Sharp bangs roused Harry from his sleep. Rolling onto his side, he pulled the blanket over his head and hoped the noise would die off as most problems did if you ignored them long enough. Alas. Groaning, he sat up in his bed. It sounded like someone was pulling the Weasley twins' super-powered firecrackers.
"Sirius!" he bellowed. "Have you forgotten it's not Christmas again?"
His only answer was another window-rattling blast. Fuming, he threw on a dressing gown, grabbed his wand, and marched out of his room in search of the noise. The hallway's wooden floor was warm under his feet, and he had to shield his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
He climbed a floor down and swiveled his head. Contrary to his expectations, the blasts appeared to be coming from the drawing-room, which Sirius normally avoided. Bad memories or some such.
Nudging the door open a fraction, he peeked inside. The fireplace at the back crackled with green flames, and inside it hunched two men. One was skinny and disheveled, nestling awkwardly against the fireplace's side with his fingers in his ears, while the other held his wand aloft, his mane of greying tawny hair fluttering in the haze of the fire.
Bloody hell. What was Scrimgeour doing here?
A deafening bang from Scrimgeour's wand derailed Harry's train of thought. Flinching, he shoved open the door and strode inside. It was good to see the wards do their job and not let strangers through the Floo, but being stuck inside a sweltering fireplace did tend to leave people in a foul mood.
Scrimgeor's face brightened. "So you were home after all, Mr. Potter."
Halting before the fireplace, he crossed his arms. "Yeah. Sleeping." Instead of chastising the visitors, his words made them stare. "What? I had a busy night."
"Yes, well... I do apologize." Scrimgeour braced a palm against the wall of the fireplace. "Would you mind letting us in? We have important matters to discuss."
He was tempted to let them roast a little longer, but Scrimgeour looked like he was struggling to stay upright. Sighing, Harry canceled the barrier, allowing the two to stumble into the drawing-room. "Could've let me know you were coming. Would've been the polite thing to do."
Scrimgeor spared him a glance as he brushed off his robes. "I believe my Undersecretary sent no less than four owls requesting your presence at the Ministry, and after not hearing back, a meeting at your convenience."
His gaze strayed to the firewood rack, where several balled-up envelopes stood out in the kindling pile. "That's odd. I'll, uh, investigate the matter." He coughed. "What's so important that would make the esteemed Minister for Magic grace me with his presence, anyway?"
Scrimgeour's lips curled into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Only good news from me, I assure you. First, allow me to introduce Mr. Evgenij Orlov, the Russian ambassador."
Harry blinked at the mousy man, who was now smiling ear-to-ear, and proffered his hand. "What's up?"
Evgenij pumped his hand. "An honor, Mr. Potter, an honor. I'm here to negotiate with you on behalf of the great country of Russia."
"Right." Harry wished he had had his first cup of tea already. This seemed like something he would need a working brain for. Plopping down on his basilisk couch, he gestured at the others to be seated. "What could the Russians possibly want with me?"
Scrimgeour limped to a vacant armchair and sat heavily. "All things in order. First of all, allow me to extend my congratulations. As of this morning, you, Mr. Potter, are Britain's newest internationally recognized warlock." His hand slipped into his inner pocket to withdraw a stack of parchment, which he extended toward Harry. "We filed a petition weeks ago, but the Swiss are notorious sticklers to rules. Had to verify everything a dozen times, you understand."
Harry did not, in fact, understand. He picked up the stack and shuffled through it. The topmost parchment was a certificate proclaiming him a warlock, and the rest appeared to be translations into less relevant languages.
He met Scrimgeour's expectant gaze. "I thought warlocks were grumpy old farts?"
"They do tend to be the oldest and wisest members of their communities, but evidently, that is not a requirement. A great feat of martial prowess is, and that you fulfill in spades."
Grinning, he sat up straighter. "Warlock Potter does have a nice ring to it. Cheers, Rufus, you really came through for me here."
Scrimgeour's yellowish eyes glinted. "Don't mention it, Mr. Potter. The Ministry strives to recognize the efforts of our best and bravest."
He rubbed his hands. "So, what do I get?"
Scrimgeour blinked. "You've lost me, I'm afraid."
"You know, like a stipend, or legal immunity, or awesome forbidden artifacts—"
"It is largely an honorary title. Some would call it a relic of older times, but we British recognize the importance of tradition."
Keeping eye contact, Harry bunched up the parchments into a ball.
"As a part of that ancient and noble order," said Scrimgeour quickly, "you will be looked upon with respect and admiration. Not just in Britain, mind you, but every member state of the International Confederation of Wizards."
"Oh." His hands stilled. "I guess that's not so bad."
Scrimgeour glanced at the ambassador. "Of course, the station has its responsibilities. Warlocks are honor-bound to defend the realm, and they're traditionally the first to be called to resolve the biggest magical calamities."
Harry looked at the perpetually smiling Evgenij, then back at Scrimgeour. He thrust out the crumpled parchments. "Don't wanna."
The Minister didn't move. "One of the highest honors a wizard or a witch can achieve in their lifetime... and you don't want it?"
Evgenij's eyes shone as he leaned closer. "You are a very humble man."
Harry snorted. "Sure, whatever. Point is, I refuse, and that's final."
"I'm sorry to say that's not an option." The cool smile reappeared on Scrimgeour's face. "Membership in the order of warlocks is lifelong, and your name has already been entered into the records."
"Oh yeah?" He squeezed the ball of documents tighter. "There's one thing you failed to take into account, Minister."
Scrimgeor's shaggy eyebrows lifted. "And what would that be, Mr. Potter?"
"Parchment burns." Grinning wickedly, he lobbed the ball into the fireplace, but it fell short. His cheeks heated up. He flicked his wand, propelling the ball into the fire, and watched smugly as the parchment shriveled up and blackened.
Scrimgeour's countenance showed none of the dismay Harry expected. "That is merely a copy, but even the destruction of the original would not change a thing. The true symbol of your station—the Warlock's Rod—is already being forged by the gnomes of Switzerland. In case you were wondering, their works are said to be nigh indestructible."
"How convenient," he grumbled. "Alright, let's hear it."
"Beg your pardon?"
He glared at Scrimgeour. "You're obviously trying to sucker me into something. Let's hear the spiel so I can say no and go have breakfast like a civilized person."
Scrimgeour glanced down at his watch and furrowed his brows. Evgenij, meanwhile, practically bounced in his armchair.
"Nothing gets past you, Mr. Potter," he said with admiration. "I've indeed come to request your help on behalf of the Russian people."
"Russians need my help?" He shook his head. "You've got to be kidding."
"There's no need to be modest. You are the only confirmed Demonslayer in living memory!" Evgenij looked around theatrically. "Can I trust you to keep this matter a secret, no matter what your decision is?"
He waved him on. "Yeah, yeah."
"Our country, I'm sorry to say, is currently suffering from a minor demonic infestation." The smile on Evgenij's lips was rather incongruous with his words. "We need you and your fabled sword."
Harry worked his jaw before finding his voice. "Nope. No way, nuh-uh. I expected you to ask me to hunt down a Dark Lord, but this is worse. How do you even get a minor—never mind, I don't want to know." He took a deep breath. "Look, mate, you're misunderstanding something. If I duel, it's for sport. I'm a respectable businessman, not some demon-hunter."
"You sell figurines of yourself to impressionable children," Scrimgeour said dryly.
He scowled. "Like I said, I'm a businessman. Do you even know how much my brand is worth these days?"
Evgenij bobbed his head. "I understand, yes. There is a bounty—five thousand Galleons."
"Five thousand..." He stared off into space as he imagined the comfort he could live in, then caught himself. "See, that's what you should've started with—and it's still a no."
"Mr. Potter, I beg you to reconsider. Innocents might be dying as we speak!"
He looked away from Evgenij's beseeching expression. "You have Aurors and stuff, right? I'm sorry, but this really isn't my problem."
"I wouldn't be so quick to disavow responsibility," Scrimgeour said softly. "We have reason to believe the Russian summoner was inspired by you. They found newspaper clippings detailing this summer's incident in his apartment."
He glanced shiftily at Evgenij before staring at Scrimgeour. "I slew a demon, not summoned it."
Scrimgeour spread his hands. "Of course. And since you told the story to everyone who would listen, the world knows they're out there and can be called. To some, that is reason enough to try."
They locked eyes for several tense moments. Harry averted his gaze first, and folding his arms, addressed the air between the guests. "You haven't got a leg to stand on and you know it. The Floo's right over there, gents, don't let me keep you—"
Flames flared overhead, and the air grew warmer as a gold-and-red phoenix settled atop his shoulder. Despite himself, he felt his irritation melt away.
"Hey, Firo. Any luck discovering your humanoid form yet?" He sighed when she tilted her head and chirped. "Keep trying."
She took off, smacking his cheek with her wing, and flapped over to Evgenij's shoulder. The Russian froze, only his eyes swiveling to admire her glittering plumage. Firo paid him no heed and stared beadily at Harry. He rubbed his forehead as his mind was assaulted by distorted, wide-angle images of a gleaming sword.
"It can't be," he gasped. "You care about something beyond eating and sleeping?"
Firo trilled and beat her wings.
"Fair argument, but no."
Firo cawed and soared toward him, but instead of landing on his shoulder, she pecked the crown of his head. Yelping, he pushed her away, only to have a flurry of pecks fall on his hands.
"Ouch! That's it, no more jalapeños for you—ow, ow, not my ear!" He crossed the fingers on one hand as he shielded himself with the other. "Fine, I'll go!" Her talons grazed his temple, and he uncrossed his fingers to swat at her, but she vanished in a whirl of fire. A wing cuffed the back of his head. "I said I'll do it!" Pecks rained on his head, and he yelled, actually meaning it, "I'll bloody do it!"
The attacks ceased. He gingerly lowered his welted hands and glowered at Firo, who landed atop Evgenij's shoulder again. Damn it. He knew this whole familiar business would bite him in the ass one day.
Scrimgeour looked like he could barely restrain his glee. "I daresay your phoenix is more conscientious than you. Had I my way, it would receive the Order of Merlin."
"She's welcome to it, for all I care," he muttered, probing his sore cheek. "Would probably peck the thing apart."
"Does that mean we can count on your help, Mr. Potter?" Evgenij asked, his smile back.
Harry jabbed his finger at him. "Not so fast! If I'm to risk my neck, I want ten thousand Galleons for it."
Evgenij didn't bat an eye. "We recognize the risk, naturally, but that is rather steep. Surely you will agree that six thousand would be more than adequate compensation."
He suppressed a smile at his gambit actually working. "Nine thousand and not a Sickle less."
"I might convince my higher-ups to raise the bounty to seven thousand, but considering our budget, that is as high as it can possibly go..."
He jutted out his chin. "World's only living Demonslayer, remember? Give me nine or deal with it yourselves."
"Merlin's beard, Potter," Scrimgeour interjected, "I can't believe you're haggling when lives are at stake."
Harry gave him a dark look. "When the Ministry exploited a loophole in the pardon and bled my vault dry for breaking the Statute, I couldn't believe it either, but there you go. Nine. Thousand."
Firo let out a warning warble. He gulped and tried to mentally communicate the concept of bluffing, which was difficult given how the birdbrain only comprehended visuals, and simple ones at that.
"I suppose I could meet you halfway at eight," he hedged, eyeing at her warily. Firo screeched, and his hands shot up reflexively. "Alright, alright, seven it is! Stupid bird, do you even realize your snacks cost money?"
Firo settled down with a chirp.
Evgenij tore his gaze away from her and beamed. "Then we are in agreement! Please, there's no time to waste—we already have an international Portkey prepared."
His mood soured further. "Hold your Hippogriffs. Tell me about your demon first: size, abilities, everything. I'm not going in blind if I can help it."
"I'm afraid I know as much as you do. Our forces were still following the trail of death the demon left when I departed from St. Petersburg."
His brows furrowed. "But you caught the summoner, right? Surely Russians know how to interrogate."
Evgenij's gave him a strained smile. "We would need to employ the services of a necromancer. The man was discovered dead near the summoning site."
"Oh." He absently scratched his upper arm. "Not much left of the poor bastard, I expect."
"That's the thing," Evgenij said slowly. "I'm told there were no marks of violence, and his face was stuck in an unnerving smile. Our experts are still debating over the cause of death."
"A smile?" Harry rubbed his chin. He had a bad premonition about this.
The trio's footsteps echoed in the grand entrance hall of the palace that housed the Russian State Council, melding with those of countless others bustling about their business. Ornate marble fireplaces lined the walls, flaring green sporadically to disgorge a functionary or three. Gilded columns stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, where moving frescoes framed in ornate stucco depicted scenes from the country's long and volatile history.
Harry craned his neck at a fresco depicting a gaggle of mermaids perched lakeside and frowned when a flying carpet that carried a group of sightseers passed overhead, blocking the delectable sight. Evgenij accommodated him by slowing down with a knowing smile.
"Magnificent," Su said, her obscuring cowl tilted back. To get that much out of her while on duty, Harry knew she was impressed.
Evgenij allowed them a few minutes of gawking before glancing at his wristwatch. "The meeting starts soon. I will give you a tour after we take care of our little problem, yes?"
A little reluctantly, Harry trailed him to the back of the entrance hall. People streamed in and out of a dozen antique lifts, whose wrought-iron doors parted to reveal velvet benches and crystal chandeliers that tinkled with subtle melodies, but Evgenij ignored them in favor of a hallway farther in. Its marble walls were inlaid with elaborate gold filigree Tony would have no doubt appreciated. A birch tree with meticulously detailed leaves swayed in an unseen wind, and an eagle owl perched in its branches stared as they passed by.
At the end of the hallway was a wide staircase, and descending two floors, they entered a narrower corridor. Marble gave way to beige wallpaper paneled halfway up in scuffed mahogany.
Harry stopped rubbernecking and glanced at Su. He still didn't know how she had managed to convince the Ministry to pick her over the more experienced Unspeakables to accompany him. She had to have been joking when she said she promised her seniors to rein him in so he wouldn't cause an international incident; he wasn't that bad, surely.
A checkpoint barred the corridor ahead, but Evgenij flashed a badge, and the guard promptly motioned them through. The diplomat lead them through the labyrinthine corridors with breezy confidence. The deeper they went, the more the surroundings shifted from luxury to functionality: not a place meant to impress outsiders, but one where work was done and decisions were made.
After several disorienting turns of the corridor, they arrived before a door sporting a sign that Harry, predictably, couldn't read. Evgenij knocked, and without waiting to be acknowledged, ushered them into a spacious, if cluttered office.
"Allow me to introduce Mr. Dmitry Fyodorov, the head of our elite forces, the Okhrana. As the leader of this operation, he will provide any support you may require."
A bear of a man rose from behind a massive desk and stomped up to Harry and Su to squeeze their hands in greeting. Dwarfing them both put together, Dmitry reminded Harry of Dudley, save for the bulging red nose and the quasi-military uniform adorned with glittering medals.
Dmitry sized him up. "Where is sword?"
"Er, it's a little capricious," he said. "Doesn't like to be wielded unless there's a real need. A safeguard... or maybe old Godric just made it a pain to use for his amusement."
"Bah! I tell Council many times, instead of calling foreigner, they better unseal... that." Dmitry sent Evgenij a meaningful look.
Harry gasped dramatically. "No! That could turn the region into a wasteland!"
Dmitry's eyes bulged out. "You know about Koschei's Needle?"
"So it's called Koschei's Needle, eh?" he said, grinning.
Dmitry gaped at him before going red in the face and reaching for the wand holster at his hip.
Evgenij jumped in between them. "Dmitry Dmitrievich, please, Mr. Potter won't speak a word of this"—he glanced pleadingly at Harry—"you won't, yes?"
"Warlock's honor," he said solemnly.
Dmitry glowered at him, then grunted and relaxed his posture. "You can talk, can you fight? You better be good like papers say." Not giving them a second glance, he marched out the door. "Come! Okhrana already wait for you."
Evgenij loosened his collar and exhaled before motioning Harry and Su to follow. Dmitry brought them to a large room down the corridor, where two dozen wizards and witches wearing the same military-style uniforms with cloaks on top sat in orderly rows of chairs. Everyone sprang to their feet to snap off a salute.
Dmitry gestured them to sit, squeezed through an aisle between the seats to the front, where a sprawling map was engraved into the wall, and began speaking in rapid Russian.
Evgenij provided a running translation. "As you all know, in the face of an unprecedented threat... the Council has decided to call for outside help. Our job is to support... these specialists that Britain sends. Fennec of the Unspeakables, the counterpart for our Agenty..."
At Dmitry's gesture, twenty heads turned their way. Su nodded, enduring the curious looks with her usual stoicism.
"...And Mr. Potter, the famous Demonslayer wielding one of his nation's most powerful artifacts. As you can plainly see, he is a mighty warlock..."
Evgenij clammed up, and when Harry gave him a questioning glance, wouldn't meet his eyes. Dmitry continued talking. Stifled laughter rippled through the uniformed witches and wizards; some looked Harry up and down and sneered.
Well, as a representative of Britain, he was duty-bound to leave an impression.
Closing his eyes, he thought of warm and cheery fire: a name in the form of image and sensation. Flames whooshed above him, and a familiar weight settled on his shoulder. Turning his head, he gave Firo a rare proud look. Awed murmurs came from the Russians. He smirked and drew himself up to his full height.
Firo swiveled her head before taking off to alight on the back of a chair before a pretty blonde, who gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth. You could hear a pin drop as everyone watched with bated breath. Then Firo cocked her head and pecked at the witch's shiny brass buttons, causing her to exclaim and jerk back, and eliciting surprised laughter from the onlookers. Harry slapped his forehead and groaned.
Dmitry barked a command that made everyone face forward, but the blonde's neighbors still shot her sideways glances. The witch herself squirmed in her chair but made no attempt to fight off Firo, who by now had hopped into her lap and continued pecking her buttons with single-minded insistence.
Evgenij cleared his throat sheepishly. "Mr. Fyodorov made a little joke earlier—to lighten the mood, yes? The demon, it has already ravaged three Muggle villages, leaving several dead and, ah, recruiting the rest... It appears to have the ability to enthrall people."
Harry frowned. This was looking worse by the minute.
"To limit the risks of magicals falling under the demon's thrall, the mission will be done by a small, elite team... The local wizards and witches are being evacuated... and magical transportation into Siberia is forbidden to civilians."
Dmitry tapped the map with his wand, and the aforementioned region lit up in red. Harry snorted; it looked like a drawing one might find on a stall door of a public loo.
"Something funny, Potter?" Dmitry growled.
"It's just that Siberia's shaped like, you know..." He gestured vaguely. "Anyone else see it? No?" He coughed. "Never mind. Please continue."
"I see it," Su whispered.
Suppressing another snort, he glanced her way, but she faced forward without any indication of having spoken. He schooled his expression and followed her example. Dmitry glowered at him before pointing at what Harry dubbed the left testicle.
"We will Portkey in half a kilometer from Mikhailovka village," Evgenij translated. "Our scouts are keeping watch... The Okhrana will neutralize the enthralled, while the specialists—that's you—take care of the main threat. The squad leaders will..." He turned to Harry and Su. "Well, I won't bore you with the minutiae. Your only job is to eliminate the demon."
"Only that, huh." Harry could only hope it would be as trivial as he made it sound.
"Indeed," Evgenij said cheerfully. "I shall be accompanying you, just so there are no miscommunications."
Dmitry spoke for a few more minutes and answered some questions. Evgenij piped up on occasion to give them a general idea of what was going on. He clearly took some liberties with the translation, but if the alternative was using Padma's infernal gadget—or worse, cramming Russian—Harry would take the diplomat at his word. Then the noise of chairs scraping the floor filled the room as everyone rose to their feet.
Harry patted his stomach. "Evgenij, mate—point me to the nearest bathroom?"
Evgenij glanced at Dmitry nervously. "Can't it wait? Our Portkey is set to leave soon."
"That's exactly why it can't. Consider it standard procedure." He had nearly suffered an accident during transit to Russia and didn't fancy a repeat.
Looking exasperated, Evgenij motioned him to follow. "Quickly, Mr. Potter."
"Be right back, folks." He waved to the roomful of surly Russians and left whistling a tune.
