Dream Sequence – Oliver's Mind
The cold came first.
It slipped past his skin and curled around his bones like a whisper from the grave. His breath puffed out in ragged clouds as he blinked against the wind, against the sting of salt in his eyes. The endless grey of the Pacific surrounded him, horizonless and unforgiving.
The lifeboat rocked beneath him—uneven, unpredictable. A cruel joke of a cradle carved by the gods of regret and rot.
Rain pattered softly on the canvas tarp above, a rhythmic ticking like a countdown to something unspeakable.
Oliver shivered, arms wrapped around himself, lips cracked, skin pale. He stared at the endless stretch of water. At nothing.
"Drink this," a voice said, low, hoarse, and tired.
He turned to see his father—Robert Queen—hunched beside him. His beard was patchy now, his eyes hollowed out by time, sun, and guilt. He offered a rusted tin cup with both hands, fingers trembling from cold and hunger. Still, his grip was firm.
"It'll keep your strength up."
Oliver blinked, slow. His mouth felt like sandpaper.
He took the cup and sniffed it cautiously.
"Not poisoned, is it?" he muttered, half-joking, half-not.
Robert gave him a look. Not angry. Just... exhausted.
"If I was going to kill you, son, I wouldn't waste a tin cup."
"Comforting," Oliver said, then took a sip. It tasted like rainwater and old iron. Something bitter lingered at the back of his tongue, but he was too weak to complain.
A shape shifted at the bow of the lifeboat. Martin, the grizzled crewman, leaned forward, his face all sharp angles and sunburnt fury. His eyes burned beneath his sweat-stained cap.
"That was enough for all of us," he growled.
Robert didn't look at him. "No, it wasn't."
"The hell it wasn't." Martin pushed up, bracing his hand on the side of the boat. "We agreed—ration everything, share everything. That cup was our last clean water."
"My son is the only one who's going to survive this," Robert said, turning now, voice flat as the sea. "I've made my decision."
Oliver sat straighter. "Wait—what?"
Martin's lip curled. "Your decision? You think being a billionaire means you get to pick who lives and dies?"
"No," Robert said, slowly. "Being a father does."
Oliver frowned. "Dad, what are you—"
"You have to get back home," Robert said, now turning fully toward him. "You have to. This... this doesn't end here. You still have a life to live."
He reached into the inside of his drenched coat and pulled out a small leather-bound book—tattered, warped from salt, the Queen Industries insignia barely legible on the cover. He tucked it into Oliver's coat, pressing it against his chest like a sacrament.
"What is this?" Oliver whispered.
"My sins," Robert said. "My failures. My secrets."
"Oh, so just a casual little bedtime read?"
Robert huffed—almost a laugh, but not quite. "You always deflect with humor. Even now."
"Old habit. Trauma's cheaper than therapy."
"I wasn't a good man, Oliver," Robert said. "I wasn't even a decent one. But I loved you. And I can't fix what I did... but maybe you can."
Martin stood suddenly, his voice rising like thunder.
"You son of a bitch."
Robert rose, slowly, gun in hand.
Oliver's eyes went wide. "Dad—wait—"
"You get to play God, huh?" Martin shouted. "You get to decide I'm expendable?"
Robert's voice was calm. "No. I get to decide that my son lives."
"You corporate bastard. You're gonna rot in the same hell as the men you bribed, the land you stole—"
The gunshot cracked.
Martin collapsed sideways, skull striking the edge of the boat with a sickening crunch. Blood spread out like a stain across the floorboards, mingling with rain and seawater.
"Jesus Christ!" Oliver scrambled backward, his hand slapping against the side of the lifeboat. "You—why the hell did you—he was just—"
"He was going to die anyway," Robert said, his voice shaking for the first time. "There's not enough for three. There never was."
"You didn't have to shoot him!"
"I had to choose."
Oliver stared at his father, horrified, breathing hard.
"This isn't survival," he said. "This is murder."
Robert grabbed him then—his hands cold, but his grip iron.
"No. This is survival. You are the only thing that matters now. You have to live. You have to fix this. Fix me. Fix Queen Industries. Fix Starling."
"I don't even know who I am anymore!" Oliver shouted, throat raw. "I'm not you, okay?! I'm not a hero, or a leader, or whatever the hell it is you want me to be—I was just some rich kid on a yacht!"
Robert's voice softened, but his eyes didn't. "Then die as a rich kid, or live long enough to become something else. Because once you survive this, son—once you crawl back from this hell—everything changes."
He raised the gun.
Oliver reached out. "Dad, no—"
Robert looked at him one last time.
"Survive."
The second gunshot rang out.
Oliver screamed.
Robert's body collapsed in a heap beside Martin's. Just two men. Two failures. Two ghosts.
Oliver crawled toward his father, knees scraping on the wet wood.
"Dad? No—no, no, no—Dad!"
But there was no response. Just the soft slap of waves. The moan of the ocean wind. The drip of rain, steady and indifferent.
And one word. One command. One curse, echoing in the marrow of Oliver Queen's soul.
Survive.
—
Back to reality
Blackness came first.
Heavy. Suffocating. Like drowning in tar.
Then—
Pain.
A white-hot spike drove through Oliver's skull, right behind his eyes, and kept going until it felt like it pierced the base of his neck. He groaned—dry, hoarse, raw.
The world stumbled into focus.
Rusted beams overhead. Dust danced like ash in the flickering yellow glow of overhead bulbs—swinging on chains, creaking with every breath of the wind that slithered through broken windows.
The air smelled of rust and rot and stale motor oil.
Oliver's arms were wrenched behind the chair. Plastic zip ties. He tested them—already frayed.
Idiots used the cheap ones.
His legs were bound too. Metal cuffs, maybe. Not bolted. Sloppy work.
A quiet wheeze nearby. Movement.
He tilted his head, slow and steady. Everything ached.
"Tommy," he rasped.
His best friend slumped a few feet away, tied to another chair. There was a fresh bruise blooming across Tommy's jaw like spilled wine. His head lolled, but his chest rose and fell. Alive. Unconscious, but alive.
A groan came from further off.
Harry.
The kid was half-sprawled on the cold concrete floor, one cheek smushed against the ground. He muttered something unintelligible and very British.
"Tell Dumbledore I'm not cleaning the bloody trophy room again…"
Of course, Oliver thought grimly.
Then came the footsteps.
Three men.
Combat boots. Tactical gear. Black masks. They looked like they had walked out of a surplus catalog labeled "Murderous Henchmen Monthly."
One of them crouched in front of Oliver. His voice was distorted through a voice modulator, all buzz and menace.
"Your name is Oliver Queen."
Oliver blinked at him. Slowly. Said nothing.
"Your father was Robert Queen."
Still nothing.
The masked man leaned in closer, too close.
"Did he die in the crash?"
Oliver tilted his head, eyes cold.
"Do I look like I'm in the mood for a biography lesson?"
The masked man didn't answer. But the baton in his hand flared with blue electricity. It hummed like a hornet's nest.
ZZZZT—
Pain exploded through Oliver's chest.
He jerked violently, back arching, teeth gritting so hard it felt like his molars cracked. The zip ties groaned, stretching.
He gasped, chest heaving.
"Try that again," he snarled, "and I swear to God you'll be pissing through a tube for the rest of your short life."
The second man stepped forward.
"Did your father say anything before he died?"
Oliver's lip twitched.
Silence stretched.
Then:
"Yeah. He told me…"
He paused, watching all three lean in like curious jackals.
"…he told me he'd kill you all if he ever met you."
A dry, barked laugh from one of them.
"Brave talk for a rich boy tied to a chair."
"Money can't save you now."
Oliver's eyes hardened. His voice dropped an octave.
"No. But my training can."
Snap.
The zip tie around his wrists snapped like brittle candy.
"What the—?"
Oliver moved.
Head slammed forward—crack. Skull met mask. Bone won.
The first man stumbled back, blood spurting from his nose.
Oliver surged upward. Chair legs splintered with a violent twist. He was on his feet before the others could process it.
The stun baton came down—too slow.
He caught it mid-air. Twisted. Drove it upward into the attacker's throat.
Blue sparks lit up the man's eyes. He convulsed, gurgled, dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.
The next man lunged at him with a knife. Amateurs.
Oliver side-stepped, twisted the arm mid-swing, snapped the wrist, caught the blade mid-fall, and buried it into the man's side in one smooth, brutal motion.
"In," he said, twisting the knife.
"Out." He pulled it free. Clean.
Two down.
The third froze.
Oliver's eyes locked onto him—feral. Unflinching. Ice and intent.
"Run."
The man bolted.
Oliver turned, rushing to Tommy first. Slapped his cheek.
"Tommy! Wake up."
Tommy groaned, blinked one eye open. "Are we at a rave? Because my head feels like we're at a rave."
"Stay down. Don't move."
Oliver pivoted to Harry, who was pushing himself upright with all the grace of a drunk kitten.
Harry blinked blearily at him.
"Did we win the pub quiz?"
"You passed out halfway through," Oliver said, already standing. "You owe me a rematch."
"Right," Harry muttered, fumbling around. "Where's my wand?"
"Still breathing," Oliver muttered. "That's all that matters."
He grabbed a length of rebar leaning against the wall. Cold steel. Weighty. Perfect.
Boots pounded in the distance—the third man's retreat echoing.
Oliver glanced at Tommy, then Harry.
"I'll be right back," he said, already moving.
"Where are you—" Harry started, but Oliver didn't answer.
The shadows swallowed him as he gave chase—footsteps thundering through the skeleton of the factory, steel and vengeance in hand, ready to break someone's legs and ask questions later.
The game wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
—
The factory yard was a slab of forgotten concrete, hemmed in by chain-link fences and choked with weeds. A flickering floodlight above the door buzzed like a dying insect, throwing long shadows across the cracked asphalt.
Oliver burst through the door like a storm in a bottle.
Rain misted the air, cold and needling. The night tasted like metal and vengeance.
Ahead of him, the last attacker—gangly, fast, desperate—was sprinting full tilt toward the fence, boots slipping on wet ground, arms pumping like pistons.
Oliver didn't yell.
Didn't call out.
He hunted.
His footsteps were silent compared to the pounding of the runner's boots. He moved low and fast, a shadow wearing skin. The rebar in his hand felt like an extension of his will—balanced, deadly.
Twenty yards.
Fifteen.
The guy reached the fence, grabbed the chain-link, and started scrambling up like a panicked raccoon.
Oliver launched.
He tackled the man mid-climb—arm around his waist, yanking him down in one fluid, brutal motion. They slammed into the dirt, the man landing hard with a cry of pain.
Oliver was already on top of him.
He jammed the rebar across the guy's throat, leaning his weight on it just enough to send a message.
"Who sent you?" Oliver asked, voice like gravel in a blender.
"I—I don't know!" the man wheezed. "We—we were hired anonymously—off the dark web—I didn't ask questions—!"
"Bad policy," Oliver muttered.
He twisted the rebar, digging it into the dirt by the man's ear, just missing the skull. The impact made the man flinch and squeal.
"Try again," Oliver growled.
"I swear! Some middleman! Coordinates, targets, instructions—nothing else!"
Oliver bared his teeth. "You knew my name. My father's name. That's not a coincidence."
"I don't know! Please, man, I just needed the paycheck!"
"You picked the wrong damn job," Oliver snarled, lifting the rebar, muscles coiled to strike.
Then—
CRACK.
It wasn't thunder. It wasn't a gunshot. It was something wrong, like the world hiccuped and didn't apologize for it.
Oliver spun mid-swing, rebar raised—only to freeze.
A figure stood beside him, just there, where there had been nothing a second ago.
Harry Potter.
Still in the same scuffed clothes. Still bleeding at the temple. Still looking like he barely weighed a hundred and thirty pounds soaking wet.
And somehow, he was the scariest thing Oliver had seen all week.
Harry had one hand wrapped around the attacker's throat, and in his other hand—now clearly not a twig—was his wand, aimed with absolute purpose.
"Bloody hell," Harry muttered. "You took forever. I nearly fell asleep."
Oliver blinked. "You teleported."
"No," Harry said dryly. "I apparated. Huge difference. One sounds like bad sci-fi, the other gets you sued by copyright trolls in cloaks."
He tightened his grip on the guy's throat. The man started to babble incoherently.
"What the hell is this?" Oliver demanded. "What are you?"
Harry's wand dipped slightly. "You really want the full explanation now?"
"Yes!"
"I'm British," Harry said cheerfully. "That should've been your first red flag."
The attacker let out a squeaky sob. "Please—please—don't kill me!"
"Then be useful," Harry said, his voice dropping like a blade. "Who sent you? I'm only going to ask once."
"I don't know! They don't tell us names, it's just—just money and targets and drop points—!"
Harry turned to Oliver, brow raised. "I believe the technical term for that is 'bollocks.'"
"I was about to get the truth out of him," Oliver muttered, jaw tight.
"No offense, mate, but your version of enhanced interrogation is a bit…" Harry tilted his head. "Macho torture porn."
He turned back to the man. "You sure you don't know who sent you?"
"I swear!"
Harry studied him.
Then sighed.
"Well, bugger."
Without ceremony, he twisted hard.
SNAP.
The man's neck broke like a dry twig.
Oliver flinched backward a step. "Jesus Christ."
Harry let the body crumple to the wet dirt and stepped back, expression unreadable.
"You—you just killed him," Oliver said, stunned.
Harry glanced down. "Yeah. I noticed."
"I was interrogating him!"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Badly. Also, you were going to kill him."
"Not without answers."
"He didn't have any."
"You don't know that!"
Harry gestured to the corpse. "I know it now. You're welcome."
Oliver dragged a hand through his damp hair, staring between the body and the boy. "What the hell are you?"
Harry gave him a wide, too-casual grin. "Oh, we're doing this now? Grand."
He stepped closer, wand still in hand, rain dripping down his fringe.
"I'm a wizard, Ollie," he said. "And if that doesn't make your billionaire brain explode, I've got some house elves and flying broomsticks we can get to later."
Oliver blinked. Twice.
Then said, "You're kidding."
"Only about the broomsticks. I don't fly economy anymore."
And just like that, in the middle of a blood-soaked yard, beside a freshly broken corpse, as the rain came down in sheets—
Oliver Queen realized two things:
His life had just gotten a lot more complicated.
He might never win another argument again.
—
The Queen Mansion gleamed like a palace gilded in gold. Light from ornate chandeliers spilled across polished floors in buttery streaks, catching on the brass fixtures and glass decanters like firelight on water. But the warmth stopped at the walls. Inside, the air was cold with tension.
Police officers moved with the reverence of intruders in a cathedral, their shoes muffled against the Persian rugs, notebooks flapping open like reluctant wings. Their eyes flicked across every surface with suspicion, as if the secrets of Starling City could be coaxed out from behind Monet landscapes and family portraits.
Detective Quentin Lance stood in the center of the drawing room, carved from disdain and bitter caffeine. His arms were folded, jaw clenched, the lines in his forehead deeper than ever. His partner, Detective Lucas Hilton, lingered behind him with the patience of a man used to cleaning up messes he didn't make.
Oliver Queen leaned against the grand piano, arms crossed, emerald eyes locked on Lance like he was one moment away from drawing a bow from nowhere and declaring war. He wore the calm of a predator who knew his territory—and his limits.
Harry, sprawled across a wingback chair like it was a throne, looked as if he'd only just finished his second bottle of firewhisky and wasn't particularly impressed with the aftertaste. His wand was hidden—technically—but very much within reach. He popped a grape into his mouth with lazy disdain.
Tommy Merlyn, sitting next to Thea on the couch, clutched a bag of ice to his head like it might erase the embarrassment of getting knocked out by a pipe-wielding goon with an unfortunate mustache. He groaned quietly and muttered, "Why is it always the head?"
"And you're telling me," Lance growled, voice the texture of sandpaper dipped in scotch, "that the two men who saved you—fought off three armed kidnappers, I might add—were dressed in hoodies?"
"I didn't say 'dressed,'" Oliver said dryly. "I said 'wore.' Important distinction."
"A green hoodie," Hilton noted, eyes on his notepad. "And the second one?"
"Red," Harry piped up, tilting his head. "Excellent choice for dramatic flair, terrible for blending in. But I respect the thigh emphasis. Very Robin Hood meets Milan Fashion Week."
Quentin squinted at him. "And you are?"
"Harry Potter," he said cheerfully. "Cousin to Broody McBrooderson over there. Godson to the Man Who Could Bench Press a Buick. Professional snarker. Witness, victim, and emotional support wizkid. Pick whichever title gets me out of here fastest."
Sirius Black stepped forward from where he'd been brooding by the fireplace, all black leather and quiet power. His presence hit like thunder muffled by velvet. "Legal guardian," he said. "And we've been cooperative. Considering the circumstances."
Lance didn't blink. "Funny, considering half your lot has more sealed files than the Pentagon."
Harry arched an eyebrow. "And yet here we are, still breathing. You're welcome."
"Gentlemen," Hilton interjected smoothly, raising a hand like a man trying to calm a bar fight, "let's stay focused. You said they vanished?"
"Like a fart in the wind," Tommy said weakly, pressing the ice harder to his temple. "A heroic, ninja-fart."
Thea snorted, clearly trying not to laugh.
Oliver sighed. "They were gone by the time the lights came back."
"Convenient," Quentin said coldly. "Especially considering your history."
And the air went arctic.
Oliver straightened, his face a mask carved from stone. Behind his eyes: ghosts. Moira Queen, regal in a silk blouse and diamonds, visibly stiffened where she sat. Hermione reached over and took her hand without a word.
"You think I'm not still asking myself how my daughter died, Queen?" Lance said, stepping forward. His voice cracked, but his anger was ice-edged. "You think I don't lie awake wondering if maybe—just maybe—she'd still be alive if she'd never stepped foot on that damn yacht?"
Oliver didn't flinch.
He didn't speak.
Thea shot to her feet. "That's enough!"
"She was like a sister to me," she added, quieter now, but no less furious.
Hermione's voice came like calm in a storm. "Grief makes villains of everyone, just for a little while."
Harry stood up and sauntered over, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. "Speaking of grief, Hermione—don't he look like that villain from Lagaan? You know, the smug colonial git with the fake mustache and 'You villagers will never defeat us in cricket' attitude?"
Hermione blinked. Then burst into laughter. "Oh my God, yes. It's uncanny."
Lance turned on him. "You think this is funny?"
Harry tilted his head. "No. I think you're funny. You show up in a mansion, demand answers with all the grace of a hyena in a courtroom, and expect people to be grateful?" He clicked his tongue. "Tsk. Try therapy, mate. Or decaf."
Lance took a step forward.
Sirius intercepted like a shadow. "Detective. This is a family under threat. If you want to sling blame and insult character, you can do it somewhere that doesn't have antique vases and teenagers already traumatized enough for one evening."
"This is a homicide investigation," Lance barked.
"And this is our home, not a trauma ward with better lighting," Sirius said flatly. "So either ask relevant questions or get out."
Lance stared at him. Sirius didn't blink. He'd seen the pits of despair. He'd walked through the burning temples of Nanda Parbat. Lance was not the scariest thing in the room.
Finally, Quentin exhaled through his teeth and stormed out, boots echoing down the marble hall.
Hilton lingered. "Apologies," he said quietly. "He's… not himself lately."
"No one is," Moira said softly. "These days, it's all masks."
Hilton nodded and followed his partner out.
The silence left behind was brittle and sharp.
Oliver stared at the piano, unmoving. Thea looked like she was holding herself together with sheer force of will. Hermione exhaled slowly. Moira dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
"I'm fine," she said. No one believed her.
"Harry's right," Sirius said. "We're not safe. Not yet."
Harry patted Oliver's shoulder. "You know," he said, "I once got blamed for an entire year of murders committed by a giant snake possessed by the soul of a genocidal maniac with no nose. And that was before people found out I could talk to it. So believe me when I say—blame's a lot like bad cologne. Someone else puts it on, but somehow you end up smelling like it."
Oliver let out a breath that might have been a chuckle. Might have been a sigh.
"Look, we've got bowmen, wand-wavers, a time traveler, and at least one guy who can grow a beard just by glaring," Harry said. "We're not dead. That's something."
Moira shook her head, lips twitching at the edge. "You're impossible."
"I get that a lot."
For a moment—just a moment—that was enough.
—
The front door shut with a dull thud as Tommy Merlyn stormed out, muttering something about "ninjas, migraines, and there not being enough scotch in the Western Hemisphere for this circus." The moment the latch clicked, the silence inside Queen Mansion snapped taut like a bowstring.
Oliver Queen stood dead still in the living room, arms folded, jaw clenched, eyes locked on the teenager who had casually vanished into thin air less than an hour ago. His voice, when it came, was calm—but sharp enough to cut steel.
"You arrived out of thin air," he said, eyes never leaving Harry. "Back there. One second you weren't there, and then—poof. You're there."
Harry, still slightly winded from the night's chaos, met Oliver's intense gaze with practiced nonchalance. "Yeah," he said breezily. "That tends to happen when someone Apparates."
Oliver blinked. "I'm sorry—when someone what now?"
Hermione sighed and pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. "Apparates. It's magical teleportation. Fairly standard, though Harry's better at it than most full-grown wizards."
"Teleportation." Oliver repeated like the word was in Klingon. "So that was magic? Like real, actual, pull-a-rabbit-out-of-your-arse magic?"
"Only if the rabbit's on fire and breathing acid," Sirius drawled from his place near the fireplace, loosening his collar with the ease of a man who'd never cared for rules—or shirts with buttons.
Moira Queen finally spoke, calm and composed as ever, though her perfectly manicured fingers betrayed her nerves as they tapped rhythmically against the armrest. "Oliver, it's time you knew the truth. Harry is a wizard."
Oliver turned to face her, incredulous. "A what now?"
"Wizard," Thea said cheerfully from her perch on the couch, swirling a soda can in her hands. "You know, robes, wands, spells, magical creatures, the works. I've seen him turn a coffee table into a hedgehog. It was kinda cute. And horrifying."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "In my defense, the table started it."
Oliver held up both hands. "Hold on. Everyone here knows this? And we're just casually tossing around magic like it's a damn parlor trick?"
"It's not a trick," Hermione said coolly, standing now. "It's a discipline. An ancient, powerful craft that governs much of our world—hidden from Muggles like yourself for good reason."
"Muggles," Oliver repeated, pointing at himself. "That's me, right? Non-magical?"
"Bingo," Sirius said with a smirk. "But don't worry, mate. You've got the jawline and the brooding stare. You'd pass for magical in the right light."
Oliver shot him a look. "You have fangs, or is that just your personality?"
Harry snorted. "He's got a bark and a bite. Literally. Animagus. Turns into a giant dog. You'd get along."
Oliver turned back to Moira. "You knew about this and didn't tell me?"
"You had just survived five years on an island crawling with God knows what," Moira said evenly. "We didn't think adding 'by the way, your cousin can shoot fireballs out of his hands' was a good way to say welcome home."
"Also," Thea chimed in, "he doesn't shoot fireballs, he kind of... summons them. Subtle difference."
Oliver ran a hand through his hair and paced. "Okay. Let me get this straight. Magic is real. You're all magical. Harry spends nine months of the year at a school for it."
"Hogwarts," Hermione supplied helpfully.
He stopped in his tracks. "Hog. Warts. That's what it's called?"
Thea bit her lip, suppressing laughter. "Yeah. Took me a week to stop making pig jokes."
"You go to a place called Hogwarts," Oliver repeated, deadpan.
Harry crossed his arms. "Look, the name may sound like something out of a failed Monty Python sketch, but it's produced some of the most powerful magical minds in history. And also Ron Weasley."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Don't start."
"Anyway," Harry continued, now clearly enjoying Oliver's slowly unraveling sanity, "yes, I went to school there, but Hermione and I recently graduated. Magic school. Very dangerous. Excellent dental plan."
"And you've been spending your summers here," Oliver said slowly. "Pretending you're just another spoiled teenager."
"I don't pretend," Harry said, mock-offended. "I excel at being a spoiled teenager."
Sirius grinned proudly. "That's my boy."
Oliver turned to Hermione. "And you're... what?"
"Witch," she said simply. "Top of our year. Prefect. Occasionally I save the world."
"And you?" he asked Sirius.
"Ex-Hitwizard, freedom fighter, godfather, part-time chaos gremlin. Oh, and wizard. With great hair."
Harry raised a hand. "Also turns into a dog."
"You mentioned," Oliver said dryly.
Sirius leaned forward, speaking quietly so Moira and Thea could hear. "I know you've seen violence, Queen. The worst the non-magical world can throw at someone. But you haven't seen our kind of monsters. There's a reason we keep the two worlds separate."
"And Harry?"
Hermione and Sirius exchanged a look.
"Harry's different," she said. "He's not just any wizard. He's fought in a war. Killed. Lost people. Came back stronger. He's... well, the magical world calls him The Boy Who Lived."
"And what do you call him?"
Thea grinned. "My nerdy badass cousin who once turned a Death Eater into a chicken nugget. True story."
"Also," Harry added with a wink, "Heir to multiple ancient houses, Master of Death, and annoyingly good at sarcasm."
Oliver finally let out a long sigh, rubbing his eyes. "You know what? Sure. Magic is real. I spent five years with a Russian mobster, a homicidal archer, and a Buddhist monk who collected antique guns. This? This is just Tuesday."
Hermione folded her arms. "Then welcome to the wizarding world, Mr. Queen."
"Just one thing," Oliver said, looking at Harry. "Next time, when we're in a firefight and you have an option between explaining or going all Houdini, give me a heads-up."
Harry smirked. "Where's the fun in that?"
Thea elbowed him. "You love being dramatic."
"I'm British," Harry said, with a flourish. "It's in the tea."
Oliver groaned. "I survived Lian Yu for this."
Sirius patted his shoulder. "Cheer up, Oliver. You haven't even seen him duel yet. That's when the fireworks really start."
Oliver muttered, "God help me."
—
Later That Night
The mansion had gone quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, like after a party or a long day. No, this was the storm's eye kind of silence—the moment between madness and more madness, the kind Oliver Queen had grown far too used to.
The talk with Harry and the others had gone... about as well as a sudden magic confession could go. There'd been explanations, name drops like Dark Lord, death curses, and something about Harry dying and coming back more than once—which, frankly, made Oliver's five years of torture and self-loathing look like a particularly rough spa retreat.
Now, alone in his room, he dropped into the chair at his desk and pulled up the file he'd been working on before the world flipped upside down.
Adam Hunt.
Even without Laurel's crusade against the guy, the name had sparked something dark and bitter in his memory. One of the first names in his father's journal. One of the first targets on his mission.
He needed that journal.
Reaching for his jacket draped over the chair, he shoved his hand into the inside pocket—
Nothing.
His brow furrowed.
He checked again. Then the other side. Then flipped the jacket around and patted it down like it was hiding a weapon.
Still nothing.
He stood up, searching the desk. The floor. The bathroom. Ripped the comforter off his bed, checked under the mattress—panic clawing at his chest with increasingly sharp nails.
The journal wasn't just important—it was everything. His father's list. His roadmap. His mission.
And it was gone.
His breath quickened. Hands flexed. Mind already racing through a hundred worst-case scenarios.
Had someone taken it?
Was it the break-in? Was someone targeting him now?
"Looking for this?" came a voice, too calm, too casual.
Oliver spun, instinctively reaching for a non-existent weapon.
Harry stood in the middle of the room.
No knock. No creak of a door.
Just—pop—Wizard achieved stealth landing.
In one hand, the boy held the familiar, weathered leather diary—his father's journal—like it was a schoolbook he'd borrowed.
His green eyes sparkled with that irritating mix of mischief and challenge. His hair was as messy as ever, his other hand holding what suspiciously looked like a Butterbeer.
"Had a little peek," Harry said, flipping the book open with one hand and wiggling his fingers at the names inside. "Not bad. Creepy, cryptic, weirdly poetic. Very 'Azkaban Bucket List' vibes. Ten points for dramatic handwriting."
Oliver stalked forward, eyes narrowed. "That's not yours."
Harry raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Didn't say it was. Just thought maybe a book full of dangerous names that literally has the potential to fuel a vengeance-fueled murder rampage shouldn't be left lying around."
"I had it," Oliver said through clenched teeth. "I was going to—"
"Put on a hoodie, go all growly-voice, and terrorize Hunt's bodyguards until he wet himself?" Harry offered, tossing the journal onto Oliver's bed. "Yes. We figured. Hermione's already doing background checks, by the way. You're welcome."
Oliver stared at him.
Harry gave him a casual smile, then turned to leave, his Butterbeer already half-gone. Just before vanishing through the doorway, he glanced back over his shoulder.
"Oh—and next time you lose something important, maybe check your pants before you assume Voldemort's ghost stole it."
Pop.
Gone.
Oliver stood alone in the room, staring at the journal on his bed, his jaw twitching.
He didn't like being caught off guard.
He especially didn't like being one-upped by an eigteen-year-old with a wand, a war record, and more sass than Thea on three Red Bulls.
But… damn it, he did like results.
---
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