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.]
[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--]
[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.]
[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--]
[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.]
[Really, it ought to feel creepy. Really, he ought to feel as if he's peeled away the window shade and peered in to get a glimpse of something he's not meant to know about. Who the fuck complains about a life of everything, with the world at your fingertips, tucked into your pockets?
But the curtains are always drawn, and everyone is always in the next room. Dinner at half past five, two place settings. The table sets itself when you stand up again, two place settings, more forks and spoons, gleaming in the candlelight.
The dog's eyes slip half-shut, and his paws stop their scrabbling--and Sirius, for the moment, just-- lives, in this memory that isn't his. He's too tired to reject it, and the warmth of it--sunlight, Saturday sunlight, and the mugs of tea--it's too good.
One last whimper, and then the dog licks at his nose, calming, finally--ears still against its head, but no longer writhing in fear and panic. Finally still, borrowing this moment that isn't his and couldn't be.]
[And Miles' hand soothes and encourages, smoothing over the dog's shoulder like he's not a Pureblood in disguise, like he's just a simple sweet animal in need of comfort. Like Miles is still the boy of six years ago who'd cry at the sight of hurt creatures, trying hard to find some way to make things better.
(Evidently he is still that boy. He himself didn't even know it, and he doesn't know whether to feel disgust or relief.)
There should be hatred right now. If Miles were going to show Sirius anything, it should be forcing into his mind the horror and the fear of being a Muggle-born in the world that the Purebloods are making. He should be trying to shred Sirius into tiny pieces with everything the always-pure Blacks have done to people like Miles. He should be taking this as an opportunity to further his agenda.
But instead he finds himself drawn into Sirius' own private grief. And he finds himself thinking that he ought to agree with that fleeting thought of Sirius' - what right indeed has he to be sad, when he has wealth, when he has people who admire him, when he hurts others without fearing the consequences, when he has a family? A mother and father and brother? And Miles is alone in the world; Miles has no one and nothing...
But Miles also has those crystallized memories of complete, uncomplicated love. Sirius doesn't. And even a memory of Mom and Dad, he thinks, is so much greater than the living chill of Mother and Father and Regulus - Regulus, who should be a friend but who's just competition.
He ought to hate him. A good Auror is supposed to hate Dark wizards, isn't he? He's supposed to hunt them down wherever they are? And Sirius might not be a Dark wizard, but he could be, so easily. There should be loathing, contempt, and maybe there was five minutes ago - five hours ago - Miles doesn't even know how long they've been like this. But now all Miles wants is for things to be...better for Sirius.
How stupid. He deserves mockery and contempt with stupidity like this.]
[What flows back--with the love, uncomplicated, warm, as warm as the sunlight in that memory, and the smile on Dad's face (Dad, even that speaks volumes), and the pleasure from making him smile, not the twisted complicated pride that comes from pleasing Father--what flows back with the wash of that is--
There's not a word for it. Sympathy, maybe, but it's deeper than that. And it isn't pity, that ugly, clumsy thing. And it isn't even commiseration, it's something else, something more complicated. It's Edgeworth--no, Miles; Sirius has never thought of him having a first name, it's easier if people are surnames, if you can judge and weigh them by the heft of their names, haves and have nots, pure and dirty. It's Miles, who is alone, whose memories of his father are happy, even though there's a keen pain that lurks just in the background, a weight waiting to fall--it's Miles, whose hand is a broad warm weight on the dog's back, rubbing gently--who, after everything Sirius has said, all the torments heaped on his head--after all of it, still feels that compassion.
It's impossible. It's stupid, it's an instinct that will get him killed, and it's nothing that Sirius should admire or even take advantage of. But it's so hard not to, to be so close to the warmth and to not take a little comfort from it. It's so hard, and he's tired, right now, and even in his head he feels that give, like he's had his arms braced against something but now lets them drop. Fine, yes. He surrenders, for now, but it's not half as reluctant as that, it's touched with-- appreciation. With appreciation and gratefulness and so much more, so much that he could never say or express or even think, not really, not usually.
Later, this will be horrible. Later, he will look back at this and not know what to do but for now-- for now, the dog's tail thumps against the ground, dully, weakly.]
[What will this be, later? What will this become? It was easy to just hate Black, Black of the dynasty of Blacks. It was easy to look at him and daydream about uncovering his true family tree and showing it was full of Muggles and Squibs, or daydream about finding a sudden hidden aptitude for Quiddich and bashing his brutal face in with a Bludger, or daydream about the time when Miles would stand triumphant over him in the Wizengamot...It was simple, and straightforward. Throughout the formulation of this whole plan there was plenty of thought given to the perils to him, Miles - the humiliation, the destruction of his future...But he never thought of Sirius.
Maybe even after all of this, if they weren't linked together, Miles would still scoff at the thought that the humiliation of Sirius Black before his family would be of consequence. But now, here, he's still tapped into the boy's deep anxiety, his feverish (doggish) need to please (and perhaps the form isn't such a surprise, because Sirius Black is nothing like a beetle or a snake or a rat after all), and so the thought of being unveiled and revealing Sirius' defeat does cause him distress.
But why? Why is there that anxiety within Sirius? There aren't words right now, nothing so clear and articulated. Instead, all Miles sends to Sirius is just a sense of...questioning. He thinks of Regulus, Mother and Father, and the way they bring more suffering than joy. He thinks of those complicated feelings, thinks of that deep loyalty, and asks without words: Why?]
[He's reluctant to be at all pulled from the warm safety of Edgeworth's memories and vague comfort. (No: Miles, he corrects himself, quickly; he knows him too well, now, doesn't know what to make of that, either.) Whatever this is, whatever is going on, what's passing between them is far better on Sirius' end than on Edgeworth's. There's sadness, but there's so much more, these pure little memories, and it's so easy, so good, to just wrap himself in them and take them for himself, for now, while he can. To be forced to answer that why, he'll have to sink back into himself, and the dog whines again, licks at his nose--
But it's Sirius that balks. The dog expresses it, but it's Sirius that is thinking it, because a dog isn't so reluctant or complex as that. And it's the doggish instinct that makes him answer, that need to please. It's too complicated to try to think as he might usually, to answer with words--impressions, instead, vague memories, and he pulls them out, lays them out the way a dog would lay a newspaper on the floor, gently:
The heavy velvet drapes drawn over tall windows, shutting out the light, the muggles walking past. A thin strip of daylight, from between, striping the floor, and the dust that dances in air so thick and old it feels like you're in a museum. On the wall, all around you, the family tree--your name, repeated, not just your own, but a name that goes so far back that taking it on is like putting on a uniform, with all the expectations of rank and purpose.
Your father, his grey eyes just like yours. Grey hair only at his temples, a dusting, barely anything more, and when he turns to look at you, you tense, you get this feeling, deep in your gut, he might smile or he might show you nothing at all, but God, you hope for a smile, you hope for approval. Your mother is in the corner, her wand pressed to the tapestry on the wall. The air is thick, the air smells of burning, she is singeing your cousin's name off of the tapestry, stripping her out of your lives--because it is your lives, collectively, because for better or for worse you are a unit, a family, regal pride and tradition, and that must be upheld.
Your brother beside you, smirking. His face is pale. You can see a thin blue vein at his temple. He was ill, when he was a baby; you used to pinch his toes and make him cry, but it backfired; Mother would come and take him into her arms and you would sit at the bottom of the stair and watch her pacing back and forth with him, tender in a way you can't remember. He is hers; you are Father's, and when Father crosses to you now, you straighten up, correcting your posture, it's pathetic, it's like a dog, but you want something from him you feel you will never get. And you never, never want to be that name, burnt from the tree; you never want to be outside, looking at the drapes against the window, listening to laughter you will never join. Because being here is better than nothing, and nothing is all you would have if you stepped away. It's not about money, it's not about privilege. It's about a scrap of something you're so hungry for you can't define it.
Your father starts to walk past you. You do not let your shoulders drop in disappointment. You stand, watching your mother at work. Her earrings are sapphire. You can see the curve of her mouth as she twists her wand, and the smell of burning is stronger. She isn't smiling, she's only working. And your father drops his hand on your shoulder, just once, the heavy silver rings knocking against the bone, and you feel such a sudden prickle of pride it's nearly dizzying. It's all you have, and you hold on to it, you clutch it to you, hard.]
[Dad was a lawyer, and for so many years Miles had thought he would be one too. Then had come that man from the Ministry, and Dad's curious frown, and the slow rub of his hand against the back of his neck, and then his question to Miles what Miles would like to do - asking him, really asking him for his decision, like he was an adult and was owed an adult's consideration. Miles won't be a lawyer now, because there's a strain of furious righteous hateful need that would leave him unsatisfied defending the wrongfully accused. But he still has a lawyer's practiced instincts, after years studying the composition of arguments, and so instead of accepting Sirius' explanation he presents his counterargument.
And yet maybe it's a weak one, because it comes down to this: what's right, and what's wrong. It's headlines in the Muggle newspapers about mysterious deaths and disappearances. It's the pain of children without parents and parents without children. It's abstract, in a way, thoroughly considered but impersonal, logical - something to convince a jury, not a sad and lonely boy who needs his family.
Because of what use is guilt when it comes up against a need to belong? What purpose does compassion serve when compassion leaves you lonely? Miles himself, he lives a life cold and sad and apart because of his decisions, but also because he already lost...everything. Who would make the choice to walk that path when they have other options?
There will come a time when Miles will die. And he'll die at the hands of Purebloods; he knows that. If it happens now, on this mission he's set for himself (mission, is how he thinks of it, like he's a proper Auror and not some stupid scared kid), or if it happens in three years, that doesn't matter. So he has to do this, has to go forward, but the cost...
It's so stupid, but he sends an inquiry to Sirius again, a wordless question whether there's any way to do this that won't...destroy Sirius. That will let him hold onto those rare few moments when he sees Father's smile. Because for Miles, a legacy is not something on a tapestry, no finely embroidered name; a legacy is the change you make in the world. But for Sirius, that thread is weighty, real, and so in this moment, that thread is a blood-red chain that binds Miles to the Black line as well. And so, in that moment, his desire to get around the cruel possibility of a Sirius Black III making the air heavy with wooly smoke is real, intense, and potent.]
[Father's smile isn't as bright as the smile in Miles' memory. Orion Black would look unnatural, with a smile like that; his face isn't made for it, it would line up wrong, fitting a mask over the lower part of his face. Even when Sirius tries to blur the two memories together he can't make them fit, and he feels the tugging of that weariness again, just stop, just stop resisting this and trying to make something out of nothing. If he gives him that rare smile then he can take something of Miles' as well, he can keep some bit of that brightness and bury it, deep, where legilimency can't find it, where maybe even he will, eventually, forget about it, as the lines in his face start to look more like his father's, as he gets that same grey at his temples, as his fingers take on those same rings, when his father eventually dies, when he is the head of the household and everyone bows to him. It's not a power he wants but it's one he will have, and bear it, as if his father is still there to look over his shoulder--because he will be, sort of, because he will always be in the portraits and on the walls and even in the fucking mirror, when Sirius looks at himself.
But if he has that memory that isn't his, it will be something, better than the nothing, than the caustic little lift of Father's mouth and the disproportionate feeling it lifts in Sirius' chest. Merlin, he is pathetic, and so he relaxes that defense, he gives that smile to Miles as well. Someday maybe they will look at one another from across a battlefield. Someday maybe he will see Miles, chained to a wall, dead on the floor, in court--either it will be him in the cage or Miles, it doesn't matter. They'll see one another in the corridors at school, and this is always going to be between them, shared in them, and that is wrong, he should take it back, all of it, he should kill him for daring to do any of this--
But if he does, he will lose that warmth, he will lose something that isn't even his. So the dog whimpers again, quieter, and shuts its eyes. Yes. There. They will both belong--Sirius to something so much larger and older, Miles to nothing but himself--and go on with these borrowed scraps. Whatever that will eventually mean, he doesn't know.]
[And it's sad, but Miles sees the memory of that unpleasant and bitter smile, and for a moment he shares in that swooping uplift as well. There's a coldness in Father's smile that isn't there in Dad's, but Dad's smile is also fuzzy, indistinct. While there's never been any loss of love or pain in those years since Dad died, the distinctness of his face has sort of receded into memory. Miles can't imagine his eyes any longer, or the shape of his nose, or the exact sound of his voice: he's just a warm smile, and glasses, and a formal head of slicked-back hair, and a suit. Father is still keen in Sirius' memory, and here's the hardest thing: there's a possibility of approval in the future. There's an imprisoning, limiting sort of hope. Miles can never win approval again, can never see a new smile, and so for a moment he takes and revels in the sudden illusion that maybe if he works hard, he can earn a bit more love from someone long since cold and dead.
Hope is an evil thing, isn't it? That's what weighs Sirius down. That's what chains him. The hope that Father will give a nod of approval, murmur a warm word. Will validate him. And for a moment, Miles is tied up in it as well, and is ready to rampage and kill just to win that sense, that he belongs.
Then he pulls back from it, disentangles himself from that cold comfort, because that's not him. Because there is no place where he does belong. No family, no friends, no united cause. Because, yes, he belongs to himself - to no one else. But that means he has no chains to weigh him down, no blooded weight, and that makes him potent. He has no hope: he is not therefore restrained.
So he pulls back from Mom and Dad, from Father and Mother and Regulus, from the warm sunny kitchen with two empty mugs and a stack of case files and a singed old tapestry and wands and Sirius and Miles: he makes himself nothing more than his intentions, a creature without emotions or sentiment. And he asks, now with words - no feelings:
That's a name Sirius doesn't think with any relish. It doesn't even conjure up Voldemort's face, at first--no, it's Bellatrix that he thinks of, paler even than Regulus, dark eyes and mouth curved into a bitter little smile. Christmas, that was the last time he saw his cousin and her husband. He didn't speak to her, and she held her silverware like weapons, and grinned at strange times in the dinner conversation, her eyes on her husband, glittering with some inner light.
He had only seen the Dark Lord (that's what they call him; Sirius nearly laughed the first time he heard it) from a distance--except once, once he'd been close, close enough to see the strange flat nose, the glittering eyes that reminded him of Bellatrix's, and he'd wanted to close his eyes just to avoid that light, but instead he'd looked back, submitted to that searching gaze that had fallen on him from across the hall--a long, white hall at Malfoy manor, there were albino peacocks on the lawn and Sirius drank too much wine and vomited on a rosebush and didn't tell anyone, felt sicker than ever before, they were talking about--
He closes that thought off. Voldemort. That's what he was asked. Voldemort, and he returns again to the heavy parchment, the green ink. All the best people. Yes, he will be there. Yes. That's what this is, this is a welcome, come home, pureblood, accept what you are going to be. Father keeps himself distant, but all of the kids are in a fervor and Sirius has to join them, can't keep himself at arm's length. He doesn't want to. But he will. He has to. He tries to keep that thought to himself as well, idiotic reluctance.
And he doesn't give a damn about Miles--no, that's a lie, he has to give a damn about him now, after all he's seen of him. But he cannot let himself feel that--so why does he think, next, do not go, if he doesn't care then Miles should go, be Edgeworth, be the yappy dog and get himself killed. He will be killed. White marble sprinkled red.]
[The surprise isn't that Sirius Black gives a damn whether Miles lives or dies; the surprise is that he comes down on this side of the issue. And it's a problem, isn't it? Because Miles is supposed to be weightless. He's not supposed to be held down. But this care, this worry - it's heavy.
Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter; he can shrug it off. And there's a considerable possibility that he won't be killed - because (and he does feel a bit of affront) he's not some yappy dog, he's not just going to go and start talking about maybe we oughtn't be so harsh on the Mudbloods. No: he's going to go, and...
His stomach twists at the thought of what the smartest thing to do would be. The right thing. It would be to go to that party, join the line to meet that man, and at the last moment raise his wand and cast a killing curse. Right? He shouldn't just go and collect information; he should go and kill.
It's strange. The thought of doing that fills him with a deep terror, far beyond the prospect even of being caught and sent to Azkaban. And that's stupid, isn't it? The sign of some deep weakness. Because reasonable people, rational people, brave people, would take a look at those deaths and disappearances and decide that there's one righteous course of action. No matter their own squeamishness or cowardice, they should go and stop the man who's killed so many.
He'd separated himself from the emotionality before, but that weight of Sirius' concern pulls him back down. And so, with desperation and with fear, Miles appeals to Sirius: he asks him, without words, whether it's right. To kill that man - whether that is right. Yesterday, Miles would have laughed at the very notion that always-pure Sirius would provide any sort of moral guidance - but Miles can feel the pulse of that sense of right and wrong within him. That sense that if Voldemort were to disappear, Sirius would not mourn.]
[For all that he is known to be cruel, mean, unfair--one thing Sirius could never be called is cowardly. Not that Edgeworth is a coward, he has to admit that. There is a firmness in him that does not allow for cowardice. No, what he feels, here, this uncertainty--it's something else, but something Sirius doesn't have a name for, because he has never felt it either. His convictions are too strong. When something needs to be done, he does it, and he doesn't spend long deliberating.
For the rightness or wrongness of killing Voldemort--Sirius has no answer for that. He knows how he should respond, he knows the manic, fevered answer Edgeworth would get from some of his peers. But for Sirius, Voldemort, the mantle of being his faithful servant--it's just so much more that he does not want. And he isn't anyone's servant--that thought blazes prouder than any of the others, a crowning motivation. He belongs to no one but himself, his family--being the heir is more prisoner than servant--
Do it, if you're going to do it. That's the first thought that Sirius has. Don't be sniveling about it, don't waffle--do it. But tangled with that is more of his impression of Voldemort, at that first and only direct encounter. The way he only smiled when everyone else laughed. The way he looked at faces.
And there was a moment--barely a moment, easily overlooked amid the charming pleasant air at the Malfoy manor--and sometimes it felt like a dream, like something only Sirius had seen. They were talking about a law that was being enacted, a knot of people only just graduated from Hogwarts, and Sirius, and he was tuning them out, he was looking across the room, watching Voldemort, who was watching everyone else, holding a champagne flute but not drinking any of it, not even pretending to. And then he nodded, once, almost to himself--but Rosier peeled away from his group without saying a word, without even looking in Voldemort's direction--like a perfectly choreographed dance--and he took the younger McNair brother by the arm and turned him, led him off down a smaller corridor, as confident as if he were master of the house. McNair's friends did not look around; Rosier's conversation partners drew their little circle closer, shutting in the spot where he had been.
It was unreal, it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up together, and Sirius had been staring at the door until he felt a prickle of eyes on him, and when he looked around it was Voldemort, looking at him, a queer cold smile on his thin lips. It was Sirius that looked away first, his stomach churning.
He will know. Edgeworth would go with the intent to kill, and Voldemort would know, it would be so easy, for him to know.]
[Miles has been studying occlumency, though - or reading about it, at least, books from the restricted section, retrieved through all the proper channels, professors' signatures on the note permitting him this. He can detail the theory behind occlumency, the history, famous users of the art, and that ought to translate to a certain aptitude himself. Right?
(It should, except that he can't shield the least bit of himself from Sirius. Because even now, running below his conscious thoughts are stupid, childish daydreams. That Voldemort will know it's him and announce himself as the previously-unfound murderer of Gregory Edgeworth, and that Miles will leap forth and drop the disguise and duel Voldemort personally, bring an end to him and all he's done and that the death of the Dark Lord will undo all his evil magics including those that took the lives of his victims. That he'll duel Voldemort and subdue him without killing him, take him away to prison, become a hero with even the Purebloods looking on Miles with shining eyes of admiration. That Voldemort will look into his mind and see his incredible courage and heroism and quake with such fear before such righteousness that he'll crumble, surrender then and there. That Voldemort will see that a Muggle-born can be good and realize the error of his ways. All of these dreams, absurd, but they stir feverishly in his mind.)
But if Voldemort will know...that will just mean that Miles will have to act quickly. Unflinchingly. Leap forth at once and take his life. Yet...Yet of all the things in the world that Miles Edgeworth dreamed of being, of all the things he worked to achieve, with this plan he will be one of two sorts of people: an assassin or a failed assassin. He'll not be Miles Edgeworth, Muggle-born Auror, known for his forthrightness and honesty and courage. Nor Miles Edgeworth, Judge of the Wizengamot, nor Miles Edgeworth, clever and well-loved Magical History professor, Head of Gryffindor house. He'll instead remain in history as Edgeworth, the man who committed the most evil act a man can commit, who only isn't considered a monster because he committed it against the most evil man ever to live...
Miles' legacy isn't his name. It's what he does in the world. So it comes down to this: does he do this deed and go down in history as a sneaking, pathetic coward who killed a bad person? Or does he hold on to the potential for the name Edgeworth to maintain a noble ring, but let people keep dying?
[The dog's upper lip twists, a snarl--because this is stupid. If it's going to happen, let it happen, do it, but for Christ's sake--and he thinks this so fiercely the dog growls again, a low, rumbling sound--for Christ's sake don't be a child about it. What good is it dying for stupid childish bullshit? A hero, who the fuck cares about heroes? It isn't even the potential for dying that matters, it's the stupid bullshit that Edgeworth this--unfair, casting judgement on that, everyone thinks stupid shit like that, you never have the chance to read it right out of their heads, that's all--but here Sirius is, reading every last idiotic fantasy, like this is going to end in any way that isn't shit.
There's no titles. There's no legacy. There's not even going to be Rosier, leading him away. This is fucking real. And Sirius isn't afraid--when he read that invitation, it was disgust that he felt, more than anything else--but he knows that he probably should be, that the only reason he isn't is because he's too fucking stupid to be afraid. There has to be something meaningful to make you afraid, something to be threatened, and what does Sirius have besides his name?
What does Edgeworth have, when it comes down to it?
And it's that empty hopelessness that gets him to agree: no. He's not warning anyone. The dog sags a little, like someone let the air out of him, and his growling stops, for now. And that's it. He's as good as betrayed his family, by agreeing to that. But what fucking choice does he have and God, he's tired, he's tired from all of this.]
Edited (i hate using the same icon too many times you understand) Date: 2013-09-09 02:08 am (UTC)
[He wants to defend himself, because there's an exquisite sort of embarrassment at having those things read and surfaced and known. He knows about death. He's thought about what it would be like to die. Of course he has. He sees the names in the newspapers, every day, and he knows: that will be him. Sooner or later, that will be Miles Edgeworth, victim of the Killing Curse, a footnote on page 4. Maybe when he's still a student here, maybe once he's graduated; but it will happen; he'll die to the Death Eaters.
How can you be afraid when you don't even have a future?
And so he feels that sorrow, feels that exhaustion, from the dog - the boy - in his arms. And how strange it is, that this whole venture begins by clasping the enemy and crying into his fur; Miles doesn't know whether that's a good omen or a bad one.
It's one that prompts this question, though, desperate and needy. Promise you won't become a Death Eater. You're too... The end of that sentence doesn't come in a single word, but instead a strange welling up of complicated feelings: a sense of Sirius' strange gruff kindness, a sense of his humor and warmth and the energy and vim of that boy who used to run around 12 Grimmauld Place, Miles' nervous jealousy over Sirius' careless academic aptitude and the way he flies in Quiddich, and the pride and loneliness Sirius is weighed down with and all that he's managed to become in spite of that, and the discomfort he feels when the others become too vicious, and that sad queer hope of one day seeing Father smile again.
[First instinct him is to reject that impression that he gets from Edgeworth--too close to pity, too full of something so close to admiration it's sickening. So much of this moment is temporary; when they go off apart from each other, they will forget all of this, these impressions of one another--what they've learnt--because Sirius has learnt things as well, the little touches of foolish courage that Edgeworth has in him, the heroism and selflessness and loneliness--that kid, at the kitchen table with Dad, and how whatever was there has grown and changed, changed with him--to this, to the inevitability of death, so certain when he should fight, if he's going to be brave then he ought to fight--
But Sirius' promise is there, in his head. He could never join up. He's not a joiner--but there's always a part of him that stands off, watching, silent, uncertain, and that's the part that would always hold him back. Stupid, because he'll get himself into trouble if he doesn't do it, everyone is doing it, everyone who matters, it will be expected of him (but will Father expect it)--
Don't get killed. Two promises that hang in tension. If Sirius becomes a Death Eater, he might be the one to kill Edgeworth. Before, he might have, without much thought; if he'd lost his temper, if he'd burned hot enough--but it would be difficult, now, he's been inside his head, he knows him-doesn't really like him, still, but that's all right.]
[And it's a measure of just how stupid and needy Miles is that those thoughts curl inside of him and rob him of his resolve. There can be that not-liking, and that doesn't matter, because beside it is that want for him not to die. And there's no one, no one in the world, who cares, except for this boy who doesn't even like him but thinks that he's brave -
Miles feels too close to crying. He cuts the spell.
Cuts both spells, disentangling their minds and loosing his hold over Sirius' form both. He scrambles back at once, of course, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his robe, because it is and will be different as soon as they're two boys facing one another again. They both know what happened, what they felt, but to acknowledge it now will be strange; to acknowledge, even, that Miles held tenderly onto Sirius-as-dog and rubbed at his ears and murmured words of encouragement -
No. That is embarrassing on an entirely new and fantastical level.
He's recovered, in essence, by the time Sirius is a boy again. But even so, the only word out of his mouth is:]
[It's almost like a relaxing, like someone was holding him pinned to the wall--not just by his throat, but by everything--and now, here, thank God, let go, and everything flows back to what it's supposed to be--not only in his head, but everywhere, it almost hurts, it happens all at once, too quickly--
And then he's himself, with a gasp. Something in him feels hollow--maybe that's what it feels like, being stripped bare--so well-known to someone, someone he doesn't even like, and his face feels hot and his hands feel clumsy, as if they're still paws. He's shaking when he touches his fingertips against his forehead.]
Yeah.
[What else do you say? He pulls his knees towards his chest, curling into his crouch. His mouth tastes weird, and there's a ringing in his ears, but maybe he's imagining that.]
[Edgeworth is quiet a moment. Then he raises his wand and mutters a spell. There was a boy, Lupin - a Gryffindor - driven out of the school two years ago by the outrage of furious, righteous parents when it came out that he was a werewolf. Edgeworth misses him, a bit - the boy was always strange and distant, but very clever, and he never seemed to mind Edgeworth's background or his love of rules. When he'd been expelled - or left of his own volition; no one was entirely certain which had occurred - Edgeworth had written a strong letter protesting the Ministry's handling of the incident. Nothing had come of it.
Edgeworth thinks of Lupin now as he summons a bit of chocolate from his room. That had been the boy's remedy for nearly everything, it seemed, and at times it does quite nearly seem more effective than counter-hexes and all the rest.
He breaks the bar in half, offers it to Sirius. Quietly, he says:]
Here.
[He doesn't look at him. Not quite. But he doesn't have to; he can feel the proximity of the boy, can hear his shaky breathing.]
[He hears Edgeworth murmuring the summoning spell, but it's not till the loud snap of the chocolate bar breaking that he looks around, startled by the noise--and then he wished he hadn't, because even if Edgeworth isn't looking at him, he's looking at Edgeworth, who now knows more about Sirius than anyone--and the same in reverse, he knows more of Edgeworth than he ever would have wanted.
He glares, vaguely, at the bit of chocolate in Edgeworth's hand (Miles, the urge to correct himself is still there), but eventually he reaches out and takes it, careful not to make much contact.]
Cheers.
[There's nothing cheerful about the way that he says it, and he shoves the chocolate into his mouth, shutting up anything else he might say. There's another silence, and then he drags his fingers through his hair.]
The summoning spell? And here I thought you were supposed to be clever, Black.
[The taunt is listless and leaden, quiet. It feels unnatural coming out of his mouth, too. Because two hours ago, it would have been a vicious bit of mockery, just yet another string of words spat out to form a shield about him, to show this Pureblood bastard how little everything he did affected Edgeworth. Now it...seems like it ought to be a bit of good-natured ribbing, except that they don't like each other and never will - or, well, Sirius doesn't like Miles, even as Miles finds in himself a strange sad sort of affection for Sirius, a stupid desire for there to be some sort of...
He wearily cuts off his thoughts with a shake of his head. Bites off a piece of chocolate, chews it unenthusiastically.]
A spell I made. Legilimency is an adequate tool in certain contexts, but not in others, such as during undercover work if one needs to maintain contact with an informant; moreover, it's too powerful a tool in many situations, since it can be exploited for abusive purposes with relatively little oversight.
[There's a pause as he rolls a blade of grass between his fingertips.]
It...wasn't supposed to work like that. I did it wrong.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
I'll teach you
Date: 2013-09-06 04:55 pm (UTC)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.]
o-oh arigato cool sempai
Date: 2013-09-06 10:32 pm (UTC)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--]
do itashimashite
Date: 2013-09-06 11:54 pm (UTC)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.]
i can't continue with these subject lines your tag was too fucking good
Date: 2013-09-07 02:00 am (UTC)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--]
No oh my god YOUR TAGS I'm not ashamed to admit they're giving me so many feelings
Date: 2013-09-07 02:25 am (UTC)(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.]
shut up! just shut up and let's write together and cry oh my god
Date: 2013-09-07 04:16 am (UTC)But the curtains are always drawn, and everyone is always in the next room. Dinner at half past five, two place settings. The table sets itself when you stand up again, two place settings, more forks and spoons, gleaming in the candlelight.
The dog's eyes slip half-shut, and his paws stop their scrabbling--and Sirius, for the moment, just-- lives, in this memory that isn't his. He's too tired to reject it, and the warmth of it--sunlight, Saturday sunlight, and the mugs of tea--it's too good.
One last whimper, and then the dog licks at his nose, calming, finally--ears still against its head, but no longer writhing in fear and panic. Finally still, borrowing this moment that isn't his and couldn't be.]
Weeps softly on your perfect shoulder augh god
Date: 2013-09-07 01:00 pm (UTC)(Evidently he is still that boy. He himself didn't even know it, and he doesn't know whether to feel disgust or relief.)
There should be hatred right now. If Miles were going to show Sirius anything, it should be forcing into his mind the horror and the fear of being a Muggle-born in the world that the Purebloods are making. He should be trying to shred Sirius into tiny pieces with everything the always-pure Blacks have done to people like Miles. He should be taking this as an opportunity to further his agenda.
But instead he finds himself drawn into Sirius' own private grief. And he finds himself thinking that he ought to agree with that fleeting thought of Sirius' - what right indeed has he to be sad, when he has wealth, when he has people who admire him, when he hurts others without fearing the consequences, when he has a family? A mother and father and brother? And Miles is alone in the world; Miles has no one and nothing...
But Miles also has those crystallized memories of complete, uncomplicated love. Sirius doesn't. And even a memory of Mom and Dad, he thinks, is so much greater than the living chill of Mother and Father and Regulus - Regulus, who should be a friend but who's just competition.
He ought to hate him. A good Auror is supposed to hate Dark wizards, isn't he? He's supposed to hunt them down wherever they are? And Sirius might not be a Dark wizard, but he could be, so easily. There should be loathing, contempt, and maybe there was five minutes ago - five hours ago - Miles doesn't even know how long they've been like this. But now all Miles wants is for things to be...better for Sirius.
How stupid. He deserves mockery and contempt with stupidity like this.]
licks away your perfect tears
Date: 2013-09-07 03:26 pm (UTC)There's not a word for it. Sympathy, maybe, but it's deeper than that. And it isn't pity, that ugly, clumsy thing. And it isn't even commiseration, it's something else, something more complicated. It's Edgeworth--no, Miles; Sirius has never thought of him having a first name, it's easier if people are surnames, if you can judge and weigh them by the heft of their names, haves and have nots, pure and dirty. It's Miles, who is alone, whose memories of his father are happy, even though there's a keen pain that lurks just in the background, a weight waiting to fall--it's Miles, whose hand is a broad warm weight on the dog's back, rubbing gently--who, after everything Sirius has said, all the torments heaped on his head--after all of it, still feels that compassion.
It's impossible. It's stupid, it's an instinct that will get him killed, and it's nothing that Sirius should admire or even take advantage of. But it's so hard not to, to be so close to the warmth and to not take a little comfort from it. It's so hard, and he's tired, right now, and even in his head he feels that give, like he's had his arms braced against something but now lets them drop. Fine, yes. He surrenders, for now, but it's not half as reluctant as that, it's touched with-- appreciation. With appreciation and gratefulness and so much more, so much that he could never say or express or even think, not really, not usually.
Later, this will be horrible. Later, he will look back at this and not know what to do but for now-- for now, the dog's tail thumps against the ground, dully, weakly.]
Be glad I wasn't crying poison tears for once
Date: 2013-09-07 04:14 pm (UTC)Maybe even after all of this, if they weren't linked together, Miles would still scoff at the thought that the humiliation of Sirius Black before his family would be of consequence. But now, here, he's still tapped into the boy's deep anxiety, his feverish (doggish) need to please (and perhaps the form isn't such a surprise, because Sirius Black is nothing like a beetle or a snake or a rat after all), and so the thought of being unveiled and revealing Sirius' defeat does cause him distress.
But why? Why is there that anxiety within Sirius? There aren't words right now, nothing so clear and articulated. Instead, all Miles sends to Sirius is just a sense of...questioning. He thinks of Regulus, Mother and Father, and the way they bring more suffering than joy. He thinks of those complicated feelings, thinks of that deep loyalty, and asks without words: Why?]
i built up an immunity to that LONG ago
Date: 2013-09-07 04:55 pm (UTC)But it's Sirius that balks. The dog expresses it, but it's Sirius that is thinking it, because a dog isn't so reluctant or complex as that. And it's the doggish instinct that makes him answer, that need to please. It's too complicated to try to think as he might usually, to answer with words--impressions, instead, vague memories, and he pulls them out, lays them out the way a dog would lay a newspaper on the floor, gently:
The heavy velvet drapes drawn over tall windows, shutting out the light, the muggles walking past. A thin strip of daylight, from between, striping the floor, and the dust that dances in air so thick and old it feels like you're in a museum. On the wall, all around you, the family tree--your name, repeated, not just your own, but a name that goes so far back that taking it on is like putting on a uniform, with all the expectations of rank and purpose.
Your father, his grey eyes just like yours. Grey hair only at his temples, a dusting, barely anything more, and when he turns to look at you, you tense, you get this feeling, deep in your gut, he might smile or he might show you nothing at all, but God, you hope for a smile, you hope for approval. Your mother is in the corner, her wand pressed to the tapestry on the wall. The air is thick, the air smells of burning, she is singeing your cousin's name off of the tapestry, stripping her out of your lives--because it is your lives, collectively, because for better or for worse you are a unit, a family, regal pride and tradition, and that must be upheld.
Your brother beside you, smirking. His face is pale. You can see a thin blue vein at his temple. He was ill, when he was a baby; you used to pinch his toes and make him cry, but it backfired; Mother would come and take him into her arms and you would sit at the bottom of the stair and watch her pacing back and forth with him, tender in a way you can't remember. He is hers; you are Father's, and when Father crosses to you now, you straighten up, correcting your posture, it's pathetic, it's like a dog, but you want something from him you feel you will never get. And you never, never want to be that name, burnt from the tree; you never want to be outside, looking at the drapes against the window, listening to laughter you will never join. Because being here is better than nothing, and nothing is all you would have if you stepped away. It's not about money, it's not about privilege. It's about a scrap of something you're so hungry for you can't define it.
Your father starts to walk past you. You do not let your shoulders drop in disappointment. You stand, watching your mother at work. Her earrings are sapphire. You can see the curve of her mouth as she twists her wand, and the smell of burning is stronger. She isn't smiling, she's only working. And your father drops his hand on your shoulder, just once, the heavy silver rings knocking against the bone, and you feel such a sudden prickle of pride it's nearly dizzying. It's all you have, and you hold on to it, you clutch it to you, hard.]
Damn you Dread Pirate Roberts
Date: 2013-09-07 05:17 pm (UTC)And yet maybe it's a weak one, because it comes down to this: what's right, and what's wrong. It's headlines in the Muggle newspapers about mysterious deaths and disappearances. It's the pain of children without parents and parents without children. It's abstract, in a way, thoroughly considered but impersonal, logical - something to convince a jury, not a sad and lonely boy who needs his family.
Because of what use is guilt when it comes up against a need to belong? What purpose does compassion serve when compassion leaves you lonely? Miles himself, he lives a life cold and sad and apart because of his decisions, but also because he already lost...everything. Who would make the choice to walk that path when they have other options?
There will come a time when Miles will die. And he'll die at the hands of Purebloods; he knows that. If it happens now, on this mission he's set for himself (mission, is how he thinks of it, like he's a proper Auror and not some stupid scared kid), or if it happens in three years, that doesn't matter. So he has to do this, has to go forward, but the cost...
It's so stupid, but he sends an inquiry to Sirius again, a wordless question whether there's any way to do this that won't...destroy Sirius. That will let him hold onto those rare few moments when he sees Father's smile. Because for Miles, a legacy is not something on a tapestry, no finely embroidered name; a legacy is the change you make in the world. But for Sirius, that thread is weighty, real, and so in this moment, that thread is a blood-red chain that binds Miles to the Black line as well. And so, in that moment, his desire to get around the cruel possibility of a Sirius Black III making the air heavy with wooly smoke is real, intense, and potent.]
as.... you.... wish........
Date: 2013-09-07 06:39 pm (UTC)But if he has that memory that isn't his, it will be something, better than the nothing, than the caustic little lift of Father's mouth and the disproportionate feeling it lifts in Sirius' chest. Merlin, he is pathetic, and so he relaxes that defense, he gives that smile to Miles as well. Someday maybe they will look at one another from across a battlefield. Someday maybe he will see Miles, chained to a wall, dead on the floor, in court--either it will be him in the cage or Miles, it doesn't matter. They'll see one another in the corridors at school, and this is always going to be between them, shared in them, and that is wrong, he should take it back, all of it, he should kill him for daring to do any of this--
But if he does, he will lose that warmth, he will lose something that isn't even his. So the dog whimpers again, quieter, and shuts its eyes. Yes. There. They will both belong--Sirius to something so much larger and older, Miles to nothing but himself--and go on with these borrowed scraps. Whatever that will eventually mean, he doesn't know.]
Shit I need to rewatch that movie
Date: 2013-09-07 06:54 pm (UTC)Hope is an evil thing, isn't it? That's what weighs Sirius down. That's what chains him. The hope that Father will give a nod of approval, murmur a warm word. Will validate him. And for a moment, Miles is tied up in it as well, and is ready to rampage and kill just to win that sense, that he belongs.
Then he pulls back from it, disentangles himself from that cold comfort, because that's not him. Because there is no place where he does belong. No family, no friends, no united cause. Because, yes, he belongs to himself - to no one else. But that means he has no chains to weigh him down, no blooded weight, and that makes him potent. He has no hope: he is not therefore restrained.
So he pulls back from Mom and Dad, from Father and Mother and Regulus, from the warm sunny kitchen with two empty mugs and a stack of case files and a singed old tapestry and wands and Sirius and Miles: he makes himself nothing more than his intentions, a creature without emotions or sentiment. And he asks, now with words - no feelings:
Will Voldemort be there?]
get a tv bbc america is like always playing it for some reason
Date: 2013-09-07 09:19 pm (UTC)That's a name Sirius doesn't think with any relish. It doesn't even conjure up Voldemort's face, at first--no, it's Bellatrix that he thinks of, paler even than Regulus, dark eyes and mouth curved into a bitter little smile. Christmas, that was the last time he saw his cousin and her husband. He didn't speak to her, and she held her silverware like weapons, and grinned at strange times in the dinner conversation, her eyes on her husband, glittering with some inner light.
He had only seen the Dark Lord (that's what they call him; Sirius nearly laughed the first time he heard it) from a distance--except once, once he'd been close, close enough to see the strange flat nose, the glittering eyes that reminded him of Bellatrix's, and he'd wanted to close his eyes just to avoid that light, but instead he'd looked back, submitted to that searching gaze that had fallen on him from across the hall--a long, white hall at Malfoy manor, there were albino peacocks on the lawn and Sirius drank too much wine and vomited on a rosebush and didn't tell anyone, felt sicker than ever before, they were talking about--
He closes that thought off. Voldemort. That's what he was asked. Voldemort, and he returns again to the heavy parchment, the green ink. All the best people. Yes, he will be there. Yes. That's what this is, this is a welcome, come home, pureblood, accept what you are going to be. Father keeps himself distant, but all of the kids are in a fervor and Sirius has to join them, can't keep himself at arm's length. He doesn't want to. But he will. He has to. He tries to keep that thought to himself as well, idiotic reluctance.
And he doesn't give a damn about Miles--no, that's a lie, he has to give a damn about him now, after all he's seen of him. But he cannot let himself feel that--so why does he think, next, do not go, if he doesn't care then Miles should go, be Edgeworth, be the yappy dog and get himself killed. He will be killed. White marble sprinkled red.]
urrghhhh but tv is so expeeensiiiveeee
Date: 2013-09-08 03:09 am (UTC)Doesn't matter. Doesn't matter; he can shrug it off. And there's a considerable possibility that he won't be killed - because (and he does feel a bit of affront) he's not some yappy dog, he's not just going to go and start talking about maybe we oughtn't be so harsh on the Mudbloods. No: he's going to go, and...
His stomach twists at the thought of what the smartest thing to do would be. The right thing. It would be to go to that party, join the line to meet that man, and at the last moment raise his wand and cast a killing curse. Right? He shouldn't just go and collect information; he should go and kill.
It's strange. The thought of doing that fills him with a deep terror, far beyond the prospect even of being caught and sent to Azkaban. And that's stupid, isn't it? The sign of some deep weakness. Because reasonable people, rational people, brave people, would take a look at those deaths and disappearances and decide that there's one righteous course of action. No matter their own squeamishness or cowardice, they should go and stop the man who's killed so many.
He'd separated himself from the emotionality before, but that weight of Sirius' concern pulls him back down. And so, with desperation and with fear, Miles appeals to Sirius: he asks him, without words, whether it's right. To kill that man - whether that is right. Yesterday, Miles would have laughed at the very notion that always-pure Sirius would provide any sort of moral guidance - but Miles can feel the pulse of that sense of right and wrong within him. That sense that if Voldemort were to disappear, Sirius would not mourn.]
come and watch mine
Date: 2013-09-08 01:50 pm (UTC)For the rightness or wrongness of killing Voldemort--Sirius has no answer for that. He knows how he should respond, he knows the manic, fevered answer Edgeworth would get from some of his peers. But for Sirius, Voldemort, the mantle of being his faithful servant--it's just so much more that he does not want. And he isn't anyone's servant--that thought blazes prouder than any of the others, a crowning motivation. He belongs to no one but himself, his family--being the heir is more prisoner than servant--
Do it, if you're going to do it. That's the first thought that Sirius has. Don't be sniveling about it, don't waffle--do it. But tangled with that is more of his impression of Voldemort, at that first and only direct encounter. The way he only smiled when everyone else laughed. The way he looked at faces.
And there was a moment--barely a moment, easily overlooked amid the charming pleasant air at the Malfoy manor--and sometimes it felt like a dream, like something only Sirius had seen. They were talking about a law that was being enacted, a knot of people only just graduated from Hogwarts, and Sirius, and he was tuning them out, he was looking across the room, watching Voldemort, who was watching everyone else, holding a champagne flute but not drinking any of it, not even pretending to. And then he nodded, once, almost to himself--but Rosier peeled away from his group without saying a word, without even looking in Voldemort's direction--like a perfectly choreographed dance--and he took the younger McNair brother by the arm and turned him, led him off down a smaller corridor, as confident as if he were master of the house. McNair's friends did not look around; Rosier's conversation partners drew their little circle closer, shutting in the spot where he had been.
It was unreal, it was as if the earth had opened and swallowed them up together, and Sirius had been staring at the door until he felt a prickle of eyes on him, and when he looked around it was Voldemort, looking at him, a queer cold smile on his thin lips. It was Sirius that looked away first, his stomach churning.
He will know. Edgeworth would go with the intent to kill, and Voldemort would know, it would be so easy, for him to know.]
Don't have to ask me twice
Date: 2013-09-08 05:49 pm (UTC)(It should, except that he can't shield the least bit of himself from Sirius. Because even now, running below his conscious thoughts are stupid, childish daydreams. That Voldemort will know it's him and announce himself as the previously-unfound murderer of Gregory Edgeworth, and that Miles will leap forth and drop the disguise and duel Voldemort personally, bring an end to him and all he's done and that the death of the Dark Lord will undo all his evil magics including those that took the lives of his victims. That he'll duel Voldemort and subdue him without killing him, take him away to prison, become a hero with even the Purebloods looking on Miles with shining eyes of admiration. That Voldemort will look into his mind and see his incredible courage and heroism and quake with such fear before such righteousness that he'll crumble, surrender then and there. That Voldemort will see that a Muggle-born can be good and realize the error of his ways. All of these dreams, absurd, but they stir feverishly in his mind.)
But if Voldemort will know...that will just mean that Miles will have to act quickly. Unflinchingly. Leap forth at once and take his life. Yet...Yet of all the things in the world that Miles Edgeworth dreamed of being, of all the things he worked to achieve, with this plan he will be one of two sorts of people: an assassin or a failed assassin. He'll not be Miles Edgeworth, Muggle-born Auror, known for his forthrightness and honesty and courage. Nor Miles Edgeworth, Judge of the Wizengamot, nor Miles Edgeworth, clever and well-loved Magical History professor, Head of Gryffindor house. He'll instead remain in history as Edgeworth, the man who committed the most evil act a man can commit, who only isn't considered a monster because he committed it against the most evil man ever to live...
Miles' legacy isn't his name. It's what he does in the world. So it comes down to this: does he do this deed and go down in history as a sneaking, pathetic coward who killed a bad person? Or does he hold on to the potential for the name Edgeworth to maintain a noble ring, but let people keep dying?
He doesn't know. He just...doesn't know.
If I let you go, Sirius, will you warn them?]
asks u twice
Date: 2013-09-09 02:08 am (UTC)There's no titles. There's no legacy. There's not even going to be Rosier, leading him away. This is fucking real. And Sirius isn't afraid--when he read that invitation, it was disgust that he felt, more than anything else--but he knows that he probably should be, that the only reason he isn't is because he's too fucking stupid to be afraid. There has to be something meaningful to make you afraid, something to be threatened, and what does Sirius have besides his name?
What does Edgeworth have, when it comes down to it?
And it's that empty hopelessness that gets him to agree: no. He's not warning anyone. The dog sags a little, like someone let the air out of him, and his growling stops, for now. And that's it. He's as good as betrayed his family, by agreeing to that. But what fucking choice does he have and God, he's tired, he's tired from all of this.]
this thread better have a moment where someone fires a gun into the air and goes ahhhhh
Date: 2013-09-09 02:50 am (UTC)How can you be afraid when you don't even have a future?
And so he feels that sorrow, feels that exhaustion, from the dog - the boy - in his arms. And how strange it is, that this whole venture begins by clasping the enemy and crying into his fur; Miles doesn't know whether that's a good omen or a bad one.
It's one that prompts this question, though, desperate and needy. Promise you won't become a Death Eater. You're too... The end of that sentence doesn't come in a single word, but instead a strange welling up of complicated feelings: a sense of Sirius' strange gruff kindness, a sense of his humor and warmth and the energy and vim of that boy who used to run around 12 Grimmauld Place, Miles' nervous jealousy over Sirius' careless academic aptitude and the way he flies in Quiddich, and the pride and loneliness Sirius is weighed down with and all that he's managed to become in spite of that, and the discomfort he feels when the others become too vicious, and that sad queer hope of one day seeing Father smile again.
Promise.]
yes and firing one and/or two guns whilst jumping through the air
Date: 2013-09-09 03:52 am (UTC)But Sirius' promise is there, in his head. He could never join up. He's not a joiner--but there's always a part of him that stands off, watching, silent, uncertain, and that's the part that would always hold him back. Stupid, because he'll get himself into trouble if he doesn't do it, everyone is doing it, everyone who matters, it will be expected of him (but will Father expect it)--
Don't get killed. Two promises that hang in tension. If Sirius becomes a Death Eater, he might be the one to kill Edgeworth. Before, he might have, without much thought; if he'd lost his temper, if he'd burned hot enough--but it would be difficult, now, he's been inside his head, he knows him-doesn't really like him, still, but that's all right.]
And also lots of drinking
Date: 2013-09-09 04:08 am (UTC)Miles feels too close to crying. He cuts the spell.
Cuts both spells, disentangling their minds and loosing his hold over Sirius' form both. He scrambles back at once, of course, scrubbing at his face with the sleeve of his robe, because it is and will be different as soon as they're two boys facing one another again. They both know what happened, what they felt, but to acknowledge it now will be strange; to acknowledge, even, that Miles held tenderly onto Sirius-as-dog and rubbed at his ears and murmured words of encouragement -
No. That is embarrassing on an entirely new and fantastical level.
He's recovered, in essence, by the time Sirius is a boy again. But even so, the only word out of his mouth is:]
Sorry.
well yeah that was kind of a given i thought........
Date: 2013-09-09 07:36 am (UTC)And then he's himself, with a gasp. Something in him feels hollow--maybe that's what it feels like, being stripped bare--so well-known to someone, someone he doesn't even like, and his face feels hot and his hands feel clumsy, as if they're still paws. He's shaking when he touches his fingertips against his forehead.]
Yeah.
[What else do you say? He pulls his knees towards his chest, curling into his crouch. His mouth tastes weird, and there's a ringing in his ears, but maybe he's imagining that.]
And homoeroticism
Date: 2013-09-09 12:27 pm (UTC)Edgeworth thinks of Lupin now as he summons a bit of chocolate from his room. That had been the boy's remedy for nearly everything, it seemed, and at times it does quite nearly seem more effective than counter-hexes and all the rest.
He breaks the bar in half, offers it to Sirius. Quietly, he says:]
Here.
[He doesn't look at him. Not quite. But he doesn't have to; he can feel the proximity of the boy, can hear his shaky breathing.]
always homoeroticism
Date: 2013-09-09 02:49 pm (UTC)He glares, vaguely, at the bit of chocolate in Edgeworth's hand (Miles, the urge to correct himself is still there), but eventually he reaches out and takes it, careful not to make much contact.]
Cheers.
[There's nothing cheerful about the way that he says it, and he shoves the chocolate into his mouth, shutting up anything else he might say. There's another silence, and then he drags his fingers through his hair.]
What-- was that, what you did.
And no girls
Date: 2013-09-09 03:01 pm (UTC)[The taunt is listless and leaden, quiet. It feels unnatural coming out of his mouth, too. Because two hours ago, it would have been a vicious bit of mockery, just yet another string of words spat out to form a shield about him, to show this Pureblood bastard how little everything he did affected Edgeworth. Now it...seems like it ought to be a bit of good-natured ribbing, except that they don't like each other and never will - or, well, Sirius doesn't like Miles, even as Miles finds in himself a strange sad sort of affection for Sirius, a stupid desire for there to be some sort of...
He wearily cuts off his thoughts with a shake of his head. Bites off a piece of chocolate, chews it unenthusiastically.]
A spell I made. Legilimency is an adequate tool in certain contexts, but not in others, such as during undercover work if one needs to maintain contact with an informant; moreover, it's too powerful a tool in many situations, since it can be exploited for abusive purposes with relatively little oversight.
[There's a pause as he rolls a blade of grass between his fingertips.]
It...wasn't supposed to work like that. I did it wrong.
oh my god president of the women hater's club right here
From:People say that about you
From:like all the time it's super annoying to be so well known
From:You're basically the L. Lohan of misogyny
From:txt it
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From:Christmas #2
From:almost better than real Christmas!
From:Calm down
From:you're right what about Christmas in July
From:I'll grant that also is 'to ash [a cigarette]' really a verb I never knew that
From:um yes it is what else would you say
From:I dunno I guess I never thought about the process of cigarettes
From:i play a lot of smokers what can i say
From:And your smokers always seem to get my non-smokers smoking
From:be glad i don't smoke anymore or else you would be a smoker irl too
From:That's somewhat unlikely
From:that's what Edgeworth said and now he has a cigarette in his pocket
From:Yes but he hasn't smoked it yet
From:an unsmoked cigarette is like Chekhov's gun ok
From:Chekhov's Unhealthy Habit
From:Chekhov's American Spirits
From:Chekhov's Metaphor on AMC's Mad Men
From:Chekhov as Don Draper
From:You take that back don't say that about my precious Chekhov
From:um i'm sorry are you implying my beloved Don has a name that can be used as an INSULT
From:HE IS A HORRIBLE HUMAN BEING though very handsome
From:HE IS VERY HORRIBLE but also a sympathetic character and yeah hot hot hot
From:He starts out sympathetic I will agree to this but then he is just SO AWFUL to Peggy
From:YES HE IS but i still think he's a good character even if he's an asshole ok!
From:I think he's a pitiable character I will grant that
From:ok good and i like him. grant me that too.
From:I'm making so many concessions to your tastes today
From:deal with it!
From:Only because you are fwend
From:good fwend for dealing with it
From:Yes yes I am
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From:oh my god perfect
From:That's basically the two of them in a nutshell, GOB and Tony Wonder
From:that's our Hogwarts AU. rival magicians who fall in love. that's it. that's the AU.
From:I'm guessing Sirius is GOB since he's got daddy issues and is jealous of his younger brother
From:obviously!! and ben stiller was already my edgeworth pb.... plus gay
From:With the W-shaped goatee and everything
From:W for WONDER.... and also WON ALL HIS CASES
From:Oh my god I love you
From:I know.
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From:ask Harry "SECRET WEAPON" Potter about Dumbledore and keeping kids safe yo
From:Also all the kids who've been exposed to life-threatening magic at Hogwarts
From:that's just life at Hogwarts okay
From:Life and death at Hogwarts
From:you sign a waiver before the start of term
From:That's where all the magical lawyers find their employment
From:well yeah god knows they aren't defending accused criminals!
From:Harry Potter and the Kangaroo Court
From:dementors don't work on kangaroos tho
From:How do you know maybe they're emotionally complex
From:i suspect them to be soulless actually
From:What! How can you say that!
From:consider the birth of a kangaroo and how they start life and tell me they aren't potential demons
From:NO THEY ARE CUTE
From:CREEPY and cute
From:Everything in Australia is just so weird
From:and ready to kill us!
From:Bunyips everywhere!
From:fucking min min lights!!
From:whoa I'd never heard of those before, so cool
From:right?? swamp lights/fairy lights/whatever you want to call them are my fav phenomenon
From:And Flying Dutchmen!
From:ghosts in general really
From:Oh I wouldn't go that far
From:don't be scared
From:BUT GHOSTS ARE SCARY.
From:AND AWESOME!! I'll protect you don't worry
From:HOW CAN YOU PROTECT FROM GHOSTS.
From:salt!
From:salt!
From:you make a circle of salt or a line of salt and a spirit can't cross. true story.
From:Well then given my diet ghosts won't be able to cross my bloodstream
From:exactly. see? you're safe 24/7
From:God bless you, salty soups I'm eating all the time
From:also soup is delicious, so, bonus
From:I know I am making some tonight
From:what kind make me jealous talk soupy 2 me
From:Tortilla! aka the second easiest soup ever.
From:also delicious mmmmmmmmmman okay send me some
From:The package might be damp fair warning
From:i'll suck the soup off of the paper i'm not fancy
From:That's dedication I respect that
From:thank you i am resourceful it's how i've survived camping
From:That and tinned beans
From:meal of champions. any meal.
From:I actually went out and bought beans, true story
From:did you really! to help you survive?
From:Yeah definitely not just because they're delicious
From:though admittedly they are fucking delicious ugh
From:MAN THEY'RE THE BEST second-best source of protein there is
From:first being bacon right
From:I was going to go with cheese
From:it's a tie for me tbh, bacon and cheese
From:Oh man the two of them together are A+ awesome too
From:jesus god yes. + some apple.....
From:No stop hurting me right now
From:bacon cheese apple macaroni.... bacon cheese apple grilled cheese......
From:NOOO STOPPP
From:okay but only because i'm really only torturing myself too
From:Man you know I think sometime this week I might make bacon + apple mac and cheese
From:and invite me over?
From:You are always welcome without exception
From:yeah okay cool!
From:I'll make cookies too
From:what kind
From:Rosemary?
From:wha
From:Rosemary haven't you had that
From:no!!!
From:Yes! Rosemary + shortbread = ideal tea cookies.
From:make these for me they sound weird
From:No that's the best thing they sound weird but when you taste them they're just nice
From:well you better get to baking i guess
From:You better get on a bus
From:girl please i'll drive
From:Oh right that's a thing people can do
From:actually remind me to talk to you about that for early 2014 for real
From:YES private plurk me whenever and we can talk details though you are always welcome without warning
From:DONE AND DONE and done without warning watch out
From:Good come to my doorstep and I shall prepare you a place, or just break in that's ok too
From:yes good i'll be in your closet
From:Goddammit C. Kelly
From:yea bitch also btw congratulations on your Hogwarts AU, you said you couldn't do it....
From:it's really exciting for me actually and this is so much more than I could have hoped for
From:IT'S FUCKING FANTASTIC you're fantastic we're all fantastic
From:We're so amazing I love you I love your skills
From:I love magic!
From:I love learning
From:I love *you* Hopey
From:Let's go bother Thleen
From:bother bother bother bother bother
From:AVADTHLEEN KEDAVRA
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