Arithmancy for Muggles

Chapter Nine: Wood U?

Crookshanks jumped on the bed, purring loudly. Hermione tried to ignore his insistent demands for petting. It was too early on a Saturday morning to be awake. Margie’s boyfriend, for once, had no football game with the lads, so Hermione had a whole weekend stretching empty ahead of her. At least Margie had helped her furnish her front room with a television and a comfy couch. Hermione dropped into said couch with Crookshanks in one arm and the remote control to hand.

Flipping through the stations four or five times before settling on some innocuous nature program, Hermione turned her attention to petting Crookshanks earnestly. A soft voiced narration about the migration pattern of the Africanized bee in North America was a soothing background to Hermione’s abstracted thoughts.

What was she going to do today? She’d reached an impasse in her work. Luna, in an uncharacteristic lack of follow-through, had not sent her so much as a copy of the Quibbler, let alone an owl with the juicier un-publishable gossip Hermione had been hoping to get. Without further information, there were only so many times she could re-draw the same graphs.

Her work at the bank, though still rewarding, was starting to feel repetitive. Hermione had quickly devised an effective arithmantic predictor that allowed her to take on a few clients that normal financial formulae insisted were bad risks, but that Hermione was assured were not. It seemed to be paying off. Her superiors were quite pleased. But the routines of finance were not as complex as arithmancy, and the practice was beginning to bore, ju, just a little.

And, though she had not expected to hear from him, Hermione felt a little twinge of disappointment when she thought of Severus. She hadn’t expected him to owl right away, but his shoes on her floor were a constant reminder of what had happened between them. He’d probably found a new pair of shoes by now. Hermione entertained herself thinking about what they might look like, as she scratched vigorously behind Crooks’ ears. They probably looked a lot like his old pair, black leather that fastened with buttons all the way up his ankle. Hermione spent several minutes contemplating Severus’ ankles.

Crookshanks jumped away, startled, when the phone rang, freeing Hermione to answer it. “Hello?”

“Hello, Hermione. It’s your mum.”

“Hello, mum.”

Settling back onto the couch with the handset, Hermione muted the television, pretty pictures of nature still dancing across the screen.

“Your father and I were thinking of going on a bit of a country ramble this afternoon. Would you care to join us?”

Hermione looked at her choices: nature programs in her own flat or a bit of actual fresh air with her parents. “Sure, mum. What time do you want me there?”

They made the arrangements and Hermione put the phone back in its cradle. Turning the sound back up on the television, Hermione left the program on (to keep Crookshanks company, she told herself) while she showered. As she dressed, she listened to another soft voiced narrator discuss the mating habits of alligators. Hermione was suddenly reminded of Hagrid speaking lovingly on the subject of incredibly dangerous predators. She wiped tears away hastily and pulled her last Weasley jumper, the one she’d gotten just before her breakup with Ron, over a t-shirt and jeans.

Her parents’ house had not changed in twenty years. She knocked for courtesy, but opened the door at her mother’s cheery cry of “Hallooooo!”

“You sound like a hunting dog, mum.”

Mrs. Granger stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. “Who are you, and what have you done with my daugher?”

Hermione kissed her mother’s cheek and smiled. “You like the new hair?” Hermione had forgotten that her mother hadn\'t seen the new, shorter haircut Margie had talked her into. Instead of the barely manageable tangle of long bushy hair, glossy curls frothed around her ears in fashionable disarray.

“It’s darling!” she cooed. “When did you get it done?”

“Just last week.” She followed her mother into the kitchen and took up a towel to help dry the last of the dishes. “Margie took me to see her stylist on our lunch break Wednesday.”

“And how is Margie? She seemed like such a pleasant girl when we met her at the bank.” Mrs. Granger made no secret of the fact that she approved of Hermione’s return to the real world, as she called it. This, by extension, meant she was bound to approve of any non-magical friends or hobbies Hermione picked up in her spare time.

“She’s doing well. Her boyfriend is actually taking her out this evening, I hear. I don’t know what she sees in him,” Hermione commented, accepting a stack of dishes from her mother to put away. She had obviously interrupted her mother mid-tidy. “He goes on about football like Harry and Ron used to go on about Quidditch when they were twelve.”

“You know, Hermione, in every relationship there are compromises,” Mrs. Granger began.

Hermione didn’t let her mother continue the familiar speech. “In other news, I finally got a new sofa. It’s quite comfortable and the pattern on the upholstery hides the cat fur Crooks insists on shedding onto it.”

Hermione’s mother rolled her eyes and sighed. “My daughter and her impeccable taste. I can remember that discussion we had in that posh shop. I nearly died of mortification. You needed a dress for one of those formal things at school and you insisted you wanted a dress with pockets.”

“I needed someplace to put my wand,” she explained sensibly. “All the better robes come with wand pockets. How was I to know women’s eveningwear doesn’t usually have pockets?”

Mrs. Granger’s only response was to cluck her tongue and shake her head, as if such information should have been imparted to her daughter in the womb.

“Is Dad in the back?” Dishes dry and back in their cupboards, Hermione leaned out the back door and called loudly. “I’m here, Dad! Shall we go, now?”

“What’s the hurry?” Hermione’s father said, beaming as he joined his wife and daughter in the kitchen. “No kiss for your old dad?”

Hermione laughed, as she was supposed to, and kissed her father on the cheek. “I was promised a ramble, and a ramble I shall have.” She tugged on her father’s arm like an impatient five year old. “Let’s go!”

“Hold up, Hermione, my own,” Mr. Granger cheerfully insisted. “I must change my shoes.”

“And fetch down a sweater,” Mrs. Granger called up the stairs after her husband’s retreating back. “It might get cold.”

Good-natured grumbling was the only reply.

“Where would you like to go, Hermione?” Hermione did not speak quickly enough, and her mother continued on like a freight train. “Because your father and I were thinking we’d drive up to a little village we found in our last ramble and wander from there. If I remember correctly, there’s a nice place overlooking some pretty greenery that gives a good hearty country tea.” Clearly the day was all arranged. Bowing to the inevitable, Hermione smiled and nodded. She really just wanted to stretch her legs a little. It didn’t matter where.

Her father returned, jingling car keys merrily. “Come, ladies. Your carriage awaits.”

Watching the scenery whiz by from the back seat of the car, Hermione contemplated her parents’ fascination with rural life. She knew they would have hated living in a little village. They liked their bustling dentistry practice, their neighbors and their neighborhood. But on weekends that they did not play golf, the senior Grangers liked to take long rambling walks in the countryside, never mind they had to drive to get anywhere rustic enough for their tastes. It was a harmless enough hobby, Hermione thought, and her mother had a knack of finding little places with excellent food.

Parking between a cricket pitch and a large grocery store, the Grangers, father, mother and daughter, got out of the car, slamming doors shut behind them. Hermione’s mother led. “Why don’t we go that way?”

They found a little path to one side of the cricket pitch that seemed to lead up a rise, into a stand of trees. “Let’s see where this takes us,” Mr. Granger exhorted.

In twenty minutes the Grangers, father, mother and daughter, were well and truly lost.

“Well, we can’t be lost forever,” Mrs. Granger insisted cheerfully, forging ahead. They weren’t yet hungry or thirsty, the patches of sunlight were warm, but not too warm, and they were lost in the country with birds singing and trees rustling, both in a very poetic manner. “In the meantime, I think this is rather pleasant.”

The sentiment was heartily echoed by Mr. Granger. Hermione knew that if she needed to she could probably find her bearings quite easily. If that failed, she could ask directions of one of the several dozen other ramblers they were bound to encounter. For now, Hermione just smiled and followed her parents, content to walk.

When Mr. and Mrs. Granger paused to comment on a particularly delightful rustic vista overlooking a meadow and a flock of sheep, Hermione continued to walk, finding the leaf-dappled shade preferable to the open spot of sunshine. Relaxed and enjoying the change of scenery, Hermione nearly tripped over a gentleman crouched at the side of the road.

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, I didn’t see you there.” Hermione backed up.

Pale, moonlike eyes rose to meet hers. “Hickory, eleven inches, whippy. My condolences.”

Suffering from that disorientation that happens when one sees a familiar face in an unexpected context, it took Hermione a moment to remember his name. “Mr. Ollivander?”

“I’m sorry, I remember the wand, but I have completely forgotten your name, Miss...?”

“Granger. Hermione Granger.”

“Ah, yes!” Mr. Ollivander stood, holding a black handled knife in one hand and several bare sticks in the other. “You’re that friend of Harry Potter’s.”

One advantage the muggle world had, Hermione reflected, was that she was not constantly referred to as “that friend of Harry Potter’s” or worse, “that other friend of Harry Potter’s.”

“And I truly am sorry about your wand. She was a beauty.” Mr. Ollivander tucked the sticks into a pouch at his belt and sheathed the knife before offering a handshake. “Why the Ministry can’t settle their disputes without damaging the wands, I can never understand. Still, I suppose that means you’re in the market for a new wand?” He smiled hopefully.

Hoping her parents spent a little longer admiring the rustic view, Hermione explained a little. “Well, actually, I’ve been exiled. I’m not supposed to work any magic. That’s why they snapped my wand.”

Mr. Ollivander made a clucking noise. “Nonsense, my girl. You’re a witch. Witches work magic. It’s not like you can help it, particularly after your training. It’s just a matter of what you can and cannot do. I heard somewhere that you were an accomplished arithmancer. You haven’t abandoned that practice, I hope?”

Wondering how much to admit, Hermione’s expression betrayed her guilt in the matter.

Chuckling, Mr. Ollivander nodded. “See? Magic is a part of you now. You will do your best to curb it, but it cannot be curbed indefinitely.”

“But without a w..?”..?”

“In the old days, a witch or wizard was not considered truly puissant until she or he had crafted their own wand. Custom-made wands are a convenience, and with the modern additions people insist upon, I’m glad that not everybody tries their hand at it. Oh, the disasters of careless craftsmanship!”

Mr. Ollivander started walking. Since he was still talking, Hermione thought it only politeness to continue walking with him. She had been going in this direction anyway.

“I remember stories from my grandfather’s day, when people first started enhancing wand cores with dragon heartstrings. My grandfather was the first to perfect the process, you know. Before that, wizards, well, some witches, too, but witches are generally far subtler and control their power more deftly, but before reinforced core wands, the most powerful wizards tended to have issues with wand-burn. Oh, the most horrible blisters we’d see when a wizard tried to pour too much power through a wand. For that kind of magic you don’t really want a wand, you want an amulet, preferably with a jewel focus, or possibly a steel blade with a wood or leather wrapped handle.”

“Mr. Ollivander, this is all very interesting...” And it was. Hermione had never had the opportunity to study the history of wand making and found the esoteric knowledge fascinating. “...but my parents will be along in a moment, and...”

The wizard continued walking and talking as if he had not been interrupted. “But business is good. There is such a bias against wandless magic these days.” He chuckled. “I remember decades ago when the young people got it into their heads that magic was better if it was natural and unfettered. Hrmph. Half of them nearly destroyed their wand hands pretending they could cast wandless without altering their technique. Wandless magic has to be slower, only a trickle of power released through a touching connection or you raise the most fearsome blisters. You can do beautiful things with wandless magic. Growth charms, lock picking, oh, all number of beautiful things.\"

The description reminded Hermione painfully of her own wandless experience. “So you can get wand burn without a wand?”

“Goodness, yes, of course!” Mr. Ollivander blinked those pale moon eyes of his. “Technically speaking, wand burn isn\'t really caused by the wand, though the easiest remedy is often just finding another wand that can handle more power. Wands are tools, beautiful, elegant tools with souls, but they cannot do magic without a witch or wizard to wield them. I remember during the natural craze we did wonderful business in unfinished wands, just cured lengths of wood with the cores pre-inserted. People would finish the wands themselves with a light sanding spell and an oil rub. We sold the oils too, of course. Unfortunately, sometimes a wand that you think would be ectlectly acceptable turns out to have a different personality once you’ve finished her. The poor witch or wizard would try to do a simple “reparo” and the wand would fight them. I remember the apothecary did brisk business in wand burn remedies. They might have been better off just trying to go wandless.”

He turned to look at Hermione. “You focus your magical energy without a wand, do you not?” Ollivander asked calmly.

“Uh, well.” How much did he know about her unauthorized repair charm that day she bought her computer?

“Of course you do. That is what arithmancy does. It focuses magical energy through equations. Equations are a mental focus for one’s magical energy. Potions focus magic through the ingredients the brewer uses. Some theorize that potion making doesn’t work for muggles because the ingredients of a potion are secondary to the application of magic through the ingredients. But I digress, and am probably boring you.”

“No, I find this fascinating!” Hermione forced her breathing to slow. “So if a witch, or wizard, decided to cast a charm without a wand and weren’t really thinking about it, they might get blisters?”

Mr. Ollivander clucked. “Of course they might. Don’t they teach even elementary wand mechanics at Hogwarts anymore?\"

Hermione shrugged. “We were a little busy learning how not to die at the hands of Voldemort.”

“Ah, him. Quite. I had almost forgotten you were involved in that little contretemps.” Mr. Ollivander stopped, gesturing around him. “This path has some lovely trees. I have permission to gather raw materials here, but most years the tourists and hikers damage the right kind of growth before I can harvest it. Take this tree, for example.”

He crunched off the beaten path down into a little ravine. Water trickled over stones. Hermione hadn’t realized there was a stream down here. Putting his hand on the trunk of an alder, Mr. Ollivander signaled for Hermione’s attention as he drew his knife.

“A wand should come from wood that gives it willingly.” He gestured to a straight outgrowth that was three-quarters of an inch in diameter at the base and roughly a foot long. It grew straight out from the trunk, not seemingly a part of the same tree at all.

Mr. Ollivander tapped the blade of his knife against the place where the anomalous outgrowth met the trunk of the tree. The tree shivered, but parted willingly with the stick, which dropped into his hand.

“A wand should be straight, or slightly curvy, but not notched and junctioned as this one is.” Hermione could see no such blemish. “A good length is anywhere from eight to fourteen inches and any quality from quite firm to very bendy is encouraged.”

Mr. Ollivander swished the cutting through the air. It was pleasantly springy. It reminded Hermione of her old wand’s action.

“No, this won’t do at all. Not at all up to our usual standards at Ollivander’s.” He pressed the cutting into Hermione’s hand. “Take this as a souvenir, a pleasant memory of a walk in the woods with an old acquaintance. It would not be worth my while to imbue a core of, say, owl feather and polish it with sweet almond oil for sale at Ollivander’s. No. We have standards to maintain.”

Swishing the stick experimentally, Hermione felt a hum of resonance. “A nice souvenir,” she said. Tears filled her eyes and she had to turn her back on the old wand smith.

He took her arm and led her back onto the path, chatting idly. “Of course, a wand doesn\'t really need a core unless you\'re trying to cast very powerful spells and need the extra control. And not all wand cores have to be purely magical. I heard of a wizard once who used the hair of his beloved as a core. It worked quite well, allegedly, but since the wand was never registered with the Ministry, we don’t have a record of any of his magical efforts.”

This captured Hermione’s attention once again. “You mean, the Ministry can’t track unregistered wands?”

“That’s never a problem,” Mr. Ollivander assured her blandly, “since all licensed wand smiths must register each creation with the Ministry before it can be sold. And, of course, unregistered wands, though not illegal in any respect, are terribly unfashionable. So few people remember the old ways.”

“What a shame,” Hermione said, her mind already whirling with the possibilities. “How does someone learn to become a wand smith?”

“Wand making is an ancient art, handed down within families to preserve the purity of the craft. Unless, of course, you have an Internet connection. You can find everything on the Internet these days. It’s such a wonderful invention.”

“Yes,” Hermione agreed faintly, rather startled by the unexpected advice. “Yes, it is.”

The wizard blinked his pale moon eyes again. “Ah, unfortunately, this is where we must part. I’m returning that way.” He pointed to an arch formed by two trees, their branches interlacing gracefully. “Give my best to your parents.”

“Good bye.” Hermione clutched the alder stick as Mr. Ollivander disappeared under the arch, back to the magical world forbidden her.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger came around the bend in the path to see their daughter staring at the trees, a bare stick clutched in her hand like a wand. Denying the implications of this picture, Mrs. Granger called out heartily. “Hallooo!”

Hermione turned and smiled. “I still think you sound like a hunting dog when you do that.”

“What are you looking at, Hermione, my own?” Mr. Granger asked.

Sensitive to her parents’ well-disguised discomfort with the magical world, Hermione did not pass along Mr. Ollivander’s good wishes. Pointing to where the two trees embraced, Hermione avoided the issue. “I thought I saw something.”

The three people stood quietly for a moment, waiting for Hermione’s alleged something to appear. Just as they were about to turn away, a rabbit hopped out from behind a shrub and bounded off into the undergrowth.

Mr. and Mrs. Granger sighed with the unspoken relief that their daughter’s odd behavior had such a perfectly ordinary explanation. “Come on, then. I’m getting hungry,” Mr. Granger insisted, putting his arms around his wife and daughter. “Tea awaits!”

Hermione felt her stomach growl. A quick glance at the sky told her she’d been talking with Mr. Ollivander much longer than she’d realized. Though she was pleased with all the unexpected help she’d received, a small part of her brain wondered if the serendipitous results of this outing really such a coincidence.

Resolving to think about it later, Hermione tucked the alder stick up the bulky sleeve of her Weasley jumper and looked forward to tea with a hearty appetite.