The Blonde
All characters and things belong to J.K Rowling.
"Hermione, he's still there," Harry whispered into the phone. He could practically hear her roll her eyes at the other end of the line.
"Harry, he's been standing there for three days, I very much doubt he's going to do anything," Hermione replied in her 'everything is under control voice' that she reserved especially for Harry. He never found it to be particularly reassuring.
Harry knew very well that she wasn't going to budge on the issue. He looked out the window and was once again greeted by the sight of a well dressed blonde staring blankly back up at him. He shuddered and turned back around.
"Oh, honestly!" Hermione was getting rather sick of it. "He's not going to do anything! He's probably escaped from a mental institution or something. Get on with your life."
"Oh, because the thought of him being deranged makes me feel so much better!" Harry sarcastically agreed. "He's wearing a suit. Hospitals don't dress the patients in suits, Hermione!" Hermione sighed unhappily.
"Look, you don't even need to go outside! You paint for a living! You can lock yourself in the apartment and still work. Harry, I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Hermione really wasn't good at the comfort thing.
She hung up.
Harry took an apple out of the fruit bowl and walked back over to the window. The blonde was still there.
He wasn't holding anything.
He had been standing below Harry's apartment all night and the whole day before without moving.
Harry had a distinct feeling that this definitely was something to worry about.
A/N: I'm not really sure where this came from. Tell me if I should keep going.