HG
I'm not sure what I expected
this evening to be.
An in-depth discussion,
or reprimand, maybe?
Perhaps I could've told him,
about the blood.
Ask him what I should do,
as it sticks like mud.
Maybe I could've
asked him how he was.
Maybe he was asking me,
'cause well... 'cause
I don't think he is
what he is portrayed to be.
He suffers, and sheds blood
and well, he saved me.
But that's not what happened.
In any way, at all.
He was late, for starters,
maybe he was on call?
So I waited, and waited,
and waited some more,
until I ended up, well,
sitting down on the floor.
I began to concoct things
in my brain-
Him like James Bond,
and Bruce Wayne.
Silly.
But I suppose he is a spy.
I haven't really thought much about it.
I'm confused as to why.
It was very late,
when he did appear,
he coughed, though,
without his sneer.
I must have had that
look upon my face,
the one from imagining
that legendary race:
Of heroes and lovers,
of spies in cold wars,
as he looked at me as if
I had overgrown jaws!
And, he didn't stay
for another second,
When will we talk,
will he give me another beckon?
'Goodbye', he said.
Uttered, really.
And I managed to get a word in-
well, nearly!
I'm not sure he heard
my swift soft reply.
It wasn't too informal, was it?
Answering with 'Bye'?
Hermione is a classic worrier. Also, I find it helps to read the words out loud.