Hermione accepted the box—it  was  heavy, damn it—and then left, practically fleeing. She didn’t stop or slow her brisk walk, almost a light jog, until she was far away from the pseudo-department store that had nearly kept her hostage, until she had blended in with the crowded streets of London, until her practical brain kicked in and told her to slow down because running was suspicious. Breathing heavily, she found a little bench and sat down hard, fingers digging into the sides of the box. 