'My father wouldn't blame you for any injury I suffered unless you had deliberately inflicted it,' said Arcturus, sounding very puzzled. Magical accidents happened, flying-related or otherwise. Even when he had broken his arm, his father's response had been to tell him to be more careful of Bludgers in the future, and to say that he was proud of him for not making too much of a fuss, and having the courage to get back on his broom the day after he was healed. He certainly never got cross with others for Arcturus' own mistakes, although perhaps it was natural for Richard to be wary. Licorus Black had very little patience for those he felt had wronged one of his children, after all.
Richard's seemingly instantaneous transformation made the young wizard blink in surprise. Was that a sort of clothes-changing spell? It was very clever, although Arcturus expected that getting it even slightly wrong was probably disastrous. That made Richard's confidence all the more impressive. But if the spell pleased him, the sight of Richard afterward didn't have quite the desired effect. He had been in Preya for long enough to connect the design of the helmet with those muggle motor vehicles – and Arcturus was utterly terrified of the things, although he would never openly admit it. He saw all vehicles as quasi-sentient and highly dangerous. The jacket, too, looked far more like something a modern muggle would wear. Arcturus had been told time and time again that his appearance reflected on his family, that he had to adhere to their standards. He imagined what his parents would say about Richard's clothing, and knew it would be far worse than the reaction he got if his collar wasn't clean or his robes were creased and crumpled.
Arcturus remained silent as he followed Richard through to the greenhouse. The statement that he was "pants at herbology" was so bewildering that Arcturus assumed he must have misheard it, but that was almost instantly forgotten when he noticed the racks full of brand-new brooms. Arcturus had been in shops with less variety than this, and his eyes lit up as he looked over them all. The idea of trying out a broom designed a hundred and fifty years after his own was an unbelievably exciting prospect. He wanted to. He wanted it almost badly enough to change into the strange clothing and the suffocating-looking helmet, despite what his father would have to say about it. Ordinarily, too, he was inclined to do as adults told him, particularly if they were pureblood wizards, and it was difficult not to.
But instead, he stayed fixed to the spot, standing very straight and proper. 'I'm sorry, sir. My father wouldn't like it.' He was apologetic, clearly apprehensive about how Richard might respond. 'If you think it unacceptably disobedient of me, then I can only apologise, and I'll go and not trouble you further. But if you let me fly, I'll stay well below seventy-five...or I'll fly on my own broom, even if it's slower than any of yours, because I still might learn something from you. I do know all the hand-signals for communicating in flight.' Not that it was likely to make much of a difference, if he'd caused offence.