Ariana's gaze followed Fawkes's line of sight and returned to Dumbledore. She drifted over. This time, she was a little faster than before, her skirt brushing over the grass with a soft rustle, like wind passing through silk. She circled around to stand before Dumbledore, then stopped and looked up at that wrinkled, aged face, so utterly unlike the one in her memories.
Her lips moved. No sound came out. It was not that she did not want to speak; the phantom formed from longing and magic had no vocal cords, no lungs, none of the organs that could make air vibrate into words.
But the shape of her mouth was clear. Standing several steps away, McGonagall read every word by moonlight. "Brother? Is that you? How did you get so old?"
Dumbledore's tears fell.
They were not the violent, sobbing kind that required one to cover one's face to stifle the sound. They were the kind where the rims of one's eyes reddened, one's lashes trembled once, and then two clear, warm streams seeped from the corners of one's eyes, flowing down the grooves beside his nose, passing through the deep and shallow wrinkles carved by time, before vanishing into his silver-white beard.
He did not wipe them away. He did not lower his head. He did not turn around.
He simply stood there, letting the tears slide down his face and fall onto the grass, gleaming under the moonlight like shattered droplets of mercury.
McGonagall's throat tightened. She had never seen Dumbledore cry. She had known him for decades. She had seen him besieged by Ministry of Magic officials, slandered by Daily Prophet reporters, and questioned from the Wizengamot's judgment seat.
She had never seen him shed tears. In those moments, there had only been light in his