wunderkind | OPEN POST pt III

-1-
pick a character

-2-
leave me a comment. maybe a scenario, maybe an AU scenario, maybe a picture, maybe a word,
maybe a request to resume old game canon, maybe just a comment.
i don't care. do your worst.

-2a-
helpful note: i am currently obsessed with the Walking Dead, coffee, summertime, AUs, and vampires. can you combine those into one tag?

-3-
let's get it on, like we did last summer

disclaimer: we probably won't get it on
+ there are no promises i will take this seriously

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

From:

jurisimpudent

Big plans for you. That's an uncomfortable bit of phrasing, isn't it? The implication of it is clear, whether or not Sirius had intended it as such: plans for him. That means not his own plans, but rather someone else's...And there might very well be. Tomorrow he has a meeting with representatives from the Ministry, and he doesn't know what they're going to be offering him but it sounds as though it will be some work or something else, and he hopes they'll make him an Auror but he fears they'll just make him a celebrity...

"I was going to go work for the Ministry over the summer." He wriggles his feet around in his shoes - a pair of solid Muggle trainers, incredibly comfortable and very sensible. "An office clerk for the Wizengamot. Fetching coffee and the like." He gives a small shrug. "The implication was that that is now simply unthinkable."

He tips his head over towards Sirius.

"Where are you headed? I never did ask. Ministry as well?"

From:

doggedly

If the implication was inadvertent, it's only because Sirius has his own future in mind, the preset big plans that have been in place for him since before he was even born. He's not the hero of the wizarding world, Voldemort's executioner--and what ministerial department wouldn't be lucky to have him. No, the finality of Sirius' future is more social.

Should be. He thinks again of that door, and then digs the heel of his hand against his right eye, as if to push it out of his head.

"Don't worry, I'm sure they'll still let you fetch the coffees, if you want to keep up that humble routine." His cigarette is nearly smoked down to nothing, but he takes another drag. "I'll have interests at the Ministry. There's enough to do without complicating it with work."

This is the way that it should be, the way that it was going to go until that stupid fucking party. Sirius doesn't write home with any regularity, nor does he receive correspondence from his parents. But there has been a distinct lack of direct communication, and barely an owl has flown between Grimmauld Place and Hogwarts--or, at least, no owls for Sirius. Regulus dutifully passes along the necessary news. Sirius hates those conversations with his brother most of all, not in the least because they always end with anxious little glances, as if Regulus is trying to work up the courage to say something.

In fact, irritation strikes Sirius at the mere thought. He busies himself with getting out another cigarette, though the first one isn't quite smoked out yet.

"When I'm at the Ministry, I'll make sure to look you up. You can give me one of your coffees."

From:

jurisimpudent

He guesses that's what's to be expected. Edgeworth knows all about Sirius Black's fine expectations - the weight of responsibility and expectation placed on his lanky shoulders. The way those things have crushed him over the past seventeen years. He knows the hatred Sirius feels for them; he knows about the way that Sirius is happiest when he feels free, and independent. He knows about Sirius' pride, and his prickliness, and all the ways in which he isn't what they'd wanted him to be.

Over the past few months, Edgeworth has waited and hoped for evidence that the Black family collaborated. All of them except Sirius. That's something he'll never tell the boy, but he wished that the manor had been ripped up by the foundations - and not out of spite against them, but purely out of a desire that Sirius not have to face what they want from him.

(Maybe Edgeworth's compassion for Black will fade with the memories he pulled from his head. Hasn't happened yet.)

"You'll get bored." He looks away from Sirius and shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. He tries to make that sound lofty and disinterested. "You should come work with me instead. It'll be a decent amount of adventure, at least."

From:

doggedly

"Adventure?"

He repeats the word with some incredulity, as he finishes off that first cigarette and flicks its end out the window. It falls into the courtyard below, a burning ember that is swiftly put out by its own descent. Sirius glances back at Edgeworth, with a little smirk.

"Fetching coffees is suddenly adventurous, is it. And so rewarding--when you get that order just right, that success is just-- indescribable. Or that's what I've been told, at least. Merlin, I'm so jealous that you'll get to experience that thrill. You'll have to owl me with all the juicy details."

He lifts his unlit cigarette towards Edgeworth like he's making a toast with it, an elegant little gesture before he slips it into his mouth.

"Anyways, I've been to the Ministry. There's not a lot of adventure there. Even the world as it stands these days can't have changed that much."

During the Voldemort days, it was probably a hive of activity, or else dead silent as everyone tried to get to they were going very quickly. There were days where all the offices must have been full, and memos jamming the lifts along with ministerial employees--and days when the place was dead silent, days when Aurors were preventing access except for the very senior staff. See, the world really has changed. Everyone's gone back to the way things were, except when Sirius looks at Edgeworth, he still sees someone that he knows far too well. He hasn't yet worked out how to feel about that. Whatever this moment is, here--it can't last beyond Hogwarts. He knows that. But he doesn't get up and leave the scene, he stays where he is--and whatever that makes him, he can't quite say for certain.

From:

jurisimpudent

"There is for Aurors."

How will Sirius react to that suggestion? Laugh in his face, maybe. The thought of a Black, the heir to Black, becoming an Auror might seem absurd on the surface. But Sirius...Well. He's smart, and cunning, and good, a skilled wizard - smarter and better than Edgeworth. Edgeworth was the one to bring down that rubble that crushed the Dark Lord, but it was Sirius who saved their lives, wasn't it...That's the sort they need. Especially nowadays.

He tries to still seem studiously casual. He doesn't look directly at Sirius. After all, if he comes on too strong, Black will of course shy away; he has to seem half ironic, half like he's joking or talking idly.

"That's what I'll go on to, I suppose. Eventually. Being an Auror. You can't tell me that's not a bit intriguing."

From:

doggedly

"Intriguing." He drawls the word so much that he makes it into three syllables, as he lights his cigarette with an equally elegant gesture. His thumb rubs against the Black family crest as he flicks the lighter shut once more. Another reminder of reality, not whatever Edgeworth is proposing. "There's a lot of words that I'd use for being an Auror, but I don't know that 'intriguing' is one of them."

When he was younger, playing with his cousins, Sirius had made himself an Auror, and chased the Dark wizards around the garden with a stick, roaring, and throwing beetles in their hair. He was still young when he realised that the Auror was the villain of the story. That was the same year that his fourth cousin stood trial for a number of cursed artifacts that an Auror had discovered in his cellar. His parents were in the drawing room, discussing the news with the family, in quiet murmurs, and Bellatrix was tying Sirius to a chair and sticking a letter-opener under his chin. This is what we do to bad guys.

"D'you want to be an Auror, or are you just resigning yourself to that fate?" Sirius exhales, lets the smoke slip out from between his lips in a controlled stream--out the window, not in Edgeworth's face. Manners. "They're going to piss themselves when they get to have you in the department."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Yeah, well, it'll take them about a week and a half before they realize how obnoxious I am to work with." That's said ironically, and is thrown in for Black's benefit; after all, for all that they are not-friends, Sirius still clearly thinks of him as being perfectly obnoxious, and a little acknowledgment of that will maybe soften him up. It's harder to tell whether or not this will: "And it'll take them only a little bit longer to discover that I'm not all that talented."

He digs his elbows into the stone wall behind him, lets his head drop back as well. He doesn't look at Sirius.

"I want to be an Auror. I've wanted to be one for a very long time." And, a little bit quietly, he says, "I have a bit of...unfinished business still, after all."

He takes a breath.

"You'd be good at it, you know."

From:

doggedly

Unfinished business. Sirius stares, fixedly, out the window, his eyes locked on a discoloured bit of stone out on the courtyard. It looks like a stain from this vantage point, a mark with warbled and uneven edges. He thinks of the pattern of the sunlight in Edgeworth's kitchen, the kitchen that he carries around in his head, the one that Sirius can't forget. He thinks of his father--Edgeworth's, not his own. None of the thought is his.

He knocks ash from the end of his cigarette, flicks his thumb against the end before he sticks it back in his mouth.

"That's sweet."

And that's all the commentary that he offers, on that last part. The rest of it is easier to speak to.

"You're the one with the head for rules around here. You're the one that killed the Dark Lord. If they tell you that you're not talented, punch their fat stupid faces in, 'cos none of them have done shit when compared to that. I mean, Merlin, Edgeworth," and he turns a crooked little smile on him, almost friendly, even when worn on his sharp features, "don't let them push you around. When they write history books, your name's going to be in them. Not theirs. You're a prick and a bit of a bastard, but so are the decent Aurors. I think that makes you well qualified."

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth looks over, taken aback. Those words aren't uttered with any sort of ironic distance, nor any guardedness; there's no admonition against being sentimental, no hidden insults, anything. It's not something that's born of exasperation or annoyance. Those are just kind words. It's a speech that's unambiguously, completely kind, and not kind because Edgeworth seemed depressed or in need of it; it's not some sort of tough love. It's just...For a moment, Edgeworth looks flummoxed. He stares at Sirius, just taken aback - and, stupidly, really very touched. There's no ambiguity over that, either; his expression is pleased, underneath all the surprise.

"Right," he says after a moment, and then clears his throat. "Well, that's..." Another moment, and then he reaches out and self-consciously pushes at Sirius' shoulder. And he mumbles, "Thanks."

Then he takes a breath to try to recover his dignity. It only half works.

"Anyway, though, by those metrics, you're the only other one who has any right to push me around. That sort of thing is helpful sometimes, you know."

From:

doggedly

"Stop."

Sirius bites out the word, short and caustic. It's a complete about-face from the kindness of those words of support. His shoulder still feels the ghost of that pressure from Edgeworth's little push, friendly and inclusive and awkward in the way of someone without many good friends--and Sirius had thought that without scorn, or even pity, just as simple fact--

But now his shoulder is tensed, his fingers tight around his cigarette. His moment of eye contact with Edgeworth, too, is gone; now he stares back out into the yard, cutting off contact with him.

"I'm not joining up," he says, flatly. "So you can leave off. All right?"

From:

jurisimpudent

That ought to hurt, of course. It certainly does make him feel awkward, and there ought to be bitter and unhappy disappointment at having his overture towards friendship rejected. But there's still a bit of warmth in him, because those kind words had been so genuine, and they'd been so meaningful. And that refusal had been his fault: he'd pushed too hard.

"All right," he says, staring down at his shoes again. And he gives a bit of silence, a moment for Sirius to smoke a little bit further down his cigarette and for himself to think this through. Black would be an asset; there's no question of that. This isn't just about saving him from his family, from a miserable life of society and people he hates. It's also that Sirius is smart, and powerful, and cunning. He would help in the enforcement of the law. He would help in tracking down Dark wizards. He would...help, too, in Edgeworth's investigations...

How far can this be taken?

Another moment, and then he says, "Let's get a drink. Down at Hogsmeade."

From:

doggedly

Staring out the window in that silence, Sirius does his best to think of nothing at all. Not of the past, and certainly not the future. Not Grimmauld Place, or the Ministry--not Diagon Alley or Knockturn Alley, the smoking ruin of the building after the collapse of the ceiling, the dim little holding room where he'd sat with Edgeworth for-- hours, it had seemed, until his father had come to collect him. He does his best to be as blank as possible, to stare, fixedly, at the grass, and think only of how green it looks, how green the summer will turn it, until it browns in too much sun, and dies, unless the groundskeeper should come along and charm it back to life again.

But even that sounds stupid and poetic and pathetic, in its way. He exhales, lets the smoke eke out his nose, and looks at the sky instead.

Edgeworth's words come quite suddenly, and he looks around at him, a little surprised--and barks a laugh when he's made sense of what he's said--not a cruel laugh, more one of disbelief.

"You're not serious."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Do you typically know me to joke?" That's a question that's perhaps a touch facetious. After all, Edgeworth knows perfectly well that he's known neither for joking nor for drinking, and even less the latter than the former; Sirius' disbelief is perfectly warranted. Still, his tone is pointed and ironic enough to communicate - hopefully - that he does mean it.

But this really would be his first time having a drink. He's old enough to drink now, and there are no rules against older students having a swallow of lager or whiskey or something of the sort off school grounds, and in seventh year one can go to Hogsmeade with a bit more freedom...He just hadn't, because it seemed improper and there was no one he would want to drink with. And he wasn't going to drink alone, with no one to watch his back.

Sirius would watch his back, though. No matter how much they are or aren't friends, no matter how much they do or don't like each other, Edgeworth trusts him completely.

"Come on. I'm done with lessons for the day."

Edited Date: 2014-09-28 05:56 pm (UTC)

From:

doggedly

"Sorry. Maybe what I should have asked is, d'you really expect me to agree?"

And there is something cutting in the way that he says that, something so sharp that it sounds more like he used to, if ever he was forced to speak to Edgeworth. It's easy to assume that tone again, let familiar snide superiority fill in all of the uncertain blanks. He does not go to Hogsmeade with just anyone. And even if he did, that crowd would still not contain Miles Edgeworth.

Except Sirius hasn't gone to Hogsmeade in ages, because it feels stupid to be there. Going through the motions without any real belief, like pretending at believing in Father Christmas when you'd already caught someone putting gifts under the tree. His sharpness is his defence, and if he worked at it, he could keep it up. He could drive Edgeworth away from him. It wouldn't take much, no matter how stubborn he is. Being friends with Sirius--or whatever he wants--it's not worth the headache.

Except there is no one that gets it, like Edgeworth. He was the one sat beside Sirius in that little room in the Ministry. They'd looked at one another from across a pile of rubble, under which they'd collectively squashed a Dark wizard. There's some things you don't come back from, not the same as you were when you went. He still does not like Edgeworth. He probably never will.

But he flicks his unfinished cigarette down into the courtyard and does not watch it fall--only turns to Edgeworth and stands, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Now?"

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth wishes, when Sirius adopts that supercilious and nasty tone, that he didn't care. Black is a phenomenally difficult human being, and it would be so much easier if Edgeworth just didn't give a damn about him. Because they're not friends, and never will be, and it's not as though Edgeworth would ever be able change Black through kindness and decency. He wouldn't, even if Edgeworth were a kind and decent person, rather than a fussbudget who cares overmuch about the rules. This is all wasted effort, isn't it, chasing something he wants - help, comfort, someone who understands him...

But he does care. And so when Black turns towards him, and asks with his voice more normal again, less snide, there's a little leap of real happiness in him. He has to suppress a smile.

"Now is as fine a time as any," he says, forcing a casual and impartial air. He reaches up to tuck a bit of hair behind his ear, then pushes off from the wall. "Unless you're busy."

And that first comment just goes unreacted to. He pretends it wasn't uttered. That's all you can do with something like that, isn't it?

From:

doggedly

Sirius shrugs, somewhat sharply, all in his shoulders, without actually responding. But that's clearly meant to be as good as a yes, made obvious by the way he steps past Edgeworth into the corridor proper, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched a little.

And there's still a part of him that thinks, as they walk--and it is they, because Edgeworth is going to fall in step just behind him, already has by the time Sirius is forming this thought--a nasty thought, that he's glad half the castle is so taken up with end-of-term business, because most of the corridors are empty, even at this time of day, and Hogsmeade will be empty as well, and no one will see him hanging around with Miles Edgeworth. It's two parts snobby to one part wary. He'll probably never be able to shake that disdain, not entirely--not for Edgeworth, nor for other muggle-borns (he does not think mudblood, though he could, and has), nor for muggles as a whole.

But as they start down the narrow spiral stair at the end of the corridor, Sirius remarks, somewhat distantly, "Don't s'ppose you're going to make me go to the Three Broomsticks, are you."

It's something of a conversation starter, anyways.

From:

jurisimpudent

"Is there something wrong with the Three Broomsticks?" That's the only pub Edgeworth knows, because the whole of his information about pubs in Hogsmeade comes from eavesdropping on the other students gossiping, and The Three Broomsticks is really the only one they gossip about. Honestly, his knowledge of Hogsmeade in general is quite limited. He's been down there a few times, certainly, but there's not much there he enjoys, and the other students don't seem to really enjoy his presence, either. They look at him and see a prefect, even outside of school. They start worrying about getting caught doing something they're not allowed to do.

Or, well...That's how they were before. Before everything that happened. Who knows what they see when they look at him now? Not a prefect, not exactly - He knows that well enough by the way they giggle or stare boldly when he tries to confiscate dungbombs and illicit cigarettes. Maybe now they'd respond to his demands to Hand that over with a solemn handshake and a promise to buy him a drink.

God, Edgeworth hopes no one will try to buy him a drink.

He reaches the end of the staircase, frowns slightly when the suit of armor down at the end of the hall starts to wriggle and clank. Peeves, no doubt, the absolute bane of Edgeworth's career as a prefect - but as they pass, the armor just bends over and lets loose a blast of flatulence at them. Edgeworth looks at Sirius and pulls a face, but provides no other reaction.

From:

doggedly

Suits of armor do not behave that way towards Sirius Black. He's got a good sense of humour, yeah, he can even manage self-depreciating--but that doesn't mean that he appreciates being the joke. Self-deprecating on personal terms only.

So as they pass the armor, he doesn't spare it so much as a glance or a wrinkle in his expression. But his wand slips into his hand, and he gives it a crisp wave, over his shoulder--

And the suit of armor dents right in the breastplate, as violently as if it were a can of beer crushed in a great fist. Helpless, it clatters to the floor, arms and legs folded in directions both odd and wrong.

Sirius doesn't even blink. "Hog's Head," he says, indifferently. "Three Broomsticks makes me feel like someone's using the Impediment Jinx to make me feel happy."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Right," Edgeworth replies vaguely, altogether taken aback by the ferocity of that attack. Peeves shoots out from the toppled suit of armor; the metal clatters across the stone floor, and starts shouting, stomping his feet and pulling faces -

"Black-hearted, that's what he is, Black-hearted, shame, shame, shame - "

"That sounds fine," Edgeworth adds, raising his voice just a little bit to be heard over the racket. He wonders if that's how Black and Peeves typically get along. Admittedly, it's a relationship that seems somewhat preferable to Edgeworth's, which typically consists of getting mocked by Peeves and trying desperately to maintain some sort of dignity and order. On the other hand, Edgeworth's relationship ends in no destruction of priceless ancient artefacts. "The Hog's Head will be quiet, I hope?"

From:

doggedly

The thing about Peeves is, at least he's a known quantity. That string of chanted insults, it's always the same, and the friendly antagonism that exists between Sirius and the poltergeist likewise endures. It's pathetic, maybe, that Sirius is somewhat grateful for the unchanging nature of Peeves, that he doesn't give a damn about anyone. Nasty and rude and uncompromising, expecting nothing out of anyone. People exist to be irritated and tormented. Wouldn't it be nice, to be so detached?

As they turn down the next corridor, leaving Peeves behind, Sirius gives the poltergeist a wave over his shoulder, both of dismissal and of acknowledgement. There's just the smallest hint of a smirk in his mouth now, and he actually looks around at Edgeworth.

"No one's ever there," he says, with another shrug, "except the bartender. He's a weird bloke. Smells a lot of goat, and I'm not sure I want to know why. But his whisky's better than what Rosemerta's got, even if he's not half as good to look at."

None of those qualities are likely things that Edgeworth cares about very much. Sirius doesn't have to ask him to know that it's so.

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth does care about the emptiness, to be sure. It's certainly not that he's ashamed to be seen with Sirius Black - nothing of the sort. In a lot of ways, he would like to be seen with him, to prove that even someone of House Black will hobnob with a muggle-born. But that's really the issue, isn't it: Sirius has a lot at stake, and he will lose a lot if he's seen as part of Edgeworth's social circle. And, much as Edgeworth thinks that Black can well afford to lose all of that, it's not his place or his right to force Black's hand. If Black wants to cling to all of that, to the father who doesn't deserve his admiration and the cold and miserable house and the awful mother...

Well. That's his right.

The rest of it, Edgeworth couldn't give a damn about, of course: he's too busy to care about good to look at and hasn't the faintest idea what good whiskey is and is having bad allergies (he hates the spring) and can hardly smell anyways. But emptiness is valuable.

"And it's inexpensive, I hope?" Edgeworth has to work hard to seem cool and casual; he does a half-decent job of it now. "I don't want you to drain my bank vault. I am buying, by the way."

From:

doggedly

There's a little side-door here at the end of the short spiral staircase. Sirius shoulders it open and leads the way out into the sunshine. It's strangely bright and warm outdoors, for Scotland, but 'tis the season, when summer manages to wrest a little bit of a hold back over even the gloomiest of countrysides.

Sirius will summer on the coast of France somewhere, the same as always, with his parents and with Regulus, just down the lane from the same cousins and aunts and uncles, save for those who are now in Azkaban or who wait for their trials, trials he will have to attend, with his father, as if their family name means anything in this new world. Perhaps it still does. Between trials, they will drink wine and lay out on the seashore and go out on Aunt Lucretia's charmed yacht. And so on and so forth. Right now, though, Sirius is still unused to sunlight, and he's not yet had the opportunity to get that good and even tan that he always gets, every summer, without fail, while Narcissa and Regulus are sitting under the umbrella with noses already turning pink.

Except Narcissa is dead, he realises, and doesn't quite know how to feel about that.

To distract himself, he turns a flat look back on Edgeworth, his eyebrow raised just a little. "Why would you buy." It's not exactly a question, more of a flat statement, as if Edgeworth has uttered something entirely nonsensical. "You've not got that Ministry job yet, Edgeworth. Don't pretend as if you do."

From:

jurisimpudent

That's a bit offensive, though perhaps not completely unwarranted. Edgeworth is not well-off by most standards; he's had money enough for his books and his cauldrons throughout his time at Hogwarts, but not much more. And Sirius...Sirius is rich to the point where Edgeworth is a bit surprised he's even protesting. Rich people, after all, don't know just how much value money holds; they don't comprehend that there's any real sacrifice involved in laying down a sickle or two.

(But it never does really work to paint Black with the brush used to paint his peers. Because Black has that curious perceptiveness that borders nearly on sensitivity. Nothing gets past him.)

He shoves his hands into his pockets, and tilts his head back just a little bit to catch a little warm sun on his face. Winters have been hard for him at Hogwarts, every year; he'd been born in the States, in California, and had emigrated to Britain with his father only when he was eight. He was born without that peculiar gene that allowed one to withstand the endless dreary winters; when warmth finally comes, every year, it's a relief.

"I invited you out," he says, and with the sunshine comes something that's a bit akin to cheer. "I believe that's the way it works, isn't it?"

From:

doggedly

"It's not a date. Honestly." Sirius sneers, but it lacks some of its usual sharpness. The best way to argue with someone is to not really argue at all, just act as if your way is already the way that's been decided upon, and go from there. It's a little arrogant, and it always works.

This particular path toward Hogsmeade takes them past the lake. Out toward the middle, the giant squid waves a few of its tentacles, lazily, as if trying to catch some of the uncharacteristically lovely sunshine as well. Sirius glaces in that direction, tracking their path.

"How often did you ever go to Hogsmeade?" he asks, idly.

From:

jurisimpudent

"Hogsmeade?" Edgeworth gives a rueful, self-conscious little smile, then pushes his hands into his pockets. "This'll be the third time, I think."

He looks over at Sirius, watching him watch the squid. Out here, in the sun, he does look less severe and judgmental. He sounds it, too. That's a question asked like a friend would ask.

"What about you? You ended up there often, I imagine." He seems like the sort, doesn't he?