Sherringford
One clever idiot created the problem. Another was in the process of aggravating it.
Never, never ever, had Mycroft Holmes, thought to be the cleverest person in his circles at least by the people who knew him (though he knew that there were by his estimate four others of equal or probably better brains; and with a grimace, he knew there was definitely one who was better), thought he would be in this position.
Oh, for the other one he was responsible for the continued internment (and to the other's eyes, interment) of. But he wasn't the final authority, the final signatory, which gave the order. That was Uncle Rudy.
The problem was that between the two cases, he at least could attempt to feel some sympathy for the kid he was faced with. Unlike the other, his own little sister, he had motive, and that motive had been a reason.
Just five hours ago, this kid, with green eyes and a very small frame, as well as an intensely serene expression as he contemplated the plate of biscuits in front of him, had burnt down his home – with his cousin, aunt and uncle inside it. Even if it wasn't for the fact that they were asleep, it wouldn't have made a lick of a difference.
It had been determined that they had been drugged before they had returned to their rooms. And the drugging was the result of a slow acting prescription sleeping pill that the male victim had bought. And in the only uneaten plate in the house, which had somehow, somehow, survived the carnage, there were...traces of the same drug. It was enough to kill his little visitor several over.
There was no doubt how that crucial bit of evidence had survived.
It was not a miracle.
It was magic.
And yet it couldn't explain the various internal injuries that the woman and her husband had sustained.
Huh...magic. It was an intangible he had yet been unable to explain.
A secret society of magicals, real, scientifically unexplained power users existed. And the boy he was faced with was the one figure that had apparently yanked them out of a bloody civil war – a war that was led by a Dark Lord who hated non-magicals. And a non-magical had attempted to kill the boy. If the non-magical world knew what the boy had done, he would be remanded to judicial and a sanatorium's custody, officially. And people would know. And the boy's world would know.
And the consequences would be bad.
Sympathy was entirely foreign to Mycroft Holmes' constitution, and with the larger picture, that he, as an armchair strategist and practically the omniscient, omnipotent mind saw, he knew there was only one true solution to the current problem if he wished the boy protected yet contained.
He really had never thought he would be in this position.
Mycroft Holmes had somehow become the person – the one in the minor position in the government – who knew about magic, and therefore was required to handle the punishment of the Boy-Who-Lived – and killed, as well.
"Prime Minister," was all he said as he spoke into the telephone, only barely managing to make his order sound like a request or advice, "Please step up to the completely tasteless picture in your room, the one that announced the untrustworthy Minister, and say, "Twinkle, Twinkle Blue Star.""
The Prime Minister, knowing that for all that Mycroft Holmes was insufferable, the man would never deign to crack a joke at his expense, and hearing the sheer distaste oozing through the man's voice, promptly did that.
Three minutes later, a very old man, with a demeanour that only made it patently obvious that he was far too spry, healthy and with very well-preserved faculties stood before Mycroft. This man was one of the four that Mycroft considered his equal.
"I had not expected a meeting under these circumstances," Dumbledore, the visitor, gravely said. The man was not the kind to observe and postulate or deduce, but his talents as one who could use any situation to his benefit were second to...only one.
That he was frazzled enough to forego his usual attempts at distracting conversations (Dumbledore never did get over being given a once over by Mycroft, which had told him that the man was of a sub-culture that was hidden, but poorly and then too only due to the fact that people were observant enough; that he was at least a centenarian despite looking like a septuagenarian; that he was a headmaster; that his choice of bed-mates was of the same gender as his own; and that he was a man of good intentions and therefore extremely dangerous) told Mycroft that he knew enough about the situation.
"I don't want this becoming common knowledge – either to your people or mine."
"We can agree upon that," Dumbledore replied in relief. "I have prepared certain families for the eventuality..."
"You don't understand, Headmaster," Mycroft cut across smoothly. "A crime was committed. A juvenile crime though it was, it was entirely premeditated, I assure you. If he slips, the danger cannot be foretold."
"You surely do not mean...?"
"A remand home?" completed Holmes. "No. The level of precision that the child of five-and-half has exerted...no; he will be dangerous to anyone that aggravates him. That is an unconscionable risk to other children."
"He is a child!" Dumbledore protested. "Surely you shan't try to execute him?"
The gaze that was turned upon Dumbledore was as chilling as Tom Riddle's was. "I am not a murderer, Mr. Dumbledore." He frowned at the old man. "You are particularly interested in shielding the boy who has actually murdered his family – not accidentally killed, or in self-defence, but murdered – though if the preliminary investigation is an indication, it could very well have been my brother or his friend who did it out of a misplaced sense of righteousness, though both would vehemently deny it."
"You know what he means to..."
"You are not the only one with siblings with troubled pasts. Mine fortunately, survive."
Dumbledore stiffened at that. The damn man could read him like a book. He didn't need any explanation for how he reached that conclusion. Knowing as much as he knew was enough to correlate with his rather frantic defence of Harry.
"I am not in the habit of speaking other's secrets. But I can...empathise," Holmes assured with a twisted grimace. He had seen the Prime Minister being robbed of a memory, and had then acted similarly, having retreated into his mind to protect it when the wand had been turned on him. He doubted Dumbledore would try something so drastic, but needs must. He was too dangerous a man to forget about. "I worry; constantly."
Dumbledore remained silent for a while.
"What do you propose?"
"We need to know how and why he did it."
"Interrogation is a rather obvious thing to do. Especially when I am sure you have deduced the motives and the manner."
"Sometimes confirmation is better."
"You know that I am asking about his placement."
"Till he goes to your school," Holmes replied shortly, pushing a sheet of paper towards Dumbledore, "this is where he needs to be."
Dumbledore heard the 'if' that was substituted by the long pause and another word.
"It will be our responsibility of course, to ensure that there are no triggers that may provoke such a response again, but..."
The old wizard couldn't help but marvel at the man; the 'till' made it sound an assurance, but placed no time limit. And now this man sat to bargain. Well, two could play the game.
"We shall ensure that your secure facility is not breached by any of our kind."
Lame and rather transparent, though it was, it was the sort of audaciousness that being the foremost wizard in the country allowed. He had cut right through to the point where he had bypassed Holmes' "we have your asset" card, one that the man had been looking for, for quite some time, with his own, "we will be watching" card.
The next best thing to bargaining from a position of power was bargaining from a position of relative power. In this case, it was literal.
And Mycroft Holmes, knowing this man's position and what it entailed regarding magical-non-magical interactions, was in no position to avert that.
Both men sipped upon the rather decadent brandy that was to fortify them as they looked upon the child.
"I want to know," Dumbledore murmured musingly, as he rotated the glass in his hand around itself and stared at it, the curiosity-mingled sorrow apparent to his host. "Why and how did he do it?"
"The 'why' was rather patently obvious," Mycroft replied with a stifled shark-like smile. "It is a massive matter of worry for you that it was not...sensed."
Words...words were important. He would never use the 'see' that his brother so favoured; not when faced with this man who could and would worm his way out of and towards anything he set his mind to.
"Family," responded Dumbledore unconcernedly. Holmes held those cards anyway; it would be no new information to make him vulnerable.
"It is a distraction – a vulnerability; and one of the largest reasons why people who assume based on such a fact go wrong."
"Indeed."
"I suppose we need to find out the 'how'."
The answer they got from the ruined innocence was as scary as it was terrible.
"They never liked me eating. When I saw her give me food with the special powder to make me 'not freakish' I wished her the same."
"But how could you beat them?"
"I did nothing. They beat each other up. Then they let to sleep."
And it was consistent with the autopsies. Incidentally, the boy's mandatory health check-up would reveal similar injuries, just old.
"Did you tell them to do it?"
"Why would anyone listen if some kid is telling them to beat someone up? Isn't that stupid?"
The two men looked at each other. The boy had not lied, but it was inconclusive in the eyes of any law that cared to check. To start with, the diction and the words and the obvious logic would make people question the boy's age.
Privately, both were terrified.
He was like her – only magical. Mycroft Holmes knew the kind of person he was; too well, in fact. Never mind the fact that Sherlock could sometimes calm her.
He was the same as the other, realised Dumbledore, the dawn of realisation painful and sudden. He suddenly understood what 'equal' meant.
And together, the two stalwarts of their respective governments made a horrible, horrible mistake.
Sherringford was warded for its newest prisoner.
Obviously post-Season 4, and regressed in time to the 1980's and onwards.
Temporal Penguin