That's the thing with athletics. No explanation in the world can make a klutz into a champ. And while there doubtless an art to broom-riding, art is also something that can't be learned by lecture.

"Flying-" Ieza echoes, staring at the broom with a fixity that does not seem likely to facilitate visions of soaring. "But- how can I possibly visualize something I've never done? I can visualize fire, I've seen it, felt its heat- been burned. But I've never flown outside a dream. And the world is not a dream."

A nice bit of circular logic, and as nasty a trap as such loops tend to be. I cannot do what I have not done. Such a being's life is already over, even if they yet live. Ieza scowls at her own inefficacy, and then closes her eyes, concentrating. She will imagine flying. She will!

Then her brow clears, as something occurs to her. Her pale eyes find the center of Harry's forehead- that jagged scar. Rather distinctive. But it's what lies beneath that interests her.

"You know- I could borrow your memory of flying."