1984

By now, enough of the school was accustomed to seeing Greg Lestrade and Mycroft Holmes together. Many assumed that they were simply good friends. Greg had his share of friends among his own House, and Mycroft had a smattering of cronies and informants from his, but they were obviously best friends with each other. They'd been very careful over the years not to let the wrong people see them acting like a couple. Several teachers were surprised that they'd lasted this long. Most adolescent romances burned themselves out rapidly, but they seemed to be going as strong as ever. Just as happy to be together as the day they met.

One gloomy Saturday afternoon, Greg was on his way back from the library when he cut through the Great Hall. He paused when he saw a very distraught-looking Mycroft sitting alone at a table. He was clutching a letter with a look of shell-shocked disbelief. He looked up and saw Greg approaching, and fought with the impulse to hide the letter. Instead, he laid it out on the table. He looked completely ashen, the letter obviously had brought him terrible news.

Greg took a seat next to Mycroft and clasped his hand. "What is it?"

Mycroft felt tears slip down his cheeks. He hastily brushed them away with his sleeve. "Oh, you...you won't see what's so wrong with it. It isn't so bad. Just..." he struggled to speak but failed.

"Whatever's wrong, I'll try to understand. I still don't know everything about wizards, but if it's bad...it's bad."

The terrible news was exhausting Mycroft, and he lay his head down on the table. Greg draped an arm around him, ruffling his hair. He could almost feel his own heart breaking on Mycroft's behalf.

"Sherlock's a Squib," he blurted out shortly, dissolving into tears again. "He's a Squib," he repeated in a despairing whisper. "He can't...can't ever come here. We're...not the same." Sobs shook him. "And don't you think I don't know what this sounds like to you. That just makes it worse. I know what the Slytherins' reputation is like, but I don't have anything against non-magical people or half-bloods or any of it. But...poor Sherlock. He won't understand. He wants to come so much. I suppose it was bound to crop up eventually in a family as old as ours. I'm sorry..."

"No, no, it's fine. Nothing to be sorry for. Really, I understand. Well, maybe not entirely, but I can appreciate it. He'll be all right, though. He's got one thing going for him at least. He's got you. He might not be a wizard, but he's still a Holmes. He'll be fine."

"Yes," Mycroft gasped. "Yes, he will. He's alive, I can't act like he died or something. He's...he's just fine. And he's still my brother." He attempted to pull himself together, sniffling and wiping his eyes.

"Here," Greg murmured softly, as if he were coaxing a frightened woodland animal. "Come here, my swan." And he drew him into his lap and hugged him. "I know what you need."

Taking his boyfriend by the hand, he led him down the corridor near the Hufflepuff common room. Mycroft had gotten his tears out of his system by now, but was still very down-hearted. He couldn't shake the feelings of guilt. He worried that he looked snobbish to Greg, for mourning the fact that his brother was a lot like the rest of Greg's family. How insulting must that look? He had the absurd notion that this was somehow his fault, that being born especially gifted meant that he hoarded all of the family's magic to himself. Mycroft knew that that was impossible, but still, to his young mind something had to have caused this! Suddenly, they came to a stop in front of a large picture of fruit. Greg tickled the pear and it turned into a door handle. They let themselves in to a busy, bustling kitchen, swarming with house elves!

Mycroft looked around himself, impressed! Greg had often spoken of going down to the kitchens, procuring special treats for him. To celebrate their anniversary, he'd produced a decorated cake, just the right size for two to share, at their secret meeting spot. He'd pulled similar stunts on their birthdays or when each other's team won at Quidditch. Greg played for Hufflepuff, a Beater, but Mycroft was never fond of physical activity, and he had no desire to play against his only real friend. So, he simply watched from the bleachers with the rest of the student body.

Still, despite the previous evidence, Mycroft had never given the school kitchens a second thought. The house elves seemed to know Greg personally. He was speaking to one of them in a quiet tone, looking over at Mycroft and the house elf did the same and he gave him a look of pity. The house elf beckoned the two boys to follow him and he led them to a table and chairs away from where work was being done.

"Anything you likes, sirs, and we will make it for you!" he squeaked, scurrying to fetch some tea.

"I think you could use some ice cream. How's that sound?" Lestrade suggested. Mycroft nodded with a shrug. "I didn't tell him anything specific, just that you'd gotten some bad news and needed cheering up." Greg smiled hopefully, reaching across the little table to ruffle his boyfriend's hair. He couldn't get enough of the feel of those soft ginger curls. Mycroft worked so hard to keep it sleek and straight, but it was no use when someone was determined to fluff it up again. That one stray lock that flipped down against his forehead was still a source of fascination to the Hufflepuff boy. Mycroft smiled back indulgingly, knowing how much it meant to him. He, too, took a moment simply to admire the view. He didn't allow himself to all that often, it was too distracting, but it could not be denied that his companion was devilishly handsome. The house elf returned, Greg simply nodded significantly and held up two fingers. The elf grinned and scurried off. He was back seconds later with two tall glass goblets filled with ice cream, warm chocolate sauce, and whipped cream, dotted with chopped candied nuts and cherries. Two more elves came to them bearing a tea tray and a plate of shortbread and jam tarts. One last one approached their table, set a tall red taper in an enchanted candlestick that played soft music as the candle burned.

Mycroft smiled at this splendid array. "This is what you get when you get bad news?" He asked in amazement as Greg poured. They dug into their melting sundaes, enjoying themselves immensely. "Why didn't you bring me back here before?" The pleasure of being here with Greg was enough to temporarily take his mind off of his brother. "And how in the world did they know...?" he gestured to their spread, it was all of his favorite things.

"Oh, they know all about you. They know everyone. Ever notice that different things get sent up to different tables? They know what we like."

That had evidently escaped Mycroft's notice for the past six years. He'd never subscribed to the stereotype that Hufflepuffs were stupid, but he wouldn't have thought one to be so observant as to pay attention to other houses' tables.

"Never took you back here because I knew you were avoiding temptation. Hard to in the school kitchens," Greg replied with a naughty look. "Today you needed the extra boost, your precious waistline be damned." They sniggered comfortably at each other, nudging each other cozily under the table. In a surprisingly short time, their food had run out and they stood up to leave. "Look, I'm sorry about your brother."

"You're right, though. He'll be fine. He's a Holmes," Mycroft said superciliously. Lestrade seemed glad to see his swagger back as they returned to the Great Hall side by side. They arrived just in time for dinner, and despite their elaborate midday snack, neither of them felt daunted. On the way back to their respective common rooms, Greg saw Mycroft examining the fruit picture thoughtfully.

"Uh, oh. I told the crackhead where the den was hid," he taunted playfully.

With a guilty start, Mycroft spun around and wrinkled his nose at him. "Crackhead? Den? What are you talking about?"

Greg rolled his eyes impatiently. "Don't wizards use...illicit substances?"

"There are habit-forming potions. Is that what you mean? Oh, and I had an uncle once who cast Cheering Charms on himself every hour. That couldn't have been healthy."

"Something like that. Don't you pay attention in Muggle Studies?"

Mycroft smirked, "Why should I? I can always copy off you. You're top of the class there. Why weren't you put in Ravenclaw?"

Greg shrugged. "I could ask you the same."

"Oh, there are more important things than just being clever. Knowing what to do with it is what matters. Making good use of it," he pronounced smoothly with a wicked look.

"Using it for the most good is what matters."

"Hufflepuff," Mycroft scoffed in a parody of disgust.

"Slytherin," Greg returned with relish.

Now that their final year of school had begun, seventh year students all felt time slipping away. Their workload had mounted almost to the breaking point. Greg felt himself most fortunate to have Mycroft with him to study for their N.E.W.T.s together, not to mention their standard end-of-year exams. Mycroft made it look so easy. He was already guaranteed the Ministry position he sought, pending his graduation and test results. Greg had already been head-hunted by Department of Magical Law Enforcement as well as a representative from Scotland Yard. The latter interviewed him at a neutral location, of course, and had no clue to his applicant's double life.

They liked to sit out in the courtyard together, when weather permitted. When no one else was around, they would share a bench and cuddle as they worked, rewarding each other for correct answers with kisses. They never suspected that anyone saw...

After one such study session, when each of them turned down the covers of their beds that night, they found a wrapped photograph. Like all wizard photos, it was moving, showing the two of them snuggling cozily together for all time. Lestrade conjured a picture frame in just the right size and propped it up on his bedside table. He could watch them silently loving each other all night if he wanted. Mycroft waved his wand around his, shrinking it down and slipping it into the pocket watch he'd gotten for his seventeenth birthday, pleased that he could wear this sweet memento wherever he went.

The next morning in Herbology, the culprit outed herself. Professor Sprout greeted them both with a knowing smile, then raised a finger to her lips.

Soon, even Mycroft was starting to crack under the strain of deadlines. Brilliant though he was, he was still a seventeen year old boy, vulnerable to the same worries as anyone else. He and Greg started having regular sessions in the kitchen. Judging by the fact that it took no great toll on Mycroft's figure, Greg could only assume that if it wasn't for this habit of theirs, he would have wasted away under the stress.

"It'll all be over soon. Then there's nothing to worry about. Even the worst day we might have at work won't match this by a long shot," Greg promised him. They meandered out to the classroom where their entire relationship began, the first boxing lessons that blossomed into friendship, and more. "Nothing to it, right? If I can do it, you can do it in your sleep."

Mycroft gave him a wan smile and a weak chuckle. "I can't wait for this to be over. And you! You thought I should have tested out when I was eleven! Would've killed me!" He took Greg's hand. "And we'd have never had this."

"What was I thinking?" Greg agreed, drawing him in. "It's all right to be worried, though. You don't have to go all stiff-upper-lip, you're not my grandad." They nudged each other playfully. Then Mycroft assumed a thoughtful expression. He looked down at his hands. He wore a gold ring on each ring finger, one was his father's, the other belonged to his grandfather. He looked at his boyfriend, feeling the curious sensation of time slowing down for this moment. He took the one off of his left hand and held it in his palm. Whatever the future held, he wanted Greg Lestrade by his side for it. His heart was beating very fast, sweat was beading on his brow. He pushed his hair back from his face and sniffed.

"What would I do without you?" Mycroft took a deep, steadying breath. "Greg, I...I know the world isn't...kind to people like us. We've been spoiled here, these idiots don't notice anything. Out there, people are more watchful, wary of what's...different. Different is often seen as unwelcome, as a threat, as something to be contained or stamped out. Whatever happens, as long as there is breath in my body, I won't let any harm come to you. With the dualities of our career paths, it's especially important not to draw attention to ourselves. We'll have to secret ourselves away so the world only sees our public face. Only let them see what we want them to see."

"You're good at that," Greg observed.

"So are you. Your own parents haven't got a clue, have they?"

"No idea. I'm afraid they're done with me, actually. They don't care about any of this. It's like they think that once I'm done with school, I'll come home and be their little boy again, be a Muggle like them. And I can't. I wouldn't even if I could."

"Nor should you. You're a fine wizard." Suddenly, words failed him as the gravity of what he was getting at took hold. He took Greg's hand. "Look, I know nobody will recognize it, not in our lifetimes anyway, but maybe after. Someday, like Professor Sprout said. Someday it may be better. For others like us down the road. Still, we can have this much, if you wanted to. I know...we're young, but it doesn't change the way I feel about you." He slipped down off the seat and went down on one knee, holding up his father's ring. "Would you marry me?"

Greg's eyes went even wider than usual, he put a hand over his mouth. "Yes," he rasped hoarsely. "God, yes!"

Mycroft slid the ring onto his finger and kissed his hand; his knuckles, his palm, his wrist... Then they both broke into hysterical laughter and tears. He leapt to his feet and tackled Greg in a hug. He kissed him in sloppy exuberance, then drew away a fraction of an inch. "Good. We're married." And he kissed him shortly again. "As long as you wear that ring, we're married in my book."

Greg laughed, "Yes. Yes, we are."

They were making much more noise than was wise if they were trying to stay secret. The sound of footsteps woke them to this fact and they clung to each other fiercely in alarm. The door creaked open and Professor Sprout walked in. She looked at them both with her hands on her hips. Before she could speak, Greg beat her to the punch.

"Professor! Look, I don't care what you do to me, do anything you like. Suspend me, expel me, take off three hundred house points—I don't care. I...want you to meet my husband, Mycroft!"

Her disapproving expression vanished and she clasped her hands with shining eyes. "Oh! So you two are...? Now that's sweet. Congratulations! I mean...what are you boys doing out of bed at this hour? Go on, off with you, it's late!"

Glad that they were getting off with just a scolding, they followed orders and made tracks for their dormitories. Then, just as they reached the corridor leading to the Hufflepuff common room, Greg kept hold of Mycroft's hand and gave a tug. He stopped and looked at the barrels curiously. With a finger to his lips, Lestrade tapped rhythmically on one of the barrels and the lid opened up for him to climb in. Silently, he beckoned Mycroft to follow.

"Sneaky," he hissed as he followed close behind, getting a hand down from the tunnel into the burrow-like common room. Pausing for a moment to look around at the cozy room, Mycroft was pulled along another tunnel. They followed it to where the other seventh-year boys slept, careful not to make a sound. They shucked off their robes and climbed into bed, spooning snugly. "I'll go before the others wake up. Can't let them catch us."

"I know, I just wanted you here tonight."

"Me, too. Good night, husband." Mycroft nuzzled him lovingly, breathing in his scent with a satisfied sigh.

"Good night, swan."

Greg stood by the front of the castle, pacing, waiting. He was wearing a new set of navy blue dress robes and was starting to sweat in the sun. "They'll be here. They'll be here," he murmured to himself. He looked across the courtyard at the Holmes family. He gave them a friendly wave, getting a sullen vibe of unmasked jealousy from little Sherlock. He glared at the edifice as though its sheer existence was an offense to him, not even looking his way. Greg sighed; it wasn't going to be easy for the boy, already growing up in Mycroft's shadow, turning out to be a Squib. He heard Mr. and Mrs. Holmes ask Mycroft to give them the grand tour, to which he grudgingly agreed. The seven-year-old broke character for a moment, brightening at the suggestion. Mycroft looked across at Greg once more, waving off his "husband"'s teasing smirk. Greg turned back around just in time-

"Mum, Dad! You made it!" He ran down the stone pavement and hugged them both. His parents stared up at the castle then looked back at Greg. It was undeniable, he looked every inch a wizard in his full formal robes and pointed black hat.

"Oh, my god, it's all real," his mother said, thinking aloud. "You really are a-?"

"Yeah, 'course it's all real. Where d'ya think you've been sending me for the past seven years?"

His father was equally speechless. "What...exactly do you...do?"

"Well, we just had our exams, so if you want to meet any of the teachers, I'm sure some are free. Come on in, I'll show you around." He took a few light, jogging steps, urging his parents to follow. "I needed a little extra help in Charms, but I soon got the hang of it," he called pointedly up the stairs at Mycroft. Eager for any interruption, Mycroft strode down the stairs three at a time. When he reached Greg, nodded politely to his beloved's parents.

"Hello. Not sure you remember me."

Mr. Lestrade looked thoughtful, "Oh, sure. We've seen you at the station. You're a friend of Greg's, aren't you? Kid with the funny name, what was it...?"

Deciding to be as honest as he can given the circumstances, while at the same time not rocking the boat, Greg simply said, "Mycroft is...very special to me. Very special," he repeated, giving him a warm smile. Mycroft smiled back and patted Greg firmly on the shoulder. He was looking immaculate as usual in a set of beige dress robes, accented in a rich, earthy brown.

"I'm sure your son has already told you about his latest victory on the Quidditch pitch. Then again, perhaps not. Hufflepuffs tend to be modest," Mycroft remarked.

This put a lightbulb over Greg's head. "Oh, yeah! Wait till you see!" He dashed off down to his dormitory and raced back as quickly as he could. When he returned, he was carrying his trusty Silver Arrow. "Look at that, there, Dad. Bet you wouldn't even recognize it!"

His parents gawked at the broomstick in surprise. "That's not the rotting pile of twigs you were so excited about, is it?!" his mother gasped.

Greg grinned jubilantly. He hadn't shown it to his parents since they gave it to him. There was no good flying space near their house, and neither of them ever seemed keen on the subject, so he just kept it in his trunk during the holidays. "Mycroft helped me fix it up. Gave her a good polish and scrub-down, boosted her juice up, trimmed the tail."

"Well, the shopkeeper seemed to have know what he was talking about."

"All it needed was a little love," Greg observed, sharing a covert glance with his companion. He led the group back outside, feeling as though a demonstration would be in order.

"And you really...fly on this thing?"

"Like no other," Mycroft bragged on his behalf. "Hufflepuff won the Quidditch Cup this year thanks to him, second place last year."

Greg waved the praise aside. "I'm just a Beater."

"So modest," Mycroft purred in velvet tones, drawing an arm snugly around him, secretly cuddling him in plain sight. "Go on, show them!"

"Remember that first time? When I took you up with me?"

"We were twelve," Mycroft scoffed. "The two of us together probably didn't even register as a full-grown rider. You've bulked up a bit since then." He gazed admiringly at how Greg's robes complimented his firm and muscular physique.

"Wanna see?" Greg asked, eager for his parents' approval. When they nodded a bit vaguely, he hopped on and took off! As he put on his aerial show, Mycroft leaned in close.

"Your son is a fine man. I hope for his sake that you're proud of him. I don't make friends easily, and he's been my best friend since we first started. He never judged me because I'm in Slytherin. A very fine man," he murmured softly before standing back to watch, making the Muggles wonder if he was suggesting something else. In the end, they took his remarks at face value, as praise of their parenting and their son's good character. His mother especially found it sweet that her boy, who'd evidently blossomed into a popular athlete, was bosom friends with the more academically-inclined.

Soon, Greg landed lightly on the flagged stone walkway again, slinging his broom comfortably over his shoulder. "Whadja think?"

"That was...very impressive...Greg," his father faltered. He'd certainly never seen anything like it. His mother closed her mouth at last, in awe of what her boy could do. About the same time, the Holmes family was calling after Mycroft, wondering where he'd gotten to. He grimaced and dashed off toward his parents and brother to continue the tour.

Mr. Lestrade took his son by the arm, giving him a curious look. "So, uh, how special is that Mycroft kid to you?"

Greg gulped, looked nervously between his parents. He took a shaky breath to prepare. Luckily, his mother interrupted.

"We can tell. You're...different. And, we might not understand all of your differences...but you're still our son."

"When?" he choked dryly. "I...I thought you didn't...didn't like...y'know."

His father winced, but patted his boy on the shoulder. "You get a hundred letters from those blasted owls during the summer. Only one sender gets you all giddy. We started to wonder when you were about thirteen. That's...also when we started to rethink things ourselves. We don't quite understand what makes people a certain way, but..."

"We won't tell," his mother whispered. She looked back to where Mycroft had last been. "He seems sweet. He adores you. You look after each other, all right? Just keep it low-key."

Greg laughed shrilly, tears of relief sprang to his eyes. Again, he hugged both of his parents. "He is sweet, even if he pretends he's an evil genius sometimes. I love him with all my heart. Last month, Mycroft...he...he proposed to me, look!" he held out the gold band with an H stamped into it.

This proclamation was just on the edge of what his parents could accept, and it showed. They flinched at the sight of the ring. His mother reminded him needlessly, "But, you can't get married. Not really. You know that."

"I know. I know. But we want to. He said as long as I'm wearing his ring, I'm his husband. God, his husband, Mum! Oh! He's just...he's wonderful, really! I've never been happier! Thank you. Thank you both for letting me come here. You've made me so happy!" Greg finally let himself become uncorked, having kept this subject bottled up for so long, he had to release it in a torrent of jubilation.

His parents both looked around them with frightened expressions, shushing their son. "That's nice, son, just tone it down," his father said urgently. "Don't want to attract attention. If the wrong people knew-"

"They'd skin me alive, I know. We're keeping it low-key. A few teachers know, but they're fine with it, they don't blab."

He took them back inside to show them around. Every little thing seemed to be slightly alarming to his parents, from how he exchanged familiar greetings with ghosts and subjects of paintings, the way he automatically held onto the rail on a particularly changeable staircase. He took them to classrooms and introduced his parents to his teachers, who helped coach him through some demonstrations from class, wowing his parents into stunned silence. His Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher challenged him to conjure a Patronus charm, and when he obliged, a large, silver swan erupted from his wand. By a perfect coincidence, Mycroft was just showing his parents into this classroom as well. He saw the swan soaring overhead just before it vanished, and decided to show him his.

"Expecto Patronum!" he cried, and a bear galloped out of his wand. Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade jumped in surprise at the silvery beast's sudden appearance. They clung to each other as it loped around the room and then faded away. With his usual superior smirk, Mycroft gave the room a little bow and then left without another word. Professor Aschrel looked on with raised eyebrows and a short "hmm," of recognition. He then decided to explain it to Greg's parents.

"Seems those boys' Patronuses are each other. And probably the thoughts behind them, am I correct?"

Greg grinned bashfully and nodded, finding it funny and flattering at the same time that Mycroft saw him as a bear.

"A Patronus charm is a protective force, made of a happy thought or memory. They often take the form of someone the caster loves, something reminiscent of them, anyway. Other times, it shows itself as an embodiment of the caster's true nature. A witch or wizard does not pick what form their Patronus takes. It comes from inside them." With that, Greg led his parents out.

"Was he right?" his mother asked as they descended thankfully stationary steps.

Greg looked cautiously at his parents with a guilty smile. "He's my swan," he answered simply. His parents looked at each other oddly. Neither of them could see anything remotely swan-like about their son's boyfriend. Maybe a stork or a flamingo. They could easily see how Mycroft saw Greg as a bear. He was strongly-built, young as he was, and his shaggy black hair helped the suggestion as well.

At various points throughout the tour, classmates called out to him in a friendly way. It was plain for Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade to see that their son was well-liked among his fellows, but he didn't seem to have a big head about it. They also caught a glimpse again of Mycroft and his family. He appeared a much more solitary figure, and it seemed to be by choice. They heard no one hail him as others did their son; he kept a safe distance from the rest of the school, looking oddly ominous. Soon, the bell was ringing.

"Lunchtime," Greg announced, and he led them back down to the Great Hall. His parents followed after him. As strange of a world as this all was, they were glad that their son had fit in here. From his excited stream of chatter, they heard all about his job prospects, how the wizarding world required plants in the Muggle world to keep both sides safe so he'd be answering to higher-ups in both worlds.

"I won't be far, so don't worry. I'll still come home and visit. Once I move out, that is," he laughed.

"Look at you, all grown up," his mother cooed at him. "Still can't believe all of this magic business is real."

Greg had his parents sit with him at the Hufflepuff table. A few of his friends from the Quidditch team gathered as well and introduced themselves as food appeared on the tables. Greg found a folded note that appeared at his place. He pocketed it smoothly, but his parents recognized his expression and knew the message had to have been from Mycroft. He positively sparkled.

Under the table, Mrs. Lestrade took her husband's hand. They exchanged looks with a shrug. "They're just kids in love, like we used to be." After a thoughtful pause, Mr. Lestrade nodded in quiet agreement. Their son was different, far different than either of them would have ever expected or imagined, but he was still their son.

The graduation ceremony was strangely similar to the Muggle variety. Long, a few speeches, a musical interlude, and then the long list of names as they walked across the stage to get their diplomas. Greg's graduating class had planned a stunt in advance, especially with those with Muggle parents in mind. As each one received his or her diploma, each of them turned on the spot and Disapparated, reappearing back at their seat. Some had concealed small vials to create smoke or flames or conjured flocks of birds or butterflies to heighten the effect. Greg was no different. It was lucky that he wasn't the first to walk, or his parents would have been scared to death at the sight of him vanishing in a flurry of shooting stars and reappearing with a bang between them.

Soon, it was time for the parents to go home, and the graduating class of 1985 changed out of their good robes back into their uniforms for the Leaving Feast. There were many hugs and tears at just about every table. Greg and Mycroft met up in the hall between their common rooms and shared a hasty embrace.

"Dru knows where to find you."

"Maybe I'll just Summon you," Greg winked, then gave him a kiss. "Write me when you're Minister of Magic." Mycroft laughed, leaning on his umbrella. Greg had given it to him and told him how dapper it made him look. He carried it with him everywhere ever since. He had plans to conceal his wand in it while in the Muggle world. It made an awfully handy staff.