There was murder in her eyes that Harry could see even from here. There was a warning there. And —breath still stolen— he watched her crouch, watched the heavy heel of her shoe dig so hard into that chest —back?— the crack of bone echoed. "The Ancients will curse you," she spat it —literally— into his face, pressing the tip of her wand and carving it into the flesh there. She pulled the hand that was in her pocket out, brandishing a stone, ruby red and just smaller than her palm. The Philosopher's Stone, Harry realised with startling. "And if they don't," the air crackled with her power, with her promise, crimson ran from her palms with the weight of oath on her tongue. "I will." 