Collisions and Compromises

Chapter 4

by ~chicadoodle

By the time that Mycroft Holmes was 7 years old, he had learned how to manipulate the magic inherent in his blood in order to convince those around him to tell the truth. Later in life, he would learn that this bout of accidental magic mimicked the effects of several low-grade truth potions often used by the Ministry of Magic when it was believed that Verisaterum would not be necessary, or it's use was considered excessive.

By the time Mycroft Holmes was nine years old, he knew the personal secrets of both his parents, his private tutors, and all of his parents friends. The one person that this ability never seemed to work on, however, was his younger brother Sherlock.

Sherlock was, in Mycroft's estimation, nothing particularly interesting. Their stint in public school - short lived though it might have been - had proven that Sherlock was far superior to the idiot children they had been forced to interact with - but that did not in any way mean that Sherlock was on par with Mycroft himself. It merely made him preferable to "normal" children.

Why, then, did Sherlock seem immune when everybody else fell so easily under his sway?

As he had grown older, Mycroft had found his powers growing by leaps and bounds as he was taught to harness and control it. Though he could easily have gone into politics in the Wizarding World - or any number of other professions in that secretive world, he had instead chosen to return to the world into which he had been born - the Muggle World, as some would call it. The Real World, as he had come to refer to it as while in their hearing.

That had driven Lucius Malfoy particularly crazy.

But Mycroft had never left the Magical world behind, and his own formidable powers had allowed him to remain one step ahead of the competition - and his brother. Particularly when he combined them with scientific technology. But there were some things that science could simply not duplicate.

Mycroft had remained in touch with the magical world in other ways, as well. Part of his duties for the British government was to act as a laison between the magical and wizarding communities, after all. He had even suffered through an internship under a previous Minister of Magic, for a time.

But through it all, Mycroft had kept a careful watch over his younger brother. Sherlock had never shown any indications of magical potential, but he had also shown an astounding resistance to it. Mycroft had conducted tests, of course - all without Sherlock's knowledge. And without fail, the spells had refused to take hold. Spells while the boy was sleeping to change his hair color, another to make him speak in tongues. Both had been shrugged off by the younger boy as though they didn't even exist. A tickling hex, a stinging hex. Neither had any effect.

It wasn't that Sherlock Holmes couldn't do magic - it was that he repelled it with his every breath.

Mycroft had never told anybody of any of this, of course. And since Sherlock had never been made aware of the Wizarding World, or the existance of magic, he had never had the opportunity to discover it for himself.

There had been a close call, of course, with Lily Potter. That his brother would be willing to conduct an illicit affair with a married woman had come as a shock - not because she was married, but because Sherlock had never been interested in a woman before. Or a man, for that matter.

The woman had been easy enough to take care of in the end - a few well placed spells had ensured that she neither remembered Sherlock Holmes, nor believed her unborn child to be anything but the child of her husband. Mycroft had no qualms about interfering with the young woman's mind in such a way, of course - she was depressingly normal, even a bit dull. No formal education to speak of - what his brother saw in her he would never know.

Then again, most magical children - even those born to non-magical parents - did not bother to continue their non-magical education as he had. Private tutors from his parents had ensured that, per his request.

The child, however, had proven to be quite an interesting character. Harry James Potter had proven that he held some of his father's ability to throw off magic without a second thought when the Killing Curse struck him - yet he had also proven himself capable of casting magic himself. It had amused Mycroft to consider the possibilities inherent therein, if the boy managed to reach his full potential.

He had met Harry several times in the boy's life; always as an official from the government, checking in on the boy. He had felt a certain obligation to do so, knowing that the boy was his nephew. He was not often given to familial sentiment, but in this case he allowed himself the luxury - his interest in the boy was more scientific than sentimental, but it never hurt to foster a certain degree of trust with the subjects of his attention.

Vernon Dursley had been the only real unpleasant side effect of this arrangement, of course. The man was a brute and a bore, and Mycroft was under the distinct impression that he would have taken his anger and frustrations out on Harry if it had not been for Mycroft's intervention - he had made it quite clear from the very beginning that any signs of abuse against the boy would not be tolerated.

Mycroft had never found any indications of abuse within the Dursley household. Perhaps the boy's maternal aunt had shown some favoritism when it came to her own son, but the bedroom upstairs that Petunia had insisted belonged to his nephew had been filled with various toys and a messy bed, the few times he had seen it. Perhaps Harry was quiet, but then he had been as well.

These visits had stopped after the boy's eleventh birthday, of course - there was no reason to visit the boy when he was firmly ensconced at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy for the majority of the year.

But there were variables that Mycroft hadn't accounted for - obviously. Though he was still uncertain as to the exact nature of these variables, the fact that surveillance had picked up Harry Potter entering into 221B Baker Street - the flat belonging to his brother, and the boy's biological father - told a story all it's own.

. . .

Despite Harry's militant intentions to remain awake until Sherlock returned, the teenager found himself dozing, curled up in his father's armchair. He barely stirred when John placed a light blanket over the boy's shoulders, tucking it around his slight frame, and John smiled slightly before retreating back into the kitchen.

When Sherlock finally returned, it was in the early hours of the morning. John's first reaction was to check if Sherlock had taken anything - it hadn't been long since Sherlock had turned to drugs for his "investigation", and John had seen more than one junkie fall off the wagon in his years as a doctor.

His curiosity sated, and his worries apparently for naught if Sherlock's steady gait and clear eyes were any indication, John was partway out of his seat to admonish Sherlock for leaving the apartment while he was still recovering, when Mycroft stepped into the room behind his younger brother. Seeing this, John slowly eased himself back into his chair, casting a glance at Harry out of the corner of his eye.

Sherlock paced across the room, and the obvious anger in the man's stride was all the warning that John got before Sherlock suddenly grabbed a nearby fire arm that he kept on the mantle - against John's wishes, mind you - and aimed it at the wall; the same wall he had once shot the formation of a smiley face at. Letting off two rounds, Sherlock spun to face his brother, the gun held loosely in one hand. "What gave you the right?"

Harry had jumped in alarm as the gun was fired off, his eyes wide as he took in the damage to the wall before swinging around to face Sherlock and, by default, Mycroft.

He recognized Mycroft, of course - how could he not? He had been tempted to tell it all - tell the man that the bedroom Aunt Petunia had shown him had not been Harry's, that the bed was kept in there for the rare occasions when Marge would visit, and that the toys scattered about the room were really his cousin's. None of it's real, he wanted to shout. Take me away from this horrid place!

But he hadn't. Of course he hadn't. He had heard enough stories of the terrible things that happened at orphanages - and that was exactly where he would end up if anybody ever took it into their heads to question his home life.

He didn't have anybody else, after all.

"You knew that he was my son - and you said nothing." Sherlock continued, and now he had the undivided attention of the entire room - Mycroft because he was the one being addressed, and John and Harry because of the shock of his latest statement.

Mycroft said nothing, merely letting his younger brother rant to his heart's content. Sherlock had always been a bit dramatic, particularly when he indulged in his recurring addiction to muggle drugs.

"What do you mean, he knew?" Instead of Sherlock's voice continuing what Mycroft had assumed would be quite the impressive rant on familial obligations and the importance of feelings - even if the younger man would have have termed it in quite those terms - it was Harry's voice that cut through the momentary silence.

Sherlock turned, letting off another few rounds at the nearby wall, and John winced slighly. The fact that their landlady Mrs Hudson hadn't come tearing into the room to discover what was being done to her precious house was a godsend.

"You used to come to my aunt and uncle's house when I was younger." Harry continued, his eyes narrowing. "The government didn't really send you, then."

Mycroft turned his gaze on Harry, a distinctly bored expression on his face. "Not in that capacity, no."

"Did you know, then? That they didn't want me? That they never wanted me?" Harry's voice wasn't getting louder as he spoke, no - but it was getting more intense. It was the only word that John could use to describe the transformation that was overcoming the younger man. There was an intensity to the way he held his body, the way he was so still and his eyes were locked on Mycroft's.

Before Mycroft could say anything, Harry was continuing. "Did you know about the cupboard? Did you just ignore it? Why even show up at all if you weren't going to take me away from that place?"

Now, anybody who knew Harry Potter would know that even this admission was something of a miracle; Harry never spoke of his home life, and what little his friends knew they had discovered for themselves quite by accident. Discovering anything about Harry's home life was akin to pulling teeth, as John had only recently discovered; he kept his secrets close to his vest in the vain hope of ignoring the truth himself; the shame of knowing that he was somehow unwanted by the only family had left in the world only added to his skill at hiding the pain and humiliation that was his home life.

Everybody had gone very still in the room at Harry's questions, and it was Sherlock who finally broke the silence. "Cupboard." It was clear that he didn't understand the significance of this word - none of them did. They couldn't possibly make the connection, couldn't know how far Petunia and Vernon Dursley had fallen in their care for their only nephew.

"Yes, cupboard!" Harry flung one arm out, as though to knock something aside, though his arm met only air, his eyes snapping to Sherlock for only a moment before zoning back in on Mycroft. As he did so, however, a mug that had once held tea exploded in a rather impressive display of magical force that only Harry and Mycroft recognized for what it really was.

"My cupboard! Did you know they made me sleep in there? That they starved me, that they hit me, that they treated me like a slave from the moment I could walk?" Harry grit his teeth, jaw tightening against the words that still threatened to flow out of his mouth. Again that silence descended, the seconds ticking by as nobody said anything.

Harry gave a small, humorless laugh before he swung aroung to grab at his backpack, making for the door in a flurry of sudden movement that it took Sherlock a second to relaize what was happening. By the time he did, Mycroft had already moved to grab at his nephew's arm. "Sit down."

Mycroft Holmes was not a man given to displays of emotion, whether in the company of others or by himself. Even now, there was no emotion in his voice, or even displayed upon his face. He was, however, a man who knew his responsibilities. He was, more than anything else, a man who prided himself on always being a step ahead; knowing what the shouldn't have, and using it in the service of Queen and country. Mycroft was both intelligent and observant, to a point that put even his younger brother Sherlock to shame. If he had any flaws, it was that he was a prideful man - not that he would admit it, of course. The very idea that somebody like Petunia or Vernon Dursley could have so easily fooled him left a bad taste in his mouth.

When Harry didn't move to follow his command, John took a step forward. "Please, Harry. Sit back down." A gentle hand on Harry elbow steered him back to his chair, where he sat down slowly. Now that everything had been said, Harry found it hard to look anybody in the eye, casting his eyes about the room for anything else to focus his attention on. In the end he settled for staring at his feet.

"You slept in a cupboard." Sherlock wasted no time in diving straight into the heart of the matter. but John cast him a dark glance. "Sherlock!" Of everybody in the room, John was the one most prone to bouts of emotion - something that he was more than willing to take pride in.

It meant that he was the most human among them.

Sherlock was brilliant, there was no denying that fact. He was also a good man, after a fashion. But the route that he took to get to his end goals were often questionable, and always without a care for how they affected those around him. Sherlock cared, John truly believed that - but in a different way than the rest of the world. He didn't connect to people the way the rest of the world did, and that came out in his behavior.

But John refused to allow Harry to be another victim of the Holme's brothers particular brand of communication and emotional stunting.

Kneeling down in front of Harry's chair, John carefully set the teenager's bag to the side of his chair. "Harry. I'm going to ask you some very pointed questions right now, alright?" Though he received no answer to his query, John forged ahead anyway. "Did you aunt or uncle ever physically strike you? For any reason?"

Silence met this question as well, and John barely held back a sigh of frustration. Truth be told, he probably already had all the information he needed - Harry's outburst hadn't exactly been without details, after all.

It figured that the son of Sherlock Holmes would have the sort of outburst completely devoid of raised voices or angry shouting. Still, the teenager had at least showed emotion during his time here, and that was more than John would have expected of the next generation of the Holmes family.

Pushing himself to his feet, John stared down at the bowed dark head for a moment. "Mycroft, I would like to speak with you. In private." The last was said sharply as he turned to face the older man, who merely raised an eyebrow. John gestured toward the kitchen, only to be stopped short as Harry finally spoke.

"If you are gong to talk about me, I would rather that you say it in front of me." Harry met John's eyes in what John could only call defiance, as though daring him to do otherwise.

John, of course, was not privy to the reality of what had happened the last time somebody had withheld information from Harry Potter. Albus Dumbledore's office was without more than a few artefacts from that particular show of temper.

It had been mere weeks since the death of Harry's godfather, famed mass murderer Sirius Black. In the aftermath of that fateful night, the secrets that had been kept from him had finally come back to bite all of them in the proverbial ass, and Harry had learned a particular distaste for secrets and withheld information.

As much as Harry blamed himself for Sirius' death, he also blamed Albus Dumbledore for withholding vital information that may have stayed his hand that night. If he had known of the prophecy, would he have gone to the Ministry that night? He had walked straight into Voldemort's plans, with no knowledge of what was waiting for him in that room. So many prophecies had been lost that night, so many people injured. And Sirius had died, because he had been operating blindly.

The idea that it was happening again- that people were hiding things from him again . . . Harry's throat burned, his teeth gritting against the sudden surge of anger that welled up inside of him.

If there was one thing that Harry Potter had inherited from his mother, it was her temper; something that neither his father nor paternal uncle had ever experienced quite so strongly. Lily Evans Potter had always been one who was ruled by their emotions, as had her husband James. Where Sherlock was analytical and logical, Lily Potter was emotion and fire. It was that fire that Harry had inherited from his mother.

But here, in this moment, neither John nor Sherlock or Mycroft knew any of this. But all three could see the anger building in Harry, even if they couldn't understand the reason.

John paused with his body partway turned toward the kitchen, his head turned in Harry's direction and a small frown creasing his forehead. Joh may not have had the analytical mind of the Holmes brothers, but even he could read a person to a certain extent - especially after all this time in Sherlock's company. It was nearly impossible to not pick up anything from the man, especially when one worked in such close quarters with him.

"There are some questions that need answering, Harry, in regards to the treatment you received under the care of your relatives." John hedged. When Harry said nothing, John glanced at Sherlock, who had remained silent up until now.

Though he had been silent, Sherlock had been watching everything from severl paces away, his arms crossed over his chest and supporting most of his weight on his right leg. Now he cut his eyes away from his son to meet those of his brother, who gave a somewhat dramatic sigh, in Sherlock's opinion. Then again, he found many of Mycroft's personality quirks to be overly dramatic.

"Very well." Mycroft straightened, as though an entire conversation had taken place in the span of seconds that it had taken for him to meet Sherlock's gaze. Considering who he was dealing with, John wouldn't have put it past the Holmes brothers to have some form of silent communication. They wee both far too observant.

"Harry, you will accompany me to my house, where you will stay while your relatives are taken care of." Mycroft had the air of one who was explaining something very simple to somebody very slow, and both John and Harry bristled at both his tone and the insinuation. Mycroft was already moving across the room to gather Harry's bag into his hands, however, gesturing with his free hand toward the door.

"It is late." Mycroft admonished when Harry made no indication that he was going to move. "I would appreciate the chance to sleep tonight."

Harry relented slightly at that, his good nature taking over as he relaxed somewhat under Mycroft's admonition. "I don't need somewhere to stay." Harry attempted, only for Sherlock to interrupt him.

"You will not be returning to those individuals." Another man might have added some inflection into his words, perhaps even a few choice expletives. For Sherlock, however, he sounded as though he were discussing the weather. Even his expression was bland, as though he were bored by the current proceedings. It was only when Harry met his eyes that he realized just where the majority of Sherlock's emotions lay. His eyes were hard - hard and angry.

Once, Harry might have assumed that anger was directed at him. Several years with the Weasleys and friends who cared for him, however, had taught him that those who cared for you often became angry at your expense, not at you because of something that had happened to you. He had seen that same anger in Ron's eyes, in Fred and George's eyes when they had rescued him from the spare bedroom at the Dursley's, forced to break through the bars on his window in order to rescue him from the abysmal conditions he had faced that summer. Every summer, really.

Harry had always been good at reading people; it was the only way he had survived a childhood in the Dursley household. It was integral that he knew when it was safe to be near his uncle, and when to hide. In those moments when Vernon would scour the house looking for him, Harry had to hide. He honestly believed that his life depended on it. The man was bad enough on normal days, but when he was drinking? When he had a bad day at work? Harry had to gage those days and find a spot where his uncle could not find him. Even now he was terrified of his uncle in those moments - on the few times his uncle had found him, he had learned just how dangerous the man could truly be.

But he never left bruises where they would be obvious. Even in a drunket rage, Vernon had been careful to ensure that no bruises were visible on his face or arms. Harry had never understood why the man was so fanatic about it, but now he was beginning to. Had Mycroft stayed his hand, stopped him from going too far? Harry couldn't know, but as much as he wanted to know, he wasn't going to ask. Because if he had read Mycroft Holmes corrently, such questions would be neither welcome, nor answered.

"You don't have to do this. I'll be fine." Harry challenged - and it was a challenge, in a way. Daring Sherlock to force him into a situation he didn't want.

"You have your father's penchant for immaturity, I see." Mycroft spoke in that bored tone of his - the tone of a man waiting for the rest ofthe world to catch up with him. Harry grit his teeth at the insinuation behind that tone, crossing his arms in a posture that was nearly identical to the one Sherlock had adopted earlier, though he was unaware of it. John wasn't, of course, and a small curled his lips at the sudden resemblance.

"Having received confirmation of a claim of abuse against a minor, it has now become the responsibility of any adults present to ensure that this claim is thoroughly investigated, to ascertain the truth of the matter." Did Mycroft use long-winded words intentionally, hoping to make him feel like even more of an idiot? Harry wouldn't put it past the man. As it stood he was having a bit of a difficult time following along as the man used words he had never studied in grammar school - and Hogwarts didn't exactly offer a language arts course.

"We're concerned about your safety, Harry." John spoke up, an exasperated look on his face as he glanced in Mycroft's direction. "Surely you can understand that?"

Harry's shoulders slumped slightly as he nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. He could understand it, yes. But that didn't mean he had to like it. But he really had nobody but himself to blame here - he was the one who had laid it all out in a fit of anger, after all.

. . .

Harry would not see Sherlock again for nearly four days. During that time, he found himself confined to Mycroft's expansive house, forbidden from venturing outside until the "legalities" were well under way. When Harry questioned just what that meant, however, Mycroft had merely smiled a thin smile and told him not to "concern himself with it."

Harry was honestly beginning to hate that damn smile .

The only real surprise had come when Mycroft had returned on the first evening with several books not on his normal reading list for Hogwarts, but most definitely from the Wizarding World. There had been several books on magical theory, with another on potions. The man had said nothing as he had set them on the small desk in Harry's bedroom, pressing a palm against the top as he had regarded Harry silently for a moment.

"I have been kept appraised of your progress at school. I suggest you take this time to brush up on some of the basics of magical theory; while your practicals have always been exemplary, you're understanding of the spell mechanics behind them are somewhat lacking." Mycroft informed him with a raised eyebrow, before turning and leaving the room.

Harry had stared at the book for a full three seconds before tearing out of the room and after the older man, who had only managed to make it halfway down the hallway in the direction of his personal office.

Mycroft paused with one hand on the doorknob, as Harry skidded to a half before him. Considering he was only in his stockinged feet, the fact that he didn't crash headlong into the man was a miracle in and of itself.

Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow at the sight he made, and Harry had the grace to blush. It didn't stop him from forging ahead with his questions, however.

"Are you a wizard?"

Again that thin smile that grated on Harry's nerves so much, and he grit his teeth in annoyance as he waited for the man to speak.

"I attended Hogwarts some time before your mother and stepfather." Harry shifted uncomfortably at that word, and Mycroft felt a sharp spike of amusement. The young man obviously hadn't come to terms with the idea that James Potter was not his father, and Mycroft found himself amused at the idea of such an illusion holding sway over the young man. He had inherited that from his father, as well - his penchant for holding on, even when the illusion had been shattered. Sherlock had held onto the idea that John would remain, waiting for him in his flat on Baker Street after all.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You didn't ask."

With that, Mycroft stepped inside his office, closing the door sharply behind himself. Harry was left to stare at the closed door in confusion.

That had been three days ago. Three days of barely any contact with the outside world, if one didn't count Mycroft's young assistant who had shown up later that same day with a young nurse to take a sample ofhis blood and saliva for medical testing.

Harry didn't blame them for checking; he would have questioned their intelligence if they didn't comfirm his claim of being the son of Sherlock Holmes. Especially considering the sort of money obviously existed in this family, if Mycroft's home was anything to go by.

For the first time in years, Harry was given to wonder if there were others. He had always accepted that James Potter had no siblings, but suddenly he had an uncle in Mycroft Holmes.

Never once did he consider that the test might come back negative; his mother had no reason to lie in her own private journal, and Sherlock had all but come right out and said he had slept with Lily Potter.

By the time the fourth day rolled around, Harry felt as though he were going insane. Being cooped up in his aunt and uncles house was one thing, but at least they gave him chores. Here, all he had were books to keep him company, and the promise of a condascending remark if he went near Mycroft.

Harry was more than willing to defend himself against biting and scathing remarks, but Mycroft never did that. Everything he said was polite and proper, yet somehow Harry always ended up walking about feeling somehow inferior.

Mycroft had somehow managed to guess the correct size for clothing without ever asking him, and Harry had found an entire wardrobe waiting for him in the closet when he had woken on the first day, with a note taped against the door explaining the proper dress code that Mycroft expected of him. The closet had included everything, right down to his underclothes and socks. He was now the proud owner of several pairs of new trainers and even dress shoes. Even ni that Mycroft had somehow managed to get under his skin, however, as the note had left Harry with the distinct impression that Mycroft believed him incapable of picking out proper attire without prior istruction.

So when he woke on the fourth day and dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a t-shirt, Harry was ready to demand something - - anything - to keep him busy. Before he had even managed to finish dressing, however, his attention was caught by a box covered in brown wrapping paper on his desk. A desk which he was rather certain he had left messy the night before, book left open to the page he had been reading in one of the magical theory books which Mycroft had given him on that confusing first day.

The note attached to the top was both short and concise.

Something to keep you entertained.

Harry stared at the note in confusion, before carefully peeling back the brown wrapping paper and staring down at the object Lifting it in his hands, Harry turned it this way and that, confounded. It was roughly square in shape, but thin. A wire of some sort lay curled on top of it, and Harry placed this to the side as he headed for his door.

He found Mycroft already at the dining room table, a cup of coffee in front of him and the morning paper in his hands. They normally spent such meals in silence, Mycroft buried in his paper and Harry eating at a sedate pace; he had discovered early on that rushing through his meal would not be tolerated by Mycroft, if the stare he had received on that first meal had been any indication.

"What is this?"

Mycroft glanced up from his paper, eyes darting to the object in Harry's hands for a second before rising to meet Harry's confused gaze. "Surely you have seen a laptop computer before."

At Harry's confused shake of the head, Mycroft frowned and set his paper to the side. For the first time since Harry had met the man, Mycroft appeared to be surprised by something that had happened, and Harry felt a rush of relief at the realization. Maybe the man was human, after all.

"Harry, why don't you have a seat." Mycroft gestured toward Harry's normal seat at the table, and Harry did so hesitatnly, setting the device on the table before pulling his seat out.

Mycroft leaned forward, playing his arms on the table and clasping his hands together as he regarded Harry across the small distance that seperated them. The table was actually quite small, only fitting six people comfortable; two people on each side and one at each end. Mycroft sat at one end, while Harry had taken up one of the seats to Mycroft's right side; he didn't really have a reason why he did it, but he always chose the same seat for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

"Harry, I think it's time we had a talk about your time with your aunt and her husband."

It didn't go unnoticed by Harry that Mycroft had not named Vernon as his uncle; if there was one thing Harry had come to know in the past several days, it was that Mycroft did not do anything without reason.

"Yes, sir."

If Harry hadn't known better, he would have thought that Mycroft looked mildly annoyed at his response. While Harry hadn't known his uncle for long, he did know that the man had far more control over his emotions than that - what few emotions the man actually had.

"An investigation has begun into Vernon and Petunia Dursley. He has been suspended from his position at Grunning Drill Company pending the outcome." Mycroft was watching Harry carefully as he said this, and Harry had a sinking suspicion that the man was looking for a reaction.

Harry had never been particularly good at hiding his reactions or feelings. Being observant was one thing, but his control over his emotions was tenuous at best - and when he got angry, any and all attempts at control went straight out the window. Luckily, he was not angry now and so remained clear headed. That still didn't help him much with his uncle, however.

Three full days with Mycroft, and Harry was already well aware how inferior he was in comparison to the other man's intelligence and observational skills.

"I can assure you, however, that enough evidence had been gathered at this point to ensure their incarceration."

"You mean they're going to jail?"

"Their charges will include child abuse and embezzlement, among others." Mycroft continued, raising one eyebrow. It wasn't an answer, but Harry's imagination was enough to fill in the blanks.

"I didn't want that."

"This isn't about what you want. It is about what is best for you." Mycroft admonished, continuing before Harry could respond. "You are still a child, whether you like it or not." All of this was said in a rather offhand matter, as though it was an accepted thing to say, an obvious statement. Nothing to be surprised by, nothing to get upset over.

That only made it grate on Harry's nerves even more.

"At this point, it is not a question of whether they will be convicted but rather how much information you will give freely, and how much will be discovered through a waste of resources and personell." Mycroft continued, his voice as soft and seate as ever - and just as full of himself, in Harry's opinion. "The more you share now, the faster this process will be completed and we can all return to our normal lives."

Harry slumped down in his chair, ignoring the knowledge that he was being impolite. He knew his aunt would be mortified at his current position - but his aunt wasn't here to care, and he honestly didn't care what Mycroft thought of him.

Really, he didn't.

Straightening in his chair, Harry reached for carafe of orange juice set out on the table for him, pouring himself a glass in silence. "They weren't nice, and I don't want to talk about it." There, that was nice and diplomatic, wasn't it?

Apparently not. "The social worker currently assigned to your case will continue his investigation, then." Mycroft had carefully chosen this particular social worker from among those emplooyed by the British Association of Social Workers. It was tantamount to Mycroft's plans that the press not get wind of the investigation into the Dursley's until he was prepared. That meant controlling not only those involved in the investigation, but also the actions of thos who had been informed of the investigation - such as Vernon Dursley's employers.

The fact of the matter was, those on the higher levels of management at Grunnings Drilling Company were not willing to go against a member of the British government, especially one with the ear of both of the Royal Family and the Prime Minister. Keeping them quiet had been an easy enough matter, and the Dursley's silence had been ensured by their own hope of keeping this entire affair under wraps - they cared far too much for their own social standing, in Mycroft's estimation.

Settling back into his chair, Mycroft nodded his head once at the box that Harry had placed at the breakfast table. "That, nephew, is a computer. I expect you keep yourself appraised of both the wizarding and non-magical worlds and the advancements held therein. Computers are quite a common sight in this day and age, as are mobile phones."

Setting his napkin aside, Mycroft rose from his seat to set a slimp device down on top of the box holding Harry's new computer. "Do try you're best to discover the intricacies of such simple technology on your own. I will, however, be in my office should you require any assistance."

With that he was gone, once again leaving Harry with the distinct impression that any attempt to reach out to his uncle for help would be both unwanted and a signal of his own lack of intellect.

And he'd be damned if he gave Mycroft Holmes a reason to give another one of those damned smirks of his.

...

Harry spent the rest of the morning attempting to puzzle out how to work his new mobile phone. In the first hour he learned how to turn it on, but that was only the beginning of his worries. It was handful of minutes before he discovered that placing his finger on the small green arrow and sliding it to the right would grant him access to all of the features of the device, and another half an hour before he was able to access the phone function. The device was capable of far more than just calling somebody, as he was discovering.

The multitude of other functions he ignored, however, as he set about searching through his belongings for the phone number that Hermione had given him at the beginning of the summer. She had called it her "mobile number", and told him to give her a ring if he ever "needed to talk".

Now was as good a time as any, he supposed.

Even after punching in the number, however, it took him several minutes to figure out what button to press to get the thing to actually call. He spent an embarrassingly long amount of time sitting there with the phone pressed to his ear, waiting for it to call the number itself before he realized that it must need some further input from him.

Three failed attempts later, Harry was fairly certain he had Hermione's mobile number memorized due to the number of times he had been forced to punch itin, over and over again.

Finally, however, he had it ringing and waited with baited breath for his female best friend to pick it up - which Hermione finally did after the fourth ring. "Hello?"

Harry pulled the phone away from his ear at the sound of Hermione's voice, hitting the button to end the call in a sudden panic.

How could he tell Hermione any of this? He barely understood what was happening himself - or what he was doing. Everything had spiralled out of his control too quickly, and he was just reacting at this point.

Letting the mobile phone fall onto the bed, Harry gave a small sigh and closed his eyes, turning over onto his side and steadfastly ignoring the laptop computer that still awaited him.

He just wanted to block out the world for a little while. Strange, considering he had wanted the exact opposite only that morning.