Muggle Studies – Sixth Year

  Lesson Title: Aeroplanes and You!

  Lesson Objectives:

  By the end of this lesson, students will:

  1. Evaluate the basic principles of Muggle aerodynamics, including lift, drag, thrust, and gravity, and compare them to magical means of flight.

  2. Apply Muggle engineering techniques by constructing a model aircraft using only Muggle materials (balsa wood, glue, and string—no wands allowed!).

  3. Analyze the limitations of Muggle flight compared to wizarding transportation, including broomsticks, enchanted carriages, and magical beasts, while considering the historical and cultural implications of aviation on the Muggle world.

  Readings:

  1. Murray and McAlister's Marvelous Muggles, Chapter 4: The Curious Case of the Wright Brothers

  2. Up, Up, and Blown Away! A Brief History of Failed Muggle Flight Attempts (Professor Whitby's Own Notes)

  3. The Ministry of Magic's 16 October 1908 Report on the First Muggle "Aeroplane" Sighting and the Necessary Memory Charms Thereafter

  Optional Reading: "A Study of How Muggle Flight Almost Burst the Statute of Secrecy (Again)," Department of Magical Accidents & Catastrophes, 1941.

  Before they began building, Whitby had to first deliver one of his infamous lectures, gesticulating wildly as he paced before the class, his bad leg stumping along.

  “If Muggles were meant to fly, wouldn’t they have magic?” he asked, then promptly answered his own question. “No, of course not! That hasn’t stopped them from trying. Throughout history, they’ve strapped themselves, with , and even sat on chairs and using firecrackers - all with predictably disastrous results.”

  Jack exchanged a look with his seatmate Martin Mossflower, who raised an eyebrow. Muggles really did that? Jack was more used to their antics than most British wizards, but even he had to admit that strapping yourself to a firecracker chair sounded spectacularly idiotic.

  Whitby clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing again. “It wasn’t until the early twentieth century that Muggles cracked the problem with their so-called ‘aeroplanes.’ Unlike broomsticks, which rely on finely tuned enchantments and the occasional bit of derring-do, Muggle flight depends entirely on something called aerodynamics."

  Whitby spun on his heel, robes swishing, “The key concepts you need to understand are lift, thrust, drag, and gravity. In simple terms: lift keeps you up, thrust moves you forward, drag tries to slow you down, and gravity does its best to return you to the ground. Muggles, being short on magic but long on cleverness, must manipulate these forces with engineering: hence the wings, propellers, and engines.” He tapped the side of his head knowingly. “Rather ingenious, really.”

  There was a brief pause as he surveyed the class. “Now that's enough of my blathering, on to the practical exercise! You will each construct a small, non-magical glider using only these Muggle materials: balsa wood, glue, and string. No wands and absolutely no levitation spells.” He smiled widely. “Think of it as an empathy-building exercise.”

  Jack and his classmates struggled with the flimsy pieces of wood and paper and copies of Muggle instructions that Whitby had distributed. Jack had actually made a model plane before - a P-38 Lightning that his dad had bought him for Christmas two years back - but they had used magic to put it together and fly it around the living room. Most of his classmates were treating the delicate materials as if they were building a concrete pillbox.

  Whitby had his hands full. "No, no, Mr. Montfort, the wings need to be symmetrical, otherwise it won’t fly– Ms. Hightower, that's far too much glue, it will never generate enough lift to overcome its mass– Fine work with the tail assembly, Mr. Grymes!"

  After forty-five minutes had passed, the professor led them out onto the wide stone parapet of the West Tower. The wind was gently breezing and the morning was clear, giving them a perfect view of the Flying Lawn stretching three hundred yards below to the outer curtain wall. Below them, the first-years stood in neat rows on the grass, training brooms laid out beside them.

  "Now then!" Whitby climbed boldly up onto the parapet, his sunglasses glinting. "Who'd like to demonstrate the principles of aerodynamic lift first?"

  Jack leaned over the crenellations, watching the flying lesson below.

  Mr. Gallagher, the flying instructor, was putting the first-years through their paces. Jack spotted Wiggy's distinctive ginger hair just as the boy's broom responded to his enthusiastic "UP!" with enthusiastic force. The handle caught him in the nose, he lurched backwards, and both Wiggy and broom went tumbling, carving a deep furrow across the manicured lawn.

  "Poor kid," Jack shook his head as his classmates enjoyed a laugh at Wiggy’s expense. He'd had his own share of flying mishaps at Ilvermorny.

  Cyprian prepared for the first launch. The results were less than impressive. Venge's plane executed a perfect Immelmann turn – half loop, half roll – worthy of a star Chaser dodging a Bludger… before immediately crashing back into his forehead.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  Eustace’s did a neat corkscrewing barrel roll before crumpling against the tower wall. Montfort’s climbed straight up, hung in midair as if reconsidering its life choices, then disintegrated.

  Cassandra's plane showed promise, gliding gracefully for a few yards before a sudden crosswind sent it spinning into the stonework and crushing the left wing. Jack caught her frustrated frown as she repaired it with a subtle tap of her wand.

  Jack's own attempt wasn't much better. The plane sailed promisingly before a gust caught it, sending it into a death spiral onto the Flying Lawn. "Accio model plane!" he called quickly, before a wayward freshman stomped on it by accident.

  After ten minutes of repeated retrievals and repairs, patience began wearing thin. Wands appeared with increasing brazenness, first just for fixing torn paper and broken struts.

  "Sir," Eustace called out, "I feel like Wingardium Leviosa–"

  "No, no, no! Mr. Grymes, that defeats the purpose of the lesson entirely!" Whitby protested, but it was already too late. The air suddenly filled with magically enhanced paper aircraft, zooming and looping with un-aerodynamic aplomb.

  The first-years scattered as the enchanted squadron began dive-bombing their flying lesson. Wiggy, now back on his feet, went down again as three planes executed a strafing run. Mr. Gallagher - the aged but powerfully built Flying Instructor - looked up at the parapet, his expression and posture promising dire consequences for Professor Whitby at the next staff meeting.

  "I suppose," Whitby waved apologetically to Gallagher while addressing his students, "this demonstrates another important principle about human nature - given the choice between doing something the hard way or the easy way, always trust young people to take the latter."

  A magically-propelled plane whizzed over their head, trailing blue sparks and singing a tinny version of "Hearts of Oak."

  "An amusing modification, Mr. Carrow," Whitby called without turning around. "Kindly remove the propaganda enchantments."

  Down on the lawn, Mr. Gallagher had given up trying to restore order. The first-years were now trying to bat down the paper planes with their training brooms, turning the flying lesson into a cross between cricket and butterfly catching.

  The bell tower struck eleven.

  "Class dismissed," Whitby announced, rapidly summoning and collecting the last of the wayward planes. "For next class, I want eight inches on the applications of Muggle aerodynamics to flight charms. And do your assigned readings! Merlin's sake, I’m tired of talking to myself for the first ten minutes of class every day!"

  The greenhouses shimmered in the afternoon sun, the glass panels fogged with humidity. But they weren't headed inside today. Professor Blackthorn led them around back to a small mountain range of compost heaps, steam rising gently from their peaks.

  "Attention!" She clapped her thin hands together. "Time for our autumn sorting. The pile needs to be properly graded before the frost sets in. Grade One compost for the sensitive plants, Grade Two for general use, Grade Three for hardier specimens."

  A collective groan rose from the class.

  "This is servant's work," somebody muttered behind Jack - one of the Slytherins. "They should save this for detentions."

  "Detention is for punishment, Mr. de Montmorency," Professor Blackthorn barked. "Which is what you’ll have if you do not guard your tongue! This is herbological preparation. Now then - gloves on!"

  They took off their school robes and got to work, armed with shovels, pitchforks, and sorting buckets. Jack migrated away from Cassandra and Caeso and found himself at one of the larger heaps, magically maintaining a perfect temperature of decay. He drove his shovel into the steaming pile. The smell wasn’t as bad as he thought it would be… until he turned it over, and a wave of damp, fermented rot hit him full in the face.

  He gagged.

  “First time?”

  Lavinia Lloyd stood nearby, a foot on her pitchfork. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her dark hair was tied back with a red and gold ribbon.

  She looks like the farmer’s daughter from a butter advertisement, Jack thought stupidly.

  "Was I that obvious?" he grinned, driving his shovel into the steaming pile. "I’m a city kid. Don't exactly have a green thumb."

  She laughed, "Don’t worry, I’ll show you the ropes."

  They sifted through the decomposing plant matter together. Jack had to admit, it was satisfying work, if he ignored the sweat tricking down his back.

  The Grade One compost had a silky, crumbly texture and rich, earthy smell. Grade Two was coarser and chunkier, good enough for most plants. Grade Three was nasty-smelling clotted dirt.

  Lavinia struggled with an overloaded bucket of Grade Three.

  "Here, lemme help with that," Jack said, grabbing hold of the wire handle.

  She snorted but didn’t pull away, as if deciding whether to argue or let him have this one.

  "I can manage, you know."

  "I know," Jack said easily, adjusting his grip. "But at Ilvermorny, we’re taught to be gentlemen."

  She gave him a sideways look, unimpressed. "Gentlemen? That what you Yanks call it when you see a girl doing hard work and get all twitchy?"

  Jack smirked. "No, that’s just good manners. I’ll let you carry the next one if it makes you feel better."

  “Oh aye?” She raised an eyebrow. "You promise?"

  "On my honor," Jack said solemnly as they hauled the bucket to the sorting area together.

  “Ha!” Lavinia tossed her head. "We’ll see about that."

  Back home, her friendliness would have been totally normal - American witches generally weren't shy about showing when they liked you, at least the Northern girls were.

  Southern girls were harder to read (he'd learned that the hard way).

  But here...no, he was just overthinking things.

  He shook the thought away. She was just being nice. No need to overthink a laugh and a pretty smile.

  He had enough complications without adding another.