Sometimes, Anthea sits in an empty room for a while, close her eyes, maybe get up after a few minutes, fetch a cup of tea and sit back down again. You could hardly tell there was a war on-it was the little things. It always was. For example-Holmes the elder was just that by a little over six years, and it showed. He was seventeen-turning eighteen, as Sherlock pointed out-but there was a tiredness to him that made strangers stop, falter in their step as they walked past. It was a dark something that weighed heavily on his soul. Old eyes, they'd say, and return to their business. Old soul, they'd amend if their gaze stayed longer, seeing the set of his shoulders, the line of his back. His wand- slim, acacia, a lucky thirteen inches with a core of dragon heartstring and as unyielding as its owner- would usually confirm their suspicions, if they ever saw it.
Most Aurors, like muggle policemen, would keep their wands in semi-visible holsters for ease of access. Not Mycroft. Aside from his family and a choice selection of the teachers of Hogwarts, Anthea was possibly one of the only people to have seen up close. She suspected that wasn't going to change any time soon. Mycie the brother, Mike the son; they were behind him. Now he was Mycroft Holmes the Iceman, Mycroft Holmes the Auror. You saw his wand, your days were numbered. You saw his wand-you were dead.
Funny how long she'd lasted, then.
Anthea sighed, finishing the last of her tea. Mycroft hadn't even been an Auror for long, not long enough to get a PA at least, but her constant mantra of 'take care of your genius. Make sure he doesn't work himself to death. Know how he takes his tea' made her feel like one. It was a very wishy-washy process, this 'partners' thing. Anthea worries-Anthea worries a lot- but there's nothing she can do, no argument that can sway him from his path. Only seventeen and he was already scaring the "new" recruits, the ones not even a year older than he was, rumours flying even among the higher ups. Only seventeen and he's built up enough of a reputation to be called the Iceman. Then again, so was she, so was everyone else, so was... The word only wasn't something the system cared about. She opened her eyes to footsteps.
Who was it that said a suit was a gentleman's armour? Looking at Mycroft, she couldn't help but agree — prim and proper as ever as he deposited the tray of tea things on the small table in front of them. Mycroft briefly looked her up and down, immediately deducing —stop it, A. I'm not my brother — knowing what she'd been thinking about. That was another reason why they worked so well together, she supposed— no unrequited secrets. Mycroft was silent as he poured himself a cup, refreshed Anthea's empty one. "Don't act like it isn't a regular occurrence." He said finally, looking anywhere but at her in a very un-Mycroft way. "These things are one of the first casualties of conflict after all." His words sent a shiver up her spine, and she realised that it was extremely cold. Anthea shivered again, curled instinctively tighter around herself and took a sip. Perfect. Knowing how she makes their tea. Goes both ways, doesn't it? She leaned closer to Mycroft, humming in appreciation. "You're rather warm for an Iceman, Mister Holmes." Mycroft chuckles lowly, smiles into his tea. "As I've been reliably informed." The two of them didn't move for a while.
If there were any new rumours that day, Anthea let them slide. People talked, so what? A little gossip was good for the soul, after all.
A/N: How was that? I changed Mycroft's and Sherlock's age difference to a year and a half, so that it looks like Mycroft is seven years elder some months and six the rest. That way I could justify having him there for Sherlock's first year at Hogwarts.
First fic in Sherlock and Potterlock, so let me know and please-be kind. I'm not sure if this will remain a one-shot or a series of the aforementioned, but let's see.