One of the more challenging things about this is that an 18-year-old Mycroft just doesn't and can't have the authoritas and worldly power of Sherlock's Mycroft. The show's Mycroft is a man in his mid- to late forties, whose overall bio, to the limited extent we know it, suggests a long, complex, and highly successful history of service to the British government. He almost has to have done a variety of things to have the power and scope of responsibility he's presented as having. That would mean analytical work, certainly, but also practical hands-on covert and overt ops with the Secret Service, and real first-hand experience working with national and international factions. Mycroft as presented on the show is a man just coming into the full strength of his professional prime, with a huge amount of clout and the background experience and training to justify that.

True Slytherin's Mycroft is eighteen, just graduated from the equivalent of high school, going into an apprenticeship in law enforcement and government. He's got school contacts, yes—but only such respect as his lineage, his school record, and his network of associates would provide at that stage of his life.

As a result I find myself aiming him toward him becoming a really good and really fluent Auror, rather than trying to pretend he's anything like at Dumbledore and Shacklebolt's levels of authority and experience. With Tonks to play to and play with, that's sort of heading me in an "Avengers" Steed and Peel direction for now.

But, then, that's no bad thing. Holmes and Tonks as Steed and Peel is a pretty notion in its own right. (grin)

PS: Harry and Sherlock will end up friends, and will be in and out of the story, but this is really Mycroft's tale. A lot of Harry and Sherlock's tale will show up in letters (epistolary narrative), though they may also get some on-screen time as well. We'll see. Even I'm having to discover how this story works...

PPS: Can anyone tell me how to embed a jpeg image into a chapter? I have a drawing of Mycroft as a young auror that I'd love to stick in this chapter, but I haven't a clue how to go about it. Help? Thanks. TT.

The Leaves They Grow Green

By owl from Hogwarts:

My dear Mycroft,

Ah, the bright and shining passions of youth! I confess, I find piracy on the seven seas an unlikely pastime to pursue here in the highlands around Hogwarts; however, I can but admire your brother's commitment to his nautical ambitions. I admire still more what appears to be an interesting coalition of companions. Gryffindors and a Slytherin; young Longbottom and the daughter of Muggles consorting with the son of a Death Eater... Whatever else, your brother brings together such diverse elements within our community!

Thanks to your timely communication, I believe House Heads McGonagall and Snape and I will be able to deal with our expected invasion effectively on multiple levels. Do let me know if, on next hearing from your brother, you approve of our solution to the situation.

I have been told by our mutual friend, Mr. Shacklebolt, that you are advancing well in your training as an Auror. I cannot begin to express my satisfaction upon hearing this. It is ever a joy to a teacher to see a student succeed as an adult. Non scholae, sed vitae discimus*—may the lessons learned at Hogwarts support you in your life to come.

Do feel free to remain in touch, both with regards to young Sherlock, and in regards to your career and ongoing studies. Insofar as the first is concerned, I consider you a vital element in my defences against your brother's capacity for proselytizing the pirate life-style amongst my students. As for your career—consider me a committed sponsor and mentor, viewing your progress with avid enthusiasm and the very best wishes,

Yours with gratitude and affection,

Albus Dumbledore

XXXXX

"Holmes, that's brill," Tonks said, eyes wide as she considered the umbrella Olivander had just handed Mycroft. "What's it for?"

"Primarily broad-scale defensive magics." While Olivander's primary attention was on Mycroft, he was only too willing to explain the features of this commission. "It is a poor choice for casting precision spells, but it is superb at blanket-spells, and maintains impressively high levels of support and energy for defensive work. It is in many ways much the magical equivalent of a knight's shield."

"Also exceptionally effective in a thunderstorm," Mycroft added, with a quick smile at his training partner. "It doesn't turn inside out no matter how much wind there is, and the rain-shadow is wide enough to keep three dry."

"Well, then," she said, grinning, "I'll know who to go to in a storm, won't I?"

"Always," he smiled back, meaning it completely.

Having a partner and friend was new to him—he tended to have associates, but few close friends, and he'd worked alone as student. Working with Tonks was a new experience. While he studied privately with Kingsley Shacklebolt for several hours a week, focusing on understanding the structure, methods, and key factions within the Ministry of Magic, he took practicum courses in defense against dark magic and in such areas as metamorph training with other teachers, usually with Tonks, as well as the field work they both did with Lestrade. Having a constant partner was a revelation—and one that made him aware of how lonely he had often been before.

They worked well together. She was comfortable with people—brassy, cheery, cheeky, kind. He was more reserved and formal, but his instinct for almost infinitely detailed observation and analysis couldn't be beaten. She was by far the better at disguise and at blending in—Mycroft struggled with the metamorph magic that came so naturally to her. She, however, had no talent for the stealth skills he managed without difficulty—indeed, she was so bad that she'd ended up begging him for help with the agility and balance exercises Alastor Moody had assigned her to try to eliminate her infinite ability to turn into a complete klutz at a moment's notice. Each helped the other while providing just a touch of challenge. Both fought well: Tonks was a brilliant aggressive fighter, bold and decisive, where Mycroft was all subtle science and control. In the words of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was observing the new team with great interest, "She makes you up your game, Holmes. But you do the same for her. You're one of the most promising pairings I've seen in decades, and you're both becoming better than you would have been alone."

They trained together, ate together, practiced together, and played together. They consoled each other for unrequited crushes, argued about fashion and style, bickered endlessly about their deeply different tastes in music. He liked jazz—she loved punk. He liked classical—she yawned, and danced to heavy metal. Most of all, though, they just were what they were. Holmes and Tonks. Tonks and Holmes.

Mycroft seldom let himself think about it, for fear of jinxing perfection.

"Here, let's give it a try," he said, giving the umbrella a quick shake. "I'll try a peredo spell. Attack with whatever you think might make it past. Mr. Olivander, if you'd retreat behind the counter, to be sure you're not in the line of play, it might be best."

"Yes, yes, but let me set up some recording spells—I want to study the results," Olivander said. "Only take a moment, I knew I'd want to do this." He pulled out several prepared devices, and quickly activated their controlling charms. "Proceed, my friends, do proceed!"

Mycroft considered his options. He could open the umbrella, but that would work best for stationary wide-aspect spells. For mobile spells it would probably be best to keep the umbrella rolled and use it like a single-stick or policeman's baton—one conveniently supplied with a spike on one side and a hook on the other. The primary problem with that was refocusing the distribution of the spell: most wand work assumed a wand held in a pointing position, whereas much of what Mycroft imagined doing with his umbrella would demand a grip in mid-body, such as was used in a number of stick-fighting and cane-fighting styles. In this grip, the spell could be visualized as blooming outward from the fist, with the length of the umbrella providing a supporting axis.

He closed his eyes and structured the spell in his mind, pushing the energy through his hand and into the umbrella—feeling the energy spark in the looped lemniscate core of Jörmungandr skin and then feed back, amplified beyond all expectation. It felt like being anchored in the depths of the Marianas Trench: deep, dark, mysterious, with pressure enough to crush steel. Serpent song whispered in his ears like surf.

"Whoa. It rocks. Weird looking, but wicked." Tonks' voice was admiring.

Mycroft trusted his discipline enough to risk opening his eyes.

"I don't see anything," he said.

"You may not. To me it looks like you've got a nearly invisible shield of... I don't know. It's...it's like the aurora borealis shining on waves at night or something. Awesome. Really awesome."

"Hmmm. Might work better if it's completely invisible," Mycroft said. "Why let enemies know it's there, or where it is? Give me a moment to try to tune it." He closed his eyes again, retreating to the inner kingdom of thought and magic where he constructed his spells—a mental palace. Not everyone used this visualization method for spell-casting, but it had always served Mycroft well for initial learning and for creative crafting. He considered the spell, his own focus, the effect of the Jörmungandr skin, and attempted to adjust them to maintain strength but reduce visuals. "Is that better?"

"Yeah. Can't see anything, now."

Mycroft nodded, and opened his eyes again. "Attack at will, then."

She was fast and tough, and the spell she shot toward him sizzled the air as it passed. He raised his fist and met the flare—and was satisfied when the bolt was eaten up instantly, passing no further than the imagined plane of his "shield."

"Nice!" Tonks said, before shooting another spell off without warning. He had to shift to parry it—and it came in beyond the outer edge of what he expected the shield to cover. In spite of that, the energy disappeared, and he felt the bolt actually add to his power, not detract.

"My goodness," he said. "This thing literally devours your attacks! Instead of sapping energy, it's sucking it up!"

"Oh, now that's sweet," Tonks said. "See what this one does, though." The spell she tossed his way coursed down her wand, surged across the space between them, and hit.

The shield held, but left Mycroft sitting on the floor, clutching his stomach and trying not to be ill.

"What was that?"

"One of the Unforgivables. Cruciatus."

He moaned, softly. "You risked that on me?"

"Didn't think it was much risk. That brolly of yours is something." She came to squat beside him. "What got through?"

"Technically, nothing. But that one doesn't add to the energy—blocking it was hard. And...the last time I felt this way, Miss Pomfrey kept me in the infirmary for almost a week solid—and I felt so awful I didn't mind."

"Good to know it has that effect, then, eh?"

He grimaced, and accepted a hand up. "I suppose. But you owe me a lunch, whenever my stomach recovers enough to hold one down." He looked over at Olivander. "I'm pleased. Are you?"

Olivander beamed at him. "Oh, good heavens, yes! And I got some lovely readings. I think it's ready to go with you, now, though. But be sure to bring it around if you've got any problems, and do keep me informed about how it works. The results are quite interesting."

"Agreed," Mycroft said. "I'll have Gringotts' send around the payment, then. My thanks, Mr. Olivander. You did splendid work. Oh—Do you mind? That's my familiar outside, and she appears to have a message." He cracked the door open, and Anthea flipped into the shop, dropping an envelope on the counter before studying her surroundings with interest.

"Ah—a letter from my brother, Sherlock. You remember him?"

"Spalted poplar, unicorn hair core—and the blackthorn wand kept aside for future accomplishments. Yes. A good deal of potential in need of discipline." Olivander looked curiously at Anthea. "Would she like a ginger nut?"

"She would adore one. She's quite fond of treats." Mycroft weighed the envelope on his hand. It was unusually heavy: Sherlock tended to brief letters that kept to the point. He made his complaints, or presented his brags, asked questions, and was done. This felt more substantial, and Mycroft decided he'd prefer to save it until he was somewhere he could give it sufficient attention. He slipped it into his pocket, and watched while Anthea flirted with Olivander for the sake of a single ginger nut.

"The parrots are considered among the smartest of familiars," Olivander said. "Uncanny, sometimes."

"Certainly she's more useful and interesting than most of the familiars I've seen," Mycroft agreed.

"He means he dotes on the silly dear," Tonks said, ruffling the bird's neck feathers.

"I do not dote."

"Do. You let her ride on your head the other day, Mycroft."

"Only because the jacket I was wearing didn't give much traction," he said, firmly. "She kept slipping off."

"And the times she hangs from your fringe and nibbles your nose?"

He sniffed. "It's just her way of showing affection."

She looked merrily at Olivander. "See? He dotes."

"I do not dote. And we're due to rendezvous with Officer Lestrade in an hour. If we want to grab a cuppa and still arrive early, we should leave, now," Mycroft said, determined to end Tonks' exploration of his affection for his familiar as soon as possible. He knew a losing argument when it hit him, and this one was doomed—as was any hope of dignity. He patted his shoulder. "Come on, then, Anthea. We're off." He collected Tonks with a glance, and swept out of the shop, praying she wasn't laughing too hard. Or at least, not too openly...

XXXXX

They left Diagon Alley by way of the Leaky Cauldron, where they stopped for a fast lunch. Mycroft ordered a bowl of soup with bread, and tea; Tonks ordered a steak and kidney pie with ale and a basket of chips. As their food arrived, Mycroft slipped the letter from his pocket, saying, "It's a letter from my little brother. Mind if I read it?"

"No, go ahead. I've got to review the notes on our forensics assignment anyway."

Mycroft nodded, and tore the envelope open.

.

Mycroft—

We won 100 points for Gryffindor and Slytherin and Hufflepuff! And we took over the Astronumy Tower and flew the Jolly Roger! It was totally brilliant! Professor Dumbledore said it was the best inter-house prank he'd seen in fifty years! And he and Professor Snape and Professor McGonagall called us up in front of the entire school at dinner time and gave us ribbons and said they were proud of us—that we thought of a great idea that didn't hurt anyone!

They're going to start an inter-house prank competition, and the winner gets a flagon of never-ending butterbeer at the end of the year. The rules are that the prank can't hurt anyone or do permanent damage, and it has to be done by people from at least two houses, with points going to each house that helps.

Professor Dumbledore says we've started a whole new Hogwarts tradishion!

Are you proud of us?

You should have been here with us. Neville and Hermione are friends with Susan Bones and Justin Finch-Fletchley, from Hufflepuff. At first they didn't want to join us for the pirate invasion, but Hermione and Neville promised we wouldn't hurt anyone, which was really annoying and Draco and I thought we might just be pirates alone without their help so we could fight that stupid Percy Weasley, who may be in my house but he's so full of himself it's enough to make you sick, just because he's a prefect, which is stupid, and no one in their right mind would want to be a prissy old prefect.

Well, except you. But you're really not normal, are you? I mean, you're even being an Aurer, now, which Draco says is dangerous, and we wanted to say you should quit being an Aurer because I'd really hate it if you got hurt when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named comes back, which Draco says his father says his friends say is going to happen any time now. Anyway, you're crazy enough to have been prefect and Head Boy and now you're an Aurer, and you have to admit that's really not normal. And people think I'm weird!

So, anyway, we wanted to capture Percy and make him walk the plank, but then Hermione and Neville got Susan and Justin to join us, and they made us get rid of all the really fun stuff.

The House Elves showed us how to use the service tunnels and stuff to move around, and we planted flags all over the school, and then we climbed the tower and locked all the doors and hung our flag and sang "Dead Man's Chest," and dropped notes down saying we wouldn't give the tower back until Professor Dumbledore gave everyone a day off from classes. We were up there a few hours. Hermione studied, because she had a test coming up, but the rest of us played wizard chess and go-fish using chocolate frog wizard cards. I got eight Morgan Le Fays for one hand. The deck wouldn't come out even, because we all had different sets. Then Professor Dumbledore came up himself on a broomstick, and asked for rightful parley, and waved a white flag, and we allowed him to come aboard and we didst set forth terms and conditions. Professor Dumbledore says that's what pirates do when they negotiate with the lawful thorities. And so the whole school gets a day off, and we get ribbons, and Hermione's annoyed because now her test isn't till next week. Draco and Neville and I wanted to know what the problem was, because now she's done her studying and has even more time for fun than we do, but I think it's a Hermione thing.

Harry Potter and his pal Ron Weasley are mad at us, because we're friends with Hermione and with Draco, but we don't care. They're the kind of loud, braggy kind of Gryffindor you warned me about, so we're just ignoring them and being friends anyway.

Mycroft, please don't be an Aurer? I'm really worried about you. Draco's scared, because his mother and father think He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is going to kill everyone who stands against him when he comes back, and they're trying to get their friends and relations to either join the Death Eaters now or get out of the country while they still can. Draco says they've heard something, but won't say what, and the whole family is upset and excited at once. He's worried, and he doesn't know what to think because everyone here thinks He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was awful, but his parents think he was someone really important—but they're scared of him, too. And Draco just worries about it, only he doesn't tell anyone. But he told me because I observed, like you taught me, and guessed it, and we had a big fight about it, and I told him that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named couldn't be all that important because you can't be important if everyone has to go around not saying your name. I mean that's just stupid, isn't it? And then Draco told me everything. And he cried, but he says he didn't, it was just dust, but I observed better than that. And I told him I'd write you and ask you to stop being an Aurer and to tell us what to do, because Draco doesn't know who to believe anymore.

I liked playing pirates better.

Susan Bones got in a fight with Draco because she said she didn't want to play with a Slytherin because Death Eaters killed her family, and Draco said her family shouldn't have fought He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and Neville said that people shouldn't have to do what He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named told them, and that Death Eaters hurt his family, too, and I thought it was all going to come apart and I was really angry and scared, and I told them they were all stupid and that if we weren't going to play pirate I was going to go back to the Gryffindor tower and practice my fiddle.

And then Hermione said, "Oh, no, not that!" And then everyone laughed. And then they stopped fighting and we sang "My Name is William Kidd, as we sailed, as we sailed."

Mycroft, I don't do this stuff. The thing with people fighting and all that. I don't do it. I didn't even get into Slytherin, with all the twisty thinking. I'm a Gryffindor after all, I guess. You're good at this. What should I do?

I'm sorry. I was all excited about Dumbledore liking our pirate invasion, and now I'm being stupid. Maybe I shouldn't send this letter. But it's getting hard to figure out how to keep all my friends, and I never had friends before. I don't want it to go wrong, and it's not like it's easy stuff. It's bad stuff, and I don't like it. So I'm sending it anyway, because you'll know what to do.

Your brother,

Sherlock.

"Problems," Tonks asked from her side of the table.

Mycroft considered, absently giving Anthea a neck-tickle as he reviewed the letter. "Yes. Tonks, will you look at this and see what you think?" When she nodded, he handed the letter across.

She read it carefully, laughing at first, as Sherlock described the Great Pirate Invasaion, but then frowning as the letter continued. "It wasn't this bad at Hogwarts when we were there, was it?" she asked, uneasily. "I mean, everyone remembers the Wizarding War, but I don't remember anyone being scared You-Know-Who would come back, and I don't remember people getting into fights over what side kids' families fought on."

Mycroft frowned. "You were in Hufflepuff. I don't think it shows so much in Hufflepuff. Your House never had many people on Voldemort's side to begin with, and, well—you're Hufflepuffs. It was worse in Slytherin, but mainly because everyone thought it was all right to treat all of us like we were on Voldemort's side no matter what anyway. But I don't remember it being like this, no. I think having Harry Potter in the school's probably stirring some of that up. People are reminded, and they take sides. The thing is, it's not good." He took the letter from her, frowning over it.

"Nope." Tonks tugged the letter back out of his hands, and read it again..."Cute kid. He like that all the time?"

Mycroft nodded. "He's very smart. He's also not very good with people."

She flashed him a grin. "I kind of got that. But he's doing pretty well, from the sounds of it."

"Well—after all, pirates," Mycroft said. "It's not easy to resist pirates."

"This is true," Tonks conceded. "The rest of it? I don't know, Mycroft. I haven't heard anything about You-Know-Who coming back. It could just be one of those school rumors. Remember second year, when someone decided that the Bloody Baron was going to possess all you Slytherins and then you'd turn into crazy serial murderers? And all the weird stories about things in the basements? And the time Myfanwy Evans said she saw a vision in the tub in the Prefect's Bathroom? It could be like that—just talk."

"I suppose," he said, uneasily. "But—we've got to get going, now. We're going to be late for Officer Lestrade if we don't hurry."

She chuckled. "And God forbid we disappoint Officer Greg Lestrade," she said, grinning, as they headed for a set of port keys in the back areaway, and flipped themselves away to their rendezvous.

XXXXX

They arrived in Caltrop Court on time, but by no means early. Officer Lestrade was already there, along with a team consisting of three other members of the DMLE, including two representatives of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office. Lestrade introduced his team as Officer Donovan, and MMAO agent Arthur Weasley and his assistant, Perkins.

"It's a raid," Lestrade said. "You two kids, I want you to stay well back. This is your first chance to observe how this plays out, but you're not ready to take part, yet. Donovan, Weasley and Perkins have all done this before, and are experienced. So this time, watch and learn. Next time you may get your chance to go in wands drawn."

"What are you after?" Mycroft asked, curious what was critical enough to justify an attack in what appeared to be one of the lowest neighbourhoods of wizarding London.

"Enchanted Walkmen—music players," Weasley said. "Black marketers use them to brainwash Muggles into serving as carriers for smuggled goods. Among other things. Some of the old Death Eater clubs use them for other forms of brainwashing. There's an unpleasant trade in Muggles for the sex industry and for slaves."

Mycroft felt dirty just thinking about it—dirtier because he knew too well some of the people who'd be in the market for such services and slaves. Between old Pure Blood associates of his parents and some of the most corrupt of his fellow Slytherins, he had no illusions about how low the wizarding world could sink. He gulped and nodded, moving back as Lestrade assembled his team and prepared for their raid.

"It's up a block and over," he said. "We've had a watch on it these past three days. The Vesiers are there, so we can clean that family out, even if we miss some of their crew. Donovan and I will take point. Arthur, you and Perkins come in behind. Sally and I will be using immobilization spells, but we may need backup. Be primed with tangle-foot and net spells, yeah?"

Weasley nodded. "We're ready, Greg. You've check to be sure there are no open chimneys and no portkeys?"

"Got a freeze-travel on the whole building."

"Let's move out, then. I don't want to risk them getting word we're coming."

The four senior members of the team shifted, moving into a fast march that swept them through the cluster of narrow old alleys around Caltrop Court. Tonks and Mycroft found they had to shift to a slow lope to keep up—the pace set by Lestrade's group was deceptive. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft saw Tonks draw her wand. He himself slipped out the wand of Perlesvaus, while shifting his umbrella to the same defensive grip he'd used in Olivander's earlier. He pushed energy into the shield spell, feeling like a knight going into battle.

The dingy streets were ugly and manky, with grime and litter spread over everything. The buildings looked like they were covered in soot dating back to the Great Fire of London in 1666. Soon the team had reached a narrow Elizabethan half-timbered house with a door barely wide enough to let through a thin man with his arms crossed.

Lestrade didn't even seem to pause, hitting the timber so hard the door popped wide, and continuing on, shouting, "DMLE! Raid! Everyone down, hands on your heads!"

Donovan followed close behind—then, more cautiously, Weasley and Perkins.

Mycroft and Tonks hung back. The building was small, and already full. There were sounds of violence—but nothing that indicated their services were needed.

"Bit of a let-down, eh?" Tonks groused. "All ready to provide back-up. Best approved Alastor Moody charms and defences, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded, still holding tight to the Wand of Perlesvaus and his umbrella. He didn't like this street. He glanced up and down, noting the slink and slide of residents as they peered out their doors, or down from leaded windows.

"They don't like us much, here," he murmured.

"Not much, they don't," Tonks agreed.

She and Mycroft shifted, forming a solid team, putting their backs together, angled so they could watch both the door and the street.

Inside, things seemed under control. Outside they were less sure.

"Gardez bien!" a voice shouted. "Up on the roof!"

Even as the voice sounded, Mycroft saw the smack of spellwork spatter over Tonks. She fell, with a shriek. Mycroft threw himself over her, swearing, bringing up his shield. Another spell pounded down, and was swallowed up. Mycroft tracked along the upper line of the buildings, and spotted the sniper. With a shake he'd sent a full body-bind spell at the figure far above.

Behind him came a crash and a shout as Arthur Weasley and Lestrade charged out the door, wands at the ready.

"Report,"Lestrade snapped.

"Sniper, roof. I think I got him with a body-bind. Hit Tonks though."

A door slammed and a dark-haired young man raced down the cobbled street. "Good shot. I think you got him." As three wands all swung toward him, he raised his hands. "Mes regrets, voulaient pas vous effrayer—didn't mean to scare you. Sorry."

Mycroft looked sharply at the newcomer. "Monty?"

"My?"

"Oh for God's sake, what are you doing here?"

"Slumming?"

"I don't believe it. Was it you who shouted?"

Monty shrugged. "Old Montgomery battle cry."

"Saved my life, I think," Mycroft said, then glanced down at Tonks, worried. "Not so sure about my friend." His fingers explored, and he frowned as he tried to marshal his still-limited field diagnostic skills. While he was still trying to recall how to determine spell type and damage, Lestrade pushed in, quickly checking the young witch's condition.

"Not so good," he muttered, eyes bleak. "It was a killing curse. Don't think it landed square-on, but I'm not sure it's going to help."

Monty squatted by the three other wizards. "I can help some. I'm in the training program at St. Mungo's. But you want to send for real help—and soon. It's not good. Most of what I can provide is support...it will buy time, no more."

"Arthur, send word. Emergency, officer down, medics now." Lestrade's command was fierce.

"Got it, Greg," Weasley said, clearly focused on his task. A second later light seemed to rage around him and shoot out, as a weasel patronus raced off, bounding toward St. Mungo's.

Mycroft felt a flutter of panic. He'd never really thought of the danger of the job in terms of Tonks, and her possible death. It had mainly been a matter of imaginary messages sent to Mummy and eulogies citing Holmesian heroism and the honor of dying young for a cause. Tonks wasn't supposed to be lying on the mucky cobbles, skin white, her usual gaudy hair reverting to a drab mouse brown. Without thinking he slipped his hand around hers, clinging tight.

He'd never had a partner before, or a friend so close as Tonks. He found to his terror that he wasn't ready to lose the only one he'd had.

He looked around, trying to think.

"Anthea!"

The bird circled down to him, landing with a snap of flight feathers by his ear. Mycroft scrabbled in his pockets, found the letter from Sherlock, and a pencil stub. He tore off a piece of envelop, scribbled frantically, and handed it to Anthea, letting her grip it in one claw. "Go—go to Olivander's. Bring back what he sends."

The bird was off with a clap of wings.

Mycroft turned back, looking down at Tonks, and at Lestrade and Monty leaning over her. "What can I do to help?"

Lestrade risked a glance up, and his brown eyes softened. "She's your partner. Hang on. Let her know not to quit."

Mycroft gave a short, worried nod, adding a second hand to wrap around hers. "Tonks, you are not to leave. Do you understand? I won't have it."

"God, you still sound like Lord High Pure Blood," Monty chuckled, without taking his attention from his patient. His wand was in steady motion, spells constant and even. "You always were such a priss when your family came up to visit."

Mycroft glowered. "At least I didn't pinch the house maids."

"In your case that's not a virtue," Monty snipped. "It's got to be an actual temptation before you can take credit."

Mycroft would normally have darted back with something as pointed. Instead he just grunted, and leaned closer over Tonks. "Come on, my dear. Don't go leaving me. You promised I'd see you in pink hair, next."

Lestrade and Monty were both looking frightened, though each continued with the basic field care they knew to provide. In the distance Mycroft could hear sirens—but he was fairly sure they were Muggle sirens answering some basic human crisis—nothing to do with the wizarding world.

Lestrade had begun to curse under his breath, when the clap of wings exploded into the air above them again, and Anthea circled down, the wand of willow and jade clutched in her claws. Mycroft let go of Tonks' hand, reaching for the wand before Anthea could even land.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked, without taking his eyes off Tonks. He was still working basic first aid spells, though it was increasingly obvious they weren't helping—or not enough.

"An old wand from Olivander's, sir," Mycroft said. "It's supposed to be able to heal."

"Then do it," Lestrade snarled, for the first time showing his own panic. "Now."

"Don't know how," Mycroft gibbered. "Never used it."

"Try."

Mycroft nodded, and closed his eyes, trying to use his skill of observation to pick apart any clue as to how to make the wand do what he wanted. It wasn't an ordinary wand—no more than his umbrella was. Like the umbrella, something deep powered it, something of water and flow, sweet as a spring-fed stream.

"Please," he found himself asking. "Please. For Tonks. Please?"

The response was like the patter of rain—water, spattering from the drooping willow leaves, trickling from the jade handle, flowing from the pierced work, streaming through his fingers, raining down on Tonks' face. Along with the water was a sense of kindness, and peace.

"No. No-no-no," Mycroft said. "I forgot. It can bring peaceful death." He tried to snatch it back, only to have Lestrade grip his wrist, pinning his hand over Tonks, so the water continued to rain down.

"No, kid. It's helping. You got it right."

Mycroft could hear the relief in Lestrade's voice.

"She's steading out—rising—yes. It's working," Monty said, easing back his wand, and drawing a deep breath. "She's healing."

Mycroft clung to the wand, and tried not to cry. Not in front of Lestrade and Monty.

"What is that?" Lestrade asked, curious.

"Compassion," Mycroft said. "It's the wand of the Chinese lady of compassion."

XXXXX

When the medimages had arrived and loaded Tonks up for transport to St. Mungo's, Mycroft finally felt free to insist on examining the entire crime area. The inside of the house was a mess, but his eyes could pick out details. He paced the room, rattling off observations to Lestrade.

"One escaped. You can see he was sitting here at the table—too many cups out for the number you arrested. How did he—ah. Look. A port key—hard to notice. They've hidden it well. Have your people note it, Lestrade. And, look. What? Yes, all right—this bit of writing here, where they were playing cards. Greek, I think. Modern Greek. Someone in the group is Greek speaking." He spread his attention out, catching details almost as though he was catching glints of light flashing off choppy waves, gathering them up and spinning them into a single chord of light. After a time, he said, "The one who escaped. He's in Macedonia, now. His name is Nico, and he's from an old Pure Blood family. His native language is Greek, he drinks Turkish coffee, he's a poor card player—and is likely in debt as a result. Find him, and you'll find his leaders. Find them and you may be able to close off this particular cell."

Lestrade looked at him warily. "Are you sure, Holmes?"

Mycroft nodded, wearily. "I'm sure."

"How did you do it? How do you know?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Call it a family talent, Officer Lestrade. It's just—a knack. But a useful one."

Lestrade shook his head, stunned. "If it plays out, it's more than useful—it's like a whole new magic talent!"

Mycroft shook his head, ruefully. "Not magic. Even a human could do this. I simply observe, Officer." He sighed, then, and stretched. "And after I return the willow wand to Olivander, I want to observe about ten hours of sleep."

Lestrade snorted, and clapped his hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Yeah. It can hit you like that. Hey, sunshine? You did good. Kept your head, fought smart, stood by your partner—and pulled a few miracles out of your...sleeve. So, yeah. You did great. Now, go on. Get some sleep, and check back tomorrow. Okay?"

Mycroft later wondered how he got home—from that point on, all he could remember the glow of Lestrade's praise. That alone seemed to carry him all the way back to his rooms.

Dear Sherlock,

Auror, brother-mine. A.U.R.O.R. With an o, not an e. Please, get it right next time? Spelling it the way you do is like the high-pitched whine of Cornish Pixies!

No, brat, I won't quit being an Auror in training. I'm proud of the job, I think I'll do it well, and it's among the few positions that would allow me to directly affect any future trouble coming to the wizarding world. Someday I hope to advance in government, but it will be long years before I can hope to wield much power, and in the meantime I can do better work here and learn more than in any other spot I can imagine. And I love the work. I love being partners with Tonks, I love my extra class work, I love learning from Officer Lestrade and from Mr. Shacklebolt and Mr. Moody.

I will, however, always remember your concern for me. I love you, too, brat.

And, yes: I'm insanely proud of you and your friends and your brilliant capture of the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore and the other house heads are right—you were brilliant. You've started a great, great new tradition (tion ending, not shion—oh, and it's "lawful authorities," not "lawful thorities."), and I hope you keep it up.

Regarding your concerns about how to deal with all the old mess left over from the wizarding war—I've gone out on a limb and decided to write a letter to your friend Draco dealing with some of my answers to all that. I suggest you read it first, think about it, and decide if your friend will want to read a bossy, big-brother letter from a stranger. If you think he's got a use for it, though, share it with him: read it together. Tell him I said you should, and you should talk about it, too. And tell him I want both of you to feel free to write me any time you like about any of this. It's hard to figure this stuff out in Hogwarts: there are too many people from both sides and they're all hurting. Susan Bones, who you mentioned, lost all her family. That's a lot to lose. Your friend Draco, though, has an aunt and uncle in Azkaban, and lost friends and family both during the Wizarding War and after. That's a lot to lose, too. Somehow you've got to get past that.

Sherlock, caring isn't always an advantage. Sometimes caring about your own side makes it too easy to stop caring about the other side. Sometimes you've got to step back and think a bit more and care a bit less—and understand a lot more. That's true whether you're Slytherin or Gryffindor.

I know you're not always good with people-stuff, Sherlock. But you're bright, and you're like me: you notice the details and you put them together well. Maybe someday you'll find a way to let your clever eyes and sharp mind make up for your difficulty with the people-stuff. In the meantime, though, don't pretend your good at it. Admit you're a bit not-good, and ask your friends to help you when they can. You'll be surprised how kind they can be, if you let them.

Sherlock—understand this. You're very, very bright. Brighter than almost anyone I know (well, brighter than almost anyone but me ...). But this is an area in which you are not bright—and in which your friends are. The next time you're tempted to tell them they're stupid—and I know you, brat, you're going to want to tell them they're stupid—just remember they're also smart, just about different things, and in different ways.

Meanwhile—I've had an adventure in Auror training, and I got to use that new umbrella wand I commissioned from Olivanders. It works. I'll write and tell you more about it next time. And Officer Lestrade said I did great. And Tonks is taking me out into the human part of London, and introducing me to Thai food and mosh pits.

Be good, brat. Write me. I love you. I'm proud of you.

Yours,

Mycroft (and Anthea)

Malfoy

With Respect, from : Mr. Mycroft Holmes.

Dear Draco,

I do hope you will forgive me the informality of using your given name. As you are a young Slytherin, newly assigned to my own house, and as my brother Sherlock has spoken so highly of you, I feel it's right that I address you as I would my own brother, and offer you the same support.

He has written me regarding the complexity of your position in Hogwarts and In Slytherin, caught between loyalty to the Pure Blood factions of older generations, and the changing social norms. I can only sympathize. As a Pure Blood and a Slytherin, I understand the loneliness of being torn between loyalties and viewpoints. One can feel trapped by the fear of betraying those who have claim on bothheart and spirit.

It is no easy thing to face down the anger and hurt of fellow students whose friends and family have suffered at the hands of political factions you have inherited, but did not choose or create. As a Pure Blood and Slytherin I heard the slurs, and knew the rejection, and like you and Sherlock, I struggled with the question of what I owed my lineage, my heritage, and my House. I do not know if my own conclusions will be of any help, but I offer them for what little they may be worth, with all the respect and sympathy in my heart.

Draco, Slytherins are the Secret Keepers of the wizarding world. If Gryffindor's truths are all sunshine, we snakes understand the truth of tears, loss, sorrows, secrets, and pain—all the wizarding world's pain. That includes knowing and caring for the loss of those whose people fought on both opposing sides of our recent civil war. The grief of a loyalist of Dumbledore, whose parents died opposing Voldemort, is no less valid than the grief of a Pure Blood parent who has lost kin to death, madness, or to Azkaban through the defense of that Dark Lord.

To be true Slytherin, start with respect for the equality of grief. Leave the bright-shining houses to their foolish judgements and demands for easy answers and simple forms of justice. Slytherin knows that all tears are equal, and that even the wrong most often do what they think is either right, or necessary.

For Pure Blood to mean anything, it must serve all the blood of the wizarding world. We cannot rule what we will not embrace fully or respect entirely. This is a hard lesson, and one you can for the most part ignore for now. But keep it in mind. Someday you will be of the generation that chooses—as is each generation in history. Prepare to be true Slytherin, and true Pure Blood now, not by rejecting and excluding all that is unlike you, but by seeing the shared kinships hidden in the shadows and deep waters of our houses and our culture.

In the meantime though, you're allowed to be kids. You need to be kids. So—might I suggest that having played pirates once, you and Sherlock might wish to consider playing Celtic Wizards next? It allows for quite a lot of blue woad paint, and for the playing of bagpipes, and is thus almost as much fun as pirates. And it should appeal to those such as Susan Bones and this Hermione girl, as the women can go into battle as well as the men. I have learned through my partner in Auror training, Ms. Nymphadora Tonks, that being allowed to take part in the battles is much more fun than being expected to sit on the sidelines and cheer.

With the Halloween feast coming, you might wish to consider preparing a sending of Celts to add a bit of drama and fun to the holiday. Maybe an all-house team, this time? If I recall correctly, young Alexandra McCrarry of Ravenclaw played an exciting and lively version of Bonny Scotland on the pipes...I think she's third year, now, but was always up for a bit of fun. She might join your crew.

Regarding Harry Potter and his unseemly chance to take part in quidditch matches—to use a dreadfully coarse phrase from the streets of London, "bugger that for a game of soldiers." It isn't fair it isn't right, but there's no fixing it, and at least Professor Snape behaved honourably. Practice for next year, cheer your own team, and don't hold young Potter's luck against him. He didn't choose his birth or his talents any more than you did, and he's too new to the wizarding world to make the best possible choices.

Be honest—if you'd been given the same chance, you'd have jumped at it.

Let it pass, and see if you can learn from him. It sounds like he's wicked-good, even if it isn't fair they let him play early.

Again, I hope you will forgive my intrusion. It has always been hard to be a Slytherin, and it is harder still in these difficult times. Please, feel free to write me at any time. As I said, I think of you much as I think of Sherlock—as a brother, and in your case, a housemate.

My best wishes,

Mycroft Holmes.

.

Dear Professor Dumbledore—

Your solution to the pirate invasion was inspired. I stand in awe. That said—

I know you're dealing with terrible complexities in dealing with politics both inside and outside of Hogwarts. I know that Professor Snape is profoundly occupied in his varied roles within the school.

I am including a copy of my brother's latest missive. Please read it with particular attention to the difficulty facing young Draco Malfoy—who serves as a superb example of the challenges facing all Slytherins.

Someone has got to do something for House Slytherin, particularly the new members. How in the name of heaven are you expecting to save for our side if you don't put in more effort to give them help, guidance, and support?

Young Draco Malfoy isn't a bad place to start. For goodness' sake, do something or you're going to lose yet another generations of Slytherins to corrupt ambitions and petty loyalties. I'm sorry, but it's not all Gryffindor red and gold, you know, and young Potter's future will be a good deal less dangerous if he can count on a Slytherin or two on his side. Would you please, please make that possible?

Respectfully yours,

Mycroft Holmes.

.

To: Miss Almeria Black-Rosier

Dear Rosie—

It's me, Mycroft. I'm told you're working in the records department of the Ministry of Magic since graduation. Any chance, one Slytherin to another, we could do some work together? I'm trying to determine if some magical artefacts have gone astray. I'll stand you dinner on Wednesday at 7:00 at the Leaky Cauldron, and bring you up to date on everything that's going on with young Willard Scoggins, as a return favour. Or if you're not still sighing over Will and drawing little hearts around his name, I'll tattle on anyone else who's currently taken your fancy. You on?

Yours in serpentine splendour,

M. Holmes.

*Lessons are not taught for the sake of school, but for the sake of the life beyond.

Beauxbatons: While the movie made the school look like single-sex women's school, the books indicate male students. I'm choosing to play for fun, and have it be a traditional girl's school that's recently started accepting male students—think Vassar in the 1970s. Monty Montgomery has enjoyed the luxury of a 10-1 female/male ratio, having attended Beauxbatons rather than Hogwarts. "Gardez Bien" (Guard Well) is the traditional Montgomery motto, but I'm also having it come quickly to mind because his brain is still partly tracking in French.

Considerations regarding Slytherin: The house's element is water—feminine, intuitive, dark, sensuous, "passive" as opposed to active, cool, hidden and secretive rather than open and easily accessed. Its colors are green (fertility/fecundity/growth as well as decay and corruption) and silver (moonlight, starlight, all things both beautiful and corruptible, all things changeable (Thanks be to God for dappled things...)). Its tutelary animal is the serpent—a sign of healing, as well as death; of renewal, as well as darkness; of subconscious as well as madness. The sign of Hermes Trismagistus, of writing and occult systems. There's a huge amount to play with in Slytherin's signatures. Just as Gryffindor's element is fire, and it claims the lion and the phoenix, and all things bright-shining, Slytherin claims the fertile dark, the ocean depths, the changeable moon and dancing stars.

For all their apparent reserve and reason, Sherlock and Mycroft are both presented as being emotional under their reserve, and what they do is as much intuitive as it is rational: pick apart any Holmesean solution and you're left with the awareness that only intuition could tell the brothers that this detail was important, but that one wasn't, and this explanation for evidence was right, as opposed to a dozen other equally logical options. One of the real pleasures of watching the show (or reading the ACD originals) is that the "normal" people have some right to feel put out when Holmes acts like it's all obvious and perfectly reasonable: Sherlock may not think he's being intuitive, but he is. He cheats, and then presents a rational explanation to wallpaper over the peculiarity of his right guesses. Holmes intuits a solution, and then reasons backward to see how he should have gotten there.

In the wizarding world, it seems to me that this sort of intuitive knowing would be a bit more accepted as a "rational" form of irrationality, but also a very Slytherin one: a bit suspect, a lot annoying to more broad-daylight Gryffindor types, and ultimately a mystery that won't accept any solution.