That boy is always running his hand through his hair. During class, in the hallway, in the common room. He runs his hand through his hair when he's studying, when he's at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, and even high above the quidditch pitch. Always.
It couldn't annoy me more.
His ridiculous jet-black hair is forever rumpled. Its disarray has probably been permanently imprinted in his DNA. And everyone else loves it. I can't for the life of me think why. I've only ever seen him go for more than two minutes without disturbing it when he's angry. And I don't mean when one of his friends, who follow him around religiously, turns his eyebrows green. I mean furious. And his fury is usually directed at me.
I guess it's not completely his fault. No, actually it is. Most of the time. He's so pigheaded that nothing matters more to him than his pride, except maybe his hair. I really do hate that hair. Still, he has no right to ask me out every five minutes and then insult me when I decline. Every time, without fail, he tells me to stop thinking that I'm better than everyone else. Shouldn't he just stop asking?
All right, maybe I irritate him on purpose sometimes. But I hate when he runs his hand through his hair like that! It's just nice to have a few minutes of peace.