The hallway smelled like antiseptic and secrets.
Moira Queen's Louboutin heels clipped against the marble-tile floor with a rhythm of unyielding control. Her designer trench coat—cashmere, sable-lined—hung on her like armor. Diamonds glittered at her ears, understated but unmistakable. Her makeup was immaculate, but her eyes? They were a battlefield.
She walked like a queen, chin high, shoulders squared. But inside, she was trembling. Because after five years of telling the press she believed, after countless charity events with a smile that never reached her eyes—Oliver was alive.
And apparently, he wasn't alone.
Doctor Lamb matched her stride, tablet in hand, his expression clinical but not unkind. He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who had told hundreds of families things they didn't want to hear—and knew just how hard to push.
"Mrs. Queen," he began, voice calm and precise, like he was dictating a surgical report instead of walking beside one of the wealthiest women in the city.
"Doctor Lamb," she replied without looking at him. "You've said the word 'prepare' three times already. I assure you, I've been preparing for five years. Just tell me—what has happened to my son?"
Lamb didn't flinch. He tapped the screen.
"Twenty percent of his body is covered in scar tissue. Most of it along the back and arms. He's suffered second-degree burns—healing, but not without pain. And the fractures—twelve in total. Ribs, ulna, femur. Some of them were rebroken. Reset without anesthesia, I imagine."
Moira stopped walking. Her mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. When she finally found her voice, it was thin and sharp. "He was twenty-two when he disappeared."
"I'm aware," Lamb said softly.
"He was a spoiled, reckless boy with a yacht and too many trust funds. And now you're telling me what? That he came back from hell?"
Lamb raised an eyebrow, just a twitch, before answering. "I'm saying he survived it."
Moira exhaled, trembling just beneath her sculpted exterior. "What else?"
He hesitated. Then continued, flipping to another scan. "Lacerations. Bullet wounds. Possible stab wounds. And scarring from what looks like shrapnel or an explosion. He's been through more than I can even list in a file."
Moira blinked, trying to blink away the images. "And his mind?"
Now Lamb stopped. "Mrs. Queen," he said, folding the tablet against his chest, "I am a trauma surgeon. Not a psychiatrist. But—off the record? He barely flinched when we inserted the IV. Didn't ask where he was. Didn't panic. Didn't react to my staff unless they made sudden moves. He's... quiet. Controlled. Like a man who's constantly looking for exits. Or threats."
Moira swallowed. "That doesn't sound like my son."
Lamb smiled, but it was tight. Sad. "With all due respect, ma'am—your son didn't come back. Someone did. But he's not the man in your family photos."
She narrowed her eyes. Her voice turned glacial. "Are you always this blunt with grieving mothers?"
He offered a wry smile. "Only the ones who can handle it."
Her lip twitched. "And how do you know I can?"
"Because you haven't fainted, cursed, or sued the hospital yet."
She snorted softly. "Give it time."
They reached the end of the hall. The door was heavier than the others—reinforced glass with a magnetic lock. A nurse with clearance tapped her badge and stepped aside.
Lamb turned to Moira, hand resting on the door. "One more thing."
She raised an eyebrow. "Another medical bombshell?"
"No," he said. "Just… don't expect a dramatic reunion. He won't cry. He won't run into your arms. He might not even look at you. Whatever he's been through? It didn't leave much room for sentiment."
Moira gave him a cold smile, the kind that once made CEOs crumble. "Doctor, I haven't dealt in sentiment since the day I buried two empty caskets."
He nodded once. "Then you'll do fine."
The door unlocked with a soft click.
Together, they stepped inside.
—
The room was cold—not temperature cold, but that kind of sterile, expectant cold where even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Oliver Queen sat upright in the hospital bed, a king on a throne of white sheets. Back stiff, hands folded loosely in his lap, veins still marked from the IV snaking up his arm. Grey T-shirt and scrub pants. Nothing flashy, no logos, no charm. No light to catch in his eyes.
His face was leaner, harder—like the island had chiseled away every ounce of softness. Hair longer than Moira would've allowed back when he was running late for school. Beard rough enough to scrape glass. But those eyes? They were ancient. Worn. Too old for twenty-seven.
The door opened with a soft click.
Oliver's gaze lifted but he didn't move. No rise from the bed, no grin, no greeting. Just a nod.
Moira's Louboutins clicked forward, slow and measured, but her heart was sprinting. "Oliver."
A beat.
Then another nod. Like a yes that didn't want to be said.
She swallowed. "It's me. Mom."
"I know." His voice was low, gravelly—like a secret long buried beneath dust and regret.
Moira blinked, her mouth dry. "You're here. Alive. I—God, I thought—I thought you were dead."
He shrugged like it was the most casual thing in the world. "I was. Then I wasn't."
"Right." She tried for a joke but it came out more like a hiccup. "You look—well, older. Thinner. Like you lost a fight with a wood chipper and forgot to tell the ref."
Oliver's lips twitched—almost a smile, but no warmth. "Close enough."
She stepped closer, eyes flicking to the scars peeking out from under his sleeve. "What the hell happened to you?"
He finally looked at her, really looked. "The island happened."
Moira's breath hitched. "Five years. You were on that island for five years?"
"Most of it," he said flatly, eyes flicking away.
She studied him, searching for cracks, for lies. Found none. "We sent search teams. Private contractors. Coast Guard. Wreckage was found. No body. I had you declared dead two years ago."
"I know," Oliver said. The words felt like a mantra.
Moira's throat tightened. "I didn't give up. Not really."
"I know."
That phrase again, like a ghost reading from a script. "What about the company? Walter's been holding the fort."
"I don't want it," Oliver said without hesitation.
Her eyebrows rose. "Excuse me?"
"I'm not ready for that life. Walter can keep the crown for now."
Moira's cold queen mask slipped for just a second, replaced by something raw and human. "You're not the boy I lost."
"Nope." His voice was dry, unapologetic. "I'm not."
"So who are you?"
Oliver locked eyes with her, voice quiet but certain. "Surviving."
Her knees finally gave out, and she sat, hands tight in her lap, the steel edge in her tone barely holding back the tremble. "Surviving is a start."
Oliver turned away, gaze distant, jaw clenched. "Some days, it's all there is."
Moira let silence fill the room. It was heavy, like the weight of all the years and all the things left unsaid.
"Don't expect a Hallmark moment," he added, as if reading her mind. "I'm not going to cry. I'm not running into your arms. Whatever broke me—it left little space for sentiment."
She chuckled, bitter but sharp. "Sentiment was the first casualty around here. I still remember the funeral. Two empty caskets. I didn't even get to bury my grief."
Oliver's gaze met hers again, softer now. "You recalibrate. You don't break."
She smiled—dry, knowing. "And you? You're still trying to figure out if you're broken or just rearranged."
He smirked faintly, a glimmer of the old Oliver shining through. "Some days, rearranged feels like a hell of an upgrade."
—
Outside the room, Dr. Lamb stood with folded arms, watching through the observation glass. His expression was calm but unreadable, a practiced mask that barely betrayed the weight of what he'd witnessed.
"She didn't cry," a nurse whispered.
Lamb gave a slow nod. "Moira Queen doesn't cry. She recalibrates."
The nurse snorted softly. "And the son?"
Lamb's eyes narrowed just a bit, thoughtful. "Oliver Queen? He's still in there somewhere. Underneath all that silence and scars. But he's not giving up his secrets anytime soon."
They watched as Oliver turned to the window, gaze fixed on a city that had forgotten him, a city that might one day regret it.
Still. Quiet.
Waiting.
For a chance to rewrite his story.
—
A few days later.
The backseat of the black Bentley was silent—at least on the surface. Inside, tension hummed like a taut violin string. The kind that didn't break. The kind that sliced.
Oliver Queen sat with his back against the leather seat, eyes forward, posture military-stiff despite the civilian clothes: dark jeans, charcoal button-down, sleeves rolled halfway up forearms still wrapped in faint medical tape. His hair was cropped short now—no longer wild, but controlled. Functional. Like everything else about him.
The beard was gone, trimmed into a reluctant stubble that seemed to cling to him out of habit. He looked clean. Presentable. Almost like a man. Except for the part where he still didn't blink enough. Or smile.
Moira Queen—diamond earrings, steel gaze, and a cashmere coat tailored to make statements in silence—sat beside him, legs crossed, one manicured hand cradling a glass of sparkling water like it was a martini.
She took a measured sip, turned to study her son, and said dryly, "Well. You clean up… marginally."
Oliver glanced her way, one eyebrow ticking upward. "Marginally?"
Moira gave a tight smile. "Don't push it. The stubble is tolerable. The haircut is a relief. And the fact that you're no longer tracking beach sand into my floors? A miracle."
"You missed me," he said.
She arched a brow. "Like a migraine."
That earned a chuckle—low, rasped, but real.
"You don't cry, do you?" he asked.
Moira tilted her head. "Do I look like a woman who cries?"
He gave a slow blink. "You look like someone who bills grief by the hour and always rounds up."
She smiled, this time genuinely, despite herself. "It's called compartmentalization, darling. You should try it. I hear it's excellent for men with... trauma."
"Wow. Subtle."
"I've never been accused of that before." She paused, tone shifting just slightly. "But I have been accused of being heartless. Usually by men who underestimate me."
Oliver leaned his head back against the seat. "That's not going to be a problem."
Moira studied him for a beat. "So. We've covered your grooming. Shall we move on to the billion-dollar elephant in the room?"
He groaned softly. "Let me guess. Walter again."
"He called four times. Left messages. Had flowers sent to your hospital room, which you ignored. The florist was insulted."
"I was unconscious the first two days," Oliver muttered.
"You weren't by the time the orchids arrived," Moira said smoothly. "They died in the vase."
Oliver stared out the window. "Good metaphor."
She let that hang for a second. "He wants to talk about your return. And the board. The stock is going to bounce the second you show your face at Queen Consolidated."
"I don't want the company."
"I know. But optics matter."
Oliver didn't respond right away. Finally, he muttered, "What if I'm not ready to be the man they want me to be?"
"You're a Queen," Moira said crisply. "You don't have the luxury of being ready. You just have to show up and scare the hell out of people until they fall in line."
He looked at her again, a trace of amusement behind his eyes. "You've been rehearsing that speech, haven't you?"
Moira tapped a perfectly lacquered nail against her glass. "Since the moment I heard you were alive. Rehearsing and rewriting it with every phone call to Walter, every sleepless night, and every perfectly chilled glass of sauvignon blanc."
Oliver was quiet again, but his lips quirked just slightly. "Well, now I feel special."
"You should. You're my son." She shifted to face him more fully, her tone softening—not by much, but enough. "And you're coming home."
"Queen Manor," he said, as if the words were a weight in his mouth.
"Home," she corrected.
He exhaled. "Not sure it feels like home anymore."
"It will," she promised. "Eventually."
Oliver tilted his head, watching her. "And if it doesn't?"
She leaned in slightly, voice like velvet over steel. "Then we pretend. Until it does."
The car turned up the long, gated drive of Queen Manor. Lights glowed in the windows. The kind of lights that suggested warmth, family, welcome.
Oliver stared at them like a man walking into a stranger's memory.
"I should warn you," Moira added, with the faintest smirk, "I had your old room repainted. The sports posters were... tragic."
Oliver's eyes flicked sideways. "Please tell me it's not lavender."
"I considered it," she said. "But ultimately settled on something masculine. Dark wood. Charcoal. You know. The aesthetic of brooding."
He smiled—just a little.
"Thanks."
"For the room?"
"For this," he said, quieter now. "For... still trying."
She looked at him, her own smile fading into something softer. Real. "You're my son, Oliver. I never stopped trying. I just stopped pretending I knew how."
The car pulled to a stop.
Neither of them moved.
Then Oliver straightened his jacket, opened the door, and stepped out into the cool night air.
The Queen had come home.
Now all he had to do... was figure out what kind of king he wanted to be.
—
The warm, golden light from the chandeliers hit Oliver like a punch to the gut—nostalgic, a little bittersweet. The scent of polished wood, old leather-bound books, and a faint trace of lilac potpourri hung in the air—the kind of scent you don't forget, no matter how far you run.
Oliver's boots echoed softly on the marble floor as he crossed the threshold, half-expecting the house to feel alien. Instead, it welcomed him like a whispered secret from the past.
Then—bam.
Something small and furious slammed into his midsection with the force of a heat-seeking missile.
"OLLIE!"
Oliver staggered back a step, blinking down at the whirlwind wrapped around him. Thea Queen, a living tornado with blonde hair and eyes blazing with a cocktail of relief and pent-up rage, had just tackled him like a linebacker.
"Hey—easy, Speedy," he wheezed, clutching his ribs. "You're gonna break me."
She looked up, eyes glossy and furious. "You were dead! Dead, Ollie! Five years of mourning and funerals, and poof—you decide to stroll in like some glossy cover model for 'PTSD Monthly' and expect me not to punch you?"
Oliver snorted, wrapping his arms around her in return. "Nice to see you too, Speedy."
Thea sniffled, squeezing him like he was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. "Don't you dare die on me again."
Oliver closed his eyes and rested his chin on her head. "Missed you, kid."
They stayed like that a moment longer—Thea clinging on like he was her tether to sanity, Oliver surprised at how right it felt.
"Also," Thea muttered, voice muffled, "you smell... weird."
Oliver smirked. "Coconut-scented trauma. I'm basically a walking vacation."
From behind them, the soft click of heels cut through the tension.
"If you're done attempting to murder your brother, Thea…" Moira Queen's voice purred from behind them, calm and sharp as a blade.
Thea released Oliver reluctantly, wiping her eyes but still bristling with energy. "He showed up out of nowhere, Mom! Like a damn ghost with abs."
Moira stepped into the light, flawless as ever—impeccably dressed, radiating that 'I'm-in-control' aura like it was oxygen. "Well, I'm glad you're back and intact." She cast a sidelong glance at Oliver. "Though I half-expected to find you in a ditch somewhere, missing more limbs."
Oliver shrugged, voice low and dry. "Ditch was overrated. Figured I'd try the whole 'homecoming' thing instead."
Moira arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "Bold choice."
Thea flopped dramatically onto the nearest armchair, folding her arms. "So what's the plan, Mom? You said something about tomorrow?"
Moira's smile tightened—business mode activated. "Yes. Tomorrow, we officially welcome Harry back."
Oliver blinked. "Harry?"
Thea glanced at Oliver, eyes wide. "Seriously? You don't know who Harry is?"
Oliver gave a slow, sarcastic clap. "Nope. My family's gone full mystery tour without me."
Moira's lips curved into a knowing smile. "Harry is... your cousin. Well, second cousin once removed, technically."
Oliver made a face. "Great. More relatives."
"His mother was Lily Evans Potter. My cousin on my mother's side." Moira's tone softened, just a fraction. "She and her husband James were killed—seventeen years ago. Harry was presumed dead along with them."
Thea leaned forward, whispering with mock drama, "Spoiler alert: he wasn't."
Oliver rubbed his jaw. "Right... so why am I just hearing about this now?"
Moira's voice took on that carefully polished edge that said I've got secrets, and you're gonna listen anyway. "Five years ago, I was traveling for work. You and your father were lost at sea, presumed dead, and I—well, I was drowning in grief, throwing myself into business to forget."
Oliver folded his arms, waiting.
"On a stop in London," she continued, "I visited Petunia Dursley. Another cousin. Her sister was Lily. There I found Harry."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Found him? Like... where?"
Moira's tone dropped, thick with distaste. "Locked in the smallest bedroom, with enough padlocks on the door to put a prison cell to shame. And his previous 'bedroom' was cupboard under the stairs until he was eleven."
Oliver gasped, eyes wide. "Like literally under the stairs? Not a metaphor?"
Moira gave a dry nod. "Literal. The Dursleys treated him like garbage. He was a prisoner in his own home."
Oliver's jaw tightened, anger flickering across his face. "Jesus."
Moira nodded slowly. "I couldn't just walk away. Not then, not when I'd just lost you. Taking Harry in—getting him out—gave me a reason to keep moving forward."
Thea grinned, exhaling a laugh. "He became my annoying big brother. Nerdy, stubborn, kinda weird, but cool in a way only he is."
Oliver smiled faintly. "Where is he now?"
"A very exclusive boarding school in the Scottish Highlands," Moira said with a smirk. "One his parents attended. Harry was enrolled there from birth."
Oliver raised a brow. "Exclusive how? Like 'let's make sure this place costs more than my life' exclusive?"
"Let's just say, you won't believe your eyes when you see it," Thea said, winking.
"And he'll want to make sure you're not a crazy imposter," Moira added. "Harry's protective. Don't take it personally."
Oliver ran a hand through his stubbled jaw, processing. "So, I'm not the only 'miracle return from the dead' in this family?"
"Nope," Thea said, deadpan. "But don't worry—he doesn't go around shooting arrows."
Moira's smile was sly. "Not unless absolutely necessary."
Oliver looked at them both, shaking his head with a half-laugh. "This just got way more complicated."
Moira stepped forward, voice silk wrapped around steel. "You'll fit in just fine."
Thea slid her hand into Oliver's. "Welcome home, Ollie."
Oliver squeezed it gently, glancing between them—between the past he thought was gone, and this strange new family waiting for him.
Maybe this time, he thought... maybe this time it would be different.
—
The sleek black car rolled to a near-silent stop on the tarmac, the distant drone of jets punctuated by the occasional crackle over the radio. Oliver sat stiff as a board, jaw tight, eyes locked on the horizon like a soldier preparing for battle. Sunlight caught the sharp angles of his stubble, casting half his face in shadow.
Beside him, Thea was practically vibrating with impatience, her foot tapping a rapid Morse code against the floor mat.
Moira, ever the picture of composed grace, adjusted her designer sunglasses with a slow, deliberate tilt of her head. Her voice was smooth silk over steel: "Here we are."
Thea snorted, a crooked grin tugging at her lips. "You're about to make a complete ass of yourself trying to pretend you're not the walking dead."
Oliver sighed, dragging a hand through his hair and shooting Thea a look that clearly said Thanks for the pep talk. "Oh, great. Can't wait to trip over my own feet in front of strangers again."
The chauffeur opened the door with a precise click, and Thea was already out, a blur of motion that practically dragged Moira and Oliver along like rag dolls as they headed toward the jet.
"Alright, listen up," Thea said over her shoulder, smirking as she bounced on the balls of her feet. "You're not just meeting Harry. He's got company."
Oliver arched a brow. "Company?"
Thea rolled her eyes so hard it was audible. "Yeah, yeah. His godfather, Sirius Black. Old money, old secrets, the usual 'vanished into thin air when tragedy struck' routine."
Moira's voice cut in, smooth and precise like a scalpel. "Sirius was presumed dead for years—disappeared at the same time the Potters died. Then, four years ago, he was found."
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Found? Why? What happened?"
Thea tossed her hair, her smirk sharpening. "Apparently, losing James Potter—who was like a brother to him—sent Sirius into some kind of full-on mental shutdown. Total amnesia. The mysterious lost heir with a flair for dramatic timing."
Oliver shook his head, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Fantastic. Can't wait to dive into that dysfunctional reunion."
"Wait—there's more." Thea's grin widened. "They didn't come alone. Harry's best friend Hermione's with him. The ultimate know-it-all. The kind of friend who beats you to the punch—and then lectures you about it for an hour."
Moira fixed Oliver with a look so sharp it could slice diamonds. "I trust you'll keep up."
Oliver's grin went dry and sardonic. "Fake it 'til you make it. That's my motto."
The jet's ramp began to lower, sunlight glinting off the polished fuselage like a spotlight. Oliver's heart hammered—an odd mix of nerves, curiosity, and a whisper of hope.
Thea leaned in, voice low and conspiratorial. "Ready to meet the rest of your new fan club?"
Oliver glanced at the endless blue sky, then back to the open ramp. "As ready as I'll ever be."
Moira's heels clicked behind them, each step deliberate and sure. "Then let's go greet them."
—
The jet's ramp descended with a soft hydraulic hiss, like some ancient beast exhaling a breath it had held for centuries. Sunlight struck the sleek metal at just the right angle to momentarily blind anyone who dared look too directly at the gleaming fuselage. From within, the shadows moved.
He was tall. Taller than Oliver had expected. Six feet easy, lean like a blade, but broad across the shoulders and radiating that quiet, unmistakable confidence of someone who'd been through fire and come out forged. His black button-down sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, and his jeans bore the honest wear of someone who didn't give a damn about fashion but still managed to look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.
Messy black hair framed a chiseled face, and the sunlight caught on startling green eyes that burned like polished emeralds. A faint, silvery ghost of a scar long faded above his right brow. He looked like a prince who'd left his crown behind because it got in the way of a good fight.
"There he is," Thea said, her voice a cross between a sigh and a squeal. She elbowed Oliver in the ribs hard enough to make him grunt. "The Boy Who Lived to Grow Up and Get Abs."
Oliver squinted. "He doesn't look like a nerd."
Harry spotted them. His face lit up in a way that was too genuine to be rehearsed.
"Aunt Moira!" he called, already striding down the ramp.
"Did he just—?" Oliver began.
"Yup," Thea said with a smug grin. "Calls her that. Always has. Moira insists it was 'charming' when he was eleven. Now she just pretends not to love it."
Moira Queen, icy as ever in her tailored cream suit and oversized sunglasses, let the faintest smile curve her lips. As Harry reached her, she removed her shades with the kind of slow, deliberate elegance that could command a boardroom or a battlefield.
"Harry," she said, voice smooth as aged scotch. "Still refusing to grow out of calling me 'Aunt'?"
He leaned in and kissed her cheek, eyes dancing. "You always were my favorite aunt. And still terrifying, but in a classy, Sharon-Stone-in-Basic-Instinct kind of way."
Moira chuckled, a rare sound. "You always knew how to flatter dangerously."
"Occupational hazard," Harry said.
Then his eyes swung to Thea.
"Oi," he said with a wicked grin. "There's my pipsqueak. Still vertically challenged, I see."
"Still irritatingly tall, I see," she shot back, and launched herself into his arms. Harry caught her effortlessly, spinning her around once before setting her down.
"And still using hair products that could double as industrial glue," he teased.
"Still not wearing your glasses, I see," she countered, poking him in the ribs. "You're a traitor to every nerdy teenage fantasy."
"I keep them around for nostalgia. And for days when I feel like looking blurry."
"You're lucky you're hot now," Thea said. "Because if you weren't, that level of sass would be a war crime."
Harry turned to Oliver at last. There was something in his posture that shifted—a respectful kind of alertness. A soldier recognizing another.
"Oliver Queen," he said, extending a hand. "Good to finally meet the man I've heard far too many stories about."
Oliver took his hand, gripping it firmly. "You know about those stories?"
Harry's grin turned dangerous. "I know everything. Hermione says it makes me insufferable. I call it 'well-informed.'"
Oliver smirked. "Bet she calls it 'annoying as hell.'"
"She does," Harry agreed. "Often."
Another figure appeared on the ramp.
Sirius Black descended with a kind of slow, liquid grace that made it very clear he was more wolf than man. His black coat flared slightly with each step, the long waves of his hair framing a face that was all mischief and pain and magnetism. He looked like a cross between a biker king and a gothic romance novel cover model. And he made it work.
"Moira," he said with a smirk that could melt glaciers. "Still regal. Still terrifying. Still wouldn't want to play poker against you."
"Still wearing that coat like you're leading a revolution in 1887," Moira returned, lips quirking. "You haven't changed a bit."
"Flatter me more," Sirius purred. Then he turned to the others. "You must be Thea. You look exactly like your mother. And you," he said, eyes narrowing slightly at Oliver, "you look like someone who knows how to survive the impossible."
"Oliver," he said evenly. "And you must be the dead godfather."
Sirius grinned. "Once and future. Don't worry, I only bite when provoked."
"Good to know," Oliver said, unimpressed.
And then she stepped off the plane.
Hermione Granger. Tall-ish, confident, blazer tailored to perfection, hair a halo of glossy brown curls that shimmered in the sun. She carried herself like a diplomat who'd ended wars over tea. Her eyes flicked over them all like she was already categorizing weaknesses and planning improvements.
"Honestly," she said with a crisp British lilt, "you'd think none of you had ever seen a private jet before."
"And there's our icebreaker," Harry said, making a show of sighing. "Hermione Jean Granger, ladies and gentlemen: beautiful, brilliant, and absolutely no chill."
Hermione rolled her eyes and extended a hand to Moira. "Ms. Queen. It's an honor."
"Likewise," Moira said, giving a rare nod of approval. "I've heard... volumes."
"Please disregard half of them," Hermione said. "The half that came from Sirius."
"Oi," Sirius muttered. "I tell excellent stories."
"You embellish like you're trying to get a publishing deal," she shot back.
Oliver stood back, watching. They were a unit. That much was clear. These three had been through hell together. The kind of hell that either broke people or bound them together like blood.
"We should head out," Moira said smoothly. "There's too much sun and not nearly enough wine on this tarmac."
"Couldn't agree more," Hermione said.
They began to walk. Harry fell into step beside Oliver, hands in his pockets, still casual but sharp-eyed.
"So," Harry said. "What's it like coming back from the dead?"
Oliver smirked. "Was hoping you'd tell me what it's like surviving the Dursleys."
Harry made a face. "Touché. Let's trade trauma over whiskey sometime. I'll bring the firewhisky, you bring the brooding."
"Deal," Oliver said.
Behind them, Thea hooked an arm through Hermione's.
"Okay, so be honest," Thea said. "How many embarrassing stories about Harry do you have?"
Hermione smiled sweetly. "Do you want them alphabetically, chronologically, or categorized by emotional damage?"
"Yes," Thea grinned.
Sirius ambled behind them, hands in his pockets, watching like a wolf content to let the cubs play. "I lived those stories. You want the real dirt, you come to me."
"This was a mistake," Harry muttered.
"Welcome to the family," Oliver replied.
Harry sighed. "Bloody brilliant."
—
The car hummed softly as they rolled off the tarmac, the city lights flickering like distant stars as Queen Manor drew nearer. The six of them settled into the back seat of the sleek black SUV, a bubble of quiet energy buzzing between them.
Oliver took the window seat, arms crossed, eyes flicking between the others like a man trying to decode an intricate puzzle he wasn't fully invited to solve. Harry sat next to him, feet casually stretched out, an amused smirk playing on his lips like he already knew some secret Oliver didn't.
Hermione was perched primly in the middle, a notebook balanced on her knee, though she wasn't writing. She was just... observing. Sirius leaned back with that wolfish grin that seemed to say he'd been through too much to be surprised by anything anymore. Thea was bouncing a little in her seat, the energy of a kid who'd just found the coolest secret clubhouse in the world.
"So," Oliver said, breaking the low hum of the engine, "how exactly do you all know each other? And what is this thing with 'firewhisky' that keeps getting mentioned? Sounds like a bad decision waiting to happen."
Harry exchanged a quick glance with Hermione and Sirius, who both rolled their eyes but didn't stop the smiles.
"Oh, firewhisky is... well, let's just say it's the kind of drink you want when your life's a little too complicated for regular whiskey," Hermione said smoothly, voice casual but with that tiny edge that made it sound like a line from a story Oliver wasn't supposed to fully get.
Sirius grinned, showing a flash of teeth. "And when you've faced things most people don't even dream about, you learn to appreciate the finer things. Or the fiery things. Sometimes both."
Thea chimed in, voice light and teasing, "You'd never believe what kind of stories come up after a couple of those. We have a running bet on who can survive the worst nonsense without losing their mind."
Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like you all have a habit of attracting chaos."
Harry's grin deepened. "You could say that. It's like a talent we don't remember signing up for."
Hermione's eyes flicked to the window, a shadow of something unreadable passing over her face before she smiled again. "Let's just say some of us have seen the world from angles others haven't."
Oliver caught the subtle exchange and leaned back. "Right... angles."
A brief silence fell, but it was comfortable. Then Thea nudged Harry and whispered, loud enough for Oliver to hear, "Still not telling him, huh?"
Harry's eyes twinkled. "Not yet. Timing's everything, pipsqueak."
Sirius snorted quietly. "He's got plenty to catch up on before we start throwing impossible at him."
Oliver tilted his head. "You make it sound like a really exclusive club."
Harry laughed softly, but there was a sharpness underneath. "Exclusive is one word for it. Dangerous is another. And if you're lucky, it's also kind of family."
Hermione folded her notebook shut. "And family means you don't get to choose all the chaos. Sometimes, it just chooses you."
Oliver gave a slow nod, still processing but intrigued. "Well, I guess I'm honored to be part of... whatever this is."
Harry's grin was all warmth now. "Welcome to the mess, Oliver. Buckle up."
The SUV sped through the night, the city lights slipping past like a river of secrets. And in the backseat, the six of them settled into something unspoken — a bond forged in fire, mystery, and a thousand shared stories waiting to be told.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!