The Room of Requirement and the Phoenix (5)

Harry turned over and buried his face in the pillow. Fawkes's ruby-like eyes still swam in his mind. There had been no doubt in them, no questioning—only pure, unconditional trust.

It believed in him. Dumbledore believed in him too.

But the way he repaid that trust was by concealing things.

His scar hurt again. Not sharply, but faintly, like a needle slowly moving beneath his skin. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the scar's warmth and pain. The light Fawkes burst forth with during his rebirth could reveal the underlying color of a person's soul. That was how Dumbledore had explained it.

So if Fawkes looked at him now, what color would it see? Gold, or something else?

Outside the window, the moon emerged from behind the clouds. Silvery light spilled over the bedpost, turning the wood grain into a row of silent faces. Far away, an owl's cry mingled with the wind, drifting from the direction of the Forbidden Forest, now near, now distant, as though carrying a message he could not understand.

In the common room, the embers in the fireplace sank lower. Dark red light flickered once across the walls, then went out completely. Hogwarts in the dead of night was as quiet as a sleeping castle. And behind those tightly shut doors, at the ends of those deep corridors, in corners where even the portraits dozed, secrets were growing like roots beneath the earth—unseen, untouchable, stretching inch by inch through the darkness.

At that moment, in the Headmaster's Office.

The heavy oak door closed softly behind Harry, shutting out the muffled bustle of the corridor. At once, the room fell into a peculiar silence, as though even the golden motes floating in the air had held their breath. Fawkes shifted on his gilded perch