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Walking determinedly through Diagon Alley, Mycroft Holmes tugged his petulant little brother after him; despite whatever rush he might have been in, the sixteen-year-old was only ever gentle with Sherlock. He tried to keep that thought in mind as the seven-year-old lagged behind him, snow crunching under his little feet.
“But Myc, I wanna go to Ollivander’s!” Sherlock yelled.
“You can’t go to Ollivander’s until you’re eleven, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied, using his Wise Older Brother voice. “You know this already.”
“But I wanna go to Hogwarts with you!”
“Well, you’re a little late for that. I’m graduating this year.”
Sherlock let out an indignant huff and crossed his arms, pouting miserably. The look was ruined by his little nose, bright red from the cold. Wizards and witches in varying degrees of panic-shopping rushed past the two boys standing toe-to-toe on the sidewalk. Mycroft kept one of his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder, terrified of losing him in the crowd. Sherlock sniffled, and Mycroft suddenly thought that he definitely should’ve pushed Sherlock to wear a hat.
“Come on, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “We’ve got to get Mummy a present for her birthday. You know it’s coming up.”
“So’s mine,” Sherlock huffed, “and you’re not getting anything for me.”
Mycroft rolled his eyes. He tugged gently on the green and silver scarf wrapped around Sherlock’s neck, sighing as the younger boy refused to budge.
“I am getting you something,” Mycroft replied. “I just can’t get it when you’re around to see it, can I?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I’ll figure out what it is anyway.”
Mycroft nodded. “Yes,” he said, “and that’s because you’re very clever. I wouldn’t want to take all the fun out of it. Now, can we please get Mummy a birthday present?”
“All right,” Sherlock replied. With a small gloved hand, he grabbed the edge of Mycroft’s coat sleeve and allowed the older boy to lead him into Amanuensis Quills. Mycroft nearly sighed in relief.
After picking out the best quill and highest quality ink for Mummy (and, despite Mycroft’s protests, something for Sherlock), the two boys left the shop with a gift for their mother.
“Myc, will you take me to Eeylops?” Sherlock asked as Mycroft shoved his way through the sea of people in the streets. “Myc? Myc!”
“Not today, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied curtly, tightly gripping the hood of Sherlock’s jacket. “I promise I’ll take you after the holidays, all right?”
“But I wanna see the owls!”
“I said not today.”
Sherlock stopped again, and Mycroft nearly shouted out in frustration. He turned to face his little brother.
“You can’t always get whatever you want, Sherlock,” Mycroft said. “I'll take you to Eeylops later. Right now, we have to get home before Mummy does. She didn't want us to go out today, remember?” Sherlock nodded. “Yes, and we must keep this a secret between you and I. Otherwise it's no fun.”
“Right!” Sherlock agreed, his crystal eyes sparkling with mischief. “If you don't bring me to Eeylops, I'll tell Mummy that we went to Diagon Alley without her!”
“But Sherlock, then you'd get in trouble too.”
“Oh.”
Mycroft nodded. “Right.”
“Oh,” Sherlock repeated, crestfallen. “Okay.”
It was hard not to feel bad for Sherlock, with his red little nose and his quivering lip and his bright eyes filling up with tears. Somehow, Mycroft managed it.
“Come on, Sherlock,” he prompted. “We've got to get home.”
“Fine.”
Mycroft straightened himself and his own Slytherin scarf, grabbing Sherlock's coat and setting off towards the exit of Diagon Alley. One minute, Sherlock was safe in Mycroft’s grip; the next, Mycroft held an empty winter coat, his heart beating wildly in his chest. He caught sight of Sherlock’s bee-striped sweater slipping easily through the crowd and lurched towards it.
“Sherlock!” he shouted over the din of holiday shoppers. “Sherlock, get back here!”
Mycroft’s heart kept racing as he searched for his little brother amongst countless unfamiliar faces. His stomach contracted, the dull ache of fear settling uncomfortably there.
“Sherlock!” the teenager yelled again. He was loath to admit it, but Mycroft figured he looked about as distressed as he sounded. The strength of his grip on Sherlock’s jacket could rival steel, his knuckles as white as the snow on the ground.
Suddenly, a small head of dark, riotous curls appeared in Mycroft’s line of sight, above the heads of the crowd. The tension in Mycroft’s shoulders melted away as he saw his brother, but it returned almost immediately as he realized that someone had his brother.
Mycroft lurched towards Sherlock, his mind focused on nothing but getting his little brother back by his side and away from whoever was carrying him on their shoulders.
“Sherlock!” Mycroft called, pushing his way through the crowd.
“Hi, Myc!” Sherlock greeted happily as Mycroft reached him.
“Let go of him,” the Slytherin growled, gripping his brother tightly and ripping him from the man’s shoulders. He gently set Sherlock on the ground and kneeled in front of him, forcing Sherlock’s coat back on him.
“Hi, Myc,” Sherlock repeated, his teeth chattering.
“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft snapped. “It wasn’t very clever of you to run away like that, was it?”
Sherlock shrugged and sniffed, and Mycroft narrowed his eyes.
“Don’t shrug at me,” Mycroft insisted. “You’re not to run away like that again. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mycroft,” Sherlock drawled uninterestedly. Mycroft glared at his little brother, but he couldn’t hold the look for long before crushing him to his chest in a quick hug. Sherlock squawked in protest, and Mycroft let him go without fuss.
There came the sound of a throat clearing, and Mycroft finally looked up at the face of the wizard who had helped his brother. The Slytherin’s eyes widened infinitesimally as he recognized the other teen.
“Oh. Hello,” he greeted, rising to his feet.
“Hey,” replied Greg Lestrade, his hands stuck awkwardly in the pockets of his thick jacket. A red and gold scarf was wrapped around his neck, and a matching hat covered most of his chocolate-colored hair. He looked good. Damn him. “Sherlock here ran right into me over by Eeylops. Thought I’d help him find you. Er, I mean, I didn’t know it was you he was looking for, but…”
“No, I would imagine not,” Mycroft replied. He gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly, worried about losing him again.
“And I didn’t mean anything by it, you know,” Greg continued. “I was just trying to help the little guy.”
Mycroft nodded slowly. “Yes, well. I can see that.”
Greg nodded too. “Good. That’s good. I didn’t know- um. Nevermind. It was, uh, good to see you, but I gotta…”
“You didn’t know what?” Mycroft questioned, an eyebrow raised.
The Gryffindor shrugged, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the stones beneath his boots. “I didn’t know you could care that much. At school you seem… detached.”
“I am, generally,” Mycroft replied easily, “but Sherlock is my brother, and I believed him missing.”
“Right,” Greg agreed.
Both boys stood there staring at anything but each other. Sherlock tugged restlessly on Mycroft’s hand, but the Slytherin only tightened his grip.
“Mycroft thinks you’re handsome,” Sherlock blurted.
Greg let out a harsh laugh. Mycroft’s eyes widened dramatically, and his face turned unbearably red.
“Sherlock!” he scolded, blushing heavily.
The boy giggled, a mischievous smile on his face.
“I never thought I’d see the day!” Greg laughed. “Mycroft Holmes, embarrassed by his little brother.”
“It happens more often than you’d think,” Mycroft replied, more than a bit put out. The scowl on his face only served to make the Gryffindor laugh again, smiling brightly. The sound was melodic, and Mycroft didn’t hesitate to admit that he wouldn’t mind hearing it again. He swallowed hard.
“Well, you know, you’re quite handsome yourself.”
Mycroft blushed. Sherlock frowned at Greg’s words and poked Mycroft in the stomach.
“Sherlock, stop that,” Mycroft scolded absently.
Greg beamed again. “So, Mycroft. Obviously not now, of course, since you’ve got your brother with you but-”
“Hey!” Sherlock cried, frowning dramatically.
“Hey, what, little man?” Greg asked. “I’m sure you don’t wanna get a boring old butterbeer with me and your older brother.” Hazel eyes flicked back to Mycroft’s face. “Hopefully he does, though. What do you think he’ll say?”
Mycroft blushed and interjected, “I have it on good authority that the answer would be ‘yes.’”
Greg’s gaze met Mycroft’s, and the Gryffindor beamed, biting his bottom lip.
“Fantastic,” Greg replied. “You… You don’t have a mobile phone, do you?”
Mycroft furrowed his brow. “No, I don’t have a Muggle phone. Just an owl.”
“I figured. That’s all right, though. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Yes, actually,” Mycroft replied, smirking. “I’m getting butterbeer. Leaky Cauldron, around three, I should think.”
Greg bit his lip again, struggling to hide his wide grin. “Sounds perfect.”
“Myc, can we go home?” Sherlock whined, tugging on Mycroft’s arm. “I’m bored. ”
“Right,” Mycroft replied, not taking his eyes off Greg. “We have to go. Our mother can’t know we went out.”
“Oh, right. I have to get back, too. I left my sister at the Owlery.”
“Greg takes his sister to Eeylops!” Sherlock shouted. “Why can’t you take me?”
“I promised I’d take you later, Sherlock,” Mycroft replied cautiously, gazing at his brother out of the corner of his eye.
“Plus, my sister’s fourteen and mature enough not to run away,” Greg put in. “And she knows when to wear a hat.”
With that, the Gryffindor ran a hand through Sherlock’s hair, mussing up the boy’s dark curls.
“Goodbye, Greg.”
“Nice running into you, Mycroft,” Greg replied, smiling brightly. He looked down at Sherlock fondly. “Bye, little man.”
“Goodbye, Gavin.”
“Sherlock-” Mycroft began before being interrupted by Greg’s laughter.
“It’s all right,” the other boy said, chuckling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mycroft.”
~*~
One year later, Mycroft and Sherlock wandered through Diagon Alley looking for something for their mother’s birthday. This time, though, they were joined by a third wizard, one with a Gryffindor scarf wrapped around his neck.
Greg’s arm was slung comfortably around Mycroft’s waist, their hips bumping together with every step. Greg leaned over to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and the Slytherin’s lips quirked up in a pleased smile. Sherlock, walking along next to them, pretended to gag.
“Come on, little man,” Greg laughed. “We’re not that bad. One day you’ll have a boyfriend or a girlfriend, and you’ll be the same way.”
Sherlock shook his head. “No, I won’t! Everyone else is an idiot.”
Mycroft sighed. “Of course, Sherlock.”
Greg pulled Mycroft closer and kissed him on the lips this time, smiling against Mycroft’s mouth. The Slytherin couldn’t help but return the gesture, grinning along with his boyfriend as his younger brother complained on and on about how tedious they were being.
Mycroft didn’t mind being tedious as long as it was with Greg.
And as long as Sherlock didn’t run off again.