The Next Day – Queen Mansion, Just After Sunrise
Oliver's knuckles slammed against the hardwood floor in rhythm with his grunts, muscles rippling with every push-up. The sun hadn't fully crested the horizon, and he was already dripping sweat. A hundred push-ups. A hundred sit-ups. Pull-ups on the metal beam he'd installed above his window. Meditation. Breathing exercises. Mental rehearsal of every possible entry and exit to Hunt's penthouse.
His body was in Star(ling) City, but his mind was already halfway through the takedown.
Then—knock knock.
He didn't answer.
The door creaked open anyway.
Of course.
Harry walked in like he owned the place, wearing pajama pants, a smug grin, and a t-shirt that read: "I died. Came back. Your move." Behind him, Hermione followed with her usual air of tightly wound efficiency, her hair in a neat ponytail and a datapad clutched like it was a sacred artifact.
Oliver sat up and wiped his face with a towel. "You two ever heard of knocking and waiting?"
Harry flopped into the leather armchair without missing a beat. "We considered it. Then we remembered you used to sleep on an island full of murderous archers, and we figured privacy wasn't really your thing."
Oliver's brow twitched. "I was meditating."
Harry looked around the high-end, oak-paneled room. "Mmm. Shirtless brooding is a form of spiritual practice, then. Got it. Very Arrow of the Buddha."
"Harry," Hermione cut in, already scrolling on her pad with military precision. "Focus."
"I am focused," Harry replied, grabbing an apple off the nearby fruit bowl and taking a bite. "Focused on the fact that Queenie here almost went full vigilante last night because someone misplaced their murder journal."
Oliver narrowed his eyes. "It's not a—"
"Vengeance diary. Notebook of noble homicide. Daddy's hit list. Tomato, tomahto."
Hermione ignored them both and stepped forward, placing the datapad on the desk. "Oliver, we found something."
That got his attention.
He crossed the room in three quick strides and leaned over the screen. Dozens of files filled the interface—financial records, internal memos, surveillance photos, transcripts, offshore accounts.
Hermione didn't wait for permission to launch into the briefing. "Adam Hunt—CEO of Hunt Multinational. Publicly, he's a philanthropist. Champion of urban redevelopment. Secretly, he's been exploiting low-income families across the Glades. Swindling them out of their homes using forged deeds, predatory loans, and legal loopholes so greasy you'd need a Patronus just to scrub them clean."
"His lawyers make Voldemort look like a defense attorney for puppies," Harry added, tossing his apple core into the wastebasket without looking.
Oliver's eyes darkened as he absorbed the data. "Laurel mentioned the class-action case."
"She doesn't know the worst of it," Hermione said grimly. "Hunt bribed Judge Grell through a shadow fund linked to his reelection campaign. If this goes to trial as scheduled, the verdict's already bought."
She tapped again. The screen split—one side showing a photo of Hunt shaking hands with Grell at a swanky fundraiser, the other a scan of the suspicious donation routing through a dummy corporation.
Oliver leaned in, jaw clenched. "So he's insulated. Smart."
"Smart in the way cockroaches are smart," Hermione said, voice acid. "Too stubborn to die and good at hiding under the fridge."
Harry leaned back in his chair. "Speaking of hidden vermin…"
With a flick of his wand (which he'd conjured from somewhere—Oliver didn't even see the move), a grainy surveillance photo hovered in the air.
Adam Hunt. Midnight. Underground parking garage. Briefcase in hand, passing it off to a guy in a slick Italian suit.
"This is Tony Ricci," Harry said, mockingly slipping into a newscaster voice. "Professional thug. Occasionally moonlights as Hunt's 'delivery boy.' What's in the briefcase? We're guessing money. Drugs. Unicorn blood. The usual."
Hermione gave him a sharp look. "It's cash. Bribe money. Likely paying off an SCPD contact. We cross-referenced Ricci's vehicle plate with traffic cameras. It lines up with Hunt's penthouse security footage."
Harry grinned. "So, Ollie... you feeling stabby yet?"
Oliver's eyes locked on the photo. "Where is he now?"
"Hunt?" Hermione said, swiping again. "Still holed up in his penthouse. Floor sixty-three. Armed security, private elevator, full panic room, infrared trip alarms, and three private bodyguards trained by ex-military contractors."
"Oh, and a partridge in a pear tree," Harry added. "Really subtle evil billionaire vibes."
Oliver studied the layout Hermione pulled up next—schematics of the building. "We can't go in loud. Not yet."
Hermione's lips tightened. "I thought you might say that."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a black USB drive and an envelope. "This has a keylogger virus I coded last night—can get us access to Hunt's personal files. The envelope? Ricci's payment receipt for a property flip last year tied directly to Hunt. It's enough to get a warrant."
Harry raised his hand like a student in class. "Or—and I'm just spitballing here—we could sneak in, stun a few guards, clone Hunt's phone, steal his files, humiliate him in front of the media, and let justice rain down like magical hellfire. You know. For fun."
Oliver looked from Harry to Hermione. Then back again.
Hermione's expression was hopeful but cautious.
Harry looked like a cat who'd already eaten the canary and was eyeing dessert.
Oliver exhaled slowly and gave the smallest of smirks. "We do both."
Harry blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"Team Arrow doesn't just shoot people. We gather evidence. We expose the rot. We scare the hell out of the monsters hiding behind their bank accounts."
"And occasionally shoot them in the kneecap," Harry said brightly. "Just as a love tap."
Hermione groaned, rubbing her temples. "I am surrounded by chaos."
Oliver glanced at the photo of Hunt. His hand flexed unconsciously, like he could already feel the bowstring between his fingers.
"Tonight," he said. "We take Adam Hunt down."
Harry finished the last of Oliver's banana and cracked his knuckles. "Excellent. I'll bring the cloak. You bring the arrows. And Hermione will bring… Hermione."
Hermione rolled her eyes. "Brilliant strategy. Truly flawless."
"You love it."
"I tolerate it."
Oliver stared out the window, the city stretching wide and full of shadows before him.
Tonight, justice wasn't going to be served cold.
It was going to be surgical.
And with Harry and Hermione on his side?
It was going to be legendary.
—
Absolutely! Here's a more detailed, cinematic rewrite of the scene you provided, packed with banter, tactical momentum, layered character dynamics, and maximum British sass courtesy of Mr. Potter. Picture it like a prime episode of Arrow crossed with Sherlock and Deathly Hallows: Reloaded.
"We're going to need a base."
Oliver Queen said it like he said most things—low, clipped, and with the gravitas of a man who'd personally brooded in every rooftop in Starling City.
He didn't look up from where he was cleaning a sidearm, but his voice was a quiet command wrapped in gravel.
Harry, lounging like a bored demigod across Moira Queen's high-end leather couch, arched an eyebrow and took another bite of banana. "What, not a fan of discussing vigilante strategy over crumpets while your mum critiques your bone structure?"
Oliver looked up. Deadpan. Unamused. Very Stephen Amell.
"I'm serious."
"And I'm British," Harry replied, pointing with the half-eaten banana like it was a wand. "We deflect with sarcasm, emotional constipation, and tea. Preferably all three."
Hermione, who'd been scrolling through blueprints and schematics on her magically upgraded StarkTech tablet, didn't even blink. "He's not wrong. About the base, I mean," she said crisply, voice sharp and clean like a fresh quill stroke. "We can't exactly plan around the kitchen island. Moira's already suspicious, and Thea nearly caught me disassembling a crystal eavesdropping charm in the laundry room."
"She thought it was a vibrator," Harry added helpfully.
Hermione didn't dignify that with a response.
Oliver exhaled, jaw tightening. "The Queen Consolidated mill. It's off the grid. No power, no cameras. We scoped it out yesterday—before..."
Harry interrupted, tossing the banana peel into a nearby trash bin with Quidditch-level accuracy. "Ah yes. The pre-kidnapping field trip. I remember it fondly. One minute I'm waxing philosophical about whether your company's logo looks like a collapsing taco, and the next I'm waking up with a tranquilizer hangover, zip-tied to a chair across from a guy who smelled like discounted body spray and unresolved paternal trauma."
Oliver's brow twitched.
Hermione sighed. "It is a good location. Structurally sound. Strategically positioned. There's an underground sub-basement that could house surveillance equipment, potions lab, tactical board—"
"Dungeon chic," Harry said. "I love it already. Do we get a team name? Operation Brood Force?"
Oliver deadpanned, "We're not calling it that."
"Fine. Project Emo Arrow."
Hermione snorted before she could stop herself.
Oliver gave Harry a long look. "You done?"
Harry stretched, cracking his back with the exaggerated flair of someone who enjoyed making people uncomfortable. "I'm never done. I'm British, traumatised, and caffeinated. But yes, I approve the dungeon. We'll just have to exorcise the bad vibes. And possibly the ghosts of failed family businesses."
"I'll handle the recon," Oliver said, already sliding a quiver over his shoulder like it was a second skin. "Make sure it's still secure. We didn't finish the sweep before…"
"Before I got almost stabbed with something that looked like a cross between a knitting needle and a sci-fi suppository?" Harry offered.
Oliver gave him the patented Queen Look. Quiet. Intense. Judgy.
Hermione stood, already tying her hair back like a general marching into battle. "I'll bring my go-bag. I've got portable wards, sensor runes, three field potions, and a portable solar generator modified with undetectable extension charms."
Harry blinked at her. "Have I told you recently that you're the love child of MacGyver and Athena?"
Hermione raised an eyebrow. "You've also compared me to Tony Stark and River Song in the same breath."
"Because they'd all be lucky to share your brainspace," Harry said smoothly.
"Flattery doesn't get you extra sugar in your tea."
"Oh, it absolutely does."
Oliver moved to the door, already in motion. "We leave in twenty. Pack light. Quiet weapons only. And no flashy magic."
Harry looked offended. "Everything I do is flashy. Subtlety's for vampires and tax fraud."
Oliver paused at the threshold, looking back with that signature Amell intensity. "We do this right… we build something solid. Not just a base. A foundation. For everything we're about to do."
Harry raised both eyebrows. "Ollie, was that sentiment I detected? Careful. Your Batman is showing."
Hermione looked up. "I like this version of him. Slightly less stabby. Marginally more functional."
"Don't get used to it," Oliver muttered, already disappearing down the hall.
Harry grabbed his coat and twirled his wand between his fingers like a gunslinger in a wizarding Western. "Right then. Secret base. Dark secrets. Possibly illegal vigilante activities. Let's make some magic."
As he followed Oliver and Hermione out the door, he grinned. "God, I've missed being this bloody irresponsible."
—
Queen Mansion – Front Foyer – Morning
Boots thudded softly against the marble. Coats flared as they shrugged them on. Wand holsters clicked into place under jackets. A quiver was slung over a shoulder like it belonged in a boardroom instead of a battlefield. A tablet bag was zipped with surgical precision.
They moved in coordinated silence—Oliver Queen's stone-cold calm, Hermione Granger's hyperfocused precision, and Harry Potter's chaotic, barely-contained energy. The kind of synergy that said this wasn't their first rodeo.
They almost made it to the door.
"Going somewhere?" came a voice as smooth as silk—and just as lethal when wrapped around your neck.
They froze.
Moira Queen stood at the top of the staircase, her heels clicking as she descended like a lioness in a pantsuit. Her blonde hair was perfect. Her posture screamed Upper-Crust Highlander. Her expression was the moral equivalent of a raised guillotine.
Oliver turned with the subtle stiffness of someone who knew the next five minutes were going to suck.
"We were just—"
"Out for coffee," Harry cut in, grinning far too broadly as he stepped forward like a politician in training. "A little morning caffeine. A little bonding. A little casual urban reconnaissance. Y'know, normal people things."
Moira blinked once, slowly. "You were kidnapped yesterday."
"Well, technically we were only almost kidnapped," Harry said cheerfully. "It was more of a surprise field trip."
Hermione smacked his arm. "Harry."
"What? I'm not wrong."
Moira ignored the byplay. "And since Queen Consolidated's CEO was nearly abducted off company property and you two—" she gestured with a vague swirl of her hand, "—insist on shadowing him like a pair of British body doubles, I've taken steps."
Oliver stiffened. "Mom."
"No." Her voice turned glacial. "I'm not having this argument. You want to act like Gotham vigilantes on vacation, fine. But not without supervision."
She stepped aside.
Enter John Diggle.
Tall. Muscular. Impeccably dressed in a dark suit with a faint military-cut to the shoulders. He had the expression of a man who had seen combat, cleaned up after other people's messes, and really didn't want to play babysitter to teenage wizards and a broody billionaire.
"John Diggle," Moira said crisply. "Ex-Army, Special Forces, several commendations. He'll be accompanying you. Everywhere."
Diggle gave a curt nod. "Ma'am."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "You look like you could suplex a troll and still have time to finish your coffee."
Diggle gave him a long look. "I've done worse."
Harry blinked. "Oh. I like you."
Hermione cleared her throat. "This complicates things."
Moira narrowed her eyes. "Miss Granger?"
Hermione coughed. "Nothing. Thrilled. Honored. Can't wait to be under constant surveillance. Really taps into my inner control freak."
Oliver closed his eyes briefly and muttered under his breath, "This is going to be a disaster."
"We'll take the car," he said aloud.
"Good," said Moira, already turning away. "And John?"
"Ma'am?"
"Don't let them out of your sight."
Diggle didn't flinch. "Yes, ma'am."
As the door closed behind them, Harry clapped Oliver on the back.
"Brilliant. A professional babysitter. I haven't had one of those since I incinerated the last one during accidental magic. Fun story, actually. Left him bald. And slightly French."
—
Queen Mansion – Driveway – Minutes Later
The SUV was black, sleek, and about as subtle as a tactical nuke.
Diggle took the wheel like a man preparing for a long, painful mission. Oliver slid into the front passenger seat with the grim fatalism of someone used to pain. Hermione took the right side of the back, already pulling up maps on her phone.
Harry sprawled out beside her like a cat who'd claimed this territory via charisma alone.
"So," Harry said, leaning forward between the front seats, "Queen Consolidated HQ, if you please, Mr. Diggle. Definitely not heading to a secret bunker filled with magically-enhanced gadgets and ethically questionable surveillance spells. Just… boring ol' paperwork."
Diggle didn't even glance back. "I was in Afghanistan. You don't rattle me."
Harry whistled low. "Ooh, I'm going to like you."
Oliver sighed without turning. "We are never losing him, are we?"
Hermione leaned in. "Not unless one of us can teleport."
Harry raised a hand.
"No," she said immediately.
"I didn't even say—"
"You were going to say 'What if I Apparate him to a llama sanctuary in Peru.'"
"Well—yeah, but I had good reasons!"
Oliver gave them both a look. "Focus."
—
Inside the SUV – En Route
The road slipped by, fast and smooth. Inside the vehicle, silence hung like smoke—charged and expectant.
Diggle finally broke it. "So. What exactly do you three do?"
Oliver didn't blink. "Damage control."
Hermione, without looking up from her phone, added, "Collateral mitigation. Tactical problem-solving. Guerrilla intelligence gathering."
Harry grinned. "And I personally specialize in terribly bad ideas. With style."
Diggle gave him a slow look in the mirror. "You're the one who said something about a basilisk earlier."
"I have fought one, you know," Harry said proudly.
"In high school?" Diggle asked dryly.
"In a giant magical murder-maze under my boarding school. With a phoenix. And a sword pulled out of a hat. And my best friend's broken wand held together with spellotape."
Diggle stared at him a beat longer.
"I'm not even making that up."
Oliver muttered under his breath, "He really isn't."
Diggle exhaled through his nose and shook his head. "This is going to be a long day."
"Don't worry," Harry said, sitting back with a devilish grin. "We grow on you. Like a fungal infection."
—
The interior of the SUV was comfortably dark, humming along the wet, glistening roads of Starling City. Streetlights passed like metronome ticks across the windscreen, but Harry Potter—leaning forward from the backseat—was far more interested in the man behind the wheel than the route.
"So, Diggle," Harry began, voice smooth as butter and twice as smug. "You don't talk much. War hero, I'm guessing? Or are you just professionally good at looking like a very intimidating action figure with a driver's license?"
From the front, Diggle's lips twitched, ever so slightly.
"Iraq. Afghanistan. Special Forces," he replied, eyes never leaving the road. "Served with a few ghosts, danced with some demons. Worked with mercenaries, spies... and a handful of magicals."
"Oh, really?" Hermione piped up from Harry's left, raising an elegant eyebrow. "Magicals? As in, plural?"
Diggle gave a single, solid nod. "They're rare, but they exist. I've seen them in black ops missions and crisis zones—quiet types, until you see what they can do. Took me about five seconds to clock you two."
Harry grinned, a sharp, white flash in the dark. "What gave it away? The way we vanished from your surveillance grid like a magician's rabbit? Or the casual disregard for Newtonian physics?"
"Neither," Diggle said evenly. "You radiate it. Him especially." He nodded at Harry in the rear-view mirror. "I've seen trained operatives freeze just standing near someone like you."
Oliver, seated in the passenger seat beside Diggle, cast a sidelong glance at Harry. "He's right. You've got this... aura. Like you're two seconds away from setting the world on fire."
Harry gave a humble shrug. "It's the hair. Very chosen-one chic."
Oliver didn't crack a smile.
"Tell him about your aura, Ollie," Harry said brightly. "You glow like a bloody lighthouse. Brooding intensity, hero guilt, tragic past... the works."
"I'm trying to focus," Oliver growled, rubbing his temples like the headache had filed for squatter's rights.
"Right, right," Harry murmured, mock-apologetic. "Poor Ollie. We drop one tiny existential bomb about magical teleportation and suddenly it's migraine city."
"I didn't ask to be teleported through a blender made of nightmares," Oliver snapped.
Hermione chuckled softly. "It's like falling through glass wrapped in static electricity while your insides get scrambled like Sunday brunch."
Oliver turned and gave her a long, level stare. "...And you do that voluntarily?"
"Daily," she said brightly. "Twice before lunch if we're in a hurry."
"I thought I was going to puke on the Headmaster's robes my first time," Harry offered. "He just nodded like it was perfectly normal and handed me a bucket. Hogwarts is wild like that."
The city blurred by.
Diggle's gaze flicked to the mirror—habitual, alert, calculating.
And then—he frowned.
The back seat was empty.
So was the passenger seat.
"...Where the hell—?"
He tapped the brakes instinctively, as if the car would give him answers the mirrors couldn't.
Gone.
All three.
—
The Glades – The Abandoned Queen Consolidated Mill
The crack of Apparition tore briefly through the stale air of the derelict building.
They landed in a spray of dust and magic—Oliver stumbling as if the floor had turned to quicksand beneath him.
He barely managed to brace against a rusted steel column before doubling over, hands on his knees, breathing hard.
Harry dusted off his shoulders like a man who'd just stepped off a train instead of ripped the universe a new hole.
"Well, that was delightful," Harry said brightly, watching Oliver's pale face with poorly concealed amusement. "Are we having fun yet?"
"I am going to throw you through a window," Oliver managed between breaths.
Hermione gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. "You'll get used to it. Eventually."
"I feel like I've been turned inside out by a tornado made of pure spite."
Harry blinked innocently. "So… better than the elevator in Queen Consolidated, then?"
Oliver shot him a look so deadly Harry could practically hear the Arrow theme playing in the background.
"Come on, you brooded through an island full of mercs and survived your mom's fundraising galas," Harry said cheerfully. "You can handle a little magical whiplash."
"This is not normal," Oliver muttered, standing upright again. "None of this is normal."
Hermione looked around the ruined mill, pulling out a tiny notebook that seemed entirely too neat and organized for the chaotic surroundings. "We've got a few hours before Diggle finds us. He'll come straight here."
"How can you be so sure?" Oliver asked.
"Because I tagged his GPS with a tracking charm when he wasn't looking," she replied sweetly. "Also, he's predictable. Reliable. That's what makes him valuable."
Harry gave a wicked grin. "Also what makes him fun to mess with."
Oliver turned slowly. "You what?"
Hermione smiled, eyes twinkling. "Relax. It wears off in forty-eight hours. Unless I renew it."
"You two are insane," Oliver muttered.
Harry spread his arms, as if welcoming him to a very exclusive club. "And yet, here you are. Welcome to the deep end."
"I didn't ask for this."
"Neither did I," Harry said, his grin fading just a bit. "But fate's a fan of dramatic irony. Trust me."
Oliver's expression shifted—just for a moment—before he folded his arms and turned away.
Hermione cleared her throat. "We'll need a lookout and some kind of fallback in case Diggle isn't alone."
"Oh, he'll be alone," Harry said confidently, pulling his wand. "Moira Queen's too busy trying to reassert control over her son's life to track us down just yet. And if she is watching…" He gave a little wave to a random shadow. "Hi, Moira. Love what you've done with the corporate espionage."
"You think she's tracking us?" Oliver asked.
"Oh, I know she is," Harry replied. "The woman's colder than a Dementor's ex-wife and twice as ruthless. But subtle? Not her strong suit."
Oliver didn't respond, but his jaw clenched.
Hermione raised her notebook. "We need to move. If we're going to make this place defensible, we'll need more than sass and trauma bonding."
"Speak for yourself," Harry said, twirling his wand. "I've gotten through life on 80% sass and 20% sheer dumb luck."
Oliver muttered, "That explains so much."
Harry turned, smiling faintly. "Alright, team. Let's make this mess look like a masterpiece."
—
Inside the building, the air was thick with dust and decay. Moonlight filtered through broken panes of glass, casting fractured shadows across the exposed beams and skeletal remains of forgotten machinery. Somewhere above them, a rat skittered across a rusted pipe with the confidence of someone who paid rent.
Harry wrinkled his nose. "Charming place you've got here, Queen. Really screams 'homey.'"
Oliver, unfazed, marched across the dusty floor like a man on a mission. "I'm telling you, the substructure's the key. If it's still intact, we can turn it into something useful."
Hermione paused, wand in hand. "You mean if it's not riddled with asbestos, rats, or mold that's evolved sentience?"
Oliver stopped in front of a suspicious square of concrete, set like a forgotten tombstone in the middle of the room. Without a word, he reached into his duffel and pulled out a compact, wicked-looking sledgehammer.
Harry blinked. "Wait. Hold on. Are you actually planning on digging our way to glory with a hammer?"
Oliver grunted, testing the weight of the tool. "It's simple. Effective. Doesn't need a wand."
Harry turned to Hermione, deadpan. "He says that like it's a good thing."
Hermione arched a brow at Oliver, her voice laced with dry amusement. "Really, Oliver? You brought a hammer to a wizard fight?"
"Got a better idea?" he challenged, lifting the hammer with that distinct grim determination that had probably cowed more than one drug cartel.
Harry gave a little shrug. "Well, I was going to suggest we do this the civilized way…"
Together, he and Hermione raised their wands in perfect unison.
"Bombarda."
The floor exploded like a fireworks finale. Concrete and wood shattered in a deafening BOOM, sending debris clattering in every direction. A cloud of dust whooshed up with dramatic timing worthy of a Hollywood blockbuster. Somewhere, a nearby rat let out a horrified squeak and abandoned ship.
The sledgehammer slipped from Oliver's fingers, thunking against the ground with an almost defeated sound.
He stared at the newly made hole, then at the two smug magic-users standing shoulder to shoulder, wands still warm.
"Right," he muttered. "And I'm the guy people call dramatic."
Harry dusted off his sleeves like he'd just wiped down a windowsill, not detonated a bloody floor. "Honestly, Queen. If I'd known you were this manual labor-minded, I'd have brought a shovel and a flask of tea."
Hermione was already lowering herself down into the hole using a slow-motion Arresto Momentum charm. She landed with the grace of a dancer.
"Come on," she called up. "The foundations are intact. Structurally sound too. This place could work."
Harry dropped down with an easy leap, landing with a soft thud beside her. Oliver, of course, had to show off—he vaulted down like a proper vigilante, landing in a crouch that would've made a gymnast jealous.
Harry looked at him, unimpressed. "You know, some of us prefer to let gravity do the work."
Oliver smirked. "Some of us like to make an entrance."
"Some of us like to keep our knees past thirty."
The underground space was massive. Thick stone columns rose like ancient tree trunks, and surprisingly clean lines of wiring and piping suggested the place had once been more than just storage. The ceiling was high enough for sparring, the walls sturdy enough for enchantments, and there was just enough power trickling in through the old fuse box to make things work.
"This'll do," Oliver said, giving the walls a once-over. "Might need to bring in some gear. I've got Bratva contacts who owe me—"
"Bratva?" Harry cut in. "As in, actual Russian Mafia Bratva?"
Oliver didn't miss a beat. "Yes."
Harry gaped. "You were on a deserted island."
"Also yes."
Hermione turned from the fuse box, wand lighting the space around her as she inspected the wiring. "And in between fending off wild animals and starving to death, you managed to join the Russian mob?"
Oliver shrugged like it was just another Tuesday. "You do what you have to."
Harry gave a low whistle. "I once used a spoon, three hedgehogs, and a sleep spell to fake my way into an MI6 facility, but you, my friend, are on another level."
Oliver gave him a flat look. "You're very weird."
"I prefer resourceful."
Before Oliver could respond, Hermione cleared her throat.
"No need to call your mafia pen pals, Queen."
Oliver frowned. "I didn't—wait, what?"
She reached into her handbag. The tiny, innocent-looking thing that could have doubled as a coin purse.
And began unloading hell itself.
Out came a yoga mat. Then a 27-inch curved touchscreen monitor. Then a state-of-the-art treadmill, complete with digital AI coaching. A set of weights. A coffee machine. A literal mini-fridge. A punching bag. A rack of resistance bands.
Oliver watched, jaw slack, as Hermione gently pulled a high-performance server unit from her handbag like it was just another scarf.
He looked at Harry. "She has a gym in her purse."
Harry, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, grinned. "She's Hermione Granger. She is my secret weapon."
"It's called an Undetectable Extension Charm," Hermione explained, now assembling the server with practiced wand flicks. "And an Expandable Interior Charm for structure support. Basic magical engineering."
Oliver stared at her. "That's not basic. That's sorcery."
Hermione smirked. "Correct."
With Harry conjuring floating torchlights along the ceiling and Hermione syncing the server to a magical interface, the entire space began to transform. One wall shimmered as it morphed into a hybrid display—part tech map, part magical projection. Surveillance feeds danced alongside ley lines, thermal scans overlayed with glowing sigils.
Harry levitated a stack of rune-engraved spellbooks to a stone table and began inscribing wards into the floor. Arcs of blue and gold light danced from his wand, snapping into place like circuitry made of magic.
Hermione anchored magical motion wards into the corners. A shimmering dome pulsed briefly before vanishing—an invisible cloak of stealth.
Oliver, watching it all, folded his arms. "This isn't a base. This is a bloody war room."
Harry twirled his wand with theatrical flair. "Why, Mr. Queen. I didn't know you cared."
"Just don't put a Quidditch pitch in the back," Oliver muttered.
"No promises," Harry replied cheerfully.
Hermione was already layering security runes over the fuse box. "We'll need to set up an anti-scrying field and a magical firewall. I'll handle the charms, you two handle the brute-force stuff."
Oliver grabbed a kettlebell. "That's your way of calling me muscle, isn't it?"
Hermione smiled sweetly. "Would I ever?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
Harry clapped his hands together, a manic gleam in his eyes. "All right, team. Wards up, magic online, caffeine stocked. Welcome to Resistance HQ. Now who wants to break in a punching bag?"
—
Oliver moved with silent precision, his boots thudding softly against the cold floor of the resistance bunker as he approached the far corner. His duffel bag lay there, rugged and worn like it had survived a war—and to be fair, it had. Dropping to one knee, he unzipped it with fluid ease and pulled out an old mahogany trunk, its surface scarred by weather, battle, and time. The brass latches clicked open like old friends greeting him with the weight of memory.
Inside lay a perfectly organized armory—his collapsible compound bow, a neatly bundled quiver of carbon-fiber arrows, coiled spare strings, fletching tools, a single curved dagger, and, gleaming beneath the soft light, a titanium-plated bottle opener.
From across the room, Harry's voice rang out with a grin you could hear. "Please tell me that's not a bottle opener."
Oliver didn't even glance up. He pulled out the bow and began stringing it with deliberate care. "It's multipurpose."
"Right," Harry muttered, nudging Hermione. "That's what I say about my wand. Except mine actually opens bottles."
Hermione snorted delicately. "Yours has also lit your hair on fire. Twice."
"It was one and a half times, thank you very much," Harry shot back, before calling over, "So what's the plan, Robin Hood? You gonna shoot apples off people's heads or just terrify us with your intense stares?"
Oliver, still calm, stood and grabbed a basket filled with bright yellow tennis balls—Hermione's doing, obviously. He walked to the open floor space near the back wall, gave the basket a dramatic flip, and sent the balls bouncing in chaotic rebellion across the bunker's floor.
They ricocheted off concrete, pillars, consoles, and Harry's foot.
"Oi!" Harry yelped, hopping once. "I just cleaned these shoes."
"You conjured them five minutes ago," Hermione said without looking up.
"They were emotionally clean, Hermione."
Oliver ignored the squabble, already nocking an arrow. His expression was unreadable, focused, the kind of focus you could sharpen steel on. He exhaled slowly, raised the bow, and let fly.
The arrow split through the air like a whisper, piercing a ball mid-bounce and embedding it halfway into the far wall with a crack-thunk that echoed through the bunker.
A beat passed.
Then— Thwip. Thwip.
Two more arrows zipped past him with pinpoint precision. Red-fletched and black-and-brown, they slammed into two separate balls mid-air, each shaft quivering slightly in the aftermath.
Oliver blinked. And slowly turned.
Harry stood to his left, relaxed as if he were leaning on the idea of a wall rather than a real one, holding a sleek red-and-black recurve bow with the arrogance of a man who knew he was cooler than he had any right to be.
Next to him, Hermione calmly lowered her black-and-brown hunting bow, her expression mildly pleased and a bit smug, like she'd just proved her thesis in triplicate and still had time for tea.
"You two…" Oliver said, tone suspicious. "Use bows."
Harry raised his brows innocently. "What gave it away? The arrows, or the hitting of things with the arrows?"
"You never said you use bows."
"You never asked," Hermione replied sweetly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear before drawing another arrow.
"I assumed—wands," Oliver said, baffled, lowering his own bow slightly.
"Oh, we still use wands," Hermione said, letting loose an arrow that nailed a spinning tennis ball so cleanly it didn't even wobble. "But for some things, the old ways work best."
Harry followed her shot with one of his own. "Plus, we felt like the Death Eaters didn't deserve the elegance of magic. So we got a little... archaic."
Oliver raised a brow. "You shot them?"
"Right through the heart," Hermione confirmed coolly.
"And the throat," Harry added with mock cheer. "And the knees. And that one time I shot a guy in the wand hand. Artistic, really."
"They screamed a lot less dramatically than expected," Hermione said thoughtfully.
Oliver looked between them like he'd just realized he'd walked into a different league. "So, what, you're both assassins now?"
"I prefer the term proficient multitaskers with violent hobbies," Harry said, his grin widening. "Hermione prefers 'tactical genius with a soft spot for archery and vengeance.'"
"I never said that."
"You thought it."
Hermione rolled her eyes but didn't deny it.
Oliver grunted. "Alright. Let's see if you can keep up."
He turned back toward the floor, drawing another arrow in a smooth, seamless motion. A tennis ball bounced unpredictably toward the wall. He fired. Thunk—dead center.
Before the ball hit the wall, Hermione's arrow caught another on its descent, and Harry's followed half a second later, hitting one that was mid-bounce off a pillar.
The room was alive with movement and motion. Arrows flew like angry whispers. The three of them moved almost in sync—no wasted gestures, no hesitation. Arrows pierced balls, embedded in walls, the soft thud of impacts underscored by the hiss of strings and the soft rush of air displacement.
Oliver crouched and fired blind. A ricocheting ball arced over his head—Harry's arrow cut it out of the air without breaking stride.
Hermione, pivoting on her heel, loosed two arrows in quick succession—one ricocheting off a metal panel to hit a ball that had bounced out of reach.
They were a blur of instinct and lethal precision.
Finally, the last ball rolled lazily to a stop.
Oliver calmly drew his last arrow and walked up to it. He looked down, then glanced at the wall.
With a flick of his wrist, he stabbed the arrow straight through the tennis ball and into the concrete.
"Had to finish it off," he said dryly.
Harry gave an impressed whistle. "Alright, Arrow. That was hot."
"I'm married to my mission," Oliver replied without missing a beat.
"Not a problem," Harry deadpanned. "So am I. To trauma."
Hermione laughed, genuinely and without restraint.
Oliver looked between them. "You two are something else."
"Takes one to know one," Harry said, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder.
Hermione conjured another basket of tennis balls with a flick of her wand. "Again?"
Oliver's eyes glinted. "Hell yes."
And once again, the arrows flew.
If someone had walked in right then, they would've seen a blur of deadly motion, sharp eyes, and sharper wit—three warriors born of different worlds, united by skill, grit, and an unapologetic love of putting holes in things that deserved it.
The Resistance had archers now.
And God help whoever stood on the wrong side of them.
---
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!