CHAPTER TEN

.  .  .

"PEOPLE ARE SAYING you're a Death Eater." Enoch breaks the silence of the room with a thought hanging heavily in his mind. Though he instantly regrets it, feeling like some sort of gossip; he feels guilty, as though he's accusing his sick bay companion of being something he knows isn't good. So he tries to save himself, following it with, "What's a Death Eater?"

"The Dark Lord's followers." Enoch glances over at the blond Slytherin, who's now sitting upright in his own bed. Neither have been cleared by Madam Pomfrey, who doesn't seem certain either have recovered fully when she comes around, while other students have come and gone as they pleased. Whenever she checks up on Draco, they talk quietly for a few moments, with cautious glances back at the other boy; Enoch can never hear what is said during this time, purposefully trying to focus elsewhere to avoid eavesdropping.

"Are you?" The brunet presses after a few seconds silence, curiosity getting the better of him. A blank expression remains on the older boy's face as he looks towards Enoch, a soft frown furrowing his brow. He still looks tired, but also more rested than usual; the dark shadows under his eyes are a little less sunken, the hollowness of his eyes only seem a little less hollow. The bandage on his cheek has been removed, revealing a small scratch travelling up his pointed cheekbone.

"What would the Dark Lord want with a sixteen year old? What could I possibly give the Dark Lord?" There's a bitterness in the boy's tone, in the sharpness of the lemons radiating from him, that stops Enoch from pressing further. He holds back, not wanting to upset him further. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Desrosiers; some people just enjoy spreading rumours."

"Enoch," corrects the younger boy, receiving an even stronger frown from Draco. "We had a deal—you're supposed to call me Enoch." Draco responds with a small sigh, his gaze travelling away towards the door. Silence settles over the room again, with neither making any attempt to break it. Though Enoch wants to. He really can't stand the stifling silence that hangs over them; it makes him fidget restlessly, wrack his brain for some sort of topic he could bring up, something he could say. Everything seems too prying, too irrelevant, too stupid. And he doesn't want to seem stupid.

He doesn't want Draco to think he's stupid.

.  .  .

Enoch takes it back: Draco isn't peaceful when he sleeps.

When Draco sleeps—actually sleeps—he dreams, though the younger male is hesitant to call them that. The boy murmurs, mixtures of fear or anger, sometimes sadness, all evident in his tone; the boy also writhes and shuffles, sleepily pushing his tormentors away. His brow furrows into a tight frown—the kind of frown that causes tension headaches and brings a sweet kind of relief when released—and his lips are even more turned down than usual. He looks unhappy, incredibly unhappy.

Enoch can sense it too. The citrus brine vinegar is even stronger than normal, washing over his tongue. The empathy can feel the emotions in the pit of his stomach, rolling around like a turbulent sea.

And so he does what the other boy claims is stupid—he tries to help. Creeping quietly over to the other bed, doing his best not to disturb the older (because he knows he'll be stopped if he tries to do this while awake), Enoch goes to relieve some of these emotions. Once he's beside him—Draco still restless—he reaches out and lightly touches a cold hand. In hindsight, maybe not the best move; maybe he should have learned from last time.

He's never taken the emotions of a sleeping person before, never really properly experienced an emotional sleeper, so he doesn't expect the unfiltered emotions that seep through the contact. Last time, they had been bad—but a sleeping person, completely vulnerable to their unconscious emotions, is so much stronger. The vinegar is intensified, combined with senses the empath had never even experienced before. A stench he can't quite label, almost like old food in the fridge. Wet dog. There's an emptiness that surges throughout his body—like a hunger, but one that can't be satiated with food, forever unsatisfied. It's all so dark and horrible.

And he feels—not just his usual flavours and smells, but actually feels. His arm burns, some kind of branding spreading across it, and he can feel himself be cursed to the fate it brings; a burning sensation in the back of his throat; his whole body covers in goosebumps, a cold wet sensation travelling across the surface of his skin. Curling up, both in pain and in search of warmth, Enoch breaks the contact and falls to the ground. He vomits too, apparently that burning wasn't Draco—or maybe it was, and his body reacted all the same.

But Draco seems to calm in his sleep. Enoch might be suffering, but he'd achieved his goal. That makes him feel a little better when Madam Pomfrey is scolding him for being out of bed, forcing him to remain in the infirmary a little longer.

Draco wants to get out of the sick bay. He knows he isn't sick, that he's recovered enough to go back to classes; he's survived with a broken arm in a sling, after feeling like he was going to die, surely he can handle a few scratches. But he also knows it isn't scratches keeping him here: it's what caused the scratches. They want to keep him, for observation—it's been a while since we had a student like this, might as well learn what we can, he assumes they've thought. Monitor him, test him, get what they can from him.

He doesn't know why Enoch is still here; the kid only fainted, he could have left ages ago. But then, he had been out for a while—a whole day—and he is another special case. That's probably why they're keeping him.

Watching the brunet, who stares at the ceiling with such an intensity it suggests he's trying to distract himself—or stop himself from doing something—Draco wonders how different they really are. Clearly, their backgrounds are completely different, and some of their views are polar opposites, but at a basic level... they've both got secrets; Enoch sometimes acts like he's drowning, Draco often feels like he is.

But then enters a key difference between the two: Enoch has support and friends. His small group that he's managed to make in his few weeks of attendance, tighter than anything Draco has had in his six years, enters the room. They chatter loudly, clearly forgetting where they are, and then rush excitedly to the bed once they've located their friend. Draco looks elsewhere, on the empty bed across from him, but his focus unwillingly remains on the group.

"We thought you would've been out by now!" Gertrude exclaims as she takes a seat on the brunet's bed. Enoch mumbles something about not knowing; though he feels a lot better, he claims. A quick glance at him tells Draco that there's a small frown furrowing into his brow, a look of slight discomfort. He assumes it's the emotions—the Slytherin can't sense them but he thinks that group would have loud emotions.

"Well, you missed the first trip to Hogsmeade. We brought you back some sweets, though." A huge of bag, rustling with an assortment of lollies, is placed on an empty space of Enoch's bed (which, with everyone clambered on, is rather small). Immediately, Gertrude begins rummaging through it and pulling little boxes and packets out, handing most to Enoch while also giving a few double ups to the rest of the group. Draco peers over again, notices that the Benton boy is staring at him with a funny look in his eye, and returns to staring blankly into space.

"It's Malfoy," Elijah hisses to his Gryffindor friend. Draco assumes they're both staring at him now—perhaps the whole group is, because all the rummaging has gone quiet. Except for the quiet pop of a box lid being opened followed by a surprised yelp from Enoch. The chaotic noise of the friends starts again as they chase a chocolate frog.

Despite being order unfairly by Madam Pomfrey to stay in bed, Draco decides to take a walk. Maybe he can go back to his dorm, get some books to read while he's stuck here—do something, anything.

When he returns, the group has thankfully left. Enoch sits alone on his bed, playing some kind of game with an empty box. He stops when Draco walks in, an embarrassed pink flush spreading across his nose—but the older boy says nothing. He dumps the books he'd managed to collect before being caught by Snape onto the end of his bed, before going to climb back on himself. But Enoch, of course, stops him.

"Do you want some?" The brunet asks, waving an arm out at all the magical sweets that have spread themselves across his bed. There's too many for one person, that much is clear, and it's astounding his friends actually bought that much for him. Maybe they thought he was going to be in here for a while longer. Either way, Draco shakes his head and continues to hop into his bed. "Please... I can't eat them all. I don't even like these... things." Enoch grimaces as he knocks a box of jelly beans, "Who thought dirt flavoured jelly beans were a good idea?"

"I once got one so disgusting, I am still unsure what it was actually flavoured." Draco comments, before remembering he's trying to keep their interactions to the bare minimum. With a small sigh, quiet enough that only he'd hear it, he pulls the first book off the pile. He's read it a thousand times, possibly more, and knows it from cover to cover. But still, he reads it again in the hopes that maybe it will reveal some kind of secret.

He's scanning the first page when a box suddenly hits the side of his head. It falls onto the pages, revealing itself to be a chocolate frog. The blond stares blankly at it for a moment, before his unimpressed gaze raises to the clear culprit. Enoch sits, grinning mischievously, on the other bed.

"I don't want it." He says innocently, as though that perfectly explains his actions. Draco stares at him a moment longer.

"Neither do I, Enoch." He pushes the box away, off his book. Attention returns to that, ignoring the younger boy still watching him intently. It's hard to stay focused when Draco can feel Enoch's gaze on him—it tingles, the way skin does when you're aware someone is watching. He's read the same line, a line he's read countless times already, another five times. The count rises to ten before he gives up, quiet huff leaving his downturned lips as he shuts the book. Glancing around the room, looking everywhere but Enoch, he wonders when they'll be allowed out.

He's beginning to feel like a prisoner in the infirmary—its stone walls are growing suffocating, almost claustrophobic.

Draco is fixating on the walls, a small bubble of panic growing in his stomach, when he feels a hand rest over the top of his own. Instinctively, he withdraws his hand, pulling it closer to his chest, and glances down. Enoch is creeping beside his bed, looking as startled as the Slytherin feels.

"Don't." Draco growls. Deep inside, though he refuses to acknowledge it, he's touched by the boy's stupid desire to help.

"It tasted bad... Just wanted to fix things, for both of us." Continuing to glare at him, the blond manages to scare Enoch back to his bed. He feels a little bad, as he watches the sad expression on the younger's face, but he pushes this down—can't have Enoch sensing that too.

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
This chapter is a little dodgy but I'm out of my plan & kinda improvising so I might just pause & figure out the next section before continuing (that's also why they've been stuck in this infirmary / sick bay / whatever else I decided to call that place they're in for the past however many chapters)

I wanna clarify because this chapter made it even more clear to me: on some level—I don't even know what level—I clearly link emotions with personality. Actually, it's like this emotions - personality - identify. And while Enoch is some kind of magical empath & theoretically should only sense the emotions, I've accidentally let this thinking slip through (honestly, it wasn't until afterwards when I looked back I was like "oh shoot, that's not an emotion, that's a state / part of their identity") so there's that

Is it hard for you guys to keep track of the known emotions & their 'flavours'? Because it's kinda hard for me—I forgot what vinegar was—and I'm the one writing it and have a list to refer to