Madame Pomfrey was not in the habit of arguing with sick children about whether or not they could sleep with their girl friends.  She was patient with Connor though, because the boy was ill, and concerned, and in general in a rather pitiable state as he clung there at her arm and coughed.  

"We should know something in the next few days."  She murmured at him, "and then we'll have you right as rain, Mister Warwick, don't you fret about that.  In the meantime it is important that you rest.  Here, on your bed."

She patted his hot hands with her cool ones and pulled the stopper out of a bottle of potion, and handed it to him.  "Now, I could remind you that sneaking into Miss Watkins bed was the height of impropriety.  But I've seen how children care about propriety these days.  So let me ask you.  If you and Miss Watkins are both running a fever, how am I supposed to get your fevers down with you laying on top of one another."  Not to mention that they were each supposed to have the scalding wrappings of onions, ginger and mandrake roots at their feet.  Pomfrey patted the lumpy poultice at the bottom to the bed to insure it was still warm.