[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.
[They all laugh. Of course they do--what a suggestion, that Sirius Black would be forced to be second to a mudblood. As if he knows what honour is. As if he understands dueling at all. And in the midst of that--just for a moment--Sirius looks over at Edgeworth, hard, and a little sad.
It shouldn't matter, what anyone thinks of him. Even outside of the greatness of his name, he's worth ten of the other students at Hogwarts any day. It shouldn't matter, specifically, what Miles Edgeworth thinks of him. But he can read that backhanded and sneering compliment to know what it means, and he knows that now there's one person in the world that thinks of him as honourable, and not the way that everyone else might. Not honour of a house, but a personal honour, something deeper. No one else thinks that. It means something, even if he wishes it didn't, so he would feel less beholding to Edgeworth.
But he sharpens his expression into a cutting little smile, as the others laugh and jostle at him. Ridiculous, right, it's so ridiculous.]
As if you know anything of honour, mudblood. But I accept.
[Good. Voldemort hasn't joined in the laughter--of course he hasn't, he probably can't actually laugh--but he's still wearing that smile, and he gestures towards the open space. And now, please, show us, how Gryffindor's duelist fights, and dies.
That's what this ends in. Death. And for what? As Sirius turns away, his lip curled in a little sneer, he steps in a little closer to Edgeworth.]
[It's strange, isn't it? For years, Edgeworth would answer the least bit of mockery with fury. His refusal to brook laughter lost him friends amongst the Gryffindors; it got him in trouble when he fought back against Slytherins' provocations; it kept him harsh, aloof. Isolated.
But now, a few minutes from dying, he finds that for the first time in his life, he doesn't...care. He doesn't care whether they laugh at him. Miles Edgeworth knows who he is; he knows what he believes in. And he knows - from that flash of grief, that flash of sorrow in Sirius' face - that maybe, in some other life, he could have known who his friends were. So he watches the Purebloods as they snicker and elbow one another, and his expression holds no anger - just a quiet, thoughtful sort of pity.
When Sirius steps close, there's no one within earshot. So Edgeworth murmurs, quietly - ]
I'll bring down the roof on him. Get to the Muggles and use a shield charm.
[Because Sirius Black...is probably a better wizard than Edgeworth; Edgeworth has spent years denying it, furiously, but it's almost certainly true. And his skill in charms is almost unmatched. He'll have enough skill to protect himself from the rubble, and protect the others as well. And that...Voldemort is a remarkable wizard; his powers are unmatched; but this place is charmed against disapparation, and even he cannot shrug off a ton of marble crashing down on him from above.
And that's the heroic gesture, right? He can do that. He can do that, even though it'll mean two deaths.
He stalks away before Sirius has time to argue. He turns towards Voldemort - lifts his wand, and bows, the gesture of a classical duelist. Voldemort, mockingly, bows back; the Death Eaters titter. Then Edgeworth turns towards Bellatrix, lifts his chin, proffers his wand - ]
For your inspection.
[Because this is another classical, old-fashioned gesture - the seconds must each inspect the duelists' wands.]
[A shield charm will hold against destruction like that. The muggles are standing, paralysed--if it's because of a charm or because of fear, it's impossible to say, and Sirius flicks them a brief glance. Stupid fucking noble Miles Edgeworth. Who the hell are these people, that they'll need to be saved?
But that's one of the differences between Sirius and Edgeworth: who they value, and why.
Bellatrix's grin is wide, but it isn't happy, and she steps in close to Edgeworth--too close, just because she can, just to make him uncomfortable. Her movements are strangely serene and graceful, as she takes his wand from him.
I should break it. She turns his wand over in her hands, her inspection measured and careful. Filth like you doesn't deserve a wand. But I would see my master make sport of you instead.
When she hands his wand back to him, she holds it pinched between her fingers, as if it is dirty--and lets it drop, to clatter to the floor. Pick it up.
At the other end of the cleared space, Voldemort silently holds Malfoy's wand out to Sirius. He has to move closer to take it, loathe as he is to get any closer to the Dark Lord than he has to. He is not afraid, but something about Voldemort makes his skin crawl, and he completes the inspection as quickly as he can, his heartbeat so strong he can feel it--in his fingertips, in his throat, in his stomach. He will have to be quick, to get the charm in place; he'll have to watch Edgeworth, time it, perfectly--
Three charms is impossible. Two, he can manage two. He glances towards the muggles as he hands Voldemort's wand back to him. He can get to them in time, he can work his way over there. One shield charm there, and one for Edgeworth. Why the hell he wants to save him so badly, he doesn't want to put into words. Let it be enough that he does.]
[Again, there's a righteous sort of anger that pricks at him when she drops his wand, but it's not offense, not the blind rage that comes from wounded pride. It's simply anger at the fact that they think this way. It's anger for all the slain, anger for those two Muggles frozen by all of this, anger for his father. It's noble, in its way, and serene.
(Or maybe he's forcing it to seem that way.)
He considers, when his fingers touch his wand, rolling over then and there, taking advantage of the element of surprise to blast an attack at the ceiling and bring it down then - but Sirius isn't near enough the Muggles yet. He grasps it, and straightens, wordless. In spite of himself, besides, he still has some faint hope - Voldemort is using a borrowed wand, and Edgeworth is always better than people expect, than people give him credit for. Perhaps, he thinks as he raises his wand in a final salute, he has a chance -
That hope is shattered immediately as Voldemort's spell roars through Miles' stunning charm and slams bodily into him. He's knocked off his feet, carried tumbling backwards, gasping with the physical force of it - and then as he struggles to his feet again, another, knocking him down - and another, before he even has time to get up. It's impossible - this isn't Voldemort's wand - these spells are nonverbal - and still, their power is -
Miles gets facing the right way - rises to his knees, no further - he's focused on the fight, but distantly, he can hear mockery and jeers from the purebloods - doesn't matter - he ducks low and when the next spell comes for him he deflects it upwards. These aren't even proper spells, these are just exertions of sheer will, sheer raw magical power, and yet when he angles it over him and up the force of the spell slamming into the ceiling sets the heavy chandelier to rocking. A second one he sends spinning upwards as well, and a third, and he's breathing hard and sweating even just with the exertion of defending himself - Malfoy he can hear sneering -
Gryffindor's best duelist indeed.
And Bellatrix, high and proud, answering -
See the power of the Dark Lord.
And then another spell, harder than the first, breaks through Miles' shield and sends him tumbling back again. Before he can rise another spell hits him, spreads over him - and suddenly everything hurts, everything is in agony, like skin is being wrenched off muscle, like he's being flayed and cut into pieces and there's no respite - he arches, crying out, rigid, eyes screwed up in agony, unable even to hold onto his wand.
He thinks it last minutes, hours - but it's only five seconds, no more, that he suffers the Cruciatus curse. Then Voldemort ends it. It's a game; he's starting out slow. He even waits while Edgeworth recovers his wand before he sends another burst of energy at him - this one weakly deflected to the right, smashing out a window.
And Edgeworth knows it's a game. He knows he has no hope of winning properly. He still climbs shakily, unsteadily to his feet, breathing hard - looking upon Voldemort who's cool and completely unruffled. Because he will win; because every bolt of energy brings him closer to a dishonest, desperate victory.]
[The sharp shatter of the glass gives way to the others laughing, uproariously, and they're all so focused on the scene before them that no one looks around at Sirius--who isn't laughing, who is standing with his hand on his wand, his jaw set almost painfully. The echo of Edgeworth's shout still hangs in the air, a sound he can't forget, a sound that bored too deep in him to just shrug off.
This is sick. This would be sick, no matter who it was, if it was Edgeworth or anyone else; this is sick, and it's worse, that it's Edgeworth. It's not even a particular fondness that makes him think that, it's the fact that Edgeworth keeps standing up, that something--call it pride, call it bravery, call it whatever, but it keeps him climbing to his feet, over and over again, only to be battered down so easily.
I'll bring the ceiling down, Edgeworth had said, and Sirius is standing beside the muggles now, it could happen, now--his hand is tight on his wand, ready for the shield charms that will be necessary--but if Edgeworth is killed, if he's tormented to the point of mindlessness--he will not be able to cast his spell.
Voldemort sends another wave of raw magic through him, a fierce, hot burst of it, and Sirius' mouth twists. He can't stand here any longer, he can't stand idly by--for once, he must do the right thing, and it's like everything in his life has led to this point, to where he can finally do something else. He is nothing like these Death Eaters, elbowing one another in their glee at Edgeworth's pain, fawning over Voldemort's power. A better show of power would be a proper duel, not this--twisted parody of it.
Sirius' glare is leveled on Voldemort--he can't look at Edgeworth, he can't watch these spells tear through him--so instead he glares at Voldemort, hard, fierce--
And suddenly, the floor beneath Voldemort cracks, like ice thawing in winter, like someone just put a great deal of pressure on the marble, a huge weight of something pushing up from below. It cracks, audibly, and the slab breaks in two, briefly causing Voldemort to lose his footing. He doesn't fall, but stumbles back, and his spell goes wild without Edgeworth even having to deflect it, taking a huge hole out of the westward wall.
There are shouts from outside; Bellatrix starts forward. My lord--]
[And Edgeworth doesn't hesitate. Voldemort's off-balance; the others are looking towards the hole in the wall, starting forward, distracted by the voices that they heard out there; and there's no hope of him winning, no hope - and he could wait and see if those are reinforcements for his side, or he could act, screw up his courage and ensure that people like these Muggles are never tormented again, that Sirius isn't punished by Voldemort, and even - even if he's got to die, and got to kill, no more of this. No more.
He launches himself forward physically; Voldemort, still unbalanced, brings up his wand in a defensive gesture, ready to cast a counterspell; but Edgeworth rolls over onto his back, sends reductor curse after reductor curse, six in a row, at the cracked marble of the ceiling. If the ceiling were plaster, this would have no effect, but the fine Purebloods needed a place with the richness of fine marble. So the piece that groans its way loose from the rest is enormous, tons of gross weight - and it'll fall with the wrong trajectory, he can see that, it'll miss them -
And so, with all the magic in his mudblood bones, Edgeworth casts - ]
Accio -
[And that enormous slab of pure white changes its path, falling downwards towards Edgeworth and towards Voldemort.]
[The sound of a marble ceiling caving in is like nothing Sirius has ever heard or will hear again. It's a rumble, and then it's a heavy dusty rush, like a cascade of water--
It's now, now, Edgeworth has done it, and Sirius casts his charms--]
Protgeo Maximum--
[Voldemort is still there, a thin, spindled figure in a black robe, and the others are turning, but there are seconds, seconds left, and Sirius whips around and jabs his wand towards Edgweorth, in the perfect execution of the charm; if he were in class, he would get top marks--but this is so much more important than class, than marks or accolades or any of it; this is a fucking betrayal of his family, of all of the ideals he has grown up by, and it's all Edgeworth's fault and so he cannot die, not here, not like this--]
PROTEGO!
[And the rumble of the marble descends on them all then, the shrieking and the dust and the weight--]
[It's strange: not until this very moment, when he sees that enormous rushing force coming right for him, does he consider the possibility of an afterlife. It had always been taken for granted that, no; death is death; death is final; the ghosts in the castle and the paintings on the walls are no more than echoes of voices once heard, pale imitations of life. No more real people than his Patronus is a true hound. Yet in that moment, right before he dies, Miles wonders: what if that's not the case? What if this isn't the end? What if there's a place after this, where he'll go, where he'll see Mom and Dad again?
Would they be proud?
He anticipates that being his final thought: a thin, sad question, petering off slowly to nothing. But there's another thought that follows: a recognition that consciousness isn't gone yet. And another: curiosity. And another: he'd heard Sirius shouting. And another, as his eyes open: floating above him, around him, is a perfect, flawless, opalescent shield charm.
Sirius, you - He doesn't know what the next thought will be. Idiot? Certainly. Genius? Certainly that as well; that charm is like none Miles has ever seen. Blood traitor, muggle-lover; yes, these things, and that comes with a curl of fondness.
Around him is rubble, but above that is a single spot of brightness, clouded by dust. As the charm fades, he takes a breath and uses the last of his energy to blast the rubble aside and expand the opening. He crawls up and through, coughing and blinking, searching desperately for Sirius Black.
Or, fatally, for Voldemort. If the man has survived, there will be no chance for either of them -
Or maybe not. There are faces at the blasted hole in the wall, and those aren't Purebloods. They might - they might be Ministry.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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
Date: 2013-10-08 01:28 pm (UTC)It shouldn't matter, what anyone thinks of him. Even outside of the greatness of his name, he's worth ten of the other students at Hogwarts any day. It shouldn't matter, specifically, what Miles Edgeworth thinks of him. But he can read that backhanded and sneering compliment to know what it means, and he knows that now there's one person in the world that thinks of him as honourable, and not the way that everyone else might. Not honour of a house, but a personal honour, something deeper. No one else thinks that. It means something, even if he wishes it didn't, so he would feel less beholding to Edgeworth.
But he sharpens his expression into a cutting little smile, as the others laugh and jostle at him. Ridiculous, right, it's so ridiculous.]
As if you know anything of honour, mudblood. But I accept.
[Good. Voldemort hasn't joined in the laughter--of course he hasn't, he probably can't actually laugh--but he's still wearing that smile, and he gestures towards the open space. And now, please, show us, how Gryffindor's duelist fights, and dies.
That's what this ends in. Death. And for what? As Sirius turns away, his lip curled in a little sneer, he steps in a little closer to Edgeworth.]
What the fuck are you doing.
And as life-giving
Date: 2013-10-08 02:24 pm (UTC)But now, a few minutes from dying, he finds that for the first time in his life, he doesn't...care. He doesn't care whether they laugh at him. Miles Edgeworth knows who he is; he knows what he believes in. And he knows - from that flash of grief, that flash of sorrow in Sirius' face - that maybe, in some other life, he could have known who his friends were. So he watches the Purebloods as they snicker and elbow one another, and his expression holds no anger - just a quiet, thoughtful sort of pity.
When Sirius steps close, there's no one within earshot. So Edgeworth murmurs, quietly - ]
I'll bring down the roof on him. Get to the Muggles and use a shield charm.
[Because Sirius Black...is probably a better wizard than Edgeworth; Edgeworth has spent years denying it, furiously, but it's almost certainly true. And his skill in charms is almost unmatched. He'll have enough skill to protect himself from the rubble, and protect the others as well. And that...Voldemort is a remarkable wizard; his powers are unmatched; but this place is charmed against disapparation, and even he cannot shrug off a ton of marble crashing down on him from above.
And that's the heroic gesture, right? He can do that. He can do that, even though it'll mean two deaths.
He stalks away before Sirius has time to argue. He turns towards Voldemort - lifts his wand, and bows, the gesture of a classical duelist. Voldemort, mockingly, bows back; the Death Eaters titter. Then Edgeworth turns towards Bellatrix, lifts his chin, proffers his wand - ]
For your inspection.
[Because this is another classical, old-fashioned gesture - the seconds must each inspect the duelists' wands.]
very true the Nile ain't the only river of life ok
Date: 2013-10-08 05:10 pm (UTC)But that's one of the differences between Sirius and Edgeworth: who they value, and why.
Bellatrix's grin is wide, but it isn't happy, and she steps in close to Edgeworth--too close, just because she can, just to make him uncomfortable. Her movements are strangely serene and graceful, as she takes his wand from him.
I should break it. She turns his wand over in her hands, her inspection measured and careful. Filth like you doesn't deserve a wand. But I would see my master make sport of you instead.
When she hands his wand back to him, she holds it pinched between her fingers, as if it is dirty--and lets it drop, to clatter to the floor. Pick it up.
At the other end of the cleared space, Voldemort silently holds Malfoy's wand out to Sirius. He has to move closer to take it, loathe as he is to get any closer to the Dark Lord than he has to. He is not afraid, but something about Voldemort makes his skin crawl, and he completes the inspection as quickly as he can, his heartbeat so strong he can feel it--in his fingertips, in his throat, in his stomach. He will have to be quick, to get the charm in place; he'll have to watch Edgeworth, time it, perfectly--
Three charms is impossible. Two, he can manage two. He glances towards the muggles as he hands Voldemort's wand back to him. He can get to them in time, he can work his way over there. One shield charm there, and one for Edgeworth. Why the hell he wants to save him so badly, he doesn't want to put into words. Let it be enough that he does.]
It's true denial is life
Date: 2013-10-08 10:38 pm (UTC)(Or maybe he's forcing it to seem that way.)
He considers, when his fingers touch his wand, rolling over then and there, taking advantage of the element of surprise to blast an attack at the ceiling and bring it down then - but Sirius isn't near enough the Muggles yet. He grasps it, and straightens, wordless. In spite of himself, besides, he still has some faint hope - Voldemort is using a borrowed wand, and Edgeworth is always better than people expect, than people give him credit for. Perhaps, he thinks as he raises his wand in a final salute, he has a chance -
That hope is shattered immediately as Voldemort's spell roars through Miles' stunning charm and slams bodily into him. He's knocked off his feet, carried tumbling backwards, gasping with the physical force of it - and then as he struggles to his feet again, another, knocking him down - and another, before he even has time to get up. It's impossible - this isn't Voldemort's wand - these spells are nonverbal - and still, their power is -
Miles gets facing the right way - rises to his knees, no further - he's focused on the fight, but distantly, he can hear mockery and jeers from the purebloods - doesn't matter - he ducks low and when the next spell comes for him he deflects it upwards. These aren't even proper spells, these are just exertions of sheer will, sheer raw magical power, and yet when he angles it over him and up the force of the spell slamming into the ceiling sets the heavy chandelier to rocking. A second one he sends spinning upwards as well, and a third, and he's breathing hard and sweating even just with the exertion of defending himself - Malfoy he can hear sneering -
Gryffindor's best duelist indeed.
And Bellatrix, high and proud, answering -
See the power of the Dark Lord.
And then another spell, harder than the first, breaks through Miles' shield and sends him tumbling back again. Before he can rise another spell hits him, spreads over him - and suddenly everything hurts, everything is in agony, like skin is being wrenched off muscle, like he's being flayed and cut into pieces and there's no respite - he arches, crying out, rigid, eyes screwed up in agony, unable even to hold onto his wand.
He thinks it last minutes, hours - but it's only five seconds, no more, that he suffers the Cruciatus curse. Then Voldemort ends it. It's a game; he's starting out slow. He even waits while Edgeworth recovers his wand before he sends another burst of energy at him - this one weakly deflected to the right, smashing out a window.
And Edgeworth knows it's a game. He knows he has no hope of winning properly. He still climbs shakily, unsteadily to his feet, breathing hard - looking upon Voldemort who's cool and completely unruffled. Because he will win; because every bolt of energy brings him closer to a dishonest, desperate victory.]
you would know
Date: 2013-10-09 11:20 am (UTC)This is sick. This would be sick, no matter who it was, if it was Edgeworth or anyone else; this is sick, and it's worse, that it's Edgeworth. It's not even a particular fondness that makes him think that, it's the fact that Edgeworth keeps standing up, that something--call it pride, call it bravery, call it whatever, but it keeps him climbing to his feet, over and over again, only to be battered down so easily.
I'll bring the ceiling down, Edgeworth had said, and Sirius is standing beside the muggles now, it could happen, now--his hand is tight on his wand, ready for the shield charms that will be necessary--but if Edgeworth is killed, if he's tormented to the point of mindlessness--he will not be able to cast his spell.
Voldemort sends another wave of raw magic through him, a fierce, hot burst of it, and Sirius' mouth twists. He can't stand here any longer, he can't stand idly by--for once, he must do the right thing, and it's like everything in his life has led to this point, to where he can finally do something else. He is nothing like these Death Eaters, elbowing one another in their glee at Edgeworth's pain, fawning over Voldemort's power. A better show of power would be a proper duel, not this--twisted parody of it.
Sirius' glare is leveled on Voldemort--he can't look at Edgeworth, he can't watch these spells tear through him--so instead he glares at Voldemort, hard, fierce--
And suddenly, the floor beneath Voldemort cracks, like ice thawing in winter, like someone just put a great deal of pressure on the marble, a huge weight of something pushing up from below. It cracks, audibly, and the slab breaks in two, briefly causing Voldemort to lose his footing. He doesn't fall, but stumbles back, and his spell goes wild without Edgeworth even having to deflect it, taking a huge hole out of the westward wall.
There are shouts from outside; Bellatrix starts forward. My lord--]
I would NOT.
Date: 2013-10-09 11:43 am (UTC)He launches himself forward physically; Voldemort, still unbalanced, brings up his wand in a defensive gesture, ready to cast a counterspell; but Edgeworth rolls over onto his back, sends reductor curse after reductor curse, six in a row, at the cracked marble of the ceiling. If the ceiling were plaster, this would have no effect, but the fine Purebloods needed a place with the richness of fine marble. So the piece that groans its way loose from the rest is enormous, tons of gross weight - and it'll fall with the wrong trajectory, he can see that, it'll miss them -
And so, with all the magic in his mudblood bones, Edgeworth casts - ]
Accio -
[And that enormous slab of pure white changes its path, falling downwards towards Edgeworth and towards Voldemort.]
ohhhhhh i see what you did there
Date: 2013-10-09 03:04 pm (UTC)It's now, now, Edgeworth has done it, and Sirius casts his charms--]
Protgeo Maximum--
[Voldemort is still there, a thin, spindled figure in a black robe, and the others are turning, but there are seconds, seconds left, and Sirius whips around and jabs his wand towards Edgweorth, in the perfect execution of the charm; if he were in class, he would get top marks--but this is so much more important than class, than marks or accolades or any of it; this is a fucking betrayal of his family, of all of the ideals he has grown up by, and it's all Edgeworth's fault and so he cannot die, not here, not like this--]
PROTEGO!
[And the rumble of the marble descends on them all then, the shrieking and the dust and the weight--]
I'm very clever.
Date: 2013-10-09 04:59 pm (UTC)Would they be proud?
He anticipates that being his final thought: a thin, sad question, petering off slowly to nothing. But there's another thought that follows: a recognition that consciousness isn't gone yet. And another: curiosity. And another: he'd heard Sirius shouting. And another, as his eyes open: floating above him, around him, is a perfect, flawless, opalescent shield charm.
Sirius, you - He doesn't know what the next thought will be. Idiot? Certainly. Genius? Certainly that as well; that charm is like none Miles has ever seen. Blood traitor, muggle-lover; yes, these things, and that comes with a curl of fondness.
Around him is rubble, but above that is a single spot of brightness, clouded by dust. As the charm fades, he takes a breath and uses the last of his energy to blast the rubble aside and expand the opening. He crawls up and through, coughing and blinking, searching desperately for Sirius Black.
Or, fatally, for Voldemort. If the man has survived, there will be no chance for either of them -
Or maybe not. There are faces at the blasted hole in the wall, and those aren't Purebloods. They might - they might be Ministry.
He takes a breath, croaks - ]
Sirius -
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"
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