She wondered briefly if Draco was doing all right, down in the cellar by himself, and she hoped that he was. Lying in bed with the cool night air on her face and chest and whisking down her legs, Hermione wondered if anyone spoke to him at all. If he was reading the books she left him. If he had seen his mother again. If he hated Hermione now. Hermione wasn’t sure if she wanted him to hate her or not; she thought not, but then what did it matter, really? She had stopped going to see him, stopped visiting. Why would she care if he hated her? But she did.