She raids Malfoy's alcohol cabinet in the end – it will be wasting the firewhiskey to use it on his back, he laments through gritted teeth, and she – flushed with a bolstering shot or three of the stuff herself – pours a generous drizzle of it into his mouth. He laughs and mumbles something incoherent after swallowing, her name in the muddle somewhere, his eyes shut and skin damp with sweat, shivering from reaction to having his wounds cleaned of debris first with magically boiled water.