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From:

jurisimpudent

A cause you don't believe in?

[Edgeworth does flinch a little bit at being a hero, because it's shameful, really - thinking those sorts of childish things. But Sirius' confession of the same helps, for some reason - makes him feel a bit less ridiculous. So he forges ahead.]

If you don't believe in the cause of not-killing-Muggles, Sirius, then you believe in the cause of killing-Muggles. And is that what you want, truly?

[He leans forward.]

If Voldemort ordered it, would you murder me?

From:

doggedly

[He stares at Edgeworth, leaning in closely to him--wearing that stupid bulldoggish expression, that set of his jaw, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration--his stupid muggle face, Sirius has disliked and loathed him by turns but right now he couldn't say how he feels about him. He knows too much about him, and the same in reverse.

And he doesn't care about muggles, he could tell Edgeworth that, and it would be true. But part of that truth is that he isn't interested in killing people. Edgeworth, muggles--none of them, not for anyone, not by anyone's order.

Admitting that admits at something more than he wants to say right now--stupid, because Edgeworth knows so much. He rubs his hand over his mouth, savagely, leaning back, avoiding his eye.]

It doesn't matter.

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth's smile is humorless.]

It does to me.

[But he leans forward, trying to catch Sirius' gaze, because there's a more important issue at stake here.]

And it does to you as well. As a matter of fact, I believe that the whole of your future and your identity hinge on that one question. If it came down to it, if Voldemort ordered you to do so, would you murder someone for committing no trespass save being of the wrong blood.

From:

doggedly

[He doesn't want to look at Edgeworth--but he's leaning forward again, with that same narrow expression on his face--narrower, nearly, as if all of his effort and focus is right here, on Sirius. It's a pinned down feeling, scrutinising, nearly worse than having him in his head--nearly, not really, because there couldn't be anything really worse than that.]

Get away from me.

[He bites out the words, shortly, and still doesn't look at him--but his hands are clenched into fists at his sides.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth doesn't back off at all. He just keeps staring, completely focused, completely uncompromising.]

No.

Would you murder me? You could kill me now, you know. My wand's in my pocket. And you'll make a considerable impression at this party of Voldemort's if you show up with the corpse of a Muggle-born. He's sure to make you his slave-in-chief after an entrance like that.

From:

doggedly

Shut up.

[He drags his gaze back to Edgeworth, trying to put as much warning into it as possible.]

I already know where your wand is, you git, you were obvious enough about it after you-- [Finished that fucking spell. His mouth sets into a firm line, a scowl--and, finally, he bites out:] I don't do what someone tells me to do. I'd think you'd know that, having messed about in my head like you did.

From:

jurisimpudent

Yes. And I also know the excuses you fall back on.

[Edgeworth doesn't so much as bat an eye: he just stares back at Sirius, steely.]

This isn't about your rebellious spirit. This is about you having moral fiber.

From:

doggedly

I haven't got any moral fiber. There's not room for it, there's nothing useful about it--

[He smiles, grimly--and for right now, he's able to match Edgeworth in that stare, to look back at him, steadily--]

What are you waiting for me to admit? That I'm secretly a good guy, that I like you, and wouldn't kill you-- I don't know what I'd do, Edgeworth. I wouldn't know until it was happening.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And again, there's that slight uncomfortable shift at like you, because it's not what he wants, really - this is about grand ideals, and righteousness, not about being liked. Not about making a friend.

Right. Not at all.]

Well, I do know.

[He gives a tight, firm nod - even though he doesn't know. But sometimes a lie like this is useful.]

I've spent a bit of time in your head, and even if you're not aware, I am. You wouldn't do it.

From:

doggedly

[Even though he's been thinking of it, and making his own references to it--Sirius still isn't prepared to hear about Edgeworth spending a bit of time in his head--not said aloud, not like that. It reminds him of everything that he knows, everything Edgeworth knows--all of the stupid secret shit that's now shared knowledge, all the impressions and memories that Sirius doesn't go talking about for a reason.

He snaps his glare over at Edgeworth again, his mouth a tight line.]

Really. You keep talking about that and I might prove you wrong.

[It's a hollow, stupid threat, because Edgeworth is right. Beneath it all, he wouldn't. Not when it came down to it.]

And it's not something to brag about, being so pathetic that even I'd feel bad about doing anything about you.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And that does get a slight rise out of Edgeworth, a tightening of the jaw, a narrowing of the eyes - which Sirius might well have expected, which he might well have known was coming, having been in Edgeworth's head as well. Or - no, he wouldn't even have had to have been in his head, given that prickly, stubborn, hostile pride that drove all of their reactions before this day.

He tamps it down; it serves no purpose here.]

Except that it's not about being pathetic. It's not about mercy shown to the weak. How many Muggles have died? And none of them with wands in their hands. None of them with magic. None of them even knew what was coming to kill them.

[Except Dad. Maybe. Targeted so early, no doubt, for having a wizard for a son. He'd been so proud, too, and so fascinated by magic - had written so many letters asking about new discoveries -

No. No time to dwell on that, either.]

From:

doggedly

None of them?

[Maybe that's an allusion towards Edgeworth's father--but even as he's saying it, Sirius feels a wrench of self-hatred. It had been a fair and easy target before, but now his own feelings for Edgeworth's father are ridiculously twisted up, confused by his memories, confused by the brief minutes that Sirius had seen what Edgeworth's father was like. So he abandons that thought; he shoves it away--he can't deal with the thought of fathers, not right now--]

It's always about mercy and weakness. We're stronger. They're weaker.

[We, but that includes Edgeworth, too. He's got a wand, he's got magic--he's in the weaker part of the stronger party, yeah, his blood works against him--but that's minor deductions compared to the points taken off for being a complete muggle.]

If I feel sorry for you, it might work to your benefit, but it doesn't make you stronger than me. That's the way everything works. Or haven't you learnt that by now?

From:

jurisimpudent

Are we really?

[Edgeworth looks Sirius right in the eyes, unflinching.]

Stronger? The Statute of Secrecy isn't in place for their sake alone. If it comes to outright war, there's no guarantee that we will end up on top. We have magic, yes, but I grew up amongst them; they - we - have destructive potential you cannot even imagine.

[He lifts his chin.]

But very well; let us keep to Voldemort's myth that wizards are the mighty and Muggles the lowly. My argument is this. There is not one of the Death Eaters who shows mercy. Therefore, by indulging mercy, you prove that you've no place amongst them.

From:

doggedly

[There's petty arguments that he could make, there's little digs and insults that he could pitch at Edgeworth--and he would be right. Magic is superior. If it wasn't, muggles wouldn't want it so badly. What do they have that wizards don't? Why be so quick and pleased to align yourself with a people so different and inferior they're nearly another species? There are some teachings that Sirius will always struggle with, some teachings that are ingrained too deeply in him--this is one of them, and he is nearly ready to reply when Edgeworth goes on, and then it's something cold that arrests his answer, something that starts deep in his stomach and rises, quickly--

Because there is something chilling in knowing that you're the only good one. Good, that's a term used so relatively it's nearly empty; good here just means mercy, and there's nothing wrong with mercy--

But there is. It's weakness, he can nearly hear his father's voice, and Sirius grips a little harder at nothing, his hands bunched into tight fists.]

You don't know that. Not for a fact. You don't know them.

[He never thought he'd defend any of them. He'd protect the family name, but outright defense--that's new, and he feels sort of hollow about it--]

From:

jurisimpudent

Not for a fact?

[Edgeworth's scoff is forced and bitter. It's a strange bit of sentiment to hear from Sirius. Of all the sticking points, of all the things to protest, it's the capacity for mercy amongst his compatriots? Particularly when - ]

The facts are on my side in this one, Sirius. How many Muggle-born wizards have gone free? How many have survived? They're on the warpath; their goal is extermination. If they show mercy, that is in direct opposition to their stated goals. Mercy is a failure for them.

From:

doggedly

The mental ones.

[Bellatrix. Rastaban. All of their mates, ugly twisted faces, sneering laughs--it's not even superiority of family name or blood that makes Sirius look down on them. There's so much more to it.]

The mental ones. The others-- I'm not saying cowardly is any better. I'm not saying I feel sorry for them, or I like them. I don't, not any of them.

But I'm the same as them. If you think there's something-- good, some capability-- [When they were kids, Narcissa used to punch her own arm until it bruised and then say that Sirius was the one that did it to her, and then he'd punch her other arm. She was a bitch, but not a killer.] They hate you. And they're scared of you, too, bloody cowards. But that's not the same as murderers.

From:

jurisimpudent

[And Edgeworth looks down, finally, at that, his lips twisted bitterly. Not murderers? They've aligned themselves with the philosophy that killed his dad. Sirius hasn't, not yet, and Edgeworth has felt the kindness in him that will keep him from allying with them. But those people, who have given themselves over to Voldemort -

No. They're not killers. Sirius must be right, that they're...not. So Edgeworth glares down at the grass, but he answers:]

So draw them away from him, too. Before they ruin themselves by killing someone.

From:

doggedly

[It feels so hollow, defending them, insisting that they're good, on some level--because he hates them, the lot of them. He has never liked them. Where the fuck did this instinct come from?

Maybe it's a savior thing. Maybe it's-- not wanting to be the best of the worst, because Merlin, if he's the best that they've got to offer, they're not doing well at all. He pushes his hand over his eyes, his lip curled into a sneer that's mostly directed inwards.

And there's a silence, then. Just the two of them, together, pureblood and mudblood, and silence. Eventually, Sirius lifts his gaze to Edgeworth once more, studying his face, his own expression blank.]

And then what happens. Let's say I agree, and-- help you, the lot of you. Then what happens?

[But he knows. He thinks of the parlor, the family tree traced across the walls. The slow burn of his cousin's name--that will be him, now.]

From:

jurisimpudent

[Edgeworth has spent time in Sirius' head, yes; he's learned how the other boy thinks, learned about his history. That doesn't mean, however, that he can quite follow the course of his thoughts. So he asks what happens, and Edgeworth doesn't even think to the grim personal fate that might result; instead, he answers in the broader picture.

How could he do otherwise? Thinking of things in terms of the people you might lose - that's alien thinking to Miles now.]

Then we work against him. We work to undermine his support. Without his army, he's just another wizard.

From:

doggedly

[He laughs, bitterly--he can practically smell the burning fibers--and what does it say about him, that what he thinks of is personal loss--a loss of a family who cares about him as a part, a cog, a piece, not as a person--so even his fear is incongruous, he fears to lose them and they would only regret it. Maybe there would be something more, but they would still burn him off.]

Yeah. Brilliant.

[He stares at his hands, curling and uncurling his fingers in an idle gesture--and then he looks up again, all at once.]

When it's school holidays, where do you go.

Edited (html!!!) Date: 2013-09-17 02:15 pm (UTC)

From:

jurisimpudent

[He doesn't know the reason for the question; he wasn't expecting it, didn't have any defense against it. So his flinch is physical, visible.]

I...What? Why?

From:

doggedly

Where d'you go, for school holidays.

[He picks up his stubbed out cigarette once more--it's half gone, but it's better than nothing, and he slips it into his mouth again with a tight little smile.]

Did they sell off your father's house, or d'you get to go back?

From:

jurisimpudent

[He's quiet for a moment, staring at Sirius. If he'd asked a question like this yesterday, he'd have earned a nasty word at best, possibly a punch in the jaw. If anyone else asked this - any of the other students - they'd get a snarled none of your business. A professor would get an answer, but it would be clipped, factual, and impartial.

Sirius...He gets a long, panicked stare, and then a gaze dropped to his hands, and a shaky answer.

Stupid. Completely stupid. He shouldn't be emotional. Stupid.]

There's a...an orphanage. That I have to go back to. In summers.

[A miserable pause.]

As a minor, I am not deemed fit to tend to my own welfare.

[Another pause.]

Why.

From:

doggedly

[This is a little cruel, and he knows, as he's asking--as he's watching the play of emotion on Edgeworth's face--he knows that it's cruel. He knows better than anyone else, probably, because he's seen things, he's read thoughts no one else has.

But there is a capacity for cruelty that lives in him, right beside that capacity for goodness that Edgeworth picked up on. It comes easily to him; it resists the feelings of guilt and heartlessness--and it makes it easy, then, to smile mirthlessly.]

Would you get your own place, if they'd let you?

From:

jurisimpudent

[Would he get his own place? What a joke of a question. What would Sirius expect the answer to be? That Miles would prefer to continue on at the orphanage, where he must jealously guard his books of magic and his wand - where he has nothing to speak of and no one to speak of it with? Or that he'd move into some foster home with children who know nothing of magic? That he likes being told when to go to bed, when to get up, what to eat, when to eat it...Absurd. Completely absurd.

Miles hasn't had a home since he was eleven years old. That house had a mortgage on it that Miles' inheritance didn't even begin to pay off - though the thought of explaining a mortgage to Sirius Black, of the endless coffers and ancestral castles, is a joke in of itself. So in the end, Dad's legacy was a few artefacts and ten thousand pounds spread amongst a few investments, the contact numbers for a few relatives who were in no position to take in a teenaged boy. That's all. To have a home now, to have something that's his, that's the land of the Edgeworths - some family territory -

A joke of a question.

Edgeworth's answer, though, is stubbornly neutral and impersonal, even though the emotion he feels is written clearly on his face.]

The desire for property is nearly universal amongst adults of the Western world. Again. Why.