“No you don’t, Hermione,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t let you.”
He saw her standing tall and livid and attentive, the stone clenched tense in her hand.
“Stand away and let me go,” he said, drawing near to her.
As if pressed back by some hand, she stood away, watching him all the time without changing, like a neutralised angel confronting him.
“It is not good,” he said, when he had gone past her. “It isn’t I who will die. You hear?”
He kept his face to her as he went out, lest she should strike again. While he was on his guard, she dared not move. And he was on his guard, she was powerless. So he had gone, and left her standing.
She remained perfectly rigid, standing as she was for a long time. Then she staggered to the couch and lay down, and went heavily to sleep. When she awoke, she