Still carrying his broomstick in one hand, upright, Arcturus followed her over to the pump. He wasn’t certain what to make of all this. Water from a well was probably cleaner than that which emerged from public pipes, wherever they might lead to, he thought, but it didn’t matter. She wasn’t about to drink the stuff.
That was another lesson from home. Basic magical theory – conjured water would get you clean, but it wouldn’t quench your thirst, and if you wanted water to drink, then a purifying spell was absolutely necessary. Arcturus preferred the flavoured drinks that came in tall glass bottles, or butterbeer when he could get it, but not everybody did.
Looking towards her again, he shrugged. ‘It is clever enough,’ he told her, ‘if there isn’t a well nearby. It’s good that you make use of it. At home, everyone says cleanliness is a virtue.’ He isn’t being preachy; he sounds far too dispassionate for that, but there’s a little hint of condescension all the same. He can’t help it. She’s not a witch.
‘Did you have pumps like this in your homeland?’ An unexpected question, sudden curiosity. She's different to the other muggles whom he’s hassled today, and in this place, that is enough to make her interesting.