There were about as many seventh years as fifth, but nearly twice as many sixth years, which Lyra found out the next day. By the end of the first week she'd come to the realization that being older doesn't necessarily mean being more mature. By the end of the second, she was certain someone was playing a joke on her. The sixth years were, simply put, a menace to society. They were full of bravado for finishing their O. , but hadn't had the moment of abject terror at facing the adult wizarding world, like most of the seventh years. There had been two arguments between students, one ending with Lyra sending a Ravenclaw to Pomfrey for a hair removal charm, a conversation about artifacts for, well, personal use, and other small incidents. It was, therefore, with a headache from dealing with twenty sixteen year olds, that Lyra made her way to the staff room on Friday afternoon.
"I don't know what was better, the fox-fur scarf, or the stuffed crow," Lupin was saying.
"Merlin, I wish I'd been there," Charity Burbage said, "I've thought someone needed to pull the broomstick from where the sun doesn't shine for a while now."
The two were seated at a round table, bottles of butterbeer in front of them. Sinistra lounged on a high-backed armchair near the fire, a faint smile on her face.
"Lyra," Burbage said, waving her over, "Listen to this. Remus did boggarts with the third years, today."
Lyra took a seat, her own butterbeer appearing on the table.
"First student's biggest fear is Snape, right? So Remus has him force the boggart-Snape into the kid's grandmother's clothes. Big handbag, green dress, fox-fur scarf, topped with a hat with a stuffed vulture. I wish I could have seen it," Burbage laughed, "Can you imagine Severus in a dress?"
Lupin smiled, taking a drink, "It certainly was something. I didn't want to embarrass Severus too badly, though. Just needed to give Neville some confidence"
Eyebrow raised, Lyra looked at him, "As hilarious as it sounds picturing Severus in the height of 1950's ladies fashion, why is a professor a student's worst fear?"
Burbage shrugged, "Well, Severus is a bit of a menace, isn't he? And from what I've heard, Longbottom is, well…"
Sinistra spoke up from her armchair, "Neville Longbottom means well, but is not the brightest star in the sky."
"He did well against the boggart," Lupin said.
Sinistra hummed doubtfully, "I'm always surprised when he manages to look through the correct end of the telescope."
"So no one is bothered by this?" Lyra said.
"By what?" Burbage looked confused.
"By the fact that a student is so frightened of a professor it is literally their biggest fear."
Lupin shook his head, "I see where you're confused. It is often taught, and many people believe, that a boggart will take the form of one's deepest, darkest fear. The one thing so terrifying that they themselves may not even know what it is."
"Doesn't it?" Lyra took a drink.
"No, actually. A boggart will take the form of something it thinks will scare you the most at the moment it sees you. It is not, however, omniscient; it can't dig into your mind and find out things you don't even know. Rather, it scrapes the surface. From my understanding, Neville had just gotten out of a, ah, stressful potions lesson. It makes sense, then, that when asked about his fears, Severus would be on his mind."
Lyra stared down at her butterbeer bottle, turning it absently. It still didn't seem right or fair that a student would fear a teacher to that degree. She'd had plenty of poor teachers in her time at Hogwarts - the Defense position had rotated every year, and some professors were definitely better than others. Intimidated too; Minerva McGonagall could be severe in her own right, but outright fear? She frowned, and made a mental note to speak with Snape.
A door opening made her look up and McGonagall herself entered the room carrying a roll of parchment.
"Minerva, did you hear what -" Burbage started, but McGonagall raised her hand.
"The next person to tell me about boggarts will be on Friday evening patrol until the end of the term," she said, "I've heard it from no less than seven students personally, twelve times in passing, and spent a quarter of an hour with Severus himself, I don't need any other garbled version."
Burbage looked somewhat put out, but fell silent. The bell rang, signaling the end of classes.
"Right," McGonagall continued, "Once the rest of the staff appear, we shall begin our meeting. We have patrol schedules to work out for this weekend."
"Oh I am so glad I'm not one of the new teachers anymore," Burbage said an hour later as they filed out of the staff room, "The first couple weekend patrols are the worst. It's like the students forgot all the rules over the summer; they throw parties, ignore curfew, and generally cause mayhem."
Lyra sighed. She and Lupin, being the newest professors, had been scheduled to patrol that night, as they had the previous Friday, checking in with Filch and the Prefects periodically until midnight. Last Friday she'd broken up two parties, kicked four couples out of empty classrooms, and caught Peeves unscrewing a chandelier in the Great Hall. She was not looking forward to doing it again.
Lupin smiled at her, "It's not that bad, come on. At least no one's been slashed by a hippogriff this week."
"What is it with the third years and their drama?" Lyra grumbled.
"Potter," Snape said, appearing behind her like a shadow, silent and dark.
"Potter?" Lyra gave him a look.
"If there is attention to be had, Potter will seek it," Snape said.
"I hardly think that's fair," Lupin said, "I don't think you can blame an entire class on one boy."
Snape glowered, "Perhaps not, but when trouble arises, Potter is usually to blame."
The conversation was starting to sound familiar, and Lyra was reminded of similar ones when she'd been a student.
"I don't think Harry is James, Severus," she said, "No one's been levitated yet, as far as I know."
She'd meant it largely as a joke, but apparently this was not the right thing to say. Snape turned to her, and seemed to bite back several words that would have likely gotten him a sharp reprimand from McGonagall. Instead his mouth flattened into a line, and he stalked away.
Lyra raised an eyebrow at the retreating figure, her mouth twisting into a frown. She made another note to talk to the irascible professor later. Preferably somewhere McGonagall could not hear her use stronger language than appropriate.
Lupin was already in the entrance hall when they met later that evening, leaning against the entrance to the great hall. His eyes were focused up, staring into the charmed ceiling reflecting the night sky. It was clear, the moon a waning sliver, the stars bright and twinkling.
Lyra coughed softly, unsure if he'd heard her approach.
"We would've gotten into so much trouble on a night like this," Lupin said, not moving his gaze, "It feels strange to be allowed to roam the halls after curfew."
"Weren't you a prefect?"
"Not a very good one, I'm afraid. I think the idea was for me to exercise some control over James and Sirius, but I never could."
She snorted, "I don't think anyone could have, those two were the bane of every professor's existence for a while."
"Lily could have," Lupin said, "James would have done anything she asked. And Sirius..." he shook his head, and Lyra could see him pulling himself back to the present. His face grew older, the lines and scars more pronounced.
"Well," he said finally, standing straight and looking down the hall, "Shall we patrol, then?"
Two hours later, Lyra's opinion of sixth years had not progressed much beyond the concept of 'menace to society'.
"I don't think I was ever this obnoxious," she told Lupin, as they chased another couple off the Astronomy tower. This pair, she'd recognized in part as Roslyn Perks, a sixth year Ravenclaw in her class. The girl seemed only somewhat embarrassed at being caught by one of her teachers.
Lupin chuckled, watching Perks and an unknown Hufflepuff boy scurry down the stairs, "Oh, I don't know, I think we were fairly annoying at this age."
"You might have been, but I wasn't," Lyra said, now making her own way down the stairs.
"I have it on good authority that you spent a month in detention for 'behavior unbefitting a Prefect'."
"Wilkes couldn't keep his hands to himself, I had to help him out a bit," Lyra said, rounding a corner to the last hall of their patrol.
"You used a permanent sticking charm to stick his hands to his -"
"Like you guys were any - "
"Hush, I hear something," Lupin came to a dead stop in the middle of the hallway.
Lyra strained her ears. Nothing moved but the shadows from torches, nothing made a noise, but the soft susurrus of wind out the window at the end of the corridor.
"Probably just students. Peeves, maybe," Lyra said after a long stretch of silence.
Lupin was frowning, "You're probably right. Still, I thought…" he trailed off, shaking his head, "Nevermind."
They finished their round in near silence, save for a murmured goodnight as they parted, Lyra to bed, Lupin to meet with the prefects.
Before long it was October, and Lyra was finally settled into her position enough to return to her research. She dug her notebook out from under a pile of papers to be graded, and settled at her desk, quill in hand.
From what she'd learned from Poppy Pomfrey a month ago, the way senses were linked to memory was intriguing enough to follow up on. Perhaps a strong scent combined with a time turner in a pensive would be enough to push outside the confines of the memory? It seemed too easy.
Her eyes wandered to a book she'd had the librarian pull for her, a small thing held together by rotting glue and sheer force of will. Anciente Artifactes was obscure enough that Madam Pince had almost thought it didn't exist. It had taken her three days to locate it in the stacks, but finally brought it to Lyra the previous evening.
"It kept hiding," Pince said, handing the book over, "Do try not to lose it."
The book had been referenced as an afterthought in another, more well known book, Artifacts of History.
"For Anciente Artifactes, I thank for the more obscure in these pages."
She set it gently in front of her, opening the leather cover to the smell of dust and paper and old ink. There was no introduction or chapters, rather the book launched directly into what seemed to be an index of artifacts.
Most of the artifacts seemed to be religious of one kind or another; a large section was devoted to Celtic objects, a smaller one to Christian ones, a note about eastern religions belonging to an entire book of themselves, and finally, a chapter on Norse artifacts. Lyra was beginning to wonder if she'd need Pince to locate the Eastern religion book, when she flipped to the last section, a scant half page long, as it seemed to be missing a few pages.
Of that age, none artifacts exist nor remain but half a broken sword Naegling, which was cleaved in two by the strength of the man when he fought the dragon. Little is known of the sword but that it was old when it broke and older still that it remains, though it shows no sign of age nor rust nor dullness.
She wasn't sure what "that age" referred to, but a sword that didn't age seemed promising. Likely it had runes of stasis, not those of time, but still the idea was interesting. Maybe physical force on the memory itself was necessary to escape the bonds and truly travel to that time. It wasn't a thought she'd considered before, having mostly focused on less violent methods.
Too bad the book made no mention of the sword's location. She'd have to track it down by other means, assuming it existed in the first place. Meanwhile, she'd look into the effects of physical trauma on a memory. Someone, somewhere must have tried breaking through.