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Backlash

Chapter 1

I

Far away from the ground, where the winds are harsher and the sun is strong, a bird from legends flies. The cold temperature of the air doesn't bother him as scorching fire always resides inside him, warming him from his talons to the tip of his wings. It's nice. Though he admits it's easier to ride the warm thermals of summer, less need to flap one's wings and grow tired; the workout is appreciated.

Perhaps he would go next to a more tropical place where thermals, those bubbles of hot air that help flying, are more common. He kind of misses billowing up effortlessly, soaring up higher and higher with just a couple flaps, until he's above the clouds and can relax and float away, free.

A thud interrupts his musings and he searches for the bird he's been following. He finds it a second later, as his sight is more than perfect in this form. The bird with its wings pressed to its back, head low and talons tucked back, falling down like a seeker who's found the snitch. Then, with the grace only birds of prey have, it opens its wings and picks the dead animal up from the ground, soaring up once again to repeat the action.

Harry calls him Marcus in his mind as it kind of reminds him of Slytherin's captain, Marcus Flint, and what he would consider funny.

Well, it is actually kind of funny to see bird-Marcus picking the animal up to just throw it again and again. This is the third time he's seen it do it, but his amusement hasn't diminished since then. It actually makes up for missing the hawk he was following earlier and lost its tracks thanks to the surprise of watching a dead body falling a couple of steps away from him.

He would have gone closer after that if only to inspect the bird-Marcus better. Animals kind of worship him now (or at least treat him with respect), so he isn't afraid of annoying them or them attacking him.

That being said, this is one of the largest birds he's seen. His wingspan is larger than the length of his human body. It can probably fit two Harry's, actually.

He's not intimidated, not really. But he can't deny that seeing a large bird carry a big wolf just to drop it, creates a certain measure of caution. His phoenix form is not big even if his wingspan does have a respectful length.

The fourth time seems to be the charm. Bird-Marcus once again goes down, but this time it doesn't pick up the body. It begins tearing the pelt away to reach the flesh with its beak with disturbing ease. The bloodstains the white ground and its brownish chest, but its wings, black with a couple of gray feathers, remain pristine.

It's kind of beautiful to see it. Deadly and terrifying, but still beautiful in an almost candid way.

II

Harry never finished his normal muggle schooling as he went to Hogwarts when he was just eleven years old. That means there's a lot of things he doesn't know most people would call obvious and has a lot of information others would call useless. Well, it is kind of useless, now. There's no magical society here, after all.

Though it doesn't mean there's no magic. It's weak and can be felt better if one touches the ground, tightly pressed inside the Earth, as if it's trying to restore its energy, curled up as it is. It can be found in the air, too, but fainter.

So, while there's not enough magic in the air for people with an actual magical core to exist, there's enough for some magical creatures to be born. The people instead have the same secondary sort of magical core intricately connected to their souls, which muggles and wizards also had from what he's sensed, just not as strong. There are a couple of magical plants too, so some of his knowledge of herbology and care of magical creatures is still usable, which is nice when dealing with the dangerous ones.

Not that he really needs it. He's probably one of the strongest magical creatures out there. At least one of the most respected if he doesn't count unicorns. Or he would be if he was really a phoenix and not just an animagus. Though taking into account he's been in his phoenix form for close to three years without turning back, maybe he does count as one.

He's fallen to the instinct of the phoenix and let it take it over his mind. He no longer feels the phantom aches in which his nose, the one he doesn't have, itches or the want to curl his non-existent fingers. He's more of a bird than human, now. And considering phoenix are known as intelligent creatures, maybe he's smarter, too. He feels smarter.

Harry blinks when he feels clear eyes settling on him. Bird-Marcus is now edging some piece of meat towards his direction with its beak before straightening. They lock stares for a minute longer and with some sort of dread he realizes bird-Marcus won't eat until Harry has had the first bite.

Fantastic.

Phoenix may be herbivores, but thanks to him being a human, he can eat meat and more, too. There's no excuse for him to deny it when is Bird-Marcus the one acknowledging Harry's worth by offering a part of its hunt. It'd be of bad taste to overlook it when he knows how apprehensive birds of prey are when other animals are close. Also, Harry's kind of pushover when he's a phoenix.

With a small sigh he's still capable of doing even with a beak, Harry flies to the bird's side, faintly admitting bird-Marcus is even more intimidating up close. He then bows his head if only to be polite and eats the raw flesh.

He mentally hums as he feels the blood still warm on his tongue, just now noticing bird-Marcus is actually a female bird.

Oh well.

III

It isn't his intention to follow bird-Marcus to her nest. He's simply curious where she's taking what's left of the dead wolf's body. In his mind, her nest is filled with the bones of her victims instead of the plain sticks most birds prefer. She's clearly made an impression already. If it's a good one or not, he's not really sure.

So he follows her, sometimes even using plain apparition instead of flying as he always feels kind of lazy after eating some raw meat. He's also fairly sure it's close to winter and the afternoons in Russia get kind of cold. He may have fire in his veins but he likes being warm. Apparition helps with that as he has to burn to do it and the fire spreads all over his body. Not that he does it many times. While her nest is not close by human standards, it only takes them fifteen minutes of flying before they reach a rocky mountain. There are a couple of hole-like spaces between rocks that clearly are for nesting. In one of them, bird-Marcus flies in.

And well, he certainly isn't expecting the two little chicks he sees. They're cute in a potato kind of way, especially when bird-Marcus feeds them. He stays with them until the sky darkens, the only thing illuminating them being his burning tail and the stars above them. Harry then closes his eyes, talons digging into the soil as he feels the hum of magic beneath him. For a moment he can feel the Earth slowly moving, the trees above the cliff and the breathing of the animals taking refuge near. He lets the phoenix inside him take absolute control until he can feel the life within the world, falling into a slumber as the winter approaches—all things he could have never experienced as a human.

The winds pick up and he starts singing, wishing every animal hears his encouragement for the hard hunts that will come when the snow falls, uncaring of the noise the breeze rustling through the yellowish leaves that haven't fallen yet makes.

Other animals come close to hear him and Harry flies to the ground, igniting the fire on his tail to not only serve as a light but to actually produce heat and warm the ones that come to hear him. Not a moment later, small creatures with four spindly legs and giant flat feet come out from a smoky hole on the bottom of the mountain, their smooth, pale gray skin shining in the dark. Bulging round eyes turn to look at him, but it's brief and soon they're dancing.

He won't know they're Mooncalves until it's midnight and most animals are sleeping around him, when he takes out one of the books about magical creatures that are inside the small pouch he keeps hanging around his neck, his burning tail giving him enough light to be able to read.

IV—THEN

Harry would never forget the first time he became a phoenix.

The battle had been over for over a month but everyone was still twitchy thanks to Voldemort's most loyal followers causing mayhem. For the non-adults meant that while Hogwarts study period was done for the year, students still resided there. Including Harry and his friends.

Though they were the best informed of all thanks to being members of the Order of the Phoenix. Everyone was completely certain they would get pulled into the thick of it as soon as they left the safety of the school so the Order didn't bother in hiding.

There were no formal classes around as no one could focus, but that didn't mean there were none. Offensive and defensive spells were a favorite of everyone, followed by magic healing, including potions and charms. The library was always opened for anyone who wanted to broaden their knowledge too, a thing that was appreciated by the ones who still wanted to pass their OWLs and NEWTs.

Even with those classes going on, plus the political lessons McGonagall gave him every night, Harry had too much free time for his liking. The nightmares didn't give him enough sleep and when he was awake the weight on his shoulders was more evident with the way everyone looked up at him. And he knew it would only become worse.

His friends decided they would spend the time trying to become animagi, to take his mind out of things and because being able to turn into an animal sounded practical, especially when one wanted to escape. They spent months doing all the weird rituals that was needed while using their free time for meditation. The month they had to hold the leaf of a mandrake inside their mouth for a month was hard, but in the end, it all paid off.

Hermione was an otter, small but very nimble, while Ron turned into a Jack Russell, a canine, like Sirius. They kinda expected him to become a stag, as their forms had seemed to be based on their Patronus.

But that didn't happen.

Instead of the usual smooth transition as he concentrated in that shadow that was his inner animal, fire licked his form in a quick burst. His insides burned in a comforting way as the ashes of what he once was fell to the ground. His senses heightened, everything became clear.

For some reason, the memory of the first time he used a broomstick came to him. He remembered clearly the sensation of weightless and the wind soaring across his cheeks, brushing his hair and making it more untamable than ever—He remembered the freedom. Everything was beautiful and he loved it.

Before opening his eyes and hearing his friend's gasps he already knew what his animagus form was.

The phoenix inside him sang too loud for him to ignore.

(Another memory pushed to the forefront of his mind, but Harry ignored it. The morning in which he woke up with the unbroken Elder wand and the Resurrection ring next to his Cloak wasn't something he wished to acknowledge.

It was a secret he intended taking to his grave.)

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

V

It sometimes annoys him that his animagus form is a magical bird. Yeah, they can fly, have an amazing sight, able to pinpoint with great accuracy things that are several hundred feet away, their hearing is nothing to scoff at, either. And that's without counting their amazing magical senses.

That's a problem, now, though. As it makes it hard to ignore things.

Case in point, he's high up in the sky and still can hear people talking down on the ground, which is too close for his comfort as he hasn't had any contact with humans since he decided to live as a phoenix. Some kind of kneejerk reaction makes him take the convenient warm updraft that will take him higher and away.

However, before he's gained enough distance he hears they're in trouble.

Obviously he can't really understand the language even if he gets it's Chinese. He gets what's happening and that's the crucial thing. He hovers on top of the wonderful thermal for a moment, thinking about how much he hates his hero-complex. Then with a mental sigh, he flies towards the ground, briefly enjoying the wind across his face until he's a nice distance away to not be seen but still close enough to get a better understanding of what's going on.

He sees first a woman with Asian features and clothes walking around a clearing, searching for who knows what as she talks aloud, limbs trembling slightly and movements frantic. A bag is close to what looks like an uneven hole in the ground where a calm male voice is coming from.

Before he can think twice, he flaps his wings and goes down the hole. He lifts up the person outside, being as careful as possible of any wounds he may have. The woman's open mouth closes when he settles on a branch near and she runs to the man's side to check upon him. He doesn't know their relationship but it's clear they're close if the way the woman looks at the man, like he's the light at the end of a tunnel, is anything to go by. Both talk quickly, but it's clear their attention is focused on him. It irks him but he doesn't go away as he inspects them from their clothes to the big bag next to the woman. Their exhausted faces and wariness tell him they're not here to hike.

He blinks when the woman finishes bandaging the guy and starts mumbling as she looks inside her backpack. She asks something from the other, which is quickly answered and makes the guy stop looking at him in awe. However, by the looks of it, it isn't what she wanted to hear. Distress slowly settles on her frame.

By the gesturing going on, he gets that there's something left inside the hole. Harry sighs but goes to retrieve the brown bag. They're clearly surprised, but Harry just wants to leave them without feeling guilty and worried.

… He really wants to stop feeling responsible all the time about other's wellbeing.

With a shake of his head, he steels his resolve and flies away.

VI

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't end like that.

His plans of leaving the continent have been halted with the excuse of searching for new magical creatures, all his trips suspiciously close to China. Every time he's able to go farther, true, but too often he manages to fly above certain couple to see their progress.

Harry may try to deny it but the signs are all there: he's a pushover. And in his way to refute this, he's regressed into his younger reckless years, which may have amplified his trouble-magnet skills. There's no other explanation as to why he's currently surrounded by Acromantulas, a distance away of what's he's sure is their nest.

In his defense, he's not actually sure how it happened. He was trying to follow a Demiguise, a monkey-looking creature with the ability to disappear at will, as he's been curious about them since he found out their hair is the one used to make Invisible Cloaks. He took stumbling across one as a sign of luck. Unfortunately, it was a young one, who seemed to be more interested in annoying him.

And what better way to do it than by making Harry chase him around?

He should have retreated instead of going along with the little one's whims, but Harry has never claimed to be wise. Now he has to suck up and wait to see what they want from him. His experiences with the giant spiders are distressing at best and, being now treated like some sort of 'honored guest', honestly weirds him out. He really wants to apparate away but he's intrigued to know what that indigo smoke that hid their nest was. He's never seen anything like it before.

One moment he's trying to find the little Demiguise; the next one, it's like he's walked through an invisible curtain and he can suddenly see the spider webs covering the trees.

After that, the Acromantulas weren't slow to arrive. It was only his phoenix pride the one keeping him from bolting out of there. He, still feeling apprehension in their presence, crooned a melody, hoping the famous song his animagus form is known for could be enough to put him in their good graces.

And it's worked a little too well, he thinks as he hears the telltale sound of multiple legs walking across the web. He can see a shadow approaching the entrance, darkening everything near. Not a moment later, a big spider comes out, less than half the size of Azaroth but no less frightening.

'Can you speak?' Harry asks, mentally.

He can, which is good but only in Chinese. Harry could read his mind but he needs touch for it to work and that's a big no. To not offend them he broadcasts his thoughts to let them known of this. Then he does the same to introduce himself as 'Harry' before asking for his.

"Jianzhu," the speaker near him says, pointing at itself, before motioning him to follow.

Strangely he doesn't feel any dread at that. He's actually looking forward to what he will be shown. After all, the air is practically vibrating with magic.

VII

"Harry?" Jianzhu says, attempting to regain his attention from where he's playfully chasing a couple of Snidgets. Harry honestly wants to ignore him as it's always been a dream of his to play with a Snidget ever since he found out they were what Quidditch players used before the Snitch was invented. With their round bodies, golden plumage and flight ability is obvious they were made with the little bird in mind. Their long, thin beak and jewel-like red eyes the only clear differences between them.

One flies close to his beak before going to his back in the next moment. It makes him turn and note the second acromantula next to his guide. They're talking but it still sounds like gibberish to him.

He really needs to learn the language if he wants to get some answers about how this place came to be and if there are more like it in other countries. That indigo smoke is a clue, it's what hides them, and he knows it. Does that mean there is a magical secret society? He's not sure, but there's at least something hiding magical creatures from normal people and he wants to know what.

Luckily, he has a couple of Language-Lozenges candies inside his pouch. The downside is that he needs to be a human for them to work and spend some time around people who speak the language he wants to learn. He could try to look for other methods in the books he has but the lack of fingers made it hard for him to do any research. He can levitate page by page as he does when he wants to look for a new magical creature, but it's tiring and hard to do.

Great.

Using his clear distraction to their advantage, the Snidgets come flying to him like a rain of arrows. While he could easily shrug them off, Harry doesn't and pretends to fall to the ground and take the little birds down with him. They're quick to escape, but Harry is quicker. A hair away before his form can touch the ground, he apparates a small distance away from the Acromantulas, one of his long feathers brushing their legs.

They want him to leave, it's what he gets from their surfacing thoughts. He may be magical like them, but he's still an outsider.

'Can I return?' he tries to ask, but he doesn't understand their answers.

He's never felt this impotent.

With a final goodbye to the Snidgets, Harry leaves. He flies above the human pair he helped, notices they're now using a car and settles on their roof. If they're surprised, he ignores it, choosing to look down at his golden talons, the long tail trailing behind, black instead of the usual red, with only a couple golden feathers to give them some color. There are two large slightly green ones coming from it that he can move like tentacles. He curls them around himself, redirecting his gaze to his wings, also dark with gold highlights, and thinks of his human form—his wingless form—, unable to feel magic, or at least not as well, as the phoenix in him can do.

He sings a sad tune.

VIII-THEN

When he killed Voldemort and the political pressure on him grew, he no longer had the time to do anything for himself. Between assisting funerals, trials and charity's balls to gain some money for restoration—Harry was always busy.

His friends were always behind, trying to help, but they were moving on, too. The war was something they were putting behind, trying to make the best they could from a tragedy. He respected them for that as he also wanted to do the same, but couldn't. Magical Britain didn't let him move on. He was their Savior, a vestige from the war, something look, so they could remember what could have happened.

He couldn't deny being bitter, but he couldn't blame them either. If looking at him, helped them move forward, away from the purist ideals, then he was… Well, not okay. But at least not resentful.

"I can't keep waiting, Harry," Ginny once told him after a boring reunion with some members of the Wizengamot and other high ranking figures. "This is not what I want my future to be."

"You want to try for that position as a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies, right?"

"I do," she said, not surprised he knew. She sat next to him on the sofa they bought, inside the apartment they've moved a year ago. Her soft, warm eyes were all, "Let's go together", while the tight line of her lips seemed to say, "Let's find ourselves and move on."

But… he couldn't. Only three years had passed since the war and the status quo was still a fragile thing. If he left to do what he wanted, he knew that while there would be unrest for a while, life would still go on. It would take them some time, but Magical Britain would still prosper.

And that was the problem, wasn't it? It would take them longer and in that time people and magical creatures alike would continue to suffer. His popularity was still high and there was so much good he could do with it. He couldn't just leave.

If he asked Ginny to wait for him, she might do it and put him above her future to help him, but it wouldn't be fair for her. For either of them.

So he shook his head.

She didn't sigh exasperatedly like Ron would have done or told him how it wasn't healthy for him like Hermione would have. She just took his hand with a sad smile and asked him if he wanted to fly together instead.

And in that moment he couldn't have loved her more.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

IX

'When have I become a coward?' he thinks aloud as he watches the snowfall and wonders about being human again. 'I'm a Griffindor but I've been running away for so long.'

Bird-Marcus doesn't answer as she's a bird, but her chicks chirp at him from where they're under her mother. He can barely see their heads, but he doesn't make his tail warmer. He doesn't want them to get used to it and then suffer when he's gone. It'll be hard enough with the lack of food to hunt now that winter is upon them.

Maybe he can visit more frequently between his trips to Asia. At least until the chicks can fly. He can use that time to research about Disillusionment charms to see if there's something about the indigo smoke. He'll try to visit some Chinese city to learn the language in his human form after he knows where that pair is going to. When they settle down in someplace and he knows their language, he can ask them about their country and if they know about any weird creatures. They're now close to the sea, so it won't be long.

In the meantime, he can enjoy his time with bird-Marcus and her neighbors.

This seems to be a good idea as not a week later, he has a great view of some type of weird machine flying up and up in the sky, until it's nothing but a spot he can't see. A great accomplishment considering he has phoenix's eyes.

It's not a plane, of that he's sure. He could barely distinguish some parts of the dot, but he remembers enough to know that what he saw is not something as simple. He also has enough knowledge in muggle history to know that is around this time muggles started trying to go to space.

For all the traveling he's been doing the last years, he's never seen a spatial station. It's his fault as he's been trying to be as far away from humanity since he came into this world, true. Maybe is time to change that. It's been years, after all. He knows spatial stations are packed with people to make it run and if he's going to a city soon, he should start preparing himself by increasing his time around large amounts of people.

He doesn't think he'll still be skittish as he was those first days coming here. Stalking those two has helped him to be around their weird sort of magical core that likes to approach his own a little too much for his liking, too. There isn't anyone who knows him either, which makes him feel better even if it pains him to admit it.

Still.

If he were a human, he knows he would be having an anxiety attack or be in the first stages of one. As he's currently not one, he sings and lets the song of his own making calm him down.

X

In the end, it's curiosity the one making the final decision of apparate as near as he can get to the place the thing came from without being seen, which is the smart thing to do as it only takes him a second after he's reached his destination to notice the great number of people in the place. Most a considerable length away from some metal thing he's fairly sure is where the ship went off, but there are a couple few who seem busy going from place to place.

And he can sense them all.

It's weird, to be honest. A phoenix has better magical senses than most creatures so since the first time he was able to transform into one he's been able to get faint impressions of a wizard's magical core. On the other hand, that should have meant muggles were outside his view as they don't possess magic. The reality was different, of course, as he found out muggles did have some sort of magical core, smaller than a squib's. He wasn't sure what it was. He only knew some had similar flavors, seemed to be intricately connected with their souls, and liked to go near him.

Unsurprisingly, Hermione had a field day when he told her about it. She spent months investigating it and nagging him to give all the descriptions he could about it. However, he was gone before seeing the results of her research.

They learned wizards have this power too, which is interesting. That being said, it is more interesting to find out that while everyone here in this world has that sort of magical core too, theirs is stronger. Again, not enough to ever wield magic, but unlike muggles, and most wizards, they've got a potential to ignite… something.

It disturbed him those first days, as it feels like soul magic, and added to the reasons of why he decided to live as a phoenix. So he doesn't know what as it is small and he doesn't want to get closer to it, but there are some people with larger cores who make a curious tingle go inside him that doesn't feel as awful.

That's why he can't help but trail his gaze to the building he can see from the branches of the tree he's hiding in, where he can sense there's a person with the greatest potential he's felt since coming to this world.

Warm, he thinks, wishing to see and maybe meet this person.

There are people inside too, he notes absently. Not that he cares much. He may admit needing to get used to being around people and learning about this time is something he honestly wishes to do, but… their weird sort of magical cores still creeps him out.

(He's maybe turning more into a phoenix than he's thought if he's this snobbish)

Looking to the window where he knows that mysterious person is, Harry wonders about his options.

Maybe he can hit two birds with a stone?

XI

The-man-turned-phoenix-who-stalks can be his new hyphened title. It has a nice ring to it, he admits. Fitting too, seeing as he's been visiting daily the space station at different hours just to see the owner of that larger-than-normal core. He's even stayed an entire day on a branch after helping bird-Marcus hunt, manning the cold winter, glaring at the window where this person doesn't seem to move from. As if by the force of his stare they would go out.

Unsurprisingly, it doesn't work but Harry Potter is nothing if stubborn.

That's why he comes and goes, exchanging between looking for the Chinese pair, watching the large building and meeting bird-Marcus neighbors, singing when the cold is harsher to lift their moods and warm their souls. He actually becomes quite familiar with most of the birds in the area and some other animals. They can't understand his actions as they're driven by their instincts and can't really be reasonable, but that doesn't mean they can't understand. Simple commands or suggestions they can follow when he thought-talks to them.

They can offer the same and more, too. Animals are really intelligent and fun to spend time with even if they can't talk back.

Still. Entertained or not, after two weeks he's frustrated. He knows people are allowed to leave. There's a city near where most workers seem to go to sleep or to simply have fun. Alas, the mystery person doesn't seem to be interested in following normal human needs.

(The Chinese pair are even in a boat now!)

Actually, Harry is kind of worried. He doesn't know much of the time he's in but maybe it's more awful than he's thought and this person is not allowed to leave or… or is being experimented on because of this power.

Bloody hell, it would just be his luck if that's the case.

He looks from side to side, fidgeting. He tries to think of a plan that will lead him inside but comes with little aside from the overly used barge in and make it up as it goes. It's simple and it has worked before but the phoenix inside him that is elegant and has a penchant for dramatics cringes at just the thought. So that's a no.

After stalking this place for so long he more or less has an idea of how the security works and when it rotates. He only needs to learn more about the security cameras and the kind. He can't just apparate to the window's edge as the flames after a phoenix apparition are too showy, but he can probably reach the roof from the sky with none being the wiser.

The problem is reaching the window without being seen. His feathers may be black and are easier to blend in with the shadows because of it but he's still a large bird with a constant burning tail. He can reduce the flames, true, but it's still visible.

Maybe he can get a distraction. Something flamboyant enough to catch the attraction of everyone and let him slip inside.

… He may have an idea.

XII

The sky is starting to become darker when a sickening thud is heard, one that reminds everyone of broken bones and one can't help but compare to the sound one would expect a person to make at being crushed by a truck. People as the morbid curious beings they are, move closer to the windows or go outside to see what's happening and find the body of a dead brown bear outside.

Murmurs are already starting when two bearded vultures swoop down and snatch it up. People continue watching as they fly higher, some with a frown on their faces as they recognize the bird of prey and to their knowledge, they hunt alone and away from the public. Those people search for cameras to record this anomaly, while the ones who have never known about this winged creature, merely look transfixed as they let go of the body so it can plummet on the ground again.

While this happens, on the opposite side of the building a different type of bird is using the edge of the top floor to peek the window below to get a better view of the inside of the room. There are tables filled with papers and some weird machines, the floor has piles of books and more instruments. It's fairly large even if there's almost no free space left. Not that he pays much attention as he's more concentrated in the person looking to the door where the noise is coming from.

That can't be his natural hair color, is first thought, followed by, Is he going to check what all the commotion is about?

The second thought is the one that makes him anxious. It'd be just his bloody luck to reach the person he's interested in meeting just to see him leave.

So in Griffindor fashion, Harry knocks the window's glass with his beak, quite amused at the way the green-haired young man startles when he turns around, revealing green eyes behind familiar round glasses.

The young man mumbles something in a language he doesn't recognize. Instead of trying to use thought-talk when he might not know English, Harry uses something similar and nudges the impressions of his thoughts onto the young man until the other can understand he's asking if he can go inside.

This would scare a normal person, but it seems the other is more curious than afraid. He quickly empties a space on his table until it's clear of papers and goes to open the window.

Not that it's needed as Harry apparates next on the now free chair, startling even more the young man until he's hissing more strange words at him. Which, rude. Harry's taking his lack of warm clothes into consideration and doesn't want him to get sick for opening the window when it's freezing cold outside. He should receive a thank you and not cursing.

… Though he admits a bird appearing in a burst of flames inside a room filled with papers is not a great idea.

Maybe he should have still warned him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

XIII

The methods of communication used by phoenix are similar to legimency, but not. While expert legimens can read one's thoughts and memories by going through their mental barriers and causing them mental stress in the process, a phoenix can only hear the thoughts of others when there's physical contact and they're the ones who broadcast to them to him. Phoenixes can also communicate with others by broadcasting their own thoughts but as they're not humans, they don't talk. Instead, they give ideas, impressions, memories—abstract concepts.

Harry can talk because it doesn't matter how long he stays in the form of a phoenix, he'll always be a human and think like one. That being said, he can only use English, French, and a few Italian phrases thanks to Zabini, so maybe he's lucky he's mastered how to communicate like a phoenix and now can easily project his thoughts.

Using that, he shows the young man how everyone has a feeling to them and his is the strongest he's felt so far. He makes his curiosity known and the memory of himself waiting to see him but that never happens. He tries to convey his worry by picturing cells and human experiments. He finally mentions his plan if only to see his face at his memory of two big birds throwing a dead bear from high in the Sky.

At some point, the young man Harry starts calling Doc because of the lab coat, grabs a notebook and starts writing, but it's clear his attention never leaves Harry so he isn't annoyed. Then he presumably answers but Russian isn't a language he knows. At least he realizes this quickly without Harry having to point it out, but it still doesn't help.

He may have to use the other option and connect their thoughts by touch. He usually would be opposed because he doesn't know him. But now that he's finally meet him, Harry is curious about how his sort of magical core feels up close as he can't get anything aside from its electrifying flavor from this distance.

Harry gives him a mental image of him touching his wing and wearing a 'Eureka!' face while Harry radiates smugness as they mentally talk. Doc gives him a weird look but complies and—whoa. He's really warm. It's as if he has a fire inside him, too. A green one, like his hair. It tingles pleasantly on his skin and Harry can feel his own flames reacting. His tail actually shines a bit brighter.

Before Doc can panic, Harry shakes his head and concentrates on the other's surface thoughts. Or tries to. It's just his luck Doc's thoughts are so fast he can't get a miserable grasp on them.

It reminds him of Hermione's thinking process. Just worse. Much, much worse.

Bloody geniuses.

Oh, what the hell.

'Can you speak English?' he thinks, followed by, 'Tu sais parler le francais?' and 'Parli Italiano?'

He receives a startled expression that doesn't quite erase his amused, knowing look. "I can speak English."

Bloody figures.

XIV

Of course someone knocks the door before they can say anything else.

Doc and Harry exchange glances before they turn as one to the door where a male voice is speaking some gibberish he doesn't understand. His companion answers with a bored tone and a roll of his eyes, but that doesn't dissuade the person behind the door. If anything he gets more insistent and… eager?

'A friend of yours?'

The Doc hums as he continues listening. "Just a constant colleague," he murmurs. "He wants me to go and see your winged friends. Get my opinion as I may have studied zoology."

'Have you?'

"In passing." He looks at him. "I admit I'm curious. I may not be into ornithology, but even I know strange behavior when I hear of one. Two birds of prey on a human-infested space? Not normal."

'I know. That's why I used it,' Harry says, preening slightly and giving him a phoenix-worthy look. The Doc is not really impressed, which is a nice change from the awe he often receives. He can see the Doc is more curious than awed, seemingly liking the possibilities of a being like him bring. He wants to study him, Harry can feel it, but the natural respect he makes others feel for him seems to work on the Doc, too. So he's safe.

Well, not exactly safe as the intensity of his curiosity is on a level he hasn't encountered before. It intimidates him slightly, but after some many years of being a friend of Hermione it also fills him with nostalgia.

He shakes his head and huffs. 'I should tell them to stop throwing the bear before they completely ruin the body just for helping me. It's still winter and they need to eat.'

"Are you going to leave, then?" the Doc asks, his grip tightening slightly on one of his feathers. It doesn't annoy him as it would once upon a time. He can get the idea of what the other must be feeling as he experienced something similar when he met Fawkes.

On the other hand, Harry likes those green feathers.

The Doc releases his tail when he catches Harry's pointed look. Though perhaps he isn't expecting him to use the same long feather to touch his cheek and keep enjoying the buzzing sensation he can feel prickling under Doc's skin.

By the way Doc half closes his eyes and leans into his touch, Harry wonders what the other feels. Is his magical core? The same power they both have? He doesn't know.

Actually, Harry doesn't know a lot of things about this world. It's time that started to change. He doesn't want to be caught flat-footed once again for his lack of knowledge, after all.

He locks eyes with the Doc and says, 'I wish to return. I still don't know if you're okay, do I?'

The curious intensity is back. "Of course. I've so many questions myself, too."

'Just don't be greedy, Doc.'

With a parting soft croon that makes the other stagger, Harry leaves in a burst of flames.

XV

Dmitr, or Zeleny as he's called in here, is a german young man with a stroke of weird luck, whose genius was quickly recognized thanks to her mother being the assistant of a university professor. She was born in Russia or in what now people call USSR and because of the fact they lived in the 'correct' side of Germany. With the so-called Space Race going on, he quickly grew interested in space, especially after the news of something called Sputnik. Three years after starting learning about it, at nineteen, he created a basic blueprint of a ship capable to send a man to space and it was thanks to it that he was snatched to the USSR to make his design a reality.

Unfortunately for the USSR, Dmitr gets bored quickly. He needs constant new projects and there is so much to learn about engineering that isn't aerospace technology. The places where he works luckily is full of people with different specialties so there are always various materials to study. No one bothered him because of whatever interest he had that month, usually ended with a new discovery or numerous valuable inputs.

Sadly, for all their differences those specialties were still associated one with another and there would be a day when he finished learning all he could.

On 1962, a year after the USSR sent a man to orbit, that day came. The people on charge noticed too late that Dmitr has a rather unique way to view the world in which honestly doesn't care about much unless he has something interesting to study and is entertained enough with it.

Not that it would help them, he's already bored with the USSR style and no amount of books can appease him. He wants to leave and everyone can see that.

It doesn't mean they will let him, though. He has many of their secrets and besides, someone with his brilliance in the hands of others? Yeah, no. They still have hopes to make him interested again but it's obvious if he keeps not helping them win this Space Race, they'll have to bring the big guns.

It's the end of 1963 and the USSR space program is already getting frustrated with him and his new interest in anatomy.

'You're kind of fucked, then.'

That startles a snort of Dmitr who's now using some kind of microscope to look at his burning tail.

"I am not. They may keep the obvious volatile toxins away from me, but there are many others that one can easily get their hands on and are highly explosive."

Harry looks steadily at him. 'You plan to explode the place?'

"Of course not, I'd only use it as a distraction to get everyone away from me." He uses the table as a leverage and pushes the chair he's sitting on to the opposite side of the room where a small fridge is. He pulls out what looks like a bottle of soda. "In here, there's a solution that can easily knock an adult man unconscious for a couple hours."

'You're going to drug them?'

"I do need time to collect my things and get a safe distance away."

'Right,' Harry says, carefully not looking at the disorder around them. 'And you can't kill anyone as that would get the USSR on your back, right?'

That statement surprises the Doc again, which is nice as it lets Harry know that for all his apparent indifference, there are things he'll not consider doing. If he had lips, he'd be smiling in relief. As he has none, he settles by brushing one of his long feathers to the piece of skin closest to him, which is his hand.

XVI-THEN

A phoenix was more than often used as the face of Light magic because of their regal beauty and amazing ability to read one's character, but the harsh truth he came to realize was that a phoenix doesn't really care about wizard's designations or their laws. Intelligent beings they may be, but they still are magical creatures driven by their instincts, only tempered by age and experience. They don't know or care about morality though they do know one's intention with only a look.

He admitted sheepishly to Hermione that the righteousness he was expecting to feel never came. He told her and his curious friends how it really took him by surprise the first time he flew above Knockturn Alley and realized his phoenix's brain was indifferent of the dark magic below. He knew it was dark, but the evil taint he expected to feel wasn't there and while he knew ugly things were happening, things he could hear—he did nothing. The indifference was great, making him alien.

They're still pure beings, like unicorns, but what damages them is not the dark magic as he thought but the intention behind. Magic itself wasn't good or bad, it simply was, he realized. A simple notion yet one he wouldn't have thought of for many years without being able to turn into a phoenix.

A wise creature, they called them, but maybe everything was only matter of perspective. Not that it really mattered. Peace for him only lasted three months. The word went out, the newspapers were buzzing with the news. He was no longer Harry Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived, The-Man-Who-Conquered. He now was Harry Potter, the man whose animagus form was a phoenix.

And that was the only thing they cared about.

At least they haven't hyphenated this into a long title, was his first thought, the newspaper of that day still on his hands as he saw numbly the photo of a phoenix going to an alley only for it to turn into himself. Then the dread set in.

I'm fucked, was his second thought.

And how right he was.

Chapter Text

Chapter 5

XVII

'Where are you planning to go?'

"Most likely the USA. They understand my importance. My knowledge will ensure my safety. They will also keep me away from their Space program if only to retain their secrets."

'The enemies of my enemies and all that?'

Dmitr shrugs in a 'what can you do' kind of way. Not resigned exactly but in the way one does when they try to make the best of a shitty situation, which Harry understands all too well. It's then he really looks at Dmitr. At his young face contrasting with his too intelligent eyes. The light stubble on his jaw and the bags under his eyes speak of how tired he is, but there's an eagerness in him that let's one know he won't get rest until his curiosity is sated.

And this time his curiosity is focused on him.

"Breathe in and hold it as long as you can. Then breathe out," he says, the stethoscope still in his hands. "Don't speak."

"I talk to you with my thoughts."

An exasperated huff. "Yes, yes, and that's amazing, but some silence will be appreciated."

Harry does as he's been told and for a long while it's silent, the only rumor coming from the machines that surround them. When he finally breaths out and Dmitr shifts his attention to the notebook he's writing on, Harry speaks the question that's been on his mind for a while now.

'Why are you still here then if you have all planned out?'

Dmitr throws him a look that clearly questions his intelligence before blinking as if he's briefly forgotten he's talking with a bird.

"Well, we humans can't just do what I'm planning to and be free of repercussions. I needed to get some papers done first so I can be without the constant worry of having to look behind my back."

Harry very pointedly doesn't mention he isn't exactly a bird and understands more about humans than he thinks. It'll make him look dumber and for some reason, he cares about his opinion of him.

It's weird as he's cared little for the opinion of other's ever since he decided to live as a phoenix instead of human. He doesn't know if it's good either.

He looks at Dmitr, this time focusing not on his age or his tiredness but his facial features in general. How he holds himself, confident even while sitting. It's attractive, but is that what this is? A crush? He can't think it as a sexual attraction when he's never felt that when being a bird.

Perhaps he should search for more company, to clear his head and all that.

"What if I take you to where you want to go?"

XVIII

Sidelong Phoenix-travel is a bit complicated as he transforms himself in energy and travels through magic to the nearest place. He can travel to wherever he pictures like apparition, true, but it's more difficult as a phoenix. Whenever he took a friend with him, he always used another person as his focus. And while he can easily use the animals he has become friends with, the places they live are not human-friendly.

So yeah, no sidelong Phoenix-travel until he's practiced with it. 

And that's the matter, Dimtr wants some proof of his transporting abilities before he accepts and the only place he currently can use as an anchor are bird-Marcus, the acromantulas, and the Chinese couple.

It's not hard to decide with those limited options as his only choices.

When he closes his eyes to check where they are, he finds them in a surprisingly busy place, so he makes sure to apparate in a spot where there are no people near.

They appear on a small hill, surrounded by trees. The weather is a little cold, but nothing like Russia climate. So it's good he didn't make Dimtr use the heavy coat and just one thick jacket was enough to protect from the wind.

"Where are we?" Dimtr asks after he stumbles and almost falls.

'China.'

Dimtr moves forward, away from the trees and where he can sense a group of people. He doesn't protest when Harry settles on his shoulders, merely grunting in surprise at the weight. Not that he can't protest, not when their gazes settle on the view in front of them.

There's a fight going on, a fight between one familiar man and a big group of people. The surprising part is the flames surrounding their bodies as they fight. The familiar flames he's becoming to associate with the mysterious power people have. The one he has, too. And apparently the one the pair have too. 

Who knew they could hide it from him as much as they did? He always sensed it but it was more of a candle and not the bonfire he now feels from them. 

He tears his gaze away when he hears the sound of a motor going on. Inspecting his surroundings, he is a bit startled to see what seems to be a small airport. Only a couple of planes on sight. All with enough space to fit five people inside.

There's only one functioning at the moment. And there's the woman he saved days ago with half of her body outside of the door of the plane, yelling something to the other man.

The man he's familiar with answers back as he keeps the group away from her and the plane, and going by the anguished expression on the woman's face, it's not what she wanted to hear. She yells again but at his stern shout she bites her lips and nods, going back inside.

The man keeps going on, but when the plane is finally away, it's like the fight has suddenly left him. He's smiling serenely as he fights but it's mostly him going through the motions. The flames he never once paid attention in and thought lifeless, grow in intensity and the calm they always had, becomes a torrent of energy so powerful it blinds him. His flames which now are greater than Dimtr's own take on a quantity that's just astounding.

It's a suicidal move, he realizes as he sees him not bothering to dodge anymore as he concentrates on his power, steadily increasing. The others in the group seem to sense it too, as they become restless and more aggressive in their pursuit to finish him off.

Harry, damn his bleeding heart, can't let it be over like this. Not when he spent days looking out for them.

He apparates just when he sees a man using the same electric power Dimtr has, shooting a bolt of green lightning at the man's torso, directly towards his heart.

XIX

Fawkes had his burning day every three years, according to the headmaster when he once asked him. He said it grew more common as the Phoenix grew old, so the first thing Harry asked himself after realizing what his animagus form was, was: will I have a burning day, too?

Years have passed but his burning day never came and soon he forgot about it. However, now, as the green light, so similar to the killing curse, shots him in the chest, he can feel it.

He burns brighter and something inside of him wants to let it all go and be reborn anew, but he grabs it and stops it from consuming him. It hurts but he ignores it.

The people around him stop to stare and he uses this time to sing. He sings a song, one of peace and understanding. One that he pours all his heart on, all his pain and experiences in battle and the tiredness he felt after killing and how empty it left him.

He wants them to understand, wants them to stop.

And thankfully they do.

One by one, the awed group kneels. He doesn't know what the man he just saved does, as he's behind him, but he doesn't care at the moment. Not when he has more to sing.

He says sorry, sorry to the scientist he brought here because he doesn't think he's going to be able to take him back, not at the moment at least.

With one last croon, one that speaks of uncertainty for what will happen next, he burns.

A large orange fire covers his form, engulfing all his being until he feels it in his veins. It's his fire, the fire of his soul that sings within him, a beautiful song of harmony.

It lasts a couple of seconds and then it's over. In the place of the majestic bird of legends, there's a man standing with dark hair and green eyes, only wearing an odd-looking pouch around his neck. The rest of him is bare as the day he was born.

He coughs and a small fire scales his mouth.

"Well, that happened," he muses to himself as he clenches his fist, first time in so long feeling his fingers.

There's anxiety inside of him at being surrounded by so many but he doesn't let it show.

He takes a step forward, towards the surprised kneeling people ready to give him a piece of his mind, and promptly stumbles and falls face first.

"Right. Forgot how to walk," he murmurs onto the floor.

As always, he sucks at making first impressions. Go him!

XX - THEN

Harry has developed something of routine whenever he doesn't have anything to do. Which happens more often than not now that his animagus form is out and all know about it. So, he usually wakes up at seven, goes down the stairs of the Grimmauld house ready to eat breakfast made by Kreacher, and then goes to grab some book from the library to learn something new to make interesting this monotone life he finds himself in.

Or at least that's what's supposed to happen today.

"What are you doing here?" he asks from where he's standing, wearing his pajamas.

Malfoy, the well-dressed bastard, just smirks. "Is this how the great Harry Potter spends his days?"

"Is morning, Malfoy. Normal people just wake up."

"Well, I hope you enjoyed it while it lasted. From now on you will wake up at five."

What.

"What?"

"Oh, Harry! Here you are!"

Harry turns around with just enough time to lift his arms and hug his friend. "Hermione!" he laughs as he takes a step back. "What are you doing here?"

"Oh, I heard about the reunion you've to go with Kingsley to meet some very important people and-"

"And she thought I would help."

He turns towards Malfoy. "Help? It's just a dinner, what-?"

"Exactly. Dinner with the ministers of other countries. You need to learn how to act, how to talk, how to eat."

"I know how to eat!" He turns to Hermione. "Right, 'mione?"

"Oh, Harry. I'm sorry but Draco is right. You're going to represent England here and with how the political climate is going on at the moment we need all the help."

"You can claim to be the most powerful wizard of our generation but if you act like a simpleton, then you'll ruin the little Goodwill we have with the other countries."

"Yeah, and whose father's fault is that?" he says icily. Soon he regrets it though. Malfoy's gaze grows cold and Hermione's disappointing turn of lips makes his stomach twist. He sighs. "I'm sorry. It's been a couple of stressful days."

"I heard," Malfoy says quietly. And he's grateful that he doesn't add a comment about his phoenix form. So damned grateful.

"Well, I'll be going then."

Harry blinks at Hermione. "Already? You just came."

"Well, you know how busy my days are nowadays," she says, hand briefly touching her stomach where new life is growing.

It's been three years now since Voldemort's death and everyone is moving on, quicker than before. He's been hailed as the next coming of Merlin and Harry is trying so hard to be what the people needed of him, studying and improving himself.

The spotlight was dying and the people could at least talk to him properly more or less. The newspapers no longer hunted him down and everything was starting to look up. However, he had been seen while changing forms. Now the hype is worse than before and hates it. But he can't ignore it, not when he's starting to make changes and England is moving forward towards equality.

That's why he accepted when Kingsley asked him to accompany him.

He shakes his head and sighs, returning to the moment. "I understand, Hermione," he says, grateful that the bitterness he feels doesn't come out in his voice.

It's been a month since the last he has seen her. Three months since he saw Ron.

They're distancing, not on purpose, of course, but it still hurts. So he says goodbye to Hermione with a smile and his face before turning to Malfoy, ready to start his torture.

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

XXI

The people are surprisingly understanding afterward. They stop attacking the man, seemingly forgetting about whatever trouble he caused. Instead, focusing on him with an intensity that almost makes him falter as they treat him a bit too reverently for his liking. Which is so weird considering he's still nude.

Well, at least they’re not fighting anymore.

The man he saved is understandably wary of the others, but he’s also the first person that helps him stand up and walk on his own. So that’s a plus to him, unlike the others who seem afraid to touch him. Even more so when he grabs a rock and, with a wandless spell, transforms it into a robe he quickly puts on. A bit stiff but considering the rush work, not surprising.

He’s not sure if introducing Dimtr is the best way to go but when it’s obvious they’re leaving to someplace and taking him away with them, he has to. After all, he can’t leave him in a place he doesn’t know when he’s not sure he even knows the language.

Besides, it’s not like he can’t stupify them if he wants to. His magic is at his beck and call, probably an aftereffect of having a magical creature as his animagus form as, instead of having a core like he used to, magic floods his veins. 

Or it can be the hallows merged inside him.

So, he motions Dimtr to come forward with a hand gesture. The others stop to stare at him before glancing at the direction he’s pointing at, where Dimtr is now appearing warily.

“Do you know Chinese?” he asks as soon as he’s at arms length.

After a long moment of staring at him, with those intense eyes of his, he nods, “Enough.” Then he proceeds to introduce himself to the others, who all look appraisingly at him in a way one does a possible threat.

Do they sense his power, too?

Dimtr then turns to him. “They want to know your name.”

“Harry,” he answers back without thinking. Dimtr arches an eyebrow at him as if to say 'really?'

Harry flushes, something he doesn’t miss to be able to do again but nods with a pout.

Oh, expressions, he thinks as he subtly touches his face, taking a moment to marvel at the smoothness and flexibility of his skin. That, that he has missed.

They again exchange words without him understanding a word, so he turns to the man he’s saved who is still near him. The man looks at him immediately, his black eyes almost as intent as Dimtr's.

Harry points at himself. “Harry,” he says before pointing at the man with a tilt of his head.

“I understand English,” the man answers in a slow way that shows how not used to it he is.

Oh, well. What a way to make him feel dumb. He flushes even brighter.

“My name’s Harry, then, smart guy. What’s yours?”

“Fon.” He then bows his head in apology. “I understand English, but I don’t speak it well.”

“Oh. The others understand English, too, then?”

Fon nods. And damn, but he wanted to ask him about his situation.

“Where are we going?” he asks after a while when the people stop talking with Dimtr.

A weight seems to have settled on Fon's shoulders as he says, “The temple.”

“Not a happy place, um?”

Fon snorts before smiling bitterly, but he doesn’t answer.

Leaning towards him, he whispered, “That why you tried to escape?”

Fon's eyes snap at him.

“At least she’s safe, right?” he continues, brushing his arm against Fon’s.

Fon smiles a real smile, one that meets his eyes and makes him look younger.

“Yes,” he says, as if everything is okay.

Then the indigo portal appears and the people start going inside as if a portal appearing from thin air is normal.

Well, let’s be honest here, he’s seen weirder.

XXII

“It's quite amazing what these people can do with Flames,” Dimtr says, not quite gushing, but something really close to it. It seems he’s forgotten he’s supposed to be in another country at this time. Or that the phoenix he met is now a human. It’s strange how none have inquired as of yet about that.

“You have them, too, you know?”

Sharp eyes focus on him. “I do?”

“Yeah, that’s why I went to search for you, actually. You never went out, so I thought they were experimenting on you.”

“Oh.” He gives him another glance. “What type do I have?”

“I don’t actually know a lot about this,” he starts. “I only know that everyone has it and that yours is green, with an electric flavor to it.”

“Lightning,” Fon explains. “Their property is hardening.”

Dimtr hums as he thinks and Harry takes the time to look at his surroundings. He is inside an old Chinese temple, waiting for he doesn’t know what. The floor is made of softwood and they’re sitting on it, only a cushion to soften their seat.

They have got a great view outside thanks to the open doors, but Harry knows it’s mostly to keep a better eye on them as he can see a couple of people walking outside. He ignores it in order to watch Fon, who is sitting the closest to the door. They tried to separate them but Harry didn’t let them. When one tried to protest, Harry pointed at him, sending a wandless stupefy that knocked him unconscious.

Now, Fon’s with his eyes closed, meditating. Harry already healed him as much as he can with the limited knowledge he has on healing magic but…

With a sigh, he takes out the small pouch he has around his neck in a necklace and shoves his entire arm inside it. Dimtr makes a surprised sound, which alerts Fon, as he opens his eyes.

Harry takes out his shrunk trunk before tapping at it, making it go at its correct size. He opens it and starts searching for the right compartment where the magical first aid is. It takes him a few tries as it’s been a while since he’s opened it.

“Aha!” he says when he finds it. There are a great number of options in stasis but the one he wants is the one with the transparent liquid—his animagus form’s tears. He also makes sure to take out the candy that will help him learn the language. Not that he has the time for that, but he will be using an earbud that immediately translates everything. It will make his head hurt and it will only last five hours, but something tells him this conversation is going to be important enough to use one of the four he has brought with him.

He turns to Fon, who’s is watching him with a curious expression in his face. “What is that?”

“My other form's tears. They can heal every type of wound.”

Dimtr looks at him. “Every type? How?”

“Magic.”

“Magic doesn’t exist,” he says but there’s a tone of uncertainty in it.

Harry grins. “Of course it does. I’m magical myself.”

“That’s why you can transform into a fenghuang?”

“A phoenix, you mean? Yeah, that’s why.”

Dimtr hums. “By the way, with how you speak and the things you carry, I can speculate that you’re not the only one. Unless you’re older than you look, of course.”

“I’m twenty-four.”

Another hum, this time is from Fon though. “Are there...um, more like you?”

It takes a moment for him to understand his English, but when he does all his nervous cheer vanishes. “I don’t know. I’m probably the only wizard of this world.”

“Then that means you’re not from this world, aren’t you?”

Harry nods mutely at Dimtr and it feels that a weight has been dropped off him. He doesn’t know why but his phoenix form’s instincts trusted these men and he does too. After all, his phoenix instincts are more accurate than his normal ones.

“All magical people can turn into a phoenix?”

“No, they don’t. It’s unheard of to have a magical being as a second form.”

“You’re special, then.”

Harry grimaces at the word special but nods nonetheless. Fortunately for him, Dimtr doesn’t pry.

“I’m sorry, you know. This was only supposed to be a short trip, but it turned into something longer and dangerous. Your colleagues are probably wondering where are you and that will only set back your plans and—”

Dimtr stops him by holding up a hand. “It’s alright. This is the most interesting situation I’ve found myself in. Flame-like powers and magic being real? I want to know more.”

Fon says something in Chinese he doesn’t understand but soon Dimtr is humming as he scratches his chin.

“Here or Italy you say? What would you recommend me the less dangerous?” he says in English, probably not wanting to leave him off the conversation.

Probably realizing this, Fon answers in the same language. “Italy. Triads do not accept outsiders.”

Verde seems keen to ask more but before he can, Harry interrupts. “Knowing more is always great, but I want to know more about the situation we find ourselves in,” he says, placing the earbud in place. “And you can talk in Chinese. This will help me understand you.”

XXIII

Fon is someone who comes from a long line of strong martial artists, hailed as one of the best families in the Triads. Though it is not until he’s seven that people start to realize he’s more than a simply powerful budding martial artist (if there’s anything simple about that), as he takes to learn new forms and techniques like a duck in the water.

Soon, he’s being hailed as a prodigy. And in a couple of years, he’s considered the best in China, which starts to worry the Triads.

It’s not until he’s turned twenty-six and is in the road of being known as the best of Asia, that the Triads use whatever leverage they can find to secure him in their group: his half-sister, Mai.

And while Mai is also an incredible fighter specialized in stealth and very sought for, she’s still expendable enough to retain her in the hidden village where they keep the liabilities of their strongest members. Usually, one volunteers their most precious person to said village with the condition they can visit them. It's actually where Fon grew up with his sister as they were the liability of their mother.

However, they knew Fon wouldn’t accept that kind of life for his sister; she is a reversed Cloud, after all. Without her freedom, she’ll slowly become a shell of herself. And while she’ll be safe… her happiness is another matter altogether.

So they escaped.

“Did you even have a place where you could hide?” Harry asks after Fon has given them the basic rundown of Flames. Dimtr is silent beside him, though only thanks to the promise of a lengthy explanation of Flames, later.

Fon glances at the door, before looking at him with a determined expression. Apparently, the fact that they’re communicating via thought is enough to relax the man. He’s a decent legimens thanks to his animagus form and now he only needs to touch a person to hear their thoughts. So, before the serious talk started, Harry asked Fon and Dimtr to hold hands with him as to connect their thoughts in a better way and it has worked really well so far. It seems to be in his human body has made it work better as he can now communicate with Fon and Dimtr at the same time.

It still gives him a small headache, though.

With a small exhale of breath, Fon lifts his head higher. “My father is a powerful man in Japan. I made a deal to him for the protection of my sister.”

Harry blinks. “Huh. So your father’s not part of the Triads, then?”

“No. The family I come from is known to produce genius children because they select the donators of the sperm very carefully. Though I say donators when it’s mostly a seduction mission they give some of the women in our family when they’re ready to carry a baby.” He grimaces as he says the next words, “It’s seen as an honor to carry the next generation.”

Without thinking much, Harry gives his hand reassuring squeeze. He then lets out a tired sigh.

“You said before that you made a deal with your father to protect your sister, right?” Receiving a nod, he continues, “You never planned to go with her. You knew from the start you would return to face the punishment… Right?”

The silence he receives is answer enough.

“I’ll help you,” he says aloud, mostly without thinking. Not that he needs to. He feels a connection with this man, similar to the one he feels with Dimtr, and he wants to discover what it is. “You will be able to enjoy your life however you want. I will make sure of it.”

Before he can hear an answer to his promise, the doors that lead to the inside the house open.

XXIV

Harry threw the earbud with the lingua-ere that was in his hand with all the force he could muster against the green flames he had just come out of.

“Those bloody pricks, the whole lot of them!” he took a deep breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “What am I? A stupid circus animal?!”

“Please, do continue with your whining. It’s oh so entertaining.”

Turning around, Harry found Malfoy sitting on his couch, a glass of fire whiskey between his fingers. The sight of his raised eyebrow calmed him somewhat, as it was Malfoy who asked him (asked!) if he could remain in his house so they could gossip about the diplomats Harry was going to meet with when he returned.

“Malfoy,” he nodded.

Malfoy rolled his eyes but greeted him with a ‘Potter’. “So what did happen? I take they were worse than we thought?”

And just like that, his rage ignited. “Bloody idiots all of them. I think they just invited me to be their party’s mascot. They wanted me to show them all my Phoenix form; the only thing they asked me about the whole time.”

“They’re politicians, what did you think was going to happen? You’re probably the most interesting thing that happened in their boring lives.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a bloody attraction.” He huffed. “I gave them everything and still they won’t treat me like a person.”

“That’s the problem, Potter. You gave them everything. Don’t come whining now that they ask for more.”

I shook his head. “I—I didn’t want it to be like this. I just wanted to help.”

“Didn’t work well for you, did it?”

Harry huffed, and his voice was somber when he said, “Yeah.”

He thought in all he did these last years and how they were weighing him down. What did he gain from giving his all to the public? He didn’t have a significant other to share his pain, his friends were all busy rebuilding their lives and some couldn't even look at him for all the memories he brought. He was getting cozy with Malfoy of all people. And while it was true he was no longer a dick, they still were frenemies or, at least, that was the word Hermione gave the two of them.

He just wished to… start anew or something. To go somewhere where no one knew him, where he could fly and let himself be, find people who loved him unconditionally and that he loved back with the same fervor. He wanted more.

“Do you want more?” a voice said from behind him. He turned around, startled, wand already between his fingers.

There was a chair covered by shadows in the far corner of his study. It was impossible to see the figure hidden in it, but he could feel how cold the air around it was, how it turned his fingers blue.

“Who are you,” he demanded even as he noted the statue-like figure of Malfoy, sitting in the same spot he was, immobile.

“Do you ask for my name when it already sings to you?”

“What?”

“Hear, little wizard. What do your instincts tell you?”

Harry inhaled slowly, his hand never wavering, ready to at least a patronus in case it was needed, but he didn’t. Not when the wand in his hand was vibrating so hard and the mark tattooed in the nape of his neck hurt so much.

It wasn’t hard to conclude with all the clues shouting at him.

“Death?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

XXV

The man that comes inside is surprisingly young and handsome, probably in his early thirties. He walks with a grace that seems to be common around these people, but for some reason, his posture and the slight tilt of his head is more regal. He’s wearing typical Chinese clothes he doesn’t know the name of but are really... snug around his torso while leaving the sleeves loose, showing a body made for battle. The shirt-like dress is a burnt orange with a phoenix embroidered in gold dancing around his chest, while his pants are black with gold accents.

And Harry, well, hasn’t felt as undressed as he feels now since he had been in elementary school, wearing Duddley’s cast-offs on his first day to school. Which he thinks is understandable as he’s literally only wearing a robe.

“Fon, it’s a pleasure to have you here,” he says, but he’s not looking at the way Fon’s head twitches, as if he’s trying hard not to bow. Nor the hard stare he gives the man, accompanied by a smile that makes him look dangerous.

No, the man is looking at Harry.

“And with such an interesting company.”

“My apologies if I can’t say the same, sir.” And that's enough for Harry to stop locking gazes to focus on the smiling young woman standing behind the unknown man. She's beautiful, in an exotic way, with her eyes narrowed shut and her seemingly frail frame. The long dark blue dress with green accents she wears doesn't hide the thin knives on her exposed thigh.

"Interesting, indeed," the man murmurs, making Harry turn to him once again. 

Fon glares but doesn’t interrupt as the man nods his head in greeting at him and Dimtr.

“Hello,” the man says in English. “My name is Yongquan and my courtesy name is Feng. This is Juan.”

As the auricular only helps him in understanding Chinese, he needs to answer back in English, but first, he collects all his wits and tries to bring some of the pride he feels when he's a phoenix. With a blink, he relaxes his shoulders and smiles at the man, none of the tension visible on his bearing. “Hello. I’m Harry.”

The man blinks, his lips curling up. “Your accent is so… British.”

Before he can say ‘I’m British’, he stops. “I’ve been around there most of my life. It stuck.”

“So it seems.” The man, Yongquan, finally acknowledges Dimtr. “And you?”

“A simple scientist, I assure you,” Dimtr says with an uncaring shrug that contrasts with his too intelligent eyes. He glances at him as if asking him what his plan is, which makes him realize that they didn’t discuss any plans while talking.

Shit.

“He’s my friend. I was showing him a skill of mine when we came across your men fighting against Fon,” He exhales softly at the sudden hard expression on Yongquan’s face. “I didn’t like it, so I intervened.”

“And how did you know who to help?” he says in a mild tone.

Harry glares. “Being a phoenix makes it simple to judge a situation. It was easy to know who the hostiles ones were.”

“So, you admit being a phoenix? I find it hard to believe. You look pretty human to me, after all.”

“Currently human doesn’t mean I'm not a phoenix.” He sighs minutely before looking up. “My secrets are my own. I think we are here for another reason, aren’t we?”

Yongquan gives him a penetrating stare, but nods. He turns to Fon once again. “You’re a member of the Triads. You swore your life to us.”

Fon’s eyes take on a dangerous glint. “And you swore to take care of myself and mine.”

“And we did,” he says in an almost bored tone, still talking in English. “We put a roof above your head. We fed you and clothe you.”

“What about my sister? She was promised the same, wasn’t she? You knew she was going to die if she remained a hostage."

“She received the same treatment that others did. And better, because of who your family was. You were given privileges, which now I understand them to be an error if this temper tantrum is anything to go by. She will need to return or you die.”

Fon’s placid smile turnes into a sneer. His posture untenses, but it's obvious he is ready to attack. To prevent this, Harry puts a hand on his arm, using his connection to his animagus form to send reassurances through the mental link.

“I don’t think so,” he says softly, but in a clear tone.

Yongquan gives him a speculative tone. “What is it to you? Are you courting Fon perhaps?”

Fon’s head snaps at him with slightly widened eyes. Not wanting to show his confusion and embarrassment at those words, he ignores it completely and continues with what he's going to say as if he's never been interrupted, “I admit that I’ve grown fond of him and his sister. I’ve also invested my time in their safety. If they only want freedom, who am I not to help them?”

“Because you’re a phoenix?” Yongquan says in a mocking voice.

Harry shakes his head. “Because I've got the power to help.”

“How humanitarian of you,” he says before his tone takes on a harder edge. “And what are you going to offer us to appease us?”

“Your life. I think that’s a fair equivalent exchange, don’t you?”

The man snorts delicately. “And here I thought phoenixes were fair beings.”

“We represent rebirth, transformation. If we have to burn something to ashes to cleanse it, we will do so.” To this Harry sighs. He clenches his fist once to remind himself he has fingers now before refocusing his gaze again. “But you’re right, a phoenix is not meant to battle, but to heal and protect. However, I know that if this turns into a fight, I will be better able to fight as a human."

Even after all the years of fighting and struggling, when he's been asked if he wanted a position as an Auror apprentice, he couldn’t help but decline, so tired of it. It made him realize that while his life has been one struggle after another, and surviving feels more familiar than living, he hates to fight.

Doesn’t mean he won’t do it though. So, he glares, taking a hold of the Death magic he’s been so unsure to touch and dispersing it lightly onto the air, but mostly focused on Yongquan and around those men he feels are hiding in the shadows of the room. They all shiver, even Fon and Dimtr even if it’s not his intention. “And be sure of it, I can and will fight, even if it goes against my nature to do so.”

“Is that a threat?” Yongquan says in a breath, not shaky at all.

Harry feels ghostly fingers caressing his face and he can help but lean into it, the breath of Death against his ear. His next exhale is visible in the now frigid air,

“No,” he exhales more than says, and he thinks he can see the edge of a scythe near Yongquan’s neck. “I don’t make those empty promises.”

The air, if possible, gets even colder. Harry tries to reign the Death magic, but it comes syrupy and hard to grab. Now the men are visibly trembling. And the former loose grip around his face tightens when one he hears a thump of Juan falling to the floor, gasping for air as she struggles to grab her knives.

Yongquan’s gaze is still on him, unmoving but filled with an unknown emotion.

XXVI

A phoenix song is perhaps one of their most characteristic abilities after their tears. People say they can uplift an entire battalion with it, as well as bring peace between dangerous creatures by just hearing it.

He later realized it could be used to sadden a person and make them angry and just… persuade their emotions as he wanted it.

Wizarding kind was lucky Phoenixes were so indifferent about humanity. And wise.

He’s not a natural-born phoenix, nor wise, but he still has a strong moral code,

And, while he knows how dangerous his song can be, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still use it to comfort himself or others.

So.

Not wanting to show his nervousness, he starts humming unconsciously as he often does while on phoenix form. And, surprisingly, he feels his vocal cords fill with magic even while in human form as they do when he's a phoenix. He feels the air turn warmer, frigid fingers receding from his face as he turns his hum into a soft song that’s more vocals than words.

When the temperature is once again normal, he stops.

“Sorry about that,” he says, his voice higher from the last tone he made. It’s so embarrassing it makes his cheeks turn redder. He clears his throat. “It’s been years since I’ve been in a human body.”

Yongquan exhales noisily, his previous regal countenance broken for the moment as he uses his arms to hold his weight, almost sprawled on the cushion that has been put for him. Considering he's taken the brunt of Harry's ire, he's surprised he can still fall with grace.

Juan slowly kneels next to Yongquan, her face returning to smiling and placid but her tone betraying her worry. "Master?"

“What was that,” Yongquan asks, almost harshly, faint traces of sweat covering his forehead.

Harry fidgets on his seat, all his regal behavior from before lost. He glances at Dimtr, who is running a hand through his hair and shaking his head, and at Fon, who is looking curiously at his cheek. Harry unconsciously wipes it with a hand and can’t help but glare when he sees the sooth marring his fingers.

“Yeah, real mature,” he mutters angrily and swears he hears a cackle on the back of his head, reverberating against his skull. "As I said before, my secrets are my own. Just know that I've marked Fon and Dimtr under my protection. Whatever you wish to do with them, make sure it doesn't make me upset."

He can feel Fon staring a hole through his head, but he doesn't glance away from Yongquan who is now watching him consideringly. "Perhaps we can form an agreement if you tell me what was that you did before?"

Hary wants to swallow the bile that wants to form at the thought of acknowledging it. He looks down for a moment before looking at Fon, thinking of his sister and how she cried. How resigned but happy Fon was at giving her sister a chance to escape.

He touches his cheek, the one marred with soot, and exhales. "That was Death magic... Being the type of phoenix I am makes me attuned to it."

It's a lie, but it's still as near the truth he can say.

XXVII - THEN

It took Harry a moment to regain his wits, but when it did, he asked, “Is Draco going to be fine?”

Death let out a grating laugh. “I only stopped time, Master.”

“You only—” He stopped and took in a shuddering breath at the absurdity of the claim. His fingers went to the back of his neck, where the tattoo of the hallows appeared and made him incapable of using low shirts anymore. “You’re the real Death, then.”

The being before him nods slowly, his grin taking on a condescending tint. Harry ignored the lizard-like part of his brain that urged him to run and sat on one of the free couches near to the being. He took that time to sit to examine the being in front of him.

They were hard to look at as if there was a notice-me-not placed upon them. He could barely register the black cloak, darker than any black he’s ever come across. A cane was being held between pale fingers, long and thin of a grey color. It was easier to see the wisp-like smoke that surrounded him than the actual being. And if there was one thing he could see clearly was the wide smile on his face, showing pearly white teeth.

Harry finally found his voice after long seconds of simply breathing. “Why now?”

“You weren’t ready before.”

“And now I am?” he said, a slightly hysterical edge to his voice.

“No, but time approaches. It was better for it to be soon. You need to prepare for your time here is nearing its end."

"What do you mean?"

Death didn't answer, dragging the moment dramatically. "Have you heard of black phoenixes?"

Harry frowned. "I know I'm one but none of the books in Hogwarts had any information about them."

"It is hard to find, but people will find."

That made some part of Harry curl up in resignation. "Let me guess, they're 'special'?"

"Indeed they are, but not in the way you are thinking, Master. They are seen as an omen of death and rebirth."

"W-What? Are you saying my transformation is an omen?" 

That came out on a slightly high pitch he hadn't intended.

"No."

"But you said-"

"That they are seen as one. Your transformation has more to do with you conquering the Hallows than anything else."

This was all too much, Harry thinks as he presses the back of his hands onto his eyes. "And I'm guessing people will find out about it, right?"

"Yes."

"And I will be seen as the next Dark Lord or some other shit?" When there's no answer he looks up to see the being gone. Draco blinking rapidly as he looks from the spot he was standing on to the one he's currently sitting.

"What bloody Hell happened, Potter?"

Harry sighs. "I'll need liquor for this conversation, Malfoy."

This time Draco's gaze focuses on him. Harry doesn't know what he sees but the blonde suddenly looks almost worried. "Well, then better call to Kreacher for some."

Harry smiles, it's a tired, resigned smile but it's one.

Chapter Text

XXVIII

The meeting room has cooled. Not from tension this time, but from the faint echo of phoenix song that still hums in the air like an aftertaste. Yongquan sits once more on his cushion, regal and composed but no longer cocky. The weight of what he witnessed earlier is evident in the stillness of his gaze.

Harry, for his part, is quiet. He's learned stillness, too—though his is more learned than bred. His thumb brushes a small circle into the edge of his robe before he thinks.

Yongquan's voice cuts through the silence, smooth and unreadable. “I’m willing to reconsider the situation, phoenix. But negotiations demand clarity. What is it you want from the Triads?”

Harry doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turns toward Fon. Their eyes meet and without a word, Harry reaches out and lightly touches the back of Fon’s hand. A warmth passes between them—not heat, but the weight of presence, of invitation.

May I? Harry asks silently.

Fon nods, eyes softening. Their mental link clicks into place like a door gently opening, and Harry steps inside—not to invade, but to share.

His thoughts are quieter now, more polished than when he first learned to use this bond. He shows Fon a fleeting sensation, not quiet a picture: a young boy under the weight of a prophecy, the ache of survival, the quiet horror of waking up with nothing left to fight. That feeling of not knowing what to do now that you’re no longer dying for something.

"Changing your life when you've been made into a weapon... it's like being told to breathe without lungs. It's disorienting. I know that."

Harry feels Fon’s thoughts still for a moment. The guilt, the tension, the weariness that clung to his mind like smoke—it all still lingers. But he’s listening. Harry presses gently, not with demand, but offering clarity:

"So I need to ask you, Fon. Do you want to keep working for the Triads?" He looks at him in the eyes. "Because if you do… then we’ll make a new arrangement. One with freedoms, real ones—not leashes. I’ll stand between you and the chain. You’ll keep your dignity. Your choice."

The thought lingers, honest and open.

"And if you don’t want to stay… then that’s fine, too. I’ll help you find your own path. Wherever that takes you."

The weight of that offer settles between them. A real choice. The kind Fon hasn’t been given in years. The kind that makes your hands shake when you realize it’s real. For a long moment, Fon doesn’t respond. His thoughts spiral in memories—Mai laughing in the grass, the pressure of a hundred invisible expectations, the silent discipline that kept him alive. He’s breathing, but it sounds like someone else’s rhythm.

Then—clarity. The haze clears.

"I want to follow you."

It’s not a demand. Not even a confession. It’s a quiet, solid truth. A statement of will.

Harry smiles softly, dry and fond. “You do realize I spend most of my time as a phoenix, right?” he says aloud, pulling back from the mental link. “Flying around. Not exactly a convenient roommate.”

Fon’s mouth twitches at that, almost a smile. “Then I will follow from below. Or wait for your return.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “I can leave you with your sister, if that’s—”

“No,” Fon cuts in quietly, shaking his head once, before returning to their mental link. “I made a deal with my father only to protect her. I wouldn’t put that on her again.”

Harry nods, something like understanding flickering in his eyes.

Then Dimtr interrupts their talk, reminding Harry that he’s grabbing Dimtr’s hand, too.

“What about Italy?” he says. “You told me to go there. Why not you?”

Fon tilts his head in thought, then closes his eyes for a moment.

“It could be an option, but I think I want to travel,” he finally says. “Clear my head. Let my body move with the earth. I’ll go on foot, maybe. Walk west until the land changes language. I’ll train. I’ll breathe. And then…” He opens his eyes. “Then I will find where I’m meant to be.”

Harry studies him for a moment, then nods. “You don’t want to be in the Triads anymore.”

“I don’t,” Fon says, with a quiet finality that feels like stone placed gently on the earth. “I’ve served enough masters… Though I wouldn't mind if you—”

“You won’t ever be serving me,” Harry says quickly, sincerely. “I won’t ask that of you.”

“I know,” Fon says. And something flickers in his eyes—a rare peace.

Then, turning back to Yongquan, who has been silently watching their exchange, Harry straightens.

“Well,” he says, voice calm, “You asked what I want from the Triads? I want freedom for Fon. He won't be affiliated with the Triads anymore.”

Yongquan’s eyes narrow. “Freedom... is not so easily negotiated.”

Harry hums. “It is, when the alternative is Death.”

And in the background, just faint enough not to feel intentional, the air cools once again.

But only a little.

XXIX

The room is still, but not calm.

Yongquan’s gaze lingers—too long, too sharp. Not with the hunger of desire, but something colder, older, more dangerous. Harry feels the weight of it first in his chest, like static pressure before lightning strikes. Then, he hears Fon’s breath catch beside him. It’s subtle, but not for someone like Harry—someone who listens with more than his ears. Before he can speak, Fon leans in slightly, enough for their shoulders to brush.

Fon then reaches out and touches Harry’s wrist again. The link reopens. “He lusts for you."

Harry turns to him, startled, eyebrows raised as he whispers a harsh, “What?”

“Not your body.” The thought is clean and sharp, like a blade being drawn. “He wants your power. The way it feels. The way it could serve him.”

That explains the gleam in Yongquan’s eyes—not admiration, not even curiosity. Desire, yes, but rooted in ambition. The Phoenix not as a person, but as a crown. Harry swallows once, mouth dry, gaze returning to the man across from him.

Yongquan shifts slightly in his seat, like a serpent stretching in silk.

“Phoenix,” he begins smoothly, “I won’t pretend I understand what you are—but I know potential when I see it. The Triads are powerful, but you—” his lips curl— “you are something more.”

Harry doesn’t respond.

“You could join us,” Yongquan offers, voice casual but eyes gleaming. “You’d have a place here. Influence. Reverence. Second only to myself and the Elders. You wouldn’t be worshipped—no—but you’d be feared. You’d be untouchable and Fon free.”

Fon bristles beside him, expression unreadable but tense. Harry can feel it through the bond: a simmering distaste at the audacity, like old memories reawakening.

Dimtr, still seated at the side of the room, narrows his eyes. “Interesting,” he murmurs, not bothering to hide his scorn. “Offering the position of second-in-command before your superiors even weigh in? Desperate or confident. Curious which.”

Yongquan’s smile doesn’t falter, but his fingers twitch where they rest on his lap.

Harry lifts a hand slightly, palm open—not aggressive, just steady.

“Let’s be reasonable,” he says, voice calm. “We’re not here to shift balances of power. I don’t want your throne. Or your armies.”

Yongquan tilts his head. “Then what can you give us in exchange for one of our best fighters?”

Harry doesn’t have to think long. He unclasps the pouch from his neck and takes out a small, perfectly sealed glass bottle, filled with a liquid that’s transparent but still manages to shine in the flickering light.

“This,” Harry says, “is a vial of phoenix tears. My tears.”

Yongquan studies it, suspicious. “Wha does it do?”

Harry smiles faintly. “Even a single drop can heal any physical wound. Magical, mundane, acute, or chronic. It doesn’t matter. They restore. Something your organization could find very useful, I imagine.”

There’s a beat of stillness as Yongquan’s mask wavers—interest flickers beneath it like a flame beneath smoke. He clearly doesn’t understand the full scale of the gift, but the possibility of it is enough to hook him. He leans back slightly. “And this is your… tribute?”

Harry’s voice flattens. “It’s a gift. A gesture of good faith. Not a bargain. I don’t serve.”

That lands. A beat of silence follows, heavy with the weight of unspoken lines drawn. Then Yongquan exhales through his nose, long and slow. “I will need to speak with the Elders. This matter… is unusual.”

Harry inclines his head. “Understandable.”

“In the meantime,” Yongquan continues, tone smoothing again, “you and your companions will be considered guests of the Triads. No one will harm you or detain you without cause.”

Dimtr mutters under his breath. “Comforting.”

Harry doesn’t smile. “We’ll be good guests. If treated as such.”

Yongquan nods once. Then rises. He doesn’t bow—of course not—but the look he gives Harry is one of appraisal. Hunger masked behind diplomacy. And Harry watches him leave, alongside the woman who had been silent so far, Juan, tension thick in his shoulders.

Only after the door slides shut does he finally speak. “That was a lot.”

“You were a lot, too,” Dimtr replies.

“I didn’t breathe the entire time,” Harry mutters.

Fon releases a quiet breath and says, softly, “You scared him.”

Harry glances at him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. That’s why it worked.”

Harry isn’t sure how to feel about that, but he holds the vial of tears still in hand, its light catching the edges of his palm. Power freely given, not taken. That’s what makes him different. And he’ll keep choosing that, even when others would turn him into a weapon again.

XXX

They’d been given quarters within the outer halls of the Triad compound, a space marked as “guest housing,” but it feels more like a pause. The kind that could turn into a prison or a sanctuary depending on later's decisions. Though after the tension earlier, the night has settled into a calm lull. The air smells faintly of incense and cherrywood smoke, and outside the open doors, the mountains are stained blue and gold by the setting sun.

Dimtr is nodding off near the notebooks he has asked and has been provided to him two hours ago, a pen still clutched in his fingers and a smudge of ink on his cheek. Harry is seated cross-legged near an open window as he watches him for a moment, then shifts his gaze when he hears a quiet sound behind him.

Fon approaches from the shadowed edge of the corridor, silent as always, but not cold. He sits beside Harry with the same care he gives to striking a perfect stance—precise, fluid, quiet. A pause stretches between them.

“I wanted to ask you something,” Fon says at last, voice soft.

Harry turns toward him, curious. “Sure.”

“Why?” Fon asks, almost too gently. “Why have you helped me so far?”

Harry turns to him, blinking as if startled by the simplicity of the question. “What do you mean?”

Fon’s gaze doesn’t waver. “All this. The confrontation. The negotiations. Risking yourself against the Triads.” He shifts slightly, hands resting on his knees. “Why?”

Harry blinks. Of all the things he thought Fon might say, that wasn’t one of them. He looks at him for a beat, thoughtful. Then shrugs.

“What I told Yongquan was true,” Harry says softly. “I’m invested in you. In your sister. I’ve been watching you since that first rescue—I liked you both. And… I wanted to help.”

Fon’s expression doesn’t change at first. He doesn’t look away, but there’s a flicker of something as the edges of his mouth tighten faintly. “I see.”

Something about his tone makes Harry pause. There’s a discomfort there. Almost... disappointment?

Then Fon's gaze lowers slightly, as he says in a quiet, uncomfortable voice, “So you weren’t trying to court me."

Harry blinks, then flushes immediately.

“Wait, what?” He stares at Fon. “That’s the second time someone’s said that! First Yongquan, now you—and I don’t think it means what I think it means.”

Fon blinks once. Then frowns, clearly confused. “What… do you think it means?”

“Romance,” Harry says flatly. “Because where I’m from, it means that. Dating. Kissing. That kind of—courting.”

Now it’s Fon’s turn to blink, his eyes widening just slightly as understanding clicks into place. "Oh."

There’s no blush on his face, but his usual calm falters for just a moment. The corners of his mouth twitch downward, and if Harry looks closely, he sees it: a faint red at the tips of his ears.

“No,” Fon says after a breath. His voice is still calm, but there’s something in it that’s too steady, too composed. “Not... exactly. Not like that.”

"What does it mean, then?"

“Courting, in our context, refers to Sky-Flame harmonization. It's when a Sky and another Flame user begin to resonate. It’s not always romantic. Sometimes it is. But more often, it’s... instinctual. A calling. A connection that shapes both people.” He exhales slowly. “I’m a Storm. Powerful, even among my own kind. And you—”

He hesitates. “You’re a Sky.”

Harry opens his mouth to ask something—and then blinks. “I’m a what?”

Fon looks at him, surprised. “A Sky.”

Harry stares at him like he’s grown a second head. “I mean, I’ve flown, yeah, but I didn’t think that meant—Wait, are you serious?”

Fon’s brow lifts slightly, a faint trace of humor in the confusion. “You didn’t know?”

“Should I?” Harry asks, genuinely bewildered. “No one gave me a Flame Handbook.”

That earns him a soft exhale that’s almost a laugh as Fon shifts, adjusting his posture so he can speak more clearly. “You’re very clearly a Sky Flame. Sky flame users draw others in, offering harmony, not dominion.”

Harry lets out a slow, slightly overwhelmed breath. “Okay. Um. Context. Please.”

Fon gives a faint nod, and with his usual precision, begins to explain:

“There are seven main Flame types, each with their own properties and roles. They are Sky, Storm, Rain, Sun, Mist, Cloud, and Lightning. Each one represents both an elemental trait and a mental one.”

Harry leans in, listening with that same wide-eyed concentration he once gave McGonagall.

“Storm,” Fon continues, “is dissolution—destruction. It breaks down what’s unstable. Sun is activation—energy and acceleration. Rain calms and wears away. Mist creates illusion and uncertainty. Lightning is hardening, strengthening objects and body. Cloud represents isolation—drifting untethered.”

He pauses, and Harry catches a small wistfulness in that last one.

“And then there’s Sky,” Fon finishes. “The rarest. Harmony. A Sky doesn’t possess a specialty, not really, though they can summon a bit of the flames they've bonded with, but at its origin, they gather. They unify. They hold together what would otherwise pull apart.”

Harry is quiet, thinking. When Fon speaks again, it's softer. “Traditionally, a Sky forms a bond with one of each type. Six Guardians. Six Flames around the Sky.”

Harry stares. “That sounds like some kind of magical social circle.”

“It’s more than that. It’s a bond,” Fon says, voice quiet but firm. "It's a family."

Harry slowly tilts his head. “And… you thought I was courting you because…?”

“Because I’m a strong Storm,” Fon answers simply. “And I’ve been… resonating with you since we met and you rescued me from that hole. More than I ever have with anyone.” He exhales. “It felt like harmonization. Like you were… drawing me in. Calling me. It was a bit weird then because I thought you were only a phoenix.”

Harry stares at him. Honest confusion paints every line in his face. And that, more than anything, makes Fon smile—but it’s small and tight and a little sad. “You really didn’t know.”

“No,” Harry says. “I was just being… me.”

Fon tilts his head. “So you didn’t plan it.”

Harry meets his gaze, honest and a little bewildered. “Fon, I barely understand Flames, let alone bonding with them. I’ve been a bird for years. I wasn’t trying to court you,” he says quickly. Then, after a beat, “…But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to be close.”

There’s something in that honest confusion—raw, unguarded—that makes Fon relax a little. Not disappointed, exactly. Just… adjusting.

“I see,” he says. And it seems he does. But Harry, feeling the thread of connection still humming faintly between them, now that Fon has made him notice of it, smiles—gently and careful. “Doesn’t mean I won’t, though.”

Fon blinks. “Won’t what?”

“Court you. Bond. Whatever you call it here.” He shrugs, sligthly pink in the face at having to call it 'court'. “If we both want it. I mean, I don’t know much about it, so maybe not soon. But who knows about the future, right?”

Fon doesn’t smile. But his expression softens, and his ears stay pink for a long time after.

The moment, of course, is broken by a groan from Dimtr. “I couldn’t stay quiet longer. I’ve got questions, now. Fon, would you answer them?”

Fon coughs on his hand. “Yes, of course. Ask away.”

Harry is so embarrassed that he turns back into a Phoenix without giving it much thought. He tries to shake away the robe that's now over him (It didn’t blended with his form because it’s made from magic), which Fon luckily helps him with. When Harry looks up, both Fon and Dimtr are looking at him curiously. He looks away, still embarrassed, but less now with a creature's mind dulling it, and does his best attempt at a shrug.

The soft rustle of feathers is the only sound in the room now—aside from the low chuckle Dimtr lets out.

“You turned into a bird,” he says, not even trying to hide the amusement in his voice. “Because you were embarrassed.”

Harry the Phoenix looks away sharply, turning his head with exaggerated dignity and a fluff of feathers that reads very clearly as I do not want to talk about it.

Fon, crouched beside him, gently lifts the robe that had fallen awkwardly over Harry’s back and folds it with practiced ease. “You seem new to human emotions,” he says curiously, though the faint upward twitch of his lips suggests he’s far from serious.

Harry narrows one glowing eye at both of them and flares his tail feathers slightly—less an intimidation tactic, more a pointed you’re pushing it.

Dimtr leans back against a pillow and sighs. “So dramatic.”

Harry croons a slow, low note that is almost musical sass.

Chapter Text

XXXI

A knock on the door breaks the companionable silence in the room. Harry, still nestled in his phoenix form on the windowsill, lifts his head, while Fon is already on his feet, approaching with quiet caution, though he doesn’t reach for a weapon.

The door slides open just enough to reveal Juan.

She’s still dressed immaculately—dark blue silk, green embroidery catching the light—but her hands are full this time. Folded garments drape across her arms: black and deep orange with elegant embroidery, neat and measured. Her eyes widen slightly when she sees Harry’s current form—feathers gleaming green in the dim light, tail coiled in soft fire—but she recovers quickly, schooling her expression into one of distant professionalism.

“I was asked to deliver these for the evening’s meeting,” she says calmly, and bows, a smooth tilt of the body that speaks of trained etiquette. “They are for the Phoenix.”

Harry fluffs his wings slightly, crooning in vague acknowledgment.

She hesitates, just a breath, then bows again and slips away without another word.

Fon slides the door shut behind her. Only when her footsteps have disappeared does Harry hop down from the window ledge, land with a soft thump on the floor, and turn his beaked head toward Fon.

Who is she? He silently asks.

“She’s Yongquan’s personal handmaid and a tailor,” Fon replies, walking over to examine the folded clothes with practiced eyes. “Skilled. Her flame is Rain, I think. Good at mending and creating clothes quickly. She was probably with Yongquan when we met because he heard you were only wearing a robe.”

Dimtr peers over at the fabric. He leans forward and pokes the sleeve with the tip of a pen. “Looks complicated,” he mutters. “Lots of layers. Hidden fastenings. Possibly a form of premeditated revenge.”

“It isn’t,” Fon says as he looks, too. “They’re just formal robes. Traditional ones.”

Harry makes a noise halfway between a chirp and a groan. Then his glowing green eyes flick toward Fon, and with all the subtlety of an explosion, he widens them dramatically. His wings twitch upward in pure alarm.

Fon’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh.

“I’ll help you dress,” he says, reaching down to gather the pieces.

Harry hesitates—then shifts.

With a rush of flame and light, the bird disappears, and in his place stands Harry Potter.

Completely and utterly naked.

He makes a strangled sound and immediately reaches for the robe Fon had folded earlier, hastily dragging it over his shoulders. Dimtr, to his credit, looks away and adjusts his glasses with exaggerated care.

“I’m not looking,” Dimtr offers blandly.

“I am,” Fon mutters before catching himself and coughing quietly. “Not—intentionally.”

Harry groans and ducks his head, then throws Fon a scandalized look.

“I was a bird two seconds ago,” he mutters. “You’d think I’d get some sort of transition grace period.”

“Sorry,” Fon says, sounding like he really isn’t. He holds out the pants. “Here. Right leg first.”

Harry steps into the garment carefully, balancing himself on one leg like a baby giraffe, then stiffens as Fon steps in to adjust the waist and smooth the fabric down with surprising gentleness. There’s something meticulous about it—like he’s dressing a blade for ceremony.

Finally, Fon fastens the inner sash across his chest. The outfit is sleek, ceremonial in its severity. Deep black fabric clings lightly to his frame, cut sharply at the shoulders and tapering at the waist. A phoenix is embroidered in burnished orange across the chest and side—stylized, coiled, rising. The sleeves are long, marked with matching motifs, the cuffs slightly flared. The whole ensemble hums faintly with power, like it remembers what it was sewn for.

Harry turns, brushing his hands awkwardly down the front. He’s suddenly conscious of his slightly longish hair and the scruffy look he must be sporting. “Well?” he asks. “How do I look?”

Dimtr, still sitting by his notes, tilts his head.

“You look… handsome,” he says slowly, nodding. “Like an old style diplomat.”

Harry blinks, caught off guard. Then he looks to Fon, who doesn’t answer immediately. He’s watching him with an unreadable expression, eyes darker than usual. Focused. Serious.

“Fon?”

“You look,” Fon says, very softly, “right.”

Harry blinks again. He then coughs into his hand as he tries to fix his hair with his other free hand. “Great. Handsome phoenix diplomat. Just what I was going for.”

Fon smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time. “You carry yourself differently now,” he says. “You wear power like it’s natural.”

“… Really?”

“Yes,” Fon answers. “Not many people could do it like you naturally do. Not without training.”

Harry shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “I find it hard to believe it, as I had been more of a reckless person who doesn’t care about his image than an aristocrat.”

Dimtr clears his throat when he sees Fon ready to defend his opinion. “Well, just try not to burst into flame in the middle of the meeting and you will be golden.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “No promises.”

They all share a look. Then, a small laugh while outside, the sky is turning lavender. And the next step of this strange, dangerous dance begins.

XXXII

The great hall of the Triads is older than the rest of the compound, built of pale stone and lacquered wood. Its ceiling curves like a dragon’s back, carved beams twisting with age and reverence. There’s an almost sacred hush to the air as Harry steps across the threshold. He walks between Fon and Dimtr, his new robes trailing lightly behind him, the orange phoenix motif flickering subtly in the ambient lantern light. Each step echoes, slow and measured. The cloth whispers with his stride, but his presence makes the silence hum.

Ahead, five figures are seated on a raised platform. Four are elders, each cloaked in the robes of their station—deep shades of earth, sea, and sky. Time has bowed their shoulders but not dulled their eyes. The fifth, sitting slightly lower, is Yongquan. This time, there’s a change in him. His posture is still graceful, but his eyes—his gaze lingers. They track Harry, who walks straight, chin high despite the way his robes settle heavy against his skin. He thinks there’s something about the weight of embroidered symbolism—a phoenix dancing across his chest—that makes it feel both comforting and ominously specific.

Yongquan’s eyes are sharper. Hungrier. Focused. There’s something intent in it, as if he’s not seeing the young man beneath the fabric, but the idea of something ancient and potent wrapped in silk.

Harry stiffens when he notices, but before he can react, Fon moves. Effortless, smooth as water, he takes a half-step forward. Just enough to put himself slightly ahead of Harry, a subtle barrier, but deliberate.

Yongquan’s gaze shifts to him. The intensity dims—only a little—but enough for Harry to breathe easier.

“Welcome,” Yongquan says after a beat, rising from his seat with a fluid bow. “It is an honor to receive you. The Elders have been anticipating your presence.”

Harry does not bow. Dimtr, beside him, raises a brow. Fon lowers his head slightly in respect, but nothing more.

Yongquan’s voice smooths further, feigning warmth. “I hope you were treated well. Our quarters can be sparse for such… elevated guests.”

Harry’s eye twitches as Yongquan, at the far end of the room beside four elders whose expressions are carved in stone, lets his gaze rake over Fon first—then Dimtr—before it settles once again on Harry. And stays there. The intensity of it is different than before. Not sharp like a knife, but heavy like an anvil. Like he’s weighing him—power, form, everything—against something he hasn’t yet said aloud.

Yongquan returns to his seat with languid grace. “Phoenix,” he says instead of calling him 'Harry' as if that title is better than his name. “You honor us again.”

“Let’s not start with flattery,” Harry says, tone clipped. “You called this meeting for a reason. Let’s not pretend it’s anything else.”

Dimtr mutters, “Thank God someone said it.”

Yongquan’s smile thins slightly but doesn’t vanish. “Directness, then. Very well. The Elders agree that freedom for one of our own is not a matter to be given lightly. Your… offering was unexpected. Unique. But we cannot base trust on words and containers.”

Harry’s arms cross under his robe. “So?”

“A demonstration,” Yongquan says smoothly. “Proof. Words are wind and what you claim… if it is true, it could reshape how we understand your role in this world.”

Before Harry can speak, two guards enter from a side door. Between them, they carry a pained man—young, with bloodied bandages wrapping one leg, clearly poisoned. His face is pale, but he clenches his jaw as he’s brought forward and gently lowered onto a mat.

“He sustained this wound protecting an Elder,” Yongquan says. “He’s poisoned and injured. The best of our healers cannot heal him in time for the poison not to kill him. He has agreed to this.”

Harry glances between the man and the Elders. Then exhales slowly.

“Fine,” he says and steps forward, past Fon—who tenses but doesn’t stop him—and approaches the injured man.

“I won’t hurt you,” he murmurs, softly, to the man, even though he knows the man might not understand. Then, with no fanfare, there's heat, light, and the weight of the world adjusting to his presence. Feathers unfurl in a burst of flame. Luckily, the clothes melt into his form, untouched by fire—which is a first—and in their place stands a phoenix. Wings wide, tail trailing embers, dark gold and obsidian like dusk turned to motion. His eyes glow, steady and calm as the Elders stir.

Even they hadn’t truly believed, until now.

Yongquan’s face is still, but his hand tightens on his seat because where Harry stood now perches a creature of myth. The air seems to bend slightly around him, warmer now, vibrant. The injured man stares in stunned silence, his fear fading—melting into something like reverence. Harry takes one slow step forward, head lowering as a single tear falls from his eye and lands on the torn flesh of the man’s side. Magic that only Harry can sense erupts.

The reaction is immediate. Like fire reversing through time, the wound closes. Skin knits itself whole. The man arches slightly, not in pain, but in release—as if every fiber of hurt is unraveling, reforming, soothed. The man shudders next—and then exhales, color returning to his face in a rush. A second later, he collapses—not from injury, but from sheer relief. He takes away the bloody bandages slowly, showing the new skin that gleams beneath, unblemished. Whole.

The chamber is dead silent.

Harry remains still, flame-tipped wings tucked close as Yongquan’s lips part slightly, his gaze sharp and calculating now in a new way. Even the elders lean forward slightly, masks of age cracking into visible interest. Luckily, Harry has still the translator as they start speaking Chinese.

“Confirmed,” one murmurs.

“A single tear,” another says, voice rough with age. “Remarkable.”

Yongquan says nothing. But he meets Harry’s glowing gaze with something unreadable. And then he bows. Not low. Not deep. But enough. “We accept your offer, Phoenix. Fon’s bond with the Triads is released.”

Harry inclines his head in a gesture of his own, but inwardly, his thoughts are racing. That look in Yongquan’s eyes? It made him know that while he was done with the Triads; they were not done with him. Because of that, the room is still tense after the words are said, but Harry doesn’t wait and linger, doesn’t shift back. He just nods once—stiffly, sharply, no further politeness—his burning eyes sweeping across Yongquan, the elders, and the healed man one last time. Then, in a single beat of his wings, he launches into the air. The flames trailing from his tail streak like gold behind him as he flies to Fon. The wind of his arrival rustles the hem of Fon’s robes as he lands delicately on his shoulder, talons light against the fabric.

It’s as an “I’m done here.”

Yongquan’s parting words follow him like smoke. “If you ever need anything, Phoenix… we can always make another deal.”

Yeah, no.

Harry fluffs his feathers and clicks his beak once.

Ominous. Way too ominous.

“Let’s go.”

Fon doesn’t hesitate. Neither does Dimtr. They turn on their heels, leaving the stunned silence behind as they walk out of the grand hall with the quiet poise of men not interested in second chances or second thoughts.

“Such a dramatic bird,” Dimtr mutters as they leave, but he sounds relieved.

Harry doesn’t look back. He doesn’t have to. Once they’re outside and alone enough to speak freely, Harry nudges against Fon’s cheek with the edge of his wing and hums low in his throat as the tension in the trio slowly unwinds like coiled thread. Dimtr exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"That man smiles like he's already imagined your marriage," he mutters.

Harry doesn’t disagree.

"Do you need anything else from here?" he sends to Fon through the mental link, still perched on his shoulder. "Clothes? Gear? Weapons hidden under floorboards? This place doesn’t feel like somewhere we should linger."

Fon doesn’t stop walking, but there’s a stillness in him that means he’s thinking.

“There’s a training sword I like,” he says aloud, almost dry. “But it’s replaceable. Nothing else of value to me here.”

Harry hums—low, like a snort of agreement. "Good. Because I’m itching to disappear."

Dimtr glances toward them as they exit into the open courtyard where the wind carries the smell of early nightfall and pine.

"I assume we’re heading back to Russia?"

Harry flares his wings in response and lets out a low croon that’s more fire than voice. "Yeah. The hotel you booked before we flame-hopped to China. Think is still safe?"

“Should be. I told them I was doing a study on urban detachment and anti-social behavior.” Dimtr smiles faintly, tired. “I also may have implied I was going to disappear into the city for a bit to study nightlife culture.”

"That bought you what? A day?"

“Maybe two. But any more than that and I’ll need to actually write a paper.”

Harry chuckles through the link, the sound rolling through Fon’s chest like warm thunder.

"Let’s drop you there first. The flight won’t take long as it's almost instantaneous. But… fair warning," he adds, tipping his feathered head toward Fon, "It’s freezing over there. Even if it’s fall, it feels like winter."

“I like the cold,” Fon replies, unbothered. “I’ve always run warm because of my Flame type.”

"Masochist."

“You are carrying fire in your blood, too,” Fon says mildly. “You should understand.”

Dimtr just pulls up the collar of his coat. “At least we will be back at the hotel first, as this jacket is too light for Russia’s cold streets.”

Harry shakes out his wings, talons tightening on Fon’s shoulder while one of his longer green feathers curl around Dimtr’s shoulders. "Everyone ready?"

“Ready,” Dimtr says.

Fon nods.

Harry flares his wings—embers catching the edge of twilight. With a burst of heat and golden flame—They vanish.

Chapter Text

XXXIII

The flame fades into nothing as they arrive in a warm pop of displaced air and scorched particles as they appear. Harry lands on the windowsill after flying away from Fon's shoulders, like a quiet guardian. His feathers catch the pale evening light as the sun begins to dip below the snowy skyline of the city outside. He lets himself sigh as they are in safe space, or safe as they can be. Luckily, the hotel room Dimtr chose is modest but cozy; functional, central, and—most importantly—low on foot traffic. A twin bed. A couch. An ancient radiator grumbling in the corner. Thick curtains still half-open from earlier.

Dimtr doesn't collapse into a chair, but he does stretch with a groan that cracks all the way up his spine.

"God, I'm still processing that meeting," he mutters. "But not enough to pass up questions."

Harry gives a soft croon from the sill—go on, it says without words. Dimtr turns to Fon, rubbing at his eyes. "So, Italy. You said it's the other main hub for Flames, right?"

Fon nods, arms crossed, still alert despite the exhausting day. "Yes. Most people think China and Italy are complete opposites, but in this, we mirror each other. Two centers of influence. Two cultures built on secrets."

"And run by criminals," Dimtr adds, not quite sarcastically.

Fon's mouth twitches. "Yes. That part too."

He moves to sit on the arm of the couch, facing Dimtr squarely. "The Mafia controls the flow of Flame knowledge in Italy, just like the Triads in China. The difference is… China has more structure as it's led by one power only. Italy, though? They have different Families. Territories. Bloodlines tied to specific Flames."

Harry ruffles his feathers on the windowsill but doesn't speak, curious to just be quiet and listen.

Fon tilts his head as he looks at Dimtr. "Do you want to leave Russia that badly?"

Dimtr pauses. Then shrugs, a little too sharply. "I can't stay."

His tone is matter-of-fact, not emotional. Like a conclusion he's already spent long nights coming to.

"I told my handlers I needed a break to research what I want, but they won't give it to me as I'm too precious to them to not be working on what they want. I still try to shift into other branches from time to time, and they somewhat allow it because the technology I tend to study is still related to what they want and I get results. However, it won't hold forever. They allowed this trip outside because they were too surprised I asked for it. And even then, they just thought I was going to the city to relax. I'm still under surveillance. When I go back, it's going to be questions because I never left the hotel, in their opinion. They will become wary and it won't be long until I'm not allowed to go out. I don't want that."

He doesn't say more. He doesn't have to.

Fon studies him in silence for a few heartbeats, then nods once.

"I have contacts in Italy," he says slowly. "They're not the kind you want to owe too much to, but they can help you create a new identity. A quiet one, if that's what you want. If not, you'll need to lay low while you learn how to function in that world and then when you're familiar, you can work or do research. It depends on you, really."

Dimtr's eyebrows lift. "You think they'll hire someone like me? I'm a scientist, not a combatant."

"Even with how the URSS hides information about you, you're still known. Not many prolific scientists with green hair, after all," Fon says dryly. "Also, you're interested in Flames and the supernatural, yes?"

"I am," Dimtr says. "Obscenely so. The things you two can do—I want to understand it. Study it. Use it, maybe."

Fon gestures faintly toward the window. "Then you'll have value even if it's not in battle."

Harry gives a soft chuff that sounds suspiciously like agreement, shifting slightly on the sill.

"And I'd rather see you among people who understand what you're trying to learn as Flames can be hard to learn about," Fon adds, quieter this time. "You won't be able to study it otherwise."

Dimtr leans back, eyes thoughtful, head tilted against the back of the chair. "Why so?"

"Because of who polices the Flame knowledge. They won't ever let it fall to the civilian sector, so they won't let you study it unless you're in the underworld."

Now Harry lifts his head, curious.

Fon's gaze darkens slightly at the questions in their eyes, though his tone remains even. "The ones policing us are the Vindice."

Dimtr's brow furrows. "What kind of organization are they?"

"No one knows," Fon says. "Where they came from. Who formed them. Not even the oldest families remember. It's as if they've always existed—just waiting. Watching."

Dimtr's eyes sharpen. "Like a supernatural secret police?"

Harry sends out a ripple of psychic. "Are they dangerous?"

"Yes," Fon replies aloud. "Extremely. Their job is to ensure Flame knowledge stays hidden from the world. Civilians can't know. If someone violates that rule…"

He doesn't finish the sentence.

"You've met them?"

"No," Fon says. "But I've seen what happens when they arrive. They use black Flames. Cold. All-consuming. Unlike any of the seven."

A silence falls as Harry shifts again, the glow of his feathers faint in the dim room. Then, finally, he speaks into the air: "They sound like Death."

Fon glances at him, but says nothing.

Dimtr's fingers tap thoughtfully against the arm of his chair. The silence stretches between them, companionable but contemplative. Then, quietly, "These contacts of yours, Fon… are there some who are independent?"

Fon looks up at him, brows furrowing slightly in thought. "Some. Not all. It depends on what you're looking for."

"I'm not looking to trade one leash for another," Dimtr mutters. "So, if I go to Italy—would they want me to join a family? Swear fealty? Be useful in ways I haven't agreed to yet?"

Harry croons softly from the window, wings rustling in that way that says good question.

Fon leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "If you want stability, resources, and protection… then yes, you'd likely need to join a Family. The largest and most structured is the Vongola. They keep most of the territory in order. They'd love a scientist with your mind—especially one curious about Flames."

Dimtr makes a face. "So I'd be joining the mafia."

"Anyway, you'll be joining the Mafia if you want to study Flames. Though they're not all criminals the way the media paints them," Fon says with the patience of someone who's heard the same objections dozens of times. "But yes, most of their methods are… not legal by conventional standards. Though Vongola is more controlled than others, they still have a bloody history."

There's a long pause before Fon adds, more softly, "If you'd rather build something of your own, I have… a colleague."

Dimtr looks up again. "Colleague?"

Fon leans back, resting one ankle across his knee. "Renato. He's… someone who owes me a favor. He's one of the best hitmen in the world. Still young, but already well-connected. Smart. Independent."

Harry's head tilts. "A hitman?" comes through his psychic voice, dry and skeptical.

Fon gives him a faint smile. "One of the most principled ones I've met."

Dimtr laughs quietly. "That's a sentence I never thought I'd hear."

Fon shrugs. "He operates alone, but he knows everyone. And if you're looking to build something without pledging yourself to a Family, he can help you create a false identity and introduce you to people who might… tolerate independence."

Dimtr hums under his breath, weighing options. "So it's Vongola for security… or Renato for freedom and a lot more danger."

"Yes," Fon says simply.

Harry flaps once and lands on the couch's backrest near Dimtr, letting his tail drape over the edge. His golden eyes are thoughtful.

"Which would you prefer?" Harry asks through their link. "To belong? Or to forge something new?"

Dimtr looks at him, then out the window at the falling dusk.

"I think," he says finally, "I'd rather be uncomfortable and free… than safe and watched again."

Fon nods slowly. "Then I'll send word to Renato."

Dimtr glances at him. "And you trust him?"

Fon considers it.

"I don't trust many people," he says. "But I know which way he'll pull the trigger. And that's rare."

Harry huffs a soundless laugh, smoke curling from his beak. That sounded exactly like a recommendation from someone like Fon.

XXXIV

The city is quiet in the way only very late nights can be—when the last traffic has passed and the wind hums alone between buildings. Dimtr is curled on the narrow bed, one hand flung over the side, breath soft and slow. Fon is less dramatic in his sleeping posture, tucked beneath a light blanket in a meditation pose that eventually folded into sleep, back resting against the wall.

Harry stays in the windowsill. His feathers shimmer faintly in the moonlight, shadows dancing along his wings, and for a long time, he is still. Then, softly—so softly it isn't even thought directly to anyone, but more like letting a breath go—he says into the night, "Death?"

No answer. Only the rustling trees. The city breathing.

But then, slowly—presence. Not sound. Not form. But sensation. Like fingers brushing along his beak. A phantom hand stroking down the back of his neck in a way that feels too familiar to startle him. It is cold, but not cruel. A touch as old as endings.

"Finally decided to stop ignoring me?"

The voice is in his mind, but not the way telepathy feels. It's like a truth echoing up from beneath his bones. And Harry exhales—not a croon, not a chirp. Just air, soft and long.

"I didn't mean to ignore you," he admits quietly, in the still language of thought. "I just… I tried to disconnect for a while. I didn't think… I didn't think you were still listening after you left me here."

Death's touch lingers, almost amused. "You didn't even try to contact me, little bird. How would you have known?"

Harry winces inwardly. The shame is subtle, but it burns.

"You're right," he says. "I'm sorry."

Silence stretches for a moment, but it's not cold. Just patient.

"But I think I needed it," Harry continues, quieter now. "The solitude. The silence. Years of not being anyone. Of just thinking. Watching. Breathing."

Death hums—no voice, just resonance. A lullaby in reverse. Still, the gentle strokes across his feathers continue.

Harry lowers his head slightly, cheek brushing against the glass pane.

"I never thanked you," he says. "For this. For giving me this new chance. I still miss them—my friends. Like you'd miss a limb you forgot how to use. But… I haven't been as content in a long time as I've been here."

A pause. Then Death says, almost lightly, "Content. But not happy."

Harry's feathers ruffle defensively.

"Content is enough. It's more than I had for years. It's…" He hesitates. "Peaceful. Bearable."

There is no judgment in the voice that follows. Just something terribly, terribly old. And soft.

"But I want you to be happy."

The words don't fall like a demand or a dream. They just… land. And Harry—Harry feels something in his chest flutter, something small and aching and stubborn. He doesn't know what to say for a long moment. Eventually, he asks, fragile and raw: "Do you think I'll get to be?"

The answer is immediate. "I know so."

Then, gentler, like wrapping a warm cloth around a frayed wound. "It will be hard. There will be weight and shadow. But what is light if it does not shine against darkness?"

Harry lowers his head fully now, tucking it beneath a wing, heart thrumming slow and uncertain. He doesn't say anything else. He doesn't need to.

Death is still there.

Still listening.

Still holding him, without arms.

And for the first time in years, Harry lets himself rest into a deep sleep.

Chapter Text

XXXV

Harry isn't used to wearing clothes that don't fit quite right, but Dimtr's spare trousers and sweater are good enough for now. He looks like a quiet young man with a bad haircut, which is fine—exactly the point. His hair's been flattened under a cap. His magic's muted. His flame, however…

Yeah. That one's harder.

Fon leads them through the city's winding alleys until they pass through an unassuming tailor's shop. It smells like dust and ironed linen. An elderly man watches them enter with no surprise—just a subtle nod—and pulls aside a dressing screen to reveal a staircase behind it. They descend in silence until they reach the room beneath. It's not large, but it hums with quiet power. Not the kind Harry's used to—the structured hum of wards and magic—but the raw, instinctual kind. Like wolves watching from the dark.

It's a Flame hub.

More specifically, the Assassin's Guild.

Harry's steps slow as he looks around the large space, filled with tables and chair where people are drinking as if they were in a normal bar. He wants to continue looking but Fon keeps walking, unbothered and, as Dimtr sticks close to Harry's side, he has to follow him, lest they rest behind. They continue walking until they reach a door. When Fon opens it, it shows a smaller room, dimly lit and lined with filing cabinets, desks, and a massive bulletin board that has far too many real knives stuck into it for Harry's comfort.

Behind a long wooden desk, a woman with short slicked-back hair and a cigarette between her teeth looks up. She's wearing suspenders and a green that doesn't quite match her indigo shirt. Her gaze goes from Fon, to Dimtr, then finally lands on Harry.

It sharpens.

"Fon," she says. "Didn't expect you here. Last word was that you were in China still, running away."

The Storm doesn't raise to her taunt, he merely takes a metallic card and passes it to her. "I need a message sent to Renato. It's important."

The woman raises an eyebrow and touches the card, giving it what looks like a poke, but Harry can feel her flames touching the small card, muttering, "Don't they always say that?" 

Still, she grabs the card and passes it under a machine while her other hand reaches under the desk and pulls out a narrow black form and a pen that looks suspiciously like it's made of solid steel. "Sender. Message. Contact point. Optional return info."

Fon fills it out quickly, then gestures at Harry and Dimtr. "They will be able to retrieve the letter I receive. They're also being added to the free agent registry."

That gets a double-take. The clerk leans forward, gaze assessing, before a sharp smile forms in her lips as she hands them another form for them to fill. "Alright, names, ages, pictures, Flame category. No weapons declarations or real names needed since you're not affiliated."

Harry hesitates while Dimtr shrugs and writes his information like it's a survey at a university. He seems to hesitate for a second as he's about to write the name, but it's not more than a moment before he's returning the form. Harry kind of wants to ask him what did he write as he doesn't think he will put his real name. However he doesn't as he has a bigger problem to tackle. From what Fon's said, Skies are rare, after all. He doesn't know if writing his flame will put a target on his back. He can protect himself, true, but...

"Do I really need to put my Flame category?"

The woman stares at him for a beat. "We already know what you are," she says, too casually. "You just need to confirm it."

Fon's eyes narrow, and his smile stretches—sharp and thin.

"He can still write other flame," he says, voice low and almost amused. He's standing slightly behind Harry now, but Harry can feel the shift in posture. The change in pressure. The clerk must feel it too, because her pen stops moving midair as she answers, "Not if he wants his card to be done."

Fon leans forward a little, smile still in place, and murmurs to Harry without taking his eyes off the woman:

"We need to teach you how to hide your Flames. You're a Sky without bonds, after all. You don't the shackles and protection of being under an organization. That's rare here. That's… tempting."

Harry blinks. "That's bad, isn't it."

"Very."

Dimtr, still beside them, hums as the clerk takes a picture of him. "Why so?"

"It's like being a walking crown without a kingdom," the clerk says, smiling. "Everyone sees a chance to wear it."

Harry exhales through his nose. "Perfect."

Still, he steps forward. Looks the woman dead in the eye as he gives her his form filled with his real name, his age and his Flame type. He hesitated in writing his real name, but in the end he went through it as there's no history of him in this world.

Her lips twitch as she reads his form, like she wants to smirk but thinks better of it. "Smile for the camera."

A flash later, it's done. Then they have to give an imprint of their flames in a machine that luckily doesn't need them to be able to know how to use their flames. They just need to draw some blood, two drops, and put it on it. She explain how one drop is for their database and the other is for the card.

Twenty minutes later, she hands them each a thin metallic card, made of something that looks like a mix between metal and plastic. The names and flames etched into them shimmer faintly—enough to tell it's keyed with Flame. He hadn't notice before on Fon's card as he hadn't seen it close, but his own has an orange shimer to it under the light, while Dimtr's has a green one.

"You're now in the system," she says. "We've got hubs in major cities. Show the card, and you'll get access to neutral ground. Or information depending on the price."

"Anything else?" Fon asks.

"You'll get any reply Renato gives here, so better to stay close. Or send them to get it as you agreed to let them be able to read it." The woman eyes Harry one more time. "You ever decide to take on contracts or want to work for us, let us know. Sky Flames are… rare. Even untrained, you'd make an impression."

Harry doesn't respond.

They leave a minute later, and once they're out on the street again, Harry breathes easier.

Fon gives him a sideways glance. "We'll work on suppression tomorrow."

Harry makes a sound halfway between a groan and a laugh. "Please."

XXXVI

The hotel room is dim, lit only by the sunlight leaking through the curtains. Dimtr has curled up in one of the beds after dragging a pillow and notebook with him, still jotting down thoughts in barely-legible scrawl. They have decided to stay until Dimtr has to check out so as to give him time to write his ideas down before he gives his notes to Harry for him to put in his pouch later. Fon sits cross-legged on the floor, his eyes closed but not asleep, clearly meditating. Harry, still in human form now that he's decently clothed, lies upside-down on a plush armchair, staring at the ceiling like it might provide answers to the universe.

"Hey," he says suddenly, breaking the soft quiet of the room. "That thing you said… about me being a Sky without bonds. That's not normal, is it?"

Fon doesn't open his eyes. "No," he says, as calmly as if he were answering the weather.

Dimtr makes a thoughtful noise and sits up a little, pushing his glasses up. "You mentioned earlier how Skies attract others, true, but why is it rare for one to be a free agent?"

Fon hums softly, then finally opens his eyes. "They're usually poached," he says simply. "As soon as a Sky manifests, the underworld starts looking for them. A Sky is not just a rare Flame—they're stabilizers, after all. They harmonize with other elements, not just their six primary Guardians. A Sky offers balance to others under their influence, they're important."

"Which means," Harry mutters, "that people don't like it when one of us is just… floating around?"

"It's more than that," Fon says. "Without a Sky, Flame users start unraveling. There are no famous Famiglia or organization that doesn't have at least a Sky and there's a reason for that. Without Harmony, instinct kicks in for the Flame user and their personalities… intensify. The stronger one is, the more unbalanced one becomes."

Dimtr's eyes sharpen with interest. "What do you mean?"

Fon exhales slowly. "Flames reflect the mind. But strong flames… start to shape it. After a certain age, most flame users begin to lean into their archetype, and the more pure the flame one has, the earlier it starts."

"You're saying the Flames start molding them?" Dimtr asks.

"Yes. There are not many powerful free agents because not many have the patience for meditation, so it's 'easier' to be under an organization with a Sky in it. The Sky acts like the keystone of every organization because of that. Without a Sky… Storms become more obsessive. Suns burn themselves out trying to help everyone. Clouds grow violent or rootless. Mists get lost in delusion. And so on. Also, the stronger one is, the more difficult it's to find a Sky to fit them."

Dimtr slowly blinks, lips twitching upward. "So being a flame user is like a being under a strict horoscope… with the posibility of mood swings."

Fon gives him a mildly judging look, but Harry ignores them as he frowns thoughtfully. "And me? Can I stabilize people even if I don't know how to use my flames?"

"You can," Fon says. "An Element doesn't need to be bonded to a Sky receive Harmony. They just need to be in the presence of one, as that's enough to keep them from losing themselves."

Harry groans and drops a hand over his face. "Oh, great. And here I thought the phoenix thing was enough pressure, now people will be after me."

"Remember I said it wasn't a requirement for you to bond, or to accept other into your circle," Fon says, amused now. "You're strong, so you can do whatever you want."

Dimtr is scratching notes again. He ignores Harry's whining as he says, "Explain the archetypes. In more detail. I want to know how much I should panic."

Fon glances at him once, then gives in. "Fine. But don't complain when it gets weird. Though each flames falls under two categories: Classic and Inverted."

"Let's start with your Flame," Harry says, his voice sounding muffled from where he's trying to suffocate himself with a pillow.

"Well, Storms are obsessive. They burn hot and sharp and most times they have explosive tempers. Hold grudges better than anyone—except a Cloud. Their fixations can be anything. A classic Storm pour passion into their fixation and go overboard with enthusiasm. Inverted ones? They seek perfection. One mistake, and they'll do it a hundred times over until it's flawless. I'm an Inverted Storm."

Harry mutters, "It fits what you've told us about you. Your fixation are martial arts?"

"Mm," Fon agrees.

"Then we've got Suns," he continues. "They are restless. Physical. Always moving. They're healers, technically, because their Flames can heal. However, most push for growth, be it in themselves or in others. Classic Suns are nurturing—they want to bring out the best in everyone, even when it's not wanted. Inverted Suns, though? They only work with people they think are worth their time. And they will force you to improve whether you like it or not."

"Sounds exhausting," Harry says.

"They usually are," Fon agrees mildly. "Renato is an Inverted Sun, by the way."

Harry groans for a long while before he looks up. "What about the clerk?"

"She's a Mist," he says, and this time a faint twitch crosses his lips. "They're tricksters. Good at illusions and at bending the minds of others. Classic Mists meddle in everything, creating mischief like it's breathing. Inverted Mists are introverted to the point of caricature—projecting exaggerated versions of themselves because they're not sure who they really are anymore. She's a Classic Mist."

Dimtr actually whistles at that. "What about me? I know I'm a Lightning thanks to you, but not more."

"Lightning users are usually fast processors. Everything happens at once in their heads. Classic Lightnings are easily distracted, jumping from topic to topic. Inverted Lightnings get stuck. Hyperfocused. Tunnel-visioned. You'll never get them off a subject they've latched onto. I think you're a Classic Lightning."

"Okay, yes, that's me," Dimtr mutters.

"What about your sister, Mai. You told me she was a Cloud, I think?"

"She is. Clouds are territorial. Violent or passive depending on the polarization. Classic Clouds are aggressive loners—short tempers, vicious protectiveness. Inverted ones, like my sister, are rootless wanderers, unwilling to be tied down, passive-aggressive but just as dangerous when provoked."

Harry makes a face. "So… don't piss off a Cloud."

Fon nods sagely. "Precisely."

"Rains, like Juan, are diplomats. Gentle peacemakers. Classical Rains radiate calm, like walking still water. Inverted Rains? They absorb stress and throw it back out, usually as snide comments. They pick at people's nerves until everything breaks… and then they fix it."

Dimtr mutters, "Are we sure this isn't psychology with fire?"

"Actually, everyone has Flames so they tend to fall under one category or other, depending on their type. However, as they've not awakened them, there won't be any possibility for their personality to fix too harshly into an archetype, like a Flame user tends to do."

"Still." Harry laughs softly as he thinks of his friends and which Flame types they would be. "That actually explains a lot about some of the people I've met."

Fon finally looks back at him. "You, as a Sky, stabilize all of that. Without bonds, your Flame resonates wild. That's why people notice. Why they want to claim you. And why some Flame users will act out around you."

"…Great," Harry says, mood falling as he collapses back onto the armchair. "So I'm a walking group therapy session with wings."

Dimtr snorts. "More like a living gravity well. I'm sure all the chaotic ones will come orbiting around you."

Harry groans into his hands. "Why am I always collecting weirdos?"

Fon gives him a deadpan look. "Are you calling us weird?"

Harry throws a pillow at him.

XXXVII

The early evening chill slips through the half-cracked hotel window, threading between suitcases and notebooks, catching on the edge of Harry's traditional chinese robe, the only one that doesn't burn whenever he shifts. He kind of wants to ask June how she made it, but he won't return to the Triads just for the clothes. No sire.

Dimtr adjusts the satchel half-filled with papers and a Mafia card before closing it and giving it to Harry, who quickly places it inside his pouch. He's slouched, no longer the sharp figure he made when in their Assassin Guild visit, but someone who could slip right back into the controlled monotony of the space station.

"I wish I could go to Italy now," Dimtr admits, straightening his cuffs. "There's… more to learn. But I've pushed it already. The station might have let me disappear for an entire day, but two? It'd be suspicious."

"You've already done enough," Harry says, his tone calm but firm. "I wouldn't have made it past Yongquan without you."

Dimtr snorts softly. "Yes, because it was definitely me who turned into a firebird and terrified a Triad leader."

"A magnificent phoenix, you mean."

"But," Dimtr ignores Harry's grumbles and continues, quieter now, "thank you both, especially you, Harry. For not dragging me into this adventure. And for letting me see more of this world than I expected I'd ever get to."

"You're not out of the story yet," Fon says—his voice soft but clear.

"That's true," Harry says, nodding as he looks between the two tall men. "We'll be waiting for Renato's message. And I'll visit as much as I can."

"You will?"

Harry nods. "I've told you already—I need to be familiar with a place or a person to travel there, so you both won't be getting rid of me so easily. I could drop in on you wherever you are."

Dimtr's brows furrow. "But what if I'm being watched—"

"I'm a bird," Harry says simply. "People ignore birds."

That earns a short laugh from Dimtr. "You're a flaming bird."

"I can be stealthy when I want to be," Harry smirks as he pats his arm.

Fon steps closer then, holding out a hand. Dimtr takes it without hesitation, their grip firm.

"I'll see you less frequently, so stay safe," Fon says. "Keep your head down until you hear from us. If anything feels off—burn everything and vanish."

"I planned to," Dimtr says dryly.

He turns to Harry next, pausing for a second longer. "Seriously. You're going to visit?"

Harry nods once. "I promise. To check in. Talk. Bother you when I'm bored. All of it."

A beat. Then, quietly, Dimtr says, "Good."

There's no hug—none of them seem to be particularly good at that sort of thing—but there's a pause, heavy with meaning. It's there until Harry watches from the window ledge in his phoenix form as Dimtr disappears into the crowd, another, smaller satchel bouncing lightly against his hip. A lone figure walking into the gray city, back toward the world that he still half-belongs.

Once he's gone, Fon glances up at Harry. "You're going to miss him."

Harry doesn't answer at first, but his wings fold slightly tighter against his sides.

Yeah, he is.

But that's okay. Because now, he can go to him.

Whenever he wants.

Chapter Text

XXXVIII

The next few days pass in quiet preparation. Fon, calm and focused as always, buys maps—some new, some worn and marked with old ink—along with dried food, a lot of spices, a compact flint set, and a handful of knives that gleam too sharp for anything but intent. He fits everything with the precision of a man used to traveling light, used to surviving on his own. And Harry, walking quietly beside him as a human, watches everything with growing curiosity. Mostly because they're going into shops that are clearly intended for the underworld people. It's like seeing a shadier, more dangerous version of Diagon Alley, just with the stores spread around the city and not in the same place.

Harry only speaks up once they're back in the hotel room, as he starts enchanting Fon's new bag with a simple Extension Charm, and a few protective ones layered in.

"You know," Harry says, rubbing the back of his neck, "I've got gold. Lots of it. I can buy my own things."

Fon, crouched beside the small pile of supplies, glances up at him. Then calmly tosses the neatly folded set of clothes into Harry's arms, the ones Harry selected for himself while they were in one clothing shop that had nothing to do with the underworld. They're simple—slim trousers, a light wool sweater in soft green, and a warm coat that looks perfectly his size. Not flashy. Not traditional. Just… normal. Comfortable.

"I wanted to," Fon replies, serene as ever. When Harry opens his mouth to protest again, Fon adds, "I still have my bank account from the Guild. The Triads haven't blocked it. I've been working since I was a teen and made good money doing jobs. Never quite used it because I didn't need much and wanted to have it as safety net for my sister, and myself, if we managed to escape. I don't need to hoard it anymore and I wanted to use it on you."

That shuts Harry up long enough to fold the clothes over his arm. "…Thanks."

Fon hums softly. "Of course."

Harry hesitates, then: "Should I ask what kind of jobs they were?"

Fon doesn't look up. "No."

"…Right," Harry says, going back to enchant Fon's bag. However he stops once again to look up at the Storm. "So, where do you want me to drop you?"

"Can it be a forest?" Fon asks, voice quiet. "Somewhere far from roads. I'd like to make the journey on foot."

"You sure?" he asks. "It'll take weeks. Months, even, to reach Italy."

"I know," Fon says, and his voice carries a weight that has nothing to do with distance. "But I need to move. To think. And if you need me, you can visit me like you promised Dimtr."

Harry considers that, then nods slowly. "I can leave you near the forest where bird-Marcus lives. I told you about her, she lives close to the borders of the USSR. Quiet. Isolated. You'll like it."

"Perfect."

Finally done with the enchanting, he gives the bag to Fon, who then proceeds to put every item he bought inside a too small bag for that quantity. Harry then watches him as he cinches the straps on his bag when he's done and then nods at him.

Without fanfare, Harry shifts forms. Wings spread. Flames rise. And they vanish in a burst of orange light.

XXXIX

It's been a few days since Harry dropped Fon at the edge of the forest, and for once, his days fall into a pattern—not routine, exactly, but a rhythm that settles into his bones like a familiar song. Mornings are for bird-Marcus, her chicks, and the creatures nestled in the frost-laced trees. Harry perches nearby, sharing warmth and the occasional croon, teaching the chicks to glide with short, delighted bursts of fire trailing behind them. It feels like family. In its own quiet, feathered way.

Midday, he visits Dimtr at the lab. Always in his phoenix form, slipping in through the window just as Dimtr finishes sketching another hypothesis. Lunch is shared in silence or between bursts of theory and discussion—Dimtr questioning flames, talking about physics and how his perception of science has shattered and rebuilt itself since meeting Harry. He asks about Harry, about his world, and it's not as painful to answer and revisit memories as he once thought.

Evenings are for Fon, who has gained quite the distance from where he left him beneath the open sky. Sometimes he flies alongside him as he runs, it's kind of boring but Fon looks peaceful. The only times he stops is for eating, and even then, it's quick. The only moments he really stops is for dinner and that's mostly because he has to create a shelter to sleep. Harry visits him usually when the food is cooking and the shelter is done, Fon is doing his katas then. Afterward, they eat together in silence or laughter, depending on the day. Most of the times, he teaches him Chinese or helps him perfect his Italian. After they finish eating, he teaches Harry some self defense under the stars, who are cold but kind. And though Fon never says it, Harry can feel the comfort he brings—just by being there, by returning.

He never stays the whole night. But he always leaves behind a gentle note in his flames: You are not alone.

One afternoon, after lunch with Dimtr, Harry wings toward Japan, wanting to visit Mai and see how she's doing. Fon never says it but whenever their talks turn to her, there's a quiet curiosity in his gaze, not quiet longing. Harry is invested in both of them, so he decides to visit. He knows it by now—each flame user is distinct to him with a particular rhythm of heat and purpose. Mai's is aloof, but still kind. He remembers it.

When he arrives, he doesn't land. He only watches from afar. Mai walks with grace and caution down a quiet path of one of Japan's more urban towns. She wears a scarf tight against the wind, her eyes set forward. But Harry sees it—the sadness that clings to the edges of her flame. Not despair, not grief. Just… the ache of something left unsaid.

When he returns that evening to Fon, nestled beside a small fire built in a ring of stones, he tells him.

"She's okay," Harry says. "But… she looked sad. Even if she tried to hide it."

Fon doesn't respond right away. He only stares at the snow. Then he says, "Can we go to her?"

"Sure."

XL

The town is quiet in the morning, wrapped in the embrace of autumn. The trees rustle with crisp leaves and faint wind-chimes sway from quiet porches. When Harry lands just outside the house—more of a traditional cottage nestled near the edge of a forest clearing—he senses the familiar warmth of Mai's flame like a steady heartbeat in the distance.

She opens the door at the second knock and stares at Fon with widened eyes, the world holding its breath between them. She hasn't changed much—sharp-eyed, poised even in surprise—but there's a calmness to her now, something settled in her posture that wasn't there before.

"Fon?" she asks, voice barely above a whisper. She seems to have so many words that she wants to share, but then her gaze shifts sideways, landing on Harry, on the traditional clothes the Triads gave him, and becomes wary. "And who… who is this?"

Fon offers a faint smile, the smallest curve of lips that carries years of familiarity, as he answers her in English, "Can we come inside first?"

There's no hesitation—she nods, stepping aside as she answers in the same language. "Of course."

The interior of her home is modest, clean, not quite lived-in, but approaching it. A kettle steams quietly in the corner. Sliding doors lead to a garden. There's a small table, cushions set for tea. As they step in, Harry glances toward Fon for confirmation, then slowly steps away from him. Without a word, his body ignites in golden light, shrinking and reshaping until the majestic form of a phoenix unfurls in the small room.

Mai gasps softly, one hand flying to her mouth. "Fenghuang…"

Her voice is reverent. Her gaze—stunned awe. And then, with a swirl of flame and light, Harry is a man again, brushing soot from his sleeves, cheeks slightly pink. "Name's Harry," he says trying to get her to speak English once again, a little sheepish. "Nice to meet you properly."

They sit. The kettle whistles. And over shared tea, they explain it all—Fon's decision, the confrontation with the Triads, the deal with Yongquan, Dimtr, and the slow beginning of Fon finding himself among the snowy forest.

Mai listens in silence, hands steady on her teacup. When they finish, she nods once and sets her tea down.

"Your biological Father gave me this house," she says softly, glancing down at her lap. "Along with a name, I'm Hibari Mai now."

Harry glances at Fon, whose brow furrows slightly. 

Mai continues, voice calm but firm. "He said it would keep people from looking too closely. The Hibari family is influential, and quiet. It's a good name to disappear under."

Fon is quiet for a long moment, then asks, "Are you happy here?"

She hesitates. "Not yet. But I think I could be."

"Then come with me," Fon says. "We can settle in another country. There's no need for you to stay bound to him, not even through gratitude. You don't owe him anything, I settled accounts with him."

Mai looks at him, gaze steady, and shakes her head. "But I want to repay it. Not for his sake. For yours."

His eyes flicker and he insists, "You don't have to—"

"I do," she interrupts, gently but with steel. "I want to earn my freedom. Not be handed it. If I leave now, it will be like you paid my way with your blood, Fon. I don't want that. I love you, brother, but I've always been your sister. Everyone looked at me and saw your shadow. Here… I can be Mai. Just Mai. Who is she? I don't know, but I want to find out. I want to stay. Besides, you seem to be in the process of finding yourself, too."

Fon closes his eyes for a moment. There's no hurt in his expression—only understanding, and something quieter, almost pride. "Alright," he says finally. "But if he demands anything of you—"

"He won't," she says. "And if he does, I'll handle it."

She turns then to Harry, her expression softer now. "Thank you. For bringing him back to me. For giving us this choice."

Harry shrugs, bashful under her sincerity. "It wasn't all me."

"You gave us the spark," she says. "And now we can light the rest."

XLI

The Assassin's Guild isn't exactly welcoming, but he admits it has an atmosphere to it. From the tailor shop that serves as their front to the hidden rooms inside. From the outside, it's forgettable—one of those narrow, tucked-away storefronts on a quieter stretch of an already crooked alley. The kind of place people pass without ever really seeing. The windows are half-fogged with condensation, framing mannequins in stiff, outdated suits and sun-faded signs advertising tailoring services no one on the surface ever seems to use.

Harry steps inside, the tiny brass bell above the door jingling once.

The smell hits first: pressed linen, old starch, and the faintest whiff of chalk. There's a scent of age to it too, like a place that's never truly aired out. Dust clings to the corners of display cases and the walls are lined with bolts of fabric in browns and greys, none of which have been touched in decades. A single bulb hums quietly above the counter, casting a flickering circle of amber light.

The old man behind the counter doesn't even blink at Harry's entrance, even if he recognizes him, going on by the small twitch of lips at seeing him. After all, the first time he came alone, he hadn't known to present his ID. He'd stood awkwardly in front of the counter, trying to explain who he was, and the old tailor had let the silence stretch until Harry wished the ground would swallow him whole.

This time, Harry doesn't make the same mistake.

He pulls out his guild card with a smoothness he's practiced, presenting it between two fingers like he's done it a hundred times. His hand doesn't shake.

The tailor eyes it briefly, then gives a subtle nod—the same kind Fon had once received. The old man reaches behind him, not toward the cash register, but to a dressing screen nestled in the back of the shop. He pulls it aside with one slow hand, revealing not a mirror, but a heavy, iron-trimmed door that's closed unlike the first time he came. The moment it's unlatched, it creaks open on hinges that groan like they haven't been oiled in years. Behind it: a narrow stairwell, plunging downward, lit only by a few flickering, orange wall sconces.

Harry takes a breath and descends. The deeper he goes, the more the air changes. It thickens. The warmth of the shop fades into a cooler, damper kind of stillness, tinged with faint copper and something faintly sulfuric. There's no magic in the air—at least not the kind he grew up with—but there's still power here. Something primal. It scratches at the back of his mind like claws on stone.

He reaches the bottom and steps into the Guild proper. The first time he came in alone, he stared like a toruist, thinking how larger than before it was. Now, he realizes it only felt that way because he was alone.

The chamber spreads out in a low, wide sprawl—half-bar, half-sanctuary for killers. The ceiling is low and arched, supported by old stone columns and a network of metal beams, faintly humming with energy. The lighting is dim and copper-toned, casting long shadows across the tiled floor. To the left, a long bar gleams with bottles—some familiar, most not—manned by a tired-looking bartender with a scar that disappears into his collar. To the right, small circular tables are arranged in no discernible order. People lounge at them like cats in a jungle, shadows clinging to their coats. Some drink. Some speak in hushed tones. A few polish knives with unsettling care.

They all look up when he enters.

Harry steps inside with the echo of confidence. It's his second time coming alone, and without Fon beside him—radiating quiet threat and practiced ease—he feels every glance hit harder. Cling tighter. Harry ignores them and keeps walking. He's dressed plainly—black coat, soft boots, nothing flamboyant—but there's something about him that draws attention. Maybe it's the aura. Or maybe it's the fact that his Sky Flame, as Fon once muttered, isn't exactly subtle yet.

A few of the patrons look intrigued. Others... hungry. Some narrow, some widen. One man licks his teeth like he's imagining the taste of his magic, and another murmurs something sharp and guttural in a language Harry doesn't understand, but the smirk curling the words makes the message pretty damn clear.

Don't show fear, he reminds himself. Or irritation. That's blood in the water here.

So he doesn't slow. Doesn't make eye contact. Shoulders square, steps steady. He goes past the main room where, tucked away near the back, is the office corridor. Less glamorous, more official. He walks through the arched threshold and enters the space that always feels like the Guild's brain, if the bar outside is its teeth. The room is small and windowless, lined with iron filing cabinets and battered wooden desks. Maps curl at the edges where they're pinned to the walls, and a massive bulletin board dominates one side of the room, littered with photos, notes, and what might be at least four real throwing knives embedded in it, two less than the last time he was there.

He still doesn't know if the knives are part of the décor or someone's filing system. He doesn't plan to ask either even if the decor is less "assassin chic" and more "military formality with murder paperwork."

At the desk, as always, sits Lada, the clerk. Her features are delicate—almost too delicate. High cheekbones, small mouth, neat black bob. She looks like someone who should be reading poetry in a sunlit café, not logging kill orders and smuggling requests in a death ledger the size of a cinderblock. She's perched like a falcon at rest, chin propped on her hand, fingers drumming idly against the thick ledger she's never more than three inches away from. Her hair is sharp, her nails sharper, and the smile she offers him as he steps up is anything but soft.

"Well," she purrs, voice smooth and dry like expensive vodka. "Alone again, are we?"

Harry smiles politely, not showing how he now knows her name—Lada—means "grace" or "gentleness."

Nothing about her voice is gentle. Her smirk is slow and lazy, like a cat stretching on a windowsill. "Tsk. If you were mine, I'd never let you wander off unsupervised like Fon does."

Harry doesn't miss a step. "I'm no one's."

"Mmm. Shame." Her eyes glint. "You'd make a very pretty trophy. Even more useful centerpiece."

"I'm not here to be admired," Harry says dryly, then adds, "Is there a letter?"

She sighs. A touch theatrical. "Business, business. You are terribly boring for a Sky." Still, she opens a drawer and rifles through a neat stack of sealed envelopes. "Let's see… ah. One for Fon." She taps the front of the envelope before handing it over. "And you're on his authorization list, so go ahead. Read it."

"Thanks," he mutters, taking the letter.

She watches him, chin in hand, as he turns and walks toward one of the small privacy alcoves nearby. Her gaze lingers, too long, and Harry resists the urge to glance back. Predatory, he thinks, and not in the way that's fun at parties. He slides into the booth, pulling the curtain just enough to block the worst of the stares. The envelope is heavier than it looks. Sealed in wax—black, naturally—and cold to the touch, as if it's been waiting for him specifically.

He opens it.

No greeting. No name. No real message at all.

Just an address (a place in Sicily), a date (a week from now), and a time (18.30). 

Harry stares at the slip of paper. It doesn't feel like a threat. But it doesn't feel like a friendly invitation, either. It's too clean. Too quiet. It's not asking Fon to come. It's expecting him. He folds the letter with slow fingers, exhales through his nose, and tucks it back into the envelope. Outside, the guild hums with energy—like a jungle right before the pounce. Dangerous. Restless.

Yeah. He'll need to talk to Fon.

He goes away, trying to ignore Lada's cheerful wave, and the passing stares. Luckily, once outside, he goes to a quiet alley and transforms before someone starts throwing fire at him. Or knives. Or worse—flirtations.

XLII

Fon is quiet as he reads the note, eyes narrowing slightly.

"No signature. Just time, place, and the unspoken assumption we'll come," he murmurs. "This sounds like Renato."

"You think it's him?" Harry asks.

"Yes, it is." Fon folds the paper neatly and slips it into his coat. "We'll need Dimtr's opinion on this. Also, if he wants a more detailed identity, he needs to give us some more information about him."

Harry nods, wings ruffling slightly from where he perches on a rock. "I'll scout his lab. Wait here."

Once he confirms Dimtr is alone, he transports Fon to the lab. The scientist startles, but aside from a quiet exchange of greetings, the Storm ignores them both as he moves to inspect the lab, already looking around for any listening devices.

"Would it kill you to use the door?" Dimtr grumbles at Harry once he realizes Fon is too preoccupied in his endeavor to pay him attention.

"Where's the fun in that?" Harry grins as he returns to human form, dusting the Triads robes off.

"We got an answer," Fon cuts in when he seems to be content with the lack of bugs in the lab. "From Renato. We're meeting him in a week."

Dimtr's expression sharpens with interest. "In Italy?"

Harry nods. "Sicily. Evening. It was vague, but Fon said it was the real deal."

"If this is going to work, he'll want information about me," Dimtr mutters before they had to ask, turning to his desk.

"Already prepared, I see," Fon says, dry but approving as Dimtr pulls out a thick folder.

Inside there are duplicates of his identification papers, a list of prior government projects, a copy of his doctorates and a copy of what Harry fondly calls their 'Mafia id'. It's the first time he sees the information Dimtr put on it and he's surprised by what he finds.

He looks up to squint at him. "…Verde?"

Dimtr doesn't look at him, still adjusting the folder's alignment. "What about it?"

"Verde?" Harry repeats, incredulous. "That was your best option?"

"It's easy to remember," Dimtr replies, scowling. "Also, Fon said my hair was distinctive. Green hair, green flames, green name. Verde. Makes sense and sounds Italian. It's Italian."

Harry groans. "You really just… went with the first thing, didn't you."

"I'll have you know I considered 'Giovanni.'"

"And rejected it?"

Dimtr shrugs. "Didn't feel like a Giovanni."

Fon, watching with a half-smile, says, "It's fine. Most names in the underworld are half-made up anyway. Also, the last name you selected—Villanova—is a common enough surname over there. You'll blend."

"So, it's official?" Harry says, looking from Fon to the newly-christened scientist. "We've got a Harry, a Fon, and now… Verde. We're a mixmatch of different countries. We sound ridiculous."

"I've always wanted to be part of a ridiculous-sounding trio." Dimtr—Verde—smirks. It doesn't last long though. He grows serious once again. "So, how are you going to travel? Because I obviously cannot go yet."

Harry hums, before looking at Fon. "Have you been to Sicily."

"Enough times, yes. Mostly for jobs."

"Then I just need you to picture it really hard while I look at your memories. Mostly for me to get an anchor to it. I'll try going a couple times alone first and, a couple days before the meeting, we go there. To scout."

Fon and Dimtr look dubiously at him. Which rude.

XLIII

"Are you sure this is going to work?" Fon asks, glancing at the glimmer of gold at the tip of Harry's feather that will have to touch him to transport them to Sicily. It's been a couple days since they received the letter and they're ready to go. Fon is wearing his usual casual robes, clean without the wetness of the snow or dry leaves. Harry wearing the Triads robes, too, which annoys him a bit but it's the only clothes that he has that don't burn when he transforms.

Harry sighs before nodding in response to Fon's question. "You've been there enough times—it's anchored in your memory. I already tried it a couple times and could do it fine enough. Should be a smooth flight."

They're in Dimtr—Verde's—lab. The scientist is pacing behind his desk, checking over something on a clipboard, casting them an occasional glance filled with unspoken worry. "You'll tell me what Renato says?"

Harry smiles, just a little. "Of course we will."

Then he turns to Fon, reaching out with a feather to gently tap his wrist. One moment, they're in Dimtr's lab, the next, they reappear in the corner of a sun-washed alley in Sicilia, two days before the meeting. The first thing Harry notices is the heat. The second is the smell of cigarettes smoke and coffee wafting through the breeze. He turns human as soon as they find a small, shaded spot behind a laundry line and changes into something casual that Fon bought him earlier—beige pants, a button-down shirt, and sunglasses he insists aren't "too much."

He's just glad to be out of the Triads robes.

"This is... nicer than I expected," Harry murmurs as they step into the main square, eyes lingering on the terracotta rooftops and vines spilling from windows.

"You've never been here?" Fon asks.

Harry shrugs. "I went to Rome. Once. Magical embassy. Not exactly a vacation."

Fon smiles, faintly. "Then consider this part of the mission." He gestures grandly. "Operation: Convince the Phoenix to enjoy Italy."

They spend the afternoon walking, mostly in quiet. Fon points out architectural details, shares the occasional historical fact, and even buys Harry gelato from a little shop tucked beside a chapel.

It's... oddly peaceful. But as the sun dips lower and the shadows stretch long, they make their way to the location written in Renato's note. It's a bar, technically, though it looks more like a caffè—small tables with folded napkins, a chalkboard menu, and a line of locals sipping espresso or playing cards.

Harry narrows his eyes. "Doesn't look like a place someone would stage a meeting with a notorious hitman."

"Which makes it perfect," Fon murmurs. "Too mundane to suspect."

They scope it out for a good half hour. Harry takes out his clothes and transforms again, scanning from the sky, then settles on a rooftop directly across from the bar with a clean line of sight to the entrance. It would be easy to blend among the other birds perched there.

"That'll do," he croons as he lands on Fon's shoulder. "Clear view. If anything feels wrong, I'll set the sky on fire."

Fon reaches up and strokes a single feather on Harry's wing. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

The sun is dipping when they search for a hotel. Nothing fancy—a small inn with ivy-covered walls and a lazy ceiling fan—but it's quiet and out of the way, perfect for laying low. As Harry shrugs off his shirt and heads for the shower, he calls back to Fon, "You know, if Wizarding Italy had this kind of calm in my world, I might've stayed longer."

"You can enjoy it now," Fon says simply.

Harry pauses in the doorway, water running in the background.

"…Maybe."

And the room falls into quiet comfort once again.

Chapter Text

XLIV

Freedom is a strange thing.

Fon once thought it would feel like air in his lungs—sharp, clean, cutting away the weight he carried for so long. Instead, it feels like water: wide, endless, directionless. Like being a buoy set adrift with no port to anchor to. The Triads had shaped his life for so long that now, without their structure… he's untethered. Not lost. Just—adrift.

He wakes each morning with no orders to follow. No mission, no superior, no carefully folded list of expectations. Just the stretch of sky overhead and a map he barely follows. Some nights, he dreams of the Triads—not the blood or the bruises, but the routines. The structure. The predictability. But when he wakes, the guilt fades with the cold morning air, and the trees around him don't expect him to be anyone but who he is.

That, he's learning, is enough. And when it's not, traveling clears his mind. He moves west at a steady pace, stopping long enough to scavenge, hunt, or sharpen a blade when needed. The map in his bag is annotated with small, neat characters marking rivers, abandoned cabins, promising hunting grounds. The cold doesn't bother him. Storm Flames thrum warm through his core, and besides, it's familiar.

What's unfamiliar—what's new—is the company. Every evening, when the snow begins to darken and the shadows stretch, Harry arrives. At first, Fon wasn't sure if he would come every night. Harry didn't promise it. But he does.

He always comes.

Being beside a curious phoenix as he does his katas makes the sea of his thoughts feel less cold. He doesn't speak often, but when he does, it's with that offhand warmth he doesn't even seem aware of—like a hearth-fire left burning because someone might return home. It's… odd. In a good way.

Fon doesn't smile often, not real smiles, but lately he's been doing it more than once. Every day he rises before the sun with a smile, trains until his body is warm and the morning wind tastes of effort. He then runs towards the west until he mediates while doing so, his mind wonderfully calm. However, it's dinner—always dinner—that brings him back to center and lift his mood. It feels more like a ritual than a routine to set up camp among the snow, a soft place between distances. The air bites, but it doesn't bother him as he's crouched near the fire, flipping rice in a battered pot when he hears the soft whoosh of wings behind him and the faint rustle of feathers settling into the snow.

Harry's here.

Always a bird, at first.

Fon doesn't turn—just continues stirring, offering warmth and silence alike.

Only when the scent of cooked grains and herbs curls through the clearing does Harry shift. There's a flare of gold and black, and when Fon glances sideways, he sees him—human again, still wearing the formal robes that the Triads have given him, and reaching without shame for Fon's thick blanket to drape over his shoulders.

"Hn." Fon huffs, not looking at him. "You've taken a liking to that."

"It's warm," Harry says simply, already pulling it tighter as he sits.

Fon doesn't point out that it's his, that flame instincts make him want to take it back and bicker—or maybe press closer to offer warmth himself. A Storm Flame without a Sky is like a mountain trying to find the right wind. But still… he lets the Sky take his warmth. Just as he takes in the warmth of Harry's presence. It's enough to center him as they eat quietly, steam rising in white plumes around them.

Afterward, Harry picks up a stick and eyes the snow. "You said you'd teach me more characters tonight."

Fon hums and kneels beside him, drawing careful strokes with the tip of his own finger. "This one is ren—人. It means person."

Harry copies it, brows furrowed in concentration. "Looks like a couple of legs."

Fon's lips twitch. "You're not wrong."

It continues like that for a while—Harry drawing, Fon correcting. Then, as the fire begins to die down, Fon rises and brushes off his pants. "Now the lesson you dread."

Harry groans but gets to his feet anyway, pulling the blanket tighter as he shuffles upright.

"Flame control starts in the body," Fon reminds him. "So does discipline, so learning to fight it is."

"But I have magic," Harry says, not really protesting, just… poking.

"You still need to learn about Flames."

That earns him a tired but conceding look. "And I've to learn to fight for that?"

Fon smiles at him, serenely. Harry sighs and puts the thick blanket inside his bag. He shudders once, but the cold is soon forgotten as they begin with the basic stances. Fon moves around him with soft corrections, occasionally tapping his shoulder or hip to adjust his posture. Harry listens, watches, repeats. He's not precise, but he's attentive. Curious and eager once he's warm and not shivering from the cold.

It's… flattering, in a way. To be listened to like that. Most people followed Fon's teachings out of fear or obligation, but there was a disdain in their eyes because he was younger than his students and better than them. Harry follows because he wants to learn.

They end the session with breath work as they stretch, knees in the snow, hands open to the sky. Harry's hair is dusted white, his cheeks pink. He looks peaceful.

Fon exhales with him, but doesn't say thank you even as he watches Harry mouthing the Chinese word for sky, trying to pronounce it right—He thinks it, though. And maybe he is drifting still, but this Sky—this strange, earnest phoenix—is a current he doesn't mind being swept into.

XLV

The snow is silent today. Not in a heavy way—just still. Restful. The kind of silence that settles like a blanket, as though the mountains themselves have paused to listen.

Fon sits cross-legged on the packed snow, his breath even, body relaxed in a way that only years of training can create. Across from him, Harry mirrors his posture, still bundled in the thick blanket he insists on stealing each night. Only this time, the look on his face is serious. Focused.

"Okay," Harry murmurs, his eyes closed. "Let's try again."

Fon hums in acknowledgment but doesn't speak. Harry doesn't need words right now—he needs quiet. Stillness. Trust.

They've been practicing for over a week now, each evening after dinner and Chinese lessons. Meditation, breathwork, control. Fon guiding. Harry trying and failing. And trying again. It's not easy for him as he's more attuned to magic, to a river he commands with ease, to power that obeys his will without needing to name it. But Flames aren't like that. They aren't a power that's inside a core, that he can use whenever he wants, separated from him but still his own. They're his soul.

They're his self, the hidden and obvious parts of him. For someone like Harry—someone who spent years distancing himself from pain, from people, from the world—it's no small thing to sit with himself and ask: Who am I?

But today feels different. It always takes Harry a while to enter a meditation state but this time he's calmer, more centered. Fon can feel the shift even before Harry, in the way that—slowly, softly—heat rises in the air. Fon's eyes open just in time to see it: a flicker between Harry's palms. Small, but steady. Like a flame coaxed from embers. It shimmers gold with what he thinks is his magic, but it's unmistakably an orange flame.

A Sky Flame of high purity. Unfettered, unclaimed. Radiating quiet acceptance and warmth. So much warmth.

Fon draws in a breath before he can stop himself. It's not just the power of it—it's what it feels like. What it does to the space around them. The snow doesn't melt, but the air changes. Softer. Safer. Like sitting beside a fire you didn't know you needed.

Harry blinks open his eyes, surprised by his own success. Then he grins, the kind that lifts all the weariness from his face and makes him look years younger.

"I did it," he whispers, as if afraid to break the moment.

"You did," Fon says, voice low. He keeps his posture still, but inside… something shifts in him. The kind of shift that feels like plates beneath the earth moving into place, inevitable and there.

The flame glows brighter for a heartbeat—just slightly—like it heard his longing. And Fon's fingers twitch in his lap, but he doesn't reach for it. Doesn't reach for him even if it would be easy—too easy, now that the flame is open—to place his own Storm beside it and let the bond fall into place.

But Harry is still learning and discovering what his Flames mean, what they can do. He's still learning what it means to be a Sky. And Fon… Fon cares about him too much to make that choice for him. So he waits and watches the way Harry coaxes the flame into a spiral above his palms, entranced. Like it's new, like it's sacred. Because maybe it is.

Fon lets himself think, just for a moment, about things he usually buries too deep to name. Like his mother, always distant. His sister, too young and fragile, someone to protect more than confide in. He's had loyalty. Duty. Responsibility. But never—never—a place to rest. A home. And this… this quiet moment, in the snow, with a boy grinning at the glow of something inside him—This feels like what a home should be.

Not walls. Not a roof.

Just a presence.

Fon exhales through his nose and closes his eyes again, waits for the moment to pass when the flame fades. It doesn't. The feeling stays. And he knows then, without doubt or denial, that someday—if Harry will let him—he will call this Sky his own. But not now. For now, he watches Harry's hands and the snow beneath them and thinks: I can wait.

XLVI

The morning sun stretches slow and golden over Sicily's cobbled streets, washing pale stone in light. The sea air smells of salt and citrus, and the whole city moves like it remembers how to breathe after holding it in for too long.

Fon walks beside Harry not the first time, and—if he has his way—not the last. However, something about this morning feels different. Charged. Anticipation lingers in the space between footfalls. They have a meeting later—an important one—but the world hasn't asked for blood yet, so they walk together. Harry is talking animatedly now, pointing at the corner of a building where ivy spills down like green lace.

Fon barely hears the words.

He's too busy admiring the way the sunlight filters through Harry's hair, how his light scarf—borrowed from Fon, of course—keeps slipping off his shoulder only to be caught again with careless fingers. There's a warmth to him that has nothing to do with fire or magic or power. Just Harry.

They pass a stone fountain, half-covered in moss, and Harry leans close to look at the carved face of Neptune. He hums thoughtfully, brows knit in curiosity.

"Do you know what the history of this one?" he asks, tipping his head back toward Fon. And Fon steps closer, maybe a bit closer than necessary. Close enough that if they were anyone else, it would be impolite. But Harry doesn't step away. He leans in, instead, as if waiting.

So Fon does what he does best—he explains softly. "It's from the early 1700s. A noble's attempt to impress a visiting French count, if I remember correctly. The French never came, but the fountain stayed."

Harry lets out a quiet chuckle. "A story of disappointment, then."

Fon lets his lips curl into a real smile—one that's not crafted or polite. "A story of permanence."

Harry glances at him then, eyes bright. And warm. Always warm.

The day continues like that—slow and careful. They walk the narrow streets where balconies overflow with laundry and basil, and as they do, Fon tells him more. Not just about Sicily. But about the Mafia.

He murmurs near Harry's ear whenever he speaks about it, keeping his voice low so the few people around them don't hear him as they pass by.

"The original Families began in Naples and Sicily," he whispers, brushing Harry's shoulder with his own as he pretends to gesture at an alleyway. "Protectors first. Then criminals. They called themselves 'men of honor.' Most still do."

Harry raises an eyebrow. "Honorable criminals. Sounds ironic."

Fon chuckles. "It's complicated, like all things that survive centuries are."

Each time he speaks, he leans in. And each time, Harry listens, flame-bright and unguarded. He doesn't seem to notice how close they're walking now, or maybe he does—and doesn't mind. Fon likes this closeness, not only to his flame, but to Harry. He likes the excuse of lowering his voice to a whisper, of needing to stand near to be heard. The truth is, he doesn't need to whisper—not really. But he likes the intimacy it brings. The reason to breathe in the Sky's warmth. To feel the edge of his flame just beneath the skin, like a heartbeat against his own.

Harry turns to him, beaming at something he just saw through the window of a bakery. "Do you think we have time to grab something sweet before the meeting?"

Fon allows the smile to linger. "Only if I'm paying."

Harry laughs and drags him toward the scent of sugar and almonds.

Fon follows, not because of duty, not because of expectation. But because there's a flame beside him that feels like home and Fon—unmoored, lost for so long—has learned to follow warmth when he finds it.

XLVII

He arrives thirty minutes early to the meeting. The coffee bar is like the first time he's seen it with Harry: small, tucked in a quieter street where the city hums rather than shouts. Old stone walls, wicker chairs. Sicilian light paints everything gold and warm. Yet Fon can already feel the weight of sharp eyes before he steps in.

Renato's presence is unmistakable.

He's already there, sitting like he owns the place. Dressed in his tailored suit and signature fedora, espresso in one hand, the other loosely curled around the saucer. His tie is slightly loosened—not out of sloppiness, but purpose. It's a disarming move. The relaxed hunter.

Fon approaches with quiet steps, his expression unreadable behind his usual half-lidded eyes and pleasant smile. He slides into the seat across from him without ceremony. He greets him, but Renato doesn't offer a greeting in return. Not really.

"I heard you're a free agent now," he says instead, voice low and casual, but his eyes are as sharp as ever. "No longer shackled to the Triads."

Fon isn't surprised. Of course news like that travels fast—especially when Renato is the one doing the listening.

"It's not new," Fon replies mildly. "Everyone knew I'd been trying to escape their leash for years. It was only a matter of time, especially when they decided to involve my sister."

"You're right, everyone knew you wanted out," Renato says, tilting his cup. "But no one thought you'd succeed. So my question is: what did it cost, Fon? What did you pay to finally cut the leash?"

Fon keeps smiling. He doesn't blink. "I came to ask for the favor you owe me. Not to entertain gossip."

Renato ignores him.

"Maybe you didn't pay the price," he murmurs, eyes gleaming over the rim of his espresso. "Maybe it was your Sky."

The word drops between them like a stone in water and Fon's smile fades. Not suddenly. But like morning mist burnt away by a rising sun. Quiet. Absolute.

"So that's the rumor now?" Fon asks, voice low.

Renato shrugs. "Not quite. I didn't hear it from anyone." His smirk sharpens. "I just happened to see you yesterday. And again this morning. The cozy little walks and your longing stares told me he wasn't yours yet, even if he was clearly comfortable in your presence. He looked very warm. Very... Sky."

Fon exhales slowly through his nose. "You followed me."

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Renato takes another sip of his espresso like they're discussing the weather. "Others will start connecting the dots soon. He's a free agent with no ties, right? That's rare, especially with a flame that bright. He was clearly new into his Flame though even if the strength and purity of it was obvious to all." He leans back. "Sure you can protect him?"

"He doesn't need protection," Fon says tightly, which only makes Renato smile wider.

"So he's strong, then? Didn't look like much." He taps his finger against his cup. "But who am I to judge?"

"Renato," Fon warns, and there's iron in the way he says it. Quiet, but unmistakable.

Renato leans forward, eyes gleaming with amusement. "You wrote to me needing a new identity for a scientist. I can do that. No problem. I owe you, after all." A pause. "But if you want my best work…" He smiles. "I want to meet him."

Fon narrows his eyes. "You're not just curious."

"I'm interested," Renato corrects, tone still maddeningly casual. "There's a difference. You show up out of nowhere with a Sky, someone unclaimed, untouched by the Families, but with the enough leverage or power to cut your leash to the Triads. And you expect me not to be intrigued? Please."

"I saved your life," Fon says evenly. "You swore you'd repay that."

"And I will." Renato folds his hands, grin still in place. "But the job will be… perfunctory. If you want it done with care, with precision—if you want me to put my full attention on it…"

His grin grows sharper.

"Then satisfy my curiosity."

The words hang in the air, silky and barbed. Fon doesn't reply. He stares at Renato, weighing options, paths, costs.

Across the table, the World's Greatest Hitman raises his cup in salute and Fon sighs.

Chapter Text

XLVIII

The morning light is warm, but Harry doesn't feel it much from where he's perched across the bar. He's not far—just high enough to watch unnoticed. A weathered stone ledge on a rooftop, his feathers ruffling faintly in the breeze, his shape muted by a disillusionment charm and a careful bit of will. To the casual eye, he's just another city bird: dull, quiet, nothing worth a second glance.

Below, the streets move with early foot traffic. Children pulling at their mothers' skirts. Men in dark coats talking too loudly. The scent of coffee and bread weaves through the air like a temptation. But Harry's gaze is fixed on one place: The bar. More like a café, really—an old-fashioned sort of place with carved wood chairs and a small awning, worn by salt and sun. The sort of place Fon told him about while tracing city lines on napkins and hotel maps, calling it a meeting spot for more than just mafiosi.

And at one of the small tables outside, someone's already waiting. Harry had noticed him the moment he landed: A handsome man in a dark suit and fedora, sipping espresso like it's a weapon. He'd been there since before Harry arrived, unmoving except for the casual lift of his cup.

Then Fon appears. He walks with the same quiet confidence he always does. Controlled, graceful, entirely unhurried. But Harry, who's been watching him every evening under snow-dusted skies and campfire stars, can see the set of his shoulders. The way his hand lingers just a second too long at his coat's edge, near where he keeps his blades. His expression is perfectly pleasant—the smile that Harry had once mistaken for genuine.

It's not the real one, he now knows. Not the one that softens his eyes and makes his voice gentler.

No, this is the one Fon used the day they met. Courteous. Professional. Cold as a mountain's shadow.

He sits in front of the man in suit and fedora and they start talking. Harry doesn't know what's being said, but he watches the shift in Fon's posture. The stiffness. The sharpness. And then the smile disappears completely.

Harry narrows his eyes. His talons tighten slightly on the ledge, his tail-feathers twitching in restrained frustration. He doesn't like that expression on Fon's face as the conversation pauses. Fon leans back, contemplative, arms crossed loosely as if he's thinking over some long game. And then—subtle as a whisper—he tilts his head. To anyone else, it's nothing. A slow sweep of his gaze over the buildings across the street, pausing briefly on a row of pigeons. But Harry knows he's not looking at the pigeons. He's looking at him.

Harry's feathers rustle because he knows what Fon's doing. He'd explained it once before, on a snowy night over fire-grilled fish and stubborn Mandarin lessons: how Harry's mental link is strongest with touch, but that eyes—true, anchored eye contact—can be enough for a small bridge. A signal. A question.

A request.

Harry meets Fon's gaze, locking with it. No words pass between them, but something gentle and weighted brushes his mind. An image of Renato's face, a memory of a conversation, The request the hit man made. The question is there, the implicit Do you want to meet him?

There's no pressure in his mental tone. No manipulation.

Harry exhales through his beak, tilting his head just a fraction in return, enough to be seen at a distance. A nod. Deliberate and a little tired.

Alright.

Fon breaks eye contact immediately. The bridge severs gently. He stands up, and the man in the fedora—Renato—follows.

Harry watches them move through the crowd with quiet grace, two shadows cut from the same cloth of secrets and silence. Harry waits a couple seconds before spreading his wings as he glides from the rooftop and follows.

The wind welcomes him.

XLIX

The park is hidden, quieter than the street, tucked behind a row of pale buildings, where the cobblestone gives way to soft grass and tired trees. A fountain burbles gently nearby, weathered by time and moss. A narrow path curves around the benches—empty, save for the one Renato walks toward, flanked by Fon.

They don't sit. Instead, they stop near the bench's edge, close enough to be seen by no one and everyone. Renato says something in Italian, low and dry, his tone almost bored. Fon simply crosses his arms and waits. Harry, watching from above, takes it as his cue, thanking his lucky stars to the fact that he spent this past week polishing his Italian.

He swoops down—not fast, not aggressively, but with practiced ease. He glides low and wide, circling once before landing behind Fon's shoulder. He doesn't approach from behind Renato; he's a hitman, after all, and Harry is many things, but suicidal is no longer one of them.

He watches as Renato glances toward the movement, then away, disinterested. Dismissed. As if he were a pigeon. It amuses him until Renato's gaze flicks back and he squints, watching him with narrowed eyes as Harry lifts off the grass again and lands neatly—flame-light and tail trailing like a silk ribbon—on the back of the bench, closest to Fon. Then Harry drops the disillusionment with a burst of heatless shimmer, feathers black as ash and eyes bright as magic. He gives it a second, maybe two, waiting for the awe. Or surprise. Or even a breath held too long.

He's met with nothing. Renato just blinks.

Harry croons, soft and bright—a welcoming trill, the kind he used with nervous creatures in the deep woods, or chicks that hadn't yet opened their eyes. It glides through the air like warmth through winter.

Renato hums, the only show it affected him is how the slight frown between his brows eases. And then, finally—finally—he says something.

"It has the same Flame signature as the Sky from yesterday." He tilts his head, gaze sharp but amused. "Is your Sky a bird, Fon?"

Harry almost squawks. Instead, he huffs. Not a real bird, dammit. He's a phoenix.

He shifts closer to Fon's neck and nudges his cheek with one long feather, brushing the skin gently—What's he talking about? What gave me away?

Fon doesn't blink, doesn't move, but Harry hears the exhale he lets out. "I really need to teach you how to hide your Flames better."

Harry would groan if he could. Instead, he tucks his wings tighter and lets his head rest under a wing for a second, resigned but not defeated.

Renato just keeps smiling. So Harry, wanting to erase the smug look on his face, begins to shift—light bending inward, pulling in heat and color and shape until a man sits where a bird had been. Harry exhales and immediately begins fussing with his robes. They're the ones the Triads had given him—flowing and too formal, but fire-resistant enough to survive his transformations. He hadn't had that issue back in his world. Wizard robes, especially his own, had been layered with magic, charmed to endure every ridiculous thing he got up to.

He hadn't realized until arriving here that his phoenix form burned through normal fabric like paper in a hearth.

He smooths the edge of his sleeve, thinking briefly of Juan and how she had managed to make clothing that didn't catch fire at the slightest puff of flame. He should have asked more about that. 

"You're not with the Triads anymore," Renato's voice cuts in lazily. "So why does your Sky wear their clothes?"

Harry blinks.

"He's not my Sky," Fon says immediately, voice steady.

"They're the only clothes I don't burn through," Harry says at the same time, drier than intended.

"That so?" he murmurs, gaze flicking across him like he's cataloguing something. Then one hand is moving, slow and casual, toward Harry's sleeve. He doesn't get far as Fon grabs his wrist. Not harshly, but firm. The warning is clear in the silence that follows.

"Despite him not being my Sky," Fon says softly, "I still won't tolerate people reaching for him without warning."

Renato raises an eyebrow, unbothered. "You said he could defend himself."

"I can," Harry says, eyes narrowed.

"Didn't mean harm. Just curious." He shrugs before glancing at Harry again. "Wanted to feel the fabric."

Harry lifts an arm slightly, letting him go ahead. Fon doesn't let go of Renato's wrist until the hitman actually reaches for the sleeve, fingers brushing the material lightly.

Renato hums. "Flame-processed. No wonder. Woven with intention. A real artisan's work. Won't burn easily, even under direct Flames."

Harry's eyes widen slightly. "How do you know that?"

Renato smirks. "I wear the same. Not this style, obviously. I've got a tailor." His gaze sharpens, calculating but amused. "Knows the craft. She could make you something that won't combust every time you flap your wings."

That—that—makes Harry light up. "You'd introduce me?"

"Sure," Renato says with a small grin. "Bit expensive, though."

Harry waves that off. "Does she accept gold? That's all I've got."

"That'll do." Renato leans back, casting a sidelong glance toward Fon, who hasn't moved, still standing like a sentinel at Harry's side, every muscle coiled like drawn wire. Renato's smile stretches a little further as Harry looks between them, still rubbing at his robes. "You two always this tense, or is it just me?"

Fon exhales through his nose. "Only when someone touches what isn't theirs."

Renato chuckles. "Didn't know he was yours."

"He's not."

Harry sighs, rubbing at his temple. "I need better clothes and better communication."

Renato smirks again, easy and confident, and sits beside him with the fluid grace of someone who's never once felt threatened by the world. The bench creaks slightly under the shift in weight. Harry doesn't lean away—but he doesn't lean closer, either.

"So," Renato drawls, one elbow resting casually over the back of the bench, his fedora casting a shadow over sharp eyes. "Fon didn't say, but what did it cost you?"

Harry glances sideways, brow raised. "What?"

"Fon's freedom." Renato's voice is light, too conversational for the weight of the question. "I know the Triads don't let go of their prizefighters without blood or leverage. So what'd you pay?"

Harry pauses, eyes narrowing. Then, dryly—because it is true, in its own twisted way—he says, "My tears."

He waits for the sarcastic quip. For disbelief. A scoff, maybe. Instead, Renato hums. Not amused but thoughtful. His head tilts, shadow shifting over his face as he looks at Harry properly. Not just at his face. At his Flame. His posture. His intent.

"Do they have an important property?" he asks, voice quieter now, like he's adjusting the pitch to fit something more fragile.

Harry stills, fingers tightening slightly on the sleeve he'd just been fixing. He meets Renato's eyes, and that same uncomfortable pressure presses into his chest. The hitman doesn't sound like he's joking. And worse—he sounds like he's close to the truth. Too close.

Harry shrugs, tone casual. "They're… a rare panacea. Let's leave it at that."

"Panacea," Renato echoes, amused. "Right. And you just gave them to the Triads, out of the kindness of your heart?"

"They were hurting people I care about," Harry says tightly, before he can think better of it. And the silence that follows isn't accusing, but calculating.

Renato leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers steepled. He studies him the way a hunter of prey studies shifting winds.

"I'm starting to see why Fon's so territorial," he mutters. "It's not just your Flame."

Harry swallows as his hand curls into his lap at the long pause that follows. Then—mercifully—Renato's smile tilts just enough to make it feel like the weight is shifting again.

"Relax, birdboy," he says, standing up in a smooth motion. "I'm not about to auction your feathers. Just interesting, is all."

Harry watches him warily, but says nothing as Renato stretches slightly, cracking his neck. "I'll let you know when I've arranged your tailor visit. I'll even pay for your first commission—call it a thank-you for the entertainment."

"I'd rather pay," Harry says instantly.

"Suit yourself." Renato chuckles as he adjusts his fedora, already walking off. "But I'll be disappointed if you don't come dressed for the part next time."

"Wait," Fon says suddenly, voice sharpening. "You forgot something."

Renato pauses. "Hmm?"

"You promised to help create a new identity," Fon continues, arms crossing as his brows dip. "For someone who needs to live freely in Italy."

Renato tilts his head. "Oh. Right. The scientist."

Fon's eyes narrow into a glare that could cut glass. "You forgot?"

Renato shrugs, unbothered. "I got distracted by the shiny bird and your aggressive possessiveness. You can't blame me."

"I can and will," Fon hisses.

"You know," Renato muses as he slowly circles back toward them, "you look much better with your fake smile gone. It makes you seem almost human."

Fon's expression doesn't shift, but Harry can feel the energy spike beside him.

"You'd look better with a punch in the face," Fon says, deadly calm.

Harry glances between the two of them, blinking. They're standing maybe two feet apart now, stiff-backed, glaring like old men who forgot whose turn it was to sit on the only bench in the park. The tension is real and deeply ridiculous.

Harry coughs, and then lets out a short chuckle.

"Wow," he says, eyebrows raised as he leans back against the bench, arms folded. "You two have the weirdest friendship I've ever seen."

That gets their attention.

Fon turns to him immediately, eyes wide—almost betrayed. "He's not my friend," he says, tone urgent, like he wants to make it very clear.

At the same time, Renato hums. "Oh, I wouldn't call it friendship. I just like poking at his impeccable control. It's fascinating."

Harry snorts, fighting a grin. "Whatever you say."

He leans back, smiling into the fading light, and watches as Fon continues glaring murder at Renato and Renato, in turn, winks like the bastard he is. They might not be friends, but Harry's pretty sure they've got the kind of history that only weirdly affectionate near-enemies could develop.

"So?" Fon snaps. "About the new identity?"

Renato finally sighs, as if dragged into the responsibility of being a decent human being against his will. He leans back, tipping his head just so that the brim of his fedora casts his eyes in shadow.

"Fine," he mutters. "I'll need the full information. If you want something real done, no secrets."

Fon, with the air of a man swallowing something sour, pulls a sealed envelope from his coat. "All here. As promised."

Renato takes it lazily, peeking inside.

"Hoh?" he says aloud, eyes glinting with surprise. "URSS scientist. Dimtr Ivanovich Zeleny." He flips through the rest. "Specialized in propulsion theory, aerospace engineering, theoretical physics and, woah, those are a lot of PhD's… not bad. I see why they wouldn't want to let him go."

He taps the envelope thoughtfully against his palm.

"If he wants to go freelance, it's doable. Actually, being half and half might be the best option, to be honest. His name's out there, even if the USSR keeps trying to smother it. Someone with his rep won't be lacking offers… though most will come with strings."

Harry's brows draw together. "What do you mean by half and half?"

Renato hums. "There's a new group—Estraneo. Mostly scientists poking into Flames. Too ambitious, a bit messy, and not to be trusted entirely… but their resources are decent. I could angle him a position where your friend can use their labs, but doesn't join. That buys him time to learn and tech to explore, without a collar."

Fon's arms cross, slow and thoughtful. "And the long-term?"

Renato shrugs. "If your man wants a lab of his own, it's possible. But pricey. Connections, security, logistics, equipment. He'd be building a fortress with microscopes. Unless your brilliant little scientist is already sitting on a fortune, he'll need help."

He pauses, gaze flicking between them as he gives them a look. One of those deeply mafia expressions that said, show me your wallet or stop wasting my time.

Fon hesitates. Harry can feel it beside him, so he speaks first.

"I'll pay for it," Harry says.

Renato's gaze snaps to him. "You?"

"I have gold," Harry says simply. "A lot of it."

There's a beat. Then Renato leans forward slowly, eyes sharp. "So he's your element?"

"No?" Harry blinks. "He's my friend."

A longer pause this time. Renato studies him like he's trying to figure out what planet Harry is from and how it's not imploded from kindness yet.

"So," he says eventually, slow and skeptical, "you're doing this out of the goodness of your heart?"

"I'm doing this," Harry replies, calmly, "because he's important to me. That's enough."

Something shifts. Just slightly. Renato watches him for a beat too long. And then, out of nowhere, he smiles. Not the razor grin he wore before, but something softer. Still sharp, but less cruel. Less mocking. Like… approval.

"…Do you want to be my friend, then?" he asks, entirely serious.

Harry stares. "I—what?"

"I'm just saying," Renato continues, leaning back with a casual shrug. "It's rare to find someone who pays in loyalty these days. That's worth something."

"Are you asking to join my friend group?" Harry deadpans, and beside him Fon mutters something that sounds suspiciously like don't encourage him.

Renato just smiles wider, before looking down again to flip through the envelope Fon handed over. His expression remains unreadable though curious—until his fingers pause between two documents. He pulls something free with a raised eyebrow.

"A Mafia registration card?" he says, voice tinged with mild surprise. "Already a freelance?"

Harry perks up. "Yeah! We made it together." 

He wants to talk more about it but then he sees it. The way Renato's smirk slowly sours as he actually reads the name on the card. Then, he looks up at Fon with a kind of offended disbelief, lips curling like he's tasted something foul.

"Verde Villanova?" he deadpans.

Fon remains impassive. Harry, on the other hand, chuckles, not even pretending to hide it.

"We said the same thing," he admits, grinning. "But he was very serious about it. Said it was easy to remember and that it fit because of his green hair and Flame."

Renato's expression is stuck somewhere between are you joking and I want a refund on this conversation. He mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like, "I'm surrounded by idiots," but he doesn't argue further.

He just flips the card once, then sighs and sets it down. "Alright. I'll set the identity up properly first. Since he's already registered under that name—ugh—we'll have to keep it. Paper trails, bureaucracy, the usual."

Then he levels them both with a look. "But you need to talk to him. Let me know if he wants to go with the Estraneo option or not. I'll dig deep into some recent intel, get a report together. You can bring it to him."

Harry nods. "We'll ask him. He's been curious about Flames, so I think he'll at least want to know more."

"Good," Renato says, already pulling out a small notebook and scribbling something down. "Same bar. Two days from now. I expect you both there."

He glances at Harry's formal robes and at Fon's casual one. "And maybe wear something that doesn't scream I fought the Triads and all I got was this outfit. I'll leave you with my tailor's address, just in case you want something with more style."

"Will it keep you away from us afterward?" Fon asks serenely.

Renato just grins. "No."