1994

Mycroft and Greg had maintained their secret relationship over the years, despite not officially living together, they would try to see each other regularly during the week. Mycroft could never openly discuss what his job entailed, it was all "classified information of a sensitive nature." Whatever it was, he was obviously well-paid for it. His home was in an upscale neighborhood and he maintained an aura of aristocratic dignity. Greg had originally felt uncomfortably out of place amid such luxury, and preferred his own little flat in town. Mycroft evidently had no such difficulty with his living arrangements. He was clearly used to fine living and saw nothing out of the ordinary about it. It actually pleased him to see it all through his partner's eyes. It gave it a fun sense of novelty.

Meanwhile, Greg Lestrade was finding his feet at Scotland Yard. His Muggle upbringing worked to his advantage there, he had no trouble fitting in. He would be called in by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to report in and aid their investigations as well. He saw it as the best of both worlds. His parents had given him a handsome desk set that he kept at his desk at the Yard. It was a perfect place to conceal his wand among the letter opener, fountain pen, magnifier, and other accessories. That way, he always had it ready at hand. He felt naked without it.

While Greg had been with the team long enough to no longer be the "baby" of the bunch, his colleagues still remarked on his peculiarities. The way he'd sometimes stop himself in the middle of a word, substituting another with a nervous twitch, other little things that singled him out. Then one day, something happened to wholly highlight his oddness. Right about lunchtime, they had the windows open to enjoy the nice weather, when a black barn owl swooped in and landed right at Lestrade's desk. This got everyone's attention. Many of them had never seen an owl before, let alone up close. It dropped some heavy yellow pieces of paper by Greg's hand and rasped sharply. He'd been lying face-down on his desk, exhausted from having put in many extra shifts at his "other job" during the hunt for Sirius Black. As frustrating as it had been to have him slip through the Ministry's fingers that summer, it was certainly a relief to have him off English soil. The matter was out of his hands and more importantly, off of his desk. Of course, there was no rest for the weary. He'd been brought in as a resident Muggle expert to help pull off the Quidditch World Cup. The final was set to be played next week and tension was high regarding all manner of security. He knew that Mycroft was involved in it, too, as well as the next major event slated to begin in October. It was a busy time on all sides.

The insistent bird nudged him with her claw, giving another sharp rasp for attention. Greg sat up with a start.

"Drusilla!" he hissed admonishingly. "What in the world?!" He examined the paper before pocketing it quickly. "Yes, thank you." Realizing that people were staring and the best thing he can do is act natural, he stroked the owl familiarly, making clicking and kissing noises at her. "All right. No, Apollo is at home. I'll let him out tonight. Go on, shoo. You shouldn't be flying out this far, anyway. You're getting too old for this. And tell your 'mummy' that neither of you are exactly subtle!" The owl stretched her wings and took off out the window, and a shadow fell over him.

"What was that?" his superior demanded.

Greg gulped, trying to look innocent. "What?"

"That, just then. You talked to that owl. Did he understand you?"

"She," Greg corrected absently. "And, kind of."

"Did that thing just bring you something? I thought I saw it drop some paper on your desk."

"What? No," he denied smoothly. "No, that would be silly, wouldn't it? Bit big for a carrier pigeon, eh?" He laughed. Luckily, his superior joined in.

"Yeah, that would be. You know her, though? Her owner, rather?"

Greg figured that this would be safe to admit. "Yeah, I do. Bit of a drama queen, really. I mean, you'd have to be, right?"

"Your wife?" the man asked, glancing at his subordinate's wedding ring.

Lestrade considered, then nodded. "Yeah." And he, too, looked at his ring with a smile. Once everyone dispersed away from his desk, he looked at what he'd received. A ticket to the World Cup final, a very good seat, too! He looked at the enclosed note.

Dear Greg,

I hope the mundanity of your job hasn't dampened your spirits toward seeing a good match. After the work you put in, it would be unfair if you had to miss the final. I won't take no for an answer. Your superiors will realize that they can spare you for a weekend. See you very soon. There are things I need to discuss with you.

Love,

your Swan

Greg smiled at the letter. He gave a happy sigh and stuck the ticket into his billfold. He appreciated the way Mycroft worded his letter, so that even if outside eyes saw it, they would see nothing out of the ordinary about it.

True to his nature, Mycroft was quite adept at blending in and finding advantageous positions in whatever world he happened to find himself. His position as a "minor government official" was a perfect ruse for his true place in the world. No one would ever suspect that he pulled invisible strings wherever he went, and certainly no one would peg him as a wizard.

Greg had originally thought he looked odd in Muggle clothes, remembering the first time they'd gone shopping together and Mycroft needed his help to dress appropriately. The second the man discovered suits, however, he was off like a shot. He bought numerous ones and had them professionally altered for a perfect fit. On that first shopping day, Greg must have seen him model dozens of different three piece suits for him, his suave and graceful lover positively glowing with delight at these strange Muggle garments.

"Forget swan, you're a peacock," Greg had teased playfully as the taller man spun in place for him.

Greg chuckled at the memory before putting the letter away and getting back to business.

That evening, as Greg was wrapping up for the night, he felt a familiar tugging on his chest. It caught him by surprise, and before he could stop himself, he let out a startled gasp. Sally Donovan, a junior officer, saw him stumble and clutch his chest. "All right, Lestrade?"

He recovered, recognizing the symptom of being on the receiving end of a Summoning Charm, and took a few steps to appease the summoner. "Yeah, fine, Donovan." He felt another tug and was soon overcome with the irresistible urge to obey. He found himself led out the door. From there, though, he diverted from the commanded course. Instead, he slipped into a dark, abandoned alley, and Disapparated.

He reappeared in front of his flat, then went up the stairs to grab a few things that he might need if he spent the night at Mycroft's house. From there, he shouldered his broom and went up to the roof, still straining against the effects of the charm. Once out in the free night air, he took flight, following the source of the spell as he glided over thick clouds. He alighted on a wrought-iron balcony like Peter Pan, letting himself in through the window and stepping into Mycroft's office.

The lofty man sat alone at his desk, poring over a stack of documents that needed his attention. There were two piles, one of ordinary typing paper and another of yellow parchment. A quill and ink set sat by his right hand, while a large and impressive-looking Macintosh computer glowed at his left-hand side. This was obviously a new acquisition, as an old-fashioned typewriter sat dejectedly in the corner of the office, waiting to be hauled away by some staff member in the morning.

Mycroft looked up at him in surprise, rising to receive him, but by the look of him he wasn't expecting him. "What the hell are you thinking?!" he hissed.

With slightly less than his former agility and grace, Greg hopped down from the windowsill and dropped his knapsack. He was no longer the nimble eleven-year-old he used to be, but he still wasn't ungainly. "You wanted to see me?"

"Yes, of course, but..." Mycroft looked him up and down. "But this?!"

"Don't worry, I kept above the clouds," he assured him, sliding his broom into the nearby umbrella holder which sat empty by the window. A perfect parking spot for his means of transport. "Came as quick as I could. I didn't want to risk Apparating in case you were with someone."

"Yes, that was considerate, but that doesn't answer what you're doing here now!"

"You Summoned me, Mycroft. I couldn't not come unless I wanted to get torn in half."

"I didn't Summon-" Mycroft began to deny, then looked at the umbrella in his hand. "Oh. Oh." He laid it aside, brushing his hands together. "My apologies," he muttered. "I let my thoughts get carried away."

Greg sat down comfortably in a loveseat, putting his feet up on a footstool. "You saying you did that by accident?"

"I was thinking of you," Mycroft muttered in confession. "Look, it's good that you're here. There's something I needed to talk to you about. Maybe, ask for your assistance, if you're not stretched too thin elsewhere."

"Anything, Swan," Greg assured him, getting a smile in return. Mycroft poured them each a glass of mulled mead and settled down on the cushion next to him.

He sipped thoughtfully, looking into the fireplace and then back at his husband. He heaved a sigh. "Remember back at school, the first time you took me to the kitchens? You teased me later, saying you'd 'shown the crackhead where the den was hid'?" Greg nodded, surprised when Mycroft took his hand and gave it a squeeze, as if for support or courage. "I would never have thought...never..." he stared into his glass, admiring the clear sunset liquid. Transparent drops clung to the sides of the glass, he found it appropriately poetic how they resembled tears. Tears he himself could not shed.

"Sherlock...he...was found in such a place. And I don't mean in an elf-run sweetshop. He...has a problem, which means the family has a problem. Our parents are beside themselves, they don't know..." Mycroft broke off, covering his mouth. Greg gazed silently at him, pity etched in his face, as well as astonishment. "I found him," Mycroft grunted hoarsely, taking another drink to wet his throat. "I found him in this derelict, filthy place—the people he consorted with there..." he shuddered. "He looked at me, his eyes were all out of focus, he was sweating and shaking, and he...he told me 'I can almost feel it, Mycroft. It's so close, I know it! I...can almost feel the magic. It's almost there.' Is this my fault, Greg? For him being a...a Squib? I've done my best to help him, but no matter what I do, he resents me. Then seeing him like that, as if that poison some Muggle gave him would make him a wizard! Is this my punishment? Next time he was discovered like that, it was something different. He was almost immobile."

"Morphine," Greg surmised as easily as he placed the first substance as cocaine.

"Morphine, yes, named after the god of dreams. He just lay there, listless, grinning inanely at nothing. He told me that it helped him forget, that he didn't mind so much being what he was as long as he was under that potion's influence. He hates himself and he hates me more. God, he's only sixteen! If this is the path he's starting down, I can't imagine him being alive at our age!"

Greg downed the rest of his mead and set the glass aside. "Good batch," he remarked, turning the bottle to see the label, giving it a knowledgeable nod. "Look, Mycroft, he's young, he's bound to do stupid stuff to cope with being...different. Imagine if it was the other way round. Think what might've happened to me if my parents hadn't let me go to Hogwarts. I would have thought I was mad! I would have hated myself and been confused and angry and...so lonely. I would have thought I was the only one in the world, that I was a freak. It would have been something to be ashamed of." Mycroft listened with mild horror at the self-portrait his lover painted. He'd always been perfectly satisfied to be exactly as he was and couldn't imagine being made to feel inferior or ashamed. He felt a stab of pity for what his Greg almost was. He wondered if he, too, would have turned to illicit substances to help him cope with his perceived abnormality. Greg continued, "Sherlock needs friends. You tried to be that, but he's too intent on punishing you for something that isn't your fault. You didn't do this to him, you didn't do anything to him." He refilled their glasses. "At the very least, he needs a hobby, something useful to do that he can be good at. He probably feels horribly inadequate compared to you. You can't help it, but you're a tough act to follow."

"I know. He's my brother, I...I love him. He's too content to imagine I hate him, though. He holds me in contempt, so he thinks I feel the same for him."

"Maybe you should just give him what he wants," Greg shrugged. "I never had any siblings, so I don't pretend to know how this works, but maybe he just wants you to back off and let him sort himself out."

"You think he's in any fit state to-" Mycroft growled.

"I'm not saying to really do it, just...do what you do best. Do it from the sidelines. Behind the scenes, like you do for work."

Mycroft took another sip and cocked his eyebrow, hmming in agreement. "Good thinking. I could just have someone keep an eye on him for me, report back periodically, that might be less obtrusive." He settled back in his seat, looking as though his burden was at least somewhat lightened by this discussion. Greg slipped an arm around him and pulled him close for a cuddle. The raven-haired man kissed his temple, making soothing noises as he did so. Mycroft felt worry leave his heart and he felt nothing but love for the man sitting next to him.

"Been following the World Cup?" Mycroft asked abruptly.

"Mm-hmm," Greg agreed, taking another sip from his glass. "Glad Ireland's in the final two, but I have to say that Krum kid for Bulgaria can sure fly. Excellent Seeker. Too bad we can't have it both ways, a win for Ireland but Krum getting the Snitch."

Mycroft said nothing to this, just grinned into his glass. Oh, the things I do for you.

1998

Greg was holed up in his flat most nights, feeling anxious and wary. His wand never left his hand, his gun never left his side. The magical world was thrown into utter chaos. It had been disintegrating from within for some time now, but those small cracks, those telltale fissures, had only grown until there was nothing left to their normally well-ordered lives. He'd seen those witches and wizards he'd known and trusted throw in their lot with Thicknesse. Whether it was out of fear or a well-placed Imperius curse, no one could tell. It had all turned his hair prematurely grey. Mycroft fared no better. He'd taken to comfort-eating again, as he did in school, although now he didn't have a teenager's metabolism to rely on. New suits and robes were required, and his sudden change in build earned him his brother's derision. He and Greg often felt like they were the last two threads holding things together, and they were both stretched as far as they could go without snapping. They were each other's only comfort, all that was keeping each other sane. It was a dark, dreary time.

Then, one evening, Mycroft abandoned all caution and Apparated directly into Scotland Yard fully dressed in wizard garb. Several people gasped in alarm. Greg stood up at his desk, looking shocked and furious. In two words, though, he shifted gears.

"It's happening."

"Where?" Greg asked, standing up and shoving his chair back. He looked like he'd been waiting for this for ages!

"Hogwarts. Now."

Greg stood, casting aside his suit coat and tie, Summoning a set of wizard's robes to his outstretched hand without a word. He whipped them on fluidly and drew his wand out of his desk set. "Excellent!"

"Time to get tough, Hufflepuff."

"Never approach a badger when it's cornered," Greg replied, feeling exulted by the sudden call to arms. Since he was about to Obliviate everyone here anyway, he decided to indulge. "I love you," he purred, and pulled his husband in for a kiss.

The second they broke apart, Mycroft cast the wide-shot memory charm on the room, and at the same time they Disapparated.

They reappeared in the village of Hogsmeade, just in time to see a flock of Slytherin students streaming out of The Hog's Head. They were deserting! Mycroft gaped at them. Many of them were of age! Why didn't they stand and fight? He grabbed at one girl's arm, who was clearly seventeen. "What the devil are you doing? Hogwarts needs you! Defend her!"

"And get myself killed? No way!" The rest of the group shouted agreements as they fled. Mycroft and Greg kept snatching at them. There were students of other Houses, of course, but the majority of the deserters wore Slytherin green. Mycroft was absolutely furious at his House's betrayal.

"Stand and fight, cowards! What's the matter with you?!" Greg demanded. "We can't do this alone!"

"Get back in there, all of you who are old enough. Don't turn your back on your school, you owe it to them!" Mycroft felt enraged, affronted, as he watched the students flee. The younger ones, he allowed. They shouldn't be expected to defend the school in her hour of need. The seventh year students, though, he felt disgust.

"Come on, Mycroft, let's do this. Find out where these kids are coming from and follow it into the castle." He was itching for action, feeling quite giddy in anticipation. They found the portrait of Ariana and climbed in. They followed the tunnel with lit wands.

"I'm proud of you," Greg said abruptly, smiling at his husband in unmasked admiration.

"What for?"

"Your loyalty to the school, you're not afraid of putting in the work for something worthwhile. Justice, friendship..." he trailed off.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose, "What are you getting at?"

Greg stopped and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Just that I think we may get Sorted too young." And with that, he waved his wand over Mycroft's tie, changing his pin by superimposing a hematite and pyrite badger over his silver and emerald snake.

He looked down at his pin, then back at Greg, and takes his hand. He kissed Greg's wrist, palm, and fingers as they did in their early courtship. "Promise me something, my dear."

"Sure, Swan, anything."

"If anything happens to me, look after Sherlock for me, will you? Help him if you can."

"Yeah. Yeah, definitely."

They continued on in silence, holding hands, feeling jittery as each step brings them closer to the battle. They emerged from the portrait hole, got a good look at each other, and fell into a hearty embrace. "Try and stay close," Greg advised. "Don't want to lose you in all that."

"No, no, of course not." He tugged at his robes, straightening himself up. "How do I look?"

"Beautiful," Greg said without hesitation. "And deadly."

They strode in together. Several portraits recognized them and cheered at their arrival, as they did when any help appeared to swell their ranks. "Class of 85 reporting in!" Greg called down to Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, I'm glad to see you boys," she gasped as they strode toward her to receive directions.

Madame Hooch whooped at the sight of them and tossed Greg a Beater's club. "Think you still know what to do with that, Lestrade, dear?"

Greg grinned savagely, hefting it in his hands. It was his favorite one, he could tell by the carved-out scratches near the end. It was the one he'd used when they won the Quidditch cup in his seventh year. He gave it a kiss, anticipating knocking someone's block off with it. "God, I love this school," he growled. Mycroft gave the Great Hall a similar look, mentally vowing ruin on those who would do his alma mater harm. He hooked his umbrella over his arm and flexed his fingers, wishing he was in better shape for what was to come. He hopped in place, limbering up, making wide circles with his arms.

In no time at all, the battle broke out. Enemies swarmed in and it was pandemonium! Greg used his wand and club indiscriminately, while Mycroft fired off hex after hex, swinging his umbrella like a sword. He'd certainly kept in practice with his defensive spellwork! It was a sight glorious to behold. A Death Eater was dueling with Professor Sprout when Greg swung his club across his head and the neck snapped with a satisfying crack!

"Don't you touch her," he grunted savagely, kicking the body away.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, he caught Mycroft skipping in place with his fists raised, treating his current opponent to a display of Muggle dueling. Out of shape or not, Mycroft's long legs were an advantage here. He sprang at his adversary, kicking him hard in the chest like a kangaroo, before finishing him off with a curse.

"Good form, Mycroft!" Greg called. "Nice footwork!"

"Had a good teacher," he replied, breathing heavily, loosening his robes for the next bout.

Greg paid for his moment of distraction, though, as a Death Eater took that opportunity to send a burning slash across his back. He grimaced in pain and sank to his knees as she gloated over him, content to leave him in agony rather than finish him off. Mycroft saw and sprang at her, snarling, wielding his umbrella. In a jet of green light, she crumpled to the ground, dead before she hit.

"Ought to know better than to strike a badger when his mate is nearby," Mycroft muttered lightly, casting a cooling charm where the curse had struck. The angry, red weal soon began to heal. The pain was already gone. "All right?"

"Yeah. You?"

Mycroft simply growled eagerly. The thrill of the battle was upon both of them, they felt the frenzy and were ready to fight once more.

"Can't believe you still keep your wand in that umbrella," Greg grunted, clubbing someone over the head with his Beater's bat.

"Keeps me from having to change hands," Mycroft replied smoothly, cracking an opponent in the skull with the handle, spinning it in his hands with the dexterity of a baton twirler, and hitting them with a jinx a second later.

"You and your trusty quarterstaff," Greg observed with a grin.

It wasn't long before the battle ceased to excite them, and they were simply toiling on against wave after wave of opponents. Not just humans, but giants, spiders, and other more unspeakable Dark creatures. They'd gotten separated by now, but were too occupied to seek each other out. When Voldemort finally called a time-out to tend to their wounded and bury their dead, Greg simply slumped against the wall.

Of all things, he thought guiltily of his and Mycroft's new owls. Apollo and Drusilla lay buried in Mycroft's back garden under a tree they'd often roosted on together. They'd lived good, long lives. Despite Mycroft's constant assurance against sentimentality, Greg knew he missed his pet. They chose new ones together, opting for the same breed so hopefully they could mate together. Already, their brown and golden tawnies were good friends.

I forgot to feed Eglantine before I left. She's still stuck in her cage. Maybe Vincent will get him out if we never—he stopped himself from continuing this train of thought. They would make it through this, they had to! He watched as the dead were seen to, amazed how small some of them were. A Gryffindor boy, who looked so young lay dead on a stone slab. He'd seen the child moments before, fighting as bravely as anyone twice his age and size. Greg forced himself to stand, stumbling over to pay his respects to the dead. Tears burst out at the sight of these strangers, those who gave their lives for the cause. He bent down and touched their cold hands in turn. "Thank you."

A huddle of redheads surrounded one body, they all were grieving loudly over a young man about Sherlock's age. Looking at the large family, Greg wondered how many of them will survive the night. He straightened up and trudged through the rubble, too tired to even try to find Mycroft.

Outside in the courtyard, on the remains of one of the stone benches that they used to cuddle on, Mycroft lay panting, lightly bleeding through a cut across his head. His immaculate robes were singed and torn and bloodied. Bit by bit, their hour's grace was swallowed up, and once again, Voldemort's voice rang over the school, magically amplified for his moment of triumph. Harry Potter was dead, he told them gloatingly. Dead, trying to escape. He'd won.

Greg... Mycroft thought faintly, screwing his face up against the despair as he imagined what this would mean for his world, his worlds. His consciousness slipped away, and all was dark.

A blasting sound moments later restored him to his senses, and he sat up sharply. Impossibly, he saw Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort squaring off not twenty yards from where he lay. He couldn't hear their words, but it appeared as though Harry had come back for the last word. One last blast and Mycroft saw red and green jets of light meet between the two combatants. Then, in perfect simplicity, Voldemort fell down dead. The entire surrounding crowd erupted into cheers! Dawn broke, and Mycroft nearly wept.

Hope springs eternal, he thought absurdly as he struggled to his feet. He picked his way carefully through the crowd and the rubble, he didn't care about anything else at the moment when he had to find Greg.

"Greg! Greg, where are you?!" He called over and over. His voice broke, screeching the man's name like a demon summoning its prey. "GREG?!"

He heard coughing, he loped over awkwardly, hoping, fighting against hope. He saw a broken, burnt Beater's bat laying in a heap of crumbled stone. A hand was visible amid the dust. There was that cough again. "Greg?" Mycroft ventured cautiously. He bent down over...someone. The dust was too thick, someone was lying completely motionless apart from his convulsive coughing. Then, his eyes flickered open.

"Swan? My swan..." Greg sighed happily. "Is...is it over, then?"

"Yes," Mycroft told him, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh, good. Did...cough...did we win?"

"Yes," he said again, kneeling down next to him and taking his hands.

"Mycroft," Greg groaned, smiling wearily. " 'm so glad t'see you. H-hold me, will you? I hurt all over."

He all too happily obeyed, cradling him in his arms. A few minutes later, he helped him to his feet and they stood together amid all of the rejoicing and grief, simply gazing at each other, amazed at how lucky they were to have made it.

"Hell with it," Greg muttered carelessly, cupping Mycroft's face and kissing him deeply. "God, I love you. My swan."

"Let's go home."

They were both exhausted, though. Neither of them had the strength to Disapparate just yet. Greg dragged them both to the barrels that concealed the Hufflepuff common room. The false ones had burst and the smell of vinegar was heavy in the air. They climbed in, hoping to find someplace to rest. Miraculously, Greg found his old bed unoccupied. He and Mycroft flopped down on it and cuddled together, kicking off their shoes. Others seemed to share the same idea, and soon the dormitory was full. Those whose wounds weren't bad enough to need attention, who were simply exhausted and in need of rest. House elves scurried here and there, comforting the weary, bringing food and blankets. Greg rolled over, witnessing this, thanking them each by name as the other Hufflepuffs did. After a good long rest, he and Mycroft sat up and an elf was there beside them with a tray. Along with sandwiches and two bowls of soup, they brought a few precious strawberry jam tarts. Somehow, that kind gesture melted Mycroft's facade yet again. He remembered how Greg had once told him that the house elves knew and remembered everybody. He couldn't speak without risking tears. Greg cuddled him, understanding without words.

"Thank you," Greg told them again. "You're the best."

The house-elves bowed or curtsied bashfully and scurried away to wherever else they'd be needed. "I swear, they're the ones holding this place together," Greg told Mycroft.

"I'm inclined to agree with you."

After they were well rested and fed enough to travel, Mycroft and Greg dragged themselves up, freeing the bed for others who would need it. They walked out the front doors and down to the huge wrought-iron gate. Just before they crossed to where they could Disapparate, Greg picked up a brick.

"Souvenir," he explained. Mycroft didn't even bother scoffing at the man's sentimentality. Together, they spun in place and reappeared in Mycroft's house. He led them up the stairs and into the bathroom where he drew a hot, steaming bath for two. He added generous drops of eucalyptus and tea tree oil, which are both good soothing oils and make excellent soaks for injuries, as well as a cupful of Epsom salt. They sank in together with a satisfied sigh, and began cleaning each other's wounds. Luckily, they weren't badly hurt.

After their bath, they went to the master bedroom, changed into clean nightclothes, and went straight to bed.

"Don't worry about work tomorrow. We just helped save the world. I'll phone you in," Mycroft murmured, kissing Greg's temple. They snuggled together and fell asleep.