"Come on, then," she said, slipping her arm around him and helping him wobble upright, pupils little pinpricks in his irises from the pain potion. He was dead on his feet, steps stumbling and clumsy, leaning heavily on her, his bare skin hot as a brand wherever it pressed against her, black pyjama trousers low on his hips, and Hermione both worried about him and wished he was well. Wanted to twine herself around him like a clinging vine and kiss him long and lazy. But he wasn't well, and once she had steered him back to bed she settled on the edge of it and laid her wrist over his forehead. He was hot, but not dangerously feverish, so Hermione just gave him more water and tugged the sheet and a thin blanket up over him, dropping a kiss on his forehead and watching him from her chair as he drifted back into restless sleep.