He shook a little as he watched Fiyero, as he watched his father, the man he'd only learned to love through memories and spectors in the great old keep he'd grown up in...
And put his wand away. Then he held up a hand.
"Accio broom."
And like a shot, his broom, the brush still sprouted as it'd been for so many years, alive and flowering, was in his hands.
"My father," he said very quietly, "died before I was born. And it hasn't been long since the man who raised me passed away. So you can, perhaps, understand my irritation."