Chapter One: In the Beginning
Hogwarts had been out for a month by the time I received the news from my uncle about a trip we were all going on. Vernon Dursley worked for Grunnings Drills, having climbed his way up to become the Director. It was a job he was immensely proud of, one he used as a platform to boast about his success to anyone who'd listen—and often, to those who wouldn't. I still remember the day he announced the trip like it was yesterday.
To say I wasn't on Vernon's good side would be the understatement of the century. A year earlier, I'd committed what he considered the ultimate act of treachery: ruining one of his prized dinner parties. Not intentionally, mind you. The chaos stemmed from Dobby, a house-elf who decided to "protect" me from returning to Hogwarts by any means necessary. Apparently, protection meant dropping a dessert onto a guest's head and using magic to pin the blame on me.
Vernon's fury after the incident was explosive, even by his usual standards. His punishment was as cruel as ever: barring my windows, locking me in my room, and rationing food as though I was some kind of prisoner. I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd hired a guard to keep watch.
Had it not been for Ron and his brothers, Fred and George, I'm not sure how long I would've lasted. They came to my rescue with their father's enchanted flying car, smashing the bars off my window and pulling me to safety. Vernon, of course, had tried to stop me—grabbing hold of my ankle as I climbed into the car—but gravity (and my foot) had other plans. He tumbled out of the window, breaking a couple of bones in the process. Not that I felt particularly guilty about it.
Naturally, that little stunt had left me skating on thin ice with my "beloved" uncle. And so, the summer following my second year was spent navigating his temper and dodging chores that seemed to grow more grueling by the day. I should've known that when Vernon announced we'd be going on a "family" trip, there would be nothing remotely enjoyable about it for me.
The innocence in the twelve-year-old's eyes was still there as they cracked open, the emerald green hue he'd inherited from his mother catching the morning light. For a fleeting moment, as he rolled onto his side and glanced at the time, he allowed himself a small smile. It was almost eight in the morning. For once, he'd slept in. He glanced at the photograph of his parents on the bedside table, the only warmth in a room otherwise devoid of life. Sometimes, he wondered what mornings would have been like with them. Would he have woken to the smell of pancakes instead of burnt toast? To the sound of laughter instead of barking orders? The thought lingered, bittersweet, before he pushed it away.
It was a rare luxury, this quiet moment to himself. The sunlight streamed through the thin, worn curtains, spilling golden rays across the room and illuminating the faint dance of dust motes in the air. Everything about it felt unreal. Normally, the raucous bellow of his uncle or the shrill voice of his aunt would have wrenched him out of sleep hours ago. Usually, he'd already be knee-deep in some chore they deemed "character building," scrubbing the floors or trimming the overgrown hedges outside. But for the past few days, they had been oddly restrained, their ire tempered by something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
Harry stretched his arms above his head, letting out a quiet sigh. The moment felt almost...peaceful. Of course, peace in the Dursley household was like a bubble hovering in the air—fragile and fleeting, waiting for the smallest nudge to shatter. The bruises on his knuckles, remnants of his latest "lesson" with Dudley, were proof of that.
His gaze drifted to the corner of the room where a familiar white shape sat perched in a cage. Hedwig, his snowy owl and his one true companion during the summer months, was awake, her amber eyes watching him with an intelligence that was almost unnerving.
"Morning, girl," Harry said softly, sliding out of bed and padding over to her cage. He winced slightly at the stiffness in his shoulders—a reminder of yesterday's lawn-mowing marathon.
Hedwig ruffled her feathers in acknowledgment, her gaze sharp but affectionate. Harry noted the empty water dish and the remains of a rodent from her hunt last night. The Dursleys refused to let him buy proper owl food, so she'd taken to catching her own meals. "Guess we're both stuck fending for ourselves," he murmured.
Carefully, he opened the cage and reached inside, his fingers brushing over her soft plumage. Hedwig let out a quiet hoot, tilting her head as if to say, You'll be fine. Somehow, her presence always managed to calm him, even when the weight of the world—or at least the weight of Privet Drive—pressed down on his small frame.
As Harry refilled her water dish and cleaned out the cage as best he could, he felt a pang of guilt. Hedwig didn't belong here, cooped up in a room barely big enough for him. She deserved the open skies, the freedom to fly wherever she pleased. But just like him, she was stuck here until the school year began again.
Then, as if on cue, the illusion of tranquility cracked. The heavy thud of footsteps sounded outside his door, followed by a sharp rap of knuckles against the wood.
"Boy! Get downstairs! Now!" Vernon's voice boomed through the thin walls, making Harry wince. Hedwig let out a sharp screech in response, her feathers puffing up indignantly.
"Easy," Harry whispered, gently closing the cage door and giving her one last glance. "I'll be back soon."
With a resigned sigh, Harry got to his feet, running a hand through his perpetually messy black hair. Whatever fleeting warmth the morning had offered, it was gone now, replaced by the cold, heavy weight of reality.
He began to make his way to the door, but something made him pause. His gaze drifted to the small bedside table where one of his most treasured possessions rested: a photograph of his parents.
He stepped closer, hesitating for a moment before picking up the frame. Dumbledore had given it to him at the end of his first year, one of the few keepsakes recovered from the wreckage of their home in Godric's Hollow.
The photo felt warm in his hands, almost alive. His father, James, was effortlessly dashing, with his messy black hair and mischievous grin. His mother, Lily, stood beside him, her fiery red hair catching the sunlight, her eyes—his eyes—shining with warmth and joy. They looked so happy, so alive, as if the weight of the world had never touched them.
Harry's throat tightened. Sometimes, it felt like he knew them through stories and borrowed memories more than he ever truly knew them. What would they think of him now? Of the boy who bore their legacy?
His gaze shifted to Lily, and for a fleeting moment, he thought of Aunt Petunia. It was almost laughable to think they were sisters. Everything about them was different—their looks, their voices, the way they carried themselves. Lily's kindness and warmth felt like a distant memory compared to Petunia's cold, pinched demeanor. If not for the blood that connected them, Harry doubted anyone would believe they were related.
"BOY!" Vernon bellowed again, this time with even more impatience.
Hedwig let out a sharp, disapproving hoot. Harry set the photo back down carefully, giving it one last look before heading for the door. "I'm sorry," he murmured to her as he grabbed his shirt and prepared to face whatever awaited him downstairs.
"Breakfast isn't going to serve itself!" came another howl. His voice boomed through the walls with all the subtlety of an air raid siren.
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Right, because shouting at me has always worked wonders."
He pushed himself away from the bedroom door and stepped into the dim, narrow hallway, his feet creaking on the warped wooden floorboards. He paused at the top of the stairs, taking a moment to gather his thoughts, though he knew there wasn't much point. No amount of mental preparation could make the slog of another morning under the Dursleys' roof any easier.
From the time he could walk, talk, and stand high enough to see over the stove, they'd made it their mission to keep him busy. Chores, cooking, cleaning—tasks that no child should have been saddled with became his daily burden. He wasn't just an unwanted guest; he was a servant. A slave.
Sometimes he wished they would simply pack him into the car and leave him at some orphanage, washing their hands of him entirely. But they never did. They wouldn't. Not because they cared, but because Harry was their problem to keep hidden, like a dirty little secret they couldn't quite get rid of. Family, Harry thought bitterly, doesn't treat you like this.
"BOY! Did you hear me?!" Vernon's voice thundered again, shaking the walls as though the house itself trembled at his fury.
Harry fought the urge to snap back, to let his sarcasm cut through the thick tension. "I don't know, why don't you shout just a little bit louder so the International Space Station can hear you?" he muttered under his breath. Then, louder, "Yes! I'm coming!"
He descended the tight, steep staircase, the old steps groaning beneath his feet. Each step felt heavier, his mind pulling him down even more than gravity. The space was narrow, just like the rest of the house, every corner pristine and cramped, with not a single picture of him anywhere.
The walls were adorned with photographs of the Dursleys: Vernon in his business suit, chest puffed out proudly; Petunia smiling primly, her long neck arched like a crane's; Dudley in various stages of childhood, looking fat and smug in every single one. The frames were polished to a shine, their presence like a gallery of self-congratulations.
And then there was Harry. The boy who didn't belong. The boy with no photos, no space, no evidence of existence in this house. The cupboard beneath the stairs, where he had slept for ten long years, was the closest thing to a monument he had here. He glanced at it as he passed, a twinge of memory pulling at him. It was dark now, empty. Just a broom cupboard again.
But not for him. It would always be more. A prison.
He wiped the sleep from his eyes as he reached the bottom of the stairs. From the living room, he could hear the morning hum of the television, the dull drone of news anchors reporting the mundane. Dudley, no doubt, was sprawled across the sofa like a walrus, surrounded by the remains of some sugary snack. Vernon's voice rose above the din, grumbling about the headlines, his usual disdain for anything outside his small, insular world dripping from his words.
Petunia was likely in the kitchen, her eagle-eyed gaze ensuring every surface was spotless, every object in its proper place. She wouldn't lift a finger to help, of course—that was Harry's job. She'd just stand there, inspecting his work, ready to pounce on any mistake.
This was his life.
He turned into the kitchen, the bright morning light streaming through the window and casting long shadows across the counters. The smell of burnt toast lingered in the air, though Harry couldn't tell if it was from this morning or the ghosts of countless breakfasts before.
He moved quickly, his hands already reaching for the frying pan and eggs. He didn't need to be told what to do anymore. Years of routine had made the motions automatic. He cracked the eggs into the pan, the sizzle of the yolks filling the room as he worked.
But as his hands moved, his thoughts wandered.
Magic.
He had it. The power to change his life, to break free from all of this. With a flick of his wand, he could vanish the frying pan, or transform Vernon's mustache into a nest of writhing snakes. He could pack up his things and leave, disappearing into the world with nothing but his broomstick and the clothes on his back.
And yet, he couldn't.
The rules of the wizarding world bound him just as tightly as the Dursleys' iron grip. The threat of expulsion from Hogwarts, the promise of punishment from the Ministry of Magic, hung over him like a dark cloud. He wasn't just powerless here because of Vernon and Petunia—he was powerless because the world outside had decided that he didn't get to make his own choices.
His mind drifted to Dumbledore. Surely, if the man had wanted to, Harry could have been placed somewhere better. Somewhere safe. Somewhere he could have been happy. But Dumbledore had left him here, on this doorstep, with these people. He must have had a reason, Harry told himself. There must have been a plan.
But standing there in the Dursleys' kitchen, the weight of it all pressing down on him, it was hard to see what that plan could possibly be.
The sound of heavy footsteps behind him snapped him out of his thoughts. Vernon's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "That bacon had better be crispy, boy."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry said automatically, his voice hollow as he turned back to the stove, his hands resuming their work.
For now, he thought, this was his life. But one day, he would be free.
Harry placed the last piece of bacon onto a plate already piled high with eggs, sausages, and toast, all perfectly cooked to Vernon's exacting and utterly ungrateful standards. He moved briskly, setting the plates in front of his uncle, aunt, and Dudley at the kitchen table. Dudley had already started inhaling his portion, his cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk's, while Petunia fussed over a spot on her fork with a napkin.
"About time," Vernon grumbled through his walrus mustache, not bothering to glance up at Harry as he unfolded his napkin and tucked it into his collar like a bib. "The yolks aren't runny, are they? You know I can't stand that."
"They're perfect, Uncle Vernon," Harry said with practiced monotony, though he hadn't spared much effort to check.
His stomach growled faintly as he watched them dig in. As usual, there was barely anything left for him—three strips of bacon and a single egg on a chipped plate off to the side of the stove.
Vernon glanced over as Harry sat down with his meager portion. His eyes narrowed slightly. "Don't just sit there gawking, boy. Finish your chores when you're done. The hedges won't trim themselves."
"Yes, Uncle Vernon," Harry murmured, biting into a piece of bacon that was more grease than meat.
The conversation around the table was as dull as it was predictable. Vernon ranted about some colleague at Grunnings who had dared to challenge his brilliance in a meeting, while Petunia nodded and tutted in all the right places. Dudley, meanwhile, complained about having to wear his "Sunday best" for some outing that evening.
Harry tuned it out. He was used to their conversations revolving around people he'd never met, concerns he'd never share, and complaints about the world they thought owed them more than it did. This morning, though, he was particularly adept at letting it wash over him, retreating into his own thoughts as he finished eating.
When he was done, Harry quietly excused himself and returned his plate to the sink. Not bothering to wait for further orders, he retreated to the stairs and sat down halfway up, fishing into the pocket of his oversized hand-me-down jeans to retrieve a letter.
The envelope was made of thick parchment, addressed to him in familiar, slanted handwriting, with a faint scent of ink and fresh hay clinging to it. He opened it carefully, unfolding the letter and reading.
Dear Harry,
Hope everything's going alright at home. Mum wanted me to write and let you know we're going to be out of the country for the rest of the summer—off to Egypt! Dad won some big prize at work as an apology for, well, you know what.
I'm really sorry we can't invite you along—Mum said she would if she could, but you know how it is with these Muggle rules and all. Anyway, I'll be sure to bring you back something cool! Ginny's been doing okay, by the way, though I think Mum's still keeping her on a short leash after, well, you know.
We'll be back just in time for the train back to Hogwarts, so don't do anything too crazy before then. Write back when you can!
-Ron
Harry couldn't help but smile faintly at the letter, despite the pang of longing it brought. A trip to Egypt sounded incredible, far beyond the cramped misery of Privet Drive. He pictured the Weasleys laughing together, exploring tombs and pyramids, while he was stuck here, trimming hedges and scrubbing floors.
Still, he couldn't begrudge them. The Weasleys were family in a way the Dursleys could never be, and he was happy they were making memories together.
He folded the letter neatly, tucking it back into his pocket, and leaned back against the stairs. For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting himself imagine the heat of the Egyptian sun, the smell of ancient stone, and the excitement of discovering something magical beneath the sands.
That moment was shattered by a sound that made his eyes snap open and his spine stiffen.
Vernon Dursley was laughing.
Harry froze, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end. His uncle's laugh wasn't a warm or comforting sound—it was sharp, bark-like, and rare enough to send a chill down Harry's spine. Vernon laughing was never a good sign, especially when Harry was in the house.
For a moment, he strained to listen, trying to gauge the reason for Vernon's sudden good mood.
"We're about to live the good life!" his booming voice rang through the house, startling Harry. The rare, boisterous cheer from his uncle was so unexpected that Harry nearly fumbled the letter he'd been holding.
He blinked and leaned slightly over the banister, peering into the living room where Vernon was pacing back and forth like a man on a mission. His uncle's wide, beaming grin was almost comical—until he turned his head and their eyes met. In an instant, the joy drained from Vernon's face as if someone had flicked a switch. That familiar scowl replaced the rare smile, the corners of his mouth curling downward in a mix of contempt and irritation.
"Even with that little freak over there living with us," Vernon growled, breaking eye contact with Harry and turning back to his pacing.
Why thank you for noticing, Uncle… Harry thought bitterly. Sorry for ruining your aesthetic with my freakish presence. Not like you'd ever understand what it's like to be the outcast.
From his spot halfway up the stairs, Harry glanced at Dudley, who was sprawled out on the couch with his mother fussing over a spot on his shirt. An amusing thought popped into Harry's head—how his aunt and uncle might react if he "accidentally" let slip that Dudley was secretly magical. But Harry quickly dismissed the idea. He wasn't foolish enough to bait Vernon's temper just for a laugh.
"What do you mean, dear?" Petunia's voice cut through the room, her tone sharp and suspicious. "I thought you weren't getting a raise for another year or two, at least?"
"I wasn't!" Vernon declared triumphantly, his chest puffing out. "But thank the bloody Americans! There's this company called... er, what was it now? Oh! Queen Consolidated! They've been in talks with Grunnings for months, and now they want me to finalize the deal."
Petunia's thin eyebrows arched. "You? Finalizing a deal with Americans?"
"That's right!" Vernon barked, clearly taking her disbelief as a compliment. "They've asked me personally to fly out and meet them. And if I close this, I'll get a sizable raise! This could mean big things, Petunia! Big things!"
Harry was already losing interest, retreating into his thoughts again, when Vernon added, "Mr. Queen himself—Robert Queen—is flying us out to Starling City."Then came the words that made Harry's stomach drop: "The whole family is going."
Family, Harry thought bitterly, the word feeling like a joke. He already knew what that meant for him: being dragged along as an afterthought, invisible unless there was a chore to be done or a mistake to be blamed on.
"Starling City?" Harry repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue. It sounded like a far-off dream, a world so far removed from the monotonous grey of Privet Drive. For a fleeting moment, hope sparked—an unfamiliar, dangerous thing. But, as always, Vernon's tone quickly extinguished it.
"Don't get any ideas, boy," his uncle barked, his grin turning sour. "You'll be staying out of the way."
"To Starling City? All of us?" Petunia asked, clutching her pearls as though the concept of traveling internationally might cause her to faint.
"Well, naturally, the whole family is going," Vernon said, puffing out his chest again. "Mr. Queen wants to conduct the final negotiations over a few days on his yacht. This is an opportunity of a lifetime!"
"Wh-whole?" Petunia stammered, her grip on Dudley's shoulder tightening. "You mean all four of us?"
"FOUR?!" Dudley squawked, jumping to his feet so suddenly that Harry heard the couch creak ominously. "You mean him, too?!" He jabbed a pudgy finger toward the stairs, where Harry was now watching with growing incredulity.
Vernon gave a curt nod. "Yes, Dudders, the boy's coming along. It's unavoidable. We can't leave him here."
Harry nearly choked on air. Since when do they take me anywhere with them? he thought. The only times he'd been allowed in the car were for trips to the train station or that one disastrous trip to the zoo. And that had ended with Dudley nearly swallowed whole by a boa constrictor.
"You mean we're stuck with him while we're on the yacht?" Dudley whined, his expression twisted into a mask of horror.
"Unfortunately, yes," Vernon said through gritted teeth. "I refuse to have other freaks snooping around our home while we're gone, and Mrs. Figg is unavailable."
Petunia pinched the bridge of her nose, looking as though she were on the verge of fainting. "So we'll have to bring him...?"
"Yes," Vernon snapped, his voice filled with irritation. "But let's be clear about one thing: just because he's coming doesn't mean he gets to enjoy himself. He'll stay in his room the entire time. No wandering, no bothering anyone, and certainly no... freakishness."
Harry, who had felt an involuntary spark of joy at the prospect of leaving Privet Drive—even if only for a few weeks—felt that hope swiftly snuffed out. "Alright... like always," he muttered under his breath.
It was a mistake.
"What was that, boy?" Vernon growled, spinning toward him with a glare that could have burned through steel.
Harry didn't flinch, but he didn't repeat himself either. Instead, he shrugged nonchalantly and tucked Ron's letter back into its envelope, turning toward the stairs without another word.
"Go on then! Skulk off to your room!" Vernon bellowed after him. "We don't need you lurking about and ruining the mood."
Harry trudged up the stairs, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. His small room was no less stifling than the rest of the house, but at least it offered a shred of privacy. He locked the door and leaned against it, letting out a long sigh.
A trip to Starling City... It sounded like something out of a daydream. For a moment, Harry allowed himself to imagine it—fresh air, open water, and the distant hope that maybe, just maybe, he could experience something new.
But deep down, he knew better. This wasn't a holiday for him. It was another opportunity for the Dursleys to make it abundantly clear that, no matter where they were, Harry Potter was an unwelcome shadow on their perfect lives.
The announcement of their trip to Starling City had left Harry with a strange mix of excitement and unease. The excitement was obvious—getting out of Privet Drive, even if only for a little while, felt like a lifeline. The unease, though, crept in like a shadow, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. It wasn't just the Dursleys' unpredictability or the idea of spending weeks with them in close quarters; it didn't matter that the trip was only going to be a few days. No, this was something different.
Hedwig.
The realization hit him as he sat on the edge of his bed, staring absently at the half-packed suitcase on the floor. He hadn't thought about it at first—hadn't let himself think about it. But now, the pieces were falling into place, and it was impossible to ignore.
Hedwig couldn't come with him.
He hadn't considered her at first—not when Vernon had announced their trip as if it were some grand gift. But now, as the reality of leaving settled in, the problem seemed glaringly obvious. He couldn't take her with him, not in a cage. Hedwig was used to freedom, soaring through open skies, not cramped spaces. The idea of her confined for days, restless and unhappy, made him feel sick.
Leaving her behind wasn't an easy option, either. Hedwig wasn't just an owl; she was a part of him. She'd been there through everything—the lonely nights, the frustrating summers, the times when he felt like the only person in the world who cared about him was her. Trusting someone else with her... it felt strange, even wrong. But he didn't have much of a choice.
Mrs. Figg came to mind first. She was close by, and she'd looked after him before, though her idea of "looking after" had often involved endless stories about her cats. Could she handle Hedwig? Harry doubted it. Hedwig was independent, proud, and sharp as a tack. She wouldn't take kindly to Figg's fussing. Besides, he didn't think Figg would understand how to care for a magical owl properly.
The Weasleys were out of the question. With their trip to Egypt, they'd be halfway across the world by the time Harry left. And there really wasn't anyone else. For a moment, Harry felt the familiar weight of hopelessness settle on his shoulders. Was he just supposed to leave her here and hope for the best?
He sighed, turning to look at Hedwig, who was perched by the window. Her amber eyes were sharp, intelligent, and filled with a quiet patience that always surprised him. She tilted her head as if waiting for him to figure things out, her feathers ruffling slightly in the breeze from the open window. That's when it hit him.
Hermione.
Why hadn't he thought of her sooner? It was so obvious now. Hermione had always been good with Hedwig. She treated her with a respect that not many people seemed to understand, and Hedwig had warmed to her in a way she rarely did with others. Her house was quiet, too—Hermione had said so often enough. And if there was anyone he could trust, it was her.
Relief washed over him as the solution clicked into place. Of course, he'd have to ask her first, but he felt sure she'd say yes. She'd probably love having Hedwig around for a while.
With a renewed sense of purpose, he moved to his desk, pulling out a blank piece of parchment and dipping his quill into the ink.
Dear Hermione,
The Dursleys and I are going to North America for somewhat of a vacation if that's what you'd call it. I don't have a place to keep Hedwig, so I was wondering if you would mind keeping her while I'm gone. You don't have to if you don't want to, I can always figure something else out. While I'm gone, I won't have a way to keep in touch with anyone either. I hope your summer is going alright, and talk to you soon.
Sincerely, Harry
He looked over the letter, feeling a strange sense of pride at how neatly he'd managed to write it. Tying it up with a bit of string, he placed it on the desk and turned to Hedwig, who was watching him with bright curiosity.
"All right, girl," he said softly, opening her cage. "This one's for Hermione."
Hedwig hooted in approval, hopping onto his arm. She took the letter from him, careful not to crumple it, and fluttered onto the windowsill. For a moment, she looked back at him, as if asking for reassurance. He gave her a small nod.
"Go on," he said. "She'll take good care of you."
With a sharp beat of her wings, Hedwig took off, her white feathers gleaming in the sunlight as she disappeared into the horizon. Harry watched her until she was out of sight, a quiet ache settling in his chest. It wasn't forever—just a few weeks. But already, the thought of her absence made the house feel emptier.
Turning back to his desk, Harry sighed. In just a few days, he'd be leaving Privet Drive behind. For once, he wasn't entirely sure whether to feel relieved or apprehensive.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, hearing I was going to join the Dursleys on their trip to Starling City sparked a flicker of excitement. Even with the condition that I'd be cooped up in my room most of the time, the idea of traveling somewhere new felt like a break from the monotony of Privet Drive. Between the narrow confines of my cupboard (and later Dudley's second bedroom), the chaotic comfort of the Burrow, and the towering, magical walls of Hogwarts, my world felt small. This trip, no matter the circumstances, was an unexpected chance to see something different.
I'd never been out of the country before. The closest I'd come was flying with Ron in his dad's enchanted car, but even then, we hadn't crossed borders, just treetops. I still remember the mix of exhilaration and terror from that madcap journey, gripping the seat as we narrowly avoided crashing into the Hogwarts Express. By some miracle, we made it to school alive. Thinking about it now, maybe it was fitting that my first true trip abroad would feel as surreal as that one.
Of course, part of my excitement came from the fact that Ron wasn't the only one getting to experience something extraordinary that summer. While he was off exploring ancient tombs in Egypt with his family, I couldn't help but feel a pang of envy. Selfish as it was, I wanted to experience a new place, too, even if my version involved a spoiled cousin and a grumpy uncle instead of pyramids and pharaohs.
The truth is, for all the wealth my parents left behind in the Potter vault, it was like it wasn't even mine. I couldn't touch a Knut of it until I turned seventeen. The Dursleys made sure to remind me of this, constantly treating me like I was penniless and burdensome. The money sat there, unreachable, and so I never got to enjoy the kind of freedom or luxury it could've brought.
Maybe that's why I felt such an immediate spark of jealousy when I first met Oliver Queen.
If you search his name, the first thing you'll find is the perfect stereotype: a rich, spoiled brat with a devil-may-care attitude. He ticked every box—drunken playboy, carelessly good-looking, a reckless streak a mile wide, and a family who gave him everything on a silver platter. He had all the things I didn't—freedom, access to the world's finest things, and a family who, from the outside, seemed loving, even if they probably indulged him too much.
His life was the complete opposite of mine…
The morning sunlight seeped lazily through the grand windows of Oliver Queen's bedroom, painting the space in hues of gold and cream. The room was an expanse of luxury—polished wood floors, a California king bed with sheets softer than clouds, and a view of the Queen Mansion's sprawling gardens. For most, it would've been a dream. For Oliver, it was just another morning.
He groaned softly, the dull throb of a hangover pounding against his skull like an insistent drumbeat. He blinked, squinting against the light as his senses slowly adjusted. The ache in his head told him he'd had one too many last night. Maybe five too many.
Then he looked down, and the pounding eased—just a little. Laurel Lance, his girlfriend of three years, lay nestled against him, her dark hair cascading over his bare chest. She looked peaceful, her breathing steady, her lips slightly parted as she slept. Oliver couldn't help but smile. Even with the haze of alcohol still clouding his thoughts, the sight of her stirred something warm in him.
Laurel was everything good in his life, the anchor that kept him tethered to something real. But even as he held her close, there was a shadow of uncertainty deep inside him, an unease he couldn't name—or wouldn't.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face, careful not to wake her, and let his head fall back against the pillow. God, the headache was awful. But then again, it was the price of freedom, wasn't it? A night out with his buddies, drinks flowing endlessly, no responsibilities waiting to bite him in the morning. Not like his dad, who was probably already in his study, sifting through papers and making phone calls. Or his mom, who was likely in the dining room, planning her next board meeting or charity gala.
Oliver Queen didn't need to do anything. He didn't need to be anything.
He glanced at the clock on the bedside table—9:42 A.M. Raisa would be tending to Thea downstairs, making her breakfast and fussing over whether she'd finished her summer homework. He could almost hear Thea's voice now, arguing that she didn't need to read some boring book because, "I'll just watch the movie instead."
Oliver smirked to himself. Thea was the baby of the family, the princess, and Raisa doted on her like a second mother. It made him jealous sometimes—not that he'd ever admit it. Not to anyone.
Laurel stirred slightly in his arms, murmuring something unintelligible before settling again. Oliver held her a little tighter, savoring the closeness. He knew she wanted more from him—wanted them to take the next step, to move forward, to build something lasting. She deserved that. She deserved someone better than him.
But life was good the way it was now. Perfect, even. Why mess with perfection?
In this moment, everything felt just as it should: the light filtering in, the warm weight of Laurel beside him, the distant hum of his parents' day beginning without him. He'd sleep in a little longer, let the hangover fade, and maybe spend the rest of the day pretending the world didn't expect anything from him.
Oliver had everything he could ever want. As far as he was concerned, he didn't need to change a thing.
His smile deepened as he felt Laurel stir against him, her warm breath tickling his chest. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, those deep, thoughtful hazel eyes that always seemed to see through him. For a moment, she just blinked at him, a lazy, sleepy smile spreading across her lips.
"Morning," she murmured, her voice soft and slightly hoarse from sleep.
"Morning," Oliver replied, his tone warm but casual, like this was the easiest thing in the world for him. As Laurel traced idle patterns on his chest, Oliver's gaze drifted to the ceiling. The warmth of her touch was comforting, grounding even, but it couldn't quiet the nagging thought at the back of his mind: was this really enough? The question had been there for months, gnawing at him like a splinter he couldn't pull free. He shook it off, forcing a grin as Laurel kissed his cheek. Today wasn't the day to deal with shadows.
She shifted to prop herself up on her elbow, her hair falling over her bare shoulder as she looked down at him. "You look awful."
"Thanks," he chuckled, his hand running through his tousled hair. "That's exactly what every guy wants to hear first thing in the morning."
"Well, if you didn't drink like a fish every time you went out—"
"—I wouldn't have these delightful hangovers to remember how much fun I had," he finished, grinning.
Laurel rolled her eyes, but there was no malice in it, only a fond exasperation. She leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, and for a moment, Oliver felt the pounding in his head recede.
"You're impossible," she said, pulling back just enough to look at him, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his chest. "But you're lucky you're cute."
He smirked, wrapping an arm around her to pull her closer. "Oh, I know. That's why you keep me around, right?"
"Mm-hmm. That, and you're excellent at ordering pizza," she teased, her smile widening.
Oliver laughed, his hand sliding up to cup her face. "Don't forget my charming personality."
Laurel rolled her eyes again, but she nuzzled into his touch, her gaze softening. "You're more than just charming, Ollie."
There it was. That look. The one that made him feel both invincible and unworthy at the same time. She believed in him, in the best parts of him—even the parts he didn't think existed anymore.
"I love you," she said simply, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Oliver's smile faltered for just a second, barely noticeable, before he recovered. "I love you too," he said, and he meant it. In that moment, he truly did. But beneath the surface, a ripple of guilt stirred—a shadow he couldn't let her see.
Laurel shifted again, settling into his side, her head resting on his shoulder. "So, what's the plan for today? Lounging around until noon? Maybe some heroic acts of pizza ordering later?"
"Sounds about right," he replied, wrapping his arm around her. "Unless you've got a better idea."
She hummed thoughtfully. "I was thinking we could head down to the docks later, maybe grab lunch by the water. It'd be nice to get out of the house."
"Yeah," Oliver said, his voice light. "That sounds nice."
And it did. He could picture it now—Laurel laughing in the sunlight, her hand in his, her eyes lighting up when she caught sight of something she liked in a shop window. It was an image he wanted to hold onto, even as the cracks in their picture-perfect relationship loomed in the back of his mind.
Oliver chuckled as he laid back against the pillows, one arm still draped lazily around Laurel. Her fingers continued their absent-minded patterns on his chest, her touch a quiet comfort. He tilted his head to look at her, smirking in that way that always earned him a playful glare.
"Okay, in my defense, last night wasn't just a night of me channeling my inner Hemingway," Oliver said, his voice smooth despite the rough edges of his hangover.
Laurel arched an eyebrow, amused. "Oh? And what exactly was it then?"
"Tommy." He let the name hang for a moment, as if it explained everything. "He challenged me to a drink-off."
Her laughter bubbled up immediately, light and incredulous. "You're kidding me."
"I'm not!" Oliver grinned, the memory a blur but still entertaining. "He waltzed in, all smug, and declared he could out-drink me. I mean, come on. Like I was going to let him walk away with that kind of win. My reputation was on the line, Laurel."
Laurel sat up slightly, her hair spilling over her shoulders as she shook her head at him, laughing softly. "Your reputation? As what, the most reckless man in Starling City?"
"Exactly!" Oliver said, pointing at her like she'd hit the nail on the head. "There's a legacy to uphold here, Laurel. I can't have Tommy Merlyn tarnishing my good name."
She laughed again, leaning down to kiss him on the cheek. "You're ridiculous."
"And yet, you love me for it," Oliver quipped, his grin broadening.
"Somehow," she teased, before giving him a more serious look. "You know, one of these days, Dad is going to have to haul you in for one of these drunken escapades."
Oliver snorted, completely unbothered by the suggestion. He shifted, propping himself up on one elbow to meet her gaze. "Oh, come on. He loves me."
Laurel gave him a skeptical look, her eyes narrowing as she fought back a grin. "He tolerates you. Barely."
"That's not true," Oliver said, his voice dripping with mock indignation. "I'm charming. And reliable. And—"
"And you're the guy who shows up to family dinners with a bottle of wine he bought on the way over," Laurel interrupted, poking his chest with her finger. "If he loves you, it's because Mom forces him to."
"Please," Oliver said, dismissing her with a wave. "Deep down, he's rooting for me. I'm like the son he never had."
Laurel's laughter was instantaneous, rich and full of affection. "You're unbelievable."
"I know," Oliver said, his grin cheeky as he reached out to pull her back into his arms. "That's why you keep me around, remember?"
She sighed, though the smile on her face was undeniable as she settled against him again. "You're lucky I do."
"I really am," Oliver murmured, quieter this time, his tone carrying a hint of sincerity that caught Laurel off guard. She glanced up at him, but before she could say anything, he flashed her a disarming smile.
"Now," he continued, changing the subject with the ease of a seasoned pro, "about that lunch by the water… do you think they'll have decent coffee? I'm going to need a lot of it to survive today."
Laurel rolled her eyes but didn't press. "You're buying," she said, her tone playful.
"Deal," Oliver replied, kissing her forehead. "You deserve it."
Oliver's phone buzzed loudly against the nightstand, breaking the momentary peace of the room. He groaned, half-heartedly reaching for it before Laurel's hand pressed against his chest, keeping him in place.
"Leave it," she pleaded, her voice soft and coaxing. "Whatever it is can wait. You're supposed to be resting… with me."
He sighed, tempted to let it go, but the incessant vibration and his own curiosity got the better of him. "You know I can't ignore it," he said, giving her a teasing look as he reached for the phone.
Laurel rolled her eyes and fell back against the pillows with an exaggerated huff. "You're impossible, you know that?"
"Comes with the territory," he quipped as he unlocked the phone. His grin widened when he saw the message.
You cheated. There's no way I lost. Also, where the hell is my wallet?
Oliver snorted, showing Laurel the screen. She glanced at it and laughed, shaking her head. "I'm impressed he's even awake right now. Where did he end up last night?"
Oliver grinned, the memory flashing in his mind. "Where do you think he ended up?" he said with a knowing smirk. "Tommy scored with some dark-haired girl. Left the bar before midnight."
Laurel shook her head, her lips curving into an amused smile. "Of course he did. Some things never change."
Oliver tossed the phone back onto the nightstand and leaned back, his arms folding behind his head. "Tommy's nothing if not consistent."
"Then what the hell were you doing until I picked you up?" Laurel asked, her eyes narrowing as her curiosity took on a teasing edge.
Oliver hesitated for a moment, racking his brain for something better than the truth. Images of the night were hazy, but one particularly mortifying memory stood out: him relieving himself on a fire hydrant in front of a very unimpressed bouncer.
"Uh..." he began, scratching the back of his neck. "Playing pool?"
Laurel's laughter erupted instantly, full of disbelief and amusement. "You? Playing pool?"
"Yeah," he said, doubling down with mock confidence. "I'm surprisingly good at it when I'm not, you know, blackout drunk."
She swatted his arm, still laughing. "You're so full of it."
After that, the two of them laid in a comfortable silence for a little while longer, the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the blinds as they simply enjoyed each other's presence. Oliver closed his eyes, the lingering ache of his hangover dulling in the quiet intimacy of the moment. Laurel traced lazy circles on his chest with her fingertips, a small, contented smile playing on her lips.
Just as Oliver began to drift asleep, a sound from downstairs jarred him awake: the unmistakable high-pitched giggle of his twelve-year-old sister, Thea. It was followed by the muffled voice of Raisa, no doubt trying to keep her from storming upstairs.
Oliver groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. "That's my cue," he muttered. "It's only a matter of time before she comes looking for 'big sis Laurel.'"
Laurel laughed softly, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. "She's adorable. You could do worse than Thea barging in."
"You say that because you're not the one who had to hear her argue for an hour yesterday about why Zac Efron is her soulmate," Oliver grumbled, though his tone carried no real malice.
Laurel smirked, her eyes glinting with a mischievous light. "So, if we have to get up anyway," she began, her voice slow and suggestive, "how about we make it worth it? A shower, maybe?"
Oliver's expression lit up with a devilish grin. "Laurel Lance, the day I say no to that, just shoot me."
Laurel didn't give him a chance to say anything else. With a playful laugh, she hopped out of bed, wrapping the sheet around herself as she darted toward the bathroom.
Oliver was right behind her, shedding the remnants of his hangover in the wake of her laughter. "You're not getting a head start!" he called, catching up with her just as the door swung shut behind them.
The spacious Queen manor was bathed in golden morning light, streaming through the tall windows that overlooked the expansive, manicured lawn. The scent of freshly brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted through the air, mingling with the faint hum of a morning show playing on the television in the adjacent room. The open layout of the ground floor gave the home an inviting warmth, with polished wood floors reflecting the light and a centerpiece staircase curving down into the main hall. It was a house that lived, breathed, and welcomed guests with a sense of comfort that one rarely found in a wealthy household.
Oliver descended the stairs, hand in hand with Laurel, the two of them still grinning from their earlier escapade. The sound of laughter bubbled up from the living room, where Thea lounged on the couch, her legs tucked beneath her, utterly engrossed in a colorful cartoon.
In the kitchen, Raisa was at the stove, her deft hands flipping pancakes with practiced ease. The clatter of plates being set on the island counter and the gentle hum of the vent fan added to the lively symphony of the Queen household.
Raisa glanced up as Oliver and Laurel entered, her stern yet fond expression softening into a smile. "Good morning, Mr. Oliver," she said, her thick Russian accent wrapping around the words like a mother's embrace. Her sharp eyes swept over him, taking in his slightly disheveled appearance. "Rough night, hmm?"
"You could say that," Oliver replied, running a hand through his hair as he moved to lean against the counter. "Tommy thought it'd be a good idea to challenge me to a drink-off. Couldn't let him tarnish my reputation."
Raisa gave him a look—half amusement, half exasperation. "One of these days, you'll learn to slow down."
Oliver chuckled, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "Not today, though."
She shook her head, fixing him with a glare that held no real heat. "You are impossible, you know that?"
"Hey, y'know Laurel just said the same thing to me!"
"Sit. Eat. I made extra, knowing you'd need it."
Before he could respond, Thea's delighted squeal pierced the air. "Laurel!" she cried, abandoning her spot on the couch to dart into the kitchen. She threw her arms around Laurel with a wide grin.
"Laurel, you have to help me later!" Thea gushed, her words tumbling over each other in excitement. "I found this new nail polish and—oh, oh! I have to show you the earrings I got yesterday!"
Laurel knelt slightly to meet her enthusiasm, laughing. "Of course, Speedy. I'd love to."
Raisa chuckled softly as she placed a plate stacked with pancakes in front of Oliver. "Laurel, you've become more of a sister to Thea than he is," she teased, gesturing to Oliver.
"Hard not to be, with the competition," Laurel quipped with a wink, making Thea giggle and Oliver feign offense.
"I suppose it doesn't help that I'm not a female, so I can't really compete." Oliver sighed, earning a smile from the girls.
"Your hair's too short to style, anyway." Thea retorted, sticking her tongue out.
Just then, the sound of the front door opening drew their attention. Moira and Robert stepped inside, their laughter carrying into the kitchen. Robert's arm rested comfortably around Moira's shoulders as he leaned in to whisper something that made her laugh again, the kind of unguarded, genuine sound that warmed Oliver's heart.
Seeing them together like this always gave Oliver a sense of ease, even if he rarely admitted it aloud. Their marriage, with all its challenges, seemed unshakable—a pillar of strength in his life.
Robert's eyes lit up when he saw Oliver. "Well, look who's up already!" he said, clapping his son on the shoulder as he entered the kitchen. "Color me surprised."
Oliver grinned sheepishly. "Wasn't exactly my intention," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
Robert chuckled, taking a seat at the counter. "Still, good to see you awake. Maybe we'll make a morning person out of you yet."
"Let's not get carried away," Oliver said, earning a laugh from Laurel and Thea, who had resumed planning their nail polish session.
Moira leaned against the counter beside Raisa, surveying the cheerful scene with a satisfied smile. "Breakfast smells divine, Raisa," she said.
"It always does," Oliver agreed, taking a bite of the pancake Raisa had placed in front of him. For a moment, he let himself bask in the warmth of the room—the hum of voices, the clatter of plates, the bright energy of a family fully alive and at ease.
As the lively energy of the dining room settled into a more comfortable rhythm, the conversation naturally turned toward the day ahead. Thea was the first to pipe up, spinning her chair around to face everyone. "Laurel and I are going to paint nails later," she announced proudly. "And maybe we'll do a little shopping if she has time?"
Laurel smiled at her enthusiasm.
"Of course. Can't have Starling's brightest fashion star looking anything less than perfect, right?"
Thea beamed, her excitement practically radiating.
"Exactly!"
Moira chuckled softly.
"And what about you, Oliver? Surely you have something more productive planned than recovering from last night?"
"Productive?" Oliver quipped with a mock gasp. "Me? You wound me, Mother."
The room chuckled as Oliver leaned back slightly in his chair, a mischievous glint in his eye. "Besides taking Laurel out to lunch? Actually, I was thinking it'd be nice to take the yacht out again. Get as much time on the water as we can before it starts getting cold."
At that, Robert set his coffee cup down and leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Funny you should mention that," he said. "I was meaning to tell you before, but we'll be taking the yacht out soon—though not just for pleasure. I've invited a potential client and his family on board to discuss a deal Grunnings is working with Queen Consolidated."
Oliver furrowed his brow. "A client? Dad, you promised you'd leave work at the office!"
"I know, I know… it's just I thought the atmosphere of the water might make negotiations a little more… comfortable."
Before anyone could respond, a subtle flicker of surprise crossed Moira's face. It was gone in an instant, replaced by her usual calm and composed demeanor, but Oliver caught the faintest hint of tension in her posture. She smoothed a strand of hair behind her ear and offered a small, supportive smile. "That sounds like a wonderful idea, Robert," she said, her voice even.
"I'm glad you think so," Robert replied, giving her hand a quick squeeze before glancing back at Oliver. "And don't worry, you'll still get your time out there. I'll make sure there's plenty of room for fun."
Oliver grinned. "I guess I can live with that. Though, if this client's as uptight as some of the others you've dealt with, it might be fun to see how long it takes them to loosen up."
The remark earned a laugh from Robert and a faint sigh from Moira, though there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes. Raisa, meanwhile, shook her head with a knowing smile as she continued tending to breakfast.
"Well, you'll have your chance to find out soon enough," Robert said, reaching for his coffee. "I've scheduled the trip for next week. Make sure you're ready."
Oliver nodded in response, his thoughts briefly drifting as he processed what Robert had just said. While he had been hoping for some uninterrupted time on the water, the mention of a client and a business deal immediately soured the mood just a little. He couldn't help but feel that the trip would turn into just another one of his father's work sessions, where Robert would spend most of the time making calls or discussing numbers while everyone else tried to amuse themselves.
He shifted in his seat slightly, trying to mask his disappointment with a casual grin. "Well, I guess that's one way to get some business done," he said, forcing a light tone. "I'll just have to make sure to keep the drinks flowing for everyone, then. Can't have them thinking it's all business, right?"
Robert chuckled, clearly not picking up on Oliver's underlying frustration. "That's the spirit. Keep them entertained and make sure it's a day they won't forget. You know how I operate."
"Yeah," Oliver muttered under his breath, his gaze drifting momentarily out the window to the sprawling grounds outside the manor. A perfect day on the water was just what he needed, but he doubted the trip would live up to the idea in his head. It seemed like every time he had some free time, it was swallowed up by one of his father's business ventures.
He glanced at Moira, then back at Robert, as if weighing the idea of bringing Laurel along. She could certainly help make the day more bearable—Laurel was always a breath of fresh air in the middle of the chaos—but he didn't want to bring it up in front of everyone. If his dad was going to spend most of the trip buried in paperwork or discussing logistics, he'd rather just take Laurel and make it feel like something fun, even if he had to sneak it by the others.
He'd ask her later, when they were alone. For now, he'd just play the role he knew so well—the charming son who could navigate any social situation with a smile.
"So, next week, huh?" Oliver said, forcing another smile as he leaned back in his chair. "I'll be sure to clear my schedule. Don't want to miss out on all the fun."
Moira's eyes twinkled with mild amusement, though her tone was more serious. "Just make sure you don't get yourself into trouble, Oliver. You can't hide behind your charm forever."
"Who, me?" Oliver smirked, meeting her gaze. "I'm a saint. You'll see."
She shot him a knowing look, but her expression softened. "We'll see."
The room fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, broken only by the soft clatter of Raisa's utensils as she moved about the kitchen, her humming filling the background. It was hard to stay annoyed with the family atmosphere around him. Even though the yacht trip was likely to turn into a working affair, the thought of being with his family, having a few laughs, and maybe getting a little drunk on the water with Laurel made it seem more manageable. He wasn't thrilled about the idea of the yacht becoming just another extension of his dad's business, but for now, he'd go along with it.
When the conversation moved on to other matters, Oliver leaned back, trying to push aside the vague feeling of being trapped between the expectations of his father's world and his own desires for freedom. He tried to let himself enjoy the moment, smiling at Thea as she threw herself into a new episode of her favorite cartoon, and exchanging a playful glance with Laurel. The warmth of the room, the energy of his family, it was a stark contrast to the cold formality of business. He had this, at least.
Where my days at Privet Drive were filled with cold stares, silence, and the occasional insult, his mornings seemed like they came straight out of a storybook. A family bustling around the dining table, teasing and laughing, surrounded by warmth and light. His parents smiled at him like they meant it. His sister adored him.
It was a world I couldn't imagine back then. For someone like me, who had spent most of his life feeling like an unwanted guest in his own home, Oliver's life might as well have been a fairy tale.
Despite how different our lives were, we did have one thing in common. We were both going to be on that yacht…
Hope you all enjoyed the chapter! I'll admit, I enjoyed writing the Oliver portion of this chapter. He was probably the best part of doing this chapter if I'm to be completely honest. We're aiming to have at least one chapter a month for now, and will try to release chapters alongside Reforged Destinies.
So, let me know what you thought of the chapter and we will see you real soon!