Starling City – Residential District 9:16 PM
The night draped itself over the neighborhood like a worn hoodie — soft, familiar, a little frayed at the edges. Streetlamps buzzed in lazy amber tones, casting long shadows across cracked pavement and flickering porches. The kind of quiet that let your thoughts get too loud.
John Diggle walked beside Carly, his hands tucked in his jacket pockets, shoulders hunched just enough to notice. He looked like a man carrying bricks under his coat, silent and heavy.
Carly gave it three blocks.
Then: "Okay. Whatever broody Batman act you're rehearsing? You can quit it now."
Diggle blinked at her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. You're stomping down the sidewalk like you're auditioning for the angsty reboot of your own life. Your whole vibe screams 'emotional constipation.'"
He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh. "I'm just tired."
"Please. I've seen tired. This isn't tired. This is 'I'm stuck inside my own head and every thought has a gym membership.'"
He arched a brow at her. "Do you practice these metaphors?"
"Only the good ones." She smiled, but there was steel under it. Then she added, "You've been off all night. At work you flinched when the fryer dinged. You used to laugh at that sound. Remember? Called it the 'symphony of suffering.'"
He looked down the street. "It's nothing."
She stopped walking.
"You say that again, I swear to God I'm calling your mama."
Diggle froze. Turned. "You wouldn't."
"Try me. She'll be FaceTiming you before we hit the next streetlight. And I'll hold the phone."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "I quit."
"Exactly. You quit. You said you were out. But you've been acting like you left something important behind. Like a kidney. Or a mission."
"Because it's not that easy, Carly."
She stared at him, hands on hips. "It is. You make it hard. You always make it hard. Look, I get it. You've got the weight of a thousand 'what ifs' riding your spine. But you said you were done with this Oliver Queen nonsense. You got shot, John. Shot. AJ's already missing his dad. He can't lose his uncle too."
He looked away, jaw tightening. "Does it ever bother you? That they never found who killed Andy?"
She didn't answer. Her silence had an edge.
Diggle nodded. "Yeah. Me too."
They started walking again. Slower this time.
"In Afghanistan," he said, voice lower now, steadier, "I had purpose. Even on the worst days, I knew what I was doing mattered. We protected people. Helped out in the villages when we could. Built schools, cleared roads. We tried to leave places better than we found them."
Carly stayed quiet, letting him speak.
"Now? I babysit CEOs who throw tantrums when their caviar's not cold enough. I watch rich kids treat the world like a disposable playground. And every day I look in the mirror, and I feel like I left the part of me that mattered back in the desert."
Carly stopped walking again. This time, she turned to him.
"Then stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop doing something you hate. Stop pretending you don't care. Stop wasting your time on jobs that make you feel smaller."
He stared at her. "What if I pick the wrong thing?"
She stepped closer. Put a hand on his chest, firm.
"If you believe in it, John, how can it be wrong?"
They stood there for a second. The only sound was a dog barking two streets over and a car door slamming shut.
Carly dropped her hand and started walking again. "Come on. I'm not dying in a crosswalk because you're busy writing a memoir in your head."
He chuckled and followed, catching up easily.
Starling City exhaled around them. But for the first time in weeks, so did John Diggle.
—
Brodeur Residence – Personal Office
11:42 PM
The Brodeur estate perched above Starling City like it disapproved of everyone living below it. Cold steel edges and concrete brutalism disguised as modern elegance. The kind of house where silence felt staged and every hallway echoed with money and menace.
Inside the office, Jason Brodeur sat behind an oversized mahogany desk, reading glasses perched on his nose, jotting notes with a Montblanc pen on thick linen paper. To his right, a glass of red wine rested beside a half-lit cigar, untouched but bragging. A Cartier clock ticked like it had somewhere better to be.
Then came the sound of glass breaking—a crisp, surgical crack.
Brodeur looked up, startled. A gust of cold air swept the curtains aside.
The Arrow rolled in through the shattered window like a promise.
All shadows and threat, the hood obscured most of his face, but his eyes were visible. Hard. Focused. He drew the bow taut with practiced ease, the tip of a carbon-fiber arrow aimed squarely at Brodeur's chest.
Brodeur rose, slowly, like he was used to being obeyed. "Who the hell do you think you are?"
"The man who's here for your confession," Arrow said, voice low, gravel laced with threat.
Brodeur scoffed, adjusting his tie with the calm of a man too rich to be nervous. "If you wanted money, there are easier ways to rob a man."
Arrow didn't blink. "You're going to confess that you ordered Camille Declan's murder."
Brodeur snorted. "Let me guess. You think I'm just going to stand here and take Peter Declan's place on death row?"
Arrow loosed a shot. The arrow thudded into the wall inches from Brodeur's ear, chipping oak and sending splinters into the air.
Brodeur flinched.
Arrow stepped closer, calm as a loaded gun. "Not death row. Your death."
Brodeur's smirk cracked, but only just. "You kill me, you lose the confession. You can't exonerate Declan if I'm dead. All you get is another corpse to hide."
Arrow tilted his head, almost amused. "Good point."
He fired.
The arrow pierced Brodeur's hand and pinned it to the polished desk like a specimen.
Brodeur screamed, slumping forward as blood soaked through his cuff. "You psychopath—!"
Arrow knocked another arrow, drew. "Still think this is about body count?"
Brodeur's phone buzzed violently on the desk, screen lighting up.
"Pick it up," Arrow said.
Brodeur gritted his teeth. "You think you can intimidate me?"
Arrow sighted the next shot at his throat. "I'm not trying to intimidate you. I'm trying to motivate you. Now pick up the damn phone. Speaker."
Hands trembling, Brodeur answered. "Yeah?"
A distorted voice came through, thick with an Eastern European accent. "It is Ankov. It's happening in one hour. Everything is ready."
The call cut.
Arrow's gaze sharpened. "What happens in one hour?"
Brodeur wheezed, pale now. Sweat blooming on his brow. "Let's just say... Peter Declan's execution? It's been moved up."
Arrow lowered his bow half an inch. Not in mercy. In calculation.
"Wrong answer," he said, and notched the next arrow.
For the first time that night, Brodeur looked genuinely terrified.
—
Iron Heights Penitentiary – Interview Room
11:52 PM
The room reeked of institutional bleach and desperation. It had the kind of stillness that made every sound echo louder — a buzz from the flickering overhead light, the soft scritch of a nervous fingernail on a manila folder, and the low hum of something always just about to go wrong.
Laurel Lance sat on the visitor's side of the table, hair pinned back, blazer sharp, and spine straight as ever — but the pinch around her eyes betrayed a long night. The folder in front of her was filled with hope. The man across from her wasn't buying.
Peter Declan looked like someone who'd lived every second of his sentence — and then some. He was thinner than he'd been during the trial, beard coming in patchy, eyes sunk back like the light had started to drain out of him a year ago and never came back.
"You look like someone who lost an argument with a vending machine," he said, half-smiling.
"I've had worse days," Laurel replied dryly, flipping open the folder. "But thank you for the optimism."
"Optimism's not really the house special around here," Peter muttered, then leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Tell me you didn't come all this way to hand me another denial wrapped in legalese."
"I didn't."
"Tell me you're not about to say the words 'we still have a shot.'"
Laurel exhaled, lips pressed into a line. "We still have a shot."
Peter let out a slow, bitter chuckle and leaned back. "Right on cue."
"This isn't a Hail Mary," she said firmly. "It's solid evidence. Sworn statements. A timeline. The start of something real."
"Jason Brodeur's not real?" he asked. "Because I'm pretty sure the guy owns half the water my family drinks."
"He's not untouchable."
"Oh no? Because I've been here before, Laurel. With suits and briefcases and promises." His eyes flashed. "They dangle hope like a carrot on a stick, and then the next time I look up — the stick's gone, and so's the carrot."
"This is different." Her voice was quiet now. Steady.
Peter watched her for a beat, then cocked his head. "This about that friend you mentioned? The one who 'believes' in me?"
She didn't answer.
He blinked. "He wears a mask, doesn't he?"
Still nothing.
Peter snorted. "You people are insane."
"Peter—"
"No, seriously. The lawyers weren't enough, so now we're sending in capes?" He pointed at her. "Next thing you know, Superman's busting through the ceiling shouting 'Objection!'"
Laurel smiled despite herself. "He's not the Superman type."
Peter grumbled, "Tell that to my blood pressure."
The overhead light flickered again — and then the alarms screamed to life.
The siren's pitch sliced through the room like a blade, followed by the thudding ka-chunk of locking doors and the mechanical squawk of the intercom overhead.
"Code Gray. Secure all corners in Cell Block C. Repeat — secure all corners in Cell Block C."
Laurel stood so fast her chair nearly toppled. "What the hell?"
The interview room door slammed open. A GUARD, mid-30s and adrenaline-jumpy, burst inside with one hand on his baton and the other pressed to his radio.
"Ms. Lance," he barked, "you need to stay here. Warden's locking C-block. Full containment. Protocol's in effect."
Laurel moved toward him. "What happened?"
He didn't stop moving. "We've got movement from a secured transfer. Stay here."
He vanished down the corridor before she could demand more.
Peter frowned. "C-block's three floors down. Why are they locking this level?"
Laurel stepped toward the small, wired-glass window in the steel door. She squinted — and froze.
Boots. Fast. Close. Coming hard around the corner.
Three inmates in orange jumpsuits, but these weren't your standard shuffle-and-scowl variety. These guys moved like they were trained. Focused. One of them adjusted his grip on what looked like a sharpened toothbrush handle — and smiled.
Laurel's heart dropped.
"They're not locking this wing down," she said softly. "They're opening it up."
Peter's face drained. "What?"
The second guard — younger, breathless, and scared out of his mind — stumbled into view outside the door.
"They're not supposed to be here!" he shouted. "Those guys aren't general population — sealed order transfers from out of state—"
The rest of his words were crushed under the sound of his skull slamming into the bars. One of the inmates had caught up. Blood misted the glass.
Laurel stepped back fast.
Two more thugs flanked the door. One pulled a makeshift keycard from his pocket and waved it over the reader.
Beep.
The lock clicked.
Laurel turned to Peter.
"Behind the table. Now."
"I don't have a table-flipping skill set—"
"Do it anyway!"
Peter dove behind the bolted table. Laurel didn't hesitate — she yanked the metal chair from its spot, flipped it up in front of her like a shield, and braced.
The door creaked open.
And three killers stepped through with the casual swagger of men who already assumed they were going to win.
The one in front grinned.
"Well, well," he said, "look who's still awake."
Laurel gritted her teeth. "You're about to regret that."
He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? You gonna hit me with your client's alibi?"
Laurel lifted the chair.
"No," she said, "just the chair."
And then it was on.
—
Iron Heights Penitentiary – Cell Block B Hallway
11:56 PM
Iron Heights wasn't a prison tonight. It was a war zone.
Red emergency lights pulsed like a heartbeat gone haywire. Sirens wailed in irregular bursts, fighting for dominance with the crackle of radios, the shouting of guards, the muffled sound of something breaking—or someone.
Oliver Queen strode through it all like a ghost in riot gear.
The prison guard uniform he'd stolen was tight across the shoulders, a size too small for someone who trained on Russian cliffs and island cliffsides. His face was hidden beneath a black ski mask. His gait was measured. Controlled. Every step screamed authority without asking permission.
He pushed a janitor's cart down the hallway, unassuming. Inside, beneath the mop and discarded rags, lay his bow, disassembled and ready. The arrows were hidden in the trash bin, wrapped in enough detritus to pass even a panicked sweep.
He turned the corner. Two guards on the floor. One groaning. The other not.
Almost there.
He didn't break stride.
—
Interview Room – Block B
11:57 PM
The first chair hit with a satisfying crack, slamming into the thug's ribcage like a steel baseball bat. Laurel Lance didn't wait for the reaction. She drove her shoulder forward with enough force to knock the man halfway back through the doorframe.
He choked, stumbled—and vanished from view.
"One," she muttered.
The second man was already on her. She ducked the wild punch, but he shoved her hard. Her back slammed into the cinderblock wall, rattling her teeth. For a split second, the world went fuzzy.
Across the room, Peter Declan was trying to crawl for cover, still dazed from being tossed across the room like an old file box.
"Laurel!" he gasped, clutching his ribs.
She ignored him, grabbed a table leg from the shattered mount, and spun to face the third guy.
The leader.
He had that look—the dead-eyed stare of someone who'd already killed and would do it again for fun. He held a crude, serrated blade and smiled like he was about to enjoy every second of what came next.
"This doesn't have to be messy," he said.
Laurel spat blood onto the floor. Her eyes were steel.
"Too late."
She swung.
He blocked. The wood splintered.
Then the door exploded open.
The man in the ski mask stepped through, bow already raised.
Thwip.
An arrow buried itself in the first thug's shoulder. He screamed, spun, and dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
The second man turned—and Oliver was already on him.
He dropped the bow, ducked the incoming swing, and drove his elbow into the man's throat. The guy stumbled back. Oliver followed with a sweep of the legs, a spin-kick to the chest, and a final punch that collapsed the thug like a folding chair.
Laurel blinked. "Okay. That was hot."
The leader turned toward her, blade raised.
Too slow.
Oliver grabbed the man by the arm, twisted, disarmed, and dropped him with a precise knee to the liver. The man gagged and crumpled.
The silence that followed was full of breath and heartbeat.
Laurel looked up, bruised but breathing. Oliver turned to her, eyes unreadable beneath the mask.
"Laurel," he said.
She dropped the chair. "About damn time."
Declan groaned from the floor. "Please tell me that's not Superman."
Laurel snorted. "Nope. This one broods more."
Oliver moved to help her up. "You alright?"
"I'll live." She winced, then looked around. "Them, not so much."
Declan tried to sit up. "Can we get out of here before the sequel to that fight starts?"
Oliver nodded. "Warden's locked down the south exit. I cleared a route through the laundry corridor. It's... under-staffed."
"Under-staffed," Laurel repeated. "You mean you knocked out everyone, didn't you?"
Oliver shrugged. "Define everyone."
She grabbed the evidence folder. Still intact. Still her lifeline.
"Did Brodeur give you anything?"
Oliver hesitated. Then:
"A confession."
Laurel blinked. "You're serious."
"He didn't exactly volunteer it," Oliver said. "But he gave it. And something else."
He turned to Declan.
"Your execution? It's been moved up. Less than an hour."
Peter went pale. "Of course it has. Because why not die sooner, right?"
Oliver helped him up. "You're not dying tonight."
Laurel checked the hall. Still clear. For now.
"Then let's go," she said. "And you, Queen?"
"Yeah?"
"After this?" She flashed him a bruised smile. "You're buying dinner. Steak. Fancy. With wine."
Oliver didn't look back. "Add it to the list."
Together, the three of them vanished into the red-lit corridor, moving fast.
One step ahead of the law.
One step ahead of death.
And for the first time in years... one step toward justice.
—
Iron Heights Penitentiary – Interview Room Hallway
Late Night, Post-Riot
The stale air hung heavy with the scent of sweat, bleach, and the residue of violence. The fluorescent lights above buzzed intermittently, flickering like reluctant witnesses to the night's chaos. Down the long, cracked hallway, the low murmur of guards corralling inmates echoed through cold steel doors.
Detective Quentin Lance pushed through the heavy metal door with a grunt, rain still dripping from his trench coat. His eyes, tired but sharp beneath heavy brows, scanned the dimly lit room until they landed on Laurel — sitting on the floor, back pressed against the wall, bruises painting her skin in purple and gold but her posture stubbornly unbowed.
He dropped his coat over a nearby chair with a tired sigh, running a hand through his graying hair. "Laurel," he said, voice rough as gravel but soft underneath, "I'm sorry I wasn't here tonight. I should've been."
Laurel's gaze snapped up, eyes locking onto his with equal parts steel and exhaustion. "You weren't. But you're here now. Better late than dead."
Quentin let out a dry chuckle, rubbing his jaw like he was trying to loosen something stuck tight. "Yeah, well… I like to keep things interesting." He crouched down, careful not to crowd her space, and gave her a once-over. "You look like you went twelve rounds with a street gang and lost on purpose."
"Close enough," Laurel replied, wry. "But I'm still standing." She lifted the folder in her lap like it was a shield. "And this…" She tapped it. "This is the truth, finally."
Quentin's gaze darkened. "Brodeur spilled the beans?"
Laurel nodded, the smallest flicker of relief crossing her face. "Confessed to hiring some guy named Ankov to kill Camille Declan. Peter… he was collateral damage."
Quentin rubbed the back of his neck, his face tightening. "That bastard's been running the city like his personal chessboard. I hope you're ready for the fallout. You're poking a very dangerous hornet's nest."
"I'm counting on it," Laurel said flatly. "I'm not afraid of a little fire."
He gave her a slow, assessing look. "I wish I could say the same. You're playing with people who don't just burn bridges — they torch whole neighborhoods."
Laurel's lips twitched. "You've never been shy about preaching caution, have you?"
Quentin smiled wryly. "Somebody's got to be the voice of reason around here. Even if it's a little annoying."
They shared a brief, tired laugh before Quentin's face grew serious again. "Look, about the Arrow…" He hesitated, then added with a gravelly edge, "You were right. He's dangerous. Cold as ice when he needs to be. Not the hero people want, but maybe the one this city needs. But you gotta be careful, Laurel. Getting close to him? It's a fast track to getting burned."
Laurel's eyes narrowed, but there was no doubt in her voice when she said, "I know. I've seen the shadows he walks in. I'm not naive."
Quentin exhaled, a soft grunt more than a breath. "Just… don't lose yourself in all this. You've already lost enough."
She looked at him, a flicker of vulnerability slipping through the cracks. "I don't have a choice."
A heavy silence settled between them — two warriors, battered but unbroken, standing in the quiet aftermath of a war that was far from over.
Quentin finally stood, pulling his coat back on. "Alright, Laurel. We keep fighting — but you call me first if the fire gets too hot. Deal?"
"Deal," she said, managing a small smile despite the weight pressing down on them both.
As Quentin opened the door to leave, Laurel called after him, "And hey… next time, try not to wait until I'm halfway dead to show up, will you?"
He paused, looked back with a crooked grin. "No promises."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving Laurel alone with the steady hum of the prison — and the storm still raging just beneath the surface.
—
The harsh fluorescent lights flickered above them, buzzing like a faulty radio stuck between static and signal. Quentin Lance walked beside Laurel, his trench coat dragging wet trails on the cracked concrete floor, boots echoing off the cold walls.
Her bruised face was set in that stubborn line of hers — the one that said, I've been through hell and I'm still standing.
Quentin cleared his throat, voice low but laced with that teasing edge only he could pull off. "So... how does the Arrow pull a Houdini at Iron Heights? Because last time I checked, a grown man in green leather and a hood doesn't exactly blend in with the general population. More like a walking neon sign that screams 'here I am, please arrest me.'"
Laurel cracked a tired smile, eyes glinting with fatigue and something sharper. "Well, tonight? No green leather. He went full janitor chic."
Quentin blinked. "Janitor chic?"
She nudged him with her elbow, smirking despite the bruises. "Prison guard uniform — one size too tight — and a black ski mask. Looked less like a vigilante, more like he was about to mop the floor or empty trash."
Quentin stopped dead in his tracks, his face shifting as realization dawned like a punch to the gut. He rubbed his chin, lips tightening into a thin, serious line. "That explains a lot."
Laurel raised an eyebrow, amused by the sudden change in his demeanor. "Care to share?"
"Nope." He shot her a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Get in the damn car."
Laurel hesitated, then gave a small nod. "You're usually the cautious one. What's gotten into you?"
Quentin didn't look back. He took off down the hallway at a hard clip, trench coat flaring behind him like a battle flag. "Let's just say I'm starting to connect dots. And I don't like where the picture's headed."
She watched him disappear into the shadows with a mixture of respect and wariness. The chill in the air wasn't just from the night — it was the storm about to break loose.
Laurel exhaled slowly, tightening her grip on the folder — the truth, finally within reach, but maybe more dangerous than ever.
—
Starling City — Industrial District — Warehouse
A heavy fog rolled in from the harbor, swallowing the orange streetlights in a misty haze. Walter Steele's footsteps echoed softly on cracked concrete as he approached the vast warehouse, its corrugated metal walls looming like a forgotten giant. The building gave off an unsettling stillness, as if it were holding its breath.
He swiped the access card Felicity had provided and the steel doors groaned open, revealing a cavernous space dimly lit by a few flickering overhead lamps.
There, anchored on rusted supports, lay the Queen's Gambit — the sleek yacht everyone believed lost to the sea five years ago.
The hull was scarred and weathered, barnacles clinging to its keel, but unmistakable. Dust motes danced in the stale air, illuminated by the dim light.
Walter stepped closer, his fingers trailing along the ship's name etched in brass on the stern.
Why had Moira arranged for the Queen's Gambit to be found — and stored here, hidden from the world?
His gaze drifted to crates stacked nearby, unmarked and sealed tight. Somewhere inside this warehouse was the answer, buried beneath layers of secrecy.
—
Meanwhile – Longbottom Manor – The Rose Room
7:13 AM
Delphini woke with the instinctive jolt of someone who had never expected to wake up again.
Her first awareness was light. Morning sun filtered through sheer ivory curtains, casting floral shadows across pale walls inked with delicate wards. The second sensation was the scent—not blood or smoke or ozone-scorched stone, but bergamot, dried lavender, and something older. Clean. Warm.
And the third?
Pain.
Dull and distant but still there—ghostlike aches in her limbs, an itch of healing magic across her wrists, and a hollow throb in her chest like her heart wasn't quite sure it belonged to her anymore.
She blinked up at the ceiling. It was painted pearl-white with silver runes curling in the corners like vines made of moonlight.
Definitely not the afterlife.
"About time," said a voice, smooth and sharp as glass wrapped in silk. "I was beginning to think I'd have to go full Sleeping Beauty and shove a thorn bush through your ribs."
Delphini turned her head—slowly, every muscle complaining—and found Anastasia seated in a velvet chair beside the bed, legs crossed, robes the color of a storm at midnight spilling over the floor like melted ink. She cradled a porcelain teacup in one hand. Her other hand held a book she clearly hadn't been reading.
Her expression was unreadable, of course. Like always.
Delphini blinked. "You're here?"
Anastasia arched a brow. "Well, I wasn't going to let you wake up alone. You've got enough abandonment trauma to write your own tragic opera."
Delphini blinked again, her voice hoarse. "This… is Longbottom Manor?"
"It is," Anastasia said, setting her tea aside. "The Plant God himself insists this room is the most magically stabilized in the house. Which means it smells like flower orgies and old druid blessings, but you're alive. Mostly."
Delphini pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing. "I… thought I'd died. Or ascended. Or something vaguely symbolic."
"No such luck." Anastasia leaned forward, fingers lacing. "Though you did pass out in Harry Potter's arms after a sacred blood ritual on top of a collapsed altar. So really, you're just missing a choir and a tragic ballad."
Delphini snorted. "You're mocking me."
"I'm Transylvanian, darling. We mock or we cry."
She looked down at her arms. Her wrists were bandaged with soft, rune-stitched linen. The skin beneath prickled, raw but whole. And still—still—she could feel it.
That bond.
Like someone else's blood had been woven into her bones. Not poison. Not corruption.
Warmth.
"I'm…" She hesitated. "Am I still… him?"
"You're going to have to be more specific," Anastasia said, coolly. "Do you mean the genocidal warlord snake man you unfortunately share genetics with? Or the emotionally damaged boy hero who, in an act of classic Gryffindor insanity, bled himself to adopt you into his magical family tree?"
Delphini hesitated.
"…Riddle."
Anastasia's face softened. Not much. Just a flicker around the mouth.
"No," she said. "You're not."
Delphini swallowed hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Then what am I now?"
"Unwritten," Anastasia replied. "Which is terrifying. And hopeful. And inconvenient for paperwork."
"But…" Delphini looked down at the covers bunched at her waist, suddenly aware of how small she felt. "Does that mean I'm a… Potter now?"
Anastasia laughed once. It wasn't unkind. It was just sharp. "Oh, sweet hells, no. From what I've gathered in my time here, being a Potter means endless trauma, a tragic romance arc, and an irrepressible urge to break into government buildings. You've bled for them, yes, but if you really want to claim the name, I suggest you practice looking noble while nearly dying."
Delphini stared at her. "That's... oddly specific."
Anastasia stood and crossed to the window. Sunlight painted her robe in streaks of silver-blue. "Let's just say I've seen the script before. And Potter's the kind of man who'll burn the world to save someone… then act surprised when it stays scorched."
Delphini's voice was quiet. "So the ritual… it worked?"
Anastasia turned back. "The bond is real. His blood is yours now. Your blood is his. You're no longer the Heir of Riddle." A beat. "You're something far more inconvenient."
"What's that?"
"His problem."
Delphini blinked. "…So basically, I'm family."
Anastasia gave her a rare smile. Small. Genuine. Dangerous. "Exactly."
There was a long pause.
Then Delphini whispered, "Did he really mean it?"
The air shifted.
Anastasia stepped closer. Sat on the edge of the bed, her voice softer than Delphini had ever heard.
"He bled for you. Chanted ancient rites. Risked soul death. You think Harry Potter does any of that for show?"
Delphini frowned. "He's not what I expected."
Anastasia nodded. "No. His kind never is. That's why people follow him."
Delphini reached up, brushed hair from her eyes. "Do you think… I can stay?"
There it was. The quiet plea. Fragile and fierce.
"Here?" Anastasia echoed.
Delphini shook her head. "No. With them. Greengrass. Bones. Granger. That walking moss-wall. Him."
Anastasia gave a slow, dramatic sigh. "You've already bled for them. That's the ancient currency of belonging."
Delphini looked out the window. The garden was bursting with roses and magical herbs. It looked like something out of a dream. A dream she'd never thought she was allowed to have.
"Time to figure out who I am now," she murmured.
Anastasia stood, brushing nonexistent dust off her sleeves. "Well. Just don't become a Weasley. They'll want you to help raise gnomes."
Delphini grinned despite herself. "What about a Greengrass?"
Anastasia paused at the door. Looked over her shoulder.
"…Now that would be terrifying."
And then she swept out of the room, silent as snowfall and twice as cold, leaving behind bergamot, sharp edges, and something neither of them dared to name.
Delphini stared after her. Then back at her hands.
Not Riddle.
Not alone.
---
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