Arithmancy for Muggles

Chapter Fourteen: Moving Together, Falling Apart

When Hermione finally regained her composure, her eyes were red and her face was blotchy. Harry averted his gaze while she blew copious amounts of snot into a tissue.

“Why don't you go wash your face, Hermione?” Harry patted her back gently and helped her to her feet. “When you've done that, you can rejoin me in the kitchen and tell me what we're going to do about this mess Arthur Weasley's gotten us into.”

“I'm sorry?” Hermione blinked.

“Well, you have a plan, right? I'm going to help you keep the Ministry from pissing away our future.” Harry smiled, putting on a brave face. “You can tell me what I can do to help."

“Oh, Harry!” This nearly set her off crying again, but she was smiling now. She threw her arms around her friend. “You're the best.”

“I know.”

Hermione snorted.

“Go wash up. I'll put the kettle on.”

Harry was sitting at the table with two mugs of tea when Hermione emerged, somewhat shyly, from the bathroom.

“Better now?” he inquired, offering her a mug.

Nodding, Hermione took the mug and a seat. “Thank you. I don't know what got into me. I usually don't fall apart like that.”

“Don't be so thick. Of course you don't,” Harry scoffed. “We've survived tougher situations than this and I know you only break down when you feel like you're trying to do everything alone. But I'm here now.”

Dawning comprehension: “You're enjoying this, aren't you?” Hermione accused.

“Guilty as charged.” Harry grinned. “I may not be able to keep my own life on track, sticking my long nose into your personal business makes me feel like I'm doing something with my life.” He pulled a piece of parchment from his pocket and tossed it across the table. “Snape addressed it to me, but I think you'd better read it.”

Unable to suppress a smile, Hermione unrolled the parchment eagerly.

Harry kept talking, but Hermione wasn't listening. “Hedwig returned while you were splashing yourself with cold water. She's feeling much recovered. I put her on your little balconette, with the window open. I hope you don't mind.”

Lost in the letter, Hermione nodded and grunted gently.

“Dear Mr. Potter,

“Thank you for the prompt reply. I did not wish to presume on my infallible logic when more than my own safety was at stake. However, as it seems I was correct, I feel comfortable penning a more complete explanation.

“Some exiles from the Wizarding World are considered so dangerous and provocative that the usual indignity of having one's wand snapped is decreed insufficient punishment. Your worthy hostess, Miss Granger, though she has been accused of no crime, was exiled from the Wizarding World. The reasons for this would be better for her to relate. Having suffered the usual indignity of relinquishing her wand, which was immediately rendered unusable by the customary methods, she quit the sphere of the Ministry's influence.

“But this, it appears, was not severe enough punishment. Minister Weasley himself signed the document placing Miss Granger under Owl Ban. Regardless of Miss Granger's location, owls attempting to deliver anything to her will be caught by a curse designed to confuse and disorient. If an owl is particularly persistent, intelligent or determined, as your unfortunate Hedwig is, the curse will escalate, creating symptoms not unlike the confusion and disorientation owls experience when asked to fly distances too far for them, or asked to do the impossible, such as delivering owl post to someone who has died.

“The above, of course, is what happened when you sent your owl with a missive for Miss Granger. But, as you know, she is neither dead, nor has she left the country. Fortunately, the ban is on her alone. Her flat, her office and other locations she may inhabit, are still accessible, but any message addressed to Miss Granger specifically are undeliverable.

"This, coupled with the fact that Miss Granger has been rendered unplottable, also by special Ministry decree, makes contacting her by ordinary methods quite impossible. Therefore, in the meantime, Mr. Potter, should you be agreeable, I shall take advantage of your position as Miss Granger's houseguest and direct all my correspondence on certain matters to you. I trust that we can put aside any difficulties between us to resolve this crisis as colleagues.

“-S. Snape

“P.S. Tell your companion that she'll need all that shoe polish. And, no, you are not supposed to understand what that means, so kindly keep your long nose out of my personal business.”

Watching silently as Hermione read Snape's letter, Harry fought against a growing suspicion. When she looked up from the parchment, Harry swallowed and asked his question boldly. “Hermione, Snape isn't bothering you, is he?”

“Bothering me?” Hermione blinked, confused. Blushing slightly, she stalled. “What do you mean?”

Harry cleared his throat. “Well, you know. When we were at school, he always gave you a hard time, when he deigned to notice you. And the two of you weren't exactly chummy during Order meetings, you know? So, why is it that he's the only person who knows where you went?”

“Well, Harry, it happened like this…” Hene tne told Harry of her last day in the Wizarding World starting with the meeting at Gringott's and the unexpected dinner invitation, leaving out most of the strange emotional undercurrents of that meal. “Since I had to be out of the Magical World by sundown, we didn't have time for coffee and dessert. Snape he agreed to walk me home if I picked up the tab for dessert soere ere in muggle London.”

Frowning, Harry asked, “And he went with you?”

Hermione nodded. “He was intrigued by my report. I gave him a copy of my figures to take with him as a sort of thank you. He was a really good listener.”

She wasn't lying, exactly, but she left a lot out of her explanation. Harry didn't lose his frown. “What aren't you telling me, Hermione?”

Hermione braced herself. “I've fallen in love with him.”

Harry laughed, loud and long. “Okay. Point taken. It's none of my business.”

He clearly didn't believe her. Hermione wasn't sure whether to feel insulted or relieved. She settled for resigned. “Actually, there is something important I'm not telling you. And I'm not sure how to tell you, actually, now that we're at that point.”

“Well? Spit it out.”

With an apologetic grimace, Hermione said, “It seems that the key to countering the worst stupidities of the Ministry is… well… you.”

“Hmph.” Harry sat back in his chair. “So, it's up to me to save the magical world again?”

“I'm afraid so,” Hermione told him. “You need help by taking a more active role in politics.”

He seemed to be taking it pretty well. Harry finished his tea and stood. “I'm going to start dinner now, okay?”

“Okay.” Hermione let him take her mug into the kitchen with him. A moment later she changed her mind and followed him. “Are you going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” Harry turned away and dumped a couple of potatoes in the sink and turned the water on to wash them. Savagely, he shut the water off. “Before Ginny ran off, she delivered a prophecy. Did you know that? It was at the dinner table with most of the Weasley family, myself, Neville Longbottom and Millicent Bulstrode. Ginny spoke so calmly that Ron thought she was asking for the salt and passed it over. Millie realized what was happening right away, and pulled her dictaquill out and started taking notes.”

Not sure where Harry was going with this, Hermione said nothing.

“The prophecy was for me. It was about me.” Harry picked up a potato and started scrubbing. “I don't remember the exact words, but she said that my actions are going to bring back You-Know-Who, and the Wizarding World will bow to the new force that will summon.”

Not sure what to think, Hermione crossed her arms. “What happened then?”

“Ginny was embarrassed that she'd been outed as a prophetess. Everyone else was horrified by the prophecy, except for Millicent, who said the strangest thing. Maybe it's because she was a Slytherin and is used to trying to reconcile both sides, or maybe it was because she thought she had nothing to lose, but she said that prophecies rarely mean what we think they do and I should go ahead and do what I felt called to do.”

“And what about you?”

Harry put the potatoes aside. “You know how I feel about Tom. His soul is at peace. Even if I could bring him back, he wouldn't bring a new reign of terror on us. But Arthur is dead scared. He won't like me interfering.” Harry was pale and trembling. “Hermione, you know I'll do whatever you need me to. I'm not afraid of Tom Riddle's ghost, but I am very afraid of Arthur Weasley's paranoia. I don't know what he's going to do if he feels threatened.”

Hermione grabbed Harry's ears and kissed him soundly. “That, my friend, is what I'm here for. I think you've just provided a missing element to my equations.” She skipped out of the kitchen. “Come get me when it's time for dinner,” she called out, leaving Harry alone with the potatoes.

Harry got found a very sharp knife and went to work on the onions. Living with Hermione was proving to be a little more exciting than he'd hoped, but as she seemed to have enough courage for both of them, Harry was content to slice the onions and put off thinking about the future until he absolutely had to.

***

The woman took her time crossing the street. Monday traffic being what it was, this provoked a symphony of honks and rude shouts. The woman ignored this noise, holding referring to a device that looked like a stopwatch on a lanyard.

The stopwatch did not seem to suit this woman's style. Though she was dressed like a runway model, this was quite by accident. The plaid mini dress had been her mother's, nearly forty years before. It was the only muggle clothing she owned. The shoes she'd transfigured from an old pair of trainers to look like the first pair she'd seen in the first window of the first shoe store she'd passed. Her hair was fashionably unkempt and her makeup, though theatrically overdone, was subtle compared to some of the artful faces she passed. The ensemble, pulled together by a chiffon scarf loosely tied around her neck, spoke of considered deliberation concentrated to appear artless. It was, in fact, artless.

Every couple of steps, she stopped, consulted the stopwatch hung around her neck, turned around several times and then continued her progress, sometimes in the same direction, sometimes at an angle to her former progress.

Eventually, she stopped in front of a massive building, rich with the trappings of money, but old enough not to display it too ostentatiously. Taking a moment to consult the device around her neck, she paused on the front steps. She took a deep breath, mounted the steps and pushed the door open.

All noise and light were hushed, dimmed, beyond the portal. The fasablyably dressed woman scanned the large, quiet entry, her steps echoing softly off the gleaming floor to the cavernous ceiling.

She must have looked rich enough to be important. “Excuse me, may I direct you?” the quiet-voice man asked pointedly.

“Yes, please. I'm looking for Ms. Granger.”

The quiet-voiced man asked, “Is she expecting you?”

“I'm a bit late for my appointment, I'm afraid. Could you tell her Ms. Lovegood is here?” The fashionably dressed woman smiled, looking like a rich airhead with nothing better to do than wait decoratively in bank lobbies.

Moments later, Luna Lovegood faced Hermione Granger over an expensive looking desk.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Luna said, as if resuming a recent conversation, “but rumor said you were dead.”

Hermione grinned. “And how is Dame Rumor?”

Luna shrugged. “Alive and kicking, of course.” She pulled a tiny parcel out of her décolletage aut iut it on the desk. “You do know you're unplottable, don't you?”

“So I've been told.” Grimacing, Hermione peered at the package on her desk. Bundled back issues of the Daily Prophet, shrunk down to manageable size, blinked at her. “How did you find me? I'm under owl blockade, too, you know.”

“I figured as much.” Luna seated herself and crossed her legs primly. “Millie Bulstrode had the devil's own time charming this thing properly.” She brandished the stopwatch-like device. “It's charmed to point to anywhere but where you are.”

“How ingenious.” Too many questions crowded on Hermione's tongue. She sat dumbly, waiting for Luna to speak.

“Well?”

“Well?” Hermione asked back, helplessly.

“What's it like living wandless?” Luna untied the chiffon scarf from around her neck, laid it over her lap and whisked it away to reveal an open notebook, dictaquill poised above it. “My readers want to know. Just a quick one, please?”

Chewing the end of her pencil, Hermione thought. “Living wandless,” she said at last, “is a lot like eating restaurant takeaway. You can order almost anything on the menu, but it takes a lot longer to get to you, and costs a lot more.”

Luna laughed. “My readers will love that. You've really gone native, haven't you?” She bundled the book and quill back under her scarf. They disappeared.

“Luna, I am a native.”

Ignoring this, Luna tied the scarf around her neck again. “Well, I'd better get going. Harry Potter is going to speak to the press at St. Mungo's to explain his recent health troubles, and I had to work pretty hard for my invitation. I'm not going to blow my chance at this story.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Harry's at St. Mungo's?”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to tell you like this.” Luna didn't sound particularly sorry. “So much for my vaunted journalistic skill, eh? He checked in after they snapped your wand. My father proposed some sort of psychic link between Harry and the wand that saved him in the final battle, but I think he's just been under too much stress. The worshippers won't leave him alone. He's been suffering some kind of war trauma and hasn't left the secure ward since… oh, it's been months.” Luna stood and brushed her skirt into place over her legs. Suddenly she stopped and looked up at Hermione. “You know something, don't you?”

Luna would pursue a story to the gates of Hell itself, if she thought it would sell more copies of the Quibbler. Hermione hesitated. “Listen, Luna, I don't want you to miss this press conference, and I have work I need to finish up before I can go home today, but if you want to meet me at my flat this evening, say around dinnertime?” Hermione had to remember not to cite specific hours and minutes. “You can tell me what you know about Harry, help me unshrink these newspapers and we'll have a good, long, talk.”

Luna pursed her lips. “But…?” she prodded.

“But what?” Hermione's expression was all innocence.

“You forgot to say, “off the record, of course.” All invions ons I get to have a good, long talk either end in death threats or a plea to keep everything off the record.”

Lifting an eyebrow, Hermione inquired, “How do you know it's not a death threat?”

Smirking, Luna waved her hands dismissively. “It can't possiblya dea death threat. You need me too much.” Luna tugged at the scarf around her neck. “Where do I meet you?”

Hermione scribbled her address on a sticky note and handed it over. “Remember, it's a muggle address, so there's no trick to it, but you won't be able to apparate in.”

“I'm not completely dense, Hermione.” Luna tucked the address into her décolletage. “Tonight around dinnertime. I'll be there.”

“Oh, wait, Luna?” Hermione asked. “Millie took a copy of a prophecy I'd like to read. Do you think you can put her in touch with me? Since I'm under owl ban we'll have to be a bit creative about this.”

Luna shrugged. “Sure. Can I bring her with me tonight?”

“Uhm… maybe not tonight. But let me know if she'd be willing to talk to me.” Frankly, Hermione had never gotten along all that well with Milicent Bulstrode, and Harry might not appreciate a deluge of unexpected guests.

But Luna was not offended and asked for no explanations. “Some other time then. I need to get going. See you tonight.” Without further ado, Luna left.

When Luna closed the door, Hermione leaned back into her chair and sighed. It was all starting to move. She knew Harry's disappearing act would have consequences and her equations had presented a number of possibilities. Now she knew the Ministry was prepared to put words into Harry's mouth, certain futures were no longer possible. She tried to decide if this was a good thing or a bad thing. Another knock on the door interrupted her contemplation.

“Excuse me, Ms. Granger.” The soft-voiced man insinuated himself into the room. “Mr. Bijoux is here about his loan.”

“Send him in, please, Mr. Young.”

***

The sound of dictaquills scratching on parchment accompanied the low muddle of murmurs waiting for the press conference to start. The wizard journalists watched Harry Potter shuffle noiselessly across the old operating theatre to take a careful seat. Two mediwitches accompanied him, one on either side for support, or restraint.

At a nod from Minister Weasley, hands went up, voices rose. “Mr. Potter, is it true you've had a nervous breakdown?” “Oi, Harry! What chance are you giving the Cannons to make the playoffs this year?” “Harry Potter, what's hospital food like?”

Harry waved at the press. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the publishing industry…” Most of those ladies and gentlemen quieted instantly. The few boisterous ones who kept peppering questions were bounced out of the room with a combination of non-lethal curses. “Since the defeat of the Dark Lord, five years ago, our community has faced the awesome task of rebuilding trust, faith, friendships and family ties so long divided by hatred and prejudice. Though supported by my friends, most particularly by Minister Weasley, who has been like a father to me over the years, I've worked as hard as anyone to see that the next generation need not go through the trials that I and my friends were forced to face at a tender age. However, I am only one man, and a flawed one at that. I have found that the pressure of public life overwhelming and damaging to my health. For this reason, I hope you will respect my privacy when I tell you that I wish to retire from public life, permanently.”

Harry bowed his head. The journalists went wild, taking pictures, shouting more questions, edging and shoving each other in an attempt to get closer to the Boy-Who-Lived.

A burly mediwizard cleared a path, and the two mediwitches escorted Harry out the way he came in. Luna slipped out after them. It was almost too easy. She followed them down the hallway, around the corner, and abruptly, Harry was gone. Two mediwitches carried a lifeless bundle of dirty laundry between them. At the end of the hall, they deposited the pile of linens in the laundry chute, and chuckled. Still smiling, they turned down a side passage, and Luna decided she'd seen enough. She exited quietly, through the front door.

***

A/N: Dust mice are just like dust bunnies, but smaller. Also, I don't have a notify list, but I do try to post to WIKKT whenever I have a new chapter up. Thanks for reading! - Flyingegg