This is yet another little thing thrown together when I should have been doing something else, but it totally insisted it had to be written OR ELSE. So I wrote it. Have fun.
True Slytherin
It was the end of the year at Hogwarts, the spring of 1991. House awards had been given, awards and honors for excellence; the eldest had received their diplomas. Soon those graduates would enter the boats for their final, magical trip across the lake, returning as they had first come, reborn into their adult lives.
Dumbledore had bumbled and buzzed about the old school like his namesake, merry and soothing and sly and vigilant. Now, though, he retreated to his office, as was his habit. Many thought it just the righteous rest due the old man after a long year and a long, long weekend of festivities, visiting parents and families, and demands. The truth was, he had come to expect the final visit—at least one, each year.
Sometimes there were more: the student who needed to say "Thank you," or "You were wrong, and so there," or "I'll show you, I'll show you all," or "I'm not ready." Sometimes you got the one who asked diffidently, "What do I have to do to work here, someday?" But there was always at least one. Dumbledore had overridden the password that allowed visitors entrance, and left the way open in just that expectation. He was not, therefore, surprised to hear the tap at the door.
"Come in, Mr. Holmes."
The door opened and the boy came in. Boy? No, Dumbledore thought with tight-reined appreciation, Mycroft was no-longer a boy, by the traditions of the wizarding world or in actual maturity. Indeed, Dumbledore often suspected Mycroft had arrived at Hogwarts as a little adult—all big eyes and infinite reserve.
He was straight as an arrow, dressed in his best academic robes, with seven years of honors displayed, all picked out in Slytherin green. Prefect, Head Boy: Mycroft had taken all honors except in sports, and even there had put in a good showing...though he was a better duelist than a Quidditch player, and always would be. With his ginger hair—almost as vivid as a Weasley's—and blue eyes, he was a fine young man, with a future ahead of him—a future that, if Dumbledore had any say in it, would include strong ties to the old members of the Order of the Phoenix, and delicate positions in Ministry of Magic. Dumbledore did not believe the wars were over, and he intended to marshal every talent he could access. Mycroft, a Pure Blood of the purest lines, a Slytherin, and—no escaping it—the genius of his generation, was a treasure Dumbledore refused to squander.
He came to stand respectfully before Dumbledore's desk. "Headmaster."
"Mr. Holmes. You had something you wished to discuss with me?" Dumbledore twinkled merrily, not because he expected Mycroft to believe in twinkles and sparkle for one second, but because he did expect Holmes Major to learn from his elders: never let down your guard. Never show them your secrets.
"Something to ask, sir. Perhaps...depending on the answer, perhaps a favour."
Intrigued, Dumbledore sat straighter, and peered over his half-moon glasses. "Ask, Mr. Holmes. I live to teach."
"No, sir. You live to defeat Lord Voldemort, sir."
Dumbledore's shaggy brows leapt. "Most people believe Voldemort defeated, Mr. Holmes. I would be a fool to battle the dead, would I not?"
"You would be a fool to battle public opinion. That is a different matter."
Subtle as a serpent, that one. He and Professor Snape had never quite gotten on—but the older man had nothing but praise for his student's abilities, including those abilities held secret for the coming war. Snape had said, softly, fiercely, "He's true Slytherin. What we can be, when we're allowed."
"So, you want to discuss Lord Voldemort?" Dumbledore said, testing the waters. Perhaps today would be the day to recruit this true Slytherin.
"Only in an oblique sense," Mycroft said, using the vocabulary of a man three times his age or more. "I daresay you'll wish to discuss the coming conflict with me again sometime in the next few years, after I've established myself in government. I thought today, however, I'd ask about a related matter."
Merlin's Beard, the boy was fast! "At this rate, Mr. Holmes, I may not choose to wait a few years."
Mycroft shrugged, delicately. "As you will. However...my question, sir?"
"Mmmm. Yes. Your question. Well?"
"What discretion does the Sorting Hat have when placing students?" Mycroft frowned, slightly, then rephrased. "Does the Sorting Hat put people in the house they'll love—or in the house they need, sir?"
"Excuse me. I'm not sure i understand."
"Sir, I am a Slytherin. I am proud of my house. But I am also aware that many Slytherins find their worst temptations upon entering the house, and soon live down to their lowest inclinations. Likewise Gryffindors: too often too many become bullies, braggarts, and show-offs—not the heroes Godrick Gryffindor would have desired. Ravenclaws can be superb scholars, but also are often heartless, vicious pedants, almost as sly as Slytherins. Hufflepuffs fall into sloth, ask too little of themselves, and forget the strength of friendship and faith and patience they offer the wizarding world. So, I ask again: does the hat sort children into the houses they want, the houses they easily fit, or the houses they truly need?"
"They are sorted where they most belong, Mr. Holmes. Is the concept too difficult?"
Mycroft was relentless, quivering with a passion Dumbledore found confusing. "Of course it is difficult, sir. What we become here at Hogwarts—it's the future of the wizarding world. It is here we rise, it is here we fall, it is here our habits are formed—our friendships, our skills, our ambitions, our loyalties. What—what if Lord Voldemort, whoever he was, whatever his true identity—what if he was put in the house he belonged, and it made him what he became? What if..." he paused then, running a hand over his young face, clearly straining to his limit to try to convey something he dreaded. "What..." he stopped entirely, then, eyes turned down toward the surface of Dumbledore's desk, but gazing into some dark mystery only he could see.
"Mr. Holmes," Dumbledore said, softly, with a prickle of foresight chilling him, "what are you trying to ask?"
"What if there were someone who should not be a Slytherin, sir? Never. No matter how he wanted it. No matter who he wanted to imitate. What if someone needed to be somewhere else, in another house? Any other house?"
Dumbledore realized suddenly that the boy was close to breaking with fear of something. "Mr. Holmes?" He took pity, and rose, leading the boy to an armchair by the fireplace, near to Fawkes' stand. "Sit, son. Let me get you a glass of something. I've a some nice bottles of pomegranate juice if you'd like some."
Mycroft looked wanly at his headmaster. "No. Thank you, but no. Sir, how does the Sorting Hat work? Is there a way to influence it? To ask it to...be careful?"
"Who are you worried about, Mr. Holmes?" Dumbledore asked, cutting to the heart of the problem.
Mycroft licked his lips. "It's my brother, sir. He's due to start this coming fall. And...sir, if we'd been born closer together I wouldn't worry so much: he'd have come while I was still here. I could have protected him, even if he was sorted into Slytherin. I could have shown him what is of value—and what is vile. But I can't. I won't be here. Professor Snape can't, either—not if he's to do what you expect of him without being detected. Headmaster, please, believe me, Sherlock's perfect for Slytherin—but Slytherin will destroy him, without someone to provide limits. Sherlock's so very bad at limits."
Head spinning at the realization that Mycroft Holmes had deduced what no one—no one in all the wizarding world suspected, Dumbledore had a hard time giving proper attention and respect to the young man's true concern. The implications of what Mycroft was and could be were too distracting. He chuckled, softly. "Dear, dear, Holmes. I might almost think you were afraid your little brother would be the next Lord Voldemort!"
"That. Or ally with the last one," Mycroft said, eyes haunted.
"I can keep an eye on him, if you wish?"
"No, sir. You're going to be busy enough with young Potter coming in." Mycroft was firm. "Sherlock too? No. He's got to be place somewhere he'll be made to grow well."
"I daresay you even have theories where he should be placed?"
"Gryffindor would be best. Brains, but with that bloody passion for justice: it would counter many of Sherlock's worst tendencies. Ravenclaw would challenge him, but might be almost as bad as Slytherin when it comes to indulging his vices. He'd be furious to end up in Hufflepuff, but it would be good for him, and Hecate knows, he'd make true friends."
"You're quite serious about this," Dumbledore said, beginning to realize just how intent on this his former Head Boy was. He tried to recall the second Holmes boy. A gawky thing, he seemed to remember, with huge blue eyes, more vivid than his brother's, a shock of black curls, and a wild gypsy look to him. "He's an eleven-year-old boy, Mr. Holmes. You don't think giving me this warning is sufficient?"
"He's my brother," Mycroft said, and the answer compounded a world of things in one phrase. Pride of possession, responsibility, and—yes, Dumbledore thought, kinship. Deep, profound kinship.
"He's like you." It was instant certainty, not a question—a certainty that included the stunning revelations about Mycroft Holmes' true capacities revealed only today.
"We're much of a muchness, sir. But—he's not like me, too. We have very much the same intellect. In personality, we are different. Quite different."
"Differences are not a disadvantage, Mr. Holmes. He may well have his own path to follow, but that doesn't mean it's worse than yours."
Mycroft glared at his elder with a scorn that Dumbledore would have found deeply unlikely only a few hours before. "Of course it's not worse. He's a bloody marvel, my brother, and if we're lucky he'll grow to be a great, good man. He's just not right to be a Slytherin, sir. It will be the ruin of him if he is."
Dumbledore sighed, balancing his own experience against this stunning young genius' own knowledge of both his brother and of Hogwarts. "I am willing to consider your concerns, Mycroft. I am not, however, aware of any way to tamper with the Sorting Hat's selection—except to the degree that every student influences the hat. It doesn't choose at random, and what a student wants can overrule all other things. We've got Gryffindors who should have been Ravenclaws, Slytherins, or Hufflepuffs going by natural talent and inclination—but their hearts were committed to the Lion. The same for all the other houses. The hat listens to the child, in the end. I don't know what one could do about that."
"Sherlock will want Slytherin, sir. Because he's my brother. Because he's got not patience with what most people think 'good.' Because he's more interested in games than scholarship, in cleverness, not wisdom."
"And you're so sure it will be his destruction?"
"And perhaps ours. There's a war, coming, sir. You know it. You're preparing for it. Don't—don't give the enemy Sherlock, sir. You almost lost Professor Snape, sir. Losing Sherlock would be worse even than that. Much, much worse."
"How do you know all this?" Dumbledore growled, beginning to fear what Holmes could do.
"I observe, sir," Holmes snapped back. "I watch. I listen. I think. I test. I learn. I am not some stupid child thrashing his way through seven years bickering over Quidditch scores and who's snogging whom. I know when Professor Snape was born, and what his family was, and..."
"Enough. You've been spying." Dumbledore hovered between furious horror and fascinated intrigue. What a find this young man might be.
"No, sir." Mycroft said, coldly. "Though I'm quite capable of it. But there's a vast difference between paying attention and outright spying. I decided my first year I'd save spying for after graduation, when it might be more necessary."
The seconds seemed to slow as Dumbledore evaluated the situation, Mycroft, and Mycroft's fears. After a moment he sighed. "We're definitely going to be talking about your future plans a good deal sooner than a few years from now, Mr. Holmes. But in the meantime—to address your primary concern, I can think of no way to alter the judgment of the Sorting Hat. I can, however, offer you an opportunity to do something that has seldom been done before. I will let you put the hat on a second time. Over the centuries the magic of the hat has evolved to a degree that it is now, in my opinion, not an artefact so much as a magical being in its own right. If it can be influenced by argument and logic, you are welcome to try."
Mycroft sighed in relief. "Now, sir? Can we do it now? Sherlock's in Hogsmeade with Mummy, and I'd like to try before they come back."
Dumbledore nodded, and fetched the Hat down from its shelf. He handed it to the younger man.
Mycroft hesitated, holding it gingerly, turning it around and around by the brim.
"What are you waiting for?" Dumbledore said, teasing softly. "Better done than dithered over, Mr. Holmes."
Mycroft nodded, soberly, and gently placed the Sorting Hat on his neatly combed red hair.
The next few minutes were silent tempest—a war of wills and magic Dumbledore could only intuit, but could not witness himself.
"Not Slytherin," Mycroft snarled, as he chased the peculiar person-hood that was the hat through the intricacies of its own spelled making. "Not Slytherin. Anything but Slytherin. I don't care where you put him—well, I do. Put him with people who are strong, and bright, and loving. Find him friends. Give him challenges. But not Slytherin." He pressed everything he knew of his brother into the "mind' of the hat: look-sound-scent. Heart-body-soul-spirit. Sherlock's crackling laughter, so often misplaced and mistimed. The hunger of Sherlock's need to solve things, the leap and lunge of his half-disciplined mind. Sherlock's loneliness. Sherlock's vanity. Sherlock's insecurity.
Every single thing eighteen years had taught the exceedingly observant Mycroft Holmes about his baby brother Sherlock, he etched into the Hat: into spell and charm, into felt and weave.
"Sort him. Sort him well. Sort him with love. But not into Slytherin. Not ever into Slytherin. Anything but Slytherin," he said. "Put him in Slytherin and you'll learn all the terrible, dangerous things I ever chose not to be. I vow it—as a Slytherin, I swear. I'll undo every single good decision I ever made, if that's what it takes to punish you. Do you understand?"
It understood.
"Will you remember?"
It would remember.
"Very good," Mycroft said, and dusted off his immaculate internal self, settling his non-corporeal wizarding robes just so and slipping the aura-shadow of his first wand into his breast pocket. He stepped back into the world outside the hat...
...and removed it from his head, holding it out to Dumbledore.
"You think that's done it?" Dumbledore asked, in wry amusement. The surge of will and magic had abated, but would not be soon forgotten by the Headmaster.
Mycroft gave a tiny, prim shrug. "Time will tell, sir. But—if it didn't do it, there will be repercussions."
No doubt, Dumbledore thought, there would be. This young man was a force to be reckoned with. With a little internal sigh, he watched his former Head Boy prepare to leave.
"And where are you going, next?" Dumbledore asked.
"Hogsmeade to rendezvous with Mummy and Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Then, I think, I'll see about going to Olivander's before going home. I've quite outgrown the limits of my first wand, and had some ideas about a new one. I'm thinking of a bespoke commission." He met his former Headmaster's eye, and added. "Dear Hagrid has quite given me an idea for a suitable form. Not, however, pink, I think. Definitely not pink."
"No," Dumbledore agreed, his face straight but his eyes dancing. "It would hardly suit a serious man like yourself."
By Merlin's Beard, he thought. The boy just—just—sparkled at me! Ah, if he'd been born a few generations sooner, or I a few generations later, this one would have given Gellert real competition for my heart. I wonder if it's luck or doom that ensured it didn't happen that way?
He saw his former student out, and proceeded to contact Kingsley Shacklebolt. "Kingsley—we need to talk. Should we ever need to do what we've discussed, I've got a potential recruit you simply must meet. Yes. Yes, Diagon Alley, next week is good. I'll see you then."
And in Hogwarts, in the fall of 1991, two boys crossed over the dark lake in boats, and came to sit upon the Sorting Stool, beneath the Sorting Hat. Both were black haired, both passionate, both exceptional, both with a mark of lightning at the crown—one mark worn outside for all to see, and the other worn inside where it was easily missed and misunderstood. Both could have gone either way: Slytherin or Gryffindor. In both cases, the Hat heard a mental voice shouting, "Not Slytherin, anything but Slytherin."
Of course, in only one case was that voice the voice of the boy being sorted.
Only one of the boys got his own wish. While many things happened as a result of that injustice, it worked out in the end. And, as the Hat thought to itself, it wasn't like young Holmes Minor would make a bad Gryffindor at all.
And it did not want, ever, ever, ever to know what Holmes Major had chosen not to become. That one, you see, had been true Slytherin to the core, with never a moment's doubt—and while Slytherins can be every bit as good as they can be bad, there's simply no doubt that the greatest Slytherins of all are deadly beyond reckoning—and there was no question that Holmes Major was one of the great, great Slytherins, even if only a few would ever know.
That, you see, is the way of the True Slytherin—to wait unseen, to strike without warning, and to fall back in silence.