wand, comes the order again, this time with snarling rage. Slowly, unhappily, Malfoy brings out his wand - reluctantly hands it over. The acknowledgment of Voldemort's wandlessness allows for others to acknowledge it as well - grasping Selwyn, uncommonly brave, falls to his knees and murmurs -
My lord, I've some small experience with repair of such things -
Voldemort is rendered charmless by hatred.
The hands of an incompetent will not be placed upon it. Bring Ollivander here. By force if need be.
He turns again to Sirius a moment after - and Edgeworth tenses, watching, ready to intervene - but it's Bellatrix who interrupts.
Edgeworth's heart sinks when he sees why.
She's dragging the older Muggle, the man who looks like a clerk, by the arm; she shoves him a moment later, and he stumbles over his feet, falls before Voldemort. She turns towards Sirius and coos -
Dear cousin, would you care to do the honors? A good crucio will no doubt draw the sympathizer out of hiding.]
[He knows that his face pales, because-- well, it's as if he can feel it; he can feel the colour go from him. His fingers tighten on his wand, his jaw clenches--
He can't look at the muggle. One glance was enough. Whatever spell kept him in thrall is fading, and now his face is painted pasty with terror, with real fear. And he should be afraid. These people want nothing good for him--
These people. That keeps him at arm's length. He is them, and Merlin, right now, in this moment, he would be anything but. The little misgiving has turned to something far more sickening.]
You think he's still here?
[It worked before, on the others. It likely won't work on Bellatrix. There are few things she cares about, and her pride is nearly unmatched--but she doesn't suffer blows well. She absorbs them, and gets back at you later. But Sirius lets himself sneer anyways, contemptuous.]
He was clever enough to get past whatever provisions you'd put in place. Surely that means he was clever enough to get out again? Kill your muggle, if you must--
[The muggle's face blanches in terror; his mouth opens--but the spell is still present, even in part, he can't yet cry out--]
Have fun wasting your energy while that sympathiser of yours gets farther away. But don't pretend as if it's for anything but your own entertainment.
[And Bellatrix turns on Sirius a haughty, cold, cruel look, and then points her wand at the Muggle and purrs Crucio - and the man starts screaming, a high and terrified and thin sound. It's weak, though - no louder than air being let out of a balloon, but it's a sound of such anguish, such horror...Miles flinches, his hand drawing up to his throat, unable to breathe as the man turns over onto his back and he sees the rigid agony on his face.
Bellatrix is still perfectly audible over that high, miserable whine. Hardly a waste of energy, Cousin. It's very easy for those with convictions.
Miles knows that he's not...They're not going to stop. He can tell by the ferocious light in Bellatrix's dark eye. There are already two dozen out there, searching Knockturn Alley for him; Bellatrix and the others can afford to stay in here on the off-chance that he's present. He can't - He has to -
He has to. Before they make Sirius do something awful. Before this poor man suffers any more. Before they kill him - because they've a second; it's not hard to imagine them killing this poor clerk and then getting started on the other -
Be brave, Miles. Not just stupid - brave.]
Stupefy.
[The Purebloods draw back to defend themselves - all but Voldemort and Bellatrix - but the charm wings its way towards not any of them, but the Muggle. The man flinches for one moment - and then his face relaxes when unconsciousness hits. Bellatrix tries to hold the spell a moment longer - curses and breaks it off when it has no effect - looks up right where Miles is hiding, where they're all looking...
Sirius has been confronting them alone long enough. This whole game has been going on long enough. So before they can cast a spell to drag him out of hiding, before he can be pulled to them kicking and fighting, he straightens his shoulders, casts off the cloak, and casts a charm that lets him leap gracefully off the chandelier to float down to stand before them. Not kneel, not grovel, but stand, proudly, defiantly.
(This is, Miles notes to himself, the coolest he has ever looked and will ever look. For once, the short-tempered, grouchy, awkward Muggle-born does something uncomplicatedly cool. Certainly, he'll be dead within minutes if he's lucky, but at least he's going out with unprecedented style.)
His wand is raised. His jaw is set. He turns first to lift his wand against Sirius, like he's ready to defend himself from him, then thereafter the others. And he speaks:]
My name is Miles Edgeworth. My parents were both Muggles. [And, fiercely, to Voldemort:] I broke your wand. And I am Gryffindor's foremost duelist; if you're quite finished with your petty infighting, I'll face down anyone who has the courage to come at me.
[That's a lie. He's mediocre at dueling. Too afraid of hurting the other people. Doesn't matter; he's accomplished what he wants to accomplish. Right now, he has only three goals - one, die quickly; two, die proudly; three, die in such a way that suspicion is averted away from Sirius, so that Sirius doesn't come with him.]
[Their wands are all on him, immediately, reflexes quickened by nerves that are so thinly stretched. Bellatrix leaps over the unconscious muggle in her haste to get near to Edgeworth, a snarl twisted across her mouth, and Sirius feels a twist of dread.
What the hell is he doing? If he'd been asked to kill the muggle--maybe he could have done it. Maybe he could have worked himself around to that. But being asked to kill Edgeworth--and they will ask him, surely they will, they suspect even if they aren't certain. Because surely it seems unfathomable to them, to most, that Sirius Black would ever even consider speaking with a mudblood, much less sympathise--
Is it sympathising if you don't want to see them dead? And even as he's thinking all of this, he can't help but to feel-- just the slightest touch of grudging admiration, that Edgeworth would even have managed to leap down from the ceiling without falling over himself, that he'd made a little speech--no matter that it'll get him killed (no, that does matter; Sirius does not want to see him dead)--
Bellatrix shoves her wand under Edgeworth's chin, right at his throat. Filthy mudblood, she snarls, how dare you--
Bellatrix. It's Voldemort again, soft, silken. His reptilian eyes are fixed on Edgeworth. Malfoy's wand is in his hand, but he doesn't raise it--he only stands, staring. Calm yourself.
My lord--
We have him now. His thin and bloodless lips lift into a smile. Bring him to me.]
[In the years since Dad died, Miles has spent his time only reading textbooks. Every day and every night were spent poring feverishly over tomes of magic, memorizing every spell, every charm, every bit of magical lore that could be of the least help - that might make him a more capable wizard, that might let him become a better Auror. Yet it's not those books he's thinking about now; in spite of himself, his mind is on the books he cast aside when he decided on the path of revenge - comic books, and adventure novels, tales of daring and courage. He'd always knew that he'd die in front of a Dark wizard, but he'd always assumed it would be because he wasn't quick enough with a counterspell, because he'd learned a charm insufficiently well. Never because he'd taken a few too many lessons from the books he read as a kid.
He's strangely unashamed.
Bellatrix jerks her wand; Edgeworth is forced forward by some wordless spell, and nearly stumbles to keep up with it. It brings him stumbling nearer to Voldemort. He's still got his wand in his hand - he can attack, provoke Voldemort into killing him...Or one of the others -
He swings his head around and fixes a look of purest withering contempt on Sirius.]
Sirius Black.
[And a moment after, he looks to Malfoy - ]
Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange.
[He gives a bit of a snort.]
You truly will have to kill me, because if the Ministry finds out about your presence here tonight...Who can even tell what will be done to your fine families?
[And then he turns his haughty look on Voldemort. Meets his eyes. He's never looked the man in the eye before, and for just a moment, looking into the man's eyes, his courage falters, just a little bit - because he's not a man. That expression isn't human -
Be brave. Be a Gryffindor. Even if no one else knows it, you belong there. You are a Gryffindor.
So he pushes past his terror, forces himself to speak - haughty, cool - ]
I know you would commit the murder normally, Voldemort, but I suppose it's a challenge with a stolen wand.
[Edgeworth is braver than Sirius ever would have thought, and bolder--and were this any other situation, he might feel more of a sense of grudging admiration than he does. If it were him, if their roles were somehow reversed--than Sirius would likely do the same.
Because he knows what this is, he recognises it. The final showdown, the sacrifice--that's why he'd snarled at Sirius so convincingly, to distance them, to push away any question of their allegiance. To give Sirius an out. And if he had any sense, he'd take it, he'd let Edgeworth be that hero that he saw in his head--because that's what Sirius would do as well, if given the chance and the right cause.
But it's wrong. It's wrong, this way, because it won't make a difference. It will be a hit, a mark against Voldemort, and some might question his omniscience and power--but it will not be a killing blow. At best, it takes out a leg, but it leaves him the other to stand on, and that's all that he needs. How long before the broken wand becomes rumor, before Ollivander has been forced to secure a new wand?
Do not speak to the dark lord, Bellatrix hisses, immediately, twisting her wand--but Voldemort raises one large, flat hand, his expression still serene and untroubled.
Calm yourself, Bellatrix. The boy-- A word carefully chosen; his lips lift in another pale smile. --is a Gryffindor. Headstrong, bold. A Gryffindor, and a mudblood. They ignore their own inferiority. They feel it, but they ignore it. We must teach them to remember.
Carefully, he lifts Malfoy's wand, holding it with a sort of careless readiness.
Tell me, Miles Edgeworth, Gryffindor's-- foremost duelist. What happens next? We duel, you and I--
No, my lord. Bellatrix again; her rage pales her cheeks. Do not dirty yourself with him. Let me.
You forget yourself, Bellatrix. His flat eyes fix on her face, and he is still smiling, but there is something behind it, like a shadow behind glass, sinister. Stand down.
And she does, without hesitation. Her lips press together, thin, at the chastisement, and she stares at Edgeworth with unrepentant hatred. And Voldemort goes on, smoothly, as if she had never interrupted.
[Edgeworth's answer comes after a pause, because this - this is not what he was expecting. He was expecting rage, a quick killing curse; he'd expected to be wiped from the planet mere seconds after he'd mocked Voldemort. Avada Kedavra is rumored to be...very quick, and so it would spare him any prolonged suffering, and there would be no chance of him giving up Sirius - and there will be no reason to keep causing the Muggles any suffering...
But Voldemort keeps his head. He answers Miles' challenge. And that -
Well, Miles knows what spell Voldemort favors. No doubt there will be a quick death coming in the course of the fight. Right? This...This is just him needing to reestablish his dominance - it's no trick...And with Voldemort using a borrowed wand, he'll be weakened. Maybe Miles will have a chance.]
If I win, I'll demand that you hand yourself over to the Ministry to face their justice.
[There's a short noise from several of the Death Eaters - he turns to look at them; they're laughing. Well - let them laugh; he doesn't care. He looks back at Voldemort - ]
You'll be imprisoned for your crimes, pending the results of a fair trial. Do you agree to these terms?
[He has to keep pushing on. He has to. Victory or death; one of the two; no room for fear in it.
(He wants to turn and look at Sirius. He wants to see what the other boy thinks - what's going on in Voldemort's head - like Sirius has some special insight. But he has to keep his shoulder turned to him, giving him no more consideration than he would give Malfoy or Selwyn. There can be no suspecting a connection.)]
If, of course, you will be permitted to make your own decisions.
[A goad at Bellatrix, at Voldemort. He has to push him into agreeing to this.]
[Despite her chastisement, Bellatrix starts forward, seething--but Voldemort's gesture is sharper still this time, wordless, and more efficient than any spell. She stops where she is, her hands at her sides, bunched into fists, every line of her body straining to push free.
It's a look Sirius knows well, though it's exaggerated from the way it was when they were kids. Bellatrix is older, but there's always family dinners, and parties, and balls. She'd looked like this the day the Nott's dog had bitten her hand, and she'd kicked that dog even then. This is a mudblood; this is Bellatrix panting to avenge Voldemort's name, something so close to madness dancing in her eyes. She would do it, in a second. She would make it linger.
And perhaps that's what Voldemort plans to do, too, because this is not his usual style. The toying way that he's allowing Edgeworth to name terms: that's all him, yes, and the sibilant twist of his smile is his own. But otherwise, Sirius feels at a loss, save for the vague tingling of danger at the back of his neck. This is wrong. And Edgeworth will never win.
I accept. The dark lord presses his hand against his chest, but does not so much as incline his head. His deep eyes stay fixed on Edgeworth. Clear the floor.
This is an order to the rest of them, and everyone obeys, whipping their wands around to clean up the mess that's been made. The room is largely empty save for their little party, the dark lord, those loyal few, Sirius--and Edgeworth, standing alone. They're going to kill him, Sirius knows that. And it will not be an easy death, he's going to lose and they're going to make it as bad as they can, and he will have to stand here and watch it.
Sirius takes a step forward, his wand clenched in his hand, so hard his fingers feel shaky.]
My cousin is right, Lord Voldemort.
[He usues the title, to get Voldemort's attention. He says the first bit for Bellatrix.]
Even pretending to agree to his terms is beneath you. [It's too clear a bid for mercy, and so he adds:] If it must be a duel, then do it, and end it. I've heard great things of your power.
But for a duel--you'll need a second. And so will he.
[Edgeworth controls the slight spike of fear when Sirius speaks. He doesn't know what the other boy is planning with that comment. He knows whose side Sirius is on; he saw that flaming cake, saw the boy's defiance to Voldemort. But he fears how this might go: Sirius plotting to save Edgeworth's life, Sirius thereby implicating himself. Sirius going down with him. And Edgeworth - Edgeworth has to save him. If he can't save himself, at least he has to keep Sirius safe.
But the Purebloods are all nodding, because that's the way of it; that's the proper way to do things. And Bellatrix is leaping forward, proclaiming -
I will serve you, my lord.
And Voldemort is smirking, like incorporating this element of classical dueling is pleasing to him. Miles understands in that moment - like he didn't fully before, foolishly - that this is for show, that this is some parody of a fair fight...But even if Voldemort intends for this to be something cruel, some game, Miles will give it his all.
So he speaks:]
I'll take Sirius Black as my second, then.
[Edgeworth turns, casts a look at Sirius of purest contempt. His voice, indeed, is condescending, sneering. But he means these words, and hopes dearly that Sirius understands he means these words - hopes that if he dies here, this will serve as a benediction:]
He may be a Black and a Pureblood, but against all odds there's still some honor in him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Good come to my doorstep and I shall prepare you a place, or just break in that's ok too
Date: 2013-10-03 03:48 pm (UTC)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.]
yes good i'll be in your closet
Date: 2013-10-03 05:04 pm (UTC)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.
Goddammit C. Kelly
Date: 2013-10-03 06:36 pm (UTC)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.]
yea bitch also btw congratulations on your Hogwarts AU, you said you couldn't do it....
Date: 2013-10-03 08:14 pm (UTC)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?
it's really exciting for me actually and this is so much more than I could have hoped for
Date: 2013-10-03 09:58 pm (UTC)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.]
IT'S FUCKING FANTASTIC you're fantastic we're all fantastic
Date: 2013-10-04 06:50 am (UTC)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?]
We're so amazing I love you I love your skills
Date: 2013-10-04 11:45 am (UTC)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.]
I love magic!
Date: 2013-10-04 02:04 pm (UTC)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.]
I love learning
Date: 2013-10-04 02:55 pm (UTC)Less good is the sudden alert on the faces of the Purebloods.
Not everyone is paying attention to what's going on. Some have looked back to the Muggles - idle, puppets abandoned and untended - in anticipation of more entertainment; but Voldemort is attentive, Bellatrix is attentive, Narcissa, two dozen others getting their wands out...
He gets slowly to his feet, trying hard to avoid treading on any outstretched limbs. He takes in a breath, holds it; he backs away just in time to avoid Rosier's hand as he grasps at the place where Miles had been.
There's some low discussion. Bellatrix interrogating Narcissa, Narcissa's attention on the house-elf like the poor creature will have some intuition or answers. Edgeworth tries to think quickly - grips his wand, whispers a quick charm - and halfway across the room, some man's cloak tugs hard around his neck, and he gives a cry of surprise. The noise ceases altogether, and attention turns towards him - he announces Someone trod on my cloak - ]
I love *you* Hopey
Date: 2013-10-04 04:35 pm (UTC)And Sirius, for a moment, could laugh--because this is suddenly weirdly familiar. Once his parents had a dinner party, and determined to cause trouble and make a scene if only for the purpose of causing trouble and making a scene--Sirius had waged war on the party guests. Traps, tugged-off hats, gloves that went missing, chair legs that collapsed--it was soon apparent that there was someone working mischief, and it didn't take much work to suss out who--but for a few minutes, at least, there had been nothing but glorious confusion.
And that's what this is. Higher stakes confusion, perhaps, but still the same. They've not learnt wordless spellwork so far, but Sirius is far beyond the normal coursework in certain subjects. He has no idea where Edgeworth is, if he's fled the room, if he's indeed over there tugging at the cloak--but Sirius can work mischief just as well; he can be that distraction. He fights down the sick feeling as his eyes sweep the room--and there, perched on the table draped with that crisp white tablecloth, the place of honour. A massive cake, white, glistening with candied sugar--
And suddenly on fire. Narcissa is still in conversation with her sister, but her eyes round in horror. Oh, she says, and then, a shout: Oh! The, the cake--
People turn, people take notice--chaos begins, as some rush for the cake to put it out, and some try to rush away--Sirius cuts through the crowds, towards the door, trying to look grim, trying to look as if he's joining in the effort to ferret out their spy--which he is, but for entirely different reasons. The hall is quickly filling with smoke--and he's nearly to the doors when he feels a prickle of unease, right at the back of his neck.
Voldemort is still standing near the muggles, entirely unbothered, as still as a pillar of stone. And he is looking at Sirius; Sirius realises that as he turns. Their eyes meet, even through the haze, and it's like stepping into an icy lake.
Where the fuck is Edgeworth? But the thought is distant, right now--right now, he's entirely arrested.]
Let's go bother Thleen
Date: 2013-10-04 05:03 pm (UTC)Edgeworth has moved, of course - he's about ten meters behind Sirius now, with Sirius between him and Voldemort. So he sees that cold and glittering look. He sees that chill, that clarity, and knows that Voldemort sees through him. And he knows the danger. He knows that for a man like this, the name Black will be no defense - that Voldemort will not accept being made a fool of, that he will not tolerate this mockery. And a wave of numb terror hits Miles: he can see, in a moment, the Cruciatus curse, tormenting Sirius until he admits his true intention - or a killing curse, worse - and if Sirius gives up Miles, that's fine, but for him to undergo such torment, no -
So here's his stupid, desperate, not-brave action. It's a thing that shouldn't work. It's a thing that shouldn't come close to working. Voldemort is the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, they say, a man with abilities beyond anything fathomable by commonplace wizards like himself. He is invincible - he scoffs at death; some say he has indeed parlayed with Death himself, that he is invincible, that he will bring ruination to the Muggle-born community, that the best they can do is surrender and hope for mercy. And Miles Edgeworth - Miles Edgeworth is a stodgy, clumsy boy whose ability at Potions is somewhat questionable, who has no name of any note, who grew up studying biology and spelling and grammar and not spellwork. The very thought that it could ever work is laughable, absurd -
But Voldemort's not hanging onto his wand. It's right there at his waist, unattended. So Miles Edgeworth sticks his own wand out from under the cover of the cloak, and madly casts a single simple charm, Accio -
And then he has Voldemort's wand in his hand.
How absurd.
He takes off running a moment later - God, God, this is insane, he's invisible but making noise, they'll be able to find him - but Voldemort will not be paying a whit of attention to Sirius any longer, that much is certain - ]
bother bother bother bother bother
Date: 2013-10-04 08:16 pm (UTC)Voldemort's eyes blaze, as he turns, as if he's seeing something, as if he's scented something--his wand, that's his wand, it's like it happens in slow motion--and the commotion of the room is such that it goes unnoticed--except by Sirius, and by Voldemort himself, who seems nearly to swell, to grow with rage.
Edgeworth. It has to be, and Sirius can't even think in swearwords. They are beyond fucked, they are so far beyond it, and he draws his own wand even as Voldemort raises one cold and bloodless hand, a gesture so completely of summoning it's amazing the whole room doesn't turn towards him in that instance. If he's summoning his wand, or Edgeworth himself--or the cloak, but it can't be the cloak, he can't know about the cloak--and Sirius draws his wand as he shoulders back towards the Dark Lord, pushing through the crowd--]
AVADTHLEEN KEDAVRA
Date: 2013-10-04 08:45 pm (UTC)It jerks so hard in his grip that his arms are wrenched forward. His jaw clacks shut with the force of the pull. He pulls it into his chest, and Edgeworth himself is drawn forward, inexorably, by the sheer force of that spell. He digs in his heels - no good - tries to walk away - but he's being drawn in, closer and closer, dragged by the spell, and he looks up and sees that Voldemort is looking right at him and there is murder in his eyes -
God -
There's no getting this wand to the Ministry. There's no question of that. Just holding onto it will pull him into arm's reach of Voldemort. So he makes a quick decision - casts it down on the marble floor, brings his heel down hard upon it - doesn't even see whether that's had an effect, whether he's done any damage before he's tripping backwards, falling on his rear end onto the marble floor as the wand skitters out from under his cloak and into full view and to Edgeworth -
He's still invisible under the cloak. In a moment, surely, someone will trip over him - there's such chaos, and so many people running around madly, that it's all but inevitable. But for a moment, he gets a full view of the tableau: Voldemort, every line of him stiff with rage; the two Muggles blinking in confusion and growing awareness with, perhaps, Voldemort's spell broken; a cake aflame (and good God, Sirius Black, that was an impressive charm); Purebloods running about squawking, perfect hair in disarray, perfect cloaks knocked askew; mud on the perfect marble floor; spilled champagne, a band disrupted; and Sirius Black himself, wand drawn, ready to take a stand against these people -
Within the hour, Edgeworth will die. No doubt of that. It will no doubt be horrible. But for the moment - for that one moment - he's able to look out on that whole absurd business. And for the first time in some five years, he smiles in pure, proud delight.]
ow my entire life
Date: 2013-10-04 09:49 pm (UTC)And then there's a CRUNCH, loud even in the chaos of the room. Louder still is the howl that Voldemort gives, and now there is nothing human in his face. Rage twists at him, pulls his skin taut over his skull--a death's head, a cobra, rearing back to strike--his hand still grasps at the air, useless, and Sirius has no idea what's just happened--Edgeworth, he's thinking of Edgeworth--stupid and brave and stupid, stupid, stupid--and as Voldemort raises his hand again, the very air in the room seems to thin, and the hair on the back of Sirius' neck all stands up--
And Voldemort's wand is laying on the white marble floor, in two pieces. In two pieces.]
now I'm going to go through your pockets
Date: 2013-10-04 10:16 pm (UTC)And it's all so stupid and petty. Voldemort can find another wand. He can go and buy another. But maybe that new wand will be a fraction less powerful. Maybe Voldemort's confidence will be shaken. And even if it's not...then this entire room full of Purebloods will have seen him undone by the errant heel of a reckless Mudblood.
And here's the completely absurd part: Miles sees, suddenly, clearly, an escape route. He knows the laws of physics and has learned, though practice and bruised knees, that an Accio cast on an immovable object will bring you to it. The chandelier still floats overhead; if he alights onto it, he'll be out of the way of the crowd - a reducto cast on the doorway will give the impression of having fled - and if luck remains on his side - and how absurd, that he, perpetually lucky, has had luck on his side - they'll chase after him before someone thinks to cast a presence-revealing charm - he can grab the Muggles while they're distracted, apparate them to the best of his ability to somewhere safe...
But what of Sirius?
Everyone still stands frozen. A whispered spell, and he's hoisted up, up, to the ceiling of the room; the chandelier sways when he lands on it, but no one looks up. All eyes are on Voldemort, his frightful visage; everyone is paralyzed by terror. And all flinch when he says, his voice terrible:
Find them.
And then his gaze swings upon Sirius Black.]
but my secrets! my watch! my..... preciousssssssssssssss
Date: 2013-10-05 11:08 am (UTC)But none of that compares one jot to the look that Voldemort turns on him. Sirius has no idea where Edgeworth is. He's barely conscious of the things going on around him, of the way that people begin to move at Voldemort's command. It's like the world has narrowed, down to this, to the wand snapped cleanly in two and the Dark Lord, staring at him--and somewhere, the idiot muggle-born that made all of this possible.
Sirius stands, his hand on his wand. He doesn't flinch. He looks back at Voldemort--not at the broken wand, though he might, but he doesn't need to. Everyone knows that it's there, even if they're pretending not to, and surely they must be thinking--]
It's a hell of a party.
[He smiles, grimly. It's not been said, but it's been guessed, and known. Blood traitor, and he hasn't actually done a fucking thing. (Untrue: he has sympathised.)]
No one's ever going to forget this one.
Also like twenty bucks, score
Date: 2013-10-05 01:29 pm (UTC)There's murder on Voldemort's face, perhaps, and perhaps there would be murder in his future, save for one thing: his hand makes a single abortive gesture downwards, reaching for the wand that's no longer there. And without that, there can be no curses -
Malfoy, your wand.
The order is given with sharp contempt. Malfoy, who not five minute earlier, looked so pleased to be receiving the Dark Lord's presence and his commands, suddenly turns reticent.
My lord...
Your wand, comes the order again, this time with snarling rage. Slowly, unhappily, Malfoy brings out his wand - reluctantly hands it over. The acknowledgment of Voldemort's wandlessness allows for others to acknowledge it as well - grasping Selwyn, uncommonly brave, falls to his knees and murmurs -
My lord, I've some small experience with repair of such things -
Voldemort is rendered charmless by hatred.
The hands of an incompetent will not be placed upon it. Bring Ollivander here. By force if need be.
He turns again to Sirius a moment after - and Edgeworth tenses, watching, ready to intervene - but it's Bellatrix who interrupts.
Edgeworth's heart sinks when he sees why.
She's dragging the older Muggle, the man who looks like a clerk, by the arm; she shoves him a moment later, and he stumbles over his feet, falls before Voldemort. She turns towards Sirius and coos -
Dear cousin, would you care to do the honors? A good crucio will no doubt draw the sympathizer out of hiding.]
like i carry cash
Date: 2013-10-06 03:09 pm (UTC)He can't look at the muggle. One glance was enough. Whatever spell kept him in thrall is fading, and now his face is painted pasty with terror, with real fear. And he should be afraid. These people want nothing good for him--
These people. That keeps him at arm's length. He is them, and Merlin, right now, in this moment, he would be anything but. The little misgiving has turned to something far more sickening.]
You think he's still here?
[It worked before, on the others. It likely won't work on Bellatrix. There are few things she cares about, and her pride is nearly unmatched--but she doesn't suffer blows well. She absorbs them, and gets back at you later. But Sirius lets himself sneer anyways, contemptuous.]
He was clever enough to get past whatever provisions you'd put in place. Surely that means he was clever enough to get out again? Kill your muggle, if you must--
[The muggle's face blanches in terror; his mouth opens--but the spell is still present, even in part, he can't yet cry out--]
Have fun wasting your energy while that sympathiser of yours gets farther away. But don't pretend as if it's for anything but your own entertainment.
That's true, carrying cash is so gauche and middle-class
Date: 2013-10-06 03:56 pm (UTC)Bellatrix is still perfectly audible over that high, miserable whine. Hardly a waste of energy, Cousin. It's very easy for those with convictions.
Miles knows that he's not...They're not going to stop. He can tell by the ferocious light in Bellatrix's dark eye. There are already two dozen out there, searching Knockturn Alley for him; Bellatrix and the others can afford to stay in here on the off-chance that he's present. He can't - He has to -
He has to. Before they make Sirius do something awful. Before this poor man suffers any more. Before they kill him - because they've a second; it's not hard to imagine them killing this poor clerk and then getting started on the other -
Be brave, Miles. Not just stupid - brave.]
Stupefy.
[The Purebloods draw back to defend themselves - all but Voldemort and Bellatrix - but the charm wings its way towards not any of them, but the Muggle. The man flinches for one moment - and then his face relaxes when unconsciousness hits. Bellatrix tries to hold the spell a moment longer - curses and breaks it off when it has no effect - looks up right where Miles is hiding, where they're all looking...
Sirius has been confronting them alone long enough. This whole game has been going on long enough. So before they can cast a spell to drag him out of hiding, before he can be pulled to them kicking and fighting, he straightens his shoulders, casts off the cloak, and casts a charm that lets him leap gracefully off the chandelier to float down to stand before them. Not kneel, not grovel, but stand, proudly, defiantly.
(This is, Miles notes to himself, the coolest he has ever looked and will ever look. For once, the short-tempered, grouchy, awkward Muggle-born does something uncomplicatedly cool. Certainly, he'll be dead within minutes if he's lucky, but at least he's going out with unprecedented style.)
His wand is raised. His jaw is set. He turns first to lift his wand against Sirius, like he's ready to defend himself from him, then thereafter the others. And he speaks:]
My name is Miles Edgeworth. My parents were both Muggles. [And, fiercely, to Voldemort:] I broke your wand. And I am Gryffindor's foremost duelist; if you're quite finished with your petty infighting, I'll face down anyone who has the courage to come at me.
[That's a lie. He's mediocre at dueling. Too afraid of hurting the other people. Doesn't matter; he's accomplished what he wants to accomplish. Right now, he has only three goals - one, die quickly; two, die proudly; three, die in such a way that suspicion is averted away from Sirius, so that Sirius doesn't come with him.]
yes and i am anything but those things.
Date: 2013-10-07 11:28 am (UTC)What the hell is he doing? If he'd been asked to kill the muggle--maybe he could have done it. Maybe he could have worked himself around to that. But being asked to kill Edgeworth--and they will ask him, surely they will, they suspect even if they aren't certain. Because surely it seems unfathomable to them, to most, that Sirius Black would ever even consider speaking with a mudblood, much less sympathise--
Is it sympathising if you don't want to see them dead? And even as he's thinking all of this, he can't help but to feel-- just the slightest touch of grudging admiration, that Edgeworth would even have managed to leap down from the ceiling without falling over himself, that he'd made a little speech--no matter that it'll get him killed (no, that does matter; Sirius does not want to see him dead)--
Bellatrix shoves her wand under Edgeworth's chin, right at his throat. Filthy mudblood, she snarls, how dare you--
Bellatrix. It's Voldemort again, soft, silken. His reptilian eyes are fixed on Edgeworth. Malfoy's wand is in his hand, but he doesn't raise it--he only stands, staring. Calm yourself.
My lord--
We have him now. His thin and bloodless lips lift into a smile. Bring him to me.]
Wait literally ANYTHING but those
Date: 2013-10-07 12:51 pm (UTC)He's strangely unashamed.
Bellatrix jerks her wand; Edgeworth is forced forward by some wordless spell, and nearly stumbles to keep up with it. It brings him stumbling nearer to Voldemort. He's still got his wand in his hand - he can attack, provoke Voldemort into killing him...Or one of the others -
He swings his head around and fixes a look of purest withering contempt on Sirius.]
Sirius Black.
[And a moment after, he looks to Malfoy - ]
Lucius Malfoy. Narcissa Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange.
[He gives a bit of a snort.]
You truly will have to kill me, because if the Ministry finds out about your presence here tonight...Who can even tell what will be done to your fine families?
[And then he turns his haughty look on Voldemort. Meets his eyes. He's never looked the man in the eye before, and for just a moment, looking into the man's eyes, his courage falters, just a little bit - because he's not a man. That expression isn't human -
Be brave. Be a Gryffindor. Even if no one else knows it, you belong there. You are a Gryffindor.
So he pushes past his terror, forces himself to speak - haughty, cool - ]
I know you would commit the murder normally, Voldemort, but I suppose it's a challenge with a stolen wand.
A N Y T H I N G
Date: 2013-10-07 06:49 pm (UTC)Because he knows what this is, he recognises it. The final showdown, the sacrifice--that's why he'd snarled at Sirius so convincingly, to distance them, to push away any question of their allegiance. To give Sirius an out. And if he had any sense, he'd take it, he'd let Edgeworth be that hero that he saw in his head--because that's what Sirius would do as well, if given the chance and the right cause.
But it's wrong. It's wrong, this way, because it won't make a difference. It will be a hit, a mark against Voldemort, and some might question his omniscience and power--but it will not be a killing blow. At best, it takes out a leg, but it leaves him the other to stand on, and that's all that he needs. How long before the broken wand becomes rumor, before Ollivander has been forced to secure a new wand?
Do not speak to the dark lord, Bellatrix hisses, immediately, twisting her wand--but Voldemort raises one large, flat hand, his expression still serene and untroubled.
Calm yourself, Bellatrix. The boy-- A word carefully chosen; his lips lift in another pale smile. --is a Gryffindor. Headstrong, bold. A Gryffindor, and a mudblood. They ignore their own inferiority. They feel it, but they ignore it. We must teach them to remember.
Carefully, he lifts Malfoy's wand, holding it with a sort of careless readiness.
Tell me, Miles Edgeworth, Gryffindor's-- foremost duelist. What happens next? We duel, you and I--
No, my lord. Bellatrix again; her rage pales her cheeks. Do not dirty yourself with him. Let me.
You forget yourself, Bellatrix. His flat eyes fix on her face, and he is still smiling, but there is something behind it, like a shadow behind glass, sinister. Stand down.
And she does, without hesitation. Her lips press together, thin, at the chastisement, and she stares at Edgeworth with unrepentant hatred. And Voldemort goes on, smoothly, as if she had never interrupted.
We duel. And if you... should somehow win?]
YOU ARE SO MANY THINGS.
Date: 2013-10-07 07:03 pm (UTC)But Voldemort keeps his head. He answers Miles' challenge. And that -
Well, Miles knows what spell Voldemort favors. No doubt there will be a quick death coming in the course of the fight. Right? This...This is just him needing to reestablish his dominance - it's no trick...And with Voldemort using a borrowed wand, he'll be weakened. Maybe Miles will have a chance.]
If I win, I'll demand that you hand yourself over to the Ministry to face their justice.
[There's a short noise from several of the Death Eaters - he turns to look at them; they're laughing. Well - let them laugh; he doesn't care. He looks back at Voldemort - ]
You'll be imprisoned for your crimes, pending the results of a fair trial. Do you agree to these terms?
[He has to keep pushing on. He has to. Victory or death; one of the two; no room for fear in it.
(He wants to turn and look at Sirius. He wants to see what the other boy thinks - what's going on in Voldemort's head - like Sirius has some special insight. But he has to keep his shoulder turned to him, giving him no more consideration than he would give Malfoy or Selwyn. There can be no suspecting a connection.)]
If, of course, you will be permitted to make your own decisions.
[A goad at Bellatrix, at Voldemort. He has to push him into agreeing to this.]
ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIIIIIIIIIIIR
Date: 2013-10-07 09:49 pm (UTC)It's a look Sirius knows well, though it's exaggerated from the way it was when they were kids. Bellatrix is older, but there's always family dinners, and parties, and balls. She'd looked like this the day the Nott's dog had bitten her hand, and she'd kicked that dog even then. This is a mudblood; this is Bellatrix panting to avenge Voldemort's name, something so close to madness dancing in her eyes. She would do it, in a second. She would make it linger.
And perhaps that's what Voldemort plans to do, too, because this is not his usual style. The toying way that he's allowing Edgeworth to name terms: that's all him, yes, and the sibilant twist of his smile is his own. But otherwise, Sirius feels at a loss, save for the vague tingling of danger at the back of his neck. This is wrong. And Edgeworth will never win.
I accept. The dark lord presses his hand against his chest, but does not so much as incline his head. His deep eyes stay fixed on Edgeworth. Clear the floor.
This is an order to the rest of them, and everyone obeys, whipping their wands around to clean up the mess that's been made. The room is largely empty save for their little party, the dark lord, those loyal few, Sirius--and Edgeworth, standing alone. They're going to kill him, Sirius knows that. And it will not be an easy death, he's going to lose and they're going to make it as bad as they can, and he will have to stand here and watch it.
Sirius takes a step forward, his wand clenched in his hand, so hard his fingers feel shaky.]
My cousin is right, Lord Voldemort.
[He usues the title, to get Voldemort's attention. He says the first bit for Bellatrix.]
Even pretending to agree to his terms is beneath you. [It's too clear a bid for mercy, and so he adds:] If it must be a duel, then do it, and end it. I've heard great things of your power.
But for a duel--you'll need a second. And so will he.
No but it's so fun to love you
Date: 2013-10-07 10:48 pm (UTC)But the Purebloods are all nodding, because that's the way of it; that's the proper way to do things. And Bellatrix is leaping forward, proclaiming -
I will serve you, my lord.
And Voldemort is smirking, like incorporating this element of classical dueling is pleasing to him. Miles understands in that moment - like he didn't fully before, foolishly - that this is for show, that this is some parody of a fair fight...But even if Voldemort intends for this to be something cruel, some game, Miles will give it his all.
So he speaks:]
I'll take Sirius Black as my second, then.
[Edgeworth turns, casts a look at Sirius of purest contempt. His voice, indeed, is condescending, sneering. But he means these words, and hopes dearly that Sirius understands he means these words - hopes that if he dies here, this will serve as a benediction:]
He may be a Black and a Pureblood, but against all odds there's still some honor in him.
but i'm as treacherous as the sea
From:And as life-giving
From:very true the Nile ain't the only river of life ok
From:It's true denial is life
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From:I would NOT.
From:ohhhhhh i see what you did there
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From:is that why you're going to be a doctor
From:Also for the ambiguity. "Is there a doctor in the house" "Yes there is"
From:"can you save this man" "no i cannot"
From:"but I can teach him to speak russian"
From:"can he play the piano anymore?"
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From:"of course not!" BA DUM TISH
From:Oldest and greatest joke in the book
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From:SAME!!!
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From:So true.
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