Fawkes had awakened from his slumber at some point. He craned his neck and cried out, his ruby-pure eyes reflecting Dumbledore's lean face.
Yet there was a note of sorrow in his gentle song.
On the wall behind the desk, among the silent former headmasters, Phineas was unusually animated, twisting his head this way and that as though trying to figure out where to make room for Dumbledore.
"How is Harry?"
The three clinked glasses again. Amosta let out a soft breath and asked,
"Do you think he is ready, Headmaster Dumbledore?"
"I cannot give you an exact answer, Amosta—"
At the mention of Harry, Dumbledore's eyes held both kindness and concern.
His gaze drifted toward the window. At the edge of the boundless dark earth, an almost imperceptible glimmer of light was poised to break forth.
"But I believe—"
Dumbledore turned back and said gently,
"After so many trials and hardships, he has not lost his precious courage. His heart remains pure, filled with goodness and love. And that is why he was able to break free from Tom tonight—"
Amosta nodded, then lowered his eyes in silence.
This subject was rather too profound for Horace.
His gaze darted between Dumbledore and Amosta. With a slight furrow between his brows, he pondered the meaning behind their words.
"Anyway—"
The three had drained over half a bottle of sherry in silence. Amosta rubbed his brow to ease his taut nerves, then smiled.
"We should celebrate last night's victory—
In the nearly year since Voldemort returned, he had never suffered a blow like the one he took last night. His elite forces were wiped out. I believe that for some time, he will be unable to stir up any more terror. Isn't that right, Horace?"
Amosta's gentle gaze fell upon Horace,