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wunderkind

STUFF GOES IN HERE

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From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth goes for his wand the moment he hears can't even manage the magic, because Edgeworth might not be like Black with his showy duels, his grinning for the audience, but no one excels him in Defense Against the Dark Arts; there he's applied himself with monomaniacal fervor, learning spells even Aurors don't know. He can show this future damned Grindelwald precisely how well a mudblood can fight...

But then -

I'd think your family had learnt that lesson by now.

Those words even now have, as they ever had, the power to leave him stunned and numb. His wand droops; he stares, miserable, transfixed, as Black's own wand comes up. He raises his hand too late; the counterspell hits only well enough to redirect the spell, so that it hits him in the chest instead of the eyes. He staggers back, eyes narrowing in pain, and then raises his head and tries to come up with something truly nasty, deeply vicious - he wants to hurt Black, whose family are all Dark, he knows it, and Black should be made to suffer - ]

Expelliarmus -

[That's the best he can do. That's the cruelest he can muster. Even after that, that's the best he can do.]

From:

doggedly

[When he was small, Sirius' great-aunt had explained to him, in no uncertain terms, how it was that mudbloods got their hands on magic wands. It was too much to think that they would be allowed in Diagon Alley, to purchase wands alongside respectable witches and wizards. They stole them, she whispered, her clawed hand pinching at his shoulder, if you weren't careful they would steal your wand off of you in a second, leave you to die like a dog in the street, desperate brutes that they are, and it had been years and years before Sirius even questioned this story. Mudbloods were disgusting, but they were also something to fear, except they weren't, because purebloods would always have advantages over them: superior magic, superior families, superiority in every way.

Despite his anger and pain, his great-aunt's account of magic is what Sirius thinks of, as his wand slips out of his grasp. It's idiotic; Edgeworth has got a wand, he's no need for Sirius', but that old prejudice comes back right away, how dare he, how dare he disarm, bloody coward's way out, and Sirius goes for Edgeworth again, with a snarl, and this time he will not be driven off, everything is suffused with this white-hot anger, clear and clean and burning in him, he will not be bested by some fucking mudblood, he won't have that on him, he won't add that shame to his family's good name. The throat, he ignores his wand and goes for Edgeworth's throat, fueled by hatred and determination, he will get his wand later, he needs to end this, first, right now, right fucking now--]

From:

jurisimpudent

[For some reason, Edgeworth registers how curiously warm Black's hands are. For some reason he expected them to be icy, like the grip of death, like the true nature of evil, and so that heat is a surprise. There are little points that pinch, where the flesh of his neck is caught between fingers and sigil rings or something like that. And Black has a startlingly good grip - a strong one.

These are all the things he notices as he arches back, struggling for breath around Sirius' fingers.

But it's a lost cause. Of course it is. No matter how strong Sirius Black's hands are, Edgeworth has his wand in his hand, and with a single abortive movement that wand is pressed against Black's gut.

How easy would it be. How many times has a Black participated in an attack on a Muggle? How many times has a Black killed someone? Hiding behind their masks and their rhetoric, playing superior and haughty in the light; they're animals, every one of them. And it wouldn't take an Unforgivable curse to wipe out this blight on the earth. A single reducto, and Black would be left clutching at the gaping wound in his stomach, and Edgeworth could just leave him to bleed out on this earth. How rich that would be, the Pureblood defeated, destroyed by the mudblood...

He...]

Incarcerous.

[He croaks out that spell. It's ropes, not destructive energy, that emerge from the tip of his wand, ensnaring Black's limbs. He jerks back at the same time, pulling away from those choking hands, coughing miserably.]

From:

doggedly

[His focus is such that he hardly notices the wand jabbing at him, he doesn't notice the way that Edgeworth's lips form the spell--because he isn't looking at him, he's looking through him, seething, his fingers tight and his jaw set and his breath caught in his throat, fucking end this, because he needs this--

The sudden snaking of the ropes only catches his adrenaline, does not cut it off. Dragged to the ground, he snarls, nearly like a dog in that moment--surging against the bounds for a moment, but they're good, even choked out of a spell like that--not that Sirius can think beyond the rawness blackening his mind, and he glares up at Edgeworth with a hate so dark it's practically palpable.]

Fuck you.

[Blood on his face, in his mouth, ropes binding him, but he's still got that spitting superiority, like a cobra, fighting against this to the last. Fucking mudblood, fucking cheating mudblood--]

From:

jurisimpudent

[There are all sorts of things which should be, by rights, rising to Edgeworth's lips right now. Taunts, coldly logical illustrations of a pureblood's lack of superiority, haughtily contemptuous insults that would make that look of hatred into one of shame...

They don't. Because Edgeworth doesn't feel triumphant right now. He just feels ashamed and small, and tired, with handprints on his throat and his chest still aching and stinging and the lingering sorrow raised by all of Black's cruelty surging through him. He wishes he could do anything - kick him, kick him in the goddamned chest, shatter a few of those perfectly-formed ribs - but it's against his code of honor to hurt someone, even someone like this, when they're defenseless...Of course, it was also against his code to start fights rather than defending himself -

Damn it.]

Right.

[He leans over, then, going for Black's pockets, trying to reestablish a prefect's authority.]

I'll be confiscating those cigarettes and reporting this directly to your Head of House and to the Headmaster. You can be quite certain that the punishment will be severe.

[His manner is crisp and professional, at least, when he reaches in and tugs the pockets outwards, spilling out their whole contents.]

From:

doggedly

[Say something, there's a quiet voice at the back of his mind that's urging him, some logical bit that's been shoved in the back seat while everything else--hatred and instinct and that ringing black rage that Sirius always carries in him--takes over. Say something, some insult, something so cutting Edgeworth will have to free him so he can earn his way back from this fucking humiliation--the thought of which only edges up Sirius' anger,--

But then he goes for his pockets, and it's like nothing he's saying matters. Sirius' eyes fly to the parchment, crumpled. There are worse things than confiscation of cigarettes, worse than stupid petty school punishments and disapproval from Slughhorn--fuck Slughorn, the old man doesn't know what he's about--and fuck Dumbledore, too, weak stupid old man. Sirius jerks his eyes away from the parchment, but they keep straying back. It's innocuous, a bit of rubbish among the jumbled contents of his pockets--the cigarettes, a heavy lighter bearing the Black family crest, a silver penknife--and the parchment, crumpled up as well, he will pass over it, he will; Sirius doesn't answer Edgeworth but glares at a fixed point, not at the parchment, he will pass over it--]

From:

jurisimpudent

[But of course he doesn't pass over it. This is Edgeworth; even more than stubbornness, even more than that constant burning anger, Edgeworth is motivated by his curiosity. So he goes through the contents of those pockets: the penknife is set aside with care enough, out of Black's reach - no doubt a Pureblood is too lofty to think this way, but a knife like that could be used as a weapon; the lighter is dropped and "accidentally" trod on a moment later; the cigarettes are, of course, pocketed as evidence.

The parchment is picked up with careless fingers. It's unfolded without comment, uncrumpled and unfurled, spread out for Edgeworth to read. And he mutters, half to himself, half to Black - ]

What is this?

From:

doggedly

[He can't possibly play this off now; Edgeworth has the parchment, spread out in front of him, and Sirius surges against the bonds suddenly with a wordless harsh noise between his teeth, little more than an exhale--]

Put it down. Fucking put it down, it's none of your business--

[He can see the slanted handwriting, the thin spider hooks of the g's. An invitation will not be extended twice, Narcissa's script with Bellatrix's signature at the bottom. Neither of them have ever written him a letter before. Narcissa, out of Hogwarts only a year, already married, pale and cool and prim, and Bellatrix, who already smells of something old and cold, her smile always a little too wide, he's never liked her--but they are envoys, family ties will see Sirius in their same fate. A meeting, next Tuesday, in London. His father would expect him to attend, even if he would never dare do it himself. All the best people will be there. Like a reunion of all his parents' parties.]

Put it down. Now.

From:

jurisimpudent

[To Edgeworth, this thing is hardly a thing. An invitation to some horrible party where they'll sip sparkling wine and laugh through their teeth about the latest rash of Muggle murders, did you hear, so divine. Of what consequence is it to Edgeworth whether Black's there in his dress robes that cost more than Edgeworth spent the whole of his first year at Hogwarts? Of what concern...

But it matters to Black. It matters deeply, and that piques Edgeworth's curiosity - and, more rewardingly, his cruelty. Edgeworth couldn't take revenge on the bastard by causing any physical harm. Letting him squirm and suffer psychologically down there, though - ]

What is it, Black? A betrothal party? A business arrangement so that you can be put to countering the rising tide of mudbloods...

[But no; something about it bothers him. He goes back to that text, reading again, this time paying more heed. Perhaps it's that invitation will not be extended twice, perhaps it's...With greater concentration, Edgeworth asks - ]

Whom is this in celebration of?

[Because he's heard the names. The name. Of course he has. Edgeworth, who will become an Auror or die trying in the process, knows what's on the rise now. So he crouches down and asks, urgently - ]

What event is this.

From:

doggedly

[She even writes in green ink, it's this ridiculous flourish that Sirius sneered at when he first opened the letter. And then it went on, and even if Edgeworth can't see exactly what's between the neat strokes of the quill, Sirius can. He has been raised to read things just like this, to understand the precise meaning of what is being asked of him. Like it's just another social engagement to endure. All of the best people will be there, a heavy sentence, and your absence will not go unnoted.

And here's Edgeworth, with his stupid plain muggle face, his brows furrowed--Merlin, he looks so stupid, and Sirius actually barks a laugh, his eyes dark and hooded.]

It's none of your business, like I said. It's nothing you'd be invited to.

[He's not struggling right now; he's fallen suddenly still, his gaze leveled on Edgeworth's face.]

Put it down, and let me go. I'm not telling you again. [And here, now, he's finally coming back into himself, so much so that he actually affects a little sneer.] Prefects don't tie people up, you sadist. You wait till this gets out.

[Distract him, and he'll put down that fucking parchment and they can move on from it.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[And that does distract Edgeworth a moment - he looks up and snaps - ]

You were trying to murder me. I think I was well within my rights.

[Though that does set him on edge with nerves, because Edgeworth started it. This was all his fault. It will be a miracle if he doesn't lose his position, truly; maybe that's why he focuses back in on the parchment, to distract himself from his dread.]

Good to hear you're hypocritical, though. You criticize others for telling tales and then do the same yourself.

[He frowns, eyes flicking over the parchment. Maybe it is just an event, just some idiotic party, but Black had thrashed when he'd touched it - and he feels half-stupid, guessing like this, going off nothing more than a hunch. But the hunch is strong.]

Who are the best people? Tell me, or my last act before getting expelled by your miserable, corrupt father will be ensuring that he, and your mother, and all of your slack-jawed cousins, know every detail of how you were bested by a Muggle-born.

From:

doggedly

[When Sirius' father finds out--because he will, Orion Black isn't the sort of man that secrets are kept from, and his grim-eyed affection only goes so far, he will not be pleased--when he finds out, there is going to be hell to pay. One thing at a time, though, one thing at a fucking time--]

Anyone but you, mudblood. That's the best people. Anyone but you and your kind.

[There's a haughtiness even in his sneer, in the callous way his eyes sweep over Edgeworth's face.]

God, look at you, trying to reason this out. D'you really think it would end with you being expelled? My father won't let it stop there. Not for you. Or have you forgotten how that sort of loyalty works, Edgeworth--I mean, with your dad not around, and all--the memory sort of fades, I suppose--

He'll have you taken care of, Edgeworth. Trust me.

From:

jurisimpudent

[His wand is suddenly in his hand again. He's not sure how it got there, not wholly, because there was a moment when the blood was rushing to his head and he couldn't quite see - but he knows he must have grabbed it himself and yanked it out of his pocket and pointed it right at Black's face.

He's breathing hard. His voice shakes when he says - ]

Don't talk about my father.

[The parchment's still in his hand, crumpled again in a fist suddenly clenched.]

From:

doggedly

[Even tied up, more or less at Edgeworth's mercy, he still laughs, derisively, and when he grins it shows his teeth. Perfect teeth, perfect everything. Nothing has ever been hard for him.]

Why not? Does it make you sad? You should think about him more, Edgeworth. Let him be a lesson for you.

[The parchment, his eyes go to it, quickly, before they jump back to Edgeworth, narrowed.]

Don't get into shit you can't get yourself out of.

From:

jurisimpudent

[His foot comes back, suddenly, and as though of its own volition slams hard into Black's ribs. It's not even particularly effective; he's got a bad angle, and Black's arms are twisted in a way that shields him, but it's got enough fury and force behind it that it'll leave a mark.

Stupid. More evidence. Another thing the boy can point to. Another thing he can show to get Edgeworth expelled.

He should just take this to Dumbledore. Of course he should. He has his suspicions about this meeting, and Edgeworth, prefect, who doesn't break rules, perfect flawless Muggle-born making his shining life into a rebuff to all the racism of all the Purebloods, would of course just bring this right to the authorities. Do the right thing. The responsible thing. And it would keep him out of trouble if it is just some idiotic Pureblood party where they scoff at you for using the wrong fork, if his instincts are wrong. The right decision is to tell McGonagall and Dumbledore.

But fuck Sirius Black. Fuck his taunts. Fuck him thinking he can talk about Edgeworth's dad. Fuck him thinking he can use that to protect himself.

This will end up with Edgeworth in Azkaban. He knows it. Because this, what he's planning, is far far beyond an expellable offense; this is positively criminal. But his hands are numb with rage, and so he reaches down and he viciously yanks a half-dozen strands of hair from Black's flawless scalp. And, viciously, he shows them to him.]

Go on, Black. Keep talking. I could use a bit more practice with your speech patterns - I wouldn't wish to arouse suspicions at this party.

From:

doggedly

[The pain hits him, hard. It's so unlike pain he usually incurs: stupid clumsy things, the few times when his natural grace fails him--blows on the quidditch pitch--even blows from his physical fights, those are different. This is just a kick, and he's half curled around himself already but it still fucking hurts; his breath hisses between his teeth, he bites down on his lip, hard, and tastes blood--

Fucking hell. Fucking hell, and his anger twists in him again. If he could tear his way out of these ropes he'd get Edgeworth by the throat all over again and show him what happens, after shit like this--

His second grunt of pain is fair louder, his eyes watering. It follows the kick so quickly that he barely registers it as a second, separate pain, as if the kick somehow led to this tug at his scalp--no, but then he realises, and he puts it together with what Edgeworth is saying--]

No.

[The word tears out of him. He should guard himself, he's the fucking heir to the Black family, not some idiot common kid, never taught to compose his features--but the suggestion tears at something in him, something he's taught himself just as well to ignore.]

You can't. [And, lest that sound like real concern--] You bloody idiot. You can't.

From:

jurisimpudent

Of course I can. I may be a dull, stupid Mudblood, but even I can brew a polyjuice potion.

[If he stops to think about this, his nerve will fail him. He knows that. So he might be strange and not entirely welcome amongst the Gryffindors, with his focus on rules and adhering to them, with his love of proper procedure, with his refusal to speak loudly in the library - but he's still a Gryffindor, and every once in a while he'll just charge ahead without any regard for what's smart, for what's reasonable.

So he doesn't stop to dwell on what will happen. How if he gets caught, he'll be disgraced - sent, no question, to Azkaban, because one does not simply kidnap the heir to the Black line and come away a free man. (It's possible, too, that they'll murder him then and there - but that is, in his mind, far and away preferable to ending up imprisoned, to the point where he'd nearly shrug off the possibility.) Only if he comes back with proof, real proof, that the Purebloods are cavorting with Voldemort and recruiting from Hogwarts will he have the least prayer of earning forgiveness -

And he will find that proof. He knows that's what this is. He knows it.

(Even if, on some level, this is all just about doing the opposite of what Sirius Black urges him to do, because he wants to prove that Dad's death just motivated him. He's not scared or sad. He's angry.)]

Besides - I'll have you with me to guide me. You can tell me which fork to use, and which spells are most appropriate for torturing Muggles. That's the main entertainment at events such as these, isn't it?

[And that's the crux of the plan. Sirius Black in his pocket - quite literally - telling him how to react, whom he knows, whom he doesn't. It will be a tricky bit of magic - and there's satisfaction in that; Black himself probably couldn't cast these spells.]

From:

doggedly

[For all his cleverness, the reality of what Edgeworth is proposing is slow to come to Sirius. Polyjuice potion, that's obvious; his scalp still tingles, vaguely. It can't happen. He can see the cold corridor, bone-white tile, and the polite murmur of conversation--and Edgeworth, striding down the center, right through it all, the proverbial hippogriff in the china shop. He'll be caught in a second. Is that a comfort? It would serve him right, serve him fucking right if he were caught and tortured out of his idiot mind--

There would be shame in it, for the Blacks. Sirius, heir to the family, caught by a mudblood? It's unthinkable. It can't happen. And as he susses all this out, Edgeworth says the bit about I'll have you with me, and he stares--and then barks a laugh, incredulous.]

What? [And, sharper:] What? What the hell are you on about-- I'm not telling you a bloody thing!

You don't know what you're getting into, you think you've got this worked out, don't you? That clever brain of yours. You haven't. You think you've got it but you haven't got a thing. And if you think for one second that you're prepared for what you're proposing to do, then you deserve wasn't going to happen to you.

I'm not your prisoner. I'm not your inside man. There's no inside, to be on, and I'll say this once more, see if it gets through your thick skull, mudblood: you let me go, right now. Or when I get free, I will kill you, and you'll deserve that, too.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And Edgeworth gives a short, harsh, humorless laugh. Maybe it's flattering, in a way, that Black's mind doesn't go to the Imperius curse. That's the tool of Black's people, after all - because Edgeworth has heard tales, already, of so-called blood traitors being forced by laughing Death Eaters to murder the Muggles they love so well. So there's a small measure of pride in the fact that Black doesn't even seem to think Edgeworth capable.

Separates him from them. He needs that.]

You're not telling me anything willingly, perhaps. But I saw you skipping out of that lesson on Occlumency; you ought to have stayed, I think.

[It's his last moment to back out. He's not afraid of Black's threats of death: after all, the boy tried to strangle him already, and it's far enough from the attempt that Edgeworth can arrogantly brush it aside as negligible. No: he's afraid of trouble, afraid of Dumbledore's disapproval...But every threat, every contemptuous aristocratic warning, just spurs Edgeworth on to further stubborn defiance.

The spell is easy enough: the first of two that will make this possible. It's a bit of transfiguration, far from simple - quite advanced, really - because changing teacups to water-glasses is quite a different matter from changing a man's form. But Edgeworth has learned from heavy, dusty books some tricks to make the spell go a bit more smoothly, take a bit more strongly. When someone is changing a person to an animal, one does not try to dictate the animal-form the other person takes: to do so will mean that one will have to struggle constantly to maintain the spell. Instead, just let them take what form is natural. That will let the spell hold firmly and well.

Edgeworth assumes that Black will take the form of a snake, or a beetle, or a rat - something low, diseased, and scuttling. So when he presses his wand to Black's chest and mutters the spell to change him to animal, he expects him to become small enough to fit into his pocket.]

From:

doggedly

You can't do occlumency--

[Still sneering, but there's a desperation to it as well. He's fairly well convinced of the truth of that statement, but if he is wrong, somehow-- Christ, he doesn't want Edgeworth messing about in his head. And he wouldn't do it, would he. He's a bloody Gryffindor, in the end--noble bunch of bastards, too proud to use tactics others might use without thought.

And then Edgeworth gets out his wand, and that assumption quickly dies--panic sets in, piercing, sharp, and he tries to writhe away as Edgeworth shoves his wand against his chest--

Not a rat. Not a beetle, or a snake--and not small. He doesn't even have time to react, or make a noise--it's a deep, twisting feeling, being shoved through a laundry wringer and run back through again, a few times--

It's a dog. A dog, massive, black, all fur and mad rolling eyes and desperate growling, his lip curled up, showing his teeth. It's a dog's panic that he feels too, adding to his own, a hard confused feeling, like everything is at war in him, emotions fighting for dominance. Be free, that's what he thinks most of all, get free get free get free--

From:

jurisimpudent

[That's --

Not what he anticipated. Not remotely.

He'd been prepared to cast a charm that would protect his hands from the viper's venomous strike, or conjure a little cup to catch that dung-beetle. That was the only possibility he'd framed in his mind. The irritatingly long hairs for the polyjuice potion are shoved into his pocket. He has a free hand now, and his wand is out, but he doesn't have a spell in mind, anything to counter a dog's bite, to contain an animal that huge -

And so he acts purely on instinct. It's a frightened animal now - not Sirius Black, Pureblood, who probably knows who killed his dad, who laughs at the way his dad died. It's not the Slytherin, it's not the rich bastard who swaggers around the halls bragging about his Quiddich victories. It's just a creature, like any in the class he loves so well out in the warm sunshine, and so -

He leans forward. One hand comes out to scratch the back of the dog's neck with rough affection. And Edgeworth's wand comes up, and he casts a rough and hasty version of the spell he'd intended to cast later.

It's a spell he developed studying legilimency and pensieves and spells used to soothe wild beasts, something that he'd intended to be a tool in determining who was working for them and who was an ally in truth. It's supposed to be something that skims off the top levels of thoughts and emotions in a constant feed, coming to the mind of the caster. No more than that. There's not supposed to be any two-way linkage, no mutual information given. A good tool for a spy, therefore, like he was going to use it at that party, so that he could know exactly who everyone was and what Black's relationship was to them.

But he needs calm now, far beyond his need for secrecy. So he casts the spell hastily, presses his wand to his temple and then the dog's, and without knowing if it was successful, whether there's even a link, he just sends along that potential connection a feeling of calm, and safety, and contentment.]

From:

doggedly

[The transformation from wizard-to-dog isn't as smooth as an animagus transformation surely is--where you know it's coming, you can prepare yourself, you can brace for the impact of DOG--a load of hair and smells and emotions coloured in broader strokes than any you know. It's terrifying, being twisted in all of that; Sirius hates to admit fear, but here it's all he knows, like he could get lost in that undertow, and there is nothing to hold on to. There isn't so much Sirius as there is dog, angry and snarling, and then--

The weight of the hand is one that he wants to fight off, but the dog likes it, but hates it, and his hatred feeds that, and God, this must be what it's like to go mad, to feel out of your head. The dog's growls turn to snarls, confused, wanting calm but unable to grasp it--and then there's something else, too, like a weight on the top of his head--no, worse, like a weight in his head, like a hand been dropped there as well, and then--

It's a flash--on the left eye, it's Regulus, his thin stupid face, smirking at Sirius, rolling up his shirtsleeve, a dark room--the parlor, at Grimmauld Place, and there's the distant murmur of conversation, from some other room, it is night and all the candles in the silver chandeliers are lit and Sirius' dress robes hang heavy on his arm--and it twists, and it goes, like it's been pulled out of a drawer, and something else rushes in to fill it in, stripping away some of that desperate fear, some of his Regulus (hate-love-disdain) emotion, flaking it off, and it leaves behind something else, something pressed against his other eye, clumsier emotion, anger hidden beneath necessity, instinct, concentration, precision--and Dad, beneath that, a wound, and the dog whimpers, loud--]

From:

jurisimpudent

[This wasn't how it was supposed to go. This spell, like all of Miles' spells, was to have been clean, quick, and precise, like the finely woven white ropes still wrapped around the great hound, like the precise parabola of Black's wand. It was to have been a simple clean transference of calm, a skimming of Black's thoughts, and then a breaking away as Miles plotted his next step.

But perhaps from the haste, perhaps from the untested nature of this spell, it's not that.

It's not that at all.

Instead it's Sirius standing with fucking Regulus, the little - No, not Miles' thoughts - It's Dad - Mom - It's Father and Mother, cool and restrained and aristocratic, standing at the window and sneering at the sight of a Muggle family walking along their street, their street - Dad and Mom - a dog catching the scent of a rabbit -

It's Dad and Mom, as he remembers them alive, standing in a strange and cold and dark house, but still Dad and Mom. Mom's hair's done up, and her face is round; she's healthy, happy, vivacious; it's before her illness. Dad's happy, too, smiling in approval, and he says We're so proud of you, you know - so proud - And that's not a memory; that's just what he sits sometimes and imagines. It's just what he imagines.

Father - Sirius's father - that's not Dad - cold and dead on the floor, where Miles had found him - that first Christmas home from Hogwarts, when he'd waited all night at the train station for Dad to come and pick him up. Two in the morning. Freezing in the house. He'd known it was magic. And the only people he'd known to call were the police, but they'd told them, time and again, that they had to keep the secret of magic. He'd sat frozen with the body until...Until someone came; he still can't remember who, how long it was...But the face is wrong; that's Sirius's father, not his. Not his.

Miles is aware of having reached in and gripped the dog, hugging the beast tightly to comfort it, to comfort himself. He's panting, and his face is wet with tears, but the warm doggish weight, the smell, comforts him, and the rapid, confused images fade into something slower, more manageable...

Melancholy. Terror. Terror of an ancient sort - not fear, not true fear, but the terror of a life lived risking being a disappointment. The terror of a child raised under conditional love. It's terror centered on Regulus, Father and Mother, and it's strangely familiar to Miles. Because that's the fear of living under expectations, having to fight to mold yourself into something satisfactory. Something you're not. It's that which he focuses on, because it's that which isn't fragmented between them; it's that which is shared, where he won't feel as though he's being torn apart by Sirius' mind.]

From:

doggedly

[He can't work against any of this. Powerless, fucking powerless, stuck here as he is, and Edgeworth's arms are around him--around the dog, but he is the dog, it's all so fucking knotted up--his arms, and the damp from his tears, he's crying, but Sirius can't think of that with revulsion or triumph or anything--

Because there's that fear, that loneliness, and he feels it echoed back from Edgeworth as well, a deeper pull.

If he were anything but what he is, completely--they would write him off. And God, he can't stand that, and he can't stand what it reduces him to, all at once--the dog's whimper becomes a growl, goes to a whimper again, his father--Edgeworth's father, but his, his face, so like Sirius' own that he hates that about himself, too--pale, ashen, dead, there should be some triumph in that, maybe, but there's nothing but sadness, and he knows that it's Edgeworth's, bleeding in to him--but it isn't, entirely, it's also his own, pathetic, miserable that he is, he would come home and find his father dead and still feel raw over it, even though his father is barely more than a weight on his arm, a cold hand at the back of his neck, his rings pinching at the skin.

The dog twists, trying to be free, trying to get closer. Emotions are little more than rudimentary, it's in Sirius that everything is so fucking tangled, and it's just going on, that feeling, the heavy weight of expectation--and tradition, too, weighing almost heavier than anything else--like looking down a pit and being unable to see the bottom. The duplicity of emotion makes it worse, or does it make it better--is it better to be alone while alone, or alone with someone whose loneliness so doubles your own--and all the fucking dog can do is whimper, his ears back, his tail curled between his legs--]

From:

jurisimpudent

[Miles is aware of himself enough now to be aware of everything that he's sharing. The depth of emotion, raw and jagged, is more than enough weaponry for Sirius to strip his flesh from his bones once all this is over. But once all this is over - it's so stupid a phrase to even think, because there probably won't even be a Miles Edgeworth to mock once it's finished. This is a desperate, stupid suicide mission, some idiotic bravery that will get him killed just on the off-chance that he can stop it. On the off-chance that he can maybe find the wizard who killed Dad, or stop the wizard who'll kill the next kid's dad.

(Revenge, nobility, though - those are only part of it, aren't they? Because so much of it is just the desperate hope that maybe if he could just put a stop to it, he wouldn't be so alone here. Because Miles isn't easy to love, and even those who could see past that are too scared, because you don't make friends with Muggle-borns nowadays. Not if you're smart. And in these times, even Gryffindors have gotten smart.)

And still -

And still that's another strange and unexpected...Sirius himself has no great love for all of them. The Slytherins. How strange, and stupid...He'd always seemed their king. But he doesn't love them, and he's so weighed down with everything in his family that there's not even them for him, and...

And Miles, stupid Miles, can only react by scratching at the dog's ears and murmuring reassurances. He hates Sirius Black. Hates him. Hates him so much. The things he said were - They were - But it's such a strange and sad thing, to be that child (that child with so much energy, who ran and laughed and played and put tadpoles in teacups until that was ground out of him, slowly and surely, who felt warmth only when he echoed back the lines told him, whose guilt and terror and regret have left echoes in his mind). Hatred can't withstand - has never withstood - the force of compassion in Miles' mind.

And so, tentatively, afraid of mockery or rejection, Miles opens up a memory of him, and his dad, just sitting quietly at the table on a Saturday morning, drinking tea. Dad occasionally reading a bit from a case file, asking Miles' opinion (Miles, nine years old, so proud of being asked). Nothing but warmth. Even the grief of Dad's death not tainting that remembrance. He doesn't know why he does it, whether it's to calm the dog down or whether it's to share with this strange cold sad boy that kind moment. But he does it, lays that treasured moment bare.]