Arithmancy for Muggles

Chapter Seven: Electric Dreams

Shopping in muggle London, or rather, in London, Hermione corrected herself, was rather more exciting than she had anticipated. She’d had little reason to venture beyond her own little magical corner of the world. Between her job at the Ministry, her rooming house in the quiet village with many hidden apparation points and the local magical shopping arcade, Hermione had everything she needed. Shopping in London for the first time in years was a bit like her that first trip to Diagon Alley as a prospective student. Hermione peered into all the windows, never quite sure what she would find on display.

After three hours of window-shopping and not a single purchase made, Hermione realized she probably should have brought a friend along with her, someone to prod her into action, force her to make a decision. Otherwise, she was liable to contemplate the pros and cons of various choices for an eternity. Unfortunately, she didn\'t have any friends handy. Besides, all her magical friends were probably as clueless as she was about modern technology trends and she refused to contemplate another shopping date with her mother.

Hermione paused in front of a display of video games, watching a cluster of boys manipulating the little controllers. The pictures on the screen were so smooth, not at all like the boxy pixilated icons she remembered maneuvering around a puzzle labyrinth as a child on summer vacation. The music, too, was a far cry from the tinny, awkward tunes beeping out a strange counterpoint to the action.

Regular music was amazing as well. She had forgotten how simple it was to buy a cd and have an hour or more of professionally performed music played at her whim. Musical charms were not difficult, but the songs tended to repeat frequently, and with little variation in orchestration or voice. She’d missed so many songs, so many films, so many cultural experiences, sequestered as she was at Hogwarts, preparing to fight a war.

Televisions, dvd players, cd changers, video game consoles and cellular phones had all changed. But Hermione had to admit she most fascinated by the newest available computers.

Hermione had a computer at work. A combination of common sense,ic aic and her native intelligence had made the transition from a magical system to a computerized one relatively painless. She still had occasional trouble making the system do what she wanted, mostly because she hadn’t yet given up trying to reason with the dumb box as though it were a magical device that could be persuaded by the force of her will alone. But computers were so clean, so spare in their logic, so elegant in their execution of code, that Hermione could not help loving them.

The computers Hermione remembered from her youth were relatively bulky beige or white desktop systems, components needing to be plugged in here, there, a space cleared for the heavy monitor, wires run to connect it to the internet. Drooling over a sleek brushed silver laptop with a screen the size of a picture window, Hermione heard a voice ask, “Looking to upgrade? too too.”

Margie Grant worked at the bank, across the hall from Hermione’s office. She was a sporty girl, blond and energetic, who always made Hermione feel a bit inadequate. But her smile appeared friendly enough.

“Aren’t they slick?” Margie nodded at the computermiormione was contemplating. “And they’re powerful fast. My boyfriend plays all the latest games on his.”

“Actually,” Hermione decided to confess, “I don’t have a computer at home, yet.”

Margie laughed. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. You’ve just moved to London. Leave your old clunker at your parents’ house, did you?” Her eyes twinkled almost as brightly as Albus Dumbledore’s, but on her it was reassuring. “Well, if you’d like a recommendation, these are nice. They can do everything a larger desktop system can, plus they’re wireless.”

“Wireless?” Hermione clearly saw the wire plugged into the side.

“Well, you still have to plug it in for power, obviously,” Margie explained. “And you have to buy a wireless hub, but if you have a hub you can connect to the internet without getting tangled in all those wires.” She rolled her eyes to express her opinion of all those wires.

“How much do these wireless hubs cost?” Hermione asked.

Shrugging, Margie took Hermione’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go ask.”

Forty minutes later Hermione was arranging delivery of her shiny new laptop cter ter and wireless hub, and had bought an internet connection plan at what Margie assured her was a very reasonable fee. As they were waiting for her brand new credit card to run through the system, Hermione watched Margie browse through the rack of impulse buy items near the register.

“So, Margie, you moonlight as a computer salesperson?” Hermione was amused and a little stunned at how quickly she’d concluded the transaction.

Laughing, Margie denied the claim. “No, I just love shopping. I love shopping even more when I get to spend other people’s money.”

“Well, thank you. I’ve been wandering around all afternoon and haven’t bought anything,” Hermione told the woman. “Without your interference I would have gone home empty handed. Again.”

“Done this before, have you?” The woman was sympathetic.

Hermione nodded. “I’ve had my own place for two months now, and I still don’t have a couch. Or a television. I think I’d like a television,” Hermione added wistfully.

Margie looked alarmed. “I haven’t caused you to overspend your budget, have I? I always seem to overspend mine. I didn’t mean to pressure you.”

“No, no. I have the money set aside.” Hermione reassured her, “It’s just that sometimes I have a little difficulty making up my mind. I must have seen six or seven television sets this morning. They all cost about the same, and they all looked about the same. It would have been easy to just close my eyes and pick one. But I told them I’d think about it because I just couldn’t tell which one would be the best for me.” Hermione couldn\'t stop and calculate an arithmantic equation for every little decision, though sometimes she wanted to.

“Mmm,” the woman nodded thoughtfully. “Paralyzed by choice. You weren’t raised in one of those little remote farm villages, were you? Girls from farm villages come to London and stand in the middle of the street, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. They’re not used to makin man many decisions. Back home they have the shop and the pub and the high street. What more does a village need?”

“No, I’m not a simple village lass.” Hermione signed the receipt and slipped it and the deflowered credit card back into her neat little purse. “I grew up in the suburbs. But I did go to one of those terribly snooty exclusive boarding schools out in the middle of nowhere.”

The blonde woman laughed easily. “Ooh! La-di-da! Did they make you perform all sorts of strange rituals and eat gruel for breakfast eight times a week?”

“The food was pretty good, actually.” Hermione realized her stomach was empty. “Speaking of food, can I give you lunch? As a sort of thank you for prodding me into a decision, I mean.”

Margie looked at her watch. “It’s only one. Sure. My boyfriend’s at the football match today. He won’t be home for ages. He always goes out with his mates for a drink or three afterwards.”

Hermione let Margie lead her to a pub that the woman claimed served decent food and the women took their seats in one of the dim booths in the back to wait for their order. “So,” Hermione started awkwardly, “how long have you been working at the bank?”

“Seems like ages,” Margie said, sipping her beer. “But it’s only been about four years. You were at the Ministry before this, right?”

The beer didn’t taste right to Hermione. It wasn’t bad, but she realized her mouth was expecting the sweeter tang of butterbeer. “Yes. I worked in an arcane statistics division that nobody has ever heard of.” On the second taste she was ready for the bitter undertone of hops and decided she liked it after all.

“Why did you leave?”

Hermione shrugged. “I made an error in judgment.” She took another sip of her beer. “I told the truth to my superiors. They didn’t like what they heard. Their response was to kill the messenger.”

“Ooh, bad luck.” Margie sympathized well.

“Actually, I’m not so sure.” Hermione tilted her head to one side. “You know, I never really considered finance as a career when I was in school, but I really enjoy my work at the bank. I’d never have had the opportunity to do anything like this in the Ma- Ministry.” Hermione vowed to be more careful when talking about her former life. She couldn’t very well say that with the Goblin monopoly on the Wizard Banking system she’d never have been considered for a position as a loan officer at Gringott’s. \"Besides, it pays much better!\"

Their food arrived. As they ate they talked of their work, idle gossip about co-workers and places to visit after hours. Margie promised to show Hermione some new nightspot that she and her boyfriend had discovered. “Pardon me if I’m being too personal, but you look like you need to get out, make some new friends. I know you love your work, but there’s more to life than staring at a computer screen.”

Hermione laughed. Margie sounded so much like Ron exhorting her to lethe the library once in a while. “You sound just like a friend of mine from school.”

“Is that good?”

Hermione nodded. “He accused me of living in the library. He always tried to get me to go outside, play some sport, visit the local town on free weekends. I resented him horribly, of course,” she smiled, “but some of my best memories are of us going out together.”

“Boyfriend?” Margie prodded inquisitively.

“For a while,” Hermione admitted. “It’s been over for years, but he’s still a friend. Was still a friend. I haven’t seen him since I moved.” She felt a little melancholy about that. Ron, if anyone, should have been willing to visit her on a lark. She hadn’t gotten an owl from him or anything. Maybe he was still upset on his father’s account. Hermione bit her lip, lost in thought.

“Miss your old crowd, do you?” Margie sounded like she understood. Loneliness is universal, magical or muggle, Hermione decided.

“Yes.”

They split the check evenly, Margie arguing she’d had at least as much fun buying Hermione’s computer as Hermione, probably more. “In fact, if you’d like, I’ll help you buy a television.” Agreeing, Hermione led Margie out into the city, once more on the hunt.

Hermione looked in both directions before broaching the next subject. “Actually, Margie, I have a personal question for you. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

Looking briefly worried, the woman recovered quickly and entered into the cloak and dagger spirit of things. “What?”

“Where do you get your hair cut?”

Margie laughed. “Oh, is that all? I thought you were going to ask me how I felt about lesbians or whether I had any good black market connections.”

Hermione laughed. No, Margie could not know the sort of black market connections a wandless witch might want. “It’s my hair, you see? You always look so…” Hermione struggled for an adequately descriptive word and failing to find it, gave up. “Your hair behaves. Mine just frizzes out in a large frumpy shrub. What’s your secret?”

“Well, first of all, we have completely different types of hair,” Margie lectured. “So what works for me might not work for you. But, if you were prepared to swear yourself to secrecy, I might just let you have the name of my stylist.” Her look and tone were teasing, so Hermione played along, holding her hand over her heart and solemnly swearing herself to secrecy, while theatrically crossing the fingers of her other hand. The blond couldn’t stop laughing. Her mirth was infectious. Hermione giggled a bit herself.

Oddly, the inability to have these sorts of giggly exchanges about hair and boys had kept Hermione from really bonding with Lavender and Parvati at school. And yet, now Hermione found it the most natural thing in the world that she should be walking down a London street with her co-worker, discussing shampoo and conditioner. Partly it had been that in school Hermione had no desire to spend valuable study time primping. But as a working adult, she wanted to present an attractive professional appearance.

But mostly, Hermione had to admit to herself, she was lonely. She’d be willing to discuss the divination techniques of bachelor Quiddich players if she thought she could get some human contact that way. It was no wonder she was still thinking about that night with Snape.

“Oh. You’ve gone all quiet again,” Margie said. “What’s on your mind? Not television sets?”

Hermione shook her head, a wry smile on her face. “No, I’m thinking about a man.”

Margie latched on to the topic, scenting interesting gossip. “A particular man, I take it? Anyone I know? Hmm?”

“Nobody you know, Margie. Somebody I knew from... before.”

“Knew? In the biblical sense?” Margie grinned.

Primly, Hermione inclined her head. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“How long?”

Hermione’s eyes unfocused dreamily. “All night long, and again in the morning.”

“Oooh! Jealous! What happened to him?”

Enjoying the teasing interplay, Hermione drew it out a little, waiting until Margie was nearly dancing with frustration beside her. “He had to go back to work, in Scotland.”

“So it was just the one night?” Margie asked.

“Alas, yes.” Hermione sighed, but not without a bit of a happy smile remembering.

“Are you going to see him again?”

“He said he wanted to see mein.”in.”

Margie sensed her hesitation. “But he never called, did he?” Seeing Hermione’s regretful nod she sniffed knowingly. “Men.”

“It was lovely though,” Hermione insisted. “I keep thinking about it.”

“What’s he like?”

Laughing, Hermione assassinated his character lovingly. “He’s a complete bastard. Snide, sarcastic, brooding, domineering, secretive, a bit on the greasy side, actually, huge nose, horrible temper…” Hermione paused for breath.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” It wasn’t a question.

Startled, Hermione stopped in the middle of the street. “What?”

Margie stopped, too. She hesitated. “You sound like you’re in love with him.”

Frowning, her forehead crinkled as she thought. “How can I be in love with him? It was just one night.”

“Did you know him before that?”

Hermione nodded, but didn’t say anything. The two women continued walking.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Hermione.” Margie sounded earnest in her apology.

“No, I’m just surprised.” Hermione continued to frown thoughtfully. “I mean, jus just Snape. How can I be in love with Snape?”

Margie laughed but covered her mouth immediately. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh. Did you say his name was Snape? What a horrible name! Poor man! No wonder he’s such a bastard!”

Reflexively, Hermione defended him. “He’s not that much of a bastard, honestly. He’s just had a difficult time with...” There was no way she was going to explain Voldemort, Death Eaters, the Order of the Phoenix and the Final Battle to a muggle, no matter how friendly she was. “...things,” she finished lamely.

Snorting gently, Margie managed to bring her laughter under control. “I’m sorry. Really, I shouldn’t be making fun of the man you love.” Margie covered her mouth again. “Er, that is, if you love him. Or even if you don’t, I shouldn’t be making fun of a complete stranger, even if his name is Snape. Oh, dear, I just can’t get my foot out of my mouth, can I?”

By this point, Hermione was laughing so hard at Margie’s verbal predicament she forgot to watch where she was going. She tripped on a crack in the pavement and stumbled into an older lady carrying a shopping bag. The lady dropped her bag, which landed on the ground with the characteristic sound of breaking glass.

Without thinking, Hermione pointed into the bag and said, “Reparo!” fold a d a gasp later by, “Ow!”

The lady knelt to investigate the contents of her bag. “Well, it looks like nothing is broken, but you should watch where you’re going, young lady.”

Hermione nodded, cradling her injured hand.

“Hey, what about what you did to my friend?” Margie insisted. “What did you do to her hand?”

“Really, Margie, it’s nothing,” Hermione insisted. “I’m so sorry. I’ll watch where I’m going next time.” She dragged Margie away from the scene of the crime. Hermione hadn’t meant to use magic. She just had.

When they were far enough away, Hermione looked at the damage. There was no blood, but a puffy round blister had formed on the tip of her index finger, as though she’d been burned, or pinched severely.

“Oooh! What did that cow do to you?” Margie peered at the blister.

Gritting her teeth as the injury began to throb painfully in time to her heartbeat, Hermione tried to think of an excuse. “I don’t think it was her at all. I think maybe I was stung by a bee or something.”

Margie bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. “Are you allergic?”

“I don’t think so,” Hermione said. “But it’s really starting to smart.” She blew on the blister, hoping to cool it. It seemed to help some. “I think I’d better head home. Thank you again for all your help. You were fantastic.”

“You’re welcome.” Margie smiled. “Listen, I know we don’t have to be best mates or anything, but if you’d still like help buying a television, I’m free next weekend, too.”

Hermilauglaughed breathily. “Another football match?”

“Yes.” She agreed ruefully.

“Sure. I’d like that.” Hermione hated to be rude, but she had to leave, wanted to run her finger under cool water and use some of that healing potion she’d socked away for a rainy day. “I’ll see you at work.” She was half a block away when she remembered somethimpoimportant. “Margie!” she called. “I still want the number of your hairdresser!”

“Stylist!” Margie yelled and waved. “She’ll kill you if you call her a hairdresser.”

Hermione returned home feeling not quite as lonely.

That night, playing with the deflated and mostly healed blister on her finger, Hermione wondered if arithmantic predictions were any more accurate than the statistical formula used to calculate good loan risks. Sharpening a fresh pencil, Hermione entertained herself running sample equations on business loans and loans for properties to let. The results seemed consistent until Hermione noticed an anomaly not accounted for by muggle financiers. Tucking her notepad into her briefcase, she resolved to look for more evidence to support her newly formed theory when she got back to work on Monday. Suddenly, the weekend seemed too long.

Hermione took a long, hot bath and went to ear early, curled up with Crookshanks purring against her neck. That she could see Snape’s shoes on the floor from her position in bed was merely a coincidence. Coincidence or not, it comforted Hermione to know that somewhere in the Magical World, Snape was walking around barefoot. Hugging the pillow tightly, she finally slept.