Snow Truce, Permission Slips, and Nearer
December learned a new shade of grey and painted everything with it. The lake obliged; the towers wore frost like epaulets. Corvus liked a sky with convictions.
Ravenclaw's eagle asked, "What has one eye, but cannot see?"
"A needle," he said, checking the locket with a thumb. The coin thrummed once and settled—steady metronome under the sternum.
In the Great Hall, steam made halos over porridge; owls skidded on window ledges with the drama of underfunded ballet. A crisp note awaited him in McGonagall's hand:
> Mr. Black—
Christmas stay list attached. If you will be remaining, tick the sensible box.
Also: Madam Pince approves 'quiet nooks.' Kindly assist her with a 'Restricted Reading Appointment' process that does not set the castle on fire.
—M. McG.
Errands with edges. Excellent.
He ticked the stay box, wrote "errands of excellent importance; I'll owl, Mum" beneath, and buttered toast in a way that suggested he had just made a good decision.
---
Owl, Mother, Tea
Samantha's reply arrived on an owl who believed in punctuality and snacks.
> Starling—
Stay. Be useful. I shall brag about you to the kettle (gently). If snow gets rude, write it a letter.
—Mum
P.S. Your uncle (not the magical one) sent socks. Wear them like a threat.
He laughed into his tea and felt less lone for it.
---
Library: Permission, Not Prerogative
Madam Pince received Restricted Reading Appointments as if they were her idea (proof they were good). Together they drafted an elegant tyranny:
RRA Rules:
Request in writing (topic, purpose; no "just because").
Two staff cosigns (Head of House + supervising professor).
Slots at civilized hours; book never leaves the desk; wand-hand visible; quill behaved.
Pince may eject anyone whose soul looks peckish.
Corvus tied Index Thread into the ledger so seekers were nudged to safe biographies and historical footnotes before their ambitions flirted with the Restricted Section. A quiet glyph over the catalog pulsed for reference paths, not answers.
Hermione triangulated around Flamel with the fervor of a bloodhound who had read Dewey. Harry hovered, learning how books say perhaps. Ron wrestled civility from a quill. When Hermione glanced up, Corvus only said, "People hide in biography." She nodded once—understanding as gratitude.
> 74. RRA live: permission over prerogative; Pince pacified; candles pleased.
---
Controlled Variables — Winter Session (Field)
Behind the fourth gargoyle, the room-that-listens warmed his hands. Fred and George arrived with contraband mittens; Daphne Greengrass leaned in the doorway like a verdict that had decided to be fair.
"Agenda," Corvus chalked. "CV-014 — Snow Truce and CV-015 — Owl Lane."
CV-014 — Snow Truce:
Zone charms on the lawns: Play, Parley, No-Sting.
Snowballs de-power when thrown with malice beyond sport; gentle poof.
Ethical constraint: keep satisfaction; subtract cruelty.
CV-015 — Owl Lane:
A clear, wind-favored corridor from Owlery to Hall in storms.
Redirects exuberant Bludger-grade snow to the sides; keeps talons and letters dry.
Daphne's clockwork mouse clicked approval; she hid the smile. "Slytherin reserves Parley for coat-preservation."
"Ravenclaw reserves it for coffee," Corvus said, and wove the lattices small—trial-size, sunset window.
---
Stair Compliments (Routine Maintenance)
On his rounds, he patted the rail. "You did very well yesterday," he told the main stair. The banister hummed smug. Manners move stone; praise maintains it.
Snape, crossing like weather with appointments, arched an eyebrow that meant you are ridiculous and correct. Corvus inclined his head just enough to admit the charge.
"Imagine more slowly," Snape murmured, which was either a warning or pedagogy, possibly both.
"I'm practicing winter," Corvus said. "It encourages patience."
---
Snow Truce, Live
At dusk the lawns became rules with sparkle. Snow flew without bruising; Parley zones functioned; a No-Sting strip along the main path let dignity arrive at supper unspattered. The Weasley twins stress-tested cruelty; their most villainous throws sighed into powder midair. They applauded the constraint like professionals.
Daphne strolled through Parley in sable and calm; a Gryffindor aimed high; the charm thinned his "gotcha" into "good shot." Everyone enjoyed themselves more.
> 75. CV-014: malice-to-powder ratio ↑; laughter timbre improved; detentions ↓.
Overhead, Owl Lane stitched a clear seam through weather. The post arrived less tragic; Madam Pince's scowl softened by a molecule when a volume reached her dry.
> 76. CV-015: talon slip 0; letters dried; owl dignity ↑.
---
McGonagall's Audit
"Mr. Black," McGonagall said on the steps, inspecting the No-Sting strip as if it owed taxes, "your snow has acquired manners."
"It refused detention; I offered finishing school," Corvus said.
Her mouth almost smiled. "Continue. Without… embroidery."
"Classic cut, no ruffles," he promised.
---
Peeves, Rerouted (Seasonal)
Peeves prepared to ice-slick the north steps into anecdote.
"Peeves," Corvus said, "the trophies say your snowballs lack thesis."
"THESIS?" Peeves howled, and shot toward brass and glory, pelting dates and valour with "pertinent" slush. Filch swore like an old map. The steps remained tragically safe.
---
The Nearer Matter (Scheduling)
At the turn to the third floor, the wrong harmony dozed like a cat pretending not to mind. The coin cooled—remember—then warmed—later.
Dumbledore met him there as if summoned by good intentions. "Mr. Black."
"Sir."
"The Mirror is still being polite," the headmaster said, eyes like blue winter. "If you wish a sanctioned look over the holiday—with witnesses and rules—I will obligingly stand where doors do not bite."
"Thank you," Corvus said. "Witnesses and walls—not thresholds. After the feast?"
"After the feast," Dumbledore agreed, and the corridor, hearing sense, hummed.
---
Night Note
Ravenclaw's riddle asked, "What five-letter word becomes shorter when you add two letters to it?"
"Short," Corvus said, indulgent as an uncle.
On the sill, coin and locket—twin moons with different weather. He did not open the locket. Promises are load-bearing.
Frost wrote with tidy restraint:
With witnesses.
He nodded, wrote, and kept the ink spare:
> 77. Deliverables:
– RRA process live (permission > prerogative).
– CV-014 Snow Truce + CV-015 Owl Lane live; bruises ↓, dignity ↑, owls smug.
– Stair praise: maintenance continues; Snape weather advisory acknowledged.
– Mirror: sanctioned nearer scheduled (w/ Dumbledore), rules intact.
77a. Doctrine: Winter teaches permission. We teach stone with praise, crowds with lanes, snow with rules, longing with witnesses.
Paradox muttered judgment from the rafters. The lake turned the moon over like a coin deciding between pockets. The castle, pleased to be asked politely, purred.
Christmas put on its best manners. Snow minded the No-Sting strips; Owl Lane stitched a clean seam through the weather; the Great Hall glowed like a well-bred hearth. The small population of stay-behinds looked taller under candlelight.
Weasley jumpers proliferated. Hufflepuffs distributed biscuits as if conducting humanitarian aid. Slytherins perfected unbothered as a winter sport. Ravenclaw produced three footnotes about nutmeg.
Corvus sat where windows could be trusted—coin steady under his sternum, locket warm against the collarbone. He let the feast do what it does best: proof that competence is edible. Teacup Choir got the night off; the room sang without help.
Dumbledore's eyes found him once over a mountain of plum pudding—after. Corvus nodded. Witness secured.
---
The Walk
The castle wore hush the way churches wear acoustics. Night Lines traced silver at knee height; Warm Step kept dignity upright. They said little. You do not narrate the road to a door with teeth.
At the disused classroom, Corvus knocked—one knuckle, once.
"Question," he said softly, as he had taught the wood to accept. "May we come nearer?"
The room accepted purpose. The Mirror waited—tall as hunger, ornate as an argument that got carved instead of solved.
Corvus chalked a courtesy ring on the floor, set a sand timer on the sill, and told the air his rules, because rules grow teeth when spoken aloud.
"Three breaths per look. No stepping closer without asking. Breathkeeper if lungs forget their job. If the mirror sings, we critique pitch."
Dumbledore's mouth did that small, private smile reserved for good nonsense and excellent sense. "Proceed, Mr. Black."
---
Nearer (Politely)
Corvus stood just inside the chalk, angled himself so he'd see with, not into, and took three breaths.
On the other side of the glass: a school that no longer needed saving because it had infrastructure. Stairs that held still when told to; tiny lights that answered Home before fear learned grammar; Quiet Nooks that taught noise to rest. Samantha by a window with a book, cardigan sleeves shoved up, eyes bright with someone else's problem she'd just solved. Regulus behind her, young and so tired, writing Non cruore nobilis, sed electione inside the cover of a notebook and meaning every letter. Luna in the background tying ribbon around quills that had all come home.
He exhaled on the third breath and stepped back—before want could make a fool of him.
Dumbledore did not ask what he saw. Good witness. Good manners.
"Again?" the headmaster asked, not moving closer, not offering advice he would then have to repent.
"One more," Corvus said, and turned the timer.
Second look: himself, older by inches of responsibility, handing a prefect pin to a girl with ink on her fingers while an eagle door laughed at a riddle it pretended was hard. The coin in the reflection glowed, then settled. The locket in the reflection—open.
He stepped back on the third breath, and the pull lost half its teeth.
"Nearer," Dumbledore murmured, approving the verb, not the vanity.
---
A Different Door
Corvus set the sand timer down, took one step sideways into ordinary air, and unfastened the chain at his throat.
"Headmaster," he said, voice even, "I would like to open a door that is mine. With a witness."
Dumbledore inclined his head the exact amount one inclines to a promise being kept. "I am here."
Corvus laid the locket on the desk as if introducing two old instruments. He asked it—ridiculous, effective—whether it would open for him if he was polite.
The clasp answered like a well-made hinge.
Inside: a moving photograph the size of a postage stamp—Samantha in March light, hair escaping its pins, Regulus beside her in a plain black coat, both of them laughing at nothing on cue. Someone had charmed the sound away; the image carried it anyway.
Folded beneath: a thin scrap of parchment, edges browned, ink in a hand he knew from the motto in Flitwick's box.
> For the Friday the 13th boy,
Non cruore nobilis, sed electione.
If the castle writes to you, write back.
Ask good questions. Keep your promises.
— R.A.B.
Pinned in the hinge with delicate stubbornness: a pressed star—the petal-thin imprint of some flower Samantha had dried between pages and hidden here, bright as saved daylight.
Corvus did not sit. He let the breath come and go like a trained thing. He did not cry. He practiced excellent engineering: he catalogued.
"Thank you," he told the locket, and meant the people inside it.
Dumbledore looked at the tiny photograph and did not trespass on its context. "A handsome couple," he said simply—respect without archaeology.
Corvus replaced the note, set the pressed star in its groove as if he'd been born to it, and closed the locket with the quiet of a promise finishing its sentence.
The coin under his shirt warmed as if content to have company in the category of kept.
---
The Witness's Work
Dumbledore set two fingers lightly on the chalk ring, completing nothing, blessing everything. "There is a great temptation," he said, gentle as old cedar, "to make meaning do the work of living. You are choosing the other way."
"I prefer systems," Corvus said. "They leave your hands free."
"And promises?"
"Load-bearing," he said.
"Quite." He gestured toward the door. "Shall we go be civilized elsewhere?"
"We shall."
They left the mirror to practice patience. The door shut behind them with a sigh that decided, for now, to be benign.
---
Corridor Weather (Seasonal)
Peeves attempted carols with injury-forward staging. Corvus redirected him toward the trophy room with the allegation that his alto lacked thesis; brass endured brilliance at volume. Warm Step kept the nearest landing honest. Night Lines arced a polite crescent around a boy under a cloak who thought stealth and safety were synonyms. McGonagall's silhouette crossed a distant corridor like capital letters behaving.
The school hummed—old intelligence pleased by being asked politely.
---
Tower, Frost, Accounting
Ravenclaw's eagle asked, "What is so fragile that saying its name breaks it?"
"Silence," Corvus said, with the respect due a tool that carried the day.
On the sill: coin and locket, twin moons with different weather, both awake now.
Frost wrote in tidy letters, pleased with itself:
Witness kept. Door kept.
Then, smaller, underlined by patience: Ask again (later).
He smiled without baring his teeth and wrote the night down until it fit.
> 78. Feast/Witness/Mirror — Deliverables:
– Mirror approached under rule (three breaths, chalk ring, timer, Breathkeeper ready). Pull resisted; data gained; no drowning.
– Locket opened with witness; contents: moving photo (Regulus & Samantha), note (Non cruore nobilis, sed electione; "If the castle writes, write back"), pressed star.
– Headmaster: good witness; no thresholds offered; sanction continued.
– Poltergeist rerouted; cloak traffic curved; stair dignity maintained.
78a. Doctrine (holiday edition):
Doors are promises; open them with witnesses.
Mirrors are teeth; feed them rules.
Longing is weather; build houses, not capes.
Paradox muttered judgement from the rafters and forgave everything until morning. The lake turned the moon over like a coin deciding which pocket it preferred. Somewhere far under stone, a wrong harmony sulked itself toward boredom.
Corvus touched coin, then locket, then glass.
"Steady," he told the room.
Both metal hearts warmed—a paired yes—and Hogwarts, pleased with its boy, tucked itself in with excellent bones and very old grace.