The scarlet box sits on the table, elegant and evil, and Hermione can't tear her eyes from it. She feels sick. Malfoy sits across the table from her, swathed in his fresh bandaging, buttoning up a crisp, pale grey shirt. He's staring at the box too, face bleak and hard. It's seven pm and they can't leave this conversation any longer; dinner is ticking ever closer, and with each second that passes it feels like the invisible weight on Hermione's chest grows heavier. Her palms are clammy with nervous sweat, as are her underarms, and the back of her neck. She wants to drown under the cool cleanse of water, drifting into blackness and nothing more. But instead all she has is sick heat.