Harry Potter: Blood Raven

One Hour Later

The workshop looked like the aftermath of a duel between a goblin artificer and a Parisian fashion house—and both had won by setting everything on fire. Scrolls fluttered in midair, marked with glimmering runes and annotated in three different languages. Gears spun lazily above half-assembled armor stands. Something suspiciously alive wriggled under a velvet cover on the far table.

Harry stood near a rune-etched pillar of obsidian, arms folded, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, the lean muscle of his forearms marked with faint scars and a shimmer of protective runes. His hair was the usual chaotic masterpiece, and his emerald eyes tracked the room like a tactician mapping the war.

Daphne Greengrass leaned against the pillar beside him, dressed in an ink-black blouse that clung in all the right places, wand twirling between her fingers like it was a blade she might actually use. Her heels were sharp. Her intentions sharper. Her perfume was citrusy and volatile, like a challenge in a bottle. She eyed Harry like he was a puzzle she enjoyed taking apart—slowly.

Susan Bones sat on a stool nearby, stripped down to a fitted black vest and combat trousers, arms bare, the scars across her skin like constellations spelling out violence and victory. Her copper braid was coiled like a whip over one shoulder. She was polishing her blade with a cloth that might have once been a Death Eater's flag.

Neville stood next to a crate labeled "Do Not Open Unless You Hate Having Eyebrows," watching something hiss and twitch inside. He looked like a living warhammer—broad, quiet, and entirely unbothered by the chaos around him.

Then Kingsley Shacklebolt walked in.

The room went still. Even Fred and George, who'd been muttering about sewing retractable wings into their cloaks, stopped mid-scheme. Tonks dropped from the ceiling and landed in a crouch, bubblegum hair shifting to dark violet.

"We've got intel," Kingsley said, his voice a velvet-covered verdict. "Vladovich Circle. Aberystwyth. Three days."

The rune projector flared to life with a hum, painting the Welsh coast in threads of blue ley lines and flickering runes.

Hermione, elbow-deep in a ward schematic, muttered without looking up, "Magically enforced geotemporal lock. Someone's anchoring the window."

"Ritual-grade convergence," Kingsley added. "Possibly necromantic."

Daphne sighed, one long, theatrical breath. "Why is it always necromancy? Can't these dark cults try interpretive dance just once?"

Susan rose to her feet. "Any proof Voldemort's the one they want to resurrect?"

Kingsley nodded. "One of the envoys requested 'the blood heir.'"

Silence fell.

Harry's jaw tightened. "Then we stop them."

He turned to Fleur, who was currently scowling at a mannequin that had spontaneously caught fire. Her blouse was singed, her braid a battle-flag looped tight against her neck. She looked ready to either enchant the world or murder it with aesthetic precision.

"Fleur," Harry called, using his most charming tone—the one that had once convinced a dragon to go back to sleep.

She turned, blue eyes narrowed. "Non. You cannot have ze dragonflame bombs."

"Not asking for bombs," he said, hands raised.

"You always ask for ze bombs."

"This time," he gestured to Susan and Neville, "I need armor. Custom. Spell-threaded. Fireproof. Stylish. Think tactical haute couture."

Fleur blinked. Then blinked again. "You want stealth-optimized combat armor... in trois jours?"

Susan crossed her arms. "Something that doesn't melt when I jump through a fire ward would be nice."

Daphne gave her a long, slow glance. "You look good in fire."

Susan arched a brow. "You flirting with me or trying to distract me?"

"Both," Daphne purred.

Harry chuckled. "Focus, ladies. Fleur?"

She muttered in French, pulled her wand, and began hurling enchanted thread and dragonhide panels into a basin glowing with molten silver. "Fine. But if zey bleed on my runes, I will murder someone."

Harry leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Merci, chérie."

She swatted him with a ruler. "Charmeur."

Daphne glided up beside him, fingers ghosting along his lower back. "You flirt with her like that often?"

Harry's emerald gaze turned molten. "Only when I want something she'll say yes to. With you... well, I enjoy earning the 'yes.'"

Daphne smirked. "Careful, Potter. Talk like that and I'll drag you behind the potion cabinet."

Susan, watching them, snorted. "If you're done being the protagonists in a very expensive French indie film, I'd like to know where I'm bleeding for the cause."

Hermione, scribbling furiously, added, "Please let it be blackmail-worthy. I need leverage."

Tonks raised a mug. "To Morrigan, our new mood."

Kingsley stepped forward, voice heavy with purpose. "Seventy-two hours. You don't stop them, we're looking at global destabilization."

Neville bumped Susan's shoulder. "You good?"

She gave a wolfish smile. "Born ready."

Daphne whispered against Harry's ear, "Let's raise some hell."

Outside, the ley lines hummed.

And war sharpened its teeth.

—

Workshop Alcove – Twenty Minutes Later

The main floor was an alchemical storm in the shape of organized chaos. Runes flared, cloth shimmered, and at least one table had sprouted legs and was stalking a goblin intern with murderous intent. Fred and George were deep in debate over whether stealth cloaks needed detachable capes or "built-in confetti cannons for morale." Fleur was levitating bolts of reinforced basilisk-thread while shouting in French at a mannequin that had spontaneously burst into flame. Again.

Daphne Greengrass stood at a sketchboard of floating light and steel filigree, conjuring combat schematics with the fluid grace of a concert pianist. Her wand glided through the air, stitching enchantments into projection thread with surgical precision. She looked like she'd walked out of a battlefield fashion campaign—black blouse tucked into leather-belted trousers, sharp-heeled boots, and an expression that said she'd court you with poetry or poison, depending on how the evening went.

Susan Bones moved beside her like a quiet storm. Black vest snug over battle-toned muscle, combat trousers low on her hips, a knife she hadn't named yet strapped to her thigh. Her copper braid was twisted tight, scars on her arms like constellations that had stories—most of them ending with someone else on the floor. Her tone, when she spoke, was low, bone-dry, and edged with something older than fear.

"You talked to him yet?"

Daphne didn't flinch, didn't pause. Her wand moved in a sharp downward curve before answering.

"About what?"

"You know what, Greengrass," Susan said, crossing her arms. "Don't play coy. You're good at it, but I've seen you stab someone with a sugar spoon. You don't get to pretend now."

Daphne gave the barest sigh. "Subtlety, Bones. I value it. Try some."

"Not when it's been four weeks, and he still doesn't know you've been dragging your perfectly-lined heels about the betrothal conversation."

The wand twitched. So did one of Daphne's perfectly-arched brows.

"I will talk to him."

"When?" Susan stepped closer. "Before or after the necromantic cult tries to resurrect Voldemort with his bloodline and we're scraping Harry off a ritual altar?"

Daphne's hand stilled in midair. The projection flickered once, dimming to an ember hue.

"I will, Susan."

"You've had weeks."

Daphne turned then—slowly, gracefully. "And he's had years, Susan. Years of being hunted, tortured, lied to, abandoned, and trained by an order of assassins who think 'emotional repression' is a virtue. He's only just relearned how to laugh without flinching. He doesn't need this on top of it."

"This?" Susan's eyes narrowed. "You mean his legacy? His future? Or the women who actually love him?"

Daphne's eyes flashed, but not with anger—something tighter. Quieter.

"Careful, Bones," she said, voice silk over broken glass. "You're flirting with the line between concerned and accusatory."

"And you're flirting with cowardice," Susan snapped. "Which is new for you, and not in a cute way."

That hit. For half a second, Daphne looked younger. Softer. The girl who used to sit under the oak in the courtyard, pretending to read while secretly sketching Harry's laugh with a quill that never stopped moving.

"I'm not doing this to steal him," Susan added, more gently now. "You know that."

Daphne's voice lowered, barely a breath. "I know."

"I had a crush on him," Susan said, glancing down with a rueful smile. "Back when my biggest fear was flunking Transfiguration and my greatest ambition was maybe—maybe—getting a date to the Yule Ball. He smiled at me once in Herbology. I nearly passed out."

"I remember," Daphne said, amusement tugging at her lips. "You knocked over an entire tray of bouncing bulbs. I had dirt in my tea for a week."

Susan winced. "Merlin, that was humiliating."

"It was adorable," Daphne said, almost fond. Then, sharper: "But you came to me. Fourteen, shaking like a squirrel in a thunderstorm. Said you'd read up on magical heirship laws and wizarding bloodline preservation, and maybe we didn't have to fight over him. Maybe we could—share."

"I was desperate and hormonal," Susan muttered.

"You were brave," Daphne said, firmly. "Braver than me. I was too busy playing Ice Queen to admit I'd already fallen head over heels."

Susan looked over at Harry then, laughing with Neville over something dumb and dangerous-looking. There was grease on his cheek. Firelight flickered on his rune-marked forearms. His emerald eyes never stopped scanning the room like a man who had learned to expect betrayal in every shadow.

"You were going to talk to him," Susan said.

"I was," Daphne murmured. "But then the graveyard happened. Cedric died. Voldemort returned. And Harry—he broke up with me with the most infuriating, noble idiocy I've ever seen. Said I'd be safer. Said he couldn't risk me. And then he vanished with Sirius and Hermione and started writing letters like he was Batman in a depressive spiral."

Susan arched a brow. "Was one of them actually just a list of people he wanted to punch in the Ministry?"

Daphne gave a crooked smile. "In alphabetical order. It was disturbingly comprehensive."

They both went quiet.

Susan's voice softened. "And now?"

Daphne followed her gaze to Harry again. "Now he's back. Different, but still him. Still the boy who pulled me into the lake because he was convinced mermaids were cute. Still the boy who danced with me at Yule and kissed my wrist like I was something rare. But…"

"But?"

"But he doesn't see what he is to people," Daphne said. "Not really. Not deeply. He might know he's loved. He might suspect we'd bleed for him. But I don't think he's ready to believe someone would stay without being told to."

Susan nodded. "So you'll talk to him?"

"If we survive Aberystwyth," Daphne said.

"He'll say yes."

"I don't want a yes because he feels obligated," Daphne said fiercely. "Not because I'm first and you're second. Not because he thinks he owes us heirs or safety or gratitude."

She met Susan's eyes. There was fire there. And old pain. And something steady underneath.

"I want a yes because he remembers who we were at fourteen," she said. "And sees who we've become now. All of us. You. Me. Him. And he wants that future, not just the legacy."

Susan nodded slowly. Then extended her hand, mock-formal. "Deal."

Daphne took it, firm and steady. "Try not to die, Bones."

Susan cracked a grin. "Back at you, Greengrass. If you get blood on my vest, I'm not cleaning it."

Daphne smirked. "If I die, you can have my boots. They're charmed for ankle support and slutty dominance."

They turned toward the chaos like queens walking into court—battle-scarred, elegant, and ready to raise hell.

Nearby, Hermione looked up from her schematic, eyes scanning the workshop until they landed on the pair.

Two girls who had once trembled in fear during OWLs were now storm-walkers, firebrands, co-architects of the coming war.

Her quill paused. Then resumed, a faint smile on her lips.

The future wasn't just written in blood and prophecy anymore.

It was being chosen—one pact, one spell, one battle-sisterhood at a time.

—

Meanwhile back in Starling City – The Exchange Building — Unidac Industries Auction Gala – Evening

The grand atrium of the Exchange Building shimmered like a jewel box, all polished marble and crystal chandeliers that threw fractured light across the sea of designer gowns and bespoke suits. Waiters glided like well-dressed ghosts, balancing silver trays laden with champagne flutes and whispered secrets. The hum of wealth and power vibrated in the air—Starling City's elite at their most charming and predatory.

Descending the marble staircase like she owned every step—and very possibly did—Moira Queen was a vision of emerald silk and effortless poise. Her gown clung and shimmered in the flattering hush of the light, the high slit showing just enough to keep conversations interesting, and the subtle tilt of her chin daring anyone to forget exactly who she was.

Beside her, Thea Queen moved with the kind of confidence only cultivated by a life spent dodging press photographers and private tutors. Her midnight-blue dress was sleek and deceptively simple, until you noticed the artful cutouts and the diamond-studded choker at her throat. She walked like she had a secret, and smiled like she'd never share it.

Waiting at the base of the stairs, Walter Steele turned at the sound of approaching heels and felt something shift in his chest. His tuxedo was flawless, bowtie crisp, posture relaxed—but there was nothing casual about the way his eyes found Moira. Warm. Steady. Complicated.

"Well," he said, his voice low and smooth as velvet draped over steel, "the auction hasn't even begun and I already feel like the night's biggest winner."

Moira arched one eyebrow as she descended the final step.

"You always did know how to make an entrance sound like a seduction, Walter."

He chuckled. "And you always did know how to make a compliment feel like a negotiation."

Thea let out a groan. "Oh god. Please don't flirt in front of me. At least wait until I've found a drink strong enough to bleach my memory."

Walter gave her an indulgent smile. "That would imply I'm flirting. I'm simply stating facts. It's not every evening I'm accompanied by the two most dazzling women in Starling."

Thea shot him a look, lips curling with mischief. "Flattery and evasion? No wonder you're a CEO."

"Only for now," he said mildly. "If this auction doesn't go well, I may have to pivot to motivational speaking."

Before Moira could respond, a woman in sleek black and a headset appeared beside them. She moved like someone who'd timed every second of the evening and didn't plan to let emotion throw off the schedule.

"Mr. Steele," she said with a clipboard in one hand, stylus in the other. "We'll be opening the floor in five minutes. Please make sure your final bid packet is loaded. The system is locked."

"Thank you, Gina." Walter offered her a gracious nod, then glanced at his watch. "I'll be ready."

Gina vanished back into the crowd with the kind of efficiency that suggested she might actually be running the city behind the scenes.

Walter turned back to the Queens, his smile returning, gentler now. "Can I tempt either of you with refreshments? Champagne for you, Moira?" He looked to Thea. "Or perhaps something scandalously age-appropriate and non-alcoholic for our resident rebel?"

Thea gasped in mock horror. "Excuse me—just because I crashed a Lambo once does not mean I don't have sophisticated tastes."

Moira gave a dry look. "She means sparkling cider, Walter. The kind with the fancy label she'll pretend is real champagne."

Thea shot her mother a withering glare, then smirked. "Fine. Sparkling water. With lime. And a decorative straw if they have it."

Walter gave a theatrical bow. "Coming right up. One champagne. One artisanal mocktail. And perhaps a metaphorical drink strong enough to silence generational snark."

As he walked off, Thea leaned toward her mother, lowering her voice. "Okay. Be honest. He's still into you, right?"

Moira didn't blink. "That's not relevant."

"That's not a denial," Thea sing-songed.

Moira's lips curved slightly. "It's not an invitation either."

"Pity. You two have the whole 'rich exes with unresolved tension and tailored clothes' vibe going for you. Very 'Succession meets Bond film.'"

Moira turned her gaze out toward the crowd, cool and unreadable. "This isn't about old tension, darling. This is about legacy. Queen Consolidated was your father's. Now it's yours."

"And yours," Thea added.

Moira didn't correct her.

A soft chime echoed through the chamber, and the crowd began to drift toward the auction stage—an elegant platform with floating displays showcasing Unidac's various subsidiaries and patents. Holographic interfaces shimmered above each table, ready to receive sealed bids.

Walter returned just as the first wave of servers passed by with trays of amuse-bouches.

"Champagne for the queen," he said, offering Moira a flute.

She took it, their fingers brushing for a fraction of a second too long.

"And something appropriately non-criminal for Lady Thea." He handed over a crystal tumbler filled with sparkling water, lime wedge floating like it was auditioning for a luxury commercial.

"Impeccable taste," Thea said, lifting it in mock salute. "If I ever form a teen rebellion, I'm making you our beverage czar."

Walter laughed, clinking glasses with her before turning back to Moira.

"To the future," he said.

Moira's eyes didn't leave his. "To keeping what's ours."

They touched glasses. The chime sounded again.

Just as they turned to take their seats, a shadow passed through the far end of the atrium—just outside the range of the chandeliers, just inside the edge of every camera's blind spot. A man in an immaculate suit. No name tag. No smile. No movement wasted.

Watching. Listening. Waiting.

Uninvited.

But very, very interested.

—

Detective Quentin Lance had never liked galas.

Too many lies hiding under too many sequins. The champagne was always overpriced, the canapés always undercooked, and the people always smiling just a little too hard. If you asked him, it was like watching a pack of wolves pretending to be ballroom dancers.

Lance stood just inside a side corridor, flanked by a pair of roped-off velvet drapes that pretended to be walls. His suit itched like hell, but his eyes never stopped moving. He looked like a man who'd rather be anywhere else, and whose instincts were ringing louder than the string quartet near the champagne tower.

"Unit One, confirm eyes on Patel," Lance said into the comms, his voice low and sandpaper-dry.

There was a brief rustle of static, and then the voice of Officer Delgado came through.

"We've got him. Approaching east corridor now."

Across the floor, Lance caught the movement. Warren Patel — smug in a pinstripe suit — barely had time to blink before two "guests" flanked him, hands casually on his arms. It looked like they were helping him to the restroom. It was actually a felony escort.

Patel glanced around, confused. "Wait—what the hell is—?"

"Enjoy your evening, Mr. Patel," one of the officers said smoothly. "We've arranged a private room."

Lance smirked. "Unit One has Patel. Extraction en route."

He pressed a finger to the mic on his wrist, switching frequencies. "Unit Two, rooftop status?"

A second later, Detective Mendez answered. Her voice was crisp, professional — and slightly irritated.

"East and south lines are clear. No glint, no thermal, no movement. If Lawton's out there, he's hiding better than a judge in tax season."

Lance snorted. "Don't get cocky, Mendez. Deadshot doesn't hide. He waits."

"Copy that. We're expanding sweep radius. Still no heat sigs above second story. If he's here, he's inside."

"Roger. Keep your heads down."

He keyed the next unit.

"Unit Three. Northwest perimeter?"

Officer Campos chimed in, too cheerful for Lance's taste.

"Clear as a nun's conscience, sir. Drone's doing lazy loops. If Deadshot's out here, he's wearing an invisibility cloak."

Lance muttered, "Don't tempt the bastard. He's resourceful."

He moved again, weaving around the edges of the party. Eyes on everything. Not just suits and gowns, but reflections in wine glasses, shadows behind pillars, how many times the waiters circled the same path.

He pressed the last channel.

"Unit Four. Parking structure?"

"Locked and tight," Sgt. Meyers replied. "We've got every entrance covered, and the only thing trying to sneak in so far was a raccoon. Scrappy little guy. Name him Floyd, just in case."

Lance exhaled. "Charming. Unit Four, maintain grid lock. No one in or out without my word."

Only one unit left.

He clicked the final channel.

"Unit Five, check-in."

A beat.

Then the voice came through, muffled but smooth. Almost too smooth.

"Unit Five reporting. Perimeter secure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Routine patrol complete. We're good."

Lance frowned. The voice was clipped, direct… but flat. No sarcasm. No chatter. No name, no acknowledgment code.

"…Copy that," he muttered. "Maintain post. Check in again in fifteen."

He let the comms drop. The gala's orchestra began its next piece — something grand and sweeping that felt too loud for the knot growing in his gut.

Something was wrong.

—

Elsewhere — Sublevel 2, Utility Corridor

The silence was thick, broken only by the faint hum of electrical boxes and the drip of a leaky pipe.

Two officers lay in a twisted sprawl beside a breaker panel — one with a clean slug through his temple, the other slumped like a marionette with its strings cut, throat crushed beneath a brutal boot. Blood crept lazily into the grout lines like a lazy river of red.

Floyd Lawton — Deadshot — leaned against a wall, legs crossed at the ankle like he was waiting for a bus, not orchestrating an assassination. His left eye glowed faintly red as the targeting system tracked the vibrations above.

In his hand, he held the dead cop's comm radio.

"'Unit Five reporting,'" he repeated in a deadpan, mimicking the cop's voice perfectly. "'Perimeter secure. Nothing out of the ordinary.'"

He clicked the comms off with a grin.

"Man… you guys make this way too easy."

He knelt beside the hard case he'd dragged in minutes earlier, fingers dancing over biometric locks like a pianist warming up. With a soft click-hiss, the case opened to reveal his favorite mistress — a custom long-range rifle that looked more like a surgical instrument than a weapon.

"I missed you, girl," Lawton said, assembling it with casual affection. "Let's make some noise."

He locked in the scope, clipped the shoulder rest into place, and leaned forward until the eyepiece blinked red. The built-in display flared to life — glass overlays of the building's floors, heat signatures, positions of units, and a blinking red dot on the mezzanine.

Moira Queen.

"Queen Consolidated. Fancy name," Lawton mused. "Let's see if that legacy bleeds."

He paused as the orchestral swell echoed faintly through the pipes above, like the whole building was holding its breath.

Then he smirked.

"One shot. That's all it takes."

He exhaled, the targeting reticle locking into place.

And pulled the trigger halfway.

Just halfway.

Because Floyd Lawton didn't just shoot to kill.

He liked to wait for the perfect moment… The kind that ruined everyone's evening.

—

The music drifting from the quartet was the kind of classical that sounded expensive. Not emotional—expensive. Perfect for a room where the suits were sharper than the smiles and the air carried the weight of billion-dollar whispers.

The grand doors opened with a gentle hiss of hydraulics.

Oliver Queen stepped into the Exchange Building like he owned the damn place. Not with arrogance—but with the kind of quiet awareness that came from being hunted… and doing some hunting of his own. His tux fit like it was stitched straight onto his frame, but he still looked like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Behind him, John Diggle moved in his wake like a silent tank in a silk suit. Bodyguard mode: engaged. His gaze tracked exits, rooftop angles, and any hand that lingered too long near a jacket pocket.

Oliver adjusted his cufflink, murmured low. "There's something about putting on a monkey suit that makes me want to find a rooftop and jump off it."

Diggle didn't break stride. "You do that, I'm not diving in after you. Tux rentals have limits."

Oliver smirked. "I thought you were here to protect me."

"I am. From bullets. Not bad decisions and expensive dry cleaning."

Across the floor, Moira Queen glided toward them like grace weaponized. Dressed in silver silk and stiletto diplomacy, she looked every inch the monarch of Starling's high society. Her hair was artfully curled, her smile polished, and her gaze? Razorwire in a wine glass.

"Well," she said, her tone a blend of pride and appraisal. "You clean up nicely. I was beginning to think I'd have to bribe you with a company share to make an appearance."

Oliver leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Just here to support the family business. Try not to faint."

Moira's smile was cool and cutting. "I faint when I'm impressed, dear. Not surprised. Though, credit where it's due—you've learned how to wear a tie without looking like you're being strangled."

"Growth," he said dryly.

She turned her gaze to Diggle. "Mr. Diggle. You're looking formidable, as always."

"Ma'am," Diggle said with a small nod, utterly deadpan. "Trying not to get champagne on the Kevlar."

Moira gave a low, knowing laugh, already drifting away toward a senator whose donation check she planned to double.

Oliver exhaled, watching her disappear into the crowd. "She's really leaning into this 'Iron Lady' phase."

"She never left it," Diggle said, scanning the mezzanine. "That's not a phase. That's a blood type."

Oliver's lips twitched, but the humor didn't reach his eyes. He leaned closer.

"You've got your eyes open, right?"

Digg didn't even blink. "That's what I'm here for. That… and answering questions you already know the answer to."

Oliver's voice dropped an octave. "If the sniper's gonna move, it'll be before the auction. Once the bids go live, too many eyeballs."

Diggle turned his head, slowly. "You thinking out loud again, or you wanna walk that back for the record?"

Oliver blinked, shook his head slightly. "Heard it on the scanner before we left."

"Uh-huh." Digg didn't believe him. Not even a little.

They moved deeper into the gala, dodging small talk and lingering glances. Oliver nodded to people he barely remembered and ignored the ones he regretted remembering at all—until he nearly shoulder-checked someone with a presence as composed as a still ocean hiding a storm.

"Walter," Oliver said, voice thawing a little.

Walter Steele turned with that effortless British poise, holding a tumbler of whiskey like it was an extension of his body. The man somehow made a tuxedo look like body armor. His expression warmed, the corners of his mouth tilting upward.

"Oliver," he said with a slow smile. "You've learned to show up without needing to be subpoenaed. I'm impressed."

Oliver gave a small chuckle. "You know me—always improving."

"I do." Walter's gaze flicked to Diggle, then back. "I'm glad you're here. Especially tonight. Moira's... well, she's playing hostess with her usual restraint."

"You mean the smile that says she'll burn the world down if someone spills Pinot on the projection table?"

Walter grinned. "That's the one."

Oliver's smile faded just slightly. "I heard a few of the Unidac bidders were found dead. Assassinations. Quiet ones. No one's officially linking it, but…"

Walter's face sobered. "And now everyone who remains is here in one place."

"Exactly." Oliver hesitated. "My mother's already lost a husband, Walter. I don't want her to lose you."

For a moment, Walter didn't respond. His gaze drifted toward the chandelier reflecting a hundred fragments of Moira's image as she laughed with a venture capitalist. Then, he turned back.

"If Moira shared your concern," Walter said evenly, "she wouldn't have come tonight. And she certainly wouldn't have brought Thea."

Oliver froze. "Wait—what?"

Walter blinked, surprised. "You didn't know?"

"I didn't know," Oliver growled. "She's here?"

Somewhere in the crowd, as if summoned by prophecy and bad timing, a ripple of laughter broke near the bar. Oliver turned toward the sound just in time to catch a glimpse of Thea Queen in a midnight blue backless dress, holding a flute of something gold and probably illegal.

She was leaning against the bar like she owned it, side-eyeing a guy who'd clearly said the wrong thing with the force of a verbal headshot.

"Oh, hell," Oliver muttered.

Diggle followed his line of sight. "You mean the underage one giving dating advice to a hedge fund manager?"

"She's not even supposed to be here."

"She is here," Diggle said flatly. "So what's the plan? Yell at her in front of a few bigwigs? Or maybe tackle her through a champagne tower?"

"I was leaning toward vanish her into a dimension of parental disappointment," Oliver muttered.

Diggle smirked. "Subtle."

Oliver's jaw clenched as he fixed his eyes on Thea. She laughed again, the kind of laugh that said she didn't give a damn who was watching.

"I'll get her," Diggle said.

Oliver nodded. "Do it quietly."

"Is there another way?"

Oliver didn't answer. Because in the pit of his stomach, he could feel it—something shifting. A predator circling.

If Floyd Lawton was in position… Time was almost up.

---

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