**STAR Labs, Central City - Three Days Later**
Harry materialized in the cortex with a crack that made Cisco jump and spill his Big Belly Burger all over his keyboard.
"DUDE!" Cisco yelped, frantically wiping ketchup off his equipment. "We talked about this! Use the *door* like a normal person!"
"Sorry," Harry muttered, his helmet retracting. He looked exhausted—not physically, the armor handled that, but emotionally. Like someone who'd been running on fumes for days and had finally hit empty.
Barry looked up from the case files he'd been reviewing, his expression immediately shifting to concern. "Harry? What happened? You weren't supposed to be back until next week."
"Needed to get away," Harry said shortly. He collapsed onto the medical bay's examination table, staring at the ceiling. "Everything's a mess. The contracts, Ginny, my life—all of it. Just... a complete disaster."
Caitlin appeared from the med bay's back room, tablet in hand. "Did something go wrong with the meeting?"
"No. Yes. Maybe." Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. "We talked. We made a plan. Six months of honest courtship with Daphne and Susan, then we decide if we're compatible. If we're not, we dissolve the contracts properly. If we are..." He trailed off.
"If you are, you marry the both of them," Barry finished quietly.
"Yeah." Harry's voice was hollow. "And Ginny—she's not handling it well. We had a fight. A bad one. And now she won't look at me without looking *through* me, like I'm already gone."
"That's rough, man," Cisco said, his irritation about the burger forgotten. "But also—you're trying to do the right thing. That's got to count for something."
"Does it?" Harry sat up, his green eyes haunted. "Because from where I'm sitting, 'doing the right thing' just means hurting everyone involved. Ginny's heartbroken, Daphne and Susan are trapped in obligations they never wanted, and I'm stuck in the middle trying to figure out how to care about people on command."
"You can't force feelings," Caitlin said gently. "And you shouldn't try. All you can do is be honest and see what develops naturally."
"That's what we agreed to," Harry said. "But what if something *does* develop? What if I actually start to care about Daphne or Susan? Then I'm the asshole who replaced Ginny with someone from an arranged marriage."
"Or," Barry said carefully, "you're someone who opened himself up to possibilities he didn't expect and found something real. That's not being an asshole, Harry. That's being human."
"I don't want to be human," Harry said bitterly. "I want to be fast enough to run away from all of this. To go back to before the contracts, before Death Speed, when things were simple."
"Things were never simple," Barry pointed out. "You were hunting Horcruxes and fighting a war. You walked to your own execution. 'Simple' isn't really your style."
Despite everything, Harry felt a slight smile tug at his lips. "Fair point."
"So what's the plan?" Cisco asked, finally getting his keyboard cleaned. "Besides coming here to have existential crises in our very expensive laboratory?"
"Training," Harry said. "I need to focus on something I can actually control. Something that makes sense. And right now, the only thing that makes sense is getting faster, stronger, better at this whole superhero thing."
"Well, you're in luck," Barry said, pulling up a holographic display. "Because Oliver Queen—Green Arrow—wants to meet you. Officially. He's coming to Central City tomorrow with his team."
Harry blinked. "The Green Arrow wants to meet *me*?"
"You're kind of a big deal now," Cisco said. "Death Speed, the speedster who can kill at superspeed, partner to the Flash. Oliver likes to vet new heroes. Make sure they're not going to accidentally destroy a city or go supervillain."
"I'm not going to—"
"We know," Caitlin assured him. "But Oliver's cautious. Bordering on paranoid. It's how he's survived this long."
Harry considered this. Meeting other heroes sounded exhausting—more people evaluating him, judging whether he was good enough or stable enough or heroic enough. But it also sounded like exactly what he needed: a distraction from the personal chaos consuming his life.
"Okay," he said. "When and where?"
---
**Jitters, Central City - The Next Day**
Oliver Queen was not easily impressed.
He'd seen metahumans with incredible powers use them for petty crimes. He'd seen brilliant people make catastrophically stupid decisions. He'd seen heroes fall and villains rise and everything in between.
So when Barry Allen introduced him to the young man in civilian clothes sitting at the corner table, Oliver's first thought was: *He looks so normal.*
Harry Potter could have been any eighteen-year-old grabbing coffee. Messy black hair, worn jeans and a faded band t-shirt. The only unusual thing about him was the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead, and even that could have been explained as a childhood accident.
But when Oliver extended his hand and Harry shook it, there was something in the grip—controlled strength, awareness of his own power, the confidence of someone who'd fought and won against impossible odds.
"Mr. Queen," Harry said politely. "Barry's told me a lot about you."
"Call me Oliver. And probably nothing good if Barry's doing the telling." Oliver shot the Flash a look. Barry just grinned.
"Actually, all good things," Harry said. He gestured to the table. "Should we sit? Or is this one of those 'let's go to a secret base' meetings?"
"We can start here," Oliver said, taking a seat. Felicity and Dig had positioned themselves at nearby tables—close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give the illusion of privacy. "I wanted to meet you in person. Get a sense of who you are beyond the armor and the lightning."
"Smart," Harry acknowledged. "Trust but verify?"
"Something like that." Oliver studied him. "Barry says you've been training hard. That you've got good control for someone who's only had powers for a month."
"Barry's a good teacher," Harry said simply. "And I had strong motivation to learn fast. When you can accidentally break the sound barrier by sneezing, control becomes pretty important."
"That really happened?" Oliver couldn't help asking.
"Twice," Harry admitted with a slight smile. "Destroyed all the windows in a house. Very embarrassing."
Oliver found himself warming to the kid despite his caution. There was something genuine about him—no posturing, no trying to prove anything. Just exhausted honesty.
"So," Oliver said. "Death Speed. That's quite a name."
The humor drained from Harry's expression. "It wasn't my first choice. But it's... accurate. I carry power from something called the Speed Force—that's the gold lightning, pure kinetic energy. But I also carry power from Death itself. That's the crimson lightning. It's the ability to end things. Permanently."
"Barry mentioned that," Oliver said carefully. "He said you can kill with a touch if you choose to."
"I can," Harry confirmed. "I've done it once—killed a fragment of a soul that was possessing a giant snake. It was... precise. Clean. The soul fragment just stopped existing." His voice dropped. "It was also terrifying. Having that much power. Knowing I could erase someone from existence without even trying hard."
"But you haven't," Oliver observed. "In the bank robbery, you could have killed all three metas. Would have been easier, probably. But you chose not to."
"Of course I chose not to," Harry said, sounding genuinely confused. "They were criminals, not monsters. They deserved arrest and trial, not execution."
"Not everyone with your power would make that choice," Oliver said. And it was true—he'd seen too many people let power corrupt them, let the ease of violence override their morality.
"Then they shouldn't have the power," Harry said flatly. "Look, Mr. Queen—Oliver—I've seen what happens when people use power without restraint. I've fought a war against someone who thought might made right, who killed anyone who opposed him because he *could*. I won't become that. I *can't* become that, or everything I fought for means nothing."
The conviction in his voice was absolute. Not naive idealism—something harder. Something earned through experience and loss.
"You've killed before," Oliver said. Not a question.
Harry's expression went carefully blank. "Yes. During the war. Dark wizards who were actively trying to kill me or my friends. I didn't—I didn't enjoy it. Still have nightmares about some of them." He looked Oliver in the eye. "Does that disqualify me from being a hero in your book?"
"No," Oliver said honestly. "It makes you realistic. I've killed too. When there was no other choice, when it was them or innocents. It's not something I'm proud of, but it's part of who I am." He leaned forward. "The question is whether you can live with it. Whether it changes you or defines you."
"It changes me," Harry said quietly. "Every death I've caused changes me a little. Makes me more careful, more aware of what I'm capable of. But it doesn't define me. I define myself by what I *choose* to do, not what circumstances force me into."
"Good answer," a new voice said.
Oliver turned to see John Diggle approaching, Felicity right behind him. Apparently, they'd given up on the pretense of distance.
"Sorry," Felicity said, not sounding sorry at all. "We were listening from over there, and I just—you're Harry Potter! Like, *the* Harry Potter! I did so much research after we saw the news footage and—okay, this is going to sound weird, but are you actually a wizard? Like with a wand and spells and everything?"
Harry blinked at the rapid-fire questions. Then, slowly, a genuine smile crossed his face. "Yes. I'm a wizard. Though I don't have my wand anymore—it got destroyed during the war. I mostly rely on the armor now."
"That's *so cool*," Felicity breathed. "Magic is real. *Magic is real!* Cisco is going to lose his mind when I tell him. Well, tell him again. He didn't believe me the first time."
"Felicity," Dig said gently. "Breathe."
"Right. Breathing. I can do that." She sat down, still looking at Harry like he'd personally hung the moon. "So you're a wizard *and* a speedster? Isn't that kind of overkill?"
"You'd think so," Harry said dryly. "But apparently, the universe decided I needed more complications in my life."
"We all have those days," Oliver said. He made a decision then—the kind of snap judgment based on instinct and years of reading people. "Look, Potter—Harry. I came here to evaluate whether you were a threat or an ally. I've got my answer. You're good people. Little rough around the edges, still figuring things out, but your heart's in the right place."
"Thanks?" Harry said uncertainly.
"That means," Oliver continued, "if you ever need backup, advice, or just someone who understands what it's like to be a vigilante with complicated powers, my team is available. We operate mostly in Star City, but we've got connections across the country."
"Team Arrow welcomes Death Speed," Felicity said formally, then ruined it by grinning. "That sounded way cooler in my head."
"I appreciate it," Harry said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I'm still figuring out this whole 'hero' thing. It's different from fighting a war—more rules, more public scrutiny, more..."
"Responsibility?" Dig suggested.
"Yeah." Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. "In the war, we just did what needed doing. Survived day to day. But this—being a hero people look up to—that's harder somehow. More pressure to be perfect."
"You don't have to be perfect," Oliver said firmly. "You just have to try. Make the right choices when you can, learn from the wrong ones, and never let the power turn you into something you're not." He paused. "And take it from someone who spent years trying to be perfect: it's exhausting and impossible. Better to be real."
"Real," Harry repeated, testing the word. "I think I can do real."
"Then you'll be fine," Oliver stood, extending his hand again. "Welcome to the superhero community, Death Speed. Try not to let it kill you."
"Little late for that," Harry said, shaking his hand. "I already died once. Came back anyway."
"Overachiever," Felicity muttered.
They talked for another hour—swapping stories, discussing tactics, with Oliver giving Harry advice on dealing with the media and Dig offering tips on maintaining separate identities. Felicity mostly asked questions about magic until Harry's head spun.
When they finally parted ways, Oliver pulled Barry aside.
"He's going to be good," Oliver said quietly. "Might even be great. But he's carrying a lot of weight. Make sure he doesn't collapse under it."
"I'm trying," Barry said. "But he's stubborn. Reminds me of you, actually."
"Terrifying thought," Oliver said. But he was smiling. "Keep me updated. If he needs anything—backup, resources, someone to talk to—let me know."
"Will do."
Oliver watched through the coffee shop window as Harry laughed at something Felicity said. The kid looked young, tired, but fundamentally *good* in a way that couldn't be faked.
"He's going to change things," Dig observed, coming to stand beside Oliver.
"He already has," Oliver corrected. "We just don't know how yet."
---
**The Burrow's Garden - That Evening**
Harry returned to England as the sun was setting, the armor dissolving into casual clothes as he touched down in the Burrow's garden. He'd spent the day in Central City meeting Team Arrow, and now he had exactly two hours before his first official "courtship date" with Daphne Greengrass.
The thought made his stomach twist.
He'd agreed to this. Had made the logical, mature decision to honor the contracts through honest effort. But that didn't make it any less terrifying.
"Harry?"
He turned to find Hermione standing on the back porch, a book in one hand and concern in her expression.
"Hey, 'Mione."
"How was Central City?"
"Good. Met some new people. Team Arrow—they're heroes from Star City. Wanted to make sure I wasn't going to go supervillain." Harry managed a slight smile. "I passed the test, apparently."
"Of course you did," Hermione said firmly. She came down the steps to stand beside him. "You're a good person, Harry. Even when you're scared or confused or overwhelmed—you're still fundamentally *good*."
"Tell that to Ginny," Harry muttered.
"I have been," Hermione said. "Multiple times. She's... she's working through things. Give her time."
"Time." Harry laughed bitterly. "Everyone keeps telling me to give things time. But I've got six months, 'Mione. Six months to figure out if I can make this work with Daphne or Susan, while Ginny watches and hates me more every day."
"She doesn't hate you," Hermione said gently. "She's hurt. There's a difference."
"Feels the same from here."
They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of orange and gold. Harry had missed this—the simple peace of being with someone who knew him, who didn't expect him to be anything more than himself.
"Where are you taking Daphne tonight?" Hermione asked finally.
"Dinner at that new Italian place in Diagon Alley. Somewhere public but not too public. Neutral territory." Harry's voice was flat, reciting details without emotion. "We'll talk, get to know each other, establish baseline compatibility. Very romantic."
"Harry—"
"I know, I know. I'm supposed to try. To be open to possibilities." He sighed. "I will. I promise. But don't expect me to be happy about it."
"I don't expect you to be happy," Hermione said. "I expect you to be honest. With Daphne, with yourself, with all of us." She squeezed his arm. "That's all anyone can ask."
"Yeah." Harry checked the time—an hour and forty-five minutes now. "I should get ready. Make myself presentable for my contractually obligated date."
"Try to have an open mind," Hermione urged. "Daphne's actually quite brilliant, you know. Top of our year in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. And she's been researching contract law trying to find loopholes for all of you. She's not the enemy, Harry."
"I know she's not," Harry said quietly. "That's what makes this so hard. If she was awful, this would be easy. But she's smart and trapped and trying to make the best of a terrible situation. Just like me."
"Then maybe you'll actually become friends," Hermione suggested.
"Maybe," Harry agreed, though he didn't sound convinced.
He headed inside to change, leaving Hermione in the garden looking thoughtful and concerned.
Upstairs, staring at his reflection in the mirror, Harry let the armor materialize briefly. The crimson and gold plates formed around him, pulsing with contained power, and for a moment, he felt safe. Protected. Like he could handle anything.
Then he dismissed the armor, replacing it with nice slacks and a button-down shirt, and just felt like a nineteen-year-old about to go on a date he didn't want with a girl he barely knew.
*I faced Voldemort,* Harry reminded himself. *I died and came back. I can handle dinner.*
The armor hummed beneath his skin, crimson and gold offering silent support.
*You're not alone,* the Speed Force seemed to whisper.
*You never are,* Death's presence added.
Harry took a deep breath, checked his hair (hopeless as always), and apparated to Diagon Alley.
Time to honor a contract.
Time to try.
Time to see if it was possible to fulfill an obligation without losing yourself in the process.
---
**Trattoria Magica, Diagon Alley - 7:00 PM**
The restaurant was exactly as advertised—intimate without being romantic, upscale without being pretentious. Floating candles provided gentle light, soft Italian music played from enchanted instruments, and the smell of fresh pasta and tomato sauce filled the air.
Daphne was already there when Harry arrived, sitting at a corner table with a glass of wine and an expression that looked carefully neutral.
She'd dressed up—dark blue robes that complemented her pale skin and blonde hair, minimal jewelry, perfect posture. Every inch the pureblood heiress. But Harry could see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers worried at her napkin.
She was nervous too.
"Potter," she greeted as he approached. "You're exactly on time. Impressive."
"Harry," he corrected, sliding into the seat across from her. "If we're going to do this, we should probably use first names."
"Daphne, then." She studied him. "You look nervous."
"I am nervous," Harry admitted. "I've never been on a date that was legally mandated before. It's new territory."
A slight smile crossed her face. "For me too. Usually, when I go to dinner with someone, there's at least the pretense that we both want to be there."
"Do you not want to be here?" Harry asked.
Daphne considered the question seriously. "I want to fulfill my obligations without anyone getting hurt. Whether that constitutes 'wanting to be here' is up for debate." She paused. "What about you?"
"Same," Harry said. "Though I'll admit, part of me wants to run away and not look back. The Speed Force makes that very tempting."
"I imagine it would." Daphne sipped her wine. "For what it's worth, I appreciate that you're being honest. We could have spent this evening pretending everything's fine, forcing conversation, performing for the contract's requirements. This is... better."
"Honest courtship," Harry said, echoing their agreement. "Even if the honesty is 'this is weird and we'd both rather be elsewhere.'"
"Exactly."
The waiter appeared, took their orders, and vanished with the efficiency of someone who'd learned not to interrupt important conversations.
Harry found himself relaxing slightly. This wasn't so bad. Awkward, yes. But not painful. And Daphne seemed equally committed to not making it more difficult than it had to be.
"So," Daphne said once the waiter was gone. "Since we're stuck doing this, we might as well actually get to know each other. Tell me something about Harry Potter that isn't in the Daily Prophet or history books."
Harry thought about it. "I like flying. Not the superhero kind—just normal flying on a broom. Being up in the air where everything's simple and the only thing that matters is the wind and the speed and the freedom."
"I didn't know that," Daphne said. "I knew you were good at Quidditch, but I didn't know you actually *enjoyed* flying."
"Most people don't," Harry admitted. "They see the Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the war hero. They don't see the kid who just wants to fly without everyone watching."
"I can understand that," Daphne said quietly. "People see 'Daphne Greengrass, pureblood heiress' and assume they know everything about me. That I'm cold, calculating, only interested in status and power."
"Are you?" Harry asked. "Any of those things?"
"Some of them," she admitted. "I am calculating—I like solving problems, finding patterns, understanding systems. And I care about my family's status because status means protection in magical society. But cold?" She shook her head. "I'm not cold. I'm careful. There's a difference."
"I'm starting to see that," Harry said.
Their food arrived—pasta for him, risotto for her. They ate in comfortable silence for a few moments.
"Your turn," Harry said. "Tell me something about Daphne Greengrass that I wouldn't know."
"I'm terrified of Inferi," Daphne said immediately. Then she looked surprised, like she hadn't meant to admit that. "I saw them during the battle at Hogwarts. The way they moved, the emptiness in their eyes... it gave me nightmares for weeks."
"Me too," Harry admitted. "I've had bad experiences with Inferi. There was this cave, sixth year, with Dumbledore, and—" He cut himself off. "It was bad. I still can't look at large bodies of water without wondering what's underneath."
"I'm sorry," Daphne said softly. "The war hurt all of us in different ways."
"Yeah." Harry took a drink of his pumpkin juice. "It did."
They talked through dinner—carefully at first, then with increasing ease. Daphne told him about her plans to study magical law, about her frustration with a system that bound people through contracts made before they were born. Harry told her about his training with Barry, about the strange dichotomy of being a wizard and a speedster, about trying to balance two worlds that barely understood each other.
By the time dessert arrived, Harry realized with surprise that he was actually *enjoying* himself. Not in a romantic way—there were no butterflies, no electric connection, no spark of chemistry. But as a conversation between two people trying to navigate an impossible situation? It was working.
"This wasn't terrible," Daphne said as they finished their tiramisu.
"Surprisingly tolerable," Harry agreed with a slight smile.
"Should we do it again?"
Harry hesitated. Agreeing meant continuing down this path. Meant more dates, more conversations, more time spent getting to know someone who wasn't Ginny.
But he'd made a commitment. And Daphne deserved him to honor it.
"Yeah," he said finally. "We should. Same time next week?"
"I'll check my schedule," Daphne said. She pulled out a small planner—actual parchment and ink, very pureblood—and made a note. "I have my date with Susan on Saturday. You?"
"Sunday," Harry confirmed. "In Hogsmeade. We're going to the Three Broomsticks."
"Good choice. Neutral territory, public enough to avoid awkwardness, private enough for actual conversation." Daphne closed her planner. "You're handling this better than I expected, Harry."
"Am I?" Harry felt like he was barely holding it together. "Because I feel like I'm drowning and just doing a good job of hiding it."
"That's most of life," Daphne said dryly. "Drowning while maintaining good posture." She stood, gathering her things. "Walk me out?"
They left the restaurant together, emerging into Diagon Alley's evening crowd. The shops were still open, people moving between them with the casual ease of routine.
"Thank you," Daphne said as they reached the apparition point. "For being honest tonight. For not pretending or forcing something that isn't there. It made this bearable."
"You too," Harry said. "I was expecting this to be awful. It was just... moderately uncomfortable."
Daphne actually laughed—a real laugh, not the polite society chuckle Harry had heard her use at school. "High praise, Potter."
"Harry," he corrected with a grin.
"Harry," she amended. Then, more seriously: "We're going to get through this. All of us. Maybe not in the way any of us wanted, but we'll survive it."
"I hope you're right," Harry said.
"I'm always right," Daphne said with mock arrogance. "Ask anyone in Ravenclaw—oh wait, I was in Slytherin. Ask anyone there. They'll confirm."
She apparated before Harry could respond, leaving him standing alone in Diagon Alley with a slight smile on his face.
It hadn't been terrible. Hadn't been great, hadn't been what he wanted, but it had been... okay. Tolerable. Maybe even the start of something like friendship.
Was that enough?
Harry didn't know. But it would have to be, because the alternative was giving up before he'd even tried.
He apparated back to the Burrow, ready to face whatever came next.
---
**The Burrow - Later That Evening**
Harry materialized in the garden and immediately sensed he wasn't alone.
Ginny sat on the back porch steps, a mug of tea in her hands, staring at nothing. She didn't look up when Harry appeared, but her shoulders tensed.
"How was your date?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.
Harry considered lying. Considered saying it was awful, that he'd hated every minute, that Daphne was terrible and he couldn't wait to be done with the whole thing.
But he'd promised honesty.
"It was okay," he said quietly, sitting down on the steps beside her—not too close, respecting the distance she'd put between them. "Not terrible. Not great. Just... okay. We talked. Got to know each other a little. Made plans to meet again next week."
"Good," Ginny said, and she sounded like she meant it even though her hands were white-knuckled around the mug. "That's good. You're honoring the contract. Being responsible."
"Ginny—"
"I'm trying, Harry," she interrupted. "I'm trying to be okay with this. To understand that you don't have a choice. But gods, it *hurts*. Sitting here knowing you're out with someone else, talking to them, laughing with them, maybe even *liking* them—"
"I don't like her," Harry said. "Not like that. Not like I like you."
"Yet," Ginny said. "You don't like her *yet*. But you've got six months to change your mind."
"Or six months to prove what I already know," Harry countered. "That you're the one I want."
"You can't know that," Ginny said, and there were tears in her voice now. "You can't promise that when you're spending every week getting to know two other girls. What if Daphne says something brilliant and you realize you have more in common with her than with me? What if Susan makes you laugh and you remember that I'm just the girl who waited while you were off being a hero?"
"You're not 'just' anything," Harry said fiercely. "You're Ginny. You're the girl who hexed Malfoy in fifth year for insulting Hermione. Who flew with me after Sirius died and didn't ask questions. Who fought in the war and never backed down. You're—you're everything, Ginny."
"Then why does it feel like I'm losing you?" Ginny's voice broke. "Why does it feel like every date you go on is another step away from me?"
Harry didn't have an answer. Because maybe she was right. Maybe every conversation with Daphne or Susan *was* a step away from what they had. Maybe the contracts would do exactly what they were designed to do—create connections where none existed before.
"I don't want to lose you," Harry whispered.
"Then don't," Ginny said. She turned to face him finally, and her eyes were red and desperate. "Choose me, Harry. Tell the contracts to go to hell and choose me. We'll deal with the consequences together."
"You could die," Harry said. "The magical backlash from breaking the contracts—it could kill you, kill Daphne and Susan, kill everyone involved. I can't risk that. I *won't*."
"So you'll risk *us* instead," Ginny said. "You'll gamble our future on the chance that after six months of dating other people, you'll still want me."
"Yes," Harry said, because what else could he say? "Because the alternative is potentially killing people, and I've done enough of that for one lifetime."
Ginny stood abruptly, her tea sloshing over the rim of the mug. "I can't do this. Can't sit here and watch you fall for someone else while telling myself it's noble or necessary or whatever justification makes it bearable. I just—I can't."
"What are you saying?" Harry asked, standing too.
"I'm saying I need space," Ginny said. "Real space. I'm going to France. Bill and Fleur have been asking me to visit, and I think—I think I need to not be here for a while. Need to not watch you every week going on dates, coming back, maybe enjoying yourself more than you expected."
"Ginny, please—"
"Don't," she cut him off. "Don't make this harder than it is. You made your choice, Harry. You chose the contracts, chose the safe option, chose everyone's safety over what we had. I understand why. I even agree with it, in my head. But my heart—" her voice cracked, "—my heart can't watch it happen."
She turned to go inside, then paused at the door.
"I love you," she said without looking back. "I do. But I love myself too, and I can't stay here and break apart piece by piece while you figure out what you want. So I'm leaving. And when you're done—when you've honored your contracts and made your choice—if there's anything left of us, maybe we can try again."
She went inside, leaving Harry standing alone in the garden with his heart in pieces.
He'd done the right thing. Had made the responsible choice. Had honored his obligations and tried to protect everyone involved.
So why did it feel like he'd just lost something irreplaceable?
Harry stood there for a long time, staring at the stars, feeling the armor hum beneath his skin with sympathetic pain. The Speed Force whispered suggestions about running, about moving so fast that feelings couldn't catch him. But the Hallows' crimson energy pushed back with something that felt like *acceptance*.
Some pain couldn't be run from. Some losses had to be endured.
Harry finally went inside, moving like someone twice his age, and tried to tell himself that this was just temporary. That Ginny would come back. That everything would work out.
But he'd never been good at lying to himself.
And tonight, even the armor's protection couldn't keep out the cold.
---
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