Hermione had had a full day to get used to the idea that Ron hated her. That what she had imagined they had had was simply that, her imagination. She had napped, she had woken, she had cried. Madame Pomfrey had given her something to eat, which hadn't at all agreed with her stomach and which had almost immediately been rejected. They had tried again later, and though her stomach had revolted, it had eventually settled. She had slept much of the night, waking only periodically to stare blankly around the darkened room. She could hear Oliver a few beds down shift every once in a while, but they hadn't spoken a word. She didn't know why. She supposed he cared about her just as much as Ron did.
And then, today, she had woken to find out that it was February 15th; she had woken on Valentine's day. How poetic that Ron had... on Valentine's day.
After lunch, which was still arguing with her stomach, Hermione had napped. When she woke, she found she was crying. She missed her parents. She missed Ron. She missed life when she... she missed camping. She missed feeling like she mattered to something, to someone, that her actions had positive consequences on at least one person. She missed being missed and having people care. She missed being allowed to care for others.
She needed something to do, and had written Harry asking him for their books.
"Hi, Harry." Though Hermione's tears had been dried, they threatened to rise again and she had to swallow the lump in her throat at the card. "Thank you," she whispered, offering Harry a shaky, watery smile. "Help me sit up?" She was getting bedsores.