The air in the office seemed to freeze for a second. The ruby on the silver scale had just risen to the top; with a ding, it dropped back down. Fawkes gave his wings a slight flap on his perch and let out a low cry.
There was something in that sound—perhaps a warning, perhaps something else—but Lockhart did not try to decipher it. He was busy watching Dumbledore's expression.
Nothing changed on Dumbledore's face. That smile remained exactly where it had been, like an object fixed in place. But in the depths of those blue eyes, an exceedingly thin glimmer flashed, as though something had shifted beneath the surface of a tranquil lake.
He spoke slowly. "Some marks are indeed older than we believe. And some marks are simpler than we believe." His tone held neither denial nor confirmation, only a highly polished balance that allowed the other person to choose their own interpretation. "You have studied this very carefully, Gilderoy. That is good. When investigating deeply, details are often the most reliable guides."
Lockhart gently folded the newspaper and placed it back on the corner of the desk, running his fingertips once over the crease as if confirming the paper's texture. "That is good, then. I'll keep those words in mind." He stepped half a pace back, his heel making a short, sharp sound against the wooden floor, as though putting a period to their conversation. "So—" He tipped his head toward the door. "—I suppose my special train will be arriving soon. The sands of Cairo won't wait for anyone."
"Then," Dumbledore said, rising and walking around the desk to stand before Lockhart. He extended his hand. "On behalf of Hogwarts, I wish you... a safe journey, Gilderoy." His palm was dry and warm, his grip steady.