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.