Funnily enough, Harry finds this barrage of questions quite intriguing and well worth considering. He doesn't consider himself as well-equipped to engage in this discussion as Dumbledore would have been; as Hermione probably is, or Snape could have been too, had he not left in the Jump. There's a split-second where he thinks, at least he's not Ron, but then his heart pinches harshly at the thought and he wonders in an achey way what his friend would say. It takes him a moment, and the smile on he puts on his face afterward looks pressed for an instant, before finding a more natural sit.
"We've got other departments to deal with those kinds of abuses of-- praxis. We've got the Improper Use of Magic department, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, and a separate Investigation Department—" but Harry is not very good at recitation, even without watching a woman suddenly double over as her lungs try to turn themselves inside-out. His eyes widen, and he reaches over to touch her arm, immediately pre-empting a fall or some spell of weaknesses. As we all know, Harry Potter is a good guy; the kind of dummy who, even under prospectively lethal attack by verifiable Dark Arts, whips out stunning spells, loses his owl, feels that this is the difference between us and them. Even before Iezebel stamped her approval for the Ministry's working definition of Dark, he was taking care not to leap to eleven-year-old conclusions, the likes of which rendered cruel judgment on Severus Snape's greasy hair. "--oi." Not a terribly couth way to speak to her, but it is the product of surprise.
"Are you all right?" Big green eyes peer into her face, analyzing the flustered sprout of sweat on her forehead now, trying to see if there's anything off about his eyes, even though he's hardly been trained in that particular science. Frankly, healing magic has always been a weakness for him, too. This recollection occurs to him rather abruptly, digs a furrow in between his forehead. "Bloody Hell.
"Do you know what's happening to you?" His hand tightens slightly where he's touching her. The broom, he lets drop to the forest floor without real care.
no subject
"We've got other departments to deal with those kinds of abuses of-- praxis. We've got the Improper Use of Magic department, the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol, and a separate Investigation Department—" but Harry is not very good at recitation, even without watching a woman suddenly double over as her lungs try to turn themselves inside-out. His eyes widen, and he reaches over to touch her arm, immediately pre-empting a fall or some spell of weaknesses. As we all know, Harry Potter is a good guy; the kind of dummy who, even under prospectively lethal attack by verifiable Dark Arts, whips out stunning spells, loses his owl, feels that this is the difference between us and them. Even before Iezebel stamped her approval for the Ministry's working definition of Dark, he was taking care not to leap to eleven-year-old conclusions, the likes of which rendered cruel judgment on Severus Snape's greasy hair. "--oi." Not a terribly couth way to speak to her, but it is the product of surprise.
"Are you all right?" Big green eyes peer into her face, analyzing the flustered sprout of sweat on her forehead now, trying to see if there's anything off about his eyes, even though he's hardly been trained in that particular science. Frankly, healing magic has always been a weakness for him, too. This recollection occurs to him rather abruptly, digs a furrow in between his forehead. "Bloody Hell.
"Do you know what's happening to you?" His hand tightens slightly where he's touching her. The broom, he lets drop to the forest floor without real care.