"Here." Hermione touches his shoulder and Malfoy cracks dazed eyes open, emerging from the restless, pain-filled stupor he keeps sinking into. Not true rest, nor true consciousness. His lips are dry and cracked, and his eyes are dull as he lies on his wounded back, half-propped up by pillows. Hermione wishes like hell he'd just fucking well eat. She wishes she had proper pain killers for him. He needs nutritious food and good rest in order to heal, and he's not getting enough of either – he can't hold down one and she can't get the other. It's fraying her already precarious mental state with frustration.