**Saints and Sinners Bar, Central City - That Evening**
Leonard Snart—Captain Cold to those who knew him professionally—was having a drink when the news broke.
The bar was his favorite haunt: dimly lit, questionable clientele, bartender who knew when to keep his mouth shut. Len sat at his usual corner booth, nursing a beer and planning his next job, when every screen in the place suddenly switched to the same breaking news broadcast.
"—unprecedented display of power from not one but *two* speedsters working in coordination. The Flash, Central City's established protector, was joined by a new arrival calling himself Death Speed—"
Len's beer paused halfway to his lips.
The footage showed two figures in super-suits—the Flash's familiar red, and something new. Something *darker*. Crimson and black armor with gold accents, crackling with two colors of lightning that spiraled together in patterns that made Len's strategic mind sit up and pay attention.
"—evacuated all fifteen hostages in under five seconds, according to witnesses. Then proceeded to neutralize three metahuman threats with what appears to be even greater speed than the Flash himself—"
"Well," Len said quietly, setting down his beer. "That's interesting."
Across the booth, Mick Rory—Heat Wave, professional arsonist and Len's oldest friend—grunted. "Another speedster. Great. Just what we needed."
"Two speedsters," Len corrected, his eyes never leaving the screen. The new one—Death Speed—was different from the Flash in ways that went beyond aesthetics. The way he moved was *sharper*. More aggressive. And that crimson lightning...
"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Mick asked.
"That we should reconsider that bank job we planned for next week?" Len's smile was thin. "Absolutely."
The Rogues had a complicated relationship with the Flash. They were criminals, he was a hero, and they played a game that had rules both sides mostly respected. No killing civilians. No targeting families. No escalating beyond what the city could handle.
It was almost *civilized*.
But a new speedster changed the equation. Especially one who called himself *Death* Speed.
"He doesn't look like Barry," Mick observed, squinting at the screen. "Armor's all wrong. Meaner."
"Mmm." Len watched as the footage replayed Death Speed phasing through Gridlock's time field. "But they work together. Partners, according to the Flash. Which means if we're dealing with one, we're dealing with both."
"So what do we do?"
Len considered. The Rogues weren't heroes, but they weren't monsters either. They had a code. A reputation. And antagonizing *two* speedsters who could take down three metas in under ten seconds seemed like a fast way to end up in Iron Heights.
"We wait," Len decided. "Watch. Learn what this Death Speed is about. Whether he plays by the same rules as the Flash, or if he's something else entirely."
On screen, Death Speed was addressing the cameras. Even through the modulated voice, there was something young about him. Something that reminded Len of the Flash when he'd first started—idealistic, eager to prove himself, not yet worn down by the weight of heroism.
But there was also something harder. Something that suggested this speedster had seen darkness the Flash hadn't.
*Death Speed,* Len thought. *What kind of hero chooses a name like that?*
His phone buzzed. Text message from Lisa—Weather Wizard wanted to know if they were still hitting the Central City Diamond Exchange next month.
Len typed back: **Hold all jobs. New player in town. Reassessing.**
"You're scared of him," Mick said. Not an accusation—just an observation.
"Not scared," Len corrected. "Cautious. There's a difference." He finished his beer and stood. "Come on. We need to call a meeting. Get the whole crew together. If there's two speedsters now, the Rogues need to adapt."
"Or retire," Mick suggested.
Len actually laughed at that. "Where's the fun in that?"
They left the bar, and neither noticed the figure watching them from across the street—a blur of motion that had moved too fast for human eyes to track, had listened to every word they'd said, and was now racing away to report back to STAR Labs.
Barry Allen had learned long ago to keep tabs on his Rogues. And now that Harry was his partner, it was time the new speedster learned about the criminals who made Central City *interesting*.
---
**The Foundry, Star City - Same Evening**
Oliver Queen was in the middle of training—bow drawn, three arrows nocked, preparing to hit moving targets while blindfolded—when Felicity's excited shriek echoed through the foundry.
"OLIVER! OLLIE! You have to see this!"
The arrows flew anyway—muscle memory and years of practice guiding them to their marks even as Oliver yanked off the blindfold. "Felicity, we talked about the shrieking while I'm holding deadly weapons—"
"There's ANOTHER speedster!" Felicity practically vibrated with excitement, her fingers flying across her keyboard as she pulled up footage. "And he's *amazing* and *terrifying* and has *two colors* of lightning and—just watch!"
Oliver moved to the computer station, where Dig was already watching the broadcast with his arms crossed and a thoughtful expression.
"This the kid Barry was training?" Dig asked.
"Kid?" Oliver watched the footage—the evacuation, the freed officers, the casual way Death Speed took down three metas while making it look easy. "He doesn't move like a kid."
"He's eighteen," Felicity said, pulling up what looked like a STAR Labs file. "Barry sent over his specs—at least what they know. British, recently acquired his powers under circumstances Barry's being cagey about, and his power signature is *weird*."
She pulled up a holographic analysis that meant nothing to Oliver but made her eyes light up with scientific fascination.
"See this? Normal speedsters—Barry, Wally, the others—they tap into the Speed Force. Pure kinetic energy. All gold lightning, all about motion. But *this* guy—" she highlighted the crimson tendrils woven through the gold, "—he's got something extra. Something that registers as..."
"As what?" Oliver prompted.
"As *death*," Felicity finished, her voice dropping. "Not metaphorically. Actual, literal death energy mixed with the Speed Force's kinetic power. The readings are *insane*. It's like if you took the concept of endings and taught it to run faster than light."
Dig whistled low. "That's... concerning."
"Or awesome," Felicity countered. "Depending on your perspective. The point is, Barry trusts him enough to make him a partner. To let him operate openly in Central City. That's a pretty strong endorsement."
Oliver watched the replay again, analyzing Death Speed's tactics with the trained eye of someone who'd been doing this for years. The efficiency was impressive—no wasted motion, no showboating, just precise application of overwhelming force. Like a soldier more than a hero.
"He's had training," Oliver observed. "Real training. Not just superpowers. Look at how he approaches Gridlock—flanking maneuver, exploiting a weakness in the field, neutralizing the threat with minimal force."
"Barry's been working with him for a month," Felicity confirmed. "Intensive training at STAR Labs. Teaching him control, precision, all the stuff Barry had to learn the hard way."
"And now he's going public." Dig's tone was neutral, but Oliver could hear the question underneath: *Is this a good thing or a bad thing?*
Oliver considered. Another hero in the world was generally positive. Another hero who could move faster than thought and carried "death energy" was... complicated.
"We should meet him," Oliver decided. "Officially. If he's going to be active in Central City, and we're occasionally in Central City, it's better to establish a relationship now than after something goes wrong."
"You want to recruit him to the team?" Felicity asked.
"I want to know if he's someone we can count on," Oliver corrected. "There's a difference. Barry vouches for him, and I trust Barry's judgment. But—"
"But you like to verify," Dig finished. "Can't say I blame you. Kid's got some serious power. Better to know where he stands before it becomes an issue."
Oliver nodded, already planning the approach. They'd coordinate with Barry, set up a meet that didn't feel like an interrogation, get a read on Death Speed's character and capabilities.
Because if there was one thing Oliver had learned over the years, it was that heroes with the best intentions could still cause catastrophic damage if they weren't careful.
And someone who called themselves *Death* Speed was someone who bore watching.
"Set it up," Oliver told Felicity. "Through Barry. Casual meeting, no pressure. Just—"
"Just you doing your paranoid vigilante thing?" Felicity suggested sweetly.
"My *cautious* vigilante thing," Oliver corrected. "There's a difference."
On screen, Death Speed and the Flash stood side by side, facing the cameras with the confidence of heroes who knew their worth.
Oliver just hoped that confidence was justified.
---
**The Burrow, Devon, England - Late That Night**
Harry materialized in the garden with a crack that sent gnomes scattering and made the chickens in the coop erupt in indignant squawking.
The journey from Central City had taken eleven minutes at full speed—racing across the Atlantic, phasing through the magical wards that should have kept him out but apparently didn't recognize him as a threat, and finally decelerating in the familiar garden where he'd spent so many happy summers.
The armor dissolved as he touched down, transforming into simple jeans and a t-shirt. One of the things Harry had discovered over the past month was that the armor could become *anything*—civilian clothes, formal robes, even pajamas if he concentrated. The Speed Force and the Hallows' power didn't care what form they took, as long as they stayed close to him.
Practical, but also deeply weird.
The Burrow's back door opened before Harry could knock, and Molly Weasley stood there with an expression that cycled through relief, worry, anger, and settling on exasperated fondness.
"Harry Potter," she said, and her voice carried that tone that meant she was three seconds from either hugging him or hexing him. "You have been gone for three weeks with barely a word, we see you on Muggle television fighting criminals in *America*, and now you show up at eleven o'clock at night looking like you haven't slept in a week?"
"I can explain—"
"Inside. Now." Molly grabbed his arm and pulled him through the door. "The whole family's been worried sick. Hermione called four times, McGonagall sent three Howlers—*three*, Harry!—and Ginny—"
She cut herself off, but the damage was done.
"Ginny's here?" Harry asked quietly.
Molly's expression softened. "Upstairs. In her room. She's been... she saw the news, Harry. Saw you being a hero in Central City. And I think it just made everything more complicated."
Of course it did. Because nothing in Harry's life could ever be simple.
The kitchen was full—Ron and Hermione at the table, both looking up as Harry entered. George in the corner, nursing a butterbeer and looking more like himself than he had in weeks. Percy reading the Prophet. Bill and Fleur in whispered conversation by the fireplace.
And at the table, looking distinctly uncomfortable, were Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones.
Harry stopped dead. "You're here."
"We're here," Daphne confirmed. Her composure was perfect as always, but Harry could see the tension in her shoulders. "When we saw the news—when we realized you were operating publicly as a superhero in America—we thought it best to move up our meeting."
"Before you accidentally became an international incident," Susan added. Her tone was gentler, but no less serious. "Potter—*Harry*—we need to talk. Really talk. And we need to do it before this gets more complicated."
"More complicated than betrothal contracts and superpowers?" Harry asked, going for humor and landing somewhere near hysteria.
"Yes," both girls said simultaneously.
Hermione stood, her expression sympathetic. "Harry, they're right. You can't keep putting this off. The contracts are active, the magical community knows about them—the Prophet ran a story yesterday, actually—and now with you being publicly identified as Death Speed..."
She trailed off, but Harry could fill in the blanks. The Boy Who Lived becomes a superhero. The political implications. The social expectations. The way his private life was about to become *very* public in ways he'd never wanted.
"Right," Harry said quietly. "Right. Of course." He looked at Daphne and Susan. "Tomorrow? Can we do this tomorrow? I just—I've been awake for twenty hours, fought three metahumans, and raced across an ocean. I need—"
"Sleep," Molly finished firmly. "You need sleep. The rest of you—" she fixed everyone with a look that could strip paint, "—out. Harry needs rest, and whatever conversations need to happen can wait until morning."
"Mrs. Weasley—" Daphne began.
"Tomorrow," Molly repeated, and there was steel under the maternal warmth. "Ten o'clock. All of you can meet properly, have your discussions, sort out whatever needs sorting. But tonight, Harry rests."
For a moment, Harry thought Daphne might argue. But then she looked at him—really looked, past the defenses and the armor and the power—and saw what Molly saw: a nineteen-year-old boy who was barely holding it together.
"Ten o'clock," Daphne agreed. "The garden? Somewhere private?"
"The orchard," Hermione suggested. "It's secluded, and the Apple trees are in bloom. It's... peaceful."
"The orchard at ten," Susan confirmed. She stood, and there was something almost apologetic in her expression. "Get some sleep, Harry. We'll talk tomorrow."
They left—apparating from the garden with soft cracks that faded into the night. Percy made his excuses and headed to his room. Bill and Fleur retreated upstairs. Even George drifted away, leaving Harry alone with Molly, Ron, and Hermione.
"You okay, mate?" Ron asked.
"No," Harry admitted. "But I don't think I have a choice about that."
"You always have a choice," Hermione said softly. "That's what you taught us, remember? Even when circumstances seem impossible, we choose how to respond."
"I chose to die," Harry said, and the words came out more bitter than he'd intended. "And look where that got me. Alive, armored, and contractually obligated to court two girls I don't know while the girl I actually care about won't talk to me."
"Ginny's struggling," Molly said quietly. "But she's not cruel, Harry. Give her time. Give yourself time. And tomorrow—tomorrow you'll talk to Daphne and Susan like adults. Honestly. And maybe you'll find that the situation isn't as impossible as it seems."
"And if it is?" Harry asked.
"Then you'll deal with it," Ron said firmly. "Like you deal with everything. By being stubborn and refusing to quit until you've found a solution."
"That's not always a good strategy," Harry pointed out.
"Worked against Voldemort," Ron countered.
Fair point.
Harry let Molly fuss over him—insisting he eat something despite his protests, checking for injuries despite the armor having healed anything minor, generally treating him like he was eleven again and had just survived another brush with death.
It should have been annoying. Instead, it was comforting.
Eventually, she sent him upstairs to Ron's room—his room, technically, since he'd been staying there more than anywhere else. Harry collapsed onto the familiar camp bed, still fully dressed, and stared at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, he'd face Daphne and Susan. Would have the conversation he'd been avoiding for a month. Would try to find some way through this mess that didn't destroy everyone involved.
But tonight—tonight he was just tired.
The armor pulsed against his skin, a constant presence now. The Speed Force whispered suggestions about running, about escaping, about moving so fast that problems couldn't catch him.
But the Hallows' crimson energy pushed back with something that felt like *responsibility*.
*You don't run from this,* it seemed to say. *You face it. Like you faced Voldemort. Like you faced death itself.*
"Easier said than done," Harry muttered to the darkness.
But he closed his eyes anyway, and somewhere between one breath and the next, exhaustion claimed him.
He dreamed of crimson and gold lightning, of contracts written in blood and magic, and of Ginny's face watching him walk away.
When he woke, nothing would be solved.
But at least he'd be rested enough to try.
---
**The Burrow's Orchard - Ten O'Clock the Next Morning**
The apple trees were indeed in bloom, their white blossoms creating a canopy of petals that drifted down like snow in the morning breeze. It should have been romantic—the kind of place where love stories began.
Instead, it felt like a battlefield.
Harry stood at one end of the clearing, wearing simple jeans and a dark green shirt. The armor was dormant, dissolved into his clothes, but he could feel it humming just beneath the surface—ready to manifest at a moment's notice.
Daphne and Susan stood at the other end, both dressed casually but somehow maintaining that pureblood poise that years at Hogwarts had ingrained. Daphne in dark slacks and a silver blouse. Susan in a sundress that looked almost aggressively normal.
Hermione had volunteered to referee—sitting on a conjured bench at the clearing's edge, prepared to intervene if the conversation went sideways.
For a long moment, nobody spoke.
"So," Harry said finally, because someone had to start. "This is awkward."
Susan actually laughed—a short, surprised sound. "Understatement of the century, Potter."
"We should sit," Daphne suggested. With a wave of her wand, three more benches appeared—arranged in a rough triangle, equal distance from each other. Neutral territory. "This conversation is going to take a while. Might as well be comfortable."
They sat, and the silence stretched again.
"I don't know how to do this," Harry admitted. The honesty felt like stripping off armor—vulnerable, but necessary. "I don't know how to have a conversation about being forced to court two people I barely know because our parents signed papers before we could walk."
"We don't either," Susan said softly. "But here we are anyway."
"Here we are," Daphne agreed. She pulled out two pieces of parchment—identical to the one Harry had seen before, sealed with family crests and glowing with authentication magic. "These are the contracts. Both of them. I think—I think we should start by actually *reading* them. Together. So we all know what we're dealing with."
"Good idea," Hermione called from her bench. When three heads turned to look at her, she raised her hands defensively. "Sorry! I'll be quiet. Pretend I'm not here."
"You're terrible at being subtle, 'Mione," Harry said, but he was smiling slightly.
They read the contracts.
It took an hour, because magical legal language was dense and complicated and full of clauses within clauses. But eventually, the reality of their situation became clear:
Both contracts required a "good faith" courtship period of at least six months. During that time, Harry was obligated to spend time with both Daphne and Susan—public outings, private conversations, genuine attempts to determine compatibility.
At the end of six months, all parties would reconvene and make a formal decision: continue toward marriage, or dissolve the contracts with significant penalties.
The penalties were brutal. Loss of family magic. Reduction in inheritance. Social stigma that would follow all of them for years. And—this was the part that made Harry's blood run cold—potential health consequences as the magical bonds fought dissolution.
"So we're trapped," Harry said flatly, once they'd finished reading.
"Not trapped," Daphne corrected carefully. "Obligated. There's a difference."
"Is there?" Harry gestured at the contracts. "Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like we have two choices: go through with the courtship and see where it leads, or destroy our families' magic and possibly hurt ourselves in the process."
"Those aren't the only options," Susan said. She'd been quiet through most of the reading, but now she leaned forward with determination in her eyes. "We could try the courtship, genuinely try, and still decide at the end that we're not compatible. The contracts allow for that. They just require that we *try*."
"And what if we *are* compatible?" Harry asked. The question that had been haunting him for weeks. "What if I get to know you both, and I actually *like* the both of you? What happens to Ginny then?"
The name hung in the air like a ghost.
"That's the question, isn't it?" Daphne's voice was softer than Harry had ever heard it. "What happens to the person you actually chose, versus the people you're obligated to choose from?"
She stood, pacing between the benches with her arms crossed. "For what it's worth, Potter—Harry—I didn't want this either. I had plans. Goals. A life I was building for myself. And now..." She gestured at the contracts. "Now I'm bound to someone who's barely spoken to me in seven years, who's just become an internationally famous superhero, and who's clearly in love with someone else."
"I'm not—" Harry started to protest.
"Don't lie," Susan interrupted gently. "We've all seen the way you look at Ginny Weasley. The way you looked at her before all this happened. You love her, Harry. That's not a secret."
"Then why are we here?" Harry demanded, frustration boiling over. "If you know I love someone else, if you know this is pointless, why go through with it? Why not just—"
"Because breaking these contracts could kill us!" Daphne's composure finally cracked, her voice rising. "Do you understand that? The magical bonds are *woven into our family magic*. My father's solicitors spent two weeks researching dissolution procedures, and they all came back with the same answer: attempting to break these contracts without proper dissolution could cause magical backlash that might be *fatal*."
The word landed like a stone.
"Fatal?" Harry repeated numbly.
"Not definitely," Susan said quickly. "But potentially. The older the contract, the deeper the magical integration. And these—" she gestured at the parchments, "—these are over a century old. Our great-grandparents' generation. The magic has had *generations* to root itself."
"So we're well and truly fucked," Harry said flatly.
"Harry!" Hermione's scandalized voice carried from her bench.
"Well, we *are*!" Harry stood, running his hands through his hair in frustration. The armor flickered briefly under his skin, crimson and gold sparks dancing across his arms before he forced them down. "I died, came back with god-level powers, defeated the darkest wizard in a century, and I'm still trapped by paperwork signed before I was born. It's *absurd*!"
"It's magical society," Daphne said bitterly. "Welcome to the wonderful world of being a pureblood heir. Where your life is planned before you can speak and deviation from the plan could quite literally kill you."
They stood there—three teenagers caught in a system designed long before they were born, struggling against obligations none of them wanted but all of them had to bear.
"What do you want?" Harry asked suddenly, looking between them. "Forget the contracts for a minute. Forget the obligations. What do *you two* actually want?"
Daphne and Susan exchanged glances.
"I want to study magical law," Daphne admitted. "Want to help reform the system that created this mess. Want to find loopholes and protections for people like us—people trapped by contracts they never agreed to."
"I want to rebuild my family's legacy," Susan said quietly. "My aunt spent her life fighting for justice. Fighting for people who couldn't fight for themselves. I want to honor that. Want to be someone who matters."
"Neither of which requires being married to me," Harry observed.
"No," both girls agreed.
"So what if—" Harry paused, an idea forming. "What if we treat this like a job? Like an obligation we have to fulfill to avoid consequences, but we're honest about what it is? We do the courtship period—go on the required dates, have the conversations, check all the magical boxes. But we're *honest* about it. No pretending there's something there if there isn't. No forcing feelings that don't exist."
"Six months of formalized friendship," Susan said slowly. "Getting to know each other properly, but without the pressure of pretending we're falling in love."
"And at the end," Daphne continued, picking up the thread, "we make the decision based on reality, not fantasy. If we're genuinely compatible—if something *real* develops—we move forward. If not, we dissolve the contracts with the knowledge that we *tried*."
"The magic should accept that," Hermione called out, unable to stay silent anymore. "The contracts require good faith effort. They don't require falling in love. Just genuine attempt at compatibility."
Harry felt something unknot in his chest. It wasn't perfect—gods, it was so far from perfect. But it was *honest*. Real. A way through the mess that didn't require anyone to pretend to be something they weren't.
"What about Ginny?" Susan asked quietly.
And there it was. The question Harry had been avoiding.
"I don't know," he admitted. "I need to talk to her. Need to explain this properly. Need to—" He gestured helplessly. "I need her to understand that I don't *want* this. That I'm doing it to protect everyone, including her."
"She might not forgive you," Daphne said. Not cruel—just realistic. "You're asking her to wait while you date other people. That's... that's a lot to ask."
"I know." Harry's voice was barely a whisper. "But I don't have a better option. Unless—" He looked at Hermione desperately. "Unless you've found a loophole? Some way to break the contracts safely?"
Hermione's expression was sympathetic. "I've been researching for three weeks, Harry. Cross-referencing every contract law text I could find. And Daphne's right—these contracts are *old*. Breaking them without the proper dissolution process would be incredibly dangerous."
"So we're back to the courtship," Harry said.
"We're back to the courtship," Susan confirmed. "But on our terms. Honest, real, no pretending. We spend six months actually getting to know each other. And at the end, we make the decision that's best for all of us."
"And if that decision is to dissolve the contracts?" Harry asked.
"Then we do it properly," Daphne said firmly. "With every magical precaution in place. We document that we made good faith efforts. We prove we're incompatible. And we accept whatever penalties come—together."
Together. The word settled around them like a promise.
They weren't friends. They weren't in love. But maybe—maybe they could be allies. People facing the same impossible situation and refusing to let it destroy them.
"Okay," Harry said finally. "Six months. Honest courtship. No pretending, no forcing feelings. We give this a real shot, and at the end, we decide based on truth."
"Agreed," Daphne said.
"Agreed," Susan echoed.
They stood there in the orchard, three teenagers making a pact that would shape the next six months of their lives. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't what any of them wanted.
But it was *real*.
And right now, reality was all they had.
---
**The Burrow - Two Hours Later**
Harry found Ginny in the garden, tending to the tomato plants with aggressive efficiency. She'd known he was there—the Speed Force made it impossible for him to sneak up on anyone anymore, his presence disturbing the air in ways magical people could feel—but she didn't acknowledge him.
"Ginny," Harry said quietly. "Please. We need to talk."
"I'm busy."
"Ginny—"
"I said I'm *busy*, Potter." She turned to face him, and the use of his last name hit like a physical blow. Her eyes were red-rimmed, her expression a complicated mix of hurt and anger and something that might have been fear. "Unless you've come to tell me you've found a way out of those contracts, I don't see what we have to discuss."
"I haven't," Harry admitted. "But I've worked something out with Daphne and Susan. Something that might—"
"Let me guess," Ginny interrupted. "You're all going to be very mature and honest about the situation. You're going to spend six months 'getting to know each other,' and at the end, you'll make a decision based on what's best for everyone." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "How very *noble* of you."
"Ginny, that's not fair—"
"Fair?" Ginny's voice rose. "You want to talk about *fair*, Harry? I waited for you. Through the war, through the Horcrux hunt, through everything. I waited because I knew—I *knew*—that if we both survived, we'd have a chance. And now you're telling me I have to wait *longer* while you date other people?"
"I'm not dating them!" Harry protested. "I'm fulfilling a magical obligation to prevent everyone involved from getting hurt!"
"You're splitting hairs," Ginny said flatly. "Whether you call it dating or courting or 'fulfilling obligations,' the result is the same. You'll spend time with them. Get to know them. And maybe—just maybe—you'll actually *like* them."
"And if I do?" Harry asked, the question ripping out of him. "What if I give this six months, genuinely try, and discover that Daphne and Susan are actually compatible with me? What then?"
Ginny's face crumpled. "Then I guess I was never enough."
"That's not—Ginny, you know that's not true—"
"Do I?" She stepped closer, and Harry could see tears tracking down her cheeks. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the moment you had an excuse to consider other options, you took it. The contracts are just a convenient out."
"That's not fair and you know it!" Harry's own anger flared. "I didn't *ask* for these contracts! I didn't *choose* this! And I'm doing everything I can to honor them without losing myself in the process!"
"By potentially falling in love with someone else!"
"By being *honest*!" Harry shot back. "By not pretending I know what I want when I don't! By giving everyone involved—including you—the respect of truth instead of comfortable lies!"
They stood there, both breathing hard, both on the edge of tears or screaming or both.
"I love you," Harry said, and his voice broke on the words. "I *do*, Ginny. But I can't ignore these contracts. Can't risk killing people by breaking magical bonds that have been in place for over a century. And yes—yes, there's a chance that over the next six months, I might develop feelings for Daphne or Susan. There's also a chance I won't. That I'll spend six months proving what I already know—that you're the one I want."
"And I'm supposed to just... what? Wait around while you figure it out?"
"I'm asking you to trust me," Harry said desperately. "To believe that no matter what happens in the next six months, what we have is real. That it *matters*."
"And if at the end of six months, you choose one of them?"
Harry closed his eyes. "Then I'll be breaking both our hearts. But at least we'll know it was because I genuinely found something with someone else, not because I was forced into it without trying."
Ginny was quiet for a long moment. When Harry opened his eyes, she was staring at the ground, tears dripping onto the soil.
"I can't do this," she whispered. "I can't sit here and watch you date other people, Harry. I can't—it'll destroy me."
"Then don't watch," Harry said. "Take some time. Go somewhere. Visit Bill and Fleur in France, or Charlie in Romania, or—hell, come to Central City with me. Learn about the superhero stuff. Be part of that side of my life."
"While you spend weekends courting pureblood heiresses?" Ginny's laugh was bitter. "That sounds *healthy*."
"I don't have a better answer!" Harry's frustration boiled over. "I don't know how to fix this, Ginny! I don't know how to balance everything—the contracts, the powers, being Death Speed, being Harry Potter, being the person you want me to be!"
"I never asked you to be anything other than yourself," Ginny said softly.
"Then let me *be* myself," Harry pleaded. "Let me try to navigate this impossible situation the best way I know how. And at the end—at the end, we'll see where we are. Together."
"Or apart," Ginny added.
"Or apart," Harry agreed reluctantly.
Ginny wiped her eyes, her expression hardening into something that looked like acceptance but felt like defeat. "Six months."
"Six months," Harry confirmed.
"And you'll be honest with me? About how you're feeling, about what's happening?"
"I'll try," Harry promised. "I can't promise it won't hurt. But I'll try to be as honest as I can."
"Then I guess..." Ginny took a shuddering breath. "I guess that's all I can ask for."
She turned away, back to the tomato plants, and Harry understood the dismissal.
He wanted to say more. Wanted to fix this with words or actions or his stupid superhero powers. But some things couldn't be fixed—only endured.
"I love you," Harry said again. To her back, to the garden, to the universe that kept taking things from him even when he saved the world.
Ginny didn't respond.
Harry left her there, his heart cracking with every step, and tried to tell himself this was the right choice.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!