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."
---
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