When the dawn of the third day of this constant care finally blushes through the cracks in the curtains, Hermione is sitting curled up in the armchair she's claimed for her own, eyes bleary and head muzzy. She's sticky with sweat, and her hair is limp and damp, half falling out of a messy plait secured by a cotton tie that she scavenged from a pair of Malfoy's pyjama trousers the other day. Malfoy has recently slipped into the restless doze he spends most of his time in, but Hermione is afraid to let herself sleep, needing to be as alert as possible. Too scared to let her heavy eyes close in case he needs her, or a Death Eater tries to get in. She falls asleep anyway, nodding off with the morning sun warm on her legs, to the rasping sound of Malfoy's breathing.