Hermione Granger
Hermione Granger was normal in all the ways that mattered.
She was born with ten fingers and ten toes, two hands, one nose, and two eyes. She had two parents, both dentists, that doted on her as she was their only child, spoiling her beyond relief with everything she wanted.
Luckily for both Grangers (and their bank accounts), their daughter merely wanted books, books, and more books, and not anything less. For Hermione didn’t need anything but her parents’ love and her books.
Growing up, you would think that a normal person such as Hermione would have a perfectly ordinary and normal life, but that wasn’t the case. You see, it was shortly after Hermione’s birth that her parents discovered something odd about her.
Hermione had low presence.
So low, in fact, that someone—anyone—could forget about her in a drop of the hat.
Eyes easily passed her over like she was nothing more than a ghost incapable of making herself known. She’d enter a room and nobody would turn their head, even as the door slammed shut behind her. People who knew her would momentarily forget that she existed after only a short while.
If she didn’t speak first, she would never be seen. She could be standing beside you and you’d never know unless she chose to open her mouth and speak. It was quite a predicament, especially for two young parents who didn’t quite know what to do with themselves.
It got to a point where teachers forgot she was part of the class, would often skip past her name or mark her as absent even though she arrived earlier than most of her classmates in school. She couldn’t make friends, not when people would immediately forgot her not even a minute later. It got tiring introducing herself over and over again to be frank.
She couldn’t even stand in a queue, not when people would often take her spot and then verbally told her off for assuming that she was cutting in line whenever she announced her presence. Her grades became abysmal—even with her flawless attendance record or her perfect scores—and she remained friendless as a result.
Hermione tried. She really did. She grew up in a household where her words mattered and would be taken into account. Her parents excessively reminded her to always stand up for herself and to never be afraid of speaking up.
So, she raised her arm in classes with gusto, spoke even when she wasn’t called or spoken with, and got into everyone’s business like a nagging mother hen.
Just so she could be seen. Just so she could be heard. Just so she could prove that she existed. But it hardly mattered, because she was always forgotten and looked over in the end. Every time.
Every. Damn. Time.
It took years before she finally understood that no matter what she did, she would never be seen. She could go streaking in school and no one would point it out or acknowledge it. How could you even acknowledge something you forgot that it existed in the first place?
So, she stopped raising her hand and stopped speaking, and eventually she faded into the background, unseen and unheard. She simply stopped trying because what was the point? There was no point in trying when she had already failed.
As her presence gave her the illusion of a mourning ghost, Hermione learned to observe people. She watched, listened, and paid attention.
She learned their body language and cues. She learned their secrets, their fears, their hopes, and their dreams. She could spot a quick downturn of lips and decipher what it meant, or a swift furrow of eyebrows and knew what it entailed.
She nursed her sorrow by helping those in need. Even if it was as small as losing a pen or forgetting an umbrella during a rainy day, Hermione was quick to help. It didn’t grant her any reward or acknowledgement. People often mistook her actions as magic even, but it was enough for Hermione that she could make a mark in the world with her tiny actions.
It proved at least that she was real.
Her parents though, they never stopped trying.
Different solutions were offered to make Hermione more noticeable to other people. Radical solutions even, such as tying a bell around her wrist or neck, dressing her up in bright colors like neon yellow of all things, and so on.
But she hated the brightly colored outfits, and she constantly lost her bell, and most of the time, it didn’t work anyway, so it was all a moot point at the end.
It wasn’t until a mishap at a clothing shop that they found a permanent solution.
Hermione was ten years old at that time and she was tired of obnoxiously patterned and brightly colored outfits. As an act of rebellion, she wandered into the “boys” section of a clothing shop while her mother selected another vibrant dress behind her.
She normally wouldn’t wander in a public place, knowing that her parents had a hard time finding where she was. But she was tired and frustrated by the same pattern over and over again. It had been too long since she wore muted colors that weren’t eye catching or headache inducing.
She grabbed a midnight blue shirt off the rack, denim shorts, and—after a quick debate in her head—a large baseball cap before she went into a stall to change. That day, she was wearing a pretty yellow dress with white converse shoes. She discarded those in favor of the slightly baggy shirt and the shorts. Afterwards, she stared at herself in the mirror, contemplating her appearance before letting out a giggle.
She looked like a boy, especially with the baseball cap hiding most of her hair.
She left the stall with childish delight and went to her mother, eager to show her the new outfit. She wanted her mother to buy this entire assemble, so that she could wear something she liked for once.
What she hadn’t anticipate was for a saleslady to intercept her way and see her.
“Excuse me, little boy, are you lost?” The saleslady asked, peering at her with a worried eye that Hermione was unaccustomed to see from a stranger.
It felt like her heart had dropped at the bottom of her stomach. She remained rooted on the spot, suspended in disbelief.
What was going on? What was happening at the moment? Was it possible? Could it be possible that someone could see her right now?
“Where’s your mum, sweetheart?” The saleslady asked, bending her body forward, eyeing her intently. “Do you need help finding her?”
With tears brimming her eyes, too overwhelmed to speak, she gave a slow nod at the woman. Her chest felt full, her lungs incapable of drawing in new air.
For the first time since she was born, she was seen.
She was finally real.
It didn’t matter to her that she was mistaken for a boy. It paled in comparison that she was no longer a ghost. She was no longer a mirage that people overlooked. Someone took note of her and had seen her when, for the past ten years, nearly everyone didn’t know she existed.
That was the moment they found out that if Hermione wore outfits widely categorized and recognized for men, people would notice her. If she dressed up as a boy, she was no longer ignored.
After the discovery, Hermione was happier now, no longer sullen and petulant, even when people mistook her for a “him” instead of a “her”. It didn’t matter. She was heard; she was seen; she was finally real.
So, in the end, it all turned out for the best. Everyone was content. Yes, people were quite confused when they learned that Hermione was actually a girl underneath the men’s clothing, but her parents were quick to dissuade their questions and Hermione was simply too happy to care what other people thought or noticed about her.
It was enough for her that they knew her, they saw her, they heard her—they remembered her. She could give someone a pen and they’d be happy to thank her. She could lend an umbrella and people would remember to return it to her. She’d raise her hand to answer and teacher’s called on her.
To be noticed, to be seen, Hermione Granger was resurrected from the dead.
Of course, they should’ve known that the peace wouldn’t last.
Because as Hermione turned eleven, they found out that she was a witch.
And thus, began Hermione’s journey.