The real shit luck of being an intensely magical creature with innate, undreamed of healing properties is that once they're gone, you're pretty much fucked. Fawkes is going to be limping on that scratched leg a while, he suspects, and as he preens at a loose tailfeather (there's nothing to be done save to yank it out completely) there's a distinct air of wounded dignity.

He leaves the feathers on the floor, hops back up to the table, and edges towards the sill. Nice meeting you, Evelyn. So nice. Such friend. Wow.

Albus clearly needs better taste.