Porphyria did not, on the whole, have a great deal of faith in others. Or at least in others’ competency. As such, she had presumed she was on her own in this - no one else was in the same boat, as they said - and, regardless of whoever had helped her out with the nudging oars, she had not counted on them paying enough attention to counter the situation now.

The situation, the predicament, whatever you wanted to call it. She was a fool for not having brought her wand along, though she still was not planning on panicking: if worst came to worst, she could always swim to shore. Not all poets could speak to that. (Certainly that bastard Shelley might have lived longer if only he’d coupled a love of sailing with the ability to swim.)

It had not yet come to that, however: before she quite knew what was happening, Porphyria found her oars slicing through air, the boat floating through it, suspended above the water quite miraculously. Or indeed if it hadn’t been for the man at shore - blond, long-haired, his wand aloft. And, apparently - competent. Porphyria gripped the sides of the rowboat warily at first, just in case his concentration faltered and the boat tipped back into the lake, or tipped her out; after a few moments, and as the bank neared however, she let go and threw her head back in a laugh, rather enjoying the thrill of the sensation. A pity for it to end, almost!

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