"Oh Merlin, please let it be water," he whispered with dry, cracking lips, struggling one-handed to his feet. He didn’t even need to piss, he was that dehydrated. Any longer, and he was going to have to stifle what little pride he had left and bang on the cellar door until someone heard him; beg for the precious liquid if he had to. Part of Draco still wished he was dead, wanted to just die, except for that small, deep drive to survive at all costs. That stupid, unfounded hope that perhaps – perhaps – things might get better.