Echo slipped silently into the Headmaster's office. The gargoyle had, surprisingly, given him no trouble; a strategically placed piece of enchanted rock candy had rendered it quite pliable. His black hair, a cautious indigo, barely stirred as he surveyed the room. The familiar whirring and clicking of Dumbledore's many peculiar instruments filled the silence, a symphony of forgotten magic. Books, piled in precarious towers, teetered on every available surface, and arcane silver contraptions whirred softly in glass cases.
"Professor Dumbledore?" Echo whispered, his voice barely audible above the gentle hum of the magical artifacts. He peered behind a towering telescope, then beneath a large, intricately carved desk. No reply. "Albus? Are you here?" Still, nothing. Echo straightened up, a faint frown creasing his brow. He needed to be certain before proceeding. "Is anyone home?" he asked, a touch louder this time, his indigo hair flickering with impatience.
A low, reedy voice, surprisingly close, startled him. "No. And neither should you, young man."
Echo spun around, his eyes landing on the Sorting Hat, perched innocently on a shelf behind the desk. His indigo hair flared with surprise, then settled into a resigned blue. "Oh, it's you. Don't start, Hat. I needed to be sure."
"Sure of what, pray tell?" the Hat inquired, its brim twitching with evident disapproval.
Echo smirked, his blue hair brightening with a mischievous yellow. "Sure that the coast is clear for my plan." He stepped closer to the shelf, his eyes gleaming with a conspiratorial glint. "Remember that promise I made you? The one about taking you out of this stuffy office? Letting you see a bit of the open world?"
The Hat remained silent for a moment, its ancient fabric seeming to absorb the words. "I do recall a rather outlandish suggestion involving a field trip, yes," it finally drawled, a hint of intrigued curiosity entering its voice.
Echo winked. "Well, today's the day. And by 'open world,' I meant Hogsmeade. And we're taking Fawkes for a walk."
The Sorting Hat's brim lifted slightly. "Hogsmeade? And Fawkes? Intriguing, indeed."
Echo reached up and carefully placed the Sorting Hat on his head, the worn leather settling comfortably. Then, with a practiced ease, he approached Fawkes, who was preening himself on a golden perch. The magnificent phoenix regarded Echo with bright, intelligent eyes. Echo, with a small, apologetic smile, produced a surprisingly long, magically reinforced rope from his robes and deftly fashioned a makeshift leash around Fawkes's neck, securing it gently but firmly.
"Why are you doing that?" the Hat asked from Echo's head, its voice muffled slightly by Echo's hair.
"So Fawkes doesn't try and fly away, of course," Echo replied, adjusting the rope. His yellow hair had softened to a cautious green. "If he escapes, Dumbledore will have my head. And unlike Fawkes, I can't come back from the dead."
"Fawkes would not abandon us," the Hat stated with a note of certainty.
"You can't be too sure," Echo muttered, giving the rope a final tug. "He's a phoenix. Flight is practically his middle name."
With Fawkes now gently tethered and the Sorting Hat securely on his head, Echo made his way towards the office door, his excitement growing. His green hair flickered with eager anticipation. Just as his hand reached for the doorknob, his elbow accidentally nudged a small, ornate box on a nearby table. With a soft clatter, the box sprang open, scattering its contents across the polished floor. Echo sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Oh, for Merlin's sake," he muttered, bending down to retrieve the spilled objects.
Among the scattered items, Echo noticed a collection of small, ornately bound books, their covers in varying colors and designs. He picked one up, its title etched in elegant, flowing script: "The Strings of Our Hearts." Echo let out a surprised snort, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. His green hair flickered with bewildered amusement. "The Headmaster reads romantic fiction?" he mused aloud, a strange image of Dumbledore poring over passionate prose forming in his mind.
He opened the book, intending to skim a few lines, when the Sorting Hat's voice, sharp with warning, cut in. "I wouldn't do that, young man."
Echo paused, his green hair flickering with mild annoyance. "Why not, Hat? What's the big deal?"
"Simply trust me on this one," the Hat pleaded, its voice uncharacteristically urgent. "Put the books back, close the lid, and pretend you never saw them."
Echo scoffed, brushing off the Hat's warning. "How bad can it be?" he muttered, already opening the book and letting his eyes glide over the first few paragraphs. His face, initially creased with amusement, slowly morphed into one of widening horror. The words on the page described an intense relationship between two characters, filled with graphic details that made Echo's stomach clench. His green hair began to pulse with a sickly white as he read on, a dawning, terrible realization creeping over him. One of the characters, described with an unmistakable twinkle in his eye and a penchant for elaborate robes, was Dumbledore himself.
Echo slammed the book shut with a resounding THWACK. His voice, when it came, was a horrified, incredulous bellow that echoed through the silent office. "Dumbledore wrote these about himself and his old lover?!"
"I warned you," the Sorting Hat intoned, its voice filled with a profound sense of 'I told you so'.
Echo, his face a ghastly shade of white, fumbled frantically, scooping up the fallen books and stuffing them back into the ornate box. He slammed the lid shut with a desperate finality, then, with Fawkes still gently tethered and the Sorting Hat still firmly on his head, he stumbled out of the Headmaster's office in a daze, his green hair a frantic, nauseous yellow.
Echo, still reeling, nearly collided with a stern figure who had just rounded the corner.
"Echo!" Minerva McGonagall's sharp voice cut through his daze, her eyes narrowed in immediate disapproval at the sight of the tethered phoenix and the Sorting Hat on his head.
Echo flinched, his yellow hair flashing a violent, nauseous green. "Ice cream and peanut butter!" he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips in a desperate, nonsensical jumble.
Minerva stared at him, a single eyebrow arching. "What?"
"What?" Echo repeated, momentarily confused, before his eyes darted to Fawkes, then to the Sorting Hat on his head. His mind, still processing the horrors of Dumbledore's romantic prose, struggled to catch up.
Minerva's gaze sharpened, taking in his disheveled appearance and the two highly irregular accessories. "Why, may I ask, do you have the Sorting Hat on your head and Fawkes on a leash?"
"Walkies!" Echo mumbled, already attempting to sidestep her, the magical rope still clutched in his hand. "Just going for walkies. Very important walkies."
"Stop, Echo," Minerva commanded, her voice firm. She stepped directly into his path, blocking his escape. Her gaze was piercing. "You found something in the Headmaster's office, didn't you?"
A bead of sweat trickled down Echo's temple. His green hair flickered wildly. The Sorting Hat let out a long, weary sigh, a sound that conveyed centuries of resigned wisdom. Even Fawkes, sensing Echo's distress, nudged his head gently against Echo's arm, a soft, comforting trill escaping his beak.
Minerva's eyes softened slightly, though her expression remained serious. "Did you find the box? The small, ornate one on the table near the door?"
Echo, his throat suddenly dry, gave a small, jerky nod.
"And did you… read any of the contents?" she pressed, a knowing, almost sympathetic glint in her eyes.
Echo winced, a full-body cringe. He nodded again, slower this time, his face a mask of profound mortification.
"Grindelwald and Dumbledore, then?" Minerva asked, her voice surprisingly gentle.
"It was so graphic!" Echo burst out, the words escaping him in a horrified rush. "I mean, I'm no prude, Professor, by any standard, but I never expected Dumbledore to write like… that! I expected the man to have some class!"
Minerva let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "If you know anything about Albus Dumbledore, Echo, it's that he simply pretends he does." She shook her head, a faint, almost nostalgic grimace on her face. "I remember when I accidentally stumbled upon it my first time as a student. Almost put me off lemon drops for life."
Echo shuddered. "I need to go for a walk, Professor. A very long walk. To clear my head."
Minerva nodded, her expression shifting from grim amusement to genuine concern. "Indeed, you do, dear. Go on. I'll go make you a mind-whipping tonic for when you return."
Echo practically bolted without another word, Fawkes fluttering along beside him on his makeshift leash, and the Sorting Hat a silent, ancient companion to his lingering horror.
A few hours later, Echo returned, looking significantly calmer, though still pale. He led a gently preening Fawkes back into Dumbledore's office, the makeshift leash now discarded. The Sorting Hat was still perched on his head, its brim perked up with an air of contented satisfaction.
Dumbledore, who was seated at his desk, his half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, looked up with a knowing twinkle in his eye. "Ah, Echo, Fawkes, my dear Hat. Back from your adventure, I see." He gestured vaguely with a lemon drop. "You know, if you wanted to take Fawkes and the Hat out for a walk, you only had to ask. There's no need to sneak around like a particularly guilty Niffler. Though," he added, a soft smile gracing his lips as he observed the two, "you both do look rather happy."
Echo, however, said and did nothing. He merely stared at Dumbledore, his hollow eyes wide and unblinking, as if looking into an abyss. A faint shudder ran through his body.
Dumbledore, noticing Echo's unusual silence, frowned slightly. "Echo, my boy, are you quite alright? You look as though you've seen a ghost."
Echo's lips parted, and a barely audible whisper escaped him. "I can never see you the same way again."
Dumbledore blinked, genuinely perplexed. "I beg your pardon? See me how, my dear boy?"
Echo shook his head, a frantic tremor in his hands. "Nothing," he croaked, his voice strained. "And… bye!" With that, he practically bolted from the office, leaving a bewildered Dumbledore staring after him.
Dumbledore turned to the Sorting Hat, a puzzled expression on his face. "What in Merlin's name was that all about? What happened to the poor boy?"
The Sorting Hat's brim twitched, and its voice, laced with a familiar, weary knowingness, replied, "He found your personal collection, Albus. The one near the door."
Dumbledore's eyes widened, and a deep flush crept up his neck, staining his usually serene face a vibrant crimson. "He… he read it?" he stammered, his voice hushed with mortification.
"What do you think, Albus?" the Hat replied, its ancient voice bearing a distinct note of 'I told you so'.
Dumbledore put his hands over his face, letting out a long, theatrical groan. "Oh, not again! Not another one! I thought Minerva had secured that box more thoroughly."
"You really do need to put a proper lock on that thing, Albus," the Sorting Hat advised, its voice surprisingly stern. "Or at least a very strong Disillusionment Charm. Perhaps a Fidelius Charm, even."
Dumbledore, now alone save for Fawkes and the Hat, let out another dramatic groan, running a hand through his long, silver beard. "She is going to kill me this time, Hat," he moaned, his voice filled with genuine dread. "Minerva is absolutely going to kill me. She said she secured the box! This is entirely her fault, isn't it?"
The Sorting Hat, however, was unsympathetic. "No, Albus," it retorted dryly. "This is entirely yours. Perhaps if you ceased writing such… vivid accounts of your past affairs, and then left them in an unsecured box for impressionable young minds to discover, you wouldn't find yourself in such predicaments."
Dumbledore buried his face in his hands again. "But the creative flow! The passion! One must document such… profound experiences!" He peeked through his fingers. "Do you think a very large bowl of lemon drops might appease her? Or perhaps a new set of tartan robes?"
The Hat merely sighed, a rustling sound of ancient fabric. "Albus, you have inflicted upon that boy a trauma that even the strongest Obliviate might struggle to erase entirely. You might need more than lemon drops this time."
Meanwhile, Echo, still a ghostly white, had practically flung himself into Minerva McGonagall's office, collapsing against her, his face buried in the folds of her tartan robes. Minerva, who had been grading parchments, immediately dropped her quill, her stern features softening with concern. She wrapped an arm around him, gently stroking his now-frantic yellow hair as he shuddered uncontrollably.
"There, there, dear," she murmured, her voice uncharacteristically gentle. "It's alright. Just drink your mind-whipping tonic. It will help, I promise." She pressed a steaming mug into his trembling hands, and Echo, without hesitation, gulped down the potion, tears still streaming down his face. "It's quite all right, Echo. We've all been there."
"That old fool," Minerva muttered, her voice a low growl, her grip tightening around Echo. "This time, Echo, this time I am genuinely going to kill Albus. I swear it."