CHAPTER FOUR

.  .  .

ENOCH IS STILL burning with annoyance at lunchtime, as he and Gee sit at the Hufflepuff table and eat from the platters of sandwiches. Gazing around, the brunet notes the slightly more casual setting of the Hall compared to the first dinner: he spots a Ravenclaw further down the table, chatting with a Hufflepuff friend, a Gryffindor on the other side. Gazing around the room, he spots similar seating arrangements at other tables-though Slytherin has far less variety amongst their silver and green. While gazing at the table of snakes, Enoch spots the familiar blonde chatting amongst his friends; there's a smile on his face now, but that coldness still rests behind it, proud and detached. The fire burns in his stomach again. While he tries to justify the cold actions of the boy with the emotions and the cause of them, he can't stop the annoyance from bubbling away.

"So what exactly do you want to be?" Gee cuts through his stewing with her question casually, following it with a large-but still somehow refined, as though by magic-bite of her sandwich and the clarification, "After school. What job?"

"Magizoologist," replies Enoch, trying to sound confident in his choice though, really, he isn't. He didn't even know what that occupation was until a few years ago, at a gathering where he was introduced to a famous Newt Scamander. He really should have clued on then, as he met his mother's many famous friends, that she herself would have a reputation. (But Enoch has never really been known for having a clue). The male, a writer of one of the book's the brunet had been studying, had signed the younger's copy of Fantastic Beasts and Where To Find Them and, while doing so, inspired him. If this rather awkward male could find a career with animals, then surely Enoch could as well. "What about you?"

"Well, I want to be an Auror." The dark haired girl grins, a slight calculating glint entering her expression. "I heard the pays good, and I don't mind fighting a few bad guys. Only problem would be Potions." The girl shrugs, as though this is no big deal, something she can easily get around. "I'll figure something out. I've heard some doctors get paid decently too."

"Y'know there's more t'life than how well ya get paid?" A male with a thick accent sitting in front of them, who'd been openly listening to their conversation, speaks up. The boy's uniform betrays his house: another Gryffindor. His hair is a mess, as though he looked at it when he woke up this morning and thought to himself, 'Y'know, that'll do'. And, somehow, it works. His eyes sparkle, softening his features.

"Well, yeah, obviously. But money is power, and that's what I really want."

The Gryffindor raises an eyebrow, "Sounds ambitious, Gee." There's a teasing smirk travelling across his lips-the sugary taste in the empath's mouth tells him this is only a joke, clearly about something he lacks the knowledge on. It takes mere seconds for Enoch to feel lost. His gaze travels between the two, head moving like he's watching a rather slow tennis match, brow furrowing deeper and deeper.

"Shut up, Philip," laughs Gee. There's a quiet thud underneath the table and suddenly Philip's face contorts into one of pain. This only makes Gee laugh harder.

"How'd you get into Hufflepuff? You're not nice at all. Slytherin's where you belong." Enoch still feels lost, but he forces himself to chuckle lightly anyway. Better to go along with it than stand out and look like an idiot, he thinks.

"Slytherins don't like Muggle-borns." Gee states plainly, before moving on to introduce the other male to the empath, "E, this is Philip—our oh so daring Gryffindor."

"I'm not that daring. Afraid of my own shadow, that's what Ma says. We don't know how I got into Gryffindor." Philip reaches over and grabs one of the egg salad sandwiches resting on the platter between ham and cheese and roast beef with salad. Then he grabs another, placing both on his plate before digging into the first. Still eating this sandwich, he goes to speak again, "You're Desrosiers, aren't ya? Odeda Desrosiers' son?"

Enoch nods, then frowns, deciding to speak the question that has been bothering him, "How does everyone know Maman?"

"It's 'cause she's famous, innit?" Philip continues, not even giving Gee a chance to speak up. But she definitely tries, mouth opening to form words before the Gryffindor's own fill the space. A slight frown furrows her brow, but Enoch can't sense any drastic change in emotion. "Did all that stuff in America."

"We've all heard stories of your mother in America, helping to bridge the gap between the muggles and wizards. She helped improve the relationship between them, and then married your father-I assume-as some sort of protest or demonstration." Gee finally elaborates, once she's given a chance to speak. "I don't think the us Brits minded, but the American wizards... they've always been a bit warier of muggles, haven't they?"

Philip nods, "Caused a lot of noise here. We—or, our parents—heard about the commotion Mrs Desrosiers had caused. American wizards weren't happy at all."

"I can't believe you didn't know this." Gee chuckles, drinking from her glass of orange juice. She shakes her head, the disbelief in it reinforcing her words. "I mean, they're not as famous as some," A not so subtle glance travels to the Gryffindor table, "but there's still a story."

"Guess they just never thought it was important... I was raised away from the magic world, so that's probably why." Enoch tries to justify his parents' reasoning for failing to share their apparently famous love story. However, he still feels slightly upset that he's been left out, that others have known more about it than he did, their own son.

After lunch, Enoch has his first Care of Magical Beasts class. A bit too eager-and far too worried about being late-the empath leaves early. Wandering down to the small hut near the forest, he realises few students are heading down as well. He's probably very early, but unwilling to turn around yet. At worst, he'll let Ferret have a run around in the grass; Ferret would probably like that after being cooped up on Enoch's shoulders.

The brunet reaches the hut, which seems to be the meeting spot for the class, at the same time as a very large male exits from it. The man is all raggedy, with a large, bushy beard and clothes of shades of brown cloth. Enoch is uncomfortable to note that what look like dead rats hang limply from his belt. It's a slightly chilly day outside, but warmth instantly fills the male when the larger Professor grows closer. This is accompanied by the lack of concentration, a mild dizziness, when the giant (well, half-giant) man notices him.

"Bit early, aren't yeh?" Professor Hagrid asks lightly, almost jokingly. Smiling awkwardly, Enoch gives a small nod. He should have walked slower, arrived later. Now he's just a nuisance, or looks too eager. He's eager, but he doesn't want to look like a teacher's pet, doesn't want to establish that as his image so early in the game. "That's alright. Yeh can help feed Witherwings, if yeh like. If he likes you, too."

A calmness quietens the brunet's thoughts and the smile on Enoch's face grows wider and more sincere, less uncomfortably forced. In that moment, as he's reassured that maybe he's not as bad as he thinks, he decides he likes this professor a lot.

.  .  .

Enoch's first day ends slowly, bringing with it a wave of tiredness he feels no amount of sleep will get rid of. As the other boy's in the dorm with him chatter away while they prepare for sleep, the brunet struggles to even follow the conversations, let alone participate. The emotions around him are affecting him more strongly as well, tiredness making him weaker and more susceptible.

"Hey Desrosiers," It's fortunate Enoch registers his last name, almost missing it amongst the noise he's ignoring. He pauses, mid-folding of his robes, and looks toward the boy who owns the bed beside him. Enoch barely knows him but can sense―hopes he can sense―the expensive cologne that radiates from him. But this is potential pride or sensibility is mingled with the popping candy and grin constantly twitching at his thin lips. Sure, his hair is brushed back, but it's also bursting against its combing, curls threatening to break free. Oh no, Enoch is staring; his neighbour probably thinks he's an idiot and he hasn't even said anything. "You know you don't have to fold your clothes by hand, right?"

Enoch frowns, gaze dropping back to his robes, "Of course I do... They get wrinkles if I just dump them." His bed neighbour rolls his eyes and gestures with his wand, causing the robes to fly from the empath's hands. Floating in their air, they fold neatly into a pile the transfer could only dream of folding and land atop his other clothes. While they're the best folded clothes Enoch has ever seen, he feels uncomfortable with the waste of magic.

"By hand, I said. Just magic them; it's what it's for."

"But it's such a waste..." Enoch mutters, gazing sadly at the pile. "Why waste magic on that?"

"Magic isn't limited, doofus. I'm not going to just run out." Brow furrowed in concern, the empath doesn't seem convinced. And he isn't: in the back of his mind, he can't shake the concern that, maybe, such careless use of magic could cause it to run out.

So, he goes to fold his pants by hand as well, only for his neighbour to sigh, smile, and magically fold these as well.

"Magic exists for a reason, Desrosiers." The boy says, magicking his own clothes neatly into their case. And Enoch agrees.

He just doesn't think this is the reason.

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
You'll get another chapter soon (as in, tomorrow by my time or something) because I feel like this one is a bit less exciting