Chapter 7: Flying so Strangely

Lyra's second week at Hogwarts passed far more quickly than her first week had done. She liked to think that her cranky old Head of House, McGonagall was impressed to see how well Lyra was doing at keeping her head down now that she was actually trying. But the witch's face was stoic as always so Lyra couldn't say for sure.

As for her Gryffindor classmates… well they still didn't seem too keen on her. But this didn't phase Lyra one bit. Because why would she, Lyra, care about such a stupid thing as whether the idiots she lived with liked her or not? She didn't like any of them anyway. She was only putting up with them until she left Hogwarts one of these days. And at least they weren't half as hostile as they could have been—that is, not as bad as the Slytherins.

Fortunately, the only class she shared with them was at the end of the week. And so until the end of the week, Lyra actually managed to demonstrate some moderately good behavior. She still dozed off and doodled in class, but she didn't talk back to any professors—even Lockhart, the great buffoon, when he asked her about her missing homework.

And alright, there was one close call in McGonagall's class. But that was completely McGonagall's fault, not Lyra's. McGonagall was the one who'd insisted on calling on Lyra to answer a question when she'd certainly not had her hand raised. She'd asked about the elements of the most basic transfiguration formula and the reason this was so utterly maddening to Lyra was that of course she actually knew the answer. The highly unpleasant and completely unreasonable professor had made her copy the information down over and over again for hours. How could she forget?

She opened her mouth fully prepared to tell the professor what she could do with her stupid question. She'd collected any number of insults over the years and she could be creative when she wanted to be. Sure she'd sit through another detention for it, but that hardly mattered to her. The detentions weren't really even that bad all things considered, annoying maybe, but it wasn't as though Lyra had anything else to do with her time besides follow Weasley around and sleep.

With all of this in mind, the next statement that left Lyra's mouth made hardly any sense at all. It should have been unbearably rude—completely offensive—maybe even vulgar. Those were her specialties after all.

"Mass of the object, viscosity, wand power, concentration, and the last unknown element," said Lyra instead.

"Very good Miss Black. Two points to Gryffindor," she'd turned then and begun writing on the blackboard the symbol used for each of those five measures.

"Now tell me the names of those symbols Miss Black."

Much to Lyra's consternation, she'd earned another point by knowing that as well.

The rest of the Gryffindor first years all observed her suspiciously, as though she'd somehow cheated. Even Colin Creevey wore an expression that conveyed the great unlikelihood of the situation. Lyra glared balefully down at her desk and willed her cheeks not to turn red. Apparently her Head of House had made it her mission within the school to humiliate Lyra at every turn. As if the detentions weren't enough. Why did she put up with any of this again?

By the time Friday rolled around and the Gryffindors crossed paths with the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs again on the way down to the dungeons, Lyra was once again determined to find that dratted library. She was finished, she told herself as she stood outside the door to the Potions classroom. She'd done her time, far more than she ever could have expected of herself. And she'd arrived back at her original conclusion all over again. Magic, and magicians of any sort were simply not for her.

Lyra marched into the Potions classroom and took her seat at the front adjacent Creevey. Like last week he was nearly vibrating with excitement and Lyra rolled her eyes several times at the sight of him.

Snape called the roll and then put the recipe for the day's potion on the board. "Now if any of you should prove not to be the numbskulls you all appear to be, then you will have read about this particular draught in your textbook," he told them, "Creevey, tell me what it's called."

"L-Limited L-l-litmusine, sir," replied Creevey, "It's used to detect poisons, sir."

"Correct. When finished, your potion, if you manage not to ruin it, will be faint purple in color. When combined with a deadly poison, it will turn red, but after contact with a substance that is not poisoned, it will turn blue. And what sort of poisons does it not detect, Miss Sinclair?"

The Gryffindor, Mable Sinclair opened her mouth to answer, but Snape silenced her with a look. "The Slytherin Sinclair, not you. I would prefer an intelligent response."

Mable's mouth snapped shut and she blinked several times in wounded surprise. Her expression quickly morphed into a (far more appropriate) scowl of contempt which she directed toward Snape and then at her sister, who in turn was looking quite superior under the Potions Master's faint praise. Ugh, the two of them could just boil, for all Lyra was concerned.

Veronica Sinclair answered very primly, "It wouldn't detect any sort of potion that was intended as benign, but was botched in the brewing so it actually ends up being malignant."

"Correct. Three points to Slytherin. You will note on Steps 6 and 7 I have made a small adjustment to the version listed in your textbooks. You will dissolve the lichens before combining with the rest of the potion. Is that understood? You may begin."

The class set to work at once. Creevey bustled over to the supply cupboard and while she waited, Lyra inked out a fairly impressive looking bat on her bit of parchment. She was getting quite good at that, she thought, quill and all. She'd make a nice little picture of Sinclair next…

"Black," said the silky voice of the much detested Potions Professor. He stood behind her with an air of great menace, "I see you're still around."

Lyra hurried to cover her parchment with Creevey's textbook. "Erm, yeah. I—yeah. For now at least."

"Professor McGonagall has requested of the staff that she be given the dubious pleasure of supervising all of your detentions in the future."

"Well that's—uh—she has?"

"Indeed. As such, she will be expecting you at 7 a.m. tomorrow morning."

"What! Are you joking?"

Several students looked up at her tone and soon the entire class was observing them. Lyra didn't care though. "I haven't even done anything!" she protested, "I've behaved myself all week!"

Faster than Lyra could anticipate, Snape reached out and snatched the parchment she'd been using over the course of the past few days. Unfortunately, the big-nosed bat was not the only incriminating scribble on it. There were several unpleasant notes regarding Lockhart and his utter stupidity. And a rather unflattering rendering of Professor Flitwick.

Snape's black eyes scanned the parchment before landing back on Lyra. He folded it up and placed it carefully in the pocket of his robes. "For your disrespect of Professor Flitwick," he said simply, "I shall inform your Head-of-House at dinner."

Lyra sighed, relieved that at least he hadn't noticed anything off about the bat. The class recovered quickly enough from their attempts to hide their laughter and work resumed. Lyra dejectedly did as Creevey instructed for the remainder of the period and then slipped out afterward back to her dormitory for the evening. She found she wasn't very hungry. And she didn't much feel like trying to spy on Weasley that night either.

She of course couldn't be bothered to worry about exactly why she felt so unhappy. Though, she thought, stretching out on her four poster bed for the evening, it was likely because she was surrounded by so many wizards. That was enough to ruin anybody's day.

The minutes trickled by and Lyra began to wonder what it would take to force herself to sleep.

She heard the louder of her dormmates turn in fairly late into the night, but still Lyra lay there, not thinking, certainly not brooding, and not at all engaged in any sort of whinging, internal or otherwise—except maybe just a little bit. This was all Snape's fault, of course. She'd been doing so well until he decided to swoop in and ruin everything!

She wasn't stupid. She knew how to stay out of trouble. But it was almost like she'd forgotten the exact process somehow. Professor Sprout seemed to be the only one around that didn't think she was perfectly horrible. Snape was just a git that hated everybody. And McGonagall was likely a lost cause as well. Flitwick wasn't particularly impressed by her and Lockhart, oh she absolutely loathed Lockhart.

Lyra rolled over and struggled to get comfortable. It'd never been so difficult before. She could sleep anywhere—even the floor of a rotten old shack on the side of a hill. Why not tonight? It seemed like it was hours before her thoughts finally began to peter off. And just before she finally slipped off to sleep, her final thought was this, Maybe at some point over the weekend, she'd complete the assignment she hadn't bothered to do for Herbology. If she didn't decide to run away first, that is.

In the morning, Lyra awoke to the usual sound of tapping on the glass. She rolled out of bed to deal with that blasted owl again only to find that the curtains were all still drawn about the beds of her dormmates. Strange, she was usually the last one up.

Stranger sill was the fact that the dormitory window was not in fact occupied by the black owl which had decided itself her wake up alarm. Instead, Mable Sinclair sat on the ledge by the window with a Potions book open on her lap and her rich dark wand stuck into a pile of hair atop her head to hold it in place. It turned out the tapping sound was not a bird's beak, but the tip of the girl's wand hitting the window as she leaned her head back again and again.

"What's wrong with you?" said Lyra.

Sinclair looked up and blinked rapidly. She seemed surprised to see Lyra.

"Sorry?"

"I said, what's wrong with you? Why are you awake and er, why are you doing that with your head? It's early, you know."

"I was only… only reading," she'd stopped shifting her head around but as Lyra watched her she began fiddling with a quill she'd been using to mark notes in the book.

"Why? Potions is boring."

"No it's not!" she exclaimed, and then, "Well maybe a little," she admitted. "But I have to make sure I know everything in case Professor Snape calls on me again."

"He never called on you in the first place."

"Well he might…"

"Not if he thinks you know the answer," said Lyra.

"But just in case…"

"It's too early for this," groaned Lyra and she prepared to climb back into bed when she remembered one thing, "Wait, is it past seven yet?"

"Just barely, why?"

"Bollucks, ugh, why didn't you say something sooner, Sinclair? I'm going to be late!"

Lyra seized the freshly laundered set of robes at the edge of her bed and raced down the dormitory stairs and into the Common Room. She threw the robes over her head as she jumped out the portrait hole and only came to a stop when she ran headlong into a hard body at the edge of the staircase.

"Black!" exclaimed the tired and as usual, highly exasperated voice of Professor McGonagall. The Transfiguration Professor's hands were on Lyra's shoulders, righting her just as much as she was stabilizing herself. "You cannot run in the corridors," she said, "That will be five points from Gryffindor."

"Sorry Professor," said Lyra, "But I was only trying not to be late. If Snape hadn't set the det—."

"That's Professor Snape, Miss Black. Do not make me remind you again."

"Fine, if Professor Snape had only set the detention later, I wouldn't have had to run."

"If you could just manage to do as you're told, you wouldn't have detention in the first place, now would you? Perhaps you ought to try taking responsibility for your own actions, Miss Black."

Lyra glared and muttered about the library again as she preceded McGonagall down the stairs toward the witch's office. "Let me guess, more copying?" she said as she crossed McGonagall's office to the chair she'd occupied before, "I'll need some parchment. I didn't bring any with me."

"You'll need some parchment, please," corrected McGonagall.

Lyra made a face and then repeated the words as the professor had instructed.

"Well then I have good news for you. Your school supplies arrived yesterday."

"What school supplies?"

"The ones Professor Dumbledore promised you in exchange for good behavior." She pointed to the corner of the room nearest the fireplace and Lyra turned to find a wide brown trunk sitting there. She got up to examine it.

It was a very fine, deep brown leather, Lyra observed once she was close enough. The buckles were an even darker shade and the lock was a wide brass thing with a skeleton key resting in it. Lyra turned it and opened the lid. Inside there were drawers filled with books, and quills, and parchment. Others were filled with socks and scarves in Lyra's House colors. There was even a place for Lyra to store her rucksack which she'd actually forgotten in her hurry to get down here.

"It's… um… it's so…" she paused to trace her finger over the familiar golden engraving inside the trunk's lid. L.B. "I guess it'll do," she said at last.

McGonagall shook her head at the reaction. "You'll need your textbook," she said, "So go on and get it out. Then open to page 65. I want thirteen copies of that page and thirteen copies of the next."

Lyra carefully opened the drawers again and removed the required materials. The textbook was brand new and the quill's feather was thick and very nice looking. She removed it very cautiously by its burnished silver base, dipped it in ink that was indigo in color rather than plain black, and then set to work.

Copying didn't seem to take nearly as long for some reason when she was using such a fine quill and ink set. However, by lunchtime she was quite tired of it anyway. McGonagall magicked up some sandwiches for the two of them and Lyra thought they were quite tasty for being formed by magic. Until a thought occurred to her which suddenly made her very confused, and a bit suspicious. Lyra paused in her chewing and looked up at the professor.

"How did you do that?"

"You should not speak with your mouth full," scolded McGonagall.

Lyra swallowed and only barely refrained from rolling her eyes (she'd only be scolded for that as well). "I know that."

McGonagall considered her for a moment and then replied, "By magic of course." There was a strange twitch in her lips when she said this that made Lyra ten times more suspicious than before. She did not like to be tricked.

"What kind?" said Lyra stiffly.

"Transfiguration. It's something of a specialty of mine."

"Are you having me on?" accused Lyra.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Miss Black."

"You cannot conjure food from nothing. It's Gamp's first law of elemental Transfiguration. See it says right here," Lyra pointed to the page in her book, "There exists no means of sustenance which may be conjured from Nothing. That which is used to feed ourselves cannot be provided by magic alone."

"Alright then Miss Black, you win," said McGonagall. "It was a combination of a Charm used to summon and a tricky bit of Transfiguration that allows the food to just appear rather than flying through the castle all the way up from the kitchens."

Lyra relaxed a little, only slightly appeased, "So, you're saying food can be erm conjured, so long as it already exists? Do you just… just have to know where it is?"

"Very good, Miss Black. In your fourth year, you will learn a summoning charm pronounced Accio that will allow you to summon anything to you so long as you know exactly where it is. By compounding that with a basic conjuration spell, the item you've summoned will appear before you instantaneously as though conjured from nothing. In reality it is conjured from itself, just in a different location. Understand?"

Lyra nodded. "Will we learn that this year?"

McGonagall shook her head, "I'm afraid not, Miss Black. You would have to stick around for a number of years before you could learn to do that. It's fairly advanced magic."

That's too bad, thought Lyra, and she quickly resolved that she would never ever, not even on the pain of death admit to McGonagall she'd had a thought like that regarding magic. "Er, that's alright," she said instead, "I won't really need it where I'm going. I'm sure there'll be plenty of food and whatever else I'd want."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, that's the only reason I'd go to um, whatever place I decide on," explained Lyra, "I just have to do some research in the library so I can sort out the specifics and then I'll be off."

"So you're still set on leaving, then?"

Lyra nodded, "Yep." She took a final bite from her sandwich and then returned to her work. She swirled her quill carefully in the ink pot and then began on her next draft of the textbook page. But instead of McGonagall too resuming her own work, she remained watching Lyra.

"I've never heard of such a utopia, Miss Black," said McGonagall at last, "A place where anything and everything you'd need is at your fingertips?" She paused for just a moment and then casually added, "Well aside from Hogwarts anyway…"

Lyra didn't even look up from her parchment.

"That's why I have to do the research," Lyra explained just as casually. Hogwarts was not the answer, no matter what McGonagall implied.

The fact was, there was at least one thing Hogwarts did not have to offer her which Lyra sorely wanted: no more detentions. Oh, and no more magic too—especially Potions—what a useless subject that was. Transfiguration she could almost… almost understand people wanting to learn. And maybe even Herbology. But Potions? She'd quite happily pass on that.

Lyra returned to her Common Room that night with tired, ink-covered hands and an entire trunk in her pocket. McGonagall had made her practice un-shrinking the thing several times before she'd allowed Lyra to leave and so curfew was well upon her by the time she reached the dormitory.

Lyra placed the miniaturized trunk at the foot of her bed and then held her wand aloft. Carefully she pointed, jabbed, and intoned, "Finite!"

The trunk grew and soon took up the entire space at the foot of her bed. Lyra decided she was quite pleased with the sight. The trunk was almost majestic looking—sitting there tall and proud, and magical. It was nicer than any of her dormmates' trunks, anyway.

She stuffed her rucksack in its place and promptly fell right to sleep.

The next week Lyra earned another point for Gryffindor from Professor McGonagall. After that, she submitted her assignment for Herbology. It was a simple drawing of the stem and leaves of a lancing leek with just a couple of lines about raising the leeks (paraphrased straight from her new textbook) and it was late, but still… it was something. And on top of all that, when the first Astronomy lesson came around, she'd walked to the tallest tower in the castle with the other Gryffindors and taken notes as though she were an actual student.

This all left Lyra with a bizarre sense of satisfaction. Too bad it wasn't enough to keep her week detention-free.

It was Lockhart who assigned the detention this time, but it was still Snape's fault. This time the plonker up and showed Lockhart what she'd written about him and apparently, he'd been highly offended by the whole thing. Fortunately, since the Defense against the Dark Arts Professor was not sadistic (though he was still daft as her left toenail), the detention he assigned was at nighttime rather than first thing in the morning like Snape's.

Nonetheless, McGonagall had her copying lines out of the textbook as usual.

By the first of October, she'd only had one additional detention, this time assigned by McGonagall herself when she'd caught Lyra faking again in Transfiguration.

It was assigned on a Saturday once again and the day loomed in dark and dreary. It was colder than it ought to have been for mid-autumn, and as a result, a quarter of the student body came down with colds—Ginny Weasley and Melrose Pennyfeather among them.

This was not enough to cause the Flying Instructor, Madam Hooch, to cancel their very first flying lesson that day. The other Gryffindors were completely thrilled for the upcoming session, but Lyra was assuredly not. She sat in McGonagall's office again, copying yet another section from her textbook and complaining loudly to the Professor.

"I just don't see why I have to learn to fly," said Lyra. She dotted an "i" with a bit too much force and cursed under her breath at the mess it made.

McGonagall pulled the parchment toward her and tapped it with her wand to vanish the excess ink. "All witches and wizards need at the very least some basic knowledge of broom flight. You never know when you may need to fly to escape a dangerous situation or when you may wish to travel quickly to a place that does not have a floo connection."

"A car would work just as well."

"Brooms are more direct. Just think, no stop-lights. And you can fly right over the middle of a body of water, no need to go around it."

"Boats," said Lyra, "And airplanes. Listen Professor, muggles found solutions to these problems ages ago."

"Neither of those can be operated by an eleven year old," McGonagall told her.

"Flying broomsticks shouldn't be either."

McGonagall's lips twitched in an almost-smile.

"What?" said Lyra, "They really shouldn't!"

The entire school seemed to have a very different opinion on the matter though—especially the Gryffindor first years. After lunch, all of the Gryffindors in Lyra's year hurried down to the courtyard in front of the school with Lyra trudging along behind them. They were wrapped tight in scarves and cloaks, but none of them seemed unhappy about it. They were all too busy chattering about how they just couldn't wait to fly.

She wished she'd been able to stay inside, sick like Weasley and Pennyfeather. But that would have required permission from Madam Pomfrey and there was no way Lyra was going up to see that Mrs. Berning-like woman again.

And the situation was made all the worse when Lyra finally stopped in front of the line of brooms and realized the Gryffindors would not be alone for their first flying lesson.

"Bloody perfect," muttered Lyra.

"What was that Black?"

"Nothing Sinclair, why don't you try minding your own business."

The Slytherins laughed nastily. "Oh I apologize, Black," said Veronica Sinclair, I hadn't realized you were talking to yourself. But my, that is strange, don't you think?"

They laughed again.

"Oh yes, terribly strange," agreed Lyra in a decidedly awful imitation of Sinclair. "How can I possibly go on when I have such strange things coming out of my mouth? And at such unfortunate times too? I might just die of embarrassment."

"Timothy," said Veronica off-handedly, turning toward the freckly faced boy, "I don't have much experience with muggleborns, but is it common for them to talk to themselves like that? Or is it just the ones without any friends?"

"I reckon it's the ones without friends like Black here."

"Well to be perfectly honest," sneered Lyra, "I'd rather have no friends than this group of toad-faced idiots you've gotten for yourself, Sinclair. And as for being embarrassed, I'd be more worried if I were in your boots. For instance, if I had a mole the size of London on my forehead," Lyra pointed. Sinclair's friends all turned and looked, "Then I would really be embarrassed."

Lyra didn't wait to hear Sinclair's friends assure her there was no mole: that Lyra was nothing but a no-good, friendless, lying, muggleborn, whom should certainly not be taken seriously. She turned and marched over toward the Gryffindors who were all sorting through what was left of the broomsticks. They ignored her like usual though and Lyra wondered if they'd even heard.

Madam Hooch, the flying instructor took the field next and blew her whistle to get them all to attention. "Alright listen up, there'll be no horse play, no shouting unless there's an emergency, and no reckless—foolish stunts today, understand?"

"Yes Madam Hooch."

"Good. Then I want you to each line up next to a broom. Hold your hand out over it and say, "Up!"

That class did as instructed and several brooms jumped into hands without any issues whatsoever. Ritchie Coote and Arnold Lufkin were among the lucky Gryffindors whose brooms seemed well-behaved. And infuriatingly, among the Slytherins, nearly everyone but Felicity Thickenese had managed the feat without any difficulty.

Lyra had never been a lucky one though. Her broom twitched and rolled over. "Up!" repeated Lyra, but still the broom did not move into the proper position. Finally, Lyra'd had it with the broom's insolence. "UP! Get up here now, you ugly old stick! Up, up, UP!"

Of course, this did not convince the broom to behave. Instead, the broom flew straight up and bucked to the right just out of Lyra's grasp. Lyra jumped for it, but the broom was too high. "You—you dratted old thing, you get down here!"

It didn't listen, just began flying straight ahead, just out of Lyra's grasp.

"No! Come back here, don't go that way!"

With a running start, Lyra leaped into the air and finally grabbed hold of the broom. But rather than bring it safely to the ground as she'd intended, her efforts resulted in a decidedly unfortunate situation. The broom abruptly rose up into the air and by the time Lyra realized what was happening, she had no choice but to hold on or face the quite real possibility of falling to her death.

She screamed. Her classmates on the ground laughed. Bloody tossers.

"Black, get down here!" exclaimed Madam Hooch.

The broom bucked higher and Lyra screamed again. The wind howled around her, drowning her cry and attacking her from all sides making her sway dangerously. But when she looked down—down at all the stupid laughing witches and wizards-in-training below, she felt a great calm suddenly overtake her. It was the sort of calm that preceded a storm of anger, of course, but it was a calm nonetheless.

This would not be the thing that killed her, she decided. And as the broom pulled her up level with the top floor of the castle she finally found her voice to answer, "What do you think I'm trying to do?" Lyra called back to the instructor, "This stupid thing won't listen to me!"

"Hold on Black, I'm coming for you!" responded Madam Hooch.

The broom swayed. "Well don't take your time about it!" Lyra snapped. It seemed near-death experiences were apt at putting her in a terrible mood.

Her broom gave one more violent jolt and just as Lyra thought she couldn't hold on one second longer, Madam Hooch was there, pulling Lyra onto the back of her own broomstick. They flew back to the ground in stunted grace and upon arriving, they were met with laughter and sarcastic applause.

"Well done, Black!" exclaimed Veronica Sinclair, "Thank you so very much for demonstrating what not to do. Timothy here wasn't sure until now. Perhaps you ought to go out for the Quiddi—."

"Shut up, Veronica," said Mable Sinclair.

Veronica's head snapped over to her sister's direction in shock. "What did you say?"

"I said," began Mable vehemently, but she never got to finish.

"That's enough!" bellowed Madam Hooch. "Three points from Slytherin for idiot comments. Miss Black, are you quite recovered from your ordeal?"

Lyra thought the answer to that should be fairly obvious. She did not want to fly again. Her heart was still beating rather erratically in her chest. And even though her fear was pretty well masked with her anger, it hadn't dissipated yet. She had not enjoyed that helpless, flailing feeling one bit. Her body had been completely out of her own control and the very thought of experiencing that again left her feeling quite ill.

"No, can't I just return to the castle?"

"Very well, Miss Black," said Madam Hooch.

Lyra exhaled in rather surprised relief. She hadn't imagined it would be quite so simple to get out of this whole learning to fly mess.

"You will attend the make-up lesson next week with those first years who could not be present today."

Stupid, stupid, stupid! "Fine!"

She marched back to the castle in a foul mood, accidentally crossed paths with Mr. Filch and received yet another detention for doing absolutely nothing (except calling the caretaker a cranky old cat).

She had the worst luck.