The next day arrives as Hermione reassures a feverish, pained Malfoy that everything is going to be okay in tired murmurs, and sponges his face and torso and arms. And she tells herself that isn't needy gratitude and affection in his pain-dazed eyes, tells herself that the way he looks at her doesn't create an uncomfortable tingling sense of warmth in her stomach. She's imagining it. Food and drink are brought at intervals by a house elf who won't stay and speak to Hermione, as she tends Malfoy through the long hours of the day. There's no one else to do it, and she likes to be useful. She helps him sit up and firmly coaxes him into eating the soup, makes him drink plenty of hot tea, helps him hobble to the bathroom, and changes the bandages when they start weeping through to the sheets. Malfoy thanks her for these things in a croaking whisper, pain crinkling his face, and she does all she can for him; happily, losing her fear for herself somewhere inside her worry for him.