The heavy oak door of Dumbledore's office swung open with a soft, almost imperceptible creak. Echo slipped inside, his black hair flickering with a cautious, analytical green as his hollow eyes swept over the familiar, chaotic order of the Headmaster's domain. The air hummed with faint magic, and the myriad trinkets and instruments on every surface seemed to pulse with hidden energies. He moved with the quiet grace of a shadow, his footsteps making no sound on the ancient carpet.
"Hey, Headmaster?" Echo's voice was a low murmur, barely disturbing the dust motes dancing in the faint light. His gaze landed on the high shelf where the Sorting Hat usually resided. "You in here?"
A muffled grumble came from the shelf. "No, and you shouldn't be either, kid," the Sorting Hat retorted, its brim twitching.
Echo's grey hair pulsed with a hint of dry amusement. "Yeah, I'll keep that in mind with the other pearls of wisdom I get from magical talking headwear," he replied, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk touching his lips. He then looked up at the Hat directly. "So, do you just hang out here all year, except for the Sorting Ceremony?"
"Yep," the Hat grumbled, settling deeper into its perch. "Pretty boring, honestly."
Echo's grey hair flickered with a mischievous sapphire. "Sounds like it. Maybe," he mused, a conspiratorial note entering his voice, "I could sneak you out sometime. See Hogsmeade, or maybe even the forest. You know, for a change of pace."
The Sorting Hat remained silent, but a faint, almost hopeful tremor ran through its worn fabric.
Echo merely nodded to himself, then turned his attention to a brilliant splash of crimson and gold in the corner of the office. Fawkes, Dumbledore's majestic phoenix, blinked a knowing golden eye at him. Echo approached, a small, embroidered pouch emerging from the depths of his robes.
"Alright, big guy," Echo whispered, a genuine, warm smile finally reaching his eyes. His sapphire hair shimmered with quiet delight. "Brought you some tasty treats. But," he leaned closer, his voice dropping to an even lower conspiratorial tone, "don't tell Dumbledore, okay? This is just between us, like always."
Fawkes let out a soft, melodious trill, a sound of pure contentment, and dipped his head, gently taking a few of the sparkling, candied dates from Echo's outstretched palm. He munched on them delicately, his golden eyes fixed on Echo with an almost human understanding. Echo, for his part, found a strange comfort in the phoenix's presence, a quiet warmth that settled deep in his chest.
Echo spent a long moment gently stroking Fawkes's brilliant feathers, the warmth radiating from the phoenix a comforting counterpoint to the lingering chill of his recent experiences. His sapphire hair softened to a contented blue as he continued to offer the sweet dates, watching with a quiet pleasure as Fawkes delicately consumed them. He reached into the pouch once more, pulling out another candied date. Fawkes leaned in, his golden eyes bright, and gently took the treat from Echo's fingers. The soft brush of the phoenix's beak against his skin sent a surprising jolt of warmth through Echo, a small, intimate connection that transcended words.
Echo spent a long moment gently stroking Fawkes's brilliant feathers, the warmth radiating from the phoenix a comforting counterpoint to the lingering chill of his recent experiences. His sapphire hair softened to a contented blue as he continued to offer the sweet dates, watching with a quiet pleasure as Fawkes delicately consumed them.
"You know, big guy," Echo murmured, his voice a soft, intimate whisper as he began to brush a particularly magnificent crimson plume meticulously. "Sometimes, I wonder if you ever get… bored up here. I mean, it's a nice space, sure, and Dumbledore's always around, but it's not exactly the vast, open sky, is it? Nowhere to truly spread your wings and fly. It must be a bit dull after a while."
Fawkes let out another soft trill, nudging his head against Echo's hand, as if in agreement or perhaps just appreciating the attention.
Echo sighed, a faint, almost imperceptible sadness touching his lips. His blue hair flickered with a wistful violet. "I wish I could be like you, Fawkes. Not the immortal bit, not exactly. But the rebirth. Any flaw, any imperfection, just burnt away in one glorious shower of fire. It would be… nice. So nice. To have my face finally express emotions again. If I had that power, I probably could've put this whole sordid affair behind me long ago. Just… burn it all away and start fresh." His violet hair pulsed with a fresh wave of melancholy. "Speaking of burning things away, Fawkes," he continued, his voice even softer, tinged with a quiet regret, "I… I owe you an apology. For that first teardrop you gave me, all those months ago. When I found Frieze, the centaur foal, with that broken leg… it worked perfectly. Your magic and your compassion healed him completely. It was… extraordinary."
He paused, a profound weariness settling over him. "But after the Dementor… after the Kiss… it felt like it took everything. My joy, my happiness… and with it, your tear, Fawkes. It was as if the emptiness just… consumed its magic. I lost it. I didn't mean to. I should have protected it better. I'm sorry."
Fawkes let out a soft, insistent trill, a sound that pulled Echo from his somber reflections. The phoenix dipped its magnificent head, its golden eyes fixed on Echo, then gently nudged its shoulder with its beak, a clear invitation to come closer. Echo, his violet hair still tinged with sadness, blinked, then leaned in. "What is it, big guy?" he murmured, his voice laced with concern. "Is something wrong?"
Fawkes let out a low, mournful cry, a sound of profound sorrow that vibrated through the air. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, the phoenix leaned its head over Echo's face, its golden eyes brimming with liquid light. Two perfect, shimmering tears detached themselves from Fawkes's eyes, falling silently. One landed directly in Echo's right eye, a warm, tingling sensation spreading through him. The second fell onto his cheek, a single, potent drop that felt like a spark against his skin.
Echo gasped, a sharp intake of breath. He instinctively reached up, wiping the tears from his eye and cheek. He looked at Fawkes, his expression a mixture of confusion and awe. "Why did you do that, Fawkes?" he asked, his voice a low, wondering whisper. "What was... what was that for?"
He looked around, his gaze falling upon a small, polished hand mirror Dumbledore often used. He picked it up, raising it to his face. He stared at his reflection, his heart pounding with an inexplicable anticipation. He saw his own face, pale and usually impassive, reflected back. He concentrated, willing a specific emotion to surface. He thought of the unfairness, the anger that had driven him to the Room of Requirement, the rage at the injustice of his…everything. As he thought of it, his lips twitched, pulled back slightly, and his brow furrowed. A genuine, ugly grimace, a true expression of internal pain and frustration, twisted his features. His eyes, usually hollow, seemed to recede, becoming deep, dead pools of cold, hard light that shone with a terrifying, unfeeling brilliance. It was a grimace, raw and unsettling, but it was his. His face, for the first time since the Kiss, moved. It expressed itself.
Echo dropped the mirror with a clatter, his black hair flaring with an electrifying surge of realization. His eyes, though still reflecting that chilling, detached brilliance, were wide with a dawning, profound comprehension. "Fawkes," he breathed, his voice raw with disbelief, "you... You gave it back. My face... it moved. I grimaced. My eyes... they were cold and dead, but they were bright!" A laugh, short and choked, tore from his throat, a sound brimming with a fragile, almost terrified joy. "You gave me back the ability to express emotion on my face!"
His black hair, still blazing with unbridled emotion, softened to a vibrant, grateful gold. "Thank you, Fawkes! Thank you! This is… this is a miracle! I… I don't even know what to say!"
Fawkes let out another soft, melodious trill, a gentle, understanding sound that seemed to hum with quiet affirmation—a clear "You're welcome."
Echo, his golden hair shimmering, grinned, a wide, genuine grin that finally, truly, reached his eyes, making them sparkle with tears of pure, overwhelming gratitude. "I'm going to get you so many treats, big guy! All the candied dates you can eat! And maybe… maybe even some of those sparkling sugar quills you like! Just… thank you!"
Dumbledore's office door swung open, and the Headmaster himself stepped inside, his long, flowing robes swirling around him. His eyes were no longer twinkling, fixed on Echo, and he looked mildly disapproving.
"Mr. Echo," Dumbledore said, his voice a low, knowing rumble, "I do hope you're not indulging our feathered friend with too many… 'sparkling sugar quills,' are you? Fawkes, while deserving of affection, does tend… overindulgence in certain sugary confections."
Echo froze, his golden hair still shimmering with joy, abruptly turning a nervous, agitated white. His wide, genuine grin faltered, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated panic that, for the first time, was clearly visible on his face. His hollow eyes darted between Fawkes and Dumbledore, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his pale forehead. He opened his mouth, then closed it, a stammering sound escaping him.
"Uh, Headmaster, I was just… checking out bird snacks!" he blurted out, his voice high-pitched and uncharacteristically frantic. "And the quills… they were just for, like, seeing how tough they were!"
Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement returning to his eyes, but his expression remained stern. "Seeing how tough they were, you say, Mr. Echo? And the amount of these 'tough' treats, I wonder? Enough for a small army of House-Elves, perhaps?"
Echo's white hair flared wildly, his facial muscles contorting into a perfect, expressive tableau of utter mortification. He clutched his hands together, then threw them up in a gesture of desperate resignation. "Gotta go!" he stammered, his gaze darting to the open window. "Super important… flying thing! Yep! Out that window!"
Before Dumbledore could even react, Echo launched himself with surprising speed towards the open window, his robes flapping behind him. With a sound that was half yelp and half panicked shout, he vaulted through the opening and plunged downwards.
Dumbledore gasped, his eyes wide with alarm. "Mr. Echo!" he cried, rushing to the window. His heart seizes momentarily at the terrifying thought that the boy had simply, illogically, jumped to avoid a lecture. He peers down, fully expecting to see a rapidly shrinking figure plummeting towards the ground.
But instead, as he leaned out, he saw Echo, not falling, but soaring. Godric, the magnificent griffin, had appeared from seemingly nowhere, catching Echo with effortless grace. The griffin let out a triumphant squawk, banking sharply and then speeding away, a blur of feathers and frantic white hair, towards the distant Forbidden Forest.
Dumbledore blinked once, twice, then a slow, fond smile spread across his face, his eyes twinkling with renewed mirth. "Indeed, Mr. Echo," he murmured to the empty air, "a most… unconventional method of egress. And a rather effective one, at that." He chuckled, shaking his head. "A scientific endeavor, he says."