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.
---
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