"So tell me about the map," Lyra said.
It was just after her first class of the new year, and she had pulled Fred and George Weasley aside to ask a few questions.
The boys didn't even blink.
"Map?" Fred asked, a picture of innocence, "What map would this be?"
Lyra folded her arms, "You know what map I'm asking about."
"George, do you know of any maps?"
"Can't say I do, Fred," George replied.
"Boys," Lyra said, "This is not a joking matter."
George frowned, but Fred remained obstinate.
"Professor, really, we don't know what you're talking about. Have you accidentally taken one of those babbling beverages?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose, "Look, how about this. I know about the Marauder's Map, and I know what it does - I could even tell you exactly how it does it," she paused to let that sink in, "What I need to know is where it is, or who has it. That map could be vital to stopping - finding - Sirius Black."
The boys exchanged looks. It was like they had an entire silent conversation, made entirely of raised eyebrows and small head movements. Then Fred turned back towards her.
"You know, we might have an idea of what map you're talking about after all," he said.
"Unfortunately," George said, "We don't have it."
Lyra sighed, "Of course you don't. Lost it somewhere?"
"More like it went to someone who needed it more," he said.
"And who has it now?" She swallowed a swear; the conversation was like pulling teeth.
Another look exchanged. Two subtle nods.
"If it's really all that important, for security and such," began Fred.
"Harry Potter," said George.
Lyra's eyebrows shot up.
Minerva approached Lyra at the end of the day, holding a long, thin, package.
"Potter's been sent a broomstick," she said by way of explanation.
"Okay," Lyra said, confused.
"Potter doesn't know who sent it and I thought it would be prudent to check it for possible jinxes and hexes," her mouth was thin.
"I see," Lyra frowned, "You do understand how difficult it is to curse a broomstick, especially a top of the line broomstick."
"I do, and it pains me more than you know to consider having to strip it."
Lyra winced. She'd never been much for flying but Regulus had, and the number of rants she endured about broomsticks and quidditch teams had given her enough knowledge to know that what Minerva asked was akin to sacrilege.
"Oh very well," she sighed, "Leave it here, I'll take a look after dinner."
Minerva handed the package over, "Rolanda Hooch said she'd help, just send her a message. She's usually down at the village when not teaching first years."
Lyra nodded, mentally scrapping her evening plans involving a bottle of whiskey and a mountain of grading she'd put off for most of the holidays.
"I'll take your evening patrols this week," Minerva said, "Merlin knows I want this broom ready quickly so Potter can get back to practicing."
"Not biased at all, are you, Professor?" Lyra said, quirking one side of her mouth up.
"Between you and me, I'm afraid Oliver Wood might have a bit of a breakdown if something ruins his quidditch finale a third year in a row."
Rolanda Hooch was not someone Lyra knew well, having made her debut as head of Hogwarts games and sports sometime after Lyra left. She was older, a retired professional Quidditch referee, and, as Lyra learned that evening, more talkative than Charity Burbage.
"Now see, they've done this thing with the tail end, I can't quite figure out why, but the fastenings are different from what you'd see on an average Cleansweep, for example…"
"Have you ever seen such craftsmanship, look at the angle on the nose, I've rarely seen something so perfect..."
"Not your average cushioning charm, is it? When I learned to fly, of course, the cushioning charm was up to the player to cast, not the broom…"
Meanwhile, Lyra was getting a crash course in broomstick charms. Her first plan had simply been to run a diagnostic spell to figure out what was on there, and compare it to what should have been on there. This had to be thrown out when her diagnostic charm ran for nearly three minutes straight; literally every surface of the broomstick had some sort of charm, transfiguration, or effect on it, down to the polish on the handle.
Lyra sat on a desk, and folded her arms across her chest, "This is going to be more complicated than I thought."
"Yes," Hooch agreed, frowning, "Rather nifty diagnostic spell; pity it didn't work as intended. Ah well, we'll have to just take it apart and check each piece manually."
Lyra looked up, "That's going to take weeks."
"Well, no time like the present, I always say. Is Filius around, he's handy at this sort of thing too, and we could use all the help we can get."
Running her hands through her hair, Lyra groaned.
"Potter," she muttered, and rose to call for Flitwick.
They met nearly every night that week and the next, and by mid January Lyra never wanted to look at a broomstick again. Her sleep schedule was in shambles, the mountain of things to grade threatened to bury her desk, and her personal project had been relegated to a few pages of Beowulf each night. She'd gotten a message to Remus about Potter having the map, but Abe owled at the end of the first week to say the Ministry had been in contact and the thought of a meeting with them had meant all her other free time was in planning for that.
Needless to say when she nearly ran into Potter one evening when she'd managed to escape the mind numbing task of checking each twig of the broomstick tail for hurling hexes for a third time, she almost hexed him.
"You," she said.
"Me?" He looked confused.
"You are - " Lyra started, and then shook her head, "Nevermind, sorry. What are you doing out so late, Potter?"
"I had a lesson with Professor Lupin," he said quickly. He was clutching a piece of parchment, and for a moment his fingers tightened over it.
Lyra tracked the movement, and wondered if it was the map, "Right, he mentioned that. Off you go then, back to your dorm," she said.
Potter didn't move, "Professor Rosier," he said tentatively, "Do you know when I might get my broom back?"
Lyra sighed, "Assuming I can convince Rolanda that a fourth check for hurling hexes is unnecessary, and we can move on to anti-breaking jinxes, maybe another week or two?"
Potter swallowed, "Oh," he said, "I didn't realize it was so… complicated."
"Neither did I, Potter, neither did I."
On January 30th, Lyra rose early and dressed far more formally than she had in months. She braided her hair back with a charm, and frowned at a single gray hair. Cursing softly, she yanked it out, and examined it.
It was the first gray hair she'd found, and she didn't like the sinking feeling that accompanied it.
Abe met her at the gates, which surprised her. They'd agreed to meet at the Hogs Head and floo in, but his presence was welcome in the cold morning air. He grunted a greeting, hands stuffed deep in the pockets of an oversized robe.
"Had a few owls with that Burke woman," he said as they walked, "She slipped once and mentioned that Umbridge woman. Not sure what her role in this is, but I don't like it."
"Shacklebolt and Scrimgeour I could handle," Lyra said, "Umbridge sounds like a headache."
"I doubt we'll see her today, but her lackeys might be around. Who was it Croaker said he saw?"
"Robards and Dawlish. I knew Robards from a distance, Dawlish is new."
"John Dawlish, probably. Used to work in transportation, seems he's migrated to law enforcement. He's an idiot," Abe huffed through his beard, "Robards I would be wary of. Reminds me of Scrimgeour a bit, got the same tenacity."
"Do I even want to know how you know all these ministry folk?"
Abe shrugged, "I had a prolific few years. Turns out flying goats violates several departmental laws."
"I shouldn't have asked."
They reached the village and trekked back into The Hogs Head. Abe pulled a small pot of floor powder off the mantle, and tossed a pinch into the fire.
"Ladies first," he said.
Lyra nodded, stepping in, "Ministry of Magic Atrium," she enunciated carefully, and the fire flared green.