Hassan Mostafa (13 mentions)

Hassan Mostafa served as the referee for the four-hundred and twenty second Quidditch World Cup. Halfway through the finals, however, he was entranced by the Veela, the Bulgarian mascots. After recovering from the shock, he wanted them sent off the pitch.

Thanks to our super-mega-foxy- awesome- hot reviewers (of chapter 9): 13Aphrodite, AliRiddle, JediGreenGirl and Laughy- Taffy The Grape

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Long, white-blonde hair, brilliantly blue eyes and flawless, pale skin: the face of the devil.

They would be the death of him, women. Always throwing them selves about, flaunting their bodies, twisting the minds of men, corrupting them. The Veelas at the World Cup had only been the beginning, embarrassing him, tormenting him in front of thousands of spectators. He hated women. And now, there was her.

She had appeared so suddenly; it had taken Hassan by surprise. It was a rare day that he had company this late on the pitch, and it was even rarer that he wanted any. Watching her approach him, he was unsure of himself. He had never been a conversationalist, and had no intention of starting now.

Her emerald robes billowed in the crisp breeze, causing her to stumble over the hem as she made her way towards him. She wasn't pretty, not even good-looking.

Cropped, copper-colored hair, muted gray-blue eyes, freckled skin: she was average, like him.

She wasn't impressive, but her confidence never faltered, her eyes never left his. Even when she stopped, a few meters from him, she stood, eyes still locked on his, not scanning, not staring, simply looking, as though he were a signpost giving her some tidbit of irrelevant information she already knew. It was awkward.

"I wasn't meant to be anything more than a referee," he thought, as he focused his eyes on the laces of his trainers, the cuff of his oxford shirt, anywhere but those placid eyes, "nothing too wordy." He was good at is job. He had soon found in life that a job that required little interpretation and communication was the job for him. He was a natural disciplinarian, straightforward, a rule man.

He stood there, shifting his weight from one foot to the other for another uncomfortable moment. That was when she smiled. It was a strange smile, a little knowing, a little patient, a little too confident. It was too much. He was scared, he wanted to turn and run. So he did.

Shiny, hairless scalp, murky, brown eyes, dark skin: he was a coward.

With a sort of purpose and finality, he turned away, haphazardly collecting his belongings. She watched quietly as he fingered his battered Cleansweep Six, as he paused for a moment with his back to her, as he walked away.

Why she was there, he never knew, and never would know, but it never mattered, and never would matter. She didn't say a word, nothing at all, but he wished she would have. He wished it quietly, a silent prayer as he slipped away from his fear, from a chance to be more than a referee, a disciplinarian, from her.

Cropped, copper-colored hair, muted gray-blue eyes, freckled skin: she was beautiful.

Quote of the day: Minerva Mcgonagall: "Bring Seamus, from what I recall he has a particular proclivity for pyrotechnics"

Have you seen Deathly Hallows Part 2? Did you dress up? (Vi was Tonks and I was Draco. Yes...I'm a girl.) What was your favorite quote?

LALALALALA

- Mo