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

"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?

From:

jurisimpudent

"You're an ass," Edgeworth gasps back at him. Which isn't entirely fair - it's not as though Sirius was giving Edgeworth anything he himself wasn't drinking - but which is nevertheless uttered from the heart. Because - damn him, looking so smug and drinking it like it's nothing -

Well, he's braced this time. He knows what he's in for. And he becomes suddenly, ferociously determined to wipe that grin off Sirius' face. Because no matter how fraught and awkward the relationship between them is, no matter how uncomfortable and uncertain Edgeworth is around the other boy, he is not going to be grinned at like that.

So the second sip follows a moment later. And it's bigger than the sip Sirius took. And it's swallowed down hard, and even though his stomach rebels just a little he keeps it down and then gives a hard, satisfied nod.

From:

doggedly

Edgeworth's second sip doesn't quite take the grin off of Sirius' face. It lingers, of course--but he does appreciate the effort that Edgeworth makes toward this display of cool collected manliness. He lets himself sober, even as he takes a second slow sip of his own.

"Better," he congratulates, and tips his glass toward Edgeworth in a little toast. "Not your usual brand, I'm guessing. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, as they say."

And this is, clearly, all the more reason to drink whisky that strips your throat raw. Still untroubled, Sirius takes yet another sip.

From:

jurisimpudent

"I would counter with loss of limb, debilitating illness, and blindness caused by the consumption of wood alcohol," Edgeworth responds, but he sits back and takes another drink. This third mouthful goes down considerably easier than the ones before; either he's getting used to it or he has actually murdered all the nerve endings in his mouth and throat. It still isn't anywhere near pleasant, but - it's easier.

"In any case. No. My usual brand is tea. Certainly nothing like this."

From:

doggedly

"Tea." Sirius raises his eyebrows, his tone flat and unimpressed. "Tea's all right for an afternoon, yeah--and for breakfast--but come on. No one gets together in the evenings for a cup of tea. No one below the age of ninety-six, anyways."

Another sip, and he considers the barkeep, thoughtfully. "You could try ordering a cup."

From:

jurisimpudent

"I don't think I will," Edgeworth responds at once, very dryly. "I'm rather particular."

He takes another sip, and a deep one. He can see how little Sirius thinks of his habits, and so there is a certain amount of pride involved in proving that he's perfectly capable of holding his own when it comes to alcohol. He doesn't care what Sirius Black thinks (naturally), but he does not wish to appear weak-willed or delicate, and so he ensures that he's drinking faster than Sirius is.

Unfortunately, this also means that he's already getting a little bit more honest.

"And it's not about getting together in the evenings. It's about enjoying myself, which is typically easier when not in the company of others." That's said scornfully more than anything else, and with a little nod of self-assurance.

From:

doggedly

Sirius makes a noise of disgust, which is all for Edgeworth. He sets his glass down on the sticky tabletop and combs his fingers through his hair, like he's got to get somehow clean of the notion that Edgeworth has just put forth.

"Merlin, and everyone accuses me of being a non-joiner. At least I'm not sanctimonious about it. Just a snob and a bastard."

It's a moment of self-deprecation, the sort of thing you can only say about yourself. Sirius raises his glass again, in a little toast to himself, and takes another good sip. His own mood has softened a little under the influence of alcohol--a little more slowly than Edgeworth, thank God. What Edgeworth has on him in sheer metabolism and size, Sirius makes up for in drinking slowly and years of practice. He levels a finger in Edgeworth's direction, an accusatory gesture.

"You're certain you're not a ninety-year-old?"

From:

jurisimpudent

There's a moment where Edgeworth wonders if he's supposed to argue against that. When one's friends are self-deprecating, he understands, one denies their deprecations; one assures them that they're worthwhile. But he and Sirius aren't friends, and even if they were, Sirius is a snob and a bastard. To deny that would simply be dishonest.

So he drinks to keep from having to respond to it, and then sets down his glass when Sirius jabs that finger at him.

"Don't ask me that like you think you're insulting me," he returns, and then gives a little scoff. "I don't like carousing or socializing. I see it as a waste of time. There's nothing sanctimonious about that, nor anything shameful."

From:

doggedly

"But I notice you didn't deny being ninety." He sets his glass down on the table and folds his arms over his chest, his chin lifted with an air of superiority. It's mostly affected, though if asked, he'd still rate himself better than Edgeworth. Some things never change. "Interesting."

And it's at this moment--a moment of relative good cheer and friendliness, or something approaching friendliness, at least--that the door thuds open, and a group enters the Hog's Head. Sirius' face stiffens, immediately. His shoulders don't go back as they did when his father had entered the interview room at the Ministry, all those months ago. Instead, he slumps forward, grabs hold of his glass.

Three seventh years--two Slytherins, and a boy from Ravenclaw. There's a man with them, too--he's already approached the bar, but the students from Hogwarts have fanned out to select a table. One of the Slytherins catches sight of Sirius and Edgeworth--startled, he laughs.

"What's this?"

From:

jurisimpudent

Edgeworth has classifications for Slytherins: bad and not as bad. Perhaps it's not fair; there are plenty of them who are decent, of course - here's Sirius Black, sitting across from him - but even so, when he sees those green scarves his shoulders tense and he prepares himself for nastiness of varying degrees. One of them (Nott, the one laughing) is bad; the other (Smythe) is not as bad; the former has uttered the word Mudblood, while the latter has not in Edgeworth's presence. The third, the Ravenclaw, Carrow, is actually worse than both of the Slytherins, but...Well, that hardly matters; Slytherins are still the worst of them, truly.

Of course, all the profanities and slurs were hurled at Edgeworth before he became the boy who killed Voldemort. Who knows if they'll dare to speak that way now?

"Kindly go away, Nott," Edgeworth responds. He doesn't look up at the boy, and doesn't look at Black, either; he simply fixes his eyes on the wall somewhere above Sirius' head, and takes another stoic sip of whiskey.