Disclaimer: The characters belong to J.K. Rowling. This monologue belongs to me. I'm not trying to make any money off of this. Do not sue me.
Everyone has such great expectations for me. The first thing I can remember is my mum and dad, telling me I must strive for excellence, that I have to try hard. Pressing facts on me, teaching me. And sometimes it's so hard...
It's not that I don't love knowing these things. I do love to read. I do love to learn. I wouldn't give it up for the world. It's the expectations. Everyone thinks I'll be perfect, do everything right, get the top marks. Everyone expects that, everyone takes it for granted: Hermione will do the best.
I don't mind trying to do these things, even. I don't mind the nights of studying for tests. It's really the thought of how disappointed everyone would be in me if I didn't manage them. If I got less than 100 on a test, do something wrong. They would think it was a failure. What would be considered for others a success would be for me a failure.
And I play along. I expect all this of myself, too. I try to shrug it off, tell me that one thing wrong wouldn't hurt me. I try to tell me that if I make a mistake, I'll be able to get past it. But inside myself I know it's not that easy. I, too, expect only the best from myself. And I can't stand myself when I'm doing less.
I remember a time in third grade. I'd gotten a question wrong on a multiplication test. The teacher, Mrs. Wilkins, had held it up, and told the class that Hermione, perfect Hermione, had gotten a question wrong. After that, she proceeded to tell the class that the class in general had done very poorly. And that I was proof of that.
The class looked at me in surprise. I could almost hear them saying, "Hermione? Perfect Hermione? Got a question wrong?" I was failing my classmates. I was failing my parents. I was failing Mrs. Wilkins. I was failing all who knew me. But worst of all, and most importantly, I was failing myself.
Another time, a little later and also at school, I had been talking to a friend of mine, Marie. She noticed I was chewing gum, something I wasn't supposed to do at school. She'd acted like it was a huge misdemeanor. The way she said it was playful, bantering; I knew she didn't mean it, and it was just a joke.
But still, I thought there was disappointment inside her, and I knew there was disappointment inside myself. That night, I remembered it, and sobbed into my pillow. I had done it again: I had failed myself.
That was what really bothered me, and still does: failing myself. I feel like I'm doing myself an injustice if I get a single question wrong. And the others helped me develop this feeling. They, too, act like it's something horrible, something to be ashamed of, when Hermione did something wrong. That's why I turned out like this. Because I assumed that since everyone else regarded it this way, I, too, should.
Recently I've tried to shrug off this burden. I've tried to go with Harry and Ron, doing things I'm not supposed to. I've been breaking rules. It's helping. I'm feeling a little better about myself as a normal human being, not a perfect human. I'm loosening up. But still, inside me, no matter how deeply it's hiding itself, there's a little voice that tells me: You're doing something wrong. You're messing up. You're failing your parents. You're failing yourself.
I hate that feeling, but I can't suppress it, for it's inevitably there. It's been there for a long time, almost since I can remember. I can't ignore it, because no matter how hard I try to muffle it, I can still here it, telling me that I'm failing. Failing my parents. Failing myself.
I've tried to tell someone. I've tried to explain it to Harry and Ron. But every time, just when I was about to, I couldn't. It wasn't a physical thing, but something psychological; for some reason, I just couldn't tell them about it. This was a secret I had to keep. I know I'm going to keep it, too, because it seems to me the only option.
I wish I could tell someone. I know it would help. For them to know how I feel. For them to understand, for them to reassure me. Then I might not expect so much of myself, not feel like I was failing myself. If someone could just know, and understand it. If there was just one person I could tell.
But there isn't anyone. I can't admit it, not even to my closest friend. It's been to long. I should have told someone at the beginning. I could still do it then. But now it's stayed inside me to long, lain inside my heart for too long a time. I can't tell anyone now. I must live the rest of my life like this, with the burden of great expectations...