Archive of Our Own ^beta

Far away, he could feel a gentle, almost feather-light, warm touch on his left shoulder. Maybe a voice calling him; Thomas was too deep into his nap to listen to it.

“Tommy?” The low and soft voice whispered close by. It was a comforting voice.

There was also cinnamon and peppermint lingering in the air. He loved that specific combination of scents, even though he knew it made no sense. Along with the smell of old book pages, but unconsciously, Thomas knew that was due to the books opened under him.

“Tommy.”

He felt himself smile in his sleep, – if that was even possible, – as haziness filled his mind and he slowly, unfortunately woke up.

He fought it. Or he tried to.

“Hm.” That didn't sound like a ‘go away’ , but it was all he managed.

“Tommy,” the voice was closer now, two hands on each of his shoulders softly trying to shake him awake.

Thomas grunted.

“What?”

He heard a laugh he knew too well before reluctantly opening his dried eyes.

Still he did, getting up from his awkward position on top of his books, getting used to the lights and the room around him – even if they were so dim.

Thomas found himself sitting in one of the many empty tables of the library of Hogwarts, the languid light from a rusty lamp being the only thing illuminating his books and notes in front of him, along with the crackling candles hanging from the high and extensive bookshelves. The balmy night shone bright as the cloudy, dark sky made its way through the tall windows on the walls, some stars and the moon seeping through it like pearly dust. 

The early autumn air was beginning to feel cold, sharp, even inside the thick walls of the castle. And the place was quiet, even if there were still a few people here and there – more than usual, when students used to fill every table and corridors amongst old books. Probably because he slept through supper, Thomas thought, still brushing off sleep from his wrinkled face. He had been studying in the library for hours, trying to keep up with all the boring work from his least favorite classes before the weekend came along.

“I can’t believe ya fell asleep on your books,” Newt's voice called his attention once again, making the brunet turn his head.

Cape and bag thrown over the chair he pulled to sit next to Thomas, Newt tilted his head and grinned at him. Messy golden hair, constellations on his cheeks as freckles under the orange-ish candle flames, yellow and black tie hanging over the white button up shirt of his uniform, tiny dark eyes smiling at Thomas in amusement; the brunet almost didn't feel so embarrassed for the mess he probably was at the moment, too distracted by the scene before his poor, tired eyes.

Newt – along with Minho, – was probably one of Thomas’ best friends: a Hufflepuff one year older than him he met when he first started studying at Hogwarts at eleven years old; Newt was twelve at the time. Now they had just started their fifth and sixth years, and Thomas was extremely, completely, utterly screwed.

I believe you probably know why.

The reality of him being a Ravenclaw and Newt a Hufflepuff was never a problem for them to become friends; especially as little children. They met rather than naturally: on a random day of September, just around exactly four years ago that time, in a random garden of the castle on a random break in between classes, where some young students learned how to play wizard chess with each other as a way to kill their time; of course, Thomas already knew everything about the game.

He had surprised everyone – and maybe even himself – when he, a stupid and awkward first year who knew almost no one won from an experienced fifth year. After that exact match, a second-year scrawny and friendly Hufflepuff with tiny dark eyes, a big smile – and just a glow about him – asked if Thomas could teach him how he played. The boy had said he’d never learned how to play chess, especially the wizard’s one, since he was a Muggle-born.

Stupidly and stutteringly, young Thomas had said yes. And taught him. And here they were.

It wasn't a hard task – to teach Newt chess, or anything for that matter. He was a fast learner, but more specifically, someone so easy to be around. He was charming, funny, caring. He had been a talented and great Quidditch player since his third year. Well, maybe not the best of his team, but Thomas would fight against anyone who said otherwise, even Newt himself.

He was like long, silent walks where he knew exactly what was going on inside Thomas’ head. He was the feeling when someone holds your hand and shows you there's a tomorrow. He always gave the best Christmas presents. He was the type of person to always put the others he cared about over himself, even if sometimes Thomas hated that.

He was tall, with coffee bean eyes and blond eyelashes longer than anyone Thomas knew. With golden hair that was long enough for you to lose your fingers in it. He walked with a confident yet warm smile on his cherry chapped lips, hands in pockets. Bark of a laugh when it was a real one.

Newt was that one kind of person it was so easy to be devoted to. Or at least Thomas believed it.

He didn't exactly have a word for it, a name for something like this. He started feeling it around that last year, — this change of feelings, — out of nowhere but inevitable. Like, quite suddenly, he understood it. That feeling that makes anyone's skin shiver with electricity beneath it. Hope, delicate and useless. The feeling that makes you feel like a child again, craving candy, getting your hands dirty with the sticky sweetness of a sugary treat.

And still, Thomas had never felt the need or want to share any of this specific secret of his with anyone. Not to Minho, nor Teresa. And especially not Newt. No, he wouldn't dare.

Call him a fool, Thomas didn't mind. He knew it wasn't worth creating something out of it, anything rather than this buried heart softening sickness he unsolicited held alone. It wasn't worth losing such a special friendship.

Even if sometimes lingering touches between pinky fingers made him want to speak up, glances that were held onto too much made his insides bloom. Even if sometimes he felt the urge to grab Newt close and shut his blabbering mouth.

This feeling didn't last that long, not when he felt like an eleven-year-old again, alone and unknown in such a new place he felt afraid of. So he was careful not to rip into temptation, never daring to drink too deeply.

A Slytherin loner passed through them.

“Let me be,” he dragged a huff actually free of resentment – because, really, he wasn’t capable of holding it against the blond, – turning his face away, head on his hands looking down. Even under his grumpiness, he thought that was a pretty good way to be woken up.

“What are you studying there?” Newt pulled the book from under Thomas’ elbows, examining the open page. He pulled a strand of his long, wavy hair behind his ear as he looked down, the movement natural yet so captivating. Thomas observed him quietly, pulling his eyes up from his hands.

“History of Magic,” he mumbled. He really just wished he'd learn how to apparate to his bed already, even if he didn't mind the company at all. Of course.

“Well, fair.”

“Fair, what?”

Newt chuckled, the sound of it illuminating Thomas’ chest from the inside out.

“That you got bored and fell asleep.”

The brunet smiled, – a fool.

Two girls walked by.

“Can I stay here with you for a while?” The blond asked, which Thomas thought it felt stupid even to hear, – they had been friends for four years now, and he still asked to sit with the brunet. But he did it constantly and it was sweet, just another detail about Newt Thomas appreciated deeply.

He had been tired just a minute ago, wishing for his bed and a good night's sleep; but suddenly he felt very awake if it meant he could spend some time with the blond; being from different years and Houses and all, they didn't have many opportunities to meet during the busy weekdays.

They did have all their breaks and weekends and study sessions together, yes. Thomas still felt it was a miserable amount of time, sue him.

“Sure, maybe you'll keep me working,” he smiled again, pulling his homework closer on top of the table.

He did catch a sly smile on Newt's lips with the corner of his eyes as the blond bumped their shoulders together. Newt took his own notes, wand, pen and ink bottle out of his bag, throwing them all on the shared table. Lastly, he put on his circled glasses, – fixing it on his crooked nose in an exaggerated gesture that made Thomas scoff – and started working on his own stuff.

After that, they stayed silent, existing together in that tender space in between them, each concentrated on their own books and papers. Or at least the brunet pretended to; maybe he was too tired already to try and study again that night, maybe it was the way he was suddenly shivering here and there due to the cold, still air of the night – and damn him, of course he didn't have any coats or jumpers.

Maybe it was the way Newt's humming was louder every minute, his chair a bit closer, his body emanating a welcoming warmth.

Thomas put his hands around his own neck, an attempt to warm himself. Maybe to help him focus on anything that wasn't Newt's warmth.

“Am I too close?” Newt threw the question out in the air quite suddenly, so much so that Thomas jumped internally, startled. He didn't move a muscle of his neck to look in the brunet's direction – like he actually knew what was in Thomas’ head, or just sensed him shivering, or felt his stiffness.

“You're fine,” Thomas answered, confused about what to even say. He looked at Newt, eyes searching. The blond looked back at him like he always did: easy, comforting. “Just that I forgot it gets cold here at night.”

“Oh.” Then, their eyes fell apart only for Newt to grab something from his bag. Thomas recognized the blond's yellow and black scarf just as fast as his heart quickened for what he knew the other was about to say. “You should take my–”

“No, I don’t–” He interrupted, hand in front of him as if kindly denying something.

What a foolish thing.

“I insist, Tommy,” Newt rolled his eyes as he shoved the scarf into Thomas' hands, not caring about anything he had to say.

And the first thought that came to the brunet's mind as he shyly wrapped the piece of clothing around his own neck was how it smelled just like Newt; cinnamon, peppermint. The scarf was soft, covering just enough of Thomas’ neck to touch the tip of his chin.

If felt so silly: caring about Newt’s gesture so much. Because Thomas knew it was probably just a plain, random thing Newt did; sharing his scarf. Something he would do to any of his friends if they were cold as well.

Still, for the brunet, it was him wearing a piece of Newt's clothing, something simple yet intimate and loving – something that made his hands tremble and heart melt, that would leave the memory of wearing it on his mind for the whole night long, just as the sweet and tender smell now stuck to his cold skin.

“How do I look?” He asked, looking at the blond.

And there was a soft, warm sparkle in Newt's eyes, just behind his glasses. Yellow by the candlelight. Adoring, heartfelt.

Thomas caught it, even if it was so brisk. Or maybe he was delusional.

“Pathetic,” tittered Newt, eyes still ever so sweet, it was impossible for Thomas to actually believe his word.

Then, he leaned in just a few centimeters, hands reaching for the yellow scarf, for Thomas. And he tugged it even more in place in the brunet's neck, hand slightly touching his jaw, and his shirt and blue tie underneath it.

It wasn't much. Just a few inches.

But enough for Thomas to utterly stop breathing, not daring to move a hair. Enough for him to be able to count each sun-kissed freckle that quickly met the orange and yellow lights. Enough for Thomas to perfectly see every detail of Newt’s lips; every line, every curve and shade of pink.

It was dark, shadows played around Newt's face, behind his brown eyes. And suddenly the silence of the room was loud, so much so that Thomas thought he heard the other's breath.

And that was one of those moments. When the brunet could easily turn into the temptation of closing that space in between them, to finish entwining that embrace and hug him and kiss him already.

Still, he didn't. He couldn't. He only smiled back.

“Do I win House points if I act like I'm paying attention?” Minho grunted as he and Thomas made their way through crowded hallways to their shared Potions class, a few days later.

It was a rather good September morning; the chilly air whispered through the castle's walls, the gardens slowly went from yellow to orange and hints of brown within the dry leaves, the sky was cloudy, but the Sun was still there, hiding and soft.

Except for the fact Thomas had no sleep the previous night, had almost no breakfast that morning, and grew irritated a bit more every time a little child bumped into him while walking or jumping through the halls, laughing. Minho looked just the same; exhausted, messy, and definitely not in a good mood to face his least favorite professor.

The boy was Thomas' other best friend, a clumsy, dark-haired asian Gryffindor from the same year as the brunet, who met him thanks to the few periods they had together since their first year. After becoming friends, Thomas was the one to introduce him and Newt, and it was Minho's work to make Thomas friends with everyone else he knew, basically. Of course, being a popular Gryffindor, Minho had always been an easy person to become friends with or introduce people to.

He was energized, – much so that sometimes Thomas envied him, – that type of person you could hear their yelling voice from across the crowded Great Hall almost every morning. Strong, but not so tall – Thomas still thought he was a few centimeters taller than him. Minho was also a loyal friend, even if he loved pranks and jokes and harmless fights.

He was the one person Thomas knew who wouldn't tolerate injustice to another level; so much so that he'd go into fights with any student for hitting another younger one off their broom in Quidditch matches, especially if they did it on purpose, out of amusement or just for possessing more strength. Yes, it had happened before.

“It's not like you'd be able to do it, anyway,” Thomas answered him with a smirk on his face, still looking forward, trying to make a way through the small cluster of second years that was formed in the corridor. He huffed at them.

“Slinthead,” Minho scoffed. 

But before Thomas could answer him, someone suddenly sprinted right past his left, catching Thomas off guard. It was right when he looked down, just to check the balance of the five books he held in between his arms — nothing fit in his bag anymore.

It didn’t matter, as the books fell on the ground in loud thuds in the middle of the hallway. And, of course, Thomas wasn’t one to save any publicly embarrassing moments to himself, being the stupid uncoordinated person he was and all. So he almost fell himself, only not because Minho was there to catch him.

It all happened so fast, Thomas only noticed the mess they had made when Minho put him upright. The Gryffindor usually didn't carry any bags with him, mostly only carrying one or two parchments, ink and pen for the next class – that's all.

The bottle of ink was long gone, broken in between the two of them, black liquid staining both their uniforms.

“Shit! I'm so sorry–” The voice came from behind them almost the second Thomas became aware of the dozen students staring at their mess, some holding in laughs. He sighed at the sound of the voice and turned around, Minho mimicked him almost comically. “Oh, hey, guys.”

Newt pulled at the end of his yellow tie, embarrassed.

Thomas rolled his eyes, but smiled.

Minho rubbed his hand on the growing black stain in his red tie and white shirt, only making more of a mess. 

“I'm not punching you in the face for this just because it was you.”

Newt scoffed.

“Don't be a sissy about it.” Then, he pulled his wand out of his pocket. “I can fix it.”

“Yeah, bet.”

With a few moves of the Hufflepuff's hand, the scattered pieces of glass from the bottle floated from the ground and became whole again, just as the black ink in their uniforms, Minho's papers and hands flew back into the recipient as if being sucked, leaving no drops of stains anywhere.

Thomas stared at Newt in awe, but Minho spoke for him.

“Non-verbal spell?!”

The group of students who paid attention to them continued with their day.

“ ‘Been learning a thing or two about it this year,” the blond shrugged, indifferent. Then, he knelt down, quickly picking up Thomas’ books together. The brunet repeated the action, but Newt had already caught most of them. “So, Tommy, ya down for a game of chess today?”

The two of them got up together, eyes locked.

“Sure, same garden?” Thomas organized all of his books together in a pile again, Newt helped him.

“Same tree. After your last class,” Newt pulled a strand of his golden hair behind his ear and glasses. Thomas observed it.

“Can I come?” Minho asked.

They started their way towards their class again, the blond following close by Thomas’ side. His subtle limp on his left leg was more present then, probably because he was running a few seconds before, the reason unknown. Still, the Ravenclaw asked himself if it could be they bumping into each other, feeling a bit guilty.

Newt had had a problem on his right leg since his third year after an accident in a Quidditch match against Gryffindor. He never talked much about it, so there was no space for worried questions from Thomas or anyone’s end. All he remembered about it was that Newt's broken bone didn't quite heal correctly, even with a bunch of medical potions.

“‘Course, so you can watch me beat his ass?” Teased Newt. He bumped his arm with Thomas' shoulder and – Thomas could almost believe he wasn't seeing correctly, but – he was pretty sure the blond also blinked at him from behind his glasses.

He could kiss him right there if he had just a glimpse of Godric Gryffindor's courage.

Minho broke this train of thought.

“Yeah, you're barking. Thomas will destroy you, as always.”

“We have to hurry, or Prof. Janson will throw us to the Whomping Willow,” Thomas warned Minho.

“You two're heading to Potions?” Newt asked.

“Yeah?”

“Ya know this period started like twelve minutes ago, right?”

“Shuck.”

That week flew by as if it were just hours, and the dry leaves fell faster from their trees as Thomas could stop to notice them.

The whole castle was roaring with excitement for the beginning of the Quidditch season, – the Ravenclaws were planning on using Wildfired Whizz-Bangs on the field for each of their victories, the fireworks in the form of eagles would go out from the players’ brooms; The Gryffindors, known for their war cries, already sang this year's song across the halls; The Hufflepuffs made custom magic flags that grew big in the crowd at every goal scored, along with a new cheering uniform; And the Slytherins had brought their team spirit into the Great Hall during breakfast that morning, where silver and green Feathery Flame Fuzzers exploded up in the high ceiling, higher than the floating candles and into the enchanted cloudy Autumn sky.

Later on that same day, they would be going against the Hufflepuffs for both their first match of the year, and the expectation and excitement already filled the crowded room.

Thomas walked through the giant doors at the entrance as he got settled with the idea of a busy day but, instead of heading to the Ravenclaw table, he strolled in the direction of the table where the mob in yellow chattered agitatedly.

The brunet walked past a few people on his way and, as he got closer to the usual spot on the long table he knew to go, some judgmental eyes pinched the back of his head. It wasn't uncommon for people to join other House tables in the morning, even maybe at supper, – it wasn't prohibited, – but still, he knew a few of his own House colleagues whispered about it. Thomas didn't care about their stupid bickering, though, as the Hufflepuffs were always welcoming and friendly.

And he didn't even have anything to care about anyway, as he now caught the glimpse of a crown of golden hair moving around, sitting down.

Newt was briefly talking to his Hufflepuff friends at the far end of the table, picking the food on his plate. But his lips curled into a big smile his friends seemed not capable of causing the second he noticed Thomas approaching.

“Morning, Tommy,” the boy's eyes tightened, still smiling. And the way his eyes shimmered in the soft early sunlight left Thomas in awe.

“Morning. Mind if I join you?”

It wasn't that often the brunet and Newt shared their meals on the other's table; the boys mostly did it when they hadn't had the chance to see each other the previous day – and sometimes Minho would join them, although he joked about already having his daily dose of Thomas on their shared classes, – or maybe when one of them had something important going on that day. Which was the case.

Newt was a chaser and the captain of the Hufflepuff Quidditch team and, knowing the blond, Thomas knew how nervous he probably was, even if he always chose to hide it. And apart from that, playing the sport was one of the things Newt probably liked most to do. Thomas wanted to have a chance to talk to him during their breakfast, afraid to risk the chance of not meeting him again before the game.

“Please do,” the blond gestured with his hand to the spot next to him, still chewing on his food. A black haired boy Thomas knew was named Zart also made space for him in between the two on the bench. He nodded, thanking him, and sat down.

Frypan, a dark skinned boy with curly hair, sat at the other side of Newt. Thomas knew him a bit more than Newt's other Hufflepuff friends, as he was also from fifth year and a good friend of Minho. He smiled at Thomas with his lips set, but was too concentrated on his food to make conversation. The brunet knew the boy would probably join them at the match to cheer for Newt and his own House, – he figured they could talk later.

Two girls were also sitting across the table in front of them; a short vanilla-blond-haired girl with the same eyes and smile as Newt, – his younger sister, Sonya, from fourth year. The other girl, dark skin and short braids with yellow beads at their ends, was called Harriet. She was also from fifth year and, along with Frypan, shared a few classes with Thomas.

The girls Thomas suspected to be more than friends – though he'd never asked – chatted excitedly between the two of them, sitting close to each other, forearms touching on top of the table. The brunet guessed they were also discussing the main event of the day – the game – as they were also players on the team. Sonya was the goalkeeper, Harriet one of the two Beaters.

“Excited for the match?” Asked Thomas, bumping his shoulder softly against his best friend's side after pulling a small plate close to him – the plate where Newt's slices of bread used to be.

“Excited?! I’m on the edge here,” Newt scoffed at him, head in one hand, elbow on the table. “I've accepted we're gonna lose.”

Hearing that made something inside Thomas anguished. He finished serving himself a fair slice of apple pie from the large line of appetizing food before answering in a sarcastic tone, brows narrowed and a weak smile:

“Wow, don't be so optimistic.” He didn't believe it was uncommon to feel this way before a first game like that, - hell, if he were in the Ravenclaw team, Thomas was sure he'd feel insecure with every bloody game. But he also knew Newt was the captain, and being so unmotivated wouldn't do the team any good, definitely.

He also just didn't want his friend to feel so helpless, ever.

Green and silver sparks danced high on top of the two. Whistling like birds, they swirled up before popping as fireworks, – some Hufflepuffs booed at them.

Newt turned his vision away, head down. Thomas kept staring back, – it was hard, measuring how much he had to show he cared when he actually cared in such a deep way.

“I'm serious. Last practice was a bloody mess,” mumbled Newt, picking at his food. “I'll honestly be glad if I get knocked off my broom by a Bludger before it even starts.”

“Well, look at the bright side of it,” Thomas set his lips together, hating what he was about to say.

“And that would be?”

“That you look good all in yellow, with your blond hair and all. The girls go crazy.”

His tongue felt sour in his mouth just as those words rolled out of it, – it felt wrong to say that. To tell Newt he just ‘looked good’ , because he surely was much more than that.

And most of all, insinuating any girl would think the same of Newt as Thomas thought was infuriating. It felt like falling into a rushing river and struggling for air. And yet, the brunet believed he still had to act as if he didn't want Newt in all the ways he did.

Thomas wasn't excited for his friend’s reaction, actually expecting a comment back about a girl or anything he wouldn't like to hear.

But “did you just say I look good?” was all he heard coming from the blond, along with a fond smirk and playful crossed arms.

Thomas’ eyes grew wide with embarrassment at being caught.

“No.” But of course he would deny it, even if he held in a dumb smile. And he looked away, staring at the cup of pumpkin juice magically being served in front of him. Heat crawled up his neck and cheeks so, figuring maybe it was better to end that conversation right there, Thomas stuffed his mouth with a good bite of his pie.

He heard a small scoff coming from Newt, although he wasn't brave enough to look at him again just yet.

He heard Zart ask Newt something and a response. But in a few seconds, the blond's sweet brown eyes were burning the side of his head again.

“Still this much into apple pie, hm?”

“They're the best, you should know.” Another bite. A sip of juice.

Newt smiled, chin on his hand and voice just a pitch lower.

“I really could argue about how wrong your taste is, but you just said I look good.”

Some words planned on getting out of Thomas, but he stammered them like a fool. The truth was he didn't know what to say, how to act; his cheeks felt hot as his body grew warm. Maybe he hated the way Newt made him feel. The way he knew he could write books, amount of volumes untold, about every little detail of things the boy unknowingly did to him.

Thomas glanced towards him, but Newt was already staring. His eyes, light and warming like the perfect honey treat, amused at the way he knew he had made the brunet blush. Damn him.

If only he knew.

If only the sharp rejection wouldn't tear Thomas apart.

The Ravenclaw rolled his eyes. Maybe if he played unbothered, he could fight the growing urge in his guts to kiss those lips that were already just a jump forward away.

“Just shut up and eat your disgusting beans.”

Newt's grin just increased and he scoffed. The two Hufflepuffs who got up from the table wearing their yellow scarves made Thomas remember something.

“Before I forget to tell you, I'll give your scarf back at supper,” he planned on using it at the game, along with his only decent yellow-looking coat to cheer for his friend. Some of the others from their bigger group would join Thomas at the Hufflepuff crowd since Frypan invited them all.

“No need. You can keep it,” Newt shrugged.

“Really? Then what about your–”

“I have another one in my dorm,” he took a sip of Thomas' juice. “And besides, I like you wearing it.”

“I have my blue ones, you know.” The brunet smirked.

“You complaining?”

“No.”

The soft Sun of noon was closer to the horizon line a bit more each second as the day came to an end, its nature casting the orange shade over the already sad and grey sky of the early season. Thomas walked up and down the evergreen hills of the outside gardens alone, on his way to the Quidditch pitch.

Most of the students had already left the castle in order to get to the game early but, of course, the boy had lost track of time in the library studying, where he feels like gravity is zero and time simply stops.

He was in quite a hurry, just as were the other unfortunate late students who wandered on that same path in front and behind him. No one he really knew.

That perfect amount of light and darkness was cast over the far mountains in the view, soothing the world in a simple touch. Still, Thomas didn't feel soothed at all, as anxiety for his friend crept inside of him.

Maybe he should stop feeling so worried and nervous for Newt at every bloody game he played. Or maybe worrying was just in Thomas’ nature.

The rawness of the cold breeze touched Thomas’ hands, and he instantly regretted not wearing gloves. In his waterproof yellow-mustard coat, a pair of warm black pants and wearing Newt's scarf around his neck, he hoped he wasn't so out of character that he wouldn't blend into the Hufflepuff crowd.

Still, when he got there, he laughed at himself when he noticed half of his friends didn't have the same worry as him.

Teresa, Brenda, Minho and Frypan were standing on the highest bleachers on Hufflepuff's side of the arena, as they usually did to watch games together when most weren't from the Houses playing – a rule that came up thanks to Minho and Newt’s stupid actions, after getting into two fights with Slytherins in previous years.

Thomas had to crawl himself up the stairs of the wooden tower — his breath quickly short, body too warm and sore legs screaming at him, — but it was all worth it as his friends yelled when he finally arrived.

Frypan, of course, was wearing the new Hufflepuff cheering uniform. His face was also painted in yellow stripes. Brenda, Teresa's girlfriend, a sixth-year Gryffindor with short dark hair and big brown eyes, also wore yellow to cheer for Newt. Teresa and Minho, on the other hand, were covered in dark neutral-colored clothes.

But Thomas already knew the two idiots would look like that.

“Am I late?” He asked his friends, standing in between Minho and Teresa. 

“The game just started,” his Ravenclaw best friend answered him, hugging the side of his body closer to her. He thankfully took her in.

The whole crowd screamed various types of cheering songs and regular shouts at the players, already riding their brooms in the air. The thick wind brought difficulty to view the whole field, so Thomas could only see a few players at a time, – the ones who weren't flying so far away, so fast. Even the narrator, a Slytherin boy named Aris, was having a hard time making his light-hearted teasing comments against the Hufflepuffs.

Flags waved up from the crowd, wands from the Hufflepuffs were pointed out and cast all types of small golden fireworks as the game rose.

Two Slytherin chasers flew by the black and yellow audience, receiving screams in return. Brenda and Frypan shouted along. Thomas only cared about finding a specific player in the light fog.

“Look who's all dressed up,” Teresa caught his attention again, making the brunet take his eyes off the grey skies, — still no effort in finding Newt. A small – yet growing – pit of unease and concern placed itself in Thomas’ gut and throat but, still, he tried to pay attention to his girl friend.

The raven-haired girl with unbelievably pearly skin and bright blue irises had a small grin on the corner of her red lips, a suggestive look in her sharp eyes. Thomas knew what she probably wanted to insinuate – which was how much he cared about cheering for Newt, maybe sometimes even more than he bothered about his own Quidditch team.

He had never told her. Not one single thing about his feelings. But Thomas understood that his friend was just one of those people who simply knew everything.

Still, he tried to twist the conversation.

“I see you're not.” With that same smile Teresa had, Thomas glanced her up and down. From raincoat and jumper to boots, she wore mostly an earthy shade of dark green and black; colors that didn't do her looks justice but, since her goal was to not stand out, it did its job.

“I can’t, I'm also a captain, remember?” She said it as if that was brand new information to the brunet, which only made him scoff. Teresa was the captain of the Ravenclaw Quidditch team, which made her believe it would be inappropriate for her to cheer for anyone else. Minho had the same excuse. Thomas believed they were just being stupid.

“Sure.”

Before Teresa could retort something back, the crowd below them roared in excitement as three Hufflepuff players emerged from the annoying fog. Two of them gashed through the air so quickly it was hard to even recognize them.

The third one came into view, and Thomas knew he would never fail to recognize him.

Newt, holding the Quaffle under his left arm and against his ribcage, shot high into the sky as one of the Slytherin Beaters approached him. His loose golden hair moved according to the wind, and some stubborn strands from his bangs clung to the skin of his forehead and cheeks, – it was hard to actually see every single detail, although Thomas already had the scene engraved in the back of his mind.

A Bludger started following the Slytherin Beater, who tried to gain an advantage on the move. He continued following Newt high up in the air, bat securely in his hand, clearly getting ready to deflect the enchanted iron ball in Newt's direction.

But, before he could make the move, the fog consumed both of them again, making it impossible to see what happened.

Thomas’ heart shot in desperation, sinking. A million thoughts ran through his mind. What if the Bludger knocked Newt off his broom, what if he fell? What if he got seriously hurt? Again.

“Don't worry, Thomas. I'm wearing enough for both of us to cheer for your boyfriend,” Brenda smirked from behind Teresa, putting her hands on both of her girlfriend's shoulders.

Thomas didn't even catch what the Gryffindor girl had said, – still looking at the grey horizon, hearing the shouts for Newt's name from the Hufflepuffs hammering against his brain and heart, – until Frypan spoke loudly over the people:

“Oh, so you two are dating! Ha! Winston owes me ten Galleons.”

And then, he felt that same warmth from before – when Newt caught him saying he looked good – blossom in his cheeks.

“We're not ,” his voice was set and sharp, trying to make that very clear – although Frypan, Brenda and Teresa obviously didn't believe him, almost failing to hold off their smiles. Did people actually think he was dating Newt? How could they? It was true Thomas had feelings for him, although he didn't walk around telling everyone like it was a ‘good morning’. Still, Newt never showed any reciprocation, so why believe he felt the same way about Thomas? Right? The brunet turned to the girls. “And you two are not funny.”

Brenda put her arms up in the air, playing innocent. Teresa looked up and around, as if he didn't speak to her.

Minho was strangely quiet.

“What's up with Minho?” He pointed out. Maybe in a way to finally end that conversation. But mostly because his friend stared into the distance, lips in a straight line and eyes switching from player to player in the sky. Minho kept his jaw set, arms crossed. All of them focused on him for a moment.

Frypan answered, voice a bit quieter:

“He won't tell us,” then he put a hand over his mouth. “But I bet it's Gally. You know how the blokes are.”

“I can hear your shucking voices, you know that, right?” Minho cut their whispering, eyes never leaving the game.

Thomas shared an acknowledging look with Frypan.

Gally, an unfriendly Slytherin fifth year, dirty blond hair shorter than most students and a constant twisted look on his face, wasn't one of Thomas’ favorite people. Always teasing and confronting everyone he didn't go along with, unbothered about things that really mattered, – the brunet would have never considered him someone he would ever be interested in getting to know.

And still, Minho, of all people, saw something in the boy that no one of his friends did. The Gryffindor and the Slytherin had a… strange relationship, from Thomas’ perspective.

They were like fire and ice; they started arguments that ended up in laughter, and they teased each other at every opportunity they had. Knowing Minho, Thomas was surprised when he first said he had become friends with a Slytherin like Gally . 

Some things just didn't deserve a written explanation inside a book, he guessed.

Gally was the Seeker of the Slytherin team and, along with Newt, was currently in the air, nowhere to be seen due to the terrible weather. And so, Thomas took just a few seconds observing his friend to understand him; Minho was probably just as worried about the Slytherin boy as he was for Newt.

Not that he was sure of the reason, even if he had his suspicions, – Minho would usually punch his shoulder or make an exaggerated disgusted face every time Thomas insinuated something between him and Gally. 

Thomas was observant enough to catch them sharing stupid smiles and long glances sometimes, though.

The loud voice of Aris announcing the score so far won a few excited shouts from their side of the bleachers; it was a fierce match, still Hufflepuff was ahead by twenty points. The group went silent once again as they all continued to pay attention to the game.

The blurred dots of yellow and green cutting the air as they flew around never rested, going from one side of the pitch to the other in fractions of seconds. Thomas’ eyes searched for Newt at every play, every move.

One of the Hufflepuff Chasers scored another goal, making everyone jump forward in thrill and the flags fluttered high in the crowd, swaying against the wind 

The Seekers from both teams flew around calmly, still searching for the Golden Snitch. Thomas saw Minho locking his eyes on Gally.

In just a few minutes, Slytherin scored three goals in a row, tying the game.

Before the Quaffle started to get thrown around again, the Hufflepuffs got together in a small circle, still on top of their brooms. Thomas and the others could barely see their faces from so far away, and still, he indisputably knew who was the one player who gave orders to the others and brought the team the strength they needed, gesturing around with his arm, ball under the other.

He followed Newt with his eyes without looking away for even a second, afraid he might lose him from sight again after already doing so before. Only to see a Slytherin chaser violently crash their brooms together as they tried to win the Quaffle from the blond as soon as the game continued. Frypan and Brenda, along with a mob of other fans, booed the ugly move from the Slytherin. That dark and cold pit of worry grew a few more inches inside Thomas, and it still didn't change size when he thankfully saw that Newt was fine.

The blond advanced a few yards, dodging three players and a Bludger, and scored a goal. The crowd cheered. Thomas only hoped no Slytherin would knock him off his broom the next time. Sometimes he understood Newt believed (or wanted to believe) he would be okay if he ever went through an accident while flying again, as if after having his leg seriously hurt once it couldn't happen a second time. The brunet just wished he would be careful, – the last thing he wished for Newt was to see him in such a vulnerable state again, it would break his friend.

“Why do you look like your head is about to explode?” Brenda's voice called his attention. When Thomas realized she and Teresa were staring at him, that he was pinching the skin of his forearm over his coat and his face was distressed, he released his body from the anxious trance.

“Nothing. It's just Newt,” he answered, inpatient. He was already expecting some type of sarcastic comment or more provocative smiles from his friends. Was it that hard to accept he cared about his friend's well-being without making fun of him?

“How?”

“I'm just scared he'll fall off and break something again, okay? Before you start with your jokes.” The words were spat on Brenda's face, almost too harshly and rude but, even if the brunet regretted his tone as soon as they left his mouth, he still crossed his arms, looking away from the two. Even so, he still felt the girls sharing a glance that spoke louder than their words could.

“Don't worry, Tom. He's gotten a lot better since that time,” Teresa spoke quietly, voice warm and soothing. She put one of her hands on her best friend's shoulder, – the small pressure on the place slowly eased the tension of Thomas’ muscles with a simple touch. “You worry like this at every game of his and nothing happens, right? He'll be okay.”

Her hand dropped from his shoulder as the boy turned his head briefly to look at her. Teresa had one of those caring smiles she seemed to use only with Thomas, always successful in comforting him, her piercing light-blue eyes and brief smile also sent him reassurance.

After so many years already together, sharing every class, almost every meal, every night at their common room, the girl was probably the person who knew him the best – and the other way around, too. Thomas felt Teresa always knew what was going on inside his anxious little head and, even if sometimes it was annoying, it came in handy most of the days.

He only nodded in response and smiled back weakly, knowing no words were needed in between them anymore. He only hoped the game would be over soon; Hufflepuff was winning, and Newt was okay so far, although he seemed to be pushing himself to his limit at every play.

He and his stupid mind; it took Slytherin less than five minutes to turn the points around. The green crowd on the other side of the pitch, even if blurred and difficult to see – now also because of the dark – roared in approval.

There was still no sign of the Snitch from his position down from close to the ground, although Thomas thought Gally and the Hufflepuff Seeker had already seen it as they sometimes gained velocity out of nowhere. They stopped, then, floating higher than where the game happened.

He felt a bit guilty about wishing Gally failed on getting to the Snitch first, meaning Hufflepuff would win. Even if he spent a bit more time now getting to know the boy thanks to Minho, he was still much closer to Newt – having secret feelings for him or not. His priorities were set straight.

He probably guessed Minho was feeling that same guilt inside him, but for the other team. He wouldn't blame his friend.

After more minutes of risky moves from both teams that led the spectators to the edge of the benches, Hufflepuff managed to turn the points around again.

The Sun was long gone, and the depths of the Autumn night crept into the field and gardens around the castle as the ache still settled upon Thomas’ chest. The cold air froze the tip of his nose, and a pink shade blossomed in his cheeks. He craved the warmth of his clothes, pressing his hands together in front of him, tugging his chin and right side of his face into the yellow and black scarf around his neck that still held Newt's scent so dearly; cinnamon and peppermint, like a Christmas morning.

Winning or losing, Thomas promised himself to get down to the locked room and hug Newt tight after the match.

Frypan and Minho held their breath beside him when Aris’ voice broke through the shouts and songs. Thomas followed their eyes up in the sky.

“It looks like Gally definitely put his eyes on the Snitch! Clint follows him close behind, fighting for every centimeter he can. Side by side, Clint stretches his hand…” Aris narrated the moment as everyone turned silent. Frypan put his hands on his head. “It's a breathtaking race, no doubt! They cut the sky upwards and… Hell! The two Seekers disappeared into the clouds. Who knows who's getting the Snitch first?! My Galleons go to Slytherin, of course.”

Brenda and Frypan scoffed. Minho kept his arms crossed, looking up at the clouds like everyone else. Thomas clasped his hands together tightly, nervous. In the game that was still going on between the other players down in the field, Newt launched the Quaffle to another Chaser, who scored and won ten more points for Hufflepuff, – but Aris and most of the students were too busy waiting for the Seekers to come back to pay attention to the actual game. As Hufflepuff wasn't so many points ahead, if any of the Seekers caught the Snitch now, they would win the match.

“I think I see someone coming back from the clouds, and!.. No, just an owl,” Aris spoke into the microphone. “For how long have they been gone? Seven? Seven minutes, everybody, and still no sign of… Wait, what's that? It's Clint! He's coming down, but I don't see anything in his hands. Yep, there's Gally right behind him! Holding the Snitch, everyone! Slytherin wins their first match of the season with 240 to 110 points!”

Green and silver sparks exploded from the towers on each side of the pitch, confetti falling on top of everyone as the fans from the victorious House yelled and roared in excitement. Gally flew down from the sky and surfed above the Slytherin crowd on his broom, Golden Snitch in one hand and followed by his teammates, celebrating.

The Hufflepuff team got down from their brooms as they hit the grass on the ground. Thomas saw Newt reaching for his sister and hugging her from the side, a sweet but sad smile on their faces.

Frypan huffed in disappointment, already following a mob of Hufflepuffs to the stairs of the exit. Brenda patted his back. Teresa followed them both. Minho stood still, arms not moving from their position where they were still crossed over his chest.

“Gally won, huh?” Thomas bumped his shoulder against the Gryffindor's, smirking. He was sad for Hufflepuff losing, of course. But he was more relieved that Newt survived another game without any injuries. And he could tease his friend a bit before going to look for the blond.

Minho held down a smile.

“Shut up, I hate that stupid House.”

“Yeah, not him, though.”

Minho scoffed and looked at the Slytherins one last time before following the rest. Thomas laughed at him.

The flight of stairs and the small walk alone to the side of the locker room where the Hufflepuffs were set was quiet, although Thomas did hear the murmuring and annoyed comments of some let-down fans from the House as they made their way back to the castle in groups.

Now empty and quiet, the vast green yards of the Quidditch field were dimly illuminated by the yellow glow of fireflies and the pearly pink sparkles of the fairies – who usually showed their shiny wings only when the world slept, during the evenings in the lawns and glades.

Thomas cupped his hands in front of his mouth and breathed through them, looking for anything that could warm them up. Thankfully, he noted the insides of the locker room were heated as he stepped in. The place was almost completely empty, just a few players who weren't in such a hurry to get to supper still stood there, taking their time to shower, change, or just chat after the lost match.

Thomas didn't know all of them very well, although he noticed Sonya and Harriet also still there, sitting down next to each other on a bench as the blonde girl helped her girlfriend take off the safety equipment of her uniform.

“Newt?” He called for his friend after greeting the two.

But it wasn't necessary for him to call a second time before he found Newt.

The boy, facing the open wooden cabinet where his bag and belongings were stored, didn't turn around as he felt and heard Thomas’ arrival. Maybe he was waiting for the brunet to say something again, but Thomas didn't plan to. He would be ashamed of admitting it to anyone, but he was too busy paying attention to Newt's bare back to open his mouth. Thankfully, no one was near them to watch his heart melt down to the floor.

Wet towel hanging on his left shoulder, pair of clean jeans dangerously low on his waist, water droplets still clinging onto the bare skin of his muscled back and dripping from his washed blond hair; Thomas let his gaze wander over every minimal detail he could catch from such a distance, and he dared to wish he was closer.

He watched a single drop of water travel down the blond's back and touch the hem of his jeans. He wanted to store that trace of memory in a bottle forever.

Newt was warm, – Thomas knew it, even if he couldn't touch him. The honeyed freckles placed delicate kisses on the skin of his whole body, which Thomas was jealous of. He wanted to be able to press those kisses himself, trace every curve of his best friend's outline, engrave every constellation there was.

A new kind of electricity weaved through his veins. Maybe kisses on his back wouldn't be enough. Thomas wished to spin Newt on his heels and capture his lips against his own.

Still, he could only watch. Even if his whole body urged him to jump forward, and his heart pounded inside his chest as if he needed it to survive.

Newt, oblivious of Thomas, — of all the reactions he caused, — faced the brunet before he could put on the red shirt in his hands.

But his eyes didn't look at Thomas’ when he finally decided to speak.

“Not a good time, Tommy.”

And Thomas didn't catch how bitter the blond's tone was, too distracted by his every movement.

“I just wanted to check how you're doing,” he fidgeted with his hands, speaking softly as he remembered to breathe. Did he almost forget the whole reason he went there to comfort Newt in the first place? Maybe.

Newt put a wet strand of hair behind his ear and his towel aside. Thomas observed his long eyelashes flutter as he sneered.

“My arms are sore and my leg's about to buggin’ fall off, but thank you for asking.”

He slid his arms and neck into the shirt.

Thomas stared at him, confused. Was Newt angry with him? Deep down, the brunet knew he wasn't; he knew his friend very well to know exactly the guilt he made himself feel. But, either way, Newt's annoyed voice and the way he still hadn’t had the concern to look Thomas in the eye felt like a punch in the gut.

Newt, ever so caring and protective about the ones he loved, had this terrible disease inside him: his guilt, his self-sabotage mania.

The blond was someone to use big words and over explain everything, as if being misunderstood was the worst thing he could ever possibly be. But then, in moments like this, where he took the blame for something that didn't belong to him, he would usually shut himself out, not telling anybody – not even Thomas – anything he felt.

Sometimes, keeping everything to yourself resulted in an explosion. Newt was an expert in the area.

“Why 're you being a git?” Thomas asked, even if he didn't mean it completely, even if he knew the answer. He laughed weakly with an almost nervous smile. 

Knowing he was being selfish but turning the situation to himself – even if he didn't want to, – the brunet felt helpless. He was expecting Newt to see him; smile at him as soon as he saw Thomas get into the room; hug him; find comfort in him for having lost the match and talk to him as if it was what he most craved to do.

Saying Thomas’ heart didn't clench at the realization Newt probably just didn't want to see him would be a lie.

“Do I really need to tell you?” Newt asked, voice the complete opposite of the one Thomas heard earlier at breakfast. And his eyes finally locked with the brunet's – hurt and dark. The Ravenclaw didn't answer him. “Maybe because I just got my arse beaten out there.”

“But you didn't. You played so well,” Thomas got a few steps closer. Even with the other's attitude, his body still urged to hug him. “And you guys almost–”

Newt interrupted him, scoffing.

“Yeah, almost .”

Thomas sighed deeply, tired.

“Look, I know how Quidditch is important to you, but–”

“What? I already expected to lose?” Newt aggressively took his bag off the cabinet and collected his dirty uniform from the floor. Maybe he felt so guilty for losing since he was the captain. Maybe he was angry with his team. Maybe it was a whole different reason. Thomas just knew he didn't deserve to listen to that anymore.

Still, stupidly, he cared so much.

He still wished he could kiss even these ugly, stubborn parts of Newt away.

“What? I didn't–”

But he was interrupted again.

“You should leave, mate.” Newt's eyes held onto Thomas for a few seconds, torment yet indifference in them. And his voice, dry and not leaving space for any more additions to the conversation, felt calculated to hurt Thomas, to make him understand Newt just wanted to be left alone.

Even if the brunet thought he saw his lips contort right after, as if he didn't mean it. As if the blond wanted to take it back.

He didn't care anymore, though; he got the message.

Even if Thomas thought, – even if he knew that was a stupid thing to fight about – Merlin, he couldn't believe his first strife with Newt would be for such a ridiculous reason, – those words felt like invisible but strong hands crushing the brunet's heart.

They stared at each other, but for the first time in many, Thomas didn't know what happened behind those once warm brown eyes.

He observed Newt run his hands through his still-wet long hair. His eyes glistened with his own self-deprecation.

The boy turned around, back facing Thomas now, fussing through his things in his bag.

The Ravenclaw scoffed.

“Alright, then. Sorry for even caring.”

He pulled the still-warm yellow scarf quite aggressively off his neck before throwing it on the bench next to Newt's bag. Part of him regretted giving it back, but a bigger and louder one didn't want anything that came from Newt at that moment.

It was quite funny, wasn't it, the fact he walked all the way there to be with his friend, to comfort him, but received nothing but cold behavior in return.

He still even thought of waiting at the door, seeing if Newt would look back. He didn't stay for long to see if he did.

On his way back to the path that led to the castle, he found Sonya and Harriet, still packing their things.

“Hi, girls,” he half-smiled at them, not having much energy for anything more.

Sonya seemed to understand his expression immediately after a simple look into Thomas’ eyes. She sighed.

“I'm sorry, Thomas. You know how he–”

His smile grew an inch.

“Yeah, whatever. See you later.”

He never stopped walking on his way through the gardens, and he took his time pacing around the halls until he finally reached the wooden door at the top of the Ravenclaw tower.

The chilly breeze that wandered through the dark halls of the castle was completely forgotten as soon as he got into his common room; the graceful and tall but closed arched windows around the whole tower kept the wind out, just as the lit fireplace kept everyone warm inside. Thomas noticed it started raining outside as he saw thin traces of water tap against the window, coming from the indigo blue skies – at least the almost non-existent fraction of luck he had that day saved him from confronting the rain alone as he walked back to the castle.

A few students who had already come back from the Great Hall sat around the room; some chatting, spread around the midnight-blue carpet and all types of cushions, some playing chess, sitting in the far corner.

And a raven-haired girl he didn't fail to recognize sat from across the entrance door, in one of the multiple dark velvet armchairs close to the fire, – her face down as she ran her eyes through an old book, a ginger cat sitting on her lap. Thomas half walked, half dragged himself over to her.

Teresa, as soon as she looked up at him over the tiny words in front of her, raised an eyebrow.

“Where were you at supper?” She questioned, a layer of caramel over her light-blue eyes as the orange and yellow flames of the fireplace illuminated the side of her face. 

The girl, already free of the dark, ugly clothes she had on at the game, now wore a light-purple long-sleeved sleeve (with ink splatters on its ends) and comfortable-looking pants. Her long and wavy dark hair was tied in two braids, each sitting behind her ears. Thomas was jealous of her; he would spend the next afternoon cleaning all the dirty vases at the greenhouses if he could have a warm shower and be in clean, comfortable clothes with one wave of his wand.

He dropped his body on the dark blue armchair next to her, sighing. Finally, his legs could stop screaming at him.

“Went looking for Newt,” stretching his hand over to her lap, Thomas ran his fingers lazily through Rusty's, Teresa's cat, orange-colored fur, – he arched the end of his back as Thomas petted him, eyes closed.

“And you're not gonna eat?” The girl asked, her tone annoyed as if his previous answer wasn't any news to her. The abrupt movement of her book closing in his hands caused Rusty to jump out of her lap, making Thomas huff.

“Don't feel like it,” he mumbled.

And he knew to expect a whole lesson from her, but the brunet guessed not even Teresa was in the mood when she stayed silent, only inspecting each centimeter of his face with her scorching irises, – he pretended not to notice, though.

The fire was quick to make him sick of so much clothing, so Thomas only unglued his back from the cozy armchair to take his yellow coat off, sitting now only in a striped jumper.

Somehow, even after what was probably an hour already, the ghost of Newt's scarf was still there, making Thomas' neck tingle where the soft knitted fabric used to be; it served only as a reminder of his friends’ stupid, yet strange and unusual behavior from before.

The only sounds that echoed inside Thomas’ mind, – that fought against his tiring thoughts – were the distant voices of his Housemates in between unknown conversations, the steady patterns of the rain outside, and the quiet crackling of the fire next to them. Before Teresa opened her mouth again. Of course, the look in her eyes already told him she still had something to say.

“Brenda got it right, hm?” The girl's tone changed subtly, a bit sweeter than the one from seconds before. “You like him?”

Thomas, as so many other times, found himself out of words. He feared there was nothing more he could hide now, – not that he ever planned to. Either way, Teresa seemed to actually be able to read his mind, always knowing what went on inside his head. Again, now.

“Newt?” He still asked, playing stupid one last time. And his eyes kept staring at a bronze-colored detail of the carpet.

“Duh, Tom.” Thomas heard Teresa scoff, and she continued, smiling. “You worry about him like he's so much more than your friend. And you look at him like he's your whole Sun.” 

His eyes tracked back to her, then, confused.

Did he? He did not.

Well, maybe he thought so. He certainly could live happily in a world where Newt was the center of his system, – Merlin, maybe he already did.

But Thomas always made sure to hide his adoration for the blond. Well, at least he tried to. And right now he was sure his hurting heart didn't give him much space to feel it (call him dramatic, whatever).

Maybe he sucked at it. Maybe Teresa was just too observant and too smart. Maybe she was a Legilimens and he didn't know it. And he guessed his silence fit like an answer when Teresa's warm smile contorted into her annoying know-it-all one.

“I thought you hadn't figured it out yet and I'd be that incredible friend who'd help you open your mind about that, but I'm glad you weren't stupid about this one.”

Thomas sneered at her.

“Thanks, Resa.”

“Anytime.” His friend leaned closer to him, her eyes sparkling as if she was ready to make up a mischievous plan. “So, when are you doing something ‘bout it?”

He weakly let out a breath as his hand slid through the short hair on the back of his neck.

“Don't get your hopes up.”

“Why?”

“I don't think he wants anything to do with me.” The last empty look on Newt's face ran behind Thomas’ eyes; the tone in his voice, his words, the way he turned his back to Thomas. “Ever, but especially not right now.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing to be worried about,” Thomas shrugged. The reality was that he knew this difference between him and his best friend wouldn't last long; he would only wait to talk to Newt when the blond was ready (or when he would be the one to look for Thomas), and also because he knew he couldn't be mad at Newt for more than hours at a time. Still, it hurt at that moment. “I found him after the game. Honestly, I was just glad he was okay,” Thomas laughed weakly. “I went there to hug him and talk to him, but he was mad about losing. I think he feels guilty for it, being the captain and all. And, well, I was the one there to receive the punch.”

Teresa blinked twice after he stopped talking, and maybe disbelief would be the best word to describe the expression on her face.

“I'm sorry,” she half-laughed in between a sigh, “you two are such dimwits, it just hurts my brain.” That made Thomas roll his eyes. “But if it makes you feel any better, he got to the Great Hall right when I was leaving supper just a few minutes ago, asking about you.”

The sly smile on the corner of her lips left a worried feeling sitting in Thomas' gut.

“What did he want?”

Teresa grasped her beaten-up book in her pale hand.

“I'll let you find out for yourself.” And, still with that annoying smile, she got up, long braids flying behind her shoulder as she turned towards the arched door to the girls’ dormitories, Rusty following her close. And she gave no space for more questions from Thomas, who was left alone wondering what she meant.

Nature's humming melody had always been pleasant at the margins of the Great Lake, or so Thomas thought. It wasn't a place much visited by the students during mornings in the middle of the week, so the quietness and loneliness of it could be welcoming if you knew how to appreciate it.

The dark murmuring waters from the lake moved slowly a few steps away from his legs as the boy sat under an ancient tree, his back against its trunk. His bare feet touched the wet dirt and short grass, – even if it was a bit chilly outside. The songs of birds drifted through the wind, the last orange leaves hushed against branches, all around him smelled like damp earth.

Thomas breathed deeply, closing his eyes. In his hands, an open book – forgotten, because in reality, his mind wasn't in the right place to focus on his reading.

A few days had passed, and he still hadn’t crossed paths with Newt. Not that he had looked for the blond, – maybe Thomas had to admit to being a bit too proud to search for his friend when in reality, he wasn’t the one who did something wrong.

But they hadn't seen each other in the halls in between classes, or in the gardens. Not even in the Great Hall, but Thomas assumed that was probably his fault – with the first upcoming exams of the semester, he hadn't had time to think about eating so much when he knew he should study. Packs of candies and chocolates from his past visits to Zonko's and leftovers Teresa brought him to the common room should do the job.

And he also knew Newt wasn't avoiding him, according to Brenda – because apparently the Gryffindor girl and Teresa were too invested in getting the two to talk to each other. Thomas just figured Newt was probably just as full of assignments and books as he was, or maybe just didn't want to speak to him.

The brunet still wondered if he should have pushed through Newt's bad mood that night after the game, if he had taken something so silly to heart when he knew his best friend probably didn't even mean it. Maybe he was wrong in the sense of leaving, – maybe he should've stayed either way. Maybe—

“Found ya.”

As if Thomas’ thoughts had somehow summoned him, Newt appeared from behind the tree – bag hanging from his shoulder, wand in one hand, something that looked like a napkin on the other, and the edges of his lips curled into a sheepish smile.

It caught the brunet by surprise. His heart skipped a beat at the sound of his voice, but as if somehow all of his thoughts had simply vanished, an odd sense of relief filled him.

“How did you?” He closed the book on his lap.

“You forget I know you too well,” Newt sat down next to him, back against the tree.

Thomas let out a small laugh through his nose at that.

He watched Newt put down his bag on the grass, hand him the napkin he had brought, and put out his wand.

Thomas, confused, opened the napkin in his hands – it had something inside it: a slice of apple pie.

“You brought me pie?” He glanced at his friend.

Newt was taking off his shoes and socks. Then he dug his feet into the wet mud, just like Thomas. And he spoke again, looking nowhere specifically.

“Didn't see ya at breakfast.”

To add to that sense of relief, a warm pinch at Thomas' heart. Newt had been worried about him. Maybe they were already okay, even if he still sensed Newt wanted to talk about what happened. Maybe he just overthought it for too long.

“Didn't feel like eating,” he answered, although he gratefully took a big bite of the pie, holding back a smile.

They stayed silent for a few minutes while Thomas finished the slice, looking in the distance. He could feel the blond a few inches away, shoulders almost touching. He could feel Newt think, if that was even possible. See his hands anxiously fidgeting with each other as he seemed to put words together. Eventually, he seemed to make up his mind about it.

“Look, Tommy, I'm sorry for–”

But Thomas interrupted him.

“It's okay.” Because really, it was. He understood what happened and, now that he at least had confirmation Newt wasn't planning on never talking to him again – or whatever his dramatic mind had made him believe before – he only cared about being beside him again. That was enough for the brunet.

He crumpled the empty napkin and slid it into his pocket.

Newt seemed determined to talk, though. A brown leaf fell beside him as he continued.

“No, let me speak. I shouldn't have been rude to you. I never should. But especially not when you were just looking out for me,” his voice was silky, sweet. And his eyes stared at Thomas with an adoration of some kind, resting behind his dark brown irises.

“Then why were you?” Thomas asked, although he didn't really wait for a concrete answer, – also although his heart skipped maybe too many beats at the sight of the soft sunlight hitting the side of Newt's face so close.

The Hufflepuff bit his lips and took a second to respond. And his eyes drifted away during that.

“I don't know. I honestly can't even understand myself,” he let out a weak laugh.

Thomas smiled.

“It's okay.” Then, he remembered. “What did you and Teresa talk about? You know, on that night.”

Newt's eyes failed to hide a bit of embarrassment. He dropped his head, that same weak laugh leaving his lips and staining it with an unsettling smile.

“Nothing important.” Then he looked at Thomas again, before he could insist on an answer. “But will you forgive me?”

The brunet rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Of course, Newt.” He spread his body more openly against the tree behind them and on the dirt, the palms of his hands now completely lying against the tingling blades of grass. Newt, probably unconsciously, moved his hands to the same position and place Thomas had.

“Great,” he let out an exaggerated relieved breath. “‘Cause if there's someone I don't want to be distant from because of a stupid mistake, it's you.”

And, maybe by accident, maybe it just happened and no one was to blame, maybe it was even his body moving by its own, – but Newt's fingers touched his where they lay in the grass. A soft pressure on top of his hand, almost unnoticeable. But Thomas believes there's not one movement from the blond he wouldn't catch.

A ghost of sting that left the tiny hairs of his arm hit him, coming from the place where their fingers touched and traveled up his body. And the feeling moved to the corners of his mouth, giving it a small tug.

Thomas dared to steal a look down. He even dared to move his pinky finger – almost as if it had never moved. But it did, and Newt responded with an even smaller brush of fingertips.

“Yeah,” the brunet managed to answer, although even that stupid, simple word left his mouth weird.

He glanced up; at Newt. His golden hair, – and it almost seemed honey-bathed, – let some stubborn pieces floating around his face as the breeze touched their skin. In his brown eyes, the reflection of the dark waters of the Great Lake, sparkles of the sunlight touching the water. Thomas noticed two expression lines forming in the outer corners of each of his eyes, – he wanted to kiss them. He could kiss each line and freckle on his friend's face, and maybe the word ‘friend’ just didn't sit right anymore in the same sentence as the word ‘kiss’, but the brunet was coming along to accept that was what he could have.

Their hands never stop touching down on the grass.

And Thomas sees a sly smile forming on the blond's mouth as he looks at the distance, a memory visibly visiting him.

“What?” He asked the other.

“Nothing. Just something she told me ‘bout you.”

“Do I wanna know?” He had to ask Teresa to stop talking with Newt about him. Especially now that she knew.

“Don't think so.” Newt's tiny eyes as he smiled looked a bit down from Thomas’ own eyes.

“Then I'm not even gonna ask–” And he was interrupted with the motion of the blond's hand – unfortunately letting go of Thomas’ fingers on the ground – reaching up to his face.

Newt placed his hand on Thomas’ chin – just slightly, – his thumb swiping off something from the corner of the brunet's upper lip. The movement was quick and easy, although it left his poor heart out of rhythm once again, and the ghost of his finger inches away from his mouth, lingering.

He explained himself before Thomas could open his mouth. Not that he dared to.

“Pie crumbles.”

Halloween had always been one of the most eagerly awaited nights at Hogwarts, and that year was no different. As twilight settled over the stone walls of the castle, the Great Hall came alive with a shimmering glow; floating jack-o-lanters bobbed gently in the air along with the usual enchanted candles, their flickering faces casting playful shadows on the enchanted ceiling that mirrored the almost too cloudy night outside.

The long tables groaned under piles of treats, filling the air with the sweet scent of pumpkin pasties and spicy cauldron cakes. Students of all ages buzzed with excitement, their laughter and whispers weaving through the flickering candlelight.

But Thomas, sitting at the end of the Ravenclaw table, barely shared the spirit of the season.

Sitting down right in front of him was Teresa, and on her other side was Brenda – who, even still proudly was in her Gryffindor uniform, decided to share the Halloween dinner with her girlfriend. The two were seemingly inside their own bubble, their own perfect world; giggles and whispers coming out from them every once in a while. Thomas had to admit he loved seeing his two friends so happy together, – they actually glowed around each other, – but, even as he observed the two with a radiant smile, he couldn't help but feel a bit tired of their sugary conversations by now.

“You trying to make me blush or something?” Brenda questioned the raven-haired girl as she changed their previous topic.

“What?” Thomas watched Teresa support her chin and cheeks against her hands, elbow on the table, eyes blinking slowly as if she was hypnotized.

“You keep staring into my eyes.”

“No, but now that you mention it, there's a bit of gold in the brown now, it's honestly kind of distracting.”

“Flirt,” Brenda smirked. Teresa mimicked her girlfriend.

“Only for you.”

Thomas made a playful puking expression. The Gryffindor girl grinned at him.

“You're just jealous.” Teresa raised her dark eyebrows, smiling.

“Don't worry, Thomas. Your boyfriend is walking towards here right now.”

Thomas thought of scoffing or snapping back against Brenda's bickering, but his first instinct was to turn his head around, looking for whom he knew Brenda joked about.

And Newt was just three steps away when Thomas glanced at him from the bench. A small smile formed itself on his rosy lips when he noticed the brunet saw him, the right side of his face lit with the golden glow of candles. Still in his Hufflepuff uniform – dark gray pants, white button-up up and tie under his black winter cloak with the Hufflepuff symbol on his chest, and on top of it all, his yellow and black striped scarf, as if he had just been outside, under the chilly Autumn night. Newt leaned down a bit as soon as he reached Thomas, face close to the brunet's ear.

“How about we dip?” Were the words his raspy voice whispered.

Thomas could feel a quick rush of warmth and something else at the words. The idea of leaving that place with his friend sounded more than appealing.

“Yeah, take me from here.” Their eyes met inches away as he spoke. But Thomas was the one to break the contact as he quickly got up without even a last look at his food, a growing smile on his face.

Cloak in his hands, a sweet sense of curiosity humming inside him, he followed Newt close as they dodged students who were standing. But before he could walk too far, his ear caught Brenda almost yelling the words “I heard you!” over the others.

Newt grasped Thomas' hand, pulling him each step more, and in a few seconds they crossed the big walls of the Great Hall and started pacing through the near corridors.

“Where do you wanna go?” Thomas asked his friend.

Once alone, Newt let go of his hand. The brunet felt the cold ghost of it on his own for a while.

“Anywhere,” Newt had answered.

A month had passed since that day on the lake and, just as the season changed, – the afternoons becoming more chilly, windy nights becoming longer, – they had changed as well. Thomas couldn’t point out the reason; he just felt it.

Maybe Newt just wanted to make sure their friendship hadn't gone through the wrong way after that very stupid argument they had, but he was noticeably different.

He now seemed to find any excuse to sit at the Ravenclaw table with Thomas at any meal. He insisted on playing chess with the brunet almost every day, if they had matching free periods, – sometimes even Minho and Gally would join them. He stayed late at night in the library with Thomas, studying until someone would drag them out of there, – not that any work was properly done, though. They mostly talked about anything and everything.

He was more present. Kinder – if that was even possible. And now, sometimes, when Newt stared at him so much, smiled so much and laughed so much with him, Thomas asked himself if the boy somehow could be under a spell. Because – and maybe that was just the very much delusional side of his brain playing tricks on him – sometimes, if Thomas squinted his eyes just enough, it almost seemed like there could be something else there, lingering in between them. Something that didn't just come from him.

He never let that thought hold on for long.

“I bet a ghost's waiting to get us at any corner. Or worse: Peeves,” the brunet joked as they slowed down their pace along the now empty halls.

“Oh, we can outrun them any day,” Newt smirked, but it faded a bit as he added: “Well, maybe not so much with this bugging leg.”

Thomas bumped their shoulders together, hands in his pockets. 

“I'll drag you out by the foot before you get jinxed.”

“My hero.” Newt let out a small laugh. He put away a strand of his golden hair. 

The tall walls of grey stone were dimly illuminated by the moon outside, whose light cast long shadow lines as statues and armors stood by it.

A few seconds later, the two stopped near a large window, facing the outside gardens and the far Quidditch pitch.

Thomas looked ahead and down; at the top of the trees slowly moving to the breeze of the night outside, to the bats and owls that eventually flew by, to the mountains that formed the horizon line in the distance, almost completely disappearing in the dark sky. Still, he could feel Newt's eyes looking at his face and, somehow, he could feel how tense his friend was.

“So, planning on telling me why we're here?” The brunet tilted his head to the side, only having to look up a few inches to reach Newt's eyes. And the perplexed expression on the boy's face softened to an almost nervous one. Still, he let out a huff of a laugh, scratching the back of his neck.

“I was thinking, I've only got, what, a year and a bit left here?”

“Don't remind me,” Thomas leaned against the wall next to the windows, head against the glass. That was something he thought about sometimes, although he tried not to. The corner of his mouth tugged up weakly. “Still feels like we just met. I can’t believe you won’t be here for my last year, even if it's two years away still.”

So close to each other, it was obvious how a bit taller Newt was. Thomas' eyes were just at the same height as the blond's lips.

And Newt seemed to swallow. He bit his bottom lip before speaking, softly and unsure.

“That's what I wanted to talk to you about.” He looked down, but a flicker of something rushed in his eyes – ache? Wistful?.

Thomas was suddenly confused at his friend's almost anxious posture.

“Yeah?” He unglued his head from the window, paying attention.

Newt breathed.

“I wasn't planning on ever saying anything. But… It's been eating at me. If I don't say it now, I don’t think I ever will,” his brown eyes with golden dew in between dared to steal a look at Thomas' face. He continued after licking his lips, “and if there's the slightest chance you feel it too, I don’t want to waste any more time.”

“Newt–”

“I like you, Tommy.” The words left Newt's sweet-looking lips and Thomas guessed they both held in a breath. The beautiful boy who glowed in front of  him just didn't know how unwell his heart suddenly was. “Not… just like mates. Like so much more. You're so much more to me.”

Around him, the already empty corridor vanished from his surroundings and feet. Was it real? It was too good to be.

Thomas just couldn't believe it.

“And you're all I can think about. I think about you when I should be thinking about my Defense essays, or why my toad exploded in Potions, or when my head should be in the bloody game when I'm playing Quidditch,” the words stumbled upon each other as they left Newt's mouth. His eyes, ever so sweet, dripped with sentiment. One that Thomas feared, as he noticed, had always been there. Newt stared at Thomas as he had always done, only this time he confessed something so deep. “And I know I'm being stupid for throwing this on you like this, and I don't expect you to–”

“Shut up,” Thomas spared him from saying things that were untrue.

But Newt's eyes ached, confused.

“Wha—”

“I can’t believe it,” a warm, maybe even relieved breath left Thomas’ lips. He smiled. He held Newt's arm. He felt like he could actually float. “If I'd known…”

“... You would've…” The blond boy asked, still confused about Thomas' answer, eyes searching through his face. Oh, if only Newt knew. How could Thomas start to explain the reciprocation.

“I would've said something. I like you, too, Newt. So much, it scares me. So much I'm starting to doubt ‘like’ is enough a word now.” A few inches closer.

The last two months felt embarrassing, now. How much time could they have been together already.

The growing smile Newt had turned quickly into a smirk. Even a few inches closer.

“Oh, really?”

Thomas’ hand slid up to Newt's shoulder.

“Yeah, really.”

“Can I kiss you now? I might lose it if I don't,” it was a whisper, like a secret for just the two of them to ever hear,  warm and maybe unsteady. Newt cradled Thomas’ face in his hands, stared at him like maybe he was the most rare thing in existence.

Thomas answered by leaning in himself with no more ceremony, breaking the agonizing distance between them. His heels left the floor just slightly, he leaned up, and caught Newt's mouth with his own.

His lungs rose next to Newt's fast-paced heart. They held each other against the window, like a shared promise to never let go. Like the other was a sacred artifact, an oxygen source.

It was clumsy but perfect. It was sweet and innocent, it was familiar, and still new. It was outrageous to think they've known each other for four years, and yet this was the first time their mouths met.

The intoxicating scent of cinnamon and peppermint, already so welcome, stagnated the brunet. He feared he might become addicted to Newt.

When they moved apart, – just barely, – Thomas feared his face might start hurting from smiling from then on.

Newt – cheeks red, blond hair tousled, tie half-undone – took one of his hands from Thomas’ back only to pull his yellow and black scarf from around his own neck. And he threw it around the Ravenclaw's, tugging it in slightly.

There was so much more Thomas wanted to say, to explain, but he figured they'd have time for everything and more later. So he only joked in between small kisses:

“Teresa had a part in this, didn't she?”

Newt tilted his head to the side slowly.

“...Maybe she pushed me a bit.”

And in that perfect stillness, surrounded by the magic of the night and the hush of the changing season, they kept holding each other. Maybe even sneaked into the nearest empty classroom minutes later.