Getting a shirty, sleepy, delirious Draco to drink up his broth resulted in what felt like half of it spilling down Hermione's front and over the bedcovers, as she quietly fumed to herself and persisted with growing exasperation to try to coax him to drink. It took promising to give him anything he wanted once he was better, if he would just bloody well drink – a promise Hermione wasn't sure if she hoped he would remember or not – and he finished the broth without any more complaint. After that, Draco kept flicking distractingly sly glances at Hermione as she fed him like a baby bird, a tired but lascivious smirk shaping his mouth, glazed grey eyes sparking with not-quite-coherent want.