" You have no subtlety, Potter, " said Snape, his dark eyes glittering. " You do not understand fine distinctions. It is one of the shortcomings that makes you such a lamentable potion-maker."
I stare inward in the center of my unseeing eyes at the red spot that transforms itself into a multipetaled flower—the shimmering, swirling, luminescent flower that lies deep in the core of my unconscious.
Somewhere in the bowels of the earth he came on the elegant little box that was the Criterion's auditorium; a little ghostly in the cold light of unshaded electrics, but reticent and well-bred.