THE FOUNDRY - LATE EVENING
The underground lair had taken on the lived-in quality of a place where people spent more time than they probably should. Hermione's workstation had expanded to include a small camping chair and what appeared to be a survival kit disguised as a purse, while Neville's weapons maintenance area now featured a mini-fridge and enough protein bars to survive a small siege.
Oliver descended the metal stairs with Diggle close behind, followed by Harry, Daphne, and Susan, all of them carrying the particular energy that came from successful intelligence gathering mixed with impending violence.
"Well," Harry drawled, his emerald eyes taking in the domestic scene with wicked amusement, "it appears Hermione and Neville have officially moved in. Should we start charging rent, or just accept that we've accidentally acquired the world's most over-qualified live-in technical support?"
Hermione looked up from her array of monitors, her wild brown curls escaping from what had started the day as a neat bun. "Very funny, Harry. Some of us take this work seriously enough to actually stay and monitor the situation instead of gallivanting around the city playing dress-up."
"Gallivanting?" Daphne's perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched with aristocratic disdain. "I'll have you know that my 'gallivanting' involved high-level surveillance and tactical intelligence gathering. With proper lipstick."
"Because proper lipstick is essential for effective surveillance," Susan added dryly, though she was fighting back a smile.
From his position at the weapons rack, Neville straightened to his full impressive height, setting down the crossbow he'd been methodically cleaning. "Actually, I was thinking the same thing, Harry. We've been here so much lately that Mrs. Chen from the noodle place downstairs knows our usual orders."
"Which raises an interesting point," Harry continued with the kind of thoughtful expression that usually preceded either brilliance or disaster. "Neville, you should take Hermione to the CNRI fundraiser tomorrow night. Make an evening of it. Show her what passes for high society in Starling City."
The silence that followed was deafening. Hermione's fingers froze over her keyboard, Neville's face went through several interesting color changes, and Susan made a sound that might have been a snort of laughter disguised as a cough.
"I... what?" Neville managed, his deep voice climbing several octaves.
"Oh, that's brilliant," Daphne purred, her grey eyes sparkling with malicious delight. "Hermione in formal wear, Neville in a proper tuxedo, mingling with Starling's elite while secretly being the most dangerous couple in the room. It's like a romantic comedy with significantly more potential for creative violence."
"Harry," Hermione said carefully, her cheeks pink, "I don't think—"
"Of course you're going," Harry interrupted with cheerful authority. "It's perfect. Hermione needs to get out of this cave occasionally, Neville needs to practice his social skills on something other than weapon maintenance, and I need entertainment that doesn't involve watching Susan pretend she's not staring at my arse."
"I do not stare at your—" Susan began indignantly.
"You absolutely do," Daphne confirmed with wicked satisfaction. "We all do. It's a very nice arse."
Before the conversation could descend into a detailed analysis of Harry's physical attributes, Oliver cleared his throat with the authority of someone who'd learned to manage chaotic personalities through sheer force of will.
"If we're quite finished discussing my cousin's anatomy," he said dryly, "we have more pressing concerns."
He nodded toward Hermione's main display, where the audio feed from Derek Reston's tracking device painted a picture that was both exactly what they'd expected and significantly more dangerous than they'd hoped.
The sound quality was excellent—Harry had to give Oliver credit for the sophistication of his surveillance equipment. Derek's voice came through with crystal clarity, discussing details that left no doubt about the Royal Flush Gang's next move.
"—First National, tomorrow night," Derek was saying, his tone carrying the flat certainty of a man who'd made his final decision. "Security shift change at eleven-fifteen. Teddy's got the electronic systems mapped, Kyle's handled the physical surveillance, and Jan's confirmed the cash transport schedules."
A younger voice—Kyle, presumably—cut in with barely controlled excitement. "This is it, Dad. The big score. After this, we're set for life."
"After this, we're gone," Derek corrected firmly. "Out of the country, new identities, clean break. But only if everything goes exactly according to plan."
Oliver's jaw tightened as he processed the implications. "They're really going to do it. Tomorrow night, during the fundraiser."
"Which explains the timing," Diggle observed grimly. "Half of SCPD's senior command will be at the gala, including Detective Lance. Reduced patrol coverage, slower response times, maximum chaos."
Harry's smile took on that particular quality that had once made Voldemort nervous. "Oh, how delightfully convenient. We can attend a charity function and prevent a bank robbery in the same evening. It's like a very expensive form of multitasking."
"This isn't a game, Harry," Oliver said sharply, though his cousin's enthusiasm was infectious in the worst possible way.
"Of course it's a game," Harry replied smoothly, moving to study the architectural plans that Hermione had pulled up on the secondary displays. "A very serious game with permanent consequences, but a game nonetheless. The question is whether we're better players than they are."
Daphne joined him at the displays, her brilliant mind already working through tactical possibilities. "First National's security is sophisticated but not cutting-edge. Teddy Reston's got the technical skills to handle their electronics, but he's never faced magical countermeasures."
"Which gives us a significant advantage," Susan added, her detective instincts kicking in as she studied the bank's floor plan. "They're planning for conventional security response, not for vigilantes with magical enhancement and intimate knowledge of their operational patterns."
Hermione's fingers flew across her keyboard, pulling up additional intelligence with practised efficiency. "There's more. The tracking device is picking up conversations about contingency plans, escape routes, and what sounds like preparation for significant violence if things go wrong."
The audio feed crackled with Kyle's voice, carrying an edge that made everyone in the Foundry tense.
"If those vigilantes show up again," Kyle was saying, "I'm not running. I'm done being hunted like an animal. This time, we fight back."
Derek's response was sharp and immediate. "Kyle, no. The plan is in and out, clean and quiet. No unnecessary violence."
"Necessary is relative, Dad," Kyle shot back. "Those costumed freaks have been making our lives hell for weeks. If they want a war, I'll give them one."
The transmission ended with the sound of Derek trying to maintain control over a situation that was clearly spiraling beyond his ability to manage.
Oliver's expression had gone cold and focused, the transformation from conflicted idealist to tactical operator happening with unsettling speed.
"That's it," he said flatly. "Tomorrow night, we stop them. All of them. Whatever it takes."
Harry studied his cousin's face, reading the subtle signs that suggested Oliver had crossed one of his internal lines. "Define 'whatever it takes.'"
"They made their choice," Oliver replied, his voice carrying the flat certainty of someone who'd decided that moral complexity was a luxury he could no longer afford. "Derek had a chance to walk away, to accept help, to choose redemption over revenge. He refused. Now they're planning to rob a bank while threatening to kill anyone who tries to stop them."
"Including us," Neville pointed out unnecessarily.
"Especially us," Oliver confirmed. "Which means we handle this the way we handle any other dangerous criminal organization threatening innocent people."
"With extreme prejudice?" Daphne asked, her grey eyes sparkling with anticipation.
"With whatever force is necessary to protect the people of this city," Oliver corrected, though the distinction was probably more semantic than practical.
Susan looked around the group, recognizing the particular energy that preceded their more violent operations. "So what's the plan? Attend the fundraiser, slip away when the Royal Flush Gang makes their move, and intercept them at First National?"
"Something like that," Oliver confirmed. "Though we'll need to be careful about timing. Too early, and we miss them. Too late, and innocent people get hurt."
Harry's grin was absolutely radiant. "Oh, this is going to be wonderful. A charity gala and a bank robbery in the same evening. It's like Christmas morning, but with significantly more potential for property damage."
"Harry," Hermione said with fond exasperation, "try to contain your enthusiasm until after we've actually survived the evening."
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry asked reasonably. "Besides, I have complete confidence in our tactical superiority. Three vigilantes with magical enhancement, advanced weapons, and intimate knowledge of our opponents' operational patterns? Really, I almost feel sorry for them."
"Almost?" Susan pressed.
"Well, they did threaten to kill us," Harry pointed out with cheerful malice. "That sort of thing tends to reduce my sympathy significantly."
Diggle, who had been quietly processing the tactical situation, finally spoke up. "What about collateral damage? First National is in the heart of downtown, surrounded by restaurants, hotels, office buildings. If this turns into a running firefight..."
"It won't," Oliver said with absolute certainty. "We end it at the bank. Quick, clean, final."
The weight of that decision settled over the Foundry like a heavy blanket. They'd been hunting the Royal Flush Gang for weeks, hoping to find a way to resolve the situation without violence. But Derek Reston had made his choice, and that choice had consequences.
"Right then," Harry said, straightening his tie with characteristic flair. "I suppose we should all get some rest. Tomorrow night promises to be quite eventful, and I'd hate to be anything less than perfectly dressed for the occasion."
"Speaking of which," Daphne added with wicked satisfaction, "I've already selected the perfect gown for the fundraiser. Something elegant enough for high society and practical enough for tactical operations. It's all about proper planning."
As the group began to disperse, Neville caught Hermione's eye across the room. "About the fundraiser," he said awkwardly, "if you actually want to go... I mean, if Harry wasn't just being an interfering git..."
Hermione's smile was soft and genuine. "I'd love to, Neville. Though I should warn you, I have absolutely no idea how to behave at fancy charity events."
"Neither do I," Neville admitted with relief. "We can figure it out together."
Harry paused at the bottom of the stairs, looking back at his friends and teammates with something that might have been pride mixed with affection.
Tomorrow night, they'd face down a family of desperate criminals in what would probably be their most dangerous operation yet. People might die, including some of them. The moral complexity of the situation meant that victory would taste bitter regardless of how decisively they won.
But for tonight, they were just young people planning to attend a charity gala together, trying to make the best of circumstances that were largely beyond their control.
It was, Harry reflected, a rather fitting metaphor for their entire vigilante career.
The house always collected its debts, but sometimes it let you enjoy the party first.
---
THE NEXT EVENING - STARLING PLAZA HOTEL, GRAND BALLROOM
The Starling Plaza's grand ballroom had been transformed into something that would have made Versailles jealous. Crystal chandeliers cast dancing light across marble floors polished to mirror brightness, while enormous floral arrangements—each one probably worth more than most people's cars—created intimate conversation areas among tables set with enough silverware to outfit a small restaurant.
The crowd was exactly what anyone would expect at a high-end charity fundraiser: beautiful people wearing beautiful clothes, discussing beautiful causes while being photographed by beautiful cameras operated by people who definitely weren't beautiful enough to be in the actual photos.
Oliver Queen stood near the auction display tables, looking every inch the reformed billionaire playboy in a perfectly tailored midnight blue tuxedo that probably cost more than most people's annual salary. At twenty-eight, he possessed the kind of rugged handsomeness that belonged on magazine covers, but there was something different about him now—a controlled intensity that suggested violence was never more than a heartbeat away.
Diggle maintained his position three steps behind and to the right, the perfect bodyguard: alert, professional, and armed with enough firepower to level a city block if the situation demanded it. His tuxedo was impeccable, but anyone with trained eyes could spot the subtle bulges that indicated serious hardware concealed beneath the formal wear.
"You know," Tommy Merlyn said, appearing at Oliver's elbow with two glasses of champagne and the kind of casual confidence that came from never having to worry about whether he belonged somewhere, "I have to hand it to you. When you said you were bringing interesting dates to this thing, I thought you were exaggerating."
Oliver followed Tommy's gaze across the ballroom to where Harry Potter held court near the main entrance, looking like he'd been specifically designed to make formal wear look effortless. His tuxedo was perfect—not just expensive, but cut with the kind of precision that suggested it had been created by someone who understood that clothes should enhance rather than overwhelm the person wearing them.
But it wasn't Harry's appearance that was drawing attention. It was his companions.
On his right arm, Daphne Greengrass looked like she'd stepped directly from the pages of Vogue. Her midnight blue gown—probably custom couture—clung to her figure with mathematical precision, while her platinum blonde hair had been styled into something that managed to look both effortlessly elegant and carefully crafted. Diamonds at her throat and ears caught the light like captured stars.
On his left, Susan Bones wore emerald green silk that brought out the fire in her auburn hair and made her brown eyes look like melted chocolate. Her dress was slightly less formal than Daphne's—cocktail length rather than floor-length—but no less stunning for its relative simplicity.
What made the tableau particularly remarkable was that both women looked genuinely happy to be exactly where they were, with no sign of the jealousy or competition that most people would expect from such an arrangement.
"That's not two girlfriends," Oliver said quietly, accepting one of the champagne glasses. "That's two women who decided how their relationship was going to work, and Harry was smart enough not to argue with them."
Tommy's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline. "You mean they—"
"I mean it's none of our business," Oliver cut him off with the patience of someone who'd learned not to question arrangements that worked for the people involved. "But yes, they figured it out themselves. Harry just went along with whatever they decided."
"That's... actually kind of terrifying," Tommy admitted, taking a sip of champagne. "The idea of women who know exactly what they want and have the confidence to go after it regardless of social conventions."
"Welcome to the modern world, Tommy," Oliver said dryly. "Try to keep up."
Before Tommy could formulate a response that wouldn't reveal just how far behind the modern world he actually was, another couple entered the ballroom and immediately drew every eye in the vicinity.
Neville Longbottom looked like he'd been carved from marble by a sculptor with a particular appreciation for classical heroic proportions. At six-foot-four and built like he wrestled bears for recreational purposes, he should have looked awkward in formal wear. Instead, his perfectly fitted tuxedo made him look like a secret agent who could bench press a small car.
Hermione Granger had undergone the kind of transformation that usually required fairy godmothers and pumpkin-based transportation. Her wild brown curls had been tamed into an elegant updo that showed off the graceful line of her neck, while her midnight purple gown managed to be both sophisticated and subtly seductive. She moved with the confidence of someone who'd discovered that intelligence was the ultimate accessory.
"Jesus," Tommy breathed, his champagne momentarily forgotten. "Is that the same girl who was practically living in the Queen Consolidated IT department last month?"
"Same brilliant mind," Oliver confirmed. "Just better lighting and professional makeup."
Tommy watched Neville escort Hermione toward their table with the kind of careful attention usually reserved for traffic accidents or natural disasters. "You know, I always thought the whole 'beauty and the beast' thing was just a fairy tale, but watching those two... he looks like he'd kill anyone who looked at her wrong, and she looks like she could help him hide the body."
"Probably accurate on both counts," Oliver agreed with amusement.
As if summoned by their conversation, Thea Queen materialized beside them with the kind of perfect timing that suggested she'd been eavesdropping from behind one of the enormous floral arrangements.
At seventeen, Thea had inherited all of the Queen family's genetic advantages and none of their restraint. Her black cocktail dress was perfectly appropriate for the occasion and completely inappropriate for someone who wasn't supposed to be drawing every male eye in the room. Her dark hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her smile carried just enough mischief to suggest trouble was never far away.
"Please tell me someone got pictures of Harry's entrance," she said without preamble, settling beside Oliver with predatory grace. "Because that was like watching a movie star arrive at a premiere, except the movie star brought two dates and somehow made it look completely normal."
"Thea," Oliver warned, recognizing the tone that usually preceded his sister doing something that would require diplomatic intervention.
"What? I'm just saying, if I'm ever going to scandalize high society, I want to do it with half as much style as Harry just did." She paused, her brown eyes sparkling with barely contained glee. "Though I do have to ask—how exactly does that work? The logistics alone must be fascinating."
"Thea."
"Fine, fine, I'll behave," she said with exaggerated disappointment. "But only because Delphini made me promise not to embarrass the family at this thing."
As if summoned by her name, Delphini Potter appeared with the kind of silent grace that made people wonder if she'd been there all along and they simply hadn't noticed. At seventeen, she possessed the sort of otherworldly beauty that made people stop mid-conversation—dark hair that seemed to move with its own mysterious breeze, grey-green eyes that held depths suggesting ancient secrets, and a midnight blue dress that managed to look both innocent and vaguely dangerous.
"You're not embarrassing anyone," Delphini said with fond amusement, her British accent adding an exotic note to the familiar surroundings. "Though I do think your brother's dates are providing quite enough entertainment for one evening."
"Speaking of dates," Thea said with the kind of pointed look that usually preceded uncomfortable revelations, "Tommy, you never did tell us who that mystery woman was that you needed relationship advice about."
Tommy went very still, his champagne glass frozen halfway to his lips.
Oliver felt his stomach drop as he recognized the particular expression that crossed his best friend's face—the look of someone who'd just realized they were about to be thrown under a very expensive bus.
"Thea," Oliver said carefully, "maybe we should—"
"Oh my God," Thea interrupted, her voice climbing in pitch as understanding dawned. "Tommy. Please tell me you didn't—"
"I can explain," Tommy said quickly, but his words were cut off by the sound of heels clicking across marble with purposeful stride.
Laurel Lance approached their group with the kind of confident elegance that came from years of courtroom experience and a dress that probably represented three months' worth of careful budgeting. Her emerald green gown was perfectly fitted, professionally appropriate, and stunning enough to make every woman in the vicinity reassess their own fashion choices.
Her dark hair had been styled into soft waves that caught the ballroom's lighting, and her smile carried just enough warmth to seem genuine without revealing whether she was actually happy to see any of them.
"Oliver," she said with professional courtesy, extending her hand. "Thank you for supporting CNRI tonight. This fundraiser means everything to us."
"Laurel," Oliver replied, shaking her hand with the kind of careful politeness that suggested they were both pretending their history was significantly less complicated than it actually was. "You look beautiful. The whole event is incredible—you and Tommy should be proud."
At the mention of Tommy's name, Laurel's gaze shifted to him, and something complicated flickered across her features.
"Tommy," she said, her voice softer now, carrying undertones that made everyone else in their group suddenly very interested in examining their champagne glasses. "You clean up well."
Tommy's smile was different from his usual practiced charm—quieter, more genuine, touched with something that might have been hope mixed with terror.
"So do you," he replied, and the simple words carried more weight than most people's elaborate declarations. "Really, Laurel. You look... amazing doesn't even begin to cover it."
The silence that followed was heavy with years of unspoken history and present complications that no one particularly wanted to address in the middle of a charity gala.
Thea and Delphini exchanged one of those wordless conversations that seemed to involve significant amounts of eyebrow movement and subtle head tilting, while Oliver found himself wondering if there was a diplomatic way to extract everyone from this situation before it became even more awkward.
Before anyone could figure out how to navigate the emotional minefield that had suddenly appeared in the middle of their social gathering, the ballroom's atmosphere shifted as new arrivals commanded attention with the kind of effortless authority that money and confidence could buy.
Carter Bowen swept into their midst with the practiced charm of someone who'd never met a social situation he couldn't dominate through sheer force of personality and carefully cultivated achievement. His tuxedo was perfect—not just expensive, but cut and styled to emphasize his athletic build and classical good looks. His dark hair was immaculately styled, his smile was bright enough to power half the ballroom, and his entire presence radiated the kind of success that made lesser mortals feel inferior just by proximity.
"Laurel!" he said with genuine warmth, though his eyes quickly catalogued everyone else in the group with the calculating assessment of someone who'd learned to identify social hierarchies at a glance. "You look absolutely stunning. This whole evening is incredible—CNRI should be proud of what you've accomplished."
Laurel's smile became slightly more professional, though she accepted his compliment graciously. "Thank you, Carter. I'm glad you could make it tonight."
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Carter replied with practiced sincerity, then turned his attention to the rest of the group with the kind of inclusive charm that suggested he was comfortable being the most successful person in any conversation. "Oliver, good to see you again. And Tommy—great work on the organization. This kind of event requires serious logistical sophistication."
Tommy's response was politely neutral, though anyone who knew him well could detect the subtle tension in his posture.
"Team effort," Tommy said simply. "Laurel did most of the heavy lifting."
"Modest as always," Carter replied with the kind of patronizing warmth that suggested he'd missed the undercurrents entirely. "Though I have to say, this is exactly the kind of community engagement that makes Starling City special."
He turned back to Laurel with renewed focus, and Oliver could practically see Tommy's jaw tighten in response.
"Actually, Laurel," Carter continued with the smooth confidence of someone who'd never been turned down for anything important, "I was hoping we could grab a drink later and discuss some ideas I have for expanding CNRI's reach. I've been working on some community health initiatives that might complement your legal advocacy work."
Laurel hesitated, clearly recognizing the invitation for what it was while also being genuinely interested in potential collaboration opportunities.
"That's very thoughtful, Carter," she began diplomatically, "but tonight is really about the fundraiser, and I should probably—"
"Oh, come now," Carter interrupted with gentle persistence, "surely the guest of honor can spare a few minutes to discuss expanding her organization's impact. Besides, I promise to keep it strictly professional. Scout's honor."
His smile was charming, his intentions seemed genuine, and his offer of professional collaboration was exactly the kind of opportunity that CNRI needed to grow their community impact.
Tommy watched this exchange with the expression of someone witnessing a traffic accident in slow motion, powerless to intervene without making the situation worse.
Before Laurel could formulate a response that would be both polite and appropriately non-committal, the ballroom's attention was captured by new arrivals who commanded the kind of immediate notice usually reserved for visiting royalty or particularly spectacular natural disasters.
Sirius Black entered the ballroom like he owned it—which, given his recent investments in Starling City real estate, might not have been far from the truth. At thirty-eight, he possessed the kind of dangerous handsomeness that belonged in expensive whiskey advertisements, all sharp cheekbones and grey eyes that held just enough wildness to suggest he'd be fascinating at parties and absolutely lethal in business negotiations.
His tuxedo was perfect in the way that suggested it had been crafted by someone who understood that clothes should enhance rather than constrain the person wearing them, and he moved with the kind of controlled confidence that came from years of surviving situations that would have killed lesser men.
But impressive as Sirius was, it was his companion who drew every eye in the vicinity.
Nymphadora Tonks had undergone the kind of transformation that usually required teams of professional stylists and small fortunes in designer clothing. Her hair—currently a rich chestnut brown that caught the ballroom's lighting like spun silk—had been styled into elegant waves that framed her face perfectly. Her burgundy gown clung to curves that suggested she spent significantly more time maintaining her physical fitness than most people realized, and she moved with the kind of fluid grace that spoke of serious training in disciplines that weren't typically taught in finishing schools.
More than her appearance, though, it was her presence that commanded attention. She carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who'd faced down dangers that most people couldn't imagine and emerged victorious, while her dark eyes held depths that suggested she saw far more than she let on.
"Ladies and gentlemen," Sirius announced to their group with theatrical flair, "allow me to present my cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, recently arrived from London and already making Starling City a significantly more interesting place to live."
Tonks shot him a look that could have frozen water at fifty paces. "Call me Tonks," she said firmly, her British accent carrying just enough authority to suggest that nicknames were not optional. "Unless you enjoy the thought of explaining to the medical staff how you managed to dislocate your own shoulder through mysterious circumstances."
"Noted," Sirius replied with unrepentant glee, clearly delighted by his cousin's response.
Laurel, grateful for the interruption and genuinely intrigued by the new arrivals, extended her hand with professional warmth.
"Ms. Tonks," she said, "Sirius mentioned that you might be interested in working with CNRI as a liaison for his foundation's charitable giving. I have to say, your timing is perfect—we're always looking for partners who understand both legal advocacy and community outreach."
Tonks accepted the handshake with the kind of firm grip that suggested she'd learned early in life that first impressions mattered, especially when you were a woman in male-dominated professions.
"Please, just Tonks," she replied with genuine warmth. "And yes, I'm very interested in what CNRI is doing. Sirius has been telling me about your work with underserved communities, and I think there might be some interesting opportunities for collaboration."
"What's your background?" Laurel asked, her professional curiosity clearly piqued.
"Law enforcement, primarily," Tonks replied, which was technically true if you ignored the distinction between magical and mundane police work. "I spent several years with Scotland Yard before deciding to make a career change. I have a son now, and I wanted something that would let me spend more time with family while still doing meaningful work."
Carter, clearly not enjoying the shift in attention away from his own conversation with Laurel, inserted himself into the discussion with practiced ease.
"Scotland Yard?" he said with the kind of impressed interest that suggested he'd found a way to make this conversation about his own sophisticated worldliness. "Fascinating. I did some consulting work with law enforcement agencies during my residency—medical examiner's office, forensic pathology, that sort of thing. There's something uniquely satisfying about using scientific expertise to serve justice."
Tonks studied Carter with the kind of careful assessment that suggested she'd developed highly refined instincts about people who talked too much about their own accomplishments.
"Indeed," she said with perfectly polite neutrality. "Though I found that the most effective law enforcement usually involved less talking and more listening."
The subtle dig was delivered with such pleasant courtesy that it took Carter a moment to realize he'd been insulted, and by then the conversation had moved on.
"So, Tonks," Laurel said with growing enthusiasm, "what made you decide to leave Scotland Yard? If you don't mind me asking."
Tonks's smile was genuine and slightly self-deprecating. "Honestly? I got tired of seeing the same problems over and over again without being able to address the underlying causes. Law enforcement is reactive—you respond to crimes after they've already happened. But organizations like CNRI are proactive—you work to prevent problems before they become crimes."
"Plus," she added with a grin that transformed her entire face, "I figured it was time to try something that didn't involve quite so many people trying to shoot me on a regular basis."
Laurel laughed, a genuine sound that made Tommy's expression brighten considerably and Carter's smile become slightly more forced.
"That's definitely one of the perks of legal advocacy," Laurel agreed. "Though we do occasionally have to deal with angry landlords and hostile witnesses, which can be their own form of occupational hazard."
"I can imagine," Tonks replied. "Though I suspect angry landlords are significantly less likely to use Molotov cocktails than some of my former... clients."
"Please tell me that's an exaggeration," Thea interjected, clearly fascinated by the conversation.
"I wish it were," Tonks said with rueful amusement. "Though in fairness, the Molotov cocktail incident only happened once, and we did eventually apprehend the suspect. Eventually being the operative term—it took three weeks and involved a remarkably creative chase sequence through half of London's underground tunnel system."
"That sounds like it would make an excellent story," Delphini observed with the kind of pointed interest that suggested she was cataloguing information for future reference.
"Perhaps over coffee sometime," Tonks replied diplomatically. "Though I should warn you, most of my work stories are significantly less exciting than people imagine. Real police work involves a lot more paperwork and a lot less dramatic confrontation than television would have you believe."
Oliver, who had been listening to this exchange with growing appreciation for Tonks's combination of professionalism and subtle humor, especially since the Tonks he'd met a few weeks ago, was a far cry from the elegant woman standing in front of him.
"Tonks," he said, extending his hand with genuine warmth, "Oliver Queen. Welcome to Starling City. I have a feeling you're going to fit right in here."
"Thank you," Tonks replied, accepting his handshake with the kind of firm grip that suggested she'd learned to project confidence even in unfamiliar situations. "I'm looking forward to getting to know the city better. Sirius has been telling me wonderful things about the community involvement opportunities here."
"Sirius has always been an optimist," Oliver said with dry humor, shooting his friend a look that carried years of shared history. "Though he's not wrong about the opportunities. Starling City has its challenges, but it also has people who are passionate about making things better."
"Like Laurel," Tommy said, finally finding an opening to contribute to the conversation in a way that highlighted his connection to the evening's honored guest without seeming too possessive. "CNRI wouldn't exist without her vision and dedication."
Laurel's smile in response to the compliment was soft and genuine, and Carter's expression suggested he was beginning to realize that his planned conversation with her was becoming significantly more complicated.
"Actually," Laurel said, turning back to Tonks with renewed focus, "I'd love to hear more about your thoughts on proactive versus reactive approaches to community safety. We've been discussing ways to expand CNRI's role in crime prevention rather than just legal response."
"I'd be happy to share some ideas," Tonks replied with enthusiasm that seemed completely genuine. "Though I should probably mention that some of my experience comes from rather... specialized circumstances that might not translate directly to civilian advocacy work."
"Specialized how?" Carter asked, clearly hoping to regain some control over the conversation by demonstrating his own sophisticated understanding of law enforcement procedures.
Tonks's smile was perfectly pleasant and utterly unrevealing. "Let's just say that Scotland Yard occasionally deals with cases that don't make it into the standard criminology textbooks."
The non-answer was delivered with such cheerful authority that it effectively ended that line of inquiry while making everyone involved more intrigued about Tonks's background rather than less.
"Well," Laurel said with genuine warmth, "whatever your background, I think you're exactly the kind of partner CNRI needs. Someone with real-world experience who understands the complexities of community safety."
"I appreciate that," Tonks replied. "Though I should warn you—I tend to ask a lot of questions and I'm not always diplomatic about pointing out when systems aren't working as well as they could be."
"Perfect," Laurel said with evident satisfaction. "Diplomatic is overrated anyway."
The conversation was interrupted by the soft chime of crystal against crystal as the evening's master of ceremonies called for attention. Around the ballroom, conversations gradually quieted as people turned their attention toward the small stage that had been set up near the auction displays.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer's voice carried clearly across the elegant space, "if I could have your attention, please. In just a few moments, we'll be beginning this evening's auction, featuring some truly extraordinary donations from our community's most generous supporters."
"That's our cue," Laurel said, her professional demeanor sliding into place as she prepared to take on her role as the evening's hostess. "I should go make sure everything's ready for the auction."
"Of course," Carter said immediately, clearly seeing an opportunity to continue their interrupted conversation. "I'd be happy to help with any last-minute coordination you might need."
Before Laurel could respond to Carter's offer, Tonks stepped forward with the kind of smooth authority that suggested she'd had extensive experience managing complex social situations.
"Actually," Tonks said with perfectly professional courtesy, "I was hoping I could steal a few minutes with Laurel to discuss some preliminary ideas about the CNRI partnership. Nothing formal, just a quick conversation to make sure we're thinking along the same lines."
It was expertly done—framed as business necessity rather than social interference, delivered with enough warmth to seem collegial while carrying enough authority to discourage argument.
"Of course," Laurel replied with obvious relief, clearly grateful for the diplomatic extraction from Carter's increasingly persistent attention. "Carter, perhaps we could continue our conversation later this evening?"
Carter's smile was perfectly gracious, though anyone paying attention could see the disappointment beneath his polished exterior. "Absolutely. I'll look forward to it."
---
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