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As usual, Leta was waiting outside the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room for him that morning. The other Hufflepuffs didn't like it, as though she was some kind of spy, trying to finagle her way in to their private space, to learn its secrets and report them back to the Slytherins. Sometimes Newt wondered if she even went back to her Common Room overnight. She always left him by the barrels at curfew and was always there when he came out in morning, no matter how quickly he jumped out of bed, threw on his robes and attempted to tame his hair.

"Morning!" her voice squeaked with excitement and she giggled self-consciously, swinging her arms to and fro, unable to keep still.

"You're chipper today. Be careful, you'll be giving those scary Slytherins a bad reputation,"

She linked her arm through his and led him to a quiet alcove where she removed a small box from her robe, looking about slyly to make sure they weren't being observed. Her bergamot scent in such close quarters made Newt feel giddy.

"What is it?" his head was almost touching hers as she peeled open the lid to reveal several small, electric blue, pill-shaped objects, "oh, Billywig eggs!"

"My grandfather sent them to me from Australia. He's on a world tour, visiting different Ministries at the moment. I thought we could try and hatch them and maybe see if they'll sting us so we can observe the results," her olive skinned face was radiant with glee, reflecting Newt's own happiness back at him.

"I've got a book about them somewhere - I borrowed it from the library a few months ago. Come to think of it, it's probably rather late now," he scratched the back of his neck in consternation.

"Go and get it now and we can read it over breakfast," she urged. She skipped out of the alcove smack bang into Nathan Diggory, knocking all the breath out of him with a loud 'ooof'.

"Look where you're going," she hissed, narrowing her eyes, before turning on her heel and walking straight-backed, towards the Great Hall, brushing off her robes as though Diggory had dirtied them somehow. Newt smiled apologetically at him before jogging to catch her up.

"That's more like it. You'd give Salazar himself a run for his money," he attempted a joke, "Do you want me to go and get that book?"

"I'm not in the mood now."

"Breakfast then," Newt was long used to her mercurial temperament and tried not to let it affect his delight over the Billywig eggs he was looking forward to studying.

"I'd better sit at my own table today," Leta sighed regretfully, squeezing his hand as she peeled away from him. They ate together as often as their houses would tolerate having an outsider sitting at their table, meaning that she ate with the Hufflepuffs more than he ate with the Slytherins.

Newt nodded, drawing his lower lip between his teeth, as he trudged, head down, to his own table. It wouldn't do to annoy his housemates any more than he could help.

As Leta sat alone at the end of the Slytherin table, there was a flash and a bang and she squeaked in pain, jumping up for a moment before sitting back down, scowling down the length of the table. Newt followed her eyeline and saw Abraxas Malfoy sniggering with his friends and his hands clenched into fists involuntarily.

"A galleon says they kill each other before they've been married a year," Diggory observed conversationally as he sat down next to Newt and helped himself to a heaping plate of eggs and bacon.

"Eh?" Newt was only half listening, the majority of his attention on Malfoy, whose porridge seemed to have just exploded stickily all over him.

"They're betrothed. I would have thought she'd have told you, seeing as you're such great chums," Diggory grinned, looking pleased with himself for being the bearer of such news.

"Oh, err, yes. She did. Married. Sorry, I thought you said…confunded," Newt felt the heat rise out of his collar, turning his face beetroot red.

He rose stiffly out of his chair and walked as calmly as he could past the Slytherin table, praying to Paracelsus under his breath that Leta would notice him leaving. A wooden scrape of a bench behind him and a rush of feet told him she was following out into the corridor. He made an effort to unclench his balled fists.

"Are you alright? Or do I need to go back in there and start throwing hexes?" she asked, grabbing his elbow and steering him into a deserted classroom.

"Are you betrothed to Abraxas Malfoy?" the words came tumbling out, accusatory and petty, "Diggory just told me," he sighed, trying to slow his breathing.

"I would have thought it was below you to listen to rumours Newt, especially about me," she drew every inch of herself up haughtily and attempted to look down her nose at him.

"So it's not true?" He felt their friendship teetering on a knife edge, and her answer would determine whether it was either about to fall back into what it had always been or become something new, something where he was able to express his fervent dislike for the idea of her being betrothed to anyone that wasn't him.

"Of course it's not true, I'm going to run away with you and we're going to open a sanctuary for magical beasts and live off dew drops and sun beams," she laughed, spinning around and allowing her magic to spark out of her fingers.

"Be serious," he huffed, his arms folded across his chest, leaning back against a desk and watching her display.

"I don't know what you want me to say. Why on earth would I marry that ignorant oaf? Newt, don't be like this. Don't spoil things."

Leta sidled up to him, running her hands down the lapels of his robes but for once, the pleasure of her physical contact curdled in his belly. He wanted to ask her again, to make her promise that she wasn't betrothed to that bastard, but he was too much of a coward. Her lips were inches from his own. He could lean down and kiss her so easily now, close that space between them in half a heartbeat. Claim her as his, for that moment at least.

"The bell rang ages ago, I'm going to be late for Transfiguration," he shrugged off her concerned look, flung the door of the classroom open and strode down the corridor, leaving her staring in his wake.

oOoOoOo

Of all the lessons that Newt struggled with, transfiguration rated one of the highest. He always got distracted by philosophical thoughts of whether a transfigured hair brush really was a hand mirror or it remained, at its heart a hair brush, just waiting to be returned to its original state. Also, the practice of transfiguring animals always disturbed him. He knew that they didn't have the same level of awareness as magical creatures but it still seemed like an unnecessary cruelness. The fact that his mind was racing a mile a minute, trying desperately to turn Leta's half denials into concrete fact, made it all the worse this morning.

"And how are you getting on, young Scamander?" Despite the fact that Professor Dumbledore must have only been in his mid-thirties, he had the air of a much older man, so Newt didn't mind being called 'young' by him, which was fortunate as it seemed to be the Professor's chosen name for him.

Newt stared down in dismay at the mouse he was supposed to be trying to transfigure into a wineglass. So far all he had done was stroke it distractedly. He realised that he hadn't even picked up his wand and hoped that Dumbledore's keen eyes had failed him for once.

"Forgive me if I'm mistaken, but your heart doesn't seem to be in this. Would you prefer something else to practice on?

He nodded gratefully, and as Dumbledore fetched him a chalk duster, the mouse ran up his sleeve and into the breast pocket of his robes. He broke off a crumb of the toast he had taken from breakfast to feed to the his favourite half owl when he visited the owlery later, and held it out in his fingers to it, smiling at the way its whiskers twitched below its jewel bright eyes.

"You can't stay there, you know," he whispered indulgently, "Albert will think I'm bringing him a snack."

The mouse just nibbled the crumb and nestled down further into his pocket.

"Shall we at least attempt a little transfiguration today?" Dumbledore asked, attempting to damp down his smile behind his auburn beard. Newt fumbled for his wand, his brow furrowed and pointed it at the duster. His first attempt was quite good, for him. The duster definitely became more transparent and grew a long stem. He looked nervously at Dumbledore but he was looking indulgently at Newt's pocket, or more specifically, the mouse peeking out from it.

"I change them back at the end of the lesson, you know," he confided to Newt who didn't want to admit that he had wanted to ask that very question but who nevertheless relaxed slightly as he watched the other students enthusiastically attempting to transfigure their furry subjects, "And it doesn't hurt at all," Dumbledore pointed his wand at his face and transfigured his visage into Headmaster Black's then back again, smiling the whole time.

"I know I'm being silly, they're only mice after all," Newt mumbled, breaking off another crumb and feeding it to the mouse.

"It's a refreshing opinion, young Scamander, that one life is just as valuable as another. Something tells me that you wouldn't prescribe to the theory of the Greater Good."

Newt started slightly. The views of the dark wizard who was currently terrorising Europe were hardly normal subject matter for a transfiguration class but Dumbledore was looking at him almost amusedly, his piercing blue eyes sparkling, as though his opinion really mattered. He chose his words carefully. These kind of discussions always made him nervous of saying the wrong thing, "Well Sir, no. It sounds like the sort of thing where a lot of people could end up getting hurt."

"Wise words, wise words indeed," Dumbledore placed his hand heavily on Newt's shoulder for a moment before standing slowly and returning to the front of the class where he sat at his desk, staring into the unseen distance for the last ten minutes of the lesson.

Leta was waiting outside the classroom for him at the end, worrying the cuff of her robes in between her fingers, "Don't ever walk away from me again, Newt," she whispered into his ear as she threw her arms around his neck, pressing the full length of her body against his.

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