Harry is quite a patient teacher. He stands there and doesn't rush her, gives her a smile when it seems that her eyes are focusing on her face, watches for any inkling that trouble that needs talking has risen to be assuaged. Most importantly, he stays out of her way, having some faith in her willingness to try, if no certainty at all that the magics from their worlds are compatible in this particular way. The last thing she needs is for the Boy Who Lived to doubt her.
And then she makes the broom move.
It's only now, belatedly, that his skepticism betrays him. His eyes pop out to golfball-size behind his glasses, and he actually reaches up to grasp his spectacles to the side of his head, as if he had expected to jolt so violently that he'd knock them off his face. "Blimey," he says, somewhat more loudly than someone who has seen hundreds of witches and wizards take off on hundreds of brooms before probably should be saying 'Blimey.' "You-- no, that was very good. Very good," he chooses this descriptor instead of 'brilliant,' realizing a moment too late that he might accidentally be causing offense.
"There are plenty of wizards starting out who can scarcely get it to do that. one of my good mates, Neville Longbottom," the awkwardly-managed names just pile up don't they, "it didn't move at all the first time. He was yelling for a few minutes before the broom went up. And Hermione's," he finds himself pausing, realizing perhaps that Hermione would not appreciate one of the very few areas of magic in which she struggles being highlit to a stranger. Even if, he thinks privately, that their similar results had similar etiology. "Some of the sharpest witches and wizards I've ever known had just that happen.
"You should try it a few times," he says quickly. It's not as if she looks tired, and he'd rather head off potential questions about his earlier surprise with something productive like learning how to fly.
no subject
And then she makes the broom move.
It's only now, belatedly, that his skepticism betrays him. His eyes pop out to golfball-size behind his glasses, and he actually reaches up to grasp his spectacles to the side of his head, as if he had expected to jolt so violently that he'd knock them off his face. "Blimey," he says, somewhat more loudly than someone who has seen hundreds of witches and wizards take off on hundreds of brooms before probably should be saying 'Blimey.' "You-- no, that was very good. Very good," he chooses this descriptor instead of 'brilliant,' realizing a moment too late that he might accidentally be causing offense.
"There are plenty of wizards starting out who can scarcely get it to do that. one of my good mates, Neville Longbottom," the awkwardly-managed names just pile up don't they, "it didn't move at all the first time. He was yelling for a few minutes before the broom went up. And Hermione's," he finds himself pausing, realizing perhaps that Hermione would not appreciate one of the very few areas of magic in which she struggles being highlit to a stranger. Even if, he thinks privately, that their similar results had similar etiology. "Some of the sharpest witches and wizards I've ever known had just that happen.
"You should try it a few times," he says quickly. It's not as if she looks tired, and he'd rather head off potential questions about his earlier surprise with something productive like learning how to fly.