CHAPTER NINE

. . .

DRACO ISN'T IN ALCHEMY. Nor is he in Potions, which the brunet had discovered they shared quite early into the term, as the Slytherin enjoyed poking fun at Harry Potter and his friends whenever he got the chance. He wasn't in Transfiguration either. In fact, wherever Enoch looks, Draco isn't there. It's like he disappeared.

He isn't in any classes the following day either. Enoch can't spot him at the dining hall and, during dinner, Philip reports that even the other Slytherins and the closest Draco has to friends don't know where he is. Amongst the student body, those that care enough to notice at least, he's reported missing—though this doesn't seem to cause much worry. No one seems to care. Except Enoch, Pansy Parkinson, and the blond's cronies; Enoch doesn't know how he feels about being put in the same group as them.

. . .

It's at breakfast, half way through the week, when Enoch gets an update. He's spent half a week worrying, wondering—mind going wild—and struggling with his Alchemy practicals. He's heard absolutely nothing, until now... hopefully.

"I still haven't heard about where Malfoy is, but I did hear somethin'," Philip says as he pauses to drink some water, taking large gulps that are audible from the other side of the table. His thirst is understandable after eating three pieces of barely buttered toast. They looked dry, so they presumably made his mouth dry too.

At the mention of Malfoy, Enoch can't help but perk up. He tries not to seem too interested, not wanting to give off the wrong impression, but he starts paying more attention to the boy than his breakfast all the same. Even Elijah's attention is caught, his spoonful of porridge left hanging dangerously in the air. Their reasons for interest might be different, but they're both fixated on their information source, waiting in suspense.

Once he's finished his drink, the Gryffindor leans across the table conspiratorially, announcing lowly, "They're sayin' he's a Death Eater now. That's what's been spread around Gryffindor."

"No way!" Gee exclaims, leaning closer to the table to listen to Philip better. "You're joking, right?"

"Nah, heard it from Potter himself." The Gryffindor grins rather proudly. "Well, I didn't, but the girl who told me—she did."

"I don't believe it." Elijah mutters. Some porridge slides off his spoon.

"It's not that hard to believe, is it? It is Draco Malfoy, and his father was caught last year." Enoch's gaze travels between the trio as they discuss this recent gossip. The brunet feels lost and very confused—all he knows is that a Death Eater isn't a good thing. He wants to ask what they are exactly but if he does, they'll probably judge him—might think he's an idiot. This seems to be some sort of common knowledge he's missing.

"What would You-Know-Who want with a sixteen year old boy?" Ah, so it has something to do with the Man Who Has No Name... or at least people seem to act like he doesn't. With this little piece of information, the brunet is able to fill in some of the gaps—pretend like he understands.

In a terrible show of dramatics, Philip pauses before he answers, leaning further across the table with his robes nearly falling into his breakfast. He looks the curly haired Hufflepuff dead in the eye and says, very gravely, "A way in." These three words hang dangerously in the air.

It takes one moment. One pause, as everyone thinks on these words and their implications. Another moment, and Elijah is clearly consumed by some kind of fear as his imagination goes wild with those three words. His spoon drops, landing in his bowl with a plop. The boy seems to be struggling between breathing too much and not enough. Vinegar rolls off him in waves of sharp bitterness; this fills Enoch's mouth, as though the brunet just sculled a bottle of it. He tries not to gag.

"Philip, not funny." Gee scolds as she wraps an arm around Elijah. The Gryffindor doesn't seem to realise the power he has, staring blankly at the pair as though he hasn't noticed what he's caused. In the older girl's arms, the Hufflepuff is shaking.

"M-M-Mother said H-Hogwarts was p– pra– protected. S-Said I c-couldn't let a– couldn't let Him stop me from g-getting an education." Elijah says, with vinegar still cascading from him. "I-I didn't want to—Y-Y-You-Kn-Kn– He terrifies me– after Diggory– I don't want to– I had to come back." He looks up at Gee with watery eyes. "Is– Is he..?"

With the boy reaching past terrified, Enoch removes his glove. He reaches over, grabbing the boy by the hand. He doesn't know what he's doing, nor how to actually do it, but the boy's fixed his bed enough times for him to try. The first touch brings an intensified amount of vinegar and the brunet cannot hold back a retch this time. Enoch is so afraid—so, so afraid of a man he doesn't even fully understand. His grip tightens as his whole body tenses, waves of vinegar and brine drowning out any sunshine the boy usually contains. It smells like rain, as though fat clouds of rain are filling with pressure and about to burst, drenching the group.

But they don't. Elijah calms, slightly, and the vinegar reduces. At the same time, Enoch relaxes. But not because of the lessening fear. He's relaxing because his whole body, unwantedly, is protesting against an attempt to absorb the panic attack. The brunet isn't even fully conscious when his head hits the table, barely aware of the shouts of alarm from his friends.

When Enoch wakes, the first thing he is aware of is petrichor. He doesn't even have to open his eyes to know that somewhere, within whatever room he is in, Draco is near. Very near too, as the smell almost burns his nose with his strength. His whole body, after absorbing Elijah's emotions, feels sensitive to the emotions. He groans, wanting all of them to go away—he doesn't want to deal with them. Especially not the vinegar.

"If you're sore, call Madam Pomfrey. Your groans are disturbing my sleep." The familiar voice of the blond speaks. This compels Enoch to open his eyes, slowly; they obey, just, and he's able to crack them open. Without moving his head too much, he can see Draco in the bed across from him. A bandage peeks out at the top of his shirt, with another, smaller one stuck against his cheek.

"Where've you been?" Enoch croaks, voice scratchy. He'd like a glass of water. "No one knew where you were."

"Where I was is none of your business." The blond responds, not even bothering to open his eyes.

"I was worried–"

"You shouldn't be." With a huff, Enoch gives up. He's too tired to try pushing it, even if he wants to.

"Why are you here now then?" He asks instead.

There's a pause before the boy replies, "I fell." It doesn't sound all that believable, but Enoch doesn't push it. The blond boy opens his eyes now, turning his head slowly to face the other. His eyes, as usual, are cold. But it's not a biting cold, just a neutral cold. "Why are you here?" Again, it doesn't sound genuine—it sounds almost mocking. As though he's not really interested, he's just repeating the annoying pestering back.

"I fainted." Enoch tells him, regardless of how interested he is.

"Were you wearing the gloves?"

"I took them off."

"Then you're an idiot."

"I was trying to help someone."

"Then you're even more of an idiot than I thought." With a soft sigh, Draco's eyes close again. Enoch continues to watch him, regardless of how it might look, because the boy looks softer like that—it's almost hard to believe he's Draco Malfoy when he looks so vulnerable sleeping, like he's more fragile than he lets on. He's pale like china wear, probably breaks like it too.

Slowly, Enoch looks away to the tall ceiling. He too tries closing his eyes, but the waves of emotion still rolling off Draco make it impossible to sleep. The Slytherin radiates brine and vinegar, which the brunet is already sensitive to. Unintentionally, he groans again.

"I said–"

"I can't help it!" Enoch yells back, tired and sore and really not wanting to be told off for things he can't help. "It's not my fault your emotions hurt. If you want me to stop, stop feeling."

Silence follows. The empath expects a response, but gets none. What he gets instead is silence. But not just a lack of sound, but a lack of emotion. It takes the brunet a moment, but soon he realises there's next to nothing. The smell of petrichor is still there, clear as day, but the rest have all been muted—as though he's experiencing them through a barrier. He opens his eyes, wondering where Draco is.

The blond still lies in his bed, completely still. He stares at the ceiling with blank eyes, with a blank face—he is a blank.

"What are you doing?" Enoch asks, voice a nervous whisper.

"Not feeling," whispers Draco back. There's now a strain in his voice; he sounds like he's trying to concentrate on something else. "I used to do it when I... I used to do it. Now go to sleep—I'm tired."

"Thank you."

"Sleep, Desrosiers, so I can too." Enoch feels a smile tug at his lips. He's touched by this effort, even if it is selfishly motivated. So touch, in fact, that he doesn't bother to pick the blond up on the use of his last name. Closing his eyes again, he settles back down in the sick bay bed and tries to fall asleep while the emotions are muted.

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
not 100% loving this chapter so, if I can figure out how to edit it right, I will. But I've tried working on it a couple of times & this is the current 'best' I've got, so we're rolling with it