No, she probably won't. Harry keeps his face carefully neutral through the first "Up!" and the second "Up!"
The third one, he definitely doesn't smile, mind you, but a faint notch appears between his eyebrows, mildly concerned. Not because she's struggling, which is frankly a regression to baseline that can only be expected, but because he feels the pressure building, slowly, inevitably, the way that people with sensitive sinuses can sense impending storms or barf-inducing migraines. She's going to get on him, he thinks. Not that she means to, in that way, it's just going to feel like it, he thinks. And then the third "Up," her thin hand still sticking out at a scarecrow angle. He feels his eyes move to him.
Harry keeps looking at the broom when she asks her question. He feels a bit sweaty under his collar. Patronuses had come very quickly to many of his pupils in Hogwarts. The possibility of any hope at all for self-defense had seemed like a balm during the pain of war, no matter how uncomfortable individual failure had been. He got Ronald through tryouts when they were younger, and then Auror entry interviews as they got older, but he has neither Felix Felicis nor Belgian ale here.
He makes a quick scan of the ground. Reassures himself that there are no incredibly butch-looking beetles crawling on the grass or anything, to account for Ieza's initial success. And then his head snaps upright. He levels a look into her rather frowny-looking eyes.
"I don't think that's going to help," he says, as politely as possible, as honest as he can, inevitably rather understated in his objection. He shifts his weight onto one foot, and gently toes the broom over again, resetting it to its original position beside her. It gives him a second to think. "Why do you want to fly? Are you trying to prove something to the big governments and schools back where you came from, or... trying to get home? I can tell you really want to, but.
no subject
The third one, he definitely doesn't smile, mind you, but a faint notch appears between his eyebrows, mildly concerned. Not because she's struggling, which is frankly a regression to baseline that can only be expected, but because he feels the pressure building, slowly, inevitably, the way that people with sensitive sinuses can sense impending storms or barf-inducing migraines. She's going to get on him, he thinks. Not that she means to, in that way, it's just going to feel like it, he thinks. And then the third "Up," her thin hand still sticking out at a scarecrow angle. He feels his eyes move to him.
Harry keeps looking at the broom when she asks her question. He feels a bit sweaty under his collar. Patronuses had come very quickly to many of his pupils in Hogwarts. The possibility of any hope at all for self-defense had seemed like a balm during the pain of war, no matter how uncomfortable individual failure had been. He got Ronald through tryouts when they were younger, and then Auror entry interviews as they got older, but he has neither Felix Felicis nor Belgian ale here.
He makes a quick scan of the ground. Reassures himself that there are no incredibly butch-looking beetles crawling on the grass or anything, to account for Ieza's initial success. And then his head snaps upright. He levels a look into her rather frowny-looking eyes.
"I don't think that's going to help," he says, as politely as possible, as honest as he can, inevitably rather understated in his objection. He shifts his weight onto one foot, and gently toes the broom over again, resetting it to its original position beside her. It gives him a second to think. "Why do you want to fly? Are you trying to prove something to the big governments and schools back where you came from, or... trying to get home? I can tell you really want to, but.
"Why?"