“Bristol is that way.” Potter points, then returns his hand to steady the pistol. “You can make it by nightfall.” A grimace flickers across Potter’s face. “Tomorrow, anyway.”
“I’m rather hungry,” Draco admits. The faint, gnawing sensation is the least of it, really. His chest hurts and there’s emotion balled up in his throat. Draco’s entire being is teetering on the edge of a phenomenal collapse. Potter glances in that wary arc again, and his eyes return to Draco’s.
Harry Potter owes Draco nothing. He’s well aware of that. But being in Potter’s presence is tearing his resolve to shreds. Potter looks clean. He looks beautiful and decently fed and in control of himself, and Draco wants nothing more, nothing, nothing, than to throw himself on Potter’s mercy before his crumbling mind does it for him.
“I haven’t eaten in two days,” he continues. A smile he can’t control splits his dry bottom lip, and a huffed giggle sneaks past his lips. “Doesn’t sound very long when I say it out loud, does it? It feels long.”
“I’m letting you go.” Potter keeps the pistol aimed at Draco’s chest. “So go.”
“All right. Look, Potter—” Oh, no. Is Draco going to cry? If he starts, how will he stop? “First, it’s me, Draco Malfoy. You know me. And even if you don’t feel—”
“I know it’s you,” Potter interrupts. “Here’s the thing, Malfoy. If I feed you, then every rough sleeper you talk to about it is going to show up here looking for a free meal. And this is not the Leaky Cauldron.”
“Well, the Leaky Cauldron didn’t have free meals. It was a pub.”
I need you to know I pulled my car over on the side of the road two minutes before claims opened so I wouldn't miss this. Unrelatedly, I did a lot of sobbing, but trust me. I know. But trust me.
