Matt's eyebrows arch at foreplay, even with the softening context of conversation. Surprised, but not displeased at all. He's constitutionally incapable of finding Harry intimidating based on looks alone. He likes scars--on other people, at least. They're a fascinating record of life lived, danger overcome, a history you can touch with careful hands. And differences in height and build don't really hit the same for Matt, a guy with cosmic powers whose limits have yet to be discovered.

At the word magic, his amused, arched-brow look instantly falls away. He laughs, his eyes gone wide as dinner plates. And he says:

"Uh ..."

Matt looks left. Looks right. No one around but a prurient-looking portrait of an elderly gentleman, leering down from the landing ahead of them. His gaze returns to Harry. And with a quick indrawn breath, soft gasp of sound, to thee dispeller of the night-- a bauble of golden light appears before him. It lifts into the air above them like a luminous balloon, lighting the carpeted stairs.

"I think it's pretty cool," he concludes. Matt's a little breathless, cheeks slightly pink, but he's smiling.