Queen Manor – An Hour Later
The air in the manor was thick with antiseptic and tension.
Oliver stood in the softly lit foyer, shirtless and brooding—because of course he was. A streak of blood ran down his forearm where glass had been embedded, and the last shard he'd pulled out now lay in a bloody dish towel on the oak coffee table. He was wrapping his arm in practiced silence, the sort of silence that hummed with the weight of unsaid things.
The heavy doors creaked open with the same theatrical timing fate always seemed to prefer.
"Hey," Hermione called out, sweeping into the room like a woman who'd been summoned by both destiny and a group chat. Her trench coat flared as she peeled it off, revealing combat boots, jeans, and a shirt that read 'I aim to misbehave' in bold letters. She tossed her coat onto the armchair. "Sorry I'm late. My cousins from Washington talk like they're paid per decibel. I considered a Silencio, but figured international magical incidents were kind of a 'no' this week."
Oliver didn't even glance up. His jaw was locked, his eyes narrowed as he cinched the bandage tighter than necessary.
"We've got a problem."
Hermione froze, her sarcasm screeching to a halt like tires on wet pavement.
"What kind of problem?" she asked. "The 'get me coffee and a firewhisky' kind or the 'I need backup and possibly a few ethically grey spells' kind?"
He dropped the bloodied towel onto the table and met her eyes with a stare that could've melted concrete.
"Laurel was attacked. Triad. Two foot soldiers and a professional."
Hermione's breath hitched.
"Merlin's—Is she—?"
"She's alive," Oliver said, voice low and gravel-thick. "She's shaken. She shouldn't be. She had guards. They're dead now."
Hermione swallowed hard. Her wand hand twitched instinctively.
Oliver reached for the burner phone on the end table and handed it to her.
"Call Potter and Greengrass. Put it on speaker."
She didn't argue.
The phone flipped open with a click. Her fingers moved fast, practiced. It rang once.
Twice.
Then came Harry's voice, unmistakably smug and about one sentence away from being slapped by fate.
"You better be calling to tell me Voldemort's back," he said. "Because you just interrupted playtime."
There was the sound of a laugh in the background—sultry, musical, and lazily amused.
Daphne.
"Oh my God," Hermione muttered, rubbing her forehead. "Harry, I am begging you—stop referring to sex as 'playtime.' It makes it sound like you're both wearing footie pajamas and discussing sharing."
"Don't be ridiculous," Harry replied cheerfully. "We're naked. Daphne's wearing nothing but ambition and a hickey."
"You're so proud of yourself," Hermione groaned.
"Proud of her, actually," he said. "I merely provided the motivation."
Daphne's voice slid in like silk dipped in sin. "Tell Granger I didn't even need motivation. Just him. And a flat surface."
Oliver took the phone from Hermione and brought it close to his mouth.
"Laurel was attacked. Triad. Somers is moving."
The silence was instant. Chilling.
There was a mechanical click—probably Daphne sliding a wand into her back holster or Harry checking the magazine on that wand-sword hybrid monstrosity he loved.
Harry's voice, when it came back, was all business. "We're on the way."
"You want us suited or casual?" Daphne added, already moving. You could hear it in the cadence of her voice—heels clicking across hardwood, urgency laced with elegance.
"Vigilante gear," Hermione said. "Foundry. Fifteen minutes. And bring firepower."
"Coffee too?" Harry asked.
"I'm gonna murder you," Hermione growled.
"Right. No milk, three sugars, extra hexes. Got it."
The call cut with a click.
Hermione stared at the phone for a beat, then dropped it onto the table.
"You know, I liked him better before puberty," she muttered.
"No, you didn't," Oliver said, deadpan.
"Fair point."
He gestured toward the wall, where her duffle of gear was already waiting.
"Apparate?"
Hermione raised her brows. "You sure? You still flinch every time."
"I don't flinch," Oliver said sharply.
"You absolutely flinch," she replied. "Last time, you screamed."
"It was a tactical vocalization."
"It was a high-pitched whimper."
Oliver sighed and picked up his bag. "Let's just go."
Hermione drew her wand, stepping close. "Don't blame me if your spleen ends up in your foot."
He looked at her with that same stoic exasperation he always wore when she said something magical he didn't understand.
"Just don't splinch me."
She smirked. "You say that like it's off the table."
There was a beat.
Then, with a loud crack, the two of them vanished—leaving behind only the echo of banter, the faint scent of antiseptic and blood, and a world slowly going to hell without their permission.
—
The Foundry – Beneath the Abandoned Queen Mill
The air in the Foundry crackled with heat and raw enchantment, like a forge mid-incantation. Arcane wards shimmered faintly along the scorched stone walls, pulsing with quiet power. Every so often, an old welding machine coughed out a spark, like it was wheezing from its conversion into a magical diagnostic tool. The scent of oil, metal, and phoenix ash hung thick in the underground lair.
Oliver Queen stood at his workstation, tall and still as a statue carved from vigilante grit. The only light came from enchanted torches flickering like forge-fire, casting long shadows over his forest green leathers. His hood was pulled low, the black stripe of war paint across his eyes making his scowl look positively feral.
He inspected his arrows with near-religious devotion. Blunt impact, stun-burst, explosive, runic-tether, obsidian-tipped serrated arrows laced with phoenix ash—each one gleamed with lethal promise.
Across the room, Hermione Granger paced like a general reviewing a battlefield. Her armored bodysuit of black and brown hugged her with surgical precision, reinforced along the chest and forearms with stitched Ukrainian Ironbelly hide. Her hood was pulled up, the lining runed with obscuring enchantments that shrouded her features in shadow. The golden glow from her wand flickered over a hovering, holographic map of the city. She flicked her wrist and zoomed in on the south docks.
The elevator groaned.
A metallic shriek echoed through the space as the old lift rattled its way down, finally coming to a stop with the grace of a dying walrus.
The doors creaked open.
Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass emerged in a mess of tousled hair, smudged lipstick, and the unmistakable air of having just committed crimes against decency.
Harry's black hair stuck up like he'd been electrocuted. His shirt was half-tucked, track pants slung low, his wand stuck in the waistband like it had been grabbed mid-fumble. Daphne wore an oversized trench coat, which might have been his, and what looked like very little else underneath. Her lips were slightly swollen, eyes gleaming with lazy amusement.
Oliver didn't look up.
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You both look like you lost a fight with gravity and your dignity."
Harry grinned. "Gravity started it. Dignity was collateral damage."
"We got dressed in under two minutes," Daphne added with a smirk, brushing her fingers through her bed-messy hair. "Frankly, that deserves a medal. Or a standing ovation."
"You want a standing ovation for zipping up your trousers?" Hermione muttered, rolling her eyes. "Vigilante bar is set so high."
"Depends on who was unzipping them first," Harry said cheerfully.
Daphne chuckled and bit her lower lip, eyes never leaving him. "He's got a very... inspirational wand."
Hermione made a strangled noise. "Merlin's left testicle, please, just get dressed."
Oliver finally spoke without looking up. "Skadi. Raven. We've got intel. Not time for foreplay."
"Rude," Daphne said.
"Accurate," Harry replied, heading toward his mannequin. "But rude."
His armor hung there like a warning to the world: red and black, layered with charmed plating, the scarlet hood and black mask with white eye-lenses cast a long shadow over the scarlet breastplate. He grabbed it and began strapping it on with easy precision.
"Still looks better than Daredevil's."
"Stop comparing yourself to fictional characters," Daphne said, slipping out of her coat and into her bodysuit, the icy-blue armor catching the light with a soft shimmer. "You're barely functional in this universe."
"Love you too, Ice Queen."
"That nickname still makes me want to stab you."
"You say the cruelest things when you're turned on."
"I say the cruelest things when I'm conscious."
Hermione snapped her wand into its holster with a sharp motion. "If either of you starts dry-humping in the middle of a mission again, I will Imperius you into abstinence."
Harry wiggled his eyebrows at Daphne. "You hear that? She's finally acknowledging we have self-control issues."
"Is it a problem if we don't want to fix them?"
"Just wear the suit," Oliver growled.
Daphne slid her twin ice-daggers into place on her hips, their runed hilts glowing faintly. She looked at Harry and tilted her head, all amusement and subtle heat. "Race you to see who stabs more idiots tonight."
"You're on," he said, pulling his hood up and activating his mask. The lenses slid into place with a mechanical click.
Oliver grabbed his bow, slid his quiver onto his back. "Somers' men are gathering at the south shipping yard. Off-grid. No Muggle cams."
Hermione flicked her fingers across the map. "Which means he's planning something bigger than a drug shipment. That ward you saw yesterday? Necrotic tethering. This isn't street-level anymore."
"Then we break it before it festers," Daphne said, voice cool, lethal.
Harry stepped forward. The air shifted around him like the center of gravity had moved. The others fell into formation without needing to be told.
A teleportation sigil ignited on the ground, carved into the stone, powered by a phoenix-core rune that glowed brighter with each step closer.
Oliver nocked an arrow. "Everyone ready?"
"Born ready," Harry said, then smirked. "And then emotionally traumatized into being paranoid."
Daphne leaned in just enough to let her breath tickle his neck. "Which is why I like riding you into battle."
"Is that what we're calling it now?"
Hermione held up a hand. "No. We are not starting a euphemism war."
The sigil flared.
A surge of magic, a burst of ozone, a rush of wind.
The Blood Raven. The Noctua. The Arrow. And Skadi vanished into the night.
Next stop: The Port.
And Somers?
He was about to regret a lot of life choices.
—
The Docks – South Shipping Yard
The fog rolled in thick and low, swallowing the lamplight in hazy halos. Crates marked with faded Kanji and false customs stamps were stacked like tombstones along the water's edge. The sound of waves lapping against rusted hulls mingled with the low growl of diesel engines and the clatter of hurried labor. Somewhere a chain clanged, and a gull screamed like it had seen the future and didn't like it.
Martin Somers stood near a matte-black SUV, its door open and engine purring like a patient predator. He wore a tailored grey suit too nice for the company he kept, the tie loose around his neck as he barked orders into a headset.
"Move faster, dammit! We've got thirty minutes to finish the load and get this floating powder mill out of here. The Triads want their product by sunrise or they'll start carving fingers. You want to keep yours, then shift those crates!"
He turned to his bodyguard—a slab of muscle with dead eyes and arms thicker than Somers' confidence. "As soon as the last crate's loaded, we roll. Flight's waiting. New name, new life, new everything. Laurel Lance can scream all she wants from her courtroom pulpit, but once I'm gone? She's got nothing."
The bodyguard grunted. "And the Arrow and his crew?"
Somers sneered. "Arrow's a fairy tale with a Robin Hood fetish. He and those three freaks missed their shot the second that bitch lived. I'm done playing defense."
He stepped toward the SUV—
—and an arrow slammed into the front tire with a hiss of escaping air and the dull thunk of justice interrupting his exit strategy.
Somers froze. Then turned. Slowly.
A second arrow embedded itself into the dirt beside his foot. Almost casual. Almost polite.
From the shadows, they emerged.
The Arrow, calm and unreadable, eyes glowing beneath the hood, drawing another arrow with terrifying ease. Oliver Queen's voice was gravel and storm.
"You were saying?"
To his left, the Blood Raven strode forward like a specter draped in scarlet and midnight. The crimson and black armor hugged his lean frame like sin made silk, and the white eye lenses of his mask glowed faintly. His voice, distinctly British and devastatingly smug, cut through the air like a dagger made of sarcasm and spite.
"Evening, Martin. Lovely night for smuggling illicit narcotics, human trafficking, and third-degree douchebaggery."
Somers stammered, reaching for his gun.
"Oh, do it," Blood Raven said, with the glee of someone who'd trained for this moment. "Please. I haven't had a decent workout since I wiped the floor with Greyback. And he was at least trying not to wet himself."
A shape dropped from the shipping container above—silent, deadly, body encased in tight whaiye and icy-blue combat bodysuit. Skadi hit the ground like a goddess of winter descending, daggers already drawn, expression somewhere between amused and aroused.
"You promised me Triad muscle, Raven," she said with a smirk. "This looks more like flab."
Blood Raven tilted his head. "Give them a moment. Maybe they're just shy. Or constipated. Or both."
Daphne rolled her eyes. "And you wonder why I end up on top."
Somers blinked. "What the hell—are you two flirting?!"
Blood Raven turned toward him. "No, Martin. We're bantering. The flirting comes after you're in handcuffs. And not in the fun way."
Before Somers could shout, a gust of wind swirled behind them, and Hermione—Noctua—stepped from the fog, wand drawn.
"The docks are warded," she said coolly. "Anyone trying to escape will end up with their insides outside."
Somers, sweating now, glanced at the crates. "I've got money. Lots of it."
"Wrong currency," Skadi said. "You're bankrupt in spine and soul."
Arrow loosed an arrow that sliced through Somers' lapel, embedding in the SUV's door. "End of the line."
The dockyard erupted into motion. Somers' men scrambled for weapons. Gunfire sparked. Spells cracked.
Noctua flicked her wand. One thug went flying into a crate, unconscious before he hit the floor.
Arrow took down three with precise, surgical arrows—knee, shoulder, wrist.
Skadi was ice and death, spinning through a group with a grace that was ballet by way of homicide.
Blood Raven vaulted a crate, flipping midair, and landed in the center of the chaos. His fists glowed faintly red. The first man he hit dropped like a puppet with its strings cut. The second got a quip:
"Fun fact: your jaw can shatter under 300 newtons of pressure. Shall we test that theory?"
Crack.
"Science wins again."
Daphne fought beside him, daggers flashing. "You always this talkative in a fight?"
"Only when I want to impress the ridiculously hot ice queen who might murder me later."
"Flatter me again and I might let you live."
"Kinky."
They moved together like a dance choreographed by vengeance. Noctua's spells built barriers, immobilized limbs, and snatched weapons midair. Arrow swept through the high ground, raining justice with every shot.
In under five minutes, it was over.
The thugs groaned in a heap. Somers knelt in the mud, hands behind his head, blood trickling from a split lip.
Blood Raven leaned close.
"Tell Laurel Lance," he said, voice like velvet over steel, "that justice doesn't need a courtroom. Sometimes it just needs people willing to get their hands dirty."
He stood, turned to Daphne, and winked. "Drinks after we drop this trash off?"
She smiled. Slow. Dangerous.
"Only if you promise not to talk the whole time."
"I make no such promises."
They vanished into the mist, shadows swallowing them whole.
Justice was served. With style.
—
Starling City Police Precinct – Midnight
The precinct at midnight was a symphony of chaos—ringing phones, shouting officers, keyboards clacking like machine gun fire, and the faint hum of caffeine-fueled desperation. Paperwork towered on desks like urban sculptures of municipal failure. Somewhere, a rookie had definitely just spilled coffee on a suspect's written confession. Again.
Detective Quentin Lance sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie crooked, face carved with exhaustion and worry. His fingers massaged the permanent tension knot between his eyes as if that could make the past few hours vanish into smoke.
Across from him, Laurel Lance stood her ground—posture iron-straight, arms folded like a barricade, chin tilted just enough to suggest you were seconds from regretting your tone. A fresh bruise bloomed high on her cheekbone, a gift from the Triad's failed attempt to kill her in her apartment hours earlier. She wore it like a badge.
"You need to recuse yourself," Quentin said, his voice low but firm, the gravel in it sharpened by fear. "Right now."
"No."
"Laurel—"
"No," she repeated, sharper this time. "Not happening."
"You were attacked in your own damn apartment. By Triad hitters. This case is personal now."
She arched an eyebrow, every inch the courtroom queen. "You mean it wasn't personal before someone tried to turn me into Swiss cheese? News to me."
He sat up straighter, the chair creaking beneath him. "You know what I mean. You're too close to this."
"I'm the only one close enough to care, Dad."
"Care's not gonna matter if you're six feet under," he snapped, voice rising. "I already lost your sister—"
Laurel's jaw tensed. That was a low blow, even for him.
"Don't you dare."
He sighed, long and slow, running a hand down his face. "Look, I get it. You want justice. Hell, I do too. But if something happens to you—"
"It already did," she cut in, voice suddenly quiet but deadly. "And you know what? I'm still standing. So unless you're planning on chaining me to a desk, I'm not backing off."
They stared at each other across the war-torn desk. Years of shared trauma, love, stubbornness, and grief simmered in the silence.
Before either could fire the next shot, the bullpen doors banged open and a breathless beat cop all but tumbled inside.
"Detective! Sir! You—uh—you need to come outside. Like, now."
Quentin blinked. "Is this about the idiot who cuffed himself to the evidence locker again?"
"No, sir, it's… it's something else. You really need to see it."
Laurel was already moving. Quentin scrambled to follow, muttering under his breath, "This better not be another damn balloon animal protest…"
They pushed through the precinct doors and into the crisp night air. The street outside the precinct was flooded with blue and red lights, reflecting off damp pavement and a growing circle of uniformed officers. Phones were out. Cameras too. Some were laughing. Others just stood and stared like they'd found Bigfoot passed out on a bench with a parking ticket.
Quentin and Laurel reached the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea. And there he was.
Martin Somers.
Bound in reinforced zip-cuffs, unconscious, slumped against a stack of shipping crates tagged with clear-as-day Triad smuggling stamps. His suit was torn, his face was bruised, and someone had very thoughtfully taped a large, glittery label to his chest:
"To: SCPD. You're Welcome."
"…Well," Quentin said, staring in disbelief, "either Santa's gotten aggressive, or vigilantes are running out of subtlety."
Laurel smirked, eyes gleaming. "I vote for aggressive Santa."
Somers had been carefully positioned like a failed art installation—his arms wrapped around one crate as if hugging the evidence in surrender. Beneath him, faint glowing sigils hummed on the pavement—Noctua's magic, if he had to guess. Some sort of magical verification, complete with tamper-proofing and an unmistakable 'don't touch if you value your eyebrows' shimmer.
"Arrow's work?" Quentin asked no one in particular.
"Not just Arrow," the beat cop said, eyes still wide. "It was him, yeah—but Blood Raven too. And the… the ice lady. The witchy one with the wand. They dropped Somers off like he was freakin' Uber Eats for felony charges."
Quentin groaned. "Tell me you're joking."
"I'm not. There's… there's a note."
He pointed to a strip of duct tape attached to the side of one crate, bearing a scrawled message in crisp, British cursive. Laurel leaned in to read it aloud.
"Dear SCPD,
One scumbag, mostly intact.
Try not to screw it up.
Love,
Blood Raven & Co.
P.S. The drugs are real. So's the blood on crate #3. You might want to bring gloves."
She straightened up and tried not to laugh. Tried hard.
Quentin shot her a look. "Don't."
"What? It's a little funny."
"It's very illegal."
"It's also airtight evidence, a confession's worth of product, and a defendant so gift-wrapped you could hang a bow on him."
"You are not using vigilante justice as admissible evidence—"
"Actually," she cut in with a smile so sharp it could slice concrete, "I'm going to use it as Exhibit A. And if anyone on the defense team so much as sneezes near the chain of custody, I'll file obstruction charges so fast they'll need a time machine to keep up."
Quentin rubbed his temple like the headache was now physically trying to claw its way out. "You're gonna get yourself killed."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice just enough for only him to hear.
"Then someone better warn the next guy who tries."
He looked at her for a long moment, then shook his head.
"You're just like your mother."
Laurel grinned. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Somewhere above the skyline, the mist stirred—and a shadow shifted across the rooftops. The silhouettes of the city's new protectors vanished into the fog, unseen but unmistakably watching.
The war for Starling City was just beginning.
And justice?
Justice had a bow, a wand, a dagger, and a very British sense of sarcasm.
—
As the crime scene techs descended on Somers like ants on a dropped lollipop, evidence bags began piling up fast—guns, burner phones, forged customs documents, and enough heroin to sedate half the Glades. Laurel stood nearby, arms folded, eyes sharp as a scalpel. Quentin hovered close, muttering instructions to officers between suspicious glances at the magical sigils still glowing faintly on the pavement.
One of the younger detectives, Alvarez, approached with a grim expression and a clear evidence bag clutched in his gloved hands.
"Sir, uh… you're gonna want to hear this."
"What is it now?" Quentin asked, tone halfway between annoyance and dread.
Alvarez held up the bag. Inside was a small digital recorder—scuffed, slightly sticky, and pulled from the inside pocket of Somers' tailored jacket.
"We found it duct-taped to the inside lining. Must've been recording the whole time. Timestamp's fresh—less than four hours old."
Laurel raised an eyebrow. "He wore a wire?"
"Not willingly," Alvarez said. "Looks like someone else stuck it there."
He handed the bag over. Quentin gave Laurel a look—one of those weary 'if this is another vigilante stunt, I swear to God' looks—and popped the evidence bag open. He pressed play.
At first, the audio crackled—shuffling fabric, a grunt, then the unmistakable sound of Somers' voice. Hoarse. Panicked.
"Okay! Okay! Look, I ordered the hit on Nocenti, alright? I gave the green light. It was me. I told Li to send in the enforcers. The guy was going to flip—what was I supposed to do?!"
There was a pause. The faint background sound of someone's breath—steady, controlled.
Then, another voice. Calm. British. Bone-dry.
"Confess a little louder, mate. Don't think the mic caught the part where you committed conspiracy to murder."
Laurel snorted. "Blood Raven."
Quentin hit stop, eyes dark.
"Well, that's new. Vigilantes doing wire work."
"They're evolving," Laurel said, lips twitching.
"They're overstepping," Quentin snapped. "This isn't justice—it's performance art with felony charges."
Before Laurel could fire back, two officers dragged Somers—now awake but barely conscious—past them toward the holding cells. His lip was split, his expensive hair a disaster, and his eyes swam with a cocktail of pain and humiliation. He saw Laurel and tried to spit at her. Missed by a mile. The glob landed on his own shoe.
"Classy," she muttered.
Quentin watched as Somers was shoved through the station doors. Then he turned to his daughter, arms crossing tight.
"I don't like this."
She raised an eyebrow. "The part where justice landed gift-wrapped on your doorstep, or the part where it didn't wait for a warrant?"
"The part where it came from a bunch of masked anarchists who think due process is optional."
"They're not anarchists," Laurel said. "They're trying to help."
Quentin scoffed. "By what—assaulting suspects, planting magical evidence, and sending us confession tapes like we're part of their fan club?"
Laurel's voice dropped, softer but firmer. "You heard the tape. Somers ordered the hit on Vincent Nocenti. A man is dead. His family deserves justice. If the vigilantes hadn't stepped in—"
"I'd still have a case," Quentin growled. "One that wouldn't get thrown out by a judge the second someone uses the word entrapment."
"They didn't entrap him," Laurel said. "They exposed him."
"Yeah, and they exposed us too. As the people who can't do our jobs without costumes stepping in."
Laurel leaned forward. "Then maybe it's time we started doing our jobs better."
They stared each other down again—two stubborn wills clashing in the middle of the sidewalk.
Quentin let out a long, tired sigh.
"You're going to do whatever you want anyway."
"I always have," she said with a smirk.
"God help me, you really are your mother's daughter."
She grinned. "You say that like it's a bad thing."
Behind them, Somers was locked into holding, the echo of the cell door slamming shut punctuating the night like a gavel.
The precinct slowly returned to motion—cops talking, evidence being logged, phones ringing again. But something had shifted. There was tension in the air, yes. But also something else.
Momentum.
Quentin watched his daughter disappear back into the station, heels clicking with purpose. Then he glanced up—at the dark skyline, where a shadow lingered just long enough to be seen before vanishing again.
"Damn vigilantes," he muttered. "Think they're saving the city. All they're doing is lighting a fuse."
But even as he said it, deep down, he couldn't deny one thing.
The fuse was already lit.
And whatever came next?
Starling was finally paying attention.
—
The Foundry – Moments Later
The low thrum of computers filled the underground space with a mechanical heartbeat. Green-tinted monitors glowed against the dark stone and steel walls, illuminating the room in shades of eerie neon. The only other sound was the soft clink of metal as Oliver Queen, stoic and silent as ever, methodically drew a thick black line through Martin Somers on the well-worn list passed down from his father. The ink bled like a wound, and the name vanished beneath the pressure of the pen—erased, judged, and condemned.
Harry leaned against one of the consoles, arms crossed over his chest, dark curls falling into his eyes. The edge of his wand peeked out from the cuff of his jacket, just in case. His voice cut through the stillness like a scalpel.
"Well," he said, with the sort of dry drawl that suggested he was bored at a higher intellectual level, "that's one less morally bankrupt, tax-dodging, backroom-dealing, Triad-fellating corporate cockroach skittering around this city's underbelly."
Across the room, Daphne Greengrass—dressed in sleek black leather that fit her like sin and moved like a shadow—sat atop the workbench, one long leg crossed over the other, lazily twirling a throwing knife with all the grace of a ballerina and none of the innocence. Her smirk was wicked and unapologetic.
"Please," she purred, the words slow and sultry, like honey dripping from a poisoned spoon. "Somers wasn't a cockroach. That's offensive… to cockroaches. He was more like one of those bloated ticks you find on the belly of a mangy dog. Useless. Greedy. Impossible to crush unless you do it just right."
Harry raised an eyebrow, lips twitching. "Remind me never to let you near my dog. Or my belly."
"Oh, darling," Daphne said with a feline smile, eyes flicking to his waist, "your belly's safe. For now."
He tilted his head, returning her smirk. "Now you're just trying to distract me."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'm succeeding."
Behind them, Hermione Granger let out an exasperated sigh, clearly regretting her decision to be associated with any of them. She sat in front of one of the computers, fingers flying over the keyboard with righteous purpose. Her brow furrowed in the way that always meant she was about to deliver something intelligent, devastating, and extremely annoying.
"While you two flirt like horny sixth-years in a broom closet," she said without looking up, "some of us are actually doing the important work."
Harry blinked. "That's rich coming from the girl who once made out with Neville in the middle of a war zone."
"That was once. And it was after a basilisk fang explosion."
"Sounds kinky," Daphne muttered.
Oliver, standing near the weapons rack with arms folded like a Greek statue carved out of brooding and trauma, finally broke his silence. "Somers is crossed off. But he was just a link in the chain. There's more out there. Worse. Better connected. Meaner."
"And probably with worse hair," Harry said. "Seriously, how does a man with that much money look like he bathes in discount aftershave and disappointment?"
Daphne laughed, low and genuine. "To be fair, he was unconscious for most of our time together. I doubt he noticed."
Hermione arched an eyebrow. "Daphne. You knocked him out before asking questions again, didn't you?"
"He was about to touch my thigh."
Harry made a face. "Then she showed him what that thigh could do. I believe it involved a chair leg, three pressure points, and the kind of scream you only hear in horror movies and some parts of France."
"Très romantique," Daphne whispered, tossing the knife into the air and catching it by the hilt.
Oliver approached the table, his expression grim but resolute. "This doesn't end with Somers. It never does."
Hermione nodded. "I analyzed the files we pulled off his servers. There's a pattern—money being funneled through a shell company, then laundered through holding accounts in Corto Maltese."
Harry let out a low whistle. "Ah yes, Corto Maltese. A lovely vacation spot if you like beaches, bullets, and bribery."
"We might have our next name," Hermione continued. "It's encrypted six ways to Sunday, but it's there."
Daphne hopped off the table, her boots clicking softly against the concrete floor. She walked up to Harry, deliberately slow, deliberately close, and leaned in until her breath ghosted against his jawline.
"So," she murmured, voice velvet-soft, "what now, Potter? Recon? Interrogation? Subtle threats with a dash of magical flair? Or are you in the mood for something a bit more… direct?"
Harry met her gaze, their noses nearly touching. "Why, Miss Greengrass, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to proposition me."
"Maybe I am."
"I accept. But only if we interrogate someone first. Foreplay is important."
Daphne chuckled and stepped back with a wink. "As long as I get to make them scream first."
"Merlin's balls," Hermione muttered under her breath, "get a room. Or at least take it to the rooftops."
Oliver didn't even blink. "We leave in twenty. Gear up."
"Finally," Harry said, standing upright and stretching his arms. "I was starting to worry this night would end without an explosion or a confession."
"Or a kiss," Daphne added casually.
Harry gave her a look. "Ladies first."
She leaned in again, fingers brushing against his wand arm with calculated mischief. "Maybe later. After we break someone."
He grinned. "You really do know how to charm a boy."
She whispered, "That's not all I know how to do."
Hermione groaned. "I swear, if you two end up shagging in the med bay again, I'm sealing it with a ward and putting a sock on the door."
Harry turned to her, completely unrepentant. "Only fair. Last time I caught you and Ron, I went temporarily blind."
Daphne looked impressed. "Truly?"
He nodded. "Had to bathe my eyeballs in firewhisky."
Oliver sighed deeply, grabbing his bow with the air of a man who had seen too much and judged all of it.
And as the lights dimmed and the team moved into motion, the Foundry thrummed with purpose—deadly, determined, and just a little bit dysfunctional.
Because if you're going to fight a war in the shadows… might as well do it with sass, style, and someone to flirt with between missions.
---
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