Hermione knew what she would normally have done: snapped at him that yes, she was sure. She couldn't get herself to do it; she was tired and deeply wounded. Though she usually defended herself by switching to the offensive, by yelling and trying to show that she was definitely not hurt, she couldn't do it.
They hadn't spoken in months. Hadn't had a conversation in forever. How could he not have noticed that? Was he that tired of her that he heard her 'nagging' and 'Mum'ish voice in his head all the time? Even while she wasn't around?
She couldn't get herself to answer. She wished she had been able to sit up a little so that she could look down at her hands, or somewhere past him, but nothing short of turning her head away from him would allow her to look elsewhere but right at him. She felt so vulnerable like this, lying on her back while he sat above her, looking down at her. That was the way of their relationship now, wasn't it? She'd laid it all down and he had looked down at it. Didn't want any of it. Any of her.
Her eyelids trembled over her eyes as they closed and Hermione tried so hard not to cry. She was so tired. God, she was so tired.