CHAPTER FIVE

. . .

IT TAKES ENOCH only a few minutes to realise he's left Ferret at the dorm, curled up underneath the sheets where he slept last night. He stops, dead in the middle of the corridor, as this slowly dawns on him; his hand still hangs up near at his shoulders, grasping the empty space where white fur should fill. Immediately, lacking the safety blanket, a wave of panic rushes over the brunet. He's filled with conflict, too: does he go back to get his pet, or continue onwards to class? If he goes back, there's no way he'll get to class on time. If he goes to class, who knows if he'll survive through the class? Neither seem appealing, at all, both sending equal amounts of butterflies through his stomach.

Stuck and unsure of which way to go, the brunet doesn't move. His legs physically will not move, refusing to until he's figured out what he's doing. And he doesn't know what he's going to do. This causes problems as other students around him, carefree and not going through the same problem as him, move to their own classrooms. It's not a big corridor, barely enough room for the bodies of students moving through it, and the empath is pushed against others as they try to make their way past. Each bump brings muted snapshots of emotions: a sharp tang of vinegar, then a warm, painful sensation in his chest (heartbreak? Heartburn?). Followed by an overload of sugar and more sugar and more sugar. How are people so happy? They're at school.

These emotions, combined with the general buzz that follows Enoch almost everywhere, only make things worse. He can barely block them out without his Ferret but he can't function enough to get back to the dorms. His legs, now past freezing, feel like jelly that's been placed in the summer's sun—useless, and probably dead soon.

The migraine is emerging, thudding against his temple loudly. This is only an added unwanted stressor and Enoch wants to cry. Or scream. But he can't do either because that would cause even more of a scene and, if he's not already attracting attention, he doesn't want to cause more.

There's so much noise, both physical and emotional, that the brunet can't think straight. Any train of thought is soon interrupted by– oh, God, someone's angry. Really angry. Oh, his mouth burns really bad, he might– wait, no, it's gone. Now it's just sugar again, the memory of the spicy anger just a mild tingle on his tongue.

It takes mere seconds for Enoch to feel as though he can't cope, can't breathe, can't survive with this crowd around him. Bumping him and jolting him—pushing him around like a ball in a pinball machine—with their muted but intrusive emotions, with all their happiness. (Why does everyone have to be so happy? He feels like he's going to throw up with all this sweetness). He's sinking, unable to keep treading this sea of emotions and stay afloat. He's going to drown!

Tears prick his eyes as Enoch tries to fill his lungs with the needed oxygen. It's hard, really hard—all of this is too hard. He just wants to go home. Crawl inside his bed and pretend none of this ever happened. He can't do this. He wonders briefly what would happen if he just collapsed, right here in the middle of the corridor; would people notice, or would they just trample over him like they're stampeding past? They'd probably stand and judge, whisper to their friends, wonder what sort of weirdo just falls on their way to class. Not the sort they want to hang– Enoch receives a particularly rough bump, getting a blast of salt and spice and nothing nice.

Right when it feels as though Enoch might snap or faint—whichever comes first—a cold hand grips his wrist. For a second, he thinks it's his mother's, but then no herbal tea comes. Only burning lemon candy, cupfuls of brine and vinegar, and petrichor. However, he isn't repulsed or anything; he clings to the extreme emotions, using them to block out the rest like Ferret's quiet does as he's dragged off to who knows where.

Draco knows, the second he even approaches the Desrosiers boy, that this is a bad idea. Merlin, to even associate with the boy, outside of class where he has a choice, is a bad idea: someone could start rumours—spread the lies that Draco is some kind of Muggle sympathiser, friends of the half-blood. It could get back to his father, or worse individuals, and he'd be punished again, one way or another. But, somewhere in the blond's decaying heart is an inkling of compassion, a piece of good that somehow escaped his squashing, that won't let him keep walking. He's going to be late for class, but he still drags the brunet off to a nearer, emptier room. He never really liked Charms anyway.

The Slytherin is surprised someone else—a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor, even a Ravenclaw—hadn't already asked the younger boy if he was alright, or just outright helped him. It's not as though he's being subtle; the Hufflepuff looks near fainting as he allows himself to drift through the crowd, pushed around like some driftwood against the sea's waves. He doesn't even look like he's breathing properly—up closer, Draco knows he's struggling, can hear the ragged gasps for air like he really is being crashed against waves and dunked underneath.

But that's the problem with people, the blond thinks as he pulls the boy into an empty classroom, no one ever seems to notice. Not if it doesn't involve them. They just keep walking, too absorbed in their own happiness and self-importance to notice that someone needs help, might just even need a quick 'Hey, are you alright?'. Even Perfect Potter, with all his do-gooding and holier-than-thou attitude, would have walked straight past. He probably did, too busy plotting and planning with his entourage of the mudblood and might-as-well-be-mudblood.

Once they're inside the classroom, Draco makes sure the boy is alright to stand by himself, then lets go of his wrist. He then leans against another desk, creating a barrier between them as he crosses his arms over his chest. He waits, an impatience laced into his posture and gaze. Class will have started by now, but instead the blond is stuck standing around as the younger tries to get his breath back. Of all the reasons to be skipping class, the Slytherin can't believe this is why.

As he waits, his mind drifts, returning back to the summer he just escaped. Never has he been so glad to return to school, to the sycophantic Slytherins and (rightfully) distrustful Gryffindors. But, after a summer of being punished for his father's failings, the halls of Hogwarts feel like safety... almost. His hand absentmindedly grips his arm, bandages wrapped around a burdensome secret. He sighs, softly, forgetting is company.

Only to be reminded of it as the younger almost retches, gripping a table to balance him. The blond retreats slightly, ensuring all his robes are pulled in, before he speaks, "If you're going to be sick, try not to get it on my clothes, transfer."

"I'm not going to throw up. It's passed." Desrosiers groans, fingers rubbing his temple again. He did that during their first meeting too, the Slytherin remembers.

"Madam Pomfrey has potions for migraines," Malfoy keeps on talking, the sudden, sharp burst of vinegar thankfully easing away as he does so, "but I assume yours isn't a simple migraine problem." Enoch watches the blond warily, wondering how much he knows. He's definitely clued onto something—but what, exactly?

"Thank you, for helping me."

Malfoy shrugs, carelessly, "Don't get the wrong idea—I only did it because I was in your debt. And I want to know what you are." Enoch would be inclined to believe him: the older male looks as cold as last time, closed off and uncaring as he gazes vacantly around the small classroom, arms folded over his chest. Icy, grey eyes then pierce into the younger, expectant.

"What do you mean, what I am?"

"Don't play dumb, Desrosiers; I know you're a Hufflepuff but you can't be that stupid. In Alchemy, when you interrupted my reading, you... took my emotions from me, made me feel light." The blond has to choose his words carefully, not wanting to let on how much this affected him. He has thought about that moment a lot since. For just a brief moment, when the brunet's fingers brushed against him, he'd felt a little better. Like the weight of the world wasn't resting on his shoulders. "So, either you've learnt a non-verbal spell that isn't taught at school, or you're not normal."

Enoch's shoulders slump forward in defeat as caught. It brings a triumphant smirk to the blond's lips.

"It's not a spell. I– I don't know how I took your emotions away..."

"But," pushes Malfoy, bitter lemon increasing as he seems almost irritated that the boy can't even figure out how to explain it. He hasn't had to even try since he was small, and then he simply stated, 'Papa tastes like candy,' and it went from there.

"But I can–" Wait, should Enoch even be telling him? The pale Slytherin hasn't given him any reason to trust him. But then, he did take his emotions. And Malfoy knows something is up. Might as well be out with it and hope for the best. "I can sense emotions."

"Sense... emotions?" Malfoy asks, almost incredulously, like he doesn't believe him. The brunet doesn't blame him. Still, he nods.

"Emotions affect my senses, so I can smell or taste them usually. Skin contact makes them worse, or stronger." Enoch shifts uncomfortably under the steely gaze of the blond, who seems to be drinking this information—hopefully not storing it away to use against him. "Apparently touching people can also make me take their emotions away."

Something shifts in Malfoy's gaze and the vinegar increases just slightly, "What emotions– What things do you sense from me?"

Enoch shrugs, "Lemon candy, so strong it burns my mouth, and brine. Vinegar comes and goes with its strength. Oh, and... What is it?" The brunet clicks his fingers, struggling to recall the word. "It's– l'odeur après la pluie... Oh! Pétrichor!"

"Petrichor?" Malfoy repeats, getting a quick nod. "And what do all those represent?"

"Oh, that part's easier." Enoch doesn't realise but, as he describes his little ability to the Slytherin, he finds himself growing more relaxed and comfortable. The blond, while maintaining his cold exterior, doesn't seem to be outright judging him; all questions seem laced with curiosity, if anything. It feels nice, being able to tell someone. He should probably tell Gee, though, if he's okay with Malfoy knowing... "Lemon candy... Well, I think that's bitterness, or unhappiness. Brine is unhappy—vinegar is scared. You're incredibly unhappy, Furet. Petrichor, I don't know what that is... I've never smelt that as an emotion before."

"Well, I assumed there would have to be something wrong with a transfer in our sixth year." Malfoy pushes himself up off the desk he's been leaning against. When he speaks again, his voice carries a tone as though he's stating the obvious, "If skin to skin contact affects it so strongly, maybe you should try gloves." Then he keeps walking, like he's going to leave—he is going to leave. Now, having gotten the information he wanted, Malfoy is leaving.

But Enoch reaches out, hand gripping the older's wrist much like he had earlier, only to have Malfoy recoil from his touch instantly. His hand pressed against his chest, the Slytherin looks at the Hufflepuff in disgust, like some filthy peasant has just tried to touch the prince's precious hand, but his emotions betray him as Enoch tastes vinegar.

"I can sense almost all your emotions, Malfoy. Even the ones you've suppressed." The brunet warns, before the blond can escape him. "You're not fooling me; I know there's some honey underneath all that sad. I know, somewhere, there's a good person."

Malfoy smirks, "Then your power has failed you." Enoch's brow furrows into a confused frown. "Clearly, you also haven't heard, anyone who's ever turned out bad was from Slytherin."

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
This story, if it hasn't reached it already, is teetering dangerously close to being one of those bad boy 'but I can fix him!!' fics