Oliver Queen wasn't known for being patient. Stealthy, maybe. Broody? Absolutely. But patient? Not on the menu. So when he caught Hermione Granger's arm and smoothly guided her behind an artfully draped curtain of ivy and LED fairy lights, it was with the precision of a man who had dodged more arrows than questions in his lifetime.
"Alright," he said, settling against the wall like he owned it, arms crossed, voice low but sharp, "start talking."
Hermione glanced back toward the ballroom, then down at her wine glass. She took a sip with the kind of elegance that only came from years of banquets, blood, and British repression. "About what exactly?"
Oliver arched an eyebrow. "Don't insult both of us. You know exactly what. Daphne Greengrass. Harry. That look. The one that said 'I know where you buried the body and I brought marshmallows.'"
Hermione gave him a flat look. "You have a very unhealthy relationship with metaphors."
"And you're stalling," he said, smiling faintly.
She sighed, rolling her eyes toward the gilded ceiling. "Fine. But this doesn't leave the ivy wall, understood?"
"My lips are sealed," he said. "Unless there's bourbon involved."
"Figures," she muttered. Then: "She believed him."
Oliver blinked. "That's it?"
"No, that's everything," Hermione corrected. "When Harry's name came out of the Goblet of Fire, the whole school turned on him. They thought he cheated—chasing glory, fame, the usual slander. Even Ron—his best friend—walked away."
Oliver winced. "That the redhead with the 'I peaked emotionally at fifteen' energy?"
Hermione snorted. "That's generous, but yes. That Ron."
"And Daphne?"
"She didn't flinch. Slytherin girl, yes, but sharp. Observant. Asked the right questions. She watched Harry—really watched—and made up her own mind. She believed him when it mattered. When no one else did."
Oliver's mouth twitched. "That's rare."
"Exactly," she said. "That's how it started. Not some whirlwind romance or Shakespearean drama. Just—trust. Quiet moments. A look across the Great Hall when everyone else looked away."
"And then the Yule Ball?"
Hermione nodded. "She was his date. Wore this deep green gown that shut up half the Gryffindor table for a week. She and Harry danced like they were the only people in the room. Then the Second Task happened—Triwizard Tournament, remember?"
"Right. Something about mermaids and moral blackmail."
"She was his hostage. One of the people he had to rescue from the Black Lake. You can imagine what that did to Harry's protective instincts."
Oliver's brow lifted. "So they were a thing?"
"They were everything," Hermione said softly. "Until they weren't."
"Let me guess—Ron had opinions."
"Oh, Ron had a library of opinions. Slytherins were still the enemy in his mind. But it wasn't just Ron. Everyone looked sideways at them. Called her a traitor. Called him worse."
"But they stuck it out."
"For a while," Hermione said, her voice tightening. "Then came the graveyard."
Oliver straightened, sensing the shift.
"Final task of the Tournament," she said. "Portkey. Graveyard. Voldemort returned. Cedric Diggory died. Harry watched it all—came back screaming. And bleeding. And broken."
Oliver was silent.
"He pushed her away after that," Hermione continued. "Told her she'd never be safe around him. That the people he loved got hurt. She didn't buy it. Begged him to stay. Fought him every inch."
"And he still left," Oliver guessed.
Hermione nodded. "We disappeared after that. Me, Harry, Sirius. Off the grid. League of Assassins."
Oliver blinked. "Wow. That escalated quickly."
"Sirius had old debts. Ra's al Ghul owed him. We needed information, resources... and ways to destroy Horcruxes. Ra's had all of it. At a cost."
Oliver let out a low whistle. "You trained with the League?"
"Every day," Hermione said. "We bled, we broke, we survived. That's where Harry... changed."
Oliver's gaze narrowed. "The Lazarus Pit?"
"He used it once. To burn the scar away. But it didn't just heal him. It cleansed him. The darkness—Voldemort's piece of soul—it screamed all the way down. Took something out of him, too. Left scars you can't see."
Oliver said nothing for a beat. "And when you came back...?"
"Dumbledore was dead. Voldemort had control. The war began in earnest. But Daphne... she'd moved on."
"Or tried to."
Hermione's smile was razor-thin. "She became someone else. Buried the past, like the rest of us. Until now."
They both turned slightly, eyes sweeping the ballroom where Harry stood frozen in the crowd, just feet from Daphne. The air between them practically crackled.
Oliver rubbed a hand across his mouth. "She doesn't look like a girl ready for polite small talk."
"No," Hermione agreed. "She's not here to chat about the hors d'oeuvres. She's here for something else."
"Closure?" Oliver asked.
"Maybe," she said. "Or blood."
Oliver laughed, low and dry. "With Harry, it's never just one."
Hermione tilted her head. "You really think Tommy'll try to flirt with her?"
"If he has a death wish."
"Oh, Daphne won't kill him," Hermione said sweetly. "She'll correct his grammar until he begs for the sweet release of death."
Oliver gave a low whistle. "Remind me not to get on her bad side."
"You? You're safe. You speak in complete sentences."
They watched as Daphne finally turned. Her eyes met Harry's—cool, clear, but burning underneath with too many memories to count.
Oliver exhaled slowly. "That look…"
"First love," Hermione murmured. "Or final war."
He glanced at her. "With Harry Potter, is there even a difference?"
Hermione said nothing.
She didn't have to.
—
Harry took a breath like a man about to walk into a duel. Maybe he was. Only this time, the battlefield smelled like French perfume and champagne instead of blood and smoke.
He wove through the crowd with measured steps, his eyes never leaving her.
Daphne Greengrass stood near the ballroom's far edge, half-lit by the fairy lights threaded through the ivy arch above. She hadn't moved in ten minutes—not since she saw him. She held her glass with the studied grace of a debutante and the lethal stillness of a predator. Her ice-blonde hair coiled elegantly over one shoulder, and her dress—icy blue, silk, and sin—looked like it had been stitched from icy secrets.
"Greengrass," he said, stopping just short of her. He didn't smile. Not yet.
She tilted her head slightly, her eyes raking him with surgical precision. "Potter."
Harry's mouth twitched. "Still saying my name like it's a diagnosis, I see."
She sipped her drink, entirely unbothered. "Still showing up like a plot twist no one asked for."
"That's fair." He took one step closer, close enough now to catch the glint of sapphire earrings and sharper sarcasm. "Dance with me."
She blinked, once. "You're serious."
"Painfully. Tragically. Romantically."
"You remember the last time we danced?"
"Oh, vividly. You wore green. I wore a charming shade of terminal anxiety."
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "You also wore those tragic dress robes like you'd lost a bet."
"I did," Harry said solemnly. "To McGonagall. She won. My pride didn't."
A breath of laughter escaped her—low and reluctant, but real. Her lips twitched.
He held out his hand, palm up, casual but certain. "Come on, Greengrass. You owe me one civil interaction."
"That's a bold claim. I distinctly remember saving your arse many times."
Harry blinked. "You mean when you distracted Zabini so I could nick the elf-made mead?"
"I mean when I stopped you from quoting Muggle pop songs at Pansy Parkinson mid-duel."
"…That was strategic psychological warfare."
"That was you trying to impress me by invoking the Backstreet Boys."
He coughed. "No one was impressed?"
"Your owl stopped speaking to you for a week."
He grinned then—bright and dangerous. "You remember a lot."
Daphne swirled her champagne. "Some things stick."
Harry didn't drop his hand. "One dance. No war. No politics. No hexes under the table."
She eyed him like he was a puzzle that came with a warning label.
Then, slowly, she placed her hand in his.
"One dance," she said. "And if you step on my foot—"
"You'll transfigure me into a slug and feed me to the garden gnomes. I remember your vows of violence fondly."
He led her onto the floor, the orchestra swelling just enough to fill the space between words. They settled into a slow rhythm, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder, his at her waist.
People watched. They always did. But neither of them looked away.
"Everyone's staring," she murmured.
"Jealous," Harry said. "It's not every day they see a Greengrass slumming it with a war hero."
She narrowed her eyes. "If you say 'from the wrong side of the wand,' I'm hexing you into next Tuesday."
"Wouldn't dream of it." He smirked. "Besides, we both know I'm far too pretty for Tuesday."
Daphne gave a soft, incredulous laugh. "You're insufferable."
"You always did say I aged like a bad decision."
"I said you aged like firewhisky left in the sun. Overheated, dramatic, and slightly flammable."
"Semantics," Harry said airily. "Also—accurate."
They spun gently, the world narrowing to the shared gravity between them. Every step felt familiar and newly dangerous, like dancing on the edge of a memory they'd both locked away.
Daphne's gaze shifted, her tone quieter. "Why now, Potter?"
Harry hesitated. Just for a second.
"Because I've finally stopped bleeding long enough to remember how to breathe," he said. "And because I never should've left you by the Black Lake."
Her jaw tensed. "You did."
"I know. And I hated myself for it. Every day."
"You had your reasons," she said carefully.
"I did. They were just crap reasons."
They didn't speak for a moment. The music swelled again, and they turned in time with the notes. Her fingers twitched slightly in his, like she remembered something, and was trying not to.
"I lost you," Harry said, voice low. "But if this dance is the only thing I get—I'll take it."
She looked up at him—really looked—and the walls she'd so carefully built cracked just enough for a glimmer to slip through.
"One dance," she whispered.
Harry gave her a slow, devastating smile. "I plan to make it the most memorable waltz of your life."
"Big words for a man who once tripped over his own cloak and fell face-first into a punch bowl."
"In my defense," Harry said, dipping her with a flourish that made more than a few heads turn, "the punch hit first."
Daphne laughed—sharp and sweet and completely unguarded. She let herself fall into the rhythm, into him, just a little.
When the final notes faded, neither of them moved to let go.
"Potter," she said softly.
"Greengrass," he returned, eyes never leaving hers.
"This doesn't mean anything."
"Of course not," he said, smiling that maddening smile again. "It's just one dance."
And then, quieter, his thumb brushing the back of her hand—
"But I hope it's the first of many."
She didn't answer.
She didn't have to.
Her grip tightened slightly.
That was answer enough.
—
The music faded into the luxurious hum of conversation—champagne flutes clinking, laughter too polished to be real, and the rustle of designer gowns that cost more than Harry's flat. But neither he nor Daphne moved far from the dance floor. Not yet.
His hand still rested at the curve of her waist—warm, steady—while hers remained curled, elegant and precise, around his fingers like she was indulging him in a rare moment of affection. Or control. Probably both.
The ballroom, for all its wealth and wonder, seemed to exhale around them, as if the world itself had paused to watch them—Potter and Greengrass. Gryffindor's golden boy and Slytherin's ice queen, holding court in the middle of London high society like it was just another day at Hogwarts. Just with fewer curses and better lighting.
Harry raised a brow, crooked smirk sliding across his face. "So… in the interest of small talk—what's a Pureblood Princess like you doing mingling with Muggles tonight? Lose a bet? Exiled from the Greengrass manor for excessive sass and hoarding blackmail material?"
Daphne tilted her head, blonde waves brushing the bare skin of her shoulder. Her lips curved, slow and deadly. "Charming as ever, Potter."
"I like to think of myself as a public service," he said, lifting her hand just enough to press a mock kiss to her knuckles. "Keeping Britain's wizarding elite humble, one smirk at a time."
"Is that what this is?" she asked, eyebrow arching. "A smirk?"
"No, love. This is a smoulder," Harry corrected, leaning in. "Do keep up."
She let out a soft, incredulous laugh and took a sip of her champagne, her gaze never leaving his. "Contrary to the Hogwarts gossip mill, not all purebloods hole up in crumbling manors counting galleons and muttering about blood supremacy."
"Shocking," Harry murmured. "Next you'll tell me you don't actually bathe in unicorn milk or hex your house-elves for blinking too loudly."
She gave him a look. "Don't be ridiculous. We only hex them if they wear Crocs."
Harry blinked. "You know what Crocs are?"
"I sit on the board of a textile conglomerate and attend Paris Fashion Week, Potter. Of course I know what Crocs are. I have nightmares about them."
He grinned, eyes dancing. "Alright, now you're just trying to seduce me."
"That would imply I was trying," she replied, cool and quick as always.
"Ouch." He placed a hand to his heart like she'd just Avada Kedavra'd his pride. "Hit me again, Greengrass. This time aim for the ego."
She gave a delicate shrug, her expression somewhere between amused and unbothered. "The Greengrass family has always operated in both the Wizarding and Muggle worlds. My great-grandfather owned textile mills in Yorkshire. Silk, lace, spell-woven satin. We were trading with French couturiers before Voldemort learned how to spell 'mudblood.'"
Harry blinked. "Are you telling me you're not just a Pureblood Princess, but a literal fashion heiress?"
"Not just," she said, swirling her glass. "I inherited a board seat, a family fortune, and a marketing team that thinks having a Veela on payroll boosts sales."
He gave her a look. "Do you?"
Daphne smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
"Oh, I definitely would."
She rolled her eyes. "I've fought off three hostile takeovers this year alone, negotiated a deal with Muggle Vogue that nearly ended in bloodshed, and had to fire a CEO who thought Wi-Fi was a form of dark magic."
"Sounds like you're terrifying in a pantsuit."
"I am the pantsuit, Potter."
Harry let out a low whistle. "Merlin help the poor bastard who tries to mansplain quarterly revenue to you."
"One did," Daphne said airily. "Now he's the Chief Executive of Beverage Procurement. At the Starbucks near Knockturn Alley."
Harry burst into laughter. "Oh, that's beautiful."
She looked at him over the rim of her glass. "You always did appreciate a bit of Slytherin justice."
"I always appreciated a woman who knows how to make someone cry without raising her voice."
Their eyes met again—this time longer. Deeper.
Then, after a beat, Harry nudged the moment back to levity.
"Still, I've gotta say, I came to this party expecting a few High Society snobs, some overpriced canapés, and maybe some selfies with some supermodels. Instead, I find the most dangerous girl in Slytherin taking over the fashion world like it's just another Monday."
Daphne gave him a cool once-over. "And here I thought I'd escaped Hogwarts gossip for good. Yet here you are—tragically underdressed, morally upright, and one inappropriate joke away from scandal."
He placed a hand on his chest. "I'm deeply offended. This is Armani."
"That suit's decent," she admitted, giving him an approving glance. "Much better than that Yule Ball disaster."
Harry groaned. "You swore you'd never bring that up."
"I lied," she said, sipping her drink with queenly grace. "I've got the photo framed in my office."
"You don't."
"I do. Right next to the Prophet headline: 'Boy Who Lived Caught in Broom Cupboard with Unknown Blonde—Dobby Says Scandalous.'"
Harry winced. "I was checking for Nargles."
She looked entirely unbothered. "Of course you were."
Silence stretched again—but it wasn't awkward.
It was warm. Buzzing. Golden.
Then Harry said, voice quieter now, softer somehow, "It's nice. This. Talking to you. No Death Eaters. No Dark Lords. No world-ending stakes. Just… me. You. Champagne. Small talk."
Daphne looked up at him, something shifting in her gaze.
"For once," she said, "I don't mind it."
He brushed his fingers along hers again—tentative, like it might break the spell. "Maybe we could… do it again sometime."
She tilted her head. "You mean small talk?"
"I mean… a conversation where you only insult me mildly, and I pretend I'm not hopelessly obsessed with every word you say."
Daphne was silent for a heartbeat longer than necessary.
Then her lips quirked.
"I might be convinced. On one condition."
Harry leaned in, barely a breath between them. "Which is?"
"You bring better champagne," she said smoothly. "And absolutely no references to the Backstreet Boys."
Harry let out a laugh. "Not even if I choreograph it?"
"Not even if you summon backup dancers."
He stepped even closer, voice low and teasing in her ear. "So… no 'I Want It That Way?' Not even a little?"
Daphne narrowed her eyes. "Potter…"
He straightened up, hands raised. "Alright, alright. You win."
"Obviously."
And for the first time in a long time, Harry Potter—war hero, Vigilante, Legend—felt like just a man. Laughing. Flirting. Alive.
One dance. One conversation.
And the beginning of something absolutely, irrevocably, and undeniably dangerous.
—
Harry's gaze flicked past her for just a moment, long enough to catch sight of a platinum-blond head bobbing near the champagne fountain, and it reminded him of a certain ferret with an aura of smug entitlement so thick it probably required its own Floo license.
He turned back to Daphne, one brow arched in mock horror.
"Tell me something," he said, swirling his drink with the dramatic flair of someone preparing to deliver very bad news. "And I'm only asking because I value the truth, and also because Fred and George practically shouted it across the Leaky Cauldron over fish and chips. Is it true?"
She arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "You'll have to be a bit more specific. 'Is it true' covers everything from 'Did Luna Lovegood hex the Minister's trousers off?' to 'Has McGonagall finally turned Filch into a cat and left him at a Muggle shelter?'"
Harry gave her a look—half pleading, half incredulous.
"Don't make me say it. Please. I've suffered enough."
Her lips twitched. "You mean the Astoria thing?"
He visibly winced. "So it is true? Astoria... Malfoy?"
Daphne sighed. "Unfortunately, yes."
Harry made a dramatic show of clutching his heart. "And here I thought Voldemort was the greatest evil we'd face in our lifetime."
"Don't be ridiculous," she said, smirking. "At least Voldemort had a dress code."
Harry laughed—sharp and genuine—and took a sip of champagne. "So it's official, then? Your sister has decided to bind herself in holy matrimony to a sentient ferret."
"She says she's in love."
"With Malfoy?"
Daphne nodded, deadpan. "It's either a tragic love story or a very specific form of self-sabotage. Hard to tell with Astoria."
"Yikes."
"Oh, it gets worse. She's already started redecorating Malfoy Manor. Narcissa's apparently been crying into her port every night because her precious 'Dragon' won't be hers anymore."
Harry let out a bark of laughter. "You know, I'd feel bad for her if she hadn't spent most of the war pretending I didn't exist unless I was bleeding on her carpets."
"She's lucky Astoria didn't set fire to the place and start over. She did get rid of the giant peacock portrait, though."
Harry blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"Turned the room into a wine cellar."
He held up his glass. "To Astoria, then. May her taste in décor be better than her taste in men."
Daphne clinked her glass against his, her smirk softening into something more amused than sharp.
They stood there for a moment, champagne fizzing gently between them, the music from the ballroom fading into a slower, silkier rhythm. Somewhere behind them, someone shrieked with laughter, but it felt far away—like a different party altogether.
Harry tilted his head, eyes narrowing just a bit. "So. You've told me the fate of your sister. But what about you, Greengrass? Any scandalous engagements I should be preparing to toast while suppressing the overwhelming urge to set fire to the cake?"
Daphne let out a soft laugh, low and rich. "You're very dramatic tonight."
"I'm British. We invented subtle drama and emotional repression."
"And yet," she said, stepping closer, eyes gleaming, "you're about two drinks away from quoting Shakespeare at me and challenging someone to a duel."
"I am the Boy Who Lived. Comes with the territory."
She studied him for a moment. "You really want to know?"
He shrugged, but the grin tugging at his mouth betrayed him. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're available for more of my terrible flirting or if I need to redirect my affections toward McGonagall."
Daphne let out a soft snort. "McGonagall would eat you alive."
"Only if I'm lucky."
She gave him a look that danced somewhere between exasperated and charmed. "Tracey and Pansy tried playing matchmaker. Dozens of times. They even made a spreadsheet."
Harry's eyes widened. "A spreadsheet? That's terrifying. Was there a points system?"
"Of course. House compatibility, blood status, bank balance, wand length—"
"Wand length? Merlin's bollocks, I didn't realize the Ministry was involved."
"Honestly, I think Pansy just liked pretending she was in charge of a dating agency."
"So," he said, tapping the rim of his glass with a knuckle, "no Prince Charming yet?"
"No," Daphne replied, voice softer now. "Because none of them felt right."
He glanced at her, something serious flickering behind the humor. "Why not?"
Her eyes dipped to her glass. "Because I never really got over my first love."
The words were simple, but they landed like a spell between them—soft, echoing, impossible to ignore.
Harry blinked. "Oh."
"I was fourteen," she said, a faint, wistful smile playing on her lips. "It was stupid and complicated and messy. But it was real. The kind of real that makes everything else afterwards feel like background noise."
He swallowed. "And let me guess—he was reckless, sarcastic, and had an unhealthy relationship with saving people?"
Daphne's eyes twinkled. "Also had a tendency to show up at the worst possible times with terrible hair and better intentions."
Harry looked mock-offended. "Excuse you, my hair is iconic."
"Iconically tragic."
He leaned in a little, voice dropping. "So you're telling me there's a chance?"
Daphne gave him a long look, then slowly—infuriatingly—tilted her head. "I didn't say I was still hung up on you, Potter."
"No," he said, grinning, "but you didn't say you weren't."
She raised her flute to her lips. "I plead the fifth."
"This is America, but we are British."
"Well, then I invoke my right to remain delightfully mysterious."
Harry set his drink down on a passing tray and offered her his hand, palm up, gentlemanly and a little theatrical.
"In that case," he said, "mystery lady, may I have another dance?"
Daphne eyed him for a long moment, like she was weighing the pros and cons of handing her heart over to a man who wore dragon-hide boots and still said blimey unironically.
Then she took his hand.
"Just don't step on my toes, Potter."
"I'll try," he murmured, pulling her close as the music swelled, "but no promises. I've got a reputation to uphold."
They stepped onto the dance floor, and the crowd melted around them. For a moment, it was just the two of them. The boy who lived, and the girl who never really stopped waiting.
And maybe, just maybe, first love was about to get a second chance.
—
The final notes of the jazz number drifted off like a sigh, and the golden light of the ballroom seemed to dim in reverence. Harry Potter wasn't sure what had him warmer—the expensive champagne, or the way Daphne Greengrass's fingers were twined with his like they'd always belonged there. Her skin was soft, warm. Dangerous.
"Still brooding, Mr. Potter?" Daphne purred, tilting her head, lips curving. "Or just thinking about asking me to the next one?"
Harry smirked. "Depends. You planning to keep leading every dance like you're auditioning for a spy film?"
"Only if you keep looking at me like you're one sultry piano solo away from pinning me against a column."
He choked on a laugh. "Bloody hell, woman. You trying to kill me before the mission even starts?"
Before she could answer with something even more lethal to his sanity, the unmistakable sound of Hermione Granger's Practical Yet Elegant Heels clicked against the ballroom floor.
"Harry," she said, her voice quiet, tight with urgency. She glanced between the two of them, and her face scrunched with a grimace that was 30% apology, 70% crisis management. "I hate to do this, but... we've got that thing?"
Harry blinked, instantly sliding back into reality. "Oh. Right. The thing."
"With the files," Hermione added, nodding with the exaggerated subtlety of someone who desperately wanted to avoid dropping the phrase "vigilante op" at a black-tie gala.
"And Oliver," she added, her voice now a whisper. "Who is parked illegally. Again."
Daphne turned her cool blue eyes on Hermione. "This wouldn't happen to be one of those missions you used to call Harry's 'Saving People Thing,' would it?"
Harry winced. "We agreed to bury that phrase in the Room of Requirement and never speak of it again."
"So that's a yes, then," Daphne murmured, amusement dancing in her voice.
Hermione gave Daphne a tight smile and mouthed sorry before vanishing into the crowd like the world's most elegant smoke bomb.
Harry shifted, running a hand through his hair. "Listen, I—"
Daphne held up a finger. "Let me guess. You were going to say you're sorry, that you'll explain later, that this wasn't how the night was supposed to go."
He blinked. "...That was exactly what I was going to say."
She stepped closer, lips twitching. "You really think I came out tonight wearing a dress this tight without knowing Potter was going to get called away to go save some endangered kittens from a drug syndicate or whatever it is you do these days?"
"Technically it's a corrupt land baron tonight," he said, dryly. "But I do appreciate the vote of confidence."
Daphne laughed—not brittle or performative, but rich and real. "Harry, you could be covered in blood and debris, and you'd still show up tomorrow to pick me up with flowers and an awkward apology."
"I was thinking coffee and a pastry at any place you like."
"Even better," she said, and before he could react, she pulled a small black card edged in silver foil from her purse. "My number. Personal line. If you give it to anyone, I'll hex you."
He blinked. "You think I'd just give away your number?"
She arched a brow. "You gave Neville my signed photo of the Harpies calendar."
"In my defense, he was dying."
"He had a nosebleed."
"It was a serious nosebleed."
Daphne stepped forward, tucked the card into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket with practiced ease, then let her hand linger just a little longer than necessary. Her eyes didn't waver from his.
"Call me tomorrow," she said, voice low. "I'll forgive the cape and the secret missions. But only if you let me pick the restaurant."
"Deal," he said, slightly breathless.
Then she leaned in, lips brushing his cheek in a kiss so deliberate, so perfectly placed it felt like it had been rehearsed.
She pulled back, winked, and said, "Go save the world, Potter. Just don't make a habit of missing dessert."
With a final, devastating smile, she turned and strode away, hips swaying like a challenge.
"I am definitely calling her tomorrow," Harry muttered, adjusting his jacket.
From the comms, a familiar voice called out:
"Oi, Romeo! If you're done eye-fucking Daphne Greengrass, the Batmobile is double-parked and the land baron's goons aren't going to tase themselves!"
Harry sighed. "We don't have a Batmobile, Oliver!"
Oliver Queen's voice floated back: "Says the guy who wears body armor."
Harry rolled his eyes and jogged after Hermione and Oliver, already shedding the tux in favor of the shadows.
—
By the time Harry reached the 26th-floor stairwell landing, the world of champagne flutes and string quartets had all but vanished. The warmth of the ballroom, the soft glow of candlelight on Daphne Greengrass' cheekbones—gone. Replaced by flickering fluorescent lights, concrete walls, and the scent of industrial cleaner mixed with adrenaline.
Hermione was already crouched near a rusty utility pipe, her fingers working with surgical precision to lock a gauntlet onto her wrist. She looked every inch the war mage-turned-shadow operative in her bodysuit—matte black interwoven with deep chocolate brown accents. The suit was tailored to move like skin and cut like armor, reinforced with Ukranian Ironbelly scales and laced with acromantula silk. Over her face, a subtle shimmer betrayed the presence of runes—layered like a veil of obscurity that made her features blur at the edges, like smoke in moonlight.
Without even looking up, she tossed a bundled set of gear toward him.
"Try not to wrinkle it," she said coolly.
Harry caught it one-handed, arching an eyebrow. "Well, good evening to you too, Granger. Love the murderous librarian aesthetic—very you."
Hermione gave a barely-there smirk. "Focus, Potter. You've got four minutes and twenty-seven seconds until Hunt's bodyguard finishes his second glass of Macallan and decides to do a perimeter check. Tick tock."
Harry unzipped his jacket, muttering, "Blimey. I miss the days when our biggest concern was Snape catching us out past curfew."
Oliver stood a few steps higher in the stairwell, arms crossed over his armored chest. He looked like he'd just finished judging both of them and found them lacking. His forest green hood was drawn up, casting his face in shadows except for the hard glint of those seasoned vigilante eyes. The bow strapped across his back gleamed with quiet threat.
"Took you long enough," he said. "We figured you'd gotten lost. Or distracted."
Harry gave him a knowing grin. "I was dancing. Some of us can juggle crime-fighting and a social life, Queen."
Oliver's tone didn't change. "Some of us aren't thirteen-year-olds trapped in grown-up bodies."
Harry tugged on the segmented red and black bodysuit Hermione had prepared for him. The armor felt familiar—light but solid, flexible across the joints, with reinforced dragonhide plating across the torso and shoulders. A red hood settled over his head, and a sleek black mask snapped into place across his face with a faint magical click. The eye lenses blinked to life, overlaying his vision with a soft HUD Hermione had coded herself.
As he adjusted the twin batons at his back, he asked, "By the way—anyone seen Diggle? He's usually the guy glaring at us like a disappointed uncle."
Oliver didn't hesitate.
"I knocked him out," he said flatly. "Put him in a supply closet."
Harry blinked. "I'm sorry—what?"
"He was going to stop us."
"So you just—stuffed Digg in a closet like last season's winter coat?"
Oliver was already moving, not bothering to respond.
Hermione sighed and followed. "For the record, I told him not to. Said we should talk to Diggle."
"And yet," Harry muttered, tightening his gloves as he brought up the rear, "here we are. Casual felonies and poor interpersonal decisions."
They emerged into the biting wind of the rooftop seconds later. Gotham's sleeker, shinier cousin—Starling City—spread out beneath them in cold glass and sharp angles. Directly across from their perch was the Hunt Multinational Tower. Midway up the glass fortress, lights glowed on the 38th floor—bright, clinical, and suspiciously active for this hour of night.
Oliver was already notching a grappling arrow into his bow.
"Top floor," he said. "Thermal scan picked up three signatures. Hunt. His bodyguard. And someone who probably didn't know they'd be signing away their soul when they walked in."
Harry stepped beside him, peering across the gap between buildings.
"You know," he said lightly, "I miss the days when villains wore cloaks and shouted about blood purity. These corporate twats don't even have flair."
Oliver loosed the arrow without another word. It sailed across the chasm and embedded into the opposite rooftop with a satisfying thunk. The cable went taut.
He turned to them. "We move fast, silent, in and out."
Harry tilted his head. "You know I don't do silent, right?"
Hermione muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "We noticed," before stepping up to the ledge and gripping the line.
"Wait," Harry said. "Are we all pretending this makes more sense than using brooms?"
Hermione launched herself across without another word, a blur of black and brown against the city lights.
Oliver followed, fluid and practiced.
Harry stood at the edge of the roof, looking down at the dizzying drop and then up at the cable. He exhaled.
"This is such a muggle way to die," he muttered. "Mum would be proud. Or horrified. Hard to say."
He grabbed the line, muttered a quick "Ventus Stabilis," and swung.
The wind howled in his ears as the world blurred into neon and night. His landing was a little less graceful than the others—more of a tumble-then-slide—but he stuck the dismount.
Mostly.
"Ten out of ten," he said breathlessly. "Would recommend. Thrilling. Suicidal. Very on-brand."
Hermione was already crouched at the rooftop's edge, wand glowing softly in one hand, the other tapping her bracer to cycle through security frequency scans.
Oliver glanced at her. "East vent is alarmed. West side window?"
"Leads to the executive lounge. Minimal coverage. Cameras looped for twenty seconds every three minutes," Hermione said. "Next cycle starts... now."
Oliver nodded. "Move."
He clipped a thin cord and began rappelling down the side of the glass tower like a man with something to prove.
Hermione followed, sleek and silent.
Harry peered over the edge, sighed, and muttered, "I swear, the things I do for friendship and morally grey justice."
Then he dropped off the ledge after them.
---
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