CHAPTER THREE

.  .  .

WHEN ENOCH WAKES up, he experiences a moment of disorientation, forgetting where he is. His bedroom at home is silent, the way he likes it, but here he can hear the sounds of someone else's breathing. In fact, he can hear numerous people breathing. Along with this, he can feel their drowsy emotions already filling his sense, those these mimic his own—reluctance, tiredness. As he slowly opens his eyes, curious as to what is around him, he's greeted with an overload of yellow and black and he sighs. That's right. He's at Hogwarts. Not home. He sighs.

The other students are starting to get up, he notices as he glances around. There are a few enviously still asleep, but the majority are either lying in bed with expressions that seem to be questioning why they do this to themselves or up and dressed and ready to leave for breakfast. Reluctantly, Enoch makes himself a part of the latter group.

Uniforms provide a problem for the brunet. Never in his life has he had to wear one– oh wait, no, there was a time. For a year, after watching a movie, the idea of being in the Boys Scouts had really caught his fancy; for that year he'd worn a uniform. But that was years ago and he hasn't worn one since. So, immediately, he isn't used to the uncomfortable practicalness of it all; none is designed for style, instead designed to ensure no one stands out too much as everyone looks acceptably neat. But Enoch thinks he probably sticks out with his uneven tie that looks nothing like his housemates' and the awkwardness that he wears his wizarding robes with. Why must wizards insist on robes? Why can't they be like normal people and just wear normal clothes?

Once the ordeal of dressing is dealt with, the empath wanders out into the common room. Now not wanting to sleep, Enoch is able to take in the appearance of the house a little better: the first thing he notices is plants, lots and lots of plants. He doesn't even recognise most of the plants, other than that they're definitely magical. A portrait of Helga Hufflepuff is also nestled amongst the plants, a very pretty lady smiling from within her frame. She moves, a fact that might have frightened Enoch had he not already owned a photo of two primary school friends at home that move as well.

In the centre of the common room, however, stands Gee. She smiles when she sees him, walking over like she was waiting for him. Enoch doesn't believe that's possible—surely she has other friends she could go to breakfast with. But, as she greets him with a good morning and, "I've been waiting to you," Enoch finds it hard to deny.

So he just asks why. And the older girl laughs.

"Because, we're friends now. And I like to eat meals with my friends." She shrugs like it's no big deal but Enoch is touched she considered it. It makes him smile, just a little. The girl beckons and Enoch falls in step beside her, listening as she tells him about the dream she had. He only half-listens, still trying to wake completely before he's forced to face the world.

After breakfast, which consisted of a few slices of toast and a tall glass of juice for Enoch, the head of the House—a rather kind looking Professor Sprout, who looks as though she just stepped out of the garden, with patches of dirt scattered across her and under her nails—comes around to the Hufflepuff table, handing out the timetables. Each student has to be checked to ensure they received the marks required. The brunet fidgets restlessly with his piece of paper, already knowing he won't be able to continue Herbology; it only makes it worse that Professor Sprout teaches that particular subject, and it seems to be this House's subject.

Ferret sighs softly, warm breath hitting Enoch's neck as the boy grows more nervous. The professor has almost reached him and all he can think about is how miserably he failed Herbology. She'll probably hate him forever, or kick him out of the House– or just openly judge his inadequacy in such a way that encourages everyone else to do the same. He'll be ostracised– Ferret sighs again, now dragging his claws lightly against the bare skin on the boy's neck. The contact affects his vision again and Enoch loses concentration: human/boy/child needs to stop/breathe/calm. Boy/child/friend is getting predator/other students' attention.

"Desrosiers?" Enoch returns to reality slightly calmer, but also to the sight of Professor Sprout standing in front of him. Up close, he can smell the earthy smell of gardening but he can no longer tell for sure if that's an emotion or her scent; he can, however, feel the warmth of the sun radiating from her and that makes him feel a bit calmer. He hands over his sheet with a mumbled apology, now empty hand raising to scratch Ferret appreciatively.

Anxiously, he watches as she reads his results off the crumpled paper. He can tell when she reaches the Herbology mark, as her brow furrows into a frown and she looks up at him. For a moment, the dizzying lack of concentration radiates from her but he senses no judgement.

"Who did you study Herbology with?"

"My mother and Samantha Taylor." The grey-haired witch nods slowly.

"Well, your marks say you wouldn't be able to cope with the demand," The brunet gulps, cheeks feeling like they're blazing, and he nods. The professor smiles again, "But you're welcome into the greenhouses at any time and I'd be happy to teach you a few things on the side."

If Enoch's cheek weren't already bright red from embarrassment, they are definitely now just from the warm kindness that radiates from the professor. He gives her a crooked smile, filled with relief that things didn't go as bad as he'd expected, and thanks her.

"Everything else, however, you're fine." Then, the timetable in Professor Sprout's hand fills with words and it's handed to Enoch. He glances down at it, while Gee looks over his shoulder at the subjects he's doing.

"Alchemy? I didn't even know they had Alchemy." She comments, reading the first class on his list. The brunet nods slowly.

"They weren't sure if there would be a class—I suppose they got enough students." In response, Gee hums and glances at her own timetable. Then, she looks back to Enoch's, clearly comparing.

"Our core subjects are the same—except Potions, I failed that." Gee grins. "Thought Snape would be teaching again so I did terribly on purpose. Of course they get a new teacher the following year." The empath snickers, both at her statement and the bitter lemon rind resentment radiating from her. "Anyway, I have a break first up, so I'll meet you at Dada."

"Dada?"

Gee nods, "Defence Against the Dark Arts. We have it second." With a small wave, the dark haired girl then walks off in the direction of a large set of doors. Only to return moments later, a sheepish grin resting on her lips, "I forgot you don't know where you are. C'mon, I'll take you to your classroom."

And, once again, Enoch is following Gee aimlessly through the halls of Hogwarts. As they move through other students going to their classes, the brunet keeps his focus on Gee's oranges, using that as an anchor against the others' emotional noise.

"Ooh, this is a small class." Gee comments as they reach the classroom. A few students are gathered outside the door, chatting happily amongst themselves as they wait for the professor. The girl pats on Enoch on the shoulder, giving him a brief burst of oranges. "Smaller classes should make it easier to make friends though. You'll find someone."

The brunet nods, though he still doubts her confidence in him. After all, he has absolutely no experience in friend-making, and all of these students clearly already of friends. He might just go stand to the side.

Thankfully, the teacher arrives not long after, briskly marching up to the door and then inside. The students trickle in slowly after her, still maintaining their chatter. Enoch takes a seat in the second row, wanting to sit up the front but not wanting to look like a nerd or teacher's pet. A pair of students sit a few seats down from him, but say nothing to him. Desperate for something to preoccupy himself with, in an attempt to minimise the awkwardness he assumes he must look like, he gets his notebook from the satchel he brought with him—though he's noticing most students just carry their books, goddamn, why must he be so organised?

Now thoroughly organised with his notebook in front of him and quill and inkwell set up on the desk, Enoch finds himself with nothing to do again. His fingers automatically find Ferret, hidden in amongst the collar of his robes, which he scratches absentmindedly as he gazes around the room quickly. There really is barely any students in the classroom, which is small as it is. Alchemy must have only just got enough students—maybe twenty? He doesn't bother counting.

A few more minutes pass and the teacher clears her throat. Enoch's attention snaps directly to her, focusing properly on her for the first time. The professor is a spindly woman, like a spider, with blonde hair tied back into a tight bun and a lack of expression on her face; it's impossible for Enoch to determine an age, as she seems simultaneously old and young.

Once silent has settled across the class, a smile that drastically changes her appearance from off-putting to welcoming stretches across her lips and she greets the class, "Welcome to Alchemy. I'm Professor Moro, and I'll be taking you through Alchemy this year—possibly next year too, if you continue. It's good to be teaching this subject; we almost didn't have enough students but, fortunately, some students must have changed their minds at the last minute." Professor Moro moves from behind the front desk to in front of it, leaning against it casually. "About the subject: we'll be focusing on the four main elements of nature and transmutation of the elements and substances. To some, this can also be a spiritual journey, but that won't be taught or assessed." The spider-like woman grins, amused by her own joke. Enoch doesn't get it but he smiles anyway, hoping he too looks at least mildly amused. "Also, all classwork—especially practicals—will be done in pairs which you will decide now. Choose wisely, as these groups will only be changed in very rare, justifiable circumstances and you will be in these groups until the end of the year."

Oh dear god, why? Why groups of all things?

With one clap of her hands, Moro gets the students up out of their seats, urging them, "Now, pick your partner and sit back down with them."

After gathering the things he'd so painstakingly set out, Enoch rises from his chair and shuffles to the side of the room. He watches as other students find their friends as partner up, taking seats, and he just knows he's going to be left until the end. He hugs his book tightly to his chest, willing someone to ask him if he'd be their partner, for someone to just reveal themselves. He doesn't want to work by himself—he doesn't want to be that last pick.

And then, as if spurred by his internal begging, Fate answers: from in amongst the small group of students finding partners, Enoch notices one boy still sitting down. His gaze is buried in some book, an expression of boredom resting on his thin face as though he hasn't noticed or doesn't care about the looks of aversion students are giving him as they look for a partner. Everyone walks wide circles around him, some even muttering to their friend afterwards. The blond doesn't even seem to be trying to find a partner, so Enoch musters some courage to go find him. Inhaling slowly and deeply, the brunet takes the first steps towards the pale boy, willing himself to take the next few steps. The butterflies are back and a voice in his head is screaming at him to turn back, reminding him that this is a terrible idea! But it's this or lonerdom, so Enoch will take the risk.

Up close, all the empath can taste is sour lemon candy he used to survive off during primary school, but at an intensity that burns his mouth. The brunet almost gags.

So engrossed in his book, or skilled at ignoring others, the blond doesn't notice that someone has approached him. Enoch opens his mouth to speak, to announce his presence, but finds he doesn't have the confidence to form the words—he can't form the words. So, instead, he reaches out to tap the reading boy's shoulder. With a shaking hand, he tries to lightly tap it, but aims incorrectly; his hand lands at the top of his shoulder, fingers brushing against his neck. And that's enough.

The skin contact causes an intense rush of emotions, bursting past the sugary, artificial lemons: brine and vinegar washes over his tongue, salt mingling with sour, the smell of petrichor fills his nose, a scent he's never experienced before and can't label. Beneath that, almost teasingly, rests a soothing honey, warming the coolness of his emotions. But, with the overload of negative emotions, Enoch can't help but feel an intense amount of sympathy. No one, especially not a boy his age, should have that combination of emotions; the empath wishes he could reduce some of that burden. This wish seems to only increase the pain the brunet is experiencing secondhand, filling him with actual emotions—anger, sadness, fear, loneliness; he's drowning in the emotions. There's a pain in his chest and tears threaten to prick his own eyes but he blinks them back. This is new, and the unfamiliarity of this only makes the emotions worse.

Breaking the brief contact, Enoch's fingers go to his temple, where the warning signs of a migraine seem to be emerging. The emotions lessen until they are nothing but a memory—a strong, and rather painful memory. Whatever he just did, his body doesn't seem to like it.

But the tension in the classmate's shoulders seem to lessen slightly, or maybe that's just wishful thinking. At the first contact, his head snaps upwards to Enoch with a defensively angry expression on his face. But, with his shoulders, his expression softens for a second too, with a brief flash of confusion, before returning to the cold emptiness.

"I don't know you, so you're either the transfer people are talking about or someone equally unimportant." The blond notes, empty eyes raking the brunet's appearance. Everything about him seems cold: a thin, pale face filled with dark shadows surround his dead, angry eyes and no positive expression is evident on his face. "Either way, keep your hands off me. These robes are new and I'd rather not get them dirty so early."

"I– Sorry." Enoch wants to bite back, but after what he just experienced he can't bring himself to do so. "I just came over to see if you want to be partners." He doubts it now, but it's still worth a shot.

"I don't need other, less competent students holding me back." The boy says, but the brine Enoch can taste suggests otherwise.

"Malfoy and– uh, who are you?" So this boy is the ferret...

"Desrosiers, Professor." Moro nods, while Malfoy lets out what could be called some sort of amused laugh.

"Take a seat next to Malfoy, Desrosiers; you're the only two left." The brunet nods, now reluctantly taking a seat. He puts his book and writing equipment out again, this time with less effort than previously, and squirms awkwardly. Seeking comfort, he pats the warm body wrapped around his neck.

"You must be Odeda Desrosiers' son then. She's famous around here." Malfoy notes, almost under his breath, once Enoch is settled. A cruel smirk curls across his lip as he delivers his own punchline, "Famous for being a filthy Muggle-lover. She married one, didn't she? From America? In my family, it's practically a sin to taint pure blood like that; I'm surprised her parents didn't disown her."

"Stop talking about her," growls Enoch, now understanding why the other students avoided this one like the plague. For a moment, he's so angry, he forgets about the turmoil rolling around like a dark storm cloud within the boy, so angry he fails to excuse the bitterness.

"I understand," The rude male says and for one stupid second Enoch believes him, "I would want to forget about my mother too, if she was the reason I was a half-blood."

"Fils d'un furet." The brunet mutters under his breath, glaring down at his books in attempt to stop himself from retorting further. He can still taste the brine, reminding him that the boy has his reasons—surely, he has his reasons. No one is so rude for no reason.

Enoch just hopes he'll be able to survive the year's partnership with this boy without finally snapping, much like he assumes everyone else has.

( AUTHOR'S NOTE )
Sure, this is me exploring an concept that I think is kinda cool... but it's mostly me just, y'know, reliving my Malfoy love. Obviously not now, coz he's a jerk (though that was one of the things baby me seemed to like about him), but later...