S1E6
Morning made pewter of the lake and honey of the tower light. Corvus woke to the note he'd slid under his pillow—Deputy Headmistress's tidy script, all backbone and kindness—reminding him to see Professor Flitwick for "an errand of no great danger and excellent importance."
Ravenclaw's eagle asked, "What can be broken, but is never held?"
"A promise," Corvus said, and checked his locket with a thumb. "Which is why we don't." The door approved.
In the Great Hall, October wore butter and steam. He timed the gravy (still two seconds faster than goblets), declined to invent etiquette mustard, and made for Charms with the feeling of a boy who had been given a screwdriver and directions to the sky.
---
The Errand
Flitwick's office was equal parts orchestra pit and clockmaker's bench. A dozen small charms hummed softly like polite bees; a paper bat from Halloween bobbed at half-mast, still festive out of habit.
"Mr. Black," Flitwick said, eyes bright. "Excellent. Two matters—related."
He placed a velvet-lined tray on the desk. Nestled inside: six plain pewter pins shaped like commas.
"Breathkeepers," he said. "Prefect pins, Ravenclaw set for trial. Your Calmfield variant impressed Madam Pomfrey, who has a reputation for disliking anything that interferes with lungs. These should not interfere. They nudge."
Corvus lifted one between finger and thumb. It was warm, faintly; weightless the way useful things are. "Trigger?"
"A favorite shape," Flitwick said, pleased. "Quiet word; quiet charm. We do not want a corridor full of rectangles."
A corner of Corvus's mouth surrendered. "Speak for yourself."
"Second," Flitwick said, and his voice traded velvet for wire, "the staircases. They behaved under stress because you asked properly. I can anchor a protocol into the wardline, but the asking seems to stick better when it's spoken by someone they already listen to. Would you oblige?"
Corvus blinked once in the slow way a boy does when joy lands and he tries not to scare it. "Yes."
Flitwick hopped down from his stack of books, took up a wand whose polish suggested long conversations with it, and gestured toward the door. "Bring your coin," he said, as if it were a quill.
Corvus did.
---
The Staircase Treaty
They met the main stair at the hour when it likes to practice being dramatic. Landings shifted with elegant sighs; banisters preened. Flitwick cast a quiet, ferocious lattice into the air—formal magic, old as the stone, the kind adults use when they're not performing.
"Anchor," he said. "Now—speak."
Corvus laid his palm on the rail. The coin under his shirt warmed once, steady as a conductor's downbeat.
"Good morning," he said to a thing that was not a thing. "You carried us well. Thank you."
The faintest shiver traveled the wood, surprised pleasure.
"We are going to give you a phrase," he went on, tone for a skittish cat, a half-wild horse. "When spoken by staff during danger, it means hold still for small feet. Freeze on every landing. Do not trap. Do not throw. Be architecture, not theater."
Flitwick's anchor stitched itself to the stones like a seam that had always wanted to be there.
The stair turned a quarter-step—testing, curious—then settled, and held. Corvus felt the answer in his wrist: Yes.
"Phrase?" he asked.
Flitwick lifted his wand, mouth in a thin line that meant history. "Hold the children."
The stairs went still as a vow.
> 39. Stair Protocol: "Hold the children." Staff-only trigger. Banisters hum once; treads lock; release on "Safe again." Tested: 10-sec freeze; no pinched toes; stair self-congratulation = high.
"Very good," Flitwick murmured to the wood, to Corvus, to the day. "McGonagall will be pleased."
"Her version of pleased is worth framing," Corvus said. The staircase pretended not to preen.
---
Madam Pomfrey's Inspection
In the Hospital Wing, white sheets shone like scoldings at the sun. Madam Pomfrey looked at the pin in Corvus's palm as a jeweler looks at a diamond someone claims fell off a dragon.
"Explain it to me as if I'm about to refuse," she said briskly.
"Prefects only," Corvus said, equally brisk. "Whisper your favorite shape, the pin thickens the air. Ten-foot bubble. No compulsion—step out if you hate it. It doesn't slow hearts; it slows decisions. Thirty seconds of room to choose better ones."
"And why not simply tell them to breathe?" she said, but her mouth already knew the answer.
"Because panic is a thief," Corvus said. "Sometimes you lock the window."
Her eyes flicked up. "You have been frightened properly, then."
"Often," he said cheerfully. "By books."
She studied him, decided to accept the joke at exactly face value, and nodded once. "Trial them. Prefects only. If I see so much as a green-tinged ear, I'm coming for you with a mop and a lecture."
"My worst nightmare," Corvus said solemnly. "I will behave."
She pinned one on his robe with the crisp competence of a woman who was tired of blood being dramatic, then took it back immediately. "Not you. You're not a prefect."
"Correct. I am an enthusiastic meddler."
"Leave the meddling to my collection," she said, and looked fondly toward a cupboard full of potions that had learned sarcasm from her.
---
Controlled Variables: Deployment
Ravenclaw common room, after lunch: the prefects lined up, skeptical and game. Corvus demonstrated the Breathkeeper pin—"favorite shape; triangle is fashionable"—and Susan and Hannah volunteered to run the "before and after" walk around the tower. Corvus timed respiration with two fingers on a wrist and a ridiculous little metronome he wasn't ashamed of.
"Pins do not reduce drama to zero," he said. "Merely edge it towards literacy."
"Your sales pitch needs work," a sixth-year prefect said, and activated his. "Square," he whispered, faintly mortified, then blinked as his shoulders unclenched by two notches. "Oh."
Daphne drifted in to spectate, Slytherin curiosity wrapped in plausible deniability. "Ravenclaw turning into a spa," she said dryly. "What will academia think."
"That it deserves skin," Corvus said. "You want one?"
"I'll have a prefect steal me one if they work," she said, and floated away, not quite smiling.
> 40. Breathkeeper Pins: Prefects trained. Average recovery to functional calm: 22–35s. Side effects: dignity bruising (mild), snobbery reduction (temporary).
---
Hermione's Inventory
In the library, Hermione Granger worked like a storm with a filing system. The Reader's Halo he'd left dormant yesterday would have been rude today; the room was already humming with the good quiet.
She intercepted him at the end of the Runes aisle with a plain statement: "You made the lights."
"I made a light," he said.
"They helped," she said. "Thank you."
"You helped, too," he said, and meant three things she didn't ask him to list. "Everyone is useful when the job is clear."
She considered that. "You're building something."
"I dislike emergencies that rely on heroics," Corvus said. "Heroes are rare and inconvenient. Systems scale."
Her eyebrows did a small, happy dance. "Yes."
"Also," he added, "sometimes the kettle whistles two seconds before the fire is lit."
She stared as if he had recited part of a secret handshake. "What does that mean?"
"I don't know yet," he said, delighted. "Isn't that excellent?"
They parted, mutually satisfied by potential.
---
Corridor Weather (and a Coin)
On the third floor—no entry; painful death; etc.—the air still held a wrong note beneath Dumbledore's careful music. Corvus stopped at the turn, because that is where one stops if one is more interested in data than being eaten.
The coin under his shirt cooled like a hand on a fevered forehead. "Witnesses or walls, not thresholds," he reminded himself, and chose wall.
Quirrell came around the far corner, steps careful, fear like a bad perfume. He saw Corvus, didn't land, moved on. The shadow under his voice did not speak. Corvus let it be and counted to ten, because sometimes ten is a spell.
Snape materialized thirty heartbeats later like weather learning to walk. He looked—not at Corvus, but near him—then at the corridor, then at a locked door he could have opened the way storms open umbrellas.
"Professor," Corvus said, polite.
"Black," Snape said in a tone that suggested the word could be an insult, a compliment, and a prediction depending on the weather.
They passed one another like ships aware of currents. The coin warmed two degrees, as if the castle had marked "observation" with a gold star.
> 41. Third-floor disharmony: stable amplitude; increased after troll incident; Quirrell + static; Snape = lightning rod with a handbook. Continue not touching.
---
Tea & Treaty
Flitwick found him after dinner with the satisfied expression of a man whose experiment had threaded the needle.
"Madam Pomfrey is not furious," he announced. "This is as good as a medal."
"We should make her one," Corvus said. "Bronze, inscribed: For Services Rendered To Breath and Reason."
"Charming," Flitwick said, and then, bright: "And the stair protocol held during a test drill. The banisters hummed so smugly I was tempted to dock them points."
"They'd only wind them back politely," Corvus said.
They stood at the foot of the main stair and listened to students go by, the ordinary bravery of boys and girls carrying books like banners. For a moment, Hogwarts felt like a machine humming at its best speed.
"Mr. Black," Flitwick said lightly, "this Saturday there's a Quidditch match. Gryffindor vs. Slytherin. I should like you—purely unofficially—to sit on the east stands and watch the staircases. If anything smells of panic or errant gravity, we'll use your phrases. No heroics. Just a weather report."
"No danger," Corvus repeated, "excellent importance."
"Precisely."
"I accept," he said, and felt the coin under his shirt warm like a slipped note in a perfect chord.
---
Night Log
Ravenclaw's knocker asked, "What begins with T, ends with T, and has T in it?"
"A teapot," Corvus said. "Also, a trick question."
Windows made stars behave. He set the coin beside the locket and wrote:
> 42. Deliverables:
– Stair Treaty anchored: "Hold the children" / "Safe again."
– Breathkeeper pins trialed; Pomfrey not murderous.
– Hermione: ally in systems, interesting brain.
– Third-floor: still wrong; chosen wall; earned star.
– Saturday: east stands, stair sentinel.
42a. Thesis refinement: Institutions can be taught manners.
42b. Build choices so others can take them.
Frost threaded a word on the pane: Good.
"Thank you," he told the glass, the wood, the old intelligence breathing through them both. "We'll make a school out of this castle yet."
The frost cleared as if amused. Paradox hooted once, forgiving the day. Corvus lay back, hands folded behind his head, and listened to the school purr.
The castle wore late afternoon like a sensible shawl. Corvus delivered himself to Professor McGonagall's office because the Deputy Headmistress had asked, and one does not keep well-made clocks waiting.
Her office smelled of tea that could pass inspection and parchment that feared nobody. A tartan armchair considered him and relented. McGonagall studied him over her spectacles the way a hawk studies mathematics.
"Mr. Black," she said, crisp as an ink line. "Professor Flitwick has commended your… infrastructural instincts."
"Systems," Corvus said, resisting the urge to salute. "I prefer them to miracles. Miracles don't scale."
"One would hope miracles are not required to," she said, but the corner of her mouth owned its amusement. She slid a small box across the desk. Inside lay two more sets of Breathkeeper pins—Hufflepuff, Gryffindor. "You will accompany the Ravenclaw prefects to exchange and instruct. Do not distribute beyond prefects. I prefer chaos to have a chain of command."
"Tradition," Corvus said solemnly, "is weaponized good sense."
"Quite," she said. "And Mr. Black—if at any point you are tempted to be heroic, do make an appointment with me instead. I will prescribe paperwork."
"Terrifying," he said, meaning thank you.
---
Prefects, Protocols, and Percy
They convened in an empty classroom that had decided to be cooperative lighting and decent chairs. Percy Weasley arrived with a ledger that looked like it had been baptized; a Hufflepuff seventh-year prefect with practical braids brought a crowd-control stare; Penelope Clearwater (Ravenclaw, tidy mercy) set a quill army to taking minutes.
Corvus demonstrated the pin, the whisper-trigger. "Favorite shape. Thirty seconds of breathable decisions. No compulsion; step out if you want to panic in peace."
Percy's eyebrows did algebra. "And misuse?" he asked.
"It doesn't make you obedient," Corvus said. "Just less theatrical."
Hufflepuff's prefect pinned hers on, murmured, "Circle," and let out a breath she hadn't known was edged. "We'll take them," she said, no fuss.
Penelope shot him a quick, wry glance. "Nice work, Corvus."
He pretended to bow to the paperwork.
> 43. Prefect briefings complete: uptake high; mischief suspicion low; Percy requested forms (contentment ++).
---
A Drill That Wasn't
They were trooping back toward the main stair—prefects dispersing, pins discreet—when Hogwarts decided to remind everyone that staircases have opinions. Above them a second-year Hufflepuff, burdened with a crate of Flobberworm mucus (truly the devil's custard), caught a heel and pinwheeled.
The crate sloshed. Three first-years froze—panic ironing them flat to the step. A prefect swore in a way the air forgave.
McGonagall appeared as if the stone had paged her. "Hold the children," she said—voice low, precise.
The banisters hummed once like a cat pleased to be useful. The treads locked. No lurch, no catch—just instant, obedient architecture. The toppled boy slid one step and then no further, arrested by stillness and his own dignity. A dozen feet found stability where panic had snatched it. The mucus did what mucus does; a nearby suit of armor took the brunt with stoic contempt.
"Safe again," McGonagall said. The stairs released with a polite ah.
A wave of astonished relief rustled the landing. The second-year sat up, pink-eared but unbroken. McGonagall looked at Corvus as one looks at a lever that didn't show off, and inclined her head by a fraction—the kind of praise you frame behind glass.
"Mr. Black," she said quietly, "do continue to prefer systems."
"Religiously," he said, and wiped a stripe of mucus off his shoe with scholarly resignation.
> 44. Stair Treaty—live test: flawless; no pinches; no falls; faculty trigger respected; pride of banisters measurable by hum amplitude.
---
Peeves, Redirected
Peeves found them on the second landing juggling water balloons with a technique that implied a generous reading of gravity. "Lovely laddies and laddies' ladders!" he sang, seeking a witness.
"Peeves," Corvus said, polite as a doorman, "I have a more interesting audience for that."
"More interesting than you?" Peeves preened, then narrowed his eyes. "Flattery? How delicious."
"Try the trophy room," Corvus said solemnly. "I hear the plaques are yearning to feel useful."
Peeves considered this bit of philosophy, then vanished with a shriek and two balloons. Ten seconds later a distant clang suggested a suit of armor had strong opinions. Corvus wrote it down.
> 45. Poltergeist Management: redirect to rooms with durable pride. Outcomes: noise but no casualties. (Send Filch flowers; unsigned.)
---
Daphne's Audit
Evening thickened toward library hour. In the shadow of the fourth gargoyle, Daphne Greengrass emerged from a seam in the wall like an elegant hypothesis.
"Your pins worked," she said, as if opening a ledger. "Hufflepuff second-years didn't cry. Gryffindor didn't grandstand too much. Slytherin pretended not to like them and then did."
"Fashion bends to function," Corvus said.
She angled her head. "And the stair freeze?"
"Responsive to manners," he said, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his teeth and failing. "They like being told they're part of something sensible."
Daphne's mouth tilted. "You do realize you're social-engineering the castle."
"I'm asking it to be the best version of itself," Corvus said. "Same job with people; harder."
"Mmm," she said, which was Slytherin for I approve but won't pay you the compliment in cash.
She glanced toward the third floor's direction, where even the dust tried to look casual. "Tomorrow is the match," she said. "East stands?"
"Stair sentinel," he said. "No capes."
"Try not to get adopted by a staircase," she said, and left as if the corridor had been waiting to wrap around the space she vacated.
---
Night School
The hidden classroom behind the gargoyle greeted him with the particular relief of instruments that have been tuned. He laid the coin and locket on the desk, fed the room a biscuit for good behavior, and chalked the board.
CV-007 — Breathkeeper (prefect pins) → live
CV-006 — Breadcrumbs (HOME) → live
CV-005 — Hallway Compass → live
CV-004 — Teacup Choir → weekday mornings only; limit five minutes
CV-003 — Reader's Halo → opt-in nooks only
He added a new line:
CV-008 — Umbrella Etiquette: a small charm that persuades rain off the main stairs during rush, to prevent comedy from becoming triage. Ethical constraint: keep puddles for children who require splashing.
He built the lattice on paper first, coaxed the syllables until they stacked politely, then put it away. Saturday first. Quidditch first. Observation before ornament.
On the sill, frost considered the glass, then wrote, a little wryer than usual: Noted.
"Thank you," he told the window, meaning the building and the day.
---
Snape, Two Sentences
On his way back to the tower he nearly collided with Professor Snape at a corridor's quieter edge. The man's robes created their own weather; his gaze did diplomatic things to the concept of eye contact.
"Black," he said.
"Professor."
A pause, long enough to plant a hedge in. Then, dry as tinder: "If you intend to continue the habit of preventing idiocy without fanfare, kindly do it where I'm not forced to remove points for it."
Corvus kept his face to the appropriate level of blank. "I will endeavor to be inconvenient to no one but entropy."
Snape's mouth made a shape that in other men would have been a smirk. "Ambitious," he said, and moved on. The air felt two degrees more amused.
> 46. Staff weather: Snape = thundercloud with a secret sun; McGonagall = spine that pours tea; Flitwick = conductor with pockets of confetti.
---
Tower, Tally, Teapot
Ravenclaw's riddle asked, "What goes up and down but does not move?"
"Stairs," Corvus said, and patted the rail. "You did well." The door opened like a compliment accepting itself.
In the common room, Penelope Clearwater was assigning Saturday library shifts with battlefield competence. He offered her a Breathkeeper pin flowchart with a flourish; she rolled her eyes in a way that meant useful.
He brewed tea on a whisper of Incendio and didn't enchant the kettle. It sang in the honest way metal sings when flame is a friend and not a trick.
He took his cup to the dormitory window and watched the lake: pewter sheet; moon like a coin deciding between pockets. He set his own coin beside the locket and opened the Mystery Log.
> 47. Deliverables met:
– Pins distributed; prefects trained; Pomfrey not murderous (still).
– Stair Treaty tested live; defied gravity via manners.
– Peeves redirected to durable glory; Filch to receive anonymous sympathy bouquet (thistles).
– Staff briefings by osmosis: McG ✓, Flitwick ✓, Snape (?)
– Tomorrow: Quidditch watch, east stands, systems only.
He leaned his head against the frame. The frost breathed a small word onto the pane: Steady.
"Steady," he agreed.
Paradox hooted once from the rafters in a tone that implied she would be supervising the match. The tower exhaled. Below and beyond, a pitch was being chalked, a sky persuaded to behave, a thousand small variables collecting themselves for Saturday's spectacle.
Corvus doused the lamp with a thought and lay down with both hands behind his head, a boy content to be the weather man at a storm he had no intention of standing in.
Tomorrow, the castle would roar for brooms. He would listen for stairs. And if anyone whispered Home, a small, civilized light would answer.