( There is a moment, bland, when he is nearly propelled once more loose of the door, because the fox, the creature truly applies itself — bone and arm and shoulder, and the ramming unyielding. A moment when, footing loose, he almost topples over Hermione, no better than an unbound stone. A moment when his fists, tight-knuckled and strong, beat childishly back against the door, as if he were an adolescent disciple bartering the silence of his peers through crude, barbarian diplomacy.
He is so very tempted to kick, like a braying donkey. So very, fully justified. Hardly at fault, should he also hiss.
But no, he is a man of shrapnel of dignity. He owes the groaning, moaning, battered door the respect of a slow stroke of his palm, then only a measured push back. To respond not at all would congratulate the fox's effort. And the girl?
...to ignore her would, no doubt, be misread as much the same. )
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He is so very tempted to kick, like a braying donkey. So very, fully justified. Hardly at fault, should he also hiss.
But no, he is a man of shrapnel of dignity. He owes the groaning, moaning, battered door the respect of a slow stroke of his palm, then only a measured push back. To respond not at all would congratulate the fox's effort. And the girl?
...to ignore her would, no doubt, be misread as much the same. )
I am not agitated.
( This... is his happy face. )