"They do." She tosses the bag on the bed. There is a great gulf of separation and politeness between them, and it makes her want to scream in frustration. Last night they slept curled together, and now? She has never felt so far apart. She wants to kiss him, to cling to him, to cry and rage and beg him to come with her. To tell him she loves him, like some stupid, emotional idiot. Hermione does none of these things, instead brushing her hands awkwardly over the front of her chambray shirt to try to smooth out the wrinkles, and perching on the edge of the bed by the bag. "Thanks. I hadn't thought about...clothes."