Hermione did run her hands over him, her hands sliding up into his shirt and absentmindedly kneading his sore muscles with warm fingers. She wasn't at all tired, lying there against him touching his bare skin, and she stared up at all the portraits with a soft sigh against Ron's neck. One of her hands extracted itself from his shirt and reached for the bedside table; she picked up her wand and conjured curtains around them so they had some semblance of privacy in the portrait-filled room.
"Why do you think Snape's portrait isn't up there?"