Chapter Text
When she was six years old, Herman Jean Granger found a book of baby names in her parents' extensive library. It was sandwiched between "What to Expect When You're Expecting", which she had already read, and came before "Waking Twilight: An Anesthesiology Guide", which she recognized as a bit beyond her current reading skills. She took both.
"Waking Twilight" had interesting pictures, and she at least recognized the formula N2O from the bottles of nitrous oxide that sat behind the treatment chair in her parents' dental office. The baby naming book was alphabetized, which was a pleasure of its own, and the explanations were quite interesting. But when she came to her own name, Herman, it was circled and starred in her father's preferred green ink -- but the derivation was off-putting: it meant "Army man". She knew she was named for Great-Grandfather Herman, Grandmama Emily's dad, but it still didn't seem a very nice or fitting name for herself. So instead of continuing directly through to find out what horrors might lie hidden in "Jean" (which was for Uncle Jean-Pierre, Mum and Dad's favorite classmate) she skipped straight ahead to the second part of the book, where the girls' names were.
That section was more interesting, anyway. There were more girls' names than boys', apparently, and many of them had beautiful meanings and sounds. "Anthea" meant "lady of flowers", and it sounded a little like "panther", which was already one of her favorite words. It was also a name for Hera, a goddess from Ancient Greece. Herman liked that. Maybe secretly that should have been her name. Hera J-Something-For-A-Girl Granger. If only her parents hadn't thought she was a boy.
That line of thinking had not led her very far yet, though it was also never very far from her mind. She set it aside and continued to read. When she came to the H's, there were a few circles -- "Hallie", "Hazel", "Heather" -- but no stars. "Hera" was not even listed, which was sad. But she turned the page and there it was, circled and starred not once but twice:
Hermione.
"Her-my-own," she sounded out, and laughed -- it made perfect sense that way, and she loved it fiercely. But the book continued: "Pronounced: Her-MY-uh-nee. Feminine form of Hermes, Greek god of messages, travel, luck, thieves, wealth, and sleep. In Greek mythology also daughter of Helen and Menelaus. In Shakespeare's "A Winter's Tale", wife of King Leontes." She said it again, in four syllables as instructed, and she loved it still.
She flipped ahead to the J section, and to her surprise and pleasure, found "Jean" already there: English and Scottish, from "God is gracious." Perhaps her parents hadn't been entirely unaware of her girlhood? The notion made her smile. Hermione Jean Granger. It suited her very well.
If she had been two years younger, she would have written it over the "Herman Jean" in the artistic family tree that hung in their living room. But her parents had cured her of writing on things outside of notebooks shortly after the "And Daughter" incident, mainly by providing her with an environment saturated with notebooks and chalk slates along with writing instruments in every conceivable color. At a mature six, she found a new notebook (a good, serious one, with grid lines and hard white covers) and a red ink pen, the kind used for correcting mistakes. On the first page, she wrote "Hermione Jean Granger" in her best and clearest print. Beneath that, in smaller letters, "her my own".
For a week, that notebook became her project. She used different colors and multiple tools, including a rather grand feather quill pen that the family had inherited from a great-aunt, which came out splotchy but nevertheless felt wonderful in her hands. Her mother was a bit of a language buff, and the collection of phrasebooks made for wonderful opportunities: Ich heisse Hermione Jean Granger. Mi nombre es Hermione Jean Granger. Ha-shem sheli Hermione Jean Granger. Lebitso la ka ke Hermione Jean Granger. Vocate me Hermione Jean Granger.
It felt wonderful to do in all kinds of ways, although faintly embarrassing; she felt like she would melt into the ground if anybody saw this particular notebook. She had plenty of others, though. So she was sitting with her father and a notebook of cat drawings when he pointed at one (a study of an Abyssinian yawning, showing fangs) and said "This is wonderful, Her-my-own," and she gasped. He laughed and hugged her, and said, "Sorry, Hermione." Pronouncing it properly. As if it were ordinary, something he did all the time, something he always had done. She couldn't see it from the couch, but when she slipped off his lap, she crossed the living room to look at the artistic family tree. There it was, beautifully calligraphed, as if it had always been there: Hermione Jean Granger.
Her head spun. She had no idea how she'd done it. But she had, and it was the best thing she had ever accomplished, and she was amazed. It felt like magic.