Canto VI
"Don't go on," he insisted, raising his hand and pressing it against his bowed forehead.
"My story is very short, and it isn't so sad if one tells it with words that have the syllable-sound 'ee,' which helps the wrackspurts at bay," she replied, all of a sudden twirling on one sandaled foot in a fairylike pirouette, ending in a curtsey that lead her to notice something interesting on the ground, whereupon she merely stood there, gazing in fascination.
"Is there a commonsensical reason for...this?" He shook his head and crossed his arms, then tossed her a rotten apple of discord. "It is interesting to me that having frivolous conversation with a ghost beyond repair is more important than helping your wounded friends," he snarled.
Luna Lovegood, he decided, was Athena's nemesis, the bastion of irrationality, a Bacchante sprung from the piercing of Dionysus' thrysus into the ground.
"There is much in the way of krittleore in this area," she observed without acknowledging his criticism, ever the naturalist. "It's so good for the loresh flowers when it's autumn. I wonder if they used to hang people in this clearing. Or perhaps they cured Glurgiddy meat here."
She began to look at the trees above them, as though trying to discern which oak was the best for either a noose or meat hook, and Snape's patience was destroyed.
"You are impossible, Miss Lovegood," he said, turning fully away with the intent of disapparating, though to where he did not know.
"You're right," she immediately replied, her voice pregnant with profundity. "I am impossible."