Soon enough, summer drew to a close and it was time to go back to school. Greg scanned the platform for any sign of Mycroft, not seeing him anywhere. Then, he heard voices-
"Now, be good, Mikey," a motherly-sounding voice pleaded.
"Yes, Mummy. And don't call me that!"
Greg choked back a laugh, still keeping his eyes peeled for his friend. He heard him, but couldn't see him yet. Just then, a tall, slender boy of twelve strode imperiously past, making Greg start to push him aside. "Scuse me, I'm looking for someone."
Mycroft just gave him that haughty smile of his that was almost a sneer. "I thought you were joking. It's true, though, you didn't recognize me!"
Greg goggled him, looking Mycroft up and down exaggeratedly. "My...my..." he stammered, not knowing why he suddenly felt so warm and tongue-tied. Am I blushing? "Mycroft, you...wow, well done, mate!" he gasped, then dragged him by the arm. "Mum, Dad! This is my friend, Mycroft. The one who's been writing to me all summer."
"I haven't been writing to you all summer, Greg. We exchanged a handful of letters; that hardly constitutes a drawn-out correspondence." Still, he politely shook hands with Greg's parents before taking his turn to drag him. "Hurry, the train will leave without us!" And hand in hand, the boys took off.
"That kid seem funny to you?" Mr. Lestrade asked his wife. She made a considering face and nodded, folding her arms. Another uncomfortable fact loomed before them. "Did it look like Greg was staring at him in an odd way?" For a moment, his parents silently wondered about their son, what they would do if their son was one of those. Then, his father spoke against such concerns. "Sounds like that Mycroft kid changed a lot over the summer; Greg said he'd been teaching him boxing. Probably trimmed up."
Mrs. Lestrade nodded, "Well, he's got friends at least."
Greg and Mycroft found a compartment together, each looking as though he was bursting with news from the summer. Mycroft wore his usual superior smirk while Greg grinned widely with giddiness.
"Look at this!" He told him, sliding his trunk back out from under the seat and opening it up. He handed Mycroft his broomstick and awaited his reaction.
Mycroft's jaw went slack, his eyes darting back to his friend with almost an accusatory look. "I thought your parents were Muggles!"
"They are."
"I thought you said you weren't rich," he continued, baffled at how his friend came to have such a thing.
"We're not!" Greg replied with an excited laugh.
"I...I don't understand. Did they get this for you?"
"Yup!"
"How?! How did working class Muggles get a beauty like this for you? These are...precious!" Mycroft couldn't think of any other way to describe his friend's vintage ride. He handed it back, still in awe. He came from a long line of purebloods, and they were quite comfortably off, but even he knew how rare they were. He'd heard his father talking brooms with his uncles once at Christmas. It was a sort of hobby for them. For an unfathomable reason, Mycroft was glad that his ordinary friend could have a taste of the best. He had a feeling that Greg would appreciate it more. "Once we get it polished up and do some recharging charms on it to get the kinks out, this'll fly like a dream!" He shifted in his seat, thinking. "Your parents don't like magic, do they?" It had been plain for him to see by they way they looked on Platform 9 ¾. Very out of place with just a touch of disapproval, as if they realized that their son belonged to this world but that didn't mean they had to like it.
This fact so plainly stated brought Greg back down from his euphoric high. "No, I don't think they do. Any time I try talking about school or something, they change the subject. All they seemed to care about was that I got decent marks. Are they going to hate me when I become a wizard?"
"You are a wizard, don't be stupid. I doubt that they'd hate you, but don't be surprised if they let you go in the end. Muggles are like that, they can't handle us. It won't happen overnight, but, it's likely that one day they just won't be there anymore."
Greg scowled at this prospect, unable to deny that he'd seen the beginnings of it over the summer. "I don't want to choose, Mycroft. I can't pick between my parents and being what I am."
"Some go into hiding because of that," Mycroft informed him, leaning back in his seat. "Disappear from the wizarding world and live as Muggles. Either because of their parents and friends, or they fall in love with a Muggle and don't want to explain. Some even lose their powers."
This subject was obviously depressing Lestrade, who was desperate to talk about something else. "I can't wait to get back to school, I've been practically itching all summer! No magic for two months was practically torture! I couldn't even show Mum and Dad what I've learned to do! They might not even believe me!"
Mycroft chuckled darkly, "It only gets worse, with the more that we're able to do. One does get used to it. What?" He asked sharply, catching a grin creeping back up his friend's face.
"Nothing. I like how you talk. I missed it." He squirmed, ducking his head down, certain he was blushing. He ran his hands over his hair, messing it up.
Unexpectedly, Mycroft found himself smiling back. He reached out to his friend, haltingly, then ruffled Greg's hair some more with a shy titter. Greg looked back up with a smile. For a few silent seconds, they just stared.
"Ahem," Mycroft cleared his throat, removing his hand and sitting up straighter again. "I've...uh, never really flown before, not since our basic lesson," he admitted with a touch of embarrassment. "And I hardly count that. Do you think, maybe you could let me have a go on your broom sometime?"
"Sure!" Greg replied, glad again for a comfortable change of subject. Having his friend's hand in his hair felt nice, but disconcerting. It made him consider odd new things. When the lady with the snack trolley came to their compartment, Greg bought enough treats for both of them.
Mycroft eyed the array of sweets before him with a gulp. "I really shouldn't. I so worked hard for this." He drew his hands down his figure.
"Oh, go on, you've earned it. Don't worry, I won't let you get carried away."
"There's the welcoming feast, too," Mycroft reminded him, knowing the temptations that awaited him there. He'd spent the summer keeping careful track of what he ate, he even took to writing it down so he'd know if he'd overindulged.
Greg sifts through the treats, "The pumpkin pasties aren't that bad for you. Pumpkin counts as a vegetable. Besides, you grew a lot over the summer, all that extra height has to come from somewhere." Mycroft grinned at the justification his friend presented, needing no further prodding. He snatched one up and took a bite, it was still warm! He gave himself over wholly to enjoying it without feeling guilty about it. Greg had gotten some Chocolate Frogs as well, remembering how Mycroft liked them.
"All right," he allowed, "but just one."
Greg doled out one for each of them and pocketed the rest for a rainy day. They compared cards. Mycroft got Morgana, adding to his Arthurian set. Greg happily got Queen Maeve. After spending the rest of the trip debating over who would win in a proper duel, they changed into their school uniforms.
Soon, the train pulled into Hogsmeade station and they climbed into the school carriages. As they were sharing it with a few other students, both boys by unspoken agreement pretended not to know each other. While a number of students enjoyed inter-House camaraderie, Slytherin students as a rule preferred to be seen as aloof and above other Houses. This was probably because of their reputation as being the sort of witches and wizards that one shouldn't be friends with, leaving the rest of the school to give them a wide berth. And so, the vicious cycle continued, making Slytherin the least popular House on campus. The assigned villains of the school. Mycroft didn't mind the reputation much, feeling it added to their mystique as a group, although he was strangely pleased that Greg Lestrade wanted him for a friend.
After they reached the school and the Sorting was over, they all quieted down for start-of-term announcements. When Professor Dumbledore addressed them with warm welcome, he impressed upon them the need for caution in these fearful, uncertain times. Just as the Sorting Hat advised them, he called for solidarity among the school, regardless of House rivalries, making several students look at one another across the tables. A few looked dubiously at each other across table lines. Mycroft briefly caught Lestrade's eye before pointedly looking away. The message conveyed across the room was the same for both of them, I'll look after you. The war was a very real thing. A number of Mycroft's family fled the country until things died down. Greg worried about his family constantly while he was away, knowing that Muggles and Mudbloods were the first against the wall. He fingered his deck of Famous Witch and Wizard cards that he kept in his pocket, thinking of the first one he got, the Muggleborn witch who fought in the Second World War. He found himself thinking that if necessary, he would also like to do his part in the effort.
Mycroft's classmates soon took notice of his new look during the feast. One even loudly remarked, "Would you look at that? The penguin turned into a flamingo!" This got a big laugh, which was immediately silenced by an icy look from "the flamingo" in question. Whatever he looked like, he'd already made a name for himself as someone it would be regrettable to cross.
The next morning, the new school year began in earnest, and Greg quickly found that the workload expected of a second-year made his first-year materials look like child's play. By the end of the second week, he found himself at the bottom of Charms class. How he would bring his grades up, he had no clue. It all seemed so much more difficult and he just couldn't concentrate.
"Looks like it's time to repay a favor," he heard a familiar, drawling voice murmur close at hand. Greg looked up and saw Mycroft take a seat next to him in the otherwise-deserted Great Hall. "I just spoke with Professor Flitwick, and he's given me permission to tutor you. Give you an extra hand. You're not all that stupid, all you need is a little more attention. Come on." He whipped off his top robe, drawing Lestrade's gaze to him.
Wow... Greg's pleasantly blank mind sighed. My god, he's wearing a waistcoat! Unsure of why that was so enticing, he stood up and removed his robe, simply following their old protocol from last term.
"Now, concentrate!"
They worked together, uninterrupted for an hour. Soon, the sun was going down, painting the ceiling in indigo. The first stars were peeping out as well. It had been an oddly strenuous tutoring session, but by the end of it, Mycroft declared he saw noticeable improvement. He looked over at his student with a look of approval, scratching his fingers through his hair.
Greg straightened up, feeling very pleased with himself. He chuckled at his normally put-together friend looking a bit roughed-up. Mycroft's hair had grown longer over the summer and it was falling in frazzled curls around his face. Greg walked up to him and, using his wand, nudged a lock of hair away from Mycroft's face, gently tracing his forehead.
Mycroft sprang back, shuddering, his eyes wide in alarm. "Don't-!"
Greg didn't see what was the matter. "What? That didn't hurt you. It's all right, I'm not hexing you." Then, to show he meant him no harm, he repeated the gesture, simply brushing Mycroft's brow.
"Ahh!" Mycroft gasped in a mix of pleasure and alarm. "Please stop. You don't know what you're doing. It's personal, very personal! Just leave me alone!" He swung his robe back on and strode out in a huff.
"Where are you going?!"
"Hospital wing," he told him in a voice that did not speak of an invitation.
Feeling rather hurt and confused, Greg returned to the Hufflepuff common room. He slumped down in a chair, hoping that his actions hadn't lost him his best friend. A few classmates caught his distraught expression and attempted to cheer him up, asking what was wrong.
"Look, I...think I did something wrong without realizing I did. Y'know? My parents are Muggles, they don't know anything about this sort of stuff."
"Why, what'd you do?" A fellow second-year boy asked.
Greg gulped, knowing that Mycroft would kill him if his name came up in this discussion. "I brushed my wand against someone's forehead. Twice. I didn't know it was-" but before he could finish, he heard shocked gasps all around him.
"What'd that feel like?" the boy asked in an amazed hush.
"I thought it felt great. Scared the pants off of...look, I'm not naming names, all right? Point is, I didn't mean whatever it is it means. And I feel awful because I only wanted to be friends."
It was obvious that what he had done wasn't acceptable behavior, specifically among purebloods. It was, as Mycroft said, a very personal gesture. People didn't just go around prodding each other with their wands. The half-bloods and Muggle-borns were a tad more sympathetic.
"Maybe if you go apologize, explain that you didn't know."
"Yeah, maybe," Greg replied dully. He didn't have much hope there. He could still see the appalled look on Mycroft's face. He was certain he would never forgive him.
In the hospital wing, Madame Pomfrey examined the young Slytherin. "I'm going to give you something to calm you, it's clear you had a bit of a fright." As he drank the potion and lay down, she asked. "Now what happened? Another side effect is that it makes it harder to lie."
Mycroft grimaced. He thought he'd avoided being interrogated. "Lestrade in Hufflepuff," he reported, already detecting a slur to his voice. "We were...practicing Charms, he needed tutoring. Then he...once we were done, he..." he brushed his forehead. "Touched me with his wand. Told him not to, he did it again. I...don't think he knows what it means, but I felt him! I felt him. No one's ever done that to me. Wasn't bad, felt nice, actually. Heard about it, read about it, Mummy...warned me about it. He felt...nice." and with that, he dropped off to sleep.
Madame Pomfrey tsked, looking at the bottle. "It was supposed to keep you calm, not put you to sleep. Sensitive boy," she muttered to herself, tucking him in.
The next morning, between periods, Greg stopped into the hospital wing to visit. He set some flowers on Mycroft's bedside table and gazed at him. Suddenly, he found the school nurse looming over his shoulder.
"He told me you touched him inappropriately. I don't know what your parents taught you, but-"
"My parents didn't teach me anything," Greg growled. "I don't know what I did wrong, and I'm sorry. It felt...really weird."
"You exposed your essence on the poor boy. And you got a taste of his in return," she told him sharply, standing with her hands on her hips. "I don't know what exactly happened, but we don't tolerate predatorial behavior at this school."
"Predatorial?! All I did was brush his forehead!"
"With your wand, he said."
Greg wheeled around, now facing his accuser at last. "Was that...? Oh, I didn't mean that! I didn't mean..."
Mycroft's eyelids twitched, his nostrils flared, and he reached a hand blindly in Greg's direction. He opened his eyes and sat up carefully, cradling his head. "Oh, god, that was powerful."
The nurse hid a snigger at that, glad that she hadn't given him anything more potent. "You mustn't have had soothers before."
"We don't whip out a potion for every problem at home," Mycroft grumbled. Then, his eyes fell on Greg and he flinched!
To set him at ease, Lestrade stuck his wand in his pocket and raised his hands. "I'm really sorry. I didn't know what I was doing. I didn't know it meant something here."
"It's all right. It...actually felt kind of nice," he admitted. "You had no way of knowing, you didn't hurt me."
"It's a highly personal gesture," Madame Pomfrey sniffed in disapproval.
"He's Muggleborn. He doesn't know any better," Mycroft explained, getting up and out of bed. "I'm not going to press charges. Just took me by surprise."
"Still want a ride on my broom later?" Greg asked, hoping to bury the hatchet. He knew he could never forgive himself if this accident had lasting injury.
Mycroft didn't answer, just slipped his robe back on, withdrew his wand, and brushed it against Greg's cheek with a smirk. Again, it gave them both pleasant shivers, and they nearly forgot themselves and started giggling. "Now we're even," he whispered. As he marched out the door into the hall, he called out, "Meet me in the courtyard at six-thirty precisely. That broom of yours will need polishing beforehand, unless you want splinters everywhere." Greg followed after him as they both headed to Herbology together. Once there, they separated according to House, each of them putting on the perfect mask of indifference.
That night, as promised, Greg met Mycroft in the school courtyard in front of the castle, broom slung over his shoulder. He'd spent an hour scouring and polishing the handle until it was smooth. He'd trimmed the twigs in the tail to a more streamlined shape as well. It was already starting to look like the beauty it promised to be. Mycroft had evidently been preparing for this as well, and had a bag of supplies with him. With a wave of his wand and an utterance of "Scourgify! Tergeo!" a layer of soap bubbles foamed over it, scrubbing away decades of accumulated dust and filth. When the muddy mass slithered off, the broomstick shone. To finish it off, he magically swapped the frayed, rotten strings that bound the brush to the shaft with sturdy bands of glimmering silver twine. Greg watched him, open-mouthed, as Mycroft circled it, casting spell after spell on it, his wand gliding through the evening air like a symphony conductor. He sprinkled glittering powders and dried flower petals around it, moving with determined purpose and grace.
On Greg's first trip to Flourish and Blott's, he'd found a children's fairy tale book and saw a moving picture of a swarm of fairies laying blessings upon a sleeping baby in a forest. That image sprang to mind as he watched his friend work his magic. The sight brought tears to his eyes.
"That was beautiful," he gasped.
Mycroft grinned, blowing the tip of his wand as he'd seen Greg do after a particularly impressive display of magic. He pocketed it and held the restored broom to his friend. "Now we'll see what she can do!"
"All right, hop on behind me!" Both boys clambered onto the broom, Mycroft holding Greg tightly around the middle. They pushed off, and were soaring! The warm air rippled past them as they flew past the setting sun.
Still a bit nervous and uncomfortable with heights, Mycroft clung hard to his friend, finding this new sensation to be quite pleasurable. "Oh, Greg, I'm flying," he sighed with a dark snigger.
"Greg, you're flying!" Mycroft whispered in awe from the stands as he watched the Quidditch game unfold. He easily found his friend among the players, finally understanding what some of the excitement surrounding the game was all about. He whooped happily as Greg blocked a Gryffindor player from scoring, letting his own team take possession of the Quaffle. He zoomed here and there clubbing Bludgers easily, as if he'd been born for this sport. Hufflepuff scored, and Mycroft cheered, waving a black and yellow pennant.
While it would not seem logical to many, he wasn't the only Slytherin student cheering on Hufflepuff. A number of his fellows had been befriended by the least flashy House of the school. Otherwise lonely souls who chafed under their reputation as the bad kids were proud to support the students who above all else valued friendship and fairness.
Soon, the game ended, Hufflepuff won two hundred points to thirty. Greg lighted on the ground and found himself surrounded by ecstatic students. A cluster of red-robed players descended as well and the teams shook hands with each other, the Gryffindors looking very down about the outcome of the match.
As his own team's well-wishers flocked to them, a teammate pointed into the crowd. "Hey, who's that?"
Greg followed the boy's finger to Mycroft, who hung back from the crowd. "Friend of mine."
"Isn't that Holmes? That kid they called the penguin? Dweeby little squirt, isn't he?"
"What's it to you, Stephen? I like him. I think he's pretty cool," Greg replied stoutly, waving to Mycroft.
They headed to the locker room and showered. Stephen continued questioning Greg about his choice of companions. "I don't know, that Holmes kid always has this creepy look about him, y'know? Like he's plotting something. Like he knows something we don't."
"I don't doubt it," Lestrade remarked casually, drying his hair off and putting his regular robes back on. None of the rest of the team seemed as interested in his associations, they sounded bored with Stephen's suspicions. The rest of the team farewelled him with pounds to the back and ruffling of his hair. Despite just being a second-year, he was already well-liked among his teammates. It gave him a sense of belonging that he'd sorely lacked up until now. He was coming out of his shell. "Catch you guys later. Great game!"
"Where're you dashing off to? Party in the common room!" one exclaimed.
"I won't take long, Sami. I just promised Mycroft a go on my broom."
1981
In celebration of Voldemort's defeat, Professor Dumbledore announced a ball would be given. Fourth year students and older would be able to go, younger students could accompany an older one, though. Every student who was eligible to visit Hogsmeade that weekend clamored to go, to pick out new dress robes for the occasion.
On the way back to school after the frenzied shopping trip, Greg Lestrade felt a familiar tugging sensation. With a resigned sigh, he followed where it led him, pushing students aside, apologizing, feeling the occasional extra pull. When he finally found Mycroft, he rubbed at the front of his robes as the spell released him
"That's really uncomfortable, you know."
Mycroft only smiled at him. "I have a favor to ask of you." He'd evidently finished shopping as well, a garment bag hung from the back of a chair. Greg hung his up, too, as well as his cloak and scarf. "Do you know anything about dancing?"
Greg laughed, "You mean you don't? I thought you knew everything."
This made Mycroft scowl a little, looking uncomfortably embarrassed. "Do you or don't you?"
"Yeah, sure, I learned before I started at Hogwarts. Mum insisted I take ballroom dancing classes. Wanted me to be a her little gentleman." He made a face at the memory. Too tight shoes, a weird old lady leading him through steps, and a bunch of other kids who didn't want to be there either.
Without another word, Mycroft flicked his wand to his left. An old phonograph wound itself and began to play. The Slytherin boy closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the music. "If it must be Strauss, choose Johann. If it must be Richard, choose Wagner. Now, shall we? Or do I need to take off my robe for this, too?"
Greg sniggered, "Nah, you don't need that much range of motion for this. All right, I'll lead to start out, then I'll teach you to."
"Are you saying I'm the lady?"
With a teasing smirk, Greg answered, "Well, yeah. Okay, this is just the standard box-step, for waltzes like this." He placed his hand at his friend's waist. "Now, put your left hand on my shoulder, and take my free hand with your right. There." They stood there, feeling a little awkward. Greg felt warmth bubble up inside him and he tried to force that feeling away. "Ahem. Just do the opposite of what I do. I step forward, you step back...good, now out...and together. Good. Now a turn..."
Perhaps it was from their previous boxing lessons, but the two found that they moved together rather well. It seemed to come naturally. It quickly dawned on them that they were enjoying themselves.
"What?" Mycroft snapped sharply, squinting at his friend's giddy expression.
"Nothing."
"It's not 'nothing,' what are you grinning at now?!"
"Just...I like this, is all," Greg muttered shyly.
There was a long pause, neither of them broke their step for a second. Mycroft spun his friend with careless grace. "I...I like it, too," he admitted softly as they resumed their box-step. It took him another minute to summon the right words for what he was thinking, he struggled to find something he could compare this feeling to. "Feels like-"
"-flying," they said together. Then, together, they broke into secret, breathy laughs. They stopped their dance and simply slid into each other's arms, brushing their foreheads together. Both of them gasped a soft "Oh," as they finally indulged these sensations fully.
"Oh, god, I am, aren't I?" Greg whispered worriedly. "I'm one of those."
"Seems so. One way to be sure, though."
"How's that?"
Mycroft gave him a heart-flipping smirk, cupped a hand around Greg's face, and kissed him. The effect was immediate and undeniable. When they broke apart, Greg gave Mycroft a punch-drunk look, distinctly out of breath.
"So that's why I never got what all that 'girlfriend' fuss was about." They both broke into hysterical laughter at this. "I...don't think I'm allowed to take you as my date, Mycroft, but I'll save a dance for you."
"You'd better," he purred, kissing him again. He smiled silkily, seeming to ponder something. "Looks like I'm 'one of those' too." They didn't seem to realize that they were still standing motionless in each other's arms. Neither of them moved to break apart. They just stood there, nose to nose, looking ready to kiss again at a moment's notice. "Greg...in all seriousness, we have to keep this secret. If they knew, if anyone knew..."
"They'd kill us."
"Most likely."
Greg looked troubled. They sat down on a bench together, still in mid-cuddle. "Mum and Dad don't like...people like us. God, being a wizard was bad enough. What'll they do with me now?!"
Mycroft shrugged, reaching over and stopping the record. "They don't like homosexuals, they don't like wizards, and here you are, a gay wizard." He sniggered humorlessly. "You don't need them. If they don't want you around, I'm sure my parents wouldn't mind having you." He let Lestrade squirm against him as he pondered what a tactile person he was. Mycroft normally preferred a safe bubble of personal space, but he let Greg cuddle him. It gave him the impression that he was protecting him, comforting him. It felt rather...couply. He kissed the top of Greg's head, nuzzling his hair with one arm around his shoulder. Yes, this is nice.
Friday night rolled around and it was time for the ball. Students were crowded noisily in the Great Hall, all admiring one another's robes. Greg strode in wearing blue-grey robes, a fairly pretty girl his own age at his side. She wore stunning royal blue robes that complimented her dark hair. She couldn't stop smiling up at him as he led her down to the dance floor. "Hang on a bit, Heather. Spotted someone."
He combed the crowd until he found who he was looking for. There, standing at the edge of the throng was Mycroft in a perfectly-cut dove grey set of robes. Greg stared at him from across the floor with an eager look in his eyes. Mycroft gazed back, looking his friend over from the floor up. Greg blew him a kiss before they both turned away.
Professor McGonagall tugged on Dumbledore's sleeve. "Did you see that? Or was I imagining it?"
"I saw it," the aged wizard replied calmly. He chuckled softly to himself. "I wonder if they'll get a dance."
"A Hufflepuff and a Slytherin. Both of them boys. Not a very likely pair, don't you think?"
Dumbledore looked surprised with his colleague. "Nonsense. I've actually seen numerous friendships of that sort unfold over the years. Gryffindor and Ravenclaw like to cast Slytherin as the perennial antagonist. Hufflepuff students tend to be more understanding, and seek out those who need friends the most. Much like Lestrade and Holmes. I know House rivalries run deep, Minerva. Just for a moment, all I would like you to see here is two boys, two people who care for each other."
Minerva looked between the two boys again with a smile, trying to imagine them dancing together. "Their robes compliment each other," she noted. "Just...not something you see every day."
"They'll be trying their hardest to keep it secret. Unfortunately, not much has changed since my day." The headmaster's voice sounded heavy with a deep sadness. "It makes you wonder, does it not? How many other students are that way, but they don't dare show it? Taught to be ashamed of their natural impulses, taught to hide and deny who they are."
"These two dare. And yet neither of them were selected for their bravery. Cunning and loyalty are needed for what lies ahead for them, though."
Dumbledore looked at Minerva with pride, glad that she had taken off her scarlet-tinted glasses for once. House rivalries did not begin and end with the students by any stretch. He was aware that the teachers, too, were guilty of it. "Look!" he whispered, not even daring to point.
After a few polite dances with his date, Greg left her at the punch bowl. Mycroft saw him and glided up. He took his hand and drew him along into an abandoned alcove away from the crowd. Greg smiled up at him, feeling happy flutters in his stomach. Mycroft seemed incapable of smiling without a hint of a sneer, but it was well-meant.
"Shall we?"
Luckily, the music changed to something in ¾ time. Taking this as a good sign, Greg placed his hand at Mycroft's waist, while the latter put a hand to his shoulder. Holding their free hands together, they stood quite close... As they danced, Greg crept even nearer and rested his head against Mycroft's shoulder. It startled him, but soon they both relaxed again, doing effortless spins as though reading each other's minds.
"I love you," Greg whispered.
"Really? Even if I'm a flamingo?" Mycroft asked with a curled lip. No matter what, he still couldn't shake that particular moniker. Getting taller with each progressing year, along with that nose of his, led many to compare him to the gangly waterfowl.
"You're not a flamingo, you're a swan," he purred.
Mycroft's response came so lightly that Greg could barely hear him. "I love you, too."
They got a bit bolder, brushed their foreheads together, rubbing noses, then...
"They'll see," Mycroft cautioned regretfully.
"Right, right, sorry." Greg replied, breaking their embrace and getting a safe distance away. They both got a sudden chill at their separation.
Mycroft tried to make a break for it and leave the party early, but he was stopped by Professor Sprout. Without explaining herself, she took him by the arm and steered him back to Lestrade, then took them both to the main entrance to the castle.
"Don't worry, you're not in trouble," she promised them from the start. "I saw you two dancing. The Headmaster did, too."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Mycroft lied smoothly. "We were just dancing. Practicing."
"Hmm," Sprout considered with half a smile. "Looked like you were enjoying it. So, are you two...?" She pointed between them, not believing their innocent faces for one second. "It's fine if you are. There isn't anything wrong with...that."
Greg was the first to crack. No one had ever said such a thing to him before. "Really?!" He sounded relieved, overjoyed! He looked up at his boyfriend with hope in his eyes.
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with either of you," she pronounced decidedly. "And you make a fine couple, if I may say so. I understand your caution. We can only hope that someday you and others like you won't have to worry. Until then, know you're safe with me."
Mycroft was much more taciturn than his exuberant counterpart. "Thank you," he muttered tersely.
"You mean it, Professor? It's normal? It's not a...curse or a bad strain?"
The Head of Hufflepuff House let her reassuring smile drop as she was filled with sympathy for her young student. He would be a man soon, and needed as much positive influence as he could in these last few developing years. "Perfectly normal. Not everyone thinks so, but someday."
"Like Muggles and wizards someday coexisting side by side?" Mycroft sneered skeptically. "You might not think there's anything wrong with us, but don't tell us that a lot of people would agree. We don't have that luxury."
"You're just a little different. At least you have each other," Sprout pointed out.
Greg took Mycroft's hand, feeling a mix of hope and apprehension. "She's right. We'll keep it under wraps, but...I'm glad I've got you."
For a moment there, Mycroft looked like he was going to cry. This was more validation than he'd ever gotten. He gulped and drew Greg near him again, taking him in his arms. Before they knew it, they were kissing again. Professor Sprout smiled to herself with the knowledge of a job well done and went back to join the party. She flashed an "OK" sign at the head table.
Professor McGonagall looked relieved that her friend could handle them both. She was frankly afraid of what Severus Snape, the new Potions Master and Head of Slytherin, would have done about it. She wondered how he managed to secure the position so soon after finishing school himself. He always had a bad reputation, even among the staff. He was writing his own hexes and curses by the time he was fourteen. All of his closest friends became Death Eaters. Could they really trust such a person to mold so many impressionable young minds? She gave a little shudder at the thought. Dumbledore trusted him, though, and she trusted the headmaster absolutely. He must have a good reason. Still, Minerva thought, Severus Snape was not the one she wanted to send frightened children to for "the talk." He would probably take away house points for wasting his time, and issue detentions for being a pansy. The last time she'd run into him, he'd looked positively murderous.
"Thank you, Pomona," she said gratefully as she made a circuit around the dance floor. Apart from the boys' display of romantic tension, it seemed as though everyone was having a good time. She scanned the room carefully, and caught Lestrade spinning Holmes into the Great Hall. He subtly kissed the boy's hand and then flitted away to the snack table to attend his official date.
He and Mycroft didn't share any more dances that night, but they were never far from each other. As the evening progressed, and they both began to feel bold again. They sat together on a pair of available chairs, sitting out the rest of the dance and staying out of the way. They sat with hands clasped shyly between their seats, sneaking a look at each other from time to time. As the clock inched closer to midnight, Mycroft decided that it would now be acceptable to feign tiredness, and slouched down in his chair, resting his head against Greg's shoulder. Greg put his arm around him and they sat cuddled sleepily together. No one paid them any attention. Many others were feeling ready for bed as well. Together, they rose and stretched. Greg found his date to say good-night, and hurried back to escort Mycroft back.
They found themselves miraculously alone for just that moment. When they reached the hidden door in the wall leading to the Slytherin common room, Mycroft tilted his head down and kissed Greg good-night. He looked so shy and scared for one fleeting second, before he snapped his shields back into place. "Well, see you."
"Yeah, see you."
Mycroft gave the password and strode into his common room, taking a seat by the fireplace before heading up to bed. He smiled to himself as an idea hatched. He took up a quill, dipped it in ink, and scribbled two words on a scrap of parchment. He signed it and sealed it with his ring.
Greg sat by the cozy, crackling fire, stretching his legs out comfortably, grinning to himself as he replayed the events of the evening. The others had already gone up to bed, but his head and heart were too full to settle down. There was a scurrying sound and Greg felt a scrap of paper slip under his hand. He had just a second's glimpse of the house elf before it vanished. He broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, pleased with what he read.
Like flying
-MH
"Flying," he muttered, making his way to his bed. He laid the note on his bedside table, cast off his dress robes in a jumbled heap, and climbed into bed.
He heard vague scurryings in the night, and when he woke the next morning, his robes had been hung up tidily on the back of a chair. They looked like they'd even been steamed and pressed. Then his eyes fell on the note, and he got an idea...
Greg hopped out of bed and rummaged in his book bag for a quill, some parchment, and a bottle of ink.
Dear Mycroft,
I had a wonderful time last night. Thank you for every part you had in it. I hope that Professor Sprout is right, and that someday we don't have to be secret about each other. I feel as though I want to tell everybody. I promise to keep it secret, though. They just wouldn't understand. You told me that the code phrase for asking if someone is a wizard is to ask them if they support Scottish rugby. I think we need a code word or phrase for us. You're clever enough to think one up. Do you think that's a good idea?
Love,
Greg
XOXO
He folded it up, dripped wax on it, and pressed his Hufflepuff pin to it for a seal. He clearly wrote 'Mycroft Holmes, Slytherin, PRIVATE' on the back and stuck it in his pocket. Then, Greg went out to the Great Hall for breakfast. After he ate all he could—he would never get over the abundance of food in this place—he laid the note on his plate and watched it magically vanish. He grinned to himself, pleased that he thought of a way to get a secret message to his friend.
Sure enough, as he sat outside, enjoying the sunshine, when Mycroft finally emerged. He looked out into the courtyard and briefly caught Greg's eye. He pulled a corner of parchment out of his pocket and shoved it back in again.
From that day forward, they took to sneaking each other notes. They sat next to each other in Muggle Studies class, making this very convenient. Although Greg was Muggleborn, he was taking the class as a requirement for his desired career path. Mycroft as well sought to be a liaison between the wizards' and Muggle government. Lestrade was shooting for law enforcement. Professor Burbage turned a blind eye to their note-passing and conspiratorial murmurings. It certainly didn't impair their grades or disrupt the other students. The caliber of students who took Muggle Studies tended to have more progressive views, and were completely unalarmed by any displays of camaraderie or affection between the two of them. They kept it limited to occasional hand-touching and hair-petting. It was never mentioned outside of that classroom, leading both Greg and Mycroft to note that their classmates who may have noticed their behavior didn't blab about it. This knowledge reassured them, secured them greatly. All anyone said to either of them was remarking that they were friends.