Headmaster's office.
A burst of bright red flames suddenly roared to life in the center of the room, tongues of fire twisting and leaping.
A moment later the flames parted, and a tall figure with long silver hair and a matching beard stepped out—Albus Dumbledore.
His traveling cloak still carried the chill of the outside air, but those bright blue eyes gleamed in the firelight as sharp as ever.
Fawkes drooped listlessly on his shoulder, head bobbing, neck stretching toward the nearby perch in an obvious plea: I'm going back to sleep.
Dumbledore understood his old friend perfectly. He gently lifted the phoenix, carried him to the golden stand, and offered a handful of the special herbs kept nearby.
Phoenix food. Fawkes would eat nothing else.
"You've worked hard these past weeks," Dumbledore murmured, stroking the phoenix's feathers.
Ever since he had obtained Tom Riddle's diary and confirmed the existence of Horcruxes, Dumbledore had been chasing every possible lead.
He was certain Voldemort—obsessed with immortality and willing to mutilate his own soul—would never have stopped at a single Horcrux.
The Dark Lord would have hidden them in the most secret, unthinkable places imaginable.
Whenever he had a spare moment, Dumbledore had been traveling: digging into Voldemort's early life, tracing his movements after Hogwarts, hunting for any clue that might reveal where the other soul anchors were hidden.
All that Apparition and side-along travel had been courtesy of Fawkes.
Of course Dumbledore could Apparate—and he was exceptionally skilled at it—but a phoenix's natural teleportation was simply more convenient and unrestricted.
Fawkes swallowed the herbs, then took a long drink of the fresh dew. Some of his energy returned.
He lifted his head and gave an irritable trill.
Dumbledore understood the complaint at once:
"Next time you want to go back to any of those places, use Apparition yourself. Don't tell me you 'forgot the coordinates'… I'm still growing. I can't be overworked like this."
Dumbledore shook his head with fond exasperation.
He had long since grown used to his old companion acting young when it suited him and playing the elder when it didn't.
After all, a phoenix could rebirth itself. Age was whatever Fawkes decided it was.
He was just about to soothe the bird and coax him into one more trip when something made him pause. He turned toward the window.
Under the moonlight, a thin strand of silvery-white mist drifted silently up the edge of the glass.
It was so faint it almost blended with the moonbeams, easy to miss.
The mist hovered for a second, then suddenly contracted and vanished.
As if it had only stopped by to say hello.
The whole thing could have been a trick of the eye, but Dumbledore's brows drew together.
"Patronus Charm?" he murmured. "And yet it felt a little…"
BOOM—
Before he could finish the thought, a low, heavy sound echoed—the stone gargoyle at the entrance to the spiral staircase shifting aside.
Then came rapid, urgent footsteps pounding up the stairs.
Thud-thud-thud. Fast and heavy. Whoever it was had clearly run the entire way.
Dumbledore turned toward the staircase.
Snape practically burst into the room. His already greasy black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his long black robes were smudged with dust at the hem, and he was breathing hard.
He steadied himself, eyes locking onto Dumbledore.
"Dumbledore," he said, voice tight, "did you feel that Patronus Charm just now?"