The cold seems the only constant so far, whether down in the crevasse or up here in this abandoned camp. When the wind chill hits, it proves especially brutal, and Newt is thankful that, despite the awkward fit of his school robes on top of his ugly Christmas jumper, he at least had the presence of mind to dream of himself wearing layers.

He notes the way Alacruun tightens the blanket around himself, not offering to share, but he doesn't vocalize his thoughts on the matter. After all, he's perfectly fine keeping his distance, no matter that shared body heat might be useful right about now. He nods as Alacruun says his name, a polite, if curt, gesture.

"Only that magic is inherited," Newt explains. "The ability to perform it is something someone is born with, though they still have to study it to be able to use it properly. That's just the way magic works, where I come from. As far as I can tell, there's no reason why magic is a matter of blood and birth over study."