I make no apologies for this chapter, Mystrade is my OTP.
Warning: Slash (but no sex)
Mycroft hums softly as he walks, surveying the darkening corridors. It's Saturday evening and the sun is setting over the castle grounds; the cold grey walls are for once alight with a soft pink glow. Not far ahead of him a group of young Gryffindors scuttle hurriedly out of his way. He chuckles to himself as he passes… so much for bravery.
Rounding the corner, he's deep in thought- Sherlock had, as usual, been causing him a nuisance. According to the young Molly Hooper, his little brother had attended barely half of his classes that week. Mycroft pauses thoughtfully by an arched window, looking out at the courtyard beyond, debating the best way to remove Jim Moriarty from his brother's life. As much as he hates to admit it, the Slytherin fifth year makes him uneasy. He shakes himself, as the image of the leering boy draped over Sherlock invades his mind. It simply wouldn't do.
"Anthea," he turns to the dark haired Ravenclaw girl at his side.
She looks up, questioningly, flicking her eyes away from the notebook she's hastily scribbling in. "Yes, Sir?"
Mycroft smiles indulgently. He hadn't objected when the younger girl began following him around. She's clever, at least by normal people standards. She also knows how to get what she wants. A useful ally, he thinks…besides… she calls him Sir.
"I want surveillance on Jim Moriarty." He wrinkles his nose at the name, turning back to lean out over the window ledge. "And do me another background check."
Anthea nods cautiously, "Surveillance, easy." She pauses, "But last time he didn't appear to even have a background."
Mycroft smiles condescendingly "Try again… Be sneaky."
Anthea raises a doubtful eyebrow, looking unimpressed, before wandering off down the corridor, nose back in her notebook.
The sun has set now, and only faint tendrils of light reach into the greying sky over the deserted courtyard. A black owl sweeps past overhead. At the far corner a door swings open. Ah, Mycroft smiles, leaning further over the ledge, Gregory. He coughs loudly and the dark haired boy looks up, freezing in place. Like a rabbit in the headlights, Mycroft thinks delightedly. He pulls back from the window, descending the stone staircase regally; his soft footsteps echoing around the four stone walls. He comes to a halt a few feet away from the Hufflepuff prefect, who is now looking nervously back over his shoulder. Mycroft twirls his umbrella, doing his best to suppress a faint fluttering in his stomach.
"Mycroft," Greg nods anxiously, running a hand through his dark hair.
"Gregory." Mycroft beams, "good to see you again." He runs his eyes up and down the toned figure before him, admiring the stretch of robes over broad shoulders, the folds of fabric around the slim waist.
He takes a step closer and then nonchalantly waves his umbrella towards a small, hidden alcove in the courtyard wall, before striding in its direction.
Greg hovers for a moment, conflicted, shifting worriedly from one foot to another.
"Damn," he mutters, and with a quick scan of the still empty courtyard, follows Mycroft's receding figure.
Greg moans hopelessly into Mycroft's mouth, as the older boy's tongue twists carefully with his own. Pressed into the cobwebby corner, he clings frantically to Mycroft's tall, supple frame, his hands laced in auburn hair. Cool hands slip under his shirt. He moans again.
A soft chuckle. Mycroft pulls back slightly, face half obscured by shadows, in the dark of the alcove.
"Saw… Sherlock again… last night." Greg pants, more than a little short of breath.
Mycroft frowns, pulling his hands back out from under the Hufflepuff's shirt. "Do let's refrain from discussing my brother, Gregory."
Greg grabs Mycroft's hands swiftly, returning them to his waist. "Come back," he grumbles, turning the two around so the other boy is now the one pinned against the wall. "Just thought you'd be interested," he murmurs into a smooth, white ear. He nibbles gently at the lobe. "He wasn't alone."
Mycroft remains tense against him. "He wasn't?" he responds reluctantly, interest sparked.
"Nope." Greg says cheerfully, brushing kisses down the taller boy's jaw line, before sucking gently on his throat.
Mycroft gasps slightly, relaxing into Greg's hold, "Well, are you going to tell me who he was with?"
Greg grins. He loves watching the Head Boy's composure fall apart. "Dunno." He rocks his hips slightly, seeking pressure, "What are you gonna do for me?"
"Good grief, Gregory." Mycroft replies, attempting cool indifference, "Don't be so c-crude." His voice catches on the last word, giving him away.
Greg laughs against his neck, running wide, soft hands over Mycroft's chest. The silky material of the obviously expensive shirt is cool against his skin. He tugs at the blue and silver tie, and stretches up to place a kiss on the tip of Mycroft's nose.
"Fine." He steps back, leaving the Ravenclaw boy slumped breathlessly against the alcove wall. "I'll see you later, then." Straightening his own shirt and tie, he turns to leave with a parting wink.
As expected, two firm hands pull him back. "Oh, I don't think so." The voice is smooth and dangerous in his ear. Shivering slightly, he allows himself to be drawn back into the cramped space.
"I really don't think so." Mycroft traps him against the opposite wall, soft lips drawn up into a smile. He runs a hand up the inside of Greg's thigh. "Now... tell me what you know."
John shifts uncomfortably in his seat. As head boy, Mycroft Holmes has a reputation for being… well, over-dramatic. But, finding himself sitting across from him in an empty boat, in the empty boathouse really is, quite frankly, more than a little bit weird.
Mycroft smiles coldly, legs crossed, robes pressed, a picture of perfect composure. So unlike Sherlock, and yet… strangely similar… John thinks. He smiles at the thought, remembering their hasty retreat from the dungeons two nights ago- the way Sherlock's hand had tugged urgently at his jumper, the stifled laughter as they'd parted, the adrenaline fuelled sprint up to the Gryffindor tower-
"Mr Watson." Mycroft's mouth twists around the name. "I'm so glad you received my owl."
John attempts a mumbled response, trying to match Mycroft's statuesque poise but suddenly very aware of the creases in his own robes, the inevitable shadows under his eyes. He has a feeling he knows what this is about.
"I must tell you, I have been reliably informed that you have recently made the, ahem… acquaintance, of my brother, Sherlock."
Yep, there it is. Mycroft is watching him in much the same way Sherlock had regarded his jar of flobberworms on Friday morning. It's disconcerting.
He holds the gaze, part embarrassed, part annoyed. "You must?"
Mycroft's face lights up in amusement, "If the two of you insist on causing explosions in the dead of night, then yes, I must."
"Right," John nods, not surprised that Mycroft had somehow managed to weed out that scrap of information. "Well, mission completed." He stands carefully, hauling his bag back over his shoulder, "I'll be on my way."
"Sit back down, Mr Watson." The slow voice exudes quiet authority, and reluctantly John does as he's told. "You see. I believe there is every possibility that you and I could come to a mutually beneficial arrangement."
John turns from Mycroft's cold stare, now unwilling to meet his eye. He's confused, and vividly reminded of the time Harry first dragged him into a game of wizard's chess… expecting him to be able to play, without having explained the rules. "You do?" he responds dumbly, playing safe.
"Yes, Mr Watson. I do." Whilst all traces of amusement have vanished, John can't help shake the impression that Mycroft is rather enjoying this. "Next weekend, my brother will, like you, be visiting Hogsmeade." He taps his fingers rhythmically against the side of the boat. "Assuming you intend to continue your association with Sherlock," he continues, "I would be happy to pay you a generous sum of gold, if you'd be so kind as to accompany him." He stops tapping, lets the words sink in. "You see… I worry about him. Constantly."
John barely manages to hold back a laugh. Of all the things he'd been expecting, that hadn't been it. It wasn't that he'd mind the trip… he'd probably, okay, definitely, quite enjoy it. He just wasn't about to sell his soul for it. Or lose Sherlock's trust… if he even had it. "Why don't you just follow him yourself?" he asks. He's getting tired of this.
Mycroft leans in, with an air of put upon benevolence, as if explaining something very obvious to a very small child. "Delighted though I would be to do so, I'm afraid on weekends I occupy a…" he smirks smugly, "minor position at the Ministry of Magic, in London."
"Oh. Right…" John isn't surprised by the revelation. He trails his hand through the black water beneath them… Mycroft certainly has the sneaky air of a politician. "Well… no thanks."
A perfectly raised eyebrow, "You're very loyal, very quickly Mr Watson."
John stands abruptly, this time failing to hide his grin as Mycroft hurriedly grasps the sides of the suddenly rocking boat. "Um, nope. Not really, Mr Holmes. I'm afraid I'm just not interested."
He steps, with as much dignity as possible, given the circumstances, on to the landing platform. Relieved to be making an escape, he strides eagerly towards the open boathouse doors.
"Perhaps," a cool voice calls out from behind him. "Although… you seemed fairly interested on Friday evening, I hear"
John puts two and two together and makes a mental note to knock Greg Lestrade off his broom, when Gryffindor next meet Hufflepuff on the Quidditch pitch.