If it was one thing about Hogwarts that sat well with the picky, suspicious redhead, it was food. The food was always good, seemed real enough, and hadn't turned anyone into donkeys (that he could tell, yet. But just to make sure, he never ate dessert and he never ate the cream.) It was almost enough to make him forget that he was in an odd school with balmy teachers, where nothing was normal or ordinary or plain.

Almost. The illusion was usually shattered by owls attacking from the ceiling, dropping post bombs on people. The first day, a poor barn owl nearly ended up flattened against the table like a feathery pancake.

Arrick didn't take well to being snuck up on.

Today, though, he was going through buttered slices of toast with sugar sprinkled liberally on top. Toast crumbs were getting everywhere, but he didn't care the least.

When the mail owls flew in, he swatted at the owl that got too close for comfort flying over his head and escaped being beaned on the head with the Daily Prophet. Scowling at the offending bird, he unrolled it with crumbed, butter-smeared fingers and started to read between bites of toast.

He could almost get used to this. Almost.
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