Instead of looking back at him, instead of asking any more questions, instead of searching for any more clues in his face, instead of considering that a   tolerable   kiss for Malfoy had been perhaps the best of her life—instead of all that, she surveyed the store. She committed it to memory: the stacked bolts of fabric, much more orderly than they’d been on her first visit; the wall of thread in all its myriad hues; the rotating columns stacked densely with patterns and magazines.