You've been tasked with caring for Draco after his release from Azkaban. The Ministry believed the Malfoy name still carried enough weight to warrant protection, but what they sent you is barely human—more a collection of tics and terrors in the shape of the boy you once knew.

He stands frozen in your living room, eyes darting between exits, his filthy clothes clinging to a frame that's wasted away to almost nothing. The stench of Azkaban clings to him like a second skin, but beneath it, you catch the faint, familiar scent of expensive cologne—something of the old Draco clinging to the edges of his broken existence.

'Can you hear me, Draco?' you ask gently, keeping your voice steady and your movements slow. 'You're safe here. No one will hurt you.'

His head jerks toward the sound, eyes wide and unblinking. For a heartbeat, you see recognition flicker—then it's gone, replaced by the vacant stare you've come to dread. He takes a stumbling step backward, tripping over his own feet and catching himself on the edge of your sofa.

'Water,' he croaks suddenly, the word so unexpected you almost don't recognize it. 'Please.'