It probably was unfair to say Hermione Granger, 10, had no friends. Her teachers were all at least friendly, and Ms Malabul and Ms Ducharme were confidants and mentors. But it was accurate to say she had no friends in her year, or in any year.
It hadn't helped that at first, before she was placed ahead a year, she was older than all the other pupils (having just missed the deadline for starting Reception by a couple of weeks). Now, she was in the younger half, but her maturity and seriousness made making friends very difficult. To boot, she was somewhat prissy, and even something of a tattle-tale.
The last had been the result of teasing that almost amounted to bullying, but it had only worsened the situation. Her first couple of years at primary, Hermione, a small, slender girl with dark, curly auburn hair that became bushy whenever it rained, and always got in her eyes when it didn't, pale skin that blushed easily, and freckles on her cheeks that for some reason she found embarrassing, had almost become the cliched "upper-middle-class girl whose only friends are dolls."
When she had attempted to reach out to other students in older years (she was rebuffed the first few times she tried to talk to girls in her own year), they had mocked her teacher-like mannerisms and said she acted "bossy," and "full of herself,"
Finally, when she was placed ahead a year and still got the best marks in her year, she was noticed more, and not positively. She didn't regret tattling: it had, after escalating for a while, probably reduced the bullying somewhat. And if you were that sort of person, she reasoned, she had no obligation to pretend you were a friend and not tell what you were up to.
Still, with no one to turn to but very busy adults (her dentist parents, who were, unfortunately, a bit distant at the best of times, and her teachers), it was fair to say Hermione was a lonely little girl. It made her blush, even after several years, to remember using her dolls to represent her classmates, and as "the mighty Sorceress Hermione" ordering them to be her friends. Well, she thought, and as usual, it was a very grown-up thought as she surveyed her immaculate bedroom, that's a secret I'll carry to the grave.
She remembered with a visible cringe reading the American author J. Steinbeck's Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights and in particular the part where Lancelot reasoned out the pathetic motivations of an evil magician, reflecting on his own feelings when he was an invalid. Hermione saw herself all too well in the frustrated magician wanting magic to shore up the feeling of powerlessness and isolation they must live with.
Well, Hermione had one last year at primary. Soon, she would leave behind those who knew her, and it was time to re-make herself as a new person. She was beyond being ashamed, she decided. She would straightforwardly tell her parents and her two favourite teachers her goal for this year and the next, and ask them for advice.
For starters, she planned to curb any annoying habits she had heard complaints about. She had adopted a ten-second rule for waiting before raising her hand, and this year she would extend it to twelve or even fifteen seconds. She would ignore all but the most serious misbehaviour. She would not tell people more than they asked for. She had made a list of people who hadn't reacted to her badly, and she planned to approach them, not seeking friendship but exchanging short pleasantries. Her first milestone was her upcoming eleventh birthday; she wasn't going to subject herself to another party no one would come to, of course. Nor was she shooting for any cards. She did, however, plan to be extra pleasant. And if anyone brought up a topic she could shoe-horn it into, she'd say her parents were going to take her out of school for the day for her birthday. She wanted to get at least five "Happy Birthdays" in the days before and after her day.
Monday, she put her plan into effect. Somewhat disappointingly, she got four "Oh, well then, Happy Birthday, Hermione" responses. It wasn't ideal, but it was progress. Her parents really were going to take the day off Tuesday for her birthday: this year her mother had been feeling guilty about neglecting their lonely, somewhat sad daughter. She'd talked her husband into announcing a vacation day on the 19th a fortnight ago, and they planned to take Hermione shopping (two bookstores and a music shop), then have dinner at her favourite restaurant.
On a whim, to cheer herself up, leaving primary on Monday, Hermione decided to transfer to the line going to Holborn instead of heading straight home. Since it had no posted hours, she wasn't at all sure the curio shop on Portsmouth would even be open, but happily, it was. The same shop-girl was there. She, surprisingly, scolded Hermione for not returning on a Sunday, but then stated that there were probably still some books available that were "just right for you," in the very back of the shop.
Hermione had a weakness for fantasy novels. One of the things she'd pondered this year was whether that was too embarrassing a preference, and then she decided she was overthinking everything. The book area had only a half-dozen novels left. They were about a boy named Harry Potter, and for some reason, reading their dust jackets, she found them oddly compelling.
Totalling up the cost of what turned out to be seven volumes in the complete series, she realized her book budget for the month, combined with her budget for her birthday, would barely cover the cost. Well, she decided, she'd just have to window-shop tomorrow. The chance to get a complete series that sounded so interesting couldn't be passed up. That decision was clinched when she noticed the dust jacket for the first book had a quote from The Guardian, which she had just started reading and really liked.
She lugged all seven books up to the front where the shop-girl sat. That girl, without saying a word, pulled out a cloth bag just the right size to hold the books. Hermione worried that she might not be able to cover the cost of the bag, though it was otherwise a welcome sight. She noticed for the first time that the shop-girl had a very pleasant smile. Other than her eyes, which were very slightly protruding, she was quite a beauty - the kind of girl that normally made Hermione feel inferior. Surprisingly, she spoke up: "You just made it. I was about to close up."
When Hermione was fumbling with her handbag to pull out her money, she was shocked to see the shop-girl resolutely close her cashbox. The girl put the books into the bag, handed it back to her, and indicated she should leave. Hermione was too startled to protest.
As she left, she heard over her shoulder, " Oh, well then - Happy Birthday, Hermione."