[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.
[Everything is hazy. Dust hangs heavy in the air, a curtain of it--Sirius coughs, and swipes his hand in front of his face, but it persists. And there's a weird feeling, deep in his chest--not from inhaling the dust, but from something else, something he can't name or even really understand.
What did you do? He asks it of himself, with just the smallest touch of disbelief, even though he was witness to his own actions. Saved his own miserable life, saved two muggles--one of them, the younger one, is unconscious on the floor; the older one is white-faced and shaking, but released from whatever grip had held him before. What does that mean?
And Edgeworth. He saved Edgeworth, too, and he has no idea how to understand or qualify that, how to put that into a context that isn't maybe a mistake, maybe a desperate action, maybe something--no, definitely something--that will get him kicked out of his family.
All of this is. If his family even matters anymore-- if anything even matters anymore; everything has changed, and Sirius is left with this strange breathless feeling, this lightheadedness.
The worst of the rubble is in the center of the room, concentrated above Edgeworth and Voldemort--or the places where they once stood, anyways. Sirius easily shifts aside what's fallen near him. The room is so empty, all jagged slabs of marble, like some avant-garde cemetery. Cool air streams in from the ceiling, from the hole in the wall, and there are people peering in there, but Sirius hears only Edgeworth--stupid, this stupid thin little voice, and he coughs, again--]
Here.
[He can dimly make out the figure of someone--Edgeworth, it has to be--all else in the room is still and silent and dead or unconscious, and Edgeworth is still going to be talking. His tenacity knows no bounds.]
I'm here.
[And Voldemort? That's the question. Voldemort. There is no other sound, just the occasional shift of loose stone, a crack here and there--a murmur of voices from outside, a hubbub that's only just coming into Sirius' head.]
[Thank God. Thank God - There's something terrible about this vast, creaking silence. The collapse had been immense. Edgeworth doesn't know about Malfoy, Selwyn - Bellatrix - whether they're dead, whether they're okay, and how he feels about that. He wonders if he's a murderer now. He wonders if he'll be sent to Azkaban. He wonders if it was worth it.
There's no motion from where Voldemort had stood. He imagines him crushed beneath the rubble, like the Wicked Witch of the East. The thought is...ineffably absurd.
(And if he's dead? If Edgeworth - Miles Edgeworth - has killed the evilest wizard of their age? That's...worth it. That has to be worth it.)
Miles climbs over the rubble, finally slides down - nearly trips - to draw near to Sirius. He feels exhausted. His hands are shaking. Not far from his foot, untouched by the rubble, is Voldemort's broken wand. He closes his eyes for just a moment, then reaches down into his pocket and pulls out the cigarette. And he says, weakly:]
[And despite himself--despite everything around them in the ruined room, and all of his uncertainty and guilt and self-loathing and pride--they don't even know that Voldemort is dead yet, any celebration ought to be far from their mind, any laughter just as far--
But still, Sirius gives a tired heavy laugh, pushing his hand over his eyes.]
Oh, fuck you.
[He doesn't say it with any hatred. And a second later and he's shifting to dig his lighter out of his pocket. It nearly seems as if it ought not to work, as if anything with the Black family crest on it ought to fail him now--but it works, it flicks to life, and he holds out to Edgeworth.]
[Edgeworth doesn't know how to light a cigarette: he sticks it out, putting its tip in the fire, and then sticks it into his mouth after. It of course lights unevenly, starts burning more along one side than the other, but he's more in it for the symbolism than the nicotine. He takes a breath, manages not to cough, exhales the smoke. Sits down, exhausted, on a piece of rubble. His face is a bit ghastly, with dust from the destruction clinging to the lines of sweat down his face; wiping at his forehead yields little improvement in his appearance.
His voice is quiet when he speaks. He says:]
You saved my life.
[And that's almost baffling, isn't it? It was such a risk - such an incredible risk. If Sirius' divided concentration had caused him to falter and be crushed, or if the charm had missed and sheltered Voldemort instead - Sirius, after all of that, would have lost his life. And even though this isn't a real possibility - he knows that now that he knows Sirius - it would have been so much easier to let Edgeworth die; there would have been no witnesses left who knew of his stand against the Dark Lord; it would have just seemed that Sirius had been present when some mad Muggle-born had challenged Voldemort, that he'd happened to act quickly enough to protect himself, and his family wouldn't have any reason to be disappointed.
So Sirius, with a single spell - not cast in a moment of madness, because one cannot get out a charm that strong in a moment of madness; he had been bracing himself to cast that charm throughout the entirety of the duel - had risked his own destruction to save Edgeworth.
How strange.
He finds his hand suddenly coming up to his eyes, covering his face; he finds himself suddenly on the edge of tears. All the terror, the impossibility of the past few minutes comes rushing back fiercely, and there's a sort of panic that beats at his chest, and he grinds out with difficulty:]
[Fuck off, he wants to tell Edgeworth, no I didn't--but that would be a lie. He did. What's more, he knew that he was doing it, as reluctant as he was to admit or qualify that or even attempt to understand. He saved his life, and lives of the muggles, and his own--and let everyone else in the room die.
Probably die, he corrects himself, as he glances towards the rubble where Voldemort ought to be buried. Just because there's been no stir or sign of life from that space doesn't mean that he's dead. And the paranoia of that thought gives him a sinking feeling in his chest, adding to the sick weight of what he's done, and where he goes from here, and Sirius smiles, bitterly, and gets out a cigarette for himself.]
Don't make anything of it.
[He says it plainly, no put-on gruffness or unnecessary warmth. The silver cigarette case feels heavy in his hand. His cigarette is the last one in it, and suddenly the case feels useless, a trapping of something that he isn't sure is his to claim any longer. He drops it on the floor; it lands with a heavy clatter.]
And don't get used to it.
[How he's dealing with this so coolly, he doesn't know. Maybe later terror will overtake him, or something very like it. This is the ending he never wanted, but in the end, he chose it, and no one forced his hand. Is it freeing, to have come here all on his own?]
That's going to be Ministry representatives.
[He nods, towards the hole in the wall. The dust is finally starting to settle, the cool night air from Knockturn Alley filtering in. The knot of people outside is larger, and a few brave souls are climbing in, their lit wands held aloft.]
You'd better stop crying and get over there to tell them what's happened.
[He's not crying. But there's something in his voice that suggests that he won't last long, not in tears but in panic, perhaps, and Sirius adds, quietly, darkly:]
[That rebuke, not precisely mocking but with no great kindness, reminds him: he has to be steely. He has to be firm. He's nearly to the end of this; he's been foolhardy and brave throughout this night; now's the time for just simple bravery, nothing but. He takes in a breath, and lowers his hand, and swallows hard, and tamps down the hysteria threatening him in favor of setting his shoulders.
He'll find out later that the Ministry got here so quickly not through some happy accident, but though a conspiracy of events. Ollivander's place was being watched, as it turned out, due to worries in the Ministry for the man's safety; they'd thought there might be retaliation against the wand-maker for selling to Muggle-borns. When the reckless Death Eaters, desperate to please their lord, had come to haul him away, it had triggered Ministry alarms, and Aurors had been dispatched a moment later. The three Aurors leading the way into the dusty, crumbling hall don't seem to fully comprehend what's going on, though; they'd anticipated what the Death Eaters under Veritaserum had promised them, Voldemort holding court, not a ruined building with two underage wizards and two Muggles and a great load of rubble in the middle. And it's clear from their faces, too, that they're not expecting this speech:]
My name is Miles Edgeworth; I'm a student at Hogwarts. I believe, pending confirmation following a search, that I have killed the wizard going by the name of Lord Voldemort. In doing so, I have broken several wizarding laws including the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and, while I was acting in self-defense when I struck out at him, have arguably engaged in an act of vigilantism. I will willingly surrender my wand while the Ministry conducts its investigation.
Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of this.
[And he bows, shortly, and then straightens a moment after, saying - ]
The two men back there are Muggles who have suffered a terrible trauma. Please ensure that they are seen to.
They call the Minister, they call Dumbledore, they escort the muggles out and take Sirius and Edgeworth out as well--separately, warily, cautiously, as if they're explosive themselves. The Ministry officials begin setting up charms, spells--no one seems keen to move the rubble off of what might or might not be the corpse of Lord Voldemort. No one seems keen to do anything at all except stare at one another, white-faced and confused.
No one says congratulations. No one accuses anyone of anything. Confusion runs high, but everyone moves around as if they know what they're doing, as if briskness and basic containment charms will help them with anything.
Sirius lets them lead him away. Everything still feels curiously strange and distant, and there is a tingling in his fingers that makes him wonder if he's not been injured in some way, until he thinks no, impossible, he'd saved himself from the blast. He'd saved all of them. Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of this--Merlin, what a lie.
They take them both to the Ministry. They sit them down in a waiting room with dark green walls and a green marble floor. It's Aurors, Aurors are the ones that bring them in and leave them alone, together.
Sirius stares at his boot. It's white with marble dust.]
Thought about being an Auror once.
[He offers that dully. The room is dead fucking quiet.]
[Edgeworth has calmed himself - or perhaps the processing has calmed him. It's stupid, but being surrounded by the Aurors, surrounded by routine, makes him feel better. An hour ago, it was just Miles and Sirius desperately striving to stay alive and keep those Muggles alive and maybe make some difference; now there are procedures to be followed, and they're being followed, and even if the Aurors seem confused and a bit terrified they've things they need to do and established practice is always a comfort.
And they're away from that place. The Muggles are away from that place. Even if Edgeworth's future might well be grim, even if he might be sent soon to Azkaban, Sirius won't be dying tonight and the Muggles won't be hurt.
And there's this moment of quiet, and that strange revelation. Miles had been staring at his dust-gray robes, the jumper underneath, uncertainly; he looks up when Sirius speaks, his brows furrowed.]
You did? But -
[He cuts that off; but your family has always dabbled in Dark magic is a phenomenally insensitive thing to say, especially at this juncture, and for once he has the sense to be sensitive.]
You...never showed any sign of it.
[A beat, and then with a weary sort of nostalgia:]
I recall a declaration, as a matter of fact, that you were going to be the greatest Beater ever to be commemorated in the Quidditch Hall of Fame.
[He doesn't look over at Edgeworth, but smiles, wryly, down at his hands.]
Yeah. Well, I didn't expect people to be eavesdropping and memorising my quidditch aspirations, did I. If I'd known they'd be marked down forever in your didactic memory, I might have phrased it better.
[It's very close to being a joke, except for the weary flat way that he says it. Sirius rubs his wrist against his forehead. It comes away grey with dust. When are they going to be permitted to wash up? When are they going to get to go home?
His parents will have found out by now. Whether Bellatrix is dead or captured, her parents will have been informed, and so his parents will know as well--and no one will believe that shit, Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of it--he was there, wasn't he? He has dreaded going home for other reasons, but this dread is fresh and new and--painful, too, it's fucking painful.
He presses a hand over his eyes.]
It was before Hogwarts. When I was a kid. But that sort of thing gets stamped out of you.
[Suitable career is a restrictive term, basically amounting to: nothing. Stay home and count your gold and have interests in the Ministry.]
In your defense, you were drunk off firewhiskey after the Slytherin victory our third year.
[A beat.]
Also, I was the one who reported you for drinking firewhiskey after the Slytherin victory our third year.
[He manages a weary, wry sort of glance before sitting back and closing his eyes, thinking over Sirius Black the Auror. It fits very well. Being an Auror requires talent, courage, a sense of right and wrong, all of which Sirius - against all odds - has. It fits as well as Sirius Black the Gryffindor, and it makes Miles feel much the same way: a little sad over the way things should have been. Sad over the possibility of a better world, another world, where Sirius was able to cast off the expectations of his family and lived a fierce and independent life, free of all the chains of his name. Completely free of everything.
He wishes Sirius were anyone else. He wishes that bright, mischievous boy could have been...his brother, maybe. His brother, had Dad not died - ]
Well. I suppose you've gotten your chance now, haven't you? And you did very well. You took down the Darkest wizard of our era.
[He says that quietly, because the responsibility is as much Sirius' as his own. He intends to take full blame, if blame should fall, but Sirius Black was the only one of the two of them who landed a solid blow against Voldemort - cracking the floor beneath his feet - and he was the one with the magical aptitude to save lives.
Save lives.
His throat tightens as he sits there with his eyes closed. He's quiet a moment, and then says, his voice barely a whisper - and he'd intended for it to be idle, self-assured, full-voiced, but it just comes out a sad whisper - ]
I hope they weren't killed. Your cousin and the others.
[He laughs at that first bit--an actual laugh, for all that it's quiet and just a touch bitter. Of course it was Edgeworth that reported him. That comes as no real surprise. It's not an incident that's stayed fresh in his memory, but now that Edgeworth has brought it up again, it's easy to call to mind--the flush of victory, a brief happiness, something really real before their party was put to an end, before their firewhiskey was confiscated. It's a memory, but a distant one, almost as if it happened to someone else, someone he knows very well but someone who isn't him.
The first few years of Hogwarts all sort of feel that way these days, but tonight it's more obvious a disconnect than ever before.]
You're a tit, Edgeworth.
[He says it so he doesn't have to answer that praise. You did very well. By whose standards? And if he did well, why does everything feel so odd?
But the misery in Edgeworth's voice on the next bit distracts him, and looks around, sharply. He's not actually sorry, is he? He can't actually mean that, and Sirius' upper lip curls just a little, as disdain creeps over him--not for Edgewoth, but for them, for Bellatrix, and Malfoy--for all of them--]
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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
Date: 2013-10-09 07:41 pm (UTC)What did you do? He asks it of himself, with just the smallest touch of disbelief, even though he was witness to his own actions. Saved his own miserable life, saved two muggles--one of them, the younger one, is unconscious on the floor; the older one is white-faced and shaking, but released from whatever grip had held him before. What does that mean?
And Edgeworth. He saved Edgeworth, too, and he has no idea how to understand or qualify that, how to put that into a context that isn't maybe a mistake, maybe a desperate action, maybe something--no, definitely something--that will get him kicked out of his family.
All of this is. If his family even matters anymore-- if anything even matters anymore; everything has changed, and Sirius is left with this strange breathless feeling, this lightheadedness.
The worst of the rubble is in the center of the room, concentrated above Edgeworth and Voldemort--or the places where they once stood, anyways. Sirius easily shifts aside what's fallen near him. The room is so empty, all jagged slabs of marble, like some avant-garde cemetery. Cool air streams in from the ceiling, from the hole in the wall, and there are people peering in there, but Sirius hears only Edgeworth--stupid, this stupid thin little voice, and he coughs, again--]
Here.
[He can dimly make out the figure of someone--Edgeworth, it has to be--all else in the room is still and silent and dead or unconscious, and Edgeworth is still going to be talking. His tenacity knows no bounds.]
I'm here.
[And Voldemort? That's the question. Voldemort. There is no other sound, just the occasional shift of loose stone, a crack here and there--a murmur of voices from outside, a hubbub that's only just coming into Sirius' head.]
Also for the ambiguity. "Is there a doctor in the house" "Yes there is"
Date: 2013-10-09 09:26 pm (UTC)There's no motion from where Voldemort had stood. He imagines him crushed beneath the rubble, like the Wicked Witch of the East. The thought is...ineffably absurd.
(And if he's dead? If Edgeworth - Miles Edgeworth - has killed the evilest wizard of their age? That's...worth it. That has to be worth it.)
Miles climbs over the rubble, finally slides down - nearly trips - to draw near to Sirius. He feels exhausted. His hands are shaking. Not far from his foot, untouched by the rubble, is Voldemort's broken wand. He closes his eyes for just a moment, then reaches down into his pocket and pulls out the cigarette. And he says, weakly:]
I suppose I might...smoke this now.
"can you save this man" "no i cannot"
Date: 2013-10-10 11:15 am (UTC)But still, Sirius gives a tired heavy laugh, pushing his hand over his eyes.]
Oh, fuck you.
[He doesn't say it with any hatred. And a second later and he's shifting to dig his lighter out of his pocket. It nearly seems as if it ought not to work, as if anything with the Black family crest on it ought to fail him now--but it works, it flicks to life, and he holds out to Edgeworth.]
Surprised it didn't break in your martyring.
"but I can teach him to speak russian"
Date: 2013-10-10 12:31 pm (UTC)His voice is quiet when he speaks. He says:]
You saved my life.
[And that's almost baffling, isn't it? It was such a risk - such an incredible risk. If Sirius' divided concentration had caused him to falter and be crushed, or if the charm had missed and sheltered Voldemort instead - Sirius, after all of that, would have lost his life. And even though this isn't a real possibility - he knows that now that he knows Sirius - it would have been so much easier to let Edgeworth die; there would have been no witnesses left who knew of his stand against the Dark Lord; it would have just seemed that Sirius had been present when some mad Muggle-born had challenged Voldemort, that he'd happened to act quickly enough to protect himself, and his family wouldn't have any reason to be disappointed.
So Sirius, with a single spell - not cast in a moment of madness, because one cannot get out a charm that strong in a moment of madness; he had been bracing himself to cast that charm throughout the entirety of the duel - had risked his own destruction to save Edgeworth.
How strange.
He finds his hand suddenly coming up to his eyes, covering his face; he finds himself suddenly on the edge of tears. All the terror, the impossibility of the past few minutes comes rushing back fiercely, and there's a sort of panic that beats at his chest, and he grinds out with difficulty:]
Thank...you.
"can he play the piano anymore?"
Date: 2013-10-10 04:30 pm (UTC)Probably die, he corrects himself, as he glances towards the rubble where Voldemort ought to be buried. Just because there's been no stir or sign of life from that space doesn't mean that he's dead. And the paranoia of that thought gives him a sinking feeling in his chest, adding to the sick weight of what he's done, and where he goes from here, and Sirius smiles, bitterly, and gets out a cigarette for himself.]
Don't make anything of it.
[He says it plainly, no put-on gruffness or unnecessary warmth. The silver cigarette case feels heavy in his hand. His cigarette is the last one in it, and suddenly the case feels useless, a trapping of something that he isn't sure is his to claim any longer. He drops it on the floor; it lands with a heavy clatter.]
And don't get used to it.
[How he's dealing with this so coolly, he doesn't know. Maybe later terror will overtake him, or something very like it. This is the ending he never wanted, but in the end, he chose it, and no one forced his hand. Is it freeing, to have come here all on his own?]
That's going to be Ministry representatives.
[He nods, towards the hole in the wall. The dust is finally starting to settle, the cool night air from Knockturn Alley filtering in. The knot of people outside is larger, and a few brave souls are climbing in, their lit wands held aloft.]
You'd better stop crying and get over there to tell them what's happened.
[He's not crying. But there's something in his voice that suggests that he won't last long, not in tears but in panic, perhaps, and Sirius adds, quietly, darkly:]
Not now. Save it for later.
"uh...could he play it to begin with???"
Date: 2013-10-10 06:35 pm (UTC)He'll find out later that the Ministry got here so quickly not through some happy accident, but though a conspiracy of events. Ollivander's place was being watched, as it turned out, due to worries in the Ministry for the man's safety; they'd thought there might be retaliation against the wand-maker for selling to Muggle-borns. When the reckless Death Eaters, desperate to please their lord, had come to haul him away, it had triggered Ministry alarms, and Aurors had been dispatched a moment later. The three Aurors leading the way into the dusty, crumbling hall don't seem to fully comprehend what's going on, though; they'd anticipated what the Death Eaters under Veritaserum had promised them, Voldemort holding court, not a ruined building with two underage wizards and two Muggles and a great load of rubble in the middle. And it's clear from their faces, too, that they're not expecting this speech:]
My name is Miles Edgeworth; I'm a student at Hogwarts. I believe, pending confirmation following a search, that I have killed the wizard going by the name of Lord Voldemort. In doing so, I have broken several wizarding laws including the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery and, while I was acting in self-defense when I struck out at him, have arguably engaged in an act of vigilantism. I will willingly surrender my wand while the Ministry conducts its investigation.
Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of this.
[And he bows, shortly, and then straightens a moment after, saying - ]
The two men back there are Muggles who have suffered a terrible trauma. Please ensure that they are seen to.
"of course not!" BA DUM TISH
Date: 2013-10-10 09:51 pm (UTC)They call the Minister, they call Dumbledore, they escort the muggles out and take Sirius and Edgeworth out as well--separately, warily, cautiously, as if they're explosive themselves. The Ministry officials begin setting up charms, spells--no one seems keen to move the rubble off of what might or might not be the corpse of Lord Voldemort. No one seems keen to do anything at all except stare at one another, white-faced and confused.
No one says congratulations. No one accuses anyone of anything. Confusion runs high, but everyone moves around as if they know what they're doing, as if briskness and basic containment charms will help them with anything.
Sirius lets them lead him away. Everything still feels curiously strange and distant, and there is a tingling in his fingers that makes him wonder if he's not been injured in some way, until he thinks no, impossible, he'd saved himself from the blast. He'd saved all of them. Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of this--Merlin, what a lie.
They take them both to the Ministry. They sit them down in a waiting room with dark green walls and a green marble floor. It's Aurors, Aurors are the ones that bring them in and leave them alone, together.
Sirius stares at his boot. It's white with marble dust.]
Thought about being an Auror once.
[He offers that dully. The room is dead fucking quiet.]
Oldest and greatest joke in the book
Date: 2013-10-10 10:02 pm (UTC)And they're away from that place. The Muggles are away from that place. Even if Edgeworth's future might well be grim, even if he might be sent soon to Azkaban, Sirius won't be dying tonight and the Muggles won't be hurt.
And there's this moment of quiet, and that strange revelation. Miles had been staring at his dust-gray robes, the jumper underneath, uncertainly; he looks up when Sirius speaks, his brows furrowed.]
You did? But -
[He cuts that off; but your family has always dabbled in Dark magic is a phenomenally insensitive thing to say, especially at this juncture, and for once he has the sense to be sensitive.]
You...never showed any sign of it.
[A beat, and then with a weary sort of nostalgia:]
I recall a declaration, as a matter of fact, that you were going to be the greatest Beater ever to be commemorated in the Quidditch Hall of Fame.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-11 12:01 pm (UTC)Yeah. Well, I didn't expect people to be eavesdropping and memorising my quidditch aspirations, did I. If I'd known they'd be marked down forever in your didactic memory, I might have phrased it better.
[It's very close to being a joke, except for the weary flat way that he says it. Sirius rubs his wrist against his forehead. It comes away grey with dust. When are they going to be permitted to wash up? When are they going to get to go home?
His parents will have found out by now. Whether Bellatrix is dead or captured, her parents will have been informed, and so his parents will know as well--and no one will believe that shit, Sirius Black had nothing to do with any of it--he was there, wasn't he? He has dreaded going home for other reasons, but this dread is fresh and new and--painful, too, it's fucking painful.
He presses a hand over his eyes.]
It was before Hogwarts. When I was a kid. But that sort of thing gets stamped out of you.
[Suitable career is a restrictive term, basically amounting to: nothing. Stay home and count your gold and have interests in the Ministry.]
Doesn't exactly matter now.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-11 02:49 pm (UTC)[A beat.]
Also, I was the one who reported you for drinking firewhiskey after the Slytherin victory our third year.
[He manages a weary, wry sort of glance before sitting back and closing his eyes, thinking over Sirius Black the Auror. It fits very well. Being an Auror requires talent, courage, a sense of right and wrong, all of which Sirius - against all odds - has. It fits as well as Sirius Black the Gryffindor, and it makes Miles feel much the same way: a little sad over the way things should have been. Sad over the possibility of a better world, another world, where Sirius was able to cast off the expectations of his family and lived a fierce and independent life, free of all the chains of his name. Completely free of everything.
He wishes Sirius were anyone else. He wishes that bright, mischievous boy could have been...his brother, maybe. His brother, had Dad not died - ]
Well. I suppose you've gotten your chance now, haven't you? And you did very well. You took down the Darkest wizard of our era.
[He says that quietly, because the responsibility is as much Sirius' as his own. He intends to take full blame, if blame should fall, but Sirius Black was the only one of the two of them who landed a solid blow against Voldemort - cracking the floor beneath his feet - and he was the one with the magical aptitude to save lives.
Save lives.
His throat tightens as he sits there with his eyes closed. He's quiet a moment, and then says, his voice barely a whisper - and he'd intended for it to be idle, self-assured, full-voiced, but it just comes out a sad whisper - ]
I hope they weren't killed. Your cousin and the others.
no subject
Date: 2013-10-11 04:07 pm (UTC)The first few years of Hogwarts all sort of feel that way these days, but tonight it's more obvious a disconnect than ever before.]
You're a tit, Edgeworth.
[He says it so he doesn't have to answer that praise. You did very well. By whose standards? And if he did well, why does everything feel so odd?
But the misery in Edgeworth's voice on the next bit distracts him, and looks around, sharply. He's not actually sorry, is he? He can't actually mean that, and Sirius' upper lip curls just a little, as disdain creeps over him--not for Edgewoth, but for them, for Bellatrix, and Malfoy--for all of them--]
I hope they were.
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From:i should be doing plot stuff but i'm addicted to this thread
From:I know I love it so much, it's like ninety times awesomer than anything I have ever done
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From:It always comes back to GOB and Tony Wonder
From:it's who we are in our hearts
From:So true.
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From:i'll drink to that :,)
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From:oops pt 1
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