LII
The warm sensation of Harry's transportation fades as they reappear in the middle of Dimtr's lab. The faint hum of machines and fluorescent lights greeting them like background noise. The space is cluttered with cables, open notebooks, and half-finished calculations—still unmistakably Dimtr's domain. Fon doesn't seem to care about it, he steps away the moment their feet touch the ground, grumbling under his breath. "The audacity of that man. Does he think proximity gives him the right to ask that kind of question to you?"
Harry, still in his phoenix form, flutters his wings once before hopping lightly onto the edge of a nearby stool. He croons gently—low, melodic, calming. The tone vibrates faintly with warmth and an odd peace, and while it doesn't silence Fon, it does make him stop pacing.
Dimtr, who's been perched at his workstation, finally looks up when the sound seems to register. He looks tired but his eyes still lock onto the thick dossier Fon is holding with the greed of thirsty man in the middle of the desert, seeing water after so long.
"Is that it?" he asks, already moving to grab it from the Storm's hands.Fon grunts in vague acknowledgment and doesn't resist as the dossier is snatched away. Dimtr doesn't spare them another glance, flipping it open with the reverence of someone handed a holy text. The rustle of pages quickly overtakes the lab.
Harry rolls his eyes (or does the avian equivalent of it) before hopping off the stool and landing lightly on the floor. In a shimmer of fire and air, his form stretches and twists until he's human again—normal clothes curling close to his form as he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
He barely finishes standing before Fon pulls him into a sudden, firm hug. Harry freezes, momentarily caught off guard. But then his arms lift and fold around Fon's waist. He holds him tightly, warm and steady. His hand rubs small, slow circles against Fon's back.
Across the room, Dimtr glances up briefly, eyebrow raised. "I'm not surprised," he mutters with dry amusement before returning to the dossier.
Harry lets out a breath against Fon's shoulder, murmuring gently, "Better?"
Fon's answer is a small nod against his neck. It should be uncomfortable for him as he's quite tall in comparison to Harry. However his voice is more centered when he speaks next. "I just didn't want to confront it. The truth in what Renato said."
Harry leans back just enough to look at him. "What truth?"
"That Elements will constantly seek you out," Fon says softly. "Even if you don't want to lead. Even if you stay unaffiliated. People will come to you because of your Flame." His fingers tighten slightly on Harry's back. "Strong ones. Ones like Renato. And they'll want to stay."
Harry frowns, thoughtful. "I don't mind helping people. If my Flame makes them feel stable… safer? That's a good thing. I like to help." Then, after a pause: "But… that's not what this is about, is it?"
Fon doesn't answer right away. Then, his voice, low and almost vulnerable: "I just don't want to be left behind. Not by you."
"I don't know how to be a Sky yet," he says, looking straight into Fon's black eyes, his tone honest and warm. "But I know how to be a friend. And I don't plan in going anywhere."
Fon closes his eyes and lets the tension melt away for the first time that day.
Behind them, Dimtr flips a page. "You two done emoting?" he asks without looking up. "Because this report is terrifyingly impressive. I might actually be excited."
Harry snorts. "Give us five more minutes, Professor Verde."
Dimtr groans loudly in protest, continuing to stare at them until they have no other choice but to let the hug end—reluctantly on Fon's part, and gently on Harry's—Dimtr makes a pointed sound of clearing his throat.
"Right," he says, without looking up, "if you two lovebirds are done radiating emotionally charged heat signatures, we have an escape plan to design. Preferably before the Soviet government notices I've stopped playing nice."
Harry chuckles, moving to sit on the edge of a cluttered worktable. "I thought you were going to be laying low?"
Dimtr waves a hand without looking up. "I got bored. And I might have thrown a tantrum because they didn't authorize me to use a machine I wanted."
"A tantrum?" Harry raises an eyebrow, but then shakes his head. "Let's talk about the documents. What can you get from them?"
"Everything," Dimtr deadpans. Then his eyes scan the dossier, and he lets out a low whistle. "Some of this equipment… damn. I've only seen diagrams of this kind of tech in theoretical journals."
He points at a faded photograph of what looks like a glowing sphere suspended in a lattice of wires. "See this? That's a Flame isolator. It's supposed to track the wavelength variance in Flame signatures during sustained combat. I don't even know how, isn't that amazing?"
Fon leans over to glance at the page. "I heard about it. They're already using it?"
Dimtr nods, eyes shining. "And refining it. This right here—" he flips a page and taps a section of fine blueprints, "—this is borderline science fiction. They're combining flame resonance with early quantum computing logic. It's primitive but functional." His voice hitches slightly. "This is… this is my dream lab."
Harry smiles softly. "So you're in, then?"
"In?" Dimtr laughs, sharp and breathless. "I'm already planning which machines to borrow ideas from. Hell, I'm mentally redesigning half of them already."
Fon folds his arms. "Then it's time we talk about how to get you out cleanly."
Dimtr's excitement falters slightly. "Ah. Yes. The part where the USSR stops sending polite letters for me to focus on a topic and starts sending men with guns."
Harry tilts his head. "Would faking your death help?"
Dimtr looks up at him, eyes wide. "Yes. Actually, that's not a bad idea."
"I wasn't joking."
"Even better."
Fon steps closer, thoughtful. "How closely are you monitored? I know your lab is not bugged, but what about the outside? Cameras, reports, trackers?"
"No tracker, thankfully. I refused a subdermal chip when they first tried to force it years ago, as the technology wasn't up to par, I could deny it with facts. They haven't revisited it since, but I do have a paper check-in log, though. And I submit reports every two days."
Harry leans forward. "So if we're careful and time it right, you vanish the night after submitting a report. Gives us a buffer before anyone notices something's off."
"I could leave a false note behind," Dimtr muses, "suggesting disillusionment with the regime. Something dramatic and self-destructive. They'll assume I ran or offed myself. It won't hold forever, but it might buy us a month."
Fon nods slowly. "It would work better if we left behind a body."
Dimtr blanches. "Preferably not mine."
Harry raises a hand. "We can fake it. I know a few spells. And if we stage the right kind of accident…" He pauses, thoughtful. "What do you think about being burned beyond recognition."
"If it's not my body, I'm in," Dimtr says dryly. "A lab accident can always happen when one is around fire and chemicals."
Harry snaps his fingers. "Leave a few bone fragments. Add one of your old watches. Maybe a few teeth—"
"Let's not get gruesome," Dimtr interrupts, but he's grinning now. "Alright. This could actually work."
Fon sits down beside Harry, arms crossed but expression focused. "We can time it with your transfer to the Estraneo site. Coordinate it so the moment your death is discovered, you're already somewhere unreachable."
Harry smiles. "I can handle the transport."
Dimtr glances up at him. "You're really all-in on this."
Harry shrugs. "You're my friend. That's all the reason I need."
There's a beat of silence, then Dimtr clears his throat again—but it's gentler this time. "Well. Then I guess I'll just have to be worth the investment."
"You'd better be," Fon says flatly, but there's no real bite in it.
And for the first time since the dossier hit the table, the lab fills not with tension, but quiet hope.
LIII
The Assassin's Guild isn't exactly in the business of body procurement—at least, not publicly—but when Fon brings it up to one of the right people, a day after they met with Dimtr, they don't even blink. Luckily, Harry isn't there for the arrangement—just the aftermath. So, the next time he walks into the Guild, he's led to another room. The smell hits him first: too clean. Like something had been recently washed, scrubbed. Bleached.
It looks like the unholy combination of a hospital and a morgue.
He doesn't ask why they decided to mix them up. Though he thinks about it, a little too much. It's probably to gain more space or because it's easier and more comfortable for a killer to be healed while they leave their marks?
It doesn't matter. So, ignoring the injured people around being healed by Sun flames, he goes to where the body is waiting for him, laid out on a stone slab beneath a shroud. It's average height, roughly Dimtr's build. Unremarkable. The kind of man who could disappear into a crowd.
Or a fire.
Harry breathes through his nose as he pulls back the sheet. He tells the person who led him to the body that he needs a private space with it. He doesn't even get a raised eyebrow at his horrible phrasing. He's only told that it'll cost more and that's it. Harry pays for it and once he's led into a small room with a low temperature, he starts doing his part. His fingers are already tingling with the pull of transfiguration magic as he works, muttering softly under his breath, more instinct than incantation. The air hums with tension. Slowly, the body shifts—jawline first, then hair length, then the general structure of the bones. It's not a perfect match, but it's close enough that, when burned, only someone with access to Dimtr's dental records and a real reason to look closely would question it.
He can almost hear Hermione's voice in his head: Ethical concerns, Harry.
And maybe he'll feel guilty later. But right now, he's not just working for Dimtr's future. He's working against the kind of surveillance state that doesn't let geniuses walk away.
When he's done, he wipes the sweat from his brow with a sleeve and nods, satisfied. The resemblance is uncanny.
A month. That's how long it'll hold perfectly before the transfiguration begins to fade. Long enough.
Later that night, Harry relays the progress to Fon and Dimtr. They sit in a quiet corner of the lab, sharing tea and cold bread as Harry shows them the photos he took of the body. Fon is, as always, composed. Dimtr looks pale but resolute.
"So," Dimtr says finally, after staring into his tea for longer than necessary, "I'm going to watch my own funeral."
"Hopefully not," Harry mutters. "I'm doing everything possible to make sure there isn't one. Just an internal memo. Tragic loss. Fire incident. No survivors. That sort of thing."
"Lovely," Dimtr says dryly. Then adds, more quietly, "Thank you."
Harry smiles softly. "You'd do the same."
"I'd probably hide the body better."
"True," Fon agrees.
Dimtr shoots them both a look, then sighs. "We will be done earlier than I thought. I don't think Renato will be ready with the Estraneo position in a week."
"I could go visit him to ask him about it, tomorrow. I promised to do so, after all," Harry mutters as he looks to the side. "If it's not ready, you could get used to living in Italy. Maybe find a place to live."
"I'll make use of the time, then. Maybe finally try pasta without powdered soup mix in it."
Harry raises a brow. "Living dangerously, are we?"
Dimtr grins, just a little. "Guess I'd better start if I'm going to pull off the part."
"I don't like it," Fon says, almost pouting, before he sighs. "But I trust you."
And sometimes that's enough.
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