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“It’s you,” Hermione murmured, looking up at him in wonder.
“Five years,” Draco shook his head, chuckling softly, “and you still sound surprised. And yet...”
He raised an eyebrow at the second mug of peppermint hot chocolate on the table beside her half-drunk one, charmed to stay warm.
“The skirmish in Manchester. Harry said it was bad on both sides; they came back covered in blood. I didn't know... I only hoped...” she whispered, reaching up to gently trace the stubble on his face.
He pulled her close, wrapping her in his arms.
“I told you – every Christmas. I promised.”