Aberystwyth – The Circle's Arrival
12:00 PM – Eclipse Commencement
The moment they arrived, the ground recoiled.
A low, guttural hum pulsed beneath the cliffs of Aberystwyth—not magical, not mechanical. Older. Primordial. Like the land had been coerced into remembering something it had buried deep, and for good reason.
Above, the sky bled eclipse-red, the sun shrouded in a hateful halo, light refracted into furious crimson shards. The altar, carved from star-burned basalt and older than any Ministry record, waited like a hungry thing. No birds. No wind. Just silence, taut as a drawn bowstring.
The Circle of Coiled Tongues arrived in perfect formation. Their robes, black as dried blood and lined with whispering runes, snapped in the rising heat. They moved like a single entity—religious, militaristic, wrong.
Zoric led them. Tall. Cadaverous. Regal in the way kings used to be before kingdoms were considered optional. Each step of his staff cracked the ground like brittle ice, roots of something ancient crawling up in protest.
Behind him, Delphini was dragged like a condemned witch from some medieval engraving. Shackled. Hooded. Her limp form painted in charcoal, grime, and dried blood. But her breath fluttered beneath the cloth, soft and rhythmic, whispering runes to herself in broken syllables.
The Legati Noctis emerged next.
They poured from the ruined towers like spilled ink, each a black-on-black blur of vanity and violence. Blade-lined thighs. Custom dragonhide wand holsters. Their silver insignias shimmered faintly: the ouroboros, fanged.
Draco Malfoy was first to speak. His voice, clipped and cold, cut through the tense air like a blade.
"High Priest Zoric," he said, hands clasped behind his back. "You're late."
Zoric didn't stop. He offered the boy a smile as thin and dry as old parchment. "Power arrives precisely when it chooses. Never a second before."
Theodore Nott, standing just behind Draco, snorted.
"Yeah, well, we cleared a two-mile radius. No residual magic. Even checked for auror cockroaches. You're welcome, by the way."
"Excellent," Zoric replied, utterly ignoring the sarcasm. He turned toward the altar, breath misting faintly in the unnatural chill. "Then let the rebirth begin."
—
The Altar
Delphini hit her knees. Hard.
The hood was yanked off with a flourish, dragging strands of her silver-blonde hair across her face like wet lace. Her eyes stayed lowered. But her fingers twitched.
The serpent ring—Anastasia's gift—responded. One wrong breath would trigger the portkey. One right breath, and maybe she wouldn't die today.
Irina Zoric crouched beside her. All velvet menace and sculpted cruelty. A dagger gleamed in one hand; the other lifted Delphini's chin.
"Still pretending you have nothing to say?" Irina purred.
Delphini looked her dead in the eye.
"I'm saving my breath," she whispered, voice like coiled lightning, "for your eulogy."
Irina smiled. Beautiful. Poisonous. Deadly.
"You won't get the chance."
The Circle moved into their positions, humming the Aberystwyth Litany, low and guttural. The basalt underfoot pulsed like it had a heartbeat.
Anastasia moved like a shadow through the ranks—hooded, unnoticed, lethal. She reached beneath her robes, fingers finding her wand. A flick, a murmur, and the barrier lattice at the altar base would fall.
Almost.
Almost.
Thwick.
The sound was delicate. Beautiful, even.
An arrow, red-fletched, hissed through the air and buried itself in the throat of the acolyte standing beside Zoric. He staggered, gurgled, then fell.
Someone screamed.
"AMBUSH!"
Curses cracked the air like thunder. A second arrow—brown-fletched this time—punched clean through a Legatus' wand-hand, spinning him to the dirt. A third—red again—struck Vadim Krall in the eye. He fell without grace.
Delphini didn't flinch. She rolled, fast and low, to the base of the altar, shielding her head with her shackled arms. The air burned with magic and panic. Irina cursed in Latin, her voice spitting fury. Anastasia let loose a blasting hex, scattering acolytes like leaves.
"Where are they?!" Draco shouted, yanking Nott back behind cover.
Nott snarled, already casting defensive barriers. "They're elevated. Or Disillusioned. Or both. Gods, they're good."
Thwick-thwick-thwick.
More arrows. Faster. Relentless. Precise.
Delphini pressed her back to the altar. Her lungs were fighting her ribs. She risked a glance.
Red fletching.
Her stomach twisted.
She knew that mark. Had seen it in a nightmare and a memory. Her father had died like this. Not in battle, not screaming. But silent. Swift. One arrow. One kill.
And only one man used arrows like that.
Harry Potter.
A brown-fletched shaft shattered the ritual bowl. Phoenix ash, powdered bone, sacred salts—all scattered into the wind.
Anastasia skidded beside her, blood streaking her temple.
"You're bleeding," Delphini said, blinking.
Anastasia grinned, eyes glittering.
"Better me than the world."
"Was this part of the plan?"
"Plan?" Anastasia laughed darkly. "Darling, this is jazz."
Delphini allowed herself a single, breathless laugh. It tasted like smoke and adrenaline.
Another arrow. Red. It struck a chanting priest in the ribs.
Delphini bared her teeth.
"Come on, Potter," she whispered, eyes scanning the ruins. "Show me your bloody face."
—
Delphini peered over the altar's jagged edge, eyes narrowed against the eclipse-blood light that painted everything in shades of ruin. Her breath ghosted from her lips, shallow and quick. Smoke. Blood. Panic. It tasted like prophecy.
There.
On the cliffs, a figure stood framed by the bruised sky.
His armor gleamed blood-red and black, not sleek like a Malfoy heirloom but scarred, battle-worn—meant for war, not ceremony. The red hood clung to his head like a shroud, but it was the mask that made Delphini's stomach twist. Matte black. Sculpted. Predatory. No eyes, just lenses—white and glowing, like twin ghosts staring back at her across time.
He moved with terrifying calm, drawing an arrow from the crimson quiver at his back. The red recurve bow in his hands shimmered with enchantment—runic fire veins glowed faintly across its limbs. Not decorative. Purposeful. Ancient.
Delphini exhaled one word.
"Potter."
Beside him, another silhouette crouched low. Smaller. Feminine. Her armor was brown and black, designed not to intimidate but to vanish. A brown hood shadowed her face, but the amber gleam of her eyes behind the bow's sightline betrayed her.
Hermione Granger.
The Mudblood everyone whispered about like a ghost story. Potter's shadow. His sword arm. His conscience.
Now, she looked like vengeance made flesh.
Then came more.
From the opposite cliffside, like frost pulled from the bones of the world, a third figure dropped from the sky with balletic grace. Female. Her bodysuit shimmered in icy-white and blue, Norse runes etched across it in jagged script. Her hood covered everything, even her voice—when she spoke, it was reverb-laced and cold enough to shatter bone.
"Circle formation. Phase Two."
Delphini's breath caught.
Another figure emerged next. This one darker, wrapped in black armor that clung to her like a second skin. Crimson Gaelic runes glowed beneath the surface. Her hood was low, her face hidden behind a black half-mask streaked with red—like blood smeared on with purpose. She drew a short blade, then flicked her wrist. A wand slid down from her sleeve into her waiting hand with a practiced snap.
She looked like a nightmare written in ink and fire.
"Who the hell are they?" Anastasia hissed beside her, ducking back behind the altar. Her usually perfect lips were curled in a feral snarl, one green eye streaked with blood from a cut above her temple. She looked like sin wearing velvet.
Delphini didn't answer.
Because the fifth one arrived.
A tank of a man. Towering. Built like a mountain trying to pass for a man. His armor was ashy green and brown, broad as a castle gate, runes etched into it—druidic, old and patient. Only visible with Mage Sight, which both Delphini and Anastasia had. His hood was military green. His mask full-face, brutal, faceless. Pale green lenses glowed beneath it.
He didn't use a wand.
He didn't need to.
He charged like a crashing wave and collided with the Legati Noctis. Bones shattered. Spells fizzled. Fists glowed with wild forest energy, vines erupting from the earth to lash ankles, roots twisting around necks.
Anastasia muttered, voice low. "He fights like he was born in a Weirwood."
The ice-clad woman landed in a spiraling windblast, skewering a Legatus mid-air with a shard of magic-forged icicle. Her runes pulsed as she landed, freezing the very blood beneath her. A curse flew at her.
She spun.
Batted it aside with a wall of snow.
Turned the caster into a sculpture of frost and regret.
Delphini couldn't look away.
The black-armored woman moved through the chaos like a dance choreographed by war gods. Blade in one hand, wand in the other, she was a symphony of death. Gaelic curses hissed from her lips. One Legatus tried to disarm her—she ducked, slid, sliced.
He lost the hand. And then the rest of him.
Up on the cliff, Potter loosed three arrows in the span of a heartbeat.
One ended a priest mid-chant.
The second dropped an acolyte who had just taken aim at Anastasia.
The third—this one glowing—split a curse mid-air, dissolving the spell matrix with surgical precision.
Delphini exhaled.
She wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or kneel.
"That's not just Potter," she said, almost to herself.
Anastasia turned to her, brushing a lock of blood-matted hair from her temple. "What is it then?"
Delphini's lips twisted into a grin that was too wide, too teeth-bared to be sane.
"It's a reckoning."
More figures moved below—Draco was barking orders, his voice sharp, clipped, and increasingly panicked.
"Get me eyes on Potter! I want him dead yesterday!"
"Too late for that," came Nott's dry voice as he conjured a shimmering wall to block a barrage of hexes. "He's already in our walls, Draco."
"He's on the cliff."
"Metaphor, you vanilla bastard!"
Zoric stood tall amidst the chaos, his staff glowing with restrained power, but his expression was unreadable. Cold. Calculating. The wind didn't touch him.
Irina Zoric, still near the altar, eyes narrowed like slits of obsidian. Her lips curled as she drew her wand and raised it toward the cliff.
"Ignis Exuro," she whispered.
The sky split open.
A wave of flame surged across the battlefield—
And was immediately snuffed out by a sudden blizzard. Ice met fire. The battlefield hissed, steamed. Frost won.
Irina blinked.
"Charming," she muttered.
Delphini turned to Anastasia again, eyes burning.
"You still think we're going to survive this?"
Anastasia smirked, wiped the blood from her cheek with the back of her hand, and flicked her wand.
"Survive? No, darling. But we're going to make it epic."
Potter still hadn't shown his face.
But his fury had. And it wore five masks.
And Aberystwyth would never forget them.
—
Zoric's eyes flared the color of glacier-ice catching moonlight, his fury quiet but absolute. The shattered remnants of his carefully drawn ritual circle hissed like a wounded serpent beneath him.
"The circle is broken," he murmured, voice low and dangerous.
He raised his staff and brought it down with a CRACK, sending a shockwave through the basalt floor that split the ancient runes like dry bone. Embers of corrupted magic flickered in the air like dying fireflies.
"Plan A is dead," he said simply.
Delphini winced as he seized her by the wrist with a grip that spoke of control, not compassion. Blood crusted her temple from where she'd been thrown earlier, her silver-blonde hair matted and wild.
"Don't touch me," she snarled, trying to yank her arm away.
"Your blood is required, not your permission," Zoric replied, already dragging her toward the altar's heart.
Anastasia surged forward, black cloak billowing like a dying flame.
"Let her go!"
A burst of ancient energy snapped outward from the altar, slamming her into a fractured pillar. She groaned as she hit the stone, but her eyes never left Delphini.
"No," she spat. "You're not doing this."
Zoric didn't bother replying. His tongue hissed and curled as Parseltongue poured from his mouth like poisoned silk. The runes flared venom-green. Spectral chains rose from the floor like ghostly vipers and wrapped around Delphini's wrists, tightening until she cried out.
The ritual dagger shimmered in his hand—black as a starless night, pulsing like a heartbeat. He knelt.
"Sinthiuz selathri..."
The blade kissed Delphini's skin, slicing with surgical cruelty. Blood hissed where it touched the altar. The runes drank deep.
Delphini bit down hard, refusing to scream. Her eyes, dark and furious, locked with Zoric's.
"You'll die for this."
Zoric only smiled. "Possibly. But first, you'll be useful."
—
Cliffside Overlooking the Ruins
"Showtime," Harry said, and jumped.
Hermione followed an instant later, landing beside him in perfect sync. Their cloaks flared, magic flickering like sparks from a live wire.
Behind them, three hooded figures dropped to the earth in smooth, predatory movements. Their hoods fell back, and the final tableau formed like a five-part sigil of vengeance.
Harry Potter — emerald eyes, jaw set, and an impossibly calm fury in his gaze.
Hermione Granger — all tactical brilliance and measured rage, curls bound back, eyes sharper than her wand.
Daphne Greengrass — gorgeous in icy-white, the curve of her lips pure danger. Her skin glowed under rune-light like frost kissed by moonfire.
Susan Bones — red curls wild, crimson-streaked armor hugging every curve like war was a fashion show.
Neville Longbottom — a wall of muscle and moss, with a wand that looked like it was carved from a tree that had eaten men.
Together, they surged forward.
—
Approaching the Altar
"You always pick the most romantic places for a date," Daphne drawled as they dashed between fire-blasted pillars.
"You love it. Admit it," Harry replied, casually blasting a ward glyph to pieces without breaking stride.
"You're lucky you're pretty, Potter."
"He's not the only pretty one," Susan quipped from behind them. Her voice purred through battle noise like silk over steel.
Daphne tossed her a wink. "We know. But give us five minutes and a blood moon, and maybe we'll let you pick dessert."
"I'll bring whipped cream," Susan smirked.
"Focus," Hermione snapped, but there was no bite in it. Her eyes flicked between runes and angles like a war computer calculating doom.
Neville landed beside them with a grunt, vines snaking up his arms. "Less flirting. More smashing."
"You're just jealous no one flirts with you, Nev," Harry said.
"They don't flirt with oak trees either. Doesn't mean trees aren't useful."
Harry grinned. "Neville, I swear to Merlin, if you start photosynthesizing mid-battle, I'm putting it on a t-shirt."
—
The Altar — Last Bastion
Draco Malfoy stood at the threshold like a man who wanted to be anywhere else but refused to run. Wand ready. Jaw clenched.
"Potter," he said.
"Ferret," Harry greeted cheerfully.
"You really can't help yourself, can you?"
"Nope. It's a gift."
Theodore Nott emerged beside Irina—tall, lean, and untrustworthy as a shadow. Irina's black leather shimmered with enchantments; her eyes, Katie McGrath cold, locked with Hermione's.
"They're already in position," Irina warned.
"Let them come," Zoric replied from the altar, chanting faster now. The air warped around him. Reality was thinning.
Daphne's wand slashed and a ribbon of icy magic cleaved toward Irina. She deflected it with a twist of her wrist, sneering.
"Try harder, darling."
"Why? You'll melt soon enough."
"Bold talk for a Greengrass."
"That's Lady Greengrass to you, witch."
Hermione flicked her wand and a cascade of fire rolled over Nott. He screamed, dropping to a knee.
Neville punched the ground. Roots exploded upward, binding Nott where he stood.
"One down," Neville growled.
Draco hurled a cutting curse that Harry sidestepped casually.
"Still trying that one? It didn't work when we were twelve."
Harry retaliated with a hex that shattered the stones at Draco's feet. Malfoy stumbled, barely catching himself.
"You've gotten smug."
"I've earned it."
Behind them, Delphini's scream cracked the air. Harry turned, expression darkening.
"Now," he said. "We end this."
He raised his hand, and golden light burst from his palm. Not a spell. Not wandwork. Something older. Something deeper.
The Phoenix within him sang.
Zoric paused mid-chant, eyes narrowing.
"Ah," he whispered. "So that's what you are."
And then the sky cracked open.
—
The air throbbed with raw magic, the ancient runes beneath their feet pulsing venom-green like a heart about to explode. Delphini's blood seeped slowly, staining the basalt crimson — the color of fresh ink spilled on parchment too old to forgive.
Zoric's chant twisted the atmosphere, thick and choking, as if the very daylight were bleeding out. His eyes locked on Harry with the cold certainty of a snake about to strike.
"Right then," Harry said, jaw tight, emerald eyes flashing bright enough to burn. "Time to rearrange your little poetry recital."
He lifted his hand, and the world shattered.
The barrier—an ancient shimmer of spellcraft and desperation—cracked and splintered like stained glass struck by a hammer. The phoenix in Harry's aura flared gold and fierce, a storm wrapped in flesh and bone.
Zoric staggered, lips parting in disbelief. The staff slipped from his grasp with a hollow clatter.
Before he could recover, Harry was on him. One grab, one slam.
The sickening snap of Zoric's neck echoed like thunder.
"Not today, you overgrown basilisk," Harry hissed, voice low and venomous.
Zoric's body crumpled lifeless, but the altar beneath them hummed with a dark pulse—unstoppable.
Harry's eyes snapped to Delphini, her wrists bound by spectral chains, her blood staining the runes like a traitor's signature. Her face was pale, but her eyes blazed with furious defiance.
"Don't get too comfortable," Harry muttered under his breath. He exhaled, summoning something older than magic—something primal and fierce.
From his back, the sword whispered into being. Crimson blade gleaming like a shard of sunset on fire, black handle wrapped in runes that flickered faintly—like the sword of an elven king, forged in shadow and blood.
He lifted it high.
"This ends now," Harry said, voice steel and ice.
The blade hovered, poised to sever the last thread binding Voldemort's cursed line to this world.
Then—
"Stop."
Harry froze, gaze locked on the figure stepping from the shadows.
Anastasia. Eva Green's icy fire burned in every word, her voice low and steady.
"Delphini isn't your enemy," she said, stepping forward, eyes fierce. "She's the daughter of a mad, megalomaniac bastard. She hates him. Hates everything he stood for."
Harry's blade hovered mere inches from Delphini's throat. The tension crackled like a live wire.
"Don't make this your war, Potter," Anastasia pressed, voice soft but unyielding. "Let the girl live. Let us end this darkness on our terms."
Delphini's eyes flicked between them—exhausted, terrified, yet burning with a stubborn spark.
Harry's mouth twitched, half-smirk breaking through the storm of his fury.
"Well, isn't this a charming little love triangle," he muttered. "Except I'm the one holding the knife."
Delphini lifted her chin, voice shaky but sharp.
"You don't know me. You don't know what I've been through." Her voice cracked like a whip. "I didn't ask for this. I don't want him back."
Harry studied her, the truth raw in her eyes. Then back to Anastasia, whose gaze never faltered.
He sighed, the weight of centuries settling on his shoulders.
"Fine. But if you betray me, I swear—"
"I know," Anastasia said, her smile cold and brief. "You'll burn the whole bloody world down."
Harry's blade pulsed, hungry for blood, yet he held it back.
The altar's cursed glow cast long shadows, the ritual bleeding time away.
The war was far from over.
—
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath.
Then Harry lowered the sword.
It didn't fall. It vanished—the blade slipping into his back as if swallowed by air itself. Runes along the curve of his red-and-black armor pulsed gold for a moment, then dimmed.
A distant phoenix call rang across the scorched wind. No mouth made the sound, and yet they all heard it.
Delphini blinked up at him, wrists still bound in ghostly chains. Blood dripped slowly from her arms, dark against the broken altar. Her hair hung in wild tangles, her lips parted with disbelief. The ritual circle beneath her trembled like a cornered animal.
Harry Potter stepped forward, calmly, deliberately.
The sleeves of his armor peeled back without a touch—woven magic responding to its master's will. His forearms, bare now, revealed scarred sigils, phoenix glyphs, and thin, golden threads coiled like sunlight stitched into skin.
He crouched beside Zoric's broken corpse, picked up the ritual dagger without hesitation.
"Harry, what the bloody hell are you—?" Daphne shouted from behind, breathless from the dash.
He didn't answer. Just met Delphini's eyes—and sliced cleanly across his own wrists.
Twin rivers of blood spilled out, warm and sure. He didn't even flinch.
Delphini choked. "You're insane."
"Probably," Harry said. "But I'm your favorite flavor of it."
He took her hands gently—fingers steady despite the sting. The chains fought him, ghostly serpents lashing out, but his blood flared golden and the spectral bindings shattered like cobwebs in firelight.
He pressed his wrists to hers.
The blood mingled.
And the altar screamed.
Magic tore upward like a fountain of cracked lightning. The runes turned white, then flickered in panic. The green corruption beneath them hissed, then evaporated like acid under sun.
Then came the voice.
Deep. Ancient. Arabic. Powerful.
"
His accent was perfect, rhythm deliberate, heavy with sacred purpose.
"
Hermione burst into the clearing, eyes blazing and curls flying.
"Harry James Potter! What in the name of Rowena's corset are you—"
She stopped cold.
Saw the blood.
Saw their wrists pressed together.
Her wand dropped a fraction.
"Oh Merlin… he's invoking the Blood Rite," she said, voice low.
Daphne rounded in on her, armor gleaming icy-white.
"Sounds kinky."
Hermione glared. "It's not. It's sacred. Prehistoric, even. League of Assassins taught it to us. It's a ritual to make two people siblings. Not just genetically—but also spiritually."
"So… adoption by blood?"
"More like a magical override. It reclassifies blood. If he finishes that chant, Delphini's blood won't belong to Voldemort anymore."
Susan crashed down behind them, wand in one hand, dagger in the other, red curls wild like war had a favorite daughter.
"Wait, that actually works? I thought it was just ritualistic nonsense."
"It works," Hermione said grimly. "It's irreversible."
"Oh," Susan smirked. "Then that's going to be awkward at every Death Eater family reunion."
Daphne raised an eyebrow. "Also, how do I get Harry to slice his wrists open for me?"
"Daph," Hermione hissed.
"What? I'm just saying—a boy bleeds himself for a girl, that's got to mean something."
"He's literally adopting her, you psycho."
"I know," Daphne said. "Still sexy."
Neville stomped into the circle, dragging the unconscious and very tangled bodies of Draco, Nott, and Irina. "Can we flirt after we've saved the universe?"
"You say that like it's not possible to multitask," Susan muttered.
From behind them, a figure moved—cloak billowing like liquid midnight.
Susan spun, wand aimed. "Halt! Identify or die."
Anastasia didn't so much as blink. "I'm here to help. I told Potter not to kill her. This—" she gestured to the ritual, "was his other option."
"Penny Dreadful cosplay aside, how do we know you're not lying?" Daphne asked.
"Because if I wanted him dead," Anastasia said calmly, "I would've poisoned him already."
Daphne blinked. "We might be friends."
Back at the altar, the gold light from Harry and Delphini's joined wrists rose into the sky, burning like spun fire. The ritual circle cracked. The old magic resisted. Then Harry spoke again.
"
Delphini's body trembled.
"Why?" she whispered, voice shaking. "Why would you do this for me?"
Harry looked into her eyes.
"Because you didn't ask to be born a Riddle," he said softly. "But you don't have to die one."
The light surged.
A crack rippled across the altar like thunder breaking stone.
And the ritual—the one meant to raise Voldemort from the grave—snapped apart in silence.
The blood runes died.
The altar collapsed.
Delphini fell into Harry's arms, her breath shallow, her eyes wide.
Above them, the Phoenix sang.
And the world did not end.
Yet.
—
Meanwhile back in Starling City — Alley Beside BNRI
5:51 PM — Twilight
The alley was caught between nightfall and neon — where the sky wore a bruised-purple haze and the streetlights hadn't yet committed to staying on. The kind of space that forgot how to breathe.
Laurel Lance stood still, hands in the pockets of her blazer, jaw tight. Her heels didn't wobble once — not even as a rooftop shadow flickered, sharp and fast, above her.
Then came the softest sound — not even a thud — and he was there.
The Arrow dropped from the rooftop like the city had exhaled him. One second, empty space. The next, he was crouched in front of her, a silent shape outlined in green and black — a ghost made of Kevlar and contradiction.
"I got your message," he said.
Laurel blinked. She hated how unbothered he looked. As if vertical drops were just… his commute.
"And here I thought you'd send a carrier pigeon," she said, voice dry. "Maybe even a text. God forbid we meet at a coffee shop like normal vigilante-lawyer teams."
He stood to full height, the bow across his back catching the alley's faint glow.
"I'm not exactly normal."
"Yeah, well. Neither is this conversation."
He took a step closer — not menacing, but magnetic. Controlled. Always.
"You met with Peter Declan."
Laurel nodded, crossing her arms tightly against her chest.
"I did. Yesterday. And again this morning. I've been working the case ever since."
"You believe him?" His tone was unreadable, but his posture stiffened — shoulders tight under leather.
Laurel hesitated. Then her voice softened — slightly.
"I think you were right. Declan might actually be innocent. His wife, Camille… she tried to blow the whistle on Brodeur the day she died."
Arrow's jaw tensed, and for a moment, Laurel could practically hear his brain shifting into mission mode.
"Then we need to find someone she told. Someone who can testify."
"They already did. Matt Istook — Camille's supervisor. He was called in to testify during the trial."
"And?"
"He says she never came to him." Her brow furrowed. "Claims she didn't say a word."
Arrow's face darkened beneath the hood. "He's lying."
"Maybe," Laurel said, folding her arms tighter. "But if he is? He's good at it. Convinced the jury. The detectives. Even had Declan second-guessing himself."
"He hasn't been questioned… by me," Arrow said quietly.
His voice was lower now. Weighted.
Laurel's head tilted. "Yeah, see, I thought we were going for justice — not vigilante intimidation tactics. Minor distinction."
"I do what the system won't," he said. "I get the truth. No red tape. No politics."
"No due process either," she shot back. "I didn't become a lawyer to bend the rules just because I didn't like the results."
"I'm not asking you to."
"No," she said, eyes narrowing. "You're just planning to do it for me. How considerate."
They stared at each other. The silence between them buzzed like live wire.
Then — finally — he moved, just enough to study her face. His voice dropped again, softer now.
"What I do... it's what people like Peter Declan need. People no one else believes. People the law forgets."
Laurel stepped closer, her chin lifting. "And if what you do isn't wrong... then why the hood?"
He didn't blink.
"To protect the people I care about."
Laurel felt the sting of that one. Not from the words — but the weight in his voice.
"It sounds lonely," she said, quieter now. Honest.
"It can be," he admitted.
She studied him, unsure what scared her more — the fact that he sounded like he meant it, or the fact that she was starting to understand.
"But not today," he added, almost to himself.
A beat. Laurel arched an eyebrow, her voice turning sly.
"Is that your idea of flirting?"
"I don't flirt."
She smirked. "Could've fooled me. Dropping in from rooftops? That's practically romantic."
He said nothing. But the corner of his mouth might have twitched. Barely.
Laurel exhaled and let her guard drop half an inch.
"Brodeur's legal team will eat this alive. If you're going after Istook…"
"I won't hurt him," Arrow said quickly.
She fixed him with a stare. "Promise me."
A pause. Then—
"I won't hurt him... unless he tries to hurt someone else."
Laurel groaned. "That's not what I meant and you know it."
"I do know it," he said. His voice was rough, not with threat — but something closer to guilt.
She shook her head. "You've got one shot to scare the truth out of him. One. After that, we're in damage control. Make it count."
He nodded once — crisp. No theatrics. Just quiet resolve.
Laurel stepped back, arms loose now at her sides. Her eyes locked on his.
"You planning on disappearing like Batman?" she asked.
"Only when I want to be missed."
She laughed once, low in her throat. "God, you're such a drama queen."
And with that — he turned, blending into the shadows like a figment slipping out of a dream.
Laurel stood there for a long second, the echo of him still hanging in the air like smoke.
Only she wasn't alone.
Not anymore.
And that terrified her more than it should've..
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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:
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:
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
Thank you for your support!