Everyone was different. That was what Theseus' father had told him, and he was right.

His neighbour enjoyed singing while he tended to his garden. The boy across the street loved toddling in the front yard. His sister preferred riding on a toy broom, occasionally daring herself to fly just an inch higher. His mother liked caring for the Hippogriffs up the hill. His father rather engage in important paperwork and burying his head in the desk all the time. As for himself, Theseus loved socialising. He was talkative from a young age, and it was hard for anyone to keep his mouth shut.

Theseus had a younger brother when he was eight. He peered over the crib to catch a glimpse of his sleeping sibling. He was curled up, sucking on a blanket. Newt would be different from him, Theseus was sure, and he could not wait to see what Newt would become.

—

Theseus watched Newt grow up. He was indeed different.

He recalled how Newt was a quiet baby. He rarely fussed over anything. He rarely responded to his name, but perhaps he couldn't be bothered to. It reminded Theseus of a neighbour he once had, the lady couldn't care less every time he greeted her. Perhaps Newt was like that too.

As Theseus did not have any other younger siblings, he could not compare Newt to anyone. He always found Newt to be normal. Sure, he followed the same routine everyday, he chose to drag people to what he wanted instead of pointing to it, but Theseus always thought that was just Newt's difference. Besides, Newt still smiled sweetly whenever he saw a familiar face. Newt was scared of loud noises just as every baby should be. In fact, Theseus thought Newt was a smart kid. He started walking before he could crawl, and Theseus was always there to encourage him.

It just didn't make sense that his neighbour said something was wrong with him. Why couldn't he accept Newt's differences?

—

When he was about to start Hogwarts, Newt was three. That was when Theseus discovered just how different Newt was.

He remembered the siblings from across the street when they were three. They chased each other around the front yard. They laughed when things went right, they cried when things went wrong. When he saw that, Theseus couldn't wait to do the same with Newt.

Newt didn't want to do any of it.

No matter how hard he tried, Theseus couldn't get his brother to chase him. Newt would sit there, observe Theseus for five seconds at most, then look at something else. Often, Newt would toddle over to the bushes and look inside. Recently, Newt would take to being inside. Theseus was disappointed, to say the least, but soon joined in, hoping to extract some memories from being in a bush with Newt.

"Whatchu got that, Newt?" he would say, but Newt wouldn't turn to answer. He tried to prompt his brother to talk more, but eventually, he gave in to Newt's silence and would resort to watching him.

Every time they emerged from the bush, his neighbours would throw weird stares at them. At first, Theseus thought there was a leaf or branch stuck to their hair, but there wasn't. Theseus learnt to ignore them. Newt did too, but he had been ignoring them for most of his life. He was already an expert.

Night was Newt's favourite time of the day. He often dragged one of his family members outside, but it wasn't to play. It was to look at the lights. The stars in the sky, the street lamps outside every home, and the neighbour's lights that were left on. Newt was often fascinated by them. Both of them would sit in silence, for Newt wasn't one for words, and enjoy the peace. Theseus found this amusing, but he treasured every moment he had with him.

It wasn't uncommon to see the neighbours peek through their windows and shaking their heads. Theseus often glared at them. There was nothing strange about his brother's habits. He was just different.

—

It was Christmas Eve when Theseus witnessed his mother cry.

His mother did not want him to see, because it was dead into the night. Theseus had woken up to use the bathroom, only to find it was already occupied. He waited outside, leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. He was sure he was about to doze off, but the sound of the door opening and a sob woke him up entirely. There he was, standing face-to-face with his mother, whose eyes were swollen and red. Theseus didn't know what to do except to use the bathroom.

When he emerged, he noticed a light from downstairs. His father was busy snoring away in his room, oblivious to a potential break-in. Quietly, Theseus grabbed his wand and tiptoed down. He knew he couldn't perform magic outside school, but the least he could do was stick his wand up the intruder's nose. That would hopefully make enough noise to wake everyone.

He approached the bottom of the steps, only to find the backdoor was open. It was the door that led to the hills where the Hippogriffs were. The intruder must have left, but Theseus wasn't going to let him pass. He went outside.

There was no snow, but the cold was enough to get Theseus to double back and put on a sweater. He followed the trail of footprints up the hill, wand gripped tightly in his hand, and found the intruder. Except it wasn't the intruder.

In the heat of the possible action that Theseus secretly hoped he could experience, he forgot his mother was using the bathroom before him.

She was stroking a Hippogriff under the moonlight. It ruffled its wings and closed its eyes, clearly enjoying his mother's touch. Although the light was dim, Theseus could not ignore the wet tears on his mother's cheeks.

"Mum..." Theseus said as he approached her side. She sniffed and forced a smile.

"Why're you crying?"

If there was something that Theseus learnt from Newt, it was that night time was the best time to have a conversation. Everything that is said would be truthful. Theseus often found himself admitting things to Newt as they stared at the dark sky. Once or twice, Newt would say something. It was always random, but it was honest. That was how Theseus found out that Newt liked the colour blue and green when mixed together.

His mother wiped the tears away quickly. Her smile wobbled as she faced him.

"Do you think there's something wrong with Newton?"

Theseus thought his mother knew better. He wanted to argue, to raise his voice, to protest. Instead, he muttered, "He's just different, that's all."

He thought it would comfort his mother, but she burst into another set of tears. Theseus didn't know what to do, except what he did best. He wrapped his arms around her waist as tightly as he could.

Was there really something wrong with Newt?

—

Third year at Hogwarts had come to an end.

Theseus was excited to see Newt again. He hugged him the moment he got off the train, despite the feeling he got that Newt did not enjoy it. He never liked people touching him, or people, in general. Crowds scared him. Theseus believed Newt was just being Newt.

They got back home, and Newt went back out into the garden. His mother wrote to Theseus, telling him about how she had invited some friends for Newt to play with. There were three of such play dates. None of them worked out.

Ever since that night where his mother cried, Theseus noticed how his mother tried to get Newt to be like other children. She brought him outside and tried to get him to interact with their neighbours, but Newt hid behind her the whole time. She brought him a toy broom, just like the one the girl from across the street had, but he never touched it. Over and over again his mother called for Newt, but Newt hardly responded. It got so bad one summer that his mother almost lost her temper.

Theseus reassured his mother that Newt preferred to be alone. He was different from him, and his mother should let Newt be his own person, and not another Theseus. Besides, he liked Newt that way.

Whenever Theseus was home and minding his own business, Newt would drag him out into the garden. His mother told him that Newt liked being outdoors. He brought back sticks and leafs and bugs and hid them in a container in his room. Theseus found out while he was doing his Charms essay and Newt had unexpectedly dragged him to his room to look at his collection. Unfortunately, one day when Newt wasn't paying attention, his mother took it away.

In the garden, there was a tree. A strong, sturdy tree that was safe to climb on. Theseus used to climb the tree when he was younger because he liked to overlook things. The strange thing that happened was that Newt stopped at the tree and looked up. Theseus seemed to understand.

"You want to go up?"

Newt didn't reply and continued to stare. Silence usually meant consent, so Theseus hoisted his brother up. It was the only time Newt didn't squirm in his arms.

Theseus climbed up after him and sat on a strong, thick branch that he was sure could support his weight. Newt crawled around, in search of something. Theseus just had to make sure he didn't fall.

Newt cupped his hands and made a weird clicking sound. From the corner of Theseus' eye, he saw a stick-like creature hop onto Newt's palms. Curious, Theseus inched closer to Newt, who proudly showed him what was in his hand.

"It's a bowtruckle," Newt said, and it was the first sentence Theseus had heard him speak since he came home.

Excited, not by the creature but by Newt's voice, Theseus asked, "Where did it come from?"

"Up the hill," said Newt, "She was hurt on the floor. I brought her back."

Fascinated by what was happening, Theseus put his hands out, "Can I?"

Newt allowed the bowtruckle to hop onto Theseus' palms. He tried to be gentle as the bowtruckle moved about. Theseus looked at his brother who grinned with pride. He couldn't help but smile too.

The bowtruckle hopped back onto Newt's palm. Theseus took the chance to survey his neighbourhood. He saw his neighbour turn away just as he looked over. He watched as the siblings from across the street engage in another game of tag. Then, he shifted his attention back at Newt, who was back to clicking at the bowtruckle, seeming to communicate with it.

There was nothing wrong with a child who liked talking to creatures. His mother was wrong. Newt was fine.