CHAPTER EIGHT

. . .

ENOCH DOESN'T WANT to get out of bed. He knows he should, but he really wants to stay. In bed, it's warm and comfortable and, if he buries himself under his doona, he can pretend he's back at home. That's what he really wants, to be back at home. Homesickness has him bedridden, making him wonder if he should see the school nurse or take something for it. Is there even a cure for homesickness? God, he wishes there was.

Ferret nudges at his face, crawling underneath the blanket to try and wake the boy. These days he stays on top of the covers, apparently disliking the heat underneath or something. But now, he curls up next to the brunet with his whiskers tickle his nose. He's probably hungry; Enoch should feed him. He just doesn't want to move.

The desire to remain stationary seems stupid. He can't explain it and it's not like it's helping his homesickness—it's just giving him more time to stew. If he was more active, hanging out with friends, he could probably forget about it a little better. But the idea of leaving his bed is irrationally daunting.

"E, there's pancakes for breakfast." A voice interrupts his stewing. Under the covers, he can't see who it is, but he can tell by their voice and emotions: oranges and sunshine flood his senses as the feminine voice speaks. These pleasant emotions battle his own negative ones, almost managing to overpower them. "Philip saved you some."

"M'not hungry," grumbles the boy. This is childish, he thinks; but childish is how he feels right now. Still, he pokes his head out through the blanket to frown at the older girl. Gee stands there, concern shining through her gaze, her hands on her hips. "This is the boy's dorm. No girls."

"I have special consideration; the prefect is my cousin."

"Really?" The dark haired girl grins and shakes her head.

"I mean, he could be—I've never really looked into my family tree much. But he's a pure blood. Not a pure pure blood, just a pure blood; he likes to point out that both his parents are half bloods." Gee gives a careless shrug. "Anyway, you've got to get up. I know it's Sunday, but it's a sunny Sunday and we have to make the most of it before the sun decides to go away again. C'mon."

Enoch sighs heavily, "I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Not in the slightest. I'll drag you out if I have to—or get Philip, and he's really clumsy."

The brunet sighs again, pulling the doona off himself. It's probably better he doesn't have a choice. He'd stay in bed all day if he did.

Ferret stalks his prey: a small butterfly minding its own business as it flutters around the grass. The white pet crawls slowly towards it, approaching with careful stealth. Then, once he's close enough, he pounces. The butterfly is snapped up in his jaws. Enoch watches, but he isn't paying much attention. Gee is as well, but she's paying attention and cringes when the ferret chomps away at his snack.

"What's your ferret's name? You never said." The girl asks, reaching out to pat the pet. Ferret pauses his hunt to focus on this, moving so she can scratch a better spot.

"Ferret."

"That's a terrible name." Ferret gives the empath a pointed look. "You should give him a proper name, like... Snowy."

Ferret grumbles and Enoch says, "He doesn't like those sort of names. Too cheesy. He wants a proper name. Except for Leo. He didn't like Leo."

"Should call him AJ."

Enoch responds automatically, "No, I'd call him Nick then."

Then there's a pause, as both comprehend what the other has said. They turn to each other, smiles wide on their lips.

"You like Backstreet Boys?" Enoch asks, excitement rushing through him. His bad mood is forgotten at the prospect of finding a friend with similar music tastes. This has never happened before; the only person he knows to appreciate the same music is his dad. (This is the case for many things, however).

"Of course, I like Backstreet Boys. Who doesn't?"

"Maman," mutters the brunet. But he's soon grinning again, "Papa's buying tickets to their concert. Do you wanna come?"

"Sure! But we'll have to bring Elijah too; he wanted to listen to some muggle music so I leant him my CD. He came back obsessed." Then Gee adds, as an aside, "He's a Howie guy."

"I'll write to Papa telling him to buy two extra tickets." The worst day has suddenly become the best day; Enoch can hardly believe his luck.

"First, let's figure out this ferret's name: AJ or Nick?"

"Let him decide." Enoch points at the ferret who's now rolling in the grass. "Whoever he walks to decides his name." Gee nods in agreement and shuffles to the side. Once there's enough distance between them and the Ferret, both equal, they start yelling both the names at him. The peace of the afternoon is disturbed by desperate screams of "Come to me, Nick, come to me!" and "No, AJ! You know that's your name. C'mon, AJ, don't fail me now!". And, for a brief moment, Ferret seems to consider; he looks between the pair, what could be considered a ferret-like frown on his furry, little brow. Then, he starts crawling towards Enoch.

This naturally causes their screams to grow louder, more desperate, as the boy urges the ferret on and the girl tries to call him back. Ferret seems taken by Nick, because he doesn't even look back to Gee. There's a moment, where the winner seems clear; Ferret is so close to Enoch that it's unconsciously agreed that his name is going to be Nick. But then, once he's reached the brunet, he keeps walking.

And stops at the feet of a curly-haired Howie fan who is watching this scene in confusion.

"Howie?" The pair exclaims, nearly in sync—but not quite, so instead it comes across as a chaotic jumble. Complete betrayal is evident on both individual's faces. Meanwhile, Elijah's expression lights up at the mention of his favourite member.

"Howie! Why are we talking about Howie?"

"We were trying to figure out a name for the ferret." Gee explains as the third Hufflepuff sits down. "He chose Howie."

"The ferret's got taste," claims the boy as he gives the newly named pet a scratch behind the ear. There's a pleased smile on his lips, as though he's done this on purpose. But he hasn't; how could he? He didn't even know what was happening until he'd sat down.

However, Enoch can't deny that the name Howie is already growing on him. It seems to now suit the ferret. And, if the pet likes the name, then why should Enoch not give it to him?

Nick would have been better though...

. . .

Enoch hates Alchemy practicals. He didn't know he did until he was forced to go through one, with Malfoy as his partner—though partner seems an inaccurate term, as the blond was of no help at all. He spent the entire thing doing... whatever it is he spends his class time doing, which is also what he happens to be doing now. This leaves the brunet to struggle by himself, working uncertainly as he prays the combination of liquids will create the desired substance. But this time, after multiple warnings from Moro that an incorrect combination could "cause any number of accidents, from a loss of limbs to growing limbs, both very hard and painful to reverse", Enoch doesn't want to make a mistake.

But he also doesn't want to ask for help. Glancing at the tired Slytherin, who sighs softly to himself as he turns another page, the empath can feel his heart rate increase. His throat feels as though it's closing, as though it refuse to make the sounds required for him to ask. No, it says, we won't make a fool of ourselves by asking for help. Enoch would like to believe that it's because of the coldness he receives from the other boy, but he can't even bring himself to ask the teacher—who is quite happy to help the other students who ask.

Enoch is just a coward.

He doesn't want to be a coward. The thought hurts more than... than losing a limb and the potential reversal process. So he swallows, trying to wet his dry throat (it barely works), and turns to Malfoy. Clearing his throat quietly, he tries to speak, "I–". It comes out a squeak. God, he's hopeless.

"Malfoy," Enoch tries again. His voice sounds more forced and awkward than he'd like, but he goes on anyway, "Could I please get some help?"

"With what?" The blond doesn't seem to care. Maybe Enoch's just hopeful but there looks like there's less judgement in his eye than when he's commenting on his last name and family. It reassures him, just a little.

"Making this?" The empath points at his mortar, which has crushed clay spread across its dark surface. Malfoy stares at it for a few seconds, vacant grey eyes frowning at the contents as he thinks silently.

"Four vials, I think." He finally responds, more of a sigh than anything.

"Thank you," mutters Enoch quickly, not wanting to prolong the bother he could be inflicting on the other boy. He adds the four vials in silence, with Malfoy watching to see if he was correct. There's a slight change in colouration as he stirs the liquid in, turning the desired lighter shade.

"If you need help, just ask." Malfoy speaks up again as Enoch looks for the next ingredient. The brunet glances up at him, surprised at this statement. "There's little point not. Neither of us will get anywhere."

"Thank you." The brunet repeats. Malfoy responds with a careless shrug; he really doesn't seem to care, like he doesn't realise how much these few words mean to the other. He probably doesn't, Enoch's reaction does seem weird and over the top. But still, he can't help but smile a little at this. It's the complete opposite of what he'd expected, what he'd feared would happen. He can't even sense any judgement radiating from the boy, just the usual lemon, brine and petrichor. Speaking of which, that petrichor is getting stronger by the day and Enoch still doesn't have an answer for it.

There's a few moments of silence, as Enoch focuses on adding the necessary amount of air to the mixture. It's a silly-feeling procedure: to add the element of 'life', they are required to blow softly into the wet clay concoction. The sight of the empath awkwardly trying to breathe life into his mortar is one that almost brings an amused smirk to the onlooking blond's lips. But Draco smothers it, glancing back to his books; going back to reading is unappealing now, but he has to. If he's not reading, he feels unproductive, and that's when the stress comes hardest.

"Is calling people by their last names a wizard thing?" Enoch asks, glancing up from his task. It's a thought that just popped into his head, but also one he's wondered about. Malfoy, being someone who the brunet has only heard referred to as his last name, seems one of the best people to ask. "Do people have a thing against first names?"

Malfoy is, once again, silent. But this time, he doesn't even look like he's thinking; he almost looks... confused.

"It's just, something people do," mutters the Slytherin. He stills looks confused, as though he's never actually thought about it before. (He hasn't). "It's the way things are."

"I don't like it," Enoch puts bluntly, but there's a small smile on his lips that suggests he means no offence. "It's kinda restricting, don't you think? People get defined by their last name—I mean, people automatically assume I'm my mother's son–"

"The first and only friends you have made here are a mudblood and two muggle-sympathisers—you are your mother's son."

"Well, either way, I don't like it." The brunet huffs, stirring the concoction some more. He goes to grab the final vial—a small one, filled with dark red pig's blood—and carefully pours that in. This is also stirred through. "I think we should call people by their first names... Draco." Enoch is met with a soft frown.

"Transfer, things are the way they are for a reason. Stop trying to change a system that works."

"Call me Enoch or I'll call you Furet." Draco doesn't need to speak French to understand what he's saying in this moment. The word brings back memories he'd rather forget and a shudder runs through him.

Transfer: 1; Draco: 0.

"Fine... Enoch, I'll call you by your first name." It doesn't feel right. It feels very, very wrong on the Slytherin's tongue but he has few options. He returns to his book, wanting to ignore the smug grin on that half blood's lips, but his attention is drawn from it once again as noises start emanating from the mortar. Both peer into it, where the transmutation has occurred: a small, clay pig snuffles around inside the mortar. It's crudely created, but the basic shape is there. Moro comes over to check their work, praising both of them despite the fact their pig crumbles within the first few seconds of examination. Dry clay remains, the only vague sign that something else might have been there.

"That went pretty well," Enoch says as he's cleaning up. Malfoy is reading again; the brunet tries to get a glance at what exactly he's reading but all he manages to catch is 'Hogwarts' before the book is turned from his view.

"You didn't stir it long enough. It would have lasted longer had you stirred it properly."

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
Have I told you writing Malfoy scares me? Because it does

But since writing this and it going... relatively well (compared to every single other attempt to branch out) I feel like I'm getting more comfortable writing non-bts fanfics. Which means, suddenly, every single one of my non-bts ideas has returned with a vengeance. And I wanna write them all