Growing up, Lyra hated the Christmas season. It meant stuffy dinners with overly frilly dresses, and at least three arguments with her mother. It meant forced time with her cousins, listening to Narcissa's gossip and Bellatrix's cruel comments, and generally being ignored by Andromeda.
As an adult, Lyra still hated the season. It meant no huddled conversations with Regulus, no reading books by the fire, no quiet existence with someone who just got you. It meant no wild snowball fights with Sirius, no jinxes on the house elves, no stealing biscuits from the kitchen. There was no rare smile from her father, who generally avoided the household all other times of the year, but had been spotted on more than one Christmas morning softly singing carols to himself, clutching a steaming cup of tea.
Lyra sighed, and dropped her quill as she signed the final note. They were prepped to be sent off to Narcissa, Andromeda, and Aunt Druella, the only remaining family members able to receive letters; Uncle Cygnus and Aunt Lucretia having died the year before, and Grandfather Arcturus two years before that. For a while it had seemed Arcturus would be the first to break the Black family curse in generations, but he'd died shortly after his 90th birthday from a bad case of dragon pox.
Not for the first time, she wished Alphard were still alive. He'd been one of the high points of the holidays, always good for a story or joke, and even after being blasted off the family tree he'd conspired to get Lyra and Regulus gifts.
"You must spoil the youngest," his notes would read, as small parcels turned up inside pillowcases and behind mirrors. Once, Lyra had found a note in her morning egg, soggy and with the ink bleeding slightly, but still legible. Reg had seemed scandalized at the audacity, but Lyra and Sirius laughed and laughed.
Everyone was dead now. Dead or imprisoned.
With the obligatory notes done, Lyra turned to the more fun ones. She carefully wrapped a gaudy watch for Croaker. He didn't need more, but at this point it was a gag running ten years, and she knew he secretly looked forward to it. This year was more outrageous than the last; the small hands ticking around were tiny swords, and the thing shouted 'Avast!' at the hour.
Charity had been a last minute addition to her shopping list, and so her gift was a bit less apropos, but Lyra wrapped the selection of teas just the same. They were all dessert flavored, and the entire box emitted an odor of sugar and spice.
She'd ordered an entire pound of Brazilian chocolate for Lupin. She wasn't entirely sure why, but something told her he needed it more than she needed to save herself the awkwardness of giving the gift.
The rest of the professors got an assortment of hats, gloves, and scarves from her favourite boutique in Diagon Alley. She hoped Minerva appreciated the detail in hers, a small golden snitch that flitted around and transfigured into a broomstick at odd intervals.
Finally, she looked at the last remaining gift, a small potions book for Snape.
Lyra and Snape had not spoken directly since Halloween, and if she was honest, she was over it. Everytime she tried to get his attention, the man pretended not to see her, or else gave her a vaguely derisive look. She'd gone by his office once, but no one had answered the door. He was, she decided, being an absolute prat about the entire thing.
Rounding up the letters and parcels to mail, Lyra summed Kreacher.
"Make sure these get sent today," she told the elf, pointing at the pile.
"Yes mistress," Kreacher said, bobbing his head.
"And Kreacher," Lyra added, moving towards the door, "Happy Christmas."
The elf gave a small, if genuine smile.
She hadn't had the same relationship with Kreacher that Regulus had. She didn't think to give him gifts, and had been sharp with him on more than one occasion. Still, she tried to not be too impolite. Regulus had always considered the elf more of a friend and confidant than a servant. The elf had sworn himself to her twin, to the point where it physically hurt him to betray any of "Master Regulus's" secrets.
Lyra closed her office door behind her, unsure of where she was going, but knowing her cramping hand could not take anymore writing that day. The halls were empty; Minerva had said there were a record number of students going home for the holiday.
Her feet carried her through the castle, and without truly meaning too, she found herself at the gargoyle statue outside Dumbledore's office.
Well. Now was as good a time as any to see the sword.
"Peppermint toad," she told the gargoyle, who sprang aside.
She knocked on the office door, wondering if Dumbledore was even in. She needn't have worried; the door swung open, revealing the man sitting behind his desk, dressed in a festive set of gold and silver robes.
"Ah, Lyra, happy Christmas," he said, conjuring a chair for her, "What can I do for you?"
She took the proffered chair, and cast her eyes about his office. Dumbledore owned an impressive number of artifacts, some whirring, others glittering quietly. A kettle on a shelf emitted purple steam that sparked slightly, and in a corner cabinet, the glow of a pensive could just barely be seen.
"I wanted to ask about the sword of Gryffindor," she said, making up her mind to get to the point.
Dumbledore raised a bushy eyebrow, "I had heard you were looking for swords," he said, "Is it for your project?"
Lyra nodded, "I'm not sure if it's even the right way to go - I just don't have any other solid leads yet."
The sword in question hung on a rack on the wall. A large ruby was set in the hilt, and something was inscribed across the blade.
Dumbledore watched her, seemingly deep in thought.
"I suppose you mean to cut your way out of a memory?" he asked after a moment.
"It was a thought, yes. I read about an old English tale, told by muggles. Beowulf. Charity is working on a translation of the original text, but my sources tell me that a sword used to defeat a dragon might have something to do with the Gryffindor's sword."
"And what does that have to do with memory and time travel?" Dumbledore steepled his fingers, eyes glittering over his spectacles.
"It was old before it broke, but it apparently showed little sign of age. I've also heard it may be proto-runic, and those are usually quite powerful," Lyra stopped, not sure if she wanted to continue. She had the vaguest working theory that a stasis rune could be manipulated. More 'modern' stasis runes relied on stopping the effects of time on an object. A proto-runic charm might be strong enough to manipulate the space around the object. A reversed proto-runic stasis charm could potentially manipulate the time around the object, instead of stopping it. It wasn't certain, and she wouldn't know until she spent some time with the sword.
Dumbledore seemed to come to a similar conclusion, "And then what? Where do you plan to go with this concept of time travel?"
Lyra blinked. Her head was full of runes, and runic reversals, and it took her a minute to come back to reality.
"What do you mean?" She asked, running a hand through her hair.
"Why do you want so badly to manipulate time?"
"Why wouldn't you want to? So many things could be done, could be changed, if we could work outside a few hours. It would be an unbelievable achievement, the kind that could quite literally change history," she took a breath, "Think of what you would do differently if you could, even if it's only a small difference."
He was silent, eyes far away.
Lyra spoke again, softer, "Small changes often have large consequences. I know this, I have experienced this. I understand what I am doing when I say I want to be able to go back more than mere hours, and I understand how to keep things purely academic."
"I forget sometimes," Dumbledore said, "That you are not your brother. He almost certainly would have appealed to my sense of greater good."
"Would you have preferred that?"
He shook his head, "It would not have been you asking, then."
With a measured solemnity, he stood and pulled the sword down from the wall, handing it hilt first towards her.
Feeling a little like a squire becoming a knight, Lyra reached for the blade.
The blade that was no longer there, but back up on the wall, like it had never been moved.
"That's it? I spend six weeks translating your ridiculous poem for you, and you can't even touch the thing it's about?" Charity looked angrier than Lyra would have thought possible.
"At least it was interesting," Babbling put in, "I rather enjoyed it."
Charity ignored her, and speared a sausage with gusto, "It's ridiculous," she said through a full mouth, "A complete lack of respect for the academics."
"I have other options to pursue," Lyra said, a wave of tiredness washing over her, "It's not like it was my only lead."
"Oh no, don't you make excuses. I worked too hard on that to let it go so easily," Charity finished chewing and dropped her fork with a clatter, jabbing her finger at Lyra, "I will help you get around that… that… thing, if it takes me years," she stood up, and marched out of the great hall, blond ponytail swinging.
"What's up with her?" Lupin asked mildly, taking the now vacant seat.
"I have no idea," Lyra said.
Sinistra snorted into her soup on Lyra's other side, but didn't say anything. Shrugging, Lyra returned to her own dinner.
Croaker,
Apparently the sword takes house representation seriously. I couldn't even touch it. Back to the drawing board, I suppose. I have another angle I want to try and explore, something about strengthening memories with smell. It's not perfect yet, but I'm meeting Poppy, the school matron, later to talk about it. She used to be a mind healer at Mungo's.
Hope you got my gift alright and that it's still in one one piece. Happy Christmas.
Lyra
L,
Don't be stupid. You're onto something, I can tell.
Croaker
Ms. Black,
This note is to inform you of a formal investigation into your affairs starting January 1, 1994. Please be aware that you may need to be available for questioning at a time to be decided.
Demelza Burke, Undersecretary for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement