Neville was halfway into a tale about the time he dosed Harry's pumpkin juice with a mild sleep draught — "as a favor to the rest of Gryffindor House, honestly" — when the sharp sound of boots echoed across the marble floors.
The double doors swung open like the third act of a drama, and in walked Oliver Queen, every inch the billionaire vigilante with the kind of raw, coiled energy that made men wary and women lean in. His dark coat flared as he strode in, dust and wind clinging to his frame, hair tousled from the cold outside. Grease smudged one cheek like war paint, and his smirk? Lethal.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't have to.
He paused just inside the doorway, assessing the room with one practiced sweep — like he was calculating exits, weak points, and emotional baggage per square foot.
"Well," Oliver said, peeling off his gloves with the casual confidence of a man who's fought crime in leather pants. "Didn't realize I was walking into a Hogwarts reunion-slash-roast."
Harry, lounging by the fireplace like he owned it, didn't even blink. "We were just sharing tales of my glorious, trauma-ridden youth, actually. You've missed several award-winning disasters."
Neville chuckled low in his throat. "I was just getting to the part where you tried to out-stare a Boggart with a mirror and ended up hexing your own reflection."
Oliver quirked a brow. "Sounds... emotionally healthy."
"Therapeutic," Harry deadpanned, taking a sip of firewhisky. "You should try it. Really gets the suppressed childhood horror out of the joints."
Daphne — who had slinked up beside Harry like temptation personified — reached over and slowly smoothed a crease from his sleeve. Her voice dripped honey and dare. "I don't know, Potter. If I'd known you were such a charming disaster, I might've flirted with you a little sooner."
Harry tilted his head toward her, eyes gleaming under lashes dark and thick. "You say that like you haven't been flirting since the first time you called me insufferable in Potions."
She grinned wickedly. "That wasn't flirting. That was a warning label."
"I read it," Harry said, voice lowering, smoky. "And still touched the glass."
Daphne's laugh slid over his skin like velvet. "You never did learn to behave."
"That's because I was too busy surviving magical death tournaments and teenage hormones."
Hermione groaned from the armchair, tucking a loose curl behind her ear with surgical precision. "Can we not? Some of us are trying to preserve our appetite."
Neville leaned toward her with a lopsided smirk. "You knew him back then. Tell the truth — wasn't he at least eighty percent chaos?"
Hermione raised an elegant brow. "More like ninety. The other ten percent was poor impulse control."
Harry lifted his glass toward her. "Still my best review."
"Yet," Thea cut in smoothly, "despite the obvious trauma, you all somehow turned out... semi-functional."
She looked over at Neville, dragging her eyes up his frame like she was cataloguing the scars for later. "You must be Neville. I expected... I don't know... more nervous wreck, less Viking sex god."
Neville's grin was slow and wolfish. "I grew into the role."
Oliver moved further into the room and offered Neville his hand, their shake firm — the kind of grip that measured power, not pleasantries.
"Oliver Queen," he said.
"Neville Longbottom."
"You're taller than I imagined."
"You're less dead than I expected," Neville replied without missing a beat.
Oliver chuckled. "That's fair."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Oh great, now there are two of you with resting brooding face and Batman levels of trauma. This room's going to collapse under the weight of unprocessed masculinity."
Daphne leaned in again, her lips brushing the shell of Harry's ear. "You're just jealous you're not the only tall, brooding heartthrob in the room anymore."
Harry turned his head slightly, their mouths inches apart, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "I don't need to be the only one, love. I just need to be your favorite."
She blinked, visibly flustered for the first time, then recovered with a smirk that promised retaliation. "Keep talking like that and I'll forget we have company."
"Please do," Thea muttered, sipping her wine, "it's the only live entertainment we've got until the night club's finished."
Oliver settled into the seat across from Harry, his expression unreadable but mildly amused. "You always this dramatic, Potter?"
"Only on days ending in y," Harry replied smoothly. "Besides, I have to compensate for growing up under a cupboard. You can't brood without a little flair."
Daphne gave a long-suffering sigh. "He even flirts with his trauma."
Harry winked. "It's a coping mechanism."
Neville, amused, leaned forward. "Alright, since we're trading war stories and romantic disasters, anyone want to hear about the time Potter used a love potion on himself by accident and tried to propose to a teapot?"
Hermione groaned. "That teapot never recovered."
The room burst into laughter again, and for a moment, the air felt like something golden — a mix of banter and warmth and unspoken history, forged in fire and sharpened by survival.
Harry glanced around the room, eyes lingering on each face, then landing on Daphne with something softer behind the smirk.
"Welcome to Queen Manor," he said. "Where trauma meets sarcasm, and every conversation ends in emotional damage."
Oliver lifted his glass. "To emotional damage."
Thea clinked hers against his. "And to surviving it."
Daphne turned her glass toward Harry, smile lazy and full of heat. "And to the people who make it worth it."
Harry clinked hers last, fingers brushing hers in that electric almost-touch. "Always."
And somewhere, under the buzz of laughter and firelight, in a manor full of secrets and shadows, something real — and very dangerous — was beginning to take shape.
A found family forged by pain, power, and the sharp edge of love.
And the teapot? Still in therapy.
—
Once Thea had finally been wrangled into bed — not without a dramatic toss of her braid and a warning muttered over her shoulder, "If you lot start trauma-bonding and I wake up to someone sobbing over old diary entries, I'm busting someone's kneecaps into next week" — the living room settled into a kind of heavy silence.
Not the comfortable kind. The kind that comes with ghosts.
Hermione, wrapped in a chunky cream cardigan and curled in her chair like a cat with an agenda, pierced it like a scalpel.
"So, Neville," she said, swirling the remnants of her wine like it was Veritaserum. "What did happen after fourth year?"
Neville Longbottom — now broader than any of them remembered, built like a boulder and with the jawline of a man who could have starred in a Viking reboot — lifted a brow. The firelight danced along the scar that curved over his cheek like a comma left from war.
"You mean after you broke my heart for my own safety?"
Oliver choked on his whisky. "Wait—what?"
Hermione flushed. A rare thing, that blush — blooming pink across high cheekbones as if it had gotten lost on its way to someone more bashful.
"We were kids," she said quickly. "And Voldemort had just come back, and I thought—well, it made sense at the time."
"Sure," Neville replied, not bitter. Just matter-of-fact. "Made a lot less sense when you ghosted me after the Yule Ball."
"You ghosted Neville?" Harry asked, grinning like he'd just been handed front row tickets to a scandal.
"Excuse you," Hermione shot back. "It wasn't ghosting. It was... strategic silence."
Neville gave a low chuckle, voice rough like gravel. "She dumped me on the Astronomy Tower. Full moon, wind in her hair. Honestly, it could've been a movie trailer."
Daphne, lounging across from Harry with one leg draped elegantly over the other, smirked.
"That's romantic," she said, then turned to Harry, all serpentine grin and blonde curls. "Unlike someone who broke up with me by the Black Lake. In front of Fred and George. While I had porridge in my mouth."
Harry winced. "Look, in my defense—"
"You don't have a defense," Daphne said, tilting her head, voice syrupy-smooth. "It was Tuesday. I was wearing pajamas. The only thing worse would've been if you'd done it on Valentine's Day."
"I thought we agreed to never speak of that dark era," Harry muttered, running a hand through his hair. "I was sixteen. My brain was 80% hormones and trauma."
Oliver was staring at them all like he'd wandered into a soap opera crossover with a war documentary.
"Wait, wait, wait," he said, pointing between them. "You two—" he pointed at Hermione and Neville, "and you two—" now to Harry and Daphne, "—were a thing? At the same time? What the hell kind of extracurricular club was Hogwarts running?"
"We had the Duelling Club in our second year," Hermione said innocently.
"And the League of Assassins," Harry added, taking a sip of firewhisky.
Oliver blinked. "Sorry, the what now?"
Neville's head jerked back. "The League of Assassins?"
Hermione shrugged like it was no big deal. "Ra's al Ghul. Nanda Parbat. Summer training after Voldemort came back. We needed an edge."
"And Sirius thought it would be character-building," Harry added dryly.
"I thought Quidditch was hardcore," Oliver muttered.
Neville stared, slack-jawed. "You three trained with ancient death cults while I was figuring out Protego Maxima?"
"Don't be jealous," Daphne purred, eyeing Neville up and down. "You bulked up nicely."
He flushed slightly. Harry caught it and raised a brow, but said nothing.
"What did you do after fourth year, Neville?" Harry asked, softer now, serious.
Neville looked into the fire, then spoke, voice low.
"I got focused. Especially after Azkaban fell. When she escaped."
Nobody had to ask who she was.
"Bellatrix," Hermione murmured.
Neville nodded. "Her. And her husband. And Rabastan. I trained. I learned. So when it was time..." His gaze flicked to them. "It was you three, wasn't it?"
Harry held his stare. "Yeah."
"They didn't deserve magic," Hermione said quietly. "So we didn't use magic."
Daphne's voice was a blade, sharp and calm. "I hear they caught them in Malfoy Manor. They screamed. She begged. They died."
Neville swallowed hard. "Thank you. For my parents."
The silence that followed was sacred.
Then Hermione reached across and squeezed Neville's hand — long fingers against rough knuckles — and held it just long enough.
"I needed to be strong," Neville said. "So I went to my Great Uncle Algie."
"The one who dropped you out of windows?" Harry asked.
"Testing me," Neville said, smirking. "Apparently, my family always knew I was meant for more. Algie just believed in the trial by trauma method."
Oliver frowned. "Bit unorthodox."
Hermione's eyes narrowed in realization. "Algie... Algernon Croaker?"
Neville nodded.
Harry blinked. "The Algernon Croaker? The Head Unspeakable?"
"Head of the Department of Mysteries," Hermione added for Oliver's benefit. "Our magical CIA. But with more prophecies and fewer rules."
Neville rolled up his sleeve.
A lattice of glowing green symbols spiraled down his forearm — ancient, alive, pulsing with old energy.
"Druidic runes," he explained. "Magic that remembers. Magic that judges."
Oliver leaned forward. "You look like you walked out of a Celtic war painting."
"I get that a lot."
"You flex like that in Diagon Alley," Daphne said lazily, "and you'll have witches throwing themselves at your feet."
"I already had one try," Neville said, winking at Hermione.
Hermione rolled her eyes. "You're insufferable."
"Only since I found my biceps," Neville quipped.
"Back to Hogwarts," Harry said, though a grin tugged at his lips. "What happened during seventh year?"
Neville's voice dropped.
"Snape was Headmaster. But the Carrows... they were the real monsters. They tortured kids. Used the Cruciatus like a teaching aid."
Harry's hand clenched around his glass.
"We killed them," Hermione whispered. "A year later. We made it slow."
"I know," Neville said. "Thank you again."
He looked at Harry then, eyes burning. "We couldn't wait for you. So I gave them someone else to believe in."
Harry blinked. "You?"
"I started a group," Neville said. "Potter's Army."
"You named it after me?" Harry asked, already grimacing.
Hermione groaned. "And this is why his ego is the size of a Hungarian Horntail."
"It worked," Neville said defensively. "Kids listened. We fought back. Daphne's friends — Tracey, Pansy — they were with us."
Daphne tilted her head. "Those little traitors. I'm so proud."
Neville smiled faintly. "When the war ended... I kept going. The House Elves led to a nifty little place called the Room of Requirement. It showed me how to build routes. Smuggle Muggleborns out. We saved lives. Even when everyone thought you were dead, Harry, we kept fighting."
Oliver let out a low whistle. "Bloody hell, Longbottom. You turned into Captain Bloody Magic Britain."
Neville shrugged. "I just got tired of being afraid."
And then he looked to Harry — really looked.
"And then summer came. Voldemort was gone."
Everyone turned.
Harry didn't flinch. Didn't smile.
He simply said, "Yeah. He was."
And in that silence — thick with grief and glory and the ghosts of everything they'd survived — they breathed as one.
Not clean.
Not whole.
But together.
And somehow, that was enough.
—
It was Harry who finally broke the silence, voice smooth and laced with that very British brand of exhaustion and sarcasm that made it hard to tell if he was joking or plotting murder.
"So what brings you by, Nev? Feels like we just buried one war. You got another one cued up already, or are we just skipping the peace phase altogether?"
Neville didn't blink. "Actually... yeah. I do."
That pulled everyone's attention like a wand snap.
Hermione straightened in her chair, brows already furrowing into something that smelled suspiciously like a briefing. Harry sat up, jaw sharpening, green eyes suddenly cutting through the firelight. Daphne tilted her head, blonde waves catching the glow, eyes narrowing like a panther catching the scent of blood.
Neville set down his drink. No drama, just gravity.
"It's started again. Not open war. Not yet. Just... rot. The same rot, still festering. Junior Death Eaters. You know the names."
Harry's lips curled, but not in amusement.
"Nott. Malfoy."
Neville gave a grim nod. "They've been meeting. Quietly. Discreetly. Calling it a school reunion. Whispering about 'heritage,' 'tradition,' 'restoring the natural order.' It's the same shite, Harry. Just new robes."
Hermione's voice was like the snap of a file folder. "And how do you know this?"
Neville leaned forward, arms braced on his knees, looking like he belonged on the cover of Aurors & Arms Quarterly. "I've got someone feeding me intel. Blaise Zabini."
Daphne actually laughed, a soft incredulous sound as she lifted her glass again. "You're joking. Blaise? The same Blaise who once spent an entire Charms class making a flowchart of which girls were 'socially acceptable to shag publicly'?"
"He's grown up," Neville said, straight-faced. "Mostly. He's got a cousin knee-deep in the blood-purity crowd. He's worried. Says something big's coming. Not speeches. Not duels in abandoned courtyards. Bigger."
Harry's eyes darkened. Not the tortured-hero sort — no. This was the calm-before-the-storm sort, where all the noise just drained out of him and left only decision.
"What do you need?"
Neville didn't flinch. "You. And Hermione. Maybe the old lot. Not the Ministry. Not the Order. I need people who move fast and don't wait for a press release to do the right thing."
Harry held his gaze for a beat. Then turned, deliberately, to look at Daphne.
She met it head-on, like she always did. The room might as well have dropped ten degrees in that moment — not from cold, but from something colder: alignment.
"Would you be alright," Harry asked, quiet now, almost tender, "if I dealt with Malfoy? Permanently."
Daphne blinked once. Then tilted her head back, drained the last of her wine in a practiced move that made Hermione roll her eyes, and exhaled like she'd been waiting for this exact question all evening.
"Honestly? You'd be doing Astoria a favour. She's engaged to the ferret, and every time I bring it up, she looks like she's mentally checking her floo powder stash and wondering if one can apparate out of their own body."
Harry's brow quirked, mouth twitching. "So that's a yes?"
"That's a bring me along, darling," Daphne said, slipping into her boots with sinful elegance. "I've got a few... receipts to collect. And someone needs to keep you from getting blood on your new shirt. You still owe me for the porridge incident."
"I maintain that was an accident."
"Harry," she said, one hand on her hip, leaning in close enough for the firelight to glint off the necklace he'd given her last year, "you poured it into my handbag."
Harry shrugged. "You said it was too expensive for school. I was just feeding it. Like a Tamagotchi."
Neville snorted. Hermione coughed into her sleeve to hide a laugh.
"I missed this," Neville said quietly, glancing around the room — at the warmth, the danger, the impossible mess of them. "You lot haven't changed a bit."
Hermione stood, already pulling her cardigan tighter like armor. Her tone was clipped, but her eyes were fire. "We never had the luxury."
The shift was instant.
Whatever warmth had clung to the room, whatever lingering illusion of peace had existed — it drained away. The fire still burned, but now it looked like a funeral pyre.
Harry rose last. His glass was empty, his sleeves rolled up, and his eyes — those impossibly green, haunted eyes — turned toward the hallway, where Thea lay snoring and mumbling threats in her sleep. He let himself look for a second longer than necessary.
Then turned back.
His people were ready. Always had been.
"Well," he said, voice lazy as sin but deadly serious. "Let's go have a little chat with some ghosts. I hear they've been asking for me."
Daphne smiled — slow, wicked, like a secret spelled in red lipstick — and stepped up beside him.
"After you, Potter," she purred. "I do love it when you go full brooding hero. It's very... aesthetic."
He glanced sideways, smirked. "Careful, Greengrass. That sounded dangerously close to a compliment."
She leaned in, lips just brushing the shell of his ear.
"Don't get used to it," she whispered. "I'm still plotting your murder for that handbag."
Hermione groaned. "Merlin save me. They're flirting again."
Neville clapped a hand on Oliver's shoulder as the man finally walked in from the back hallway, rubbing his face with one hand and holding a half-eaten sandwich in the other.
"Did I miss something?" Oliver asked, blinking at the mood.
Harry didn't even turn around. "Just the end of peace."
Oliver looked at the sandwich, then at them. Shrugged. "Fair enough. Do I get to hit someone?"
"Probably," Daphne said sweetly. "Maybe several someones."
Oliver grinned. "Bloody brilliant. Let me grab my bat."
And just like that, they were back in it.
Not the Order.
Not the Ministry.
Just the ones who'd survived.
And this time, they weren't coming to defend.
They were coming to finish it.
—
Absolutely — here's the rewritten version, expanded and enhanced with all the elements you asked for: sharp British banter, a richer thread of sexual tension between Harry and Daphne, and character voices styled after your casting choices. It captures the same grounded, intimate tone, but goes deeper into personalities, chemistry, and humor.
As Hermione rattled off surveillance enchantments at breakneck speed — already halfway through the third sub-category of ward-weaving protocols — and Daphne muttered under her breath about hexing someone's kneecaps in alphabetical order ("Blaze, then Crabbe, then Draco — Merlin, it's like a to-do list"), Harry caught Oliver's eye from across the room.
The look was subtle. Not quite a nod. More like a tilt of the head that said We need to talk, but also, I might be about to ask a favour you'll hate.
Oliver raised a brow, sighed like a man preparing for emotional labour, and followed without comment. Still holding a half-eaten sandwich like it was some kind of emotional support carb.
They walked past the old grandfather clock and into the back corridor — dim, quiet, all peeling paint and the faint scent of something vaguely magical and mildly illegal. Harry leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, that unmistakable Harry Potter expression settling onto his face. Not the Chosen One thing — Merlin help them if he ever actually used that. No, this was the look of someone who'd seen too much, cared too deeply, and wasn't about to apologise for it.
"You alright holding the fort for a bit?" he asked, voice low but direct. "This thing with Malfoy and his fellow inbred fascists — it's going to get loud. Someone's got to stay behind and keep things from going to hell in our absence."
Oliver paused mid-bite. Slowly lowered the sandwich.
"Mate," he said, "you do remember this was my operation originally, yeah? Solo gig. Me, my list, a bottle of Ogden's Finest, and the quiet ambition of dying in a morally ambiguous blaze of glory."
Harry tilted his head. "Yes, well. Then I barged in. As is tradition."
"With Granger in tow," Oliver added, pointing with the sandwich like it was a wand. "Dragging her along like your own personal war-ethics committee."
"To be fair," Harry said, with a straight face, "she threatened to report me to Magical Animal Services for 'reckless Gryffindoring' if I didn't let her come."
Oliver snorted.
"And I didn't complain," he continued, "because let's be honest — if I told you to sod off, you'd just blow up a wall and come in through the chimney."
"Subtlety is overrated," Harry replied cheerfully. "Also, fireplaces are faster."
Oliver rolled his eyes. "Then she showed up."
They both turned slightly, just enough to hear the sound of Daphne laughing in the other room — a low, wicked sound like silk sliding across glass. There was the unmistakable sound of someone (probably Neville) yelping in protest.
Harry's expression softened automatically.
"She's terrifying," Oliver added. "In a deeply specific, undeniably hot kind of way."
Harry didn't smile. But he did that thing — that thing where one corner of his mouth twitched like it was contemplating a full grin but hadn't quite committed.
"She grows on you," he said, voice a little rougher. "Like hemlock."
Oliver gave him a long, knowing look.
"You're gone for her," he said.
Harry met his gaze. Said nothing.
Oliver just smirked. "Anyway. It turned into a bloody ensemble cast. Not a solo mission anymore. But I'm alright. I'll keep Thea breathing and the perimeter tight."
Harry nodded, and after a beat added, "She's been sleeping better, hasn't she?"
"Fewer screams," Oliver confirmed. "More snoring. Sometimes she steals my jumpers. I think that means progress."
"She says she doesn't trust anyone," Harry murmured, "but she curled up against Hermione the other night like a niffler on a Galleon pile."
Oliver shrugged. "That one's been through hell. She's allowed to be complicated."
There was a pause — not awkward, just quiet. The kind of silence you only get between men who've faced war and walked away with matching scars in different places.
"I'll make it quick," Harry said. "Zabini. The Malfoy thing. We'll get answers, shut it down before it grows teeth."
"Go," Oliver said. "Be loud. Break things. I've got the kid, the Foundry, and enough caffeine to power a mid-sized SWAT team. This was the plan, remember?"
Harry grinned. "Yeah. But our plans tend to evolve into fireballs."
Oliver clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder — all reassurance and unspoken affection — then turned and walked back toward the main room, his sandwich miraculously still intact, wand tucked into the back of his jeans like a casual threat.
Harry lingered in the corridor a moment longer, running a hand through his already unruly hair.
Which was, of course, when Daphne appeared in the doorway like some kind of divine inconvenience. All tight black jeans and a leather jacket that didn't technically belong to her — it was Harry's, but she'd stolen it so thoroughly no one questioned it anymore. Her blonde hair was twisted up in a messy bun, and her smirk was carved from marble and sin.
"You're coming, or are you planning to flirt with Oliver until sunrise?" she asked, voice a little smoky, a little amused.
Harry tilted his head, slow and appraising. "Jealous, Greengrass?"
She stepped closer. "Please. I'm secure in my ability to make you forget your own name."
"Bit bold of you to assume I remembered it in the first place."
Daphne raised a brow, trailing a finger along his collar as she passed. "Better brush up, Potter. You'll be screaming it soon enough."
Harry coughed. "Merlin's saggy y-fronts, woman."
Daphne looked far too pleased with herself. She tossed him a wink, then called back toward the living room, "He's coming! Just had to be emotionally coddled!"
"Oi!" Harry protested. "It was a tactical check-in! There were brooding looks!"
Hermione stuck her head around the corner, brow arched like a disapproving professor. "Do you two ever behave like functional adults?"
"Define 'functional,'" Harry said brightly.
"Define 'adults,'" Daphne chimed in.
Hermione sighed, muttered something about "inmates running the asylum," and disappeared again.
Neville's voice floated down the hall, thick with amusement. "If we get arrested again, I'm blaming Potter. Last time I ended up in my underpants in the Leaky Cauldron."
"You're welcome," Harry shouted back.
And just like that, it clicked back into place — the chaos, the charm, the barely-contained madness of a group of people too damaged to be innocent and too stubborn to stop fighting.
They had the gear. They had the codenames.
And they had each other.
And tonight, that would be enough.
The storm was coming.
And this time, they weren't just ready.
They were walking into it — together.
—
The elevator creaked like it hadn't been properly oiled since the Goblin Rebellions, groaning and rattling as it descended into the hidden heart beneath the abandoned Queen Mill. Neville Longbottom shifted uneasily, glancing around at the industrial steelwork and flickering rune-lit panels as if expecting the entire contraption to drop them into a pit of inferi.
When the doors finally hissed open, the scent of ozone and cold steel hit him like a slap of war memories and future nightmares.
And then he saw it.
"Bloody hell," he muttered.
The Foundry stretched out before him like the war room of a vigilante god — a perfect blend of arcane magic and bleeding-edge tech. Thick stone pillars rose like sentinels from the steel-grated floor, warded with layer upon layer of old-world enchantments. Holographic displays floated above worktables scattered with spell-imbued gear, potion arrays, schematics of ancient artifacts, and at least one dragon tooth someone had mounted like a paperweight.
But what really caught Neville's attention were the mannequins.
Four of them. Standing proud and silent against the far wall like spectral sentries.
Hermione was already moving. Hair pulled into a tight braid, eyes sharp with the kind of ruthless intelligence that made Death Eaters tremble. She raised her wand with a snap, and her bodysuit responded like an obedient familiar. Black and brown armor slid free of its mannequin with mechanical grace, folding itself midair before slipping into the depths of her beaded bag.
Neville blinked. "Er... was that owl feathers?"
She glanced back over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Barn owl, yes. Woven into the lining with runes for stealth. It obscures my features, dampens my voice, and scrambles magical surveillance."
"And Muggle CCTV," added Harry dryly as he moved past, tugging off his gloves and tossing them onto the workbench. "Because Merlin forbid the Daily Prophet misses the chance to accuse us of murdering the Queen or something."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Codename: Noctua," she told Neville with a slight flourish, pointing to the runes along the inner edge of the hood. "Latin for owl. Knowledge. Strategy. Night vision."
Neville nodded slowly. "Right. Strategic and spooky. Classic Hermione."
"Thank you," she said, then paused. "Wait—was that a compliment or a jab?"
Harry was already at the second mannequin. He said nothing at first — just stared at it. Red and black armor, reinforced plating across the chest and arms, matte finish like dried blood under moonlight. The hood hung low over a sleek, black mask with white eye lenses that gave off Batman-but-make-it-British energy.
He finally reached up, fingers brushing the armor.
"Blood Raven," he said, almost reluctantly.
Neville raised a brow. "Bit dramatic, mate."
Harry turned his head slightly, flashing that crooked, infuriatingly smug grin that Daphne always claimed she hated — and yet always stared at a second too long.
"Look, I was feeling a bit emotionally unstable," he replied. "Also had a minor obsession with mythology and bird-themed trauma. Sue me."
"You've literally petted a phoenix," Neville pointed out.
"Yeah. And the first time I did that, it exploded in my face. Not the best meet-cute, Longbottom."
"Also not the worst," Daphne purred, sauntering past with the kind of strut that made mannequins self-destruct and Neville suddenly forget how legs worked.
She paused in front of her gear and tilted her head. The icy-blue and white bodysuit shimmered under the enchanted lights — sleek, predatory, and damn near regal. The hood, lined with frost-silver runes, glimmered faintly as she reached up, unfastening the suit with smooth, deliberate movements.
"Skadi," she said softly, folding each piece like sacred silk. "Norse goddess of winter, vengeance, and bow-hunting emotionally constipated gods who forget birthdays."
Harry coughed. "That... felt personal."
Daphne turned to him, all porcelain angles and fire behind her eyes. She arched a brow.
"If the bloodied glove fits, darling."
Their eyes locked, and the air crackled like static. It wasn't just sexual tension — it was a damn storm. The kind that threatened to strip the paint off walls and set alarm wards into cardiac arrest. Hermione sighed audibly in the background.
Neville, meanwhile, was staring at the fourth mannequin — the only one still untouched.
Forest green leather jacket, hood stitched directly into the collar, rugged matching pants, and a well-worn pair of black combat boots below. A longbow leaned on the adjacent rack, and an array of arrows stood gleaming under an enchantment that labeled each tip with glowing glyphs: Explosive. Tracking. Paralytic. Piercing.
He turned. "Let me guess. Oliver?"
Hermione nodded as she slotted her potion vials into color-coded sections of her bag. "Codename Arrow."
"Right," Neville said. "Subtle."
"He thinks calling himself The Green was too pretentious," Harry added with a smirk. "Apparently he has standards."
Daphne snorted. "Only in branding. Man eats like Thor on cheat day."
Neville kept staring, something glinting in his eyes. "Y'know… I've got these Druidic tattoos now. Magic's kind of... awakened. Not just defense either. I can grow thorn whips, shift terrain. Talk to snakes."
Harry blinked. "Okay, parselmouth, calm down."
Neville grinned and flexed his forearm — the tattoos glowed softly, vines curling like smoke up his skin. "All I'm saying is... maybe I need some gear. A codename. Something cool."
"Going full superhero now, are we?" Daphne asked, her tone amused and vaguely predatory.
"Why not?" he replied, emboldened. "I'm not just some bumbling sidekick anymore. Might as well look the part."
Harry clapped him on the back, his smile widening. "Good thing we're headed to England, then."
Neville blinked. "Why's that good?"
"Because," Hermione said, stepping up beside him, "the woman who designed our suits lives there."
"Fleur Delacour," Harry added, leaning casually against the weapons rack. "Yes, that Fleur. She's currently working on a suit for Daphne that's apparently equal parts runway and rampage."
"Mm," Daphne hummed, smoothing a hand down her thigh. "She knows how to accentuate a silhouette without compromising lethality. I like that in a designer."
"Also, she's married to Bill," Hermione said quickly. "Before your brain short-circuits."
Neville nodded, then paused. "Wait. So how does this work? Do I just show up with a sketch and a wand and shout Druid Me Daddy?"
"Please never say that again," Hermione said flatly.
"Absolutely say that again," Daphne countered, lips curling.
Harry just laughed. "Start with a vibe. Are you thinking Green Knight? Forest Avenger? Mister Mossman?"
Neville grimaced. "Okay, no on that last one."
"Druidic badass with nature's vengeance at his fingertips," Daphne mused, eyes scanning him appraisingly. "Hmm. I see leather. Bark texture. Maybe some glowing runes across the ribs…"
"...A cloak made of leaves?" Hermione offered.
"A helmet made of questionable life decisions," Harry added.
Neville shook his head, but he was smiling. "I'll figure something out."
"Well," Harry said, pushing off the rack and slinging his bag over his shoulder, "if you come up with a name involving wood puns, I'll be the first to duel you."
"Wood you, really?" Neville shot back with a wink.
Harry groaned. "I walked right into that. Someone Obliviate me."
The laughter faded as they moved back toward the lift. The armor was packed. The masks tucked away. But the bond between them — that lived.
Neville looked between the three of them, his new teammates — Noctua, Skadi, and the Blood Raven — and for the first time in his life, felt like he belonged in the shadows just as much as the light.
Whatever waited across the sea — politics, war, the dark heart of England's wizarding world — they would face it together.
Not students. Not soldiers.
A strike team.
A family.
And somewhere in the storm to come, a Druid was about to find his name.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!