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Malfoy Manor – Drawing Room. 

Night.Thunder rumbled beyond the tall, curtained windows. The ancient manor groaned in the wind, like a beast at rest. Candles flickered in their sconces, casting long, jagged shadows across the ornate walls—shadows that danced like devils come to dinner.

The drawing room was a theatre of decadence. The long mahogany table stretched like a sacrificial altar, heaped with food no one truly cared to eat—roasted pheasants, honey-glazed pork, blood-red grapes spilling from silver bowls. Goblets sloshed with wine as dark as arterial blood, though some suspected the Carrows had opted for the real thing.

Death Eaters laughed. Loud, victorious, and utterly without restraint.

Lucius Malfoy, draped in velvet and disdain, raised his goblet with a smirk as polished as his cane.

“To the Dark Lord,” he said, his voice purring like a cat that had just eaten the canary—and the canary’s entire bloodline. “May the Ministry remain his marionette… and Thicknesse his most obedient muppet.”

Laughter burst across the room like fireworks.

“Here here!” Yaxley slurred, pounding his goblet against the table and spilling wine across the white linen. He didn’t notice.

“Muppet,” cackled Alecto Carrow. “That’s what Muggles call those puppet things, isn’t it? With the floppy arms?”

Lucius waved his fingers delicately. “I wouldn’t know, dear. I’ve never willingly watched Muggle filth. Unlike some,” he added, eyeing the Carrows’ bloodstained sleeves with a wrinkle of his nose.

In the far corner, Bellatrix Lestrange shrieked with delight, spinning on one heel like a child in a cursed playground. Her eyes glittered, wild and too wide, hair a black halo of chaos.

“Oh, Lucius, you always make tyranny sound so romantic,” she sang, slinking toward the table. “Thicknesse is a doll, yes, but I want to play with the real toy.” She threw her head back and howled, arms raised in some mock-ritual of devotion. “Let’s bring out the Mudbloods and make them dance, shall we?”

“My dear Bella,” Lucius said with a measured sip of his wine, “must you always turn dinner into an execution? It’s dreadfully hard to enjoy roast pheasant with someone screaming in the background.”

“Oh, Lucius, darling,” she cooed, skipping closer to the table, “you mistake me. Screaming is precisely what makes it palatable!”

Rodolphus guffawed like a dying bear. “She’s not wrong!”

“Shocking,” Lucius murmured, adjusting a golden cufflink. “You’d agree with a Crup if it bit your leg off.”

The room roared with dark laughter again. Even Dolohov cracked a rare smirk.

It was depravity in its most elegant robes. But then—

A scream.

Not one of glee. Not a victim. No, this one was different. It was sharp. Wet. Final.

The laughter died.

Rodolphus turned slowly. His goblet slipped from his fingers and shattered on the marble.

“Bella?” he choked.

There she lay, mid-twirl, her body contorted at an unnatural angle. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, eyes wide and glassy. An arrow—slim, black-fletched, and viciously barbed—protruded from her chest. Blood bloomed across her corset like a rose.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the storm outside.

Then—

Thwip. Thwip. Thwip.

Three more arrows sailed through the tall, open balcony doors with uncanny precision. One pierced Travers through the eye. Another struck Mulciber in the throat. The last embedded itself in the temple of a snatcher who hadn’t even risen from his seat.

They fell like dominoes. Dead before they hit the floor.

“What in Merlin’s hairy—” Yaxley began, but ducked too late as an arrow sliced his ear in half.

“Shields!” Dolohov barked. “Shields now!”

Wands were drawn in a frenzy. Chairs were overturned. Alecto screamed and crawled under the table. Amycus fired a curse blindly at the ceiling, blowing a hole in the chandelier, which crashed down between Lucius and Rodolphus in a rain of crystals and fire.

Lucius, still crouched behind a marble pillar, clutched his cane like it might ward off death itself. His face was pale, but his voice was pure aristocratic outrage.

“Who—dares—attack my manor? Do you have any idea how expensive that chandelier was?!”

Rodolphus snarled, fumbling toward Bellatrix’s corpse. “Bella! Bella, hold on—stay with me—!”

“Rodolphus, don’t be a halfwit,” Lucius snapped. “She’s got an arrow through her heart. Unless one of you knows a resurrection charm—”

But Rodolphus never made it. Another arrow buried itself in his throat, his final breath bubbling red across his lips.

“By the pits of Azkaban,” Dolohov whispered, eyes darting around the flickering room. “They’re not casting spells. There’s no Disapparition. No sounds. Nothing.”

Another arrow hit the family crest above the fireplace.

Lucius flinched.

“THEY’RE INSIDE!” he roared. “I want every room searched, every passage sealed! Bring the manor to lockdown! KILL whoever’s doing this!”

A low whistle echoed from outside.

Like a birdcall.

Then more arrows. Swift. Silent. Unrelenting.

The Death Eaters scrambled like rats in a maze, their black robes whipping through the gloom. Spells burst from wands in every direction—crimson, green, blue—lighting the manor like a battlefield.

But the arrows didn’t stop.

There were no footsteps. No flash of a cloak. No laughter, no battle cry. Just death from the shadows.

The air grew thick with fear. The scent of blood mingled with wine. Even Alecto’s blubbering fell quiet.

Lucius Malfoy, heir of ancient lineage, now trembling behind a pillar, whispered, “This… this isn’t the Order. This is something else.”

Dolohov nodded grimly. “It’s a message.”

Another whistle.

Another thwip.

The last arrow landed in the center of the dining table, embedded into the roasted pheasant.

Tied to its shaft was a single slip of parchment.

Lucius edged forward, wand raised, and read aloud in a voice that shook for the first time in years:

“We hunt monsters. You are the first.”

And somewhere—far beyond the wards, beyond the manor walls, and beyond the fear in their hearts—the hunter vanished once more into the dark.

—

The Forests South of Ottery St. Catchpole. Moonlight filtered weakly through thick, roiling clouds, painting the forest in silvered shadows. The trees loomed like ancient sentinels, whispering secrets only the dead could hear. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth, pine sap, and terror.

Fenrir Greyback crashed through the underbrush with a wolfish grin splitting his face. Blood matted his beard. His eyes burned gold. And his laughter echoed like thunder.

“Ahahaha! Run, you little bastards! Run faster!” he bellowed, bounding forward on all fours like some unholy blend of beast and berserker. “I wanna feel you hope you get away!”

Behind him, his pack surged through the trees—six werewolves in various stages of transformation, howling, panting, snarling. Bare feet and clawed hands tore into moss and bark alike. They were less a strike team and more a warband on a leash—and that leash was held by Fenrir's absolute, savage will.

They were chasing a family—two adults, one teen, maybe a toddler wrapped in an Invisibility Cloak that smelled faintly of old magic and fresher piss. Not that it would save them. Fenrir had their scent. And once he had your scent, he owned you.

“Mudbloods,” he growled to himself, sniffing the air. “The stink of desperation. I love it.”

“Skegg!” he barked over his shoulder. “Go high. I want eyes in the trees. Marr—take the flank. Don’t get cocky this time, or I’ll wear your skull as a codpiece.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Marr muttered. “You say that every week, boss.”

“That’s ‘cause you keep screwing up every week,” Fenrir called back, baring his fangs in a grin.

He sniffed the air again—sharp, strong, laced with wand smoke and sweat. They were close.

Very close.

Then—

“THERE!” Skegg howled from above. “Flash of light! Ten o’clock!”

Fenrir didn’t hesitate. He surged forward with a gleeful roar, claws outstretched—

THWIP.

A whisper. A silver flash.

Skegg dropped from the trees like a sack of meat, his body jerking violently. An arrow jutted from his spine, gleaming in the moonlight.

Fenrir skidded to a halt mid-stride.

“What the hell?” he muttered.

Skegg twitched once, then lay still. The only sound was the whisper of wind through leaves and the hiss of silver against flesh.

Then—

THWIP.

Marr screamed as an arrow pinned him clean through the chest to a tree trunk, his wand still raised, his face frozen in shock. Blood bubbled from his lips as he choked out, “...oh, bollocks—”

Fenrir whirled around, a deep snarl rolling from his chest. “AMBUSH! Shields up, now! Don’t just stand there with your knobs out!”

The pack scrambled, casting hasty Protegos, some too late.

THWIP.

Turg went down next. Arrow through the throat. He gurgled, clutching at the shaft, eyes bulging. Then he collapsed in a twitching heap.

Three down.

Fenrir’s face twisted into something halfway between fury and intrigue.

“Well now,” he rumbled, licking blood from his lips. “Somebody out here’s got balls.”

He turned slowly, scanning the dark. Eyes glowing. Nostrils flaring.

Nothing.

No scent.

No heartbeat.

Just that silence.

The kind of silence that hunts back.

“Come on then,” he growled. “Let’s see what’s got my boys pissing themselves.”

THWIP.

An arrow punched into his right shoulder. Fenrir roared, staggering back into a tree.

The wound sizzled. The pain was white-hot.

Silver-tipped.

“AHHHH-HAHAHAHA!” he laughed, wild and ragged. “Oh, you clever bastard. You brought silver to a dog fight. I like you.”

The two remaining werewolves bolted.

“Cowards!” Fenrir howled. “You run, I’ll eat you myself when this is over!”

THWIP. THWIP.

Both were dead before they hit the ground. One arrow to the back. The other between the eyes.

Fenrir panted, leaning against a tree, blood dripping from his arm and chest. The silver seared through his veins like acid.

But he wasn’t done.

Not even close.

“WHOEVER YOU ARE!” he bellowed into the dark, voice cracking with rage and euphoria, “I’m gonna rip your ribs out and use ‘em to pick your teeth! I’ll FEED your spine to the crows!”

From the shadows came a voice. Calm. Cold. Confident.

“We’re the reason monsters like you sleep with a nightlight.”

Fenrir froze.

Then, he laughed again. Slower. Darker.

“Ohhh, good line. You practiced that in a mirror, didn’t ya?”

He turned toward the voice—too late.

A hooded figure stepped from the trees behind him. Tall. Silent. Bow still raised.

THWIP.

An arrow slammed into Fenrir’s thigh. He howled, staggering.

“You think this stops me? I’ve eaten Hit Wizards alive!”

“Big words for a dying dog,” the hunter replied, stepping into the moonlight. Cloaked in black. Silver arrows gleamed in the quiver on his back.

Fenrir spat blood. “You’re not gonna monologue me to death, mate.”

“No,” the man said. “That’s what the arrows are for.”

THWIP.

Another arrow—left shoulder. Fenrir dropped to one knee, gasping, clawing at the dirt.

“Y’know what I hate most about heroes?” Fenrir rasped. “You don’t finish things. You leave things alive. You show mercy.”

“Not tonight.”

The last arrow.

THWIP.

Straight through the heart.

Fenrir Greyback collapsed to the forest floor, mouth open in a final, silent roar. Gold eyes wide in disbelief.

For the first time in his cursed life—

He didn’t get the last word.

—

The Riddle House, Little Hangleton. The storm had passed, but the air remained charged—heavy with magic, death, and something else... something colder than the grave.

The long dining table had once been a throne of power, draped in shadows and lit by floating candelabras that whispered flame. It now stood—cracked, blackened—an altar to failure.

Eight chairs sat empty.

Lucius Malfoy. Bellatrix Lestrange. Rodolphus. Rabastan. Yaxley. Dolohov. The Carrow twins.

And now—Fenrir Greyback, torn apart in the Forest of Dean like a dog made of paper and meat. His entire pack, gone, reduced to whispers and scattered fur.

Dead.

Hunted.

Lord Voldemort stood at the head of the ruined table, one hand resting delicately on the hilt of Nagini’s enclosure, the other curled around his wand like a conductor about to raise a symphony of screams. His eyes—red and slitted like a serpent’s—burned brighter than the hearth. The fire, sensing danger, sputtered nervously.

Even Nagini was silent.

The remaining Death Eaters stood at a distance, pressed into shadows like guilty children at a funeral they may soon join. Scabior’s face was ashen. Nott’s lip bled where he bit it. Mulciber hadn’t blinked in a full minute.

“Well,” Voldemort said finally, his voice silk-draped steel, “this is cozy.”

No one dared answer.

He strolled around the table, fingers trailing along the scorched wood as he passed the empty seats—each one a ghost.

“Lucius... ah, yes. Sliced open, throat to navel. Such a waste of silk robes and simpering cowardice.”

He tapped the back of the next chair. “Bellatrix. She fought. She always did love a dramatic end.”

Another chair. “Yaxley... hung upside-down from a treetop. Did you know the arrow went through his mouth? Like threading a pig on a spit.”

Still silence.

“Oh, don’t look so stiff, Scabior,” Voldemort crooned, pausing beside the terrified man. “I’m simply taking inventory. It’s called leadership. You may not recognize it. You’ve spent most of this war licking your own boots.”

He smiled. Cold. Calculated.

Then, with a sudden crack, he split the long table in two with an invisible burst of force. The wood exploded in splinters, one piece flying past Nott’s ear and burying itself in the wall.

Scabior flinched. Mulciber whimpered.

“I am losing my best people,” Voldemort said, now pacing again, robes billowing like smoke. “Not to Aurors. Not to Dumbledore. Not even to that ridiculous Order of the Phoenix and their stubborn obsession with tea and moral superiority.”

He stopped and turned, voice rising like thunder laced with venom.

“But to a man. With a bow. And arrows.”

His lip curled in elegant disgust.

“Do you know how insulting that is? After centuries of wandlore, of alchemical perfection, of splitting my soul into horcruxes like I’m hosting a particularly cursed dinner party—this is how I’m challenged?”

He sneered.

“By Robin bloody Hood.”

Mulciber swallowed loudly.

Scabior cleared his throat, cautiously: “My Lord, the—ah—the arrows… they're tipped with silver. Fenrir's death was—specific. Surgical. Perhaps it’s a werewolf hunter. Or an assassin from across the—”

“A werewolf hunter?” Voldemort interrupted smoothly, his voice sharp as shattered glass. “Yes, Scabior, thank you. How astute. Do you think I hadn’t noticed the silver arrowheads? Or the fact that they were laced with wolfsbane?”

He moved forward, wand raised lazily.

“I wasn’r born yesterday, Scabior. I know silver. I’ve used silver. I’ve watched it melt through flesh. You are not telling me anything useful.”

Scabior took a step back. “We—we have some Goblin informants looking into foreign mercenaries. The killer could be a No-Maj specialist. Perhaps—”

“Silence.”

Scabior flew through the air like a ragdoll and slammed into the opposite wall, crumpling with a grunt. Voldemort exhaled, slowly. A long, slow breath, like one trying to remember patience.

“This isn’t a mercenary,” he whispered. “It’s not gold they want. Or blood. It’s me.”

He turned to the fire, his reflection flickering in the flames.

“They’re not hunting my Death Eaters. They’re hunting my history. My support. Every arrow is a message. Every corpse a warning.”

Nagini hissed lowly, slithering closer, her scales shining in the firelight. She looked uneasy.

Then Voldemort said, too softly: “And where is Harry Potter?”

No one answered.

He turned, sharp as a blade.

“WHERE IS HE?!”

His voice shook the rafters. Plaster fell from the ceiling. The very shadows recoiled.

“Months. Months since the Department of Mysteries. Since that miserable old fool died. And not one whisper. No wand signature. No sightings. No prophecy fulfilled.”

He stalked forward, eyes gleaming now—not with rage, but something worse: obsession.

“He vanished. Evaporated like steam. As if the world itself conspired to hide him.”

A beat.

“And now, in his absence... my army falls. One by one. Picked off like insects. Arrows through hearts. Heads. Eyes.”

His smile returned. Mad. Serene.

“And yet—I know.”

The Death Eaters leaned in, almost against their will.

“I know it’s him,” Voldemort whispered. “It’s Harry. Or it’s because of Harry. Because the prophecy said—only he can kill me. Not the Ministry. Not Dumbledore’s spawn. Not a werewolf hunter or some disgruntled Centaur.”

He stepped back and spread his arms.

“So why does it feel like Death is already breathing down my neck?”

No one breathed.

Voldemort lowered his arms slowly and turned to them all.

“Find him. Or find whoever this hunter is. Or both. But bring me something. A trail. A name. A head.”

Then he smiled.

“Because if you fail me... you’ll wish it were arrows that found you.”

Silence.

Absolute.

Except—

In the shadowed rafters above, two glowing green eyes watched. The hunter was already inside.

Bowstring drawn.

Arrowhead kissed with phoenix fire.

And tonight?

He wasn’t aiming for a follower.

He was aiming for a monster.

For a king.

And kings fall hardest of all.

—

The silence before the slaughter was the kind only war could compose.

And then—

A whistle. A scream. A thud.

Mulciber didn’t even get the courtesy of a last word. The arrow sank through his throat like it belonged there, pinning him to the oak-paneled wall. He gagged, clawed, died.

Nott, poor bastard, was still reaching for his wand when the second arrow punched through his sternum, dropped him like an afterthought.

Scabior managed half a syllable—“In—”—before a third arrow turned his eye into soup.

The Hunters had come.

They moved with a discipline born of grief and rage. Silent. Unerring. Poetic in the way hurricanes are poetic.

A tall man in black armor, a shadow with a quiver, walked calmly through the foyer. His hood obscured his face, but the bow in his hand spoke louder than any scream. Arrows loosed in measured cadence—one, two, three. Death followed each like punctuation.

Beside him, a streak of motion—a woman, lean and lethal, vaulted from the banister. Her arrows flew with mathematical precision, every shot aimed to maim or kill. She didn’t miss. She never missed.

“DOWN!” shouted Scabior, shoving Macnair out of the line of fire—

Too late.

Two arrows found them mid-movement. One pierced Scabior’s thigh. The second found Macnair’s throat. He collapsed, gargling curses that would never finish.

“PROTEGO!” Voldemort’s voice cracked like thunder. The shield erupted around him in a dome of white-hot energy, glass exploding outward from every window of the manor. He stood in the center of it all, robes billowing, wand raised like the conductor of a funeral symphony.

And then—

Nagini.

The serpent moved like a guillotine unsheathed. Her hiss echoed through the shattered house as she lunged toward the archer in black.

He didn’t blink.

He simply reached back and drew a single black arrow—runed, twisted, dripping with green sheen.

“Lights out, bitch,” he muttered—and loosed.

The arrow hit home mid-air, sinking into Nagini’s gaping maw.

There was a sound then—not just physical pain, but metaphysical agony. A wail from a soul unspooling.

Nagini convulsed. Thrashed.

Her coils seized once—twice—and then lay still.

The last Horcrux was gone.

Voldemort screamed.

It wasn’t rage. It wasn’t grief. It was terror—the kind of scream that comes from a man realizing his godhood had always been a lie.

“WHO DARES—” Another arrow slammed into the marble floor by his foot. He spun.

Nothing.

No one.

But above…

Creak.

From the rafters, a shape stepped forward, cloaked in crimson, bow drawn, one arrow nocked—glowing faintly.

The Red Hooded One.

Voldemort looked up. Snarled.

“You.”

“Me,” the voice replied, smooth and vicious. “Bit of a fixer-upper, this place. Very murder-chic. You redecorate, or was it always this drafty?”

The arrow flew.

It struck true—center mass.

Voldemort staggered, eyes wide. He looked down at his chest—red blooming across his robes like a dying flower. He dropped his wand. It rolled across the stone floor, pathetically mundane.

He collapsed to one knee.

His breath hitched.

“No… no—”

He reached inward, groping into the aether for his Horcruxes—

Nothing.

The ring. The diary. The locket. The cup. The diadem. The snake.

Gone. All of them.

“You… can’t…”

Footsteps echoed as the black-armored man stepped closer, lowering his hood. His face, older but unmistakable, broke into a grin that showed too many teeth.

Sirius Black. Alive. And unamused.

“You should’ve stayed dead,” Sirius said. “Would’ve saved everyone the trouble.”

Another figure emerged from the smoke—hooded, bow slung across her back. She stepped forward with regal fury.

Hermione Granger. Brilliant. Terrifying. Impeccably composed.

“I calculated sixteen ways you might escape,” she said coolly. “I just didn’t think any of them accounted for how pathetically you’d go out.”

Voldemort’s eyes were glazing. Confused. Panicked.

“W-who… who are you—”

Thud.

Boots landed on the stone floor. A third figure stepped from the shadow above. Bow still in hand.

He knelt by the dying man who’d haunted his childhood and slowly removed his hood and mask.

And for the first time in over three years, Voldemort looked into the face of the boy who lived—

 —and saw a man.

Harry Potter. Grown. Hardened. Eyes like frozen fire.

“No scar,” Voldemort whispered, weakly. “But… I remember… you—”

“Course you do,” Harry said. “I’m the main character. You? You’re just the guy who thought Latin and a nose job made him immortal.”

“You—” Voldemort tried to raise his hand.

Harry caught it gently, almost kindly… and pushed it back down.

“You made a mistake, Tom,” Harry said, eyes locked onto crimson ones. “You made a lot of them, actually. But the big one?” He leaned in. “You thought love was weakness. Turns out… it's f***ing nuclear.”

He stood up, looked to Sirius and Hermione, and nodded once.

Then looked back down at the man dying in his own delusions.

“I would’ve aimed for the heart,” Harry said. “But then again—”

He smirked.

“—you never had one.”

Tom Riddle exhaled. Once. Twice.

And was gone.

Just like that.

No phoenix song. No dramatic collapse. No last-ditch resurrection.

Just a man—rotting in his own failure.

The manor fell silent.

The Hunters didn’t speak.

They faded into shadow, into myth, into the next chapter.

The war was over.

But Harry?

Harry turned, hood up, voice calm as a church bell.

“…We’ve still got unfinished business. Rookwood’s in Brussels, right?”

Sirius cracked his neck. Hermione just sighed and checked her watch.

“Let’s give ‘em hell,” Harry said.

And vanished into the dark.

—

One Week Later. Nanda Parbat — The Temple of the Demon’s Head

If time had a graveyard, Nanda Parbat was where its bones were buried.

The mountain air hung heavy with ancient incense, dusted with ash and iron. Wind howled between cracked statues of forgotten gods, and the stone steps of the temple rose like the spine of some slumbering titan. Between those steps, three figures trudged upward—cloaked, armed, and trailing a fourth who dangled in mid-air like a sack of regret.

Augustus Rookwood twitched inside a shimmering sling of rune-bound chains, face swollen and gagged, his eyes wild with the fear of knowing exactly where he was.

“I’m not saying this place gives me the creeps,” Sirius Black said, stepping over a cracked skull that had definitely once been human. “But I’m pretty sure one of those gargoyles just whispered my name.”

“It said 'You smell like whiskey and bad decisions',” Hermione muttered, adjusting the grip on her wand without missing a beat. “Which, let’s be honest, is accurate.”

Harry didn’t laugh. He rarely did anymore. But he smirked—sharp and slow, like a knife sliding from its sheath.

They reached the upper terrace, where obsidian banners fluttered and torches burned with green flame. At the center, a dais loomed like an altar to war.

And at the top of the stone steps stood Ra’s al Ghul.

Emerald robes. Black sash. Hands folded behind his back with all the patience of eternity. His face was carved from discipline—lines of age that hadn’t yet dulled the lethal sharpness of his gaze.

“Behold,” he said, voice low and velvet-smooth, “the traitor returns. Carried, appropriately, by those whose scars once felled a dark lord.”

Rookwood made a muffled, wet whimper. Sirius grinned, popping his neck like a bar fighter about to start trouble.

“Don’t worry, Augie,” he said. “Ra’s is a lot more polite than Voldemort. He’ll only flay your soul after he’s monologued about balance and destiny.”

Hermione didn’t look up from her notes. “He’ll flay it with surgical precision, thank you very much. Let’s not insult the man’s efficiency.”

Harry tilted his head, eyeing Ra’s with theatrical admiration.

“No brooding walk through fire? No quote from The Art of War? Honestly, Ra’s, I’m starting to think you don’t love me anymore.”

Ra’s gave the faintest curve of his mouth. The closest thing he ever came to a smile.

“You mock ceremony, Al Naaji,” he said, descending the steps with the elegance of a falling sword. “And yet you carry its mark.”

He nodded toward Harry’s forehead.

The infamous lightning bolt was gone, erased during his cleansing in the Lazarus Pit. In its place: a pale, silvery scar, like the ghost of a wound remembered only in nightmares.

“I gave you the Pit,” Ra’s said. “Not because I owed you. But because I believed in your crusade. The righteous fury of vengeance... untempered. That belief was not without cost.”

“Ah,” Sirius muttered. “Here it comes. The ‘however’.”

“Shut up,” Hermione hissed. “Let him finish. He does this. It’s his thing.”

Ra’s stopped before them, mere feet from where Rookwood bobbed and twitched.

“You may leave Rookwood as repayment,” he said. “But to walk away with your alliances intact, to remain allies of the League, you must complete one final task.”

Harry’s smirk faded. The flint behind his eyes flared.

“Name it.”

Ra’s stepped aside, the flames casting shifting shadows across his robes.

“There is a man. He once trained under the League. He left. Stole secrets. Took lives. Now he plays sorcerer, styling himself Al Saahir—The Magician. He is not a wizard. He carries no wand. But he is dangerous, in ways even you cannot yet comprehend.”

“Malcolm Merlyn,” Hermione said softly. “Former League. Now a master manipulator with a fetish for arrows and melodrama.”

Sirius gave a theatrical groan. “Oh, come on. An archer with a God complex? What is it with these guys? Do I need to start carrying exploding quivers just to fit in?”

“Please don’t,” Hermione said dryly. “You barely survived enchanted cutlery last week.”

Harry rolled his neck, shoulders tense.

“Where?”

“Starling City,” Ra’s replied. “He hides among billionaires and politicians. Planning something. Bring him to me. Alive.”

A pause. Then, almost casually, Harry smiled.

“Well, that’s bloody convenient,” he said. “I’ve got family in Starling.”

Ra’s raised a brow. “Indeed?”

“Moira Queen,” Hermione supplied. “His mother’s cousin. She found Harry at thirteen. Visited the Dursleys, saw what they were doing to him, and—well…”

“She kidnapped me,” Harry said cheerfully. “Legally. Technically. Possibly.”

“Moira’s husband had just died,” Hermione continued. “And so had her son, Oliver. She said saving Harry gave her a reason not to throw herself off a roof.”

“Thea, her daughter,” Harry added. “She’s the little sister I never had. Well—one that didn’t try to kill me, anyway.”

“That you know of,” Sirius coughed.

Ra’s observed them with that unreadable stillness. Then, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the tension like smoke in the wind.

“Bring me Merlyn,” he said. “And your debts will be forgiven. Perhaps... even your futures rewritten.”

Hermione bowed with solemn grace. “It will be done.”

Sirius gave a two-fingered salute. “You’re lucky we have a thing for theatrics.”

But Harry—Harry stepped closer. Just enough to remind everyone in the temple exactly who Al Naaji really was.

“You’ll have your magician,” he said, voice edged like broken glass. “But if he’s half as slippery as you claim, I may need to break a few walls. Shatter some windows. Possibly annoy a few billionaires. You cool with that?”

Ra’s al Ghul, the Demon’s Head, the ageless tactician, smiled.

“I expect nothing less.”

As they turned and vanished into the drifting white mist of the mountains, the ghost of fire in their wake, Augustus Rookwood floated behind them—still bound, still gagged, and slowly beginning to realize:

This… was the easy part.

—

Meanwhile... The North China Sea — Lian Yu

The island groaned beneath the wind like an ancient beast, restless and forgotten. Leaves rustled in protest. The surf crashed angrily against the rocks. Lian Yu had never been a place for the living—it was a graveyard disguised as land, a crucible wrapped in moss and pain.

And crouched atop its windswept cliffs was a man the island had tried—and failed—to kill.

Oliver Jonas Queen. Former billionaire. Professional screw-up. Currently sporting a beard that would make a lumberjack weep and a fashion sense best described as "post-apocalyptic swamp ninja."

The green hood was ragged, barely hanging on. The tunic he wore was stitched together from boat sails, animal hide, and whatever hadn’t tried to kill him the day he found it. He looked like the lovechild of Robin Hood and a shipwreck. But even through the grime and scars, his eyes burned with focus. A storm, coiled and waiting.

He muttered under his breath, crouched beside the crude pyre.

“Okay. Let’s try not to blow myself up this time.”

Oliver jabbed the flint into the moss-stuffed kindling again. Sparks flew. The pyre smoked but didn’t light.

“Oh come on—I’ve built IEDs out of coconut husks, but this is what stumps me?”

With a frustrated grunt, he snatched an arrow from the worn quiver on his back. The shaft was handmade, fletched with bird feathers and stubbornness. The obsidian tip had been honed to a razor’s edge against volcanic stone.

He wrapped a scrap of pitch-soaked cloth around it, pulled out a tiny flint-and-steel striker from under his tunic, and struck once—twice—until the cloth flared.

Fire danced at the arrowhead. Oliver smiled grimly.

“Showtime.”

He stood, bracing against the wind, and drew his bow—a weapon forged by his own hands from a shipwrecked rib and the sinew of a wolf he’d killed in his third year. It had saved his life more times than he could count. It was more than a weapon. It was a promise.

He pulled the arrow back. The wood creaked.

“Let’s see if five years of hell was enough.”

TWANG.

The arrow screamed through the sky and slammed into the pyre. The dried driftwood caught instantly, flames bursting to life in a ravenous plume. Smoke billowed skyward in thick, dark curls—an SOS written in fire and fury.

Oliver stepped back, squinting toward the horizon.

And there it was.

A fishing trawler. Tiny. Rusted. Definitely not Coast Guard. Probably smelled like fish and desperation. But it was real.

He raised one hand.

Paused.

Lowered it.

“…nah. Too dramatic.”

Instead, he muttered to himself, “You see that, Queen? You lit a bonfire with an arrow. Who needs flares when you’ve got flair?”

The smoke climbed higher, black against the grey sky. His heart thudded once, twice. He should’ve felt hope. Instead, it was something colder. Sharper.

Resolution.

He turned, slowly scanning the place that had made him what he was—every broken bone, every betrayal, every lesson etched in blood.

“I’m coming home, Starling,” he said softly. “And I swear to whatever’s listening... if I see one more smug billionaire in a boardroom talking about legacy, I’m gonna put an arrow through his Rolex.”

He slung the bow across his back, bones aching, muscles coiled. He was ready.

Because Oliver Queen was dead.

But The Hood?

The Hood had survived.

And now?

Now it was his turn to save his city.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and secrets.

Moira Queen's Louboutin heels clipped against the marble-tile floor with a rhythm of unyielding control. Her designer trench coat—cashmere, sable-lined—hung on her like armor. Diamonds glittered at her ears, understated but unmistakable. Her makeup was immaculate, but her eyes? They were a battlefield.

She walked like a queen, chin high, shoulders squared. But inside, she was trembling. Because after five years of telling the press she believed, after countless charity events with a smile that never reached her eyes—Oliver was alive.

And apparently, he wasn’t alone.

Doctor Lamb matched her stride, tablet in hand, his expression clinical but not unkind. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had told hundreds of families things they didn’t want to hear—and knew just how hard to push.

“Mrs. Queen,” he began, voice calm and precise, like he was dictating a surgical report instead of walking beside one of the wealthiest women in the city.

“Doctor Lamb,” she replied without looking at him. “You’ve said the word ‘prepare’ three times already. I assure you, I’ve been preparing for five years. Just tell me—what has happened to my son?”

Lamb didn’t flinch. He tapped the screen.

“Twenty percent of his body is covered in scar tissue. Most of it along the back and arms. He’s suffered second-degree burns—healing, but not without pain. And the fractures—twelve in total. Ribs, ulna, femur. Some of them were rebroken. Reset without anesthesia, I imagine.”

Moira stopped walking. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. When she finally found her voice, it was thin and sharp. “He was twenty-two when he disappeared.”

“I’m aware,” Lamb said softly.

“He was a spoiled, reckless boy with a yacht and too many trust funds. And now you’re telling me what? That he came back from hell?”

Lamb raised an eyebrow, just a twitch, before answering. “I’m saying he survived it.”

Moira exhaled, trembling just beneath her sculpted exterior. “What else?”

He hesitated. Then continued, flipping to another scan. “Lacerations. Bullet wounds. Possible stab wounds. And scarring from what looks like shrapnel or an explosion. He’s been through more than I can even list in a file.”

Moira blinked, trying to blink away the images. “And his mind?”

Now Lamb stopped. “Mrs. Queen,” he said, folding the tablet against his chest, “I am a trauma surgeon. Not a psychiatrist. But—off the record? He barely flinched when we inserted the IV. Didn't ask where he was. Didn’t panic. Didn’t react to my staff unless they made sudden moves. He’s... quiet. Controlled. Like a man who’s constantly looking for exits. Or threats.”

Moira swallowed. “That doesn’t sound like my son.”

Lamb smiled, but it was tight. Sad. “With all due respect, ma’am—your son didn’t come back. Someone did. But he’s not the man in your family photos.”

She narrowed her eyes. Her voice turned glacial. “Are you always this blunt with grieving mothers?”

He offered a wry smile. “Only the ones who can handle it.”

Her lip twitched. “And how do you know I can?”

“Because you haven’t fainted, cursed, or sued the hospital yet.”

She snorted softly. “Give it time.”

They reached the end of the hall. The door was heavier than the others—reinforced glass with a magnetic lock. A nurse with clearance tapped her badge and stepped aside.

Lamb turned to Moira, hand resting on the door. “One more thing.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Another medical bombshell?”

“No,” he said. “Just… don’t expect a dramatic reunion. He won’t cry. He won’t run into your arms. He might not even look at you. Whatever he’s been through? It didn’t leave much room for sentiment.”

Moira gave him a cold smile, the kind that once made CEOs crumble. “Doctor, I haven’t dealt in sentiment since the day I buried two empty caskets.”

He nodded once. “Then you’ll do fine.”

The door unlocked with a soft click.

Together, they stepped inside.

—

The room was cold—not temperature cold, but that kind of sterile, expectant cold where even the air seemed to hold its breath.

Oliver Queen sat upright in the hospital bed, a king on a throne of white sheets. Back stiff, hands folded loosely in his lap, veins still marked from the IV snaking up his arm. Grey T-shirt and scrub pants. Nothing flashy, no logos, no charm. No light to catch in his eyes.

His face was leaner, harder—like the island had chiseled away every ounce of softness. Hair longer than Moira would’ve allowed back when he was running late for school. Beard rough enough to scrape glass. But those eyes? They were ancient. Worn. Too old for twenty-seven.

The door opened with a soft click.

Oliver’s gaze lifted but he didn’t move. No rise from the bed, no grin, no greeting. Just a nod.

Moira’s Louboutins clicked forward, slow and measured, but her heart was sprinting. “Oliver.”

A beat.

Then another nod. Like a yes that didn’t want to be said.

She swallowed. “It’s me. Mom.”

“I know.” His voice was low, gravelly—like a secret long buried beneath dust and regret.

Moira blinked, her mouth dry. “You’re here. Alive. I—God, I thought—I thought you were dead.”

He shrugged like it was the most casual thing in the world. “I was. Then I wasn’t.”

“Right.” She tried for a joke but it came out more like a hiccup. “You look—well, older. Thinner. Like you lost a fight with a wood chipper and forgot to tell the ref.”

Oliver’s lips twitched—almost a smile, but no warmth. “Close enough.”

She stepped closer, eyes flicking to the scars peeking out from under his sleeve. “What the hell happened to you?”

He finally looked at her, really looked. “The island happened.”

Moira’s breath hitched. “Five years. You were on that island for five years?”

“Most of it,” he said flatly, eyes flicking away.

She studied him, searching for cracks, for lies. Found none. “We sent search teams. Private contractors. Coast Guard. Wreckage was found. No body. I had you declared dead two years ago.”

“I know,” Oliver said. The words felt like a mantra.

Moira’s throat tightened. “I didn’t give up. Not really.”

“I know.”

That phrase again, like a ghost reading from a script. “What about the company? Walter’s been holding the fort.”

“I don’t want it,” Oliver said without hesitation.

Her eyebrows rose. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not ready for that life. Walter can keep the crown for now.”

Moira’s cold queen mask slipped for just a second, replaced by something raw and human. “You’re not the boy I lost.”

“Nope.” His voice was dry, unapologetic. “I’m not.”

“So who are you?”

Oliver locked eyes with her, voice quiet but certain. “Surviving.”

Her knees finally gave out, and she sat, hands tight in her lap, the steel edge in her tone barely holding back the tremble. “Surviving is a start.”

Oliver turned away, gaze distant, jaw clenched. “Some days, it’s all there is.”

Moira let silence fill the room. It was heavy, like the weight of all the years and all the things left unsaid.

“Don’t expect a Hallmark moment,” he added, as if reading her mind. “I’m not going to cry. I’m not running into your arms. Whatever broke me—it left little space for sentiment.”

She chuckled, bitter but sharp. “Sentiment was the first casualty around here. I still remember the funeral. Two empty caskets. I didn’t even get to bury my grief.”

Oliver’s gaze met hers again, softer now. “You recalibrate. You don’t break.”

She smiled—dry, knowing. “And you? You’re still trying to figure out if you’re broken or just rearranged.”

He smirked faintly, a glimmer of the old Oliver shining through. “Some days, rearranged feels like a hell of an upgrade.”

—

Outside the room, Dr. Lamb stood with folded arms, watching through the observation glass. His expression was calm but unreadable, a practiced mask that barely betrayed the weight of what he’d witnessed.

“She didn’t cry,” a nurse whispered.

Lamb gave a slow nod. “Moira Queen doesn’t cry. She recalibrates.”

The nurse snorted softly. “And the son?”

Lamb’s eyes narrowed just a bit, thoughtful. “Oliver Queen? He’s still in there somewhere. Underneath all that silence and scars. But he’s not giving up his secrets anytime soon.”

They watched as Oliver turned to the window, gaze fixed on a city that had forgotten him, a city that might one day regret it.

Still. Quiet.

Waiting.

For a chance to rewrite his story.

—

A few days later.

The backseat of the black Bentley was silent—at least on the surface. Inside, tension hummed like a taut violin string. The kind that didn’t break. The kind that sliced.

Oliver Queen sat with his back against the leather seat, eyes forward, posture military-stiff despite the civilian clothes: dark jeans, charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled halfway up forearms still wrapped in faint medical tape. His hair was cropped short now—no longer wild, but controlled. Functional. Like everything else about him.

The beard was gone, trimmed into a reluctant stubble that seemed to cling to him out of habit. He looked clean. Presentable. Almost like a man. Except for the part where he still didn’t blink enough. Or smile.

Moira Queen—diamond earrings, steel gaze, and a cashmere coat tailored to make statements in silence—sat beside him, legs crossed, one manicured hand cradling a glass of sparkling water like it was a martini.

She took a measured sip, turned to study her son, and said dryly, “Well. You clean up… marginally.”

Oliver glanced her way, one eyebrow ticking upward. “Marginally?”

Moira gave a tight smile. “Don’t push it. The stubble is tolerable. The haircut is a relief. And the fact that you’re no longer tracking beach sand into my floors? A miracle.”

“You missed me,” he said.

She arched a brow. “Like a migraine.”

That earned a chuckle—low, rasped, but real.

“You don’t cry, do you?” he asked.

Moira tilted her head. “Do I look like a woman who cries?”

He gave a slow blink. “You look like someone who bills grief by the hour and always rounds up.”

She smiled, this time genuinely, despite herself. “It’s called compartmentalization, darling. You should try it. I hear it’s excellent for men with... trauma.”

“Wow. Subtle.”

“I’ve never been accused of that before.” She paused, tone shifting just slightly. “But I have been accused of being heartless. Usually by men who underestimate me.”

Oliver leaned his head back against the seat. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

Moira studied him for a beat. “So. We’ve covered your grooming. Shall we move on to the billion-dollar elephant in the room?”

He groaned softly. “Let me guess. Walter again.”

“He called four times. Left messages. Had flowers sent to your hospital room, which you ignored. The florist was insulted.”

“I was unconscious the first two days,” Oliver muttered.

“You weren’t by the time the orchids arrived,” Moira said smoothly. “They died in the vase.”

Oliver stared out the window. “Good metaphor.”

She let that hang for a second. “He wants to talk about your return. And the board. The stock is going to bounce the second you show your face at Queen Consolidated.”

“I don’t want the company.”

“I know. But optics matter.”

Oliver didn’t respond right away. Finally, he muttered, “What if I’m not ready to be the man they want me to be?”

“You’re a Queen,” Moira said crisply. “You don’t have the luxury of being ready. You just have to show up and scare the hell out of people until they fall in line.”

He looked at her again, a trace of amusement behind his eyes. “You’ve been rehearsing that speech, haven’t you?”

Moira tapped a perfectly lacquered nail against her glass. “Since the moment I heard you were alive. Rehearsing and rewriting it with every phone call to Walter, every sleepless night, and every perfectly chilled glass of sauvignon blanc.”

Oliver was quiet again, but his lips quirked just slightly. “Well, now I feel special.”

“You should. You’re my son.” She shifted to face him more fully, her tone softening—not by much, but enough. “And you’re coming home.”

“Queen Manor,” he said, as if the words were a weight in his mouth.

“Home,” she corrected.

He exhaled. “Not sure it feels like home anymore.”

“It will,” she promised. “Eventually.”

Oliver tilted his head, watching her. “And if it doesn’t?”

She leaned in slightly, voice like velvet over steel. “Then we pretend. Until it does.”

The car turned up the long, gated drive of Queen Manor. Lights glowed in the windows. The kind of lights that suggested warmth, family, welcome.

Oliver stared at them like a man walking into a stranger’s memory.

“I should warn you,” Moira added, with the faintest smirk, “I had your old room repainted. The sports posters were... tragic.”

Oliver’s eyes flicked sideways. “Please tell me it’s not lavender.”

“I considered it,” she said. “But ultimately settled on something masculine. Dark wood. Charcoal. You know. The aesthetic of brooding.”

He smiled—just a little.

“Thanks.”

“For the room?”

“For this,” he said, quieter now. “For... still trying.”

She looked at him, her own smile fading into something softer. Real. “You’re my son, Oliver. I never stopped trying. I just stopped pretending I knew how.”

The car pulled to a stop.

Neither of them moved.

Then Oliver straightened his jacket, opened the door, and stepped out into the cool night air.

The Queen had come home.

Now all he had to do... was figure out what kind of king he wanted to be.

—

The warm, golden light from the chandeliers hit Oliver like a punch to the gut—nostalgic, a little bittersweet. The scent of polished wood, old leather-bound books, and a faint trace of lilac potpourri hung in the air—the kind of scent you don't forget, no matter how far you run.

Oliver’s boots echoed softly on the marble floor as he crossed the threshold, half-expecting the house to feel alien. Instead, it welcomed him like a whispered secret from the past.

Then—bam.

Something small and furious slammed into his midsection with the force of a heat-seeking missile.

“OLLIE!”

Oliver staggered back a step, blinking down at the whirlwind wrapped around him. Thea Queen, a living tornado with blonde hair and eyes blazing with a cocktail of relief and pent-up rage, had just tackled him like a linebacker.

“Hey—easy, Speedy,” he wheezed, clutching his ribs. “You’re gonna break me.”

She looked up, eyes glossy and furious. “You were dead! Dead, Ollie! Five years of mourning and funerals, and poof—you decide to stroll in like some glossy cover model for ‘PTSD Monthly’ and expect me not to punch you?”

Oliver snorted, wrapping his arms around her in return. “Nice to see you too, Speedy.”

Thea sniffled, squeezing him like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. “Don’t you dare die on me again.”

Oliver closed his eyes and rested his chin on her head. “Missed you, kid.”

They stayed like that a moment longer—Thea clinging on like he was her tether to sanity, Oliver surprised at how right it felt.

“Also,” Thea muttered, voice muffled, “you smell... weird.”

Oliver smirked. “Coconut-scented trauma. I’m basically a walking vacation.”

From behind them, the soft click of heels cut through the tension.

“If you’re done attempting to murder your brother, Thea…” Moira Queen’s voice purred from behind them, calm and sharp as a blade.

Thea released Oliver reluctantly, wiping her eyes but still bristling with energy. “He showed up out of nowhere, Mom! Like a damn ghost with abs.”

Moira stepped into the light, flawless as ever—impeccably dressed, radiating that ‘I’m-in-control’ aura like it was oxygen. “Well, I’m glad you’re back and intact.” She cast a sidelong glance at Oliver. “Though I half-expected to find you in a ditch somewhere, missing more limbs.”

Oliver shrugged, voice low and dry. “Ditch was overrated. Figured I’d try the whole ‘homecoming’ thing instead.”

Moira arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “Bold choice.”

Thea flopped dramatically onto the nearest armchair, folding her arms. “So what’s the plan, Mom? You said something about tomorrow?”

Moira’s smile tightened—business mode activated. “Yes. Tomorrow, we officially welcome Harry back.”

Oliver blinked. “Harry?”

Thea glanced at Oliver, eyes wide. “Seriously? You don’t know who Harry is?”

Oliver gave a slow, sarcastic clap. “Nope. My family’s gone full mystery tour without me.”

Moira’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Harry is... your cousin. Well, second cousin once removed, technically.”

Oliver made a face. “Great. More relatives.”

“His mother was Lily Evans Potter. My cousin on my mother’s side.” Moira’s tone softened, just a fraction. “She and her husband James were killed—seventeen years ago. Harry was presumed dead along with them.”

Thea leaned forward, whispering with mock drama, “Spoiler alert: he wasn’t.”

Oliver rubbed his jaw. “Right... so why am I just hearing about this now?”

Moira’s voice took on that carefully polished edge that said I’ve got secrets, and you’re gonna listen anyway. “Five years ago, I was traveling for work. You and your father were lost at sea, presumed dead, and I—well, I was drowning in grief, throwing myself into business to forget.”

Oliver folded his arms, waiting.

“On a stop in London,” she continued, “I visited Petunia Dursley. Another cousin. Her sister was Lily. There I found Harry.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Found him? Like... where?”

Moira’s tone dropped, thick with distaste. “Locked in the smallest bedroom, with enough padlocks on the door to put a prison cell to shame. And his previous 'bedroom' was cupboard under the stairs until he was eleven.”

Oliver gasped, eyes wide. “Like literally under the stairs? Not a metaphor?”

Moira gave a dry nod. “Literal. The Dursleys treated him like garbage. He was a prisoner in his own home.”

Oliver’s jaw tightened, anger flickering across his face. “Jesus.”

Moira nodded slowly. “I couldn’t just walk away. Not then, not when I’d just lost you. Taking Harry in—getting him out—gave me a reason to keep moving forward.”

Thea grinned, exhaling a laugh. “He became my annoying big brother. Nerdy, stubborn, kinda weird, but cool in a way only he is.”

Oliver smiled faintly. “Where is he now?”

“A very exclusive boarding school in the Scottish Highlands,” Moira said with a smirk. “One his parents attended. Harry was enrolled there from birth.”

Oliver raised a brow. “Exclusive how? Like ‘let’s make sure this place costs more than my life’ exclusive?”

“Let’s just say, you won’t believe your eyes when you see it,” Thea said, winking.

“And he’ll want to make sure you’re not a crazy imposter,” Moira added. “Harry’s protective. Don’t take it personally.”

Oliver ran a hand through his stubbled jaw, processing. “So, I’m not the only ‘miracle return from the dead’ in this family?”

“Nope,” Thea said, deadpan. “But don’t worry—he doesn’t go around shooting arrows.”

Moira’s smile was sly. “Not unless absolutely necessary.”

Oliver looked at them both, shaking his head with a half-laugh. “This just got way more complicated.”

Moira stepped forward, voice silk wrapped around steel. “You’ll fit in just fine.”

Thea slid her hand into Oliver’s. “Welcome home, Ollie.”

Oliver squeezed it gently, glancing between them—between the past he thought was gone, and this strange new family waiting for him.

Maybe this time, he thought... maybe this time it would be different.

—

The sleek black car rolled to a near-silent stop on the tarmac, the distant drone of jets punctuated by the occasional crackle over the radio. Oliver sat stiff as a board, jaw tight, eyes locked on the horizon like a soldier preparing for battle. Sunlight caught the sharp angles of his stubble, casting half his face in shadow.

Beside him, Thea was practically vibrating with impatience, her foot tapping a rapid Morse code against the floor mat.

Moira, ever the picture of composed grace, adjusted her designer sunglasses with a slow, deliberate tilt of her head. Her voice was smooth silk over steel: “Here we are.”

Thea snorted, a crooked grin tugging at her lips. “You’re about to make a complete ass of yourself trying to pretend you’re not the walking dead.”

Oliver sighed, dragging a hand through his hair and shooting Thea a look that clearly said Thanks for the pep talk. “Oh, great. Can’t wait to trip over my own feet in front of strangers again.”

The chauffeur opened the door with a precise click, and Thea was already out, a blur of motion that practically dragged Moira and Oliver along like rag dolls as they headed toward the jet.

“Alright, listen up,” Thea said over her shoulder, smirking as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “You’re not just meeting Harry. He’s got company.”

Oliver arched a brow. “Company?”

Thea rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. “Yeah, yeah. His godfather, Sirius Black. Old money, old secrets, the usual ‘vanished into thin air when tragedy struck’ routine.”

Moira’s voice cut in, smooth and precise like a scalpel. “Sirius was presumed dead for years—disappeared at the same time the Potters died. Then, four years ago, he was found.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Found? Why? What happened?”

Thea tossed her hair, her smirk sharpening. “Apparently, losing James Potter—who was like a brother to him—sent Sirius into some kind of full-on mental shutdown. Total amnesia. The mysterious lost heir with a flair for dramatic timing.”

Oliver shook his head, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fantastic. Can’t wait to dive into that dysfunctional reunion.”

“Wait—there’s more.” Thea’s grin widened. “They didn’t come alone. Harry’s best friend Hermione’s with him. The ultimate know-it-all. The kind of friend who beats you to the punch—and then lectures you about it for an hour.”

Moira fixed Oliver with a look so sharp it could slice diamonds. “I trust you’ll keep up.”

Oliver’s grin went dry and sardonic. “Fake it ‘til you make it. That’s my motto.”

The jet’s ramp began to lower, sunlight glinting off the polished fuselage like a spotlight. Oliver’s heart hammered—an odd mix of nerves, curiosity, and a whisper of hope.

Thea leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. “Ready to meet the rest of your new fan club?”

Oliver glanced at the endless blue sky, then back to the open ramp. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Moira’s heels clicked behind them, each step deliberate and sure. “Then let’s go greet them.”

—

The jet's ramp descended with a soft hydraulic hiss, like some ancient beast exhaling a breath it had held for centuries. Sunlight struck the sleek metal at just the right angle to momentarily blind anyone who dared look too directly at the gleaming fuselage. From within, the shadows moved.

He was tall. Taller than Oliver had expected. Six feet easy, lean like a blade, but broad across the shoulders and radiating that quiet, unmistakable confidence of someone who'd been through fire and come out forged. His black button-down sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his jeans bore the honest wear of someone who didn't give a damn about fashion but still managed to look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

Messy black hair framed a chiseled face, and the sunlight caught on startling green eyes that burned like polished emeralds. A faint, silvery ghost of a scar long faded above his right brow. He looked like a prince who'd left his crown behind because it got in the way of a good fight.

"There he is," Thea said, her voice a cross between a sigh and a squeal. She elbowed Oliver in the ribs hard enough to make him grunt. "The Boy Who Lived to Grow Up and Get Abs."

Oliver squinted. "He doesn’t look like a nerd."

Harry spotted them. His face lit up in a way that was too genuine to be rehearsed.

"Aunt Moira!" he called, already striding down the ramp.

"Did he just—?" Oliver began.

"Yup," Thea said with a smug grin. "Calls her that. Always has. Moira insists it was 'charming' when he was eleven. Now she just pretends not to love it."

Moira Queen, icy as ever in her tailored cream suit and oversized sunglasses, let the faintest smile curve her lips. As Harry reached her, she removed her shades with the kind of slow, deliberate elegance that could command a boardroom or a battlefield.

"Harry," she said, voice smooth as aged scotch. "Still refusing to grow out of calling me 'Aunt'?"

He leaned in and kissed her cheek, eyes dancing. "You always were my favorite aunt. And still terrifying, but in a classy, Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-Instinct kind of way."

Moira chuckled, a rare sound. "You always knew how to flatter dangerously."

"Occupational hazard," Harry said.

Then his eyes swung to Thea.

"Oi," he said with a wicked grin. "There's my pipsqueak. Still vertically challenged, I see."

"Still irritatingly tall, I see," she shot back, and launched herself into his arms. Harry caught her effortlessly, spinning her around once before setting her down.

"And still using hair products that could double as industrial glue," he teased.

"Still not wearing your glasses, I see," she countered, poking him in the ribs. "You’re a traitor to every nerdy teenage fantasy."

"I keep them around for nostalgia. And for days when I feel like looking blurry."

"You're lucky you're hot now," Thea said. "Because if you weren’t, that level of sass would be a war crime."

Harry turned to Oliver at last. There was something in his posture that shifted—a respectful kind of alertness. A soldier recognizing another.

"Oliver Queen," he said, extending a hand. "Good to finally meet the man I've heard far too many stories about."

Oliver took his hand, gripping it firmly. "You know about those stories?"

Harry's grin turned dangerous. "I know everything. Hermione says it makes me insufferable. I call it 'well-informed.'"

Oliver smirked. "Bet she calls it 'annoying as hell.'"

"She does," Harry agreed. "Often."

Another figure appeared on the ramp.

Sirius Black descended with a kind of slow, liquid grace that made it very clear he was more wolf than man. His black coat flared slightly with each step, the long waves of his hair framing a face that was all mischief and pain and magnetism. He looked like a cross between a biker king and a gothic romance novel cover model. And he made it work.

"Moira," he said with a smirk that could melt glaciers. "Still regal. Still terrifying. Still wouldn’t want to play poker against you."

"Still wearing that coat like you're leading a revolution in 1887," Moira returned, lips quirking. "You haven’t changed a bit."

"Flatter me more," Sirius purred. Then he turned to the others. "You must be Thea. You look exactly like your mother. And you," he said, eyes narrowing slightly at Oliver, "you look like someone who knows how to survive the impossible."

"Oliver," he said evenly. "And you must be the dead godfather."

Sirius grinned. "Once and future. Don’t worry, I only bite when provoked."

"Good to know," Oliver said, unimpressed.

And then she stepped off the plane.

Hermione Granger. Tall-ish, confident, blazer tailored to perfection, hair a halo of glossy brown curls that shimmered in the sun. She carried herself like a diplomat who'd ended wars over tea. Her eyes flicked over them all like she was already categorizing weaknesses and planning improvements.

"Honestly," she said with a crisp British lilt, "you'd think none of you had ever seen a private jet before."

"And there's our icebreaker," Harry said, making a show of sighing. "Hermione Jean Granger, ladies and gentlemen: beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely no chill."

Hermione rolled her eyes and extended a hand to Moira. "Ms. Queen. It's an honor."

"Likewise," Moira said, giving a rare nod of approval. "I’ve heard... volumes."

"Please disregard half of them," Hermione said. "The half that came from Sirius."

"Oi," Sirius muttered. "I tell excellent stories."

"You embellish like you're trying to get a publishing deal," she shot back.

Oliver stood back, watching. They were a unit. That much was clear. These three had been through hell together. The kind of hell that either broke people or bound them together like blood.

"We should head out," Moira said smoothly. "There’s too much sun and not nearly enough wine on this tarmac."

"Couldn’t agree more," Hermione said.

They began to walk. Harry fell into step beside Oliver, hands in his pockets, still casual but sharp-eyed.

"So," Harry said. "What’s it like coming back from the dead?"

Oliver smirked. "Was hoping you’d tell me what it’s like surviving the Dursleys."

Harry made a face. "Touché. Let’s trade trauma over whiskey sometime. I’ll bring the firewhisky, you bring the brooding."

"Deal," Oliver said.

Behind them, Thea hooked an arm through Hermione's.

"Okay, so be honest," Thea said. "How many embarrassing stories about Harry do you have?"

Hermione smiled sweetly. "Do you want them alphabetically, chronologically, or categorized by emotional damage?"

"Yes," Thea grinned.

Sirius ambled behind them, hands in his pockets, watching like a wolf content to let the cubs play. "I lived those stories. You want the real dirt, you come to me."

"This was a mistake," Harry muttered.

"Welcome to the family," Oliver replied.

Harry sighed. "Bloody brilliant."

—

The car hummed softly as they rolled off the tarmac, the city lights flickering like distant stars as Queen Manor drew nearer. The six of them settled into the back seat of the sleek black SUV, a bubble of quiet energy buzzing between them.

Oliver took the window seat, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the others like a man trying to decode an intricate puzzle he wasn’t fully invited to solve. Harry sat next to him, feet casually stretched out, an amused smirk playing on his lips like he already knew some secret Oliver didn’t.

Hermione was perched primly in the middle, a notebook balanced on her knee, though she wasn’t writing. She was just... observing. Sirius leaned back with that wolfish grin that seemed to say he’d been through too much to be surprised by anything anymore. Thea was bouncing a little in her seat, the energy of a kid who’d just found the coolest secret clubhouse in the world.

"So," Oliver said, breaking the low hum of the engine, "how exactly do you all know each other? And what is this thing with 'firewhisky' that keeps getting mentioned? Sounds like a bad decision waiting to happen."

Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione and Sirius, who both rolled their eyes but didn’t stop the smiles.

"Oh, firewhisky is... well, let’s just say it’s the kind of drink you want when your life’s a little too complicated for regular whiskey," Hermione said smoothly, voice casual but with that tiny edge that made it sound like a line from a story Oliver wasn’t supposed to fully get.

Sirius grinned, showing a flash of teeth. "And when you’ve faced things most people don’t even dream about, you learn to appreciate the finer things. Or the fiery things. Sometimes both."

Thea chimed in, voice light and teasing, "You’d never believe what kind of stories come up after a couple of those. We have a running bet on who can survive the worst nonsense without losing their mind."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you all have a habit of attracting chaos."

Harry’s grin deepened. "You could say that. It’s like a talent we don’t remember signing up for."

Hermione’s eyes flicked to the window, a shadow of something unreadable passing over her face before she smiled again. "Let's just say some of us have seen the world from angles others haven’t."

Oliver caught the subtle exchange and leaned back. “Right... angles.”

A brief silence fell, but it was comfortable. Then Thea nudged Harry and whispered, loud enough for Oliver to hear, "Still not telling him, huh?"

Harry’s eyes twinkled. "Not yet. Timing’s everything, pipsqueak."

Sirius snorted quietly. "He’s got plenty to catch up on before we start throwing impossible at him."

Oliver tilted his head. “You make it sound like a really exclusive club.”

Harry laughed softly, but there was a sharpness underneath. “Exclusive is one word for it. Dangerous is another. And if you’re lucky, it’s also kind of family.”

Hermione folded her notebook shut. “And family means you don’t get to choose all the chaos. Sometimes, it just chooses you.”

Oliver gave a slow nod, still processing but intrigued. “Well, I guess I’m honored to be part of... whatever this is.”

Harry’s grin was all warmth now. “Welcome to the mess, Oliver. Buckle up.”

The SUV sped through the night, the city lights slipping past like a river of secrets. And in the backseat, the six of them settled into something unspoken — a bond forged in fire, mystery, and a thousand shared stories waiting to be told.

Queen Manor — Later That Stormy Night

The storm didn’t roll in. It attacked.

Rain hurled itself against the tall windows like it was trying to break in. Lightning tore the sky apart in jagged silvers, and thunder slammed overhead, angry and too close.

Inside, the manor slept. Or at least tried to.

Until Oliver screamed.

It wasn’t loud so much as raw — like someone had ripped the sound straight from his gut. It echoed through the hallways, sharp enough to snap every occupant awake.

Oliver sat bolt upright on the floor, damp with sweat, fists clenched, heart hammering in a rhythm that had once meant fight or die. His cot of blankets lay tossed beside him — the bed was still too soft, too fake, too not real.

He didn’t notice the door.

Didn’t notice the subtle click as it was unlocked by a soft whisper.

“Alohomora,” Hermione murmured, already slipping her wand back into her sleeve.

Harry was the first through the door. Shirtless, barefoot, but eyes bright with alertness and trained calm. He moved like a shadow with an English accent.

Thea was next, in pajama shorts and a hoodie three sizes too big. Sirius came in behind her, shirtless, tattooed, scowling, hair tousled like a lion just woken up. Moira swept in last, robe over nightgown, the very image of chilly elegance, her expression carved from worry and glass.

“Oliver?” Moira’s voice was quiet. Measured.

He didn’t hear her.

He wasn’t here.

He was back there — where the days bled together and the nights bled worse. He was cold, starving, soaked to the bone with seawater and failure. He was watching his father die again. Watching his own hands kill.

“Oliver, darling, it’s me,” Moira said, stepping forward, kneeling carefully like she might spook a wild animal.

Lightning flashed.

Oliver moved.

One second, Moira was kneeling. The next, her wrist was in Oliver’s grip, twisted back with deadly precision, her breath catching.

Then —

“Oi, Oliver,” Harry snapped.

THWACK.

Before anyone blinked, Harry had Oliver down, one knee on his back, arm pinned behind him in a grappler's hold that was alarmingly gentle.

“You done?” Harry asked calmly.

Oliver blinked, eyes wide, then narrowed, struggling once more before recognition flickered through the haze.

“Harry?” he rasped.

Harry shifted just enough to let him breathe, but not enough to let him up. “Welcome back. We missed you. Especially the part where you didn’t attack your mum.”

Oliver froze. Then looked.

Moira was rubbing her wrist, elegant even while recovering from a surprise wrist-lock.

His heart broke.

“Oh God… Mom, I—I didn’t know, I swear, it was just—instinct, I didn’t mean to—”

He scrambled out from under Harry, palms up, horrified.

“I could have hurt you,” he whispered.

Moira stood. Walked to him. Cupped his face with both hands.

“But you didn’t,” she said. Steady. Fierce. “And even if you had, Oliver Jonas Queen, I would come into this room again. Every. Single. Time.”

Oliver looked like he might break.

Behind them, Thea whispered, “Is this what PTSD club looks like?”

Hermione gave her a small, sad smile. “It’s not a club. It’s a sentence.”

Sirius crossed his arms. “Hell doesn’t brand you and leave. It tags along. Like a bad ex.”

Oliver sat back on the floor, exhausted. “I don’t sleep much anymore.”

“You don’t say,” Sirius grunted. “You kick like a mule, too.”

Harry, now leaning against the wall, rolled his eyes. “He’s probably stab a training dummy so hard, it’ll bleed sawdust and shame.”

Oliver looked up. “I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Neither did Bucky Barnes. Life doesn’t send RSVPs before it punches you in the trauma.”

Thea crossed her arms. “You guys are way too good at this cryptic war-brooding thing. It’s freaky.”

“She says while still wearing a hoodie that says ‘Don’t talk to me, I bite,’” Harry quipped.

“It’s a fashion statement,” Thea snapped.

“It’s a personality diagnosis,” Hermione muttered.

Oliver blinked at them. “Wait. Are you lot... spies or something?”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Something, yes. You’ll catch up.”

Hermione sighed. “Not if you three keep being needlessly cryptic.”

Sirius winked. “Where’s the fun in being direct?”

“In not traumatizing the recovering castaway,” she deadpanned.

Oliver shook his head slowly. “You people are weird.”

Harry grinned. “Welcome to the family.”

And for the first time in five years, Oliver almost smiled.

—

Queen Manor – The Next Morning

Thea didn’t knock.

She never had. As a kid, she used to burst into Oliver’s room just to annoy him. Now, it was less about annoyance and more about habit. Plus, after last night’s emotional hurricane? She figured knocking was the least of their problems.

She nudged the door open with her hip, a bowl of cereal in one hand and her phone in the other. “Hey, bro, just wanted to give you a heads up—Tommy’s here and—”

She stopped mid-sentence. And mid-step.

Oliver stood by the window, shirtless, silhouetted by soft morning light spilling through the curtains. He was pulling on a pair of jeans, his back to her.

And that’s when she saw them.

Scars.

Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Ugly, jagged, brutal. They crawled across his skin like angry vines—some still pink and raw, others pale like old ghosts. His back looked like it had taken on the world and lost. And yet, here he was.

Breathing. Standing. Alive.

Thea's mouth dropped open. Her cereal bowl tilted dangerously.

“Oh my God… Ollie…”

He stilled, just for a beat.

Then without a word, he turned, grabbed a black long-sleeve henley from the dresser, and pulled it on in one clean motion.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said firmly. Not harsh, not angry—but absolute.

Thea blinked. “Well, that’s... not suspicious at all,” she muttered, trying to play it cool. She set the cereal down on his nightstand with exaggerated care, like it might explode.

“I’m serious, Thea,” Oliver said, turning away from her again. “Let it go.”

“Sure. Because your back looking like it got into a knife fight with a grizzly bear is super casual,” she shot back.

Oliver gave her a tight-lipped smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You always did have a gift for understatement.”

She crossed her arms, one hip cocked. “I’m not trying to get you to write a memoir, Oliver. But maybe don’t pretend that... that,” she motioned vaguely at his torso, “...isn’t a thing.”

“I’m aware it’s a thing,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “That’s why I’m doing this.”

“What’s this?”

“Changing the subject.”

“Ohhh, classic Ollie Queen deflection play. Move over, Houdini,” she said dryly.

He smirked. That familiar, slightly sardonic expression that made him look five years younger for just a second. Then he turned, opened the drawer by his bed, and rummaged around.

“I have something for you.”

Thea squinted suspiciously. “What, emotional repression and gifts? You’re really leaning into this brooding mysterious billionaire thing.”

He held out a small object, nestled in his palm. A stone arrowhead, smooth from wear, its once-sharp edges dulled with age. It looked like something out of a museum—or a mythology textbook.

“It’s called a hozen,” he said, quietly. “I found it during my second year on the island. Thought it would bring me luck.”

Thea took it carefully, like it might vanish. “So... a souvenir from Hell?”

“Something like that,” he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I carried it with me every day after I found it. Got me through a lot.”

She turned it over in her hand, brushing her thumb along the worn stone. “And now you’re giving it to me?”

“You’re my sister, Speedy. If anyone deserves a little luck, it’s you.”

She softened immediately. “Thanks, Ollie. It’s... weird, and sharp, and kind of ugly—so yeah, it’s perfect. Totally your vibe.”

Before Oliver could respond, the door burst open.

“Tell me she’s not getting mystical rock swag!” Tommy Merlyn breezed in like Ibiza had followed him home. He was wearing aviators on his head, his button-up shirt halfway to buttoned, and a wide grin like he’d been born in a DJ booth.

He stopped short, surveying the scene—Thea holding a rock reverently, Oliver half-brooding in long sleeves, and a general aura of heavy morning awkwardness.

“I leave the continent for one week,” Tommy said, hands on his hips, “and you’re handing out sacred tribal trinkets like Cracker Jack prizes?”

Oliver sighed. “Nice to see you too, Tommy.”

“I flew in the second I heard,” Tommy added, stepping forward and pulling him into a quick, rough hug—then immediately pulling back when Oliver winced. “Jesus, dude, what happened to your back? Did you get mauled by a tiger or something?”

Oliver’s face didn’t change. “Close.”

Tommy blinked, then wisely chose not to pursue that. “Okay. Wow. So that’s a whole thing. Good to know.”

He looked at the stone in Thea’s hand. “Wait—so she gets the mysterious island mojo and I don’t even get a novelty tee? I was expecting a ‘My Best Friend Spent Five Years on a Hell Island and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt’ shirt at the minimum.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “I’ll have one printed.”

“Extra-large, please. For the emotional baggage,” Tommy said, plopping down dramatically on the edge of the bed. “Seriously though, man. You okay?”

Oliver hesitated. Just a moment. Then: “I will be.”

Tommy nodded, clapped him gently on the shoulder. “That’s all I needed to hear. Well, that and—how the hell are you hotter after five years in the wilderness? I was expecting, like, Cast Away with a beard and a volleyball.”

Oliver looked over at Thea, deadpan. “Is it too late to pretend I died in the plane crash?”

“Very,” Thea said with a grin. “Also, no offense, but you’re about as good at pretending to be dead as you are at subtle emotional communication.”

Tommy pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you guys.”

He turned back to the arrowhead. “So… does it do anything cool? Glows in the dark? Turns her into Hawkeye?”

Thea smirked. “Nah. But if it did, you’re looking at Star City’s next vigilante archer.”

Tommy gasped. “Dibs on being your wise-cracking sidekick.”

“Too late,” Thea said, smirking. “Hermione already claimed the spot.”

Tommy frowned. “Wait, like... Who's Hermione?”

Oliver, leaning back against the dresser now, arms folded, gave Thea a meaningful look. “Told you.”

Thea winked at him. “You were right.”

Tommy looked between them, confused. “Okay, seriously—what did I miss?”

Oliver smiled. Just a little. Just enough.

“Everything.”

—

Thea Queen had vanished downstairs twenty minutes ago with the determination of someone hunting cereal like it owed her money. The faint clink of bowls and the angry hum of a fridge being opened too aggressively floated up the grand staircase, barely audible beneath the lazy shuffle of expensive shoes and long-suffering sighs.

Oliver moved with that signature quiet intensity, the kind that said “I’ve survived a hell island and all I got was this trauma.” His footsteps were light, shoulders squared, jaw sharp enough to slice drywall. Every motion carried the coiled precision of a man who'd once fought a Russian mobster with a butter knife.

Tommy Merlyn, on the other hand, descended like a walking podcast set to double speed.

“…and then, after they finally wrapped Game of Thrones—which, let’s be real, was a dumpster fire with a CGI budget—HBO decided, ‘Hey, what if we tried writing again?’ Boom. House of the Dragon. Still problematic, still sexy, but at least the wigs are consistent. Less incest, marginally.”

Oliver gave him a side glance. “Why are we talking about dragons?”

“It’s called cultural reintegration, my grizzled friend. You’ve been off the grid for five years. You missed memes, Marvel phases two through four, and an entire generation falling in love with Pedro Pascal.”

Oliver arched a brow. “Who?”

Tommy gasped like he'd been shot. “Sweet suffering streaming service, Oliver. You don’t know Daddy Pascal?”

“I’m going back to the island.”

Before Tommy could launch into a dissertation on The Mandalorian, the library doors creaked open. The sound was just loud enough to cause a brief hush—one of those uncanny, movie-scene silences where you know the plot just walked in.

Two figures emerged.

One tall and lean, with messy black hair and a perpetual expression like he was two seconds from a sarcastic quip. His walk screamed British wizard turned reluctant hero, and his black Henley didn’t hide the Auror-worthy physique he'd earned somewhere between spell-slinging and dodging curses.

The other had a storm of curls, sharp eyes that analyzed everything, and the prim-yet-deadly poise of a woman who could dismantle you in debate and then knit you a scarf to apologize.

“Harry,” the girl sighed, nudging the library door shut with her foot. “You’re worse than Ron. Honestly, how hard is it to close something quietly?”

Harry yawned like a housecat and replied without looking, “It’s a door, Hermione. Not the bloody Chamber of Secrets. If it bites back, you have my full permission to say, ‘I told you so.’”

Tommy froze mid-step.

Blink.

Blink again.

“…Wait. That’s Harry?”

Harry spotted him and tilted his head, squinting slightly. “Tommy? Merlyn? You’re still alive? I could’ve sworn you’d gotten eaten by an overgrown squirrel that one summer.”

“I tried to teach you how to make a mojito,” Tommy muttered, still processing. “You were, like, fourteen. And you called it ‘the devil’s mouthwash’.”

“To be fair,” Hermione said, not missing a beat, “you were trying to give alcohol to a minor.”

“Allegedly,” Tommy said, hands up in mock surrender.

Harry grinned. “You used mint extract instead of mint leaves. It tasted like toothpaste had committed war crimes.”

Tommy pointed, jaw agape. “Okay. You grew a face. Like a whole adult face. Jawline, height, cheekbones—what did you do, eat Captain America and absorb his muscles?”

“I work out. And I moisturize,” Harry deadpanned. “You should try it sometime. Your forehead’s got more lines than a Shakespeare monologue.”

Oliver, standing slightly back, finally cleared his throat. “Morning.”

Harry’s sarcasm softened the instant he saw him. “Hey. You’re awake.”

Hermione followed Harry’s gaze and smiled gently. “Good to see you up, Oliver. You had us worried.”

“Appreciate it.” His nod was restrained, but genuine.

Tommy was now circling Harry like a shark in an Armani jacket. “So let me get this straight. You’re the Harry Potter. The orphan Moira Queen scooped up during a European detour. The same one who used to steal pop-tarts and vanish for ten months of the year to that suspiciously elite school in Scotland?”

“I graduated,” Harry said, hands sliding into his pockets. “No more boarding school. No more mandatory house points. Now I just live here, annoy Thea, and help Hermione figure out which coffees in America don’t taste like regret.”

“Oi!” came a shout from the top of the stairs.

Thea leaned over the banister, spoon in mouth and a bowl of cereal in hand. Her hair was messy, her tank top crooked, and her glare impressively expressive for someone chewing soggy Cocoa Puffs.

“Less shade, Potter. I’m mourning. These—” she pointed to her bowl, “—were once crunchy. Now they’re betrayal in a bowl.”

Hermione gave her a sympathetic wince. “We warned you not to multitask. Cereal has a five-minute shelf life, max.”

“You’re one of those people who time tea steeping to the second, aren’t you?” Thea groaned.

“I am,” Hermione said proudly. “Precision is underrated.”

Tommy clapped once. “I like her. She gets it. Chaos and control. She’s like if Mary Poppins went to MIT.”

Hermione bowed slightly. “Thank you. I’ll be here all summer. Unless this manor burns down from Tommy trying to make cocktails again.”

“Allegedly,” he repeated.

Harry shook his head fondly, then glanced at Oliver, voice quieter now. “I didn’t get a chance to say this last night, but… I’m really glad you’re okay. Seriously.”

Oliver met his gaze and offered a slow nod. “Still figuring things out.”

Harry tilted his head. “Aren’t we all?”

Tommy grinned. “You two are giving off trauma bros energy. One more heartfelt nod and I swear to God, CW will reboot the whole show.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Once,” Tommy said. “In 2009. I had strep. It was a dark time.”

Harry leaned closer to Oliver and whispered, “Is he always like this?”

“Worse,” Oliver murmured back.

“Hey!” Tommy said indignantly. “I provide much-needed levity in this angsty cluster of attractive people. I’m basically Tony Stark meets Chandler Bing.”

Thea sauntered down the last few steps, flicking her spoon at him. “You’re more like a golden retriever who drank Red Bull and discovered sarcasm.”

“I’ll take that.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You remind me of Sirius.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Thea warned. “He already thinks he’s hot.”

“I am hot,” Tommy said, gesturing at himself. “This isn’t arrogance—it’s self-awareness.”

The group headed toward the kitchen, the familiar creak of the Queen Manor floorboards beneath them.

Oliver lingered at the edge, watching them move, laugh, tease. It didn’t feel like before—the fractured, brittle memories of a life stolen and rewritten.

But it felt like something.

Something real.

Something possible.

And that, for now, was enough.

—

The smell of burnt toast, overbrewed coffee, and the chaotic energy of too many Type-A personalities in one house filled the Queen kitchen like an overconfident perfume. Hermione stood before the row of gleaming American appliances like a general surveying a battlefield—or worse, a professor handed a pop quiz with misspelled questions and Comic Sans font.

“Why,” she began in a voice laced with tight restraint, “are the sockets upside down? It’s like someone designed this kitchen purely to offend my sense of logic.”

“That’s because you’re in America now,” Thea said, dramatically pouring the remnants of her soggy cereal down the garbage disposal with the flair of someone disposing of evidence. “Land of the free, home of the fridge that judges you.”

“I swear it beeped at me when I opened it too slowly,” Hermione muttered, now poking at the toaster like it might explode. “And this toaster. This toaster. It has Bluetooth.”

“Probably so it can update its firmware in the middle of making you breakfast,” Harry said breezily, leaning against the counter with a spoon halfway buried in a suspiciously off-brand jar of peanut butter. The lid looked like it had lost a duel with an overheating spell, and someone had crossed out the label and scribbled Pixie Paste in Sharpie.

Tommy’s voice echoed from the pantry, running commentary flowing like a man determined to launch a cooking podcast without the cooking. “Okay, seriously, where’s the food-food? This is all flaxseed, quinoa, and something called organic sea buckthorn granola. Moira definitely joined a health cult. Do we think it’s vegan or just very disappointed in flavor?”

“Just eat the toaster,” Harry deadpanned. “It’s Bluetooth. It probably counts as a protein.”

Oliver stood in the corner, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this dimension. Black, bitter, no sugar—because, of course, he liked his mornings like his nightly rooftop brooding: cold and punishing. He watched the room, but mostly he watched Harry.

Harry, who looked—comfortable. Perched on a stool like it had always been his. Moving around the kitchen like he belonged, like he knew where the mugs lived and which drawer had the fancy tea Hermione hoarded like treasure. The sleeve of his hoodie was singed at the cuff. There was powdered sugar on his cheek. He looked—

At home.

And Oliver didn’t know if that made him feel relieved, or off-balance, or thrown into an emotional spiral he did not schedule for today.

“Hey,” Oliver said finally, voice low but cutting through the chaos like a stealth arrow.

Harry looked up, mid-scoop of peanut butter, one brow arched with aristocratic indifference. “Mr. Queen. To what do I owe the pleasure? Need someone to refill your coffee? Or are we back to silently judging my breakfast choices again?”

Oliver pointedly ignored the spoonful of ‘Pixie Paste’ and instead said, “Tommy wants to take me into the city today. Little recon. Lunch. A walk. He’ll probably spend most of it mocking my wardrobe.”

“You dress like a Men’s Warehouse mannequin who just got dumped,” Tommy called from inside the pantry. “I’m saving everyone.”

Oliver sighed and continued. “You should come.”

Harry blinked. “Me?”

“Yeah,” Oliver said with a shrug. “You’ve been here. Part of the family. Might know Starling better than I do at this point.”

“That is both flattering and deeply depressing,” Harry said. “But go on.”

“I just thought… it might be good. Normal.” Oliver paused, then added with a very dry glance toward the pantry. “Or as normal as anything gets with Tommy involved.”

“I am the social glue holding this family together!” Tommy shouted, now emerging triumphantly holding a box of cereal that looked like it hadn’t been produced since the Bush administration. “Also, this expired before Thea hit puberty. We should call a priest.”

“I’m not entirely convinced you have hit puberty,” Thea said sweetly, scrolling on her phone. “Your voice still cracks every time you talk to your reflection.”

“I’m a tenor,” Tommy sniffed. “A delicate instrument.”

“I swear to Merlin,” Harry said, standing up and brushing sugar off his jeans, “if this ends in a spontaneous musical number, I’m out.”

Hermione finally wrenched the Bluetooth toaster open and retrieved the toast with a pair of tongs like she was disarming a bomb. “If you’re all going into the city, please try not to make headlines. Or start a gang. Or offend anyone carrying a crossbow.”

“Honestly, those are all your rules, Granger,” Harry said, throwing on his jacket. “I’m just here for the sarcasm and the overpriced pastries.”

“Don’t forget the painfully awkward male bonding,” Thea called, not looking up. “You love those.”

Tommy grinned like a golden retriever discovering peanut butter for the first time. “Oh, this is gonna be great. I’m thinking record stores, ironic t-shirts, coffee so strong it sees through time—”

“And maybe,” Harry said, smoothing down his hair and adjusting his sleeves with the precision of a man preparing for battle, “a stop where I can buy Oliver some socks that don’t scream billionaire with unresolved issues.”

“You’re a menace,” Oliver said as they headed for the door.

“I’m British,” Harry corrected. “It’s our colonial legacy.”

As they filed out—Tommy already texting a list of coffee shops with ironic names and Thea threatening to text them a selfie every time they did something dumb—Hermione called, “No arrests! No magical incidents! And absolutely no fire this time, Harry!”

“It was one time,” Harry said.

“You set off a fireball in a Whole Foods!”

“They were out of treacle tart. I stand by my choices.”

The door closed behind them with the soft click of adventure.

And Oliver walked beside Harry—not in silence, exactly. But in a quiet that felt… easy. New.

Hopeful.

Like something was changing.

Like maybe—finally—things were beginning.

—

The front doors of Queen Manor swung open dramatically—because of course they did—and the trio strutted out like a promo shot for an action-comedy crossover nobody asked for, but everyone needed.

Tommy Merlyn walked like he was born on a yacht, sunglasses on, smile cocky, and blazer just rumpled enough to scream “rich kid rebel.” He hit the key fob on his car with the kind of confidence that usually belonged to Bond villains and overpaid CEOs.

The Aston Martin Vantage chirped to life with a smug little purr.

Cherry-red. Glossy. Offensive to the quiet sensibilities of subtlety.

“Tell me that isn’t the sound of overcompensation,” Harry muttered, tilting his head with faux innocence as the engine purred like it just heard the words “midlife crisis.”

Tommy grinned. “That, my judgmental British friend, is the sound of style.”

Oliver folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at the car like it had personally wronged him. “It’s a two-seater.”

Tommy blinked. “And?”

“There are three of us.”

Tommy glanced at Harry, then Oliver. “Well, it’s not like we can stack you guys. I mean, we could, but the press would have a field day.”

“Let me guess,” Harry deadpanned. “You were planning to strap me to the hood like a sexy British ornament?”

Tommy didn’t miss a beat. “I was going to say roof rack, but now that you’ve said it…”

Oliver cut in, exasperated. “We’re not using the Aston. We’ll just take one of the SUVs.”

“Boring,” Tommy groaned, already imagining the blacked-out behemoths in the garage.

“Oh no,” Harry said suddenly, a glint in his eye. “I’ve got a better idea.”

Oliver tensed. “Define ‘better.’”

“More illegal,” Harry said cheerfully, already jogging toward the garage. “Be right back. Don’t miss me too much.”

Tommy turned to Oliver. “Should we stop him?”

Oliver didn’t even flinch. “At this point? I just assume chaos and pray it’s insured.”

They waited. Tommy casually leaned on the Aston’s hood while humming the Mission: Impossible theme—because of course he did—and Oliver paced like a man already compiling excuses for the inevitable 9-1-1 call.

And then it came.

A deep, low growl that rose like a thunderclap. It wasn’t just a sound—it was a presence. Mechanical and primal, like someone had distilled the essence of rebellion, then fitted it with exhaust pipes.

The garage doors opened with a hiss.

And Harry. Bloody. Potter. Emerged.

He was straddling a Ducati Superleggera V4—red and black, chrome glinting, engine snarling like it hated everything slower than the speed of sound. His riding leathers were just as dramatic—black with crimson accents, sharp lines that made him look like he stepped off a high-octane runway somewhere between Milan and Mordor.

Helmet tucked under his arm. Smirk in full force.

Tommy let out a long whistle. “Okay. That’s unfairly hot.”

Harry revved the bike once—just to be petty. “Try not to fall in love, Merlyn. I don’t have the emotional bandwidth.”

Oliver blinked. “You’re riding that into the city?”

Harry tilted his head innocently. “What, this little thing?” He patted the Ducati like it was a house cat and not a fire-breathing death machine. “Sirius gave it to me. Said if I didn’t show up to places in a cloud of noise, sex appeal, and poor decisions, I’d be doing the family name a disservice.”

“Of course Sirius gave you a Ducati,” Oliver muttered, already massaging his temple like he could feel the migraine forming.

“Said,” Harry shifted into a perfect impression of Sirius’s lazy drawl, “‘Go fast, break hearts, and if anyone asks about the mileage—lie.’”

Tommy looked at the bike, then at Harry. “Wait—does this thing fly?”

Harry snorted. “It wants to.”

Oliver stepped forward. “You do realize the city has speed limits, right?”

“I also realize gravity exists,” Harry said, pulling on his helmet with a smooth click. “Yet here I am, consistently ignoring it.”

“This is a bad idea,” Oliver said flatly.

“You say that like it’s not my brand,” Harry shot back.

Tommy looked delighted. “I call shotgun!”

Harry turned the visor toward him. “Mate. It’s a motorcycle.”

“I’ll run behind you dramatically then.”

Harry revved the bike again. “Try to keep up, sunshine.”

Tommy looked at Oliver. “I love him.”

“I tolerate him,” Oliver replied grimly.

And then Harry took off.

The Ducati exploded forward in a blur of red and black and sound, tearing down the long driveway like it was chasing vengeance and the soundtrack of a Christopher Nolan film. Dust kicked up behind him, birds scattered, and somewhere, a traffic cop woke up in a cold sweat.

Tommy turned to Oliver, grinning like a kid who’d just been given fireworks and zero adult supervision. “Okay, but that was awesome.”

Oliver sighed. “He’s going to get us arrested.”

“Yeah,” Tommy said, already heading to one of the backup SUVs. “But we’ll look damn good doing it.”

Oliver muttered something about needing a tranquilizer dart the next time they invited a wizard to breakfast and followed.

And the sound of the Ducati still echoed—like laughter. Like war drums.

Like trouble.

—

The Ducati Superleggera screamed down the tree-lined backroad like it had been insulted and was out for vengeance. Each curve was a challenge, a dare whispered by the laws of physics—and Harry Potter met each one with the grin of someone who had once outflown dragons and thought this was merely foreplay.

He leaned into the turns with practiced ease, a low, predatory elegance to the way his body flowed with the machine. His left knee nearly skimmed the asphalt.

This wasn’t a ride.

It was a flex.

Far behind, the Aston Martin Vantage roared in frustrated pursuit, its tires screeching through every turn like it was begging for mercy. Tommy Merlyn, behind the wheel and clinging to his last shred of composure, shouted over the wind and the angry engine.

“Did he just drift through a roundabout?”

“Yes,” Oliver said, flatly. His sunglasses reflected nothing but the blur of trees as he tried very hard not to show he was both impressed and nauseated.

“I mean, what the actual—he took that turn like it owed him rent!”

“Focus on the road, Tommy.”

“I am focused! I’m, like, zen-level focused. I’ve reached inner peace. Mostly because I’ve accepted I’m going to die chasing your British lunatic of a cousin.”

Another turn. The Aston groaned. Somewhere in the distance, the Ducati gave a triumphant growl and vanished around another bend.

Tommy blinked sweat off his lashes. “He’s riding that thing like it owes him child support.”

“I heard that!” Harry’s voice crackled through the tiny Bluetooth device Oliver had insisted he wear. “And I resent the implication. This bike and I have a beautiful, committed relationship. I even charmed the suspension so it doesn’t judge my life choices.”

Tommy groaned. “Tell your suspension to slow down before I throw up inside a car that costs more than my life.”

“No promises.”

Then, just like that, the trees opened up, and the Ducati slid into a slow, perfectly executed roll to a stop just beneath a battered “Welcome to Starling City” sign. One boot down, helmet tilted slightly upward, Harry looked for all the world like a warlock knight surveying his next conquest.

Tommy managed to stop beside him without spinning out, which he considered a moral victory. The Vantage’s engine purred indignantly.

Harry popped his helmet off with a practiced flick of the wrist, letting his messy black hair fall into place like it had been styled by angels—or possibly rebellious shampoo commercials. His grin was wide. And wicked.

“Took you long enough,” he said brightly. “I was starting to worry the Aston had performance anxiety.”

Tommy held up a finger. “One—rude. Two—I’m convinced you teleported half the way here.”

Harry shrugged. “I didn’t. But I love that you believe I would.”

Oliver opened the door and stepped out slowly, boots crunching gravel. He stared at the city ahead—Starling, with its jagged skyline and ghosts etched into every rooftop.

Tommy joined him, glancing at the horizon, then at Oliver.

“So, what’s the play, Broody McBrooderson?”

Oliver didn’t look at him. His jaw tightened. “I want to see Laurel.”

There was a beat. Harry blinked.

“Laurel… Lance?” he asked carefully.

Tommy grimaced. “Oh no.”

Harry tilted his head, voice turning syrupy with British sarcasm. “You mean the Laurel Lance? The one you used to date? The one you cheated on with her younger sister? Whom you then took on a literal yacht—before said yacht pulled a Titanic and you pulled a disappearing act worthy of Houdini? That Laurel Lance?”

Oliver’s eyes flicked toward him. “Yes, that Laurel.”

Tommy rubbed his temples. “Still brutal when you say it out loud.”

“I always say it out loud,” Harry said. “British. We’re like sarcasm-flavored tea with a side of existential disappointment.”

Tommy stared at him. “How are you both awesome and insufferable?”

Harry shrugged. “Practice.”

He turned back to Oliver. “Alright, moody muscles. You want to go knock on the door of the woman whose heart you broke, whose sister you may or may not have indirectly murdered, and who probably has a taser with your name on it?”

Oliver nodded. “I have to face her. I hurt her the most. And I can’t move forward until I’ve—”

“Emotionally suffered like a CW protagonist?” Harry offered.

“Made it right,” Oliver corrected.

Harry and Tommy exchanged a look. Then they both nodded at the same time, like they’d just agreed on the least fun ride at a theme park.

“Well,” Harry said, stretching dramatically. “That’s disgustingly mature of you. Disgusting. You know I’m allergic to emotional growth, right?”

“Ten bucks says she slaps him,” Tommy muttered.

Harry held out a hand. “Twenty says her dad tries to arrest him.”

Tommy took it. “Done.”

Oliver climbed back into the car with a sigh. “You two are children.”

“We’re entertaining children,” Harry called, revving the Ducati to life. “Now come on, Team Trauma. Let’s go emotionally ruin our day!”

The Ducati tore off again, zipping through the first wave of traffic like he was late to an exorcism.

Tommy watched him go. “You think she’ll cry?”

“I hope she punches me,” Oliver said without hesitation.

Tommy blinked. “That’s… a lot.”

Oliver didn’t answer. His gaze was locked on the road ahead.

They drove in silence for a moment, the city looming closer with every passing second. The weight of history pressed down on them—ghosts in every alleyway, apologies still unsaid, and a future that refused to start until the past had been reckoned with.

Ahead, Harry weaved between cars like some kind of caffeinated demon on a mission.

Tommy exhaled. “Next stop: Laurel Lance.”

Oliver nodded.

“And possibly a restraining order.”

CNRI Legal Aid Office – Downtown Starling City

The buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead was about as welcoming as a migraine. The coffee in the breakroom smelled like it had given up on life, and the pile of legal paperwork stacked on Laurel Lance’s desk was tall enough to qualify as a fire hazard. But none of that bothered her.

Not really.

She was focused. Composed. In control.

At least, that’s what she told herself every fifteen seconds.

“Okay,” Joanna De La Vega said, heels clicking as she paced the length of the room with a file folder flapping like a fan in one hand. “So either Adam Hunt is embezzling enough money to buy a small island, or he’s trying to get into the Guinness Book of World Records for Most Offshore Accounts.”

Laurel barely glanced up from her notes. “Did you cross-reference the shell companies against the property records in the Glades?”

“Yeah. And guess what? Turns out his Cayman account owns a laundromat that doesn’t actually exist and a strip club that—bonus—is registered as a nonprofit. I can’t decide if that’s gross or just creative.”

Laurel made a face. “Both.”

Joanna threw the folder onto Laurel’s desk with a dramatic sigh. “I swear, if this guy weren’t so criminally scummy, I’d almost respect the hustle.”

Laurel flipped a page and scribbled something in her firm, precise handwriting. “We’ve got enough for a subpoena. Now we just need a judge who hasn’t taken his campaign donations.”

“So basically, Bigfoot.”

Laurel didn’t respond.

Not because she didn’t hear. But because her thoughts had once again drifted—uninvited and unrelenting—to him.

Oliver.

Oliver Queen.

The name echoed in her skull like a fire alarm. And the thing about fire alarms was, you couldn’t ignore them. Not for long.

She’d seen the news. Everyone had. He was back. Alive. After five years of being presumed dead. After a shipwreck. After vanishing from the face of the Earth with her baby sister onboard.

Sara.

God, Sara.

“Hey.” Joanna snapped her fingers. “Lance. You’re staring at that deposition like it ran over your cat.”

Laurel blinked. “Sorry. Just… distracted.”

Joanna tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Is this a ‘work’ distracted or a capital letters, bold font, headlines across the city distracted?”

Before Laurel could lie, the door cracked open and Chloe, their ever-perky college intern with too much lip gloss and a relentless cheeriness, poked her head in.

“Ms. Lance?” she chirped, practically vibrating with excitement. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s someone out front asking for you.”

Laurel looked up sharply. “Did they say who?”

Chloe’s eyes sparkled like she was holding in a juicy secret. “Yeah. He said his name is… Oliver.”

The room fell silent.

Joanna froze mid-sip of her Red Bull, lowered it slowly, and blinked. “He did not.”

Chloe beamed. “He said he’s happy to wait, but he’s kind of—uh—just standing out there looking like a catalog model who took a wrong turn into a law office, so people are definitely noticing.”

Laurel felt something cold and electric coil in her stomach.

Of course he came here. Of course he did.

Joanna set down the Red Bull like it was a grenade. “You want me to tell him you’re busy? Or on a lunch break? Or that you moved to Tibet and renounced all worldly attachments, including ex-boyfriends who come back from the dead?”

Laurel stood, smoothing down her pencil skirt, her expression unreadable.

“No,” she said quietly. “Tell him I’ll be right out.”

Joanna raised both brows. “You sure? Because your murder face is doing a thing and I don’t want to have to bail you out of jail.”

“I’m fine,” Laurel said, though her voice was a little too clipped. “Just… cover for me if Hunt’s lawyer calls.”

Joanna gave her a long look, then nodded. “Ten minutes. If you're not back by then, I'm calling for backup. Or wine.”

Laurel didn’t answer. She was already walking.

The hallway felt longer than usual, the click of her heels like a drumroll leading to something she hadn’t rehearsed for. She paused at the glass doors, took a breath, and—

There he was.

Oliver Queen.

Standing in the sunlight like a ghost that refused to stay dead. Hands in his jacket pockets, that signature lean of his like he wasn’t trying to look cool—he just was. Hair shorter. Shoulders broader. Eyes… the same.

Damn him.

Laurel squared her shoulders and pushed open the door.

He turned as she stepped outside, and when his eyes met hers, they softened instantly.

“Laurel,” he said, voice low and quiet and so him it made her teeth clench.

She held up a hand. “Don’t.”

Oliver blinked. “Okay. I just—”

“Don’t,” she said again, sharper now. “Not here. Not like this.”

He closed his mouth. Good.

“I’m working,” she continued, folding her arms. “I have clients. A staff. An intern with a gossip addiction and too much access to Twitter. So if you came here to do the whole tragic reunion thing, save it.”

Oliver gave a small nod. “I just wanted to see you.”

“You could’ve called,” she snapped. “Or emailed. Or sent a letter. You know, anything other than showing up out of the blue like some brooding—” she cut herself off, drawing a breath. “Look. I don’t have time for this. But if you want to talk—really talk—I’ll give you ten minutes.”

His eyes lifted, hopeful. “Okay.”

“But one word I don’t like?” she added. “And I’m gone. Understand?”

He nodded. “Understood.”

She turned, heels already clacking against the pavement. He followed silently behind her like a man walking toward judgment—and knowing he deserved it.

Back inside, Joanna watched through the blinds and muttered, “Girl, if he gives you even one smolder, you better slap him into next week.”

Chloe gasped. “Wait, that’s the Oliver Queen? Like, the billionaire playboy turned shipwreck survivor turned snack of the century?”

Joanna sighed. “Yep. And if he breaks her heart again, I get to sue him for emotional damages.”

Chloe blinked. “Is that legal?”

Joanna smirked. “It will be.”

—

The city blares with honking horns, shrieking tires, and the low grumble of buses weaving between taxis like a mechanical school of fish. Midtown Star City at its finest.

But Tommy Merlyn wasn’t paying attention to any of it.

He was leaned—no, lounged—against his cherry-red Aston Martin Vantage like he’d just finished a fashion shoot titled Trust Funds & Daddy Issues. Crisp tailored coat. Designer sunglasses. The kind of posture that said, Yes, I do moisturize with hundred-dollar bills, why do you ask?

Next to him, somehow making a Ducati Superleggera look like a throne rather than a death trap, sat Harry Potter.

Black leather jacket, tight enough to annoy conservative aunts. Slim-fit jeans that had absolutely not been bought in America. Aviators. A look that screamed I know where the bodies are buried, darling, and I might be the one who planted them just to make a point.

He bit into a churro he’d conjured from God knows where and said in his smooth, vaguely amused British accent, “Alright. What’s the over-under on the slap?”

Tommy tilted his head toward the CNRI building, where Oliver Queen and Laurel Lance had just stepped out into the blinding daylight like contestants in a very tense episode of The Bachelor: Exes Edition.

“She’s giving him the face,” Tommy muttered.

Harry, still chewing, arched an eyebrow behind his glasses. “Which face? Her ‘I’d rather argue with a cactus than talk to you’ face, or the ‘I will murder you and bill your estate for the inconvenience’ face?”

Tommy gave him a sideways glance. “The second one. Definitely the second one.”

Harry whistled low. “Oof. The ‘courtroom executioner’ look. I’ve dated that.”

“You’ve dated a lawyer?”

“Worse,” Harry said, licking cinnamon sugar off his thumb with the casual sensuality of someone who weaponized charm. “An Ice Princess. Three PhDs, two swords under the bed, and a pet snake named Reginald. She dumped me with a post-it note and a frozen lasagna.”

Tommy blinked. “...Romantic.”

“I thought so,” Harry said brightly. “The lasagna was delicious.”

They watched as Laurel crossed her arms—a move so sharp it could cut glass—and leveled Oliver with a look that should be registered as a lethal weapon.

“Five minutes,” Tommy said. “That’s my wager.”

Harry scoffed. “Pfft. Two, tops. You’re underestimating just how spectacularly annoying Oliver can be. Look at that posture.”

“What about it?”

“That,” Harry said, churro waving like a wand, “is the posture of a man trying to look casual while being emotionally constipated. Classic tragic CW hero energy. All he needs now is a rainstorm and a dramatic piano solo.”

Tommy let out a reluctant laugh. “You’re disturbingly good at this.”

“I know,” Harry replied, pleased. “It’s a combination of natural talent, British cynicism, and a tragic lack of better things to do.”

Across the street, Laurel suddenly glanced toward them—and her eyes narrowed like a heat-seeking missile locking onto its target.

Tommy stood upright so fast he nearly knocked his sunglasses off.

“That look was for you,” Harry said, lounging deeper onto the Ducati. “What’d you do?”

Tommy shifted uncomfortably. “She might not be thrilled that I brought Oliver here.”

Harry turned to him slowly, like a cat realizing its human had spilled the treat jar. “Right. And not, say, because you slept with her while your best mate was presumed shark food?”

Tommy jerked his head around, eyes wide. “How the hell do you know that?!”

Harry gave a maddeningly calm shrug. “You reek of guilty best friend energy. It’s like body spray but sadder. Also, you get this twitch in your left eye every time you say her name.”

“I do not!”

“You just did it again,” Harry said, pushing down his aviators just enough to make eye contact. “And now it’s twitching harder. It’s like Morse code for ‘I definitely kissed her and now I’m in emotional purgatory.’”

Tommy groaned and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “God. You can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” Harry said. “You need to confront these things. Embrace them. Feel your truth. Maybe write a song about it.”

“Remind me again why I agreed to let you come?”

“Because I’m pretty and I brought snacks.”

Tommy looked back across the street. Laurel and Oliver were deep in conversation. Laurel’s hands were now flying through the air like angry little birds. Oliver’s face was locked in the earnest expression of a man who’d read somewhere that vulnerability was attractive.

“She’s gonna hit him,” Tommy muttered.

“Not yet,” Harry said, squinting. “Right now it’s all subtle heartbreak and slow-burning rage. But she’s winding up. Oh, she’s winding up.”

Then Harry tilted his head slightly, as if he were listening to music only he could hear.

“...Oh damn. She just dropped the ‘I grieved you’ card. That’s a critical hit. Emotional damage: 9,000.”

Tommy turned to him, suspicious. “How do you know that?”

Harry didn’t answer immediately. His lips twitched, like he was holding back a secret or a particularly well-timed one-liner.

“Lip reading,” he said finally. “And also magic.”

“Wait—what?”

“Never mind.”

“No, no, magic?”

“Tommy, focus,” Harry said, suddenly serious. “The slap is imminent.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes. “You’re a lunatic.”

“And yet here we are. Together. On this beautiful afternoon. Watching your ex-girlfriend emotionally fillet your best friend. Friendship is wild, isn’t it?”

Across the street, Oliver reached out—just slightly—but Laurel took a sharp step back. The physical distance echoed like a gunshot.

Harry winced. “Oof. Denied. And that was a deep cut. I felt that one in my unresolved childhood trauma.”

Tommy let out a long breath. “I should’ve told him. About us.”

Harry turned to him, finally dropping the sarcasm. “Yeah. Maybe. But Ollie’s a mess of brooding trauma and misplaced loyalty. He’d’ve forgiven you. Eventually.”

“You think so?”

Harry stood, brushed nonexistent crumbs off his jacket, and slung one leg over the Ducati.

“Of course. He’s Oliver Queen. His greatest flaw is that he loves too hard and forgives too easily. That, and the haircut.”

Tommy gave him a sideways look. “What’s your greatest flaw?”

Harry revved the engine and smirked. “Darling, I have none. I’m perfect. Just ask my therapist.”

Then, as Laurel’s voice rose across the street and Oliver visibly winced, Harry added under his breath—

“...Okay, that sounded like the prelude to a slap.”

And the engine purred like a panther ready to bolt.

—

The city around them never stops. Traffic hums. A siren wails somewhere distant. But in the courtyard behind CNRI, time slows to the weight of two people with too much history between them and too few words that ever made it right.

Oliver Queen stood there like a statue sculpted out of guilt and regret. Jaw clenched. Shoulders tense. Green eyes fixed on Laurel like she was the only thing holding him to this side of the pavement.

“Laurel,” he said, voice hoarse like he hadn’t spoken her name in years. “I’m sorry.”

Laurel didn’t look surprised. If anything, her expression hardened—shoulders straight, arms crossed like a shield across her chest.

“For what?” she asked. Her tone was casual, clipped. Like they were discussing a parking ticket instead of a dead sister.

“For Sara,” he said. His voice dropped even lower. “For... everything.”

She let out a dry, humorless laugh. “That’s a lot of ground to cover. You want to maybe narrow it down before sunset?”

“I should’ve protected her.” He stepped forward, just once. “It’s my fault. She never should’ve been on that boat.”

Laurel didn’t move. But her jaw twitched. Just a tic, but he saw it.

“You’re damn right she shouldn’t have been,” she snapped, eyes sharp now. “But she was. And you know what’s worse? None of us even knew. My parents thought she was with me. I thought she was with them. But she was with you. Sneaking off on your father’s boat like it was some romantic getaway—like it wasn’t going to blow up everyone’s life.”

“I didn’t think—”

“No, you didn’t. That’s the problem. You never think, Oliver.” Her voice cracked for a moment, but she swallowed it down. “You just charm and smile and do, and people get pulled in and—God—Sara got pulled in, and then she drowned in your orbit.”

“I didn’t mean for any of this—”

“You didn’t mean for her to die?” Laurel asked sharply, stepping forward now. “Good. Because that makes everything okay, right? That makes it better?”

Oliver’s lips parted, but nothing came out. What could he say?

She stared at him like she wanted to hit him and hug him all at once—like the ache inside her couldn’t decide which way to explode.

“I wanted to hate her, Oliver,” she said, softer now. “When I found out. God, I wanted to scream. To blame her. But then she was gone, and I never even got to be mad to her face. I never got to say goodbye, or yell, or forgive her, or—” Her voice caught. “—or tell her that she was still my sister. That I loved her.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“No,” she cut in, fierce again. “You don’t. You were on that boat. You lived. She didn’t. And the part that tears me up most days is… it should’ve been the other way around.”

That hit him like a fist. Not a slap. A body blow. The kind you don’t recover from.

“I know,” he said again, because it was all he had.

Laurel shook her head, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. “Of course you know. You always know. You’ve got the guilt act down to a science.”

“I’m not acting.”

“Oh please,” she said with a dry snort. “You walk around like the Ghost of Christmas Regret in a hood, and everyone’s just supposed to bow down and forgive you because you look like you’re in pain.”

Oliver exhaled through his nose. “What do you want me to say?”

Laurel blinked slowly. “I don’t want you to say anything, Oliver. I want you to mean something. For once. For once, I want you to stop making it about your pain, and maybe think about what you left behind.”

“I lost five years,” he said, almost involuntarily. “I came back and—”

“And what? Expected the world to wait?” Laurel’s voice cracked again, raw now. “I waited. I cried. I grieved you. And then you show up alive, all tortured and broody, and what do I get? A ghost. A guy who looks like the man I loved but talks like someone who's been talking to his demons too long.”

Oliver looked away.

Laurel wasn’t done.

“I was going to move in with you, you know that?” she said suddenly, voice quieter. “Before the Gambit. I was packing boxes. I had a drawer full of your t-shirts I actually liked. I thought we had a future.”

His head whipped up, eyes wide with something like hope—or pain. It was hard to tell.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“Yeah, well. You didn’t know a lot of things, Oliver.”

A pause. Then she took a step closer—just enough to pierce the bubble of space between them.

“Sara wasn’t stupid for falling for you,” she said, gentler now. “She was just... human. You’ve got this way about you. You make people want to believe in you. You make them feel like they matter. Like you see them.”

A beat. Then her lips curled upward—not into a smile, but something far sadder.

“And then you disappear. Or you lie. Or they end up dead.”

Oliver swallowed. He tried to reach out, hand halfway to her shoulder. She stepped back before he could touch her.

“Don’t,” she said simply.

And this time, he listened.

Because for the first time in his life, Oliver Queen didn’t have an answer. Didn’t have a comeback. Just silence. And the echo of everything he’d already lost.

—

Oliver didn’t move at first.

The door to CNRI clicked shut behind him with a finality that echoed louder than the sound itself should have. Like a coffin lid. Like judgment rendered.

He stood there—frozen on the pavement, eyes shadowed, jaw clenched so tight it looked carved from stone. His shoulders were straight, military-stiff, but the emotion in his posture was unmistakable.

He looked like a man barely holding himself together with duct tape and willpower.

Across the street, Tommy Merlyn was draped casually against his cherry red Aston Martin Vantage like the whole world was a fashion shoot he’d been born to headline. Aviators on. Elbows resting on the roof. One leg crossed over the other like his only concern in life was which brunch spot had better mimosas.

Next to him, perched on a sleek red-and-black Ducati Superleggera like it was a throne, sat Harry. Helmet resting against his hip, hair tousled by the wind, expression unreadable. His long coat fluttered slightly with every breeze. He had the kind of presence that made you wonder if he knew seventeen ways to kill you with a paperclip. He probably did.

Neither of them said a word.

They didn’t need to.

Oliver finally crossed the street, his boots striking pavement in slow, deliberate steps. He yanked the door open and dropped into the passenger seat of the Aston like gravity had personally come to collect. Tommy slid behind the wheel with less melodrama, but even his usual smirk looked... tight. Hesitant.

Harry gave a lazy two-finger salute as he swung his leg back over the bike and revved the engine with a sound like a mechanical growl.

“You all good, Sleeping Beauty?” Harry called over the engine, voice laced with mocking sweetness. “Or should I go grab a violin and play you the symphony of emotional repression?”

Oliver didn’t look at him.

“Drive,” he said flatly.

Tommy blinked. “No brooding preamble? No bro-code breakdown of the fallout? Not even a ‘hey, Laurel told me to go to hell and I’m considering it’?”

“I said drive.”

“Alright, alright. Pushy.” Tommy started the engine and pulled onto the road, Harry falling into a casual flank on the bike like he was born to prowl beside danger.

They rode in silence for a moment—just the purr of engines and the low city hum.

Then Tommy cleared his throat.

“So, uh… she take it well?”

Oliver didn’t look at him. “Define ‘well.’”

“Did it end with a slap, a restraining order, or a restraining slap?”

“She said it should’ve been me,” Oliver said. Voice steady. Too steady.

Tommy winced. “Oof.”

From the comms, Harry’s voice chimed in with dry venom. “That’s... delightfully brutal. Must’ve been like cuddling a cactus with abandonment issues.”

“She’s angry,” Oliver said.

“She’s grieving,” Tommy corrected gently. “And yes, also angry. You’ve got the emotional accessibility of a brick wall, and she’s been punching it for five years.”

Harry’s voice again. “To be fair, he’s slightly more expressive than a brick wall. Just a touch. Maybe like… a tortured pine cabinet.”

“You’re not helping,” Oliver muttered.

“Wasn’t trying to,” Harry replied cheerfully. “Just narrating. You know me—I’m British. Emotional discomfort is practically foreplay.”

Tommy shook his head, smiling despite himself. “He’s not wrong.”

Oliver shifted in his seat, face tight. “She needed to say it.”

Tommy cast him a glance. “Yeah. And maybe you needed to hear it. Doesn’t mean she meant all of it.”

“She did.”

“No,” Harry cut in. “She felt it. Big difference. People say a lot of things when their hearts are broken and their fists are tied.”

They passed through Starling City’s industrial outskirts, past broken streetlamps and graffiti-tagged warehouses. Harry wove through cars like a ghost in red and black, his bike humming like a predator’s purr.

Finally, Tommy glanced sideways again.

“So... why the factory?”

Oliver’s hands tightened slightly.

“I need to see something.”

“Something?” Tommy asked.

Harry’s voice buzzed in again. “Or someone?”

Oliver didn’t answer.

The silence stretched between them like rubber wire. Then, softly:

“My father used to bring me there when I was a kid. He said… he said it was where he first learned what it meant to build something. To leave a legacy.”

Harry’s tone changed. Quieter. Sharper.

“And now?”

Oliver looked out the window. “Now I need to see what he left behind… and if any of it’s worth saving.”

They fell silent as the car turned off the main road, gravel crunching beneath the tires. The factory loomed ahead—massive, rusting, skeletal. Windows shattered. Roof partially caved in. Nature had begun reclaiming it.

Tommy slowed to a stop just outside the gates. “Charming. Needs a bit of paint. And possibly an exorcism.”

Harry pulled in behind them, dismounting fluidly. “Or just a good demolition crew and a flamethrower.”

Oliver was already out of the car, moving toward the gates with purpose. Something had changed in his posture. The haunted man was still there—but now there was steel under the scars.

Tommy frowned, grabbing his coat from the backseat. “You sure this place isn’t full of squatters or hobos with machetes?”

Harry pulled out a black baton from his saddlebag. It extended with a quiet snap.

“I vote we find out.”

Oliver glanced back. “I don’t need backup.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “And I don’t need therapy. Doesn’t mean I’m skipping it.”

Tommy grinned, catching up with a jog. “Sorry, bro. You're stuck with the support group. We even brought snacks. Kind of.”

“Just don’t get in my way.”

Harry clicked his baton once against his palm, eyes glinting. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Oliver stepped through the rusted gate.

Behind him, two friends followed.

One loyal to a fault.

One dangerous enough to make hell nervous.

Whatever ghosts waited inside that factory… they were about to meet something worse.

—

The factory loomed like a carcass. Steel ribs rusting in the wind, windows like shattered eyes, and the scent of oil, mildew, and old ghosts hanging in the air like bad memories.

“Remind me again,” Harry said, eyes scanning the skeletal remains of an ancient assembly line, “why we’re wandering through a haunted scrapyard instead of, oh I don’t know, literally anywhere else?”

Oliver, silent as ever, stepped over a broken conveyor belt. The floor crunched beneath his boots—glass, gravel, time.

“Because,” Tommy replied, squinting into the shadows, “Ollie’s gut said there was something here.”

Harry sniffed. “And has his gut ever considered a less murder-y locale? Like, say, a bloody coffee shop? One with lighting and non-homicidal air quality?”

Oliver knelt beside an ancient oil drum, fingers brushing a dark stain on the concrete.

“Still warm,” he muttered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Unless we’re talking ghost pee, I don’t think that’s a good sign.”

“No squatters,” Tommy added. “No junkies. No raccoons. Not even a rat brave enough to haunt this place.”

They kept moving. Dust clung to their boots like old sins.

The central chamber was cathedral-sized and equally lifeless. Rusted machinery stood like frozen titans. Shafts of moonlight streamed through the broken roof, spotlighting nothing but cracked concrete and memories.

Oliver stood dead center, staring down at a patch of floor like it had whispered his name.

Tommy glanced over. “Let me guess—dad used to bring you here before taking over the world?”

Oliver didn’t respond.

Harry cocked his head. “Oh yeah. Definitely getting unresolved trauma vibes.”

“This place used to be his,” Oliver said quietly. “We’d come here on weekends. He’d point to machines and say things like ‘legacy’ and ‘future’ and ‘don’t touch that it’s toxic.’”

Harry whistled. “Well, that explains the charming neuroses.”

“Place has… charm,” Tommy offered, only half-sarcastic. “If you’re into tetanus and ghosts with abandonment issues.”

Harry rubbed his arms dramatically. “I think the mold just tried to mug me.”

Still, Oliver didn’t laugh.

“I mean, seriously,” Harry continued. “Are we doing a nostalgia tour or prepping for a horror movie sequel? Because I forgot to bring holy water, and I’m wearing my nice boots.”

“I need a moment,” Oliver muttered, turning away.

“Right,” Harry said, eyes darting around. “Cool. Just me then.”

Tommy tilted his head. “Where you going?”

Harry gestured vaguely toward the shadows. “Nature calls. Probably gonna be eaten by a mutant ferret, but I refuse to let the afterlife say I died with a full bladder.”

Tommy raised his hands. “You do you, mate. Just scream if you find a cult.”

They watched him disappear down a rust-lined corridor.

Tommy exhaled and leaned on the Aston parked just outside. Oliver joined him a minute later, silent, distant, knuckles white around his gear bag.

“You okay?” Tommy asked, voice soft.

Oliver’s jaw worked.

“You know this whole broody silent thing? Real intimidating. But not super helpful.”

“I’m fine,” Oliver said.

Tommy snorted. “Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England.”

Oliver said nothing.

“Look, Ollie—this place? It’s a corpse. Dig through bones all you want, you’re not gonna find closure. Just rot.”

“I know.”

That was all.

One word. Like stone dropped in a pond.

Tommy stared at him. “You ever think maybe you’re not looking for answers? Maybe you just don’t know how to stop bleeding?”

Before Oliver could reply—

Click.

A sound like the loading of judgment.

Tommy froze. “Tell me that was the car door.”

It wasn’t.

A figure exploded from behind a rusted delivery truck.

Oliver reacted instantly—elbow to the throat, a pivot, a leg sweep. The man collapsed like scaffolding.

“Tommy, down!” Oliver barked.

Too late.

A dart whistled through the air, missing Tommy by a hair and embedding in the car with a thunk.

Tommy dropped anyway, arms over his head. “This is why I hate abandoned buildings!”

Three more attackers surged from the shadows, clad in black, moving like wolves.

Oliver met the first with a brutal hook to the jaw, ducked under a baton swing, spun low, and drove his boot into a kneecap. Something cracked.

The second one jabbed a taser toward him—Oliver twisted, redirected the shock into a steel beam. Sparks flew.

“Where the hell is Harry?” Tommy yelled from the ground, crawling under the car.

The third man fired another dart.

This one hit home—right in Oliver’s shoulder.

He ripped it free with a grunt, tossed it aside, then staggered.

His vision wobbled. The ground tilted like a bad boat.

The second man rushed in—Oliver managed a knee to the ribs, but it was clumsier now. Slower.

The third attacker tackled him from behind.

Electric shock punched through his spine.

Oliver howled.

He dropped to his knees, fingers scrabbling for the glovebox.

Another blow to the ribs.

He fell.

Tommy launched himself from beneath the car and tackled the nearest guy—bad form, worse luck. A baton slammed into his back.

“Harry!” he wheezed.

And finally—

“Bloody hell!”

A voice like thunder and sarcasm cut through the chaos.

Harry returned, sprinting out of the shadows like a British hurricane.

He hurled a crowbar, end over end—it smacked one of the attackers in the side of the head.

“Seriously?!” Harry shouted. “I leave you two alone for five minutes and you’re kidnapping bait?”

One assailant turned.

Harry’s fist met his face.

Another came from behind.

Harry ducked, pivoted, and used the man’s momentum to hurl him into the Aston with a loud clang.

Tommy, gasping, looked up. “You took your time!”

“I was peeing, you absolute walnut!”

A dart zipped past Harry’s ear.

He turned, eyes blazing.

“Oh, no you don’t. I skipped tea for this.”

He grabbed a broken pipe from the ground and wielded it like a saber.

Another attacker charged.

Harry stepped in, fluid, brutal, precise—he cracked the pipe across the man’s kneecap, then followed with a headbutt that sent him sprawling.

Oliver was still on the ground, barely conscious, breathing hard.

Tommy crawled to him. “Hey. Hey, stay with me, man—don’t you die on me. I am not giving a eulogy in this death trap.”

Oliver’s hand twitched, reaching toward Tommy, eyes glazed.

Then his body slumped.

Tommy turned just in time to catch a dart in the neck.

His curse turned to a gurgle.

Harry stood above them now, panting, weapon at the ready—just in time to see the last attacker press a button on a remote.

There was a hiss.

Gas.

Harry’s smirk faltered.

“Oh... bollocks.”

His vision narrowed.

One step toward Oliver. Another.

Then everything tilted, spun, collapsed.

Darkness folded around them, swift and suffocating.

The only sound left was the wind humming through broken beams and the whisper of old ghosts, delighted at having company once more.

Dream Sequence – Oliver’s Mind

The cold came first.

It slipped past his skin and curled around his bones like a whisper from the grave. His breath puffed out in ragged clouds as he blinked against the wind, against the sting of salt in his eyes. The endless grey of the Pacific surrounded him, horizonless and unforgiving.

The lifeboat rocked beneath him—uneven, unpredictable. A cruel joke of a cradle carved by the gods of regret and rot.

Rain pattered softly on the canvas tarp above, a rhythmic ticking like a countdown to something unspeakable.

Oliver shivered, arms wrapped around himself, lips cracked, skin pale. He stared at the endless stretch of water. At nothing.

“Drink this,” a voice said, low, hoarse, and tired.

He turned to see his father—Robert Queen—hunched beside him. His beard was patchy now, his eyes hollowed out by time, sun, and guilt. He offered a rusted tin cup with both hands, fingers trembling from cold and hunger. Still, his grip was firm.

“It’ll keep your strength up.”

Oliver blinked, slow. His mouth felt like sandpaper.

He took the cup and sniffed it cautiously.

“Not poisoned, is it?” he muttered, half-joking, half-not.

Robert gave him a look. Not angry. Just... exhausted.

“If I was going to kill you, son, I wouldn’t waste a tin cup.”

“Comforting,” Oliver said, then took a sip. It tasted like rainwater and old iron. Something bitter lingered at the back of his tongue, but he was too weak to complain.

A shape shifted at the bow of the lifeboat. Martin, the grizzled crewman, leaned forward, his face all sharp angles and sunburnt fury. His eyes burned beneath his sweat-stained cap.

“That was enough for all of us,” he growled.

Robert didn’t look at him. “No, it wasn’t.”

“The hell it wasn’t.” Martin pushed up, bracing his hand on the side of the boat. “We agreed—ration everything, share everything. That cup was our last clean water.”

“My son is the only one who’s going to survive this,” Robert said, turning now, voice flat as the sea. “I’ve made my decision.”

Oliver sat straighter. “Wait—what?”

Martin’s lip curled. “Your decision? You think being a billionaire means you get to pick who lives and dies?”

“No,” Robert said, slowly. “Being a father does.”

Oliver frowned. “Dad, what are you—”

“You have to get back home,” Robert said, now turning fully toward him. “You have to. This... this doesn’t end here. You still have a life to live.”

He reached into the inside of his drenched coat and pulled out a small leather-bound book—tattered, warped from salt, the Queen Industries insignia barely legible on the cover. He tucked it into Oliver’s coat, pressing it against his chest like a sacrament.

“What is this?” Oliver whispered.

“My sins,” Robert said. “My failures. My secrets.”

“Oh, so just a casual little bedtime read?”

Robert huffed—almost a laugh, but not quite. “You always deflect with humor. Even now.”

“Old habit. Trauma’s cheaper than therapy.”

“I wasn’t a good man, Oliver,” Robert said. “I wasn’t even a decent one. But I loved you. And I can’t fix what I did... but maybe you can.”

Martin stood suddenly, his voice rising like thunder.

“You son of a bitch.”

Robert rose, slowly, gun in hand.

Oliver’s eyes went wide. “Dad—wait—”

“You get to play God, huh?” Martin shouted. “You get to decide I’m expendable?”

Robert’s voice was calm. “No. I get to decide that my son lives.”

“You corporate bastard. You’re gonna rot in the same hell as the men you bribed, the land you stole—”

The gunshot cracked.

Martin collapsed sideways, skull striking the edge of the boat with a sickening crunch. Blood spread out like a stain across the floorboards, mingling with rain and seawater.

“Jesus Christ!” Oliver scrambled backward, his hand slapping against the side of the lifeboat. “You—why the hell did you—he was just—”

“He was going to die anyway,” Robert said, his voice shaking for the first time. “There’s not enough for three. There never was.”

“You didn’t have to shoot him!”

“I had to choose.”

Oliver stared at his father, horrified, breathing hard.

“This isn’t survival,” he said. “This is murder.”

Robert grabbed him then—his hands cold, but his grip iron.

“No. This is survival. You are the only thing that matters now. You have to live. You have to fix this. Fix me. Fix Queen Industries. Fix Starling.”

“I don’t even know who I am anymore!” Oliver shouted, throat raw. “I’m not you, okay?! I’m not a hero, or a leader, or whatever the hell it is you want me to be—I was just some rich kid on a yacht!”

Robert’s voice softened, but his eyes didn’t. “Then die as a rich kid, or live long enough to become something else. Because once you survive this, son—once you crawl back from this hell—everything changes.”

He raised the gun.

Oliver reached out. “Dad, no—”

Robert looked at him one last time.

“Survive.”

The second gunshot rang out.

Oliver screamed.

Robert’s body collapsed in a heap beside Martin’s. Just two men. Two failures. Two ghosts.

Oliver crawled toward his father, knees scraping on the wet wood.

“Dad? No—no, no, no—Dad!”

But there was no response. Just the soft slap of waves. The moan of the ocean wind. The drip of rain, steady and indifferent.

And one word. One command. One curse, echoing in the marrow of Oliver Queen’s soul.

Survive.

—

Back to reality

Blackness came first.

Heavy. Suffocating. Like drowning in tar.

Then—

Pain.

A white-hot spike drove through Oliver’s skull, right behind his eyes, and kept going until it felt like it pierced the base of his neck. He groaned—dry, hoarse, raw.

The world stumbled into focus.

Rusted beams overhead. Dust danced like ash in the flickering yellow glow of overhead bulbs—swinging on chains, creaking with every breath of the wind that slithered through broken windows.

The air smelled of rust and rot and stale motor oil.

Oliver’s arms were wrenched behind the chair. Plastic zip ties. He tested them—already frayed.

Idiots used the cheap ones.

His legs were bound too. Metal cuffs, maybe. Not bolted. Sloppy work.

A quiet wheeze nearby. Movement.

He tilted his head, slow and steady. Everything ached.

“Tommy,” he rasped.

His best friend slumped a few feet away, tied to another chair. There was a fresh bruise blooming across Tommy’s jaw like spilled wine. His head lolled, but his chest rose and fell. Alive. Unconscious, but alive.

A groan came from further off.

Harry.

The kid was half-sprawled on the cold concrete floor, one cheek smushed against the ground. He muttered something unintelligible and very British.

“Tell Dumbledore I’m not cleaning the bloody trophy room again…”

Of course, Oliver thought grimly.

Then came the footsteps.

Three men.

Combat boots. Tactical gear. Black masks. They looked like they had walked out of a surplus catalog labeled “Murderous Henchmen Monthly.”

One of them crouched in front of Oliver. His voice was distorted through a voice modulator, all buzz and menace.

“Your name is Oliver Queen.”

Oliver blinked at him. Slowly. Said nothing.

“Your father was Robert Queen.”

Still nothing.

The masked man leaned in closer, too close.

“Did he die in the crash?”

Oliver tilted his head, eyes cold.

“Do I look like I’m in the mood for a biography lesson?”

The masked man didn’t answer. But the baton in his hand flared with blue electricity. It hummed like a hornet’s nest.

ZZZZT—

Pain exploded through Oliver’s chest.

He jerked violently, back arching, teeth gritting so hard it felt like his molars cracked. The zip ties groaned, stretching.

He gasped, chest heaving.

“Try that again,” he snarled, “and I swear to God you’ll be pissing through a tube for the rest of your short life.”

The second man stepped forward.

“Did your father say anything before he died?”

Oliver’s lip twitched.

Silence stretched.

Then:

“Yeah. He told me…”

He paused, watching all three lean in like curious jackals.

“…he told me he’d kill you all if he ever met you.”

A dry, barked laugh from one of them.

“Brave talk for a rich boy tied to a chair.”

“Money can’t save you now.”

Oliver’s eyes hardened. His voice dropped an octave.

“No. But my training can.”

Snap.

The zip tie around his wrists snapped like brittle candy.

“What the—?”

Oliver moved.

Head slammed forward—crack. Skull met mask. Bone won.

The first man stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose.

Oliver surged upward. Chair legs splintered with a violent twist. He was on his feet before the others could process it.

The stun baton came down—too slow.

He caught it mid-air. Twisted. Drove it upward into the attacker’s throat.

Blue sparks lit up the man’s eyes. He convulsed, gurgled, dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

The next man lunged at him with a knife. Amateurs.

Oliver side-stepped, twisted the arm mid-swing, snapped the wrist, caught the blade mid-fall, and buried it into the man’s side in one smooth, brutal motion.

“In,” he said, twisting the knife.

“Out.” He pulled it free. Clean.

Two down.

The third froze.

Oliver’s eyes locked onto him—feral. Unflinching. Ice and intent.

“Run.”

The man bolted.

Oliver turned, rushing to Tommy first. Slapped his cheek.

“Tommy! Wake up.”

Tommy groaned, blinked one eye open. “Are we at a rave? Because my head feels like we’re at a rave.”

“Stay down. Don’t move.”

Oliver pivoted to Harry, who was pushing himself upright with all the grace of a drunk kitten.

Harry blinked blearily at him.

“Did we win the pub quiz?”

“You passed out halfway through,” Oliver said, already standing. “You owe me a rematch.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, fumbling around. “Where’s my wand?”

“Still breathing,” Oliver muttered. “That’s all that matters.”

He grabbed a length of rebar leaning against the wall. Cold steel. Weighty. Perfect.

Boots pounded in the distance—the third man’s retreat echoing.

Oliver glanced at Tommy, then Harry.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, already moving.

“Where are you—” Harry started, but Oliver didn’t answer.

The shadows swallowed him as he gave chase—footsteps thundering through the skeleton of the factory, steel and vengeance in hand, ready to break someone’s legs and ask questions later.

The game wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

—

The factory yard was a slab of forgotten concrete, hemmed in by chain-link fences and choked with weeds. A flickering floodlight above the door buzzed like a dying insect, throwing long shadows across the cracked asphalt.

Oliver burst through the door like a storm in a bottle.

Rain misted the air, cold and needling. The night tasted like metal and vengeance.

Ahead of him, the last attacker—gangly, fast, desperate—was sprinting full tilt toward the fence, boots slipping on wet ground, arms pumping like pistons.

Oliver didn’t yell.

Didn’t call out.

He hunted.

His footsteps were silent compared to the pounding of the runner’s boots. He moved low and fast, a shadow wearing skin. The rebar in his hand felt like an extension of his will—balanced, deadly.

Twenty yards.

Fifteen.

The guy reached the fence, grabbed the chain-link, and started scrambling up like a panicked raccoon.

Oliver launched.

He tackled the man mid-climb—arm around his waist, yanking him down in one fluid, brutal motion. They slammed into the dirt, the man landing hard with a cry of pain.

Oliver was already on top of him.

He jammed the rebar across the guy’s throat, leaning his weight on it just enough to send a message.

“Who sent you?” Oliver asked, voice like gravel in a blender.

“I—I don’t know!” the man wheezed. “We—we were hired anonymously—off the dark web—I didn’t ask questions—!”

“Bad policy,” Oliver muttered.

He twisted the rebar, digging it into the dirt by the man’s ear, just missing the skull. The impact made the man flinch and squeal.

“Try again,” Oliver growled.

“I swear! Some middleman! Coordinates, targets, instructions—nothing else!”

Oliver bared his teeth. “You knew my name. My father’s name. That’s not a coincidence.”

“I don’t know! Please, man, I just needed the paycheck!”

“You picked the wrong damn job,” Oliver snarled, lifting the rebar, muscles coiled to strike.

Then—

CRACK.

It wasn’t thunder. It wasn’t a gunshot. It was something wrong, like the world hiccuped and didn’t apologize for it.

Oliver spun mid-swing, rebar raised—only to freeze.

A figure stood beside him, just there, where there had been nothing a second ago.

Harry Potter.

Still in the same scuffed clothes. Still bleeding at the temple. Still looking like he barely weighed a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.

And somehow, he was the scariest thing Oliver had seen all week.

Harry had one hand wrapped around the attacker's throat, and in his other hand—now clearly not a twig—was his wand, aimed with absolute purpose.

“Bloody hell,” Harry muttered. “You took forever. I nearly fell asleep.”

Oliver blinked. “You teleported.”

“No,” Harry said dryly. “I apparated. Huge difference. One sounds like bad sci-fi, the other gets you sued by copyright trolls in cloaks.”

He tightened his grip on the guy's throat. The man started to babble incoherently.

“What the hell is this?” Oliver demanded. “What are you?”

Harry’s wand dipped slightly. “You really want the full explanation now?”

“Yes!”

“I’m British,” Harry said cheerfully. “That should’ve been your first red flag.”

The attacker let out a squeaky sob. “Please—please—don’t kill me!”

“Then be useful,” Harry said, his voice dropping like a blade. “Who sent you? I’m only going to ask once.”

“I don’t know! They don’t tell us names, it’s just—just money and targets and drop points—!”

Harry turned to Oliver, brow raised. “I believe the technical term for that is ‘bollocks.’”

“I was about to get the truth out of him,” Oliver muttered, jaw tight.

“No offense, mate, but your version of enhanced interrogation is a bit…” Harry tilted his head. “Macho torture porn.”

He turned back to the man. “You sure you don’t know who sent you?”

“I swear!”

Harry studied him.

Then sighed.

“Well, bugger.”

Without ceremony, he twisted hard.

SNAP.

The man’s neck broke like a dry twig.

Oliver flinched backward a step. “Jesus Christ.”

Harry let the body crumple to the wet dirt and stepped back, expression unreadable.

“You—you just killed him,” Oliver said, stunned.

Harry glanced down. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“I was interrogating him!”

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Badly. Also, you were going to kill him.”

“Not without answers.”

“He didn’t have any.”

“You don’t know that!”

Harry gestured to the corpse. “I know it now. You’re welcome.”

Oliver dragged a hand through his damp hair, staring between the body and the boy. “What the hell are you?”

Harry gave him a wide, too-casual grin. “Oh, we’re doing this now? Grand.”

He stepped closer, wand still in hand, rain dripping down his fringe.

“I’m a wizard, Ollie,” he said. “And if that doesn’t make your billionaire brain explode, I’ve got some house elves and flying broomsticks we can get to later.”

Oliver blinked. Twice.

Then said, “You’re kidding.”

“Only about the broomsticks. I don’t fly economy anymore.”

And just like that, in the middle of a blood-soaked yard, beside a freshly broken corpse, as the rain came down in sheets—

Oliver Queen realized two things:

His life had just gotten a lot more complicated.

He might never win another argument again.

—

The Queen Mansion gleamed like a palace gilded in gold. Light from ornate chandeliers spilled across polished floors in buttery streaks, catching on the brass fixtures and glass decanters like firelight on water. But the warmth stopped at the walls. Inside, the air was cold with tension.

Police officers moved with the reverence of intruders in a cathedral, their shoes muffled against the Persian rugs, notebooks flapping open like reluctant wings. Their eyes flicked across every surface with suspicion, as if the secrets of Starling City could be coaxed out from behind Monet landscapes and family portraits.

Detective Quentin Lance stood in the center of the drawing room, carved from disdain and bitter caffeine. His arms were folded, jaw clenched, the lines in his forehead deeper than ever. His partner, Detective Lucas Hilton, lingered behind him with the patience of a man used to cleaning up messes he didn’t make.

Oliver Queen leaned against the grand piano, arms crossed, emerald eyes locked on Lance like he was one moment away from drawing a bow from nowhere and declaring war. He wore the calm of a predator who knew his territory—and his limits.

Harry, sprawled across a wingback chair like it was a throne, looked as if he’d only just finished his second bottle of firewhisky and wasn’t particularly impressed with the aftertaste. His wand was hidden—technically—but very much within reach. He popped a grape into his mouth with lazy disdain.

Tommy Merlyn, sitting next to Thea on the couch, clutched a bag of ice to his head like it might erase the embarrassment of getting knocked out by a pipe-wielding goon with an unfortunate mustache. He groaned quietly and muttered, "Why is it always the head?"

“And you’re telling me,” Lance growled, voice the texture of sandpaper dipped in scotch, “that the two men who saved you—fought off three armed kidnappers, I might add—were dressed in hoodies?”

“I didn’t say ‘dressed,’” Oliver said dryly. “I said ‘wore.’ Important distinction.”

“A green hoodie,” Hilton noted, eyes on his notepad. “And the second one?”

“Red,” Harry piped up, tilting his head. “Excellent choice for dramatic flair, terrible for blending in. But I respect the thigh emphasis. Very Robin Hood meets Milan Fashion Week.”

Quentin squinted at him. “And you are?”

“Harry Potter,” he said cheerfully. “Cousin to Broody McBrooderson over there. Godson to the Man Who Could Bench Press a Buick. Professional snarker. Witness, victim, and emotional support wizkid. Pick whichever title gets me out of here fastest.”

Sirius Black stepped forward from where he’d been brooding by the fireplace, all black leather and quiet power. His presence hit like thunder muffled by velvet. “Legal guardian,” he said. “And we’ve been cooperative. Considering the circumstances.”

Lance didn’t blink. “Funny, considering half your lot has more sealed files than the Pentagon.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “And yet here we are, still breathing. You’re welcome.”

“Gentlemen,” Hilton interjected smoothly, raising a hand like a man trying to calm a bar fight, “let’s stay focused. You said they vanished?”

“Like a fart in the wind,” Tommy said weakly, pressing the ice harder to his temple. “A heroic, ninja-fart.”

Thea snorted, clearly trying not to laugh.

Oliver sighed. “They were gone by the time the lights came back.”

“Convenient,” Quentin said coldly. “Especially considering your history.”

And the air went arctic.

Oliver straightened, his face a mask carved from stone. Behind his eyes: ghosts. Moira Queen, regal in a silk blouse and diamonds, visibly stiffened where she sat. Hermione reached over and took her hand without a word.

“You think I’m not still asking myself how my daughter died, Queen?” Lance said, stepping forward. His voice cracked, but his anger was ice-edged. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering if maybe—just maybe—she’d still be alive if she’d never stepped foot on that damn yacht?”

Oliver didn’t flinch.

He didn’t speak.

Thea shot to her feet. “That’s enough!”

“She was like a sister to me,” she added, quieter now, but no less furious.

Hermione’s voice came like calm in a storm. “Grief makes villains of everyone, just for a little while.”

Harry stood up and sauntered over, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. “Speaking of grief, Hermione—don’t he look like that villain from Lagaan? You know, the smug colonial git with the fake mustache and ‘You villagers will never defeat us in cricket’ attitude?”

Hermione blinked. Then burst into laughter. “Oh my God, yes. It’s uncanny.”

Lance turned on him. “You think this is funny?”

Harry tilted his head. “No. I think you’re funny. You show up in a mansion, demand answers with all the grace of a hyena in a courtroom, and expect people to be grateful?” He clicked his tongue. “Tsk. Try therapy, mate. Or decaf.”

Lance took a step forward.

Sirius intercepted like a shadow. “Detective. This is a family under threat. If you want to sling blame and insult character, you can do it somewhere that doesn’t have antique vases and teenagers already traumatized enough for one evening.”

“This is a homicide investigation,” Lance barked.

“And this is our home, not a trauma ward with better lighting,” Sirius said flatly. “So either ask relevant questions or get out.”

Lance stared at him. Sirius didn’t blink. He’d seen the pits of despair. He’d walked through the burning temples of Nanda Parbat. Lance was not the scariest thing in the room.

Finally, Quentin exhaled through his teeth and stormed out, boots echoing down the marble hall.

Hilton lingered. “Apologies,” he said quietly. “He’s… not himself lately.”

“No one is,” Moira said softly. “These days, it’s all masks.”

Hilton nodded and followed his partner out.

The silence left behind was brittle and sharp.

Oliver stared at the piano, unmoving. Thea looked like she was holding herself together with sheer force of will. Hermione exhaled slowly. Moira dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“I’m fine,” she said. No one believed her.

“Harry’s right,” Sirius said. “We’re not safe. Not yet.”

Harry patted Oliver’s shoulder. “You know,” he said, “I once got blamed for an entire year of murders committed by a giant snake possessed by the soul of a genocidal maniac with no nose. And that was before people found out I could talk to it. So believe me when I say—blame’s a lot like bad cologne. Someone else puts it on, but somehow you end up smelling like it.”

Oliver let out a breath that might have been a chuckle. Might have been a sigh.

“Look, we’ve got bowmen, wand-wavers, a time traveler, and at least one guy who can grow a beard just by glaring,” Harry said. “We’re not dead. That’s something.”

Moira shook her head, lips twitching at the edge. “You’re impossible.”

“I get that a lot.”

For a moment—just a moment—that was enough.

—

The front door shut with a dull thud as Tommy Merlyn stormed out, muttering something about "ninjas, migraines, and there not being enough scotch in the Western Hemisphere for this circus." The moment the latch clicked, the silence inside Queen Mansion snapped taut like a bowstring.

Oliver Queen stood dead still in the living room, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the teenager who had casually vanished into thin air less than an hour ago. His voice, when it came, was calm—but sharp enough to cut steel.

"You arrived out of thin air," he said, eyes never leaving Harry. "Back there. One second you weren't there, and then—poof. You're there."

Harry, still slightly winded from the night’s chaos, met Oliver’s intense gaze with practiced nonchalance. "Yeah," he said breezily. "That tends to happen when someone Apparates."

Oliver blinked. "I’m sorry—when someone what now?"

Hermione sighed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Apparates. It’s magical teleportation. Fairly standard, though Harry’s better at it than most full-grown wizards."

"Teleportation." Oliver repeated like the word was in Klingon. "So that was magic? Like real, actual, pull-a-rabbit-out-of-your-arse magic?"

"Only if the rabbit’s on fire and breathing acid," Sirius drawled from his place near the fireplace, loosening his collar with the ease of a man who’d never cared for rules—or shirts with buttons.

Moira Queen finally spoke, calm and composed as ever, though her perfectly manicured fingers betrayed her nerves as they tapped rhythmically against the armrest. "Oliver, it’s time you knew the truth. Harry is a wizard."

Oliver turned to face her, incredulous. "A what now?"

"Wizard," Thea said cheerfully from her perch on the couch, swirling a soda can in her hands. "You know, robes, wands, spells, magical creatures, the works. I’ve seen him turn a coffee table into a hedgehog. It was kinda cute. And horrifying."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "In my defense, the table started it."

Oliver held up both hands. "Hold on. Everyone here knows this? And we’re just casually tossing around magic like it’s a damn parlor trick?"

"It’s not a trick," Hermione said coolly, standing now. "It’s a discipline. An ancient, powerful craft that governs much of our world—hidden from Muggles like yourself for good reason."

"Muggles," Oliver repeated, pointing at himself. "That’s me, right? Non-magical?"

"Bingo," Sirius said with a smirk. "But don’t worry, mate. You’ve got the jawline and the brooding stare. You’d pass for magical in the right light."

Oliver shot him a look. "You have fangs, or is that just your personality?"

Harry snorted. "He's got a bark and a bite. Literally. Animagus. Turns into a giant dog. You’d get along."

Oliver turned back to Moira. "You knew about this and didn’t tell me?"

"You had just survived five years on an island crawling with God knows what," Moira said evenly. "We didn’t think adding 'by the way, your cousin can shoot fireballs out of his hands' was a good way to say welcome home."

"Also," Thea chimed in, "he doesn’t shoot fireballs, he kind of... summons them. Subtle difference."

Oliver ran a hand through his hair and paced. "Okay. Let me get this straight. Magic is real. You’re all magical. Harry spends nine months of the year at a school for it."

"Hogwarts," Hermione supplied helpfully.

He stopped in his tracks. "Hog. Warts. That’s what it’s called?"

Thea bit her lip, suppressing laughter. "Yeah. Took me a week to stop making pig jokes."

"You go to a place called Hogwarts," Oliver repeated, deadpan.

Harry crossed his arms. "Look, the name may sound like something out of a failed Monty Python sketch, but it’s produced some of the most powerful magical minds in history. And also Ron Weasley."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Don’t start."

"Anyway," Harry continued, now clearly enjoying Oliver’s slowly unraveling sanity, "yes, I went to school there, but Hermione and I recently graduated. Magic school. Very dangerous. Excellent dental plan."

"And you’ve been spending your summers here," Oliver said slowly. "Pretending you’re just another spoiled teenager."

"I don’t pretend," Harry said, mock-offended. "I excel at being a spoiled teenager."

Sirius grinned proudly. "That’s my boy."

Oliver turned to Hermione. "And you’re... what?"

"Witch," she said simply. "Top of our year. Prefect. Occasionally I save the world."

"And you?" he asked Sirius.

"Ex-Hitwizard, freedom fighter, godfather, part-time chaos gremlin. Oh, and wizard. With great hair."

Harry raised a hand. "Also turns into a dog."

"You mentioned," Oliver said dryly.

Sirius leaned forward, speaking quietly so Moira and Thea could hear. "I know you’ve seen violence, Queen. The worst the non-magical world can throw at someone. But you haven’t seen our kind of monsters. There’s a reason we keep the two worlds separate."

"And Harry?"

Hermione and Sirius exchanged a look.

"Harry’s different," she said. "He’s not just any wizard. He’s fought in a war. Killed. Lost people. Came back stronger. He’s... well, the magical world calls him The Boy Who Lived."

"And what do you call him?"

Thea grinned. "My nerdy badass cousin who once turned a Death Eater into a chicken nugget. True story."

"Also," Harry added with a wink, "Heir to multiple ancient houses, Master of Death, and annoyingly good at sarcasm."

Oliver finally let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. "You know what? Sure. Magic is real. I spent five years with a Russian mobster, a homicidal archer, and a Buddhist monk who collected antique guns. This? This is just Tuesday."

Hermione folded her arms. "Then welcome to the wizarding world, Mr. Queen."

"Just one thing," Oliver said, looking at Harry. "Next time, when we’re in a firefight and you have an option between explaining or going all Houdini, give me a heads-up."

Harry smirked. "Where’s the fun in that?"

Thea elbowed him. "You love being dramatic."

"I’m British," Harry said, with a flourish. "It’s in the tea."

Oliver groaned. "I survived Lian Yu for this."

Sirius patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, Oliver. You haven’t even seen him duel yet. That’s when the fireworks really start."

Oliver muttered, "God help me."

—

Later That Night

The mansion had gone quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet, like after a party or a long day. No, this was the storm’s eye kind of silence—the moment between madness and more madness, the kind Oliver Queen had grown far too used to.

The talk with Harry and the others had gone... about as well as a sudden magic confession could go. There’d been explanations, name drops like Dark Lord, death curses, and something about Harry dying and coming back more than once—which, frankly, made Oliver’s five years of torture and self-loathing look like a particularly rough spa retreat.

Now, alone in his room, he dropped into the chair at his desk and pulled up the file he’d been working on before the world flipped upside down.

Adam Hunt.

Even without Laurel’s crusade against the guy, the name had sparked something dark and bitter in his memory. One of the first names in his father’s journal. One of the first targets on his mission.

He needed that journal.

Reaching for his jacket draped over the chair, he shoved his hand into the inside pocket—

Nothing.

His brow furrowed.

He checked again. Then the other side. Then flipped the jacket around and patted it down like it was hiding a weapon.

Still nothing.

He stood up, searching the desk. The floor. The bathroom. Ripped the comforter off his bed, checked under the mattress—panic clawing at his chest with increasingly sharp nails.

The journal wasn’t just important—it was everything. His father’s list. His roadmap. His mission.

And it was gone.

His breath quickened. Hands flexed. Mind already racing through a hundred worst-case scenarios.

Had someone taken it?

Was it the break-in? Was someone targeting him now?

“Looking for this?” came a voice, too calm, too casual.

Oliver spun, instinctively reaching for a non-existent weapon.

Harry stood in the middle of the room.

No knock. No creak of a door.

Just—pop—Wizard achieved stealth landing.

In one hand, the boy held the familiar, weathered leather diary—his father’s journal—like it was a schoolbook he’d borrowed.

His green eyes sparkled with that irritating mix of mischief and challenge. His hair was as messy as ever, his other hand holding what suspiciously looked like a Butterbeer.

“Had a little peek,” Harry said, flipping the book open with one hand and wiggling his fingers at the names inside. “Not bad. Creepy, cryptic, weirdly poetic. Very ‘Azkaban Bucket List’ vibes. Ten points for dramatic handwriting.”

Oliver stalked forward, eyes narrowed. “That’s not yours.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Didn’t say it was. Just thought maybe a book full of dangerous names that literally has the potential to fuel a vengeance-fueled murder rampage shouldn’t be left lying around.”

“I had it,” Oliver said through clenched teeth. “I was going to—”

“Put on a hoodie, go all growly-voice, and terrorize Hunt’s bodyguards until he wet himself?” Harry offered, tossing the journal onto Oliver’s bed. “Yes. We figured. Hermione’s already doing background checks, by the way. You’re welcome.”

Oliver stared at him.

Harry gave him a casual smile, then turned to leave, his Butterbeer already half-gone. Just before vanishing through the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Oh—and next time you lose something important, maybe check your pants before you assume Voldemort’s ghost stole it.”

Pop.

Gone.

Oliver stood alone in the room, staring at the journal on his bed, his jaw twitching.

He didn’t like being caught off guard.

He especially didn’t like being one-upped by an eigteen-year-old with a wand, a war record, and more sass than Thea on three Red Bulls.

But… damn it, he did like results.

The Next Day – Queen Mansion, Just After Sunrise

Oliver’s knuckles slammed against the hardwood floor in rhythm with his grunts, muscles rippling with every push-up. The sun hadn't fully crested the horizon, and he was already dripping sweat. A hundred push-ups. A hundred sit-ups. Pull-ups on the metal beam he’d installed above his window. Meditation. Breathing exercises. Mental rehearsal of every possible entry and exit to Hunt’s penthouse.

His body was in Star(ling) City, but his mind was already halfway through the takedown.

Then—knock knock.

He didn’t answer.

The door creaked open anyway.

Of course.

Harry walked in like he owned the place, wearing pajama pants, a smug grin, and a t-shirt that read: “I died. Came back. Your move.” Behind him, Hermione followed with her usual air of tightly wound efficiency, her hair in a neat ponytail and a datapad clutched like it was a sacred artifact.

Oliver sat up and wiped his face with a towel. “You two ever heard of knocking and waiting?”

Harry flopped into the leather armchair without missing a beat. “We considered it. Then we remembered you used to sleep on an island full of murderous archers, and we figured privacy wasn’t really your thing.”

Oliver’s brow twitched. “I was meditating.”

Harry looked around the high-end, oak-paneled room. “Mmm. Shirtless brooding is a form of spiritual practice, then. Got it. Very Arrow of the Buddha.”

“Harry,” Hermione cut in, already scrolling on her pad with military precision. “Focus.”

“I am focused,” Harry replied, grabbing an apple off the nearby fruit bowl and taking a bite. “Focused on the fact that Queenie here almost went full vigilante last night because someone misplaced their murder journal.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “It’s not a—”

“Vengeance diary. Notebook of noble homicide. Daddy’s hit list. Tomato, tomahto.”

Hermione ignored them both and stepped forward, placing the datapad on the desk. “Oliver, we found something.”

That got his attention.

He crossed the room in three quick strides and leaned over the screen. Dozens of files filled the interface—financial records, internal memos, surveillance photos, transcripts, offshore accounts.

Hermione didn’t wait for permission to launch into the briefing. “Adam Hunt—CEO of Hunt Multinational. Publicly, he’s a philanthropist. Champion of urban redevelopment. Secretly, he’s been exploiting low-income families across the Glades. Swindling them out of their homes using forged deeds, predatory loans, and legal loopholes so greasy you’d need a Patronus just to scrub them clean.”

“His lawyers make Voldemort look like a defense attorney for puppies,” Harry added, tossing his apple core into the wastebasket without looking.

Oliver’s eyes darkened as he absorbed the data. “Laurel mentioned the class-action case.”

“She doesn’t know the worst of it,” Hermione said grimly. “Hunt bribed Judge Grell through a shadow fund linked to his reelection campaign. If this goes to trial as scheduled, the verdict’s already bought.”

She tapped again. The screen split—one side showing a photo of Hunt shaking hands with Grell at a swanky fundraiser, the other a scan of the suspicious donation routing through a dummy corporation.

Oliver leaned in, jaw clenched. “So he’s insulated. Smart.”

“Smart in the way cockroaches are smart,” Hermione said, voice acid. “Too stubborn to die and good at hiding under the fridge.”

Harry leaned back in his chair. “Speaking of hidden vermin…”

With a flick of his wand (which he’d conjured from somewhere—Oliver didn’t even see the move), a grainy surveillance photo hovered in the air.

Adam Hunt. Midnight. Underground parking garage. Briefcase in hand, passing it off to a guy in a slick Italian suit.

“This is Tony Ricci,” Harry said, mockingly slipping into a newscaster voice. “Professional thug. Occasionally moonlights as Hunt’s ‘delivery boy.’ What’s in the briefcase? We’re guessing money. Drugs. Unicorn blood. The usual.”

Hermione gave him a sharp look. “It’s cash. Bribe money. Likely paying off an SCPD contact. We cross-referenced Ricci’s vehicle plate with traffic cameras. It lines up with Hunt’s penthouse security footage.”

Harry grinned. “So, Ollie... you feeling stabby yet?”

Oliver’s eyes locked on the photo. “Where is he now?”

“Hunt?” Hermione said, swiping again. “Still holed up in his penthouse. Floor sixty-three. Armed security, private elevator, full panic room, infrared trip alarms, and three private bodyguards trained by ex-military contractors.”

“Oh, and a partridge in a pear tree,” Harry added. “Really subtle evil billionaire vibes.”

Oliver studied the layout Hermione pulled up next—schematics of the building. “We can’t go in loud. Not yet.”

Hermione’s lips tightened. “I thought you might say that.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a black USB drive and an envelope. “This has a keylogger virus I coded last night—can get us access to Hunt’s personal files. The envelope? Ricci’s payment receipt for a property flip last year tied directly to Hunt. It’s enough to get a warrant.”

Harry raised his hand like a student in class. “Or—and I’m just spitballing here—we could sneak in, stun a few guards, clone Hunt’s phone, steal his files, humiliate him in front of the media, and let justice rain down like magical hellfire. You know. For fun.”

Oliver looked from Harry to Hermione. Then back again.

Hermione’s expression was hopeful but cautious.

Harry looked like a cat who’d already eaten the canary and was eyeing dessert.

Oliver exhaled slowly and gave the smallest of smirks. “We do both.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Team Arrow doesn’t just shoot people. We gather evidence. We expose the rot. We scare the hell out of the monsters hiding behind their bank accounts.”

“And occasionally shoot them in the kneecap,” Harry said brightly. “Just as a love tap.”

Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. “I am surrounded by chaos.”

Oliver glanced at the photo of Hunt. His hand flexed unconsciously, like he could already feel the bowstring between his fingers.

“Tonight,” he said. “We take Adam Hunt down.”

Harry finished the last of Oliver’s banana and cracked his knuckles. “Excellent. I’ll bring the cloak. You bring the arrows. And Hermione will bring… Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Brilliant strategy. Truly flawless.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Oliver stared out the window, the city stretching wide and full of shadows before him.

Tonight, justice wasn’t going to be served cold.

It was going to be surgical.

And with Harry and Hermione on his side?

It was going to be legendary.

—

“We’re going to need a base.”

Oliver Queen said it like he said most things—low, clipped, and with the gravitas of a man who’d personally brooded in every rooftop in Starling City.

He didn’t look up from where he was cleaning a sidearm, but his voice was a quiet command wrapped in gravel.

Harry, lounging like a bored demigod across Moira Queen’s high-end leather couch, arched an eyebrow and took another bite of banana. “What, not a fan of discussing vigilante strategy over crumpets while your mum critiques your bone structure?”

Oliver looked up. Deadpan. Unamused. Very Stephen Amell.

“I’m serious.”

“And I’m British,” Harry replied, pointing with the half-eaten banana like it was a wand. “We deflect with sarcasm, emotional constipation, and tea. Preferably all three.”

Hermione, who’d been scrolling through blueprints and schematics on her magically upgraded StarkTech tablet, didn’t even blink. “He’s not wrong. About the base, I mean,” she said crisply, voice sharp and clean like a fresh quill stroke. “We can’t exactly plan around the kitchen island. Moira’s already suspicious, and Thea nearly caught me disassembling a crystal eavesdropping charm in the laundry room.”

“She thought it was a vibrator,” Harry added helpfully.

Hermione didn’t dignify that with a response.

Oliver exhaled, jaw tightening. “The Queen Consolidated mill. It’s off the grid. No power, no cameras. We scoped it out yesterday—before...”

Harry interrupted, tossing the banana peel into a nearby trash bin with Quidditch-level accuracy. “Ah yes. The pre-kidnapping field trip. I remember it fondly. One minute I’m waxing philosophical about whether your company’s logo looks like a collapsing taco, and the next I’m waking up with a tranquilizer hangover, zip-tied to a chair across from a guy who smelled like discounted body spray and unresolved paternal trauma.”

Oliver’s brow twitched.

Hermione sighed. “It is a good location. Structurally sound. Strategically positioned. There’s an underground sub-basement that could house surveillance equipment, potions lab, tactical board—”

“Dungeon chic,” Harry said. “I love it already. Do we get a team name? Operation Brood Force?”

Oliver deadpanned, “We’re not calling it that.”

“Fine. Project Emo Arrow.”

Hermione snorted before she could stop herself.

Oliver gave Harry a long look. “You done?”

Harry stretched, cracking his back with the exaggerated flair of someone who enjoyed making people uncomfortable. “I’m never done. I’m British, traumatised, and caffeinated. But yes, I approve the dungeon. We’ll just have to exorcise the bad vibes. And possibly the ghosts of failed family businesses.”

“I’ll handle the recon,” Oliver said, already sliding a quiver over his shoulder like it was a second skin. “Make sure it’s still secure. We didn’t finish the sweep before…”

“Before I got almost stabbed with something that looked like a cross between a knitting needle and a sci-fi suppository?” Harry offered.

Oliver gave him the patented Queen Look. Quiet. Intense. Judgy.

Hermione stood, already tying her hair back like a general marching into battle. “I’ll bring my go-bag. I’ve got portable wards, sensor runes, three field potions, and a portable solar generator modified with undetectable extension charms.”

Harry blinked at her. “Have I told you recently that you’re the love child of MacGyver and Athena?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “You’ve also compared me to Tony Stark and River Song in the same breath.”

“Because they’d all be lucky to share your brainspace,” Harry said smoothly.

“Flattery doesn’t get you extra sugar in your tea.”

“Oh, it absolutely does.”

Oliver moved to the door, already in motion. “We leave in twenty. Pack light. Quiet weapons only. And no flashy magic.”

Harry looked offended. “Everything I do is flashy. Subtlety’s for vampires and tax fraud.”

Oliver paused at the threshold, looking back with that signature Amell intensity. “We do this right… we build something solid. Not just a base. A foundation. For everything we’re about to do.”

Harry raised both eyebrows. “Ollie, was that sentiment I detected? Careful. Your Batman is showing.”

Hermione looked up. “I like this version of him. Slightly less stabby. Marginally more functional.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Oliver muttered, already disappearing down the hall.

Harry grabbed his coat and twirled his wand between his fingers like a gunslinger in a wizarding Western. “Right then. Secret base. Dark secrets. Possibly illegal vigilante activities. Let’s make some magic.”

As he followed Oliver and Hermione out the door, he grinned. “God, I’ve missed being this bloody irresponsible.”

—

Queen Mansion – Front Foyer – Morning

Boots thudded softly against the marble. Coats flared as they shrugged them on. Wand holsters clicked into place under jackets. A quiver was slung over a shoulder like it belonged in a boardroom instead of a battlefield. A tablet bag was zipped with surgical precision.

They moved in coordinated silence—Oliver Queen’s stone-cold calm, Hermione Granger’s hyperfocused precision, and Harry Potter’s chaotic, barely-contained energy. The kind of synergy that said this wasn’t their first rodeo.

They almost made it to the door.

“Going somewhere?” came a voice as smooth as silk—and just as lethal when wrapped around your neck.

They froze.

Moira Queen stood at the top of the staircase, her heels clicking as she descended like a lioness in a pantsuit. Her blonde hair was perfect. Her posture screamed Upper-Crust Highlander. Her expression was the moral equivalent of a raised guillotine.

Oliver turned with the subtle stiffness of someone who knew the next five minutes were going to suck.

“We were just—”

“Out for coffee,” Harry cut in, grinning far too broadly as he stepped forward like a politician in training. “A little morning caffeine. A little bonding. A little casual urban reconnaissance. Y’know, normal people things.”

Moira blinked once, slowly. “You were kidnapped yesterday.”

“Well, technically we were only almost kidnapped,” Harry said cheerfully. “It was more of a surprise field trip.”

Hermione smacked his arm. “Harry.”

“What? I’m not wrong.”

Moira ignored the byplay. “And since Queen Consolidated’s CEO was nearly abducted off company property and you two—” she gestured with a vague swirl of her hand, “—insist on shadowing him like a pair of British body doubles, I’ve taken steps.”

Oliver stiffened. “Mom.”

“No.” Her voice turned glacial. “I’m not having this argument. You want to act like Gotham vigilantes on vacation, fine. But not without supervision.”

She stepped aside.

Enter John Diggle.

Tall. Muscular. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a faint military-cut to the shoulders. He had the expression of a man who had seen combat, cleaned up after other people's messes, and really didn’t want to play babysitter to teenage wizards and a broody billionaire.

“John Diggle,” Moira said crisply. “Ex-Army, Special Forces, several commendations. He’ll be accompanying you. Everywhere.”

Diggle gave a curt nod. “Ma’am.”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “You look like you could suplex a troll and still have time to finish your coffee.”

Diggle gave him a long look. “I’ve done worse.”

Harry blinked. “Oh. I like you.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “This complicates things.”

Moira narrowed her eyes. “Miss Granger?”

Hermione coughed. “Nothing. Thrilled. Honored. Can’t wait to be under constant surveillance. Really taps into my inner control freak.”

Oliver closed his eyes briefly and muttered under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“We’ll take the car,” he said aloud.

“Good,” said Moira, already turning away. “And John?”

“Ma’am?”

“Don’t let them out of your sight.”

Diggle didn’t flinch. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the door closed behind them, Harry clapped Oliver on the back.

“Brilliant. A professional babysitter. I haven’t had one of those since I incinerated the last one during accidental magic. Fun story, actually. Left him bald. And slightly French.”

—

Queen Mansion – Driveway – Minutes Later

The SUV was black, sleek, and about as subtle as a tactical nuke.

Diggle took the wheel like a man preparing for a long, painful mission. Oliver slid into the front passenger seat with the grim fatalism of someone used to pain. Hermione took the right side of the back, already pulling up maps on her phone.

Harry sprawled out beside her like a cat who’d claimed this territory via charisma alone.

“So,” Harry said, leaning forward between the front seats, “Queen Consolidated HQ, if you please, Mr. Diggle. Definitely not heading to a secret bunker filled with magically-enhanced gadgets and ethically questionable surveillance spells. Just… boring ol’ paperwork.”

Diggle didn’t even glance back. “I was in Afghanistan. You don’t rattle me.”

Harry whistled low. “Ooh, I’m going to like you.”

Oliver sighed without turning. “We are never losing him, are we?”

Hermione leaned in. “Not unless one of us can teleport.”

Harry raised a hand.

“No,” she said immediately.

“I didn’t even say—”

“You were going to say ‘What if I Apparate him to a llama sanctuary in Peru.’”

“Well—yeah, but I had good reasons!”

Oliver gave them both a look. “Focus.”

—

Inside the SUV – En Route

The road slipped by, fast and smooth. Inside the vehicle, silence hung like smoke—charged and expectant.

Diggle finally broke it. “So. What exactly do you three do?”

Oliver didn’t blink. “Damage control.”

Hermione, without looking up from her phone, added, “Collateral mitigation. Tactical problem-solving. Guerrilla intelligence gathering.”

Harry grinned. “And I personally specialize in terribly bad ideas. With style.”

Diggle gave him a slow look in the mirror. “You’re the one who said something about a basilisk earlier.”

“I have fought one, you know,” Harry said proudly.

“In high school?” Diggle asked dryly.

“In a giant magical murder-maze under my boarding school. With a phoenix. And a sword pulled out of a hat. And my best friend’s broken wand held together with spellotape.”

Diggle stared at him a beat longer.

“I’m not even making that up.”

Oliver muttered under his breath, “He really isn’t.”

Diggle exhaled through his nose and shook his head. “This is going to be a long day.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry said, sitting back with a devilish grin. “We grow on you. Like a fungal infection.”

—

The interior of the SUV was comfortably dark, humming along the wet, glistening roads of Starling City. Streetlights passed like metronome ticks across the windscreen, but Harry Potter—leaning forward from the backseat—was far more interested in the man behind the wheel than the route.

“So, Diggle,” Harry began, voice smooth as butter and twice as smug. “You don’t talk much. War hero, I’m guessing? Or are you just professionally good at looking like a very intimidating action figure with a driver’s license?”

From the front, Diggle’s lips twitched, ever so slightly.

“Iraq. Afghanistan. Special Forces,” he replied, eyes never leaving the road. “Served with a few ghosts, danced with some demons. Worked with mercenaries, spies... and a handful of magicals.”

“Oh, really?” Hermione piped up from Harry’s left, raising an elegant eyebrow. “Magicals? As in, plural?”

Diggle gave a single, solid nod. “They’re rare, but they exist. I’ve seen them in black ops missions and crisis zones—quiet types, until you see what they can do. Took me about five seconds to clock you two.”

Harry grinned, a sharp, white flash in the dark. “What gave it away? The way we vanished from your surveillance grid like a magician’s rabbit? Or the casual disregard for Newtonian physics?”

“Neither,” Diggle said evenly. “You radiate it. Him especially.” He nodded at Harry in the rear-view mirror. “I’ve seen trained operatives freeze just standing near someone like you.”

Oliver, seated in the passenger seat beside Diggle, cast a sidelong glance at Harry. “He’s right. You’ve got this... aura. Like you’re two seconds away from setting the world on fire.”

Harry gave a humble shrug. “It’s the hair. Very chosen-one chic.”

Oliver didn’t crack a smile.

“Tell him about your aura, Ollie,” Harry said brightly. “You glow like a bloody lighthouse. Brooding intensity, hero guilt, tragic past... the works.”

“I’m trying to focus,” Oliver growled, rubbing his temples like the headache had filed for squatter’s rights.

“Right, right,” Harry murmured, mock-apologetic. “Poor Ollie. We drop one tiny existential bomb about magical teleportation and suddenly it’s migraine city.”

“I didn’t ask to be teleported through a blender made of nightmares,” Oliver snapped.

Hermione chuckled softly. “It’s like falling through glass wrapped in static electricity while your insides get scrambled like Sunday brunch.”

Oliver turned and gave her a long, level stare. “...And you do that voluntarily?”

“Daily,” she said brightly. “Twice before lunch if we’re in a hurry.”

“I thought I was going to puke on the Headmaster’s robes my first time,” Harry offered. “He just nodded like it was perfectly normal and handed me a bucket. Hogwarts is wild like that.”

The city blurred by.

Diggle’s gaze flicked to the mirror—habitual, alert, calculating.

And then—he frowned.

The back seat was empty.

So was the passenger seat.

“...Where the hell—?”

He tapped the brakes instinctively, as if the car would give him answers the mirrors couldn’t.

Gone.

All three.

—

The Glades – The Abandoned Queen Consolidated Mill

The crack of Apparition tore briefly through the stale air of the derelict building.

They landed in a spray of dust and magic—Oliver stumbling as if the floor had turned to quicksand beneath him.

He barely managed to brace against a rusted steel column before doubling over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Harry dusted off his shoulders like a man who’d just stepped off a train instead of ripped the universe a new hole.

“Well, that was delightful,” Harry said brightly, watching Oliver’s pale face with poorly concealed amusement. “Are we having fun yet?”

“I am going to throw you through a window,” Oliver managed between breaths.

Hermione gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “You’ll get used to it. Eventually.”

“I feel like I’ve been turned inside out by a tornado made of pure spite.”

Harry blinked innocently. “So… better than the elevator in Queen Consolidated, then?”

Oliver shot him a look so deadly Harry could practically hear the Arrow theme playing in the background.

“Come on, you brooded through an island full of mercs and survived your mom’s fundraising galas,” Harry said cheerfully. “You can handle a little magical whiplash.”

“This is not normal,” Oliver muttered, standing upright again. “None of this is normal.”

Hermione looked around the ruined mill, pulling out a tiny notebook that seemed entirely too neat and organized for the chaotic surroundings. “We’ve got a few hours before Diggle finds us. He’ll come straight here.”

“How can you be so sure?” Oliver asked.

“Because I tagged his GPS with a tracking charm when he wasn’t looking,” she replied sweetly. “Also, he’s predictable. Reliable. That’s what makes him valuable.”

Harry gave a wicked grin. “Also what makes him fun to mess with.”

Oliver turned slowly. “You what?”

Hermione smiled, eyes twinkling. “Relax. It wears off in forty-eight hours. Unless I renew it.”

“You two are insane,” Oliver muttered.

Harry spread his arms, as if welcoming him to a very exclusive club. “And yet, here you are. Welcome to the deep end.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did I,” Harry said, his grin fading just a bit. “But fate’s a fan of dramatic irony. Trust me.”

Oliver’s expression shifted—just for a moment—before he folded his arms and turned away.

Hermione cleared her throat. “We’ll need a lookout and some kind of fallback in case Diggle isn’t alone.”

“Oh, he’ll be alone,” Harry said confidently, pulling his wand. “Moira Queen’s too busy trying to reassert control over her son’s life to track us down just yet. And if she is watching…” He gave a little wave to a random shadow. “Hi, Moira. Love what you’ve done with the corporate espionage.”

“You think she’s tracking us?” Oliver asked.

“Oh, I know she is,” Harry replied. “The woman’s colder than a Dementor’s ex-wife and twice as ruthless. But subtle? Not her strong suit.”

Oliver didn’t respond, but his jaw clenched.

Hermione raised her notebook. “We need to move. If we’re going to make this place defensible, we’ll need more than sass and trauma bonding.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry said, twirling his wand. “I’ve gotten through life on 80% sass and 20% sheer dumb luck.”

Oliver muttered, “That explains so much.”

Harry turned, smiling faintly. “Alright, team. Let’s make this mess look like a masterpiece.”

—

Inside the building, the air was thick with dust and decay. Moonlight filtered through broken panes of glass, casting fractured shadows across the exposed beams and skeletal remains of forgotten machinery. Somewhere above them, a rat skittered across a rusted pipe with the confidence of someone who paid rent.

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Charming place you’ve got here, Queen. Really screams ‘homey.’”

Oliver, unfazed, marched across the dusty floor like a man on a mission. “I’m telling you, the substructure’s the key. If it’s still intact, we can turn it into something useful.”

Hermione paused, wand in hand. “You mean if it’s not riddled with asbestos, rats, or mold that’s evolved sentience?”

Oliver stopped in front of a suspicious square of concrete, set like a forgotten tombstone in the middle of the room. Without a word, he reached into his duffel and pulled out a compact, wicked-looking sledgehammer.

Harry blinked. “Wait. Hold on. Are you actually planning on digging our way to glory with a hammer?”

Oliver grunted, testing the weight of the tool. “It’s simple. Effective. Doesn’t need a wand.”

Harry turned to Hermione, deadpan. “He says that like it’s a good thing.”

Hermione arched a brow at Oliver, her voice laced with dry amusement. “Really, Oliver? You brought a hammer to a wizard fight?”

“Got a better idea?” he challenged, lifting the hammer with that distinct grim determination that had probably cowed more than one drug cartel.

Harry gave a little shrug. “Well, I was going to suggest we do this the civilized way…”

Together, he and Hermione raised their wands in perfect unison.

“Bombarda.”

The floor exploded like a fireworks finale. Concrete and wood shattered in a deafening BOOM, sending debris clattering in every direction. A cloud of dust whooshed up with dramatic timing worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. Somewhere, a nearby rat let out a horrified squeak and abandoned ship.

The sledgehammer slipped from Oliver’s fingers, thunking against the ground with an almost defeated sound.

He stared at the newly made hole, then at the two smug magic-users standing shoulder to shoulder, wands still warm.

“Right,” he muttered. “And I’m the guy people call dramatic.”

Harry dusted off his sleeves like he’d just wiped down a windowsill, not detonated a bloody floor. “Honestly, Queen. If I’d known you were this manual labor-minded, I’d have brought a shovel and a flask of tea.”

Hermione was already lowering herself down into the hole using a slow-motion Arresto Momentum charm. She landed with the grace of a dancer.

“Come on,” she called up. “The foundations are intact. Structurally sound too. This place could work.”

Harry dropped down with an easy leap, landing with a soft thud beside her. Oliver, of course, had to show off—he vaulted down like a proper vigilante, landing in a crouch that would’ve made a gymnast jealous.

Harry looked at him, unimpressed. “You know, some of us prefer to let gravity do the work.”

Oliver smirked. “Some of us like to make an entrance.”

“Some of us like to keep our knees past thirty.”

The underground space was massive. Thick stone columns rose like ancient tree trunks, and surprisingly clean lines of wiring and piping suggested the place had once been more than just storage. The ceiling was high enough for sparring, the walls sturdy enough for enchantments, and there was just enough power trickling in through the old fuse box to make things work.

“This’ll do,” Oliver said, giving the walls a once-over. “Might need to bring in some gear. I’ve got Bratva contacts who owe me—”

“Bratva?” Harry cut in. “As in, actual Russian Mafia Bratva?”

Oliver didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

Harry gaped. “You were on a deserted island.”

“Also yes.”

Hermione turned from the fuse box, wand lighting the space around her as she inspected the wiring. “And in between fending off wild animals and starving to death, you managed to join the Russian mob?”

Oliver shrugged like it was just another Tuesday. “You do what you have to.”

Harry gave a low whistle. “I once used a spoon, three hedgehogs, and a sleep spell to fake my way into an MI6 facility, but you, my friend, are on another level.”

Oliver gave him a flat look. “You’re very weird.”

“I prefer resourceful.”

Before Oliver could respond, Hermione cleared her throat.

“No need to call your mafia pen pals, Queen.”

Oliver frowned. “I didn’t—wait, what?”

She reached into her handbag. The tiny, innocent-looking thing that could have doubled as a coin purse.

And began unloading hell itself.

Out came a yoga mat. Then a 27-inch curved touchscreen monitor. Then a state-of-the-art treadmill, complete with digital AI coaching. A set of weights. A coffee machine. A literal mini-fridge. A punching bag. A rack of resistance bands.

Oliver watched, jaw slack, as Hermione gently pulled a high-performance server unit from her handbag like it was just another scarf.

He looked at Harry. “She has a gym in her purse.”

Harry, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, grinned. “She’s Hermione Granger. She is my secret weapon.”

“It’s called an Undetectable Extension Charm,” Hermione explained, now assembling the server with practiced wand flicks. “And an Expandable Interior Charm for structure support. Basic magical engineering.”

Oliver stared at her. “That’s not basic. That’s sorcery.”

Hermione smirked. “Correct.”

With Harry conjuring floating torchlights along the ceiling and Hermione syncing the server to a magical interface, the entire space began to transform. One wall shimmered as it morphed into a hybrid display—part tech map, part magical projection. Surveillance feeds danced alongside ley lines, thermal scans overlayed with glowing sigils.

Harry levitated a stack of rune-engraved spellbooks to a stone table and began inscribing wards into the floor. Arcs of blue and gold light danced from his wand, snapping into place like circuitry made of magic.

Hermione anchored magical motion wards into the corners. A shimmering dome pulsed briefly before vanishing—an invisible cloak of stealth.

Oliver, watching it all, folded his arms. “This isn’t a base. This is a bloody war room.”

Harry twirled his wand with theatrical flair. “Why, Mr. Queen. I didn’t know you cared.”

“Just don’t put a Quidditch pitch in the back,” Oliver muttered.

“No promises,” Harry replied cheerfully.

Hermione was already layering security runes over the fuse box. “We’ll need to set up an anti-scrying field and a magical firewall. I’ll handle the charms, you two handle the brute-force stuff.”

Oliver grabbed a kettlebell. “That’s your way of calling me muscle, isn’t it?”

Hermione smiled sweetly. “Would I ever?”

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

Harry clapped his hands together, a manic gleam in his eyes. “All right, team. Wards up, magic online, caffeine stocked. Welcome to Resistance HQ. Now who wants to break in a punching bag?”

—

Oliver moved with silent precision, his boots thudding softly against the cold floor of the resistance bunker as he approached the far corner. His duffel bag lay there, rugged and worn like it had survived a war—and to be fair, it had. Dropping to one knee, he unzipped it with fluid ease and pulled out an old mahogany trunk, its surface scarred by weather, battle, and time. The brass latches clicked open like old friends greeting him with the weight of memory.

Inside lay a perfectly organized armory—his collapsible compound bow, a neatly bundled quiver of carbon-fiber arrows, coiled spare strings, fletching tools, a single curved dagger, and, gleaming beneath the soft light, a titanium-plated bottle opener.

From across the room, Harry’s voice rang out with a grin you could hear. “Please tell me that’s not a bottle opener.”

Oliver didn’t even glance up. He pulled out the bow and began stringing it with deliberate care. “It’s multipurpose.”

“Right,” Harry muttered, nudging Hermione. “That’s what I say about my wand. Except mine actually opens bottles.”

Hermione snorted delicately. “Yours has also lit your hair on fire. Twice.”

“It was one and a half times, thank you very much,” Harry shot back, before calling over, “So what’s the plan, Robin Hood? You gonna shoot apples off people’s heads or just terrify us with your intense stares?”

Oliver, still calm, stood and grabbed a basket filled with bright yellow tennis balls—Hermione’s doing, obviously. He walked to the open floor space near the back wall, gave the basket a dramatic flip, and sent the balls bouncing in chaotic rebellion across the bunker’s floor.

They ricocheted off concrete, pillars, consoles, and Harry’s foot.

“Oi!” Harry yelped, hopping once. “I just cleaned these shoes.”

“You conjured them five minutes ago,” Hermione said without looking up.

“They were emotionally clean, Hermione.”

Oliver ignored the squabble, already nocking an arrow. His expression was unreadable, focused, the kind of focus you could sharpen steel on. He exhaled slowly, raised the bow, and let fly.

The arrow split through the air like a whisper, piercing a ball mid-bounce and embedding it halfway into the far wall with a crack-thunk that echoed through the bunker.

A beat passed.

Then— Thwip. Thwip.

Two more arrows zipped past him with pinpoint precision. Red-fletched and black-and-brown, they slammed into two separate balls mid-air, each shaft quivering slightly in the aftermath.

Oliver blinked. And slowly turned.

Harry stood to his left, relaxed as if he were leaning on the idea of a wall rather than a real one, holding a sleek red-and-black recurve bow with the arrogance of a man who knew he was cooler than he had any right to be.

Next to him, Hermione calmly lowered her black-and-brown hunting bow, her expression mildly pleased and a bit smug, like she’d just proved her thesis in triplicate and still had time for tea.

“You two…” Oliver said, tone suspicious. “Use bows.”

Harry raised his brows innocently. “What gave it away? The arrows, or the hitting of things with the arrows?”

“You never said you use bows.”

“You never asked,” Hermione replied sweetly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before drawing another arrow.

“I assumed—wands,” Oliver said, baffled, lowering his own bow slightly.

“Oh, we still use wands,” Hermione said, letting loose an arrow that nailed a spinning tennis ball so cleanly it didn’t even wobble. “But for some things, the old ways work best.”

Harry followed her shot with one of his own. “Plus, we felt like the Death Eaters didn’t deserve the elegance of magic. So we got a little... archaic.”

Oliver raised a brow. “You shot them?”

“Right through the heart,” Hermione confirmed coolly.

“And the throat,” Harry added with mock cheer. “And the knees. And that one time I shot a guy in the wand hand. Artistic, really.”

“They screamed a lot less dramatically than expected,” Hermione said thoughtfully.

Oliver looked between them like he’d just realized he’d walked into a different league. “So, what, you’re both assassins now?”

“I prefer the term proficient multitaskers with violent hobbies,” Harry said, his grin widening. “Hermione prefers ‘tactical genius with a soft spot for archery and vengeance.’”

“I never said that.”

“You thought it.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

Oliver grunted. “Alright. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

He turned back toward the floor, drawing another arrow in a smooth, seamless motion. A tennis ball bounced unpredictably toward the wall. He fired. Thunk—dead center.

Before the ball hit the wall, Hermione’s arrow caught another on its descent, and Harry’s followed half a second later, hitting one that was mid-bounce off a pillar.

The room was alive with movement and motion. Arrows flew like angry whispers. The three of them moved almost in sync—no wasted gestures, no hesitation. Arrows pierced balls, embedded in walls, the soft thud of impacts underscored by the hiss of strings and the soft rush of air displacement.

Oliver crouched and fired blind. A ricocheting ball arced over his head—Harry’s arrow cut it out of the air without breaking stride.

Hermione, pivoting on her heel, loosed two arrows in quick succession—one ricocheting off a metal panel to hit a ball that had bounced out of reach.

They were a blur of instinct and lethal precision.

Finally, the last ball rolled lazily to a stop.

Oliver calmly drew his last arrow and walked up to it. He looked down, then glanced at the wall.

With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed the arrow straight through the tennis ball and into the concrete.

“Had to finish it off,” he said dryly.

Harry gave an impressed whistle. “Alright, Arrow. That was hot.”

“I’m married to my mission,” Oliver replied without missing a beat.

“Not a problem,” Harry deadpanned. “So am I. To trauma.”

Hermione laughed, genuinely and without restraint.

Oliver looked between them. “You two are something else.”

“Takes one to know one,” Harry said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.

Hermione conjured another basket of tennis balls with a flick of her wand. “Again?”

Oliver’s eyes glinted. “Hell yes.”

And once again, the arrows flew.

If someone had walked in right then, they would’ve seen a blur of deadly motion, sharp eyes, and sharper wit—three warriors born of different worlds, united by skill, grit, and an unapologetic love of putting holes in things that deserved it.

The Resistance had archers now.

And God help whoever stood on the wrong side of them.

Oliver grunted as he dropped to one knee beside the old trunk tucked into the shadowy corner of the abandoned warehouse they’d commandeered as their temporary HQ. The place smelled faintly of oil and rust, but the skylight bathed the concrete floor in golden light.

“You sure we’re not being tracked?” he asked, glancing up at the catwalks above.

Hermione didn’t even look up from her wandwork, idly drawing a rune into the air with glowing ink. “Between the anti-Apparition wards and the layered Muggle-repelling charms I cast? We’re safer than your dating history.”

Harry smirked. “She means we’re invisible. Like your love life.”

Oliver shot him a look. “I like being single. Less emotional drama, fewer people trying to shoot me over brunch.”

“Well, you should’ve said that to the last five women who tried to stab you,” Harry muttered, voice low. “Some people buy chocolates. You collect exes with murder tendencies.”

Oliver ignored him, flipping open the trunk with a satisfying click. The compartments within opened like clockwork, each motion smooth, practiced. He pulled out a green leather jacket with proud, reverent hands, holding it up like it was Mjolnir and he was the only one worthy enough to wield it.

“Check this out. Reinforced leather, double-stitched seams. Bulletproof panels I installed myself. Hood’s integrated. Took me three days just to learn how to sew this thing without stabbing myself.”

He tossed it on, the green leather fitting like a second skin, snug across his shoulders. He turned slightly so the fabric caught the light.

“Also,” he added, reaching into a side pouch, “voice modulator, modded with an oscillating pitch shift to avoid detection. And this—” he held up a small tin, “is face paint. Matte green. Goes around the eyes. CCTV sees shadows, not features.”

Harry cocked his head. “Very...Robin Hood meets Rambo.”

Oliver raised a brow. “Better than dressing like the world’s most dramatic tomato.”

Hermione, standing beside a stack of crates, snorted. “Oh, you sweet summer vigilante.”

“What?” Oliver asked, glancing between them.

Harry, grinning like the cat who’d just poisoned the canary, reached into Hermione’s enchanted purse, which she handed over with a sigh of long-suffering grace. He reached elbow-deep into the deceptively small bag and started hauling out armor like a magician pulling scarves from a hat.

First came the bodysuit—sleek, reinforced, a fusion of dark crimson and black with rune-etched panels that shimmered faintly when touched by the sunlight. The scales across the chest and shoulders glinted faintly, as though breathing.

“Red and black armored bodysuit,” Harry said conversationally. “Made from Ukrainian Ironbelly hide and Acromantula silk weave. Light as leather, stronger than steel. Fireproof, hexproof, impact-resistant, and oh—it breathes. Very important for ventilation when you’re kicking arse.”

He spun it dramatically once and then dropped it over his shoulder.

Oliver blinked. “That’s...dragon hide?”

“And spider silk,” Hermione added, already pulling out her own gear. “Woven by goblin-licensed artisans under Fleur’s supervision. We tested it by throwing it into a volcano. Still smelled like lavender.”

Oliver blinked. “You tested it by—?”

Harry gave a casual shrug. “Well, technically it was a cursed lava pit in the Pyrenees, but six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

Hermione unfurled her armor—sleek black with warm brown accents, elegant and deadly. Her hood shimmered with intricate rune-work.

“I don’t use a mask,” she explained, tying her hair up into a tight braid. “The runes obscure my facial structure—makes it look like I’m someone else. Voice modulation’s handled by charmwork. Cleaner than tech.”

Oliver looked down at his jacket, then slowly back up at them. “I sewed my hood on... with upholstery thread. I thought that was impressive.”

Harry pulled on his armor piece by piece, the enchanted plating molding perfectly to his form. When he pulled the black mask over his face, his voice dropped several octaves and came out filtered, with a whisper of magic beneath it.

“You look like a D&D villain had a lovechild with a Sith Lord,” Oliver muttered.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Harry replied, voice distorted and smooth. “Better than looking like a Forest Ranger with anger issues.”

“Oi.” Oliver jabbed a finger at him. “I built this with my own two hands.”

“And it shows,” Hermione said gently, smiling. “It’s very you. Broody. Leather-clad. Intimidating in a ‘please-don’t-talk-to-me-at-Starbucks’ sort of way.”

Harry nodded. “It’s got a rustic, post-apocalyptic chic. Like if Mad Max went to an Etsy convention.”

Oliver looked deeply betrayed. “Do you two rehearse these lines, or is this just magic?”

“We practice while you’re brooding in dark corners,” Hermione said sweetly. “It’s our bonding ritual.”

Oliver huffed, tossing on his gloves and boots with slightly less enthusiasm.

Hermione stepped closer, her expression softening. “But in all seriousness, you did good, Oliver. It’s impressive. It’s...very human. Raw. Built from necessity. Which makes it more heroic, in a way.”

“But the gear your friend Fleur made is better,” he deadpanned.

“Well, yes,” Hermione admitted. “But that’s only because she has goblin partners, three enchanted looms, and the literal blood of a veela. We’ll get her to make you something. Custom. Still green. Still leather. But tougher, sleeker. Magical.”

Oliver sighed, looking down at his gear again.

Harry, now fully suited up, walked past and slapped him on the back. “Don’t worry, mate. When Fleur finishes with you, you’ll be walking sex in Kevlar.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “I’m getting a cape.”

“You do that,” Harry said, voice filtered through his mask, “and I’m calling you Arrowman.”

“If you do, I’ll shoot you,” Oliver growled, grabbing his bow from the trunk.

Harry gave him a pair of finger-guns. “You’ll have to catch me first, Robin.”

Hermione just shook her head as she slipped her hood up, the runes glowing faintly before vanishing from sight. “Honestly, you two are worse than Fred and George. But slightly more useful in a fight.”

The trio stood in silence for a moment, now fully armored and ready.

The air thickened. The light changed.

Showtime.

“Ready?” Hermione asked.

Oliver notched an arrow. “Always.”

Harry cracked his neck and smiled beneath his mask. “Let’s go terrify the underworld.”

And together, they vanished into the shadows—one arrow, one wand, and one very sassy, overpowered wizard with a flair for the dramatic.

It was going to be a long night. And a very stylish one.

—

Adam Hunt moved with the oiled confidence of a man who’d never been told no. Every step he took out of his glass fortress of an office building was punctuated by the echo of designer soles on polished concrete. The night clung to the air like wet velvet, thick and muggy, crackling with the scent of ozone. A storm loomed, but it didn’t touch him—not Adam Hunt, self-made shark of Starling City.

He adjusted his cufflinks with all the smugness of a man who believed himself untouchable.

“Get the car,” he barked, not even glancing at the assistant trailing behind him like a nervous puppy.

“Yes, sir!” Derek fumbled to obey, practically throwing himself at the black Maybach to get the door open in time. Hunt’s personal security detail, two thick-necked men who looked like they’d been grown in a lab for intimidation, flanked him.

One of them, Jensen—shaved head, tactical suit under the expensive overcoat—stepped up.

“Clear, sir. Car’s ready.”

Before Hunt could slide in, Derek scurried up beside him. “Sir—about the Lance situation…”

Hunt didn’t stop walking. “What about it?”

“She’s… persistent. Keeps asking questions. She’s getting close.”

Adam stopped cold. He turned with all the serenity of a loaded gun and smiled. “Then stop her.”

Derek blinked. “You mean—?”

“I mean what I said. Handle it. Tonight. Quietly.”

“But—”

“I want her gone,” Hunt murmured, stepping in closer, his breath smelling faintly of a $300 scotch. “As in disappeared. As in she slips in the shower, or walks into traffic, or takes a long, unscheduled vacation to nowhere. Are we clear?”

Derek nodded, throat bobbing, fingers already dialing someone who could make bad things happen quickly.

And then—

THWIP-THUNK!

The rear passenger window shattered, glass raining down like deadly confetti. A green-fletched arrow embedded itself in the headrest where Hunt’s skull would’ve been.

Jensen drew his weapon. “Gun—!”

Too slow.

A second arrow found his throat, cutting off the warning in a wet gurgle. He collapsed.

The second guard barely managed to aim when a figure dropped from above—a black shadow with emerald edges. A boot connected with the guard’s temple. Bone cracked. The gun clattered uselessly to the ground.

Oliver Queen stood, straightening from a crouch, his green hood deepening the shadows on his face.

“Adam Hunt.”

From opposite ends of the parking lot, two more shadows melted from the night.

The first—tall, broad, clad in red and black—moved like a martial artist at rest. No wasted movement. No sound. The white eye lenses of his mask glinted beneath the streetlight.

The second figure walked like a panther on silk—smaller, sleek, wrapped in dark brown and black. The glint of her wand holstered at her hip spoke volumes. As did her gaze—sharp, calculating, Hermione Granger at her most terrifying.

Hunt backed into the car door, fumbling for balance. “Who the hell are you people?!”

Harry Potter stepped forward. He smiled under the mask. “Let’s just say we’re the overdue invoice for your sins. Or if you’re the dramatic type—which you clearly are—consider us the ghosts of corporate douchebaggery past, present, and future.”

Hunt’s mouth worked silently.

Hermione slipped a black card into his inner jacket pocket with practiced ease. “Forty million dollars. Offshore. Clean. Into that account by tomorrow night.”

“No clever bank tricks,” Harry added cheerfully. “We’re British. We invented clever bank tricks.”

“You’re insane,” Hunt snapped, some of his bravado returning. “You think you can blackmail me? Do you know who I am?”

THWIP!

An arrow buried itself in the car door, a hair from Hunt’s ear. He jumped like he’d been tasered.

“I do,” Oliver said quietly. “You’re the man who embezzled housing grants, buried audits, and had entire neighborhoods bulldozed while the city turned a blind eye. You’re the cancer.”

“And we’re the chemo,” Harry added, not missing a beat.

“You’re not the law!” Hunt spat.

“No,” Hermione said. “We’re what comes when the law fails.”

Harry stepped in close. “Do you remember Clara?”

Hunt blinked. “Who?”

“Clara Martinez. Lived three blocks from the shelter you demolished. Died of exposure last winter. Her son found her.”

“I—I don’t—”

“Of course you don’t,” Harry said, voice cutting now. “You’re too busy choosing silk ties to notice the blood on your hands.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “But we notice.”

“I’ll have you arrested,” Hunt growled, trying to bluff.

Oliver raised his bow again, eyes hard. “Try it.”

And just like that—

They were gone.

No footsteps. No noise. No exits seen.

Just silence.

Hunt stood there panting. Then, a nervous chuckle escaped his lips. “Idiots. You think you can scare me? I’m Adam Hunt. I own this city. You come near me again, and I swear I’ll—”

THWIP!

An arrow buried itself in the Maybach’s side mirror, detonating sparks.

Hunt flinched so hard he nearly crumpled.

He scrambled into the car, hands trembling as he locked the door—only to realize the driver was gone.

Across the street, perched atop a roof, the trio watched.

Oliver lowered his bow and muttered, “He’s going to try and run.”

“Let him,” Hermione said. “We’ll catch him again. And next time I’m putting that arrow through something he values.”

“His spine?” Harry offered.

“I was thinking his watch collection, but yours works too.”

Harry unmasked, shaking his hair out. “How’d I do?”

Hermione folded her arms. “B+.”

“B+? I threatened a billionaire into wetting himself and made a Dickens reference!”

“You almost hit Oliver with that last shot.”

“It was a dramatic flourish! It builds tension!”

Oliver gave them both a look. “You two done?”

“Not even close,” Harry grinned.

They vanished into the night.

Gotham had its bat.

Starling had its ghosts.

And Adam Hunt had just been marked.

—

Hunt Multinational Tower. 42nd Floor – Executive Suite. Midnight

The glass walls of the penthouse office should have felt invincible. Impenetrable. Designed to intimidate. But Adam Hunt—CEO, corporate apex predator, and self-proclaimed king of Starling City—paced like a man who just realized the moat around his castle had sprung a leak.

He downed his scotch in a single practiced motion, ice cubes clinking like teeth chattering in fear. His suit, worth more than most people’s rent for a year, hung rumpled off one shoulder. His face, normally locked in the smug neutrality of practiced confidence, now bore the jittery sheen of someone who’d been reminded that the food chain has layers.

The elevator chimed.

He whirled. “Finally.”

Detective Quentin Lance stepped out first, all trench coat and righteous indignation. His shirt was partially unbuttoned, and the ever-present scowl looked like it’d been ironed into his face. Right behind him came Detective Hilton—taller, broader, composed in that way only ex-military or saints managed. Hilton took in the room with one sweep of his eyes and tucked his badge back inside his jacket.

“Mr. Hunt,” Lance said, voice gravel-scraped and unimpressed. “You rang.”

“I was attacked,” Hunt snapped, motioning wildly toward the shattered glass coffee table. “In broad goddamn daylight—if midnight counts—and you’re walking in here like I ordered a pizza!”

Lance raised a brow. “Pretty sure we’re more expensive than pizza.”

“And way less satisfying,” Hilton added under his breath.

Hunt ignored them both and stormed toward his liquor cart. “Three of them. Hooded psychos. One with a bow.”

“Green Hood?” Lance asked, tone flat.

“Yeah. That one. And another one—dressed like a damn Mortal Kombat extra. Red hood, armor, white eyes. Ninja-type.”

Hilton scribbled something in his notebook. “And the third?”

“A woman,” Hunt said, pouring another scotch. “Smaller. Brown and black armor. Had a wand on her belt. Looked like she stepped off of Dungeons and Dragons, right before putting an arrow through Jensen’s neck!”

Lance’s brows rose. “A witch?”

“Do I look like I’m joking, Detective?”

Lance gave him a long, slow blink. “You always look like you’re joking, Mr. Hunt. Usually at someone else’s expense.”

Hunt jabbed a finger at him, spilling scotch down his cuff. “You think this is funny? Jensen’s dead. My driver vanished. I had arrows shot at my head. This is terrorism.”

Hilton stepped between them, diplomatic as ever. “No one's making light of the situation. We’re just trying to get a clear picture. So... did they say anything?”

“They threatened me!” Hunt barked. “Told me to wire forty million dollars to some offshore account or they’d come back and finish the job!”

Lance folded his arms. “Forty million? That’s oddly specific.”

“I want them found,” Hunt growled, slamming his glass down. “And I want them gone. I don’t care how. You two better get off your asses and do your jobs.”

Lance gave a half-smirk. “You know, when I was a kid, we called that obstruction. Now it’s just Tuesday in corporate.”

“Quentin,” Hilton said, warningly.

“No, no,” Hunt sneered. “Let him run his mouth. God knows it’s the only thing in this city that hasn’t been audited.”

Before Lance could retort, Hunt snapped his fingers and motioned to a man standing silently by the window—previously so still, he may as well have been part of the decor.

The figure stepped forward: tall, muscled, dressed in a tailored black suit that strained subtly against his frame. His jet-black hair was shaved short, jawline sharp enough to shave steel, and his movements precise to the point of unsettling.

“Meet your new point of contact,” Hunt said with satisfaction. “Constantine Drakon. My new head of security.”

Lance stared. “That’s a name, huh?”

Drakon inclined his head, voice like velvet laid over razors. “I’ll make sure this never happens again. I already have profiles on all three attackers. Pattern analysis is underway.”

“Funny,” Lance said. “Most people panic when arrows start flying. You look like you’re ready to catch one.”

“I’ve done that,” Drakon said.

Lance blinked. “Sure you have.”

Hunt stepped between them. “You’ll coordinate through him from now on. I’m not wasting another second with slow response times or bureaucratic tape. I want action.”

Lance turned to Hilton as they walked back to the elevator. “You know, I miss the days when guys like this just threw lawyers at their problems.”

Hilton chuckled. “Now they throw assassins in Armani.”

The elevator doors closed. For a long moment, neither man spoke.

Then Hilton said, “They weren’t wrong, you know.”

Lance didn’t turn. “Who?”

“Queen and Potter. About those hooded vigilantes.”

Lance’s jaw tensed. “Oliver Queen wouldn’t know right from wrong if it gave him a map, a compass, and a kick in the ass.”

“Still,” Hilton said, calm and measured, “a green-hooded archer. A red-hooded ghost with military-grade training. And now there's magic in the mix.”

“Great,” Lance muttered. “Just what this city needs. Hooded freaks with a flair for theatrical murder.”

Hilton shrugged. “Maybe. But when the system's broken, sometimes it takes ghosts to haunt the right people.”

Lance stared at the floor numbers blinking downward. “Or maybe we just let one monster replace another.”

Hilton gave a dry smile. “Sometimes that’s called justice.”

The doors opened to the lobby. Rain had begun to fall outside, tapping against the glass like a ticking clock.

Above them, unseen from the shadows of a rooftop, a trio watched in silence.

Oliver adjusted the scope on his bow. “He’s going to start a war.”

“Let him,” Hermione said, her voice like smoke and steel. “We’re not done haunting him yet.”

Harry grinned beside her, half-mask tugged down, his wild hair damp from the storm. “Think he’ll enjoy Act Two?”

“Only if we let him keep breathing long enough to see it,” Hermione replied.

Oliver didn’t smile, but his voice held a hint of something dark. “Then let’s make sure he doesn’t sleep soundly again.”

They disappeared into the storm.

The ghosts of Starling were just getting started.

—

Queen Manor

The Next Night – 7:43 PM

Oliver Queen stood at the top of the grand staircase, looking every bit the reluctant billionaire prince in exile. His suit was crisp. His expression? Not so much. Somewhere between I survived five years on hell island and I’d rather be back there than do this.

"Tell me again why I’m willingly walking into a Tommy Merlyn party sober?" he asked, adjusting his cufflinks like they’d personally offended him.

From below, Harry Potter looked up, hands buried in the pockets of a midnight-black suit that could’ve made Bond sweat. His crimson tie popped against the muted aesthetic, like a declaration of rebellion—and Gryffindor pride.

“You lost a bet,” he said dryly. “To me. And I quote, ‘I could beat you in a fencing match blindfolded.’ You could not.”

“I was blindfolded,” Oliver shot back.

“You also stabbed yourself in the foot,” Harry replied with a smirk. “But hey, if the limp ever comes back, you’ll fit right in with the tragic rich-boy aesthetic.”

Hermione Granger’s heels clicked softly as she descended the stairs behind Oliver, grace in motion. Her gown—backless, black, and subtly enchanted to shimmer like starlight—was doing unspeakably powerful things to physics, and Oliver had to consciously not look. Twice.

“You nodded when I suggested the event,” she said sweetly. “That counts as consent.”

“I was shirtless,” Oliver replied, eyes narrowing.

Hermione gave him a look over her shoulder that could have frozen a lava flow. “You nodded enthusiastically when I said the word ‘ballroom.’ And more importantly, I suggested the venue. Across the street from Hunt International. Largest line-of-sight ballroom in Starling.”

Harry stepped up beside her and offered an arm. “So, just to clarify: we’re throwing a hundred-thousand-dollar soirée to mess with a white-collar crime lord’s blood pressure?”

She slipped her hand through his elbow. “Exactly. Oh, and there’s shrimp.”

Oliver sighed. “I’m beginning to regret not staying on the island.”

“Too late,” Harry said brightly. “You already moisturized.”

They stepped outside into the misty Starling night. The Queen Manor’s driveway was bathed in warm light, and waiting at the edge of the cobblestone circle was the limo—a sleek, black, overcompensating monument to wealth. The driver’s seat was conspicuously empty.

Oliver frowned. “Where’s—”

The back door opened with a click.

John Diggle sat inside. Arms folded. Face carved out of granite.

Hermione blinked. “Oh. You’re not driving?”

“Nope,” Diggle replied, with the tone of a man who had been through some things. “Figured I’d avoid getting ghosted again. If you’re gonna Apparate mid-ride, I might as well ride in style.”

Harry slid in first, nodding at him like they were co-conspirators in a war that hadn’t been declared yet. “Fair play. Still mad, though?”

Diggle’s glare could have melted tungsten.

“Right,” Harry said. “Not mad. Just silently planning to hide our bodies where no one will find them.”

Hermione followed, smiling as if Diggle wasn’t seconds away from pulling a metaphorical gun on them. “Come on, John. We didn’t want you getting caught up in… public spectacle.”

Diggle stared at her. “That why you wore tactical armor under your dress that day?”

“It was cold,” Hermione said without blinking.

Oliver slid in last, settling beside Hermione with a sigh and adjusting his cuffs. Again.

“Tommy’s going to be in rare form tonight,” he muttered.

“Good,” Harry said, pulling a flask from inside his jacket with the casual elegance of a magician revealing a wand. “I brought potions.”

Diggle leaned forward slightly. “Alright, just so I’m tracking—he comes back from five years presumed dead,” he pointed at Oliver, “and you two,” his gaze cut to Harry and Hermione, “show up looking like Bond and a Victoria’s Secret witch.”

Hermione beamed. “Aw, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me in Starling.”

Diggle ignored her. “There’s whispering. Sudden disappearances. And now you’re throwing a party across the street from the guy Queen Enterprises just accused of laundering money for the Bertinelli family. That doesn’t seem strange to anyone?”

“It’s a very nice location,” Hermione said sweetly. “Plenty of chandeliers. High ceilings. Room for dancing and scheming.”

Diggle stared. “I swear, if you people turn out to be secret agents, alien operatives, or—I don’t know—actual vigilantes, I’m going to need hazard pay.”

Harry coughed. “Well—”

“Don’t,” Hermione hissed, stabbing him in the shin with her heel under the seat.

The limo began to roll through the gates of Queen Manor, gliding into the city night like a great black beast. Streetlights slid past the tinted windows like the countdown to something inevitable.

Oliver stared out the window, his jaw working.

“So how long do we have to stay?”

Hermione’s expression shifted into something dangerously radiant. “Long enough for every socialite in Starling to see us walk in.”

“And,” Harry added, “just long enough to make Adam Hunt choke on his overpriced vintage champagne.”

Diggle rubbed his face with one hand. “You people are either the most dangerous trio in Starling or the biggest damn mess I’ve ever seen.”

Oliver smirked, not looking away from the window. “Why not both?”

—

The music pulsed like a heartbeat through the marble bones of the Hunt Ballroom—deep, expensive bass undercut by the clink of champagne flutes and the calculated laughter of Starling’s elite. Everything gleamed. The floors. The gowns. Even the ice sculptures looked like they had trust funds and prenups.

A DJ in a tux spun something bass-heavy that sounded like it had been born in Berlin and raised in Ibiza. Near the bar, a model with cheekbones sharp enough to be considered edged weapons fluttered her lashes at Oliver Queen.

He didn’t notice. Too busy climbing on top of the bar like it owed him money, respect, and child support.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Oliver called, raising one hand and grinning that familiar devil-may-care grin that had once graced a hundred gossip rags and at least three TMZ specials. “I spent five years on a hellish island with no electricity, no plumbing, and—most importantly—no tequila!”

There were scattered cheers and startled laughs. The other half of the room? Still pretending not to be impressed. They were. They just hadn't cleared it with their PR reps yet.

Oliver raised a shot glass like a knight lifting Excalibur from a bottle of Patron. “To civilization. To terrible decisions. And to parties where no one gets impaled by bamboo!”

“Yet,” Harry called from across the ballroom, raising his own glass with a grin that promised both charm and imminent chaos. “Give it time. This crowd looks stabby.”

Laughter rolled through the crowd. Phones came out faster than a Quidditch snitch on espresso. Oliver downed the shot, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and dropped back to the floor with the grace of a man who had once been chased by mercenaries through a jungle in Armani.

Diggle was already at his side, jaw tight and arms crossed.

“Was that strictly necessary?” he asked, eyeing the bar like it might be harboring more bad ideas.

Oliver shrugged, snagging another shot and handing it to Diggle, who didn’t even blink.

“You mean, was it necessary to remind them I’m still the Queen of Queen Manor?” he said. “Yes. Yes, it was.”

Diggle raised an eyebrow. “You’re lucky I left my Glock in the car.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone threatened to shoot me at a party,” Oliver said casually. “Last time it was a debutante in heels. She had a terrible poker face.”

Across the ballroom, Tommy Merlyn parted the crowd like Moses with better hair. Grinning, beer in hand, his coat already hanging off one shoulder like it owed him an apology.

“There he is!” Tommy crowed, clapping Oliver on the shoulder with the force of a golden retriever on espresso. “Starling’s favorite shipwreck! You keep that tequila energy going and I’ll have to buy you a nightclub. Call it—‘Queen’s Gambit: Reloaded.’”

“I don’t dance anymore,” Oliver said.

Tommy grinned wider. “Good. Nightclubs aren’t about dancing. They’re about standing near a dance floor and looking better than everyone on it. Speaking of—” He gestured across the room with his bottle. “You see her?”

Oliver turned. Frowned. “Who?”

“The blonde in the ice-blue number near the mezzanine,” Tommy said. “She looks like Sydney Sweeney walked into a hedge fund and decided to own it.”

Oliver blinked. “Who’s Sydney Sweeney?”

Tommy recoiled. “Have you actually been on an island?”

“I literally was,” Oliver deadpanned.

“Right. Five years. No streaming. Tragic.” Tommy shook his head, like he'd personally mourned the loss of Oliver's pop culture education. “Anyway, she’s hot. She’s alone. And if anyone in this room deserves a night with a goddamn ten, it’s you.”

Oliver narrowed his eyes. “What’s her name?”

Before Tommy could answer, a voice as precise as a scalpel and twice as dangerous cut through the air behind them.

“She’s off the table.”

Both men turned. Hermione Granger stood there in an elegant wine-colored dress that looked like it cost more than most cars but still somehow radiated don’t mess with me, I’ve read Machiavelli in Latin. She sipped her wine with the effortless elegance of someone who could out-debate a UN council and break your nose without creasing her dress.

Tommy raised a brow. “You know her?”

Hermione didn’t take her eyes off the woman in blue, who was now politely smiling at two silver-haired socialites and somehow managing to look both regal and bored.

“Her name is Daphne Greengrass.”

Tommy blinked. “Still hot.”

“She’s also Harry’s ex-girlfriend,” Hermione said flatly. “And the love of his life.”

Oliver blinked. “Wait, what?”

Hermione tilted her head slightly. “You know how people say, ‘it’s complicated’? Multiply that by about seven horcruxes, three wars, and a dead snake.”

As if on cue, at the far end of the ballroom, Harry turned mid-conversation. His laughter stuttered, flickered, and died in his throat like a candle caught in a hurricane.

His eyes found Daphne Greengrass.

And he went still.

Not in a dramatic, fall-to-his-knees kind of way. Just... quiet. Too quiet. Like the moment before a storm hits and even the birds shut up.

Hermione saw it. Of course she did.

Saw how his whole posture shifted. The way his fingers tightened ever so slightly around his glass. How the smile he’d been wearing drained out of his face like someone had pulled the plug.

Diggle noticed too. “That the ex?”

Hermione nodded. “The one that got away.”

“She looks... intense,” Diggle said.

“She looks like someone who could ruin your life in French,” Hermione replied.

Across the room, Harry passed his drink to the waiter without a word. His jaw tightened. His eyes, always so bright, turned distant.

“I’ll be right back,” he muttered.

“Mate,” said Oliver, suddenly stepping into his path like a six-foot green-eyed traffic light. “You sure about this?”

Harry looked at him. Smiled a little. It wasn’t a happy smile.

“Not remotely.”

Then he walked.

Straight through the crowd. Past billionaires, influencers, and low-rent Bond villains in designer suits. Each step was quiet, deliberate, and deadly calm.

Like he wasn’t walking across a ballroom.

Like he was walking into war.

And Daphne? She turned. Their eyes met. Her lips parted—whether to speak, to gasp, or to curse, even she didn’t seem to know.

The battlefield had shifted.

And the war... just got personal.

Oliver Queen wasn’t known for being patient. Stealthy, maybe. Broody? Absolutely. But patient? Not on the menu. So when he caught Hermione Granger's arm and smoothly guided her behind an artfully draped curtain of ivy and LED fairy lights, it was with the precision of a man who had dodged more arrows than questions in his lifetime.

“Alright,” he said, settling against the wall like he owned it, arms crossed, voice low but sharp, “start talking.”

Hermione glanced back toward the ballroom, then down at her wine glass. She took a sip with the kind of elegance that only came from years of banquets, blood, and British repression. “About what exactly?”

Oliver arched an eyebrow. “Don’t insult both of us. You know exactly what. Daphne Greengrass. Harry. That look. The one that said ‘I know where you buried the body and I brought marshmallows.’”

Hermione gave him a flat look. “You have a very unhealthy relationship with metaphors.”

“And you’re stalling,” he said, smiling faintly.

She sighed, rolling her eyes toward the gilded ceiling. “Fine. But this doesn’t leave the ivy wall, understood?”

“My lips are sealed,” he said. “Unless there’s bourbon involved.”

“Figures,” she muttered. Then: “She believed him.”

Oliver blinked. “That’s it?”

“No, that’s everything,” Hermione corrected. “When Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire, the whole school turned on him. They thought he cheated—chasing glory, fame, the usual slander. Even Ron—his best friend—walked away.”

Oliver winced. “That the redhead with the ‘I peaked emotionally at fifteen’ energy?”

Hermione snorted. “That’s generous, but yes. That Ron.”

“And Daphne?”

“She didn’t flinch. Slytherin girl, yes, but sharp. Observant. Asked the right questions. She watched Harry—really watched—and made up her own mind. She believed him when it mattered. When no one else did.”

Oliver’s mouth twitched. “That’s rare.”

“Exactly,” she said. “That’s how it started. Not some whirlwind romance or Shakespearean drama. Just—trust. Quiet moments. A look across the Great Hall when everyone else looked away.”

“And then the Yule Ball?”

Hermione nodded. “She was his date. Wore this deep green gown that shut up half the Gryffindor table for a week. She and Harry danced like they were the only people in the room. Then the Second Task happened—Triwizard Tournament, remember?”

“Right. Something about mermaids and moral blackmail.”

“She was his hostage. One of the people he had to rescue from the Black Lake. You can imagine what that did to Harry’s protective instincts.”

Oliver’s brow lifted. “So they were a thing?”

“They were everything,” Hermione said softly. “Until they weren’t.”

“Let me guess—Ron had opinions.”

“Oh, Ron had a library of opinions. Slytherins were still the enemy in his mind. But it wasn’t just Ron. Everyone looked sideways at them. Called her a traitor. Called him worse.”

“But they stuck it out.”

“For a while,” Hermione said, her voice tightening. “Then came the graveyard.”

Oliver straightened, sensing the shift.

“Final task of the Tournament,” she said. “Portkey. Graveyard. Voldemort returned. Cedric Diggory died. Harry watched it all—came back screaming. And bleeding. And broken.”

Oliver was silent.

“He pushed her away after that,” Hermione continued. “Told her she’d never be safe around him. That the people he loved got hurt. She didn’t buy it. Begged him to stay. Fought him every inch.”

“And he still left,” Oliver guessed.

Hermione nodded. “We disappeared after that. Me, Harry, Sirius. Off the grid. League of Assassins.”

Oliver blinked. “Wow. That escalated quickly.”

“Sirius had old debts. Ra’s al Ghul owed him. We needed information, resources... and ways to destroy Horcruxes. Ra’s had all of it. At a cost.”

Oliver let out a low whistle. “You trained with the League?”

“Every day,” Hermione said. “We bled, we broke, we survived. That’s where Harry... changed.”

Oliver’s gaze narrowed. “The Lazarus Pit?”

“He used it once. To burn the scar away. But it didn’t just heal him. It cleansed him. The darkness—Voldemort’s piece of soul—it screamed all the way down. Took something out of him, too. Left scars you can’t see.”

Oliver said nothing for a beat. “And when you came back...?”

“Dumbledore was dead. Voldemort had control. The war began in earnest. But Daphne... she’d moved on.”

“Or tried to.”

Hermione’s smile was razor-thin. “She became someone else. Buried the past, like the rest of us. Until now.”

They both turned slightly, eyes sweeping the ballroom where Harry stood frozen in the crowd, just feet from Daphne. The air between them practically crackled.

Oliver rubbed a hand across his mouth. “She doesn’t look like a girl ready for polite small talk.”

“No,” Hermione agreed. “She’s not here to chat about the hors d'oeuvres. She’s here for something else.”

“Closure?” Oliver asked.

“Maybe,” she said. “Or blood.”

Oliver laughed, low and dry. “With Harry, it’s never just one.”

Hermione tilted her head. “You really think Tommy’ll try to flirt with her?”

“If he has a death wish.”

“Oh, Daphne won’t kill him,” Hermione said sweetly. “She’ll correct his grammar until he begs for the sweet release of death.”

Oliver gave a low whistle. “Remind me not to get on her bad side.”

“You? You’re safe. You speak in complete sentences.”

They watched as Daphne finally turned. Her eyes met Harry’s—cool, clear, but burning underneath with too many memories to count.

Oliver exhaled slowly. “That look…”

“First love,” Hermione murmured. “Or final war.”

He glanced at her. “With Harry Potter, is there even a difference?”

Hermione said nothing.

She didn’t have to.

—

Harry took a breath like a man about to walk into a duel. Maybe he was. Only this time, the battlefield smelled like French perfume and champagne instead of blood and smoke.

He wove through the crowd with measured steps, his eyes never leaving her.

Daphne Greengrass stood near the ballroom’s far edge, half-lit by the fairy lights threaded through the ivy arch above. She hadn’t moved in ten minutes—not since she saw him. She held her glass with the studied grace of a debutante and the lethal stillness of a predator. Her ice-blonde hair coiled elegantly over one shoulder, and her dress—icy blue, silk, and sin—looked like it had been stitched from icy secrets.

“Greengrass,” he said, stopping just short of her. He didn’t smile. Not yet.

She tilted her head slightly, her eyes raking him with surgical precision. “Potter.”

Harry’s mouth twitched. “Still saying my name like it’s a diagnosis, I see.”

She sipped her drink, entirely unbothered. “Still showing up like a plot twist no one asked for.”

“That’s fair.” He took one step closer, close enough now to catch the glint of sapphire earrings and sharper sarcasm. “Dance with me.”

She blinked, once. “You’re serious.”

“Painfully. Tragically. Romantically.”

“You remember the last time we danced?”

“Oh, vividly. You wore green. I wore a charming shade of terminal anxiety.”

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “You also wore those tragic dress robes like you’d lost a bet.”

“I did,” Harry said solemnly. “To McGonagall. She won. My pride didn’t.”

A breath of laughter escaped her—low and reluctant, but real. Her lips twitched.

He held out his hand, palm up, casual but certain. “Come on, Greengrass. You owe me one civil interaction.”

“That’s a bold claim. I distinctly remember saving your arse many times.”

Harry blinked. “You mean when you distracted Zabini so I could nick the elf-made mead?”

“I mean when I stopped you from quoting Muggle pop songs at Pansy Parkinson mid-duel.”

“…That was strategic psychological warfare.”

“That was you trying to impress me by invoking the Backstreet Boys.”

He coughed. “No one was impressed?”

“Your owl stopped speaking to you for a week.”

He grinned then—bright and dangerous. “You remember a lot.”

Daphne swirled her champagne. “Some things stick.”

Harry didn’t drop his hand. “One dance. No war. No politics. No hexes under the table.”

She eyed him like he was a puzzle that came with a warning label.

Then, slowly, she placed her hand in his.

“One dance,” she said. “And if you step on my foot—”

“You’ll transfigure me into a slug and feed me to the garden gnomes. I remember your vows of violence fondly.”

He led her onto the floor, the orchestra swelling just enough to fill the space between words. They settled into a slow rhythm, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his at her waist.

People watched. They always did. But neither of them looked away.

“Everyone’s staring,” she murmured.

“Jealous,” Harry said. “It’s not every day they see a Greengrass slumming it with a war hero.”

She narrowed her eyes. “If you say 'from the wrong side of the wand,' I’m hexing you into next Tuesday.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He smirked. “Besides, we both know I’m far too pretty for Tuesday.”

Daphne gave a soft, incredulous laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“You always did say I aged like a bad decision.”

“I said you aged like firewhisky left in the sun. Overheated, dramatic, and slightly flammable.”

“Semantics,” Harry said airily. “Also—accurate.”

They spun gently, the world narrowing to the shared gravity between them. Every step felt familiar and newly dangerous, like dancing on the edge of a memory they’d both locked away.

Daphne’s gaze shifted, her tone quieter. “Why now, Potter?”

Harry hesitated. Just for a second.

“Because I’ve finally stopped bleeding long enough to remember how to breathe,” he said. “And because I never should’ve left you by the Black Lake.”

Her jaw tensed. “You did.”

“I know. And I hated myself for it. Every day.”

“You had your reasons,” she said carefully.

“I did. They were just crap reasons.”

They didn’t speak for a moment. The music swelled again, and they turned in time with the notes. Her fingers twitched slightly in his, like she remembered something, and was trying not to.

“I lost you,” Harry said, voice low. “But if this dance is the only thing I get—I’ll take it.”

She looked up at him—really looked—and the walls she’d so carefully built cracked just enough for a glimmer to slip through.

“One dance,” she whispered.

Harry gave her a slow, devastating smile. “I plan to make it the most memorable waltz of your life.”

“Big words for a man who once tripped over his own cloak and fell face-first into a punch bowl.”

“In my defense,” Harry said, dipping her with a flourish that made more than a few heads turn, “the punch hit first.”

Daphne laughed—sharp and sweet and completely unguarded. She let herself fall into the rhythm, into him, just a little.

When the final notes faded, neither of them moved to let go.

“Potter,” she said softly.

“Greengrass,” he returned, eyes never leaving hers.

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

“Of course not,” he said, smiling that maddening smile again. “It’s just one dance.”

And then, quieter, his thumb brushing the back of her hand—

“But I hope it’s the first of many.”

She didn’t answer.

She didn’t have to.

Her grip tightened slightly.

That was answer enough.

—

The music faded into the luxurious hum of conversation—champagne flutes clinking, laughter too polished to be real, and the rustle of designer gowns that cost more than Harry’s flat. But neither he nor Daphne moved far from the dance floor. Not yet.

His hand still rested at the curve of her waist—warm, steady—while hers remained curled, elegant and precise, around his fingers like she was indulging him in a rare moment of affection. Or control. Probably both.

The ballroom, for all its wealth and wonder, seemed to exhale around them, as if the world itself had paused to watch them—Potter and Greengrass. Gryffindor's golden boy and Slytherin’s ice queen, holding court in the middle of London high society like it was just another day at Hogwarts. Just with fewer curses and better lighting.

Harry raised a brow, crooked smirk sliding across his face. “So… in the interest of small talk—what’s a Pureblood Princess like you doing mingling with Muggles tonight? Lose a bet? Exiled from the Greengrass manor for excessive sass and hoarding blackmail material?”

Daphne tilted her head, blonde waves brushing the bare skin of her shoulder. Her lips curved, slow and deadly. “Charming as ever, Potter.”

“I like to think of myself as a public service,” he said, lifting her hand just enough to press a mock kiss to her knuckles. “Keeping Britain’s wizarding elite humble, one smirk at a time.”

“Is that what this is?” she asked, eyebrow arching. “A smirk?”

“No, love. This is a smoulder,” Harry corrected, leaning in. “Do keep up.”

She let out a soft, incredulous laugh and took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving his. “Contrary to the Hogwarts gossip mill, not all purebloods hole up in crumbling manors counting galleons and muttering about blood supremacy.”

“Shocking,” Harry murmured. “Next you’ll tell me you don’t actually bathe in unicorn milk or hex your house-elves for blinking too loudly.”

She gave him a look. “Don’t be ridiculous. We only hex them if they wear Crocs.”

Harry blinked. “You know what Crocs are?”

“I sit on the board of a textile conglomerate and attend Paris Fashion Week, Potter. Of course I know what Crocs are. I have nightmares about them.”

He grinned, eyes dancing. “Alright, now you’re just trying to seduce me.”

“That would imply I was trying,” she replied, cool and quick as always.

“Ouch.” He placed a hand to his heart like she'd just Avada Kedavra’d his pride. “Hit me again, Greengrass. This time aim for the ego.”

She gave a delicate shrug, her expression somewhere between amused and unbothered. “The Greengrass family has always operated in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. My great-grandfather owned textile mills in Yorkshire. Silk, lace, spell-woven satin. We were trading with French couturiers before Voldemort learned how to spell ‘mudblood.’”

Harry blinked. “Are you telling me you’re not just a Pureblood Princess, but a literal fashion heiress?”

“Not just,” she said, swirling her glass. “I inherited a board seat, a family fortune, and a marketing team that thinks having a Veela on payroll boosts sales.”

He gave her a look. “Do you?”

Daphne smirked. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Oh, I definitely would.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve fought off three hostile takeovers this year alone, negotiated a deal with Muggle Vogue that nearly ended in bloodshed, and had to fire a CEO who thought Wi-Fi was a form of dark magic.”

“Sounds like you’re terrifying in a pantsuit.”

“I am the pantsuit, Potter.”

Harry let out a low whistle. “Merlin help the poor bastard who tries to mansplain quarterly revenue to you.”

“One did,” Daphne said airily. “Now he’s the Chief Executive of Beverage Procurement. At the Starbucks near Knockturn Alley.”

Harry burst into laughter. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “You always did appreciate a bit of Slytherin justice.”

“I always appreciated a woman who knows how to make someone cry without raising her voice.”

Their eyes met again—this time longer. Deeper.

Then, after a beat, Harry nudged the moment back to levity.

“Still, I’ve gotta say, I came to this party expecting a few High Society snobs, some overpriced canapés, and maybe some selfies with some supermodels. Instead, I find the most dangerous girl in Slytherin taking over the fashion world like it’s just another Monday.”

Daphne gave him a cool once-over. “And here I thought I’d escaped Hogwarts gossip for good. Yet here you are—tragically underdressed, morally upright, and one inappropriate joke away from scandal.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “I’m deeply offended. This is Armani.”

“That suit’s decent,” she admitted, giving him an approving glance. “Much better than that Yule Ball disaster.”

Harry groaned. “You swore you’d never bring that up.”

“I lied,” she said, sipping her drink with queenly grace. “I’ve got the photo framed in my office.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. Right next to the Prophet headline: ‘Boy Who Lived Caught in Broom Cupboard with Unknown Blonde—Dobby Says Scandalous.’”

Harry winced. “I was checking for Nargles.”

She looked entirely unbothered. “Of course you were.”

Silence stretched again—but it wasn’t awkward.

It was warm. Buzzing. Golden.

Then Harry said, voice quieter now, softer somehow, “It’s nice. This. Talking to you. No Death Eaters. No Dark Lords. No world-ending stakes. Just… me. You. Champagne. Small talk.”

Daphne looked up at him, something shifting in her gaze.

“For once,” she said, “I don’t mind it.”

He brushed his fingers along hers again—tentative, like it might break the spell. “Maybe we could… do it again sometime.”

She tilted her head. “You mean small talk?”

“I mean… a conversation where you only insult me mildly, and I pretend I’m not hopelessly obsessed with every word you say.”

Daphne was silent for a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Then her lips quirked.

“I might be convinced. On one condition.”

Harry leaned in, barely a breath between them. “Which is?”

“You bring better champagne,” she said smoothly. “And absolutely no references to the Backstreet Boys.”

Harry let out a laugh. “Not even if I choreograph it?”

“Not even if you summon backup dancers.”

He stepped even closer, voice low and teasing in her ear. “So… no ‘I Want It That Way?’ Not even a little?”

Daphne narrowed her eyes. “Potter…”

He straightened up, hands raised. “Alright, alright. You win.”

“Obviously.”

And for the first time in a long time, Harry Potter—war hero, Vigilante, Legend—felt like just a man. Laughing. Flirting. Alive.

One dance. One conversation.

And the beginning of something absolutely, irrevocably, and undeniably dangerous.

—

Harry’s gaze flicked past her for just a moment, long enough to catch sight of a platinum-blond head bobbing near the champagne fountain, and it reminded him of a certain ferret with an aura of smug entitlement so thick it probably required its own Floo license.

He turned back to Daphne, one brow arched in mock horror.

“Tell me something,” he said, swirling his drink with the dramatic flair of someone preparing to deliver very bad news. “And I’m only asking because I value the truth, and also because Fred and George practically shouted it across the Leaky Cauldron over fish and chips. Is it true?”

She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. “You’ll have to be a bit more specific. ‘Is it true’ covers everything from ‘Did Luna Lovegood hex the Minister’s trousers off?’ to ‘Has McGonagall finally turned Filch into a cat and left him at a Muggle shelter?’”

Harry gave her a look—half pleading, half incredulous.

“Don’t make me say it. Please. I’ve suffered enough.”

Her lips twitched. “You mean the Astoria thing?”

He visibly winced. “So it is true? Astoria... Malfoy?”

Daphne sighed. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Harry made a dramatic show of clutching his heart. “And here I thought Voldemort was the greatest evil we’d face in our lifetime.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, smirking. “At least Voldemort had a dress code.”

Harry laughed—sharp and genuine—and took a sip of champagne. “So it’s official, then? Your sister has decided to bind herself in holy matrimony to a sentient ferret.”

“She says she’s in love.”

“With Malfoy?”

Daphne nodded, deadpan. “It’s either a tragic love story or a very specific form of self-sabotage. Hard to tell with Astoria.”

“Yikes.”

“Oh, it gets worse. She’s already started redecorating Malfoy Manor. Narcissa's apparently been crying into her port every night because her precious ‘Dragon’ won’t be hers anymore.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “You know, I’d feel bad for her if she hadn’t spent most of the war pretending I didn’t exist unless I was bleeding on her carpets.”

“She’s lucky Astoria didn’t set fire to the place and start over. She did get rid of the giant peacock portrait, though.”

Harry blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Turned the room into a wine cellar.”

He held up his glass. “To Astoria, then. May her taste in décor be better than her taste in men.”

Daphne clinked her glass against his, her smirk softening into something more amused than sharp.

They stood there for a moment, champagne fizzing gently between them, the music from the ballroom fading into a slower, silkier rhythm. Somewhere behind them, someone shrieked with laughter, but it felt far away—like a different party altogether.

Harry tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a bit. “So. You’ve told me the fate of your sister. But what about you, Greengrass? Any scandalous engagements I should be preparing to toast while suppressing the overwhelming urge to set fire to the cake?”

Daphne let out a soft laugh, low and rich. “You’re very dramatic tonight.”

“I’m British. We invented subtle drama and emotional repression.”

“And yet,” she said, stepping closer, eyes gleaming, “you’re about two drinks away from quoting Shakespeare at me and challenging someone to a duel.”

“I am the Boy Who Lived. Comes with the territory.”

She studied him for a moment. “You really want to know?”

He shrugged, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re available for more of my terrible flirting or if I need to redirect my affections toward McGonagall.”

Daphne let out a soft snort. “McGonagall would eat you alive.”

“Only if I’m lucky.”

She gave him a look that danced somewhere between exasperated and charmed. “Tracey and Pansy tried playing matchmaker. Dozens of times. They even made a spreadsheet.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “A spreadsheet? That’s terrifying. Was there a points system?”

“Of course. House compatibility, blood status, bank balance, wand length—”

“Wand length? Merlin’s bollocks, I didn’t realize the Ministry was involved.”

“Honestly, I think Pansy just liked pretending she was in charge of a dating agency.”

“So,” he said, tapping the rim of his glass with a knuckle, “no Prince Charming yet?”

“No,” Daphne replied, voice softer now. “Because none of them felt right.”

He glanced at her, something serious flickering behind the humor. “Why not?”

Her eyes dipped to her glass. “Because I never really got over my first love.”

The words were simple, but they landed like a spell between them—soft, echoing, impossible to ignore.

Harry blinked. “Oh.”

“I was fourteen,” she said, a faint, wistful smile playing on her lips. “It was stupid and complicated and messy. But it was real. The kind of real that makes everything else afterwards feel like background noise.”

He swallowed. “And let me guess—he was reckless, sarcastic, and had an unhealthy relationship with saving people?”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled. “Also had a tendency to show up at the worst possible times with terrible hair and better intentions.”

Harry looked mock-offended. “Excuse you, my hair is iconic.”

“Iconically tragic.”

He leaned in a little, voice dropping. “So you’re telling me there’s a chance?”

Daphne gave him a long look, then slowly—infuriatingly—tilted her head. “I didn’t say I was still hung up on you, Potter.”

“No,” he said, grinning, “but you didn’t say you weren’t.”

She raised her flute to her lips. “I plead the fifth.”

“This is America, but we are British.”

“Well, then I invoke my right to remain delightfully mysterious.”

Harry set his drink down on a passing tray and offered her his hand, palm up, gentlemanly and a little theatrical.

“In that case,” he said, “mystery lady, may I have another dance?”

Daphne eyed him for a long moment, like she was weighing the pros and cons of handing her heart over to a man who wore dragon-hide boots and still said blimey unironically.

Then she took his hand.

“Just don’t step on my toes, Potter.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured, pulling her close as the music swelled, “but no promises. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

They stepped onto the dance floor, and the crowd melted around them. For a moment, it was just the two of them. The boy who lived, and the girl who never really stopped waiting.

And maybe, just maybe, first love was about to get a second chance.

—

The final notes of the jazz number drifted off like a sigh, and the golden light of the ballroom seemed to dim in reverence. Harry Potter wasn’t sure what had him warmer—the expensive champagne, or the way Daphne Greengrass's fingers were twined with his like they’d always belonged there. Her skin was soft, warm. Dangerous.

"Still brooding, Mr. Potter?" Daphne purred, tilting her head, lips curving. "Or just thinking about asking me to the next one?"

Harry smirked. "Depends. You planning to keep leading every dance like you’re auditioning for a spy film?"

"Only if you keep looking at me like you’re one sultry piano solo away from pinning me against a column."

He choked on a laugh. "Bloody hell, woman. You trying to kill me before the mission even starts?"

Before she could answer with something even more lethal to his sanity, the unmistakable sound of Hermione Granger’s Practical Yet Elegant Heels clicked against the ballroom floor.

"Harry," she said, her voice quiet, tight with urgency. She glanced between the two of them, and her face scrunched with a grimace that was 30% apology, 70% crisis management. "I hate to do this, but... we’ve got that thing?"

Harry blinked, instantly sliding back into reality. "Oh. Right. The thing."

"With the files," Hermione added, nodding with the exaggerated subtlety of someone who desperately wanted to avoid dropping the phrase "vigilante op" at a black-tie gala.

"And Oliver," she added, her voice now a whisper. "Who is parked illegally. Again."

Daphne turned her cool blue eyes on Hermione. "This wouldn’t happen to be one of those missions you used to call Harry’s 'Saving People Thing,' would it?"

Harry winced. "We agreed to bury that phrase in the Room of Requirement and never speak of it again."

"So that’s a yes, then," Daphne murmured, amusement dancing in her voice.

Hermione gave Daphne a tight smile and mouthed sorry before vanishing into the crowd like the world’s most elegant smoke bomb.

Harry shifted, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, I—"

Daphne held up a finger. "Let me guess. You were going to say you’re sorry, that you’ll explain later, that this wasn’t how the night was supposed to go."

He blinked. "...That was exactly what I was going to say."

She stepped closer, lips twitching. "You really think I came out tonight wearing a dress this tight without knowing Potter was going to get called away to go save some endangered kittens from a drug syndicate or whatever it is you do these days?"

"Technically it’s a corrupt land baron tonight," he said, dryly. "But I do appreciate the vote of confidence."

Daphne laughed—not brittle or performative, but rich and real. "Harry, you could be covered in blood and debris, and you’d still show up tomorrow to pick me up with flowers and an awkward apology."

"I was thinking coffee and a pastry at any place you like."

"Even better," she said, and before he could react, she pulled a small black card edged in silver foil from her purse. "My number. Personal line. If you give it to anyone, I’ll hex you."

He blinked. "You think I’d just give away your number?"

She arched a brow. "You gave Neville my signed photo of the Harpies calendar."

"In my defense, he was dying."

"He had a nosebleed."

"It was a serious nosebleed."

Daphne stepped forward, tucked the card into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket with practiced ease, then let her hand linger just a little longer than necessary. Her eyes didn’t waver from his.

"Call me tomorrow," she said, voice low. "I’ll forgive the cape and the secret missions. But only if you let me pick the restaurant."

"Deal," he said, slightly breathless.

Then she leaned in, lips brushing his cheek in a kiss so deliberate, so perfectly placed it felt like it had been rehearsed.

She pulled back, winked, and said, "Go save the world, Potter. Just don’t make a habit of missing dessert."

With a final, devastating smile, she turned and strode away, hips swaying like a challenge.

"I am definitely calling her tomorrow," Harry muttered, adjusting his jacket.

From the comms, a familiar voice called out:

"Oi, Romeo! If you’re done eye-fucking Daphne Greengrass, the Batmobile is double-parked and the land baron's goons aren't going to tase themselves!"

Harry sighed. "We don't have a Batmobile, Oliver!"

Oliver Queen’s voice floated back: "Says the guy who wears body armor."

Harry rolled his eyes and jogged after Hermione and Oliver, already shedding the tux in favor of the shadows.

—

By the time Harry reached the 26th-floor stairwell landing, the world of champagne flutes and string quartets had all but vanished. The warmth of the ballroom, the soft glow of candlelight on Daphne Greengrass’ cheekbones—gone. Replaced by flickering fluorescent lights, concrete walls, and the scent of industrial cleaner mixed with adrenaline.

Hermione was already crouched near a rusty utility pipe, her fingers working with surgical precision to lock a gauntlet onto her wrist. She looked every inch the war mage-turned-shadow operative in her bodysuit—matte black interwoven with deep chocolate brown accents. The suit was tailored to move like skin and cut like armor, reinforced with Ukranian Ironbelly scales and laced with acromantula silk. Over her face, a subtle shimmer betrayed the presence of runes—layered like a veil of obscurity that made her features blur at the edges, like smoke in moonlight.

Without even looking up, she tossed a bundled set of gear toward him.

“Try not to wrinkle it,” she said coolly.

Harry caught it one-handed, arching an eyebrow. “Well, good evening to you too, Granger. Love the murderous librarian aesthetic—very you.”

Hermione gave a barely-there smirk. “Focus, Potter. You’ve got four minutes and twenty-seven seconds until Hunt’s bodyguard finishes his second glass of Macallan and decides to do a perimeter check. Tick tock.”

Harry unzipped his jacket, muttering, “Blimey. I miss the days when our biggest concern was Snape catching us out past curfew.”

Oliver stood a few steps higher in the stairwell, arms crossed over his armored chest. He looked like he'd just finished judging both of them and found them lacking. His forest green hood was drawn up, casting his face in shadows except for the hard glint of those seasoned vigilante eyes. The bow strapped across his back gleamed with quiet threat.

“Took you long enough,” he said. “We figured you’d gotten lost. Or distracted.”

Harry gave him a knowing grin. “I was dancing. Some of us can juggle crime-fighting and a social life, Queen.”

Oliver’s tone didn’t change. “Some of us aren’t thirteen-year-olds trapped in grown-up bodies.”

Harry tugged on the segmented red and black bodysuit Hermione had prepared for him. The armor felt familiar—light but solid, flexible across the joints, with reinforced dragonhide plating across the torso and shoulders. A red hood settled over his head, and a sleek black mask snapped into place across his face with a faint magical click. The eye lenses blinked to life, overlaying his vision with a soft HUD Hermione had coded herself.

As he adjusted the twin batons at his back, he asked, “By the way—anyone seen Diggle? He’s usually the guy glaring at us like a disappointed uncle.”

Oliver didn’t hesitate.

“I knocked him out,” he said flatly. “Put him in a supply closet.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry—what?”

“He was going to stop us.”

“So you just—stuffed Digg in a closet like last season’s winter coat?”

Oliver was already moving, not bothering to respond.

Hermione sighed and followed. “For the record, I told him not to. Said we should talk to Diggle.”

“And yet,” Harry muttered, tightening his gloves as he brought up the rear, “here we are. Casual felonies and poor interpersonal decisions.”

They emerged into the biting wind of the rooftop seconds later. Gotham’s sleeker, shinier cousin—Starling City—spread out beneath them in cold glass and sharp angles. Directly across from their perch was the Hunt Multinational Tower. Midway up the glass fortress, lights glowed on the 38th floor—bright, clinical, and suspiciously active for this hour of night.

Oliver was already notching a grappling arrow into his bow.

“Top floor,” he said. “Thermal scan picked up three signatures. Hunt. His bodyguard. And someone who probably didn’t know they’d be signing away their soul when they walked in.”

Harry stepped beside him, peering across the gap between buildings.

“You know,” he said lightly, “I miss the days when villains wore cloaks and shouted about blood purity. These corporate twats don’t even have flair.”

Oliver loosed the arrow without another word. It sailed across the chasm and embedded into the opposite rooftop with a satisfying thunk. The cable went taut.

He turned to them. “We move fast, silent, in and out.”

Harry tilted his head. “You know I don’t do silent, right?”

Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “We noticed,” before stepping up to the ledge and gripping the line.

“Wait,” Harry said. “Are we all pretending this makes more sense than using brooms?”

Hermione launched herself across without another word, a blur of black and brown against the city lights.

Oliver followed, fluid and practiced.

Harry stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at the dizzying drop and then up at the cable. He exhaled.

“This is such a muggle way to die,” he muttered. “Mum would be proud. Or horrified. Hard to say.”

He grabbed the line, muttered a quick “Ventus Stabilis,” and swung.

The wind howled in his ears as the world blurred into neon and night. His landing was a little less graceful than the others—more of a tumble-then-slide—but he stuck the dismount.

Mostly.

“Ten out of ten,” he said breathlessly. “Would recommend. Thrilling. Suicidal. Very on-brand.”

Hermione was already crouched at the rooftop’s edge, wand glowing softly in one hand, the other tapping her bracer to cycle through security frequency scans.

Oliver glanced at her. “East vent is alarmed. West side window?”

“Leads to the executive lounge. Minimal coverage. Cameras looped for twenty seconds every three minutes,” Hermione said. “Next cycle starts... now.”

Oliver nodded. “Move.”

He clipped a thin cord and began rappelling down the side of the glass tower like a man with something to prove.

Hermione followed, sleek and silent.

Harry peered over the edge, sighed, and muttered, “I swear, the things I do for friendship and morally grey justice.”

Then he dropped off the ledge after them.

Constantine Drakon stepped off the elevator like a man who chewed bullets for breakfast and asked for seconds. The steel-blue lighting of the high-rise glinted off his jaw like a whetstone, the cut of his suit crisp and lethal. He walked like a coiled spring with a grudge, and his eyes—those cold, wolfish eyes—swept the corridor with razor precision.

"Positions," he growled, voice like gravel dragged over asphalt.

The five armed men behind him snapped into motion. Each one wore sleek, matte-black tactical gear—custom-fitted, expensive, military-grade. Not rent-a-cop trash. These were killers on retainer.

Drakon turned toward the glass office where Adam Hunt stood, half-empty tumbler of Glenfiddich in hand, pacing like a man whose sense of invincibility had suddenly caught a cold.

"Elevator cam’s live," Hunt said tightly. He tapped the tablet on his desk, showing a feed from the lobby’s main lift. "We’ll see them coming."

Drakon didn't smile. He never did.

"If they’re stupid enough to come through the front door, they won’t make it five feet."

And right then—the entire skyline went dark.

The floor. The tower. Hell, even the streets below flickered into blackness like a dying heartbeat.

The emergency lights stuttered on. Red. Dim. Flashing like a warning. Like blood.

Hunt spun, panic cracking through his voice. "What the hell is this?!"

"It’s them," Drakon muttered. His hand dipped into his jacket and came out with a matte-black sidearm, sleek and deadly. "They’re already here."

Crash.

A body flew through the frosted glass window near reception.

Thud.

Then another.

Gunfire erupted down the hall. Screams. Someone was yelling, someone else was gurgling, and then—

A figure dropped from the ceiling like the angel of medieval vengeance.

Green leather. Hooded. Bow drawn.

One arrow. One knee.

The guard dropped screaming.

Oliver Queen didn’t say a word as he moved—he didn’t need to. His bow was poetry in motion, limbs flexing, arrows singing. His face, all hard lines and sharper resolve, said everything. You should have stayed home tonight.

Another figure danced through the chaos. Red and black armor, red hood with a blank black mask. Batons spun, cracked, snapped. One guard took a baton to the teeth.

"Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to play with sharp objects?" Harry said with classic British venom. He pivoted, using the second baton to jab hard into another man’s ribs. "And to wear a proper cup?"

A gun came up behind him. He twisted.

Bang.

And vanished.

Into feathers.

A shriek echoed.

A raven flapped madly toward the ceiling.

Constantine Drakon blinked. Just once.

"The hell—?" he started.

"Never underestimate a British man’s ability to be extra," a dry voice said behind him.

Hermione.

Dressed in deep black and warm brown, armor tailored to move like a second skin. Her hood framed her face—calm, calculated, and brilliant. Her wand flicked in one hand. In the other, a stiletto knife gleamed like a whispered threat.

Thunk.

The knife buried itself into Drakon’s chest. Not fatal. Not yet.

He gasped. Staggered. Looked down at the spreading stain.

"Wha—who the hell are you people?"

Hermione tilted her head. "Reparations."

Back in the office, Adam Hunt was practically screaming into the phone.

"Police! I need—Goddammit, I said now! They’re here! In the building! With weapons—"

Glass shattered.

A thrum of bowstring.

An arrow whistled past Hunt’s ear, close enough to trim a hair.

Thunk.

Right into the CPU of his sleek, overpriced computer.

The arrowhead blinked.

Blue.

Tiny circuitry came to life inside. A micro-hack sequence ignited—encrypted signal beaming back to a hidden server like a digital parasite.

Hunt stared at the screen. Accounts started draining.

"No. No no no—" he said, watching forty million dollars vanish.

Not to one place.

But thousands.

Micropayments. Dispersals. Pre-programmed deposits routed to the victims of his greed.

Families. Employees. Disenfranchised workers. Old pensions. Closed accounts.

Justice, one line of code at a time.

The elevator dinged.

Cops stormed the floor.

Guns out.

Flashlights bouncing through smoke and strobing red.

"FREEZE! HANDS UP!" someone yelled.

But the vigilantes were already gone.

Out the window. Rappelling like wraiths down a line of nearly invisible wire.

Below, the gala.

Oliver Queen’s charity party shimmered like a jewel across the street. Laughter. Champagne. String quartets.

The hoods vanished into it like ghosts into mist.

Detective Quentin Lance pushed through the crowd in the lobby, trench coat swirling, eyes sharp.

"What’ve we got?" he asked.

A beat cop pointed upward.

"Three figures. Hoods. Sliding down toward Queen’s tower."

Lance narrowed his eyes. His jaw clenched.

"You’ve got to be bloody kidding me."

—

The alley behind the Starling Grand Hotel reeked of garlic knots and alley funk, a bizarre perfume that clashed mightily with the high-end gala only a few feet away. Somewhere above, a jazz band played something vaguely Sinatra, muffled by the brick and grime. A catering van blocked their view of the main entrance, offering just enough shadow to do what needed to be done.

Hermione Granger, elegance personified even while dusted with grime and sweat, pulled her wand from the sheath strapped to her thigh beneath her black tactical gown.

"Pack," she commanded crisply, tapping her battered beaded clutch.

In an instant, three sets of vigilante gear shimmered and collapsed into wisps of colorless light, vanishing into the depths of her handbag. Capes, weapons, even Harry’s armored boots—they all disappeared like they’d never existed.

Oliver Queen let out a low whistle. “That is never not going to be creepy.”

“Technically,” Hermione said without looking up, “it’s just well-practiced wandless nonverbal magic applied to an undetectable extension charm. Anyone with N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration and Charms mastery could do it.”

“Right,” Oliver muttered, adjusting his cuffs. “Just your average wizard girl stuff.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said brightly, smoothing down her midnight-blue gown, which had been hidden beneath her suit a minute ago via illusion spell. “Glad we’re on the same page.”

Harry, who had already swapped his leather suit for a blood-red shirt, black vest, and matching slacks with the smug ease of a man who knew exactly how good he looked, grinned as he fixed his collar. “Honestly, Ollie, it’s adorable watching you try to keep up.”

Oliver, half-tying his bow tie, raised an eyebrow. “Adorable?”

“Like a Labrador with a bow and arrows,” Harry said, patting him on the shoulder. “Deadly, but still wagging his tail.”

“You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I always do.”

Oliver exhaled, shook his head once, then leveled a look at him. “So. You turn into a raven.”

Hermione paused, lips twitching.

“Ah,” Harry said, slipping his wand into the holster beneath his jacket. “Yes. That.”

“You just disappear mid-fight, feathers everywhere, and nobody blinks? That’s... that’s a thing that happens regularly?”

“Well, I did try to keep it low-profile,” Harry replied. “But to be fair, there were a lot of guns firing at the time.”

“And it slipped your mind?” Oliver asked, folding his arms.

“Did I forget to mention that you should wear a helmet when punching corrupt CEOs?” Harry shot back. “Yes. Yes, I did. Because we’ve known each other, what, six days?”

Oliver opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it, then grumbled, “Fine. Fair.”

Hermione gave a quiet sigh, already knowing where this was going. “Honestly, Harry, you should’ve told him. It’s basic field communication.”

“I was distracted. He is shirtless and doing chin-ups almost everytime I see him. I'm straight, but it's a bit hard to focus.”

Oliver blinked. “Wait, that is your takeaway?”

“Have you seen yourself?” Harry asked.

“Okay, this is officially weird.”

Hermione cleared her throat pointedly. “Anyway. I’m an Animagus too.”

Oliver looked at her like she'd grown a second head. “You’re kidding.”

“A black and brown owl,” she said, chin lifting proudly. “And before you say anything else, the correct plural is Animagi. Not Animaguses. Animagusi. Animag—whatever. Animagi.”

“She’s very proud of that,” Harry said in a stage whisper.

“I earned it,” Hermione said, swatting his arm. “We trained during our time with the League.”

Oliver tilted his head. “League? As in League of Assassins?”

“No,” Hermione said sweetly. “League of People Who Actually Read the Manual.”

“Burn,” Harry added helpfully.

“Honestly,” Hermione went on, slipping into what Harry had once dubbed ‘Oxford War Mode,’ “becoming an Animagus is one of the most complex magical feats in existence. The transformation requires not only years of preparation, but intense self-awareness, discipline, and—”

“—a penchant for dramatic flair,” Harry cut in.

“—rigorous study,” Hermione corrected, narrowing her eyes. “But yes. We did it to carry on a tradition.”

Oliver crossed his arms again. “Sirius mentioned that. The Marauders. Bunch of magical pranksters who thought they were clever.”

“They were clever,” Hermione said, affronted.

“Too clever,” Harry added. “But the rule was always: you run with your brothers, or you don’t run at all. You fly when they fly. You fight when they fight.”

Oliver’s face twitched, not quite a smile. “So this is like... what? A magical vigilante blood pact?”

“Well, if the wand fits,” Harry said, adjusting his cufflinks, “and it’s hidden inside a collapsible cane-saber enchanted by a French wizard... then yes.”

Oliver chuckled despite himself. “You two are completely mad.”

“And yet,” Hermione said, linking her arm through his, “here you are, wearing ten thousand dollars of formalwear over freshly acquired bruises, walking back into a gala filled with corrupt billionaires and fake champagne.”

Harry linked his other arm through Oliver’s, grinning like the boy who’d once stared down a dragon on a broomstick. “And let’s not forget, you still have a mission to accomplish.”

Oliver raised an eyebrow. “Which one?”

“Oh, you know.” Harry winked. “Charm the drunk heiresses. Make a few enemies. Probably get slapped.”

“No promises.”

They stepped out of the alley, the streetlights catching their polished shoes and glinting cufflinks, three figures striding toward the gala entrance like they'd never been anything other than beautiful, dangerous, and exactly where they belonged.

High society by invitation. Heroes by nature. Marauders by choice.

—

The soft strains of a string quartet whispered through the grand ballroom of the Starling Grand, weaving between clinking champagne flutes, murmured gossip, and the clatter of heels on polished marble. Gold and crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over a glittering sea of gowns and tuxedos, while trays of hors d'oeuvres floated past like edible art exhibits. The air itself smelled of wealth—aged scotch, imported flowers, and just the faintest trace of scandal.

Oliver Queen was holding court near the bar, flanked by supermodels who looked like they’d been pulled straight off the cover of Vogue. He wore a perfectly cut tux, his tie rakishly loosened, a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. That smug grin—the one that seemed genetically engineered to disarm fathers and seduce daughters—was aimed full-throttle at a blonde in Versace.

“So then I told the pilot, ‘If you can’t land it on the yacht, you’re not invited to the afterparty.’” He chuckled, taking a sip. “He managed.”

The blonde giggled. Her friend whispered something and blushed. Oliver smiled wider. God, he missed this.

And then—

BANG.

The ballroom’s double doors flew open with a thunderous crash. Conversation stopped. A string snapped on a violin.

“Starling City Police Department!” barked a voice that could have scared a confession out of granite.

Detective Quentin Lance stormed in, trench coat flapping like a cape, fury written across every line of his face. His eyes scanned the ballroom with the precision of a sniper. Officers followed in behind, weapons holstered but hands twitching near the grip.

The music stuttered to a halt. The rich flinched.

Oliver didn’t.

He turned slowly, taking a sip from his whiskey as he made a show of assessing the commotion.

“Detective Lance,” he said smoothly, as if greeting an old friend. “You could’ve just RSVPed.”

Lance’s glare could’ve melted titanium. “Don’t test me, Queen.”

“I’m trying not to,” Oliver said innocently, spreading his arms. “But you make it so easy.”

Just behind him, Harry Potter adjusted his crimson dress shirt and flashed a smile that had all the charm of a British aristocrat and all the danger of a dragon. “Bit dramatic, innit?” he said to no one in particular, sipping his champagne like he was judging the vintage.

“Police theatrics,” Hermione muttered beside him, sipping a glass of white wine. She wore midnight satin like it had been invented for her, her pearl earrings swaying as she turned to study the intruders. “Honestly. Could’ve just knocked.”

Lance ignored the commentary and signaled his officers. “Clear the side rooms. Check the balconies. Nobody leaves this building.”

“Detective, you’re really killing the mood,” Oliver said, following him with slow, deliberate steps. “Is this about that parking ticket? Because Tommy swore he’d pay it.”

“I did not,” said Tommy Merlyn from across the room, halfway through telling a Brazilian heiress about the time he accidentally crash-landed a jet-ski into an oil baron’s yacht. “Also, what’s happening?”

Oliver tilted his head toward him. “Apparently, you’re the host of a police raid now. Congratulations.”

Tommy blinked, visibly processing. “That explains the guns. Uh, hi?” He offered a weak wave to Lance. “Can I help you, officer... detective... general?”

Lance didn’t smile. “We have intel that three armed vigilantes are using this event to disappear. A man in green, one in red, and a woman in brown and black. They were seen fleeing into this building less than twenty minutes ago.”

Hermione straightened beside Harry, eyes narrowing. “Define ‘intel,’” she said. “Because I can promise you, eyewitness accounts in low light are famously unreliable.”

Lance turned on her. “Who are you?”

“Someone with better sense than to wear a trench coat to a black-tie event,” she replied sweetly. “Also, a consultant for the British Ministry of Justice. If you’d like me to explain that in small words, I’d be happy to.”

Harry leaned in, smirking. “Her patronus is a courtroom summons.”

“Cute,” Lance muttered.

“Flattering,” Harry said. “And true.”

Lance turned back to Oliver. “You know what I’m talking about. That vigilante saved your rich ass the other night. Him and the one in red. Ring any bells?”

Oliver chuckled. “Sorry, Detective. The last time I saw someone in a hood, it was a DJ.”

Lance stepped closer. “You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re waving a badge at people who donate more to your pension fund than the city council,” Oliver replied smoothly, lifting his glass. “And I think you don’t have a warrant.”

“That won’t stop us.”

“Well,” Oliver said, turning and raising his voice just enough to carry over the murmuring crowd, “since you’re so committed to catching these mysterious do-gooders...”

He handed his glass to the nearest model and stepped into the center of the ballroom.

“I’ll offer an incentive,” he said. “Two million dollars. To anyone in this room who can give Detective Lance solid intel on our local hooded heroes.”

Dead silence. Even the champagne fizzed quieter.

Lance blinked. “You’re offering a bribe?”

Oliver shrugged. “Call it a public service donation.”

Tommy coughed. “You sure you want to do that, Ollie?”

“Relax, Tommy,” Oliver said, not taking his eyes off Lance. “If someone in here did know anything, they’d have already sold it to the tabloids.”

A long, loaded pause. The crowd looked around. No one moved.

Lance clenched his jaw, fists at his side.

Then he exhaled slowly and turned to his men. “We’re done here.”

“Sir?” one of the officers said.

“They’re not here,” Lance said through gritted teeth. “And if they were, they’re gone now.”

He glared at Oliver one last time. “But mark my words, Queen. They slip up—I’ll be there.”

Oliver smiled. “I’ll set another plate at the table.”

Lance turned and stalked off, barking orders as his officers followed, grumbling about politics and billionaires.

The moment the doors closed, the ballroom seemed to breathe again. The music hesitantly resumed. Conversations trickled back to life.

Tommy shook his head. “That was officially insane.”

“I prefer the term ‘strategic misdirection,’” Oliver said.

Harry raised his glass. “Bloody brilliant, mate.”

Hermione sighed. “You’re lucky Lance didn’t arrest you.”

Oliver grinned. “He couldn’t take me in. I’m the entertainment.”

“You’re a menace,” Hermione said.

“Still better than the DJ,” Tommy added.

They clinked glasses.

And high above them, unnoticed by all, a shadow slipped silently off the roof, melting into the night.

The party was far from over.

—

CNRI – The Next Morning

Laurel Lance sat slumped at her desk, eyes glazed over, staring at the same paragraph of legalese she’d been trying to parse for the last ten minutes. The words blurred into each other, like some cruel optical illusion designed to mock her. The soft hum of the fluorescent lights overhead buzzed incessantly, and from the far corner, the coffee machine sputtered and hissed like it was trying to wake her up.

Which wasn’t happening.

Her mind kept wandering back to last night—back to Oliver. Not the man she used to know, not the ghost she’d held onto, but this new, cold version of him. The one who looked through her like she was a stranger. The one who’d waved off her apology like it was nothing. “It’s fine, Laurel. You weren’t wrong to say it.” Those words echoed in her head. The way he said it—so flat, so dead inside—was like a punch to the gut.

And then the worse part: “I used to wish the same thing. That it had been me.”

Cold. Hollow. Like a knife twisting in the wound she thought had started to heal.

She shivered, pulling her cardigan tighter around her shoulders.

And then he’d looked at his watch—impatient, like time was running out on him, not her—and said, “I haven’t changed, Laurel. Not in the ways that matter. I’ll only hurt you again. I’m sorry. I need to go.”

That was Oliver Queen? The guy who once faked kidnappings just to dodge awkward conversations? That guy was gone. Maybe forever.

Laurel blinked, dragging herself out of the haze. “Laurel?”

Joanna De La Vega was standing over her, balancing a stack of papers and a coffee cup with “Laurel” scrawled crookedly on the sleeve. Joanna’s eyes narrowed, clearly unimpressed by Laurel’s vacant stare.

“You okay?” Joanna asked, arching one perfectly shaped brow. “Because you look like you just got hit by a truck. Or maybe several trucks. Or that truck from last week.”

Laurel managed a weak smile as she took the coffee. “Thanks. I’m just… tired. That’s all.”

Joanna wasn’t buying it. She dropped the papers on Laurel’s desk with a little too much enthusiasm. “Well, you’re going to want to see this. Seriously. It’s huge.”

Laurel groaned inwardly but flipped open the folder anyway, instantly alert. Her eyes scanned the page, then widened. “Wait. What?”

Joanna grinned like she’d just uncovered the city’s best-kept secret. “Yup. All of our clients. Every single one. Got wire transfers. Anonymous donors. The total? Forty million dollars.”

Laurel blinked again, but this time the confusion wasn’t from lack of sleep. “Forty million? Dollars? Seriously?”

“Exactly.” Joanna leaned forward, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Split evenly across everyone involved in the class action suit. Enough to pay back everything they lost—and then some. Some of those folks could retire to Tahiti and never look back.”

Laurel shook her head, frowning. “But… who? Where did that kind of money even come from?”

Joanna smirked. “Funny you should ask.” She slid her phone across the desk like she was dealing out poker cards. “You see this?”

Laurel grabbed the phone and squinted at the screen. The headline from The Starling Post screamed:

TRIO OF VIGILANTES RAID HUNT GLOBAL OFFICES—COSTLY FILE LEAK, DAMAGES, AND ‘MISSING FUNDS’ RAISE QUESTIONS.

Below the headline, a grainy security camera still showed three figures scaling the side of a building—a tall guy in a green hood, another man in red with a black mask with white eyes obscuring his face, and a woman dressed in black and brown leather, all moving like shadows come to life.

Laurel let out a slow breath. “Well… that would explain Oliver’s sudden exit last night.”

Joanna nudged her with a grin. “So… think he’s one of them?”

Laurel opened her mouth, then closed it again, lost for words. “No. I mean… I don’t know. But it’s definitely not that Oliver anymore.”

Joanna’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Really? Because the timing’s suspicious as hell. Green Hood busts into Hunt’s office just hours after Oliver throws that fancy party with half the city’s movers and shakers.”

Laurel shrugged helplessly. “Even if it was him, why wouldn’t he tell me?”

“Because,” Joanna said softly, “maybe you’d try to stop him. Or maybe he’s trying to protect you by keeping you in the dark. Or maybe he thinks he’s too far gone to deserve a second chance.”

Laurel’s gaze dropped to the wire transfer sheets again. “Forty million dollars. To the people Hunt ripped off.”

Joanna nodded seriously. “And it’s clean. Anonymous enough that the banks didn’t even blink. No strings attached.”

Laurel tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk. “They’re not vigilantes. Not really.”

Joanna chuckled. “Guardian angels, maybe?”

Laurel let out a tired laugh. “Starling could definitely use a few guardian angels.”

They shared a quiet moment, the distant sounds of the city filtering through the windows—the blare of car horns, the wail of a siren far off, the news anchor drone on about the masked figures and their bold escape.

Joanna finally broke the silence. “I just hope they know what they’re doing. That they’re careful.”

Laurel’s eyes scanned the rooftops, almost expecting to see a flicker of green or a flash of red slipping through the shadows. “They’re not done yet,” she said quietly.

Joanna smirked. “Neither are we.”

Laurel smiled, more genuinely this time. Maybe Starling did have new protectors. Maybe some things were finally starting to change.

—

Queen Mansion – Oliver’s Room

The thick black marker slid across the page like a guillotine. One name—Adam Hunt—crossed out. One less cancer in Starling City.

Oliver Queen exhaled slowly through his nose, shoulders tense, the weight of five years still visible in the tight line of his jaw. He stood in front of the heavy oak desk, the infamous list still open in front of him, pages rippling slightly under the breeze from the nearby open window.

“That’s one down,” Oliver said, his voice gravelly and devoid of ceremony. “One less name.”

Hermione, seated primly in the armchair beside the fireplace, raised a single eyebrow. She looked over the rim of the digital tablet she’d been scanning. Her British accent cut clean through the tension. “Honestly, you make it sound like you’re checking off your shopping list. ‘Milk, eggs, one morally bankrupt land baron.’”

Harry, half-sprawled across the edge of Oliver’s immaculately made bed like it was his own dormitory back at Hogwarts, smirked.

“Let’s not forget, Hunt was chock-full of preservatives. Practically corporate Twinkie material. You did the city a favor, mate.”

Oliver didn’t reply, but the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth might’ve betrayed amusement. Maybe.

“Justice,” he said, flipping the book closed with a decisive snap. “Plain and simple.”

“See, that’s probably what Batman says right before punching someone so hard they wake up in another continuity,” Harry said, swinging his legs off the bed and sitting up. “No offense, mate, but you’ve got the ‘brooding vigilante with emotional constipation’ act down to an art.”

Hermione stood, slipping the tablet into her enchanted beaded handbag. She gave both of them a look—half disapproving, half long-suffering.

“You two are insufferable,” she muttered.

“Aww,” Harry grinned, brushing imaginary dust off his red leather jacket. “You say the sweetest things, ‘Mione.”

Oliver grabbed his hoodie from the back of a nearby chair and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ve got recon to do on the next target. We move quickly. Someone fills the power vacuum if we don’t.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes. “Which translates to: I’m going to stand on top of a skyscraper and glare at people until something illegal happens.”

He didn’t deny it. Which said plenty.

Harry checked his phone and groaned.

“Damn. I’m officially late. Daphne’s going to kill me, revive me, and then kill me again for good measure.”

Hermione tilted her head. “You are makind her wait.”

“Not on purpose!” he defended, running a hand through his eternally messy hair. “Look, just don’t start the next ‘Hooded Vengeance’ mission without me, alright? I want in on the action.”

Oliver gave a small nod. “We’ll wait. Don’t take too long.”

The three moved out into the hallway, the click of Hermione’s boots echoing softly. As they reached the grand staircase, a blur of movement and attitude rounded the corner.

“Thea,” Harry called, spotting her instantly. She was dressed to kill—designer sunglasses dangling from one hand, phone in the other, black leather boots laced tight.

She paused, rolling her eyes as if bracing herself.

“Uh-oh. That tone. What’d I do now, Dad?”

“You going out?” Harry asked, arching a brow.

Thea raised a sassy brow right back. “Yes, Dad. Brunch with Maddie and Zoe. Why?”

Harry gave her a look. The kind of look older brothers were born to perfect.

“Just hoping one of them isn’t Margo.”

Oliver, who had remained quiet and watchful, frowned. “Who’s Margo?”

“Ex-friend of Pipsqueak here,” Harry replied smoothly, jerking a thumb at Thea. “Tried to introduce her to the wonderful world of cocaine-laced glitter and vodka in plastic cups.”

“Pipsqueak?” Oliver repeated, amused. “I always called her Speedy.”

“Oh my God,” Thea groaned, throwing her head back. “Why does every man in this family think it’s their birthright to give me embarrassing nicknames?”

“Because,” Harry grinned, “you’re short, fast, sharp-tongued, and once rode around on a hot pink Vespa.”

“It was fuchsia, you absolute troll.”

Oliver’s eyes narrowed, his protective instincts clearly kicking in. “She tried to get you hooked?”

Thea sighed, shooting Harry an affectionate glare.

“Tried is a strong word. Margo made an offer, I was dumb enough to not walk away fast enough, and Harry here went full Ministry of Sass and hexed her phone.”

“She opened TikTok,” Harry added, “and it screamed ‘I’m a terrible person and my parents don’t love me!’ every time. For a week.”

Hermione let out a laugh despite herself. “Now that’s effective deterrence.”

“Anyway,” Thea continued with a flick of her ponytail, “I told Margo to go screw herself and blocked her number. Haven’t seen her since. I’m not doing drugs. Happy now?”

Oliver’s features softened just a bit. “Good.”

There was a long pause—unspoken worry threading between them. Then Thea looked down at her phone and mumbled, “I’ve been trying. Y’know. Since you came back. Since Harry moved in permanently. It’s… easier. Having you two around. Like maybe I’m not totally alone in this mansion with ghosts and tabloids.”

Harry smiled gently. “You’re never alone, Pipsqueak. Annoying? Yes. But not alone.”

Thea snorted and shoved his arm. “Whatever.”

She turned to go, throwing a lazy wave over her shoulder. “Later, weirdos.”

Once she was out of earshot, Hermione glanced at Oliver. “You’re really thinking of turning the old mill into a nightclub?”

Oliver nodded. “Front for the lair. We need a legitimate reason to be in the Glades all the time. People ask fewer questions if we’re running something ‘legit.’”

“Disco Inferno?” Harry offered. “Club Quiver? Ollie’s Secret Hole?”

Hermione made a strangled sound. “Please don’t call it that.”

Oliver, deadpan as ever, said, “I was thinking something low-key. ‘Verdant.’”

Harry tilted his head. “That’s actually… not bad.”

Hermione blinked. “Wow. You’re capable of subtlety. Color me shocked.”

Oliver gave them both a look. “Meet at the mill in an hour. We’ll set up surveillance. And Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t be late for your date.”

Harry grinned, eyes twinkling with mischief. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Oliver gave him a once-over. “You already look like trouble.”

“I am trouble,” Harry said, swaggering toward the stairs, coat flaring dramatically. “I just happen to dress better.”

And with that, they scattered—Oliver to the shadows, Hermione to the war room, and Harry to charm a Slytherin with a smirk and just enough British wit to burn.

Starling had no idea what was coming.

—

Queen Mansion – Private Study

The fire crackled quietly in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the room’s opulent interior. Moira Queen sat in her high-backed armchair, the same one Robert used to occupy while reading the Starling City Gazette in the evenings. Her fingers, adorned with a delicate but deliberate array of rings, drummed lightly on the armrest.

The grandfather clock ticked softly.

Then came the sound of the door opening—no knock. Just the deliberate swing of hinges and the click of expensive leather shoes against the hardwood floor.

A man stepped inside, face half-hidden beneath the brim of a charcoal fedora. He moved with practiced ease, the sort of grace money couldn't teach—but violence could. He didn't wait for an invitation.

Moira glanced at him once, cool and composed. “You're late.”

The man shrugged. “Had to make sure I wasn't followed.”

She didn’t offer him a drink. That would imply hospitality. He hadn’t earned that.

He stood before her, hands in his coat pockets. “The bodies were disposed of cleanly. No DNA, no tire marks, no security footage. Starling’s finest won’t find a thread to pull.”

“And the police report?” she asked, her voice crisp as ever—upper-crust but razor-sharp.

“Officially? Piracy gone wrong. The kidnappers got greedy, held the Queen heir, his best friend, and his cousin for ransom. And then…” A slight smirk. “Vigilantes with terrible color coordination showed up.”

Moira’s lips pressed together in a tight line. “Those men weren’t meant to be slaughtered like dogs.”

“It complicates things, and you know it,” the man said. “One of them had a Starling Dragons tattoo. They’re Triad-adjacent. That might raise questions if someone knows where to look.”

She didn’t reply.

He took a few steps closer, lowering his voice. “You still want to know what Robert told Oliver before the boat went down? What that final confession was?”

Moira’s gaze snapped toward him. Cold. Dangerous. “Yes.”

“I could make the boy talk,” he said. “He’s got fire, but I’ve cracked worse.”

“No.” Moira stood, moving to pour herself a drink. “Absolutely not. He’s family.”

“So was Robert.”

She turned sharply. “Robert died a hero. Sacrificed himself to save Oliver. That… buys him a great deal more mercy than you or your employers ever will.”

The man chuckled humorlessly. “Suit yourself. But if we’re not using my methods, you’re running out of options.”

Moira turned back to the fire, her face half-lit by its glow.

“There are other ways to learn the truth,” she said softly. “Oliver is still my son. He’s not as careful as he thinks he is. He came back changed—harder, colder. But he still wears his heart on his sleeve. Sooner or later, he’ll tell someone. And when he does…”

She turned back to the man, her expression steel. “I’ll be listening.”

He nodded once. “Then I’ll keep my ear to the ground. But if Queen Junior starts sniffing too close to the Undertaking—”

“You’ll do nothing unless I say so,” Moira snapped.

A long beat passed. The man nodded again, slower this time.

“As you wish… Mrs. Queen.”

He turned to leave. Just before reaching the door, he hesitated.

“Oh, one more thing—there was someone else. At the docks. Before the hoods arrived. Someone in white. No insignia, no tech, no arrows. Just fists. Wrecked two of the kidnappers like they were made of paper. Left before backup arrived.”

Moira's brow creased. “Another vigilante?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll find out.”

The door shut behind him.

Moira stood alone in the study, sipping her drink as the fire dimmed. Her eyes lingered on the old family photo on the mantle—Robert, herself, and a much younger Oliver. Untouched. Smiling.

She whispered, almost too soft to hear: “What did you tell him, Robert?”

And from somewhere far beyond the walls of Queen Mansion, the city breathed—loud, grimy, defiant.

And secrets stirred beneath its surface.

Starling City – Café Étoile. 11:03 a.m.

The red-and-black Ducati Superleggera purred to a stop in front of Café Étoile like it owned the block. Conversations stumbled, forks paused mid-air, and one unfortunate man almost walked into a parking meter. The bike gleamed under the late-morning sun like sin dipped in chrome.

The rider dismounted—tall, lean, and dressed in black leather that hugged like a scandal. The helmet came off with the practiced ease of someone who knew the world was watching.

Harry Bloody Potter.

Scar faint beneath tousled hair, a crooked smirk playing on his lips like it was genetically coded. Gryffindor. Heartbreaker. Occasional vigilante. Full-time menace to emotional stability.

And currently four minutes late.

He pushed through the café door with the kind of swagger that should’ve been illegal in broad daylight, eyes instantly finding her.

Daphne Greengrass.

She was seated at a window table, the picture of poised indifference. One leg elegantly crossed over the other, a hardback novel in her hand (upside down, not that she noticed), and a cappuccino slowly dying a foamy death in front of her. Her icy blonde hair was pulled into a careless bun that had definitely taken forty-five minutes to perfect, and she wore sunglasses indoors, because of course she did.

Harry’s heart did something stupid. Like somersaults. Or the Macarena.

He approached like a man heading toward either salvation or a dramatic slap. Possibly both.

“Daphne,” he said, with all the solemnity of a man about to be murdered with a pastry fork.

She didn’t look up.

Instead, she turned a page of the upside-down book.

Then: “Three minutes late.”

Harry pulled out the chair opposite her and sat like he hadn’t been standing outside for seven minutes working up the nerve.

“Technically four,” he corrected, dropping the helmet on the floor. “But I figured you’d appreciate dramatic entrances. I wore red.”

At that, her gaze flicked up over the rim of her sunglasses. Her lips twitched.

“I noticed. Last night. Third floor of the Hunt Building, opposite the fundraiser. Red and black armor? Very ‘subtle.’”

Harry grinned. “Well, you know me. I like to be inconspicuous while punching billionaires in the face.”

“And then vanishing like a badly written soap opera character,” she said flatly, taking a sip of her lukewarm coffee. “Four years, Harry.”

“I know,” he said quietly.

“No letters. No calls. No owls. Just… poof. You vanished. Like a really sexy fart.”

He blinked. “That’s… an image I didn’t expect today.”

Daphne pulled off her sunglasses with the kind of slow, surgical precision that should’ve come with a warning label. Her eyes—icy blue and unamused—locked onto his.

“And now you stroll back into town with a motorcycle, cheekbones sharp enough to slice cheese, and an emotionally repressed martyr complex, expecting what exactly? Forgiveness? A slow clap?”

“I was hoping for a scone,” Harry said, leaning back. “But I’ll take the slow clap.”

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Then she sighed, muttering, “You’re still an idiot.”

“Consistently,” he said. “Points for reliability?”

“I’ve had four years to plan this conversation,” she told him, tilting her head.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Starts with ‘you bastard,’ ends with ‘go to hell’?”

“No,” she replied. “Starts with ‘I missed you,’ ends with ‘but you’re still a bloody idiot.’”

Harry’s grin softened, humor fading into something more vulnerable. “Fair.”

There was a long pause.

Then she asked, more quietly now, “Why did you leave?”

He looked down at his hands, fingers tracing a pattern on the table.

“I thought… if I stayed, they'd use you to get to me. Voldemort was back, the war was building up, and I was the poster boy for magical baggage. You didn’t deserve to be collateral.”

Daphne blinked. Once.

Then twice.

Then she said, “You absolute tosser.”

Harry looked up. “What?”

“You broke up with me—no explanation—because of your noble Gryffindor 'saving people thing'?”

“I—I was trying to protect you!”

She slammed her hand on the table, making a spoon jump. “You do not get to protect me from things without asking. That’s not love, Potter. That’s arrogance with a guilt complex.”

He winced. “When you say it like that…”

“I should hex you right now,” she muttered.

“You probably will.”

“You thought leaving me would make me safe?” Her voice trembled with frustration. “I’m a Greengrass, Harry. I grew up learning how to smile while someone lied to my face. You think I couldn’t handle a little Death Eater drama?”

He looked ashamed now. Rightfully.

“I didn’t want you to suffer because of me.”

“I suffered because you left.”

There it was. Raw. Real.

And it hung in the air like a curse.

They stared at each other for a moment longer—past pain, years of silence, memories too sharp to revisit.

Then she stood.

Harry jolted to his feet, nerves twisting. “Daphne, I—are you leaving?”

“God, no.”

She walked around the table, eyes locked on his, and grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands.

And kissed him.

Right there.

In the middle of the café. In front of gasping patrons, a barista who nearly dropped a tray of croissants, and a poodle who barked approvingly.

Her kiss was fury and forgiveness and four years of silence breaking like glass. His hands found her waist before his brain caught up, and then nothing else mattered.

When she finally pulled back, breathless and defiant, she looked him dead in the eye.

“You owe me dinner. A real one. Somewhere with mood lighting and zero emotional trauma.”

Harry nodded, dazed. “I can… absolutely arrange that.”

“Oh,” she added sweetly, “and if you ever disappear again without warning, I will have Granger brew a love potion and feed it to Oliver Queen.”

Harry gagged. “That’s just evil.”

She smiled, eyes glittering. “I’m a Slytherin. And you, Potter, are mine.”

“Trying not to screw it up,” he said, dazed and stupid and glowing.

As they walked down the street—hand in hand, hearts synced and worlds colliding again—people stared, whispered, swooned. Not because of the Ducati. Not because of the kiss.

But because Harry Potter had just walked back into her life.

And Daphne Greengrass had let him.

Starling had no idea what was coming.

—

Harry cast a sidelong glance at Daphne as they walked down the plaza, weaving through the slowly scattering crowd still buzzing from the impromptu showdown. Her heels echoed like the ticking of a countdown, deliberate and lethal, slicing through the city’s noise with the precision of a scalpel. She moved like she didn’t walk so much as command the ground to keep up. Her icy-blue eyes scanned the world like a queen bored of her court.

Harry, meanwhile, adjusted the cuff of his leather jacket with just enough flair to make it look unintentional. His Ducati sat purring behind them like a very expensive jungle cat, sleek, red, and just arrogant enough to match its owner.

“Fancy a ride?” he asked, nodding toward the motorcycle with an upward tilt of his chin and a smirk that had ruined better women.

Daphne didn’t even look at the bike. Her eyes slid over to him, slow and assessing.

“On that?” she asked, arching a perfectly sculpted brow. “Potter, I’ve gone on dates with boys less fragile-looking.”

“Oh, come on,” Harry said, feigning offense. “She’s a Ducati Superleggera V4. Limited edition. Handcrafted Italian brilliance. Lightweight, aerodynamic, seductive—basically, the motorbike equivalent of me.”

“That’s adorable,” she said, folding her arms. “You're comparing yourself to an overcompensating tin rocket with identity issues.”

“I’ll have you know she accelerates from 0 to 60 in under three seconds,” Harry replied, stroking the handlebars with mock affection. “Like me when I see you in that dress.”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s the third time you’ve flirted with me in the last twenty minutes, Potter.”

He grinned. “I’m trying to hit my quota before you inevitably call me a menace to society.”

“I’ll call you that when you stop being one.”

“Touché.”

She sighed dramatically and finally gave the Ducati a once-over, the kind of look a duchess might give a Maserati: interested, but mostly annoyed she liked it.

“I don’t ride motorcycles,” she said, shifting her weight onto one hip in a way that made traffic slow down three blocks away.

“I know. That’s why it’ll be fun.”

“I wear heels.”

“I’ve noticed. I think they’re illegal in some countries for causing heart attacks.”

“I value my hair.”

“And I value your life. You’re in excellent hands.”

“I’ve seen your hands. They’re always doing something dangerous.”

“That’s the appeal, Greengrass.”

She paused. “Do you even have a second helmet?”

Without missing a beat, Harry popped open a side compartment and pulled out a matte-black helmet, extending it toward her with a devilish grin.

“What do you take me for?” he asked. “An amateur bad boy?”

She took the helmet, inspected it like it might bite her, then sighed again.

“Fine. But if we crash, I’m haunting you.”

“I’d expect nothing less.”

“I mean it. I’ll knock over your shampoo every morning.”

“I don’t use shampoo. I’m all conditioner and reckless charm.”

Daphne gave him one long look—the kind that could strip paint off a wall—and muttered something under her breath about Gryffindors and their suicidal courting rituals.

Then she stepped closer, heels clicking, and swung one leg over the Ducati with a grace that could’ve been choreographed by angels on retainer. She settled in behind him, her arms sliding around his waist like silk and sin.

“If you ruin my dress,” she murmured in his ear, voice like melted chocolate and sharp knives, “I will hex you sterile.”

“Duly noted,” Harry said, revving the engine. “But let’s be honest: you love a little danger.”

He wasn’t wrong.

With a roar that could make angels flinch, the Ducati peeled out from the curb, shooting into the street with all the subtlety of a dragon on espresso. Daphne tightened her grip, nails digging slightly into Harry’s jacket, and he grinned like an idiot behind his visor.

The wind whipped through them, the city a blur of lights and motion. Harry ducked between lanes with the confidence of someone who’d defied Death and then sent him a sarcastic postcard afterward. Daphne’s laughter—low, surprised, and utterly intoxicating—ghosted against his ear as they took a sharp turn that left most people in therapy.

“You’re insane,” she shouted over the roar.

“Only on weekdays!” he yelled back.

Another curve, another near-miss with a very confused cab driver, and Harry felt it again—that thrum in his chest. The same one he used to get when facing a dragon, or a dark lord, or a particularly aggressive Quidditch Bludger. But this time it had a name.

Daphne.

And despite all the noise and motion, all the chaos of city lights and horn blasts, all Harry could focus on was the warmth of her against his back, the way she held him like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t entirely pretending anymore.

She leaned in, lips near his ear, her voice velvet-wrapped mischief.

“Don’t think this means I like you.”

Harry grinned.

“Too late.”

And they vanished into the city, one roaring, reckless blur of black leather, high heels, and unresolved sexual tension.

—

The Ducati purred to a lazy stop against the curb of a narrow alley, neon murals flickering over the wet pavement like liquid fire and ice. Harry killed the engine and peeled off his helmet, fingers tugging free the damp mess of hair he’d sworn was impossible to tame.

He glanced sideways at Daphne, who was already fiddling with her helmet strap, her expression serious but oddly serene—like a cat who'd just caught sight of the canary but wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to eat it yet.

“You hungry?” Harry asked, sliding off the bike with that effortless cockiness he reserved for moments when he wasn’t about to get shot at.

Without looking at him, Daphne snapped her helmet strap open and ran a hand through her hair, eyes fixed on his reflection in the rearview mirror. “You brought me to a food truck. So, what, you’re trying to woo me with the seductive powers of processed meat?”

Harry grinned, stepping closer. “Nah. Honestly? I’m romancing myself. Watching you eat a hot dog—could be the peak of my existence. Might even consider dying happy if it happens.”

She arched an eyebrow, lips twitching at the corner. “You are absolutely disgusting.”

“Yet, somehow, still irresistibly charming.”

“Strangely, irresistibly,” she corrected with a smirk that was half challenge, half dare.

They strolled toward the truck, the scent of grilled onions and sizzling sausage thick in the humid air. Harry ordered two hot dogs—one classic, one piled high with every greasy topping the universe deemed shameful—and a pair of sodas. Daphne leaned back against a lamppost, arms folded, radiating the kind of cool composure that made you wonder if she’d ever sweat.

When Harry returned, she took the loaded dog cautiously, like it might explode in her mouth.

“You don’t trust street food, huh?”

“Phallic meat from someone with a face tattoo? Yeah, no thanks.”

Harry laughed, biting into his dog with exaggerated gusto. “Fair. But...?”

She took a bite, eyes widening, a rare moment of honest surprise. “Okay. That’s criminally delicious.”

Harry held up his hands. “I take full credit. Part genius, part food poisoning specialist.”

They ate side by side, silence stretched tight between them, filled with all the words neither was ready to say. Until Harry, ever the provocateur, wiped his fingers on a napkin and turned serious.

“So,” he said low, voice rough like gravel, “how are you actually feeling about all this vigilante business? Me? Running around like a slightly insane ghost with a death wish?”

Daphne swallowed, met his gaze head-on, no shields, no games.

“I should probably level with you,” she said quietly. “Since we’re here, and since you’re about to be a very pissed-off vigilante boyfriend if I lie.”

Harry cocked his head. “Do go on, Ms. Greengrass. I’m all ears. And not just because I like the sound of my own voice.”

She gave a half-smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “After you bailed, the summer before Fifth Year? I moped. Hard. Like, professional-level moping. Ice cream binges. Heartbreak symphonies in my head. Pansy tried to curse you out of my diary, Tracey was all about some ‘Revenge Makeout Tour’ to fix me.”

Harry snorted. “Poor Tracey. Clearly lacked the stamina.”

Daphne shrugged. “Exactly. None of them came close to what I had with you. Not even close.”

Harry’s grin softened, but before he could say anything, she plunged on.

“Then summer before Sixth Year, my world flipped.”

Her voice dropped, shadows falling across her face. “My mum’s family—Squibs from Starling City. The daughter, Evelyn, my cousin, was like my anchor. Then one night, a call. They were all dead. No forced entry. Precise. Clean. Arrows. And a man dressed head to toe in black.”

Harry’s mouth thinned. “Arrows? That sounds like an ex-League of Assassins problem.”

She nodded, eyes sharp now. “I wasn’t sure then, but months later I heard the whispers. Silent killer, excommunicated assassin, operating out of Starling. Precise and merciless.”

Harry exhaled slowly. “I joined the League after we broke up. Me, Hermione, Sirius. We trained to kill Voldemort because magic alone wouldn’t cut it.”

Daphne’s lips curved slightly. “I put two and two together when I heard he and his Death Eaters got taken out—bow and arrows. You’re telling me you were the League’s favorite archer?”

“Something like that.”

She stepped closer, voice dropping to a secretive whisper. “That’s why I left Hogwarts before Seventh Year. Couldn’t walk in with a wand and vengeance fantasy. I went to Manchuria, trained under O-Sensei for a year.”

Harry blinked. “The O-Sensei? As in, ‘I will beat you so hard you forget your own name’ O-Sensei?”

She smirked, proud and unapologetic. “Exactly. Hell on earth. But worth it. When I came back, I started tracking the bastard who killed Evelyn.”

Harry looked at her, stunned by the fire in her eyes. “And you found me.”

“Stalking you, actually. You, Oliver Queen, Tommy Merlyn—the shiny playboy with the weird hair. I was there the day you got kidnapped.”

“Wait. You were stalking me?” Harry laughed, incredulous.

“Yeah, well... revenge’s a hell of a motivator. I took out a couple of guards at the gate and was five minutes from storming the place myself before I saw you and Oliver had it covered.”

Harry chuckled, shaking his head. “You nearly went full Rambo on me and didn’t tell me.”

“I wasn’t about to let you get yourself killed, Potter,” she shot back, then softened. “And I made sure I got invited to that party last night. Knew you’d be there.”

He took a breath, heart hammering a little faster. “So... all this time, you’ve been one of us.”

“Exactly. I’m not just okay with you being a vigilante. I am one.”

Their eyes locked, electric and intense, the air thick with a promise neither dared say aloud yet. Harry’s hand found hers—tentative, searching, but sure.

“So what now?” he whispered.

Daphne’s smirk returned, a dangerous glint lighting her eyes. “Now? We hunt monsters. Together.”

—

Harry was halfway through the last of his dubious street-food snack—some kind of overly greasy, suspiciously neon-colored fritter—when he shot Daphne a look that said, You’re hiding something. The buzz of Starling City’s nightlife hummed around them, neon signs flickering like distant fireflies in the rain-damp air.

“Alright, Miss Mysterious,” Harry said, voice smooth but loaded with that signature dry edge. He leaned in, eyes glittering with mischief. “You’ve been spilling secrets like you’re auditioning for the world’s darkest soap opera, but you forgot one juicy bit.”

Daphne cocked a brow, that sly half-smile curling her lips like she knew the exact chaos she was stirring. “Oh? And what might that be, Potter? That I’m a walking death sentence with a penchant for sarcasm?”

He grinned. “Touché. But no, I’m talking about your cousin Evelyn’s dad. The one who got an arrow to the chest and died under highly suspicious circumstances. You know, not just some bad seasoning on a Sunday roast.”

Daphne’s eyes flickered—pride and amusement warring beneath the surface. “Arthur Blakemore,” she said, voice almost a purr, like dropping a secret spell.

Harry repeated it, slow, like tasting a rare wine. “Arthur Blakemore…” He tapped his chin theatrically, as if weighing a particularly unpleasant thought. “That name definitely rings a bell. Quite loudly, actually.”

She crossed her arms, amusement blooming fully now. “Look at you, Potter. You’ve got that ‘I’m about to do something monumentally stupid’ face on.”

He shrugged with mock innocence. “Can’t help it. It’s kind of my brand.”

With a deft flick, Harry pulled out his phone and dialed, his fingers moving with the practiced ease of someone who’s definitely dialed more than a few ‘emergency nonsense’ numbers in his time.

“Oi, Ollie! You there?” Harry greeted once the call connected.

Oliver’s voice came through, gravelly and just a touch amused. “Harry? What’s the crisis? I just got back from recon.”

“Quick one. Tell me—Arthur Blakemore. Is he on your list?”

There was a pause, the faint sound of papers rustling. Oliver’s voice dropped a notch. “Yeah. Middle tier flagged. Not high priority, but definitely not ‘ignore and hope it blows over.’ What’s the angle?”

Hermione’s clear, disapproving tone cut in beside Oliver. “Harry, are you seriously calling us in the middle of your date with Daphne?”

Harry snorted. “Date? That sounds dangerously official. It’s more of a tactical snack break. Besides, I’m on my way to the mill. Bringing Daphne with me. I’ll fill you in when I get back.”

Hermione sighed but couldn’t keep the dry edge from her voice. “Because nothing says romance like ‘secret vigilante emergency.’”

Oliver chuckled darkly. “Sounds about right. Just don’t get yourselves killed before you tell us what’s going on.”

Harry ended the call, slipping his phone back into his jacket like a magician hiding a card up his sleeve. His gaze locked onto Daphne’s, mischievous and electric.

“Right then,” he said low, voice rough with excitement. “Hop on. We’re going to the mill. Time to find out what the hell Arthur Blakemore’s really about.”

Daphne wasted no time, swinging a leg over the bike with effortless grace and a wicked grin. “You really do have a thing for chaos, Potter.”

Harry smirked, sliding his arms around her waist as the engine roared to life. “Chaos and I go way back. Besides, nothing’s more fun than hunting monsters in the dark with someone who can actually keep up.”

Her breath hit his neck, warm and thrilling. “Don’t think I’m just along for the ride.”

He turned his head just enough to brush his lips near her ear. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

The bike shot forward, slicing through the rain-slicked streets as the city lights blurred past. Neon reflections shimmered on wet asphalt like fractured stars, and Harry’s heart hammered in sync with the engine’s growl.

Side by side with Daphne, adrenaline and something dangerously close to something else coursed through him — a promise that whatever waited at the mill, they’d face it together.

“Hold tight, Daphne,” Harry called over the roar, voice a low dare. “This day’s only just getting started.”

—

The mill loomed like a sleeping beast in the dark—skeletal and rotted, its rusted beams reaching out like twisted ribs. The wind dragged a low groan through its broken panels, and the air reeked of oil, mold, and forgotten things.

Harry coasted the bike to a halt just short of the warped gate, flicking off the engine with a lazy flick of his wrist.

“Well,” he said, glancing at the gloom ahead. “If this doesn’t scream ‘cozy love nest,’ I don’t know what does.”

Daphne swung off behind him, landing light on her feet like a stray cat with secrets in her eyes. Her blonde curls were half-soaked from the drizzle, but she didn’t seem to notice or care. She looked around and smirked.

“You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet, Potter.”

Harry offered a crooked grin. “Sweeping’s not really my thing. I’m more of a ‘knock you sideways and hope we both land upright’ kind of guy.”

Daphne gave him a sly, sideways glance. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Depends,” he said, moving toward the gate, “on whether you like danger with a side of emotionally stunted British sarcasm.”

She followed with a chuckle. “Oh good. I was hoping for something self-destructive and emotionally unavailable. You’re ticking all the boxes.”

With a creak and a low whine, the gate gave way, revealing the dark interior of the old mill. They stepped through, boots crunching on gravel and broken glass. Harry found the hidden switch—disguised behind a rusted pipe—and flicked it. A portion of the concrete wall slid aside with a hiss, revealing a spiral stairwell vanishing into the earth.

“After you, Bond,” Daphne murmured.

Harry gave her a low bow. “Ladies first. But if anything jumps out at us, I’m using you as a human shield.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, already descending, “I bite back.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs, the air cooler and filled with the quiet hum of underground tech. The lair stretched before them—gritty, functional, and a bit dramatic, much like its current occupant.

Oliver Queen was pacing, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched. The hood was down, but the frown was firmly in place.

He didn’t look up as they entered. “You brought her.”

Harry didn’t flinch. “You’re welcome.”

Daphne looked around. “Nice setup. Very... emotionally repressed Batcave. Does it come with brooding music and unresolved trauma?”

Oliver finally turned, eyebrow arched. “Is she always like this?”

“Only when she’s breathing,” Harry replied cheerfully.

Hermione emerged from a bank of monitors, arms crossed, expression sharp as a scalpel. “Honestly, Oliver, if you thought Daphne Greengrass wouldn’t know Harry’s secret identity, then you don’t know her at all.”

“She didn’t know,” Oliver said with pointed annoyance. “She followed him here.”

Daphne smirked. “More like I let him think I didn’t know. There’s a difference.”

Harry held up both hands. “Alright, everyone, let’s not turn this into a dramatic courtroom scene. I’ve got something that’ll make you stop arguing and start listening.”

Oliver’s glare was unimpressed. “I doubt that.”

“She’s a vigilante,” Harry said plainly. “Not a tagalong. Not a civilian. And definitely not someone you should underestimate.”

Hermione blinked. Oliver stopped pacing. Silence dropped like a guillotine.

“She’s what?” Hermione asked, voice sharper now, curiosity burning under the shock.

“Her uncle—Arthur Blakemore—was killed two years ago,” Harry said. “Along with the entire family. Arrows to the chest. Classic Ex-League of Assassins work. And now his name pops up on your list, Ollie. That’s not a coincidence. She’s here to find out who killed him.”

Oliver’s jaw ticked. “And you just decided to bring her here?”

“She’s earned it.”

“And how exactly has she ‘earned’ that?” he asked, motioning toward her with a grunt. “What, she hit a few punching bags and now she gets to join the club?”

Harry turned to Daphne, giving her the faintest nod.

She stepped forward, rolling her shoulders. “Trained by O-Sensei,” she said, simply.

Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Hermione exhaled, eyes widening. “Wait—O-Sensei? As in the O-Sensei? Trained Richard Dragon, Lady Shiva, Benjamin Turner—”

“Yeah,” Harry said with a grin. “That guy. He doesn't train amateurs. Or cowards.”

Daphne stepped closer to Oliver, gaze cool and confident. “I can keep up. Question is—can you?”

Oliver studied her for a beat, then gave a short, reluctant nod. “Alright. You’re in.”

“Wow,” Harry muttered, leaning toward Hermione. “He didn’t even growl at her. That’s practically a hug by Queen standards.”

Hermione smirked. “Give it time.”

Daphne turned to Harry, lips curving. “So. What now, Captain Chaos?”

Harry grinned. “Now, we hunt. Arthur’s killer is out there, and whoever they are, they’re tied to that bloody list. And we’re going to find them.”

“You always this dramatic?” she asked.

“Only on Tuesdays. And whenever I’m trying to impress a gorgeous blonde with a black belt and emotional baggage.”

Her laughter was soft, amused. “Careful, Potter. Keep flirting like that, I might not leave.”

Harry leaned in close, their breath mingling in the dim glow of the lair’s lights. “Wouldn’t mind if you didn’t.”

Oliver rolled his eyes. “If you two are done being aggressively flirty, we’ve got work to do.”

Hermione sighed. “Honestly, it’s like watching Bond and Black Widow in a rom-com directed by Quentin Tarantino.”

Daphne threw her a wink. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Harry pulled on his gloves, his smile vanishing into focus. “Suit up, then. We’ve got a city to clean and a ghost to chase.”

And with that, the hunt began.

—

Daphne folded her arms across her chest and gave Oliver a look sharp enough to slice through carbon fiber. Her heel clicked deliberately against the concrete floor as she took a single, provocative step forward.

“So. This infamous List of yours,” she said, her voice dripping with faux curiosity and buried challenge. “Any chance I get a peek? Or is this going to be another one of those testosterone-flavored ‘trust is earned’ monologues you growl so well?”

Oliver Queen didn't flinch, but his jaw clenched. “It’s not a monologue. It’s a fact.”

“Mm.” Daphne’s lips curled into a grin that belonged in a perfume ad—and possibly a war crime tribunal. “Fact or not, I already know your name, your face, your team’s incredibly questionable interior design choices, and the exact coordinates of your hidden scotch stash. So unless that List contains state secrets, nuclear codes, or tasteful nudes of Ra’s al Ghul, I’d like to see it.”

That hit home. Oliver’s eyes narrowed. “You know who Ra’s is?”

“Oh, honey.” Daphne stepped in, now chest-to-chest with him, her voice silk over steel. “I know where he gets his haircuts.”

Oliver blinked. Harry, ten feet away, actually choked on a laugh and had to turn it into a cough.

Before the inevitable snark-off could escalate into a duel—or a marriage proposal—Hermione appeared at Harry’s side and tugged at his jacket sleeve.

“Harry,” she said, her voice hushed but firm, “we need to talk. Now.”

He glanced toward Daphne, who was now casually plucking Oliver’s infamous List from a nearby table with the exaggerated innocence of a cat knocking a vase off a shelf. Oliver watched her like she was a bomb with legs.

“I mean, I’m not saying I trained her,” Harry muttered under his breath, letting Hermione drag him into the shadowy corner of the Foundry, “but if she starts quoting Sun Tzu while rearranging his files, I might propose again.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. “Focus.”

The humming of old computer fans filled the silence as she turned to face him, brows furrowed. “Should we tell them? About Malcolm. That this—all of this—is connected to him?”

Harry’s expression shifted. Gone was the cheeky half-grin. In its place, cold, tired truth.

“You mean, should we tell them we’re not in Starling for fun rooftop gymnastics and late-night brooding sessions?”

Hermione crossed her arms. “Ra’s wants Merlyn alive. That’s the mission. And Daphne and Oliver are already involved.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “Believe me, I know. But we can’t. Ra’s was explicit. If we reveal League operations to non-members, it’s game over. You. Me. Sirius. All of us go back to Nanda Parbat in chains. You want to go back to being Ra’s’ favorite pet project?”

She flinched.

Harry looked down, raking a hand through his mess of hair like it could erase the weight on his shoulders. “I hate this. Every second. Lying to her—it’s like stabbing myself in the bloody chest and twisting. And Oliver...”

His gaze flicked toward the archer. “Ollie’s my cousin. Moira Queen saved my life when no one else even noticed I was drowning. I owe her everything. And Daphne—Daphne’s...”

He stopped. Swallowed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “She’s everything else.”

Hermione's eyes softened. “So tell her.”

“I can’t,” he snapped. “We’re this close to freedom. One slip-up, and we lose everything.”

Silence hung between them. Then, softly:

“You’ve changed,” she said.

Harry arched a brow. “Is that Hermione Granger, international genius, telling me I’ve gotten sexier with age?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Potter.”

“Too late. Already carved it into my tombstone.”

She shook her head with a fond, exasperated sigh. “Let’s go stop them from killing each other.”

Harry turned—and stopped dead.

Daphne, now seated on the edge of the training bench like it was her personal throne, had the List unfolded in her lap and was examining it upside down like a cryptic crossword puzzle.

“I’m just saying,” she drawled, “if your father's handwriting was less serial-killer chic, maybe you wouldn’t need a secret identity.”

“I trained on a deserted island, not at a calligraphy school,” Oliver growled.

“Oh, that explains the brooding. And the jawline.”

“Put it down, Greengrass.”

“Make me, Queen.”

Harry stepped between them before someone lost an arrow or a limb.

“Alright, that’s enough foreplay from you two,” he said. “Ollie, if she wants to see your little murder spreadsheet, let her. You know she’ll get it anyway. She’s probably hacked a KGB server using a Nokia flip phone and a hairpin.”

Daphne smiled, slow and deadly. “It was a BlackBerry, actually. The hairpin was just for dramatic effect.”

Hermione cleared her throat. “Focus, people.”

Oliver glared at Daphne. Daphne glared back. Harry sighed, because of course this was his life now—juggling secrets, psychopaths, and a blonde bombshell who could out-snark Lucifer on a bad day.

He stepped closer to her. Too close, by most people’s standards.

“Daph,” he said quietly. “Please. Just trust me.”

Her gaze flicked up to his. There was a storm in her eyes—fury, curiosity, frustration, and something else. Something soft. Something dangerous.

“You’re asking me to ignore every red flag my instincts are screaming at me,” she said. “To pretend I don’t know you’re hiding something big.”

“I am,” Harry said. “And I hate it. But I need you to trust me anyway.”

She stared at him for a long, breathless moment. Then she looked away.

“You owe me answers, Potter.”

“I always pay my debts,” he said. “Especially to you.”

For just a second, her expression cracked. The barest hint of a smile touched her lips.

“You’d better.”

And just like that, the game resumed. The banter continued. But beneath it all, a new tension pulsed—tight as a tripwire and twice as volatile.

Harry stepped back, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes.

“This is going to be a bloody mess,” he muttered.

Hermione, beside him, arched a brow. “You say that like it’s not our specialty.”

Hermione cleared her throat with the force of a judge slamming down a gavel.

“If you two are done with the foreplay and the sarcasm,” she said crisply, “I have something that might actually be useful.”

Harry didn’t miss a beat. “Please tell me it’s not another slideshow of your cursed spreadsheets.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed with the slow-burning menace of someone who had, in fact, made those spreadsheets sentient. “Follow me.”

Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode deeper into the Foundry. The fluorescent lights flickered above her like they knew better than to disobey.

Harry fell into step, smirk in place. Daphne followed with the kind of sway that turned walking into a declaration of war, her heels clicking with intent. Oliver brought up the rear, muttering under his breath like a man who had seen too much and lived to sigh about it.

They entered a chamber at the far end—walls lined with weapons racks, high-tech monitors blinking softly in the dim light. Three mannequins stood at the center, each spotlit like they were being judged on a catwalk at a very violent fashion show.

The first suit was unmistakably Oliver’s: a forest-green leather number with reinforced armor at the chest and shoulders, a hood draped back like a coiled snake. His bow leaned upright beside it, along with an empty quiver that screamed experience and tragedy in equal measure.

The second was Harry’s—a crimson and obsidian suit, sharp in design, sleek in execution. The chestplate gleamed like blood under the light, the red hood hanging just over a black, angular mask with glowing white lenses. It looked like it could punch a hole in reality just by glaring.

The third was Hermione’s: elegant but deadly. A black-brown bodysuit, reinforced with light armor plating along the ribs and forearms. Glowing runes wove down the seams like magic breathing in and out. The hood framed the neckline, laced with silver-ink glyphs.

Daphne’s breath hitched, her expression turning reverent.

“I saw these in the Post. Grainy front-page snapshots,” she murmured. “But up close…” She stepped forward, her fingers ghosting across the armor on the chest of Harry’s gear. “Bloody hell. This is actual art.”

Hermione folded her arms, casually smug. “Fleur designed them. She’s been running her own armor line for international operatives—Hitwizards, Auror Divisions, Goblin Rebellion cells in Eastern Europe. She’s booked till next spring.”

Daphne let out a soft whistle. “That explains why it looks like something between Vogue Italia and a war zone.”

Hermione nodded, warming to the topic. “Outer shell is Ukrainian Ironbelly hide. Inner layer—Acromantula silk, reinforced with basilisk-scale filament.”

Oliver stared at his own suit like it had just insulted his lineage. “Mine’s…uh…homemade.”

Daphne raised a perfectly arched brow. “That’s what you’re fighting crime in?”

“It works,” Oliver grunted.

“And it shows,” she said sweetly, then turned back to Hermione. “Put Fleur in touch with my people.”

Oliver blinked. “You have people?”

Daphne didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her impossibly small designer handbag and pulled out what looked like a clutch—until it unfolded with a whisper of magic into a full tactical bodysuit, white and icy-blue, glinting under the lights like moonlight on fresh snow.

The fabric shimmered, lined with subtle hexagonal layering and etched with runes that blinked like frozen starlight.

Harry blinked. “Did you just pull a full-body tactical suit out of your Birkin bag?”

Daphne handed it off with a flourish. “Enlargement charms. A girl’s best friend, right after a wand and a wand holster that doubles as a thigh garter.”

Hermione stepped forward like she’d been offered the keys to Gringotts.

“May I?”

Daphne passed it to her like it was sacred. “Go wild. Just don’t ruin the silhouette—it’s custom-fitted from Milan. Took three fittings and a bribe to get it past Italian customs.”

Hermione’s fingers moved reverently over the stitching. “Runes are carved in silver filament… cooling charms in the lining... This is incredible. You designed this yourself?”

“Mm-hmm.” Daphne folded her arms, pleased. “Mobility is key. Armor slows me down. I don’t block—I don’t get hit.”

Oliver grunted. “You chose white. And ice-blue. That’s not exactly stealth.”

Daphne gave him the kind of smile that made men write poetry and women question their orientation. “Oliver, darling. When you can freeze someone solid before they finish screaming, you don’t need stealth. You need style.”

Harry leaned in to Oliver. “She was called the Ice Queen of Hogwarts. Froze the groins of eleven guys before Fourth Year. Pretty sure one still sings soprano.”

Hermione, without looking up, added dryly, “He joined the choir. Very talented falsetto.”

Daphne twirled a platinum strand of hair. “I had standards. They had acne and Quidditch-based delusions.”

Hermione and Daphne were soon lost in a flurry of runic theories, tossing around magical jargon with the fervor of two geniuses on a caffeine bender.

Harry wandered over to a workbench nearby. Lit by a single overhead lamp, it was strewn with half-finished arrows and bolts. There were labels in Oliver’s all-caps chicken scratch: Concussion Tip, EMP, Smoke Screen, Flashbang Arrow.

He picked one up—tipped with glitter.

“Is this…” Harry tilted it in the light. “Explosive glitter?”

Oliver didn’t look up. “Distraction arrow. Works on gangbangers, corrupt CEOs, and bachelorette parties.”

Harry grinned. “You know, somewhere deep down, you are an enormous dramatic bitch.”

Oliver muttered, “Only when necessary.”

Harry inspected another bolt. “You know, we could enchant these. Fire runes, lightning glyphs. Hermione’s already turned her daggers into portable rune bombs. I’m surprised she hasn’t patented them.”

“She’s been helping,” Oliver said, voice quieter now. “She reminds me of Shado. If Shado had a sharper tongue and more terrifying spreadsheets.”

Harry smiled. “She’s got that vibe. Murder librarian with a side hustle in magical war crimes.”

“I heard that!” Hermione called out without turning around.

Daphne, now holding her suit up to an empty mannequin, turned toward them. “Alright, but if Fleur is reworking my gear, I want us to match. Coordinated but distinct. Like a vigilante version of Destiny’s Child.”

Harry groaned. “I am surrounded by madwomen.”

Daphne drifted over, heels echoing, and slipped her arm through his with practiced ease.

“Yes,” she said, smile teasing, “but you love us. Especially me.”

Harry looked down at her—her eyes glowing with mischief, her skin catching the light just enough to make his mouth go dry—and something unspoken curled between them. The air thickened, electric.

“Don’t remind me,” he murmured, voice low.

Daphne’s smile wavered for a heartbeat. Just a second. Then she leaned closer.

“You make it very hard not to.”

Oliver coughed loudly. “Can we just agree not to die wearing fashionably coordinated team colors?”

Hermione held up her revised rune schematics. “No promises.”

Harry looked around—mannequins dressed for battle, blueprints scattered like battle plans, his team bickering like old gods with grudges. The chaos buzzed in his veins.

Enchanted bodysuits. Glitter bombs. Murder spreadsheets. An ice queen who made his pulse trip over itself.

It was madness.

It was probably going to end in fire and pain and very public explosions.

But it was starting to feel a lot like home.

—

Starling City – The Next Morning. Queen Manor Driveway – Overcast skies, light breeze, and way too many unresolved feelings

The Queen family driveway looked like a movie set caught between a Vogue cover shoot and a therapy session about to implode.

Moira Queen, composed as ever in a navy-blue power suit that whispered wealth and screamed competence, stood by the gleaming black SUV, eyeing her children with the kind of patience typically reserved for hostage negotiators.

"If we're going to do this," she said crisply, adjusting the pearl earring that was probably worth more than a small car, "we're going to do it like adults. And preferably without any more unconscious bodyguards in closets."

John Diggle, still radiating suppressed fury and dignity in equal measure, marched down the stone steps with the calm menace of a lion fresh from a cage.

"Queen," he grunted, eyes narrowing, "you've got about five seconds before I drag you back into that supply closet and lock it from the outside."

Oliver, in a charcoal-gray suit tailored to a body carved by war, sin, and salmon ladders, had the decency to look a little sheepish. "It was a tactical decision."

"You duct-taped me to a mop bucket," Diggle shot back. "During a fake party."

"Tommy’s party," Harry Potter corrected from where he leaned against the passenger door, sipping his coffee like a man thoroughly entertained. "Technically. And I’ll have you know I objected."

Hermione scoffed beside him, arms folded over her trench coat. "You did not. You suggested he use a stronger lock."

"Semantics," Harry said cheerfully. "Besides, Diggle looks great for someone who spent hours in a janitor's paradise."

Diggle shot him a glare that promised painful cardio.

"Children," Moira murmured.

Thea Queen was busy swiping on her phone, half-listening, half-scowling at her resurrected brother like he’d stolen her favorite leather jacket and then had the audacity to come back from the dead in it.

Then—click, click, click—the sound of heels hitting polished stone.

Everyone turned.

Daphne Greengrass arrived like a hurricane in heels—cool, collected, and wearing a cream-colored trench coat that screamed couture and had likely been hand-stitched by elves paid in galleons and secrets. Her blonde hair cascaded in soft, expensive waves, and her lipstick was the kind of red that warned: Look, but do not try.

Harry straightened instinctively.

"Daph," he said, with that rare boyish lilt in his voice.

She smiled—slow, dangerous. "Hey, trouble."

She walked up to him like the entire world owed her a runway. He didn't move as she leaned up and kissed his cheek, her hand brushing his jaw with deliberate familiarity.

"You made it," he murmured.

"Of course I did," she replied, voice like silk and spice. "You're going to go mess with the legal definition of 'dead.' I wouldn't miss that for the world."

He turned, slightly pink around the ears—which Hermione noted with a smirk—to face the others.

"Everyone, this is Daphne Greengrass. My girlfriend. Again."

Moira arched a perfectly curated brow. "As in the Daphne? The one from Fourth Year?"

"The one he wrote angsty letters to for months, but didn't send?" Thea asked, suddenly alive with curiosity. "The one we weren't allowed to mention because it made him grumble and disappear into the woods with a wand and a flask?"

"I was brooding artistically," Harry protested. "It was dignified."

Hermione snorted. "You cried into Fizzing Whizzbees while listening to sad Weird Sisters albums."

Daphne gave Harry a look full of amusement and affection, slipping her hand into his. "He broke up with me after the graveyard—told me he had to keep me safe. Didn't even let me hex him properly."

"To be fair," Harry said, squeezing her hand, "I was under a lot of emotional duress. Also, Cedric died. It was a whole trauma arc."

Moira stepped forward, smiling warmly. "Well, it’s good to finally meet the girl who made him forget to write home for two months."

"I tried to convince him to owl you," Daphne said. "He claimed it would put you in mortal peril."

Thea tilted her head. "So... what brings you to Starling? Besides the hero complex in designer boots?"

Daphne smiled with teeth. "My family’s fashion house is expanding into North America. Starling is underdressed and over-funded. Perfect market."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "You think Starling needs fashion advice?"

She gave him a slow once-over. "You have vigilantes who wear more leather than a vampire biker gang. I’m practically doing charity work just standing here."

Harry coughed into his coffee. "She’s not wrong."

Diggle looked up from his internal monologue about retirement. "Another blonde. Great. Soon we’ll need a color-coded roster."

"Relax, Mr. Diggle," Daphne said sweetly. "I brought calming draughts. One dose and even your eyebrows might unclench."

"You threatened to drug my coffee."

"I said I could, not that I would. There’s a difference."

Sirius Black strolled out last, finally, his sunglasses perched on his nose, shirt half-unbuttoned like a rockstar late for a scandal.

"So this is the famous Daphne," he drawled. "Merlin’s beard, Prongslet, you do have a type."

Harry groaned. "You’re not helping, Padfoot."

"Not trying to."

Moira clapped once, voice crisp and decisive. "We have a courthouse to shake up, people. Let’s get moving before someone from the media sees Oliver Queen alive and thinks it’s a resurrection conspiracy."

As everyone moved toward the cars, Daphne paused before climbing into the back with Harry. She caught his hand again.

"You nervous?"

Harry exhaled. "Like a Niffler in Gringotts."

She smiled, all warmth and razor blades. "You’ve got me now. And if any judge tries to get snippy, I’ll hex their wig off."

"You do know Muggle judges don’t wear wigs anymore, right?"

"Please, let me have this."

He leaned in and kissed her—quick, but full of promise. When they broke apart, she was smiling in that smug, satisfied way that said she’d already decided they were winning today.

He followed her into the car, glancing once more at the gathering storm overhead. But inside, where her hand found his again, it felt like sunshine.

And if Oliver Queen could come back from the dead, surely Harry Potter could handle not causing chaos in a courthouse.

—

Starling City Courthouse – 10:12 A.M. Courtroom 3 – Hardwood benches, glaring fluorescents, and an electric storm of press flashbulbs

The courtroom buzzed like a beehive on the verge of collapse. No cameras were allowed, but that hadn’t stopped the vultures of the press from forming a siege outside, flashbulbs popping like fireworks on New Year's Eve. Inside, the air was thick with whispers, strained breathing, and the electric hum of anticipation. Everyone was pretending not to gawk at Oliver Queen—who stood tall and unmoved at the center of it all like he’d just stepped off the cover of GQ: Shipwrecked Edition.

Moira Queen sat in the front row, her posture ramrod straight and face schooled into a mask of restrained grace. But her grip on her clutch said more than words ever could.

Thea fidgeted beside her, legs crossing and uncrossing like she was running a marathon under the pew.

Hermione, all trench coat and quiet storm, flanked Moira on one side, her fingers nervously tugging at her sleeve. Diggle was a fortress on the other—expression unreadable, muscles tense, eyes scanning like a security detail who trusted no one.

Further back, Daphne Greengrass sat with effortless elegance, the kind that made heads turn in any room she entered. Her hand was draped over Harry’s, perfectly manicured nails tracing soft circles on his skin.

“Still time to hex someone if this goes sideways,” she murmured without looking at him.

Harry smirked. “Tempting. But I think Judge Whitman’s wand might be bigger than ours.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Sirius Black lounged across the back pew like he was born to make judges nervous. His suit was open at the collar, his beard perfectly trimmed, and his smirk? Criminal.

“Place smells like guilt and broken plea bargains,” he muttered. “I feel oddly at home.”

The courtroom door closed with a thunk, and everyone stood as Judge Lenora Whitman entered—black robes, sharp bob, and an energy that screamed, I’ve buried better men than you with nothing but my stare. She adjusted her glasses, regarded Oliver like he was both miracle and migraine.

“Mr. Queen,” she said, voice silk over steel. “You may speak.”

Oliver stepped forward. No hesitation. No trembling.

“My name is Oliver Jonas Queen,” he said, clear and steady. “I was declared legally dead on May 21st, five years ago, after the Queen’s Gambit sank in the North China Sea.”

A pause. Not just silence, but reverent stillness.

“My father got me onto the lifeboat. He didn’t make it. The currents took me to Lian Yu. It means ‘Purgatory.’ And that’s exactly what it was.”

He exhaled. A breath filled with ghosts.

“For five years, I survived things I still don’t fully understand. I fought. I bled. I lost. And every day, I thought about my family—about what it would mean if I ever got home again.”

He glanced back. His eyes found Thea first—tears brimming. Moira, regal and unreadable. Then Harry, who gave him a subtle nod.

“I tried to live for both myself and my father,” Oliver said. “For the man who gave me that lifeboat… and for the man I wasn’t yet, but needed to become.”

Judge Whitman watched him with eyes that could tear down armies. Then she leaned forward, her voice quiet but commanding.

“I’ve sat on this bench for over twenty years. I’ve signed death certificates for sons and daughters, parents and partners. I’ve watched families come apart and rebuild. But this… this is rare.”

She studied him with something close to awe.

“You walked through my doors in a charcoal suit, Mr. Queen, but what I see is a miracle.”

Moira’s breath caught. Thea sniffed. Hermione’s eyes shimmered. Daphne? She squeezed Harry’s hand like she was keeping him from vanishing.

“With full authority of this court, I hereby rescind the declaration of death for Mr. Oliver Jonas Queen,” Judge Whitman announced. “He is restored, legally and publicly, as a living citizen of Starling City.”

She raised the gavel.

CRACK!

The sound echoed like thunder.

Then the room exhaled. Applause, gasps, and stunned silence intermingled. Some clapped. Most didn’t know how to react.

Moira rose, regal grace cracking just enough to reveal the mother beneath. Thea rushed to Oliver, throwing herself into his arms.

Harry leaned toward Daphne. “So… no hexing needed?”

She gave him a lazy smirk. “Give it ten minutes. The press haven’t fed yet.”

Diggle groaned. “God, I miss the mop closet.”

Sirius stretched like a jungle cat. “Alright. Who’s paying for lunch for the back-from-the-dead crowd?”

Hermione stood, brushing phantom dust off her coat. “Can we, just once, avoid a scandal?”

Harry raised his eyebrows. “That depends. Is Oliver planning to propose to Laurel on the courthouse steps?”

“Harry…” Daphne warned.

“I’m just saying—if he whips out a ring and a press release, I’m not responsible for what spells I cast.”

Oliver turned, arms still around Thea and Moira, his gaze landing on the people who’d stood beside him when the world thought he was a ghost.

Harry caught his eye. Gave him a small salute.

Oliver smiled. For the first time in five years, it wasn’t just survival. It was home.

And outside, just beyond the courthouse doors, the city waited—with cameras, questions, and chaos.

But for now? There was peace.

And Harry was already planning who to roast first.

—

Starling City Courthouse – 10:52 A.M.

Thea Queen clung to her brother like she was afraid he’d vanish again. Her voice was soft but fierce in his ear.

"Don’t you dare disappear again."

Oliver gave her a rare smile. "Not planning to."

Moira watched the siblings with a mixture of fondness and restraint. Ever the queen of composure, she finally stepped forward.

"Thea, we’re late," she said, before turning to Oliver and placing a gentle hand on his cheek. "You did well, sweetheart. Let’s keep it that way."

"Tell Walter to clear his schedule," Oliver said, stepping back.

Behind Moira, Sirius Black rolled his neck with exaggerated effort, the tight cut of his blazer doing little to hide the tattoos that peeked from under his cuffs. He looked like the kind of man who would light a cigar in a courtroom just to prove a point.

"I’ll make Walter an offer he can’t refuse," Sirius said with a wink. "Or I’ll charm his tie into a snake. Depends on how the meeting goes."

Moira gave Sirius a look. "We talked about the snakes."

"We did. I just didn’t agree."

With a final nod, Moira and Thea disappeared into the Queen Consolidated town car, Sirius tossing a lazy salute over his shoulder.

Oliver turned to the trio waiting at the entrance. Harry Potter leaned against the marble wall like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, black coat fluttering slightly in the breeze coming through the doors. His green eyes flicked over Oliver with a mischievous glint.

"So," Harry said, deadpan, "how does it feel to be legally undead? Are you now the heir to the throne of Mordor or do we just call you Lord Zombiebro?"

Oliver rolled his eyes. "Still better than five years of fish and solitude."

Daphne Greengrass let out a light laugh, tucking a golden lock of hair behind her ear. She looked like she’d walked off the set of a Vanity Fair cover shoot—fitted cream blouse, black slacks, heels that probably cost more than Oliver’s shirt. And yet there was something dangerous behind the soft smile. Like a dagger sheathed in silk.

"He has a point," she said, looping an arm through Harry's. "Though I think Lord Zombiebro should be your new codename."

"Only if you agree to be Lady Sassington," Harry replied, giving her a wink.

Hermione Granger sighed, adjusting the strap of her bag. The no-nonsense elegance of her outfit—dark blazer, crisp blouse, tailored slacks—was perfectly Hermione. She looked like she could prosecute a corrupt billionaire and then research wandless transfiguration on the subway ride home.

"Merlin help us all if you two ever actually run a country together," she muttered.

Before anyone could reply, the double doors slammed open. Laurel Lance strode out like a woman on a mission, high heels echoing sharply on the courthouse floor. Her face was all angles and frustration.

She zeroed in on Oliver. "What are you still doing here? Shouldn’t you be off getting fitted for your welcome-back cape?"

Oliver took a breath, but Harry stepped forward first.

"Oh, we’re just wrapping up a casual resurrection. Bringing Oliver back to life and all that. Bit of necromancy before brunch. You know how Tuesdays are."

Laurel blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You’re excused," Harry replied cheerfully. "But don’t feel bad. You missed the part where the judge cried. It was very moving."

Laurel looked to Oliver, clearly trying to ignore the smirking wizard beside him. "You should be careful who you hang out with."

"So should you," Daphne murmured sweetly, the smile on her face not quite reaching her eyes.

Laurel didn’t reply. She spun on her heel and stalked off toward the elevators.

Hermione gave an audible sigh. "Someone needs a Patronus and a glass of wine."

Outside, the courthouse steps were lined with reporters, cameras, and flashing lights. But across the courtyard, another press gathering had formed around a podium. Martin Somers, tall and broad with the kind of polished smirk you just wanted to punch, was giving a speech. His salt-and-pepper hair and expensive suit couldn’t quite mask the sweat beading at his temples.

"Who is that?" Daphne asked, watching him with narrowed eyes.

Oliver's jaw tightened. "Martin Somers. CEO of Somers Shipping."

Hermione was already typing into her tablet. "Currently being prosecuted by Laurel Lance for the murder of Victor Nocenti. His daughter, Emily, is the key witness."

"He’s on the list," Oliver said quietly. "I remember the name. My father marked him. Somers has been using his company to smuggle drugs into the city. Chinese Triads are his enforcers. Victor found out. Somers had him killed."

Harry folded his arms, expression cold now. "And now he’s out here playing philanthropist in front of the cameras."

Daphne leaned against Harry, tilting her head toward him. "Want to crash his little party tonight?"

Harry looked at her sideways. "Darling, I thought you’d never ask."

Hermione shut her tablet with a snap. "We’ll need recon. Floor plans. Shift schedules. Any existing surveillance."

"And a full legal sweep," Oliver added. "We do this right. We do this clean."

Just then, a black SUV rolled to a stop at the curb. John Diggle stepped out, looking like a brick wall in a suit.

"You ready?" he asked.

Oliver didn’t answer right away. His eyes stayed on Somers, who was now shaking hands with a smug city official.

"Yeah," Oliver said finally, walking toward the car. "Let’s bring justice back to Starling City."

As they climbed into the vehicle, none of them noticed Somers glance in their direction. But even if he had, he wouldn’t have seen the storm that was coming for him.

Not just the Hood.

This time, he had backup.

And they were magic.

—

Diggle was not having a good night.

He had turned around for exactly two seconds—two seconds—to get his phone from the passenger seat, and just like that, Oliver and company were gone.

Again.

“This is getting ridiculous,” he muttered, glaring at the empty sidewalk like it had personally offended him. He slammed the car door shut and stomped back toward the driver's seat like a father who’d just realized the kids had hotwired the minivan and fled the neighborhood.

Meanwhile, several stories beneath the abandoned Queen Consolidated mill, the Foundry buzzed with a different kind of frustration.

The harsh white light from the fluorescents cast a sterile glow over the concrete walls and the rows of high-tech equipment. The center of the room looked more like a covert dressing room than a vigilante headquarters: four mannequins stood like silent sentinels, each armored and poised, waiting for the night.

Oliver stood shirtless, his body a canvas of old scars and coiled muscle. He moved with silent efficiency, lacing up his black combat boots with mechanical precision. Nearby, his forest green leather jacket hung on its mannequin, the hood already raised like a shadow looming.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His focus was laser-sharp, honed from five years of hell. This was the part where he transformed—from billionaire heir to myth in the shadows.

Harry, however, was in a more theatrical mood.

"So… we’re really doing this," he said, zipping up the top half of his bodysuit. The red and black armor clung to him like a second skin, the crimson gleaming slightly under the lights. The Acromantula silk shimmered with the subtle sheen of danger, and the Ukrainian Ironbelly hide beneath promised death to anyone stupid enough to test it.

He reached for the black mask on the mannequin’s face—a sleek, angular piece with wide white lenses that gave him an unnerving, almost predatory look.

"You know," Harry continued, slipping the mask on and wiggling his head until it fit just right, "we should probably come up with codenames. You can’t just yell 'Hey Oliver!' in the middle of a warehouse raid and expect not to get shot."

Oliver glanced up, his tone dry. "In Russia, the Bratva called me Kapot. It means 'hood.'"

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Hermione, tugging on the sleeves of her black-and-brown armor, looked up slowly. "Absolutely not."

"No offense, Oliver," Daphne added, adjusting the ice-blue material clinging to her curves, "but that sounds like a Soviet brand of discount vodka. Or chewing gum that gives you hallucinations."

Harry tilted his head. "I love you, mate, I really do. But if you insist on calling yourself Kapot, I will put that on a T-shirt. In Comic Sans."

Oliver sighed the sigh of a man who knew he’d walked right into this. "Fine. Not Kapot."

Hermione offered with a shrug, "The media’s already calling you ‘the Arrow.’ Might as well lean into it."

Oliver considered that for a moment, then nodded. "Arrow works."

Harry struck a dramatic pose in front of his mannequin, arms wide. "Right then! Clearly I’m the stylish one, the clever one, and also the most likely to start a fan club—"

"More like a hate group," Daphne muttered, but her lips twitched.

"—so I need a codename with flair. Something iconic. Mysterious. Sexy."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "So basically, something no one else would dare use in public."

"Exactly!" Harry declared, snapping his fingers. "Blood Raven."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "You do realize that’s from Game of Thrones, right? He literally fuses with a tree."

"Right, and what am I if not vaguely magical and morally ambiguous? Besides," Harry said, raising one red-gloved hand, "I wear red. I turn into a raven. Tommy got you into the show, didn’t he?"

Oliver grunted, which Harry took as a yes.

"Plus," he added with a wink at Daphne, "sounds sexy."

Daphne smirked, her icy-blue eyes flicking up and down his form. "Not as sexy as you think, but I’ve heard worse."

He grinned, stepping closer, voice dropping just a fraction. "You wound me, Miss Greengrass."

"Good. Then it’s working."

Hermione coughed pointedly, snapping a gauntlet into place. "Moving on. I registered my Animagus with the Ministry. Owl. Noctua sounds appropriate."

Harry tilted his head. "Latin for owl?"

"Correct."

"Fitting," Oliver said, nodding. "Smart, silent, and terrifying when angry."

"You say the nicest things," she said dryly.

Daphne was still staring at herself in the locker reflection, her frosty white-and-blue armor gleaming faintly. Her hood lay down her back, its runes pulsing softly with dormant enchantments.

"I was going to go with Ice Queen," she said. "Because, well… Hogwarts."

Harry stepped behind her, close enough that she could feel his warmth but not quite touching. His voice dropped, all teasing gone.

"Then don’t," he said softly. "They don’t get to define you. That name—Ice Queen—was meant to cage you. How about something you own? Skadi. Norse goddess of winter and vengeance. Cold, dangerous, and deadly in heels. Just like you."

She turned to look at him, and for a moment, everything else fell away. The tension in her jaw softened.

"Skadi," she repeated. Her voice was quiet, but her smile was sharp. "I like that."

"Of course you do," Harry said, stepping back with a wink. "You have taste."

Hermione rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t sprain something. "We are the most ridiculous vigilante squad ever."

"No," Harry corrected, throwing his hood over his head and striking a pose. "We are the most fabulous."

Oliver hit a button on the table, and the mission board sprang to life. A holographic map of Starling lit up, red pins highlighting various threats across the city. At the center pulsed a crimson marker at the waterfront.

"Somers is speaking at a fundraising gala near the docks," he said. "High security. Lots of press. After tonight, he’ll be untouchable."

"Then we hit him tonight," Skadi said, voice cool and resolute.

"Operation: Send Somers Screaming is a go!" Blood Raven declared.

"Can we please use a name that doesn’t sound like it came from a twelve-year-old’s Fortnite session?" Noctua sighed.

"What about Operation: Pointy End Goes First?" Harry offered cheerfully.

"I swear to Merlin, if you don’t shut up—"

But their banter faded into silence as the team moved into formation, four shadows rising from the underground.

Tonight, Starling would remember them.

And for the corrupt and the cruel… the reckoning had arrived.

Starling City – The Docks – 11:12 P.M.

The storm had the audacity to roll in just as they arrived. Thunder growled low, rattling the skeletal cranes like the city’s grumpy old dogs waking from a nap. Salt and diesel hung thick in the air, mixing into a scent that screamed “industrial waterfront,” while cargo containers stood like iron tombstones in the dim, flickering floodlights.

A sharp thwip broke the night’s soundtrack—a warning arrow launched with deadly precision.

“CRACK.”

The arrowhead embedded itself mere inches from Martin Somers’ ear.

“Jesus!” Somers screamed, his voice cracking like a rusty hinge as his body dangled upside-down, suspended by invisible magical cords. His tailored suit jacket flopped over his head like an oversized rag, revealing a pudgy gut that looked about as comfortable inverted as a cat in a bathtub, and a face that was turning a shade of purple previously unseen in Starling City.

Harry—Blood Raven—leaned casually on the edge of a container, wand lazily extended, his crimson hood flickering in the wind. His eyes, hidden behind those white lenses, glinted with amused menace.

“Somers,” Harry began, voice dripping with all the charm of a tea-sipping British villain, “we could’ve done this the boring way. You know—subpoenas, polite interviews, maybe you crying into your Gucci tie while pleading for mercy.”

He tilted his head, the smirk audible in his tone. “But no, you decided to cozy up with the Triads. And then, oh, then you had Victor Nocenti killed.”

“I didn’t—” Somers began, his voice a pathetic croak.

THWIP. THWIP.

Two more arrows slammed beside Somers’ legs, pinning his pants to the metal container wall like some grotesque pants mural.

Oliver—Arrow—stepped from the shadows, longbow taut in his gloved hands. His forest-green hood was drawn low, the black domino mask shadowing his steely eyes. He didn’t bother with theatrics.

“We’ve got the shipping manifests,” Oliver said flatly, voice like gravel rolling down a mountainside. “The coded texts. Your fingerprints on the bullet casing that killed Nocenti. You’re done.”

Skadi stalked forward, her every step leaving a faint trail of frost, the cold in the air seemingly bowing to her command. Her icy-blue suit hugged her curves like a second skin, the rune-etched hood pulled low over her shining eyes, glittering beneath the storm clouds like chipped sapphires.

“You ordered Nocenti’s death because he was getting talkative,” Skadi said, voice sharp as breaking ice. “Your men made it look like a robbery gone wrong. You thought you were clever.”

Somers was panting now, the terror eating through his bravado like acid. “You don’t know what you’re talking about! No proof! None of this holds up!”

“Funny thing,” Hermione—Noctua—said, appearing at Skadi’s side with the calm certainty of a woman who never needed to shout to be heard, “Truth spells don’t hold up in court, not reliably. But out here…”

Her wand flicked, glowing faintly with blue light as she intoned, “Veritas Sensus.”

A shimmering thread of light struck Somers squarely in the chest. His eyes widened as the truth burst through his lips like a dam breaking.

“I… I paid the Triads to handle it,” he gasped. “Nocenti got scared… talked too much.”

Harry crouched nearby, chin resting on his hand in a pose far too casual for the situation.

“See? Wasn’t that easy? And much more entertaining than a courtroom snoozefest.”

Skadi’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile as she crossed her arms. “You know, for someone so high and mighty, you sure stink like a rat.”

Somers spat curses, voice thick with venom and desperation. “You’re not cops. You’re freaks in masks playing judge, jury, and executioner.”

Oliver stepped closer, nocking an arrow, bowstring taut and ready.

“Maybe. But we’re the kind of justice you don’t want coming after you.”

Harry raised an eyebrow from his crouch. “Also, if I may interject,” he said with mock gravitas, “we have a USB stick with every text and transaction for the last six months. Yours and your lawyer’s phones included. So unless you fancy a new lawyer—one who doesn’t encrypt like a drunk pigeon—you might want to reconsider your legal team.”

Daphne—Skadi—caught Harry’s gaze briefly, an amused sparkle lighting her eyes before she gave him a teasing smirk.

“You’re insufferable,” she said, voice low and playful.

“Insufferably charming,” Harry shot back, flashing her a grin that somehow made the freezing cold feel a little warmer.

Skadi rolled her eyes but didn’t pull away from the shared moment. “Tempted to leave him in the bay,” she said, voice dripping with mischief.

Noctua raised an eyebrow but smirked. “You’re terrible.”

“Tempting,” Skadi repeated, glancing at Harry. “But I think he’s earned a dumpster.”

“Recyclables,” Harry quipped, rising and snapping his wand. “Oh, and I may have peed in there earlier. Adds character.”

“No!” Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands.

“I prefer ‘whimsical,’” Harry countered, striding toward the edge.

Suddenly, the distant wail of sirens pierced the night air.

Oliver gave a sharp nod. “Time to vanish.”

With practiced ease, the four melted into the shadows—one with the wind, one with frost, one with silent wings, and one with a smirk that could probably be heard from Gotham.

Above the docks, thunder cracked once more, as Starling City shuddered in its uneasy sleep.

Justice had come knocking.

And tonight—it wore hoods.

—

Queen Mansion – The Next Morning – 9:04 A.M.

The morning sun poured into the Queen Mansion like it owned the place, splashing the white marble floors and antique furniture with a golden sheen that made last night’s thunderstorm feel like a feverish hallucination. Everything smelled like old money, lemon polish, and mild passive aggression.

Moira Queen’s heels stabbed the floor with every step as she paced the parlor like a lioness looking for someone to bite. In one perfectly manicured hand she gripped a tablet like it was the dagger that would eventually end someone’s career.

“You lost him again, Mr. Diggle?” she said, her tone like a stiletto in the ribs. “How many times has this happened now? Five? Six? Should I start a tally on the fireplace?”

Diggle stood with military rigidity beside the hearth, arms crossed, jaw clenched. His expression said: I fought insurgents in Afghanistan and this is still the most stressful job I’ve had.

“With all due respect, Mrs. Queen,” Diggle said, his voice calm but edged with irritation, “your son has made eluding highly trained security personnel into a competitive sport.”

Moira’s arched brow could’ve cut steel. “Yes. Because clearly, you’re outmatched by a man who once fell off a yacht and got found by a fishing boat in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’ve guarded four-star generals through IED zones,” Diggle muttered. “None of them had secret tunnels in the wine cellar.”

The double doors flew open then, without a knock, warning, or any real shame.

Oliver sauntered in like he hadn’t just disappeared for twelve hours, hoodie unzipped, smug smirk firmly in place. His hair was stylishly disheveled in a way that could only be achieved by someone rich or in a CW drama. Behind him came Harry—black jeans, red hoodie, wand half-hidden under the hem—and Daphne, whose icy-blonde waves bounced like she was starring in a shampoo commercial and definitely not supposed to be here.

Trailing in last and somehow looking like she had never left, Hermione arrived, tea in hand, cardigan buttoned, expression maddeningly serene.

Moira’s lips pressed into a line sharp enough to draw blood.

“You three were with him, weren’t you?” she asked, cold as the diamonds on her wrist.

Harry wandered over to the fruit bowl like he hadn’t heard her, plucking a strawberry and examining it like a jewel thief sizing up a ruby.

“Define with,” he said, popping it into his mouth.

“Oh, this’ll be good,” Diggle muttered, arms folding tighter.

“We went for waffles,” Daphne offered brightly, flopping onto the couch with the grace of someone who had definitely been raised in a house with at least three nannies and a private chef. “Greasy, syrup-drenched, heart-attack-on-a-plate waffles.”

“At midnight,” Hermione added. “It’s retro. Very Friends-esque. We even considered singing Smelly Cat.”

“I’m going to kill all of you,” Moira said in the tone of someone who’d absolutely Googled if that counted as a crime when it was premeditated and justified.

“You know, you say that a lot,” Harry said, licking strawberry juice from his thumb. “It’s lost its edge. I suggest a new threat. Perhaps something Shakespearean—‘I shall have thee flayed and thy entrails strung upon the gate.’ Very visual.”

Daphne looked delighted. “Ooh, I love it when you get dramatic. Do the accent again.”

“I am the accent, love,” Harry replied, giving her a wink. “Everything else is just noise.”

Oliver was visibly trying not to laugh and failing.

“Stop encouraging them,” Moira snapped.

“I’m not,” Oliver said. “I’m just… not discouraging.”

“Very different,” Harry added helpfully. “Like waffles and pancakes. Similar texture. Completely different vibes.”

“Also, Daphne iced a guy last night,” Hermione added, as if commenting on the weather.

“Hermione!” Daphne hissed.

“Sorry,” Hermione said, sipping her tea. “I meant metaphorically. Emotionally. With biting wit.”

“Thank you,” Daphne said primly, then smiled at Harry with a flirtatious lilt. “Unless I should have iced him. Would’ve given us more time alone.”

Harry grinned. “You’re already dangerously distracting, Daph. If you’d killed him, I’d have had to kiss you in front of the whole block.”

Daphne tossed her hair. “You say that like it's a threat.”

Diggle held up a hand. “Can we not flirt while I’m threatening to quit?”

“Right,” Moira said, stepping forward and jabbing her tablet toward Oliver like it was a sword. “This ends now. The next time you and your magical misfits decide to go gallivanting across Starling City, Mr. Diggle goes with you. Or so help me, I will have trackers embedded into your molars.”

“Charming,” Harry muttered. “Do we get branded as well? Maybe a little ‘Q’ on the back of the neck?”

“Oh, I want mine in diamonds,” Daphne said.

“I want mine in Latin,” Hermione added. “So it’s elegant and ominous.”

Diggle sighed. “No need for all that. Either I go with them next time, or I walk. And I mean it this time. One more vanishing act, one more urban spelunking mission without warning—and I’m done. I don’t care if he’s the Green Arrow’s secret twin, or if Harry here turns out to be Merlin’s grandson, I’m out.”

Oliver opened his mouth.

Diggle held up a finger. “No. I don’t want to hear it. Not a single line of brooding dialogue about how ‘you have to do this alone’ or ‘you’re protecting me from something darker.’ This isn’t a soap opera. This is my job. And I am very tired.”

Harry clapped Diggle on the shoulder. “Mate, if it helps, we can enchant your car to fly. I’ll even throw in an interior heating charm. Daphne gets a little frosty when she’s excited.”

“It’s not my fault the humidity fights me,” Daphne said sweetly. “Besides, Harry likes it when I sparkle.”

“Love, when you sparkle, global temperatures rise.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and muttered, “You two are exhausting.”

“I thought we were cute,” Daphne said.

“You are,” Hermione admitted, sipping her tea. “But also exhausting.”

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose. “For the last time. Diggle goes with you. That’s non-negotiable.”

“Fine,” Oliver said. “We’ll take Diggle.”

Moira blinked. “That’s it? No protest?”

“Nope,” Oliver replied, smirking. “He’s good with a gun. And I hate driving.”

Diggle exhaled. “Good. I get to drive.”

“Shotgun!” Harry said immediately.

“Damn it,” Daphne muttered.

“Dibs on the aux cord,” Hermione added. “And I’m playing Taylor Swift the whole ride.”

“Hell,” Diggle said, turning away. “I’m already in hell.”

As everyone began to drift—Oliver heading upstairs, Hermione disappearing into the study, Harry and Daphne drifting kitchen-ward like twin disasters—Moira slowly sank into an armchair.

From the hallway, Diggle’s muttered voice echoed faintly:

“Waffles. Midnight waffles. I miss Kandahar.”

“Stranger things have been covered up by the British Ministry,” Hermione called out.

There was a pause.

Then Moira, staring into her untouched tea, muttered under her breath, “I need a drink.”

And this time, no one argued.

—

Starling City – The Docks – The Next Morning – 9:37 A.M.

The storm had moved on, but its mood lingered. The sky hung low and bruised, casting everything in a dull, wet grey. Puddles reflected the battered floodlights still flickering overhead, and yellow crime scene tape rippled weakly in the breeze like exhausted warning signs. Seagulls screeched overhead—because of course they did—making the whole scene feel like the opening credits of a particularly grim noir flick.

Detective Quentin Lance squinted against the light as he stepped over a puddle and past a grumbling CSI tech. His long coat flapped around his legs like a cape of righteous exasperation. The cigarette in his hand had gone out two steps ago, but he didn’t notice.

He stopped near a half-crumbled loading ramp, letting his eyes scan the damage.

Three arrows. Still embedded in the metal siding. Grouped tight.

Magic burns. Faint but there—small scorched spirals and a lingering hum in the air that made the hairs on his arms rise.

And then, sitting like the sad cherry on top of a very guilty sundae: Martin Somers. Wrapped in a foil blanket, sulking on the bumper of an ambulance, looking for all the world like a man who'd just wet himself in public and blamed the rain.

Lance took a breath, exhaled slowly, then ambled forward.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice dry as over-steeped tea. “If it isn’t the ghost of Christmas indictments.”

Somers gave him a withering look, which wasn’t easy to pull off with matted hair and a blanket that made him look like a microwaved burrito.

“Go to hell, Lance.”

“Already there,” Lance muttered. He glanced down at the puddles, then back at Somers. “Nice night for a jog. What happened—get stuck in yoga class and forget how to land on your feet?”

Somers scowled. “I want protection. A full detail. I want a damn task force.”

Lance raised an eyebrow. “Protection from what? Weather? Hooded bogeymen? You get attacked by Santa and his reindeer too?”

Somers leaned forward, voice low and bitter. “Four of them. Masks. Capes. Freaks. One of ‘em had arrows, another froze the damn ground under my feet. And then there was that British psycho with the red hood and a wand.”

Lance blinked. “A wand?”

“I’m telling you,” Somers snapped, “they weren’t human.”

“You’ve clearly never met my ex-mother-in-law,” Lance replied, rubbing his face. “So, let me get this straight. You’re saying the vigilantes who’ve been turning Starling into a comic book came after you. Hung you upside down like a side of beef. Made a nice little pincushion display out of your shipping containers. And yet… you can’t name a single one of them?”

“They didn’t exactly hand out business cards,” Somers growled.

Lance stepped in, dropping his voice into that gravelly low rumble he’d perfected after twenty years of interrogating idiots. “You’re sitting in the middle of a crime scene, Somers. And I’ve got half a dozen agencies breathing down my neck about your Triad connections, missing witnesses, and more blood money than a Scorsese flick. You think I give a damn if your pride got bruised?”

Somers yanked the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “You think this is about pride? They broke into a secure dockyard, assaulted me, violated a dozen laws, and walked away without so much as a footprint.”

“You’re right,” Lance said. “They’re not cops. They’re not bound by procedure. They don’t need warrants, or chain of custody, or a half-dozen redacted memos to do what they do.”

He leaned in, close enough to smell Somers’ panic beneath the stale cologne. “But you know what they are? Angry. Smart. And clearly not big fans of you.”

Somers barked a humorless laugh. “Yeah? That makes two of us.”

Lance shook his head. “Give me something. Anything. Who were you meeting here? Why the Triads? Why Nocenti?”

Somers stiffened. “I got nothing to say.”

“Right,” Lance muttered, standing up straight. “Because the last time someone got close to testifying against you, they ended up with two bullets in their back and their wallet missing.”

“You got no proof.”

“I got motive, means, a ballistics report, and a whole team of pissed-off vigilantes saying otherwise,” Lance said. “And if you think a foil blanket and an attitude’s gonna save you, then congratulations—you’re still as dumb as you look.”

Somers’ expression darkened, and his tone turned venomous. “You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? You and your little badge, playing knight in shining trench coat.”

Lance gave a dry chuckle. “I’m a cop in Starling, Somers. We don’t do shining.”

Somers leaned in, eyes glittering with something colder. “Well here’s a little forecast for you, Detective. My lawyers are gonna shred your case, bury every piece of your so-called evidence, and when I walk out of that courtroom? I’ll make damn sure the first thing I do is return the favor.”

Lance’s eyes narrowed. “That a threat?”

“You’re damn right it is.”

A pause. Then Somers smiled, teeth yellow and sharp.

“And you tell that crusading daughter of yours—Laurel?—that if she thinks she’s gonna nail me to the wall, she better start sleeping with one eye open. Because when this blows over, I’ll be coming after everyone who took a swing at me.”

Lance didn’t react. Not at first.

Then, with the calm precision of a man who had long since stopped asking for permission, he grabbed Somers by the collar and yanked him off the gurney.

“Say her name again,” Lance hissed, voice so quiet it was terrifying, “and I’ll make sure the next thing you’re swallowing is your own teeth.”

Somers didn’t blink. But the smugness wavered.

A cough behind them.

“Uh, sir?” one of the uniforms said awkwardly. “Forensics wants you to take a look at the arrowheads.”

Lance shoved Somers back onto the gurney and stepped away, jaw clenched so tight it creaked.

“You’re going down, Somers,” he muttered. “Hood or no hood.”

As he walked away, his phone buzzed.

[Text from Laurel:]

Heard about the docks. That bad?

Lance stared at the screen for a moment, then typed back with two calloused thumbs.

[Reply:]

Worse. Be careful. He made it personal.

He pocketed the phone and took one last look over his shoulder.

Somers sat there, wrapped in his shiny blanket like a bad Christmas gift. Still smug. Still breathing.

But not for long, if the people in the hoods had anything to say about it.

And Lance? He was starting to think they might be the only ones left who knew how to get things done.

—

Queen Consolidated – Executive Level

The executive lobby gleamed with the cold precision of wealth. Floor-to-ceiling glass. Brushed steel. Polished stone that echoed with every footstep like a courtroom about to deliver judgment. Everything about it screamed legacy. But to Oliver Queen, it felt more like a tomb—one where his name was already on the plaque.

“Still smells like corporate ego,” Oliver muttered under his breath as the elevator doors opened and he stepped out, Diggle beside him like a tailored shadow.

Diggle arched an eyebrow. “And here I thought you'd be impressed. They waxed the floor twice this week.”

Oliver snorted, looking around like a man surveying a foreign country. “Great. Now it’s extra slippery with capitalism.”

Moira Queen stood across the room, poised and polished in a slate-gray suit that probably cost more than most people made in a month. Her heels clicked against the marble floor like punctuation marks to her authority. And beside her, Walter Steele—smooth, unflappable, wearing a tailored navy suit and an expression that said dignified, but approachable.

“Oliver,” Moira greeted, voice warm but restrained, like she was hugging him through a bulletproof window. She stepped forward and gave him a measured embrace, more graceful than affectionate. “You’re looking... well.”

“I showered,” Oliver said with a half-shrug. “Figured it was the least I could do for the tour of the mothership.”

Diggle offered a polite nod. “Mrs. Queen. Mr. Steele.”

“John,” Walter said with a professional smile. “Good to see you again. And Oliver... welcome home.”

“Yeah,” Oliver muttered, glancing around. “Home.”

Moira gestured toward the conference hall ahead. “We wanted to show you the new developments. Walter thought you might appreciate being brought up to speed.”

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” Oliver said. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re trying to hand me a briefcase and pretend I didn’t spend five years learning how to kill my food with bamboo.”

Moira’s expression didn’t waver. “This company was your father’s life. And it was meant to be yours, too.”

“Right. Because nothing says ‘family legacy’ like corporate espionage and hostile takeovers.”

Walter smiled, patient and unbothered. “Queen Consolidated has evolved, Oliver. Our clean energy division is growing. We’re pioneering modular infrastructure technology, even humanitarian logistics systems. This place isn’t the same company your father left behind.”

“Neither am I,” Oliver replied.

They entered the conference room. On the table sat a sleek architectural model of a modern glass tower, with “The Robert Queen Research Center” engraved on a small brass plate.

“We’re naming the new annex after your father,” Moira said softly.

Oliver stared at the model like it might explode. “You want to immortalize him with glass and steel. That’s cute.”

Walter gave a small chuckle. “It’s more than symbolic. We want you to take on a leadership role. Not just a nameplate—real influence.”

Oliver blinked. “Wait, are you serious?”

Moira inclined her head. “You’re a Queen. That still means something.”

Oliver turned to Diggle. “Do they think I got a business degree via owl post or something?”

Diggle didn’t miss a beat. “Depends. Did the owl survive the island?”

Walter folded his hands calmly. “You don’t need credentials to lead. You need presence. People will follow your name—your example.”

Oliver gave him a skeptical look. “Right. Nothing inspires investor confidence like a guy who can skin a boar with a broken arrowhead.”

“You underestimate your value,” Walter said smoothly.

“And you clearly overestimate my desire to wear a suit and pretend I care about board meetings.”

Walter smiled again, though it was tight at the edges. “It’s not about pretending. It’s about purpose. And if you’d stop deflecting with sarcasm, you might see that.”

“Oh, I see something,” Oliver said. He pointed between Walter and Moira. “I see that you’re still circling her like a British panther in heat.”

Moira blinked. “Oliver!”

“What? I’m just saying what everyone’s thinking. Walter’s practically writing poetry every time he offers her tea. I mean, kudos, man—subtle and respectful—but if you two start slow dancing next to the R&D model, I’m gonna hurl.”

Walter straightened slightly. “My relationship with your mother is professional. And based on mutual respect.”

“Mm-hmm,” Oliver drawled. “Respect with smolder.”

Moira sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t about my personal life—”

“No, because you don’t have one,” Oliver interrupted, his tone shifting. “You gave that up when you took in Harry. You remember him, right? At the time, he was scared kid with bruises he wouldn’t talk about. You made a choice, Mom. You picked him over... whatever you might’ve had with Walter. And I respect that. I really do.”

Walter’s voice was gentler now. “Harry’s a remarkable young man.”

“Yeah, he is,” Oliver said, gaze cooling. “And the only reason he’s okay now is because she gave up everything to protect him. Including you, Walter.”

The air turned still. Diggle glanced at the floor, hands clasped behind his back.

Walter, to his credit, held Oliver’s gaze. “Then I’m glad she did. And I’ll always respect that.”

Oliver nodded once, slow. “Good. Then respect this too—I’m not joining the company. I’m not putting on a tie, and I’m not playing nice for photo ops. I didn’t survive five years in hell to spend the rest of my life in meetings.”

Moira’s voice was quieter. “Your father wanted more for you than survival.”

Oliver looked at her for a long beat. “Yeah. He wanted me on that damn boat.”

Silence.

Diggle coughed softly, but said nothing. Walter looked away. Moira just stood there, frozen in a moment of all the things she couldn’t fix.

Then Oliver turned to leave.

“You want to name a building after him? Fine. But don’t expect me to be the man he was. That guy died out there with him.”

He walked toward the elevator, hands in his pockets, jaw set.

Diggle gave a respectful nod to Moira and Walter, then followed his friend without a word.

As the elevator doors closed behind them, Walter finally exhaled.

“He’s... not quite what I expected.”

Moira’s eyes stayed fixed on the doors. “He’s what five years of blood, guilt, and survival make of a boy who came home a stranger.”

Walter looked at her, more gently now. “And Harry?”

A soft smile played across her lips. “Harry’s what kept me from becoming one too.”

—

The streets of Starling City rolled past in a blur of neon smudges and rain-slick reflections. The inside of the SUV was dimly lit, humming with quiet power. Oliver Queen sat in the passenger seat, his head tilted slightly toward the window, but his eyes weren't really watching anything. His jaw was tight, his shoulders locked. Arms crossed like a man holding in too much.

John Diggle drove, knuckles tight on the steering wheel, posture military-straight. He kept his eyes on the road—but the silence between them wasn’t peace. It was pressure, coiled and waiting.

“Gonna keep doing this?” Diggle asked after a beat. His tone was calm. Even. But there was a steel edge underneath.

Oliver didn’t move. “Doing what?”

“This thing where you storm into Queen Consolidated like Batman on laundry day, snarl at everyone who looks at you sideways, then vanish like a grumpy smoke bomb.”

A flicker of something that might’ve been a smirk ghosted over Oliver’s lips. Might’ve. But it never landed.

“I made my point,” Oliver muttered.

“Yeah. You made a scene,” Diggle shot back. “Not the same thing.”

Oliver finally turned his head, his expression a cocktail of warning and weariness.

“What part of ‘I’m not that guy’ didn’t they understand, Dig?”

“The part where you pretend you’re not still bleeding for all the things you lost.”

That landed. Oliver blinked slowly. Looked away again.

“You don’t know what I buried,” he said quietly.

“No,” Diggle agreed. “But I’ve seen what crawled out of the grave instead.”

A beat.

Oliver’s lip twitched. “You’re getting better at the metaphors.”

Diggle gave a small, dry grunt. “Don’t make me break out the poetry. I’ve got a whole sonnet called ‘Man Broods Like an Idiot Pretending He’s Not Broken Inside.’”

“I’d rather you punched me,” Oliver said flatly.

Diggle gave him a sidelong glance. “You’d like that too much.”

A quiet breath left Oliver’s nose—maybe a laugh, maybe not. Then Diggle’s tone shifted, softened just enough to cut deeper.

“You know, your mom—she’s not exactly baking cookies and singing lullabies. But she took in a scared kid. Protected him. Didn’t have to. Chose to.”

Oliver stiffened.

“She didn’t save Harry from just an abusive home,” Diggle continued. “She saved him from becoming you.”

That hit like a sniper round to the ribs. Oliver looked away sharply, jaw flexing like he was chewing glass.

“I know,” he said after a moment, voice rough.

Diggle didn’t press. Just waited.

“You think I don’t see how he looks at her?” Oliver went on. “He worships her. She’s... a goddess to him. Untouchable. And I walk into that house and all I see is how far I’ve fallen. How far I can’t come back.”

“You don’t have to come back all at once,” Diggle said. “Just stop running like there’s someone chasing you.”

“There is,” Oliver snapped, eyes flicking to him. “Me.”

Another beat. The SUV turned onto a quieter street. The rain started to tap against the windows like the city was trying to whisper its own ghosts into the car.

“Look,” Diggle said, tone softening again. “I’m not saying go hug it out with the board of directors. I’m saying maybe try something radical. Like staying. Like trying.”

Oliver looked down at his hands—scarred knuckles, faded calluses. Symbols of survival, not comfort.

“I don’t know if I can,” he said. “I spent five years turning into something else.”

“So turn back,” Diggle said simply.

“It’s not that easy.”

“It never is,” Diggle agreed. “But you’ve got people now. People who care whether you make it home.”

Oliver didn’t respond.

The world outside the window started to fade.

—

Lian Yu. 5 years ago 

Waves crashed against jagged rocks under a sky thick with gray. The sea spat salt and sorrow as a younger, broken Oliver Queen stumbled across wet sand, soaked to the bone. His face was sunburned, streaked with dirt, barely recognizable as someone who once wore thousand-dollar suits and drank scotch like water.

A body lay in the surf.

His father.

Robert Queen’s eyes were wide, glassy. Lifeless. His mouth hung open as if trying to speak even in death. Seaweed wrapped around him like shackles.

Oliver dropped to his knees with a hoarse cry.

“Dad…”

His voice was cracked. Barely audible over the waves. He reached out, trembling hands hesitating as he brushed back wet hair from the man’s forehead.

A gull landed nearby. Pecked at the corpse’s exposed hand.

“NO!”

Oliver lunged, screaming, waving his arms. The gull flapped away with an indignant cry. He collapsed again. Shaking. Sobbing.

Then, like a switch flipped, he gritted his teeth and began dragging the body up the beach.

One slow, agonizing foot at a time.

Falling. Getting up. Falling again.

Blood smeared his hands. His own. His father’s. Maybe both.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispered. “I’ll fix everything, I swear... I’ll make it right…”

His lips were blue. Eyes fever-bright. But he didn’t stop.

Under the skeletal shadow of a gnarled tree, he finally laid the body down. Covered the face with his shredded jacket.

Then he screamed.

A sound so raw, so feral, it didn’t sound human.

It sounded like something being born and dying at the same time.

—

Back to the present 

The scream still echoed in Oliver’s head.

He blinked.

Exhaled.

Diggle glanced at him without turning his head fully.

“You’re still carrying him,” he said quietly.

Oliver didn’t answer right away.

“He told me to survive,” he said finally. “Didn’t tell me how. Or what for.”

Diggle gave a small nod. “Then maybe it’s time you figured that part out.”

Oliver let out a breath. Half sigh, half bitter laugh.

“Every time I try to figure it out, I end up with more bodies.”

“And yet you’re still here,” Diggle said. “Still trying. That’s more than most.”

Oliver turned to him, expression guarded.

“You always been this annoying?”

“Only when it keeps you from turning into a brooding ball of guilt.”

Oliver huffed a tired chuckle. “Bit late for that.”

Diggle grinned faintly. “Maybe. But I’ve got time.”

The SUV rolled on through the city.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy.