2005

Mycroft leaned back in his seat, listening with pleased amusement as Greg reported to him about his first day with Sherlock assisting an investigation. Despite the fact that they both survived what came to be known as The Battle of Hogwarts, Greg kept his promise to help Sherlock find a meaningful career. He was cocky, arrogant, and he didn't play well with others, but Lestrade saw enough marked similarities between him and his big brother that he found these traits almost endearing. He also had to remind himself to act as though he had no connection to Mycroft. Not an easy task when faced with the perceptive younger Holmes brother. Still, years of being an undercover wizard posing as a Muggle taught him to keep certain walls up, to only let people see what he wanted them to see.

Greg sat in a chair in his flat, regaling his lover with his latest story. "One thing, Mycroft, he keeps getting my name wrong! Like he honestly can't remember, but we've seen each other! He saw us together at your house once, remember?"

Mycroft's pose of ease faltered, he almost looked guilty. "Yes, I remember. Curious."

"Swan..."

"Yes, dear?"

"You gonna tell me what that's about?"

"Be more specific."

Greg thought it through carefully, not liking the conclusion he was coming to. "You did a Memory Charm on him. He saw us together, and you made him forget."

"Bit stronger than I intended," Mycroft admitted casually. "He seems permanently incapable of remembering your name."

Greg growled into the phone. "You did permanent brain damage to your little brother and that's all you can say? Stronger than you intended?!"

"He's otherwise unharmed," Mycroft excused himself lightly.

"You're a real bastard, you know that?"

"I love you, too, dear." And he hung up.

He laid his phone aside and dropped his head into his hands. It had been a long day. He felt drowsy already. Mycroft thought fondly about Greg, grateful that the man would willingly endure his brother's antics. It had been some time since they'd been able to see each other in person. Their various jobs kept them both busy. The dust should settle soon, though, Mycroft hoped.

As a consolation to himself, he opened his pocket watch and gazed at the tiny moving picture inside. He watched his and Greg's teenaged selves cuddling together in the Hogwarts courtyard. They kissed and nuzzled and petted each other, running their fingers through each other's hair, cozily loving each other forever.

Hours later, Anthea, Mycroft's new personal assistant, let herself into the office. She paused at the sight of her sleeping boss. With a warm smile, she crept behind him. Then she saw his watch. It was rimmed with planets, and had twelve hands. But what she really noticed was the moving picture. She looked from the watch to her boss with raised eyebrows.

The next morning, Mycroft and Anthea sat together over coffee. Anthea's eyes sparkled with her new knowledge.

"Mr. Holmes, sir?"

"Yes, Anthea? What is it?"

"I, uh, never knew something about you."

"Oh? I'm sure there are a great number of things about me that you never realized. What, praytell, is your latest discovery?" He took a deep sip of coffee and looked perfectly at ease.

"I...never knew you cared for...Scottish rugby."

Mycroft choked, nearly doing a spit-take. Still, he forced himself to remain calm. He swallowed with a heavy gulp and set the cup down. "Scottish rugby?" He squinted at her, shaking a finger in her direction. "You don't support Scottish rugby," he accused.

"No, I don't," she admitted. "My parents do, though. I was a...bit of a black sheep in the family, sir. Didn't quite fit. I like your watch, sir. My father has one like it. Reminded me of home. I learned to tell time on one when I was little. You wouldn't believe how hard it was to change over to...normal clocks."

"Yes..." he murmured thoughtfully. "You saw...saw it open, did you?"

Anthea stirred cream into her coffee with a pleasant smile. "I did, sir. That young man you're with in the picture...who is he? Where is he now?"

"He's my husband. He lives in London, but he'll soon drop by. I'm sure you'll see him before the week is out."

"He's very handsome, sir. Very nice eyes."

"Yes, I agree," Mycroft smiled, as if picturing him in his mind's eye. "He's seen a fair bit of trouble since that picture was taken. Turned half his hair grey. I used to tease him about it, telling him he looks like his House mascot."

"Hufflepuff, then?" Mycroft muttered an affirmative. "And you were probably in Slytherin, right?"

"Right again. Look here, Anthea. How well would you say you...coped with...I mean you're a...a..."

"A Squib? Don't worry, it's not a dirty word. I'm not ashamed of it. My parents are very understanding. Sure, we were all disappointed, but we've gotten over that. It wasn't anybody's fault, it can't be helped. I've done the best I can with what I have."

"Very healthy attitude," Mycroft praised. "Good girl. And I needn't tell you to keep this information to ourselves."

"Of course, sir."

He had the distinct feeling that his new assistant was going to fit in perfectly.

That same week, Detective Inspector Lestrade made the mistake of stepping away from his desk while Sally Donovan was on the loose. It had been seemingly harmless, she'd shouted at him from his office as he was refilling his coffee, asking to borrow his stapler. He grunted an affirmative before realizing with a cold shock what he'd had hidden in his desk drawer! He dashed back, spilling his coffee in the process, but he was too late. Sally had sunk down into his own chair, gawking openly at the framed moving photograph he kept stashed away.

"I...I can explain," he stammered.

"Oh, I've seen these. Picture frames that play short video clips. Cute. But who...?" Donovan trailed off, tearing her eyes from the picture up to her superior. She recognized Greg's teenaged self, his shaggy black hair made him look like a punk rocker, but..."That boy? Does Mrs. Lestrade know about this?"

"Well, unless you're referring to my mother, then he is 'Mrs.' Lestrade," he explained. "He's...we...I mean, we were just kids, but we knew almost instantly." He hoped she would give the photo back before she noticed anything else odd about the picture, like the fact that they were both wearing robes, and his Silver Arrow was lying near their bench.

"Right." She looked back at the picture and grinned. "He's cute." Sally thought of this revelation, then added it to things she'd known or observed about her friend. "He's your swan. That's how all those notes are signed. I've heard you call someone that over the phone before, too. I think it's sweet."

Greg relaxed with a sigh, actually fanning himself off. "You know, when we were kids, just realizing that about ourselves, we were terrified. We thought we'd have to hide forever. We get awfully sick of hiding, but we don't want to be put on display, either. We just want to be treated like normal people, like any other couple out there. He was especially pessimistic. I remember at our first dance...god, the first time we danced together it felt...felt like flying. Y'know? But he was so sure that no one would ever accept us, apart from a few teachers who happened to catch us together. He gave me his ring when we were seventeen, we've considered ourselves married ever since."

"You know, peoples' attitudes about all that are changing. It's more normal than it used to be. Doesn't change what I think of you at all. As long as you're happy, right?"

"Really? You mean it?" It was always a load off his mind when people could accept that about him.

Donovan shrugged. "Just means I've been barking up the wrong tree for years."

"What, you?" Greg asked in surprise.

Putting her hands on her hips, Sally rose from his seat and gave him a teasingly defiant look. "Well, what do you think I meant all those times I asked you out for coffee?"

Greg looked thoughtful. "Guess that explains why you were never pleased when I brought coffee for the crew. Sorry, that just went right by me. That was you flirting?" He was almost laughing about it. He and Sally Donovan had gotten on all right as members of the same team, but he wouldn't have suspected her to have something more on her mind. "Don't know what to tell you, Sally, but you're not my type."

She didn't look hurt at all, just handed the picture back to him with a smile. "He's a lucky man. Though from the looks of it, I'd say you are, too."

Greg took the picture and gazed at it intently. "Yeah, I am."