Author's Note: This story is a Christmas present for a Potterwholockian friend of mine, but I'm having such fun I thought others might enjoy reading it, too. (If you're here from my profile, this is why I dropped my other stories for the last month. I love reviews and I own nothing but my own imagination. Thanks!
"Holmes."
Mycroft looked up, brow furrowed in irritation. He was no third year student, the time for surname-only titles was long past. The wizard in the grate didn't appear to notice his displeasure.
"Yes, Mr. Hotchfin?" he replied, stopping the furiously scribbling quill with the tiniest of flicks from his wand. "I'm quite busy. The Office for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures is expecting 20 copies of this report on Belgian dragon eggs by noon."
"It will wait. Shacklebolt wants you."
Mycroft rolled his wand between his fingers, the only visible sign he'd even heard Hotchfin. These were words he had been waiting four years to hear.
"Very well then," he said in a bored voice. "I'll just pop over, shall I?"
"He says I'm to bring you now and no fuss about it."
"Naturally. Well…" Mycroft appeared to consider. "Let me see if Anthea can take this project. Tell Shacklebolt I can be there in five minutes."
Hotchfin disappeared without so much as a nod of farewell. Mycroft allowed himself a slow grin of triumph. His years spent proving himself had borne exactly the fruit he hoped. Few would guess that the young wizard with the tiny office in a satellite branch of the Ministry had any power at all, much less that the head of nearly every Ministry of Magic department came to him in their hours of need. Barely 22, and a finger on the pulse of every major project in Wizarding government. And now Shacklebolt wanted to talk to him, only weeks after taking the top job. It really called for more than a grin, but time was short.
"Anthea," he called through the doorway.
The sharp taps of high heels informed him she was on her way several seconds before the tall witch came into sight. She gave the immediate impression of someone not to be taken seriously, from the sensuous way her brown hair was poufed and curled to fall just so on her cheeks, to the heavy, if pleasing, application of makeup, to the way she managed to make even the uniform robes seem somehow slinky. Mycroft approved of her most heartily. While she was no utter genius, she was reasonably clever and carried the added bonus of being the sort of person easily ignored. They were in an exclusive club – the Ministry's best weapons, perhaps even counting the Aurors. They shared the most desirable talent of forgetability, more useful even than invisibility. Few people remembered either of them. Even fewer could give a name to match to their faces. They moved from office to office, observing and reporting what they saw to those with power to do something about it. Men rose or fell based on the observations of these two who were huddled into the aging offices.
"You'll need to finish the Belgian egg report," he said, not bothering with a greeting. "It is to be submitted at the end of the hour. I've left the last of my notes on my desk. I have a meeting."
Anthea finished folding the paper airplane in her hand and sent it toward Accounting with a graceful wave of her wand. "Not Misuse of Magic again, is it?" she asked with a brilliant imitation of bored disinterest.
Mycroft shook his head. "Shacklebolt."
For a split second, Anthea's eyes gleamed with the intelligence she so carefully hid. Then she gave a vapid smile. "Well, then, hop to it, Mycroft Holmes. See if you can get us some nicer office chairs while you're there."
Mycroft took a handful of Floo powder from the jar on the mantel. "Quite right. I'll see what I can do."
He spared himself the usual ignoble entrance caused by Floo powder by a simple twist of his wand as the grate swung into focus, restoring his equilibrium. He was amazed at how many centuries of wizards had merely accepted this inconvenience without doing a thing to remedy it. His spell was under review by the Spell Approval Committee and could be published in spell books as early as next March.
"Mycroft Holmes." The deep, rich tones of Kingsley Shacklebolt greeted him as he stepped smartly through the grate.
"Minister," Mycroft replied, grasping his hand cordially. There was a definite aura of interest about the older man, but also a fine layer of skepticism. There had been talk about Mycroft's work under Pius Thicknesse in the last year, but his loyalty could not be called into question considering the hundreds of others who had compromised to stay in the puppet minister's good graces. And considering his efforts on behalf of the Muggleborns – well, Shacklebolt could distrust him all he liked, but he couldn't say Mycroft had done nothing.
It was difficult to tell what Shacklebolt was thinking as they walked back toward the desk. Mycroft was an excellent Legilimens, but there were certain persons on whom it was pointless to try it. Kingsley Shacklebolt was one such wizard. Mycroft would have to dispense with the easy way. It suited him just as well, as his own powers of observation needed little magical assistance.
Shacklebolt gestured toward the chair, the movement distracted at best. His pointing finger missed the chair entirely, indicating the floor space behind it. For a man as precise and efficient as the minister, this was a tell, and a disturbing one. Whatever they were to discuss, it was not the Belgian dragon eggs. Mycroft turned to the desk, noting the missives in neatly sorted piles. A glance revealed the common thread.
"Trouble at Hogwarts, sir?" he asked, seating himself, and turning to look at Shacklebolt, who still stood, facing the window.
Shacklebolt raised his eyebrows. "As fast as your superiors claim."
"Ah," Mycroft controlled the urge to sneer. "Am I to assume the pile of letters all bearing Minerva McGonagall's writing was nothing more than a test?"
"Of a sort," Kingsley said, the smile on his face not quite reaching his voice. "They do contain pertinent information, but I wanted to see the famous Holmes powers at work."
Mycroft was not a show-off like his younger brother, but he could respond to ego stroking as well as the next man. "Hardly a true test of my potential, I assure you, Minister. More challenging would be to say how I know your security detail has shrunk by two in the last week, your maiden aunt is either visiting or will be visiting shortly, and you wish to replace the atrium fountain before the new year."
Kingsley paced around and sat heavily in his own chair. "Impressive, Holmes."
Mycroft inclined his head at the compliment and waited.
"Minerva McGonagall is not a fearful woman," Shacklebolt began. "She may be getting on in years, but she's tough as boomslang skin and still a formidable duelist. So when she says she needs help because Hogwarts is not safe, you may be certain she means it."
Mycroft leaned forward, head tilted a few degrees left. "I would have thought, since May, we'd be done with all this."
"So would I. But Voldemort is by no means the only source of danger or evil in this world. Minerva has reported several unexplained deaths among the house elves. Bloody affairs. And even with Flitwick acting as Legilimens, no one can recall anything about it. Hagrid reports that his Thestral herd has been disturbed, and the centaurs have complained of attacks on their young. No deaths in either herd yet, but strange. It is a powerful being that will brave a centaur mother's anger. And odder still," Shacklebolt shuffled his papers till he found the one he wanted. "The security around Hogwarts has remained at the highest levels of which we are capable during the restoration this summer, yet none of the alarms or sensors have been triggered. Not in the kitchens when the killings happened, or in the grounds. Whatever is doing these things, they seem to be of non-magical origin."
Mycroft blinked at that, actually surprised. "Are you certain of this?" he asked quietly.
"No," Shacklebolt admitted baldly. "But I am increasingly aware that we have to consider the possibility."
It was an impressive admission from a man of his caliber. Mycroft adjusted his perception of him. Candor was a rare quality in the ministry, particularly candor that revealed weakness on the part of the speaker. For Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic, to admit a lack of knowledge to a man as far down the pecking order as Mycroft was a sign of both strength of character, and desperation. He leaned back, counting the newly-minted lines in the minister's face.
"But what do you need me for?" he asked at last. "You have the entire Auror office at your beck and call. You need only set a competent investigator to the task."
Shacklebolt grimaced. "The last thing this country needs now is a public reminder that dangers are still lurking. Anything sanctioned by my office is sure to leak to the Prophet within days. I am not the politician Thicknesse was," he said with a wry grin. "But I know when things must be kept quiet."
Mycroft gave a slight nod of understanding. This was language he knew and expected. "They are short a staff member, are they not?"
Shacklebolt nodded. Mycroft lifted his chin and steepled his fingers under it, narrowing his eyes in concentration. There was an idea, a solution that was gathering itself in the corners of his mind. A non-magical enemy would require non-magical help.
"I believe I have a candidate for the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher," he said, meeting Shacklebolt's surprisingly patient eyes. "Minister, have you ever heard of the Doctor?"