When the trapdoor creaked open late the night of Hermione’s mission, Draco knew who it was. His hand shook as relief went fizzing through him and anticipation welled up. Who else would be coming down to see him this late at night, and on this night in particular? It had become their habit. She would bring him a hot chocolate, and they would sit and dissect the mission; go over what happened, what went wrong, how she could do better next time. It made Draco feel useful – like Hermione needed him. He smiled to himself. And there she was, coming down through the entrance with a bottle in each hand, a vision of wild hair and wholly practical jeans and jumper. She set the bottles slowly down on the third step from the top and eased the trapdoor shut behind her.