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.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!