Arithmancy for Muggles

Chapter Thirteen:

They didn't talk seriously over breakfast. Harry asked after Hermione's parents. Hermione, after careful deliberation, inquired after Harry's current musical tastes, a topic guaranteed not to remind either of them of magic, Voldemort, Ron or any other painful topic. Conversation faltered quickly after that. They realized that neither of them could bring up unpleasant memories if their mouths were full.

“So, do you eat out for every meal?” Harry asked as Hermione appropriated the check and put her money down for both of them.

“Takeaway, mostly.” She shrugged. “Why cook for just one person? I make more than enough money to feed myself on caviar and cream if I liked.”

“But how did you get a job?” Harry frowned, trying to put the pieces together. “I mean, you have a magical education.” He looked around nervously and lowered his voice to a whisper: “Muggles don't even know Hogwarts exists, right?”

“They didn't need to.” Hermione led Harry out of the restaurant, nodding at the cashier. On the street, safely anonymous, she explained. “I worked for the Ministry. Magic isn't the only secret the Ministry tries to keep. I got references before I left. They were all very vague about what I was paid to do, but they all agreed I did it very well. That was one consolation, at any rate.”

Harry walked along beside her, head bowed. “Hermione, I'm sorry. I should have known. I should have spoken up for you.”

She shook her head. “Water under the bridge, Harry. It sounds like you had your own problems.”

They walked along in silence a little further.

“The work I did at Oxford didn't hurt, either. I managed to pull in a favor from one of the mathematics lecturers I assisted part time. He thought I'd like banking, and to my surprise, I really do. It's not as exciting as working with the Order was, but then, what is?” Hermione put a brave face on it, but it did twinge, still.

Laughing weakly, Harry looked away from his friend's pain. It showed in her face. Words weren't going to fix it.

“Hey, Hermione, you bought me breakfast. Let me cook you dinner.” Harry tried to look at Hermione and walk at the same time, and ended up tripping on a crack in the sidewalk and stumbling into a pair of teenaged girls who giggled and set him upright. He thanked them politely, if a bit warily. “What do you say?”

“I say that I have nothing in the kitchen to cook.”

But Harry would not be deterred. “Come on, Hermione. We can stop at the shops and I'll pick up a few necessities.”

Hermione glanced at her old friend. “Are you sure you want to do this? I don't want to…” She paused, but continued walking. She didn't want to patronize him, but giving a recently hospitalized friend license to pay with sharp objects and fire didn't seem like the smartest idea. “What would you cook?”

Harry shrugged. “I could roast a chicken with some vegetables. It wouldn't be anything fancy, but…” He turned pleading eyes on her.

They were passing the grocer. A roast chicken without its usual sauce of motherly guilt sounded appealing, and maybe the activity would boost Harry's self-confidence. “Sure.” Hermione agreed before she changed her mind. How much trouble could Harry get into roasting a chicken?

“I'll even buy groceries,” Harry promised rashly. Unfortunately, he realized a little too late he only had galleons in his pockets. “Hermione? If you have the money to pay for this, I'll pay you back, er, when we get back to your flat, okay?”

“What are you going to pay me with, plastic buttons? I don't deal in certain coinages anymore, if you'll recall.” Hermione kept her voice down. Harry blushed. “Don't let's argue about it, Harry. You'll pay me back someday. I hear the exchange rate is still reasonably favorable.”

Frowning, Harry touched her arm. “What do you mean by that?”

Hermione gave Harry a brittle smile. “Do you really want to talk about that here?” He shook his head. “Then let's talk about this when we get back to my flat, hmmm?”

Agreeing, Harry surveyed the store's offerings. Picking up two root vegetables, he weighed them in his hands. Shrugging, he put the matter to his friend. “Taters or 'neeps?”

***

“Where do these go?” Hermione felt a little odd deferring to Harry in her own flat, but he seemed to have a good idea how to organize a kitchen.

“Put those in the freezer.”

Quickly, they emptied the bags and collapsed at the table. “Whew. I've never had so much food in my kitchen at once.”

Harry bit his lower lip. “Are you sure you can afford it? I don't want to be a burden.”

“Nonsense.” Hermione waved his objections away, flapping her hands like a first year's neophyte attempt at complicated wandwork. “You're my guest and I can afford it.”

“What did you mean about the exchange rate?”

Hermione pursed her lips and propped her elbows on the table. “Do you really want to get into this now?”

Nodding, Harry echoed her body language.s els elbows hit the kitchen table with an audible thump. “People have been tiptoeing around me for months. I'm sick and tired of being treated like an imbecile child.” His voice was intense, but not angry. “I need to know what's happening. Maybe it's not my job to save the world anymore, but I'm damned if I'm going to sit still in ignorance any longer.”

“Bravo, Harry.” Hermione couldn't suppress the triumphant little smile at the sight of Harry riled up and ready for action. “Where do you want me to start?”

“Start at the beginning?”

Fortunately, Harry had never been exposed to advanced arithmantic notation. Hermione brought her charts out and spread them on the table without fear that he would see how prominently he featured in her calculations. She didn't want to lay the whole burden on him at once. “Do you remember when I asked you what you would do if given the choice between upholding the truth and upholding a friendship?”

“Ron said you were causing trouble because you didn't get a promotion you were hoping for,” Harry accused. “I told you it was more important to uphold the truth. You certainly didn't expect to get a promotion out of Minister Weasley just because you once dated Ron. What was that about?”

Hermione bit her tongue and concentrated on the report. “These are arithmantic calculations based on the conditions in wizarding society when I left.”

Summarizing the research she'd done, Hermione explained about birth rates, death rates, growth curves, opportunity and inflation. She traced the relevant lines on the chart and described her conclusions, using words like “inertia” and phrases like “heat death” to answer in many long words, why the galleon exchange rate was so poor against mugglrrenrrency.

Harry squinted at the lines and arithmantic equations splayed out on the table. “So, what's the Ministry doing about devaluation?”

“Um, Harry?” Hermione wasn't sure how to break it to him. “The Ministry caused it.”

“But, surely they didn't mean to. Why would they want to devalue magical currency? Someone should tell them so they can fix it.” Harry made it sound so simple.

Touching his arm to attract his attention, Hermione tried to keep the venom out of her voice when she explained, “Harry, this is why I was exiled. The Ministry is trying to make the muggle world as unattractive as possible to young witches and wizards who have no other choice but to take menial positions in old, established concerns with little chance of promotion. If the exchange rate were too favorable, a young wizard might just cash out his seed money in pounds or euros and start a non-magical business, or a business where the use of magic waarcearcely detectable. Don't you think someone like Neville would be happier shuffling papers for a firm that could pay him properly, magical or not?”

“I guess…” Harry frowned. “But then why exile you? You're a witch, aren't you?”

“They exiled me because I wouldn't suppress this report. I know exactly what the Ministry's policies will do to the economy and my calculations can show it. You were right. The truth is more important than friendship. That's why I couldn't lie about my results, even for the sake of my friendship for the Weasleys. These policies are going to hurt everyone in the long run, and if someone had to take the fall for it, better me than Vector. I knew I could survive without magic.”

“But why?” Harry banged both fists against the table. “Ron lied to me! He talked to me about friendship but he was lying to me the whole time!”

“Harry! Calm down.”

“Calm down? I've been calm for months! There isn't time to be calm! We've got to do something!” Agitated, he bounced out of his chair and began pacing the kitchen. “But what are we going to do?”

A bit startled by her old friend's sudden manic turn, Hermione tried to calm him. “Harry, sit down for a minute, let me get you a glass of water.” She got up and put her hand out to steady him.

“Fuck the glass of water!” Harry shook her off. “Why didn't you tell me they were going to exile you? I owe you my life! Don't you know I'd do anything I could for you? When you went away I was afraid it was something I'd done. You didn't even say goodbye. How could you leave me like that?”

Dishes rattled in the cupboards and the ends of Harry's hair lifted off his scalp, crackling and sparking.

“Harry, I…” Hermione reached out to calm her friend, searching for the right words to make things easy between them again.

Magical sparks arced between them, raising blisters and yelps.

“Bloody hell!” Hermione leapt back.

“Oh, no, not again!” Harry whined and crumpled to the kitchen floor. “I knew I shouldn't have left St. Mungo's.” Hiding his face in his hands, Harry remained on the floor, trembling.

Cradling her injured arm, Hermione asked gently, “Harry, what just happened?”

“Whenever I get upset,” he mumbled dispiritedly, “I hurt people with my magic. I thought I was getting better. I've been taking Pacifying Potion to keep it under control but it always breaks out again.”

Hermione snorted. “Pacifying potion is not going to solve anything.”

“If I just didn't get so angry.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione pulled Harry to his feet with her good hand. She wanted to shake him. “Harry, you've done something no other person has. You defeated Voldemort. You didn't just defeat him, you redeemed him, and it nearly cost you your own soul to do it.”

“And you brought me back. What did it cost you?” Harry whimpered softly, his hands helpless by his side. “Don't you know I can never repay you?”

“I did what I had to do.” Hermione brushed the hair out of his eyes, smoothing it away from his now-dormant scar. “I keep thinking that maybe exile is my due punishment for what I did to you. We don't know what the effects of that might be.”

“You saved my life.” Harry insisted. “Ron couldn't even face me afterwards. If you hadn't been there…”

“Ron would have done what he had to do. And frankly, maybe Ron was right. I don't like seeing you like this. How many times have you tried to follow Tom Riddle into the beyond?”

At this, Harry blushed.

“I mean it, Harry. I don't think these feelings you have jus just going to go away. You've got to face your destructive impulses, learn the root of them and fix what's wrong with you. It's not like you to run from a challenge.” She gripped his shoulders firmly, despite the stinging in her right hand. When had Harry's skinny shoulders gotten so broad?

“Nor you,” he returned sulkily.

“I didn't run away.” The defense sounded weak, even to her own ears. “It was a strategic retreat.”

“Ha.” Harry turned away and sat down at the table.

“Do you want me to tell you the rest, or shall we take a break now?”
Those final minutes on the battlefield had affected them all, but as usual, Harry took the brunt of the burden. No wonder he'd committed elf elf to St. Mungo's. Hermione hadn't taken any real damage from Harry's tantrum, but the symptoms seemed to indicate a serious mental disturbance that she wasn't sure she could deal with by herself.

“Why don't I make us a nice hot cup of tea?”

“Don't want tea. Tell me the restarryarry asked with poor grace.

Hermione sat opposite him once more. “I didn't tell you about my exile because I wanted to… I didn't want to… Harry, I know how much the Weasleys mean to you. I didn't want to drive a wedge between you. I thought if I kept my personal issues out of it, you would have some sort of family to turn to, at least, when I was gone.”

Weakly and without mirth, Harry laughed. “And I thought that I was protecting you from their wrath by not getting involved. I didn't know what was at stake. I didn't mean to drive you out of the magical community.”

“Harry, no, you didn't drive me away.” Hermione reached for him, but he jerked awnstinstinctively. “Harry, this was about the truth. If anything, you helped me see what this was really all about.”

“Well?” Harry challenged.

“I'm sorry?” Hermione wasn't sure what he was talking about.

He clarified: “What is this all about?”

Hermione bit her lip. How much to tell? She sighed. “Have you heard of a Ministry initiative called Project Brigadoon?”

These words snapped Harry out of his sulk. “Project Brigadoon?”

“I worked some of it out of Ron before I left.” Hermione wondered if Ron was still holding a grudge for that last bit of espionage. “Brigadoon was a town in Scotland, a magical community not too far from Hogwarts, as a matter of fact, that grew tired of the persecution they suffered at the hands of the invading English soldiers. Instead of engaging the muggle soldiers with magical force, they obscured the village, shielding it, isolating it so that nobody could get in… or go out.”

Like a hunted animal, Harry stared at Hermione, hardly moving even to breathe. “Where did you hear about that?”

“There's a muggle musical called “Brigadoon” that seems to be loosely based on the real story. When I got back to Hogwarts I looked it up in the library. It's a pretty famous case.”

Hunched back in his chair with his arms around himself, Harry regarded the arithmantic charts warily. “What does this have to do with devaluation of the Galleon?”

Taking a deep breath, Hermione made eye contact. “The Ministry wants to protect the magical community by closing off all communication with the muggle world. Currency devaluation and anti-muggle propaganda is the first step. Like Brigadoon, they eventually want to close off all access points, except one: through the Ministry. They want to preserve magical culture by treating witches and wizards like an endangered species. They want to put a fence around the magical community and turn it into a ghetto, for its own protection, of course.”

“Why? Because magic is dying?” Harry asked.

“No. Oddly enough, there seems to be more magic in the world than ever, it's just not showing up where the Ministry expects it. No, magic is not dying, but the pureblood magical culture is.” Hermione traced a line on her chart with her finger then tapped the corresponding equation. “Hogwarts has been accepting more muggle born witches and wizards than ever before. Magic is springing up in previously untalented families, and purebloods are seeing a corresponding drop in magical ability. But because of this, the pureblood way of life and venerable institutions such as Hogwarts and Durmstrang, are being asked to adapt to a muggle world that moves too quickly for some people. You remember how much trouble some otherwise brilliant kids had in Muggle studies? It's not just that the information is new to them, the way of thinking is alien. The Ministry is frightened. They think if they can put a wall up between what they know and what they don't, they can preserve their way of life.”

Harry frowned. “But it will work, right?”

“What do you think?” Hermione traced the relevant line again, as it spiked and dipped, dwindling towards oblivion. Harry was not stupid, but he wasn't an arithmancer. If he could put the pieces together, there was hope she could explain it to others.

The blood was draining out of Harry's face. He looked like chalk statue. Slow dawning horror lit his eyes. “So that's what he meant.”

“What who meant, Harry?” Hermione pressed.

“Remus. Remus Lupin.”

Rolling her eyes, Hermione sighed. “I know who Remus is, Harry. What did he say?”

Harry rubbed his forehead, under his fringe of hair. “He came to me about a year ago and said he was going away. When I asked him why, he said that he was felt like a bug in a bottle, wondering when the hand of God was going to bung the cork in. But it wasn't the hand of God he was worried about, it was the hand of the Ministry, wasn't it? If they close the borders between the magical and the mundane, the magical society is so small, we're going to end up preying on each other, aren't we? And minorities like werewolves, and muggle born,” he cringed away from Hermione's calm gaze, “are going to be the first to suffer.”

“It's worse than that, Harry.” Hermione reached across the table to take his hand. “If we closed off a perfectly sound culture (even assuming there is such a thing) it might take several generations before things got too desperate, but remember what I said about magic showing up in unexpected places? The bottle has a crack in it, and it's leaking. In a few years you'll have a ghetto with a few powerful people preying on a rapidly dwindling population in a desperate attempt to cling to the last shreds of magic. Before too long, you'll have indestructible magical shields around a population of witches and wizards no longer strong enough to undo the spell.”

“And in the real world you'll have muggleborn witches and wizards with magical powers they won't understand or know how to control,” Harry added, looking ill. “And no way to get the education we did.” He stared at where Hermione's hand rested on the table. “And I thought I had it bad at the Dursley's. At least I knew I wasn't going crazy and that I really could work magic. Those poor kids…”

“Harry…”

Scratching at the kitchen window interrupted whatever Hermione haen aen about to say.

“Hedwig!” Harry leapt for the window, scrabbling at the catch as if his life depended on it.

Hermione stepped in. “Here, let me get it. It's a bit tricky.” She opened the window and Hedwig hopped through. The owl's presence seemed to calm him.

“Hey, Hedwig. How are you, girl?” The owl preened and nibbled at Harry's dark hair. “I missed you, too.”

“It looks like there's a message.” Hermione reached for Hedwig's leg, but got a sharp nip for her trouble. Harry unfastened the small roll of parchment from Hedwig's leg. “Who is it from?” Hermione tried to peer over Harry's arm, but Hedwig snapped at her again.

Harry snorted. “Snape playing cloak and dagger, it sounds like.”

Impatiently, Hermione snatched the parchment from Harry's fingers. “Dear Mr. Potter,” she read aloud, “Please confirm receipt of message and ask your companion to include something only I will recognize. Explanation to follow. -S”

The junk drawer banging as Hermione wrenched it open startled Hedwig, who fluffed her feathers and hooted derisively. Hermione found a pen that worked and a dog-eared notepad and thrust them into Harry's hands.

“You have to answer it,” she demanded.

“Why don't you answer it?” Harry put the pen and paper down to groom Hedwig more easily. He seemed to draw comfort from his familiar, banishing the ghosts of an unhappy childhood with the soft touch of her feathers.

Picking up the pen, Hermione narrowly missed another nip from the owl.

“Hedwig, what's gotten in to you? Be nice!”

“Harry, I don't think it's Hedwig's fault. I think it's me. This is it. This is the Ministry's owl blockade in action. I shouldn't be here, I'll just agitate her. Answer the message, Harry, and I'll be in the other room.” Slowly, she backed away, feeling somewhat ill. “I'll just be in the other room.” Harry agreed dubiously. Hermione fled to curl up on the sofa.

Now, six months after the fact, the reality of her exile hit Hermione hard, in the gut. She had been changed, somehow. She was, truly, no longer quite the same witch she had been. Hermione Granger could not send or receive messages by owl. Despite the events of the last 48 hours and her new confidence in wandless expression of her magic, Hermione suddenly felt clumsy, muggle and alone.

“What should I tell Snape that will make him believe it's really us?” Harry asked from the kitchen.

Snape. Severus. Hermione chewed her lower lip, scrunching her eyes closed, trying to think. What did he really want? Truth or friendship: which was more important?

“Hermione? What should I tell him?”

It was just a note. She needn't offer a declaration of love. In fact, Snape would probably disbelieve a declaration from her now that she needed him more than ever. How could he believe her protestations sincere? A code word would suffice, if they had worked any code words out ahead of time. Hermione remembered the book he had given her. “Hold on, I need to check something.” She scrambled out of the sofa, into her bedroom. She'd left it… where? On her back, under the bHermHermione fished for the neat leather-bound book of Snape's observations, bumping his shoes out of the way in her haste. She found the volume near the foot of the bed, keeping company with the dust mice. She opened it to the first page, blowing dust off the cover and shaking her hair free of the bedclothes.

“I write this not to blackmail, not to impress, not to amuse nor to entertain, but because I hope that with my observations in a medium such as this they may do some good. If these anecdotes do not further the cause I intend, I hope this chronicle may at least help those talented muggle born who come after us, who may not remember the world we knew, to understand my generation and the choices we have been asked to make, and by extension, the choices they must make and the power they may bring to bear in creating their own future. -Severus Snape”

Hastily wiping tears, Hermione saw that Snape understood. If they didn't stop the Ministry now, nothing could save the magical community. But even if they failed, there was hope for the next generation, the children born of muggle parents whose talents should not be let to go to waste.

“Tell the old bat that he should hope.” Was it too bold? A declaration of love, a code phrase or a confirmation of her identity: what did she mean to say to him?

“What did you say?” Harry stood in the doorway with the notebook in one hand.

Hermione changed her mind. “Tell him I have plenty of shoe polish.”

“If you say so.” Harry shrugged and disappeared to affix the note to Hedwig and send her on her way.

Cradling the book in both arms, Hermione ached with this new realization. She really did love Severus. But if they couldn't stop the Ministry now, love alone would not be enough to dissolve the barriers between them.

“Hermione? What's wrong?” Harry knelt by her, worry clear on his face.

She sniffed, wiping her face with the back of her hand. “It hurts,” she confessed obliquely, and burrowed into Harry's arms for comfort.

“Shhh… I know.” Harry patted her back awkwardly as Hermione sobbed.