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.