Harry begins to wish he had been taught some kind of complex, conceptual, theoretical language to go with flying. Maybe they shared that stuff with Neville while he was in the infirmary, after he took his first tumble, but no one thought to take aside one of the youngest Seekers in Hogwarts history. And the only books he'd ever read about the topic were with regard to famous Quidditch players, or broom maintenance. What is up with that. He looks at the broom, and then looks at her. He can tell that she's anxious, and is immediately inclined to give her comfort. But how?
"Visualize," he says, elongating the word slightly, possibly stalling. His mind scurries past a dozen Quidditch matches, the heat of dragon-fire flaring behind him, and falling back, back, all the way back to McGonagall's steely-eyed delight nearly indistinguishable from her steely-eyed recrimination as she led him down the corridor from Madam Hooch's class. Falling forward, in a jolt, to the green flash that took Hedwig when he'd had no broom of his own. Naturally, his mind goes completely blank at that point. It's not really shock or even specifically grief; just the absurd kaleidoscope of cognitive trivialities that comes when you're looking for genuine inspiration. Anyway, he hears the word coming out in his mouth, kind of distorted and slowed down, as if somebody had hit the wrong button on a Muggle tape recorder in the middle of replay, and he is powerless to stop it when he finds himself saying: "Flllyyyyingg."
A beat's pause.
Visualize flying.
"Through-- the wind," he says quickly after that, rather wondering if she's distracted by her hyperventilation symptoms or the possibility of failure, enough that she doesn't notice his problems with making words come coherently out of his mouth. "In your ears. The rush of it." The concept is catching. Though the memory of his first flight had not been enough to produce a full-fledged Patronus, but he remembered being excited when Neville had been addled with anxiety. Peculiarly, he would, he has found Patronuses rather easier to teach than this. "The trees falling away, and how... brilliant it will be. When you can fly.
"Let yourself be happy," he suggests. "Even if you're also afraid."
no subject
"Visualize," he says, elongating the word slightly, possibly stalling. His mind scurries past a dozen Quidditch matches, the heat of dragon-fire flaring behind him, and falling back, back, all the way back to McGonagall's steely-eyed delight nearly indistinguishable from her steely-eyed recrimination as she led him down the corridor from Madam Hooch's class. Falling forward, in a jolt, to the green flash that took Hedwig when he'd had no broom of his own. Naturally, his mind goes completely blank at that point. It's not really shock or even specifically grief; just the absurd kaleidoscope of cognitive trivialities that comes when you're looking for genuine inspiration. Anyway, he hears the word coming out in his mouth, kind of distorted and slowed down, as if somebody had hit the wrong button on a Muggle tape recorder in the middle of replay, and he is powerless to stop it when he finds himself saying: "Flllyyyyingg."
A beat's pause.
Visualize flying.
"Through-- the wind," he says quickly after that, rather wondering if she's distracted by her hyperventilation symptoms or the possibility of failure, enough that she doesn't notice his problems with making words come coherently out of his mouth. "In your ears. The rush of it." The concept is catching. Though the memory of his first flight had not been enough to produce a full-fledged Patronus, but he remembered being excited when Neville had been addled with anxiety. Peculiarly, he would, he has found Patronuses rather easier to teach than this. "The trees falling away, and how... brilliant it will be. When you can fly.
"Let yourself be happy," he suggests. "Even if you're also afraid."