Mycroft Holmes was in year nine. He went to one of the best schools in the country, if not the best, and already knew what he was going to do with his life. He had spent over twelve years studying his generation, and had gathered that, in his eyes, he was living with goldfish. Except his mother, who was an emotional darling, and his brother, who he thought was an idiot, just a little bit more intelligent than the rest. Sherlock had managed to get himself expelled from three different schools over three years of education, and now Mycroft's name had brought Sherlock to his domain.
Mycroft despised his classmates. In his words, they were 'stupid offspring of men with money.' Except a couple of people who called themselves 'nerds', a certain type of the human species with a considerable amount of brain cells and who debated over mediocre school science, everyone was dumb. He neither cared for what the girls were wearing that day, nor was he interested in football. To his teachers, he was some sort of all-knowing God, and he had decided that they had come to this conclusion after witnessing Mycroft score centum in most of his exams. But the only reason he even went to school willingly, was because he wanted to solve puzzles, puzzles called 'people'. Every person is a puzzle, like a Rubix cube, and he found a certain level of fascination in 'knowing things'. To 'solve' a person would be to completely understand the person's psychology and mentality to the extent where he could accurately predict their next moves. Some puzzles were easy, some were relatively tough, but in the end, he did solve each and every one. In this way, he would gather the secrets of the grade, and if he liked, he could use it to his advantage. Mycroft silently enjoyed this power and command over others, and when he wished, he would make people do things for him. Not that he wished ill for others, but just to see what they'd do.
School politics was an irritating obstacle in Mycroft's agenda. 'Popular' boys and girls, the 'nerds' and the 'bullies' were just dull in Mycroft's eyes. However, he couldn't help but exploit human instinct and create the occasional scandal and chuckle as he watched the play unfold. He didn't want to hurt anyone, but he cannot deny that he enjoys it, just a tiny bit.
Academics was...happening. He always knew what the latest gossip in the staff room was, his influence (as a student, obviously) over his teachers was minimal, but significant. If there was an important debate or seminar, he was always called. Candidate for the next Head Boy? There was never a question. If he were to be so bold, he would even go as for as to say his levels of knowledge exceeded those of his teachers.
Friends, one word Mycroft never understood. It had taken him quite some time to make a set of friends with whom he could hang round during lunch and lounge with during the PE sessions he despised. But, he always smiled and spoke to everyone. He found it necessary to keep amiable relations with his classmates, you never know when an asset might come in handy. It was all about shaking the right hands. Children of bankers, businessmen and people of power, whose possession they will one day come into would prove useful to him in the future. He knew they would.
Even if he didn't like it, Mycroft homes had adapted himself to this environment. But as hard as he tried, he always stuck out like a sore thumb. At times, he found himself all alone, and he didn't even notice it. Unlike his brother (who often found himself in the company of trouble makers) he would not make any attempt to mix in.
At the farewell party for year ten, hosted by his batch, Mycroft realised where he truly stood. Although the signs never showed, standing alone in a corner of the auditorium-turned-dance-floor in a suit, with a glass full of punch in his hand, he saw the colours of life to be dull, boring. As he sipped from his sacred chalice, he sighed and said, " Persona non grata " and walked out of the room and back into the shadows where he came from.