Arven sent his gaze to the horizon beyond the fast-approaching Hogsmeade as the poet shared her verses, and her words bent the skies into something darker and far more interesting; steely midnight blues shot with only a semblance of murky light. It was still a good half hour away, but there was a rainstorm coming, and Arven noticed the signs as Miss Dempsey recited her poetry, as if the latter had summoned it. It was a curious, profound effect (causal or otherwise) that Arv would not soon forget.

He was a writer himself, but a very different kind of writer, lacking in the eloquence and colour to do her poem justice. He couldn't review it; only react. The best the rugged fellow could offer was a crooked smile, which reached his eyes. And as a slightly spooked maid bustled forward to meet them, Arven put away his wand (the damaged boat bumped lightly into the pier), and told the mistress; "thank you for the adventure, madam". Whether he meant the walk or the poem was unclear; but if anyone could read between the lines, it was a poet.