Harry was cold. (It was fine. Stiff fingers and toes and flushed pink creeping into his nose, that was fine. He had been cold. He had been so cold he felt hot. But this... this was burning.)
He fights at his clothes, broiling pain bubbling in the backs of his eyelids and prodding at his mind, producing black spots in his vision.
He's never felt quite this hot before, not even when he had been younger and cooking in the pan with a dish that popped and cracked, or the boiling water that had splashed all over his hands and somehow barely burned him at all.
No, he has never felt this. He can almost certify he has felt quite a collection of pain before, but this is not an experience he has ever wanted or even come close to feeling.
(But he has felt the hot-cold, when he was outside and no one cared enough to get him gloves that didn't give him an allergic reaction.
He has never had someone try to help, though.)
Warm arms, too warm, wrap around him from behind, and he cries with both relief and pain, because it feels like his nerves are being peeled from his body. (But he has another person, and isn't that what he had always wanted as a young child?)
So he leans into the touch with all of his trembling, failing energy, moving to nestle deeper into the arms of his saviour. (Because Harry Potter has never had a saviour- it's only ever been himself against the world.)
The chin of the other person lies upon his messy, curly black hair, and he feels a soft sigh ruffle his neck with scorching air.
Too much, but not enough. All he ever wanted was an embrace. And here it is, he thinks bitterly, with agony and what is almost certainly hypothermia.
He surrenders to sleep then, a soft curtain of blond hair brushing softly against his cheek as he succumbs.