Author's Note: I own neither Sherlock, nor the Harry Potter series, nor Fiddler on the Roof. Contains non-graphic slash.
Chapter 2: Find Me a Find
Mycroft left the party at a similar rate to that of his brother. He bid everyone hurried farewells and returned to his office for an evening of talking to several people and getting nowhere with any of them. It was almost dawn by the time he decided to close his computer and get a few hours of sleep. He stood and stretched and made his way down to the car. It took him to the apartment he had lived in for ages. There he quickly went to sleep.
For the next week he continued work as usual. He got up whenever the first person called him, talked to a variety of people, ordered missions, negotiated deals, synthesized information, and it went on. Eventually the calls winded down, the conferences ended and Mycroft finished up the work for the evening. Only then, at some hour most would label as absurd, was he able to return home and sleep for a few hours before the next morning's first calls came in.
Ever so often, he took some time off, but that didn't happen much, and even when it did, he was always on call. He didn't go places much, how he despised "leg work," most meetings were held over the computer, if not in his highly secure quarters, but someone was always calling with some international crisis or another. For several days, Mycroft didn't have the time to write up his reply to the matchmaking service, but eventually he did get around to it.
It was a scroll of parchment. The header read "Meet your Match!" with a subtitle of "Find the witch or wizard of your dreams without any of the hassle." Instructions followed, he had to answer a series of personal questions and attach a photograph. He took out his favorite fountain pen, and began.
"Personal:" was the first category, the first question was, "What is your (full) name?" how original...
"James Sirius Potter" he wrote on the line below.
Next question: "How old are you?"
"Thirty-seven (37)"
"Are you male or female (circle one)?"
He circled male, of course, though circling female might have been amusing... But this was the wizarding world, and he had a reputation to keep, unlike his brother, so male it was.
"What is your wand wood, length and core?"
"I am a squib and therefore lack a wand." he replied.
"Where do you live currently?"
Mycroft wrote out his address.
"Where are you from?"
"London, England."
"What do you do for a living?"
"I work under the Minister of Magic." he replied, giving his standard answer to the question, though he decided it might be best to add on "I spend long hours at work, and can be called in at any time."
"What is your magical linage?"
"Pure blood squib." Mycroft replied disdainfully, it really was a shame they still needed to put that question in.
"What school did you go to? If you attended a school with houses, what house were you in?"
"See above."
"Do you have an owl?"
"No." was his reply.
The next category was labeled as "Lifestyle:" with the first question of "Do you smoke?"
After a bit of thought, Mycroft decided a simple "No." would suffice. He used to, but that was irrelevant.
"Do you drink?" came next.
Mycroft answered, "Not to excess."
"Do you work out?"
Irrelevant, was Mycroft's gut response, but he decided an answer of "No." would suffice yet again.
"Are you religious? Do you attend services?"
"No."
"Do you have your own transportation? If so, what?"
"Ministry supplied cars."
"Do you eat meat?"
"Yes."
"Do you have any pets? If so, what kind?"
"No."
"Do you have any children? If so, how many? What ages?"
"No." Mycroft almost laughed at the question, as in he raised one eyebrow sceptically before moving on.
And then came the next category "About You:" question one was, "What is the first thing you do when you get up in the morning?"
Most people probably had to think about it, by Mycroft was rather more self conscious than that, so it was obvious, "I check for any missed calls and then for any new emails. I answer them in order of priority and then shower, get dressed so long as I am not interrupted by a phone call."
"What is your favorite book of all time?"
Mycroft weighed the options, between different presidents' books, a variety of classics, and decided on the irony of choosing "1984"
"What is your favorite song?"
For that he decided on a movement of Vivaldi's that few of the others had probably ever heard of. When he reflected on it, Mycroft was genuinely surprised by just how consuming this as good as mindless activity could be, but it shouldn't have been surprising, it was only human nature to enjoy speaking of oneself.
He turned his focus back to the questionnaire and read, "What would your ideal meal consist of?"
Mycroft reflected for a moment, it was odd, this question had him without an answer. He ate whatever was served, or was the most healthy. The only food he was quite confident he liked was chocolate cake, but that wasn't exactly food... In the end he decided to write "I do not have much in the way of favorites, but my ideal desert would include chocolate cake."
The next question was "Describe your dating history."
Mycroft sighed, of course, he would have to explain about Mary at some point in this exercise, he would just keep it simple and to the point; "I never did much in the way of dating. Eleven years ago, I married, but it ended in a divorce five years later due to a variety of factors. I have not dated since."
"What are the chances you would start talking to a random stranger?"
"It depends on if they spoke to me first, if I recognized them, or if they had any relation to someone I know. If not, I would leave them be, otherwise, depending on who they were, I might speak with them."
"What is the first thing people notice when they walk into your home?"
"That it is tidy."
"When are you happiest?"
Another hard one, Mycroft would have said the question was completely irrelevant, but this was dating, so he supposed it was. But happiest, really? When it came down to it, Mycroft didn't bother with happiness, he bothered with getting the job done. Maybe it was when he was averting some sort of international disaster, but he was a "minor government official" so that didn't fit. Happiness was irritatingly subjective.
"I am happiest when in charge of a situation from the comfort of my own home." he ended up writing, though it wasn't fully accurate.
Next; "What was your favorite class at school?"
More favorites, what was the point? Dating, of course, so stupid, this was why he didn't date. "Politics." he pulled from thin air. It wasn't true exactly, but again, he lacked much in the way of favorites, so he went with the one that fit best with his occupation, at least.
"What would you say are your greatest qualities?"
"I am organized and dedicated. I never get overwhelmed, can keep a secret easily, have high self-esteem, am highly intelligent, observant and can draw accurate conclusions about someone from a single glance. I can take in a lot of information at once and come to an educated conclusion that will almost always be accurate and/or effective." Mycroft didn't need a second of thought to answer the question.
Then came the next category; "About Them:" this was going to be even worse, Mycroft could tell from the first question, which read, "What is your 'type'?"
Mycroft didn't exactly have a 'type,' he supposed he had basic qualifications for who he could be interested in and who he couldn't, but he didn't have a 'type' so to speak. That would have to suffice. "They must be intelligent and patient, with a flexible schedule, or at least the very least be able to handle my busy work schedule. They also must be amenable with me taking calls and being forced to leave in the middle of a date for work, with minimal questions asked. They can not be sensitive and must be able to stand large family gatherings as well as the quiet I need to function properly." Mycroft could have gone on, but he decided against it.
"What is your idea of funny?"
Of course, the humor question, he supposed most people did want a date with a sense of humor, but what did Mycroft Holmes find funny? That wasn't something he usually had to think about.
He came up with, "A good wit, sharp tongued and sarcastic, but something requiring intelligence."
"Who would your ideal date be? It can be as outlandish as is honest."
This was another one of those odd questions. What was the real point in going to extremes when it wasn't realistic. Mycroft answered all the same, writing, "A genius with the patience of a saint, who can accept that there are some questions I can't answer. Can easily go from the wizarding world to the muggle one and back."
"What would they look like?"
"In good shape, takes care of themselves, dresses well, but on the conservative side, nothing absurd."
"What was the best date you have ever been on like?"
Mycroft though for a moment before replying, good dates... Finally something came to mind, "On one of my earlier dates with my ex-wife, she took me to a garden in the city. We had a pick-nick and just spent the entire afternoon strolling around. It stormed in the middle of the afternoon and we had to run home, though we both still got soaked." Mycroft felt himself getting sentimental, that was a problem, but it was too late for that, he wasn't about to cross it all out, the paper probably prevented you from removing anything you wrote.
After a moment spent fully composing himself, Mycroft returned to the paper and read the next question, "What was your worst date like?"
This time something easily sprung to mind "It was towards the end of my relationship with my ex-wife, we went out to a restaurant, as we hadn't done in a while. We ended up in an argument and she left if a huff. I finished the meal on my own, paid and left for home. She moved out not long afterwards." This time Mycroft's expression remained its usual, icy, bored almost. There was a reason Moriarty had labeled him as "Iceman." Sherlock was probably the only would would have been able to see the limited emotion behind his stony expression, and even then, it was questionable.
"What would you hope to have in common with a potential partner?" was the next question.
"Intelligence. A wide variety of interests. Relative unfazability. An ability to keep one's mouth shut."
"In what ways would you hope they differ from you?"
"I hope that they are more understanding and have an interesting difference of experiences."
"What is the worst reason for which you've ever broken up with someone?"
"I have never broken up with anyone." he was going to finish it with that, but that seemed to be cheating, not like he usually minded a slight stepping outside the rules, but under the circumstances, it only seemed fair, so he added on, "I have turned someone down because they laughed unusually." It was not his finest movement, but Mycroft had been 7 at the time.
"What features or characteristics would normally rule someone out as a dating possibility?"
"Bad manners, an inability to keep secrets or not ask questions, stupidity."
"Do you have any favorite restaurants, dietary needs, favorites or dislikes we should take into account?"
"None."
At the bottom of the scroll there was a note, "Attach at least one photograph of yourself. Feel free to get creative, though nothing explicit will be permitted."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at that last bit. It was rather sad that they had to include that, not like he was remotely surprised. He fished one of his more recent pictures from his desk and put it inside the scroll of parchment. He then re-sealed the scroll and put it aside for the next time he went to the post office on Diagon Alley.
A few weeks later, Mycroft arrived in Diagon Alley for his date. He was ten minutes early, a bit late by his standards, but it would do. A glance around the French restaurant that had been chosen, told him his date had yet to arrive, so he took a chair by the door and waited, taking the chance to finish answering his emails.
Three quarters of an hour passed before the door swung open, and in ran a witch. Her long, brown hair was in a disheveled bun; her robes and cloak were thoroughly soaked – she must have apparated in. Mycroft hid a disdainful expression, put away his phone and forced himself to his feet, to greet the woman. She was Cassandra Wilde, the equivalent of a prosecutor, working for the Wizengamot. He recognized her from the Ministry, though they had never really met before.
"Pleasure to meet you." he extended a hand for her to shake.
She didn't miss a beat, "James Potter, is it? I'm Cassandra Wilde." she shook his hand, "Nice to meet you. Sorry I'm late, there was a bit of a hold up in Hogsmeade."
He raised an eyebrow when she didn't continue, but was interrupted before he could comment.
"Follow me." the maitre d' gathered some menus and led them through the restaurant to a small table in the back.
The nearest people were several tables away. She was good at her job, it was the ideal location for a date. Mycroft pulled out the chair for his date before seating himself across from her. There was a moment of silence that Mycroft supposed was awkward, as they just sat there, avoiding looking at each other directly. He found it to be a silly ordeal, himself, but who was he to protest?
"So..." Miss Wilde broke the silence hesitantly, "What brings the son of Harry Potter on a blind date?" she ended with a smile.
"A present." Mycroft replied simply.
"Oh..." she sounded slightly disappointed, but forged on all the same, "I suppose I just got tired of being single."
Mycroft nodded, feigning attention.
"What do you do for a living then?" she tried again.
"A minor position under the Minister of Magic." he waved it off, "You?" he supposed it was time he actually contribute to the conversation.
She smiled with relief at the end of the awkwardness, "I'm an investigator for the Wizengamot."
"Really? And I assume that was why you were at Hogsmeade."
"Yeah, I'm working on the Ryan case." she explained.
Mycroft nodded, "Have you found anything." he asked, though he already knew the answer.
"I can't tell you that." she laughed.
"Very well." that was good, she could keep a secret.
What was he thinking? This was just to keep his relations with the family bearable, he was not looking to repeat the disaster that was his relationship with Mary. His slight smile turned into a sharp frown.
She cocked her head, "Is something wrong."
"Nothing at all." he gave his most charming fake smile.
Miss Wilde didn't seem too convinced, but she didn't press the issue – very few people had the gift of knowing when to stop- No! He was not looking for romantic options. – instead she picked up the drink list and changed the topic with a smile, "Any suggestions?"
Mycroft took the list from her and glanced down it, "Different wines go with different types of food," he explained, "It depends on what we're going to eat."
She nodded and picked up her menu, "How do the crepes sound?" she suggested, after a few moments of flipping through it.
Mycroft turned to the correct page. They all sounded delicious, but he was on a diet again. "What about the ratatouille?" he recommended.
A few more minutes of discussion and they came to a compromise of a ratatouille crepe and the bouillabaisse – a type of French fish stew. Mycroft picked out a wine that Miss Wilde didn't recognize. The waiter came and left, before they were left alone once more. He poured them each some wine, and they each took a sip in silence.
A moment passed before she remarked, "This is surprisingly good..."
Mycroft waved it off.
"I suppose taste in wine comes from working with the Minister of Magic?" she joked.
"I suppose." he couldn't help but smile slightly, even though it wasn't his usual taste in humor. "What school did you go to?" he asked.
"Hogwarts," she grinned, "I was in Gryffindor. You?"
"Cambridge." he replied.
She gave him a puzzled look.
"A muggle university."
"Oh, I forgot. You're a squib, right?"
"Yes." he said curtly.
"Sorry..." her apology was awkard.
"It is not your fault." he said with a frown, "People are not expected to remember the details of my life."
A moment passed before it hit her that he was joking. She smiled, "I hope not. So, what's muggle school like?"
"Rather interesting." he went on to explain as she listened avidly, asking frequent questions.
The food came, brining with it a shift of the topic to tastes in food – they decided what to have for dessert – which turned into a discussion of family, Hogwarts houses, politics, work and the Great War. Just as they were finishing up their meal, Mycroft's cell phone rang.
"I apologize, I have to take this." he pulled out his phone and sure enough, it was the Prime Minister of Greece on the other end.
He gave Miss Wilde, or Cassandra, as she insisted on being called, a quick explanation that he had to go, and walked out the door talking on his cell phone in Greek.
