The unscathed members of Okhrana stood guard, occasionally sending Harry grouchy looks, while state functionaries in convincing Muggle suits sorted out the freed men, many of whom had come from villages miles away with nothing but the clothes on their backs and would need help getting home. Some appeared still out of it, murmuring to themselves or pleading the functionaries for something.
Harry and Su watched them work alongside Evgenij, who insisted on seeing the operation through despite his concussion. Harry felt guilty every time he saw the bandages swaddling the diplomat's head, but he knew magic made short work of such mundane injuries.
Su had donned her obscuring robes again, not so much because of secrecy (that ship had sailed once the regrouped Okhrana saw her face, and he had no doubt their memories would be added to her file in some top-secret archive), but because the cat-ear headband stubbornly resisted removal. Even now, two triangles protruded conspicuously under the fabric of her cowl.
She contemplated the functionaries herding a group of Muggles into a small bus. "You're not Obliviating them?"
Evgenij looked taken aback. "That would be a little excessive, yes? We do impress upon them the importance of keeping quiet. It's not my area of expertise, but from what I hear, that is usually enough—especially in remote places like this."
"Does that not breach the Statute?"
"Agent Fennec, please—our people know what they're doing. Even if someone does talk, it will only be seen as another conspiracy theory no one takes seriously. We can even encourage this kind of thinking when necessary."
She nodded slowly. "A very different approach from ours."
Harry frowned; simply wiping someone's memories seemed more humane. "You make them out to be crackpots."
Evgenij sighed. "Some Muggles, they react badly to Obliviation and are never the same afterward. Just because Britain dishes out—"
A commotion broke out nearby, and the trio turned to look. A Muggle in a worn jumper grabbed a functionary by the lapels and screamed into his face. Two blue-uniformed wizards rushed in to pull the Muggle away, the hands of their colleagues hovering over their holsters. After a heated exchange, the Muggle's shoulders slumped and he allowed himself to be ushered away, tears trailing down his cheeks.
"What happened?" Harry asked. His left hand itched, but when he absently tried to scratch it, the fingers of his right only encountered air. That was going to take some time to get used to.
"The gentleman did not wish to return to his wife. Said his time serving the demon was the happiest he had ever been." Evgenij coughed into his fist. "Merely a residual effect of the enthrallment, I'm sure."
Spying a dumpy headscarfed woman tramp up to the poor sod with a rolling pin in hand, Harry was gripped by deep sympathy. "Do you think we did the right thing here, Evgenij?"
"Surely you jest, Mr. Potter." The diplomat chuckled, but at Harry's grim expression, his laughter petered out. "I'm afraid I don't follow your meaning. We saved every Muggle we were able to, and despite the... complications, we ultimately avoided losses on our side. No one suffered lasting injuries at your hands. You have an iron will, to resist the demon's control even in that situation!"
He doubted it had been anything more than luck and the swiftness of their Portkeys, but only sighed and stuffed his hands—well, a hand and a stump—into the pockets of his tattered robes.
"Ah, you must be exhausted after the battle." Evgenij stood on tiptoes and glanced around before waving a functionary over. "You must rest, and then I'll give you the tour I promised. After Okhrana... clocks out, yes? There will be a celebration, and you will be the guest of honor! You as well, of course, Agent Fennec."
He groaned. "There's no need, really—"
"Don't worry, Mr. Potter, no one's angry with you," Evgenij said, misinterpreting his reluctance. "And on the off chance that they are, what better way to clear the air than having a drink together?"
He bit back his protest. "A drink, you say?"
Evgenij bobbed his head. "You must try the Snargaluff nastoyka. They say it puts hair on your chest!"
Harry nodded. Getting drunk sounded pretty good right now.
Harry moodily prodded the greyish lump of brined herring on his plate as boisterous conversation and raucous laughter ebbed and flowed around him. To his amazement, Evgenij turned out to be right: he hadn't received more than one or two dirty looks from those seated around the table. It must have helped that he had thrown off the succubus's thrall through sheer force of will and lost his hand in a grueling battle—as far as Okhrana was concerned, anyway.
"The Patronus Charm didn't hurt her," he murmured, almost to himself. "That means she wasn't Dark, doesn't it?"
Su replied quietly from his left. "Maybe it's because she was a creature of lust, not terror."
He scowled at his plate. "Like I said—not Dark."
"It had to be done," she said, squeezing his elbow.
He didn't face her. "So you say."
She was silent for a time. "If it helps, you only destroyed her anchor to our world. I'm not sure demons can die."
He glanced at her, found her forehead creased in concern, and forced himself to smile. It did help, a little.
At a tap on his shoulder, he turned around. The bloke seated to his right slid a shot glass filled with a clear liquor toward him and yammered something.
Harry gave him a thumb-up and rattled off the only Russian words he knew. "Vodka, ushanka, medved′."
The bloke laughed and bobbed his head. "Vodka, vodka!"
Su was also presented with a drink by a man next to her, who seemed entirely unbothered by being bandaged head to toe. Harry had a sinking suspicion it was the poor sod he had used in lieu of a battering ram, but with the bandages swathing his face, it was impossible to tell.
"Drink up, kis′ka," the mummy-man said, chortling when her cat ears twitched in irritation. They contrasted wonderfully with her businesslike attire, and Harry made a mental note to thank Hogwarts for the treat.
Su narrowed her eyes at the mummy-man until his smile faded and he stammered an apology, much to the amusement of his neighbors. Lifting the glass to her lips, she downed it in one go.
"Going to give H a piece of my mind," she said, a little hoarsely, and reached for a tiny caviar sandwich.
The witnesses of the feat cheered and applauded. Harry eyed his own glass before picking it up.
The bloke to his right toasted him. "Na zdorovie."
"Nostrovia," Harry muttered.
He knocked the drink back, only to choke when a drop of fiery liquor went down the wrong pipe. Spouts of steam escaped his mouth with every cough. The Russians erupted in laughter, while his neighbor smacked him on the back.
"How can you... drink that so easily?" he wheezed, squinting at Su with watering eyes.
Her lips quirked smugly, and spearing a pickle with her fork, she proffered it to him. He eagerly chomped it down, groaning in relief as the burning in his throat lessened.
A chair on the opposite side of the table scraped against the floor as Evgenij stood. "May I propose a toast, gentlemen? To Harry Potter, the victorious Demonslayer!"
"Harry Potter!" roared the crowd, raising their glasses.
Out the corner of his eye, Harry saw Dmitry scowl but join in, and smiled despite himself. He didn't feel deserving of praise, but with the merriment around him, it was hard to stay morose. Glancing at his glass, he found it refilled. He would stick to sips from now on; for this stuff to burn worse than Firewhiskey, it had to be ensorcelled.
Few shared his restraint. The bloke beside him—Maxim, as he soon learned—downed glass after glass, yet if anything, his broken English became better as the party went on. Urged constantly to keep up, Harry quickly got buzzed, so when someone prompted him to narrate what had happened before the Russians arrived on the scene, he didn't object overmuch.
"I was driving her back with my sword," he said, punctuating his words with swings of a table knife. "Every time she dodged, her tits would almost spill out of that wrap. So yeah, I got distracted, but can you really blame me? That grandiose pair was jiggling in my face! You guys saw them, right?" He ran his gaze along the table.
There were nods and murmurs of agreement from the wizards and scathing looks from the witches. Harry's alcohol-addled brain sent him a belated warning, and he turned to find Su listening with a stony expression. Gulping, he decided to skip the finer details.
"Anyway, I fucked up and she got me. Not sure how her power works, must be phere—pheromones or some such. My loyal familiar immediately swooped to the rescue—" He dropped his knife in surprise when fire blazed overhead and Firo emerged with her talons extended. "Yeah, just like that—yeowch! That's my eye, you little shit—stop it, stop—I don't even know if I can regrow those!"
The blasted bird finally let up, and he slumped in his chair, gingerly patting his face to assess the damage. Firo landed on the table before him and fixed him with a beady eye.
"I'm sorry I tried to stab you, alright? Here, have some herring." He lifted his plate. Firo gave the greyish lump a halfhearted peck, and fluffing up her feathers, turned away. "Can't blame you, it's an acquired taste. Sorry, I don't think you'll enjoy the pickles either."
Firo hopped around to survey the zakuska arrayed on the table until Harry's half-full glass caught her eye. She extended her neck toward it curiously.
He covered the glass with his palm. "No, you definitely don't want that—ow!"
Having pecked his hand to clear her way, Firo stuck her beak into the vodka, lapped at it with her tiny tongue, and tipped her head back to swallow. She fluttered her wings and warbled tunelessly before dipping her beak back into the glass.
The Russians laughed uproariously, and Harry started at the noise, realizing only now that everyone had gone quiet upon Firo's arrival to watch the spectacle. Swearing under his breath, he tried to yank the glass away, only to earn another beak mark on his finger for his trouble.
Sucking on his sore finger, he addressed Su. "Do you reckon she'll be alright drinking that?"
"Probably," she said, pouting.
He raised his eyebrows at her, but she wouldn't meet his gaze as she reached for her glass. Her cheeks were flushed and her cat ears were drooping.
"Maybe you should abstain," he said.
Sending him a peeved glance, she tossed her drink back.
He threw his arms up. "Don't blame me if the Portkey tomorrow makes you hurl." Perhaps she was just a maudlin drunk, although that wasn't the way he remembered it from their little experiment back in the Room of Requirement.
Firo's beak clinked against the glass several times before she realized there wasn't any drink left. She swiveled her head in search for more before taking wing with a blaring cry. Shouts broke out along the table as in her lumbering flight she knocked over bottles and bumped into heads.
He sighed and buried his face in his sole palm.
Harry awoke sweaty and with a parched throat. He pried open his gummy eyes, only to hiss and squeeze them shut when the glaring sunlight sent a lance of pain through his head. His right palm brushed what felt like comfortable if overly warm bed sheets as he took stock of the situation.
A queasy stomach, a pounding headache, and a taste of something he wouldn't mention in polite company in his mouth. Bloody Russians and their home-brewed samogon; he was lucky not to end up blind.
His sluggish mind latched on to the thought. Russians. The party. Firo badgered them for vodka, and Maxim tried valiantly if fruitlessly to train her to fetch a cork. The more knackered members of Okhrana retired, and the remainder invited Harry and Su to a sauna. He had agreed eagerly, only to be disappointed when it turned out to be gender-segregated.
Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck as a recollection of a naked Dmitry flogging him with a bundle of twigs surfaced in his mind. Perhaps he could chalk it up to a hallucination. Russian moonshine was no joke.
His memories thereon were hazy. He recalled swearing an undying friendship with Evgenij... singing the Hogwarts anthem with Maxim... promising to send Dmitry's son the entire collection of Dragonslayer figures... staring into Firo's eyes as he tried to communicate something important... supporting a giggling Su as they stumbled up the staircase where shrunken elf heads used to hang before Sirius got rid of them...
He cracked open his eyes and squinted at the blurry ceiling of his bedroom at Grimmauld Place. It appeared Firo had saved him the international Portkey trip.
"Good girl," he murmured. He would have to treat her to some dried jalapeños later.
As much as he would have liked to lie in, it was sweltering under the blanket and he needed to empty his bladder. Pushing up with an elbow, he tried to haul his body into a sitting position, only to flop back with an alarmed croak. His left arm was numb and didn't obey.
He swiveled his head left. Something black and furry entered his vision, and it took him several blinks to recognize the cat ears H had sent. They were attached to a sleeping Su, her head resting in the crook of his elbow, and her normally neat hair mussed over her face.
One fluffy ear twitched at his surprised exhalation. He groped for the edge of the blanket and lifted it to stare underneath. He did so for a while. His gaze then drifted to the corner of the room where something blurry and red was coiled up, and his chapped lips cracked in a smile as he imagined the busty lamia giving him a dejected look.
He turned back to Su. His hand reached, almost of its own volition, toward her fluffy ears, and he held his breath as he trailed a finger along one's soft edge.
"Mm." Su's eyes fluttered open.
He yanked his hand back as if caught doing something wrong. "Hi."
A faint, slightly uncertain smile came to her lips. "Hi."
"Now, don't freak out," he said. "Do you remember last night?"
Her cheeks pinkened. "Don't you?"
"Bits and pieces," he said, sheepish.
"Lightweight." A sparkle in her eyes belied her words.
As much as he would've liked to deny it, she had a point. "So, um... what happened?"
Su blinked at him, then extending her hand, traced a fingertip across his chest. "You see... when a boy and a girl like each other a lot..."
He pulled a face. "I gathered that much."
She giggled and sat up, clutching the blanket to her front. Her hand rose to pull at her cat ears, and she grimaced when they stayed put. His gaze wandered appreciatively down the slender lines of her back to the flare of her buttocks before he noticed her peering at him over her shoulder with an arched eyebrow.
"I have kids," he blurted out, then winced. She slowly turned to face him. "For real. Cute feathery chicks—must've been a couple dozen, hopefully, if things went right—I lost count at some point. Not that I've seen them, but I'd like to one day." He swallowed and sat up to level with her. "Thought you deserved to know, if we're going to do this. Us, I mean. Are we? Er, I just assumed—"
She touched a finger to his lips, then replaced it with a kiss. Drawing back, she scrunched up her nose. "Shower first, story later."
"Ah, right..." He shook off his momentary daze. "Down the hall, first door on the left."
Rising off the bed, she stretched in the sunlight and bent to gather her scattered clothing. She smirked at his hungry attention, but her face fell when her gaze landed on his wrist stump.
Feeling oddly embarrassed, he shoved it under the blanket. "It'll grow back. Maybe I should get a badass pirate's hook in the meantime or something."
Su made an unimpressed face.
"Or not," he amended. "I'd probably stab myself trying to put on a shirt."
Her eyes flicked to the door, then back at him, the mischievous sparkle returning. "Shall I help you wash?"
"No worries, you go first," he said, waving her off. It wasn't like he was crippled—not permanently, anyway.
She pouted. "If you're sure?"
Nodding, he watched her glide toward the door until something in his mind clicked and he kicked off the blanket. "Actually, yeah, I could use a hand or two."
A wicked little smile curved her lips. "Lead the way."
