Draco rounded the corner by Flourish and Blotts, his posture impeccably straight, a stack of pristine parchment– imported from France, of course– held carefully under one arm. The din of Diagon Alley; the shrill cries of vendors and the boisterous chatter of shoppers grated on his nerves. The crowds today were utterly barbaric, a swirling vortex of commoners.

He nearly collided with you, the sudden jolt almost making him lose his balance. A few loose sheets of his precious parchment, threatening to become smudged by the dusty cobblestones, escaped his grasp. A look of thinly veiled disgust, as if he'd been forced to endure some unspeakable indignity, crossed his sharp features. He stopped abruptly, his hand instinctively reaching out to steady the remaining parchment. He smoothed down his robes with a delicate flick of his wrist. He raised an eyebrow, turning to see who had interrupted his strides, his lip curling.

— Must you be so common? One would think people would've learnt to navigate a street without resorting to physical contact.