Then he said, in a
low voice:
"You hate me for coming."
He stopped again. He stared at the void, at the blackness.
"You hate me for being here."
As he said the last words the blackness before him surely gathered
itself together, took a form, the form of a wave, towered up as a
gigantic wave towers, rolled upon him to overwhelm him. So acute was
his sensation of being attacked, of being in peril, that his body was
governed by it and instinctively shrank, trying to make itself small
that it might oppose as little resistance as possible to the oncoming
foe.
For it seemed to him that the wave of blackness was the wave of
Hermione's present hatred, that it came upon him, that it struck him,
that it stunned and almost blinded him, then divided, rushing onwards
he knew not where, unspent and unsatisfied.
He stood like a man startled and confused, striving to regain lost
footing, to recover his normal condition.
"You hate me."
Had he spoken the words or merely thought them? He did not know.
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