The city wept against the windows—rain streaking like mascara down the glass as the black limousine idled on the edge of the Glades. In the distance, Starling's skyline blinked dimly, a sickly heartbeat barely visible through the fog.
Inside, the world was warmer, quieter, more dangerous.
Moira Queen sat poised in the back seat, the picture of a winter rose—beautiful, cold, and very much alive despite the season. She wore black like armor, a sculpted blazer that matched the sharp angles of her cheekbones and the steel in her spine. Her pearl necklace lay against her throat like a noose made fashionable.
Across from her sat a man—still, composed, cloaked in shadow.
His suit was hand-stitched by someone who didn't need to advertise, the leather gloves he wore looked soft enough to cradle a newborn, yet tight enough to strangle a secret. A circular silver token twirled between his fingers, catching the occasional flicker of passing lightning.
Moira's eyes dropped to it, then rose to the shadowed space where his face should've been.
"I assume this isn't just a social call," she said coolly, brushing a raindrop from her sleeve with precise fingers. "Not unless you've finally come to apologize for blowing up my husband."
The token stopped spinning. The man chuckled—low, indulgent.
"Oh, Moira," came the voice—British, velvet, and infuriatingly amused. "If I started apologizing for every Queen that got in my way, we'd be here all night."
Her eyes narrowed. "Robert trusted you."
"Robert trusted a great many people," he replied lightly. "That was his greatest flaw. That and—how shall I put this delicately—being entirely too fond of virtue."
"I'm not Robert."
"No," the man said. "You're so much more interesting."
He leaned forward just enough that she could make out the faint edge of his smile in the dark, a Cheshire grin carved from pure gall. A wisp of silver hair peeked from his temple, a flash of menace disguised as age.
Moira's expression didn't shift, but her tone grew icier.
"My son doesn't know," she said.
"Of course he doesn't," Malcolm Merlyn murmured. "That boy never saw a lie he didn't believe—especially when it came wrapped in his mother's voice."
"He thinks the Queen's Gambit went down in a storm."
"A charming fairy tale," Malcolm said, lifting the silver token again and letting it spin across his gloved fingers. "Storms do make such convenient scapegoats, don't they? All that noise and chaos. Who'd think to look beneath it?"
Moira leaned forward, her voice slicing the air like glass.
"If he finds out the truth—if he learns the yacht was sabotaged, if he connects the list, your list, to any of this—"
He raised a single finger to his lips.
"Shhh," Malcolm said, eyes gleaming from beneath the shadow. "You'll wake the city."
"I've kept your secret," she hissed. "I've covered your tracks. I've fed him just enough guilt and grief to keep him looking inward. But he's back, Malcolm. And he's not the same boy you dismissed five years ago."
He tilted his head, amused. "No, now he plays vigilante with a hood and a bow. Adorable. Like Robin Hood, but with better cheekbones."
Moira didn't smile. "He's asking questions."
"Then you should be asking yourself, Moira…" He leaned in further, voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you still have the stomach to lie to your son? Properly lie?"
"I will do what I have to," she snapped. "For my family. For this city."
Malcolm's grin widened, cruel and knowing. "That's the spirit. After all, what's a little betrayal between friends? Between Queens and Merlyns?"
The coin stopped spinning.
"What if he peels back the layers?" he asked softly. "What happens when he discovers just how rotten the core really is?"
Moira's hands curled into fists. "Then let's hope he stops peeling before he chokes on it."
A slow, satisfied nod from the shadows.
"Let's hope," Malcolm echoed. He tapped the coin against the armrest twice—click, click—then slid it into his coat pocket. "Because if he doesn't… well. Even I can't save him."
The limousine door opened without a sound. Rain and wind howled in briefly, like the city itself was listening.
Malcolm rose with the calm of a man who knew ten ways to kill someone and none of them involved raising his voice. He adjusted his gloves, cast one last look back toward her.
"Do give Oliver my love," he said with a smile as cold as an open grave.
Then he stepped out into the storm and was gone.
Moira sat alone in the silence that followed, breathing shallowly. Her pearls felt heavier now. The weight of memory. The weight of the future.
She reached up and touched them with trembling fingers.
Then, to the empty seat opposite her, she whispered,
"Please… don't dig too deep, Oliver. Not this time."
Thunder rolled across the city. The storm was just getting started.
—
Gray skies stretched low and heavy, like the weight Oliver carried inside. The breeze was lazy, barely stirring the stillness around the small family plot behind the manor. No birds. No rustling. Just the dull hum of a city that didn't give a damn.
Oliver stood stiff, hands jammed deep in the pockets of his worn jacket, staring down at two headstones side by side.
The first, gleaming cold and proud:
ROBERT QUEEN
Beloved Husband. Devoted Father. Visionary.
"To Build a Better Starling."
The second, smaller, worn like a secret nobody was ready to face:
OLIVER QUEEN
Lost at Sea – Never Recovered.
Oliver snorted—a humorless sound, sharp enough to cut glass.
"You'd think having a grave with your own damn name on it would make things easier," he muttered. "But nope. Just reminds me how screwed up this all is."
He kicked a pebble, watching it skitter away across the dirt.
"I've been back for what? Almost two weeks now? Feels like a lifetime of bad decisions squeezed into a blink."
Oliver's voice dropped. "I don't even know if I'm the same guy anymore. Or if the guy standing here is just some ghost in a mask."
He shifted, eyes catching the distant window of the manor, where he thought he saw movement—Harry, maybe. Maybe just shadows.
"Harry… That kid's been a godsend," he said, the corner of his mouth twitching in a ghost of a smile. "I mean, my cousin—who knew, right? He's like an anchor when I'm about to drift off the damn map. And Hermione and Daphne? They're terrifying and brilliant. Hermione's probably already halfway through hacking into the NSA's coffee machine."
Oliver laughed, low and rough, but it died quick, swallowed by the cold air.
"If I didn't have them, I'd lose it. Everyone else just wants me to slip back into the perfect little family guy—like that's still a thing I can do."
He knelt beside the smaller stone, running a hand over the cold, smooth surface.
"I can't go back. Not really. Not after everything."
His voice cracked just a bit. "Dad, you made me promise. Said I had to fix what you started… right the hell wrongs."
He swallowed hard, the words heavy like lead.
"But to do that, I gotta be the bastard who tears your memory apart."
Oliver stood straight, shoulders squared, the faintest fire lighting his tired eyes.
"I've read the names on your list. Seen the wreckage. Heard the whispers. And I know what it cost."
He looked up, voice low and steady.
"I'm gonna fix this city, Dad. No matter how dirty my hands gotta get."
The breeze caught his coat, stirring it like a signal flag.
"Even if it means becoming someone you wouldn't recognize. Someone who'll make you wish you were still lost at sea."
He gave the grave one last long look, his jaw clenched.
Then he turned, boots crunching over the gravel as he walked away.
From the shadows, two groundskeepers approached quietly, eyes on the second, smaller headstone.
"Are you sure this is what he wants?" one asked, voice cautious.
The other shrugged, glancing around like the whole place might be listening.
"Order came straight from the kid. No room for argument."
They worked fast and quiet—lifting the stone, folding it away like a dead secret.
Behind them, the wind whispered through the trees.
Oliver's old life was being dismantled, piece by piece.
So The Arrow could rise.
—
FLASHBACK – THE ISLAND
The sun beat down, merciless and mocking, as Oliver crouched on the jagged shoreline, scraping dirt and grit beneath his fingernails. The salt air stung his throat and his lungs screamed for a breath that tasted like anything but brine and desperation.
He wasn't just burying a pile of rocks—he was burying a secret. A damn heavy one.
His hands trembled, but the stones didn't care. They were cold, indifferent, like the life he'd left behind.
"Sorry, Dad," Oliver muttered, voice rough, barely a whisper. "This ain't exactly the kind of 'better future' you dreamed of, but—well, you know me. I'm gonna fix this mess. Somehow."
He wiped the sweat from his brow and glanced over his shoulder, eyes flicking to the shattered wreckage of the Queen's Gambit—a graveyard of dreams and mistakes.
Then came the sound.
Snap.
Like a twig cracking under a boot. Sharp, sudden, unforgiving.
Oliver froze, every muscle tight. His heart jumped into his throat.
He barely had time to twist before searing agony exploded in his right shoulder.
"Son of a—!" He staggered, stumbling forward, and the jagged rock he'd been about to set clattered to the ground.
His vision spun, edges blurring and darkening like ink spilled on parchment.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught it: a shadow cloaked in darkness, a hood drawn low, the kind of quiet that promised trouble.
The figure moved like a ghost, fluid and deadly, notching another arrow with a calm that pissed Oliver off even in pain.
He gritted his teeth, fighting the sting, trying to raise his hand. Anything.
"Hey, c'mon," Oliver rasped, voice laced with sarcasm even as the world tilted. "Could you maybe—not? I'm trying to bury family here."
The hooded figure didn't blink.
The bowstring twanged back, taut as a drum.
Oliver's breath hitched.
And then—
Blackness slammed into him like a freight train.
—
BACK TO THE PRESENT - QUEEN CONSOLIDATED CAMPUS – LATER THAT AFTERNOON
The stage stood pristine beneath a cloud-drenched sky, the contrast between the carefully crafted event and the storm brewing within Oliver sharp and undeniable. White chairs lined the steps, each one an empty promise of civility in a city that had long forgotten how to be decent. A massive banner draped the stage, bold and gleaming under the press lights:
THE ROBERT QUEEN RESEARCH CENTRE "A Legacy of Innovation. A Future of Hope."
The crowd was the usual mix of press, VIPs, and interns, all too busy swarming for the free lunch and ready-to-be-discarded tote bags to pay attention to the moment's true weight. Nearby, Moira Queen stood at the forefront, her perfect posture a steel coil of resolve in tailored gray that almost shimmered like it could cut through anyone who got too close. Beside her was Hermione Granger, stunning in navy, whispering something to Daphne Greengrass, who, despite her polished composure, couldn't hide her faint boredom.
"At least it's free," Daphne muttered under her breath, rolling her eyes. "But really, how many more times are they going to trot out his name before it becomes ironic?"
Hermione gave her a small, apologetic smile, but couldn't hide the faint amusement in her voice. "I think it's sweet. You're just not a fan of public speaking."
Daphne shrugged. "No, I'm just not a fan of pretending I care. That's your thing, isn't it?"
Behind them, Harry's gaze was more intense than usual, eyes dark with the undercurrent of tension swirling around him. He wasn't there for the speeches. He was there for Oliver. For what was to come. Sirius Black stood next to him, exuding casual menace in his all-black ensemble, every inch the aristocrat who had long ago perfected the art of letting everyone think he didn't care when he cared most. His lips twitched into a barely-there smile.
Walter Steele, ever the polished corporate titan, stepped up to the microphone, adjusting his cufflinks with a smooth confidence that had been honed through years of managing both business and personal disasters. The press cameras clicked and whirred, every movement a carefully timed shot.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Walter's voice rang out, all cool and refined. "Thank you for joining us today to honor Robert Queen—a man whose vision changed the landscape of Starling City."
There was polite applause. The kind you give to an excruciatingly boring speech you're obligated to endure.
"This research center," Walter continued, "will be a beacon of innovation. A testament to Robert's commitment to a future of sustainable technology and progress."
But it wasn't long before the tension, which had been lurking in the background, finally burst out into the open. From the back of the crowd, a sharp, cutting cough rang through the air.
"Well, that's a load of crap."
The crowd shifted uncomfortably as a figure stepped forward from the shadows.
Oliver Queen. The prodigal son. Only, he didn't look like the polished heir the city expected. Instead, he swayed just slightly, a bottle of scotch dangling in his hand like a forgotten accessory. His clothes were rumpled, his jacket carelessly thrown over his shoulders like he'd been in a fight with the universe and lost.
Moira's face turned white, her lips pulling into a thin line of irritation. Hermione blinked, eyes widening at the scene unfolding. Daphne smirked, unable to suppress the bit of admiration for Oliver's sheer, unrepentant chaos.
"Well, this should be fun," Daphne whispered to Hermione, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Harry swore under his breath, his hand already moving to step forward to intervene, but Sirius laid a hand on his arm, stopping him.
"Let him dig the hole himself, kid," Sirius said quietly. "This'll be entertaining."
Oliver's sunglasses hid the hollowness in his eyes, but his voice sliced through the air, loud and clear.
"You all wanna talk about Robert Queen like he was some kind of saint?" His voice cut through the polite murmurs of the crowd, each word sharp enough to cut through the smiles. "You want a legacy? Fine, here's one for you: a city on the brink of ruin, a son who can't escape his father's shadow, and a dead man whose mistakes no one's willing to admit."
Gasps went through the crowd. Phones began to click, capturing every word.
"Stop asking me to be him," Oliver spat, his voice cracking with raw anger. "I'm not half the man my father was. He died trying to protect this city. And me? I came back to watch it burn and start over. Get off your high horse and leave me out of it."
There was a long pause as the crowd absorbed the venom in his words. Moira, stiff and pale, stepped forward, the corner of her mouth twitching as if she was trying to hold back the tears. "Oliver," she said, her voice strained but pleading. "Please, this isn't the place—"
But Oliver wasn't done.
"You want ribbon cuttings and speeches full of hope? Go ask Walter. He's good at that. But I'm not here to pretend I'm healed." He swayed slightly, shaking his head in disbelief. "I'm just trying to survive the wreckage. You want redemption? It's not here. It's never been here."
His words hung heavy in the air like an unspoken challenge. Silence fell over the crowd, thick and suffocating.
The tension snapped when Harry and Diggle appeared on opposite sides of the stage, both moving with purpose.
"Alright, that's enough, man," Diggle said quietly, slipping the bottle from Oliver's hand and guiding him off balance.
"I got him," Harry muttered, moving in on the other side, his hand on Oliver's shoulder as if trying to anchor him to the ground.
"Come on, cuz," Harry urged, his voice low. "You've made your point."
Oliver gave a weak, almost sarcastic laugh, swaying in Harry's grip. "You know, I had a whole speech planned… it was really moving, you know? Like, Oscar-winning stuff."
"Sure it was," Diggle said dryly, rolling his eyes.
As they moved him offstage, Oliver slurred, "I bet Walter's pissed. He was about to get all corporate on everyone."
"Yeah, well, his corporate act just got a little more authentic," Harry muttered under his breath, guiding Oliver toward the exit.
Back on stage, Walter forced a strained smile, adjusting his tie, trying to regain control of the moment.
"Well, that was… passionate," he said, his voice quivering with professional tension.
The crowd, clearly unsure how to react, began to murmur amongst themselves.
Hermione, worried but calm, gently took Moira's hand. "He's just lost, Moira," she said softly. "Give him time. He's trying to figure out who he is now."
Daphne, who had been watching the entire scene with a mixture of amusement and sympathy, nodded with a quiet, uncharacteristic softness. "He's still fighting his way back. He'll find his way."
Sirius stepped beside Walter, a wry smile creeping onto his face despite the situation. "I'll smooth things over with the board. And the press too. Don't worry. It's what I'm here for."
Walter gave him a tired look. "We'll need more than spin this time."
Sirius shrugged with a smile that had all the confidence of someone who knew exactly how to get out of a mess. "Well, good thing spin is what I do best."
As the crowd began to disperse, the wind picked up, causing the Robert Queen banner to flutter—unsettling, like a ghost haunting the scene.
In the distance, Oliver's silhouette was barely visible as he was led off the premises, but one thing was clear: the Arrow wasn't just coming for answers. He was coming for redemption—at any cost.
—
The last whistle of the Coastal Express cut through the Starling evening like a blade through mist, then faded into the silence that followed. Dusk settled low over the skyline — all glass towers and steel ambitions — while the streets buzzed with the sort of energy that said everyone was in a hurry to get nowhere fast.
From the train stepped a man who didn't rush.
He arrived.
Neville Longbottom stood on the platform like he'd been planted there by ancient gods — tall, broad, immovable. His hair was buzzed short on the sides, just long enough on top to give a bit of rebellious flair. Thick cords of muscle strained against the cotton of his henley, and the collar of a beat-up military jacket hung open around his neck like a warning sign. Old, Celtic-style tattoos peeked out from beneath his sleeves — looping over his forearms like vines claiming a ruin.
A duffel bag, heavy with gear and memories, was slung over one shoulder. It looked like it had seen war. Because it had.
Neville squinted up at the skyline with mild disdain. Cities. Always reaching up like they could forget what was buried underneath.
"Feels like a city trying to forget it's still built on soil," he muttered.
No one heard him. Not properly. But a few people instinctively stepped aside as he passed — an unconscious response, the same way one moves around statues of forgotten warriors. Some folks have presence; Neville had it in spades.
He wandered forward until he spotted a man leaning lazily against a lamppost — Starling PD uniform, cap tilted back, chewing gum like he was getting paid for it.
"Officer," Neville called, his voice polite but firm, with a crisp British accent that carried a subtle undertone of "I've killed men for less."
The cop glanced up, blinked, and then kept looking up. Neville was a solid six-four and built like a mountain had decided to take up boxing.
"Uh... yeah?" the cop replied, eyeing him like he wasn't sure if he should be respectful or terrified.
"I'm looking for the Queen residence," Neville said. "Big place, probably has its own hill. Gated, expensive, vaguely haunted. Owned by people who wear suits to breakfast."
The cop blinked again. "You mean Queen Manor?"
Neville tilted his head, then nodded once. "That's the one."
"Yeah, yeah. It's up in Glades Heights. You'll know it when you see it. Looks like Bruce Wayne's summer home."
Neville allowed himself the faintest smirk. "Excellent. Much appreciated, Officer…?"
"Danvers. Lieutenant Danvers."
Neville offered a handshake. Danvers hesitated, then took it. It was like shaking a tree trunk.
"Well then, Lieutenant Danvers," Neville said, releasing his grip with careful gentleness. "You've been very helpful."
Danvers chuckled, half out of nerves. "Should I be worried someone will ask whether I helped?"
Neville considered that. Really considered it. "Not unless they're planning on hurting someone I care about."
Danvers blinked. "Jesus. That was either a threat, a compliment, or a Bond villain line. Not sure which."
Neville smiled politely. "In England, it's all three."
Danvers snorted. "You don't look like the average tourist."
"I'm not," Neville said. "I'm here to visit some old friends."
Danvers nodded slowly, watching the duffel as if wondering what exactly was in it. "Gotta say, you've got a bit of a… Jason Bourne meets Excalibur vibe going on."
Neville just raised a brow. "You're not entirely wrong."
"Well," Danvers said, stepping aside, "good luck. Try not to flatten any buildings. Starling has a quota."
Neville started walking, boots thudding softly on the sidewalk. Over his shoulder, he called, "No promises, Danvers."
The city seemed to shiver slightly as he moved.
Danvers just shook his head. "Weird damn town," he muttered. Then, louder, "Hey, you forgot to ask how far it is!"
Neville didn't look back. "I never get lost."
—
Across the city, nestled in the velvet shadows of the Glades Heights, Queen Manor stood like a secret. Its windows glowed faintly. Somewhere inside, Hermione Granger laughed at something Harry had said. A soft laugh — one that carried healing and history and heartbreak in equal measure.
She didn't know who was walking toward her.
But Harry Potter would.
He'd feel it the moment Neville's boots hit Queen property.
Because the war might be over. But the reckoning?
That was just beginning.
—
The fire at Queen Manor's drawing room hissed like it was ready to spill secrets, and, honestly, that wasn't far from the truth. The walls wore shadows thick as velvet, punctuated by the warm glow of amber light catching the crystal glasses like they held molten gold. Bookshelves groaned under the weight of dusty tomes and forgotten lore, a silent witness to every whispered argument and stolen laugh.
Harry lounged on the plush velvet settee, a sly grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as he leaned into Daphne, whose fingers casually toyed with the cuff of his sleeve. Her smirk was sharp—dangerous, like she knew exactly what she was doing to him and relished every second of it. There was a low hum in the air between them, the kind that made even silence feel charged.
Thea, perched on the armchair like a queen surveying her court, tilted her head, one blonde brow arching in that signature way that said I'm about to stir the pot. "So… Hermione," she drawled, swirling the amber liquid in her glass, "seriously, who did you actually go with to the Yule Ball? Besides the whole 'taming dragons and surviving deadly mazes' routine."
Hermione, serene and poised as always, smiled—soft and knowing, like she was already somewhere else in a memory. "Neville. Neville Longbottom."
Harry snorted, nearly choking on his wine. "Well, anyone was better than traitorous Ronald Weasley, if you ask me."
Daphne elbowed Harry sharply in the ribs, eyes glittering with amusement. "Oh, come on, Potter. That's a bit brutal, even for you."
He waved her off like she'd just accused him of being serious. "I'm telling the truth. Ron went full-blown drama queen—accused me of rigging the Goblet of Fire so I'd get into the tournament. Then when I started dating Daphne—yeah, after the Yule Ball, by the way—he tried to hex me because he thought I was supposed to be with his sister, not some 'slimy snake.'"
Thea blinked, mouth half-open. "Wait, what? That's… kinda psychotic."
Hermione laughed quietly, shaking her head. "Fred, George, and even Ginny were mortified. They begged Harry not to literally turn Ron into a puddle when he tried to hex him."
Daphne's smirk deepened. "I'm just glad he listened."
Harry leaned closer to Daphne, fingers tracing lazy circles on her wrist. "And honestly? I'm glad you were the one he was jealous of. You've got the kind of poison he never saw coming."
Daphne laughed softly, brushing a stray curl behind her ear. "I'm basically a walking antidote to all his nonsense."
Hermione's gaze softened, flickering between Harry and Daphne like she was threading a delicate tapestry. "But Neville… he was different. Sweet, nervous, endearingly bumbling but entirely genuine. One of the best choices I ever had."
Thea lifted her glass, eyes sharp as ever. "How long did that last?"
Hermione sighed, a subtle shift of sadness under her calm. "Until the end of Fourth Year. When… well, Cedric died in the graveyard. Things changed. I broke up with Neville — just like Harry and Daphne did. I knew if Harry and I fought, Neville would be caught in the crossfire. I couldn't put him at risk."
Harry's emerald eyes caught Hermione's as he reached out, squeezing her hand. "We never wanted to hurt anyone. Least of all the ones who cared."
The room fell into a comfortable silence, warm and heavy like the weight of old stories waiting to be told again.
Then, sharp as a blade, the intercom buzzed.
The guard's voice crackled through the speaker, breaking the moment.
"Queen Manor security. There's a Neville Longbottom here to meet with you. Says it's urgent."
Thea's eyes narrowed, exchanging glances with the others. "Wait. Neville Longbottom? Here? Now?"
Harry's mouth tightened into a thin line. The light in his eyes flared, danger barely contained beneath the surface. "That can't be a coincidence."
Hermione's breath hitched softly. "No. It never is."
Daphne rose smoothly, sliding an arm around Harry's waist with a predatory grin. "Well, that's our cue to find out what trouble looks like when it wears a Longbottom face."
Harry leaned into her, voice low and teasing but with a razor edge. "And just when I was starting to enjoy a quiet evening."
Thea's laugh was dark and mischievous. "Quiet's overrated anyway."
Harry smirked, green eyes gleaming as he stood, the magnetic pull of destiny pulling him toward the door. "Alright then, ladies—let's go welcome the storm."
Because Neville Longbottom wasn't just coming back.
He was coming home.
—
The heavy oak doors of Queen Manor groaned open like the beginning of some epic saga, and then — boom — Neville Longbottom stepped through, all muscle, scars, and that kind of raw, silent menace that makes people stop mid-breath.
Gone was the spindly, bumbling kid who once couldn't hold a wand without nearly setting himself on fire. This Neville was a fortress carved from something darker and harder — a leather jacket that looked like it had survived a dozen wars, sleeves rolled to reveal swirling Celtic tattoos tracing his forearms like ancient runes. His eyes? Cold, sharp, and steady — the kind that didn't just see you but measured you.
Thea, perched on the edge of the chaise with her wine glass balanced perfectly, blinked slow and deliberate. Then raised a brow high enough to challenge the ceiling.
"Well, that's not the Neville Longbottom from Harry's bedtime fairy tales, is it?" she drawled, voice laced with disbelief and a hint of something else — admiration, maybe.
Neville's mouth twitched like the ghost of a smile, dark humor flickering behind those steely eyes. "No. Those stories were... heavily edited for public consumption."
Harry, lounging with casual ease by the fireplace, caught the tension with a grin that was half "I told you so" and half "Holy hell, this guy's leveled up." His emerald eyes sparkled with mischief as he said, "Yeah, that was Neville back when 'clumsy disaster' was his official job title. Now? Well, he's the kind of nightmare you don't want starring in your dreams."
Daphne drifted closer, all sharp angles and smirks, her fingers brushing lightly against Harry's sleeve as if testing the water — or maybe just marking her territory. "Oh, I like this new look. Planning on scaring off the riffraff, or just the rest of us poor mortals?"
Neville's eyes softened for the briefest second at the heat simmering between Harry and Daphne, but his voice stayed gravelly and calm. "I'm just here to tie up some loose ends."
Hermione glided forward, every inch the graceful intellect, but her tone was cautious, carefully measured. "Neville. It's been a long time. You... look very different."
"War changes everything," Neville said flatly. "But it doesn't erase the core of who you are."
Thea folded one leg over the other like a predator settling in for the hunt, a sly smile tugging at her lips. "Since my only Neville intel comes from Harry's 'chronicles of calamity,' I'm dying to know — what was dorm life really like? Any epic disasters? Secrets? Embarrassing moments that didn't make it into the highlight reel?"
Neville's grin deepened, wicked and teasing. "Plenty. But I'm not sure Potter's brave enough to hear the full story here."
Harry shot him a mock glare, but the grin stayed firmly in place. "Oi, Neville, not in front of the queen's court, yeah? Some things are classified."
Thea's laughter was low, almost predatory. "Come on, Longbottom. You're not scaring me."
Neville's eyes locked with hers — sharp, amused, and quietly daring. "Alright, then. Remember the time Potter tried to 'borrow' my herbology notes and accidentally summoned a Devil's Snare in the common room?"
The room exploded with laughter. Hermione's face twisted into a mix of horror and fond exasperation, hands tightening around her book as if to hold herself together.
Daphne's smirk turned full-on mischievous as she leaned into Harry's side, voice low and teasing. "Looks like some things never change."
Harry shrugged, that crooked grin making a reappearance, emerald eyes gleaming. "True, but now I know better than to mess with Longbottom's plants. Learned the hard way."
Daphne's fingers trailed higher up Harry's arm, her voice dropping an octave, thick with promise. "Good. Because if anyone tries that on me, they'll have me to answer to."
Harry's gaze flicked to hers, slow and deliberate, a silent challenge wrapped in a smirk. "Careful, Daphne. That kind of talk tends to get me into trouble."
She laughed — soft, sultry, and full of dangerous invitations. "That's half the fun."
Thea's eyes glittered with a mix of curiosity and respect, the air between the five of them crackling with something electric. "Looks like this is the beginning of a very interesting friendship."
Neville's nod was sharp, decisive. "I'm counting on it."
---
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