Watson’s life is suddenly falling off-script—but it’s definitely not falling apart. What little naïveté she does possess revolves mostly around her own sense of celebrity. Sure, she acknowledges paparazzi outside of a restaurant, but she is completely unaware of the perks. She once asked me if it would be possible to get her a ticket to a fashion show in Paris—little did she know that the designer’s PR would have picked her up in a helicopter if they had known she wanted to attend. I’ve waited for a table with her at her favorite Mexican dive in Covent Garden, London. I’ve taken her to concerts in Brooklyn clubs that were carpeted in empty beer cans. And once we played pool in a London pub frequented by big hairy gay men in leather chaps. She seems to be just as happy outside of Potterworld as she is working in the center of it. As expected, her schedule is ridiculous: Days are meticulously planned, call times are often before sunrise, and she’s Hermione for entire days that turn into entire weeks. Unlike most English girls, Watson had never been to a traditional football match. So, the day after my visit to Potterworld, we took in a Chelsea vs. Manchester City game. Afterward, we went back to her apartment, which is on the top two floors of a row house. Despite the fact that Watson hosted a dinner party the night before, the place was tidy. She proceeded to make tea and jammed toast as we sat down to talk about Potter, Hogwarts and all.