blind to where the blow shall fall

Percival takes in his unruly mop of hair, the spray of freckles across his nose and cheeks, the bow tie, the blue coat, down to his white-knuckled grip on a shabby brown suitcase. He sighs.

"Newt Scamander," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"I have permits!" says Scamander, twitching. He draws the suitcase closer to his body.