Harry knew he was special. He made things float. He set things on fire. He spoke to snakes. But most importantly, he finally managed to have bullies leave him alone. His uncle didn't yell at him anymore; his aunt learned to hush his cousin when he opened his fat mouth.
Anger, one can learn, does not always manifest itself in a roaring fire. It can sift beneath the surface of an abandoned child in a cramped cupboard. It can forge itself in a small boy who dreamt of green flashes and a sinister voice slithering through his soul. Why waste all that energy in a single roar, when it can worn like armor?
Ron loved having a big family, but he didn't like the shadows they left. It seemed that no one took a closer look at the youngest boy. Just another ginger, perhaps a menace like the twins, perhaps an academic like the lanky boy. Perhaps another curse-breaker or dragon-tamer. No matter. Ron knew that fate, and magic, had a way of finding people in the most unexpected of ways. So he kept on wearing the hand-me-down robes. Kept practicing with an old family wand. Kept his head down in the shadows, at least until he grew his own.
Hermione always seemed to have trouble making friends. She was too clever for own good. At least, that was what her teachers would say. Her parents would simply wring their hands and cast a blind eye at the mean comments directed towards her hair. They would pile books upon books on her, quieting her suggestions for braces, no matter how much she begged. No matter. She was sure that one day, she would change the world.