Mycroft discretely scanned the room before taking another bite of his scone. There was no one he knew there yet, just a couple of Ravenclaws making out at their table. Early morning studying and snuggling; the stereotype was almost painful. It was, in addition, too graphic for Mycroft's taste, but at least, he mused, it wasn't Sherlock. It could very easily have been Sherlock. He shifted on his sit. It wouldn't be the first time Sherlock spent a sleepless night out of bed, practicing advanced spells or potions –which were practically forbidden for a boy his age, Mycroft made sure he knew perfectly well- and finally collapsing on the Great Hall's tables. It could have very easily been Sherlock.

Mycroft took another bite, this time without raising his eyes from his book. He absolutely adored the silence in the Great Hall at dawn. He only wished it was like that all the time. Even in the Slytherin common room there was always a number of noisy little buggers, saturating the air with their obnoxious socialising. Mycroft wasn't particularly against it, but he preferred peace and quiet most of the time, thank you very much, and alas it was hard to come around it in the castle at all.

From the corner of his eye he spotted a shadow approaching from behind. He automatically sat up straighter. A second later a boy with a full head of rebellious brown hair and wrinkly black and yellow robes was sitting by his side. Mycroft reckoned he was the only Hufflepuff he knew who could simply sit on the Slytherin table without even bringing attention to himself. He smiled at the thought.

-We have to stop doing this so early.

Mycroft almost couldn't contain a chuckle seeing the look of sheer exhaustion on Greg's face. His eyes were barely open.

-Maybe if you didn't stay out practicing Quidditch every evening…

Greg threw open his arms shrugging-ly.

-I'm the captain! I have to practice.

-Do you know what you also are? Failing Potions. Come on, open your book.

Greg looked a little like he wanted to punch a first year. He wouldn't, of course, but the though sure comforted him.

When Mycroft leaned in to share Greg's book, he could feel the strain of his stomach on his trousers. Almost involuntarily, he looked up to make sure Sherlock still wasn't around. He hadn't exactly been watching his weight as of late, but he didn't feel too terrible about it yet. Sherlock, on the other hand, was so damn fixated on the subject Mycroft knew he wouldn't leave him alone if and when he noticed just how bad it was. But he wouldn't let it bother him, no sir. Everything buttoned up. Everything was just fine. He defiantly took another bite.

-I just don't get how it always turns up wrong; I swear, I only add three drops of pomegranate juice, Mycroft.

-Gregory, need I remind you we are in this class together? I sit beside you; you don't even use a dropper.

Greg, who was casually playing with his pencil, making it roll back and forth on the table, looked up to meet Mycroft in the eye; he had to at least pretend he was paying attention. God, he was so tired and Potions was boring! How could Mycroft stay awake an entire class, he had no idea… At that moment the pencil kept treacherously rolling and fell down on the floor, right between Mycroft's feet. Mycroft looked at his friend with a perfectly shaped eyebrow rising almost to le limits of his forehead before bending down to pick up the pencil.

-If you could please stop doing that while I'm…

Pop!

An audible gasp could be heard from underneath the table. Greg was befuddled for a second. When Mycroft's face reappeared, the look of despair on it was positively heart-wrenching.

-What, what's wrong? What happened?

And then he saw it. He followed Mycroft's eyes to his lap, where his trousers lay open and his shirt had ridden up a bit, letting his unmistakably chubby belly show, almost up to his belly button.

Mycroft could barely move. He couldn't think. How? When? It wasn't possible. He hadn't been cheating on his diet that much, had he? He must have been, since he was literally holding to his trousers for dear life, his plump stomach showing for everyone to see and only crumbs of the huge breakfast he had ordered earlier on the table. How did he let this happen?

Luckily Greg had a faster time of reaction.

-Accio button. Reparo.

Mycroft couldn't thank the heavens enough for his best friend being so incredibly good at spells. And a really, really quiet whisperer. In a flash, almost everything was back into place. Except, of course, he still needed to button up, which, he was certain, would prove to be extremely complicated.

-Wait! I know!

Greg pointed his wand at his trousers once again.

-Engorgio!

Mycroft hadn't moved so fast and swiftly in his entire life. A second later, it was as if nothing had even happened. Except, of course, for the feeling of complete and absolute disgrace nesting quietly on Mycroft's chest. Even Greg remained speechless, not being able to find the right words. Suddenly, Mycroft broke the silence with an almost inaudible:

-I have to go.

We took his books and off he went, promptly but almost knocking over half of his house mates, who were beginning to gather round in the immediacies of the Slytherin table.

For a second Greg doubted. Should he follow him? Maybe Mycroft needed space... Or maybe he needed someone to talk to. He wouldn't know. He figured he had to be there if he needed to vent; Mycroft could just punch him in the face if he wanted him to go away. So he followed.