“Look, Hermione… if you worry that much about what other people
think, if you’re unhappy whenever other people don’t picture you
exactly the same way you picture yourself, that’s already dooming yourself
to always be unhappy. No one ever thinks of us just the same way
we think of ourselves.”
“I don’t know how to explain to you,” Hermione said in a sad soft
voice. “I’m not sure it’s something you could ever understand, Harry.
All I can think of to say is, how would you feel if I thought you were
evil?”
“Um...” Harry visualized it. “Yeah, that would hurt. A lot. But
you’re a good person who thinks about that sort of thing intelligently,
you’ve earned that power over me, it would mean something if you
thought I’d gone wrong. I can’t think of a single other student, besides
you, whose opinion I’d care about the same way—”
“You can live like that,” whispered Hermione Granger. “I can’t.”
Most people don’t want to be weirdos. They care what other people think, even when they know those other people are wrong. Even the Hermiones of the world. Harry shouldn’t let it get his knickers in a twist.
Most people don’t want to be weirdos. They care what other people think, even when they know those other people are wrong. Even the Hermiones of the world. Harry shouldn’t let it get his knickers in a twist.