He waved to the crowd below as cheers erupted once more. Even that gesture had been precisely rehearsed—not too broad, not too slight, sweeping from left to right to ensure that people in every direction felt seen.
Then he mounted his broom and shot into the sky in a dazzling burst of light. The light was golden, flecked with tiny sparks, like a cluster of lit fireworks climbing along an invisible track.
His figure grew smaller and smaller within the glow. As he crossed Hogwarts's sky, he left behind a fleeting, shining trail against the brilliant blue backdrop, like an exceedingly fine line drawn across a blue canvas with golden ink. The line gradually faded in the southeastern horizon, dispersed, and finally vanished at the edge of the clouds.
The crowd below still looked upward, and some people were still applauding.
Fawkes let out a long, clear cry. Its tone differed from its usual low murmur—several notes higher, with a metallic piercing quality, like the click of a key turning in a lock.
Dumbledore stood by the window, watching the direction in which Lockhart had disappeared. The gentleness that had been in his bright blue eyes when he faced Lockhart was gone, leaving only profound concern and a cold sharpness like light reflecting from a blade. His fingers rested on the windowsill, his knuckles faintly white, while his thumbnail lightly scraped across the stone.
He muttered softly, his voice so low that only Fawkes could hear it. "Dispel the gloom? Bring light?" He paused. The trace of a smile at the corner of his mouth had vanished completely. "No, Gilderoy Lockhart... this journey of yours will likely cast you wholly into the deepest shadows. Your pen, your reputation, your 'connections'... all of them will become the sharpest daggers of those