"You'll be all right. I promise, you'll be all right," she lied, staring into his grey eyes and waiting. Waiting to see them flutter shut, or glaze over with that dullness of death. His blood was running sticky and too fast over her fingers and hand, and Hermione was afraid to press any harder in case she choked him. In desperation she fumbled for her discarded dittany and shook more over her fingers, letting it trickle between them onto his wound, but it still made little difference.