Everyone watched the red ball soar up except Draco — he couldn’t stop looking at terrible Potter’s terrible face, the horrific light in his damnable eyes and how happy he was to be playing shit Quidditch without brooms in spitting October drizzle. He didn’t understand how anyone could look away. It was like Potter had a eye-catching charm always on his person — honestly, Draco wouldn’t put it past him. He was, after all, a low-down dirty cheat.
NOG MEER DOOD
He cannot pass by without touching and moving and shaping and changing every thing, every boy-city, in his path.