Queen Consolidated pulsed with the quiet rhythm of corporate life. Sleek professionals in tailored suits glided in and out of glass elevators like it was a runway show for boredom. The floor-to-ceiling windows gleamed with natural light, the boardrooms smelled faintly of overpriced espresso, and everywhere you turned there were more suits, more briefcases, and more...dead-eyed capitalism.
But tucked away in a far-flung corner of the building, well past the realm of mahogany desks and designer shoes, lay the I.T. Department—home of the whirring servers, humming monitors, and a suspiciously permanent aroma of microwave popcorn mixed with stale energy drinks. It was here, amidst a sea of tangled wires and ergonomic chairs, that Felicity Smoak reigned supreme.
She sat cross-legged in her cubicle chair, one hand flying across her mechanical keyboard like a caffeinated Mozart, the other absently chewing on the end of a red pen. Her golden curls were pulled into a high ponytail that swayed every time she tilted her head. On her desk, three monitors blinked—one displaying lines of indecipherable code, another an analytics dashboard, and the third… a paused GIF of a shirtless Ryan Gosling holding a puppy.
As she spotted the Tumblr tab, her hand darted for the mouse, minimizing it with the reflexes of a ninja with social anxiety.
Felicity was deep in the zone, troubleshooting a ghost anomaly in the firewall—something about a rogue device pinging their satellite uplink when it shouldn't even exist—when someone cleared their throat behind her.
She jumped like she'd been electrocuted, spun around so fast her chair squeaked in protest, and promptly knocked over a full pencil cup. Pens and paperclips flew in every direction.
And then she saw him.
Him.
Standing there, impossibly tall, infuriatingly handsome, and looking mildly uncomfortable to even exist in a tech cave.
Oliver. Freaking. Queen.
"Hi," he said simply, holding a very abused-looking laptop in one hand. It was charred, dented, and had something that suspiciously looked like a bullet hole near the hinge. Multiple bullet holes.
Felicity opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"You're—you're Oliver Queen," she said finally, like she was identifying a rare bird that had wandered into a pet store.
He smiled faintly. Just a twitch at the corners of his mouth. "I am."
"And you're... alive," she blurted, then immediately winced. "I mean—of course you're alive. You're standing here. Which is... great! It's just that a few years ago you were declared, um, very much not alive. As in drowned. Presumed drowned. Or dead. But not anymore. Clearly. Because again, you're here. Very much alive. And talking to me. Wow. I'm going to stop talking now."
Oliver's brow quirked. There was a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "You don't have to."
"Oh, I definitely do," Felicity said, reaching down to pick up a rogue pen as if that might restore her dignity. "But thank you. For the... polite lie."
She stood, brushing invisible lint off her cardigan, as he stepped forward and set the wrecked laptop on her desk.
"I was told you're the one to talk to if I'm having... computer issues."
Felicity looked down at the machine like it had personally offended her. "That's not a computer. That's a cry for help."
"Yeah," he said, crossing his arms. "I spilled a latte on it."
She looked up sharply. "Was the latte carrying a Glock?"
Oliver shrugged, completely deadpan. "It's a rough neighborhood."
"I can see that." She leaned in to examine the damage. "What was it? Gang war at a Starbucks?"
"I like to surf the web while sipping overpriced coffee," Oliver said. "Things escalated."
"Into a shootout?"
"Depends how you feel about pop-up ads."
Felicity snorted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. "Sorry. Sorry. That was inappropriate. It's just... okay, I have questions. Follow-up questions. But first—this poor thing." She gingerly picked up the laptop as if it were a wounded animal. "I don't even know if I should try to resuscitate it or give it a respectful burial under a Wi-Fi tree."
"If you can salvage anything from it, I'd appreciate it," Oliver said. "No rush."
"Uh, yeah, no problem. I'll just—rebuild it from the ashes. With science. And possibly witchcraft."
Oliver's smile was faint but real this time. "Thanks."
He turned to go, but she blurted, "Wait—uh—wait!"
He paused, looked back.
"You didn't... I mean... you don't have to just drop it off and leave like you're Batman or something. You can stay. Not here in the I.T. cave, obviously—well, unless you want to stay in the I.T. cave, which, let's be honest, isn't exactly the Ritz—but I could ask a few questions about what was on it, if you want me to prioritize anything specific. Not that I'm prying! I don't pry. Okay, sometimes I pry."
Oliver just stared at her, that unreadable, vaguely amused look still resting on his face.
Felicity cleared her throat and tried again. "Anything confidential? Classified? 'If you open this, you're now a target of assassins' sort of data?"
"Nothing that exciting," he said. "Just some encrypted files. I'd like them recovered if possible. The rest... doesn't matter."
"Right. Okay. Totally cool. Encrypted files. Should be no problem. Unless it is. But I'll let you know. Hopefully not while I'm in a panic attack."
He gave her a single nod—half gratitude, half subtle exit strategy—and walked off with the unhurried calm of a man who had once punched a shark. Probably.
Felicity watched him go, her mouth still slightly ajar, then turned back to the smoldering wreck of his laptop.
She muttered, "Okay, Felicity. You just made awkward rambling an Olympic sport. Congratulations."
She pulled her chair in, cracked her knuckles, and murmured under her breath with a grin:
"Challenge accepted."
Her fingers began flying across the keyboard. A moment later, she reopened her Tumblr tab.
And minimized it again with a sigh. "No distractions. Step one to impressing the billionaire hottie: Don't fangirl. Or hack into anything illegal. Or Google 'how to tell if your boss is secretly Batman.'"
Pause. Click.
"...Maybe just once."
—
An hour later, the lair—okay, not technically a lair yet, more like a dingy I.T. cubicle tucked beneath the Queen Consolidated R&D floor—echoed faintly with the soft hum of servers, the clack of keys, and the ever-present glow of blue light on Felicity Smoak's glasses.
She was in the zone.
And by "in the zone," she meant somewhere between the Matrix and a caffeine-induced out-of-body experience. Her fingers flew across the keyboard like they were auditioning for a drum solo, and her earbuds blasted Beethoven's Symphony No. 7, which she always claimed made her feel like a badass war general—but only if the war involved spreadsheets and network security protocols.
Then she saw him. Not directly. Through the reflection in her third monitor, of course—because jump scares were apparently Oliver Queen's new hobby.
Felicity shrieked. Again.
"Seriously! One of these days I'm going to hack your pacemaker—if you have one—and install an airhorn."
Oliver leaned against the pillar behind her, arms crossed in that impossibly casual yet intimidating way. "Sorry."
"You say that," she huffed, tugging her earbuds out with a dramatic flourish, "but you keep doing it. Which means either you like giving me heart attacks, or you were trained by ghost ninjas with cat feet."
He gave her that look. The trademark Oliver Queen Noncommittal Stare. A little furrowed brow. A lot of silent judgment.
"Okay," she said, gesturing toward the screen, "you wanted progress. Good news: I have it. Bad news: I also may need you to fund my future eye surgery."
Oliver stepped forward, eyes narrowing. "Why?"
"Because this laptop?" she said, tapping the keyboard like it had personally offended her. "It is not normal. It is… malicious. Like, Trojan-horse-meets-Terminator level malicious. I opened one file, and it tried to seduce my firewall. I'm not even exaggerating. There were digital pick-up lines."
His eyebrow ticked up. "Did you break through?"
"Oh, pfft," she said, spinning her chair around like a Bond villain doing a dramatic reveal. "I'm insulted you even had to ask. Yes. I broke through. I dismantled every trap, dodged every worm, and smacked down every line of weaponized code like a cybernetic Wonder Woman."
"Impressive," Oliver said, voice dry as ever.
She preened for a half-second before pivoting back to business. "Most of it was junk. Decoy folders, misdirection, some files that were literally rerouting to cat videos—like actual kittens playing with yarn, which I almost fell for. But one folder was real. Heavily encrypted, but real. And what do you think it was?"
"Something dangerous," Oliver guessed.
She clicked to bring up the render. "Blueprints."
He leaned in, gaze sharpening. "Of what?"
She zoomed in on the architectural overlay, then looked at him. "The Exchange Building."
Oliver's expression didn't change, but something about his silence stretched the air between them.
"You know it, right?" she prompted.
"No," he said slowly. "Should I?"
Felicity blinked. "It's the location for the Unidac Industries auction. The one your company—Queen Consolidated, in case you forgot the name of the billion-dollar business you technically run—is trying to buy into."
She turned in her chair and crossed her arms. "You told me this was your laptop."
He hesitated. Not visibly. Not really. But she caught the flicker in his eyes—like he was reviewing twelve layers of possible explanations and deciding on the least revealing one.
"It's not mine," he admitted. "Exactly."
Her mouth dropped open. "Wow. Okay. That clears things up. Not yours, but sort of yours. You want to maybe elaborate on that before I call Homeland Security?"
Oliver glanced at the screen again. "Where did the files originate?"
"Oh, now you want to pivot to my homework," she said, hands flying over the keyboard again. "Fine. I traced the encryption back to a user ID hidden in the metadata. Warren Patel. Ring any bells?"
He went very still, with a confused look on his face..
"So that's a no?" she guessed.
"Warren Patel," he said under his breath, like the name tasted bad. "Does he have any connections?"
Felicity squinted. "Why do I feel like I'm about to hear the name of a B-movie assassin from a Jason Bourne reboot?"
Oliver didn't answer.
She groaned. "Don't tell me it's a real assassin. Oh my God, is it a real assassin?"
"His name is Floyd Lawton."
Her fingers froze. "Like... an actual assassin. You know this how, exactly?"
Oliver's mouth pressed into a line. "We crossed paths. Once."
"Okay, cool. No big. Just a guy who casually 'crossed paths' with a literal hitman. You're still somehow less suspicious than your mom's British import cousin-slash-foster kid."
Oliver's expression hardened. "Harry's not involved."
"Oh, don't get me wrong, I love Harry," she said quickly. "Great accent, great jawline, strong Jedi energy. But this whole thing?" She gestured at the screen. "Smells very... espionage-adjacent."
He stayed quiet.
Too quiet.
Felicity narrowed her eyes. "This isn't some revenge plot, is it? Like, please tell me you're not moonlighting as the star of your own gritty CW drama with a secret lair, tragic backstory, and a leather hood you pull over your face at night."
Oliver glanced at her, and for a single breath, she swore he almost smiled.
Almost.
"I need more on Patel," he said, turning away. "Everything you can find. Contacts, money trail, anything that connects him to the auction or Lawton."
Felicity watched him go, heart thudding, brain already running five different theories.
"Wait!" she called after him. "If I end up in a secret government black site because I cracked an assassin's laptop, will you at least send me snacks? Like protein bars and—maybe—an apology bouquet?"
"No dungeons," he said, walking down the hallway.
She called after him, "You say that like you've definitely been in one."
He didn't answer.
Just disappeared into the shadows, like a human screensaver with unresolved trauma.
Felicity stared at the empty doorway for a long moment, then turned back to her screen.
"Definitely Batman," she muttered.
She reopened her Tumblr tab.
Then minimized it again.
"Focus, Felicity. Focus. No fangirling. No googling Warren Patel and 'League of Assassins' in the same sentence. And definitely no image searching Oliver Queen shirtless in Russia—"
Click.
Pause.
"…Okay, maybe one more time."
—
Lance Residence – Late Night
Quentin Lance had seen long nights before. Too many. Most ended with him nursing a mug of reheated coffee, a headache blooming behind his eyes, and the sense that Starling City was trying to kill him slowly—one unsolved murder at a time.
Tonight was shaping up to be one of those nights.
He parked the car, grabbed his thermos, slung his jacket over his shoulder, and trudged up the steps to his front door with the weight of two corpses—Rasmussen and Holder—still fresh in his mind.
Then something moved.
Subtle. Almost too subtle. A whisper of air where there shouldn't be any. A shadow bending the wrong way.
Quentin froze. He didn't even turn his head, just shifted his grip on the thermos, cursing softly under his breath. He already knew who it was before he looked.
There, standing on his porch like something out of a Halloween special, hooded and silent, was the damn Arrow.
"Son of a bitch," Lance muttered, dropping his thermos with a metallic clang on the wooden steps. "You've got a pair on you, I'll give you that."
Oliver didn't flinch. Just stood there in that black leather getup, arms at his sides, the bow slung across his back like he was born with it.
"I didn't have a choice," he said.
"Oh sure," Lance barked. "No other rooftops to brood on tonight? No back alleys to lurk in like a proper lunatic? You just had to creep up to my house like a damn raccoon in body armor?"
"I need your help."
That made Quentin laugh—one short, humorless burst of sound. "You need my help? What, your super-friends busy this week?"
Oliver didn't blink. "Floyd Lawton. Interpol calls him Deadshot. He killed James Holder and Charles Rasmussen. You're investigating both cases."
Quentin's eyes narrowed. "You saying the same sniper took out both Unidac bidders?"
"He doesn't miss," Oliver said, voice flat and grim. "Ever. Shoots from hundreds of yards, always with precision. Interpol's had a file on him for years. You can look it up when I leave."
"And what, I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Lance growled. "You show up on my porch like the ghost of Christmas murder and expect me to not pull my gun?"
Oliver didn't move. "You'll find the ballistics match. Same caliber, same make. The bullets were laced with curare."
That stopped Lance in his tracks. His breath caught. "Curare..."
"The ME mentioned something like that," he muttered, more to himself than to the man in front of him. "Said both vics had trace amounts of something exotic. Nerve agent. I didn't think—"
"He's not done," Oliver cut in. "Warren Patel hired him. That's confirmed. But I don't know who Lawton's targeting next. Could be all of them. Every potential buyer in one place."
Lance exhaled through his nose. "Where?"
"The Exchange Building. Tomorrow. Big event. Lots of windows. Plenty of sightlines."
"And not a lotta cover," Lance said, rubbing his temple. "Damn place is a sniper's paradise."
Oliver nodded. "Exactly. I can't cover it alone."
"Oh? What happened to Raven and... what's-her-face? Valkyrie? Goth Batgirl?"
"Blood Raven, Skadi, and Noctua," Oliver corrected, deadpan. "They're in London. Handling an emergency."
Lance snorted. "Of course they are. Must be nice. You all got group rates on capes and angst, or what?"
Oliver didn't rise to the bait. He simply said, "I need boots on the ground. People I can trust."
Lance laughed again. A real one this time, sharp and incredulous. "And me, of all people, made the shortlist?"
"You've seen the crime scene. You know I'm telling the truth."
Quentin sighed, pacing a few steps across his own porch like he needed to burn off steam. "Look, I've seen enough men dead with clean holes in their foreheads to know something's going down. But you want me to coordinate a response while you do your vigilante thing—again—and let you walk?"
"I'm not asking for a free pass."
"Good," Lance growled. "Because I wasn't offering one."
Oliver stepped forward, into the amber light spilling from the streetlamp. His face was mostly shadow beneath the hood, but his voice was steady, calm in that annoyingly controlled way.
"Make sure your men wear kevlar. Lawton's bullets are laced. They won't stand a chance if they're not protected."
Lance narrowed his eyes. "Kevlar won't stop curare."
"No," Oliver agreed. "But it'll stop the bullet long enough to keep them breathing."
Lance's jaw clenched. "Alright. I'll tell my men to suit up."
"Good."
"But I'll also tell 'em to shoot you on sight."
Oliver gave him a ghost of a smirk. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
Quentin watched him for a long moment as the hooded figure backed away into the shadows, melting into the dark like a damn magician. Gone without so much as a whoosh.
He shook his head and bent to retrieve his thermos. The coffee inside was probably cold. Figures.
"You're outta your damn mind," he muttered, glaring into the night. "Showin' up on my porch like some Dollar Store Batman."
He turned to go inside, then paused.
"…Still got a big pair on you. I'll give you that."
—
Early Morning, Fleur's Workshop – The Next Day
The scent of cinnamon, ink, and faint ozone curled through the room like a spell with poor impulse control. Fleur's workshop, equal parts apothecary, library, and low-key magical armory, glowed with layered enchantments. Shelves bowed under the weight of crystal vials and star-metal implements, while rune-inscribed scrolls hovered midair like mildly smug butterflies. Morning sunlight filtered in through the stained-glass windows, dappling the space in fragmented rainbows.
At the long central worktable, Harry Potter stood, half-glowering into a mug of something that might have been coffee, might have been Draught of Resurrection. His black Henley clung to broad shoulders, sleeves pushed up to reveal faint phoenix burn scars trailing his forearms. His hair looked like he'd styled it using a high-speed chase.
"You look like a weather event," Daphne Greengrass drawled from across the table, her voice dipped in silk and sarcasm. She perched elegantly on a stool, legs crossed, her silver-blonde hair cascading over one shoulder like a shampoo advert with homicidal undertones. She wore black combat trousers, dragonhide boots, and a wine-colored corset top with an open jacket that suggested she either planned to duel or seduce someone—maybe both.
Harry didn't look up. "And yet, I'm still prettier than you before your third espresso."
"Flirt harder, darling," she said, swirling her wand lazily. "I nearly felt something that time."
"Feeling something from you is dangerous," he replied. "Last time it ended with fire and a broken chandelier."
"You say that like it was a bad thing."
Hermione Granger coughed meaningfully into her tea, which smelled suspiciously of peppermint and possibly a controlled stimulant. Her curls were twisted into a braid, quill already scribbling in a notebook charmed to keep up. She gave Harry a pointed look over the rim of her cup. "Try not to flirt and threaten at the same time. It confuses the teenagers."
"I'm a model of restraint," Harry said blandly.
"You set a vampire on fire last week for calling you 'kid'," Neville Longbottom pointed out helpfully. Neville now looked like a Norse god who had gotten lost in a greenhouse: broad-shouldered, dirt under his nails, wand tucked behind one ear.
"He hissed at me, Neville," Harry said. "Like an actual snake. I thought we'd moved past that."
At that moment, Lee Jordan breezed in, trench coat flaring, headphone still lodged in one ear. He smelled faintly of magical poultry and post-midnight chaos.
"Morning, degenerates," he said brightly.
"You look like regret got drunk," Tonks chirped. She was upside down on a floating chaise, her hair cotton-candy pink today, twirling a dagger.
"Only mildly haunted," Lee replied, flipping a charmed cassette onto the table. "But I've got news."
That sobered the room instantly. Harry set down his mug. Luna Lovegood, curled like a fae queen on a floating settee, blinked at Lee serenely.
"The stones have been humming," she murmured. "The ley lines are...tense. Like harp strings about to snap."
Dean Thomas leaned forward, eyes sharp. "Tell us, Lee."
"Three sources. A smuggler. An Unspeakable who still owes me after I saved her from a sentient tarot deck. And a retired hag who's now a travel blogger."
There was a beat.
"Wait," said Seamus. "Those are three different people?"
Lee smirked. "Surprisingly, yes."
"And?" asked Angelina, already pulling on gloves enchanted for grip.
"Wales," he said. "Specifically, something brewing near the western coast. They all point to ley line anomalies. Magical surges. Ghost sightings. One troll commune just up and vanished."
Ginny groaned. "Bloody hell, not Aberystwyth again."
Luna nodded solemnly. "The ley lines are aligning like a mouth mid-scream."
"What kind of scream?" asked Ginny, squinting.
"Existential. But polite."
Harry tapped the map on the wall with his wand. Wales shimmered gold.
"Kingsley?" he asked.
From the shadows, Kingsley Shacklebolt stepped forward, cloak whispering around him. He looked like carved obsidian wrapped in command.
"Give me an hour," he said. "My people are moving. Quietly."
Harry nodded. "Firecall in sixty. Sooner if someone dies."
"Lovely," Daphne muttered. "Nothing like an early morning with the promise of corpses."
Harry turned to the group. "We need fallback sites near Aberystwyth and Anglesey. Apparition grids, magical barriers, portkey hubs. I want field kits packed, med supplies labeled, and plans in triplicate."
Hermione beamed. "God, I love when he delegates."
Neville cleared his throat. "I'll work with Luna to stabilize the ley points. We might be able to redirect the energy. Or...absorb."
Fred raised an eyebrow. "Absorb? That sounds safe."
Neville just smiled, and the table vibrated slightly.
Ginny raised a hand. "Am I still leading the broom squads?"
"Unless you want George's job running disinformation," Harry said.
"I'd rather snog a Blast-Ended Skrewt," Ginny replied.
"No love for subtlety," George sighed. "Tragic."
Tonks rolled off the couch and landed catlike. "I'm heading to Cardiff. I know a goblin who trades memories in glass. One of them will know if something's stirring."
"Take Bill," Harry said. "You'll need a wardbreaker and someone who knows how not to explode."
Bill, lounging near the potion shelves, nodded. "I'm great at responsible explosions."
Daphne leaned back, looking at Harry through heavy lashes. "And us?"
He met her gaze. For a moment, the room didn't exist. "You, me, Hermione, and Neville."
She arched a perfect brow. "The Chaos Quartet."
"We go in when the fire starts," he said simply.
She smiled slowly. "Just how I like my mornings."
Fred leaned over to George. "She's going to stab him. Eventually."
George nodded. "But only after a kiss confusing enough to cause international incidents."
The clock ticked. The cauldron burbled. The war crept closer.
And Harry Potter was already smiling.
—
The soft rustle of enchanted scrolls and the bubbling hiss of potion vials filled the room, harmonizing with the subtle crackle of Fleur's protective wards. The air was warm with spell-fire and the scent of something flowery, sharp, and undeniably dangerous—probably something Fleur had brewed to ward off lesser beings. Her workshop was a beautiful paradox: refined chaos.
Susan Bones stepped forward like a thunderclap dressed in midnight. Her black cloak flared behind her, boots making no sound, wand holstered at her thigh, and a slim blade glinting at her hip. Her copper braid hung like a war banner over one shoulder.
Every eye turned.
She stopped in the middle of the room and crossed her arms. "I want in."
Harry looked up from the magical map flickering on the table, his expression shifting from mild amusement to cutting steel.
"This isn't a Hogwarts reunion, Bones," he said, tone dry enough to sand wood.
Susan raised a single brow. "No. It's a war council. And I've earned my seat at this table."
Hermione, seated nearby with a steaming mug of something highly caffeinated and probably laced with brain-enhancing charms, didn't even blink. "Harry, have you forgotten what Neville told us about her?"
Neville, broad as a troll and twice as earnest, winced. "I thought I mentioned it."
Daphne Greengrass, lounging on a transfigured velvet chair that matched her lipstick, snorted elegantly. "Neville, darling, you've mentioned your carnivorous roses, your venomous lilies, and that disgusting tea you keep trying to feed me—which tastes like kelp and emotional baggage—but I don't recall you mentioning this little tidbit."
Harry folded his arms and tilted his head. "Told us what, exactly? And if it's that she once beat up a boggart with a chair, I'm not impressed. Luna probably did that last week."
Luna, sitting cross-legged on the floor and sketching something involving wings and badgers, hummed dreamily. "It was trying to impersonate my father. Very rude of it."
Before Neville could speak, Susan took a step forward. Her voice was steady, cold. "That after my Aunt Amelia was murdered, I trained under Mad-Eye Moody. A year of nothing but curses, dueling drills, and learning how to disappear."
Tonks let out a low whistle, her bubblegum-pink hair darkening to lavender. "No kidding? That explains the scars."
Susan didn't look at her. Her eyes were locked on Harry. "After Moody died, an old ICW Hit-Wizard took me in. Pre-Azkaban, pre-Ministry reform. Ex-Auror Corps, First Giant Wars. Real old-school bastard. Trained me harder than Moody ever did. I learned how to vanish, how to track, how to capture. How to kill."
That got the room's attention.
Even Fleur stopped adjusting her potions and muttered, "Mon dieu..."
Susan kept going. "I've been on assignment the past year. Quiet ops. Things the ICW doesn't want the press sniffing around. You may know me by my codename. Morrigan."
There was a beat.
Kingsley Shacklebolt, who had been standing in the shadows with the quiet authority of a thunderstorm waiting to roll in, finally lifted his head. His deep voice rumbled low. "You're Morrigan?"
Neville blinked. "Wait. You kept the codename? I thought it was just an internal tag."
Susan smirked, slow and dangerous. "It stuck. When you drag in a Hungarian warlock who eats ghosts, people remember your name. When you duel two mercenaries from the Brotherhood of Blood Purity and walk out without backup? You get attention."
Harry finally straightened. His emerald eyes sparked, and the hint of a grin touched his lips. "Morrigan. Works alone. Leaves no survivors unless they're useful."
Susan nodded once.
Harry scratched his jaw. "I thought you were taller."
Daphne smirked. "Careful, love. That's how you lost eyebrows before the Second Task."
"That was sabotage," Harry replied, pointing at Fred and George, who were grinning like hyenas in a sugar shop.
Fred whispered, "She's gonna kill someone."
George replied, "Probably while making eye contact and quoting Horace."
Susan ignored them. "If the Vladovich Circle and the Legati Noctis are up to something, and if they're planning on resurrecting Voldemort? The man who butchered my family?"
Her voice lowered to a growl. "I want my pound of flesh."
A heavy silence settled over the room.
Even Luna looked unsettled, which was saying something considering she once conversed with a screaming banshee and came away with skincare advice.
Harry sighed, ruffling his perpetually messy hair. "You're not exactly subtle."
Susan's lips curled. "Neither is war."
Daphne unfolded her legs and stood, catlike and languid, walking toward Susan. "Alright, Morrigan. You're in. But I'm not babysitting. I already have to stop Hermione from committing ethically questionable acts with time-locked spell matrices."
Hermione huffed. "They're not ethically questionable. Just... morally ambiguous. With sharp corners."
Harry stepped in between the two women, flashing a grin that could melt concrete. "Alright, alright. Save the hair-pulling for later. Preferably when I have popcorn."
Daphne smirked and bumped her hip against his. "Careful, Potter. Keep talking like that, and I'll drag you off for a duel you won't want to win."
Susan, eyes glinting with amusement, added, "Maybe I'll join."
Harry gave her a look. "This is rapidly becoming a very specific kind of dream."
Neville coughed into his hand. "I've seen her duel. She fights like her wand's wired to her pulse."
Tonks raised her mug. "To Morrigan. The scariest woman in the room, and that includes Fleur during wand maintenance."
Fleur, without looking up from her cauldron, said in her lilting French accent, "I am standing right here, Nymphadora."
Kingsley finally stepped forward again. "If Morrigan's involved, I'll escalate the response protocols. This moves beyond just the Ministry. I'll alert the international branches."
Harry nodded and summoned the map again, enchanted lines swirling with leyline currents and ancient runes. "Next target's in West Wales. Aberystwyth. We burn it down before it grows legs."
Susan stepped beside him, eyes glinting. "I've already packed."
Daphne stepped to his other side, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "So have I."
Neville raised his wand, its tip glowing soft green. "Time to wake the land."
Outside, the ley lines hummed. The world stirred like an old god remembering its name.
And war marched with them.
---
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Thank you for your support!