Hermione
The view outside the window was dark. Only a sliver of moonlight shone through the clouds in the sky, which blended in with the faint purple behind. The only sound was an occasional flap of some branches or a hoot from a wild owl.
It was not a clear night, but there was hardly anyone to care in this small, piled cottage in the English countryside. In fact, almost everyone was asleep.
Except one.
Hermione Jean Granger was sitting calmly in bed. Her long, pretty fingers were turning the pages of a novel—a fantasy novel, in fact.
It was very uncommon to catch Hermione not sorting hastily through her schoolbooks, or scribbling like mad on a parchment piece, or at least using multiple spells to do anything. But here she was, flipping the pages of a novel. Reading—not nonfiction, but fiction.
It was very odd indeed, because Hermione did consider everything that did not contain knowledge unimportant. Yet here she was. Reading.
The queer thing, you ask?
If one were to look closely at the crisp black letters printed on the page, or the smooth leather bind or cover, they would see words.
What is so peculiar about seeing words on a bind, or cover of a book?
These words were Harry Potter: His Life.
That.