Twisting round to face her he pushed the table over and got away from her.

He was like a flask that is smashed to atoms, he seemed to himself that he was all fragments, smashed to bits.

Yet his movements were perfectly coherent and clear, his soul was entire and unsurprised.
'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.