"Malfoy." She sounds scratchy and her voice breaks embarrassingly over the beginning of his name, and she flushes and looks down at her hands, all tight on the book she holds closed in her lap. She wonders again at the strangeness that she can be embarrassed over her voice going funny, when less than a month ago the man whose name she stumbles over was forced to rape her. People are so strange, she thinks as she wobbles her stiff little smile at him – so polite, so civil, just how her mother taught her to be. Acting as if they were just two friendly room-mates, and not a spy and a prisoner trapped together. Malfoy looks away, down at the scarlet box he has tucked beneath his arm, all worn-thin weariness, and a shadow of disgust.