“There you are,” Greg gasped as he jogged to catch up with his best friend. “John warned me you were in a bit of a moo- woah!”
“You have two minutes to talk me out of murder, Gregory,” Mycroft hissed. “Starting now.”
Greg blinked, eyes wide with surprise. He’d seen Mycroft angry before but he’s not reached this level of fury for quite some time.
“Who are you going to kill?” he asked, frowning. “Sherlock?”
Mycroft shook his head firmly.
“Is it a student?”
“I’d characterise her more as a member staff. To describe her as a teacher is simply a too disrespectful a usage of the word for me to bear I’m afraid.”
He took the tightening of Mycroft’s fists and his tense silence as a resolute ‘Yes’.
“What’s that old toad done now?” he asked.
“Are you aware of what she makes students do for her detentions?” Mycroft grit out, glaring steadily down at the stone floor.
Greg shuddered and nodded.
“Yeah. Of course. Everybody does,” he replied. “Make you write lines with your own blood.”
“But how’s that affect you?” he asked.
He glanced down at his friend’s hands, letting out a soft, relieved sigh upon seeing the pale, freckled flesh untarnished.
Mycroft ground his teeth for a moment, fighting for control as his fingers twitched closer to his wand, before grunting, “Sherlock corrected her in class. So she gave him detention.”
Greg’s eyes widened.
Of course that’s what this would be about. Sherlock.
“What happened?” he asked.
Lifting his head so his narrowed blue eyes met Greg’s wide brown ones, Mycroft snarled, “She made him carve, ‘I will mind my place’ into the back of his hand deep enough for John to call me to try an heal it, Greg.”
“Shit,” the Hufflepuff sighed.
“He’s 11 years old,” Mycroft roared, beginning to the width of the corridor. “I swear to god I am going to kill her if you do not convince me not to in the next 30 seconds.”
Greg grimaced but stepped forward, catching his friend on his next pass and clutching his shoulder firmly.
“Alright then, calm down, My,” he said slowly and calmly.
Mycroft’s eyes narrowed further still, his chest heaving all the more furiously, but then it always did when he worked himself up into this much of a state.
“You can’t kill her, mate,” he murmured.
“I can,” Mycroft retorted. “I can think of 16 different ways right off the top of my head. 17. 18… 19-“
“Mycroft, it’s morally wron-“
“I really couldn’t give a damn about morals right now!”
“We’re too pretty for Azkaban,” Greg cried, throwing his hands into the air.
“We…” Mycroft blinked, pausing for a second as his anger, just for a moment, gave way to confusion. “What are you talking about, Gregory?”
“Mycroft, mate, I’m saying this because I love you, alright? But you wouldn’t last 5 minutes in prison.”
Mycroft frowned, although some of the tension was slowly beginning to drain from his shoulders as Greg barrelled onwards.
“For one, they’ll take away your umbrella and then where will you be?”
Greg grinned when he spotted a slight twitch at the corner of his friend’s lips, and solemnly continued, “And I can’t guarantee we’ll be cellmates, you know? Knowing my luck, I’ll get stuck with some big hairy Deatheater who’s not bathed since You-Know-Who bit the dust, and you know what that means for you?”
A small smile finally battled its way into existence on Mycroft’s face as the younger boy asked, “What?”
“25+ years of constant bitching and moaning. And I’d make you suffer, mate. You think you got it tough now? You got no idea.”
“I was rather under the impression that was your plan whether we’re incarcerated or not,” Mycroft retorted, his shoulders finally sagging to there usual, more relaxed state.
Greg grinned and shrugged. “Best for you not to give me much to complain about then, eh?” he replied.
“I suppose so,” Mycroft murmured softly, dropping his gaze back down to the stone floor.
“She’ll get what’s coming to her, My,” Greg whispered, wrapping his arm around his friend’s shoulders. “Just give it time, yeah.”
Mycroft sighed and nodded.
“Yes, of course.”
“How’s your brother anyway?” Greg asked, squeezing the younger boy’s shoulder reassuringly as they made their way up to Gryffindor tower where Sherlock would no doubt be hiding out with John.
Mycroft smirked softly and scoffed, “He’s coping admirably actually. Which is beside the point, of course. But he seems quite happy with John’s fussing and apparently it’s bought him some respect from the rest of the Gryffindors.”
“Of course it has,” Greg laughed, shaking his head with fond amusement. “Those lot are a glutton for punishment, you know.”
“It’s a wonder Sherlock wasn’t sorted there, really.”
“Tell me about it.”