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Chapter Text

Newt rolled his eyes, tucking his sock clad feet underneath Minho’s thigh and flexing his cold toes in a feeble attempt to draw some warmth back into them, “If I hear one more complaint out of either of you, I’m going to stab you in the eyes with my wand. Acting like bloody children.”

“Hey, man,” Minho protested, not taking his catlike eyes off of Thomas, who was messily sketching out a star chart for Divination in front of the fireplace. “We are children.”

“Good point,” said Thomas.

The blonde groaned, rolling up his already completed star chart and setting it down. “By one year. You’d think at least one of us would’ve matured by now.”

“Can’t really blame ‘em,” Alby commented from the armchair next to them. “Poor blokes can’t get themselves a date. I’d be embarrassed, too.”

“Gryffindors are hopeless,” Newt— the lone Hufflepuff— remarked, pushing himself up off the couch and plopping himself down in front of the fireplace and next to Thomas, stretching his legs out. Instantly, he felt much warmer, and he sighed in relief as he began to regain feeling in his feet. His leg had begun aching earlier, but the fire seemed to help with the pain.

“Hear, hear!” agreed their resident Slytherin, Minho, with a smirk not-so-subtly directed at Thomas.

“This feels targeted,” Thomas said, looking up from his work briefly to playfully glare at Newt and Minho. “I’m being attacked in my own common room. Who let you guys in here, anyways?”

“Pretty sure it was you. Rookie mistake,” Minho said, throwing a ball of crumpled parchment at Thomas’ head. Thomas gasped in faux offense, and Newt laughed, slinging his arm around the brunet’s shoulders.

Warm brown eyes flickered up to Newt’s and Thomas smiled, looking pleased with himself. Newt couldn’t help but grin back, warmth spreading through his chest. His eyes looked almost amber in the firelight, and Newt found himself thinking of the girls in his year constantly fawning over the Gryffindor. Even though Thomas was generally quiet in his classes, he often had some secret admirer levitating notes onto his desk or someone trying to slip him some kind of candy laced with Amortentia. Especially after this summer— when Thomas had walked onto the train a couple inches taller, no longer lanky but with broadened shoulders and a sharper jaw— suddenly everyone in their year’s eyes seemed to be on him.

Something about it irked Newt. How it had taken everyone so long to realize Tommy was attractive, he didn’t know, and spending his lunches watching the brunet get pulled aside by girls to ask him to the Yule Ball wasn’t really at the top of his to-do list.

Thomas had declined everybody who had asked, though, and whenever Minho or Newt would inevitably ask him why, he’d just shrug and say they weren’t his type. And then Teresa would send Thomas a look from across the table. And then Newt would spend the rest of lunch pushing his food around his plate with his fork and wondering when he’d even lost his appetite.

Minho cleared his throat loudly, and Newt looked away, suddenly brought back to the moment. He pulled his arm off of Thomas quickly and coughed.

“Right, you won’t make that mistake again, will you now, Tommy?” he recovered quickly, nudging the Gryffindor in the side with his elbow. “Can’t let crazies like Minnow in anymore.”

“Please, don’t. I think he’s scaring the first years,” Alby commented, nodding towards something in the back of the room.

Sure enough, as the group simultaneously turned to look just past the couch and to the corner of the dimly lit common area, a trio of first years were watching Minho with apprehension as he casually laid across the couch, tossing a ball of parchment into the air and catching it over and over again. Surely the sight of a rogue Slytherin in the Gryffindor common room was unnerving to a first year student (it was against the rules, after all), but with Minho’s strong presence and snarky personality, he was clearly intimidating them.

Minho finally managed to tear his attention away from his game of catch to notice his friends staring at something behind him. He raised an eyebrow, then craned his head to the side.

“Huh,” he mused. The first years quickly whipped their heads back to their work, shoulders hunching forwards.

“Why does he look proud of himself?” Thomas mumbled, and a smirk slid onto Minho’s face.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little fear,” he said a bit too happily, resuming the tossing of his parchment. “Kids gotta learn somehow.”

Newt snorted at that, smiling at the Slytherin who was now all but preening, “Tell ‘em, mate.”

As Newt turned to smile at Thomas, he noticed the messy, almost intelligible (really, how could their professors even read his handwriting?) scribbles on the brunet’s parchment and he sighed, holding his hand out.

Thomas looked up at Newt and then down at his outstretched hand, eyebrows furrowing. Newt rolled his eyes but flexed his hand a few times nonetheless, and Tommy's eyes widened in understanding. He pressed his hastily drawn chart into the Hufflepuff’s palm, running his hand through his short hair in visible relief. “Thanks, man. You just saved my life.”

“Tommy, you’re lucky you’re so damn charming,” Newt chuckled, pulling a fresh sheet of parchment out from his bag and smoothing it down onto the floor. “I bloody hate doing work for Trelawney. Bunch o’ rubbish.”

“Amen,” Alby, who had long since dropped Trelawney’s class, said from his seat on the couch.

“I’ll do your Potions homework,” Thomas amended quickly, looking guilty, as if he really needed to make up for it. To Newt, of course, it was already forgotten.

“Mate, I’m taking the piss,” he said, bumping his shoulder into Tommy’s playfully, trying to ignore how his arm suddenly felt as if it was burning at the points of contact.

“How come you’ll do his work and not mine?” Minho snarked, throwing his precious ball of parchment at Newt, missing completely and groaning as it shot into the flames behind them. “I thought we had something special! Is this what it’s like to be dumped? I’m hurt, Newt, really.”

“Min, I would’ve helped you if you hadn’t just thrown something at me,” Newt countered, shooting his best friend a glare. Ignoring his admittedly amusing dramatics, he set to work on sketching a new star chart on the fresh parchment as his friends chatter faded into background noise.

Though the atmosphere of the Gryffindor common room was almost calming to him, Newt could feel the telltale signs of a headache coming on. Much to his annoyance, they were becoming increasingly common, especially since the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament. Although Newt had to admit that the tournament had brought great fun, the new influx of students from other schools, increase in schoolwork, and worry surrounding the tasks had left the blonde feeling frantic, trying to keep up.

Now, however, with the Yule Ball now announced, his academic stress had considerably lightened. The hallway gossip was lively, topics now shifting to dresses and dates and food. Even he could admit that he was almost growing excited for the dance, even if only to hang out with his friends and have a night free of schoolwork. Though, listening to his friends talk about not having dates was starting to worsen his headache— especially since they chose to be picky with their selections and still had the gall to complain.

“Why don’t you just ask Brenda, Minho?” Newt asked from his spot by the fire after he’d heard Minho mumble something under his breath about “buying dress robes for no good reason” for the third time, rubbing his temple with one hand as he worked. “I thought she liked you.”

“Brenda is already going with somebody,” he scoffed.

Some nosy Gryffindors in the common room visibly perked up, clearly snooping on their conversation. Minho’s shoulders sagged and he slumped further into the couch.

Thomas sat up from where he’d settled with his back to the floor, “Who is she going with?”

Minho, feigning nonchalance, began picking at an imaginary piece of lint on the Quidditch shirt he’d yet to change out of, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Doesn’t matter who she’s going with,” Newt cut in, handing Thomas his now completed star chart and dusting off his pants before standing. “It’s her loss, mate, not yours.”

Shaking his head, clearly ready to change the subject, Minho announced, “Y’all are going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, right?”

“I am,” Thomas said, patting Newt’s foot in what he could only assume was thanks for doing his work. “I still need to get dress robes.”

“I’m meeting up with Sonya,” Newt explained, much to Minho and Thomas’ chagrin. They frowned up at him in disappointment, sticking out their bottom lips, and he sighed in defeat, resigning himself to hours of being pulled around Hogsmeade. “But I have some time to spare beforehand.”

The grins he got from his friends in response were worth the inevitable Hogsmeade chaos he knew they’d be dealing with, especially so close to the holidays. Surely it wouldn’t be that bad.

Shopping with Minho and Thomas was a nightmare.

He was now in his second hour of pushing his way through crowded shops and offering mediocre advice on Thomas’ questionable clothing choices, and trying his best to sneak off on occasion to try and search for a present for his friends. Newt had never been good with presents, and with the pressure of everything going on recently, he was growing anxious at the prospect of figuring out what to get them. Luckily, Minho and Thomas wanted a break to get some Butterbeer at the Three Broomsticks, so Newt was able to slip away with the excuse of going to see Sonya.

As he trudged through the cold, snow crunching loudly underneath his boots, he craned his neck to see over the hordes of students filtering in and out of shops. The bright red exterior of Dervish and Banges caught his eye, and, glancing around to make sure a certain Slytherin and Gryffindor weren’t around, he hurried forwards. Eyeing the wooden broomstick hanging above the door, he ducked into the store, shaking the snow off his boots in the doorway before stepping in.

The first thing that hit him was the scent of the shop. The smell of pine and wood polish was strong, but not overwhelming; now that he thought about it, it kind of smelled like Tommy. The walls were a deep green, absolutely filled to the brim with Quidditch clothing, accessories, broom polish, and, of course, broomsticks. The ceiling lights gave off a warm glow and illuminated the glass cases sitting near the front of the shop. He stepped towards them, nearly stopping in his tracks as he spotted the first broom.

“A Firebolt,” Newt whispered to himself, eyes widening. The broomstick itself was a rich copper color, slightly rough around the edges but still beautiful. While other brooms the Hufflepuff had seen were normally accompanied by sleek bristles, the Firebolt had bristles that stuck out in every direction, almost resembling a bird’s nest. Immediately, he thought it was well suited to Tommy. As his eyes drifted downwards to the price tag, he winced. Yikes. This was definitely out of his price range.

He opened the worn bag slung across his torso and looked into it, frowning down at the Knuts and Sickles that barely added up to twenty-five Galleons. He’d made a bit of money from his summer job at the animal shelter, but he hadn’t yet converted it to wizard money, which he was sorely regretting. If he budgeted properly for the rest of the month, he could probably afford to buy his friends some smaller presents.

Determined, he passed a few other students searching somewhat desperately for gifts for their friends and relatives. As he perused the store, finding Minho a present ended up being surprisingly easy. Sitting on a shelf near the back was a pair of sleek black, professional Quidditch gloves. Made out of dragon hide and slightly on the pricey side of things, but Newt was willing to splurge a little if it made Minho happy. Minho, of all of his friends who played Quidditch (Thomas, Brenda, and Gally), took it the most seriously by far. He’d always been the most athletic in their group, only rivaled by Gally, going on runs almost every morning before classes and attending Quidditch practice religiously.

Turning the gloves over in his hands, he inspected the grips on the fingers and palms. Minho was a Chaser, so he had to be able to hold onto the Quaffle, which had slipped out of his hands during practice more than the boastful Slytherin would ever admit. These would be useful, right? Were they the right size? He was pretty sure Minho’s hands were bigger than his, and he pressed his on top of the gloves to compare.

Someone cleared their throat, and he lifted his head, startled to see someone standing only a foot away from him. He stumbled backwards a bit, barely managing to stop himself before he bumped into a shelf. His leg twinged in pain and he winced.

“Newt!” Standing in front of him was Teresa, who was offering him a small, nervous smile. The Ravenclaw looked stunning as always, her long dark hair making her skin look even paler. Her eyes were a cold, steely blue. She was donning a blue knit cap that perfectly matched her Ravenclaw scarf. It was doubled up around her neck, and her mittens were still on, hands clasped together in front of her chest. “Cold, isn’t it?”

“Bloody hell, Teresa,” Newt straightened up, pressing one hand to his chest. “I just about broke my other leg, there.”

She had the decency to look sheepish, “Sorry. I just saw you through the window and I wanted to talk to you.”

Newt’s eyebrows automatically raised in surprise. Teresa was a part of his friend group, but she tended to stick to Thomas’ side like glue. That wasn’t to say she wasn’t friendly to everybody, but she was more reserved with the others. He couldn’t recall the last time either of them had made an effort to talk to each other, “What about?”

“Well… do you know if Thomas has a date to the Ball?” She asked, eyeing him strangely.

Leave it to Teresa to get straight to the point. Newt felt awkward as he realized where this conversation was headed. As she looked him up and down, he tugged at the collar of his cream sweater with his finger. He desperately wished Minho or Thomas or even buggin’ Gally would show up and save him from having to have this conversation. “Erm, not that I know of.”

She nodded, as if she’d already known the answer. “That’s what I thought.”

She didn’t say anything after that, much to his confusion. They stood in silence for a few long moments, Teresa fiddling with the ends of her scarf, before Newt shifted his weight to his good leg and shuffled to the side, “I don’t mean to be rude, but is that it?”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, snapping out of her train of thought. Her eyes were piercing as she stared at him with furrowed brows. “I just… I guess I thought he would have asked someone by now.”

“Well, he hasn’t,” he said, a bit harsher than he’d intended. Shame coursed through him; Teresa hadn’t done anything rude. In fact, she’d always been nothing but nice. Why was he suddenly so irritated? “Sorry, I’m in a bit of a rush right now. I’ll see you at dinner?”

She nodded, though she seemed confused, “Sure. Bye, Newt.”

Teresa gave him a small wave. Guiltily, he offered Teresa a smile that hopefully wasn’t as uncomfortable as it felt, saying a quick goodbye before buying the gloves and hightailing his way out of the shop.

Stepping out into the biting cold was an immediate relief. His cheeks burned in embarrassment as he stuffed the wrapped glove box into his bag. What was that? Newt didn’t think he was someone so quick to anger, but he’d suddenly felt so… annoyed. His mind drifted to Tommy, who hadn’t yet accepted a single proposal, but still complained about going to the Ball alone. Was Teresa expecting a proposal from Thomas? Was Thomas waiting for a sign from Teresa?

He frowned. There was a pit in his stomach. He didn’t like the idea of Teresa and Tommy going to the Ball together, and he didn’t want to acknowledge the probable reason behind that.

He’d always been slightly protective of Thomas. More so than with his other friends, at least, though they’d all just about take a bullet for each other. Really, Gally had once even taken a Bat Bogey hex for Thomas, which had left them all stunned and Tommy looking genuinely touched. Not that Gally would allow them to bring it up, even if they wanted to— anyways, his point was that they were all tight-knit. But with Thomas, it had always been different. At least, for Newt it was.

Newt was familiar with the fluttering in his chest whenever Thomas was around. He’d felt similarly about the boy who offered him a chocolate frog on the Hogwarts Express last year, and the guy that stopped by the shelter over the summer every Tuesday afternoon. It was warm and exhilarating, but also terrifying as hell.

No. Newt rubbed a hand over his face as he leaned against a stone wall for a moment. If he could bring himself to admit it… if he acknowledged whatever he was feeling for Thomas, then everything would be different. Fuck. Everything would be different. How could he look him in the eyes like he normally did, knowing how much he wanted him?

No more thinking. Determined to clear his mind, he pushed himself off the wall and set out to find Sonya.

Luckily for him, his walk lasted only two minutes before his mission was accomplished. An easy smile consumed his face when he spotted his sister waving at him from outside the front windows of Madam Puddifoot’s tea shop, Harriet at her side. He made his way across the street to get to her, his bad leg dragging in the snow more than usual. He needed to sit down.

“Newt!” Sonya called, her cheeks bright pink and her breath coming out in small puffs. “Let’s go inside! It’s freezing.”

As Newt nodded and took the lead, Harriet waved goodbye before planting a quick kiss to Sonya’s cheek and leaving to find Aris. The bell chimed cheerily and Newt reveled in the rush of warm air that hit him. The shop was cozy as ever, albeit a bit cramped, with frilly pink decorations and tables only a foot or so away from each other. It smelled like it usually did: coffee and baked goods. Despite the excessively gaudy decorations, he quite liked the tea shop. It was always just warm enough, and if you could ignore the half-dozen couples that were currently snogging from across the table, it was quite homey.

As they entered, Madam Puddifoot, her long black hair tied up into a bun, called out a quick “I’ll be with ya in a moment!” before squeezing her way through the maze of tables to serve another group of students.

“So,” Newt began as they searched for an empty table, glancing back at Harriet’s retreating frame through the cluttered windows. “Did you ask her yet?”

Sonya shook her head, eyes lighting up as she spotted a table. They maneuvered their way through the couple-infested shop, muttering a few apologies as they bumped into people’s legs, and eventually slumped into their seats.

“Why is it always such an uphill battle to find a seat here?” Sonya sighed, pulling her purple knit hat off and setting it down on the lacy table cloth. Her long blonde hair was in its usual side braid, hazel eyes glowing in the light as she rubbed her hands together for warmth.

“It is the holidays,” Newt pointed out.

His sister rolled her eyes, pulling her wand out of her coat pocket and twirling it around in between her fingers. “Must you always have an answer for everything?”

He shrugged, grinning back at her, “Am I allowed to respond to that?”

They paused as Madam Puddifoot floated their tea tray onto the table, smiling before rushing off to greet the newest customers.

Suddenly, Sonya reached across the table to smack his arm, but he could tell she wasn’t really annoyed. “So… about what you asked me.”

“Right. Did you ask Harriet to the Ball?”

“Nope,” she was smiling, despite the potentially upsetting topic. “Because she asked me.”

“What?” Newt asked in shock. Honestly, he’d been a little worried about Harriet and Sonya. He had always been sure of Harriet’s confidence, but when it came to his sister she was kind of a hot mess, and he hadn’t really trusted her to ask in time for the Ball. “When? How?”

“She asked me last night,” Sonya laughed as the tail end of her braid dipped into her tea, flicking it away quickly with a strangely shy grin plastered on her face. “We went to the kitchens because Harriet said she was hungry, and when we got there it was late but we just kept talking and laughing and then she just got really serious. I thought something was wrong, but before I could say anything she just asked me! She said she couldn’t wait anymore.”

Newt smiled at the rosy blush on his sister’s face, trying to ignore the stinging feeling of jealousy. “That’s amazing, Sonya. ‘M happy for you.”

Sonya’s smile wavered as her eyes studied his face. Maybe it was a sibling thing, but she’d always been able to tell whenever something was bugging him, “What’s wrong?”

“This buggin’ tea, it’s way too sweet,” Newt lied, rather enjoying his drink, but sentencing it to be his scapegoat for his sudden change of mood. The interaction with Teresa was still nagging at him.

His sister brought her cup up to her face and it sipped it for much longer than necessary, slurping obnoxiously loud. “Tastes pretty good to me. Actually, isn’t this what you usually get?”

Damn. She was too perceptive for her own good.

“Nothing is wrong, really,” he assured, but it sounded more as if he was trying to convince himself more than her. After Sonya remained silent, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. Newt felt a hot flush creep up his neck in embarrassment. “This is so bloody stupid. Why are feelings so complicated?”

His sister’s eyes became comically wide, her voice shrill, “I’m sorry, did I hear that right? You finally admit to it?”

“Quiet down! The whole lovin’ shop can hear you,” he whispered loudly. He pulled out his wand and cast a quick Muffliato before turning back to her. “Admit to what?”

“You like Thomas.”

“That’s ridiculous.” He said, irritated at the accusation, though his heart began to beat loudly against his chest. “I didn’t even say anything about Tommy. What makes you think this has anything to do with him?”

Sonya smirked, “Your reaction.”

“Sonya,” Next hissed, a flush creeping up the back of his neck.

She shrugged, though her smirk was still firmly in place. Her eyes flitted behind him and as she opened her mouth to say something, she was interrupted by somebody clapping their hand down onto Newt’s shoulder.

“Whatcha talkin’ about?” A familiar voice asked, and Newt looked up to see Minho next to him, Thomas stumbling behind, shopping bags in hand. Newt let his eyes travel over Thomas quickly, admiring how cozy he looked, wrapped up in a large scarf and a sweater, gloves covering his hands and beanie on his head. He quickly brought his gaze back to Minho. His friend’s eyes narrowed and then widened as he caught sight of the pink tint to the Hufflepuff’s face and the barely concealed smile his sister was donning. “Was it about a girl? Does Newtie have a crush?”

Newt groaned. Was this not exactly what he was trying to avoid?

Thomas reached the table, shopping bags swinging from his hands, “You have a crush on somebody?”

Crush was quite the understatement, yet Newt still felt the need to deny any feelings at all.

“No,” Newt said hotly, glaring up at Minho.

“What were you talking about, then? I mean, it was important enough to use Muffliato, right?” He asked, clearly not getting the message Newt was so obviously sending to him. At Newt’s silence, he gasped dramatically. “Oh my god, you like someone!”

“And if I do?” Newt asked, raising an eyebrow at the Gryffindor and Slytherin looming over him, his sister snickering off to the side. “What about it?”

“Woah, just wondering,” Minho said, holding his hands out in front of him in mock surrender. He slid into the seat to the right of Newt, Thomas claiming the left. Shaking the snow out of his hair, he slung his arm around the Hufflepuff. “So who’s the lucky girl?”

Newt couldn’t help but scoff. He’d never tried to make it known that he was gay, but he’d certainly not given too much effort into hiding it, either. Not from his friends, at least, but he thought they’d have picked up on his lack of interest in girls by this point. “How was your Butterbeer?”

“He’s changing the subject,” said Minho, glancing over at Thomas and Sonya. “He’s totally changing the subject.”

“It was pretty good,” Thomas replied to Newt’s question with his usual dorky smile. “Ho and I stopped by Gladrags and found some dress robes that aren’t too bad.”

“Okay, you have to stop calling me that,” whined Minho.

Meeting his eyes, Sonya seemed to sense Newt’s anxiety and pushed away from the table, standing up and placing two sickles down on its surface. “Alright. I finished my tea. Let’s go before we miss dinner!”

They all agreed, shuffling between the tables awkwardly one by one. It was silent while they walked out of the store, but the instant they stepped into the freezing cold, Sonya whispered into Newt’s ear, “You should ask him to the Ball. I bet he’d say yes.”

He chose to completely ignore the fluttering, foolish hope in his heart that rose at the idea of Thomas being anything but straight, and instead focused on his growing annoyance, “I don’t even like him.”

Sonya eyed him, then sighed loudly, exasperated, “Boys.”

His gaze locked onto Thomas a few steps to the side, who was now desperately trying to push Minho off of him while the latter was tugging his beanie down to cover his eyes. They were both laughing; Minho’s eyes in a half moon shape, Thomas’ closed. Newt felt a funny kind of feeling warm his chest, and he couldn’t help but think that it was something a little like fondness.

As the two stumbled towards Newt and Sonya, wide grins on their faces, Newt felt as if the frost surrounding them melted just a bit, “What’s got you two tossers so buggin’ happy?”

“That,” said Minho, dimples dotting both of his cheeks. “is a secret. But no worries! You’ll find out soon.”

“It’s really not a big deal,” Thomas elbowed Minho in the ribs, the Slytherin yelping in response.

“He’s gonna ask someone to the Ball,” informed Minho, crossing his arms across his chest, muscles visible even through his padded coat. He had a satisfied smirk on his face.

Newt plastered the most convincing smile he could muster onto his face. He reached out and clapped Thomas on the back, grinning, “Tommy’s finally managed to pluck up the courage to ask someone? I don’t believe it!”

“Minho!” The brunet aimed another jab at Minho’s side, but he was expecting it this time and jerked out of the way. Thomas stumbled forwards as he lost his balance from the blow, face burning red. Newt had a creeping feeling that it didn’t have anything to do with the cold. “Why do I ever tell you anything?”

Sonya latched onto the back of Minho’s coat, shooting him a sly grin, “Minho! Let’s chat.”

Minho seemed to catch on to whatever she was grinning about very quickly, because he gave her an identical smile and began to walk with her back towards the castle, no questions asked. Newt raised his eyebrows as he watched them go, wondering what the hell just happened, but was struck by the sudden realization that Thomas had been awfully quiet. Swallowing his worry, he gently nudged the Gryffindor with his elbow, “Y’alright there, Tommy?”

“I’m fine,” he replied with a sheepish grin, brown eyes staying on the blonde for a moment too long. “Minho just wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.”

As they walked, Newt smiled fondly over at Thomas, whose bottom lip was jutting out in a pout. It was so hard to look at him and not let himself just be taken over wholly by an overwhelming wave of affection, one that brought him in and out like the tide. But he’d been feeling that way since the beginning of third year and he’d gotten better at ignoring the warm, curling tendrils of something that started with a big, fat, capital ‘L’ tenderly creeping around his heart. “I thought you knew better than to tell Minho any secrets.”

Thomas groaned, bringing his hands up to his face to cover it in shame. Brown tufts of his hair poked out from between his fingers and he opened them slightly, peering up at Newt through them. “It was a spur of the moment decision. One that I regret— one that I regret a lot.”

“You and your buggin’ impulsivity,” Newt teased.

“You love it when I’m impulsive,” he countered, face tinged a pretty shade of pink.

“Oh?” Newt asked with a grin, loving how easy Tommy was to fluster. “And why is that?”

“I keep things fun and, you know, loose,” he rolled his shoulders back (to emphasize his looseness, Newt assumed) and sent the blonde an easy grin, the kind of grin that Newt couldn’t help but hope was reserved for just him.

“And what do you know about being loose, Tommy?”

“Uh, hello?” Thomas began to awkwardly roll his arms and torso as they walked, by no means looking loose. “See?”

“I’m scared to see you dance,” Newt laughed, throwing his arm around Thomas’ shoulders. He relished the feeling of Thomas’ warm body underneath his arm, and even though it was just a casual gesture, it was impossible for him to not hyper-focus on the contact. Every time they took a step and their shoulders jostled together just reminded him of how Thomas would soon be this close to someone else, probably dancing the night away.

They fell silent as they trudged up the hill, other students trickling by, laughing and shoving each other around. Newt could see his sister and Minho up ahead, talking in hushed voices and sending occasional looks back at them. Minho was currently craning his neck around to stare pointedly at Thomas, whose face was slowly turning red. Thomas abruptly pulled away from Newt’s arm and turned his head to look at him, slowing to a meander on the snow covered trail that led back to Hogwarts. “Are you going with anyone? To the Ball, I mean.”

“No,” he responded. Thomas was kicking the ground as he walked, avoiding eye contact, and Newt knew him well enough to realize that he was worried about something. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, puffing cold air out in front of him. “Do you, like, want to go with anybody?”

“Why?” teased Newt. “You and Minho trying to set me up with someone?”

“What?” Thomas coughed. “No. No, that’s not- no. I was just wondering.”

“I wouldn’t mind going with someone, I suppose,” he said. The idea of going with someone to the dance didn’t bother him, but the expectation of romance left him uncomfortable. He’d much rather spend the night with his friends, or just Thomas, really. Suddenly, it felt all too hot, and he tugged on the scarf around his neck.

“Why?” Newt repeated, clearing his throat after Thomas had gone quiet.

“It’s stupid,” Thomas began, awkwardly shuffling his feet. Snow flurried down around them, resting on the tops of their heads, and Newt was suddenly struck by how attractive Thomas was. He’d always known that Tommy wasn’t ugly by any means, but in the pale light, with flushed cheeks and rust brown eyes, he looked— beautiful.

“Tommy?” Newt took a brave step forward. He was so close now; he could reach out and hold his face, if he dared—could cup his cheeks in his cold fingers. Watch him shiver from the cool skin pressed against his. And— was he imagining the way Thomas’ eyes flickered to his lips? The way he seemed a little closer than he had been just a moment ago?

“Tom!”

Newt whipped around, face burning with embarrassment, to see Teresa hiking up the trail behind them, dark hair swirling around her face in the wind. Thomas stepped forwards to greet her, his own face a bright red. Their fingers brushed as he walked by, a jolt of electricity shooting through his hand, and he fought the urge to grab his hand and keep him by his side.

“What’s up, T?” Thomas asked sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘T.’

“I need to talk to you,” she said quickly, a somewhat frantic look on her face. She nodded at Newt to acknowledge him before turning back to Thomas. “It’s important.”

Thomas looked back and forth between Newt and Teresa, sighing. “Can it wait?”

“It’s fine, Tommy,” Newt found himself saying, disappointment flooding through his body. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

The Gryffindor shot him a grateful smile and nodded, “Yeah. Yes. We will do that.”

Teresa shot Thomas a glare and Newt frowned. What was that about? “See you around, Newt.” Not sparing the blonde a glance, she grabbed the brunet by the arm and began to drag him away, Thomas sending him a crooked smile over his shoulder.

Newt stood abandoned in the snow, watching Thomas and Teresa walk away. He was feeling very much all at once— mainly confusion— and he frowned and began walking back to the castle. The snow began to fall slowly around him, and, as usual, all he could think about was Thomas, and the way he’d been a fool to hope for anything more than friendship from him.

Chapter Text

As Christmas and, consequently, the Yule Ball approached, the castle began to transform. With the snow covered grounds and the frosted windows, the wreaths and the floating candles, the steaming mugs of hot chocolate and laughter chiming like bells through the halls, it had become something straight out of a Hallmark Christmas film. He’d tried making that joke to Minho, and then had to spend the next five minutes trying to explain to him ‘What the hell a Hallmark’ was. Never again.

It wasn’t uncommon to see students hiding out in the library to study or curling up around fireplaces in the common rooms, gossiping in loud whispers that couldn’t really be classified as whispers. Today, however, started off relatively early in the Great Hall, as his friends schemed while stuffing breakfast into their mouths.

“Does this look like Teresa’s handwriting?” asked Minho, intensely observing the piece of paper laid on the table in front of him.

Newt scrutinizes the paper with narrowed eyes before returning to reading the Daily Prophet, “Not in the slightest.”

“Damn it,” he groaned, picking up his wand and muttering a quick concealment charm to erase the writing. He grabbed his quill and scribbled something new onto the parchment. “What about this?”

“Actually, that’s pretty spot on,” comments Gally as he brings a spoonful of cereal to his mouth. He was currently the only actual Gryffindor sitting at the Gryffindor table with them, his buzzed hair somehow managing to look messy from sleep. His broad shoulders were hunched as he dipped his spoon into his bowl again. Newt understood the struggle— being tall was a recipe for bad posture and back pain.

“Really?” asks Minho in surprise, grinning.

“No,” Gally smirks.

Newt begins to laugh, attempting to play it off as a cough when Minho turns to glare at him. “Sorry. Allergies.”

Minho looks unimpressed. “You guys are supposed to be helping me out here. Can any of you even write in cursive?”

“Can you even read cursive?” Gally remarks, earning another glare from Minho.

“Seriously, guys. Give me something . Any ideas?” the Slytherin said, temper flaring up.

“I’m not even sure what your idea was in the first place, Min,” says Newt as he rolls up the newspaper and sets it on the table. “According to you, the plan was just ‘let’s pretend we’re Teresa and woo Tommy.’ I hate to tell ya, but that’s not very much to go off of.”

Minho shakes his head as he stabs his fork into a sausage link, biting off a chunk and chewing it thoroughly before speaking, “Okay, first of all, I said ‘Thomas,’ not ‘Tommy.’ That’s just a you thing, dude. Second of all, my plan was to pretend we’re Teresa and write him a love letter or poem or some shit so that he’ll hurry the fuck up and ask her out.”

“Language, Mr. Park,” drawled the greasy-as-ever Professor Snape as he passed them, swatting Minho in the back of the head as he made his way to the front of the Hall.

Gally and Newt snickered as Minho sulked, eyeing the Professor moodily as he walked away, “You guys are laughing, but try having him as your Head of House. You’re lucky you don’t have him for Potions anymore, either.”

They continued to laugh and Minho couldn’t seem to stop himself from cracking a smile, too, “You guys suck. But really, back to the topic at hand. He should've asked her by now!”

“It’s only been a week,” said Gally. 

He was right. It had been a week since their trip to Hogsmeade, where Tommy was revealed to be planning to ask someone to the ball. Word traveled fast in their group, and all of his friends seemed to be under the impression that his desired target was Teresa. However, Thomas hadn’t made any move to ask her. In fact, he’d spent less time with her this week, instead hovering around Minho and Newt in his spare time.

Newt assumed it was some combination of nerves and awkwardness on Thomas’ part. Though, it didn’t seem like Teresa minded all that much. She was typically busy studying in the library, anyways, so he supposed it wasn’t any sweat off her back. Teresa was always working on some new experiment in her eternal attempt to better the world. Though she was undoubtedly a Ravenclaw through and through, he couldn’t help but think that she’d fit right in with the other Slytherins.

“He’ll do it in his own time, mate,” Newt eventually said, spreading some jam on his toast with the back of his knife. Despite himself, he was trying to have a good morning. He hadn’t really appreciated being summoned to the Great Hall early in the morning just to set Tommy up with Teresa, and honestly the toast was kind of lacking today.

“Thomas does his best under pressure, though!” Minho pointed out, and unfortunately Newt had to agree with him on that part. Thomas was unyieldingly reliable, filled to the brim with courage that consistently got him out of sticky situations. It was admirable. 

“Is it really our place to apply pressure, though? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’d love to mess with the guy,” said Gally, accentuating each word with a point of his spoon at Minho. “But isn’t this a bit much?”

“I think he’s feeling enough pressure right now, anyway,” Newt commented, wanting to protect Tommy from any more unnecessary stress. “He’s been stressing about the Quidditch game tonight. Let’s cut him some slack, alright?”

Sighing, Minho balled up the piece of paper he’d been working on and shoved it into his pocket, “Fine.”

Newt had a feeling that Minho hadn’t really given up on the topic, but he wasn’t in the mood to poke the bear this early in the morning. He slapped the boy on the back gently, “Good that. We’ll make sure to pester him later, don’t worry. Really, I’m surprised you’re focusing on this and not the game tonight.”

At that, Minho seemed to come back into his usual self. He began to talk animatedly about how Gryffindor were sure to win this match, which meant that the next match would be Slytherin v.s. Gryffindor, and at this point Newt tuned him out in favor of finishing his toast. All he processed was something about strategies and different broom diving techniques.

Students slowly began to file into the Great Hall as the morning dragged on, rubbing their bleary eyes as they found their seats. No matter how tired the students seemed, the general quiet of the room from before turned into a gentle hum as laughter filled the Hall. He could already feel the buzz in the air for the Gryffindor v.s. Hufflepuff match tonight.

“Tomboy!” exclaimed Minho, eyes fixed on someone behind the group.

Newt turned to greet an adorably weary Thomas as he slid into the seat next to him. He reached out and ruffled his hair, mussing the soft strands and admiring his handiwork as he pulled away. The brunet looked handsome, even with his eyes half-open and his brown hair resembling a bird’s nest. “Hey, Tommy. Looks like ya slept well.”

Tommy sent him a soft grin, ducking his head slightly. “Yeah, right. I stayed up ‘til midnight doing work for McGonagall.”

Their black-haired friend whipped his head up upon hearing this, eyes wide, “We had homework for McGonagall?”

“It’s due on Monday,” said Thomas, slowly waking up as he sipped on his coffee. His eyes were a soft brown in the gentle light filling the Great Hall, shining as he blinked away sleep. “I just didn’t want to have to do work this weekend.”

“Ho, you’ve really gotta start prioritizing school over matchmaking,” said Gally, draining the rest of his orange juice before slamming the cup down onto the table and standing up from his seat.

“Stop calling me that!” Minho spluttered, throwing the crumpled piece of paper from earlier at Gally’s back as he retreated from the hall. 

Newt smirked at his friend, patting his back reassuringly, “Mate, I think you’ve got an addiction to throwing paper at people. You should get that checked out.”

“Matchmaking?” Thomas wondered aloud, turning to face Minho and Newt with his eyebrows raised.

“It’s nothing,” Newt scrambled to respond before Minho had the chance to.

“What’s nothing?” asked Brenda, plopping down in a seat across from them, a red and gold tie loose around her neck. Her face was slightly flushed, and her shoulder length hair was messy.

“Wait,” interjected Thomas, narrowing his eyes at Minho in suspicion. Newt really shouldn’t have found it as attractive as he did, so he turned his attention to preparing another piece of toast in retaliation. “Who are you trying to get together?”

For some reason, Tommy looked rather suspicious, and slightly nervous. He was staring intensely at Minho, who raised a sole eyebrow in return. Newt bumped his shoulder against Thomas’, trying to reassure whatever was worrying him. Thomas’ eyes traveled to Newt’s, and he felt his mouth go dry at the sudden attention. However, Tommy just offered him a small smile, but his focus was quickly overtaken by their best friend.

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” he winked.

Newt kicked his leg under the table. 

Brenda seemed to have made a sudden realization after watching the interaction. “Oh, I see.”

“See what?” asked Thomas and Minho in unison.

Exasperated, Newt stood from his seat and gathered his belongings before hastily shoving them into his bag. This conversation was getting more and more out of hand as time went on. “I’ve got Charms.”

“Wait, you’re coming to the game, right?” asked Brenda with a wide, knowing smile.

He smiled back, nodding, “Of course, how could I miss it? I can’t wait for my eardrums to get blown out from you noisy ass Gryffindors.”

Thomas began to pack his bag as well, tripping over himself as he stood to join Newt in the aisle, “I’ll walk with you to Charms.”

Though he knew spending any more alone time with Thomas than necessary probably wasn’t the best for his poor heart, he could never refuse him, no matter how hard he tried. He grabbed Thomas’ arm to help him straighten up, “Steady, Tommy. Can’t have your team lose their star Seeker on the night of the big game, now can we?”

Thomas rolled his eyes, a firm smile fixed on his face. His face, Newt noticed, was rather flushed. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.”

The two made their way out of the Hall, occasionally bumping shoulders as they walked side by side. Minho and Brenda stared at the retreating figures for a long moment, deep in thought.

“So,” began Minho. “Am I crazy, or does it kinda seem like something’s going on there?”

The air was cold as hordes of students made their way down to the Quidditch pitch that evening, the Sun making its slow descent in the sky. Luckily, the sky had been kind enough not to snow, which meant for a more riveting (and easily viewable) match, much to everyone's delight. Peals of laughter and loud chatter filled the air, snow being kicked around as they trudged down the slopes of the Hogwarts grounds.

The Hufflepuff and Gryffindor teams had been called to the pitch earlier, so Newt was walking with all of his friends who weren’t huge Quidditch nerds or just weren’t playing in the game. Namely: Frypan, Sonya, Aris, Harriet, and, awkwardly enough, Teresa.

Not that Teresa had been weird around Newt. She’d been interacting with him as normal, whenever she passed him in the halls or greeted him in their shared classes, but Newt couldn’t help but feel a little awkward around her. Every time he saw her glance at Thomas or share a knowing look with him, he felt the pit in his stomach grow just a bit more. 

But, of course, because the universe loved to torture him, Teresa slowed her pace a bit to walk beside him. 

“Hey, Newt,” she greeted, a sweet smile adorning her beautiful face. Really, no matter how awkward he felt around her, it was difficult to dislike her. She was kind and wickedly passionate, somehow managing to be both graceful and fiery. 

He smiled back, and it was genuine, “Hey, Teresa.”

“Excited for the game?” she asked politely, shoving her hands into her large coat’s pockets. 

He shrugged, “Sure. Even if I wasn’t, Minho and Tommy would probably find a way to drag me down here, anyway.”

She laughed, “That sounds like them. Tom’s been really excited for this game, you know? I’m sure he’s happy that you’ll be here for it.”

“Well, I don’t think it’s anything new. We all usually come to every game,” said Newt, slightly confused at the implication.

Teresa shook her head, turning to face him. Her eyes looked darker in the dimming light. Newt could understand why Thomas liked her. She really was pretty. “He’s at his best whenever you’re around, Newt.”

Stunned, he remained silent. 

Students passed by them and filled the stadium, chanting the typical “go go Gryffindor!” and “rough, tough, Hufflepuff!”, all adorned in the team colors or wearing absurd face paint. The match would start soon. She smiled at him, sympathy written all over her face, though he wasn’t sure what it was for, “You should go see him. I think he’d appreciate it.”

He smiled warily, nodding, “Right. I’ll go do that, then.”

“I’ll meet you up there?”

“Sure. Tell them all I’ll be up in a sec’.”

She  smiled, turning and beginning the long journey to make it to the top of the stands. He watched her go, feeling somewhat unsure of himself. Surely, what she had just said wasn’t true. Though, Newt certainly felt at his best when he was with Thomas. It’s like he felt stronger, braver. Thomas gave him courage. He always found himself left reeling from the adrenaline rush that spending time with Tommy gave him. He could only hope the Gryffindor felt any semblance of what he felt, even if just for a second.

Deciding that seeing Tommy couldn’t hurt, he trudged towards the changing rooms and was met with the sight of the man himself sitting on a bench outside, bent over as he worked on lacing up his boots. Newt took a few seconds to admire him. He was wearing a red and gold Quidditch Jersey with a big letter 2 on the front, a dark gray undershirt, and worn leather bracers on his arms and legs. He looked really good, and the muscles in his arms flexed as he tugged on the shoestrings. It was difficult to tear his eyes away.

At the sound of Newt’s approach, he lifted his head.

Thomas’ face lit up as he saw him and stood to meet him eagerly, “Hey.”

“Hey,” replied Newt, crossing his arms over his chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be warming up right now?”

“Yeah,” the brunet said, rubbing the back of his neck as his face flushed. “I was kind of hoping to talk to you, actually. Before the game started.”

“Talk to me?” 

“Yeah,” he repeated. His brown eyes were looking anywhere but at the blonde in front of him.

“Mate, you’re going to do bloody amazing,” Newt reassured, noticing the telltale signs of anxiety from Thomas. He always put so much pressure on himself for games, especially as the Seeker. If he caught the Snitch too early— or not at all— it was an immediate loss. He stepped forwards, placing a hand gently on his shoulder. “As Minho would say, you always kick ass at these games, anyways.”

Thomas’ brown eyes widened for a moment, flickering over to the hand on his shoulder before meeting Newt’s, “Thanks, Newt.”

“Always, Tommy,” he smiled. And he meant it. Really, he would do anything for Thomas, follow him anywhere. All he had to do was ask— maybe not even that.

“Well— I really appreciate it, Newt, but that’s not …actually what I wanted to talk to you about.” His eyes grew serious, and Newt pulled his hand away. 

The blonde nodded, inviting him to continue. “Sure, Tommy. Anything.”

Thomas’ face softened, and he suddenly stepped forwards, closing the distance between them. Newt let out a small “oomph” as Thomas wrapped his arms around him, squeezing tightly. His chin rested on Newt’s shoulder, and on instinct he hugged him back, trying his best to ignore the feeling of the Gryffindor’s muscled chest pressing into him. He didn’t know why he was being hugged, but he didn’t dislike it, so he stayed still, relishing the feeling of his best friend’s warmth and the soft, smoky smell of his hair. 

It felt much better than the usual quick “bro hugs” with Minho or the playful hugs with his sister. He felt grounded, and his heart fluttered wildly in his chest. Could Thomas feel his heartbeat? Was Thomas’ beating this wildly, too?

Abruptly, Thomas pulled away, his once peaceful face contorting in panic, “Sorry. That was weird. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Oh,” he felt his stomach drop. Weird. Right. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Tommy beat him to it.

“I’ve got to- play- yeah, I’ll see you later,” he said quickly, turning to pick his broom up and disappearing behind the cloth doors.

Well, shit.

“Boo!” Minho shouted, hands cupped around his mouth as a Hufflepuff Chaser scored another goal. 

Aris and Frypan booed along with him at the Hufflepuff team as they flew around the stadium, pumping their fists in the air.

“Should I be taking this personally?” asked Newt, not tearing his eyes away from Thomas as he floated about 70 feet in the air. His head kept scanning the field, and Newt knew he was keeping an eye out for the golden Snitch. With Gryffindor in the lead, now was a good time to find the Snitch and end the game, before Hufflepuff could stagger the scores.

Nobody responded, continuing to wave their Gryffindor paraphernalia in the air and shout obscenities out into the cold air. The stadium was buzzing with excitement, and it was filled to the brim with eager students dressed in the team’s colors and tired looking professors. 

Newt shifted his weight to his good leg, feeling sharp pain spike through the other one from standing on it for so long. He thought the pain would’ve lessened after a year or so, but so far it had continued to ache in almost any situation it could. It was his fault, he supposed, that he had a screwy leg now, but it still alleviated just a bit of pain to complain about it.

Minho was to his left, eyebrows furrowed as he watched the players darting back and forth with the Quaffle in hand. His eyes were narrowed, and he was tensing his jaw as if bracing himself for another bad play from the Gryffindor’s Beaters. If he told Minho about his leg hurting, he’d probably offer to let them sit down, but really, he’d put Minho through enough.

Minho had been the one to find him, that night. It hadn’t been a pretty sight, Newt imagined, with his leg laying at an unnatural angle and the blood pooling around his head. 

Madam Pomfrey had said it was a miracle he’d survived the fall at all, and at this he remembered digging his fingernails into his palms until they bled.

“Are they always this loud?” interrupted Teresa as she sidled up to him, leaning close so he could hear her over the noise. 

He snorted in amusement, “Do fish swim?”

She cracked a smile, and he returned it, though both of their eyes simultaneously returned to Thomas. Even from a distance, his beauty was evident. If Newt looked around at the students near him in the stands right now, he was 99% sure he’d spot a handful of them gawking at him. 

Frustratingly, he knew he’d always be a part of that 99%. It felt impossible to not be compelled by Thomas. Maybe it was impossible for Newt.

“Holy shit!” Teresa cried uncharacteristically loudly, breaking him out of his thoughts and pointing at something on the field. “He’s seen the Snitch!”

His head whipped towards where the end of her pale finger pointed. It looked like Thomas had seen the Snitch, after all. The brunet was hurtling towards the sandy ground of the stadium at a breakneck speed, going surprisingly fast with the older model of broom he owned. The crowd gasped in unison as it looked as if he was going to hit the ground, before straightening up and shooting forwards. His hair blew back from his face in the wind, his muscled arm stretching out in front of him. He’d never looked so alive.

But the Hufflepuff Seeker, Rachel, was right on his tail, catching up slowly as Thomas ducked to avoid a Bludger soaring in their direction. As they sped up, for a long few moments all they could see of the two was red and yellow blurs spinning around each other. It was difficult to tear his eyes away from the whirlwind. The game continued on around them, but all Newt could see was Thomas.

His eyes finally came into focus as Thomas dove again, right as the Hufflepuff Seeker did. It was as if he was watching it happen in slow motion. Something was wrong. Thomas’ grip on the handle of his broom was slipping.

“Tommy!”

As if from a premonition, he knew exactly what was about to happen. Immediately, Newt felt his heart drop into his stomach. Shock emanated through the crowd as, with a loud thud audible from even the tallest stand, the two Seekers finally collided. 

The stadium went startlingly silent as they fell, Madam Hooch rushing out onto the field with Madam Pomfrey following closely, hiking her skirt up with her hands as she ran. Minho gripped Newt’s shoulder, and Teresa clung onto his arm, all three staring down at the two limp bodies in horror. Even if Newt’s eyesight wasn’t exactly the best, he could still see the bits of sand being stained red underneath them. He felt sick. 

Before he could stop himself, he pushed his way through the crowd, his chest heaving as he gripped the railing and ran down the stairs. His bad leg thumped painfully onto each step, and he grit his teeth. Fuck. He couldn’t move as fast with his goddamn leg.

Shit. Shit. Tommy. He’d been in Quidditch accidents before, but he’d never been wiped out. Newt pushed on, bearing the pain as he cleared the final set of stairs. 

He flung the wooden door open with a clang, and all of the concerned shouts in the background became white noise. Zeroing in on the kneeling figure of Madam Pomfrey, he limped forwards, blinking away the wetness in his eyes as he neared Thomas.

Though it was difficult to make out through the swarm of Professors and Quidditch players now landing on the field, he could see Thomas, and it was as if he finally came back to himself. Though thick blood was running down the right side of his forehead and out of his now crooked nose, he was breathing. 

“They’ll be alright!” announced Madam Pomfrey loudly as she waved her wand above the two, looking much less stressed after assessing the damage. “Just a few minor breaks and scratches.”

Rachel was conscious again, and was being helped up by her teammates. She seemed to be in a similar condition to Thomas. The raven haired girl had a nasty cut on her cheekbone and the skin surrounding her right eye was now turning a bizarre blue-purple-yellowish color. With the way her eyes were darting around and she was clutching her head, Newt figured she had a concussion. 

He turned back to Thomas, waiting for some sign of consciousness. Seeing him like this felt wrong. When Thomas was sleeping, he always frowned, creating a crease in between his eyebrows. Now, his face was slack— limp. 

Minho stepped up from beside Newt, and he startled, and of course Teresa followed. He hadn’t realized they had been right behind him, though he shouldn’t have expected anything less. Minho would protect them at any cost, and Teresa was stubborn as can be.

“What’s wrong with him?” asked Minho bluntly, though his face was taught with concern.

Madam Pomfrey narrowed her eyes at the Slytherin, gently lifting Thomas’ head in her hands as she muttered a quick incantation. The cut on his forehead began to close, bit by bit, and she sighed, “They hit each other, and then the ground from about twenty feet in the air. I’m surprised they’re not worse off, honestly. Oh, don’t give me that look, Mr. Park. Your friend will be up in no time.”

As Newt managed a smile at Minho’s “big dog” act, Thomas stirred. Quickly, Newt kneeled down next to him, pulling his sleeve over his hand to gently wipe some of the blood away from his eye. 

His brown eyes fluttered open, and he frowned, “What happened?”

“You tumbled with the other Seeker, mate,” said Newt, pulling away his hands as they started to shake. Thomas’ eyes followed the movement carefully, and he reached up to touch his forehead. His fingers came away red and smelling strongly of rust. 

Thomas closed his eyes, sighing, “At least we won.”

“Tommy, nobody won,” explained Newt, shaking his head at the Gryffindor. “They declared it a draw.”

Cracking a grin, the Gryffindor extended his other arm, opening his hand slowly to reveal a small, golden ball sitting in his palm.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Newt, unable to stop himself from laughing. He was sure some of it was hysterical, but it didn’t matter. Teresa was shaking her head but laughing along. He dragged his hand over his face, exasperated but relieved.

“Man, pull some shit like that again, and I’m going to beat your ass,” stated Minho as he gathered Thomas into a fierce hug.

Tommy smiled at him over Minho’s shoulder, and, finally, Newt could breathe.

Parties had never really been Newt’s thing, and that was slowly becoming more and more apparent as the night dragged on.

After Gryffindor’s miraculous win tonight (and Thomas’ quick recovery), everyone decided to celebrate by flooding into the common room and pouring out the drinks.

He hadn’t seen Thomas much since the game (Madam Pomfrey had insisted his presence in the Infirmary, and Teresa elected to join him) so he’d so far spent the party sitting on the steps at the bottom of the cobbled stairwell, listening to Brenda boast about her win and Gally laugh a bit too loudly at anything she said.  Apparently he’d looked kind of pathetic, sulking around like that, because Gally pressed a bottle of some dark liquor into his hands. It smelled strong, and it was a dark brown. It looked disgusting, which was perfect.

Newt was probably three— no, four shots in of whatever concoction Gally had cooked up in that bottle (he assumed Firewhisky and something that tasted like how bleach smelled), and he was kind of regretting it.

His body felt hot. Really hot. Like, burning hot. He sighed, resting his head on the stone wall and letting the cool feel of it ground him. The room kind of felt like it was tilting.

“Oh, there he is!” exclaimed a loud voice, and Newt raised his head from the wall to see Minho pushing his way through the crowd. “Newtie! Man, I’ve been looking for you all night.”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he said, raising an eyebrow at his friend’s disheveled appearance. His tie was around his forehead, and his tan face was looking more red than any other color. 

The Slytherin grinned, reaching forwards in a surprising act of coordination to grab onto Newt’s arm, pulling him up off the stairs, “Well, maybe not all night. C’mon, let’s play a game.”

Newt stumbled along behind him, hazily apologizing as he bumped into people. 

He was led to the fireplace, where a large group of students were huddled around an empty glass bottle on the floor. Even in his tipsy state, he could place a name to almost all faces in the group. Though, one face he would remember even if he’d been Obliviated. Thomas was there, bandaged and leaning against the couch with Teresa to his right. He must’ve arrived a while ago, because he himself was looking thoroughly flushed. He hadn’t made an effort to see Newt. He pushed back the hurt he felt, swallowing it like he’d swallowed down every other feeling he’d felt just for Thomas.

He sat across from the Gryffindor, despite his conflicted heart. Though there was distance between them, Newt felt like some sort of invisible tether was holding him in Thomas’ line of sight, as if his own body couldn’t stand being away from him. 

“What is this?” he asked, taking his eyes off of the brunet, who was now openly staring at the Hufflepuff.

“This, my friend,” Minho sat down next to Harriet, gesturing broadly to the circle as he poured himself another cup of Gally’s drink. “Is Truth or Dare.”

“Pardon?”

Brenda leaned forwards from where she’d just settled on the ground, Gally following suit, “Ooh, I love this game!”

“I’m in,” said Sonya, who was drunkenly leaning against Harriet with a dopey smile on her face. In any other circumstance, Newt would get on her for drinking, but he wasn’t really setting the best example right now, either. He settled for glaring at her in what he hoped was a disapproving-older-brother way and not a I’m-just-as-drunk-as-you-right-now way.

Most of the group gave their assent to playing the game, and Newt braced himself for the shit show that he was about to witness. He grabbed a cup nearby, not sure whose it was, and took a long sip. It hurt going down his throat, and he could taste a strong note of cinnamon in the drink.

“Right, here are the rules,” Gally explained after a few minutes of discussion. “We spin the bottle, and whoever it lands on is given a truth or dare. If you choose not to do the truth or dare you get, you gotta take a shot and do whatever you didn’t choose. Got it?”

And so it began. 

The first to spin was Brenda, who grinned as the bottle pointed to Sonya, “Sonya, Sonya, Sonya. Truth or dare?”

“Mm,” Sonya contemplated. “Dare.”

“Okay, I dare you to… oh, kiss the most attractive person here!”

Blushing, Sonya seemed to contemplate something for a second before turning to kiss Harriet quickly. Harriet’s face went slack in surprise, and Sonya sat back into her seat (ignoring the whooping from the group, mind you), reaching out and spinning the bottle before Harriet could say anything. 

“Minho!” she blurted, determinedly staring forwards at the Slytherin and blatantly ignoring the awed face of Harriet. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” he said easily, crossing his arms across his chest as he smirked. “I’ll do anything.”

“Really?” Sonya asked, smiling. “Alright.”

She pulled her wand out from her belt loop and pointed it at Minho, “Aguamenti.”

Water shot out of the tip of her wand, spraying onto Minho and soaking his pants. Harriet, Sonya, and Aris ducked out of the way in an attempt to get out of the splash zone. “Sonya, what the fuck! That wasn’t a dare.”

“Glacius,” she cast this time, giggling. They all watched as icy tendrils curled their way up his pants, freezing the material and solidifying it as Minho yelped. “There. I dare you to stay like that for the next three rounds.”

The group laughed as Minho stared at her in bewilderment, shivering dramatically, “Man, out of all of the parts of me you had to freeze, it was my pants?!”

Newt grinned at his friends, zoning out as he watched them. He still felt hot, like his insides were burning, but his headache had subsided and he’d almost forgotten about what had happened earlier with Thomas. Almost.

He looked over at Tommy, who was already staring at him. In the dim lighting, his eyes shone with the fire reflecting off of them. The burning feeling intensified, and his mouth suddenly felt very dry.

Tearing his eyes away, things came back into focus.

“Newt?”

“Huh?” The group was staring at him. Had he missed something?

“I said ‘truth or dare?’” Teresa repeated, sitting back on her heels as the bottle came to a complete stop. 

“Uh, truth,” he responded, not really feeling like being subjected to whatever horrific dare the group could potentially create. 

“Hm,” she tapped her chin in thought. The group chimed in with increasingly weird suggestions, while Minho sulked with his arms across his chest.

“Can you guys hurry the fuck up? I’m freezing,” whined Minho, who was beginning to look more and more drunk. He swayed as he sat up, throwing his arm around Aris. “Seriously, I think my junk is frozen.”

Teresa leaned forwards, shooting a look towards Thomas before speaking loudly and clearly, “Um, do you have a crush on anybody?”

His friends ‘oohed’ in unison and perked up, their muddled minds grasping for some information.

Shit. The room was getting hotter. Sweat was beading on his forehead and he tugged at the collar of his shirt. “No.”

“That’s a fuckin’ lie.”

Everyone turned to stare at Minho, jaws slack, as he pointed an accusatory finger at Newt, “You do like someone. I saw how you acted today.”

“What?”

“Oh my god, who is it?”

Gulping, he stared Minho down. His friend was drunk, and half-freezing, but it didn’t stop the burning anger he was starting to feel. Maybe he really was burning. Newt needed to leave. Too much had happened tonight, and he couldn’t deal with this on top of it. “Excuse me.”

Ignoring the protests of the others, he walked out past the circle of tipsy students and pushed his way straight out of the portrait hole. He’d only made it a dozen paces down the hall when he heard the Fat Lady exclaim and the portrait hinges squeak as it opened. He didn’t turn, only quickening his pace as he stumbled forwards. Pain shot through his leg with each step, and he hissed as he landed on it incorrectly. “Fuck me.”

“Newt, man, slow down,” called a familiar, slurred voice.

He whirled around to face his friend, “Min, I’m really not in the mood.”

“Don’t care,” said the Slytherin, shaking the leftover ice from Sonya’s spell off of his legs and onto the floor. “I was doing you a favor back there.”

“A favor?” spluttered Newt, feeling his anger simmering just beneath the surface. He was never this quick to anger, but he’d been so stressed the past few weeks that it was difficult to avoid.

“Yeah,” he said, rolling his eyes. “It’s obvious how you feel about him. I should’ve fuckin’ known.”

Clenching his jaw, he shook his head, “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re drunk.”

“So what?” exclaimed Minho, throwing his arms above his head in frustration. “So I’m drunk. That doesn’t change the fact that you like Thomas, but you’re too fuckin’ coward to admit it. You won’t even admit it to yourself.”

“You’re wrong,” he said. He refused to listen to this. His hands were shaking, and he balled them into tight fists, focusing on the pain of his fingernails digging into his skin.

“See? Why are you lying to yourself?”

“I’m going to bed, Minho. I’m not going to sit here and listen to someone tell me how I feel.”

Minho grabbed his shoulder forcefully and turned him around as he made to leave, “What are you so scared of? Huh? You mope every time he leaves, can’t stand when he’s with Teresa, and now you’re having breakdowns at the mere mention of liking him. Why can’t you fucking admit it?”

“Fine,” exclaimed Newt, the heat finally taking over as he ripped himself out of Minho’s grip. “Fine. I like him. I like him, and it’s been bloody killing me because he’s in love with someone else, and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

Minho opened his mouth to respond, face softening at the pain on his friend’s face, but was interrupted by the sound of the sound of the portrait hole slamming shut behind them.

They both slowly turned to look at the entrance of the common room, shocked as they saw Thomas standing there, looking like he’d probably heard the entire tail end of their conversation. His face was rather green, and he began leaning against the wall for support, his Quidditch uniform still on.

“Shit, Newt,” said Minho, wide eyed as he realized he’d heard them.

“Sorry,” the brunet mumbled, and promptly threw up onto the floor.

Chapter Text

Honestly, avoiding his best friends had been the last thing Newt had planned to do the week before Christmas, but he supposed that it was necessary to circumvent the awkward tension between the three of them.

Only a week ago, he’d confessed his feelings for Thomas to Minho and then watched said person of his affections vomit onto the carpeted floor (the aftermath of which had not been pretty). They’d both helped clean the drunk boy up and got him to bed, all the while trying and failing to speak of what had just been heatedly discussed. As soon as Thomas’ eyes had closed and his breathing had evened out, Newt left in a hurry, bidding a rushed farewell to Minho and trying not to break down as he limped down the staircase.

Since then, he’d been attending meals early or altogether skipping them in order to avoid the inevitable conversations that he’d have with the two. In their shared classes, he would politely greet them and engross himself in the task at hand, finding a newfound interest in History of Magic that he’d previously not even been able to stomach. It was difficult to ignore Minho’s constant attempts to talk to him and Thomas’ sad glances, but he managed.

Of course, he’d kept an eye on them, anyway. 

Midway through the week Thomas had stopped wearing the bandages on his head and forearms (though he was sure it was Madam Pomfrey who convinced him to keep them on that long in the first place), and Minho had been sending Newt meaningful stares across the Transfiguration classroom every other day.

With Christmas and the Yule Ball only several days away, his anxiety grew. The events seemed to be looming over him at all times, with reminders of them around every corner. Giggling girls talking about their dates and boys bragging about taking said girls to the Ball, people comparing their dress robes, and professors complaining in hushed voices about the drama unfolding in their classes. 

Strangely enough, his saving grace from trying to figure out how to avoid his friends had come in the form of the bald and unusually fat Potions professor, Horace Slughorn.

In the beginning of this year, he’d been approached by the fame-seeking Potions professor while studying in the Great Hall, inviting Newt to his “prestigious” Slug Club; though Newt was well aware that he’d only been invited because of his proficiency in Herbology, Charms, and Transfiguration (in an attempt to potentially gather some future connections, no doubt), he’d hesitantly accepted. In truth, he hadn’t attended more than two meetings in the past year— one of which he had spent trying not to fall asleep in the gigantic bowl of Neapolitan ice cream Professor Slughorn had so generously provided for them. 

Anyway, both of the meetings had consisted of some rather excessive preening and brown-nosing from the professor, but after the past week's events, Newt had felt a sudden desire to attend the mind-numbing events once again. So that was how he’d found himself at yet another boring meeting in Slughorn’s office, this time hosting a pre-Christmas dinner party.

Truly, he hadn’t felt much desire to put any effort into his appearance for the party, but at Sonya’s rather suspicious persistence at him dressing up, he’d applied some light gel into his messy hair and shrugged on some slacks and a button up. He felt slightly awkward entering the Professor’s office so dressed up, but to his relief, everyone else had followed suit. Taking his assigned seat, he wondered if sitting through this would really be better than facing his friends.

As expected, the meeting had begun as they normally did— Slughorn would greet them, provide some food, and begin rambling on about each student’s respective legacies.

Teresa, who was an exceptionally gifted student, had normally been found at these meetings. Tonight she’d attended dutifully, donning a rather pretty knee length midnight blue dress and matching kitten heels. Of course, the outfit suited her perfectly, but she was never one to flaunt her beauty. Instead, she modestly ducked her head as Slughorn complimented her and simply subverted the conversation to the rather extensive feast set in front of them.

Though, as Newt watched her, he noticed something was off about her expression. She kept tapping the side of her goblet with her long nails and glancing up at the door. Maybe she was eager to leave, too. 

“Mr. Isaacs,” addressed Professor Slughorn, seemingly done trying to wring information out of the extremely bored looking Slytherin student to his left. “How have your studies been? I heard from McGonagall that you’ve been her top student for quite some time.”

The top of Professor Slughorn’s bald head looks particularly shiny in the light, and he squints as he attempts to meet his eyes, “Oh. Erm, I suppose they’ve been alright.”

“Of course they have!” laughs Slughorn, though Newt wasn’t really sure that anything funny had been said. He leans forward in his seat, his large stomach pressing against the table and sliding it slightly forwards. “You know, when your mother attended Hogwarts, she was just as bright as you. Maybe even more so, if you don’t mind me saying— though that’s no discredit to you, boy. Such a shame she doesn’t get to see you, now.”

“Right,” says Newt awkwardly, though there was certainly a bite behind his words that he couldn’t quite conceal. Suddenly, he found himself desperately wishing Minho or Thomas were here. Minho would be quick to jump to his defense, and Thomas would whisper something bordering on awkward and inappropriate that would make him smile. He pressed his lips together tightly, shifting in his chair.

“Say, Mr. Isaacs, Miss Agnes is also quite the prodigy in Transfiguration, have you two met?” muses Slughorn.

“Sure, Professor,” offers Teresa, smiling at Newt as he sighs in relief. “We’re good friends. We study together, sometimes, too.”

“Is that so?” Professor Slughorn turns his attention back to Newt and sends him a not-so-subtle wink. “Well, I have to say, you two would be a rather fitting match—”

The door to the office creaks open loudly, and Newt raises his gaze to see a somewhat flustered looking Thomas standing in the doorway, dressed in a deep green overcoat and black slacks. He stands in silence for a moment while the door continues to creak and he reaches out to steady it, “Sorry.”

As Thomas shrugs his coat off, his eyes meet Newt’s. Biting his tongue, Newt shifts down slightly into his seat and tears his gaze away, latching on to the first thing he sees. He settles on examining the fine china plates in front of him, loaded with some dessert he couldn’t put a name to. Somehow, without looking up, he can feel Thomas’ eyes on him.

“Thomas! My dear boy, not to worry, we just sat down,” if it had been anyone else arriving late, Slughorn would be perplexed, but Thomas was his golden boy. He rises from the table to greet him quickly, rushing to lead him to his seat and taking his coat for him. 

Never had he seen Thomas attend a Slug Club meeting. Not that Thomas had never been invited— on the contrary, Slughorn had all but begged the Gryffindor to attend a meeting or two. However, all he’d ever heard Thomas express was his distaste for such an expectedly awkward event. Yet, here he was (standing there and looking impossibly perfect, from what Newt could gather).

But what had brought him there? His focus shifts onto Teresa, who's glaring up at the brunet. A sour taste fills his mouth and he stifles a scowl.

Back to the plates, it is, then.

He hears Thomas mutter a ‘thank you’ and the telling scrape of a chair against the floor. He shifted his sleeve up to check the watch on his wrist. It was only seven thirty. Only an hour or so to get through. Great.

“Well,” says Slughorn, clapping his hands together, clearly completely unaware of Newt’s internal conflict. “Let’s not delay. Dig in!”

Newt wastes no time in grabbing his fork, grateful for the distraction provided to him. He stabs into the flaky, soft pastry and brings it to his mouth. The bread is delicate and melts in his mouth, giving way to a sweet, tart flavor. It’s impossible to not go for a second bite, and then a third. Maybe the night wasn’t as bad as it seemed, now offering a welcome diversion for his attention.

The dinner party continues as it normally would, though Newt finds himself having to avert his gaze after he meets Thomas’ eyes. He’d devoured two of the pastries already, so he resorts to picking at a loose string on his shirt’s sleeve while it drags on for another hour and a half.

Finally, the time came where it was too late for him to reasonably keep the students up. He begins to send them all off with handshakes and claps on the back, wishing them a nice evening and jovially cracking jokes, as if Newt isn’t panicking about the fact that Thomas and Teresa are gathering their things and making their way towards him. 

He steps forward and too enthusiastically shakes Professor Slughorn’s hand, “Wonderful dinner, really. Goodnight.”

Shrugging his coat up over his shoulders, he brushes past the crowd forming around the Potion’s master and makes his way into the hallway. He has a long walk back to his Common Room. Professor Slughorn’s office resides on the sixth floor of Hogwarts, which means he has six floors and a daunting set of stairs to get past before he was safe. Luckily, said stairs lead directly to the dungeons. From there, all he has to do is make it to the kitchen corridor and he’d be on the home stretch.

He hurries down the corridor, the noise of soft chatter flooding in behind him as the other students leave the office. There were loud footsteps behind him, echoing off of the smooth walls and the high ceiling. If he ignores them, they aren’t actually there, right? Maybe it was stupid of him to even humor that— he did go to a school for magical people, after all. Unfortunately, he knew better than anyone that anything was possible.

“Newt!”

He really has the worst luck. “Hi, Teresa.”

“We need to talk,” she huffs. She must’ve ran out of the office to catch up with him, because she was out of breath. 

“Tomorrow?”

“No, Newt,” her voice was steely in her resolve. She grabs his arm once she fully catches up to him, turning him around. Her blue eyes were blazing, even in the moonlight. “Now. It’s important.”

“What about Tommy? Isn’t he your date?” Grasping for straws, he pretends to scan the hallway behind her. Whether it was to his chagrin or delight, he wasn’t quite sure, but Thomas was nowhere to be found. “Why isn’t he with you?”

Teresa sighs, “This is exactly why we need to talk, Newt.”

Newt opens his mouth to protest, but she holds up her hand, silencing him. “Tom’s with Slughorn. He can wait up. Come on, let’s walk.”

Sending a final glance behind him, he resigns himself to his fate and follows the rather serious looking Teresa as she leads him down the hallway. She was short enough that he can see clearly over her head as they walk, and he finds that he doesn’t recognize the route they were taking. After only a couple right turns, they push past a small door and end up in a small, circular room with open windows that stretch all the way up to the ceiling, letting the moonlight filter inside in soft beams. There were dust mites floating in the air, and he coughs as he waves his hand in front of him to brush them away. “Bloody hell, has anybody been in here before?”

“Sure,” says Teresa as she hops onto the thick stone stool of the largest window. She smooths her dress out against her thighs with her hands. “Tom and I come up here, sometimes.”

Newt can’t help but roll his eyes, “‘Course ya do.”

“As much as I would usually appreciate your sarcasm,” she drawls, though her expression is serious. “We really do need to talk.”

Shrugging, he crosses his arms across his chest. When she doesn’t speak, he nods, signaling her to continue, though he has a sneaking suspicion he knows what this could be about.

“What happened with you and Tom?”

Ah. So it was about Thomas. “Sorry?”

“He’s been upset the past week,” Teresa stares him down, even as he tries to avert his gaze. His skin prickles under her scrutiny and he shrinks in on himself, scratching the back of his neck. “He thinks he’s done something wrong. I haven’t seen you two talking much, either.”

“Really? I didn’t notice,” he winces at his own harsh tone. Taking his frustrations out on Teresa wouldn’t help anything, but can feel his anger rising.

“Not just him, but your other friends, too. Even Minho,” she continues on, determined. When he finally meets her eyes, brows furrowed, her face softens just a bit. “Newt, you know that Thomas and I are friends, right?”

Before he can bite out another scathing remark, she says, “Just friends. Nothing else.”

“He likes you,” Newt says truthfully, though acknowledging this makes the lump in his throat grow larger. He swallows, then tries again. “Really, if he hasn’t asked you to the ball yet, it’s probably because—”

“Newt, you know I don’t like guys, right?” 

“What?” he splutters, and he can feel his face going slack with shock.

“I’m a lesbian. I thought you knew,” she explains, standing up to approach him. Her inky black hair shines in the moonlight as she pulls it over her shoulder, and the color reminds him of Thomas’ eyes in his dimly lit common room at night. His heart squeezes in his chest as he listens to her. “Thomas is my best friend. But he’s not anything more than that.”

In his surprise, all he can manage to say is, “Does Tommy know that?”

At this, Teresa shakes her head, clearly frustrated with him. She stomps up to him and stares him dead in the eyes, making it impossible for him to ignore her attempts any longer. “He was the first to know. He’s known since Fourth year, Newt, and he supports me.”

Despite the sensitive topic, there’s no fear in her eyes, no hesitation in her words. She’s secure in who she is, and Newt can’t help but feel like he pales in comparison to her. He thinks that telling Thomas that he was gay might be one of the scariest things he could ever do. Maybe, in that way, he really was lacking. But Thomas— he has no qualms with Teresa’s sexuality, from what he’s hearing. But it wasn’t the same, was it? Because Newt telling him that he was gay wasn’t just a coming out, but a confession. Could he really bare himself to Thomas like that? To show him everything he was and everything he meant to him, and hope that it could be okay?

“I’m sorry,” he says to her, for lack of better words. 

“Don’t be sorry,” she replies. “But don’t be stupid, either.”

“Right, noted,” he snarks, but his voice has lost its cutting edge. It almost feels as if Teresa is seeing right through him.

“You do understand what I mean by that, right?” Teresa asks him, and the way she’s looking at him makes him think that she very much doesn’t think he understands. “Thomas may be my best friend, but you’re his. Talk to him. I’m sure whatever happened isn’t worth losing a friendship over.”

‘Whatever happened’? So either she was feigning innocence, or Thomas really didn’t say anything to her about that night. Both options left him feeling a little uneasy, “It’s complicated.”

Sighing, the Ravenclaw strides to the door and opens it, letting the warm candlelight from the hallway flood into the room, “He cares about you, Newt. Nothing is going to change that.”

“I know,” he says, but even to him it feels hollow.

With a lone glance backwards and a reassuring smile, she steps outside, letting the door close behind her.

Newt has a plan.

Not that he wasn’t the type to make plans often; they gave him a sense of control that he honestly never really had over situations. Actually, now that he thinks about it, maybe he’d made the wrong friends if he expected to actually make plans and think things through before doing things.

Anyways, his point was that he wasn’t going to just let things stay like this. He needs to fix things, or at least talk things out.

Talking to Minho was supposed to be the easy part of the plan, but it turns out that getting the Slytherin to talk when he didn’t want to was… difficult, to say the least.

While Minho had spent the week after the Gryffindor party trying to catch his gaze, he now seems to be pointedly avoiding him. Newt couldn’t really claim that he didn’t deserve it; he’d been snappy recently, stress overtaking his usually level headed disposition, and he’d made a conscious effort to ignore him, too. 

He’d tried twice earlier in the day to pull Minho aside, but Thomas was always nearby, and he wasn’t necessarily ready to open that can of worms yet. If it had been just a week ago, they’d welcome him in with open arms, but he knew better than to overstep. His heart ached as he watched them from across the Hall, and he was brought back to what Teresa had said just the other night. He couldn’t lose their friendship; it would be like losing a part of himself.

However, it seems like he can finally enact step one of his plan: talk to Minho.

They’re sitting in a (surprisingly) boring Advanced Potions lesson. Today is one of those days where they aren’t actively making potions, just preparing ingredients for the next lesson (the Draught of Living Death, how daunting). Luckily, Slughorn seems to be caught up in preparations for the Christmas party he’s hosting tomorrow night, which means that the class can speak freely and mess around while he’s distracted. 

As usual, Minho is sitting across the table from Newt. The cauldron resting in the middle of the table obscures most of the Slytherin’s face, but from the hunch of his shoulders and the muss of his hair poking out from atop the cauldron, Newt knows he’s working diligently on working the Asphodel with his mortar and pestle to powder it. In their lone silence, he must be deep in thought or just zoning out. 

Newt pauses from sorting the sprigs of Valerian root resting on the table in front of him to glance back up at Minho. He adjusts in his seat so that he can see half of his friend’s face, furrowed in concentration, “Hey, Min.”

He sees Minho’s eyebrows jump in shock at his voice, and he fidgets with the root in his hand as his friend raises his head to stare at him, “Hey.”

“How are you?” asks Newt, wincing at the lack of a better topic. He might as well have asked him ‘How’s the weather?’ for how effective that was.

There’s a long minute of silence where Minho stares Newt down, scanning his face for whatever, Newt doesn’t know. Though there’s insecurity evident in his words and his expression, after a moment Minho responds bluntly, “Are you finally done being pissed?” 

“If I was pissed before, I’m perfectly sober now, Min, promise,” Newt jokes lamely, offering a hesitant grin.

“Funny,” says Minho flatly, but as the Slytherin looks back down at his work, Newt thinks he sees the edges of his mouth quirk up into a smile. 

They continue working in silence for a moment, Newt finally finishing up on counting his Valerian roots and moving on to helping Minho turn the Asphodel into powder. Minho keeps exhaling through his nose loudly, as if he were about to say something, but he simply continues working. In the past, whenever he’s been alone with Minho, their silences have always been a comfort to him. They weren’t uncomfortable. As dramatic as Minho could be, he and Newt understood each other on a level that he doubted anybody else could understand— except for Thomas, of course, but with him it was different. It always was. Even now, in the midst of an awkward situation, Newt feels peaceful. At home. Minho was his best friend, and he couldn’t bear the thought of losing what they had.

“Listen, man, I—”

“I’m sorry—”

The two stare at each other, faces blank, and then break out into laughter. Maybe it’s a bit hysterical, but he really has missed this. 

“Go ahead,” Minho says eventually, after the hysteria wears off and his smile falls slightly.

“I’m sorry,” is all that he manages at first. He looks down at the mortar and pestle in front of him and continues. “I shouldn’t have blown up at you like that. I was just— I was just scared, I guess.”

And Minho, who is always so strong-willed and stubborn, concedes. He postures in front of others, bluffs and stands his ground, but with his friends he’s forgiving, “It’s… fine. I shouldn’t have called you out like that. Not in front of the others, at least.”

At Newt’s silence, Minho continues, “I was just worried, man. I dunno, I thought maybe things would get…”

Minho doesn’t finish his thought, but Newt knows exactly what he’s trying to say. It reminds him of the time he was suddenly shoved into the Black Lake in his Third Year. A wave of icy cold water seems to crash against him and he’s brought back to that night on the edge of the tower, and all the sleepless nights before that. The feeling of hopelessness, thinking he was a burden to everyone around him. The way that even after getting help, even after making friends, that feeling is still ever present. “Minho, I— you don’t have to worry about that, mate. I’m not going anywhere. You know that.”

“Yeah,” Minho nods, and then shakes his head as if shaking the very thought away. “So tell me why you haven’t talked to Thomas, then.”

Newt sharply sucks in air through his teeth and glares up at Minho, “You were there. You know why.”

“Nope,” he says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. As fondly as Newt was thinking of Minho only moments ago, he was genuinely considering smacking him.

“He— he heard what I said, mate?” it came out as more of a question than a statement, and somehow it felt fitting. Glancing around, Newt fixes his gaze on a crack in the stone table in front of him to steady himself. His throat feels like it might be closing up, so he breathes deeply before speaking again. “Min, I just can’t… I don’t know how to fix this. Am I just supposed to go up to him and say ‘Hey, sorry about saying I’m in love with you and then ignoring you for a week and also pretend I never said anything in the first place’, and just expect it to go over smoothly?”

Minho raises his hands in front of himself placatingly, then curses as he drops the mortar in his hand onto the ground. After he stoops to pick it up, he gives Newt a look that’s almost incredulous, “Man, I never thought I’d say this to you of all people, but you’re one dumb shank.”

“Gee, I can always count on you to make me feel better,” Newt croons sarcastically, and Minho blows him a kiss.

“You know it, baby,” he jokes, but then grows serious. “He cares about you, dude. I’m sure he wants to talk to you, okay?”

That’s the second time someone has told him that Thomas cares about him, and while he rationally knows that he does (because they are friends, after all), it feels wrong to admit it to himself. The way Minho and Teresa say it feels intense, almost like they know something about the situation that he somehow doesn’t.

“Alright,” he concedes. “I really don’t know what to do, though.”

Groaning, Minho rolls his eyes at him, “Talk to him, idiot. And while you’re at it, tell him to drop the attitude.”

“Attitude?”

Minho sighs, tilting his head down as he works on his root of Asphodel, “You’re not the only one with a tendency to be snappy.”

“That’s weird,” Newt can't think of why Thomas would be upset with Minho. “You guys haven’t fought or anything?”

“Uh, not really,” says Minho awkwardly, looking weirdly uncomfortable. “Kind of. It doesn’t matter. Just talk to him.”

He sighs. Maybe all of his friends are emotionally constipated, after all. Talking about feelings with Minho was like pulling teeth, “I can’t believe I missed you, of all people.”

“Hey!”

The day after Minho and Newt’s talk happened to be the twentieth of December. Normally, this date would hold no significance to Newt—save for the fact that it started the five-day countdown for Christmas—, but it was exactly what he needed at the moment: an opportunity.

During dinner the night before, there was definitely an attempt to sit down in his usual spots with his friends, but as he’d approached the backs of Thomas and Minho, Brenda and Gally had stared at him in shock as he walked up, and he’d… Well, he’d walked straight past them.

So, an attempt, it was.

He’d been instantly disappointed with himself. Thomas was his friend, for god’s sake, and he would never judge Newt for the way he felt. But to look Thomas in the eyes and know that he knew was too daunting. So, he promised himself he’d talk to him tomorrow.

Which brought him to step two of his plan: find a time to talk to Thomas alone and figure something out.

Hence why the twentieth of December was the perfect opportunity. Slughorn was hosting his annual Christmas party on this very night, and according to an exasperated (but helpful) Teresa, Thomas would be in attendance. So if he could just find a moment to talk to Thomas, then everything would fall into place, right?

Except he can’t find a moment. 

Because, tonight, Thomas is the center of attention. Slughorn has taken him under his wing and has seemingly taken the chance to make his rounds for the night with the Gryffindor at his side. And every time Newt has painstakingly tried to place himself into Slughorn’s path, something distracts him and he hobbles over to somebody else.

So Newt nurses the drink in his hand and watches the party. If he was in his right mind, he would at least try to socialize with the people around him, but right now his stomach is filled with nerves. It’s possible that he’s just as nervous about talking to Thomas as he is nervous about not talking to Thomas, and his only saving grace present is the quick glances of Thomas that he’s getting through the crowd.

For a short moment, he’s distracted by the scenery around them in his attempt to soothe his aching heart. There’s billowing fabric draping across the ceiling, hanging down and covering the room in a soft golden light. Someone has enchanted some lanterns to float down the hallway leading to the party, and he can see their red light through the open door. The fireplace is crackling quietly in the center of the room, where people have taken to playing some sort of party game, and he can hear their loud laughter even from across the room. It smells warm, too. Like cinnamon and butter and honey all at once. 

He notices a few Hogwarts students wearing pressed white uniforms, indicating them as tonight’s waitstaff. Absently, he wonders if they’re being compensated for working, or if they were manipulated into doing it for free. Either way, it’s hard to refuse their services as they circle the room and offer endless drinks and desserts. He’s keeping his eyes on one of the staff, who’s currently carrying a tray filled with some of those pastries he had the other night, and wondering if he could somehow Accio one or two over when he hears somebody approach him. 

“Nervous?” they ask from beside him, and this has become such a common occurrence that he already knows who it is.

“What's giving me away?” he says, turning to face Teresa. 

“Ginger Ale,” she gestures to the drink in his hands. “I drink it whenever I’m nervous, too. Settles the stomach.”

Smiling into his cup, he shakes his head, “Has anybody ever told you that you’re too smart for your own good?”

She laughs, “Once or twice, maybe.”

He hums in acknowledgement, “How’s Tommy been?”

“I think that’s something you should ask him,” Teresa suggests, combing her fingers through her curled hair as they watch the party. “You two are really frustrating, you know that, right?”

“I’ve been told that once or twice,” Newt jokes, and inhales sharply as he sees Thomas making his way through the crowd towards them. Well, it looks more like the brunet is searching for someone than coming straight towards them, but it makes him nervous all the same.

“Tom!” calls Teresa, and the Gryffindor’s head swivels in their direction. 

Fuck. Oh, fuck. He thought he was ready for this, but now he kind of feels even more sick than before. Maybe he can just run and hide behind a curtain or something. But no, Thomas is making his way towards her and before he can make his move to leave and collect his bearings, his best friend is standing in front of them.

“Teresa—,” he begins, and he looks so stunningly lovely in the light, but then Newt is forcefully ripped out of his fantasy as he watches him freeze as they make eye contact. His view of Newt must have been blocked by the partygoers, or he must have had tunnel vision on Teresa, because he looks shocked to see him here.

“Tom, can you take Newt to the bathroom? He’s sick,” Teresa begins, sending an apologetic glance towards Newt as she speaks. “I was going to take him, but I have to talk to Slughorn. Oh, you can? Awesome. Thanks so much!”

And before he can get a word in likewise, she’s gone, disappearing into the crowd.

It was hard for Newt to be annoyed with her when she was just helping him out, even if she was stretching the truth a bit. Though, if Newt looks how he feels right now, he’s sure her excuse seems pretty believable. Thomas stares at Newt awkwardly, and the noise of the party rises as somebody presumably pulls off an impressive wand trick in the background. “You don’t have to do that, I’ll just go alone.”

“No, it’s fine,” Thomas mutters. “Really.”

“Alright.”

So he follows the brunet’s lead as they navigate their way through the room, brushing shoulders and hands with everybody but each other, and their silence stretches on. After only a minute, they eventually end up in the long hallway leading away from the party. The lanterns slowly float around them as they walk, and even with his back facing him, Newt is mesmerized by Thomas.

“Thomas,” he says before he can stop himself. “Tommy, stop. Can we talk?”

“What, Newt?” asks Thomas, and with a start Newt realizes that he’s angry. “You finally decided you want to talk to me?”

Though he has no right to be feeling defensive, he retorts, “That’s what I’m trying to do, isn’t it?”

“I don’t understand,” Thomas turns to face him, and instead of seeing the spitting anger he expects, his face is etched with hurt. He gestures with his hands at something, anything, and then shoves his hands unceremoniously into his pockets. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything,” he says quietly. “It’s my fault.”

“What is?” the Gryffindor asks, and he sounds almost desperate, his voice growing thick. “What happened, Newt? Did— did things get bad again?”

“No,” Newt says in horror, staring at the brunet’s worried face. Is that what he had thought, too? “God, no, Tommy, I’m okay. It’s nothing like that.”

“So— so what, then?” Thomas sounds less worried now, and more frustrated. He pulls his hands out of his pockets to run them through his hair before fixing Newt with a pointed stare. The air around them feels stuffier, even with the open windows and the cool night air filtering in. 

“Do you remember the night of the party we had last week?” Might as well rip the bandaid off, right? Things can't get much worse from here.

“Kind of. You and Minho took me to bed after I threw up, right?” he sounds like he doesn’t understand what Newt is getting at. After a moment of thinking, his face morphs into one of alarm. “Wait, I didn’t say anything in my sleep, did I?”

“What?” the Hufflepuff furrows his brows in confusion. “No. Why?”

“Nothing,” he says quickly, looking strangely relieved. “I thought— nevermind, it doesn’t matter. So, did you and Minho fight or something?”

“No. Well, yes, but that was before…” he trails off, and as he watches Thomas’ confused gaze land on him, he’s struck with the feeling that maybe Thomas doesn’t know as much as Newt thinks he does. “Did you hear what we were talking about? That night?”

“Uhm,” and now he looks awkward, shuffling in place and biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t mean to hear, but you were upset so I came to talk to you and I kind of… heard.. It.”

“Oh. So, do you not care?” Newt manages to get out, and he moves to sit on the open window’s stool as they talk. He breathes the outside air in deeply, trying to steady himself. 

Thomas makes a weird face at that, and strangely enough, it’s not one of disgust or even confusion, but one much more complicated. If Newt had to try and place it, he would probably say something along the lines of nervousness. “Uh, no?”

“Gee, Tommy,” he says nervously, running a hand through his long blonde hair, trying to ignore the gross feeling of stiff gelled hair against his fingers. So he does know. And that means that Newt is completely and fully exposed right now, laid bare for Thomas to see. He now knows the meaning behind every single nervous gesture, every single shaky intake of breath, every fleeting glance. Somehow, he feels even more sick than before. Maybe he really will have to make a dash for the restroom.  “Can you give me— I don’t know, a little bit more than that? Are we— are we okay?”

“Uhm,” Thomas looks floored. He takes a step backwards, almost subconsciously, and looks away from Newt. “I don’t really know what you want me to say, Newt. I’m sorry?”

Newt shakes his head, huffing out an unamused laugh. He’d known all along that his feelings weren’t reciprocated, but it still hurt like hell to hear it confirmed, “Tommy, you’ve got nothing to be sorry about. It’s not your fault.” Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes, and he laughs weakly again. “Let’s just forget about this, okay?”

“I don’t care about it, Newt, really,” Thomas stutters out. It doesn’t sound like he’s lying, but something is off. His face is impossibly red, and Newt can’t tell if it’s from the floating lanterns or something else entirely. Fuck. “It’s not a big deal. I won’t… I won’t tell anyone.”

“Thanks.” And now he’s laughing and crying at the same time. And he’s sure he looks crazy, but even that feels trivial right now. 

Bloody hell, this really is it for him. Nobody has ever known Newt in the way Thomas has, never made him feel as safe as he does when he’s with him. And he knows nobody will. There’s a part of him that will always be wanting Thomas, even if they never spoke again. He knows  that this will always hurt, even if not as sharply as it does right now. Every time Thomas will go out with somebody, or tell them about his new crush, or kiss someone, Newt will ache. Maybe he will spend the rest of his life aching for Thomas. Maybe it makes him selfish, and maybe he doesn’t care, but he wishes that Thomas would ache for him, too.

“Newt,” Thomas says in alarm, stepping forwards but stopping just short of him. He looks horrified, scrambling for some way to comfort him. At least he’s not disgusted by him, right?

“Sorry, Tommy,” he laughs, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “It’s been a long night, mate.”

There’s a crease between Thomas’ eyebrows as he looks down at Newt, “Newt, I— you’re amazing, okay? Anybody who doesn’t see that is an idiot, even if they’re your best friend. Especially then.”

He finally manages to wipe away the last of his tears, and when he laughs this time, it's genuine. Because even though he thinks Thomas is kind of weird for talking about himself in the third person like that, it seems an awful lot like he’s extending an olive branch to him. And hell, he might do something dumb on occasion, but he’s not stupid. Even if it means he must spend the rest of his lifetime aching for Tommy, at least he can ache near him. So he takes the olive branch and smiles up at Thomas, weakly, and he tells himself that he will bear it for as long as he can.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, and Thomas smiles right back at him, though he still looks concerned. After a long moment of silently staring, Newt looks away, blindly extending his hand out to his friend. “Sorry, but I fucked up my buggin’ leg the other day. Can you help me up?”

Chuckling, Tommy grasps his hand in his and tugs him forwards. Newt stumbles forwards a bit, ending up standing only a few inches away from Thomas. His hand is still in Thomas’, and his hold is firm and really bloody warm. Sweaty, too, and he’s sure that’s because of Thomas, but he’ll let that slide for now. 

“I really missed you,” says Thomas suddenly, and he looks so genuinely earnest and sad that Newt pulls him into a hug before he can stop himself. His body is warm and solid, just like how it felt when they hugged before Thomas’ Quidditch game, and Newt has never felt more at home.

“Me too, Tommy,” he says, and his heart breaks a little more with every word. “Me, too.”

Breaking away, Newt throws an arm around the other boy’s shoulders, jostling him playfully, “Right, then, let’s go raid the kitchens. I could eat a horse.”

“What would Hagrid think?” Thomas gasps, making a mock face of horror, but he begins to move in the direction of the kitchens, anyways. They both laugh together, imagining their Care of Magical Creatures teacher’s reaction to such an expression, and everything feels right again.

As they walk along, Thomas laughs at something Newt says, loud and unabashed, and Newt decides that he could live with this.

Chapter Text

With only two days before Christmas and the Yule Ball, the castle was sent into a state of panic, not that it hadn't been in one before . Since the announcement of the Triwizard Tournament it had been like that, but everything was heightened now. 

Honestly, Newt couldn’t blame anybody. The panic was understandable, and his mind had been flitting around between topics enough that his headache had been promoted to a migraine. He’d also been steadily ignoring the dress robes that have been hanging in his closet for the past few weeks and their purpose, though it was difficult to keep ignoring them with the constant reminders of the Ball coming up. It would be a lie if he said that every time he went to dress in the mornings, his eyes didn't linger on the soft material of his formal cloak, so instead he chooses not to think about it too much. 

Finding Thomas a present is another problem. With just short of two full days to find him one, Newt was desperately asking Minho what he can possibly give his best friend that was meaningful but wouldn’t suggest anything too romantic. Not that Minho was much help. Every time he asked him, he was met with the same response:

“C’mon, Min,” Newt begged, trying to harness enough charm to convince his friend. 

“My dear, ignorant Newt,” Minho would sigh all-knowingly and shake his head at the blonde. “You must look inside yourself to find the answer. Ooor, just ask Thomas.”

“Very funny.”

“I know.”

So… obviously Newt has to figure something out. Luckily, the heads of each respective house were blessedly allowing the afternoon after classes off. The professors claim it's because they want to allow free time for the students to unwind before exams, though Newt suspects it's actually because of the headache hearing the students gossiping so much is causing them. 

Though… this did mean he had some time to brainstorm, if only overnight, so he’s not complaining.

The night before his planned Hogsmeade trip — a Thursday, which made sense — , the Hufflepuff found himself perched on a plush chaise chair in the Gryffindor common room, which had been the unofficial meeting spot since their second year. The usual crew —a.k.a. the Gryffindors and their other friends of miscellaneous houses— were sitting around and playing what Newt imagined was a wizard’s version of party games called Exploding Snap (how they could find joy in cards exploding in their faces, he didn’t know), though they were finding it difficult to focus on the game itself. Instead, all the teenagers were huddled around the cards and talking to each other from across the circle.

“My mum and dad are taking me to Wiltshire! Can you believe it?” Teresa beamed. Brenda, who was behind the brunette and attempting to braid her hair, stumbled as Teresa leaned forwards in excitement.

“Wiltshire? Where is that?” asked Thomas, furrowing his eyebrows in a rather distracting way. His nose was scrunched ever so slightly, just like it usually was when he was trying to figure something out. Maybe it was better now for Newt to not admit that he thought it was cute, so he didn't admit it. Instead, he shuffled a bit further away from the Gryffindor and settled more deeply into his scratchy couch cushion.

“England, idiot,” replied Teresa, rolling her eyes. “Remember? Stonehenge? We went there together. I think it was back in fifth year?”

Newt had forgotten that Thomas and Teresa had been friends since they were children; their families traveled together for almost every vacation and holiday, and, according to them, they were practically joined at the hip when they were younger.

“Oh, I guess we did. I forgot about that, honestly,” said Tommy sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand as he glanced over at Newt. Newt looked away quickly, staring very intensely at the lopsided stitching of the quilted blanket on his lap. 

“Do you guys shit together, too? Or is that a bit too intimate?” Gally quipped from his spot at the end of the couch. He was probably one of the only people still paying attention to the game, and he casually flipped a card over and winced as it began to sizzle.

A few people snorted, and even Newt had to hide his smile with the long sleeve of his shirt. He allowed himself one glance to his left, finding Thomas with his jaw hanging open and his expression absolutely flabbergasted.

“What the hell, man? Of course we don’t!” He cried indignantly, his neck flushing red. Now the entire group was laughing — even Teresa.

And even though Newt knew it was better to just leave it be, he couldn’t stop himself from reaching out to rest his hand on the Gryffindor's thigh, “He’s joking, Tommy.”

Thomas met Newt’s gaze, his long, dark eyelashes fluttering slightly. “Oh.”

If Newt was somebody else (and unfortunately, he wasn’t) he would think the way Tommy was looking at him was almost adoring. Newt didn’t think he'd done anything to warrant such a sweet, intense look from him, and he felt abruptly… shy? Since when had he felt shy around Thomas? 

Alby cleared his throat loudly and the girls giggled as Thomas and Newt looked up.

“Well then,” Brenda exclaimed loudly, probably trying to diffuse the awkward tension now in the air. Newt couldn’t help but feel grateful for her. “I sure hope they don’t shit together, because I’ve personally heard—”

As Brenda carried on the conversation and began debating with Minho, Newt pressed the quilt further into his hands. The thick, scratchy strands being squeezed into his palms were the only thing keeping him grounded. 

Shit . Newt sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. Why did he feel like a bloody schoolgirl with some embarrassing crush? He’d liked Thomas long enough that he shouldn’t feel so affected from just one look. He was supposed to be ignoring this situation—at least to the best of his abilities.

And yet… Newt had never seen Thomas look at him like that before. Like how he imagined Thomas would look at Teresa or some other girl he fancied.

“Newt,” a voice whispered, and as the blonde looked up he was only a handful of inches away from Thomas’ face. From this close, Newt could make out a small faded scar just above his thick eyebrows. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, sorry,” he shook his head, smiling at the absurdity of his feelings. How was he letting these- these feelings trip him up so much? Feelings that he’d had for years, although he’d only recently admit to them. “Lost my mind there for a second.”

“Wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asked, and the idea of being alone with Thomas right now was so entirely enticing that he almost lost the willpower to hold himself back. As he spoke to Newt, his voice was low. Raspy, like he’d just woken up. Something stirred deep within Newt’s chest.

“No.” He said it so resoundingly that it had startled himself. “No, I’m okay, Tommy. Really.”

There was a peculiar look on Thomas’ face, concern seeping through the crease lines between his eyebrows. Like maybe he expected the answer to be different, or maybe that he’d just expected Newt to talk to him about what he was thinking. That’s what they’d always done, after all. Talk to each other, in the inky black of nights or through the whispered conversations of dawn. Why would he think that anything had changed?

“I’m gonna nip off to bed,” he announced, picking the quilt up off his lap and settling it onto his friend's legs. “See ya tomorrow.”

Minho raised an eyebrow at him but waved him away nonetheless. Perhaps Thomas had seen this small interaction between them, because he seemed to fold into himself a bit, crossing his arms and leaning his head onto the back of the couch.

Weird. 

If he was still the same Newt he was a few days ago, before everything went down, maybe he’d be brave enough to go over to Tommy. To smooth the hair off of his forehead with his hand. To tell him goodnight, quietly enough that only they could hear it.

But he wasn’t. And he couldn’t be. Because he had to resolve himself to be just Thomas’ friend, and nothing else. And feelings be damned, he would never willingly make Tommy uncomfortable.

So instead he leaves, and maybe if he’d turned to look back he would’ve seen Tommy’s eyes fixed intently on him.

But he doesn’t.

The next day brings him (alone) into the middle of Hogsmeade in an attempt to do some last minute shopping. 

Surprisingly, there’s not many students there. Maybe because they’re too busy using the free day to study, or perhaps they’re just planning outfits for the next few events. Either way, Newt was grateful for it. He only needed to buy two more gifts, but it felt like a rather daunting task.

He’d managed to sneak away without either of his other halves (namely: Thomas and Minho) noticing, and for once he found himself internally thanking their ridiculously early Quidditch practices. Slytherin and Gryffindor shared the field today, which was always risky for both teams, but listening to the two sniping about the other team would be less annoying later knowing that he’d gotten away with this.

Sonya was his first— and his easier— target. She wasn’t picky, and he’d already been eyeing a paint set for her for some time now. Finding it wasn’t too difficult, and it only took two stores to secure it. His second target was significantly more… complicated. He still needed to buy Tommy a present, and he was completely clueless on what to buy him. Newt definitely couldn’t buy him anything that implied any sort of romantic feelings, which cut out about half of his ideas. While he might have been able to get away with it only a month ago, things were different now.

So wandering around the snow covered streets was his current objective. He was hedging his bets on seeing something appealing in one of the frosty store-front windows, but he hadn’t had any luck yet. 

He stared intently at the window in front of him. It was some shop he hadn’t really paid any notice to, and the shelves inside were teeming with different oddities— jars with glowing green liquid, rabbit feet, long strings of garlic. He couldn’t really see Thomas liking any of that (it was disturbing him, the more he peered inside), and he sighed loudly, resting his forehead against the glass for a moment.

“You okay?” 

Newt whipped his head off of the freezing glass, feeling his stomach drop as he met warm, brown eyes. “Tommy? Thought you had practice.”

Thomas’ smile faltered a bit, “Well, don’t sound too happy to see me.”

“I am!” Newt cried, voice cracking embarrassingly as he mentally facepalmed. Thomas found it funny, though, laughing at him as he blushed, and Newt reached out a gloved hand to shove at his shoulder. “Oh, bugger off. You scared me.”

“I see that,” Tommy smiled, eyes crinkling. He was wearing a dark gray coat over his maroon Quidditch uniform, with a worn out beanie askew on the top of his spiky brown hair. It looked like he’d rather haphazardly shoved his hat and coat on and rushed over. Now that Newt was thinking about it, Tommy did look rather flushed, and his chest was rising and falling rapidly. “If you must know, practice got out early today. Wood was feeling generous.”

“Wood let you all out early? Really?” the blonde asked in shock.

“Uh,” began Thomas, scratching the back of his neck. “Actually, Brenda got into a fight with one of the Slytherin beaters and Minho jumped in, so everyone got to leave early.”

“Minho and Brenda are two sides of the same coin,” Newt sighed, rubbing his temples with the tips of his gloved fingers. “Why am I not surprised?”

Thomas shrugged, grinning wickedly, “I don’t know why I was, honestly.”

They laugh together for a moment, puffs of fog coming out of their mouths and into the frozen air, with Tommy’s cheeks flushed  as prettily pink as the petals on an azalea. He stood there, his clothes in disarray and his hair poking out from underneath his hat, flashing his blindingly white teeth and making Newt feel wholly enamored. 

As their laughter dies down, he comes to find the Gryffindor staring fondly at him. “So, why are you here, then?”

“I wanted to come see you.” It’s said so simply that Newt finds it hard to believe that it came out of Thomas’ mouth. There’s most certainly a red flush creeping up his face, so he blows air into his hands and rubs them together.

“Rather cold today, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” the brunet replies, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. He’s quiet for a moment. “You know, I heard about this candy you can get at Honeydukes. Apparently they’re so hot they make steam come out of your ears. I bet you couldn’t finish a box of them.”

Newt smiled, distracted from his previous worries about gifts, “Is that a challenge, Tommy?”

Thomas shrugs. “If you can handle it.”

“You know bloody well I can,” he fires back, grabbing Thomas by the sleeve and yanking him down with him along the cobbled streets.

They spend hours in Hogsmeade, sampling Honeydukes candies and emerging from it with bags of candy on their arms. Newt is even able to sneak away (under the guise of using the loo) to buy Tommy a present he’d seen him eyeing in a store— a well-knit, deep red beanie. Afterwards, they tell stories of their summers and previous Christmases, entertaining each other as they walk to the Three Broomsticks for some drinks.

“It’s always just been me and Sonya. After our mum died, our dad was never really around much,” he said, frowning slightly at how somber the mood had become from this one topic alone. Thomas watches him intently as he speaks. “Though I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Don’t miss him much, personally, but I think Sonya still thinks he might change. Can’t blame her, I guess. She hasn’t seen him in what… two years, now? And good that.”

The Gryffindor blinks back at him hesitantly, as if afraid he might say something wrong, “What were your parents like?”

Newt scoffs. At this Thomas furrows his brows, and the Hufflepuff waves him off reassuringly. “You can ask, Tommy, bloody hell. Don’t be so jumpy.”

Chewing on his lip, he stews on the idea of his parents for a minute. How would he even begin to describe them? It’s not like he’d seen them the past few years of his life, anyways, except for the occasional nights his father wasn’t  away for business trips. And, as much as he didn’t want to admit it, he didn’t hate either of them. “Dad was a real grouchy man, always yelling about something or throwing things. Mum? Well, she was a damn pushover— did everything he asked her to do, even if it meant that Son’ and I suffered for it. Not that it mattered, really, since they were always working. But when they weren’t, I didn’t really wanna be home.”

Smiling, he stares up at the gray sky above them, “Back when I still smoked— oh, don’t give me that look, Tommy— anyways, I used to try and take Sonya out of the house with me. Go see a film or get ice cream or somethin’. She used to cry and cry about Mum and Dad having to leave, but over the years she just stopped. Ended up a bit too much like me, I think. Anyways,  then Mum died, and Dad came home even less.”

All they can hear is the snow crunching under their feet and the distant laughter of children in the square. Thomas thinks on it as they near the Three Broomsticks, its stone brick walls looming above them. Eventually, he says, “Sonya is lucky to have you.”

“Sometimes I feel like it’s the other way around,” he laughed before making his way inside.

After shaking the snow off of their boots and sitting down at a small table in the back, they gorge themselves on two large Butterbeers and some steaming hot Shepherd's pie. The mood lightens gradually, and whether it's due to the general Christmas spirit or Thomas’ ridiculous jokes, he’s not sure. Either way, he would happily admit that he was grateful for it. He’d thought maybe his confession would change things, but Tommy was just the same as he was yesterday.

The lights around them were a warm orange, cast by the flickering torches mounted on the walls, and there’s a quiet hum from all of the staff and customers talking to each other. Maybe it's just because they're finally out of the cold, but Newt was the warmest he’d felt in a while.

“Teresa and I spend every Christmas together,” Thomas explained. He was holding his Butterbeer in his hands, and Newt watched as the cool condensation slowly dripped down his long fingers and onto the wooden table. He’d heard this story before, but not directly from Thomas. “We’ve been neighbors our whole lives, so we never really had a choice. She basically told me we’d be friends, and then I just went along with it. Good thing I actually like her.”

Thomas must have seen something on Newt’s face (maybe his carefully restrained hurt, or maybe his brain freeze from the chilly drink), because his entire demeanor seemed to transform. He perked up, resting his hand between them on the tabletop, though he wouldn’t meet his eyes, “It’ll be nice to spend Christmas with you, this time.”

“Huh,” exclaimed Newt (very eloquently, might he add), coughing on his drink. He bumped his fist to his chest a few times as he choked, feeling like he’d rather die here on the spot than suffer any further embarrassment.

“Shit,” murmured Thomas, frantically knocking over a salt shaker as he reached for the napkins. He snatched one, then another for good measure, and leaned forwards in his seat. When Newt opened his eyes, he was scarily close. Close enough that Newt was almost certain he might be attempting to give him mouth-to-mouth to save him.

But then, so gently he almost couldn’t feel it, the brunet patted the napkin into the corner of his mouth. Newt was so shocked he couldn’t do anything, sitting so perfectly still he might be mistaken for a statue. It lasted for only a second. All too soon, his hand was gone, and the brunet was yet again avoiding his gaze. He was astounded to see that the tips of Thomas’ ears were bright red, as if he was flustered. 

His heart fluttered wildly in his chest, and he reached up to wipe at his bottom lip to get any leftover Butterbeer off of his face. “Thanks, mate.”

“No problem,” says Thomas, looking away, and if it weren’t for their current predicament, Newt might think this was him trying to flirt. “So, uh… about the Ball. It’s tomorrow, and all.”

“Yeah?” he asked, still dazed. He could still smell pine and broomstick polish.

“Are you still going alone?”

He raised his Butterbeer to his lips and sipped on it far more successfully than before, then said, “Yep. Minho and I are going stag together, since nobody else will take us two tossers.”

At Thomas’ silence, he continued, “What about you?”

“Oh,” Thomas said, staring down at the tin of shepherd's pie in front of them. He looked forlorn, like a sad puppy. It was heartbreakingly cute. “No, I’m not going with anyone. I was— I was hoping maybe…”

He trails off, and Newt’s hand twitches at his side. Oh, how he wished to reach out and comfort him, in any way he can— ruffle his hair, caress his face, grab his hand. Bring his lips to his, and show him how much he was cared for—

“...you’d go with me?”

What?

“What?” he echoed, mind blanking. He said it startlingly loud. So loud, in fact, that the entire restaurant had quieted to turn and look at him. There was no way he wasn’t bright red, and he could feel the heat radiating off of his face. In no universe would Thomas, of all the most beautiful and kind and brave people in the world, ask him to go to the Ball. Had he misheard?

“Do you wanna go? To the Ball? With me?” asked Thomas, face flushed a deep crimson. It was so delectably appealing, and the nervous smile on his face was overwhelmingly sweet. 

“Unless you’re going with Minho already—,” Tommy stuttered, looking like he kind of wanted to die.

“No,” said Newt, forgetting for a moment about Teresa and Minho and everything else. This was not something he would take for granted, no matter the motivation. “No, I’m not. I’ll— I’ll go with you.”

Thomas smiled up at him timidly, as if he didn’t know how to act with him anymore. Newt, despite himself, smiled back.

“The hell are you so happy about?”

Newt dropped his quill, cursing as it splattered ink all over his paper. He quickly cast a cleaning spell and picked up the quill, setting it back into its ink pot, “What are you on about?”

Minho twirled his wand in his hand, slouching back in the stiff wooden seats and vehemently avoiding doing any work, “You’ve been smiling for the past hour.”

“So?” he retorted.

“So, we’ve been sitting here in silence while you work, which means you can’t be smiling at my brilliant jokes. Is Cross-Species Transfiguration really that entertaining?” he leaned forwards with sharp eyes, scanning for something in Newt’s face. “Did something happen? Is there something you wanna tell me?”

“Bloody hell, Minho, what are you, my mum?” he attempted to snap, but it sounded weak even to his own ears. It was hard to be in a bad mood ever since yesterday. They’d stayed out until the late afternoon, and Thomas had even walked him back to his common room. It had been awkward, sure, but nice. He sighed happily, doodling little stars into the margins of his essay. 

“Okay, what the fuck? What is going on with you?” Minho exclaimed, slamming his hands on the table, and they both winced as the librarian slowly looked up at them and glared viciously. “Uh… sorry?”

They were promptly kicked out of the library.

“You couldn’t have cast Silencio? Or at least keep your damn voice down?”

“Well excuse me, I was kind of busy trying to figure out what the fuck is up with you. You look… smitten?” Minho’s eyes widened and he grinned, slapping Newt’s back repeatedly as they walked. “No fuckin’ way! Something happened, didn’t it? With Tomboy!”

Rolling his eyes, he leaned away from the Slytherin and resettled the books he was carrying in his arms, though the ruddiness in his face was evident, “You’re so embarrassing.”

“Oh my god, what happened? Tell me!”

“Nothing happened, wanker,” he denied. Newt didn’t know why he was withholding this information from Minho— he’d been supportive since the very beginning, back when he’d told him he was gay. Glancing around, he verified nobody in the hallways was listening to them before he continued. “Tommy asked me to the Ball.”

“DUDE!” shouted Minho in excitement, slapping his back harder this time. He was beaming, like this was his own success. As Newt winced at the volume, he took his hand off and lowered his voice. “Sorry. But dude! Congrats!”

“Congrats? What happened?” asked Sonya as she sidled up to them, and based off of the fuzzy earmuffs she was wearing and the dirt on her fingers, she’d just gotten out of Herbology. Harriet was at her side, her arm draped around his sister’s neck. They were staring at him, wide eyed and curious.

Newt reached his hand up to rub his temples, “For the love of god…”

“Well?” inquired Sonya, flicking her blonde braid over her shoulder. Her eyes pierced his soul (as all sister’s eyes did) and he felt his resolve weaken. Luckily, Minho spared him the effort as he jumped in.

“Thomas asked him out.”

“What?!” Sonya’s jaw dropped, and Harriet smirked at him, nodding her head. “That’s amazing, Newt! How did it happen? What did he say?”

“I wouldn’t get too excited,” he warned, a little dejectedly. This aspect of the ‘proposal’ had been something he’d been trying to avoid thinking about, but it was inevitable. The small kindle of hope in his chest was sputtering out the more he turned it over in his head.“I’m pretty damn sure he wants to go as friends.”

Minho, Sonya, and Harriet all shared a look (much to Newt’s annoyance— he was right there!). Sonya stepped forwards, frowning, “Newt, are you sure that’s what he meant? I saw him earlier and he seemed to be in a good mood. Like, in a really good mood.”

“What are we all standing around for?” a deep, all too familiar voice boomed from across the hallway. Gally, Brenda, and Teresa were walking towards them, carrying their school assigned broomsticks with windswept hair. 

“Jesus Christ. Why not just get the whole group here to listen to us?” groaned Newt. Teresa was smiling at him proudly, like she knew something he didn’t. When they locked eyes— deep brown against blue— she winked.

Brenda handed off her broomstick for Gally to hold before crossing her arms against her chest and jutting her chin out, “So, what exactly is going on here?”

“Alright, I’m done,” said the lone Hufflepuff, readjusting his bag on his shoulder and attempting to walk off and escape this onslaught of questioning. “See you later.”

Gally grabbed him by the strap of his bag and pulled him back in, “Oh, no, you don’t.”

“Is this about Tom?” asked Teresa innocently, yet her expression was anything but. She looked like she knew exactly what this was about. She’s bloodthirsty, Newt thought with horror. Too smart for her own good (or, specifically, Newt’s good).

“Er… no,” he managed.

“He’s lying,” Minho brushed what Newt said aside, leaning forward conspiratorially with the rest of the group. “Thomas asked him out.”

“About time,” scoffed Gally, swinging the two broomsticks up to rest on his shoulders. “Is that all?”

“Wha— what? Is that all? Are you kidding, man?” says Minho, throwing his hands up into the air. 

“We all saw it coming,” Brenda said, furrowing her brows. “Are you really surprised?”

“I thought he liked Te—” Harriet began before remembering Teresa was there and cutting herself off. “I thought he liked someone else, though.”

Sonya elbowed her in the side, sending her a disapproving look which most certainly meant ‘we’ll talk later’. Harriet shrugged, pulling her dark locs back into a ponytail. It was obvious she was trying to work out what she’d done wrong, eyes flitting back and forth between Newt and Teresa, but to no avail. “Explain to us what happened, Newt.”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes!” most of the group said in unison (bar Gally, who could not care less, and Teresa, who was clearly well informed already).

He tried to stay silent, but having so many pairs of eyes on him at once was unnerving, “Dunno what’s so special about this, really. Tommy and I were at the Three Broomsticks and he just asked me. It’s not a big deal.”

“Alone? Together?” questioned Sonya.

“At the Three Broomsticks?” replied Brenda.

“Sounds like a date,” they said at once, high-fiving each other at the unintentional synchronization.

“It wasn’t a date!” he insisted, but even to himself he sounded unconvincing. 

“It wasn’t?” Teresa made a strange face at this, filled with both confusion and disappointment. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d said something gravely wrong. “Newt, I think we need to—”

“Hey, guys,” a voice intervened, and everybody collectively turned to stare at an oblivious Thomas. “What’s up?”

“I was just leaving,” Newt said hastily, pushing his way through his friend group before they could stop him. And, as if he couldn’t help himself, he sent Thomas a quick, secret smile. “See you later, Tommy?”

Thomas smiled right back, looking dazed, “Yeah. Sure. Definitely.”

As Newt retreated (much faster than he probably needed to), Thomas stared at his back, as if he was the only thing that mattered in the entire castle. Alby emerged from a crowd of nearby students just released from class, his deep voice cutting through the tangible silence in the air as he joined them. “So… what happened?”

Even hours before the Ball started, preparations began. 

The Great Hall was declared off limits until the festivities began, meaning it was time for the students to scramble and get ready. His entire common room was in such disarray that he had to put in earplugs just to be able to hear himself think. The noise, and the strong smell of weed floating through the rooms, was almost unbearable. That, and his nerves, were driving him up the wall.

He shouldn’t be nervous. Really, he shouldn’t. This was Tommy, and it was a totally, completely, and wholly platonic date. But… it wouldn’t hurt to smell nice, right? Why the hell had he not bought new cologne in years? 

And, for the first time in years, he was fretting over his hair, of all things. Why wouldn’t it sit down properly? He’d had to run to Sonya for help, all the while attempting to dodge any sight of Thomas to avoid utter mortification. Luckily, the Gryffindor common room was even more chaotic than the Hufflepuff’s. He was able to successfully recruit his sister for help, which of course also included Harriet and Brenda.

“I feel ridiculous,” he mumbled as Sonya spread some sort of pomade through his hair. This pomade was unfamiliar to him, as he’d only ever used standard hair gel. Whatever his sister was using made his head feel a little heavy, and it was stiff to the touch. It didn’t help that he had more hair now— it had grown longer than its standard length, now resting just below his ears instead of above them. 

The reason behind his hair growth was a rather embarrassing story, especially looking back at it now. One night, right before they’d left for summer break, when he and his friends had been asking each other stupid (and irrelevant, honestly) questions, Thomas was asked what he found attractive. Newt remembered how uncomfortable the query had made him, watching the brunet shift in his seat and look at him out of the corner of his eyes. Eventually, he settled on a simple, “I guess I like longer hair?”

Not that it was long at all, really. It was just to the point where it was fluffy, instead of laying flat against his head, which made him feel slightly less self-conscious. Not everybody could look attractive having short, straight hair like Minho and Tommy could.

“Oh, hush,” Sonya mollified, waving her wand to clean the thick gel off of her hands. “You look fine, Newt. Right?”

There was no response from Harriet nor Brenda, who had finished getting ready an hour ago and were now busy trying to see who could balance their wand on their nose the longest.

The blonde cleared her throat loudly, tilting her head and making a face at the two girls. Her curly hair bounced against her shoulders, and the silver bracelets on her wrists jingled against each other as she moved. “Right?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Harriet, keeping her kohl lined eyes to the tip of her nose.

“What she said,” replied Brenda, her deep blue dress robes wrinkling very visibly from the way she was sitting.

Sonya rolled her eyes, exhaling loudly through her nose in frustration. Turning back to Newt, she stood him up and began smoothing down his robes with her hands. He couldn’t speak, with his heart stuck in his throat, even though he’d already told himself he wouldn’t allow this kind of hope. Why wouldn’t his heart just listen? 

His sister must have sensed that he was truly distressed, because she stopped her fussing for a moment and forced him to look at her, “Newt, what’s wrong?”

“I feel stupid,” he sighed, biting his lip. “Isn’t this a bit much? We’re just going as mates.”

“Well, you don’t look stupid, and I’m sure Thomas would agree,” she prompted, grinning when he cracked a small smile. Wand in hand, she pointed at him, accentuating her words. “And what makes you think you’re going as friends? What if he thinks you’re going together? Like, together together.”

The four bannister bed creaks as he sits down on it, putting his head in his hands, “Trust me, that’s not what he thinks.”

“Did you ask him?” asked Brenda from her spot on the floor, turning her head to face him.

“Huh?”

“Did you ask him if it was a date?” she probed. “How can you be so sure about how he feels when you haven’t even asked him? I mean, it’s a little unfair to just assume how he’s feeling. For all you know, he could be feeling just as confused as you right now. Besides, beating around the bush isn’t gonna help anybody, especially you two dumbasses.”

The trio went slack-jawed at her speech, and she shot them a glare. “What?”

“Since when did you become so wise in the ways of love?” Harriet teased good naturedly.

“I’m not,” she replied simply, shrugging. “I’m wise in the ways of Thomas. Remember, I used to like him? Anyway, knowing him, he’s probably having a damn breakdown right now trying to figure out whether you think it’s a date or not.”

Newt shakes his head, looking up at the gold and red canopy hanging above the bed.“He likes Teresa, I doubt he’s worried about this being a date. Plus, it’s normal for mates to go stag together.”

“Oh my god, I can’t do this anymore,” announced Brenda. She stood up suddenly and brushed herself off before gathering her things and making her way to the door. “Newt, trust me when I say he does not like Teresa.”

Sonya narrowed her eyes at the short haired girl, “Who told you?”

“Minho.”

“Told her what?” Newt asked, and Harriet shrugged at him, clearly just as lost.

A shrill alarm blared throughout the room, and everybody covered their ears and cringed away from the sound collectively. Sonya rushed forwards to her bedside table, slamming her hand down on her alarm clock. “Sorry. It’s time to go down and meet the others.”

A fresh wave of anxiety swarmed over Newt, and for a very real moment he thought he might drown. He stood up and ran his hands through his hair, hoping he didn’t mess up whatever Sonya did to it, and made some final adjustments to his clothes. The deep green robes were soft under his fingers, and his black undershirt was still holding up against any wrinkles. He inhaled and exhaled once, then twice. 

Attempting to muster up as much Gryffindor courage as any average Hufflepuff possessed, he said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Stepping into the Yule Ball was like walking into what one would imagine a Winter Wonderland to be. The Great Hall had been fully transformed, with no long rectangular tables or house banners in sight. Instead, there were ice sculptures and icicles decorating the outskirts of the room. Snow was falling from the ceiling, but it wasn’t uncomfortably cold, and it didn’t pile up on the ground. There was an icy fountain spewing beautiful spurts of water into its basin, and the food table at the base of it was filled to the brim with sweet delicacies and savory dishes.

As everyone entered the Ball, they turned their heads to the sky in wonder, and Newt curiously followed suit. The ceiling was covered in strings and strings of fairy lights, casting a white and yellow hue down onto the room. They twinkled individually, almost appearing to be stars in the sky instead of artificial lights. It was beautiful.

The students piled into the room, dispersing into their own groups and covering their mouths with their hands, in awe of their surroundings. There were so many gowns and robes in the way it was difficult to not trip on them, and Newt had to very carefully watch his step as he followed.

“Damn,” said Minho, pursing his lips. “Not bad.” 

The group nodded along, rather unsure of what to do now except stand there.

“I’m getting a drink,” Brenda declared, grabbing Gally by the arm and pulling him to the refreshments. “See you guys later!”

Newt stood quietly as the others found their places amongst the room. His anxiety was rearing its ugly head, making him feel like he might lose his lunch, and it certainly wasn’t helping that Thomas wasn’t even there, yet. He was nowhere to be found, and Teresa was suspiciously absent, too. He pressed his lips together in frustration.

“He’ll turn up, man,” Minho reassured him, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “I’ll wait with you until he does.”

“Thanks, Min’, but I don’t mind if you go,” he felt guilty at the idea of Minho sitting here with him instead of having fun. He’d rather just sulk by himself until this damn night ended.

“Nah, I’m good,” Minho said loyally. It was hard to keep the smile off of his face as he looked at his closest friend— he was so selfless, even if he tried to hide it. Newt could always count on him. He threw his arm around his friend’s shoulder and squeezed appreciatively.

All of a sudden, the sound of sweet violins filled the air, playing a traditional dance song. He heard some girls squeal in excitement, and before he knew it couples were flooding the dance floor and taking their positions. Newt frowned, feeling lonely even with his best friend by his side. What he wouldn’t give to be as careless as every student on that floor, not having to worry about the social repercussions with dancing with who he really wanted to.

Minho studied the wistful expression on his face before stepping away. “Wanna dance?” 

“Wha— no, I’m good, Minho, really,” he spluttered, shaking his head. To make Minho dance with a guy, in front of everybody, would be implying something that he wasn’t sure Minho would approve of.

“Man, I don’t care if we’re both dudes, if that’s what you're worried about,” said the Slytherin, rolling his eyes. “I’m already bored, and there’s nothing else to do, so why not?”

“Are you sure?”

Minho sighed, taking Newt’s hand and physically dragging him onto the dance floor. There was an awkward moment where they struggled over the hand placements (Minho, of course, decided to lead), but then the music swelled and they were off, circling the floor with all of the couples and friends dancing.

Thanks to the mandatory dancing classes the castle was forced to take, most people were somewhat capable dancers. Newt and Minho weren’t too shabby at it, either, only tripping on one or two steps. There was a point in the dance where Minho had to put his hands on Newt’s waist and lift him up into the air, which was certainly… an experience. They laughed the whole time, finding humor in the absurdity of it all.

When the music slowed and the crowd dispersed, Minho and Newt went to the side of the room to catch their breath.

“Who knew dancing could make someone dizzy?” managed Newt, feeling sick but happy. His head was reeling, and he realized that for a moment he had forgotten about his recent stress. Still, at the back of his mind, Thomas was there. He always was.

Minho wiped some sweat off of his brow, shrugging, “I’m definitely not doing that again. No offense, dude, but that was a workout.”

“None taken,” he replies, leaning his head back for a moment. When he brings it back down, he’s surprised to notice that Thomas is now in the room. Though Newt is only able to recognize him by his back, which is facing the exact opposite direction he is, Teresa at his side. What? “Where is Tommy going?”

“What are you—,” Minho swiveled in place. As he spotted Thomas and Teresa, horror dawned on his face and he rubbed his temples with his hands. “Shuck. I messed up.”

Newt crossed his arms, frowning, “What? What are you on about, mate?”

“Shuck, I’m in deep shit, dude. I fucked up. I really fucked up,” he runs his hands through his dark black hair, no longer styled. It now looks more like he’d just rolled out of bed instead of making any effort to tame it. “Newt, I think that Thomas thinks… that we’re dating.”

“That’s funny,” said Newt, but seeing Minho's serious face, it dawned on him that he wasn’t joking. “What? Are you serious? You and Thomas are dating?”

“Ew! No, I meant us,” he groaned, placing his head into his hands. Thick bristles of hair stuck out from in between his fingers, and he looked so distressed that Newt couldn’t do anything but listen to him. “I don’t know how it started, but I think Thomas overheard us that night we were all drunk. Like, a few days ago? He heard you talking about liking someone, but he was drunk, so he probably wasn’t able to put two-and-two together. And I think you avoiding us after that made him think… I dunno, you got rejected? Or we broke up? Something like that.”

It took great effort and restraint on his part to keep his jaw off of the floor. Newt rubbed the back of his neck, pacing back and forth as the music and screaming in the background faded away. “But what does it matter if he thinks we’re dating or not?”

“Dude, don’t be stupid,” Minho said intensely. His black eyes were boring into his soul, as if he was missing a key piece to the puzzle. “Why would somebody care if you're dating somebody else? Why would it matter at all? Think, Newt.”

There was only one reason. One reason he could think of that would warrant such a response from someone. One reason he knew all too well. “No.”

“Newt, it makes sense. You know that.”

“No,” he repeated, clutching his hand to his chest. There was bile— or something— rising in his throat as his panic overtook him. “Minho, this is mean. Don’t— don’t make me think there’s a chance."

“You’ve been talking to every damn person about this but Thomas, Newt. Stop being afraid of what will happen, because I can guarantee you that this will not end the way you think it will,” Minho pleaded. He was so clearly at his wit’s end that Newt felt moved by his words. His willpower was crumbling, bit by bit, even though he felt like he might be violently sick all over the icy floors. “Talk to Thomas. Trust me.”

Unfortunately, he knew deep down that Minho was right. It was time to face Thomas, to pour his heart out and see what he made of it. This was causing too much stress, and too many people were involved to back down, now. His hands shook as he straightened his collar, “Okay. Okay, I’ll talk to him. But where the hell did he go?”

“I… didn’t actually see,” the Slytherin confessed, waving his hand in front of him. “I’ll look for him on this side, you take that side?”

Newt nodded, and at once they were off.

The crowds seemed much thicker and more stifling now that he actually had a reason to make his way through them. Maybe it wasn’t the crowds that were closing in on him, but his fear. He wasn’t normally one to go in without a plan, especially without Thomas there. Whenever there was an emergency, Thomas always knew what to do. But Newt was smart, and he trusted himself. Surely he could manage this one situation without Thomas’s guidance.

Except, well, Thomas was the solution to this problem, wasn’t he?

People glared at him as he bumped into them, and he felt a little drunk with the amount he was swaying. However, he paid his fellow students no mind, instead trying to focus on one thing like a bull following a red flag. He plowed forwards, searching every corner of the room and finding no Thomas.

Cursing to himself, he brushed past his professors and stepped into the hallway. It was relatively empty, save for the few brokenhearted students crying in a windowsill or the occasional entangled couple. Left, or right? Which way should he go? To the left laid the path to the loo, while to the right it led to the Grand Staircases, neither of which felt very helpful at the moment. Unless he eventually did vomit, in which the loo might be beneficial.

As he prepared to make a right, Teresa stopped him in his path. He wasn’t entirely sure where she’d come from (though it only made sense for her to have just emerged from the corner), but it didn’t matter.

Based on the surprised look on her face, she hadn’t expected to run into him, either. She opened her mouth to say something to him, and then closed it again. His stomach churned as he held up his hands in surrender. “Where’s Thomas?”

Teresa must’ve seen the desperation in his eyes, or maybe the nausea, because she suddenly seemed sympathetic instead of defensive. The blue eyeshadow glittered across her eyelids as she closed her eyes for a moment and exhaled deeply. “Newt, maybe now isn’t a good time. He—”

“Please, Teresa,” he said, not above begging. “Please.”

“...fine,” she said, pressing her lips into a thin line. “He’s out in the courtyard.”

“Thank you,” he breathed, running down the long hallways he’d memorized years ago. Somehow, the idea of Thomas being at the end of these walls took his breath away more than the running. His bad leg ached something fierce when he finally arrived at the courtyard. “Tommy!”

His call echoed out into the cold, dark night. Thankfully, it was just light enough that he could make out his surroundings, and he stepped forwards until his feet crunched down upon the frosted over cobblestone. Newt could make out the usual trees and benches dotted along its edges, but otherwise, Tommy was nowhere to be found.

Then, there was movement near the middle of the courtyard. The towering stone fountain had long since frozen over, which ruled out the possibility of the noise simply being running water, meaning somebody must be out there with him.

He approached the fountain, carefully guiding his feet across the slick ground in order to not slip. Ironically, Newt was sure Thomas could’ve heard his approach from all across the castle and had plenty of time to hide, if he so wished. The sound of his dragging leg alone was alerting, but his heavy breathing paired with it to make quite the cacophony. Newt was sure he was bordering on a heart attack with the way his heart pounded against his ribcage. The cold air bit into his skin as he took a hasty step forwards.

“Thomas?” he asked. There was no response, only a quiet rustling noise. He was hit with the sudden realization that maybe it wasn’t Thomas that was here with him. Shoving his hand into his waistband, he gripped his wand tightly. 

Finally rounding the other side of the fountain, he let out a short sigh of relief, pulling his hand away from his wand. Thomas was sitting there on the fountain's stony ledge, his head hanging low and with his elbows resting on his thighs. Something was bunched up in his hands, but he couldn’t quite make it out in the dim light. “Hey. Where have you been?”

Thomas simply shrugged, his eyes glazed over and focused on the ground. His shoulders were hunched.

“Tommy, I…” Now that he was here, he wasn’t quite sure where to begin. “There’s something I have to tell you.”

“What, Newt?” asked Thomas, his voice wavering on his name. There was little emotion in his voice. He sounded defeated, but upon closer inspection he realized the Gryffindor’s hands were shaking. 

“I’ve been worried about you,” he began, internally scolding himself on such a tremulous start. God, why was this so difficult for him to say? “Couldn’t find you anywhere. Me and Minho were—”

At this, Thomas scoffed, finally bringing his head up to look at Newt. “Of course. Of course, it was Minho. I should’ve known. I don’t know why I ever thought…”

He trailed off, and Newt realized that the expression on Thomas’ face had been an attempt to mask his hurt. It became more apparent with his inflection on every word, every tremble of his voice, every tremor in his hands. The brunet stood up, and his eyes were startlingly clear in the darkness. “I made a mistake. I thought that maybe you and Minho were over, but I should’ve known you weren’t. It was so obvious. How did I miss it?”

“Minho and I aren’t—” he stumbled on his words as his eyes trailed down the Gryffindor's arm. There, clutched in Thomas’ hand, was a flowery bouquet, wrapped in crumpled paper. Flowers that were undoubtedly meant for him; a visual representation of all of the hurt he’d caused. His eyes uncontrollably welled with tears. “Tommy, I’m so sorry. I made a mistake, and I hurt you.”

“I hurt myself. I knew that you were in love with Minho, but I still told myself that maybe you could love me, too,” and Thomas’ voice broke one final time before the tears began to fall. “Fuck.”

“Thomas,” fretted Newt, reaching out to cup the brunet’s face in his hand. Tommy flinched away from him, and it felt like a knife being twisted into his heart. “Let me explain.”

“Don’t do that,” he snapped, looking devastatingly heartbroken. “Just… please, don’t.”

He pulled his hands away like he’d touched something burning hot. “Tommy, if you’d just listen to me—”

“I know you’re trying to help me, Newt, but I really don’t need to hear the details. I get it, okay? I hope you two are happy together. Just give me some time, and I’ll- I’ll find a way to move on.”

“Damnit, Thomas,” he cried, voice strained. “Would you just listen to me?”

The clouds began to part in the sky, and enough light was being cast down that he could fully make out the other boy’s face. The planes and curves of his face were outlined in a soft blue light, and his eyes glistened with unshed tears.

Thomas paused, and finally, finally , it was quiet.

“I’ve thought you were in love with Teresa for… well, an embarrassingly long time. Every single time I saw you two together I was so jealous I could barely think straight. Shit, you can ask Minho how many times I was upset because you were hanging out with her and not us. At first I assumed it was because you’re my best mate, and I didn’t want you to be taken away from me. Now… now I know that’s not it,” he admitted. There was nothing he could do now to stop the rush of words flying from his mouth. His heart was spilling out of his body and into the cracks of the ground beneath them, overflowing with the emotions he’d felt for so long. 

“I was so busy worrying about you and Teresa that I never stopped to think about why it bothered me so much. But then I started thinking about you.”

He took a moment to catch his breath before barrelling on, trying his best to omit the paralyzing fear spreading throughout every inch of his being. “I thought about how much I liked to make you laugh. I thought about how I couldn’t stand to go a day without talking to you. I thought about how, somehow, I’m able to put up with sitting through those obnoxious Quidditch games just to see you play. And how the idea of you being with Teresa made me— makes me— sick. Do you even know how much I’ve wanted to be with you, in the way I thought you wanted to be with her?”

Something changed in Thomas’ demeanor. His eyes flitted back and forth between both of his, and it took everything in Newt to not beg him to say something, to end this crippling silence, to stop the endless waves of trepidation crashing through him. The brunet took a step forward, and then another, until they were almost nose-to-nose.

Newt blinked, and suddenly something warm was pressed against his lips. His eyes widened in shock, and with a start he realized that Thomas was kissing him, like he’d yearned for this for years. Like he’d been stuck in a desert for ages, and finally he had been brought a cold pitcher of water.

There was nothing he could do but surrender to the gentle press of Thomas’ lips against his. His heart exploded in his chest, thrumming so loudly he was almost certain Thomas could hear it. He felt solid, steady hands slide around his torso and take hold of his waist. Those same hands were always keeping him in the present, always bringing him back to Earth when he’d felt a thousand miles away. Instinctively, he brought a hand up to caress Thomas’ smooth face, the other resting on his chest. 

His taste was as cloyingly sweet as a honeycomb. Their lips moved together slowly, clumsily, yet in tandem, as if they’d done this a million times before. Newt pressed forwards curiously and Thomas’ grip on his waist tightened. He tangled his hands into Thomas’ hair, pulling him impossibly closer until their bodies were flush to each other.

Eventually, they had to come up for air. Newt pulled away first, his chest rising and falling quickly. Thomas followed suit, suddenly bashful as he attempted to fix his hair.

“Bloody hell, Tommy,” he breathed, chuckling. “That’s one way to sweep a guy off his feet.”

Thomas smiled shyly, “Yeah, well, I’ve been told I’m a charmer.”

“By who?” teased Newt. His cheeks hurt from how hard he was smiling. For the first time in a while, he felt content. 

“Uh,” he grasped at straws for a clever response, but seemed to come up with nothing. “Many people, I’m sure.”

Newt threw back his head and laughed, giddy beyond belief. Thomas joined him, and they laughed themselves hoarse in the middle of the courtyard. When they’d finally calmed down, Newt spoke. “Well, I feel ridiculous, now.”

“Me and Teresa? Really?” asked Thomas incredulously.

“Me and Minho?” he shot back, sticking his tongue out. “He wishes.”

“We’re idiots,” his best friend (boyfriend?) sighed, scuffing his shoes against the ground.

Newt rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. We’re gonna hear enough of that from the others later.”

“I love you,” Thomas said it so suddenly that it caught him off guard. Warmth spread down to the tips of his fingers, and the world now seemed so much brighter with Thomas at his side.

“I love you, too, Tommy,” he whispered, and nothing he’d said in the past had ever been this true.

Thomas grinned so widely it looked like his face might split in two, and before he knew it, Newt was being pulled into a hug. He wrapped his arms around Thomas, and in that moment, he knew he’d hold him for as long as he let him. His chin rested atop of the brunet’s shoulder, and although it hurt his neck to do so, he couldn’t be happier. 

The slow notes of a classical song slipped through the hallway and down into the courtyard. If it had been audible before, Newt didn’t know, but it was beautiful and soft. He felt Thomas begin to sway slightly to the music, and he pulled away enough to look him in the eye.

“Tommy, would you care for a dance?” Newt asked with a playful smile.

“If you insist,” Thomas accepted, pulling a face. “But just a heads up, I really can’t dance. I practiced with Teresa and everything, but I still suck. I think I might have two left feet.”

“Well,” said Newt with a grin, taking the boy’s hands. “We’ll see about that.”