Sophy Hero Hugo had ten million dreams, but she shelved them when she went to school.
She tucked them away in her books. In one anthropological study, she outlined, on the page where the bookmark still sits today, a naive plan to break entire peoples from the confines of how society saw them. In a series of religious tracts, she sketched a seven-point plan for how to expose recalcitrant and traditional governments to new ways of thinking. In her Collected Works of Shakespeare, she spun great courageous epics for herself, visits to a new world, some odd and unknown country, an image of studious little Sophy arriving on Prospero’s Island and yet making the best of it, or exploring and mastering the arts of some strange Illyria.
But she became a dentist.
Her parents were practical folk — there was a strain of solid common sense in the Hugos. And so to dental school went Sophy, with her dreams all ready for her, filed and catalogued on the shelf, but her future laid out in floss and false teeth. Some hint of her dreams remained. They seemed to filled up her eyes when she peered across the room at serious Ian Granger, they curled around her wrists like smoke when she — contradictory, not quite sure she was on the right path, not quite fully committed to dentistry, not yet nobly devoted to the pursuit of healthy teeth — lit a cigarette, and they otherwise appeared to sit dormant and hidden in the curl of her bushy hair.
But for the most part the dreams were retired. They gathered dust until the day Hermione should stumble upon them, pack them up quite by accident in her school trunk along with the books; and eventually, someday, make them real.