He’d been outside wallowing in his misery long enough that his fingers were going numb, when the door handle turned with a click and Draco tensed, refusing to turn around. Clenched his jaw so his teeth would stop chattering. If it was Hermione, he wasn’t going to act desperate. Even if he was. The door opened and shut with a bang, footsteps on the old wooden boards; not Hermione’s. Draco could tell. A mug of something was set by a feminine hand on the railing, steam coiling up from it. He looked up to see Nymphadora cradling another mug in both hands, blowing on the drink through pursed lips. His cup wafted the scent of hot chocolate, and his mouth watered.