AN: Two updates in a year, a record!
And they finally grow up a bit!
CH 09 Three Years Later
"Go, Slytherin, go!"
"Hit that bludger!"
"Show those pussycats what a real serpent strike is like!!!"
The noise that bellowed around the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium was nearly deafening, rising up and into the clouds in waves.
Newt managed to narrowly duck being hit in the face by a very fanatical looking Regina. He wiped the trickle of sweat from his forehead, at both the heat brought on by the masses and at having missed the close call.
The Greengrass heiress had grown into quite the statuesque goddess, nearly matching his own lanky height in the three years since he had found the most unlikeliest friends back in third year. Three years was enough for the once lonely Hufflepuff to learn all the quirks and ticks of his friends and Newt did not fancy being on the receiving end of the would-be female Quidditch player's left hook.
"Alright there, Newt? I'm afraid Regina only has eyes for the match right now." A soft-spoken, cultured voice sounded next to Newt, a hint of sly amusement that was uncannily similar to a certain Slytherin Newt was closely acquainted with.
"Actually, I don't think she even remembers being a lady." Another wry remark sounded on the other side of the earlier speaker, equally refined but much more feminine in tone.
Newt glanced over and first met the mercury silver eyes in a face that had a 70% semblance to his older brother. Regulus Black had started Hogwarts when he entered fourth year, the year after his bland boarding school life had been suddenly colored with Slytherin green. The youngest Black heir had surprised everyone by being sorted into Slytherin after all when for so long everyone had expected the quiet and studious young boy to enter the folds of Ravenclaw's wings.
Perhaps none more so than Lycoris, who had looked at the younger boy in puzzlement for an entire month back then. It had even led to an altercation between the two brothers which Newt had awkwardly been privy of, having been caught in the crossfires. But luckily, everything had ended well and Newt even managed to reach a sort of kinship with his best friend's little brother.
"Oh~~~ don't tell me you were struck dazed again, Newt? We know little Reggie looks a lot like a certain Black heir we all know and love but is there really a need to go starry-eyed at the poor boy as well?" The same teasing feminine voice snapped Newt out of his dip in memory lane, causing him to duck a flushed face into the Slytherin scarf wound loosely around his neck.
"That's not how it is, Phoebe." Newt half-heartedly protested, but he knew it was a lost cause. By now, practically everyone who he was close to was aware of his embarrassing crush on his best friend. Everyone, that is, but the subject of his 'puppy love' -as his brother Theseus called it- himself. On this point, Newt didn't know whether to rejoice or agonize over the fact.
Regulus patted the tall, lean boy on the arm in what he most likely perceived as a commiserating manner but really came off as patronizing. The younger boy didn't know it, but the older Slytherin witch had rubbed off on him over these years ever since Lycoris left the poor innocent boy under her guide.
Much like had been done to himself back then, now that he thought about it. Newt thought of the 'dance lesson' he had been put through during the first winter holidays he spent with his Slytherin friends and shuddered.
Like the Greengrass heiress' zeal for Quidditch, a love only curbed by her disapproving mother, the Selwyn heiress also had her own quirk in the form of quite the sarcastic streak. Newt knew she could be much more mean-spirited than what was leveled at them but this unbecoming trait was also strangely juxtaposed with a caring and attentive nature, appropriate -Newt supposed- for a witch training to be a healer. Though this also meant that good-natured teasing was a commonplace thing now, especially after the witch first detected his true feelings even before he was fully aware of them himself.
Newt let out a sigh as he turned back to the pitch and the match going on, his eyes focusing on the lone green figure circling high above the Quidditch stadium like a bird of prey, or more appropriately, like a winged coiling serpent ready to strike.
The crowd suddenly burst into excited screams and calls as first a green figure doved sharply into the midst of chasers, followed soon after by an equally fast red blur.
"Black has spotted the snitch, with Potter hot on his heels! Who will win this round in the Potter-Black rivalry?!"
"Who will kick off this year's Quidditch season with victory?!"
Further down the seats and in the center of the stand sat Alistair, having become the Quidditch announcer for two years now, his passion for journalism overtaking his desire to play the sport himself, as expected of the heir to the Fawley's media empire in wizarding Britain.
But Newt only had eyes for the nimble green figure darting in and out of the lean chasers and avoiding the burly beaters like a playful hummingbird on a quest for the perfect flower and nectar.
Along with the crowd, Newt found himself surging to his feet as two spiraling green and red streaks veered upwards along the Gryffindor's goalpost, the golden glint of the snitch fluttering just on the edge of one big hoop.
Almost at the same time, two arms in leather armguards reached out for the elusive golden ball.
"Wanker!!! You done cocked-up now!!!!"
An enraged screech from the fanatical witch next to him caused Newt to rub unconsciously at his right eardrum, all the while expertly ducking from the honey blonde curls that whipped into his face. But the mild-mannered Hufflepuff found that he quite agreed with the other's sentiment as he witnessed the green figure narrowly dodge the bludger that had pelted at him seemingly out of nowhere, a smirking beater in red a few feet away.
And as if echoing their sentiments, Alistair bellowed into the microphone, "Nott, you stick-swinging musclehead! Do your job!!" Much to the chagrin of the Slytherin beater. And also unknowingly offending all Quidditch beaters in the vicinity.
But just as everyone thought the pursuit for the snitch had to be put on hold again after the little ball had disappeared in the earlier kerfuffle -
"Black has miraculously kept sight of the snitch and has resumed the pursuit!!!"
Using the wide arching movement resulting from having swung himself and his broom in a dodge, the green figure darted forward in an attack that took both the Gryffindor seeker and the little golden ball in surprise.
Both green and red, both on opposite sides, pushed their racing brooms to the limit towards the hovering snitch that seemed to have been frightened stiff, freezing up like a deer in the headlights.
The red figure urged his broom to an even more dizzying level of fastness - but it was already too late.
With an ease that belied the physical exertion involved, a green clad arm darted forward like a striking serpent, snapping up the golden snitch in the grasp of a leather gloved hand.
Lean leg muscles gripped the racing broom underneath to steer upwards, narrowly avoiding another collision.
At the same time his counterpart veered downwards as well, and two blurs, one red and the other green, swerved in opposite directions in a perfect line that revealed just how narrow that would-be collision was.
Had the two not been as quick in reflex and talented in their skill, both Slytherin and Gryffindor were very likely to have their star seekers out of commission for the rest of the game.
"230-90, Slytherin wins!!!"
"Ahhhh!!! We love you, Black!!!"
The Slytherin stand exploded into raucous cheers while the other stands also clapped loudly at the brilliant play that had taken place. With the exception of the Gryffindors, of course, who were booing and groaning in frustration.
It was a scene of familiarity, having played out almost every Slytherin match since three years ago. Which, to some, made Hogwarts Quidditch matches predictable, and only Slytherin vs. Gryffindor matches now seemed to be the only ones worth watching as victory was often evenly matched between the two teams.
And the very ones responsible for this trend were the two red and green figures currently slapping each other's backs in midair on the Quidditch pitch.
Newt watched with a strange feeling in his heart as his best friend exchanged handshakes with Fleamont Potter, the Gryffindor sixth year seeker.
"Aww. Don't look so jealous. You know Lycoris only sees the Potter heir as a rival."
Sometime during Newt having become preoccupied with his thoughts, a certain smiling witch had moved to the seat on his left, effectively edging Regulus away.
Looking to the left, Newt met with Regulus' shrug and Phoebe's wide, knowing smile. Looking to the right, he met Regina's shining, curious eyes, having gone back to normal with the end of the Quidditch match. And when he realized that he was penned in between two gossipy witches without any help to be expected, the Hufflepuff could only cover his face and let out a helpless sound into his palms.
.
.
.
"'M gonna destroy those guys. This season. And every one after. Just watch."
The bite of winter still lingered in the air despite it being already half-way through March.
Newt and the rest of the sixth year Herbology Slytherin-Hufflepuff class were currently out on the grounds gathering sneezewort, the focus of the lesson on this bright spring Monday, which also acted as a conjunction lesson to their Potions class next period on the Strong Invigoration Draught.
So it was that Newt found himself squatting on the edge of the Forbidden Forest next to a very listless boy huddled in his Slytherin green scarf, the very one that had been around Newt's neck just that past weekend. But today's Slytherin star seeker was a far cry from his usual collected appearance with a pale face and dark under eye circles, clearly still hungover on top of having to get up early for class. Let alone even possess a trace of how he shone like the Sun God, Apollo himself, haloed in the light of the Goddess of Victory during the Quidditch match just yesterday.
But for once, Newt couldn't find it in himself to commiserate with his best friend despite the fact that he doted, practically spoiled the younger boy more than he probably should. At least according to Phoebe and the others, it was exactly because he always yielded and let Lycoris get his way that the Black heir was becoming even worse of a willful, bratty child than even Aurelius Malfoy. (Aurelius: Oi! Why's everyone always got to rag on me! ( ಠ益ಠ))
And perhaps they might be right if judging by what had taken place during the afterparty.
Thinking of the heroic figure still in his green Quidditch robes jumping smugly on a table to raucous catcalls after the Gryffindor seeker finally passed out under the table - along with the rest of the Gryffindor and Slytherin Quidditch teams. Only to promptly topple over in a drunk faint himself to the howls of laughter from the intoxicated crowd. Honestly, the boy was lucky Newt caught him in time with a cushioning charm otherwise it would not just be a pale complexion and dark under eye circles he would be sporting the next day.
"Who was the one who took on a group of lions in a dumb drinking match?" A mild, and rather dry, remark was the Hufflepuff's only response.
"...I couldn't let Potter get back at me after I totally trounced him at the last match!" The indignant declaration was soon followed by a low hiss of pain as the pounding in Lycoris' head sharpened in that brief surge of excited emotions. But he still continued unwaveringly, a lilt of pride in his words, the image of youthful vigor and teen spirit, "And I drank them all under the table, if you recall."
Newt side-eyed the fey-like boy next to him. In truth, no matter what side of Lycoris it was - a pale and listless Lycoris, a fiery and confident Lycoris, or this recently unrestrained and willful Lycoris (a side-effect of puberty, no doubt) - they were all captivating. It was just a difference between scorching others with his beauty like the sun and enthralling with every languorous blink of half-lidded emeralds and indolent drawl from ruby red lips.
Indeed, the boy had always been beautiful. But this beauty only grew more fatal with age. And Newt was not the only one who had noticed it. He looked away and down at the poor sneezewort he had ruthlessly shoveled up, cutting its roots with his hand shovel when he was supposed to gingerly remove it along with its roots.
Clearly, Potter had noticed it too.
"Yes, yes. Do you want a special trophy to go along with the countless Quidditch ones displayed in the Hogwarts Trophy Room?" Newt couldn't help letting his annoyance leak into his words.
Something Lycoris clearly picked up and the younger boy pressed his lips together in slight aggrievance. Only to narrow verdant eyes dangerously.
"You've been awfully moody recently. Puberty must be taking its toll." After saying that, the proud Slytherin swiveled that endearing head of ebony waves so that only the back of it was visible to Newt.
And Newt, well, he could only chuckle bitterly, a wry expression on that normally mild mannered, pleasantly handsome face.
Ah, puberty. Newt was aware enough to admit that it was not just Lycoris who had become prone to flaring tempers and rebellious moods.
It was hard to control oneself sometimes. Like just now. Newt stared rather forlornly at the back of that rather perfectly round head.
At times like these, he often wondered when this torment would end. He was miserable, but enduring. No, that was not entirely truthful, like a moth to the flame, he also seemed to derive a masochistic pleasure from it all.
He sighed. "Lycoris."
"Lycoris. Lyyyycoris. Lilychild -"
"What."
"I knew you would wake too late to have time to get a sobering potion. So I got it for you." Newt nudged the younger boy with the corked potion in a peace offering, an uncontrollable smile making its way up his face as he caught sight of a pale sharp jaw and a flash of spring green slanting his way over a pointy shoulder. Any ire he might have still felt quickly fluttering away.
And as the young Black heir graciously accepted the peace offering from his devoted badger, Newt huffed out an inaudible laugh, fondness coloring hazel eyes with a warmth and softness only reserved for one willful Slytherin brat.
Lycoris, when will you finally grow up? And if it was not too much to ask, to see him truly? Not as a loyal friend, but as an equal partner in life.
.
.
.
"You look much more mollified than earlier this morning." A dry but melodious voice remarked.
The quill in Newt's hand paused briefly in its task of scritching out a Potions essay but soon continued where it left off.
"Don't know how you even put up with that skunk-like temper. Let alone crush on that brat."
At this, Newt finally looked up at the witch sitting across from him at this study table in the Hogwarts library. Unlike the Slytherins who had a private library and study rooms connected to their common room (along with a dueling and sparring chamber), the Hufflepuffs only had the option of the Hogwarts library if they wanted to do some serious studying without being disturbed.
Though it seemed that part about being disturbed was left much to be desired at the moment.
"Leta, I'm trying to do my Potions essay, thank you."
The Lestrange heiress raised a single arched brow, "Hit a sore spot, did I."
Newt frowned defensively, tone protective, "Lycoris does not have a skunk-like temper. And please don't call him a brat."
"Sure, whatever. In the eye of the beholder, as they say." Leta replied, expression bored, examining her perfectly manicured nails.
"And I suppose you prefer the prim and bossy type." Newt shot back.
Leta's dark eyes widened, two spots of pink appearing on her cheekbones, "Oh, we are so not doing this. What are we even doing."
"Yeah, that was weird. Let's pretend that never happened." Newt flushed. What were they, teenage girls discussing each other's crushes? Leta might be but he was most certainly not.
There was a moment of awkward silence.
But, thankfully it was quickly broken by a lazy drawl, "There you are, Newt."
Newt's head snapped up in the direction of the voice, so similar to how a dog would act when seeing a bone that Leta rolled her eyes.
"Oh, and you're here too, Lestrange." Those arresting eyes spared her a single brief glance, as stingy with his attention as always, before moving back to their clear and obvious target. One hapless, lovesick Hufflepuff.
Leta wanted to roll her eyes again but she resisted. She would never admit as such but though she often referred to the Black heir as "the brat", she would never actually be so bluntly rude in front of the person in question.
Not just out of pureblood etiquette but… this boy two years younger than herself quite unsettled her the way she had never experienced before. She never told Newt about this, and likely wouldn't ever. Too much of a lost cause anyway.
Ugh. Boys. Always driven by hormones. Leta watched with a blank expression as her only somewhat close friend trailed after a pubescent boy without so much as a glance her way.
Fine then. She was also busy with an interesting pet project of her own recently. Who needed friends when she was about to make a research breakthrough?