In a small display of defiance, Nick donned a sharp black suit sans tie. His father would likely have a stroke, but it mattered little. It was comfortable and stylish enough that the papers wouldn't criticize him for it. He hadn't bothered trying to tame his hair, either, which they likely would berate, depending on who was doing the writing. Unlike some of the revelers, he was well used to the cameras and journalists. It didn't necessarily mean he enjoyed the attention, but as a member of a national squad, his attendance was expected as a show of good form at the very least.
He'd been there for half an hour or so when he spotted a familiar face (aside from Oliver's). There was Lavender, in catering attire and carrying a tray. His frown was there and gone in a blink. So this was the second job. He only hoped she wouldn't get in trouble if she was seen loitering with him, because he fully intended to speak to her. Nick made his way across the room, realizing up close that she'd somehow covered her scars. Perhaps that was why he hadn't caught sight of her previously. She looked...different.
Tucking his hands in his pockets, he came to a standstill at an angle beside her, eyes sweeping over the room and back.