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. . .
"PEOPLE ARE SAYING you're a Death Eater." Enoch breaks the silence of the room with a thought hanging heavily in his mind. Though he instantly regrets it, feeling like some sort of gossip; he feels guilty, as though he's accusing his sick bay companion of being something he knows isn't good. So he tries to save himself, following it with, "What's a Death Eater?"
"The Dark Lord's followers." Enoch glances over at the blond Slytherin, who's now sitting upright in his own bed. Neither have been cleared by Madam Pomfrey, who doesn't seem certain either have recovered fully when she comes around, while other students have come and gone as they pleased. Whenever she checks up on Draco, they talk quietly for a few moments, with cautious glances back at the other boy; Enoch can never hear what is said during this time, purposefully trying to focus elsewhere to avoid eavesdropping.
"Are you?" The brunet presses after a few seconds silence, curiosity getting the better of him. A blank expression remains on the older boy's face as he looks towards Enoch, a soft frown furrowing his brow. He still looks tired, but also more rested than usual; the dark shadows under his eyes are a little less sunken, the hollowness of his eyes only seem a little less hollow. The bandage on his cheek has been removed, revealing a small scratch travelling up his pointed cheekbone.
"What would the Dark Lord want with a sixteen year old? What could I possibly give the Dark Lord?" There's a bitterness in the boy's tone, in the sharpness of the lemons radiating from him, that stops Enoch from pressing further. He holds back, not wanting to upset him further. "You shouldn't believe everything you hear, Desrosiers; some people just enjoy spreading rumours."
"Enoch," corrects the younger boy, receiving an even stronger frown from Draco. "We had a deal—you're supposed to call me Enoch." Draco responds with a small sigh, his gaze travelling away towards the door. Silence settles over the room again, with neither making any attempt to break it. Though Enoch wants to. He really can't stand the stifling silence that hangs over them; it makes him fidget restlessly, wrack his brain for some sort of topic he could bring up, something he could say. Everything seems too prying, too irrelevant, too stupid. And he doesn't want to seem stupid.
He doesn't want Draco to think he's stupid.
. . .
Enoch takes it back: Draco isn't peaceful when he sleeps.
When Draco sleeps—actually sleeps—he dreams, though the younger male is hesitant to call them that. The boy murmurs, mixtures of fear or anger, sometimes sadness, all evident in his tone; the boy also writhes and shuffles, sleepily pushing his tormentors away. His brow furrows into a tight frown—the kind of frown that causes tension headaches and brings a sweet kind of relief when released—and his lips are even more turned down than usual. He looks unhappy, incredibly unhappy.
