Delphini looked around the room.
The bedsheets felt too clean. Too expensive. She pulled them back anyway and swung her legs over the edge. Her muscles screamed at her. Her spine crackled like old wood. Her wrists throbbed with the memory of ritual and ruin.
But she moved.
Bare feet touched the warm wooden floor, and for a second — one fragile, cursed second — she didn't feel like a curse. Just a very tired girl wearing someone else's second chance.
Her eyes scanned the room. Gilded furniture. Enchanted roses in floating vases. Runes of protection carved into the walls like poetry in another tongue.
It was all too much. And not enough.
She pushed herself up, stumbling once, and caught herself on the bedpost. Her breath came in slow, angry pulls.
Then she saw it — the mirror.
It stood between two wardrobes, framed in gold-leaf roses. Tall, proud, waiting.
She almost turned away.
Almost.
But the weight in her chest wouldn't let her.
So she walked.
Every step toward it felt like peeling skin from bone. She stopped in front of the glass and looked.
And everything stilled.
The girl staring back wasn't her.
But she was.
The hair was the first thing. Still black, still long — but different. No more Bellatrix coils, no more coiled rage. It hung in loose, tangled waves, wild and stubborn. Free. Like it had stopped trying to be neat, and decided to be dangerous instead.
Her skin, pale as moonlight, looked less drawn. Less haunted. Her cheeks had color now. Not much. But enough to be noticed.
And the eyes—
Delphini inhaled sharply.
They were green.
Not the red-flecked violet of her mother's madness. Not the slitted cruelty of her father's reptilian legacy.
Emerald green. Laced with storm-grey.
They looked... like Harry's.
And like Sirius. And like Andromeda. And Tonks. And Remus. And maybe even like someone she could've been if the universe hadn't made her its weapon.
She raised a trembling hand, touched her reflection's cheek.
"This isn't me," she whispered.
The girl in the mirror didn't answer.
Of course she didn't.
Delphini stared, heart hammering like it wanted to break free. Her throat burned.
"No. You don't get to do this," she muttered. "You don't get to look... safe. You don't get to look like you're one of them."
But the mirror didn't shift.
Her reflection stood there. Green-eyed. Unapologetic. Quietly defiant.
Like someone still becoming.
Delphini bit down on her lip until it bled.
"I was made to destroy things," she said aloud. "I was the end of a prophecy. The heir to a monster. The girl who shouldn't have existed."
The reflection tilted her head, slightly. Curiously. Not in mockery.
And maybe that was worse.
Because she was starting to believe it.
Maybe I'm not a Riddle anymore.
The idea was terrifying.
But also… freeing.
Delphini straightened, shoulders back. Her wrists still ached. Her soul still felt like it had been torn open and stitched back together with golden fire and Gryffindor insanity.
But she was alive.
She turned, crossed to the nearby chair, and picked up the robe left for her. Black silk, with deep green trim — too elegant, too rich for someone like her.
She put it on anyway.
Tied the sash with shaky fingers.
Looked at herself one last time.
No more ghosts. No more chains. No more monsters made of other people's sins.
"Fine," she said to the girl in the mirror. "You win. I'll try."
A pause.
"And if I end up murdering someone by breakfast, I'll blame the robe."
She pushed open the door.
Time to go downstairs.
Time to face Potter, Greengrass, Bones, Granger, and the walking hedge sculpture that is Longbottom.
Time to see if the world still hated her.
Or if she finally had a place in it.
She didn't walk softly. She didn't pretend to smile. She didn't pretend to be healed.
But she walked.
And the mirror behind her, for the first time in her life, didn't feel like a lie.
—
The breakfast hall at Longbottom Manor was a sun-drenched cathedral of magical architecture and misplaced calm. Enchanted vines spilled lazily across the ceiling beams, humming with defensive spells, while soft golden light filtered through arched windows tall enough to fit a Hungarian Horntail.
The air smelled of cinnamon toast, black coffee, and jasmine. The wards buzzed faintly in the corners, aware but at ease. And the marmalade jar was glowing again—which meant it was angry. Again.
Daphne Greengrass sat at the head of the long oak table like it was a throne. She wore forest-green robes trimmed with obsidian velvet, her platinum hair pulled into a high braid that looked one murder short of divine wrath. Her lips curled in lazy amusement as she speared a strawberry and popped it into her mouth with exaggerated grace.
"You'd think a breakfast this serene meant something good happened," she drawled.
"Or," Susan Bones muttered from behind her mug, "that something really stupid is about to."
"Well, Luna did try to realign our fridge to the Draco Constellation," Hermione said dryly, flipping a Ministry scroll with one hand while stabbing eggs with the other. "We had a two-minute debate with a loaf of sentient bread."
"It was rude bread," Susan muttered.
Hermione glanced at her. "It bit Ron."
Daphne didn't even blink. "I'm with the bread."
The double doors creaked open.
All heads turned.
Delphini entered.
She walked with the kind of grace that came from bleeding too much and surviving anyway. Her black and green robe swept the floor, dark and sharp like a storm held together by stitches. Her hair was wild but intentional, falling in jagged waves around her shoulders. Her new eyes—emerald and storm-grey—caught the light and held it hostage.
Silence fell.
Susan blinked. "Okay, that's a glow-up."
Daphne smiled, slow and dangerous. "Well, well. The Death Heiress rises."
Delphini raised an eyebrow. "You say that like it's a threat."
"Darling," Daphne purred, gesturing to the chair beside her, "it's a flirt. Sit. Eat. Plot your redemption arc."
Delphini hesitated, then sat. Her movements were careful, controlled. The table watched.
"I like the hair," Susan said, reaching for toast. "You look like you won the duel and the music video."
"That's almost exactly what happened," Delphini replied.
Hermione, brow furrowed, gave her a once-over and nodded. "Good. You don't look cursed. Or homicidal."
"Thank you," Delphini said blandly. "I'll treasure that."
Footsteps.
Harry entered.
He wore fitted black jeans and a forest green Henley that was entirely too flattering for a war hero. His emerald eyes scanned the room and stopped the moment they met Delphini's. He didn't flinch. She didn't either.
"Morning," he said, voice low and British enough to weaponize.
Delphini tilted her head. "Still deciding."
"Fair." He smirked and poured himself a cup of tea.
He sat across from her and let the silence stretch.
Then Daphne reached out and casually plucked the toast from his plate.
"You were late," she said sweetly.
Harry leaned back in his chair, gaze sliding to hers. "You're going to regret that."
"Is that a threat, Potter?"
"Promise, Greengrass."
They stared at each other.
Hermione sighed. Susan rolled her eyes.
Harry reached across the table, snagged Susan's coffee, and took a sip.
"Oi!" she snapped.
"You let Daphne monologue at breakfast," he said. "This is the price."
Susan snorted. "If I let Daphne monologue, I deserve tea privileges."
Delphini, incredulous, looked around. "Is this normal for you people?"
"Oh, sweetie," Daphne said, sipping his stolen tea, "this is tame."
Harry turned to Delphini. "You alright?"
She looked him dead in the eye. "No. But I'm here."
He smiled. And it was real.
"Good."
Then Daphne clapped her hands. "Right. Now that our prodigal murder princess has returned from blood magic rehab, let's talk business. Delphini, darling, you're joining our team."
Hermione groaned. "Daphne—"
"No, let her finish," Susan said, sipping the third cup of coffee she'd conjured. "I want to see the recruiting pitch."
Delphini raised a brow. "You want me? On a team?"
"Please. You have the vibe of someone who names their knives and makes chaos look couture."
"You're not wrong," Delphini said.
"You also survived a ritual that would've melted half the Wizengamot," Hermione muttered.
"Details," Daphne said brightly. "Anyway, welcome to our morally flexible vigilante operation. Comes with a mask, code name, and occasional therapy."
"What's the code name?"
"That depends," Harry said with a grin. "Can we call you Trouble, or is that trademarked?"
Delphini looked around. At the faces. The banter. The stupid sparkling marmalade.
She reached for toast. Took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.
"I still might murder someone by lunch."
Daphne clinked her cup to hers. "That's the spirit."
—
Delphini finished chewing the toast like it had personally offended her. She set it down with unnecessary precision and lifted her gaze slowly, like someone lining up a shot.
"Where's Anastasia?"
The air in the breakfast hall tensed, just slightly. Enough that even the enchanted vines overhead hesitated in their humming.
Harry glanced up from his tea, emerald eyes clear and calm. "She's not coming to breakfast."
Delphini narrowed her eyes. "Why not? She never misses meals. Not unless something's bleeding or cursed. Or both."
Daphne, draped in obsidian-trimmed green like she owned the bloody seasons, twirled her spoon lazily. "She's going to Transylvania."
Delphini blinked. "You're joking."
"Do I look like I'm joking?" Daphne asked with a smile sharp enough to decapitate.
Hermione set her scroll down with a sigh. "Anastasia's the last living member of the Vladovich Circle now. After what we did to the rest..."
"What you did," Susan added with a grin, pointing at Harry with her fork. "Set half a coven on fire, disarmed a basilisk golem, kissed Daphne mid-battle—"
"Necessary distraction," Daphne interrupted, not looking up from buttering her croissant. "He's got excellent aim when flustered."
Harry smirked. "You were bleeding."
"From my thigh, Potter. You could've just asked for a wand."
"You were armed."
"Not where it mattered," she said with a wink.
Susan snorted. Hermione rolled her eyes. Neville entered at that exact moment, wearing a shirt that looked like it lost a fight with a mandrake and still had the root system clinging to it.
"Morning," he said, yawning. A sprig of something wriggled in his hair.
Delphini ignored the chaos and turned back to Harry. "She's leaving? Just like that?"
His smirk softened. "She said she needed to go back. There are vaults, blood pacts, enchantments tied to your name. She's burning the remains."
"Alone?"
"By choice. She said it wasn't your burden anymore."
Delphini stared down at the plate. Her voice dropped. "She raised me. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just... fiercely. Like I mattered."
Harry's tone went quiet. "She still thinks you do. That's why she's doing this. So that no one can ever use you again."
Silence stretched.
Then Delphini looked up, gaze piercing. "Where are we going, then?"
Susan leaned forward eagerly. "Starling City!"
Daphne made a sound between a laugh and a groan. "City of secrets, rooftop duels, and a population density of masked trauma survivors."
Delphini frowned. "Why there?"
Harry leaned back in his chair, casually devastating in a fitted Henley that did criminal things to his arms. "Because it's home. Moira Queen — my mother's cousin — took me in when I was thirteen. Taught me how to bluff politicians, drink scotch without flinching, and win debates without using a wand. Usually."
Hermione added, "She's our anchor there. She knows about magic, about Harry. About all of this."
Susan grinned. "And her manor has enough space for Daphne's wardrobe, Hermione's library, and the war room we're definitely not supposed to call a war room."
Neville scratched his beard. "Also, the rooftop greenhouses whisper threats if you forget to water them. I love them."
Delphini looked between them. "You're all moving?"
Harry nodded. "Daphne and I live there. Hermione too. Susan's joining us."
Susan raised her hand. "Now in a highly experimental, mostly functional, ethically questionable triad with these two gorgeous nightmares."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "I only agreed if we took turns cooking."
"And no dueling in the bathroom," Harry muttered. "Again."
Delphini turned to Neville. "You too?"
Neville grinned, broad and unapologetic. "I want to see where this goes with Hermione. And the sentient ferns are honestly a bonus."
She blinked. Once. Twice. Processing.
Then, softly: "And me?"
Harry met her gaze. No pity. Just that grounded, infuriating Potter sincerity.
"You get to choose."
Delphini's jaw twitched. Her fingers clenched.
"You don't owe us anything," Harry said, voice steady. "But the offer's there. Come with us. Be something new. Or stay. Your choice."
Susan pushed a bowl of strawberries closer. "We could use someone with your skills. And your sarcasm."
Daphne clinked her glass gently. "To Starling. City of masks, secrets... and second chances."
Delphini didn't raise her glass.
But she reached for a strawberry.
Bit into it.
Didn't flinch.
—
Later that morning, Delphini made her way down the west wing corridor of Longbottom Manor. The light shifted there—thicker somehow, like it had been filtered through memory. Softer. Older. As if the walls themselves remembered more than they let on.
Her bare feet made no sound against the stone. She didn't need shoes for this. Didn't want armor. Not here. Not with her.
She stopped at the door. Familiar. Heavy. Dark oak, reinforced with old warding sigils and black iron hinges that creaked only when they wanted to.
She knocked once.
"Enter," came the low, silken voice from within, edged in that clipped, elegant Romanian accent that could make a curse sound like poetry.
Delphini pushed open the door.
The room was half gothic chapel, half battlefield archive. Velvet drapes filtered out the sunlight in smoky tendrils. Candles burned in wrought-iron sconces. A war trunk stood open near the foot of the four-poster bed, already half-filled with parchment scrolls, enchanted jewelry, and weapons that looked like they had opinions.
Anastasia Vladovich stood at her vanity. She was brushing her long, silver-white hair with the slow, practiced grace of a woman who had survived centuries of betrayal and knew how to weaponize silence.
She wore a dark forest green traveling robe trimmed in raven feathers. It matched her eyes—piercing, cold, and just faintly luminous. The reflection caught Delphini as she entered.
"You're leaving," Delphini said. Her voice was even. Too even.
Anastasia didn't pause. She set the brush down, smoothing a lock of hair back behind her ear.
"You already knew that," she replied, turning toward her. Her voice was velvet on stone.
"I wanted to hear you say it."
Anastasia stepped away from the vanity. She didn't smile. She rarely did. But the expression in her eyes softened by degrees—a glacier melting beneath a black sun.
"This is unfinished business, draga mea," she said. "The Circle may be ash, but ash still whispers. Blood contracts. Crypt-bound names. Vaults that still breathe your name when the wards pulse. I must finish what we started."
Delphini crossed her arms. "And you're going alone?"
"I always was," Anastasia said simply.
"That's not an answer," Delphini snapped. "You always said never to leave a loose hex unattended."
"I'm not leaving anything unattended," Anastasia said, arching a brow. "You, most of all."
Delphini stepped closer. Her tone was quiet now. Tight. "So this is it? You pack your murder-luggage and vanish into the Carpathians while I go play house with Potter and the glittering dysfunction squad?"
Anastasia gave a dry chuckle. "Daphne Greengrass is many things, but she is not glittering. She is a blade in lipstick."
"That's not the point."
"No," Anastasia agreed, her tone softening. "The point is, you are free. And I intend to keep it that way. They will not come for you again, Delphini. Not with your name still etched in their blood magic. Not while I still breathe."
Delphini looked down at the war trunk. At the rows of sharpened vials. The steel-etched stakes. The coiled whip that hissed faintly in its sheath.
"You're not coming back."
Anastasia stepped forward until they were only a foot apart. Her gloved hand reached up and gently touched Delphini's cheek.
"I am coming back," she said. "When the last lock is broken. When the last blood chain is undone. When your name belongs only to you."
Delphini's breath hitched. Her voice dropped. "And what if I'm someone else by then?"
Anastasia's smile was small. But it reached her eyes.
"Then I will be proud of her too."
Silence stretched between them. Not cold. Not sharp. Just... old. Like it had been waiting to be spoken.
Delphini gave a short nod. "You taught me to survive."
Anastasia inclined her head. "Now learn to live. You've earned more than ashes."
Delphini turned to go, already reaching for the door. But then—
"Delphini."
She paused.
Anastasia's voice was lower now. Barely a whisper. Almost human.
"You are not your blood. Not his. Not mine. Make your name mean something."
Delphini didn't turn around.
But her voice was steady when it came. "I will."
And then she stepped out, closing the door with a soft click.
No tears. No tremble.
Just the sound of someone walking forward.
Time to pack. Time to go to Starling City.
—
Unknown Location – Starling City
Same Time
The room was decadence with fangs.
Mahogany walls framed by crown moldings, deep green velvet drapes brushing marble floors, and a fireplace that crackled low beneath a gilded mantle. There were no family portraits here. Just oil paintings — cold, angular pieces that looked like they were judging you. Even the air smelled like secrets: leather-bound books, old scotch, and the faint metallic sting of tension.
Moira Queen stood near the windows, looking out over the sleeping beast that was Starling City. Her silk blouse shimmered gold under the low light, her heels clicked when she shifted her weight, and her expression — calm, unreadable — belonged to a woman who'd once toasted a man at dinner while arranging his ruin for dessert.
Behind her, Malcolm Merlyn moved like a well-dressed viper. Immaculate black suit, tie pinned just so, a smile that belonged in a locked drawer.
He poured two glasses of Oban into crystal tumblers with the precision of a surgeon and the satisfaction of a man who liked to drink from the top shelf of every room he walked into.
"You look nervous, Moira," he said, not bothering to mask the amusement in his voice.
She turned with the kind of slow grace that said she never rushed for anyone. Her smile was all teeth and diplomacy. "Is there a reason I should be?"
He handed her the glass. "Well, Starling's got itself a new little problem. Or four. The vigilante, and his latest roster of costumed accomplices. Like Gotham, but with better lighting."
Moira arched an eyebrow, sipping her drink without flinching. "So this is a gossip session, then? Should I fetch the cheese platter?"
Malcolm chuckled. "You always had that frostbite charm, Moira. But I didn't drag you to my unlisted penthouse for charcuterie." He moved to the fireplace, tossed another log on the flames. "They call themselves Blood Raven, Noctua, and Skadi. Have you heard those names before?"
She didn't answer, but her grip on the glass subtly shifted.
He smirked. "Didn't think so. Most people haven't. But I have. And the way they move? The way they hit their targets? This isn't amateur hour."
"I thought we were still talking about vigilantes," Moira said, her tone like silk over a switchblade. "You're describing a hit squad."
"Oh, darling," Malcolm purred, "what's the difference?"
Moira walked toward the bar with smooth precision, every step a silent threat. "Unless you're worried one of them will catch you without your mask on, I don't see why you're calling me."
"Because Jason Brodeur is in prison," Malcolm said, his voice suddenly as sharp as cracked ice. "Adam Hunt's empire? Gone. Warren Patel's wife filed for a divorce the same week he was put in police custody, and his offshore accounts were leaked to the press — I believe the phrase is 'scorched earth.'"
Moira turned sharply, her expression tightening like a drawn bow. "Those were isolated incidents."
"Were they?" Malcolm stepped closer, holding her gaze with unsettling glee. "Jason. Adam. Warren. All three disgraced. All three exposed. All three…" he paused for effect, "…on the list."
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Moira blinked, slowly — like a computer processing a file she hadn't opened in years.
"They're not targeting the rich," she said softly. "They're targeting the list."
"Bingo," Malcolm said, voice almost gleeful. "And someone is clearly holding a pen."
Moira looked back at the window, at the glittering skyline. The reflection showed her standing beside Malcolm, like the city was a chessboard and they were the players. Or the kings.
"I thought the list was buried," she whispered. "Sealed. Forgotten."
Malcolm's smirk faded. "We should've burned it."
Moira turned back to him, and for the first time all evening, something raw crept into her voice. "You don't think it's Oliver."
"No," Malcolm said. "Oliver wouldn't know where to begin. And if he did? He'd hesitate."
Moira narrowed her eyes. "And this man doesn't?"
"This man," Malcolm said, stepping close enough to feel the tension spark between them, "put an arrow through Jason Brodeur's hand, hacked Hunt's offshore bank web in twelve hours, and broke into Iron Heights like it was a high school dance. He's not hesitating. He's making a list of his own."
He reached for his drink again, eyes never leaving hers.
"And if we don't do something about him and his merry little band of urban mythologies…"
Moira finished the sentence for him. Her voice was like velvet dipped in poison.
"Then we're next."
Malcolm raised his glass in a mock toast. "I'd say it's time we start thinning the guest list."
—
Queen Manor – Oliver's Bedroom
Early Morning
The room was dim, save for the faint, colorless light bleeding through half-drawn curtains. The kind of hour where the world feels hung in limbo — too late to be night, too early to be morning. A stillness lingered in the manor, broken only by the quiet creak of floorboards adjusting to the cold.
Oliver Queen sat at the edge of his bed, shirt off, a gauze wrap stretching across his ribs like the signature of a life lived wrong. His chest rose and fell with the weight of a man who hadn't truly slept in years — not since the island, not since the list, not since he stopped being only a man and became a mission.
A soft knock.
His voice came out raw. "Come in."
The door opened without ceremony. John Diggle stepped in — freshly shaven, boots laced, posture straight and military sharp. There was no hesitation in his stride, no doubt in his eyes.
Oliver's brow lifted as he took in the sight. "If you're here for the bodyguard position, don't bother. The last guy quit. Apparently, the arrows were too much."
Diggle quirked a brow. "I'm here for the other position."
Oliver blinked. "You're serious."
Diggle gave him a flat look. "Do I look like a man who makes casual decisions before sunrise?"
Oliver stood, rolling his shoulders. His voice was measured, guarded. "Just so we're clear — I'm not putting together a team. I'm trying to keep people alive. Mostly from me."
"Exactly," Diggle said, stepping forward. "And I'm not signing up to be your sidekick. You won't catch me in a green hood or hiding behind a code name like 'Justice Ferret' or whatever weird thing you're cooking up in the basement."
Oliver smirked, faintly. "Good. Because I don't do partners."
Diggle's voice went low, firm. "This isn't about being your partner. This is about keeping you from getting yourself killed."
Oliver turned his back, pacing toward the window. "You think I need saving?"
Diggle shrugged. "Everyone needs saving from something."
There was a beat.
Then Oliver looked back. "I'm not looking for a conscience, Dig."
"Yeah, well," Diggle said, crossing his arms, "that's not how this works. You're fighting a war, Oliver. The kind you don't walk away from clean. You think you're prepared — but you've never been in a war that chews at your soul from the inside out."
Oliver didn't answer, but his shoulders tensed.
Diggle kept going. "I have. You don't come back from it the same. Every day, it scrapes off a little more. Until all that's left is muscle memory and ghosts. You need someone to tell you when you're crossing the line — or worse, when you already have."
Oliver looked at him. Really looked. There was something in his eyes — not surprise, not vulnerability. Something older. Something like regret.
"You're going to get in the way."
Diggle gave a half-smile. "That's the point."
Oliver's reply was a soft, almost grudging, "Welcome to the war."
And then—
WEEEEEOOOOWW!
Sirens. A lot of them. Close.
The sound tore through the manor like a bullet through glass. Oliver was moving before the echo finished bouncing off the stone walls. Diggle was right behind him, their footfalls fast and purposeful down the hallway.
They reached the top of the grand staircase as red and blue lights painted the curtains in chaotic strobe flashes.
Oliver stilled.
Diggle narrowed his eyes. "You expecting company?"
Oliver's jaw clenched. "Depends. You know anyone who sends half the city's sirens as an RSVP?"
Diggle shook his head slowly. "Either that's one hell of a noise complaint… or someone just made a statement."
Oliver didn't respond.
Because he already knew.
—
Meanwhile
Fog still clung to the English countryside like a sulking ghost as the Chaos Squad assembled outside Longbottom Manor. Harry stood at the front, trench coat billowing just enough to be dramatic, emerald eyes glinting with purpose and a healthy disregard for sleep. Beside him, Daphne Greengrass adjusted her enchanted leather gloves with slow, deliberate elegance that made a few butterflies riot in Harry's stomach.
"You look like trouble," he murmured, lips twitching.
Daphne arched a golden brow. "And you look like you're hoping I am."
Hermione groaned from behind them. "Please. It's barely six in the morning. Don't make me cast Aguamenti."
Tonks, hair a vibrant violet and mood even louder, bounced on the balls of her feet. "So, Luna says reality's glitching. Sounds fun."
"Her exact words," Susan Bones chimed in, red hair braided over one shoulder, "were: 'Trouble brewing in Starling and we'll need the Chaos Squad.'"
Delphini, all cool poise and Jenna Ortega eyes, tilted her head. "You sure she didn't mean cause the trouble?"
Neville, as large as a friendly golem and just as calm, cradled a viciously biting potted vine in his arms.
"You brought Herbert?" Hermione asked, incredulous.
"He bites liars and narcissists," Neville said placidly. "Thought he might be helpful."
Tonks nodded approvingly. "I like Herbert."
The Quaffle in Harry's hand gave a sudden spin and flared with blue light.
"Showtime," he said.
With a shimmer and a tug behind the navel, they vanished from mist and manor and reappeared in the MACUSA Portkey Chamber.
The room sparkled with gold filigree and paranoid magical barriers. The moment they arrived, a dozen charms swept over them like they were carrying airborne diseases of the magical variety.
"Honestly," Hermione muttered as she tugged her coat straight, "their paranoia makes the British Ministry look like a village bake sale."
Susan sniffed. "And just as crusty."
Daphne looked around, unimpressed. "Do you think they get off on bureaucracy, or is it just generational trauma?"
Tonks was already halfway to the door. "If I stay in this timezone five more minutes, I'm hexing a customs official."
Harry checked his watch. "Let's move."
Apparition cracked like thunder in the dim alleyway behind an old foundry in the Glades.
Urban decay curled in the air.
And right on cue, a sleek matte-black SUV ghosted into view, engine purring.
Sirius Black leaned out the driver's window, aviators gleaming and smile dangerous. "Hop in, Chaos & Co. Your throne awaits."
"Ah! The mangy dog!," Daphne called as she slid into the passenger seat, long legs and sharp attitude coiling like a coiled whip. "Is it too early for murder?"
"Only if you get caught," he replied cheerfully.
Neville climbed in last, the vine growling ominously in his arms.
Hermione gave it a wide berth. "Does that thing purr when it sees blood?"
"Only a little," Neville replied.
The SUV peeled off.
The Queen Manor loomed ahead like a fortress carved from old money and newer sins. But today, it was under siege.
Police cruisers lined the drive.
Reporters swarmed like flies.
And in the center of it all, Oliver Queen. In handcuffs.
Detective Quentin Lance stood to the side, grim-faced, voice raised as he read the rights.
Moira Queen stood nearby like royalty scorned.
Thea Queen looked like she was one insult away from swinging a golf club at someone's head.
Diggle hovered behind them, expression carved from stone.
Harry was out of the SUV before it stopped moving, trench coat swirling, green eyes blazing.
Daphne and Hermione flanked him with coordinated heel clicks and murderous calm.
Susan leaned forward, whispering to Delphini, "Is this the part where they go full Royal Court and someone dies of sass?"
"One can hope," Delphini muttered.
"Is that… Oliver Queen?" Susan asked aloud.
Daphne didn't look away from the scene. "Harry's cousin. Second favorite chaos magnet in the family."
Hermione added, "Also the pretty one."
Harry turned, scandalized. "Hey!"
She grinned. "I said one of."
Delphini blinked. "Wait. This guy is your cousin?"
Harry sighed. "Unfortunately."
Diggle strode over, voice low. "Not the welcome we planned."
"Talk to me," Harry said, eyes locked on Oliver.
"Arrested for obstruction of justice, aggravated assault, trespassing, acting as a vigilante… and murder."
Tonks let out a long whistle. "Bit ambitious for a Tuesday."
Moira marched over, every step a legal threat. "Harry. Do something. This is a farce."
Harry nodded. "We will. First, I want names. Who made the call? Who thinks Oliver Queen is running around in green leather playing Robin Hood?"
Daphne cracked her knuckles. "If this is political, I will burn City Hall."
Delphini raised her hand. "Just say the word."
Hermione held up a hand. "Let's at least read the arrest report before we start a war."
Harry stepped forward, his voice cold, crisp, and very, very British.
"Detective Lance. Paperwork. Now."
Lance looked at him, jaw tight. "Not sure what jurisdiction you think you have, Mr. Potter."
Harry tilted his head, smile sharp as a blade. "I don't need jurisdiction. I have influence. Allies. A very particular set of skills, and a goddamn dragon if it comes to that. And, more importantly, an excellent memory for the names of people who try to frame my family."
Lance looked away first.
Sirius leaned out of the SUV, hands behind his head. "Oh, I missed this."
Daphne looped her arm through Harry's. "You're hot when you threaten authority."
Susan, from behind, smirked. "He's hot when he breathes."
Harry turned back with a mock-bow. "Ladies, please. One coordinated swoon at a time."
Hermione sighed. "You are exhausting."
Tonks grinned. "I love it here."
And inside the Manor, unseen in the growing light, the shadows stirred.
Starling City had just become the Chaos Squad's playground.
And the game had just begun.
---
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