M1E14 — The Name in the Index
February showed up wearing sleet like a badge and acting like it had invented inconvenience. The grounds went half-slush, half-ice; the sky kept flirting with snow and then backing out at the last second like a coward. Hogwarts responded the way it always did: by continuing.
Corvus liked that about the place. The castle didn't panic. It adjusted.
He left Ravenclaw Tower with the coin warm under his sternum and the locket steady at his throat. The bronze eagle asked him something smug about "the end" and "the beginning," and he answered without ceremony. Routine was its own kind of magic—quiet, repeatable, load-bearing.
Downstairs, Night Lines were still doing their low-glow work, guiding late feet without insulting them. Warm Step kept the main landings dry. The Lost & Found Chorus cabinet hummed a tiny rhythm when someone walked past with a guilty scarf stuffed up their sleeve; two seconds later, the scarf appeared in the open like a repentant confession.
Corvus took notes anyway. It wasn't paranoia. It was maintenance.
The library was the day's real battlefield, though. Not because of danger—because of intention. The air in there had shifted lately, like too many minds were leaning toward the same secret at once. Madam Pince stalked between aisles with the exact fury of someone protecting civilization from sticky fingers.
Corvus had just finished filing two new Restricted Reading Appointment forms into the ledger when the Index Thread pulsed—soft, courteous. Not alarm. Not forbidden. Just that subtle someone is asking the right question too hard.
He didn't look for faces. He looked for patterns.
Three tables over, Hermione Granger's posture had that "I'm about to win" tension—chin forward, quill moving like a dagger with excellent handwriting. Harry Potter sat opposite her, looking equal parts loyal and overwhelmed. Ron Weasley was there too, trying to be useful by sheer force of personality.
Hermione snapped a book closed with the energy of a gavel. "Nicolas Flamel," she hissed, triumphant and furious at herself for not getting there sooner. "He's real. He's in here. It's obvious. It's literally obvious."
Ron blinked. "Is he… a murderer?"
Harry leaned in. "What does it say?"
Corvus didn't eavesdrop like a creep. He just… happened to be shelving a stack near enough to hear. The castle always rewarded convenient honesty.
Hermione spoke the name like it was a weapon. "He's an alchemist. He's—he's known for the Philosopher's Stone."
Harry frowned. "That's… a real thing?"
Hermione's eyes went bright, feverish with certainty. "Yes. It can turn metal into gold. It makes the Elixir of Life. It keeps you alive. Forever."
Ron made a choking sound that could've been awe or indigestion. "So… someone's trying to steal it."
Hermione nodded hard. "Yes."
Harry's gaze drifted toward the ceiling, toward the third-floor mystery the whole school pretended not to care about. Corvus felt the coin cool for half a second—absence temperature—like the world itself didn't like that thought connecting properly.
Hermione kept going, relentless. "And if it's here, then it's being guarded. And the only reason you'd guard that is if someone's trying to take it."
Corvus slid a book into place and didn't move closer. Witnesses or walls, not thresholds. Their conversation wasn't his threshold to cross. Not yet.
But he could do what he always did.
He could make the environment safer for the people in it—without grabbing their choices out of their hands.
He moved to the nearest Quiet Nook placard and flicked a tiny adjustment into the rune thread. The bubble thickened just slightly around their table—not enough to isolate them, just enough to dull the edges of panic so their brains could keep working without tipping into drama.
Hermione's shoulders dropped one degree. Harry's breath steadied. Ron stopped making that strangled noise.
Good. That's all Corvus wanted.
Madam Pince passed by and gave him one suspicious look—the kind that meant she suspected competence and didn't like it on principle. Corvus bowed his head politely, as if he'd done nothing at all.
Because he hadn't. Not really.
He left them to it and went back to his own work: building a school that didn't need heroics.
That afternoon, McGonagall called him into her office. Her room smelled like parchment and quiet authority. She didn't bother with pleasantries.
"Mr. Black," she said, "students are growing… curious."
Corvus kept his expression neutral. "That happens when you put mysteries under schools."
"Mmm," McGonagall said, as if she'd personally tried to remove mystery from Hogwarts and found it reproduced when watered. "Your lanterns and lane-charms have reduced incidents. I will not pretend I dislike that."
"Your definition of 'like' is very economical," Corvus said.
Her mouth did the smallest possible twitch. "Do not get used to it."
She slid a new folder across the desk. "Additional patrol schedule. Hagrid has reported unusual activity at the Forest edge. You will not involve yourself directly."
Corvus didn't flinch. "Yes, Professor."
McGonagall watched him like she was weighing something. "You are—" she began, then stopped, as if refusing to put the wrong label on a boy. "—capable. That can be dangerous in a place like this."
Corvus folded his hands behind his back. "I don't go through doors with teeth without witnesses."
Her gaze sharpened. "Good. Keep that habit. Hogwarts devours the reckless."
"Yes, Professor."
She dismissed him with a nod that felt like a lock turning.
That night, he went to the hidden classroom behind the fourth gargoyle. Fred and George were already there with contraband cocoa and the posture of men about to ruin a week.
Daphne Greengrass leaned against the wall, arms folded, perfectly unimpressed by warmth.
Susan Bones and Hannah Abbott sat at the table with parchment, looking like they were preparing a humanitarian treaty.
Corvus chalked the board once and wrote:
CV-022 — Panic Valve (Library Edition)
Fred squinted. "That sounds boring."
"It's supposed to," Corvus said. "That's the point."
He explained it: a tiny enchantment stitched into the Quiet Nook bubbles that, if conversation inside spikes into fear too fast, gently encourages structure. Not silence—structure. It makes people pause between sentences. It makes questions line up. It turns shouting into thinking.
"It doesn't stop them from doing stupid things later," George said, immediately suspicious of anything that didn't eliminate stupidity.
"No," Corvus agreed. "It just ensures they do stupid things with better information."
Susan nodded, approving like a lawyer. "That's… weirdly responsible."
Daphne's mouth tilted. "Ravenclaw moral compromise: 'I'll let you die, but you'll die with citations.'"
Corvus pointed his chalk at her. "Exactly."
They wove it in. Light work. No drama. The charm settled into the castle's existing threads like it had always belonged there.
Then, as they finished, the coin at Corvus's sternum cooled again—sharper this time. Not the Forest. Not a cloak. This was… intent. A line of attention focusing somewhere specific.
Corvus went still.
"What?" Susan asked, instantly reading his posture.
He didn't answer immediately. He listened.
The castle's hum shifted—subtle, like someone had plucked a wrong string in a room full of correct music. It came from above… and toward the third-floor corridor.
Daphne's eyes narrowed. "That again."
Corvus nodded once. "Yes."
Fred leaned forward, grin fading into something more serious. "Do we… do something?"
Corvus's instincts wanted to sprint at the mystery. Solve it. Control it. Stop it.
But he had learned something in winter: cleaning a room reveals what was living under the furniture. And if you charged under the bed without a plan, sometimes the thing under there was very happy you'd done it.
He chose wall.
"We do not go," he said calmly. "We report. We adjust lanes. We keep children out of its path."
"Cowardice?" George teased lightly, but his eyes were sharp, curious.
"Engineering," Corvus corrected. "Cowardice runs away. Engineering stays put and builds a barrier."
Daphne watched him for a long moment, then nodded—slow. Respect, grudging and real.
Corvus took out a small strip of parchment, wrote two lines, and handed it to Susan. "To McGonagall. Tonight. Now."
Susan didn't ask questions. She just moved.
Then Corvus turned back to the board and wrote:
ACTION: reinforce Night Lines near third-floor turn.
ACTION: strengthen Edge Lullaby perimeter.
ACTION: remind prefects: witness, not chase.
He flicked his wand once. The castle's lanes adjusted, silver threads re-weaving like disciplined spiders. A corridor that might have tempted wandering feet instead became subtly uninteresting. A stair that might have shifted into mischief instead chose to behave like architecture.
And somewhere above, whatever was testing the school's weak spots found less weak spot than it wanted.
Corvus exhaled slowly and felt the coin warm again—not pleased, exactly. Steady. Confirmation that he'd done the correct boring thing.
He returned to Ravenclaw Tower late. The bronze eagle asked him a riddle about "truth" and "lies." He answered without thinking. Today had been full of truths that mattered.
At his window, frost was already writing.
NOTED.
Then, after a pause, the second line appeared, neat as a rulebook:
PREPARE.
Corvus set the coin and locket side by side on the sill. Two moons. Two promises. He didn't open either. Tonight wasn't for opening. Tonight was for building walls and leaving windows.
He stared out toward the Forest, toward the castle's roofline, toward the unseen corridor where wrong harmony pulsed like a slow bruise.
He didn't feel fear.
He felt… work.
"Steady," he murmured.
The coin warmed in agreement.
And Hogwarts, civilized and watchful, kept the night.