Watching Harry


‘Charm for hair dye … uh …’ Hermione sat hunched over here work by the fire. She was all alone in the common room; Harry and Ron were out at Quidditch practice and all the others were outside enjoying the depleting summer. ‘Nestraga!’ Crookshanks gave a yowl as his orange coat turned jet black.

‘Oh, Crookshanks, I’m so sorry!’ She gathered him up into her arms, and flicked through her book for the counter-charm. ‘Ok, here we are …’ she pointed her wand at Crookshanks. ‘Neglius. There you are puss.’ Crookshanks hissed and dashed off up to the dormitories, bottlebrushed but orange again.

Hermione continued with her essay. She had a bad habit of muttering to herself as she worked, once she had ended up sitting on a pig rather than a sofa; pandemonium had ensued until Professor McGonagall was called up from the staff room and turned it back.

Just as she was nearly finished, the portrait hole creaked open. Oh my God. Harry walked in, dripping with sweat, and clearly bushed but happy.

‘Hi Hermione.’

‘Hi – where’s Ron?’

‘Still in the showers,’ Harry smirked – Hermione suspected that he had fallen off his broom again.

Hermione bit her lip. She knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t help but gaze at him.

Harry placed his Firebolt on the armchair opposite her, and strode off up to the dormitory. Hermione grinned; she knew what he was getting. Ever since she had given him a broomstick servicing kit for his 13th birthday, after every practice he had lovingly polished his Firebolt. In fact, he polished it so much that Hermione had had to put a replenishing charm on the bottle of polish to save money. Harry came downstairs with the servicing kit, and sat down opposite her. Not for the first time, she realised that she was watching him in immense detail, and if he looked up she would die of embarrassment. However, he didn’t look up, and moved his arm.

Hermione watched, hypnotised, as the strong and lean arm moved down to his lap. His hand turned over, like a dying crab, and his index finger extended so it was positioned just underneath the catch. With agonizing slowness, his finger moved up, and pulled the catch off. There was an audible click in the silent room. He moved his other arm down to his lap. Both arms working together, he lifted the heavy lid on its well oiled hinges and set it open. Next, while his left hand held the lid open, he moved his right hand down and fumbled about inside the box. In a few moments it came out again, with a little bottle of polish and a cloth. He moved his right hand down to the floor, and set it beside the broom. Then he moved it back up to the lid, and placed it on the lid. Again both hands worked together to shut the lid. There was another click as he closed the catch, and then set the box on the floor. All the while, as he moved, his jet black hair swished over the lighting scar on his forehead. Hermione often felt so sorry for him when he fell to the ground, clutching his head, and she wished she could do something to comfort him, help him through the pain, but she could only watch helplessly as the boy she loved writhed about in pain and agony.

All this had only taken a few seconds, but to Hermione it seemed as if it had been like a few hours. She realised that she had her jaw hanging open, and quickly shut it. And then – Oh Dear God – he looked up. Hermione knew her face was bright red. She instantly hunched back over her work, pretending to write something.

Harry looked back down to his broom, picked it up. Hermione couldn’t see properly, she was still hunched over her work, but she could swear there was a slight smirk on Harry’s face. She couldn’t help herself – she had to watch him. He dipped a finger into the open polish bottle, and it came out smeared in a white gluey substance. He smeared it over both hands, and clapped them together. Now he seemed to be acting as though he had an audience – which he did. Hermione watched, transfixed, as he ran his hands over the smooth mahogany surface. He started on the handle, which was smeared with sweaty fingerprints where he had been holding it. As he did, Hermione was bombarded with thoughts that she definitely shouldn’t be having of her best friend.

He worked down, sliding his hands over the broom, every now and then putting some more polish on them. Finally he finished with the base of the stick, but Hermione knew by experience that he wasn’t finished.

He took up the box, and again with that agonizing slowness of before, he opened the lid. He placed the polish inside, and pulled out what looked like a pair of large fingernail clippers. He put the box back down, and took up his broom again. He clipped one, two, three twigs that were pointing out at an angle. Then he put the clippers back in the box, and with another loud clock shut the box. He picked up his servicing kit in one hand, his broom in the other, and began walking upstairs.

Hermione breathed a sigh of thanks that he hadn’t noticed her. She turned to watch his scarlet quidditch robe disappear up the stairs.

Just as he was nearly out of sight, Harry turned round – and smirked.

Hermione fainted.