For the Writing Club [Badger Burrow] on the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry Forum.
Newt doesn't feel terribly lonely at Hogwarts. He knows he's supposed to have more friends. He can tell by the way his mother asks if he might have any visitors during the school holidays and the way that Theseus writes to him, always dropping surnames that he remembers from his own time at school. In a particularly desperate moment, Theseus even recommends that he considers trying out for the Quidditch team.
But despite what it looks like, Newt doesn't feel lonely. He doesn't. He has his creatures, and they're all he needs.
And then Leta Lestrange crashes into his life, tears streaming down her cheeks and hair flying, and Newt, for the first time, wonders what it might be like to have a friend.
She makes it easy for him, always giving an encouraging smile when he stumbles through his words and listening with interest when he wonders if he might ever meet an Augurey. He returns the favour, yammering away, and never asking about her family—her brother—or about the girls who throw notes at her during Potions class.
They fall into each other. It feels natural when one day, scuffing their feet on the grounds, Leta slips her hand into his. It's right. He tries not to think about the mark burning on his right shoulder when she pulls him into the castle, laughing as she carves their initials into her desk.
He sees it by accident. She's readjusting the cuffs of her sleeve, and he catches a glimpse of the tell-tale purple mark.
"Is that your…?" The words die in his throat. "Sorry. I didn't—I didn't mean to…"
"Oh. Yeah." She tugs at her sleeve, frantic to cover it. Then, looking hopefully at him, she asks, "Is yours not…?"
His silence is answer enough, and she gnaws at her lip. They don't match. It doesn't seem fair that the one girl—the one person—who doesn't make him want to crawl into himself isn't his match. It just can't be true. No one has ever understood him like Leta, and he's quite sure that no one else ever will.
"Leta, it doesn't matter," he says, desperate. "We can still…"
"Newt…" Her voice is gentle, and he knows that she's about to break his heart. "Newt, I don't think that's how it works."
"But Leta, I—"
"Newt," she interrupts him, quick and firm. Then, quietly, "We can't. It wouldn't be fair. Not to us, and not to our matches. We can still be friends, can't we?"
"Right."
She pulls away from him after that, as if the distance will make it hurt less. But it's what she wants, so he pulls away too. It's easier than he'd care to admit, falling into his old habits. Scouring the library for the odd paragraph on ancient beasts, peering into the Forbidden Forest in hopes of catching sight of a unicorn, and caring for his creatures in Hogwarts' forgotten rooms. All alone.
But sometimes they slip. Sometimes she catches him gazing at her from across the Great Hall. He sees her falter when Prendergast gives him yet another detention. And when she falls into old habits, reaching out to intertwine her fingers in his, he clenches his fist, but doesn't reprimand her.
Being just friends is harder than Newt thought it would be.
And he sees it. Really, it's a wonder he hadn't seen it before. How many times has he seen his brother pull out his wand? Scribble notes with a quill? Pass the potatoes? He shakes his head, hoping that it's just a trick of the light. But then he sees it again and again, and he knows that there's no mistaking it.
He has to tell her. He thinks, frustrated, that that's what a true friend would do.
"I think I know who your soulmate is."
Leta looks at him, eyes wide. He can see the cogs turning in her head—can see her trying to figure out if she can ask, if asking might make her seem too eager, if asking might break his heart (again).
"It's Theseus." He hopes his voice is, for once in his life, steady. "My brother, Theseus."
"Oh." She traces the mark on her wrist, trying not to smile. "I'm sorry, Newt."
"It's okay," he lies. "It's not your fault."
It would be easier, he thinks, if there were someone to blame. If someone had wronged him. But no one has a say about the silly purple marks on their body, and the only thing he can think to curse is fate.
He brings Leta to Flourish and Blotts with him under the guise of buying books for the new school year. She hadn't wanted to, but he'd told her that that's what friends do, and she could hardly say no to that.
And if Theseus just happens to be there too… Well, Newt can lie and say it's a coincidence. He can't lie well, and she surely won't believe him, but he'll give it a go anyway.
"Newt…" It sounds as though she isn't sure whether to be annoyed or surprised. "You're meddling."
"I suppose I am," he says, raising his hand in greeting to his brother, who's already weaving his way through the crowd towards him. "Theseus. This is my friend, Leta Lestrange."
Theseus loves her the moment he sees her. Newt's never been all that good at reading people, but Theseus makes it so obvious, all bright eyed and stammering words. And that's all before he sees the mark on her wrist. When she lets her sleeve slip in a pseudo-accident, flashing him a smudge of purple, Theseus gasps. He wraps his hand around her wrist, pulls her close to him, and shows her his.
Newt doesn't watch for Leta's reaction. He can see it in Theseus's face, that she's looking up at him with the same adoration he has for her.
Newt can't deny that they look good together… meant to be. But when he slips out of the store, he can't help but hesitate at the door, wondering if she might call out to him—if she'll even notice he's gone.
But there's nothing. Just the hustle and bustle of Diagon Alley. And once again, Newt finds himself alone. Only this time, he truly feels it. This, he knows, is what it means to be lonely.
