The house was as quiet as during a funeral. Why Mycroft came up with this particular association, he did not know, because he had never seen a funeral. However, the silence was painful.
The only thing that disturbed it was the monotonous mournful sound behind the wall. It was Sherlock howling. Not a reservation: the brother was really sitting on the bed, hugging himself by the shoulders, and howling on one note, without uttering a single word.
From the moment he was found in a deep hole under a tree, the day after Victor Trevor disappeared; he didn’t speak again, although it had been a week.
Mycroft was scared. It was as scary as it had never been before, and the usual way to cope with excitement — to eat it with sweets — did not help.
Eur was sitting in the room on the other side of Mycroft, and not a sound came from her. She, however, didn’t lose the gift of speech, but if she said anything, it was only lines from her stupid song.
Mycroft dreamed of her at night, and during the day, she penetrated into the skull and drilled a phantom hole in the brain. He learned it by heart and, after Sherlock was put to bed, he went through it himself, line by line: in vain. Sherlock dug the hole exactly where it was needed, but there was no point in it: the ground was hard; no one had dug it before. And of course, no one hid a five-year-old boy in it. He disappeared somewhere else, but no one could figure out where.
The police walked around Musgrave for a long time. Mom used her contacts, and gloomy faceless people from the security service soon joined them. Then everyone left.
Sherlock continued to howl.
He had a fever and refused to eat. Yesterday Mycroft managed to give him a few spoonful’s of soup to drink, but today he seems to have gotten worse — in any case, it didn't work out to feed him.
Mycroft rolled over on his stomach and covered his ears with his hands.
Still, it didn't stop him from hearing the sound that broke the silence—sharp, loud, alien.
It was pop sound. It was unlike anything Mycroft had ever heard before.
The sound came from somewhere from outside, and Mycroft, getting out of bed, looked out of the window.
A man, a complete stranger, was walking along the stone-paved path to the house.
He was short, very thin, and had shoulder-length, tousled gray hair and a long chin. He was dressed strangely—in a black raincoat or something like that.
Mycroft climbed onto the windowsill and hid behind the curtain to see better, while remaining invisible to the stranger.
It was difficult to draw any conclusions about him: there was absolutely nothing normal and familiar about him, every detail added questions and gave no answers.
The man rounded the house and disappeared around the corner. Immediately after that, the bell rang, and Mycroft couldn't resist looking out of the room.
Footsteps were heard on the ground floor, then a soft cry, then a sharp:
— Hush, Violeta! Not a sound! Where's your husband?
Mom said something, but Mycroft couldn't make out a word.
— Do you not have any charms here? —Mycroft thinks that he heard something wrong.
— None — Mom said almost indignantly.
— Thanks Merlin, — Mycroft shook his head just in case.
— It's like you're...
— From there, — the man interrupted her. — Haven't you heard?
— You know I don't want to hear anything about this, — Mom added something else very quietly, and then the soles of her shoes rustled on the parquet again, the door to the living room banged and the lock clicked.
Mycroft tiptoed down the stairs, silently left the house, walked around it and stopped under the window.
He didn't seem to have missed much: Mom had only managed to make tea and was now pouring it into cups. The guest was silent. He accepted the cup, exhaled with satisfaction and said:
— It'd be better for me to stay with muggles for a week.
Mom paused, and then answered firmly (Mycroft did not know that her voice could sound so cold and strict):
— Not with me. I have children, I don't want to…
— Children? — somehow the guests asked nervously and excitedly. — How much? Boys? And they... — it seems that this news shocked him to the depths of his soul.
Mom hesitated again before saying,
— Two boys and the youngest girl. The boys are absolutely... — then she paused again, seemingly choosing her words, — normal. Don't make a face, Rudy. I love that word. And Eur is different.
Something strange happened in the living room, and Mycroft even bit his lip in despair: so much he wanted to know what was going on there but it was impossible to him to climb. He listened to the shuffling and stamping, his mother's strangled squeak and her exclamation: "Put it on immediately!" and a happy, bass voice: "I knew!"
When they calmed down, Mom said coldly and very quietly,
— I don't think she'll get the letter. She doesn't just have abilities, she's... — Mycroft guessed how hard it was for his mother to say this, — she's an unusual child. Not only because she is very smart. She's dangerous.
There was a murmur, and then Mom started talking about what had happened recently— about Victor's disappearance, Eur's song, her drawings and so on. The guest listened in silence, without interrupting, and Mycroft grimaced — it hurt him to think about what had happened again. And scary.
— Sherlock hasn't said a word since then, — Mom finished, and the guest cleared his throat, took a noisy sip of tea and said:
— I'll take a look at him, if you'll let me. Oh, and the girl, of course.
Mycroft guessed from the prolonged silence that Mom wanted to forbid.
— You know I won't hurt my nephews, Violetta.
— I know who you were,— Mom said out of place. — And who is your wife, too. And I intentionally...
— I won't hurt my nephews. Do you want to swear?
Silence again.
— Swear it.
— I swear by my life and magic that I will not harm my nephews, neither by action nor by inaction, neither by word nor by deed.
Suddenly it warmed up; Mycroft shuddered, because something like a hot air wave hit him in the stomach and went right through to the spine, and then disappeared.
— Come on.
Mycroft managed to get up to his room and not run into them. He had to listen from behind the wall.
First, they went to Sherlock — for some reason Mycroft had no doubt about it. It was for him that Mom worried the most.
He continued to howl, but then suddenly stopped. Mycroft pressed his ear to the wall and managed to make out a strange: "Legillimens". After twisting it this way and that, Mycroft came to the conclusion without pleasure that it looked like the Latin "legi mens", which means, "Read the mind". Mycroft forcefully forbade himself to draw conclusions, continuing to absorb the facts. He will comprehend them at his leisure.
— He's not a squib. Not really, — Rudy said after a few minutes. — A very strong mind, innate occlumental shields, through which I fought my way with difficulty.
— What's wrong with him? — Mom asked quietly and anxiously.
— Shock. I... — more rustling and creaking. Maybe someone sat on Sherlock's bed — I can erase his memories of it. Replace it with something less traumatic. Not all the images will be removed, but he will not remember the death of a friend. Only a slight bitterness of loss will remain.
— And if he remembers later?
— Someone will have to trace… You, or maybe your eldest. The memories may never come back, and if they do, then he will already be an adult and will be able to cope with them.
Mom didn't answer, but she probably nodded, because Rudy said:
— Come on, kiddo, look at me. Well done. Relax. Obliviate.
"Oblivia," Mycroft translated easily. "Oblivion". He was terrified to the cold goosebumps on his back, to the sticky sweat on his forehead and neck.
— Mom, — Sherlock asked weakly, — Where's Redbeard? Why was he taken away?
— That's the way to do it, darling, — Mummy whispered and probably hugged Sherlock. Wet sobbing sounds rang out.
Then they moved into Eur's room, Mycroft pressed his ear to the other wall. Later. He promised himself that he would think about it later, but not now. Now it was necessary to listen and remember.
Eur was not silent. She hissed like an animal and asked nervously:
— Who are you? Why did you come? Speak up!
— Protego! — Rudy snapped. —Hush, child.
— I'm not a child, — Eur said very quietly.
— Eur, honey…
— Have you found a Redbeard yet? — she asked accusingly. — Sherlock should be looking for him.
— Tell me, — Rudy said, — Where is that Redbeard? You know that, don’t you?.
Even without seeing anything, Mycroft could have sworn that Eur smiled.
— I gave you a hint. What a pity that you are so stupid.
Come on! — Mycroft thought irritably, - Read her thoughts!
As if obeying his mental prodding, Rudy said his "Legillimence", and then swore.
— Find him, — Eur probably smiled again, and then suddenly the door slammed shut
— Rudy?
— I can’t do this , — he breathed in the hallway. — The protection is impeccable. Violeta... — he gathered his courage and said, — Your girl is dangerous. You should...
— Never,— Mom snapped.
— She has a fire in her mind. Solid fire.
— She's my daughter.
They left the corridor, and this time Mycroft didn't have the strength to follow them. He fell asleep, although he promised himself that he would go to Sherlock first.
At dinner, to which neither Sherlock nor Eur came down, Mom introduced the guest with the words:
— This is my brother, Rudolphus, — she pursed her lips, as if she didn't like the name itself, and finished: "Lestrange."
Dad shook his hand and didn't say a word, and Mycroft cautiously clarified:
— Are you my uncle, sir?
Black eyes, sunk deep in dark sockets, fixed on him. Rudolphus bared his crooked dark teeth and said:
— That's right, little one. Uncle Rudy, — and held out his hand to him.
The hand turned out to be calloused, and Mycroft noticed strange scars on the wrist, as if from ... shackles.
— Don't worry, Mr. Holmes, — Uncle Rudy turned to his father, — I'm going to embarrass you just for a while.
— Sir, you are my relative, the doors of my house are always open.
Mycroft had never heard his father use such language in his life.
— And yet, — Rudolphus shrugged his shoulders and happily cut a large piece from the ham, — in a few days I will disappear. I'd just like to rest and eat somewhere among muggles.
Dad made a face at that word, Mycroft didn't understand it, and Mom pursed her lips as if it was an insult.
Nothing happened for several days.
Eur stayed in her room, Sherlock gradually recovered, agreed to eat, talked again, only sometimes sad for Redbeard. Mycroft understood from his reservations that it was a dog.
On Sunday, the fifth day of Rudolphus' stay at Musgrave, Mycroft was lying in his room reading. He couldn't concentrate on the book, but he was desperately trying to do it.
There was a knock on the door.
— Come in, — he said ceremoniously, sitting up on the bed, and Uncle Rudy immediately entered the room. He looked better, his skin turned pink, his cheeks appeared. He had shortened his hair, but it still looked unhealthy.
— Mycroft, — he nodded to him and clarified: — Can I sit?
Mycroft pointed to a chair.
For a while Uncle picked up the words, and Mycroft looked at this man who came from somewhere from another reality and broke his rational verified world.
— It's strange that I came to you, Mycroft, — he said at last. — Of all my nephews, only you are completely devoid of even a spark of magic.
— Sir?
— Come on. I know that you overheard my conversation with Violetta and heard the spells. And I know you've come to the right conclusions.
— Have you read my mind?
— Images. It's easy with Muggles.
Mycroft also established the meaning of this word.
— Why have you come?
— To warn you about something and… ask for help.
Mycroft folded his arms and tried to hide his surprise.
— Your sister doesn't belong here. I want to take her away. I need you to help your mom and brother get over this loss.
"Won't I need help?" thought Mycroft with a strange desperation. He said aloud:
— All right, sir.
— Oh, and one more thing. Someday you and Sherlock will have children. I don't think I'll live to see that time, but I'm pretty sure at least one of you will have a child who will be a wizard. If this happens, and I will pray to all the gods about it, then they will have the right to a rich inheritance of our family. I will leave a will on this account; a drop of blood will be enough to confirm the identity.
— Where will you leave it?
— In a magic bank, — Uncle grinned. — You won't lose it. I'd be sorry if the Lestrange line ended on me and my stupid brother. Well, come on, nephew.
And then Uncle Rudy shook his hand again. This time Mycroft was sure that the marks on his wrists were from metal shackles, but he never found the courage to ask how they appeared.
That same night Musgrave burst into flames like a haystack. The walls, the roof, the ceiling were burning. There was nothing to breathe from the smell of burning. Mycroft carried the screaming Sherlock in his arms. Mom and Dad were pulled out by Uncle Rudy.
There was no Eur
Nowhere.
And even when the fire was extinguished, she was not found.
Her room burned down.
Mom was crying, Dad was hugging Sherlock, who didn't seem to understand what was going on, and Uncle Rudy looked at Mycroft very intently, so it became clear: Eur is alive, but her parents won't see her anymore.
Uncle Rudy went up to Mom, said something to her, and then, without hiding it, just disappeared with the same strange loud pop with which he appeared.
They moved to another house.
The parents grieved surprisingly little for their daughter.
Sherlock forgot that the Eur once existed; only he did not part with the violin.
Mycroft locked the memories of Uncle Rudy in the farthest recess of his mind and promised himself that he would never again come into contact with this alien, scary world in which people read minds. And he won't let Sherlock.
It would be better if the Lestrange inheritance remained in the bank, useless to anyone, than someone would dig into his head again with such ease, as Uncle Rudy did.