"That's not the point. I can't help it," Hermione says, and then shifts her grip on his hand and uses it to carefully help pull him to his feet. He leans heavily on her, unsteady and swaying, whimpering as they shuffle awkwardly side-by-side toward the bed. He is clammy with sweat, his right arm heavy and sweat-damp around her neck, and his breath rough on her cheek, scented with whiskey and the iron-tang of blood. "How do you stand it, Malfoy? How do you live with – with hurting...?"