The dust swirls on a wind that blows just for it until it begins to roll off a shape, unseen, but certainly there by the way it falls off at strange angles in front of him. It's not long before instead of falling, the little specs and motes of light begin to fill the space, giving it form, texture, colour. The shaft is wooden, smooth and sturdy, the head, extremely neat, regal even. It's everything just like he'd remember of it. The feel, the shine, the weight, all of it.

A broom.

Flora is silent for many moments as she eyes it curiously. She honestly didn't know what would come of the magic that she used--it was all dependent on him--but she could look later, she needed to know that this was it. Nervously, she asks. "Is that right?"