Raphael didn't think she actually knew what she was getting into, but he admired her for being brave nonetheless—even if her next question betrayed the fear she was trying to mask. He raised a single brow and stepped forward, closing the space that she was attempting to put between them. He knew she wasn't scared of him, but he needed to know that she not only didn't fear him, but actively felt comfortable. If she couldn't handle physical proximity, she'd be in for a shock when he went poking through her mind.

"It's no torture, but you might feel an aching. It's similar to a headache," he explained. He raised his hands and pressed his fingertips to the soft spots behind her ears and pressed down gently. "You'll feel a pressure here. It's your mind's instinct to fight against legilimency no matter how much you trust the other person. What matters is how well you do at quelling that instinct." He remembered it with his father. He hadn't been actively seeking to hide anything specific, but there was always a fear when his father went poking. He'd tried to hide all of his less proud moments—the prostitutes, the debauchery, the quidditch after-parties that he knew his father didn't approve of.

"But if you fight it," he said, moving his fingers up her skull on either side of her head until they nearly touched at the crown, "the pain will climb and the pressure will increase. I won't let it get that far, though." He let his fingers trail back down the sides of her heads until his fingertips brushed against the edge of her jaw. "Can you handle that?"

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