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[wunderkind]

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[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--]

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.]

[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.

[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.

[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?

[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?

[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.

[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?

[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.

[doggedly]

That's not an answer.

[He stares at Edgeworth, level, firm, even if his hands are clenched so tightly into fists that they nearly hurt, even if his jaw is set so hard it aches, a little, in its way--he stares at Edgeworth, and doesn't look away, and he doesn't know precisely the pattern of his thoughts but he can guess at it, he can see that he is thinking that there is something working there and he can guess, too, at what his answer is--hardly a guess, he knows so much of Edgeworth--]

Would you. If you had the chance, if you had the money for it. If they'd let you. And what d'you do on actual holidays, still, Christmas, and Easter--d'you just go home by yourself, then, with all the lights shut off, same dinner as always, alone?

I want to know because I want to know what's going to happen to me. No one's going to kill my parents. But they'll as good as kill me, in their heads.

[jurisimpudent]

Am I to show sympathy?

[That's a stupid response; Edgeworth knows it. Obviously Black isn't saying that for pity: it's an explanation for his priorities, a reason why he can't. If anyone is sad, looking for sympathy, pathetic, in this conversation, it's not Black.

Just - lights shut off, dinner alone - God, that...hurts.]

Parents won't just disown their child. No matter how displeased they might be with their decisions, your parents won't just cut you off. Families don't work like that.

[doggedly]

[He smiles, tersely.]

You clearly don't know my family. They do it all the time. That's what's done, you're knocked off the family tree and disowned and they never fucking speak to you again. It's the oldest tradition in the noble and ancient House of Black. So don't tell me what my parents would do. I know what they would do.

[It's short, bitter--but it's not seeking sympathy. The last thing he wants from Edgeworth, of all people, is sympathy. It just needs to be said--couldn't say why that is, if he were asked. Maybe just so someone hears it, because they minute they part company here, he's not going to mention it again. Even if he does go to their side, he's not going to talk about his family. They will slice him out of their life and he'll do the same.]

[jurisimpudent]

[And Edgeworth saw that, didn't he? He saw that name scorched off the tree, smelled that acrid smoke in the air. And yet it just...It wars with everything he knows and believes. A father and mother don't just forsake their child.

Maybe it's the orphan's nostalgia clouding his memory and his mind. Perhaps that's it. But if there was one constant in his life - is one constant in his life - it's his memory of his dad's love.]

Even if that were true - which I'm not convinced of - why would they do so? Going against Voldemort isn't going against them. You convince them that he's bad for him and everything will be fine.

[doggedly]

You don't get it.

[He snaps that, his anger flooding into him again, washing away any little sympathies that he might have for Edgeworth. Idiot sympathies. There's no place for them. Typical fucking pig-headed Miles Edgeworth right here.]

I can't convince you because you're not going to get it. Going against Voldemort is going against everything they've founded themselves on. It's money, and power, and privilege--and tradition. They do things the way they've always been done.

There's no convincing them he's bad, because if he's bad, if he loses--they lose it all. All of their precious power and superiority--that's what we have. We have a bank vault of gold and we have the knowledge that we're better than everyone else, and they're not going to listen to anyone that tells them otherwise. They'd kick me out faster than you could blink. They've done it before.

[jurisimpudent]

Done it before to other people. Not to their own son.

[That's a sticking point - that will always be a sticking point. It's impossible for him to envision parents who'd do that to their kids.]

And there's no reason for them to lose it all if he loses. Your family existed for however many years prior to Voldemort - I'm sure you can tell me precisely how many. There's no reason for them to cease existing when he's gone.

[doggedly]

No. Just to nieces, and brothers--Merlin, you think it's such a leap to me? They don't care. Blood traitors are blood traitors.

And you're right, they'll exist. But they'll be bloody miserable. They've have lost their standing and their credibility--their power, Edgeworth. Or d'you really think this all started with Voldemort?

[He laughs again, dark, sharp.]

No. It's been going on before him--long before him. He just puts a face on it. He's just someone to gather behind, to agree with, but they've all thought this same shit for years.

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth shakes his head, starting to argue against it - pointing out how illogical it is, how improbable. Yet the argument gets twisted around in his mouth and turns instead into, rawly, a single question:]

Why?

[doggedly]

[There's a great many answers he could give to that question, some biting, some cruel, some sarcastic--and he even starts in with one, or he thinks to--

But instead, he looks at Edgeworth, and then looks away again, pushing his hand over his mouth, his shoulders tense.]

Because that's the way it's always been.

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth lets out a single, miserable scoff. The way it's always been. His own response to that is, in fact, deeply sarcastic - ]

Brilliant reasoning. Impossible to argue with. And, while we're at it, we've always treated medical conditions by bleeding the patient - why not continue on with that, as well?

[He shakes his head, bitter.]

If you all would just leave us alone, we'd be...We've not done anything to any of you.

[doggedly]

They have reasons. Pages, and pages of reasons. They've got old grievances and hurts and-- stories, that they've made up to justify it to themselves. They're better, that's what their reason is, and you're--

[They, they, he keeps saying they when it should be we. But separated from them, it's-- so much more difficult, to be full of conviction.

Abruptly, he laughs.]

My great-aunt told me that muggle-borns steal magic from wizards. That's how they get it. They take wands off of wizards, but they start by stealing magic--that's where squibs come from. And d'you know what, she actually believed it.

[jurisimpudent]

[Edgeworth, true to form, reacts initially to the wrong thing entirely:]

I've never stolen anything in my life.

[But a moment after, he shakes his head, because he knows that's not the point; it's just his instinctive reaction to being accused of a crime, however indirectly.]

That's foolish. I - When I was six, I set a paper on fire accidentally when I got a B. That wasn't even the first - I never asked for it, and I never understood it. I -

[But that's still wrong. Those sorts of appeals aren't going to even come close to convincing Sirius. So instead, there's just this, sad and frustrated:]

When we first started talking on that train, I really wanted to be your friend.

[doggedly]

[He snorts, at that first protest--and he's hardly listening to the rest of it, it's just empty, to him--he doesn't believe that shit, he could tell that to Edgeworth, he doesn't believe it but there's people who do--

Talking about the Hogwarts Express is nearly as low a blow as dredging up Sirius' own memories to parade about in front of him. Sirius stares hard at Edgeworth, his ears ringing. He's actually thought about that moment a great deal--not that moment, exactly, but that first day--the weird hope that he held tightly in his chest, a hope he couldn't put a name to or even understand--and then it had crumpled underneath him, all of it, twisting down into the role he was always meant to fill.]

It wasn't ever going to happen. Not-- friends.