"Hog... warts?" Iezabel dangles the name from verbal tongs, not totally sure what to do with it.

"I've not heard of it," she admits, "but it sounds charmingly provincial."

Guess which house she'd have been sorted into.

"Perhaps Britain is somewhere across the western sea, or over the eastern mountains. Tutor always said-" her voice takes on the cadence of recitation, "we invent a world, but never exhaust the world."

But even someone as stubbornly set in her ways as Ieza is coming to understand that this is wishful thinking. Enough, maybe, to have met a fellow practitioner. Enough to know that there are others. Enough, perhaps more than, to have a fascinating new praxis at her fingertips. Her own disappointment is blotted out, not by the sun but by the proffering of the flying device. She takes it from Harry, and despite her having seen him wield it without kid gloves, her own handling is delicate at first, as if she were dealing with something of tremendous value and comparable fragility.

"This resembles a broom-" she remarks and then, in case anyone was wondering how an fine institution the Academy must have been: "it... is a broom."

She looks up at Harry.

"How does it work?"