Divined Intervention

"Ron, are you actually doing your summer homework?" Hermione sidled up to him as he peered at the bright summer-morning sky through a jet-black tube. He almost dropped it in surprise, matching his hair color with a sudden, unexplained blush. "WhatÂ’s the matter?"

"Nothing! I mean..." Not quickly enough, he tried to set the tube out of her reach, but she snatched it up with a curious smile.

"IÂ’ve read about these... thatÂ’s a Spyglass!" She began to lift it to her eye.

Ron sputtered. "ThatÂ’s my fatherÂ’s...I should put it back..." he yelped as HermioneÂ’s eyes widened.

"RON WEASLEY, YOU NASTY LITTLE..." Ron clapped his hand over her mouth, looking back at the Burrow with fear in his eyes. She glowered at him until his hand moved away. "...spying on women in their bedrooms, you horrid, nasty, perverted...."

Ron raised his hands in surrender. "Look, Hermione, I was just trying to get a little perspective on Muggle life, ok? I swear it."

"SheÂ’s in her knickers, you git!"

"Really?" Ron blanched as he realized yes, that was out loud. "I mean...I was looking at her bedroom. Trying to figure out what that thing on her desk was... the glowing box." His eyes met hers. "Seriously. Look. What is that? You're family's Muggle... maybe you've seen one."

Hermione continued to glare at him, but glanced into the Spyglass nonetheless. "ItÂ’s a computer. Old one at that...my parents have a bigger screen on theirs. Oh! SheÂ’s using a chat client! And sheÂ’s...talking to it? Oh, brilliant! Voice-recognition software...I've heard of it, but never seen it used... why does she have that, I wonder?"

"A what? And what?" Ron made a grab for the Spyglass, but Hermione blocked him by turning around, facing the other way. "CÂ’mon, let me have a look..."

"ShanÂ’t. SheÂ’s still in her knickers." Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, not looking away. "Chat clients are... like owling each other, but faster. Harry and I sneak messages to each other with one when his cousin Dudley isnÂ’t home. And voice-recognition software is sort of like a Quick-Quotes Quill for the computer... itÂ’s so she doesnÂ’t have to use her hands to type on the keyboard... that's the thing with all the buttons."

"Makes sense... her right hand gives her dreadful pain some days. Whenever she uses the keyboard thing, she winds up cursing and rubbing it. Says she damaged a nerve there somehow...she wears a weird sort of stiff plaster on it so she wonÂ’t use it so much." Ron crossed his arms and resigned himself to glowering in HermioneÂ’s direction. "Bloody shame, it would be her wand hand."

"She's a Muggle, Ron, she doesn't have a 'wand hand.' She doesn't have a wand!" She broke off the know-it-all tone swiftly, suddenly sounding almost like Lavender. "Oooh. Chatting with a boy, it seems. Oh dear...not going well at all." She looked a little shocked, then worried. "Ouch. HeÂ’s a rotten git, girl...give him what-for!"

"WhatÂ’s happening? Is it Ryan? Mangy gitÂ’s been dreadful to her..." Ron froze as Hermione looked at him sternly. "What?"

"How long have you been watching this woman?" Hermione crossed her arms, Spyglass still in hand. Ron shifted uncomfortably under her gaze, which reminded him eerily of his motherÂ’s. He muttered something under his breath, and she glared harsher. He studied his shoes for a moment, shrinking visibly... no small feat at his advanced and gangly height. When he looked up, the once-mischievous blue eyes were filled with spanked-puppy remorse.

"Since I got home from Hogwarts... but itÂ’s not like that... Dad lent it to me so I could get a better understanding of Muggles..."

"...by studying women in their knickers..." Hermione looked even less convinced. "And why the sudden interest in Muggle culture, eh? Why not just take Muggle Studies in the fall?"

Ron looked away, too angry and frustrated to speak. He started to say something, then stopped abruptly. Finally, he sighed and ran a hand through his red hair. "Perhaps itÂ’s because I didnÂ’t want to make a great big ass of myself when I went to visit your family next week."

Hermione scrutinized him, then slumped, brown eyes softening as she walked over to him and handed him the Spyglass. "Oh...Ron..." Her eyes twinkled. "You are still a git, mind, but at least youÂ’re a well-intentioned one. Now, who is this Ryan creep, anyway? She seems really upset..."

"Oh, heÂ’s a friend of hers who just threw her over to go snog on some loose tart who isnÂ’t nearly as pretty and already has a boyfriend..." He closed his eyes, desperately wanting to smack himself in the head. "Not that she's that pretty... I mean... oh, bugger... At any rate, the tart just left him, and heÂ’s crying to her about it, even though he knows full well that sheÂ’s mad for him."

"Insensitive cad!"

"IsnÂ’t he? I could just hex him..." He looked into the Spyglass. "Are those little boxes with the words in them the chap climates?"

"Chat client... yes, it is. This feels like some television drama." Hermione leaned closer to Ron, fascinated. "What's he saying to her now?"

"HeÂ’s saying... augh! What a... oh my... Maggie, do tell him off, will you?" Ron spat, outraged. "I canÂ’t believe someone would actually be that crass...hey, I didnÂ’t know she had a tattoo on her shoulder! Wicked..." he brightened somewhat, not seeing the incoming swat from Hermione.

"Stop ogling the mirror! And what did he say?" Hermione huffed, more intrigued than annoyed.

Ron looked at her, blushing. "I...canÂ’t repeat it. Suffices to say that he just offered to make the slight up to her in a very physical way. SheÂ’s right furious, now. Oh... wow... sheÂ’s very vivid, this one... sounds like a painful sort of way to use a keyboard... Grabbing her coat now... going for a walk." He glanced at Hermione. "Why do Muggle street lamps turn off when you walk past them? IÂ’ve never quite gotten that...doesnÂ’t make much sense. YouÂ’d think youÂ’d want them on, in case someoneÂ’s following you."

Hermione squinted at him. "Street lamps? Where is she? ItÂ’s ten in the morning! And... what? They donÂ’t do that, not normally, anyway... can I see that?"

"I think she's American...she has a funny accent." He handed her the Spyglass. She looked into it intently, blinking as she adjusted to someone elseÂ’s perspective. A dark, damp street scene surrounded her, cars whizzing past on a downtown thoroughfare. Her black leather motorcycle jacket creaked and jingled softly, raindrops glistening like motor oil on the sleeves. A hospital loomed up beside her as she walked forward, head bowed. There were few other people on the street, and they seemed very interested in looking anywhere but at her. Long strands of wet brown hair obscured her vision and were shoved back roughly with a sun-dark, calloused hand.

Suddenly, it was much darker. She looked up to see the last bit of light fading from the street lampÂ’s bulb. A womanÂ’s voice sighed angrily, "Dammit, not again." Five burned-out street lamps stood in her wake. Five others, still lit, shone in front of her.

Hermione looked at Ron, eyes wide.

"Ron, are you sure sheÂ’s a Muggle?" she asked softly, then paused. "Is she sure?"

***********

"Mr. Weasley, do you know how Hogwarts finds its prospective students?"

Arthur Weasley folded his copy of the Daily Prophet and looked up from his chair at Ron and Hermione. "Why do you ask?"

Hermione sat down on the footstool across from him. "IÂ’ve always sort of wondered. I mean, IÂ’m Muggle-born...neither of my parents are wizards, and none of us knew much about the wizarding world until we heard from the school. I learned everything I knew from books before I met Ron and Harry. I can see how they find children from wizarding families, but how do they find the Muggle-born?"

Arthur straightened his glasses. "The Department for the Management of Magical Beings monitors spurts of magical activity in each country. Some countries are better at it than others... the UK takes great pride in how well they find new young witches and wizards. Those with the greatest promise get offers from prestigious wizarding schools like Hogwarts. The rest receive notices from state schools run by the Department...some families opt for home schooling, of course, and tutors..."

"What happens if they donÂ’t get found?" Ron asked, sitting down on the arm of the sofa. Arthur cleared his throat and looked uncomfortable.

"Well...often times, the Department hears about them soon enough. Some go mad as they realize that they are causing strange things to happen around them, and try to rationalize it away, and canÂ’t. Some try to learn on their own...they fare a little better, since they accept that they are magical but donÂ’t understand how, but without proper training they can become dangerous to themselves or others. Some died tragically in magic-related accidents that could have otherwise been prevented..." Arthur shook his head and adjusted his glasses, a sad look on his face. "For the most part, if they havenÂ’t been found by their teens, itÂ’s a rough life. At best, chronic illness, confusion or depression, even some degenerative ailments from trying to suppress their magical energies... I've never heard of a case where they've lived past the early twenties without something very bad coming of it. But this is depressing talk, and you are on vacation. Hardly a way to entertain a lovely young lady, Ron, my boy."

"SheÂ’s not a..." Ron caught himself, stammering, beet red and glaring at his father, who just laughed and shook his head. "DAD!" Hermione flounced off to the kitchen, Ron scrambling after her.

"Ah, youth..." Arthur sighed nostalgically as he opened his paper once more.

"You shouldnÂ’t tease him like that, Arthur... poor boyÂ’s in a right state trying to apologize to Hermione, and the twins heard you." Molly Weasley appeared in the kitchen doorway, hands on her hips and a nearly-stern look on her face. "I think heÂ’ll never hear the end of this." Her ears perked for a moment, and she whirled to stalk through the kitchen, shouting "Fred! A 'snogfest' is not an appropriate suggestion for entertainment for your younger brother!" Arthur sank behind the safety of his newspaper, chuckling.

**********

Margaret Ann Carter considered herself a fairly reasonable person. She went to work at The Fabric Zone every morning, cut hundreds of small pieces of fabric for blue-haired grandmothers who chatted endlessly about tissue cozies and quilts, ate her peanut butter sandwich, cut a few hundred more pieces of fabric, and rode the bus home, all with minimal complaint. She spent time with her friends watching movies, discussing the latest science fiction and fantasy novels, dancing at clubs, and going out to eat at cheap little dives at 3 a.m. She didnÂ’t ask for much; she certainly did not ask for her friends to proposition her after having broken her heart mere weeks ago.

And she really didnÂ’t ask for street lights to keep blowing out while she was trying to walk off her anger down a dark street at two in the morning. It only made her more annoyed...at Ryan, at the world around her, at whatever cosmic forces seemed to ban her from any semblance of normality. At 27, most of her friends her age had full-time careers, significant others, cars, their own apartments, college degrees... Here she was, on a wet, dark street, facing down a horribly boring part time job, roommates from hell, bus schedules, and jerks who seemed to think...

She cut the thought off angrily and looked at the street light. "Dammit, not again." Five. A new record. Remind me to thank Ryan. She shook her head and laughed bitterly. "Hell, it could be worse," she muttered to herself. "My life could be boring... I could work in an office, pay my bills, date some bland yuppie... noooo... I live on the edge...I flirt with jerks... I sing loud songs in the shower... I keep a day job so I can read tarot cards for random freaks in nightclubs and dance on the weekends... I..." She looked around and saw a homeless man crossing to the other side of the street, looking at her with wide eyes. I talk to myself loud enough to scare the straights. Phenomenal, Mags, maybe theyÂ’ll toss you in the psych ward and make your life really, REALLY interesting...

She stopped dead in her tracks. Oh God...what happens when I see him next? She shuddered a little at the thought and silently vowed to avoid him like the plague. The last time a guy had been this obnoxious...best not to think about it, really... but it really was amusing, especially when the police carted him off, not believing that he really HAD been wearing pants when he arrived at the restaurant. And all heÂ’d done was tell her that he was leaving her for Candi Miller... the girl who thought that you had to go to the DMV for an artistic license... on Valentine's Day. She still wasnÂ’t quite sure what happened to his pants, as he had in fact been wearing very nice black ones, but it seemed poetic cosmic justice and she went with it.

"Gaah. Men suck." She flopped down onto a bench by the nearest bus stop and sat, head in her hands for a few moments. The world was far too complicated a place. And that was without considering the really weird stuff like vanishing pants and burnt-out street lamps. She rubbed her right wrist absently. The damp night was making her bones ache, and the tension was sending burning rays of pain up and down her arm between her wrist and elbow. Dr. Andrews said it was a 'repetitive stress injury.' It seemed that most of the stress in her life was just that... repetitive. A constant, endless cycle of pain and drudgery, interspersed with the occasional fling that ended poorly. "Oh, the frickin' angst." She gave herself an inward kick for the maudlin turn. It was getting far too easy to pity herself, these days, but she didn't have to indulge it.

"The cards are liars, I swear it." She looked up at the sky. The moon had decided to grace the world with its presence, peeking out eerily through the dark lines of the clouds. "New voyages. Love. Adventure. Yeah right." She sniffed, wiping a long sodden strand of brown hair back from her face. "Maybe I should try my tea leaves. I'm soggy enough to be one right now." She thought briefly of her crystal ball and shuddered a little. Tea. Tea is warm and tasty and non-threatening. Go with the tea leaves.

**********

"You have to tell your father, Ron. She needs help." Hermione sat on the edge of Ron's bed as he looked at the Spyglass in his lap.

He looked away from her. "What if they don't help her? What if they think it's too late to help her?" She'd seen this look on his face before. Usually, it was because Harry was in some sort of insurmountable trouble, and he was worried about him. She'd never seen him look this way for a stranger before. "You haven't heard the things my father's said about the American Magical Association... they're total gits. Incompetence and swaggering that would do Crabbe and Goyle proud."

"You've got to try, though. You heard what your father said. Degenerative ailments... you said yourself that her wand hand is hurt. How'd it get hurt, anyways?" Hermione watched his face fall. "Does she even know? And furthermore... she's miserable, and what if something more happens than street lamps fizzling out on her?"

The Spyglass was in his hands, and he peered through it. "Huh. She hasn't ever done this before..."

"Done what...and stop changing the subject!" Hermione moved closer. "What's she doing?"

"You'll hate it... she's reading tea leaves." Ron rolled his eyes. "I knew she was too good to be true. I wonder what Professor Trelawney would make of her. She's not predicting death even once!"

"What is she predicting?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "Can't even believe I asked that. That stuff is complete and total bunk, Ron, and I still can't believe you're still enrolled in that class..."

"She's predicting..." He almost dropped the Spyglass, pale beneath his freckles. "Umm...I think she just predicted meeting us."

"Ron, you're having me on. What did she really say?"

"Something about 'a knight, a teacher, and a hero.'" He looked at Hermione, then looked away quickly, having said too much already. "It's how I usually see us in my tea leaf readings...wait...she has them in duplicate. She's really confused. She's never seen that happen."

He tapped the Spyglass in the palm of his hand, eyes closed, emotions warring on his face.

*********

But it was there, plain as day. A chess knight, a mortarboard, and a sword and shield. A knight, a teacher, and a hero. Two sets, one large, one smaller, all linked together in a battlement-shaped ring of tiny leaf-bits. Maggie was used to getting strong readings. Even accurate readings. But, she hadn't read in months, and something this blatant was new and a little frightening. "Leave it to me to get mine framed and decorated. Maybe you want to get hung up in my living room, huh?" She regarded the cup curiously. "Now, what the hell... two knights, two teachers, two heroes...what do all these people have to do with me? Especially since none of my friends really qualify, these days. Well, maybe Tina could pass for a teacher. She's smart enough."

Tina was Maggie's closest friend, one of two roommates, and her advisor these days. She was the one person in Rochester who could be counted on for a soft shoulder, an open ear, and a kind word. The rest of her friends...well, they considered that Maggie's job, and rarely returned the favor.

She set the cup down, then picked it back up. She hadn't looked at the side facing the framed symbols.

"Journey, adventure... and a big pointy witch's hat. Freaky. Now, what the hell does that mean?" She snorted. "I'm going to fly on our vacuum cleaner to Tahiti! Excellent!"

"Mags, have you been dipping into Ray's stash?" Tina, her roommate, was standing in the doorway watching her, arms folded. "And that's my vacuum you're planning on riding to the sandy shores, so be nice to it."

Maggie set the cup back down. "Hey, T. Tea leaf reading? I'm having insomnia and another nervous episode... help me work off some steam. Don't worry... there's no meat in it." She grinned, ignoring her roommate's rolled eyes.

"Meat is murder, Mags."

"Justifiable homicide. The cow was asking for it, I swear..." She picked up a new cup and saucer from the cardboard box by her feet and poured a cup of tea as her roommate made herself comfortable on the sofa.

"Maggie, you look like hell. Why are you all wet?" She accepted the tea and took a sip, staring at her.

"Long story." She looked at her reflection in the glass of the entertainment center. Her long, straight brown hair hung limply, drying but tangled and dull. Her round face, usually cheerful, was wan. The flannel shirt she'd buttoned over her sports bra hid her curves well, both the desirable and the not-so-desirable ones. Since she'd given up trying to lose the extra weight of her belly, she'd been happier, but less fashion-conscious. It also made her shoulders look somewhat broader, more mannish. She undid the top button. Better. "God, no wonder I can't get a decent guy to look at me. I'm too butch."

Tina snorted into her teacup, splashing herself. Maggie handed her a napkin absently. "Don't let the bastards get you down, Mags...especially Ryan. You deserve better. I've been telling you that. Undo one more button." Maggie sighed. "Serious." She obliged, and looked again. Her shoulders looked less linebacker-worthy, and a reasonable, but not obscene amount of cleavage was peeking over her sports bra. "You used to dress so pretty... why'd you stop?" Tina mused, sipping at her tea.

"Stopped caring, I guess. No one worth the effort." Maggie shrugged. "Besides, I'm allergic to ironing, and the twenty pounds I slapped on didn't exactly help matters."

"You still look great. Guys kill for those curves. I'd kill for those curves!" She ignored Maggie's glare. "I know, I've got the fashionable build. But yours is timeless." Tina set her cup down and stretched, only emphasizing more her rail-thin, petite build, flat stomach peeking out from beneath a short t-shirt.

"Yup. The stuff of classical chunky-broad paintings throughout the Renaissance. Thanks, T... you're a pal." Maggie flopped backwards, lying on the floor, arms crossed under her head.

"At least you have boobs." Maggie sat up again, straightening her shirt.

"Look, it's like I've said before. You look at classical paintings... the ethereal heroine types are painted like you. Thin, blonde, pale, waify, gorgeous."

"Thank you!" Tina posed on the sofa. Maggie rolled her eyes.

"The saucy wenches look like me... exaggerated hourglass figures with the whole belly thing... fertility goddess statues and me go way back."

Tina interjected. "Exactly my point. Guys dig the wenches..."

"...for a tawdry roll in the hay before going off to rescue Princess Waif from her ivory and glass tower." Maggie pulled a brush out of the pocket of her discarded leather coat and began to work on her hair. "Look, I'm just resigning myself to the fact that I'm not the one who will get rescued at the end of the fairy tale and live in the castle. I'll just content myself with the tawdry rolls in the hay. Means I don't have to worry about managing a castle household anyway...too many rooms to clean, all those servants... Finish your tea already, will ya?"

Tina shook her head. "You...need to lighten up on yourself. Really. This negative energy is not healthy. And you're stunning, just the way you are. And you've got..."

Maggie looked at her levelly. "If you say I have a great personality, I'll dump that tea on your head."

Tina set the cup, upside-down, on her saucer. "I was going to say really neat hazel eyes. Done, ma'am."

Maggie picked the cup up, looked into it, and cocked her head. "Weird... you're searching... for a new roommate." She looked up at Tina. "Trying to boot Ray out again?"

Tina looked at her, just as confused. "No. He's actually paid rent this month. Look, you aren't upset about what I just said...are you?"

Maggie snorted. "No. Actually," she softened, smiling. "Thanks. For letting me complain and whine nonstop lately. You're right. I am a worthwhile member of the human race, and someday I'll find my useful purpose besides providing hours of entertainment as a buffoon and hack pseudo-gypsy fortuneteller." She turned her attention back to the cup. "But yeah, new roommate... and... HEY! Looks like you're going to sell some paintings." She winked. "First time for everything." She shielded the china cup from the tossed pillow and cackled.

"I'm going to bed, infidel." Tina stood up, looking imperious. "You just wait... when my art is hanging in every museum from here to Los Angeles..."

"I know, I'm not invited to the party and I'll never get to meet all the celebrities who will be fawning on you. Goodnight." She watched Tina walk up the stairs, then looked back at her own cup.

"Why is this the only thing I'm good at?" she mused. "Stuff everyone else thinks is bull. Hell, I think it's bull. I wish it was, at least." She shoved the cups away and looked at them from a distance, nervously. "I should stop. Too freaky."

Idly, she flipped through the rest of the contents of the cardboard box, which had once occasionally transported an ill-fated pet ferret. The carrying handles made it ideal for transporting her gear, and the breathing holes made for lovely conversation. "The future is a living entity... it needs to breathe..." she'd jibe to the barman as she set up every week at the Deus Ex Machina. She shoved aside the silver and black tablecloth she used to protect her cards from sticky tables, and pulled out her deck.

It was an impulse more than a thought that made her flip the top card.

Death.

"Catastrophic, dramatic, life-altering change. Fuck me." Something splintered. She looked over at the entertainment center. A long crack marred the glass, matching the lightening in the background of her card.

*********

"OK. I'll tell him." Ron tucked the Spyglass under his arm resignedly and walked downstairs to find his father.