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:

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?

From:

doggedly

Edgeworth's total count makes him snort, more dismissive than outright scornful. Sirius turns over his lighter in his pocket, rubs his thumb over its smooth side. Turns it over again, almost compulsive. It's always more difficult to think of his family, in times like this. Like the outdoors somehow distances them, in a realm where they don't like to set foot and where they have no real sway.

Not exactly true. Hogwarts grounds still falls under the Hogwarts Board of Governors, on which the Black family has traditionally held a seat for hundreds of years. But it's still hard to let that sort of thing matter much to him, in a moment like this.

"I'd really rather you not speculate on my social life," he drawls, though it lacks any real offense or critique. "But yeah, as a matter of fact. Every weekend they opened it to us, I went. Why wouldn't I? Why waste the opportunity and only go three time?"

From:

jurisimpudent

There are some answers that would make Edgeworth seem sadder, and some that would make him seem less sad. It doesn't matter which one he gives, of course; after all, Sirius knows him, and knows perfectly well that he's poor, and that he's friendless, and that he doesn't like drinking or pranking or spending or doing anything that more normal students like. But for some reason, he does sort of want to save face, and so he doesn't give that answer. Nor does he confess that he doesn't want to trample on others' fun; that would make him sound soft, and he doesn't want to seem soft. So he gives this answer, no less true than the other two.

"Hogsmeade weekends are the only times when the castle is quiet." He smiles a little bit, a little embarrassed and self-conscious, but only a little. "You hardly ever get a moment to yourself here. Especially amongst the Gryffindors. When all the other students are gone, I can actually have a bit of privacy."

The need for privacy is one he hasn't lost, not in all this time. He's been seven years at Hogwarts, now, and his summers have been spent in the group home; he hasn't had a room to himself since the last time he was with his dad. He misses the quiet and the tranquility, not having to worry about others. He's looking forward to it again, once he's gone from here.

From:

doggedly

Under other crueler circumstances, Sirius might ferret out truer reasons for Edgeworth's reluctance to socialise. Like a dog on a scent, he has an uncanny ability to guess when someone is lying, especially when they lie about something that might embarrass them. It's a bully's instinct, one he can either use or ignore.

In front of an audience, he would not ignore it. Or maybe it's better to say that he could not; he would make some snide remark, some sideways reference to Edgeworth's status as a loser, and everyone would laugh.

As they walk beside the lake, though, Sirius only digs his lighter out of his pocket and flicks it open, lets the flame stand a moment before he snaps it out once more, quick and caustic.

"Why don't you just find an empty classroom," he suggest, without any particular feeling. At most, it's a mild you're an idiot if you've not considered this sort of tone.

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth shoots Black a you're an idiot glance right in return. Much more emphatic; where Sirius seemed disinterested, he's got a bit of conviction. "Black, I'm not going to take over a classroom to get a bit of quiet. You're missing the point entirely."

And yet - he follows that up with a very slight shrug and smile. Hard to really feel irritated.

"It's stressful having people about. And occupying a classroom would be stressful, as well, because I'd have to reserve it, hang a sign, all of it. The point is not having to worry about all of that for a few minutes."

From:

doggedly

Oh, come off it, is the look that Sirius returns to him. Not actually irritated either, not even really annoyed. This look borders on something that contains a bit too much camaraderie, or something very like it. There is, of course, a distinct lack of understanding--why would anyone opt to waste their time considering ways in which to get a bit of quiet when there are far more straightforward ways of getting said quiet--but this is more tolerant than judgmental.

"Hang a sign," he repeats. By his tone, these three words are, beyond a doubt, the stupidest thing said yet today. "Why not just tell anyone trying to muscle in on you to bugger off."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Right, because people here respect that sort of thing," he replies, leveling a very pointed look back at Black, who is amongst the foremost individuals who would not heed a sign like that. "A sign would be an invitation for interference. And I would not magically seal off the classroom, either, before you suggest that, because that's against the rules." And that is said in a very firm tone of voice, because he will not brook any suggestion that he possibly break rules.

They're drawing near the edge of the anti-Apparition field; it's marked off on this side by a little stand of three trees. He starts adjusting his cloak to hang more securely over his shoulders as they approach; he always gets himself physically in order before he Apparates, because that always orders him mentally as well. Concentration is the key here, as he told the long string of students in his year who had failed to receive their licences.

"Besides, you'll still have people stomping around outside the classroom. Absolute silence is the key."

From:

doggedly

That was exactly what Sirius was about to suggest. He rolls his eyes a little when he's preempted from doing so, and pushes his hands back into his pockets. His own cloak needs no adjusting--as always, Sirius manages a look that's equal parts dashing and casually, elegantly rumpled. No stint on the outskirts of his family's favour could prevent that. Pureblood heritage is good for good looks, at least. (Sometimes.)

His own thoughts toward Apparation are equally cavalier. Just another thing to do, and as they step beyond the trees, Sirius actually yawns.

"It's a pity the Ministry's getting you," he remarks, half to himself. "You'd make an excellent librarian. Give old Pince a run for her money."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Librarianship is more than simply wanting silence, Black," Edgeworth says, trying to sound severe and disapproving. Truthfully, though, he's more than a little pleased to hear that comment (no matter that it's based only upon his desire for silence); he's always found Ms. Pince a marvelous woman, and he would be proud to follow in her footsteps. Indeed, he's had a great many conversations with her of considerable length and depth, and he has called upon her considerable knowledge more than once. He hopes some day to be so professional and competent.

He takes a breath and stands still. He brings his thoughts into line, concentrates on his destination. Then he gives a half turn and Apparates, smoothly and seamlessly, stepping into Hogsmeade with hardly more than a slight loss of breath.

"In any case, that's simply my reason for wanting to stay in," he continues when Black appears beside him. "I don't think that's unreasonable."

From:

doggedly

The crack that Sirius' reappearance makes is a clean crisp sound. He steps off without pause, his hands already pushed back into his pockets. Smoking while Apparating and Disapparating leaves you liable to splinching your still-burning cigarette into your lungs, no matter how talented you are--but now that he's safely on the other end, Sirius digs out his pack again. Too many too fast, probably. He'll have finished these off by the end of the day.

"S'ppose it isn't unreasonable," he allows, with half a shrug, "but it is a bit stupid. You could probably have carved out a regular booth in the Three Broomsticks for yourself and done your studying there. At least you'd have had the chance at getting a pint of something besides pumpkin juice. It would have been great training for your upcoming Ministry tenure: a load of idiots, a load of noise, and a load of conversation you probably don't want to be having or overhearing. Much better preparation than the silence of a half-empty common room."

From:

jurisimpudent

"Completely empty," Edgeworth corrects just a bit dryly. "Gryffindors are quite of a single mind on most things, trips to Hogsmeade included."

Gryffindors except for him, it should be said. But he's always been quite apart from the rest of them.

"In any case, that sounds just short of hellish." He thrusts his hands into his pockets, and he tries to look confident; he's falling just a little bit behind, now, though, trailing behind Sirius. He doesn't know the path. "I don't tend to enjoy either noise or being intoxicated in front of untrustworthy sorts." As soon as that last part is out of his mouth, he gives an uncomfortable little shrug; it probably sounds mad and paranoid to just paint all his classmates as untrustworthy.

From:

doggedly

Sirius himself doesn't have much trust for his housemates--though his is a more aristocratic distrust, holding those you'd consider inferior at a sort of arm's length, in case they should prove to be unworthy of any trust of substance. His circle of trust is very small, its lines largely defined by familial ties.

There's a separate sort of trust that he has for Edgeworth, one that's more resigned. He does not like to think of it, or much consider what it means.

Instead, he turns down the narrow lane toward the edge of the village. The Hog's Head stands at the end of this way. Its grimy windows give it the appearance of being shut for the day, but Sirius presses on with confidence.

"You'll hate the Hog's Head," he promises, "if that's the case. Not for the noise, but for the untrustworthy sorts. The place is full of 'em."

And if Edgeworth says something soppy about how Sirius is trusthworthy, he will hex him.

From:

jurisimpudent

He says nothing, but he thinks about Sirius' trustworthiness. Not sentimentally, either - not precisely. There's nothing particularly sentimental about his trust for Sirius Black; it's not based upon affection, or a personal connection, or understanding. There are elements of that that perhaps led him to believe that Black would watch his back that day, yes, but...The trust comes from Sirius saving his life. In the cold terror and violence, Sirius kept him alive, out of nothing save kindness and a desire to do the right thing. That's not a warm thing, or a thing that springs from something pleasant, but it's absolute.

"I'll survive," he answers tersely. That is uttered, of course, before he catches sight of the sign and sees where they're headed; admittedly, he does wonder for a moment, seeing the windows and the state of it, whether he'll not perish of hepatitis from the place. It's altogether hideous.

His voice is dry when he asks, "Do you have any recommendations? Are there specialties of the house?"

From:

doggedly

Sirius' grin is a little wicked, when he turns around to look at Edgeworth. He does so like to be a little shocking sometimes, even to people that he likes. The fact that he doesn't really like Edgeworth only makes this even more amusing.

"Yeah," he says, as he reaches over to clap him, briefly, on the arm. "The specialty is, don't drink the beer, it tastes like piss. Go for the whisky. C'mon--"

He breaks ahead of Edgeworth to go inside, without any polite holding-of-doors.

The interior is a little worse than the exterior. The light looks colder, coming in through the dim glass. There's a fire smouldering in the hearth, and it lends the narrow common room a damp sort of air, like a cottage shut up too long in the summer. Sirius strides over to a table in the corner almost cheerfully, as if he hasn't noticed at all.

Behind the bar, the barkeep looks up, dully. His grey beard lays long and unkept on his chest.

Sirius kicks out a chair for Edgeworth, as he slumps into his own. "Just here."

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth sits down just a little gingerly, making certain that his cloak is positioned under him. Even through those multiple layers of cloth the wood feels sticky. He can feel it through that indirect contact. The table is sticky, too, and the floor, and he can predict with some certainty that the whiskey will come in glasses flecked with lime and grime, and the whole enterprise smells sour. No: Edgeworth does not like this place at all.

It's nearly empty, though, at least. Only one other patron, dozing over a mug of beer. That's something. And the barkeep looks like he is not even capable of summoning the energy to care about the identity of either Black or Edgeworth. A bit of anonymity - or apathy - is not a bad prospect.

Edgeworth leans over and mutters to Sirius, sotto voce: "Will he come take our order?"

From:

doggedly

"No." Sirius smiles, almost cheerfully, delighted by the unhelpfulness of the barkeep. It is, perhaps, a little like slumming, but he can't be disgusted with himself. No one ever wants to go to the Hog's Head. It's known to have its dangers--rumours of unsavory deals--but it's never been the chic Dark Arts establishments in Knockturn Alley, shoved in right alongside the half-crumbled buildings and shops selling fresh and shrunken squids right out of barrels. There is no mystique in the smell of goat.

Sirius heaves himself to his feet, thumps his hands briskly on the tabletop. "I'll fetch 'em for us," he tells Edgeworth. "What are you going to have?"

From:

jurisimpudent

"Whatever you have," Edgeworth responds. He briefly toyed with ordering a water instead, but frankly, whatever foul whiskey-based concoction Black will favor is almost undoubtedly safer; after all, typhoid cannot live in 120-proof liquor that ends up set on fire and is at least three quarters rat poison.

Edgeworth does trust Black with his life. He's a bit more trepidatious about trusting him with his liver.

While Sirius goes to the bar, Miles pulls out his wand and taps it on the table, muttering a quick "Tergeo." It does help, a bit; there are many, many layers of grease on this table, but this at least strips off the top few. The handkerchief Edgeworth keeps in his pocket goes to work on the few below that. (He supposes it would be far more polite to simply ignore it, but the barkeep hardly seems to care enough to be offended.)

From:

doggedly

On his way back with the drinks--both, indeed, some 'foul whisky-based concoctions', although the foul bit has more to do with the state of the glasses--Sirius purposefully slows his steps, the better to watch Edgeworth work. His diligence at cleaning is ridiculous, and focused enough that Sirius can approach quite directly and stand beside the table for a few beats, still observing.

"Having fun?" he asks, eventually. He does not offer one of the glasses, but withholds until further explanation is offered.

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth looks up. Far from looking embarrassed, there's a hint of righteous satisfaction as he folds his handkerchief and puts it back into his robe pocket. He'll launder it later, and then launder the robe. (He does all laundry himself, rather than giving it to the house-elves; the house-elf system makes him uncomfortable, and moreover he only really trusts his own hands.

"Please, sit," he says unselfconsciously, nodding to the chair across from him. "What did you purchase?"

From:

doggedly

"Whisky," Sirius answers, unhelpfully, and sets one glass before Edgeworth before he climbs into the booth opposite of him. "You know that cleaning it off is only going to make it worse, right? It opens an opportunity for more grime to cake on. To say nothing of the fact that I think you've actually destroyed something of historical significance. Some of this grease has been around since the Goblin Wars."

Solemnly, he raises his glass to Edgeworth.

"So we'll drink to the eradication of history, then. Cheers, mate."

It's very nearly jovial and friendly, in a way Sirius so rarely is. The closed-doors nature of the Hog's Head makes it easier, as does the promise of whisky (however shit).

From:

jurisimpudent

It's a strange thing to see Black so relaxed and cheerful. It's actually rather nice. It's funny, perhaps: excessive joviality, particularly over alcohol, is something that quite annoys Edgeworth. Yet Sirius is here, cracking jokes about the Goblin Wars and grease, and instead of finding himself getting irritated by his manner Edgeworth actually finds himself, for once in his life, smiling.

"To dooming ourselves to repeating it," he says, and lifts his glass to tap it against Sirius'. Then he raises it to his lips, and takes a sip -

And then immediately spits all of it out right back on the table, destroying in turn all his hard work cleaning it off. It - God, fiery doesn't even begin to cover it, it's acrid, it's caustic - for a moment, Edgeworth wonders if Sirius hasn't filled his glass with paint remover as a mistake - and he coughs, lifting his sleeve to his mouth, half out of decorum and half to try to wipe the foul taste from his lips.

"Oh my God," he finally croaks, his eyes damp, his lips numb.

From:

doggedly

It was, perhaps, a little unfair, to serve Edgeworth and not warn him what he was getting into. Sirius' own sip after the toast was a measured sip, one that carefully avoids the suffering that Edgeworth is currently experiencing. So yes, it was unfair, but it's also hilarious, and Sirius leans back in the booth with a grin that he could never hope to hide or suppress, his glass held carefully in his hand. The move helps him to avoid being spat upon, but also helps him to look cool and aloof and composed.

"Something wrong?" he asks, mildly, once Edgeworth has finished spitting. Arching one eyebrow, he takes a slow sip from his glass. Whatever could be the trouble?