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Flirting at Hogsmede. (If your character is not attracted to women, change the pronouns.)

Hogsmede trips in winter were always the most under-populated, as the majority of students preferred to stay in the company of their cozy commonroom fires, but this trip had an uncommonly decent turnout. Students could be seen walking from shop to shop, buying all manner of goods and trinkets from the businesses that were still brave enough to remain after the terror that had struck Hogwarts the previous year. Most of them seemed to be crowding into Honeydukes, the only place left in Hogsmede that held any real cheer. Out of all the students packed into the colorful sweets shop, one who stood beside the large containers of syrups by the shop's window stood out the most, if only because of her shifting stance and flighty glances in your direction.

She was hazel-eyed and mahogany-haired and though she was not short, she was not of any great height either, so she kept having to rock up onto her toes from time to time to catch fleeting glimpses of you over bobbing heads as people shuffled to and fro in front of her. Being exposed to the biting chill of winter had given her cheeks and nose a rosy glow that seemed all the brighter with the brazenly red scarf wound haphazardly round her neck. It was easy to see that her hands were curled into fists inside her muggle coat pockets. Although she was making it no secret that she was looking at you, she seemed anxious, as though she wasn't entirely sure that she should be looking.

Attack on Hogwarts.

The end of the second term was swiftly coming to a close and every inhabitant of Hogwarts was strained and edgy from countless hours of classes and schoolwork. Between periods of study, students all over the castle were giving into random surges of dismay that they weren't going to be prepared for the end-of-term tests that were so important to their future careers. Many students were seen poring over various texts and rolls of parchment at dinner earlier in the evening, so it was no wonder that many were seen rubbing their eyes witheringly as night settled in and beckoned everyone to bed.

All had been peacefully silent for many hours, so it must have been very early in the morning when the sound of footsteps came pounding rapidly up the stairs that lead to your dormitory. The owner of the pounding feet had not yet reached the room shared by those in your year when the sound of urgent shouting and cries of alarm stabbed into the silence and shook everyone from their sleep. A moment later, barely giving anyone time to wonder what was going on, a housemate burst into your room at a run, barely jerking to a stop shouting with an terrified expression, "GET UP! We're being attacked! Death Eaters! Grab your wand and MOVE!" and then, as quickly as the housemate had appeared, the doorway was empty and all that could be heard was the sound of bare feet and panic.

Embarrassing observation.

Having a free day sometimes had its drawbacks, one of them being the temptation to sleep in. You had dressed in a flurry of robes and limbs when you realized you were on the verge of being late for your nine o'clock appointment at the Ministry of Magic, whose letter of reminding had been very specific that being late would be very, very bad and that they might not see you at all if it was even one minute past the scheduled time you had agreed upon. You had entered the Ministry building without more than a fleeting glance in the direction of the startled-looking receptionist, strode past a group of laughing Ministry employees and was rushing in a half-run down the corridor that lead to the lift when a portrait of a very old wizard with a canary perched atop his head suddenly cried for your attention. "Ah! 'Ey, stop there!" After you stopped abruptly to see what he wanted, the painted wizard cupped a hand to his mouth and leaned forward to whisper confidentially with squinted eyes and a finger pointed to your lower half. "Your robe's tucked down the back of your underwear." The wizard raised his eyebrows high on his wizened forehead and leaned back, looking pointedly to the direction opposite of you and pretending that he had not seen anything indecent. The canary put a wing over its beak and snickered meanly.

Beggar in Diagon Alley.

It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon: fluffy clouds dotted the summer sky, a soft breeze brushed through your hair lazily and the sun shone gently upon the patrons of Diagon Alley. You wended your way through scattered clumps of shoppers and street merchants; a few shops caught your attention as you passed them, but your business was with Gringotts and you had to get there before the goblin-run bank closed for the day. Perhaps you would return to the shops after you were finished. The striking white-marbled building had just come into view and you continued down the easy curve the pathway had taken, but as you neared the steps of the bank, a voice coarse with age and drink beckoned to you. "Spare a few knuts? Only a few?" It was an old witch, sitting at the entrance of an alleyway that would have been easy to miss had she not spoken to you. Her hair hung in limp iron-colored coils around her face, which was finely creased and worn and had a thin film of grime dusted over it. Though her clothes had apparently been cleaned by magic, they were tattered and faded by the sun. She stared up at you with her squinty eyes and held one thin, large-knuckled hand out to you in expectation, though she kept her other one on a partially hidden paper bag of something you couldn't quite make out.