THE FOUNDRY — LATE EVENING
The rhythmic crack of eskrima sticks striking against each other echoed through the cavernous hideout like a percussion symphony, punctuated by the occasional grunt and the softer clicking of keyboards from the computer station.
Oliver and Harry circled each other in the sparring mat's center, sweat glistening on their forearms, their footwork sharp and measured. The blonde archer's muscles rippled beneath his fitted black tank top as he moved with predatory grace, his jaw set in concentration. Across from him, Harry's emerald eyes gleamed with quiet confidence, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he shifted into a defensive stance, seemingly relaxed but coiled like a spring.
Just off to the side, Neville and Diggle mirrored them — though Diggle's rhythm was already starting to falter against Neville's imposing frame. The young man's broad shoulders and surprising speed were clearly throwing the veteran bodyguard off his game.
At the banks of computers nearby, Hermione sat between Daphne and Susan, all three tapping at keyboards and arguing in low voices as the monitors glowed with schematics and code. Daphne's platinum blonde hair caught the blue light from the screens, her pink lips curved in a subtle smirk as she watched the sparring match over her shoulder. Susan's fiery red curls bounced as she shook her head at something on her screen, her fair skin flushed with concentration.
Oliver feinted left, then launched a lightning-fast combination, his sticks a blur as they whistled through the air with deadly precision.
Harry met him beat for beat, his movements clean, efficient, almost bored. He countered Oliver's high shot with a swift low sweep, forcing Oliver to backstep and reset.
"Is that all you've got, Queen?" Harry asked with a lazy drawl, his British accent making even the taunt sound elegant. "I've seen elderly wizards with more snap in their wrists."
Oliver's jaw tightened as they broke apart again, his blue eyes flashing with irritation. "Keep talking, Potter. See how that works out for you."
"Oh, I intend to," Harry replied, spinning his stick with casual flair. "It's about the only entertainment I'm getting from this."
From the computer station, Daphne let out a low, appreciative laugh. "My, my. Someone's feeling confident tonight."
Harry's eyes flicked to her, and his smirk deepened. "Just getting warmed up, love."
The way he said 'love' — with that perfect mix of affection and promise — made Daphne's cheeks flush slightly, though she tried to hide it by turning back to her screen.
Oliver's next attack came even faster — the kind of blistering speed that usually left sparring partners flat on the mat. But Harry flowed around it like water, turning the momentum back on Oliver, forcing him to sidestep or get clipped.
"Bloody hell," Diggle muttered from across the mat, momentarily distracted by Harry's display. "How does he make it look so—"
Neville's stick caught Diggle's forearm, and Diggle hissed as he stumbled back.
"Sorry, Mr. Diggle!" Neville called out, his voice carrying that familiar mix of apology and good-natured humor. "You were watching Harry."
"Yeah, well," Diggle said, shaking his arm out and grinning despite the sting, "hard not to. Kid moves like he's got all the time in the world."
"That's because he does," Hermione said without looking up from her code, her fingers flying across the keys. "Harry's always been unnaturally good at everything physical. It's honestly quite annoying."
"Oi!" Harry protested, even as he blocked another of Oliver's strikes. "I prefer 'naturally gifted,' thank you very much."
"Naturally insufferable is more like it," Susan muttered, though there was fondness in her voice.
Harry gasped in mock offense. "Susan Bones, you wound me. And here I thought we were friends."
"We are," Susan replied, finally looking up with a grin that lit up her freckled face. "Which is why I feel comfortable telling you that you're showing off."
"I'm not showing off," Harry said, deflecting Oliver's next attack with almost insulting ease. "I'm demonstrating proper technique. There's a difference."
"The difference being that showing off would require you to actually try," Daphne observed, her tone dry as champagne. Her grey eyes met Harry's across the room, and there was something electric in the exchange — a challenge that had nothing to do with combat.
Oliver finally locked sticks with Harry, leaning into him with all his strength, their faces inches apart, breath hot between them.
"You forget," Harry said evenly, not even breathing hard, "I was trained by the League of Assassins too."
Oliver's lips tightened into something between annoyance and grudging respect. He knew that. He just wasn't used to losing. "Yeah, well, I actually lived on the island for five years."
"And I faced down a dark wizard who'd been alive for over a century," Harry countered smoothly. "Perspective, Queen."
They broke apart, and Oliver immediately launched into another combination, this one more aggressive, more desperate. Harry met every strike, his movements becoming more fluid, more graceful, as if he were dancing rather than fighting.
"You're getting frustrated," Harry observed, dodging a particularly vicious swing. "That's not going to help you win."
"I'm not frustrated," Oliver growled, though his next attack proved otherwise.
"Oh, you're absolutely frustrated," Daphne called out, her voice carrying that particular mix of amusement and seduction that made men do stupid things. "It's written all over your face. Very entertaining to watch, actually."
Harry's laugh was rich and warm. "Daphne, darling, you're not helping."
"I'm not trying to help," she replied, her smile wicked. "I'm enjoying the view."
The way she said it — with her eyes clearly on Harry rather than Oliver — made Susan roll her eyes.
"Oh, please. Get a room," Susan muttered, though her own gaze lingered on Harry's form as he moved.
"We might just do that," Daphne purred, and Harry's next block was a fraction slower than usual.
Oliver took advantage of the momentary lapse, pressing forward with renewed aggression. But Harry recovered quickly, their sticks meeting in a rapid-fire exchange that had both men pushing their limits.
Meanwhile, Diggle was still struggling with Neville's size and reach advantage.
"Damn, kid," Diggle said, breathing hard as he backed away from another of Neville's powerful strikes. "You're bigger than you look."
Neville grinned sheepishly, though his eyes stayed focused. "Yeah, I get that a lot. My gran says I got all the Longbottom height and twice the Longbottom stubbornness."
"Your gran sounds like a wise woman," Diggle replied, trying to circle around Neville's guard.
"She is. She's also the one who taught me to fight dirty when necessary," Neville said, and his next strike came from an unexpected angle that caught Diggle off guard.
"Dig!" Oliver barked from across the room, never breaking his own rhythm with Harry. "Stop trying to match power with him. You won't win that way."
Diggle shot him a look that could have melted steel. "Oh, thanks, Coach. You want to come over here and demonstrate while you're getting schooled by the Brit?"
Harry's laugh was bright and genuinely amused. "Getting schooled? I'm barely breaking a sweat."
"Cocky bastard," Oliver muttered, but there was grudging admiration in his voice.
"I prefer 'confidently competent,'" Harry replied, spinning his stick again with unnecessary flair. "Though I'll take cocky bastard if that's what gets you motivated."
Oliver glanced at Neville and added to Diggle, "Use his size against him. Control his momentum. Let him overcommit."
Diggle muttered something under his breath about smart-ass archers, then reset and circled Neville again.
As Neville came in strong, Diggle stepped to the side and let Neville's own forward motion carry him a half-step too far. Diggle struck his ribs lightly with the stick before backing off.
Neville chuckled, rubbing his side. "Okay, okay — that's better. Though I should probably mention that my gran also taught me to learn from my mistakes."
"Your gran sounds terrifying," Diggle said, grinning despite himself.
"She really is," Neville agreed cheerfully. "She once chased off a dark wizard with nothing but a carving knife and some very creative language."
"I gotta ask," Diggle said between breaths, "Oliver, who taught you how to fight like this, anyway?"
For the first time all night, Oliver hesitated. His blue eyes flicked up to meet Diggle's, then away again as he reset his stance, his movements suddenly more guarded.
"A man named Yao Fei," Oliver said finally, his voice clipped and careful.
Diggle frowned slightly, recognizing the shutdown. "And?"
Oliver just shook his head, not looking up. "That's all you need to know."
Harry raised an eyebrow as he and Oliver locked sticks again, his green eyes sharp with curiosity. "What's the matter, Queen? Don't like sharing your origin story? I thought Americans were all about oversharing."
Oliver's answering strike came harder than necessary, and Harry just barely blocked it, his own stance shifting to something more serious.
"Watch your mouth, Potter," Oliver said, though there was the faintest curl of a smile on his lips.
"Or what?" Harry asked, his voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. "You'll actually start trying?"
The challenge hung in the air between them like a gauntlet, and both men shifted their stances, the playful sparring suddenly becoming something more intense.
Over at the computers, Daphne glanced up from her screen and called over in her cool, amused tone, "You two done measuring yet, or should we put bets down?"
"Oh, we're definitely putting bets down," Susan said, saving her work and turning in her chair to get a better view. "My money's on Harry."
Hermione didn't even look up, her fingers still flying across the keys. "Mine too. Oliver's good, but Harry's... well, he's Harry."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver demanded, even as he launched another attack.
"It means," Hermione said, finally looking up with a slightly exasperated expression, "that Harry has this annoying habit of being ridiculously good at everything he tries. It's been that way since we were eleven."
"Not everything," Harry protested, though his grin suggested he wasn't entirely displeased by the assessment.
"Name one thing you're not good at," Susan challenged, her green eyes sparkling with mischief.
Harry paused, actually considering it while he deflected Oliver's next strike. "Divination?"
"You got an Outstanding on your Divination O.W.L.," Hermione pointed out dryly.
"That was a fluke," Harry insisted.
"Cooking?" Daphne suggested, her voice warm with affection.
"I can cook," Harry replied, looking slightly offended. "I'm quite good at it, actually."
"Bragging?" Susan tried.
"Oh, he's excellent at bragging," Daphne said, her smile turning wicked. "Among other things."
The way she said it made Harry's next block a fraction slower again, and Susan let out a snort of laughter.
"Daphne Greengrass, you are absolutely shameless," Susan said, though she was grinning.
"I prefer 'refreshingly honest,'" Daphne replied, echoing Harry's earlier comment. "Besides, someone has to keep his ego in check."
"His ego?" Oliver panted, pressing his attack harder. "The guy's practically narrating his own victory."
"I'm not narrating anything," Harry said, his voice still infuriatingly calm. "I'm simply observing that you're telegraphing your attacks."
"I am not—" Oliver began, then stopped as Harry neatly sidestepped his next strike and tapped him lightly on the shoulder with his stick.
"Point," Harry said mildly.
That earned a snort from Diggle, who barely dodged Neville's next swing. "Traitors," Oliver muttered as he launched another attack, and Harry met him head-on, still smirking.
"Oh, we're not traitors," Daphne said, her voice taking on that particular purr that made men's knees weak. "We're just... appreciative of superior technique."
Harry's grin widened. "Hear that, Queen? Superior technique."
"I heard," Oliver growled, his attacks becoming more aggressive. "Let's see how superior it is when I'm actually trying."
"You mean you haven't been trying?" Harry asked, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Well, that's embarrassing. For you, I mean."
The sticks began moving faster now, the sound of their impact echoing through the Foundry like gunshots. Oliver was pushing harder, using his strength and speed to try to overwhelm Harry's technique, but Harry seemed to flow around every attack like smoke, never quite where Oliver expected him to be.
"You know," Harry said conversationally, even as he blocked a particularly vicious combination, "this reminds me of dueling practice at Hogwarts. Same principle, really — all about reading your opponent's intentions."
"This isn't a duel," Oliver panted, sweat now streaming down his face.
"No," Harry agreed, his own breathing still controlled. "If it were, you'd already be unconscious."
"Confident," Daphne murmured appreciatively, her grey eyes tracking Harry's movements with obvious admiration.
"Cocky," Susan corrected, though she was watching just as intently.
"Both," Hermione said, finally abandoning her code entirely to watch the match. "And unfortunately, justified."
Neville had paused his own sparring to watch, leaving Diggle breathing hard and grateful for the break.
"You know what's really annoying?" Diggle said, wiping sweat from his forehead. "He's not even breathing hard."
"That's because he's not human," Susan said, though her voice was fond. "He's some kind of fighting machine wrapped in a very attractive package."
"Very attractive," Daphne agreed, her voice warm with appreciation. "And very skilled with his... stick work."
Harry's laugh was rich and genuine. "Daphne, love, you're going to make me blush."
"I doubt that," she replied, her smile turning predatory. "But I'd love to try."
The sexual tension crackling between them was almost visible, and Susan rolled her eyes even as she felt her own pulse quicken.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake," Susan muttered. "Just kiss already."
"We're in the middle of a sparring match," Harry pointed out, though his eyes found Daphne's across the room.
"So finish it," she challenged, her voice dropping to something husky and inviting.
Harry's grin turned wicked. "As you wish."
The next exchange was lightning-fast, Harry's movements suddenly becoming more aggressive, more decisive. Oliver found himself on the defensive, backing up as Harry pressed forward with a combination that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Finally, Harry's stick slipped past Oliver's guard, stopping just short of his throat.
"Point," Harry said softly, his green eyes bright with victory.
Oliver stared at him for a long moment, then slowly lowered his sticks. "Damn."
"Indeed," Harry replied, stepping back and offering a slight bow. "Good match, Queen."
"Yeah, well," Oliver said, running a hand through his sweaty hair, "next time I'm bringing my bow."
"Next time I'll bring my wand," Harry countered, his smile turning sharp. "See how that works out for you."
Daphne stood up from her computer station, her movement fluid and graceful. "Well, that was entertaining. Though I think the winner deserves a proper reward."
She crossed to Harry, her hips swaying in a way that drew every eye in the room. When she reached him, she rose up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, her lips lingering just a moment longer than necessary.
"Congratulations," she whispered, her breath warm against his ear.
Harry's hand found the small of her back, pulling her closer. "Just a kiss on the cheek? I was expecting something more... substantial."
"Earn it," she challenged, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief.
Susan cleared her throat loudly. "Right, well, while you two continue your mating ritual, perhaps we could get back to work? We do have a mission to plan."
"Spoilsport," Harry murmured, though he didn't let go of Daphne.
"Practical," Hermione corrected, though she was smiling. "Susan's right. We should focus."
"Fine," Daphne said, stepping back reluctantly. "But I'm declaring a rain check on that reward."
"Duly noted," Harry replied, his voice warm with promise.
And the sticks were finally still, the Foundry filled with the sound of heavy breathing and the soft clicking of keyboards — a symphony of effort, skill, and just enough sexual tension to keep everyone on edge.
—
The sticks were back on the rack, but the testosterone still hung thick in the air like smoke. Water bottles were cracked open, towels draped over shoulders, everyone still catching their breath — though Harry looked maddeningly fresh, leaning casually against a workbench as if he hadn't just schooled Starling City's most dangerous vigilante. His dark hair was barely mussed, and there wasn't even a sheen of sweat on his brow.
Oliver straightened his sweat-soaked tank top and moved toward the computers, his jaw tight, trying to regain some authority over the room. His blue eyes were stormy, the kind of look that usually made people step back. Unfortunately for him, this particular group wasn't easily intimidated.
"Alright," he said briskly, clapping his hands once with the kind of forced authority that screamed 'I'm definitely not bitter about losing.' "Hermione, bring up the next name on my father's list."
Hermione glanced at him over her shoulder, one perfectly arched eyebrow climbing toward her hairline. Her brown eyes sparkled with barely contained amusement, but she didn't comment on the sudden change of topic. She began typing with the kind of efficient precision that made men feel inadequate.
"Someone's eager to move on," Daphne observed, her voice carrying that particular mix of amusement and silk that made men do stupid things. She was still flushed from watching Harry's performance, her grey eyes bright with appreciation.
"Can't imagine why," Harry added, his British accent making even the sarcasm sound elegant. "It's not like anything noteworthy just happened."
Oliver shot him a look that could have melted steel. "Potter—"
"Oh, please," Susan interrupted, settling back in her chair with a grin that lit up her freckled face. "You're not actually going to pretend that didn't just happen, are you? Because we all saw it. Every single devastating second of it."
"I won some, I lost some," Oliver muttered, which earned him a snort from Diggle.
"You lost all of them," Diggle corrected, his deep voice warm with amusement. "Thoroughly. Completely. In every possible way."
"Thank you, Dig," Oliver said dryly. "Your support is overwhelming."
On the monitors, a grainy photo of a lean, wolfish-looking man appeared: Scott Morgan. Next to it, bullet points scrolled past — CEO of Morgan Energy, multiple shell companies, suspected of corporate sabotage. The man had the kind of face that screamed 'I foreclose on orphanages for fun.'
Oliver gestured at the screen, pacing slightly as he spoke, his movements still carrying that predatory grace despite his obvious frustration.
"Scott Morgan. He's been systematically cutting power to low-income neighborhoods to drive property values down and force families to sell. He turns around, buys up the land for pennies, and sells it back to the city at full market value. He's crippled entire blocks doing this."
Daphne gave a low whistle from where she sat, crossing her legs with the kind of deliberate elegance that drew every eye in the room. "Cold," she murmured, her voice carrying genuine distaste. "And here I thought corporate raiders had at least a shred of style."
"Clearly you've never met Lucius Malfoy," Harry said, his voice taking on that particular edge that suggested unpleasant memories. "Though even he wouldn't stoop to freezing pensioners."
Susan's green eyes flashed with anger. "How is that even legal? Can't the city step in?"
"The city's probably getting kickbacks," Neville said quietly, his usually cheerful demeanor darkening. "My gran always said the worst crimes are the ones that look legal on paper."
Oliver nodded grimly. "Winter's coming, and if he keeps going, people will start freezing in their homes. Families with children, elderly people on fixed incomes—"
"Winter's not for another month, Oliver," Diggle interrupted, his deep voice calm but pointed. He was toweling off by the weapons locker, his movements controlled and deliberate. "You've still got time to take this guy down before the weather turns. Meanwhile…"
He crossed to the desk and jabbed a finger at another monitor, which Hermione quickly brought to life. Footage from a bank security camera played — masked gunmen sweeping through a marble lobby with military precision. The Royal Flush Gang.
The video froze on a frame of Ace leveling his pistol at a young off-duty cop and pulling the trigger without hesitation. The officer crumpled, and screams echoed through the bank lobby.
"You could go after them," Diggle said, turning to face Oliver squarely. "Royal Flush Gang. Three banks hit in two weeks, no leads. They killed a cop in their last job. Shot him in cold blood right in front of hostages. Including a six-year-old girl."
The room went quiet for a beat, the weight of that last detail settling over everyone like a shroud.
Harry's emerald eyes darkened as he watched the footage, his jaw working. Even Daphne and Susan shifted uneasily, their earlier playfulness evaporating.
"Jesus," Susan whispered, her hand going to her throat. "A six-year-old?"
"Her name was Emma," Diggle said quietly. "Same age as my nephew. She's in therapy now, won't sleep without the lights on."
Neville's massive hands clenched into fists. "That's not just murder. That's terrorism."
Oliver folded his arms across his chest, his stance defensive. "They're street criminals. Bank robbers."
Diggle's eyebrow rose, his expression shifting to something dangerously close to disappointment. "So? They're killers too. You want to stop bad guys, Oliver — sounds to me like they qualify."
"More than qualify," Harry said, his voice taking on that particular British chill that made people remember why his ancestors had conquered half the world. "They're the kind of animals that deserve to be put down."
Oliver's mouth set in a thin line, but his voice stayed controlled. "That's not my mission."
"Oh, here we go," Diggle muttered under his breath, shaking his head.
"Here we go, what?" Daphne asked, her grey eyes sharpening with interest. "Is this where Oliver explains why his daddy's list is more important than actual justice?"
Oliver ignored her and kept pacing, his movements becoming more agitated. "My father gave me this list. These names are the real threat to this city. They're the ones poisoning it from the inside. Every one of them deserves to be brought down — and that's what I intend to do."
"Even if it means ignoring the ones actually pulling triggers?" Susan asked, her voice carrying that particular edge that suggested she was about to say something cutting.
"I can't save everyone," Oliver said flatly. "But I can honor my father's sacrifice by—"
"By what?" Harry interrupted, his voice deceptively light but his eyes sharp as broken glass. "By following orders from beyond the grave? Bit of a narrow definition of justice you've got there, mate. Man dies in front of his family because some lunatic in a playing-card mask shoots him — but you don't care because his name's not in Daddy's little book?"
Oliver stopped walking and turned, his jaw tight enough to crack teeth. "You don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly," Harry said, pushing off the workbench and strolling toward the computers with that particular brand of arrogant confidence that made people want to either kiss him or kill him. "You're scared."
"I'm not scared of anything," Oliver snapped, his voice rising.
"No?" Harry's smile was sharp as a blade. "Then why are you so terrified of thinking for yourself? Why do you need a bloody list to tell you who deserves justice and who doesn't?"
"This isn't about justice," Oliver shot back, his voice cracking like a whip. "It's about keeping a promise. My father died so that I could fix his mistakes. He… he sacrificed himself so that I could save this city from the people who ruined it. If I let myself get distracted by every common criminal with a gun, then what did he die for?!"
The words hung in the air like smoke, heavy and suffocating.
Hermione looked up from her keyboard, her brown eyes soft with something that might have been pity. "Oliver—"
"No," Oliver said, his voice raw. "You don't get it. None of you do. My father looked me in the eye and told me that I had to right his wrongs. That was his dying wish. I can't just ignore that because some bank robbers—"
"Some bank robbers who murdered a cop in front of a child," Neville said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute certainty. "My gran always said that a man's character isn't defined by his promises — it's defined by his choices."
Diggle nodded slowly, his gaze unflinching. "Man, you really don't get it yet, do you?"
Oliver's eyes narrowed. "Get what?"
"That being a hero doesn't mean keeping a promise to one man," Diggle said evenly, his voice carrying the kind of authority that came from years of watching good men make bad choices. "It means looking at the world around you and helping where you can. Not just where it's convenient. Not just where it lines up with some list. A hero… thinks bigger than that."
"A hero saves the little girl in the bank," Susan added, her voice soft but cutting. "Even if her trauma doesn't appear on any corporate balance sheet."
Oliver stared at them for a long moment, his shoulders tense, his breathing shallow.
"I'm not a hero," he said finally, his voice flat and quiet. "I never claimed to be one."
Harry let out a low chuckle from the sidelines, though it was humorless and sharp.
"Now that's something we can all agree on," Harry said, his British accent making the words sound like a casual observation about the weather. "But you might want to at least pretend to care about people outside your bubble. Makes you less of a git."
"And more attractive to the ladies," Daphne added with a wicked smile. "Though I suppose that's not really your primary concern."
Oliver shot them both a withering look, but Harry just smirked, unrepentant.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Oliver demanded.
"It means," Daphne said, rising from her chair with fluid grace, "that there's nothing particularly appealing about a man who can't think beyond his own family drama. It's rather… limiting."
She moved toward Harry, her hips swaying with deliberate intent. "I prefer men who can see the bigger picture."
Harry's eyes followed her movement, his gaze appreciative. "Well, love, I do try to keep things in perspective."
"Among other things," she purred, her hand trailing along his arm as she passed.
Susan rolled her eyes, though there was heat in her gaze as she watched the interaction. "Oh, for crying out loud. Could you two be any more obvious?"
"We could try," Harry said, his grin turning wicked. "Though I'm not sure Oliver's fragile ego could handle it."
"My ego is fine," Oliver snapped.
"Is it?" Harry asked, his voice dropping to something dangerously smooth. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks rather bruised. Both from the sparring match and from having your moral superiority questioned."
Diggle sighed and crossed his arms, watching Oliver with something that was equal parts frustration and pity.
"You keep saying you're not a hero," Diggle said quietly. "And maybe you're right. But one day, Oliver… you're going to have to decide if you actually want to be one — or if you're just another guy in a mask, settling scores."
"There's nothing wrong with settling scores," Oliver said defensively.
"There is when innocent people die while you're doing it," Neville said, his voice carrying quiet conviction. "My parents died because someone thought their personal vendetta was more important than protecting the people who couldn't protect themselves."
The silence that followed was deafening.
Oliver's face went pale, and for a moment, he looked younger, more vulnerable. "Neville, I—"
"I'm not saying this to hurt you," Neville continued, his voice gentle but firm. "I'm saying it because I know what it's like to lose people. And I know what it's like to want revenge. But revenge isn't justice, Oliver. And it's not heroism."
That silence settled over the Foundry again — heavy and uncomfortably loud.
Hermione broke it by clearing her throat and turning back to the keyboard, her fingers flying over the keys with mechanical precision.
"Well," she said briskly, "while the three of you debate philosophy, I'll just go ahead and pull the latest Royal Flush Gang intel. If we're not going after them now, we might as well be prepared if you change your mind."
"When he changes his mind," Daphne corrected, settling back into her chair with elegant grace. "Because eventually, even the most stubborn man realizes when he's being an idiot."
"Is that your professional opinion?" Harry asked, moving to stand behind her chair, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.
"It's my personal experience," she replied, tilting her head back to look at him. "I've reformed quite a few stubborn men in my time."
"Reformed them into what?" Susan asked, her voice carrying a mix of curiosity and something that might have been jealousy.
"Into better versions of themselves," Daphne said, her smile turning mysterious. "Though the process can be quite... intensive."
Harry's hands tightened slightly on her shoulders. "I do enjoy intensive training."
"I'm sure you do," Susan muttered, though her cheeks were flushed.
Oliver didn't respond to any of it. He just stood there, staring at the monitors, his jaw working as he watched the footage of the Royal Flush Gang's latest robbery. The image of the fallen officer seemed to burn itself into his retinas.
Harry, meanwhile, leaned down to whisper something in Daphne's ear, his breath making her shiver.
"Well, love," he murmured, loud enough for everyone to hear, "I suppose it's up to us to keep this lot from brooding themselves to death."
"A noble cause," Daphne agreed, her voice warm with amusement. "Though I can think of more enjoyable ways to spend our time."
"Can you now?" Harry's grin was wicked. "Care to share?"
"Later," she promised, her grey eyes sparkling with mischief. "When we don't have an audience."
"We're still here," Hermione said dryly, though she was fighting a smile. "And we can hear you."
"I should hope so," Harry replied, straightening up. "Otherwise this flirting would be rather pointless."
Susan let out a snort of laughter despite herself. "You're impossible."
"Impossibly charming," Daphne corrected. "There's a difference."
The room settled back into an uneasy rhythm — the sound of keys clicking and screens flickering filling the void left by all the unspoken words. But the tension remained, crackling between Oliver's stubborn pride and the team's growing frustration, between Harry's confident charm and the magnetic pull he seemed to have on both Daphne and Susan.
And in the background, the image of the Royal Flush Gang continued to play on the monitors, a silent reminder of the choice that would have to be made — between personal vendettas and true justice, between the past and the future, between the man Oliver was and the hero he could become.
---
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