Queen Manor — Later That Stormy Night
The storm didn't roll in. It attacked.
Rain hurled itself against the tall windows like it was trying to break in. Lightning tore the sky apart in jagged silvers, and thunder slammed overhead, angry and too close.
Inside, the manor slept. Or at least tried to.
Until Oliver screamed.
It wasn't loud so much as raw — like someone had ripped the sound straight from his gut. It echoed through the hallways, sharp enough to snap every occupant awake.
Oliver sat bolt upright on the floor, damp with sweat, fists clenched, heart hammering in a rhythm that had once meant fight or die. His cot of blankets lay tossed beside him — the bed was still too soft, too fake, too not real.
He didn't notice the door.
Didn't notice the subtle click as it was unlocked by a soft whisper.
"Alohomora," Hermione murmured, already slipping her wand back into her sleeve.
Harry was the first through the door. Shirtless, barefoot, but eyes bright with alertness and trained calm. He moved like a shadow with an English accent.
Thea was next, in pajama shorts and a hoodie three sizes too big. Sirius came in behind her, shirtless, tattooed, scowling, hair tousled like a lion just woken up. Moira swept in last, robe over nightgown, the very image of chilly elegance, her expression carved from worry and glass.
"Oliver?" Moira's voice was quiet. Measured.
He didn't hear her.
He wasn't here.
He was back there — where the days bled together and the nights bled worse. He was cold, starving, soaked to the bone with seawater and failure. He was watching his father die again. Watching his own hands kill.
"Oliver, darling, it's me," Moira said, stepping forward, kneeling carefully like she might spook a wild animal.
Lightning flashed.
Oliver moved.
One second, Moira was kneeling. The next, her wrist was in Oliver's grip, twisted back with deadly precision, her breath catching.
Then —
"Oi, Oliver," Harry snapped.
THWACK.
Before anyone blinked, Harry had Oliver down, one knee on his back, arm pinned behind him in a grappler's hold that was alarmingly gentle.
"You done?" Harry asked calmly.
Oliver blinked, eyes wide, then narrowed, struggling once more before recognition flickered through the haze.
"Harry?" he rasped.
Harry shifted just enough to let him breathe, but not enough to let him up. "Welcome back. We missed you. Especially the part where you didn't attack your mum."
Oliver froze. Then looked.
Moira was rubbing her wrist, elegant even while recovering from a surprise wrist-lock.
His heart broke.
"Oh God… Mom, I—I didn't know, I swear, it was just—instinct, I didn't mean to—"
He scrambled out from under Harry, palms up, horrified.
"I could have hurt you," he whispered.
Moira stood. Walked to him. Cupped his face with both hands.
"But you didn't," she said. Steady. Fierce. "And even if you had, Oliver Jonas Queen, I would come into this room again. Every. Single. Time."
Oliver looked like he might break.
Behind them, Thea whispered, "Is this what PTSD club looks like?"
Hermione gave her a small, sad smile. "It's not a club. It's a sentence."
Sirius crossed his arms. "Hell doesn't brand you and leave. It tags along. Like a bad ex."
Oliver sat back on the floor, exhausted. "I don't sleep much anymore."
"You don't say," Sirius grunted. "You kick like a mule, too."
Harry, now leaning against the wall, rolled his eyes. "He's probably stab a training dummy so hard, it'll bleed sawdust and shame."
Oliver looked up. "I didn't ask for any of this."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Neither did Bucky Barnes. Life doesn't send RSVPs before it punches you in the trauma."
Thea crossed her arms. "You guys are way too good at this cryptic war-brooding thing. It's freaky."
"She says while still wearing a hoodie that says 'Don't talk to me, I bite,'" Harry quipped.
"It's a fashion statement," Thea snapped.
"It's a personality diagnosis," Hermione muttered.
Oliver blinked at them. "Wait. Are you lot... spies or something?"
Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "Something, yes. You'll catch up."
Hermione sighed. "Not if you three keep being needlessly cryptic."
Sirius winked. "Where's the fun in being direct?"
"In not traumatizing the recovering castaway," she deadpanned.
Oliver shook his head slowly. "You people are weird."
Harry grinned. "Welcome to the family."
And for the first time in five years, Oliver almost smiled.
—
Queen Manor – The Next Morning
Thea didn't knock.
She never had. As a kid, she used to burst into Oliver's room just to annoy him. Now, it was less about annoyance and more about habit. Plus, after last night's emotional hurricane? She figured knocking was the least of their problems.
She nudged the door open with her hip, a bowl of cereal in one hand and her phone in the other. "Hey, bro, just wanted to give you a heads up—Tommy's here and—"
She stopped mid-sentence. And mid-step.
Oliver stood by the window, shirtless, silhouetted by soft morning light spilling through the curtains. He was pulling on a pair of jeans, his back to her.
And that's when she saw them.
Scars.
Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds. Ugly, jagged, brutal. They crawled across his skin like angry vines—some still pink and raw, others pale like old ghosts. His back looked like it had taken on the world and lost. And yet, here he was.
Breathing. Standing. Alive.
Thea's mouth dropped open. Her cereal bowl tilted dangerously.
"Oh my God… Ollie…"
He stilled, just for a beat.
Then without a word, he turned, grabbed a black long-sleeve henley from the dresser, and pulled it on in one clean motion.
"I don't want to talk about it," he said firmly. Not harsh, not angry—but absolute.
Thea blinked. "Well, that's... not suspicious at all," she muttered, trying to play it cool. She set the cereal down on his nightstand with exaggerated care, like it might explode.
"I'm serious, Thea," Oliver said, turning away from her again. "Let it go."
"Sure. Because your back looking like it got into a knife fight with a grizzly bear is super casual," she shot back.
Oliver gave her a tight-lipped smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You always did have a gift for understatement."
She crossed her arms, one hip cocked. "I'm not trying to get you to write a memoir, Oliver. But maybe don't pretend that... that," she motioned vaguely at his torso, "...isn't a thing."
"I'm aware it's a thing," he said, running a hand through his hair. "That's why I'm doing this."
"What's this?"
"Changing the subject."
"Ohhh, classic Ollie Queen deflection play. Move over, Houdini," she said dryly.
He smirked. That familiar, slightly sardonic expression that made him look five years younger for just a second. Then he turned, opened the drawer by his bed, and rummaged around.
"I have something for you."
Thea squinted suspiciously. "What, emotional repression and gifts? You're really leaning into this brooding mysterious billionaire thing."
He held out a small object, nestled in his palm. A stone arrowhead, smooth from wear, its once-sharp edges dulled with age. It looked like something out of a museum—or a mythology textbook.
"It's called a hozen," he said, quietly. "I found it during my second year on the island. Thought it would bring me luck."
Thea took it carefully, like it might vanish. "So... a souvenir from Hell?"
"Something like that," he replied, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "I carried it with me every day after I found it. Got me through a lot."
She turned it over in her hand, brushing her thumb along the worn stone. "And now you're giving it to me?"
"You're my sister, Speedy. If anyone deserves a little luck, it's you."
She softened immediately. "Thanks, Ollie. It's... weird, and sharp, and kind of ugly—so yeah, it's perfect. Totally your vibe."
Before Oliver could respond, the door burst open.
"Tell me she's not getting mystical rock swag!" Tommy Merlyn breezed in like Ibiza had followed him home. He was wearing aviators on his head, his button-up shirt halfway to buttoned, and a wide grin like he'd been born in a DJ booth.
He stopped short, surveying the scene—Thea holding a rock reverently, Oliver half-brooding in long sleeves, and a general aura of heavy morning awkwardness.
"I leave the continent for one week," Tommy said, hands on his hips, "and you're handing out sacred tribal trinkets like Cracker Jack prizes?"
Oliver sighed. "Nice to see you too, Tommy."
"I flew in the second I heard," Tommy added, stepping forward and pulling him into a quick, rough hug—then immediately pulling back when Oliver winced. "Jesus, dude, what happened to your back? Did you get mauled by a tiger or something?"
Oliver's face didn't change. "Close."
Tommy blinked, then wisely chose not to pursue that. "Okay. Wow. So that's a whole thing. Good to know."
He looked at the stone in Thea's hand. "Wait—so she gets the mysterious island mojo and I don't even get a novelty tee? I was expecting a 'My Best Friend Spent Five Years on a Hell Island and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt' shirt at the minimum."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "I'll have one printed."
"Extra-large, please. For the emotional baggage," Tommy said, plopping down dramatically on the edge of the bed. "Seriously though, man. You okay?"
Oliver hesitated. Just a moment. Then: "I will be."
Tommy nodded, clapped him gently on the shoulder. "That's all I needed to hear. Well, that and—how the hell are you hotter after five years in the wilderness? I was expecting, like, Cast Away with a beard and a volleyball."
Oliver looked over at Thea, deadpan. "Is it too late to pretend I died in the plane crash?"
"Very," Thea said with a grin. "Also, no offense, but you're about as good at pretending to be dead as you are at subtle emotional communication."
Tommy pointed at her. "See? This is why I missed you guys."
He turned back to the arrowhead. "So… does it do anything cool? Glows in the dark? Turns her into Hawkeye?"
Thea smirked. "Nah. But if it did, you're looking at Star City's next vigilante archer."
Tommy gasped. "Dibs on being your wise-cracking sidekick."
"Too late," Thea said, smirking. "Hermione already claimed the spot."
Tommy frowned. "Wait, like... Who's Hermione?"
Oliver, leaning back against the dresser now, arms folded, gave Thea a meaningful look. "Told you."
Thea winked at him. "You were right."
Tommy looked between them, confused. "Okay, seriously—what did I miss?"
Oliver smiled. Just a little. Just enough.
"Everything."
—
Thea Queen had vanished downstairs twenty minutes ago with the determination of someone hunting cereal like it owed her money. The faint clink of bowls and the angry hum of a fridge being opened too aggressively floated up the grand staircase, barely audible beneath the lazy shuffle of expensive shoes and long-suffering sighs.
Oliver moved with that signature quiet intensity, the kind that said "I've survived a hell island and all I got was this trauma." His footsteps were light, shoulders squared, jaw sharp enough to slice drywall. Every motion carried the coiled precision of a man who'd once fought a Russian mobster with a butter knife.
Tommy Merlyn, on the other hand, descended like a walking podcast set to double speed.
"…and then, after they finally wrapped Game of Thrones—which, let's be real, was a dumpster fire with a CGI budget—HBO decided, 'Hey, what if we tried writing again?' Boom. House of the Dragon. Still problematic, still sexy, but at least the wigs are consistent. Less incest, marginally."
Oliver gave him a side glance. "Why are we talking about dragons?"
"It's called cultural reintegration, my grizzled friend. You've been off the grid for five years. You missed memes, Marvel phases two through four, and an entire generation falling in love with Pedro Pascal."
Oliver arched a brow. "Who?"
Tommy gasped like he'd been shot. "Sweet suffering streaming service, Oliver. You don't know Daddy Pascal?"
"I'm going back to the island."
Before Tommy could launch into a dissertation on The Mandalorian, the library doors creaked open. The sound was just loud enough to cause a brief hush—one of those uncanny, movie-scene silences where you know the plot just walked in.
Two figures emerged.
One tall and lean, with messy black hair and a perpetual expression like he was two seconds from a sarcastic quip. His walk screamed British wizard turned reluctant hero, and his black Henley didn't hide the Auror-worthy physique he'd earned somewhere between spell-slinging and dodging curses.
The other had a storm of curls, sharp eyes that analyzed everything, and the prim-yet-deadly poise of a woman who could dismantle you in debate and then knit you a scarf to apologize.
"Harry," the girl sighed, nudging the library door shut with her foot. "You're worse than Ron. Honestly, how hard is it to close something quietly?"
Harry yawned like a housecat and replied without looking, "It's a door, Hermione. Not the bloody Chamber of Secrets. If it bites back, you have my full permission to say, 'I told you so.'"
Tommy froze mid-step.
Blink.
Blink again.
"…Wait. That's Harry?"
Harry spotted him and tilted his head, squinting slightly. "Tommy? Merlyn? You're still alive? I could've sworn you'd gotten eaten by an overgrown squirrel that one summer."
"I tried to teach you how to make a mojito," Tommy muttered, still processing. "You were, like, fourteen. And you called it 'the devil's mouthwash'."
"To be fair," Hermione said, not missing a beat, "you were trying to give alcohol to a minor."
"Allegedly," Tommy said, hands up in mock surrender.
Harry grinned. "You used mint extract instead of mint leaves. It tasted like toothpaste had committed war crimes."
Tommy pointed, jaw agape. "Okay. You grew a face. Like a whole adult face. Jawline, height, cheekbones—what did you do, eat Captain America and absorb his muscles?"
"I work out. And I moisturize," Harry deadpanned. "You should try it sometime. Your forehead's got more lines than a Shakespeare monologue."
Oliver, standing slightly back, finally cleared his throat. "Morning."
Harry's sarcasm softened the instant he saw him. "Hey. You're awake."
Hermione followed Harry's gaze and smiled gently. "Good to see you up, Oliver. You had us worried."
"Appreciate it." His nod was restrained, but genuine.
Tommy was now circling Harry like a shark in an Armani jacket. "So let me get this straight. You're the Harry Potter. The orphan Moira Queen scooped up during a European detour. The same one who used to steal pop-tarts and vanish for ten months of the year to that suspiciously elite school in Scotland?"
"I graduated," Harry said, hands sliding into his pockets. "No more boarding school. No more mandatory house points. Now I just live here, annoy Thea, and help Hermione figure out which coffees in America don't taste like regret."
"Oi!" came a shout from the top of the stairs.
Thea leaned over the banister, spoon in mouth and a bowl of cereal in hand. Her hair was messy, her tank top crooked, and her glare impressively expressive for someone chewing soggy Cocoa Puffs.
"Less shade, Potter. I'm mourning. These—" she pointed to her bowl, "—were once crunchy. Now they're betrayal in a bowl."
Hermione gave her a sympathetic wince. "We warned you not to multitask. Cereal has a five-minute shelf life, max."
"You're one of those people who time tea steeping to the second, aren't you?" Thea groaned.
"I am," Hermione said proudly. "Precision is underrated."
Tommy clapped once. "I like her. She gets it. Chaos and control. She's like if Mary Poppins went to MIT."
Hermione bowed slightly. "Thank you. I'll be here all summer. Unless this manor burns down from Tommy trying to make cocktails again."
"Allegedly," he repeated.
Harry shook his head fondly, then glanced at Oliver, voice quieter now. "I didn't get a chance to say this last night, but… I'm really glad you're okay. Seriously."
Oliver met his gaze and offered a slow nod. "Still figuring things out."
Harry tilted his head. "Aren't we all?"
Tommy grinned. "You two are giving off trauma bros energy. One more heartfelt nod and I swear to God, CW will reboot the whole show."
Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. "Do you ever stop talking?"
"Once," Tommy said. "In 2009. I had strep. It was a dark time."
Harry leaned closer to Oliver and whispered, "Is he always like this?"
"Worse," Oliver murmured back.
"Hey!" Tommy said indignantly. "I provide much-needed levity in this angsty cluster of attractive people. I'm basically Tony Stark meets Chandler Bing."
Thea sauntered down the last few steps, flicking her spoon at him. "You're more like a golden retriever who drank Red Bull and discovered sarcasm."
"I'll take that."
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You remind me of Sirius."
"Don't encourage him," Thea warned. "He already thinks he's hot."
"I am hot," Tommy said, gesturing at himself. "This isn't arrogance—it's self-awareness."
The group headed toward the kitchen, the familiar creak of the Queen Manor floorboards beneath them.
Oliver lingered at the edge, watching them move, laugh, tease. It didn't feel like before—the fractured, brittle memories of a life stolen and rewritten.
But it felt like something.
Something real.
Something possible.
And that, for now, was enough.
—
The smell of burnt toast, overbrewed coffee, and the chaotic energy of too many Type-A personalities in one house filled the Queen kitchen like an overconfident perfume. Hermione stood before the row of gleaming American appliances like a general surveying a battlefield—or worse, a professor handed a pop quiz with misspelled questions and Comic Sans font.
"Why," she began in a voice laced with tight restraint, "are the sockets upside down? It's like someone designed this kitchen purely to offend my sense of logic."
"That's because you're in America now," Thea said, dramatically pouring the remnants of her soggy cereal down the garbage disposal with the flair of someone disposing of evidence. "Land of the free, home of the fridge that judges you."
"I swear it beeped at me when I opened it too slowly," Hermione muttered, now poking at the toaster like it might explode. "And this toaster. This toaster. It has Bluetooth."
"Probably so it can update its firmware in the middle of making you breakfast," Harry said breezily, leaning against the counter with a spoon halfway buried in a suspiciously off-brand jar of peanut butter. The lid looked like it had lost a duel with an overheating spell, and someone had crossed out the label and scribbled Pixie Paste in Sharpie.
Tommy's voice echoed from the pantry, running commentary flowing like a man determined to launch a cooking podcast without the cooking. "Okay, seriously, where's the food-food? This is all flaxseed, quinoa, and something called organic sea buckthorn granola. Moira definitely joined a health cult. Do we think it's vegan or just very disappointed in flavor?"
"Just eat the toaster," Harry deadpanned. "It's Bluetooth. It probably counts as a protein."
Oliver stood in the corner, sipping his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to this dimension. Black, bitter, no sugar—because, of course, he liked his mornings like his nightly rooftop brooding: cold and punishing. He watched the room, but mostly he watched Harry.
Harry, who looked—comfortable. Perched on a stool like it had always been his. Moving around the kitchen like he belonged, like he knew where the mugs lived and which drawer had the fancy tea Hermione hoarded like treasure. The sleeve of his hoodie was singed at the cuff. There was powdered sugar on his cheek. He looked—
At home.
And Oliver didn't know if that made him feel relieved, or off-balance, or thrown into an emotional spiral he did not schedule for today.
"Hey," Oliver said finally, voice low but cutting through the chaos like a stealth arrow.
Harry looked up, mid-scoop of peanut butter, one brow arched with aristocratic indifference. "Mr. Queen. To what do I owe the pleasure? Need someone to refill your coffee? Or are we back to silently judging my breakfast choices again?"
Oliver pointedly ignored the spoonful of 'Pixie Paste' and instead said, "Tommy wants to take me into the city today. Little recon. Lunch. A walk. He'll probably spend most of it mocking my wardrobe."
"You dress like a Men's Warehouse mannequin who just got dumped," Tommy called from inside the pantry. "I'm saving everyone."
Oliver sighed and continued. "You should come."
Harry blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah," Oliver said with a shrug. "You've been here. Part of the family. Might know Starling better than I do at this point."
"That is both flattering and deeply depressing," Harry said. "But go on."
"I just thought… it might be good. Normal." Oliver paused, then added with a very dry glance toward the pantry. "Or as normal as anything gets with Tommy involved."
"I am the social glue holding this family together!" Tommy shouted, now emerging triumphantly holding a box of cereal that looked like it hadn't been produced since the Bush administration. "Also, this expired before Thea hit puberty. We should call a priest."
"I'm not entirely convinced you have hit puberty," Thea said sweetly, scrolling on her phone. "Your voice still cracks every time you talk to your reflection."
"I'm a tenor," Tommy sniffed. "A delicate instrument."
"I swear to Merlin," Harry said, standing up and brushing sugar off his jeans, "if this ends in a spontaneous musical number, I'm out."
Hermione finally wrenched the Bluetooth toaster open and retrieved the toast with a pair of tongs like she was disarming a bomb. "If you're all going into the city, please try not to make headlines. Or start a gang. Or offend anyone carrying a crossbow."
"Honestly, those are all your rules, Granger," Harry said, throwing on his jacket. "I'm just here for the sarcasm and the overpriced pastries."
"Don't forget the painfully awkward male bonding," Thea called, not looking up. "You love those."
Tommy grinned like a golden retriever discovering peanut butter for the first time. "Oh, this is gonna be great. I'm thinking record stores, ironic t-shirts, coffee so strong it sees through time—"
"And maybe," Harry said, smoothing down his hair and adjusting his sleeves with the precision of a man preparing for battle, "a stop where I can buy Oliver some socks that don't scream billionaire with unresolved issues."
"You're a menace," Oliver said as they headed for the door.
"I'm British," Harry corrected. "It's our colonial legacy."
As they filed out—Tommy already texting a list of coffee shops with ironic names and Thea threatening to text them a selfie every time they did something dumb—Hermione called, "No arrests! No magical incidents! And absolutely no fire this time, Harry!"
"It was one time," Harry said.
"You set off a fireball in a Whole Foods!"
"They were out of treacle tart. I stand by my choices."
The door closed behind them with the soft click of adventure.
And Oliver walked beside Harry—not in silence, exactly. But in a quiet that felt… easy. New.
Hopeful.
Like something was changing.
Like maybe—finally—things were beginning.
—
The front doors of Queen Manor swung open dramatically—because of course they did—and the trio strutted out like a promo shot for an action-comedy crossover nobody asked for, but everyone needed.
Tommy Merlyn walked like he was born on a yacht, sunglasses on, smile cocky, and blazer just rumpled enough to scream "rich kid rebel." He hit the key fob on his car with the kind of confidence that usually belonged to Bond villains and overpaid CEOs.
The Aston Martin Vantage chirped to life with a smug little purr.
Cherry-red. Glossy. Offensive to the quiet sensibilities of subtlety.
"Tell me that isn't the sound of overcompensation," Harry muttered, tilting his head with faux innocence as the engine purred like it just heard the words "midlife crisis."
Tommy grinned. "That, my judgmental British friend, is the sound of style."
Oliver folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at the car like it had personally wronged him. "It's a two-seater."
Tommy blinked. "And?"
"There are three of us."
Tommy glanced at Harry, then Oliver. "Well, it's not like we can stack you guys. I mean, we could, but the press would have a field day."
"Let me guess," Harry deadpanned. "You were planning to strap me to the hood like a sexy British ornament?"
Tommy didn't miss a beat. "I was going to say roof rack, but now that you've said it…"
Oliver cut in, exasperated. "We're not using the Aston. We'll just take one of the SUVs."
"Boring," Tommy groaned, already imagining the blacked-out behemoths in the garage.
"Oh no," Harry said suddenly, a glint in his eye. "I've got a better idea."
Oliver tensed. "Define 'better.'"
"More illegal," Harry said cheerfully, already jogging toward the garage. "Be right back. Don't miss me too much."
Tommy turned to Oliver. "Should we stop him?"
Oliver didn't even flinch. "At this point? I just assume chaos and pray it's insured."
They waited. Tommy casually leaned on the Aston's hood while humming the Mission: Impossible theme—because of course he did—and Oliver paced like a man already compiling excuses for the inevitable 9-1-1 call.
And then it came.
A deep, low growl that rose like a thunderclap. It wasn't just a sound—it was a presence. Mechanical and primal, like someone had distilled the essence of rebellion, then fitted it with exhaust pipes.
The garage doors opened with a hiss.
And Harry. Bloody. Potter. Emerged.
He was straddling a Ducati Superleggera V4—red and black, chrome glinting, engine snarling like it hated everything slower than the speed of sound. His riding leathers were just as dramatic—black with crimson accents, sharp lines that made him look like he stepped off a high-octane runway somewhere between Milan and Mordor.
Helmet tucked under his arm. Smirk in full force.
Tommy let out a long whistle. "Okay. That's unfairly hot."
Harry revved the bike once—just to be petty. "Try not to fall in love, Merlyn. I don't have the emotional bandwidth."
Oliver blinked. "You're riding that into the city?"
Harry tilted his head innocently. "What, this little thing?" He patted the Ducati like it was a house cat and not a fire-breathing death machine. "Sirius gave it to me. Said if I didn't show up to places in a cloud of noise, sex appeal, and poor decisions, I'd be doing the family name a disservice."
"Of course Sirius gave you a Ducati," Oliver muttered, already massaging his temple like he could feel the migraine forming.
"Said," Harry shifted into a perfect impression of Sirius's lazy drawl, "'Go fast, break hearts, and if anyone asks about the mileage—lie.'"
Tommy looked at the bike, then at Harry. "Wait—does this thing fly?"
Harry snorted. "It wants to."
Oliver stepped forward. "You do realize the city has speed limits, right?"
"I also realize gravity exists," Harry said, pulling on his helmet with a smooth click. "Yet here I am, consistently ignoring it."
"This is a bad idea," Oliver said flatly.
"You say that like it's not my brand," Harry shot back.
Tommy looked delighted. "I call shotgun!"
Harry turned the visor toward him. "Mate. It's a motorcycle."
"I'll run behind you dramatically then."
Harry revved the bike again. "Try to keep up, sunshine."
Tommy looked at Oliver. "I love him."
"I tolerate him," Oliver replied grimly.
And then Harry took off.
The Ducati exploded forward in a blur of red and black and sound, tearing down the long driveway like it was chasing vengeance and the soundtrack of a Christopher Nolan film. Dust kicked up behind him, birds scattered, and somewhere, a traffic cop woke up in a cold sweat.
Tommy turned to Oliver, grinning like a kid who'd just been given fireworks and zero adult supervision. "Okay, but that was awesome."
Oliver sighed. "He's going to get us arrested."
"Yeah," Tommy said, already heading to one of the backup SUVs. "But we'll look damn good doing it."
Oliver muttered something about needing a tranquilizer dart the next time they invited a wizard to breakfast and followed.
And the sound of the Ducati still echoed—like laughter. Like war drums.
Like trouble.
—
The Ducati Superleggera screamed down the tree-lined backroad like it had been insulted and was out for vengeance. Each curve was a challenge, a dare whispered by the laws of physics—and Harry Potter met each one with the grin of someone who had once outflown dragons and thought this was merely foreplay.
He leaned into the turns with practiced ease, a low, predatory elegance to the way his body flowed with the machine. His left knee nearly skimmed the asphalt.
This wasn't a ride.
It was a flex.
Far behind, the Aston Martin Vantage roared in frustrated pursuit, its tires screeching through every turn like it was begging for mercy. Tommy Merlyn, behind the wheel and clinging to his last shred of composure, shouted over the wind and the angry engine.
"Did he just drift through a roundabout?"
"Yes," Oliver said, flatly. His sunglasses reflected nothing but the blur of trees as he tried very hard not to show he was both impressed and nauseated.
"I mean, what the actual—he took that turn like it owed him rent!"
"Focus on the road, Tommy."
"I am focused! I'm, like, zen-level focused. I've reached inner peace. Mostly because I've accepted I'm going to die chasing your British lunatic of a cousin."
Another turn. The Aston groaned. Somewhere in the distance, the Ducati gave a triumphant growl and vanished around another bend.
Tommy blinked sweat off his lashes. "He's riding that thing like it owes him child support."
"I heard that!" Harry's voice crackled through the tiny Bluetooth device Oliver had insisted he wear. "And I resent the implication. This bike and I have a beautiful, committed relationship. I even charmed the suspension so it doesn't judge my life choices."
Tommy groaned. "Tell your suspension to slow down before I throw up inside a car that costs more than my life."
"No promises."
Then, just like that, the trees opened up, and the Ducati slid into a slow, perfectly executed roll to a stop just beneath a battered "Welcome to Starling City" sign. One boot down, helmet tilted slightly upward, Harry looked for all the world like a warlock knight surveying his next conquest.
Tommy managed to stop beside him without spinning out, which he considered a moral victory. The Vantage's engine purred indignantly.
Harry popped his helmet off with a practiced flick of the wrist, letting his messy black hair fall into place like it had been styled by angels—or possibly rebellious shampoo commercials. His grin was wide. And wicked.
"Took you long enough," he said brightly. "I was starting to worry the Aston had performance anxiety."
Tommy held up a finger. "One—rude. Two—I'm convinced you teleported half the way here."
Harry shrugged. "I didn't. But I love that you believe I would."
Oliver opened the door and stepped out slowly, boots crunching gravel. He stared at the city ahead—Starling, with its jagged skyline and ghosts etched into every rooftop.
Tommy joined him, glancing at the horizon, then at Oliver.
"So, what's the play, Broody McBrooderson?"
Oliver didn't look at him. His jaw tightened. "I want to see Laurel."
There was a beat. Harry blinked.
"Laurel… Lance?" he asked carefully.
Tommy grimaced. "Oh no."
Harry tilted his head, voice turning syrupy with British sarcasm. "You mean the Laurel Lance? The one you used to date? The one you cheated on with her younger sister? Whom you then took on a literal yacht—before said yacht pulled a Titanic and you pulled a disappearing act worthy of Houdini? That Laurel Lance?"
Oliver's eyes flicked toward him. "Yes, that Laurel."
Tommy rubbed his temples. "Still brutal when you say it out loud."
"I always say it out loud," Harry said. "British. We're like sarcasm-flavored tea with a side of existential disappointment."
Tommy stared at him. "How are you both awesome and insufferable?"
Harry shrugged. "Practice."
He turned back to Oliver. "Alright, moody muscles. You want to go knock on the door of the woman whose heart you broke, whose sister you may or may not have indirectly murdered, and who probably has a taser with your name on it?"
Oliver nodded. "I have to face her. I hurt her the most. And I can't move forward until I've—"
"Emotionally suffered like a CW protagonist?" Harry offered.
"Made it right," Oliver corrected.
Harry and Tommy exchanged a look. Then they both nodded at the same time, like they'd just agreed on the least fun ride at a theme park.
"Well," Harry said, stretching dramatically. "That's disgustingly mature of you. Disgusting. You know I'm allergic to emotional growth, right?"
"Ten bucks says she slaps him," Tommy muttered.
Harry held out a hand. "Twenty says her dad tries to arrest him."
Tommy took it. "Done."
Oliver climbed back into the car with a sigh. "You two are children."
"We're entertaining children," Harry called, revving the Ducati to life. "Now come on, Team Trauma. Let's go emotionally ruin our day!"
The Ducati tore off again, zipping through the first wave of traffic like he was late to an exorcism.
Tommy watched him go. "You think she'll cry?"
"I hope she punches me," Oliver said without hesitation.
Tommy blinked. "That's… a lot."
Oliver didn't answer. His gaze was locked on the road ahead.
They drove in silence for a moment, the city looming closer with every passing second. The weight of history pressed down on them—ghosts in every alleyway, apologies still unsaid, and a future that refused to start until the past had been reckoned with.
Ahead, Harry weaved between cars like some kind of caffeinated demon on a mission.
Tommy exhaled. "Next stop: Laurel Lance."
Oliver nodded.
"And possibly a restraining order."
---
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!