Hermione's Helping Hand

Phoenix Song, Chapter Seven : Hermione's Helping Hand.

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I'd like to thank my betas: LAxo, who is always first, and WriterMerrin, for appearing out of the ether to solve all problems.

Hermione had hoped that once she returned to Hogwarts, her lessons with Professor Snape would start immediately, but beyond snarling at her to keep her mouth shut and mocking her for knowing the answers in class, he made no sign that he was aware of her existence. All attempts to hang back after DADA were foiled by the presence of Harry and Ron, and the one time she'd passed him in a corridor without the boys in tow, Snape had swept past her without a glance. Occasionally, she even wondered whether she had dreamt the whole thing, both the healing and the night-time conversation...she might have been delirious, after all. To reassure herself, Hermione took to carrying her booklist around in her pocket and would frequently check that his handwriting was still there. She'd read big chunks of the books he'd set several times over and was itching to talk to someone about them. Elemental Warding, in particular...now there was a book with a misleading name: the contents were far from elemental, but instead well above NEWT standard.

Her scheduled classes had been a mixed bag. Snape was as good and as scary a teacher of Defence Against the Dark Arts as he had been in Potions while the degree to which Slughorn played favourites was irritating and Harry's success using the instructions of his bloody Half-Blood Prince was driving her up the wall. Arithmancy, on the other hand, had been an unadulterated joy.

Hardly anyone took Arithmancy at NEWT level, and the sixth- and seventh-years had class together. From Gryffindor it was just her, but there was a bunch of Ravenclaws, and two of the Slytherins from her year had continued on...Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis.

At the start of their first class, Professor Vector had outlined the syllabus:

"I don't need to tell you how delighted I am that you have all decided to continue with Arithmancy. Now, as the seventh-year students already know, and I hope will forgive me for reiterating, in order to pass Arithmancy at the NEWT level, it is necessary not only to learn the theoretical aspects well enough to pass the written exam but also to complete an independent practical application of Arithmantic probabilities. As a consequence, much of our year will be spent on individual projects. During the first term, we will have classes as scheduled; we will cover any new numerical theory and revise the more complex forms of imaginary and magical number calculus, including multi-dimensional arrays. We will also spend a great deal of time looking at the issues raised in fitting theoretical models to practical situations. During this term, I expect each student to develop a research proposal that will be due just before break. After Christmas, however, regular lessons will be much rarer. I will make the scheduled classroom time available for one-on-one meetings in which we can focus on your independent projects.

"Now, before we go any further, I want to remind you all that the application of Arithmancy to gambling is strictly forbidden by Ministry law and that no projects involving Quidditch will be acceptable to me, or to the examiners. Understood?"

Professor Vector smiled at her class, and they smiled back. By NEWT level, the warning against betting on Quidditch matches was anything but new. While Vector was obliged by law to mention the ban, she tended to treat it as something of a running joke.

From there Professor Vector launched into a complicated re-cap of the graphical transfer between m-space and i-space, leaving Hermione little chance to dwell on her independent project.

At the end of class, Professor Vector's voice interrupted Hermione's thoughts as she was putting away her notes. "Miss Granger, if you could remain behind for a moment, I would like to speak to you briefly."

"Of course, Professor." Hastily gathering the rest of her things, Hermione stepped up towards Vector's desk.

Vector gestured for Hermione to seat herself on the nearest chair and came around her desk to perch on the edge closest to where Hermione sat. She looked to be about sixty years old, though Hermione knew that the way witches aged, she was likely to be much older. She was short...no taller than Hermione...and wiry, and apart from one lock of hair near the front that shined a bright, silvery grey, her hair was dark. She wore it long enough to tuck behind her ears and no longer. Her hair was thick enough that from some angles her head assumed a slightly triangular aspect. She spoke English with the hint of an accent and from what Hermione had gathered, slept and worked at odd hours, surviving on a constant stream of black coffee that she drank from tiny cups without handles. She smiled a lot.

"Now then, Miss Granger, I don't want to leap to any assumptions, but it seems likely to me"...something about the twinkle in her eye convinced Hermione that her professor had calculated the likelihood precisely..."that you would choose to do your independent project on the ongoing war. Would that be correct?"

"Oh, indeed." Hermione swallowed. She realised...with shock...that she hadn't ever thought about the relevance of Arithmancy to Harry's survival. How can I have been so stupid? She loved Arithmancy, with a passion, but had never extrapolated the elaborately theoretical work of her favourite class beyond the limits of academia.

Vector smiled. "As I'm sure you have gathered, this is a topic on which I have done quite a lot of work."

Hermione hadn't realised anything of the sort, but she nodded regardless.

"Anyway," continued Professor Vector, "it makes no sense for you to redo work that I have already done. I would like to suggest, instead, that we work together. I would be very happy to make my calculations available to you. It will take some time for you to familiarise yourself with the workings of the matrix I have developed, but after that point, I feel certain you could devise some modifications or supplemental calculations that would serve adequately for the purposes of assessment."

Hermione's eyes shone with delight, and she felt near to bursting with excitement. "Thank you! Wow, I . . . I mean, wow."

Professor Vector waved a deprecating hand at her speechless delight. "Without wishing to boast," she added, "the equations that I have completed are far above the level required of NEWT students. In fact, it is by far the most complicated set of calculations that I have ever attempted. I have no doubt, however, that you would be perfectly capable of understanding and working with the material."

Hermione flushed with pleasure.

"I suggest that you take the opportunity to come to my office sometime soon, tomorrow even, if you happen to have a free period, and you can start to familiarise yourself with the calculations." An uncharacteristically serious expression crossed Professor Vector's face. "I'm sure that I do not need to warn you that the existence of these calculations is highly confidential. If they fell into the wrong hands, it would be disastrous for our cause. Only a select number of Order members know of their existence, and I would ask you to tell no-one, not even your classmates."

"Oh, of course." Hermione blanched at the potential ramifications. "You have my word, Professor, I won't tell a soul." There seemed to be an awful lot of things in her life lately that she couldn't talk about. A sudden thought occurred to her. "Professor," she queried, "doesn't the other side have Arithmancers, too?"

"None as talented as I am," replied Professor Vector, humour softening her face once again. With a wry grimace, she added, "Apparently, Tom Riddle could have been a very good Arithmancer had he not been so sceptical of the value of Muggle mathematics. We know for a fact that he didn't bother with projections and calculations during the last war, and our information suggests that if hasn't occurred to him this time, either."

Hermione processed this information. "I've a double free period tomorrow morning," she ventured, "are you free?"

"First thing in the morning?" Vector winced at the thought.

When Hermione nodded apologetically, Professor Vector sighed.

"Alright then, as long as you don't mind the smell of coffee, I can probably manage it."

When Hermione presented herself at Vector's office the next morning, she was astounded to see her professor dressed in what looked suspiciously like tracksuit pants and a knitted cardigan. Vector merely smiled at her look of astonishment.

"I never wear robes before midday, if I can help it. I don't suppose you drink Greek coffee?"

Hermione bit back a comment to the effect that avoiding robes was one thing and wearing tracksuit pants was another. "Um, I've never had Greek coffee, but I like espresso. Is it very different?"

"Different enough. It's stronger, and slightly gritty. You drink it sweet. Try it, I'm about to make myself some more. If you don't like it, I'll finish it for you."

Vector made coffee as if it were an important ritual, mixing coffee grounds, sugar and water in a small pot that...as she informed Hermione...was called a briki. She set it to heat over a low flame that she ignited magically and gave the brew her full attention, letting it boil up and settle down several times before she pronounced it ready to drink. Only once she had a cup in hand did she turn her attention to the Arithmantic equations Hermione had come to see.

Waving her hand at a long, bare wall, she revealed an enormous blackboard covered in calculations and formulae. On the opposite wall, a partial matrix appeared.

"This will do to start with," she said. "Basically, the matrix is over here. Currently, it's stacked in 18 dimensions, which makes it tricky to view the entire thing at once, but if I simplify it any further, we start losing detail. On the other side, I have the unifying calculation, and here," at this she waved her hand again and several panels of the blackboard slid sideways along runners in the floor and one that had been previously hidden emerged from behind the wall, "these are some of the embedded formulae. You can work through these slowly; it should be pretty clear to you what I've done."

Hermione had stepped closer and was trying to follow the logic of the math in front of her. This was the most complicated thing she'd ever seen. She took a sip of her coffee: weird, but not entirely horrible.

"Come over here, this will interest you," Vector called to her from a spot over by the corner. "This is the probability projection that Harry Potter will survive and Voldemort will not."

Hermione traced the length of the calculation with her finger. "51%." She paused. "It's not great odds."

"Much better than they were before, my dear. Watch this, it's fascinating. See these two runic coefficients here, this is Ronald Weasley, and this..."

"That's me!"

"Correct. Watch what happens when we remove you from the equation."

Vector conjured a duster and wiped out the coefficient representing Hermione. The formula shimmered for a second as it recalculated the probability.

"12%." Hermione was stunned. My presence alone increases Harry's chances by 39%? She felt frightened at the thought.

"Remove Ronald," Vector did so, "it decreases further, to only 3%."

Hermione was speechless.

"Put you back in," continued Vector, tapping her wand on the board, "and Harry's odds go back up to 46%. You, my dear, are a crucial factor in his success. Only with you and Ronald, however, can we get Harry to tip the balance past 50%. You look startled." Vector narrowed her eyes in concern and conjured Hermione a chair. "Have another sip of coffee, it does wonders. I guess it does take some getting used to, seeing the actions of your own life and those of your friends reduced to numbers."

Vector conjured another chair for herself and the two women sat, staring at the calculations together as they drank their coffee.

By the end of the second week, Professor Snape still hadn't spoken with Hermione about her private lessons. She'd worked through several panels of Professor Vector's calculations, but the process was slow, and she went down to the Quidditch pitch to watch the trials in a very grumpy mood. That stupid tart Lavender making eyes at Ron on the way didn't help. Hermione wished that she had brought along something to read, but reflected that the moral support she was there to offer would have seemed a little tenuous had she done so. Not that Ron seems to want my support, she grumbled bitterly, seating herself in the stands and looking around at the large number of students that had turned up. These can't all be Gryffindors, she thought suddenly, having noticed several younger kids that she would have sworn were in Ravenclaw. Hermione put her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her and pulled up her robes so that she could feel the warmth of the sun on her legs. Crossing her arms, she leant back and stared off into the distance. This is going to take forever, she mused. The morning's breakfast conversation between her and the boys crossed her mind, and for several minutes she drifted, thinking about Dumbledore's frequent absences and wondering whether Snape was just waiting for Quidditch practices to begin. That would make sense. Her mood lifted slightly, and she looked over at Harry, who had began to shout out instructions.

Cormac McLaggen was wandering her way, a belligerent look on his face. Self-consciously, she pulled her robes down to cover up her legs, but not before McLaggen had given her the once-over, his eyes sliding up from her ankles to her hair. Hermione felt a little sick. She grit her teeth and hoped...hard...that he might go and sit somewhere else, but with no luck; he sat down only a few seats away and, worse still, started up a conversation.

Despite her monosyllabic and non-committal replies, McLaggen talked incessantly throughout the Chaser and Beater trials, gracing Hermione with long-winded opinions of talents and tactics. Hermione did her best to ignore his inane commentary...biting her tongue during McLaggen's assessment of Ron's performance during the last season...but eventually a remark about Ginny sent Hermione's temper over the edge.

"Well, you've got to wonder," he commented, "which of her talents got her on the team! Not that I'm complaining, mind you...I can't wait to see her in the locker room after a match..."

"How dare you!" she fumed. "Ginny Weasley is an excellent Quidditch player and a very good friend of mine! Leaving aside the fact that she just scored seventeen goals, I can't believe that you would make such a comment about any of your potential team mates!"

McLaggen seemed unperturbed by her outburst. In fact, he laughed at her and stretched out his arm along the back of the seats between them, dangling his fingers perilously close to her shoulder. "Ooh, not jealous, are you? Don't worry, I like girls with a bit of spark to them. Pity you're not trying out for the team."

Hermione was momentarily speechless. "I assure you, Cormac McLaggen, what you do or do not like in a girl is absolutely no concern of mine! And, for your information, Gryffindor has an exemplary Keeper already. Your chances of making the team are slim indeed."

Luckily for both parties in the conversation, Harry had gotten around to the Keeper trials and called McLaggen over at just that moment. McLaggen swaggered away, clearly oblivious to the very real danger he'd been in, and Hermione cursed herself for not having hexed him when she had the chance.

She sat fuming through the trials of the first few candidates for the position, dwelling on several satisfying scenarios involving McLaggen in highly compromising and painful situations. There's no way Harry would ever let someone that horrible on the team. When McLaggen saved the first couple of goals, however, her sense of certainty wavered. She stole a glance at Ron: he looked terrible. He was so stressed that he was green around the edges. As McLaggen saved the third penalty, Hermione's tension mounted. If Ron doesn't make the team, he'll never get over it! And I'll never get a chance to have lessons with Professor Snape. Hermione skittered away from thinking about which outcome would be worse. McLaggen saved the fourth penalty, and Hermione caught a glimpse of Ginny's face: it bore a grim and shuttered look. That settled it. No way was Hermione going to let that creep have a chance to look at Ginny in the locker room. Surreptitiously, she slipped her wand out of her pocket into her hand.

"Confundo," she whispered, then sighed in relief as McLaggen chose the wrong direction to lunge and missed the fifth penalty completely.

Watching Ron's trial was nerve-wracking. Hermione held her breath and clenched her fists so tightly that her fingernails dug into the palms of her hands. The relief she felt when he saved all five penalties left her dizzy. With a slightly hysterical laugh of delight, she leapt out of her seat and ran towards him, her previous annoyance with him forgotten: compared to Cormac McLaggen, Ronald Weasley was a prince.

"You did brilliantly, Ron!" she cried, giving him a quick hug. Ron grinned back, and after a few organizational conversations between Harry and the newly-formed team, the three friends set off together towards Hagrid's. It felt so wonderful to be out in the sunshine, to have Ron and Harry so excited about Quidditch and to know that McLaggen had deserved the punishment she'd dished out, that when Ron snickered that McLaggen had looked Confunded, Hermione felt only the tiniest twinge of guilt.