Chapter 6: First Day Farings

The first day began with the usual, breakfast in the Great Hall. Harry was usually pleasantly sandwiched between Ron and Hermione. Usually. But the current seating arrangement changed just enough for it to be Hermione, Ron and Harry on the other end.

He tried to pretend it didn't really bother him, but it did. He felt it plainly like a definite stab of loneliness that pierced through his stomach like as if it were a knife twisted and left there. He picked at his food and felt the 'knife' twist even deeper when Hermione didn't harp on him to eat more as she usually would.

Not that he could've really eaten much. His appetite had upped and left the moment he'd seen the new seating arrangement. It had thrown him off-kilter in a way he hadn't expected. Arguing with himself over such a little detail did more harm than good and so Harry gave it up and settled for making shapes and goals with his breakfast plate.

At least he'd look busy, if nothing else.

His morning melancholy was interrupted by the arrival of two familiar voices and two identical heads.

"Morning Harry! How-"

"-are you? It's good to-"

"-see you again. You look like-"

"-you didn't get enough sleep or-"

"-something. Worried about-"

"-your first day back?"

The typical twin-esque introduction was normal enough for them that Harry should've been able to accept and decipher it by now. He should have. Instead, he found himself staring at them, managing a weak smile belatedly in reply when both redheads stared expectantly at him.

"Har-ry-" George drawled, his blue eyes roving curiously over the pale brunet.

"You look as if-" Fred picked up, mirroring the same penetrating gaze as his twin.

"-you're about to be-"

"Sick." George finished. He clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Eat yet?"

"Er," Harry managed, eloquently.

"Eat up." Fred nudged him, reaching for the platter or scrambled eggs. He put two scoops on his own plate and two on George's knowing that his twin likely had the same breakfast cravings as he did. His twin was already returning the favor with syrup-coated waffles and Fred was happy for that. Sometimes he hated getting syrup on his fingers. "Harry?" He paused in mid-action of scooping a spoonful of the fluffy golden eggs on the dark-haired boy's plate. He often did that as well—at least, when either Harry or Ron sat on his other side—more so out of the habit of having grown up with younger siblings and knowing that the dining table was always chaos at mealtimes because their mother was always frantically trying to keep everything together. Helping siblings on both sides of him usually resulted in happier mealtimes. It was a habit he didn't intend to outgrow and as far as he knew, no one really complained about it.

George nudged Harry's foot under the table and the brunet swallowed visibly, as if being jerked back to the present from wherever he'd been in his head. "Not too much." He managed. "I'm not really-uh-hungry." The smile was forced. "Thanks."

Harry dug his fingernails into his hands to produce the customary spike of pain that would help him keep his head straight and clear. It was a trick he'd learned early on and it had yet to fail him. He couldn't afford to slack off and let something odd show through now. He'd managed to keep everything together for the past sixteen years—surely he could continue to do so for a good while longer. After all the major things were done—and his life wasn't in some sort of dire straits in regards to Voldemort—Harry figured he could hang on until then.

Harry's immediate lack of response prompted Fred to redirect the spoonful of eggs to his own plate. The redhead shared a look with George, but neither twin said a word. The redheads dug into their breakfasts with gusto and Harry found himself nervously picking at the food all over again. This time, he worked to move the bits of egg into even piles around his plate.

Now he really didn't have much of an appetite at all. The bright yellow eggs only served to make the nauseous feeling a dozen times worse. Harry swallowed hard. His stomach clenched tight and a faint image hovered in his head. Well, at least he didn't have any appetite for any of the food on the table.

"So Harry-" Fred started. He was between mouthfuls.

George immediately swallowed his current mouthful in preparation to finish the sentence.

Harry mentally braced himself for a round of twinspeak. It was a carefully choreographed dance that he could never quite fully understand, but somehow knew it suited them both.

"-have you heard that-" George picked up.

"-Charlie's coming down from-"

"-Romania for a visit, because-"

"-of, well, we can't say why, but-"

"-He'll be staying for a few weeks or-"

"-so, Mum won't let him run back-"

"-to Romania right away, so he'll be-"

"-staying at the burrow for-"

"-at least a week. You'll come to-"

"-visit, won't you?" Fred finished. He happily took a swig of Pumpkin juice and beamed at Harry. "You haven't see him in-"

"-years and he's sure to have some good stories to tell." George mirrored Fred's smile.

Harry managed a small smile in response. His mind whirled, prompting him that an actual verbal response was needed. He threw out the first thing that registered in his brain. "That's nice."

"Nice?" Fred spluttered. "Oi, Harry. I think-"

"-that maybe you ought to-"

"Aren't you boys finished yet?" Hermione's disapproving tone sliced through the chatter. She'd stood up, with her bookbag slung over one shoulder as Ron grabbed one last sweet roll from the breakfast platters and took a large bite out of it. "We can't be late to the first class of the school year on the first day!"

Harry immediately swung his legs over the bench and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "I'm all ready, Mione." He forced a smile, this time. "We won't be late. First class is transfiguration, right?" And without waiting for her confirm it, he made a beeline for the doors before the others could even slide free of the bench.

One puzzled bushy-haired girl and three redheads stared after him.

"Good morning." Professor McGonagall greeted them stiffly, her head held high as usual. She took a quick scan of her present students and made several notes on the hovering piece of parchment beside her. "Today we're going to be transfiguring…"

Her voice continued on and Harry tuned her out. He was remembering a peculiar incident earlier in the summer and then later on when he'd arrived in the dorms last night. He remembered having a wand and the sudden inability to cast a simple lumos.

"Mr. Potter!" Professor McGonagall said, stiffly. "Is there something the matter?" She looked pointedly at his washcloth that should've been a throw pillow.

He opened his mouth to speak, but no answer came out. He couldn't think of a single excuse as to why his magic wasn't working—and to tell a lie to his head of house—well, Harry had a feeling that this little lie wouldn't go over well. In fact, if he had to trust his new Dragel senses, they screamed at him to be careful of which side he was on with this stern woman.

"Well, Mr. Potter?"

Harry tried.

He really did.

He said the incantation. He made the correct movements.

Professor McGonagall's brow furrowed. "Try again." She said, briskly. "With feeling!"

He did.

The result did not change.

The washcloth seemed to mock him.

At one point, the washcloth shuddered and then suddenly shot upwards and slapped Professor McGonagall in the face.

Harry stared at her in horror.

She plucked it from her face with two slender, wrinkled fingers, her mouth set in a line. "That, Mr. Potter, is quite enough!" She turned away with a huff. The rest of the class resumed their practicing at a single glare from the elderly woman. A few sniggers from the Slytherin side didn't help matters any.

Harry sat miserably until class was over. She hadn't taken points or assigned a detention, but the very fact that she hadn't done anything, left him with a rather bad feeling. He had noticed that some of the others had some trouble with the assignment, but none of them to the extent that he had—magicless, that is. Malfoy seemed to be the only one out of the bunch with some difficulty, but he'd managed to transfigure the washcloth in the end, so Harry pushed that moment aside.

He wondered which of his fellow classmates had come into any sort of inheritance over the summer. He couldn't see anything obvious, but perhaps they were like him—hiding it from prying eyes. He made a mental note to up his awareness by a few notches. It certainly couldn't hurt.

The moment class let out, he was on his feet and ready to go, hoping that Professor McGonagall wouldn't hold him back to ask any questions. His magic was probably just upset for a bit and would settle down on its own. He was sure of it—almost. After all, it's not like an inheritance could cancel it all out.

Unless he did something big and horrible and terrible or something equally big and terrifying and wonderful, there was no reason for his magic to be anything but simply what it was. He could be a squib—if he did something on such a large scale that he exhausted himself, but as far as he could recall, Harry knew he'd done no such thing.

He'd simply have to give it time—and hope that no one would really notice.

After all, surely there were other students who'd come into inheritances and were sure to cause some sort of ruckus in class.

He hoped.

It was a gamble he'd take for now.

In the meantime, he'd have to start thinking up some believable excuses.

His musings cut into his usual trip time, and Harry looked up to realize that Ron and Hermione were nowhere in sight. He muffled a sigh and tore through the corridors, hoping he wouldn't run into anyone who'd order him to slow down. He could practically feel the seconds ticking away as he rushed to the next class and skidded to a stop before the door.

He was late—but Professor Flitwick merely gave him a look as two other late students came stumbling in after him. Harry gratefully hurried to a seat saved by Neville as Ron and Hermione were sitting together again and whispering heatedly to each other. Whatever it was, Hermione pulled away with a huff, crossing her arms and looking to the front. Ron tried to plead with her for a moment, before Professor Flitwick cleared his throat and class began.

Harry quickly found himself in the same predicament from Transfiguration. There was only so far he could go before the absence of his magic caused a bit of an issue. Professor Flitwick didn't call him out on it, but his disapproving frown said more than the little man himself, might have.

A slightly apologetic smile was the most that Harry could muster at that point. It didn't escape his notice either, that he was not the only one having trouble—Zabini had struggled some and so had Malfoy. Harry soon found that eyes sought them out every so often, regardless of whatever he was doing or trying to do in class. It was almost like a knee-jerk reaction, one that he couldn't control.

Thankfully, the little professor didn't seem to notice anything and Harry wasn't about to draw his attention to it. Relief was like a drink in the middle of the desert—and Harry took hold of it with both hands. It didn't take a genius to see that Ron and Hermione were engaged with each other the moment class let out and Harry knew to hurry to the next classroom before he resumed his earlier stream of convoluted logic. At least, he wouldn't be late.

The next class was DADA and there was some chattering amongst them all for the new professor had not shown up for the welcoming feast, nor had they been present at the staff table for breakfast this morning.

Harry felt a faint shiver run through him as he fought the urge to squirm in his seat. All of his Dragel senses were screaming at him that this room was not safe. He had far too many bad memories associated with it—and the past DADA professors—well, with the exception of one Remus Lupin. He couldn't help feeling that this year would be just like all the others. There was nothing to suggest it would be otherwise.

He fought the urge to shiver and pushed it away, feeling a slight chill creep over him. The room was cooler than any of the other classrooms so far and he didn't like it. He much more preferred when everything was nice and toasty. A scowl visited his face and stayed there.

Several long minutes passed by and the student shifted restlessly.

The Gryffindors began to whisper amongst themselves and the Slytherins began to look rather uneasy.

Harry took note of both sides. To occupy himself, he took up his earlier musings and began to double check them.

As a matter of course, he darted a glance to Hermione and Ron who were engaged in another one of their whispered battles. He'd expected that and while he did wonder, briefly, what they were arguing about, he didn't care to ask them. It hadn't piqued his curiosity as it normally would, and his Dragel instincts had no particular inclinations towards them, so he ignored it. If it was important, then he'd know.

Neville was busy listening to something going on between Dean and Seamus that sounded like it might have had something to do with Quidditch or some other sports related thing. The rest of the Gryffindors didn't seem to be doing much that warranted his attention, so Harry shifted his attention to the Slytherin side.

In stark contrast, every one of them seemed highly strung up—particularly Draco Malfoy. In fact, as far as Harry could recall, the blond had gotten progressively worse through the first two classes. He'd been all wonderful at the breakfast table and now as lunch approached, it seemed as if he was going to pieces.

To date, Harry couldn't recall having seen the white-blond ever that pale. If he didn't know better, he'd swear that Malfoy was trying his chances on becoming a ghost—and from the looks of it, doing a swell job. He was holding a single cord of black in his hand with two beads in which he worried between his fingers and his steel grey eyes remained fixed on some invisible point on the classroom wall. He didn't move.

Crabbe and Goyle didn't seem to think anything of it, as they didn't engage him in any way, but Harry had a feeling they were probably on orders to leave the blond alone and so were doing exactly that. It did bug him that the rest of his usual group was doing the same thing—including the mile-a-minute-mouth, Pansy Parkinson. She sat, calmly, to Draco's left and stared straight ahead at the classroom wall, just as he did. If he didn't value his life to some degree, Harry would have told her what a great impression of petrification she did.

He didn't though. He didn't think she'd appreciate it.

Harry did notice that not one of the Slytherins were talking, but rather, they were all fidgeting—barely—but fidgeting nonetheless and growing more tense by the minute. They went from sitting in perfect, polite form to varying degrees of well, petrification. Head's straightening up, shoulders settling further behind, backs ramrod straight and feet firmly planted on the ground.

It was rather unnerving.

Harry had never seen them do that before—of course, he probably hadn't paid that close attention to them before, so it could be normal and he simply didn't know it. He did take careful note of the Slytherins that he knew, the tanned and generally good-looking Blaise Zabini, appeared relaxed, however, every so often, his left eyebrow would twitch as if the very act of sitting still and pretending that everything was just fine was one thing too many.

Theodore was calmly reading something on his desk and Harry knew at once it was the giant encyclopedia that he'd had on the train. He wondered how he might get his hands on it. It certainly looked interesting if the look of concealed delight on the reader's face was anything to go by.

Millicent Bulstrode was sneaking glances at Pansy Parkinson and adjusting her figure each time she did. Crabbe and Goyle did a fine impression of two lumps and nothing else.

Everyone jumped when the the classroom doors suddenly burst open.