"Is there anything you need? Snacks? More galleons?"
                              
"No, thank you. You don't have to keep helping me. It's not necessary, really."
                              
"I want to, though... umm... I'm sorry... I didn't ask your name," the Auror said, and he tightened up. "I'm Harry."
                              
Draco felt his stomach drop. Holy-Bloody-Salazar. It was Potter. His familiar voice, his never-ending hero complex, his righteous drive. Crap, crap, crap. Draco  forced himself to remain calm as he whispered, "As in... the Harry?"

                              
"The Harry. In the flesh."
                              
Bloody hell. Draco tried to breathe normally and play it off. "They put you on... patrol duty?"
                              
"Everyone is supposed to do it. I wasn't going to skip steps with my training for my fame."
                              
Stupid selfless prat. "And you spend your time comforting homeless, blind beggars?"
                              
"Well... the crime rate is pretty low. Kids stealing candy is the biggest threat, and the shops have theft charms on. I'd rather lend a helping hand, but if I need to stun 'em I will. Plus, I needed a break from the politics."
                              
Draco nodded, frowning.
                              
"So...." Potter prompted, but didn't say anything for a few seconds. "What's your name?"
                              
Draco's hand trembled. He was so glad that he didn't use his real voice. "I don't have one anymore."
                              
"What it got cursed away?" he chuckled.
                              
"No... it's just cursed." By everyone, and he didn't want to be spit on anymore. No one would call him Draco. He would always be Malfoy, a loyal servant to the torture-crazy, Lord Asshole.
                              
Potter seemed confused at that but recovered. "I see. Well, you can pick a new name, ya know?"
                              
"What?" he muttered.
                              
"You can pick any name you want... how about Bob?"
                              
"Bob?" Draco sneered. No way.
                              
"Well, until you give me a name, you're Bob. So, pick one," Potter insisted.
                              
He grumbled. He wanted his name, not a fake one. But maybe something similar. "Wyvern."
                              
"Hey, Wyvern. Nice to meet, yeh! Can I shake your hand?"
                              
Draco shakily put his cup in his robes and held out his right hand.
                              
Potter gripped it and said, "Just call me, Harry."
                              
"I... don't think that's wise. You're the constable... an Auror... the Chosen One. You shouldn't be talking to me," he whispered, and Potter wasn't letting go. He was probably examining his dirty, calloused hands.
                              
"I don't care what people think. I can talk ten or fifteen minutes out of my day to talk to you."
                              
"Please don't burden yourself with me," Draco pleaded.
                              
"You're not a burden. The war was hard on everyone."
                              
"It didn't happen during the war."
                              
"Really? Good to know, but you're still homeless. The war didn't cause that?"
                              
Draco frowned. "Technically."
                              
"Then there you go."
                              
"Can I have my hand back?" he said, quietly, unable to keep from shaking.
                              
"Sorry, you seem a little underweight," Potter commented, as he let go.
                              
He jerked his head toward him. "Was that based on an analysis of my hand, or are you scanning me with your wand, since I can't see?"
                              
He laughed. "Well, you're smart, that's for sure."
                              
Potter didn't deny it, though, and Draco tightened up. "Thank you for the sandwich."
                              
"I apologize if I overstepped."
                              
"It's fine."
                              
"No... it isn't. I just wanted to make sure that you didn't need medical attention. You have a lot of bruises," Potter commented.
                              
"I bruise easily and fall a lot," he huffed, finding it stupid to explain that to him. He'd run into bins, benches and people and had no way to heal his injuries.
                              
"You know there are Ministry shelters that will take you? They could help you out."
                              
"No, thanks. I don't need them or help," he said, and added mentally, not to mention I would be refused anyway.
                              
"Is there anything I can do...?"
                              
"I'm fine, P-Harry," he said, almost slipping. Hardly anyone called him Potter but him.
                              
"Alright... I'll talk to you tomorrow, then," Potter promised.
                              
Bloody hell. "Okay."