i call it magic (when i'm with you)

ii

They become friends.

Or not-friends, in actuality. Not-quite-friends. Not-yet-friends? Truth be told, he isn't exactly sure where he stands with the golden boy of Gryffindor, but they're definitely something.

He just—can't put his wand on what, exactly, that something is.

In any case, Brett's in no rush to try and figure things out in that arena at the moment. Hallowe'en is soon to be upon them, and he's growing a little insane trying to balance the heavy load of his classes and the impending performance at the Feast he has to practice for. He's so caught up in the dizzying whirl of the cyclone of his responsibilities that he doesn't even realize he hasn't taken any notes down in his History of Magic class until two days before an important lengthy test.

"Fuck." He rummages through his satchel, hoping against all hope that some form of scribbled information just magically appears tucked within the pages of his books even when he knows that's a fucking ridiculous notion. "Merlin's arsehole, Brett, you idiot—"

Three knocks ring out. "Hey, don't call my friend an idiot," comes from the doorway, and there stands Edward Chen himself, his Quidditch uniform askew and his eyebrows knitted in concern. "He's the smartest bloke I know."

"Edward," Brett blurts out in greeting, entirely distracted by the other man's words for a moment—smartest bloke he knows, really? And I'm the bloody Minister of Magic—before he comes back to himself and returns to his fruitless search. "Sorry, not now, I'm about to lose my mind over fucking History."

Edward tilts his head, craning his head to catch a glimpse of the contents of Brett's bag. "What do you mean?"

"It was bloody careless of me, I admit, but I just—I had an idea for a melody I just couldn't let go without seeing it through, writing it down," he rages, near-frothing at the mouth as papers toss themselves out of his satchel and float in the air, "and of-fucking-course it came in at the most inopportune moment, and so then I wrote music lines in class when I should've been focused on Uric the blasted Oddball—"

"Brett, relax," Edward says, raising both hands up like he's trying to pacify a dangerous beast. "It'll be fine, see? How about you calm down and listen to me for just a second?"

Brett whirls around to face him, eyes wild. "Don't you tell me what to—"

"Shh, c'mon, take a breather and see what I got you." Casual as anything, Edward produces a neat stack of papers from behind his back and extends it forward for him to take. "Here. Can this help in keeping you sane?"

"What—what's this," Brett asks, and rather dumbly at that, because a quick skim through the pages reveals an extensive list of topics included in Sixth-Year History of Magic classes as well as various notes on each subject matter. The writing's jagged and a little bit difficult to read, but it's exactly what he needs.

"Appealing to the Ravenclaw in you?" Edward smiles. Brett is speechless. Edward keeps on smiling. "I noticed your notes weren't as thick as they used to be, so I asked around and got them for you. No big deal, really." He shrugs, expression suddenly sheepish. "I hope I'm not intruding or anything, but—I just thought you might need it. A bit of help, I mean."

Help. It's something he's rarely heard before in regards to being offered some himself; it sounds like an altogether different word now. Brett glances down at the notes in his hand, the one Edward had gathered for him without asking, without any expectation of anything in return, and then glances back up. "I don't know what to say."

"Then don't say anything." A pause. "But a little thank you would definitely be awesome for my self-esteem and my reputation as an all-around do-gooder."