So... First chapter. Or something.
Disclaimer: while I find it funny to come up with different ways to say I don't own something, the message in itself is rather depressing. Not mine, though.
Chapter One
-A lunch, a whine and a scent-
The table was packed with grotesquely sweet, salty and fat food enough to give anyone a stroke and a half. Mycroft ate away.
He was preoccupied.
The source of his uneasiness wasn't the Royal Family, nor his brother, nor the general incompetence of the people whose job he usually did (though all of these were a constant nagging at the back of his mind).
The source of nis uneasiness was the magical society which called itself Wizarding Britain, which was completely messed up.
It was like walking into his always-so-tidy room and find Sherlock did experiments all ove it. No, it was even worse. They didn't have an administrative problem as much as they didn't have an administration at all.
Mycroft stabbed a pudding rather viciously with his spoon and the sweet shook all over the place.
The Wizarding Society was just coming out of a war.
A war.
As in outright militar conflict.
In Britain.
When it was under his jurisdiction.
Suddenly the innocent milky pudding seemed nasty, rancid, and not to fit at all with the rest of the food. He put it away with a grimace.
The Minister of Magic was suffering Impeachment for his appalling leading skills during the war time.
Not surprising, of course, the man didn't seem to have much of a wit during the small time they had talked. In fact, Mycroft hadn't even been payed attention to properly, so distraught the minister had been. He supposed the state of unawareness and confusion was far earlier than the news of the impending demissing. In fact, it was rather regarded with relief.
He had to pay attention to the candidates, then, but... There laid other problem.
All strong candidates seemed to have something impending them from taking charge. He started building a ham-packed sandwich and enumerating the what-ifs strong candidates.
Bartholomeus Crouch Senior seemed to be facing a familiar drama, which turned out to be a scandal, which impeded any political career from going smoothly. Actually, he was adding lots of butter to his sandwich at that because there were too many scandals around at the moment and the entire population seemed to be growing fond of the shove-all-problems-under-a-rug-and-pretend-it-never-happened policy. As if that had ever worked. World War Two didn't seem to have taught the wizards much. Of course, the wizards knew it as Grindewald's War and he didn't have enough information over it yet to asset his judgment of that conflict. He was too busy with the contemporary one. He needed more cheese.
Back to the subject, he didn't know what was the problem with the double war hero Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore that he didn't step in to take the leader-of-magical-Britain spot, but on second thought, it probably was what wasn't wrong with him. His position as headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry seemed a lot more stable, strong and influential one. The Ministry of Magic seemed to have a historical tendency of being overthrown every time there was a struggle. Which was such a not-good thought he started nibbling at something sugar-coated while the sandwich was not ready yet. He was going to need to talk with the old man eventually.
Other strong politician, Lucius Malfoy, (and the rest of renowed Pureblood leaders) was too busy trying to get out of the neck-deep pit of having aligned with the losing side. Which was good, since this specific faction of the Wizarding community was anti-non-wizards (he wasn't very fond of the therm "Muggle") and supported terrorism. He was actually half sure the only reason Malfoy hadn't been judged guilty of being a terrorist himself was because of the lack if proofs. Maybe he should just put Sherlock on the case and have them all arrested by the end of the day. Or not, after all, his little brother didn't have all that much tact and he had heard of mind-damaging spells enough to panic at the thought of ever having him face the wrong side of a wand.
He had better take care of Lucius Malfoy himself. If his inferences were right, the man was going to immediately start doing the exatc same thing he was trying to do when he was free of suspicion - control the tides of politics in the Ministry from the backstage. Which was easier for Malfoy, since he was member of the Wizengamont and controlled half the media. He had to find a way to blackmail the terrorist, or something. He put a few extra sugar cubes on his tea and tore his way through the sandwich.
A rather sour subject made his despising the probable winner of the elections Cornelius Fudge's easily manipulated little mind and possibility of a struggle against the blood purist pale by comparison.
If the war came back to haunt them, which he was sure would happen, there was no way the non-wizards could defend themselves from the terrorists, because technology didn't work properly in the presence of magic. Obviously there was a way around that rule, if the flying motorcycle and rumored flying Ford Anglia were anything to go by. He had already set a laboratory at Bakersville for the research and was looking for suitable wizards and scientists to take on the project. It was good to have something half-set towards a solution, for once.
Also, it seemed the whole war had been brought to a dramatic ending which involved an one year old child defeating the leader of the opposition. Which didn't make any sense even with all the magic around. He refused to believe it made any sense. The way Albus Dumbledore took charge of everything remotely related to the fabled Boy-Who-Lived wasn't putting him at ease, either. The fact the magical population seemed ready to shove all their problems back to the child's shoulders at the first sign of complication made him wonder how the Macarons were over so fast. People were so hard to deal with. He wanted to go to the Dyogenes Club and pout there.
At least nobody could blame him for not doing his researches, however primary they still were. In his defense, he was on the case for less than a week and all the terrible footwork was putting him behind schedule. He had bought some uncounspicious owls, obviously, and got a heavily warded floo line at the fireplace of his office, but the archaic-ness of the Wizarding World wasn't helping and there was a limit of how much attention he could deliver that single subject without neglecting the rest of his duties, something he was not willing to do.
It cost him lots of self restraint not to call on Sherlock and point him to some slightly odd case which would bring him to contact with wizards and have him unleashed on the Aurors Deparment, throwing tantrums over their low IQ and solving half his problems inadvertedly. Like the Sirius Black case. He had almost choked with the notion of summary punishment when he heard of it, but yet again didn't have time to fix little wrongs when the whole system was crumbling. He cursed at yet another loose end. And at the impending end of his lunch break.
It cost more than self restraint and consumed a ridiculous amount of his time to try to keep his little brother away from the wizards altogether, because of his aforementioned fear of having Sherlock's ego stalk right into the aim of a Death Eater before he could make sure he would be safe. He was having to practically shove cases under his nose, one after another, as curious as he could get, as far away as possible, but it probably would not be enough, and the lack of criminal action lately wasn't being helpful. He had a suspicion it was Moriarty's fault, however clouded the name's real meaning still was, but it was not as if he had time to dwell on the criminal mastermind either-
Mycroft reached for his phone, which had received a text.
"We need to talk. The Leaky Cauldron. Come at once, if convenient. -SH."
It was really a wonder he managed not to facepalm.
Lucius threw himself facefist on the bed like the drama-queen he really was, complete with a heartfelt sigh.
"I hate muggles," he whined into the sheets, his voice coming muffled and barely comprehensible.
"Yes, dear, I thought we had made that point pretty clear," Narcissa's response was a monotone. She didn't even raise her eyes from the Witch Weekly.
But he hated them. He really did. It wasn't even Pureblood tradition, or a Death Eater's words. It was personal.
That day had begun so adorably well... Why couldn't it remain like that?
Lucius had been parading around the ministry like the diva he was. Everything had been perfectly fine. His influence over the Daily Prophet was steadily gathering voters for Cornelius. Arthur Weasley had been disgraced by his time in the Order of the Phoenix or however else Dumbledore's little resistance called itself and still kept in the same disregarded job in the ministry as always. The Longbottoms had been lobotomized by the Lestranges. The potters were deceased. Black was in Azkaban... They gave him free reign, removing all strong Pureblood families from the way like an early Christmas gift... It only attested to his Slytherin composure and grace that he wasn't skipping around with glee, but he did want to.
He strode across the Minister of Magic's sumptuous and empty office, more for the impressiveness of walking into the most restricted parts of the ministry like he owned the place than for any particular objective. Of course that was an objective in itself, since anyone powerful enough to do just that would be looked up to and admired, even if a Weasley or another would squeal with indignation. The loser.
That was when an owl which could very well have been a ministry owl dropped an envelop by soaring almost straight at his head, actually snarling in the process, as much as owls shouldn't be able to do that. The animal was gone as fast as it had come, or he would have hexed its wings off.
Looking just as composed as ever, for Lucius wouldn't look any other way if he had something to say in the matter, he reached for the envelop. It didn't have a name, the seal was just a plain drop of wax. Maybe it was intended for someone else and that wretched bird had just happened to decide he was as good a target as any. Well, it was not as if he cared about whoever the destinatary had been anyways, and the blank parchment was making him curious.
He opened and read it. Then he read it again. Then he set it on fire. Then he felt stupid because he couldn't track it to the source anymore, which probably wouldn't have worked in first place. Then what was written on it sunk in truly and he collapsed at the Minister's chair so deep in thought he didn't even marvel in his own awesomeness.
It said: "The business with 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' was rather telling of your true loyalties... As the Dark Mark on your left arm is. You ought to be more careful with your politics..."
First off, it was evident it was for him and he couldn't pretend that it wasn't. The "business with 'The Fountain of Fair Fortune'" was a reference to his attempt to censure said tale upon becoming a Hogwarts' Governor, which had both put him in animosity with Dumbledore and been a show of his Pureblood Supremacy views. On second thought it had been a very Death Eater-ish speech, if properly distorted. The rest of it was a blatant threat of denouncing him if he made more outright anti-muggle campaigns. Clever.
A bit ungracious, if he was to say anything. The owl's attack certainly had been a bit of an overkill. Freakish animal.
Whatever the outcome, he had a political enemy. Most certainly a blood-traitor. He was inclined to think of the person as a Slytherin, though the blood-traitor-ness attested against that. He certainly wouldn't put it past a Ravenclaw. Or Dumbledore, for that matter, if Dumbledore hadn't already answered him. And he answered back. And it developed into an exchange of written insults. Which could have been very well intercepted by whoever had sent this.
What? Now he couldn't be anti-muggle anymore? He was a Blood Supremacist! That's what he did!
But he could hardly risk ending in Askaban and disgracing the lives of his family. Principally now they had little Draco.
How glorious.
Which leads us to Lucius whining at Narcissa. And making up his mind this wasn't over yet. Though he was not sure what he was going to do yet, either. But as Narcissa smiled at him and told him everything was going to be alright even though she didn't have the barest idea what his problem was and was just giving her support like the good wife she was, he decided he could play this game. Because his family was worth it.
Because his family was worth it, he was capable of both crushing his enemies like bugs or joining them, abandoning all his beliefs. Because he had Narcissa, Draco and even his dad. He had all the opportunities he could have, he had free reign of the Ministry, he was the most important family lord at the moment, his family was perfect, and veiled threats handed by murdering birds didn't matter.
Not that he would do nothing about it, but it paled in comparison to his wife's sincere smile or the one that would light his son's features like someone had turned an extra light on. It paled before the necessity of attending to their every whim, to the necessity of keeping those smiles there. And he would keep them there, even if for that he had to be a complete bastard. Not that he minded being an evil bastard, bad guys were stylish.
Huh, thinking about that, he should start looking for Christmass presents...
This world is about adaptation. The ones who are fit survive. The ones who are strong survive. The one who have allies survive. That is the law of nature.
When Grindewald was brought down, the wolves survived. They came to England, following the trail, tthese to and the whispers of a second Dark Lord. They hid under the black cloaks of Death Eaters, taking shelter from the persecution of the Law, bringing carnage for their amusement. Both grew prosper in some kind of mutualism.
The wolves were strong. They were smart and adaptable.
Fenrir Greyback, as the alpha, was very keen on keeping the pack alive, once He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named too was down.
The Dark Lord post wouldn't be empty for long. It never was. Darkness needed someone to lord over it as a pack needed an alpha to guide it. That too was a law of nature.
Therefore he again followed scents and whispers.
There were the ones of the possible return of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Once he did, Fenrir wouldn't hesitate to come and feast upon the spilled blood. But in the meantime he couldn't see those filthy wizards risking their necks by consorting with werewolves, not when their master was gone.
If one only looked for it, one could catch a glimpse of the threads of a forming spider web. Still too delicate and invisible to bother humans, but strong enough to capture his senses.
There were no disappearings. No, that was too Voldemort. There were accidents, sicknesses ans unrelated, odd events here and there too subtle to be something meaningful. But to his acute wolf senses, someone was clearly testing the waters, something was getting ready... For what he did not care.
He wasn't going to say it was unwelcome, not when knocturn alley was so empty and subdued. It didn't look too well like that.
So he followed the scent. It reeked of blood, of madness, of fire and he was delighted by it. What wasn't his surprise when he found the uncounspicious, muggle-seeming little man by the end of the bread-crumbs.
He and his pack surrounded the ascending power of the one known as Moriarty, to the tune of a Muggle song which made him smile predatorily.
"It's close to midnight/ Something evil's lurkin' in the dark /Under the moonlight/ You see a sight that almost stops your heart/ You try to scream/ But terror takes the sound before you make it/ You start to freeze/ As horror looks you right between the eyes/ You're paralyzed/ 'Cause this is thriller/ Thriller night/ And no one's gonna save you/ From the beast about to strike..."
Welcome to the amazing A/N section in which I rant over things you don't care about!
First off, thank you for all the people who read it, but specially the ones who favorited and reviewed because we all know it is nice feeling the love.
Mycroft there was a scene inspired by a review, so, yay, this story has seen to its purpose already. Feel happy.
If the plans keep the same, expect some Harry (Potter! Not John's sister! John is not even living with Sherlock yet! ... What the hell is up with this timeline!?) next chapter, and maybe a time skip.
Hope you liked it, good night, or whatever timeframe you are in, and if you like, review away! May everyone's plates be filled with pudding. Unless you don't like pudding. Then have something else.