The Boy // A Harry Potter Story

1

A few years back my sisters tried to give me the nickname "Jewel". You know, because my name is Sapphire. At the time, I agreed with them that it was a clever twist to my gem themed name. Well, as weeks went by, I realized that people were starting to ACTUALLY think my name was Jewel. That was not okay with me. Serafina had the nickname "Sera" and Sabrina was "Brina" to me, but those are hardly real names. Jewel is.

Also, "Jewel" did not forwardly describe a sapphire. Sapphires are elegant blue, shimmery gems, not to be confused with the normal label of "jewels". And you can confuse my former nickname with any other gem; Emerald, Agate, Amber, Crystal, Pearl, Topaz, Jade, Diamond are just a few. That was annoying.

So, forever, I have shed the nickname "Jewel."

You can imagine my confusion the day The Boy called me "Jewel".

The Boy. Where do I begin? He has some weird real name, like Damon or Dragon or something. He's rich. He lives somewhere down the road between Penthwick Lane and Quedok Drive. Between those two streets is Warrington Road, which no Simberly has ever been down. It's where the rich people live, so I assume he's rich.

He walks around in black jackets all the time, even in the summer. Long, sweeping jackets that drag across the gravely sidewalk that he always paces on. I once told Brina about him and his odd clothes, and she described the jackets as robes and him as something I dare not write.

The Boy has chalk white hair, though it might be blonde, I can never tell because he's always outside in the blinding sunlight when I see him. He walks, with no purpose, around the street we live on, Penthwick Lane. I don't know why. I never have.

He's a strange boy. He seems my age, and when it's summer (it is) he's always walking, walking, walking. Around our neighborhood, too. In the fall, winter, and spring he disappears. He must go to some rich, fancy boarding school of business.

Brina and Sera never notice them. They're not like me. I notice everything. I observe. I love photography, so normally I'm on the porch taking pictures of bugs and flowers and anything interesting with my cheap camera. The observing, it's not a creepy stalker move or being nosy, just when we're walking down the street I pay attention and I can tell you that Mr. Graham on Elm Grove has a limp when he goes out to get the morning newspaper. Also, Mrs. Varyl has a cat that comes to her door every evening to sit on her porch. And Miss Kothic on Bellmore Street, well, she has two men and she can't seem to choose. I've seen her with both John and Ricky on separate nights at Ken's Steak and Bar.

Now The Boy is another story. I can never tell with him. Is he just walking up and down Penthwick because he's as observant and curious as me, or is he a true stalker? Sometimes, I have this weird feeling that it's me he's on Penthwick for. But that's ridiculous. Utterly and complete.

I've considered calling him the Mystery Boy or Unexplained Boy but somehow just The Boy is both more mysterious and unexplained than any other name.

Back to names, he caught me off guard this morning.

It's Saturday and I was outside to water the sunflowers. I brought my cheap camera out to see if I could take a few pictures of them. I live in an orphanage, Rachel Val's House For Girls. It's cozy and everything but everyday we have chores. Watering the sunflowers is one of them. I liked to bring my camera around to make the chores feel a little less like chores. I had just filled up the watering can and was trying not to slosh it all down my clothes when he walked past, on the opposite end of the street, on the sidewalk, as usual.

The Boy was walking with a rare brisk stride, unlike his lazy strolls he often took. In fact, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and turned, staring his steely grey eyes straight into my own sapphire ones. It scared me. Of all the years The Boy had walked his route, he had never once made direct eye contact.

Until today.

Not only did he make eye contact, but he looked both ways before crossing the street and made his way straight over to my little sunflowers and me.

"Hey, Jewel," he said casually, talking as though we were old friends. His voice was deep and unexpected, of all the years I'd wondered what it sounded like. "Get your letter?"

He leaned on the post of the railing to my house. I put down my watering can.

"What are you doing here? What letter?" And then the question for years I'd been meaning, pleading to ask him. "Who are you?"

The Boy smiled, a devilish thing. I've seen him smile a few times on his walks. "Wouldn't you like to know."

"Yeah, I would," I agreed haughtily. If he was finally going to walk up to me, then he was going to answer to me.

"Well, I know you, Jewel." he replied.

I was about to say something snappy like "never seen you before in my life" but that would be a complete lie.

"Who are you?" I asked again, more firmly.

"Someone of higher class then you."

"Then why do you walk Penthwick all the time when you're from Warrington?"

"Stalker!"

"Me? You're the stalker! You know who I am, but I don't know you." I placed my hands on my hips.

"Touche." The Boy laughed. "I like your spunk, girl, hope we're in the same house at school. But, with parents like ours, of course we will."

"What? House? School? Parents? Get off my porch, Boy, and we'll see who hopes we're in the same rubbish." I snapped.

The Boy put his hands up, as if surrendering, smirking all the while. He winked at me and strode away, his brisk stride congealed to a lazy stroll once more.

I kicked my watering can, hurting my foot and getting my shoe wet as I realized the moment talking to the mysterious, unexplained boy, was gone.