1977

Hufflepuff first year Greg Lestrade was on his way back to his dormitory when he heard the sounds of a scuffle. He heard blows landing and groans of pain, mixed with jeering laughter and taunts. He dropped his book bag in an alcove in the wall, wedged in next to a stone statue. He adjusted his collar and followed the noise. He found his way into an unused classroom where three brawny Gryffindor students were ganged up against a lone Slytherin. He remembered the chubby, withdrawn-looking boy from Herbology class. He had the reputation of teacher's pet in a number of classes, always outshining the rest. All he could remember of him was his surname, Holmes.

"Hey!" Greg called out, getting their attention.

"What do you want, Hufflepuff?" one of the bullies sneered. "This doesn't concern you."

Greg steeled himself, straightening himself up boldly. "Doesn't look like a fair fight, is all," he said, hoping to sound confident. He loosened his tie and took on a fighting stance. "Care to even the odds?"

The Gryffindors dropped the Slytherin boy, letting him slump to the ground in a bruised heap. "You don't know what you're asking for."

Still, Lestrade didn't back down. He raised his fists, ready to begin. With a dark scowl, he strode straight up to the ringleader and socked him in the jaw, followed by a punch in the stomach. The boy doubled over, catching his breath. His two cronies dove in on Greg together, one grabbed him from behind and the other started punching him. Greg struggled and kicked, kicking the one in front of him in the chest and elbowing the other, finally rearing back and butting his captor's face with the back of his head. The boy sprang back, clutching his bleeding nose. Suddenly thinking better of things, the three Gryffindors dashed off. Greg knelt down and helped Holmes stand up, brushing him off.

"You okay?"

The Slytherin boy glared at him with an annoyed huff. "I don't need help from a Mudblood Hufflepuff!" He stormed away, wiping the blood from his face, finding he was still bleeding from his mouth and nose.

Greg followed after him, undeterred, pausing only to collect his bag. Once he caught back up, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to the boy. "Here. Hold it hard until the bleeding stops." The Slytherin boy snatched it haughtily, pinching his nose and sniffling. "I can teach you, you know. How to fight." He was taking nimble, minced, prancing steps alongside his companion's imperious strides. He moved like a dancer or a wood sprite, his sturdy frame belying his natural grace and fluid motion. He circled around Holmes eagerly as they walked, surprisingly full of energy for someone who'd taken a beating. "I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave, but taking you three against one like that seems cowardly to me."

Holmes laughed, agreeing with him there. "Aren't you going to ask what I did to deserve their displeasure?"

"No. Why should I?"

"Oh, don't pretend! It's always the big, bad Slytherins causing the trouble, isn't it? They should just send all of us to Azkaban, straight from the Sorting. Save a good deal of time and resources."

"Is that what they told you?"

Holmes dabbed his cut lip, sniffling to see if his nose was done bleeding. "Everyone thinks so."

"I don't," Greg contradicted shortly. "There are decent people in every House, and there are colossal turd-muffins in every House. Just like real life, innit?"

"So, Hufflepuff, do you think I'm a decent person or a 'colossal turd-muffin' as you so eloquently put it?" It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but the dark-haired boy skipped up and walked along the railing next to him.

"Dunno," he answered, holding his arms out for balance. Holmes looked on a tad enviously. He wished he could be as light on his feet as his strange new companion. He felt even more ungainly than usual in comparison. "I mean, we only just met. I'm Greg."

"Mycroft," he returned.

Greg snorted laughter at this. "You purebloods have the oddest names! I like it. Wish mine was more-"

"More what?"

"You know, more mysterious or magical-sounding. No one's ever heard of a wizard called Greg. Mycroft I can see."

The ginger-haired Slytherin grinned at that in spite of himself. It was the first time someone admitted to liking his name.

"I meant it, really. I can teach you to fight. That way, you'll avoid getting the snot kicked out of you."

"Or at least hold them off until you come and rescue me?" Mycroft sarcastically drawled.

"Sure, if I'm around."

Mycroft looked his new companion over appraisingly. "How are you in Hufflepuff? I thought all the ones who think themselves daring, chivalrous knights belong in Gryffindor."

"Dunno," Lestrade answered again, gliding around a post dividing the balustrade. He resumed his casual balancing act as he could tell it was entertaining his new friend. He'd already accepted Mycroft Holmes as his friend, regardless of how the boy felt about him. "Maybe it's because loyalty and fair play are more important."

"That's why you interceded, because it wasn't a fair fight," Mycroft noted. He seemed to file that fact away for later analysis.

"Don't like bullies," Greg answered simply, skipping down and back onto the floor again. "Well, see you!" And he hurried off.

Two weeks passed and the boys hadn't crossed paths since their first meeting. Then, one day, just as before, Greg was on his way to his common room after dinner when he felt an invisible force pulling on him. He struggled vainly against it before giving in and letting it draw him along. He came around a corner, stumbling along, when he found himself dragged into a darkened classroom.

"Ah, there you are, Lestrade. Perfect timing," the chubby Slytherin remarked, drumming his fingers together with an arrogant sneer.

Greg saw who it was, adjusting his robes and looking relieved, if a bit apprehensive. "Hi, Mycroft. Odd place to meet, isn't it?"

"I prefer that my personal business be kept away from curious onlookers." He sounded so affectedly posh, older than his eleven and a half years. "You promised to teach me to fight."

"First tell me how you dragged me here. You shouldn't be able to do anything that advanced yet. I can barely open locks!"

"Summoning Charm. Not really all that difficult." Mycroft answered in a bored tone.

"That's fourth-year level magic! How do you—"

"Let's just say I'm blessed with above-average intelligence," Mycroft reported, grossly understating the truth. "However, for the sake of my well-being, I must now learn the rudiments of Muggle dueling." Greg nodded, accepting this response, and looked around the room. He was just starting to clear a space, when with a lazy flick of his wand, Mycroft sent the desks and chairs flying into neat stacks against the walls.

"Why won't they let you skip a grade?" Lestrade asked, amazed at his friend's skill. "Or six?"

Mycroft shrugged. "I choose not to. Slow as everyone in our year is, I'm sure I would attract far more attention as an eleven-year-old in seventh year than I do as an overqualified freak in first."

"I don't think you're a freak," Greg said decidedly. "You're smart, I can tell that, bit of a weirdo, but generally harmless I'd say."

Mycroft broke into a child's honest laughter at this description. "All right. How shall we proceed?"

"Take off your top robe," Greg ordered, tossing his aside and removing his tie as well. This left him in his second robe; it was about as long as a nightshirt, white with shorter, elbow-length sleeves.

Mycroft looked dubious, but obeyed, draping his things carefully across the back of a chair. "Might I ask why? You took on those Gryffindors without taking your robe off."

"It's better to have your arms free. You get a better range of motion. That's what my dad taught me."

Mycroft stretched his arms out and back, seeing what his friend meant. He windmilled them broadly in the air. Greg started warming up as well, hopping in place and breathing sharply.

"Ready?"

"I suppose."

"Try and hit me," Greg commanded cheerfully, still skipping in place, getting ready to dodge.

Mycroft watched this display with a look of uncertainty, a little intimidated by the athletic boy. Does this kid ever stand still? He thought, wondering how he was supposed to hit this bouncing, grinning target. He gritted his teeth, drew his arm back, and threw a punch. He missed widely. This made him angry and frustrated. With a primal growl, he lunged at the boy again. Greg dodged his swings easily.

"Dad says not to strike when you're angry. It screws up your aim."

"Well, maybe if you'd stop hopping around like a kangaroo, I could land a hit! I thought you were supposed to be teaching me how to fight, not mocking me for not knowing how!" He was really annoyed, and looked ready to quit already. Greg stopped his Gentleman Jim impression and went back to dig in his robe pocket. He fished out a couple of Chocolate Frogs and handed one to Mycroft.

"Sorry."

Mycroft scowled at the candy, then defiantly tore it open and crammed it into his mouth. His expression changed instantly, into a look of sheer bliss, like a drug addict getting a hit. "Mummy won't let me have sweets until I lose some weight. She even cut my pocket money." He looked at the accompanying card. "Eglantine Price," he read. "Hero of World War II. She famously fought back a strike team of German soldiers using only an army of enchanted armor."

"Cool!" Greg exclaimed.

"Who did you get?" Mycroft asked, feeling like a real boy for the first time in his life. It felt...nice.

Greg tore into his, devoured the chocolate, and inspected the card. He wrinkled his nose in disappointment. "Merlin. Like I haven't already got twenty of him."

Mycroft looked at his card, then jealously at his companion's. "Want to trade? I haven't got any of him. I haven't had Chocolate Frogs in ages. Merlin had style, don't you think?"

"Sure, I'll swap with you!" Lestrade agreed without complaint. "And yeah, he had a way about him, didn't he? I mean, even Muggles have heard of him. Miss Price had style, too." The boys swapped, each feeling as though he'd gotten the better end of the deal.

"Ready to try again?"

"Fine, but no hopping!"

Greg smiled, giving Mycroft a hand up. "No hopping," he promised. "We'll start out nice and easy." He held up his hands. "Hit me in the palm. Right here."

Mycroft wound up, his cheeks reddening with concentration, and struck out. He hit Lestrade's palm with a smack. A look of pleasure washed over his plump face.

"Good! Again, harder!" Greg coached. Mycroft gritted his teeth in determination and threw a punch with his left hand. "That's it, can't just play to one side." A few alternating hits later and it was hard to tell which boy was happier.

"Next, we'll work on your strength training. Put some muscle on those arms. Your legs look great, but-" he stopped, afraid that that was a weird thing to say. He certainly hadn't been admiring the boy's legs! "I'll find us a skipping rope for that. You might think it's just girls' stuff, but it really works out your whole body."

"You really think I can get fit?" Mycroft asked, sounding unsure of that.

"You're not that out of shape. We're kids for Pete's sake. Put your wand and books away a bit and get out and play now and then."

"Play what?" The Slytherin boy had no memory of even wanting to play with his fellows. Games were a waste of time, especially the physical sort.

"You know, just stuff outside during free periods. Tag, catch, football, rugby..."

With a superior smirk, Mycroft asked, "Follow Scottish rugby?" When this got a blank look in return, he explained. "All wizards follow Scottish rugby. Think of it like a code word, a way to recognize each other when we're out among Muggles."

Greg laughed, "I like it! Really neat idea. So if someone comes up and asks if I follow Scottish rugby-"

"They're asking if you're a wizard."

"So, when do you want to meet up next? Or will you just Summon me?"

Mycroft sniggered darkly. "Free this weekend?"

"Yeah, sure. See you then."

From then on, they began training in earnest, meeting up a few times a week. The rest of the term flew by amid these sporadic sessions. Mycroft was already showing improvement. Soon, it summer holidays were upon them.

Greg found Mycroft among a huddle of Slytherins, hailing him heartily. "Have a good summer, Mycroft! I'll write you, okay?"

But then, what his friend did next shocked him. Holmes advanced on him menacingly with a scowl. "Why would I want to get letters from you?! Filthy, common, stupid little Hufflepuff!" The others laughed appreciatively as Mycroft shoved Lestrade away.

Just when Greg was afraid he was about to cry, he felt the front of his robe. Mycroft had thrust a folded scrap of parchment into his robe. He unfolded it in the courtyard and read:

GL,

See you next term!

Your friend,

MH

Enclosed was Mycroft's address. Greg sniffled, glad that Mycroft's behavior just now was only an act. He didn't want it to look like he was friendly with a Hufflepuff. While that still hurt, he was relieved that they were still friends.

The next day, Greg woke up in his bed at home, glad to be facing a summer break. He went downstairs for breakfast and was just sitting down when a black barn owl flew in the window. His parents shrieked and scrambled to grab a broom to shoo it out.

"Greg, get back! He could tear your hands right off!" His mother cautioned.

The young wizard wasn't put off, and he leapt up to receive the visitor. "Hello, Drusilla," he said quite casually. He untied the letter from around her leg and stroked her. He and Mycroft had taken their owls out together before, so he was already acquainted with the fierce-looking bird. She let the boy pet her a bit more and then gave a squawk, ruffling her wings at him.

"Oh, does he expect a reply right away? All right, Dru, hang on." He unrolled the note and read it as he ran back upstairs for his school things.

G,

Well, were they properly frightened? I hope you can adequately describe the looks on your parents' faces. Honestly, if they're going to send you off to become a wizard, they should learn what to expect straight off. Don't ask how I knew where you live, I have my ways and I make it a point to know everything.

Greg read this with a laugh. He was right, as usual.

I'm going to see if my dad can help me keep up my training over the summer. Mummy could already tell a difference but wants me to stick to my diet.

Greg made a mental note to send his friend a care package or two over the summer. While he wouldn't have access to wizarding treats, one couldn't be picky in time of need.

Sorry for alarming you yesterday. It wouldn't do for others to suspect that we're friendly. We both know what our Houses think of each others'. It would only draw attention to our doings and I prefer to remain inconspicuous. I promise I won't be so deriding in the future, but I had to put on a good show for those guys.

Write back, or I'll hit you with a Summoning Charm! Distance doesn't matter, after all!

-M

Reading the closing statements with a gulp, Greg made his way back down to the kitchen. He spread out a sheet of parchment and got his quill and ink ready.

Dear Mycroft,

You're right, Dru has my parents crowded in the corner of the kitchen. She just flapped her wings at them and Mum screamed. Dad looks ready to wet himself. Funny how it seems so normal to me. I bet they think I'm weird for not being scared. Maybe I should pretend she's wild and wants to mate with

Apollo. They won't go near my owl even when he's in his cage. I hope they let me turn him loose, he's not used to being cooped up.

I hope your dad doesn't mind me teaching you boxing. I'd hate for you to get into trouble over this. If you keep it up over the summer, I bet I won't even recognize you in September!

You friend,

Greg

He folded it up and was about to tie it to Drusilla's leg when he got an idea. His mother had baked a batch of cookies as a welcome home treat for him. He went for the cookie jar but was stopped by his mother.

"You haven't even had breakfast yet, Greg, you can't have a cookie yet. And get that awful creature out of the house!"

"Drusilla is my friend's owl, Mum. She's waiting for me to finish my letter to him. Can't I send some cookies to Mycroft?"

His mother gave him a weary look, exchanging a glance with her husband. "Oh, all right. I swear, wizards have the strangest names."

Greg grinned, "Yeah, I know!" He took four cookies, tied it up into a little brown paper bundle and stuck the letter under the string. He addressed the bird, "Now take this straight to Mycroft's room, or his mum will find out." Dru gave a raspy hiss of agreement and fluttered her wings at him. "Good girl. Safe flight!"

Mycroft lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. He was back at home where he couldn't do magic all summer and he was already bored. He scowled, regretting sending his owl out with a letter so soon after arriving home. His parents wasted no time plying him with questions about school and it exhausted him. He rolled over on his stomach, thinking of his parting words to Lestrade, hoping he found the note in his robes and knew he didn't mean what he'd said.

Just as he was pondering the worst, his owl returned. Mycroft jumped up out of bed and brought her in, untying the package tied at her feet. With a wicked laugh of triumph, he tore open the paper and shoved a cookie in his mouth. Oh, thank you, Greg! One more reason to make friends with a Hufflepuff. They always know where the good stuff is kept! Saving the rest for later, he turned to read the letter, sniggering at Greg's description of his parents' reaction.

Feeling quite cheered by the letter and the treats, Mycroft chose to quit his lair and go out to the living room. His little brother, Sherlock, was playing on a blanket on the floor. He was already advanced for his age; potty trained, able to put on his shoes, walk, run, and climb, do various puzzles, and speak in full sentences. Not bad considering he was still short of two years old. Still, Mycroft dubbed his brother a hopeless idiot. He could vividly remember being able to do any of these things when he was even younger than that.

Fortunately, neither of his parents had any objection to his sudden athletic interests. His father even offered to take over his training over the summer. Mycroft set himself a strict regimen: rising at dawn, skipping to hundred with his jump rope, sparring with his father in the back garden, and abstaining from temptation...except, of course, when Greg sent him treats. He savored those as a rare reward for his progress.

When the Holmes's made a family trip to Diagon Alley to get Mycroft his school supplies, the first stop was Madame Malkin's for some new robes. In addition to his shaping up due to physical training, he'd also had a growth spurt over the summer, pleasing him greatly. Many of his peers last year had likened him to a penguin. No longer! In a stroke of sudden vanity, he broadened his wardrobe considerably, feeling good about how he looked for the first time in his life. He was torn between writing to Greg with detailed progress reports, but favored being nice and vague for his friend, to keep his transformation a surprise.

Meanwhile, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade were feeling all too eager to get their son onto Platform 9 ¾ at the end of the summer. They loved their son and enjoyed having him home, but all the owl post was driving them batty! Also, bit by bit, it seemed as though their Greg was leaving them, taking his place in the wizarding world and slipping away from his old life. The things he would talk about, from lessons to Quidditch, went right over his well-meaning but uninterested and intimidated parents' heads. They both felt so out of their depth when it came to this strange new world that their son was now a part of that they diverted any discussion they could away from such matters. They paid lip-service to being proud of his good grades, but could offer no opinion of any substance. Soon, frustrated by this response, or lack of any, Greg sullenly stopped talking about the wizarding world and his involvement in it. It hurt him to have to censor himself for his parents' sake, but it kept them happy.

Knowing they weren't well-to-do, he'd begged and pleaded for a secondhand broom when they were out shopping for his school supplies. The treasure hunt was a success when his parents found an old Silver Arrow languishing at a wizard antique shop for a bargain while Greg was buying his books. By some stroke of luck, it still flew when the shopkeeper tested it for them, and only needed some care and attention to bring it up a treat. Even the shopkeeper was surprised at the affordable price on it. As he wrapped it up for them, he felt compelled to remark, "Wow, a real Silver Arrow. This takes me back. Learned to fly on one of these myself when I was young. These are classic, timeless. You treat it like a lady, and it'll always get you home. Your son's a lucky young man."

Still, despite the shopkeeper's good word, Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade felt a tad apologetic for giving their son something so very used and very old. They warned him, kept repeating that it wasn't new, but it was the best they could find and the salesperson seemed to think it was a decent model. Greg nodded, understanding. At the moment, he was just glad that they'd bought him a broom at all. Maybe they weren't so afraid of him and his world after all, and were attempting, in their own way, to be part of it? He was used to the 'best we could manage' talk, and he never held it against them if they couldn't afford any better. He was prepared to like whatever broom his parents had found for him. All three of them were therefore surprised when it came time to unwrap it. Greg went wild! He nearly burst into tears! He'd already learned enough at school about different broom models to know that this was the wizard equivalent of finding a classic sports car in the junkyard. He exuberantly told them so amid his gasps of joy. "This...! This is a Ferrari!" At least that was an analogy that Mr. and Mrs. Lestrade could understand, it helped it seem less scary.

"You don't understand, these were discontinued! They don't exist anymore, no one can find them anywhere! You're the best parents ever!" Greg cried as he hugged them each in turn time after time. "Wait till Mycroft sees this! He can help me fix it up and really get it roaring!"

He ran up the stairs with it, whooping, leaving his windswept parents down below. With a mutual shrug and sigh, they could acknowledge that at least their son was happy.