**Three months later**
Harry stood in the center of the training courtyard, eyes closed, breathing steady. Around him, six advanced students circled like sharks, golden mandalas already forming in their hands.
"Begin," Master Mordo commanded.
They attacked simultaneously.
Harry moved.
His hands wove patterns he'd learned only last week, muscle memory already perfect thanks to whatever the Hallows had done to his brain. A shield of pure golden energy materialized, deflecting three strikes at once. He pivoted, drawing a portal behind him—felt rather than saw one attacker's fist pass through empty air where his head had been.
"Good," Mordo said. "But you're thinking too much. React. Don't process."
Easy for him to say. Mordo had been doing this for fifteen years. Harry had been here twelve weeks and was already performing techniques that took most students a year to master.
It was deeply unfair to everyone involved, himself included.
Another student came at him from above—a portal, clever—but Harry was already moving, his enhanced reflexes making the world seem almost slow. He caught the descending kick, redirected the energy, sent the student tumbling through their own portal.
"Show off," the student muttered, rolling to his feet with a grin.
"Can't help it," Harry shot back. "Blame Death for making me insufferably competent."
"Enough," Mordo called. The students stepped back, breathing hard. Harry wasn't even winded. Hadn't been winded since he'd arrived. Another delightful side effect of immortality—infinite stamina was great for training, terrible for proving you were actually trying.
Mordo approached, his expression unreadable. "Three months. Most students take three *years* to reach this level. You've mastered fundamental constructs, basic portal work, and astral projection." He paused. "You're either the most talented student I've ever trained, or the most frustrating. Possibly both."
"I prefer 'motivated by existential crisis,'" Harry offered.
"Hmm." Mordo didn't smile. Never smiled. "Tomorrow we begin advanced techniques. Reality manipulation, dimensional awareness, combat against entities that don't have corporeal forms. Try not to master it all in a week. It's demoralizing for the other students."
Harry winced. "I'm not trying to be—"
"I know," Mordo said, his voice softening just slightly. "Your abilities are not your fault. But you must be careful, Mr. Potter. Power comes easily to you. *Too* easily. That can be dangerous."
"Yeah," Harry muttered, watching the other students file out. "Trust me, I'm aware."
He made his way to the library, nodding to students who stared at him with expressions ranging from awe to resentment. The new guy who picked up in weeks what took them years. The immortal wizard who looked like a model and fought like he'd been born with mandalas in his hands.
Harry missed being ordinary. Missed being mediocre at things. Missed struggling.
Wong was at his usual desk, carefully cataloging a tome that appeared to be bound in something that definitely wasn't leather. Or at least, not leather from anything that had died naturally.
"Mr. Potter," Wong said without looking up. "You're fourteen minutes early. That's a new record."
"Mordo dismissed us early. Something about me being 'demoralizing.'"
"You are. But in a productive way. The other students are working twice as hard now, trying to keep up. Very motivating." Wong set down his quill. "Tea?"
"Is that even a question?"
They retired to the small alcove off the main library where Wong kept a kettle perpetually hot—through magic or some kind of mystical heating element, Harry had never asked. The tea was, as promised, exceptional. Harry was still mad about it.
"You're progressing well," Wong said, settling into his chair. "The Ancient One is pleased. Master Kaecilius is delighted. Master Mordo is deeply conflicted about whether to promote you or push you off a mountain to see if you'll learn humility on the way down."
"What about you?" Harry asked. "What do you think?"
Wong considered this, sipping his tea. "I think you're a young man with too much power and not enough reasons to use it carefully. That worries me. But I also think you're genuinely trying to be good, despite everything you've been through. That gives me hope."
"High praise from the man who threatened me with homicidal books on day one."
"I stand by that threat. Especially now that you know enough to be tempted by the restricted section." Wong's expression grew serious. "Speaking of which—you asked about books on removing immortality. I've done some research."
Harry sat up straighter. "And?"
"There are three texts that might be relevant. The first is *The Book of Eternal Endings*, which discusses severing connections to death-based curses. The second is *Metaphysical Severance: A Practical Guide*, which covers separating one's consciousness from bound artifacts. The third..." Wong paused. "The third is the Darkhold."
"I'm guessing that one's worse than the others?"
"The Darkhold is a book of pure corruption written by an elder god. It grants wishes, yes—but always at a cost that destroys the user. Several Sorcerers Supreme have tried to destroy it. It keeps coming back." Wong shook his head. "I mention it only because I know you'll eventually discover it exists. I want you to hear from me first: whatever the Darkhold promises, it's lying. Do not touch it. Do not read it. Do not be in the same room with it if you can avoid it."
"Noted," Harry said. "What about the other two?"
"I'll need the Ancient One's permission to let you access them. They're not quite Darkhold-level dangerous, but they're close. Give me a few days." Wong refilled their cups. "In the meantime, how are you settling in? Making friends? Or are you still maintaining your emotional distance because you're convinced everyone you care about eventually leaves or dies?"
"You're surprisingly blunt for a librarian."
"I'm surprisingly blunt for a person. It's one of my better qualities." Wong smiled slightly. "But seriously. You can't spend all your time training and brooding, Mr. Potter. That's not living. That's just... waiting."
"Waiting for what?"
"For permission to be happy, I suspect. Or for everything to inevitably go wrong. Whichever comes first."
Harry stared into his tea. "That's uncomfortably accurate."
"I'm very perceptive. Comes with being a librarian—you read people the same way you read books." Wong stood, collecting their cups. "There's a group of students watching television in the entertainment room. You should join them. Learn to be social. Practice being a person instead of just a weapon."
"Mordo literally just told me I learn things too fast. Now you want me to learn social skills? I'll be hosting dinner parties by Thursday."
"One can hope. Now go. And Mr. Potter?" Wong fixed him with a serious look. "Whatever you're searching for—mortality, peace, purpose—you won't find it in books alone. Sometimes the answer is in the living, not the studying."
Harry left the library feeling vaguely like he'd been given homework by a particularly insightful teacher who also happened to moonlight as a therapist.
The entertainment room was tucked away in one of Kamar-Taj's more modern additions—a concession to the fact that even mystical warriors needed to decompress sometimes. Harry could hear voices as he approached, including one that sounded suspiciously like Wong's.
He pushed open the door.
Half a dozen students sat on cushions and chairs, faces illuminated by the glow of a large television. On screen, a dramatically lit news conference was taking place. A man in an expensive suit stood at a podium, looking simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated.
Wong was there too, settled in his favorite chair with a bowl of popcorn. He looked up as Harry entered.
"Ah, excellent timing. History is happening."
"History?" Harry moved closer. The man on screen had dark hair, a goatee, and the kind of face that suggested he was used to being the smartest person in any room and found it boring.
"Tony Stark," one of the students explained. "Billionaire. Genius. Just got back from being kidnapped in Afghanistan. Supposedly held captive for three months. There's been all sorts of speculation about—"
The man on screen cleared his throat. Behind him, someone—a military officer—was saying something about prepared statements and keeping things brief.
Tony Stark ignored him completely.
"The truth is..." Stark paused, seeming to wrestle with something. Then his expression shifted into something determined. Reckless. "I am Iron Man."
The room erupted—on screen, reporters shouted questions. In the entertainment room, students gasped or laughed or made sounds of disbelief.
"Did he just—"
"No secret identity, just straight up—"
"Is that legal? Can you do that?"
Wong, Harry noticed, wasn't reacting. Just watching the screen with an expression of profound interest, or possibly concern. Maybe both.
"That's significant, isn't it?" Harry asked quietly, sliding into the seat next to Wong.
"Extremely," Wong replied, not taking his eyes off the screen where Tony Stark was now being mobbed by reporters, still looking vaguely surprised by his own announcement. "The world just changed, Mr. Potter. We just don't know how yet."
On screen, Stark was being ushered away by security. The news anchors were already spinning into analysis mode, voices overlapping in their excitement.
"—unprecedented announcement—"
"—implications for national security—"
"—stock market will—"
Wong muted the television. The students continued debating among themselves, but Wong turned to face Harry directly.
"Anthony Stark just announced to the world that he is a superhero. No mask, no pseudonym, just his own name and face attached to extraordinary power." Wong's expression was grave. "That's either the bravest thing I've seen in years, or the most foolish. Possibly both."
"Why do I feel like this matters to more than just him?" Harry asked.
"Because you're learning to see patterns." Wong set down his popcorn. "The Ancient One has been monitoring something. A shift in the world's trajectory. More people developing abilities. More... incidents. What Mr. Stark just did—revealing himself like that—it's going to accelerate things. Inspire people. Complicate things."
"Is that bad?"
"It's *different*. The world is used to threats they can't see—mystical dangers, dimensional incursions, things that happen in shadows. But this?" Wong gestured at the screen where Tony Stark's face was frozen mid-announcement. "This is visible. Public. The world is going to have to adapt to the idea that extraordinary individuals exist, and that they're not hiding."
Harry thought about that. About what it meant to be public. To be known. He'd spent ten years trying to disappear after being the most famous person in the wizarding world, and here was someone choosing fame, choosing visibility.
"He's mad," Harry said.
"Probably," Wong agreed. "But also brave. It takes courage to say 'this is who I am, and I'm not hiding it.'" He glanced at Harry meaningfully. "Something to think about."
"Subtle."
"I'm never subtle. I'm pointed and deliberate. There's a difference."
They watched in silence as the news coverage continued, pundits already arguing about what "Iron Man" meant for international relations, defense policy, and whether one man should have that kind of power.
"Wong?" Harry asked quietly. "Why do I get the feeling that this—" he nodded at the screen "—is going to matter? To us, I mean. To Kamar-Taj."
Wong was quiet for a long moment. "Because you're perceptive. And because the Ancient One doesn't monitor events randomly. If she's paying attention to Tony Stark, there's a reason. There's *always* a reason."
"That's ominous."
"Yes. I meant it to be." Wong stood, brushing popcorn crumbs off his robes. "Come on. I want to show you something. Something I probably shouldn't, but I think you're ready. And after watching that—" he jerked his thumb at the television "—I'm feeling slightly rebellious."
Harry followed Wong out of the entertainment room, leaving the other students still debating the implications of Tony Stark's announcement. They walked through corridors Harry knew now, past training rooms and meditation chambers, descending into older sections of Kamar-Taj where the stone was darker and the air tasted like centuries.
"The Ancient One would probably disapprove of this," Wong said conversationally. "But then again, she probably already knows I'm doing it and has factored it into her impossibly complex calculations about causality and destiny. So really, I'm just fulfilling my predetermined role."
"That's a very fatalistic way of looking at things."
"I prefer 'realistic with mystical overtones.'" Wong stopped at a heavy wooden door covered in protective wards that made Harry's magical senses tingle. "Behind this door is the Relic Room. Home to artifacts too powerful to be used regularly, too dangerous to be destroyed, and too important to be forgotten."
"And you're bringing me here because...?"
"Because you need to understand what we protect. What we fight for. And because—" Wong pulled out a key that looked like it was made from solidified starlight "—there's something in here I want your opinion on."
The door opened with a sound like reality sighing.
The room beyond was vast, far larger than it should be given the building's dimensions. Shelves and display cases stretched into darkness, each containing objects that radiated power. A staff that crackled with contained lightning. A mirror that showed reflections of things that weren't there. A pair of boots that appeared to be walking in place even though no one wore them.
"Don't touch anything," Wong said. "Seriously. I like you, Mr. Potter, but if you get cursed because you couldn't resist poking something shiny, I'm telling everyone you died doing something embarrassing."
"Fair."
They walked past rows of artifacts, each more impossible than the last. Harry felt the Hallows respond to the ambient magic, warm against his back, curious and hungry and pleased to be surrounded by so much power.
*Behave,* he thought at them. *We're guests.*
The artifacts, as always, ignored him.
Wong stopped in front of a display case at the back of the room. Inside, mounted on a stand that looked like it was made from crystallized time, was a suit of armor.
Harry stopped breathing.
It was magnificent. Terrible. Beautiful in the way a thunderstorm was beautiful—dangerous and awe-inspiring and impossible to look away from.
The armor was a fusion of medieval plate and ceremonial robes, dominated by deep crimson and burnished steel. A hood of blood-red fabric draped over a fully enclosed helm, angular and sharp, with eye-slits that seemed to glow faintly with amber light even though no one wore it. The chestplate was segmented steel arranged in overlapping V-patterns, practical but ornate, with an empty circular space at its center that looked like it was waiting for something.
Massive spiked pauldrons sat on the shoulders—aggressive, predatory, curved backward like a dragon's scales. The gauntlets were clawed and elegant, engraved with patterns that hurt to look at directly. Lower, crimson tabards flowed from an ornate belt, split for movement, dramatic and imposing.
It looked like something Death itself would wear to a formal occasion.
"What..." Harry's voice came out rough. "What is that?"
"We call it the Armor of Agamotto," Wong said quietly. "After the first Sorcerer Supreme who found it. No one knows who made it or where it came from. Agamotto discovered it in a sealed dimension thousands of years ago, already ancient even then. He brought it back, studied it, tried to understand it." Wong stared at the armor with something like reverence. "No one has ever been able to wear it."
"What do you mean, no one's been able to wear it?"
"I mean exactly that. Every Sorcerer Supreme, every master of the mystic arts who's tried to bond with it—the armor rejects them. Violently. The last person who attempted it was thrown across this room hard enough to break three ribs and crack her skull." Wong gestured at protective wards around the case. "We've kept it sealed ever since. A relic of unknown origin, unknown purpose, and unknown criteria for who—if anyone—it will accept."
Harry couldn't stop staring at it. The Hallows were practically *singing* inside him, resonating with the armor in a way that made his teeth ache.
"Why are you showing me this?" he asked.
Wong was quiet for a long moment. "Because when I look at that armor, I see power waiting for purpose. And when I look at you, I see the same thing." He turned to face Harry directly. "You came here seeking mortality. But what if what you actually need is a reason to accept what you've become? What if the curse you're trying to break is actually a tool you haven't learned to use?"
"That's awfully philosophical."
"I'm a librarian. Philosophy is seventy percent of my job description. The other thirty percent is organizing things and judging people's reading choices." Wong looked back at the armor. "I'm not saying you should try to bond with it. The Ancient One would have my head if you got hurt. But I wanted you to know it exists. Wanted you to see that sometimes, power is just waiting for the right person to claim it."
Harry reached out instinctively, his hand stopping just short of the protective wards. The Hallows pulsed, the tattoo on his back burning with sudden heat.
*Yes,* something whispered. Not the Hallows. Something older. Something that had been waiting a very, very long time.
*Yes, you.*
Harry pulled his hand back quickly. "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?"
"Nothing. Never mind." Harry stepped away from the case, his heart pounding in a way it hadn't since he'd become immortal. "We should go."
"Agreed. But Mr. Potter?" Wong's expression was serious. "Don't mention this to anyone. Especially not to Master Kaecilius. He's been fascinated by this armor for years, and his fascinations tend to become obsessions. We don't need that complication."
"My lips are sealed."
They left the Relic Room, Wong locking it behind them with the kind of care that suggested he was very aware he'd just done something potentially catastrophic to the timeline.
Harry barely registered the walk back to his quarters. His mind was full of armor and amber eyes and a voice that had recognized him, claimed him, said *yes* like it had been waiting for him specifically.
He collapsed onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.
*What was that?* he asked the Hallows.
They hummed inside him, pleased and excited in a way they rarely were. The Elder Wand's power surged with recognition. The Resurrection Stone pulsed with familiarity. The Cloak of Invisibility wrapped around his consciousness like a satisfied cat.
*Oh, fantastic,* Harry thought. *The creepy artifacts of death think the creepy armor of unknown origin is just delightful. That's definitely not concerning.*
But even as he tried to dismiss it, even as he told himself to forget what he'd seen, Harry knew he wouldn't.
Because the armor had recognized him.
And deep down, in a place he didn't want to examine too closely, Harry Potter had recognized it too.
---
The Ancient One stood in the Relic Room, having arrived mere minutes after Wong and Harry departed. She stood before the Armor of Agamotto, the Eye open around her neck, watching futures unspool.
In most timelines, Harry never saw this armor. Never bonded with it. Never became what he could be.
In those timelines, they survived. Barely. With catastrophic losses.
But in the timelines where Harry and the armor found each other...
The Ancient One watched Harry Potter, clad in crimson and steel and power, standing against Thanos's army. Watched him become the shield that others stood behind, the sword that struck when no one else could, the bridge between magic and might.
She saw the Deathly Hallows symbol appear in the empty space on the armor's chest, settling there like it had always belonged.
She saw Harry Potter accept what he was: not a cursed boy, but a chosen guardian. Not a weapon, but a protector. Not Master of Death, but Champion of Life.
"Three thousand, four hundred and nineteen paths to victory," she murmured, closing the Eye. "Better odds every day."
She'd needed Wong to show Harry the armor. Needed it to seem like Wong's idea, like chance, like anything but manipulation. Because Harry Potter needed to choose this. Needed to walk into his destiny with eyes open and heart willing.
She couldn't force it.
But she could guide it.
"Come on, Harry Potter," the Ancient One said softly, looking at the armor that had waited centuries for exactly the right soul. "Choose to be extraordinary. Choose to accept the gift you've been given. Choose to be more than your fear."
Behind her, unseen, the armor's eyes glowed just slightly brighter.
Waiting.
Always waiting.
But not for much longer.
—
**Two weeks later**
Harry couldn't stop thinking about the armor.
He tried. God, he tried. Threw himself into training with an intensity that made even Mordo raise an eyebrow. Spent hours in the library, studying texts on dimensional theory and mystical warfare until the words blurred together. Meditated until his legs went numb and his mind went quiet.
But the moment he stopped—the instant his focus wavered—there it was. Crimson and steel and those glowing amber eyes, burned into his memory like an afterimage that refused to fade.
*Yes, you.*
"You're distracted," Kaecilius observed, watching Harry fumble a portal construction for the third time that morning. They were in one of the advanced training rooms, walls covered in protective wards because Kaecilius's lessons tended to get explosive. Literally.
"I'm fine," Harry lied.
"You're absolutely not fine. You've been unfocused for days. Your portal work—which was frankly showing-off levels of precise last week—is now merely competent." Kaecilius leaned against a pillar, arms crossed. "What's bothering you? And don't say 'nothing.' I'm brilliant at reading people, and you have the emotional transparency of glass."
Harry let the half-formed portal collapse. "If you saw something—a relic, an artifact—and it spoke to you. Called to you. Would you trust that? Or would you assume it was trying to manipulate you?"
"Ah." Kaecilius's expression shifted into something uncomfortably knowing. "You saw something in the Relic Room. Wong showed you, didn't he? Against protocol, probably, because Wong has a soft spot for strays and you're the straying-est stray we've had in decades."
"He didn't—I mean—"
"Please. I've been trying to get into that room for *years*. The Ancient One keeps denying my requests because apparently I'm 'too curious about dangerous things.'" Kaecilius snorted. "As if curiosity is somehow a character flaw. But Wong takes *you* down there after three months? That's not chance, Harry. That's design."
Harry's stomach dropped. "You think the Ancient One wanted Wong to show me something?"
"I think the Ancient One wants a *lot* of things, and she's been manipulating events since before your great-great-grandparents were born. She plays the long game, Harry. Centuries long. So if Wong—rule-following, protocol-loving Wong—broke procedure to show you something, it's because she wanted him to." Kaecilius pushed off from the pillar, moving closer. "What did you see?"
Harry hesitated. Wong had said not to tell anyone, especially Kaecilius. But Kaecilius was staring at him with that intense, burning curiosity that reminded Harry uncomfortably of himself at fifteen, desperate for answers, willing to break rules to get them.
"An armor," Harry said finally. "Red and steel. Ancient. Wong said no one's ever been able to bond with it."
Kaecilius went very still. "The Armor of Agamotto."
"You know it?"
"Know *of* it. I've read references—scraps of information in old texts, mentions in the journals of previous Sorcerer Supremes. An artifact of unknown origin that chooses its wearer according to criteria no one understands." Kaecilius's eyes gleamed. "And it called to you?"
"I don't know. Maybe. It felt like—" Harry struggled for words. "Like recognition. Like it had been waiting."
"Waiting for *you* specifically, or just waiting for someone who met whatever impossible standards it has?" Kaecilius began pacing, his brilliant mind clearly working through possibilities. "Your Hallows. The artifacts bound to your soul. Perhaps the armor recognizes power of a similar nature? Or perhaps it requires someone who's already bonded with one set of legendary artifacts to bond with another?"
"That sounds extremely specific."
"The best magic *is* extremely specific. Vague magic is just... chaos with aspirations." Kaecilius stopped pacing, turning to face Harry directly. "You're thinking about trying it, aren't you? Attempting to bond with the armor?"
"I shouldn't. Wong said the last person who tried got thrown across the room. Broken ribs, cracked skull. And the Ancient One hasn't said anything about it, which means either she doesn't want me to try, or—"
"Or she's waiting to see if you'll choose it on your own," Kaecilius finished. "Which is very her. She loves these little tests of character. 'Will the student make the brave choice? Will they succumb to temptation? Will they learn the lesson I'm not explicitly teaching?' It's exhausting being around someone who sees you as a learning opportunity."
Harry laughed despite himself. "You sound like you have experience with that."
"Years of it. The Ancient One has been pushing me toward questions I'm not supposed to ask, showing me texts I'm not supposed to read, then acting surprised when I actually pursue those lines of inquiry." Kaecilius's expression darkened briefly. "She wants students who think for themselves, right up until we think ourselves into conclusions she disapproves of. It's maddening."
There was something there—an edge of bitterness, of frustration—that made Harry's instincts prickle. But before he could examine it, Kaecilius's face smoothed back into his usual sardonic amusement.
"My advice?" Kaecilius said. "Try the armor. What's the worst that happens? You get thrown across a room? You're immortal. You'll heal. And if it accepts you—if you bond with it—imagine what you could accomplish. You'd be unstoppable."
"I don't want to be unstoppable," Harry said quietly. "I want to be *normal*."
"Then you're in the wrong place, learning the wrong arts, speaking to the wrong person." Kaecilius moved toward the door. "Normal is for people who aren't carrying the literal embodiment of death in their souls. You passed normal ten years ago, Harry. The only question now is whether you'll accept what you are, or spend the rest of your immortal life running from it."
He left Harry standing alone in the training room, surrounded by half-formed portals and too many thoughts.
---
That night, Harry found himself walking the corridors of Kamar-Taj long after most students had gone to bed. His feet carried him without conscious direction—past the library where Wong would still be cataloging, past the meditation chambers where the Ancient One sometimes spent entire nights in contemplation, down into the older sections where stone gave way to older stone and magic hung thick in the air like incense.
He stopped in front of the Relic Room door.
*This is a terrible idea,* the rational part of his brain observed. *Wong showed you the armor. That doesn't mean you should try to bond with it. That's like someone showing you a nuclear reactor and you deciding to stick your hand in.*
But the Hallows hummed with anticipation, and Harry's hand was already reaching for the door handle before he'd consciously decided to move.
The wards recognized him—Wong must have adjusted them after their visit. The door swung open silently.
The Relic Room looked different at night. Darker. The artifacts' ambient glow seemed stronger, painting everything in shades of silver and gold and colors that didn't have names. Harry's magical senses screamed at him, feeling the concentrated power of centuries worth of dangerous items all contained in one space.
The armor waited at the back of the room, exactly where he'd left it.
Only now, in the darkness, its eyes were definitely glowing. Amber light spilling from the eye-slits of that angular helm, watching him approach with what felt like approval.
*Well,* Harry thought, stopping in front of the display case. *Here I am. Probably about to do something phenomenally stupid. Again. It's like I never left Hogwarts.*
He reached out, fingers brushing the protective wards.
They parted like curtains.
*Oh,* Harry thought faintly. *That's... probably significant.*
He touched the glass of the display case. It dissolved at his touch—not breaking, just ceasing to exist, as if the barrier between him and the armor had never been real.
The armor stood before him, close enough to touch. Up close, he could see details he'd missed before: ancient symbols etched into the steel, so old they'd worn almost smooth. The empty circular space on the chest that seemed to pulse with potential. The way the crimson fabric moved slightly, as if touched by a wind that didn't exist.
*Last chance to back out,* his brain offered. *Last chance to be sensible and not touch the potentially homicidal magical armor.*
Harry reached out and placed his hand on the chestplate.
The world exploded.
---
Pain.
Not physical pain—Harry had felt physical pain, had died and come back, had been crucio'd and burned and broken. This was something else. This was every choice he'd ever made, every life he'd failed to save, every friend he'd pushed away, every moment of loneliness and isolation and desperate, aching *why me* compressed into a single point of awareness and shoved directly into his soul.
He saw himself through the armor's perception:
*A boy who lived because his mother died. Who fought because he had to. Who became a symbol before he learned to be a person. Who was given power he never wanted and responsibility he never asked for. Who broke the Elder Wand thinking he could end the cycle, only to discover he'd just chained himself to it differently. Who ran from everyone he loved because he was terrified of watching them age and die while he stayed young forever. Who came to Kamar-Taj not seeking knowledge but seeking an end. Who wanted death because death felt easier than living.*
The armor saw all of it. Judged all of it.
And then—
*Is this all you are?* The voice was ancient, vast, not unkind but utterly without mercy. *A frightened boy playing at heroism? A weapon seeking permission to break? A coward hiding behind duty?*
"Yes," Harry gasped, because lying seemed pointless. "Yes, that's what I am. That's all I've ever been."
*Wrong.*
The armor's power surged through him like lightning through water, and suddenly Harry was seeing himself differently:
*A boy who lived because someone loved him enough to die for him. Who fought not because he had to but because he chose to. Who became a symbol and then learned to be a person anyway. Who was given power and used it to protect rather than dominate. Who broke the Elder Wand not to end the cycle but to save others from it. Who ran from people he loved not from cowardice but from care. Who came to Kamar-Taj seeking an end but found a beginning instead. Who wants death not because life is hard, but because he's never learned that he deserves to live.*
"I don't—" Harry's voice cracked. "I don't know how to be this. How to be good with all this power. How to live knowing I'll outlive everyone."
*Then learn,* the armor said simply. *That is why I exist. Not to make you unstoppable. Not to make you invincible. But to give you the armor you need to face what comes. To protect others while protecting yourself. To be the shield when shields are needed, and the sword when swords are required. To choose, again and again, to stand and fight even when running would be easier.*
*Will you accept this? Will you wear what I offer? Will you become what you could be, instead of what you fear you are?*
Harry thought of Ron and Hermione. Of Teddy growing up without him. Of a world that kept turning while he stayed frozen, unchanging, terrified to touch anything because everything he touched eventually broke.
He thought of Tony Stark, standing in front of cameras and saying "I am Iron Man" with absolutely no idea what that choice would cost him.
He thought of the Ancient One, who'd been guiding him since the moment he arrived, pushing him toward choices she wouldn't make for him.
He thought of the future—not the one he'd imagined where he finally found a way to die, but a different one. One where he learned to live. Where immortality wasn't a curse but a responsibility. Where he used his impossible power not to escape but to protect.
"Yes," Harry whispered. "Yes. I'll wear it. I'll try. I'll—" His voice broke. "I'll try to be worth it."
*You already are,* the armor said, and then it moved.
The helmet lifted from its stand, floating toward Harry's head. He didn't flinch. The crimson hood settled over his shoulders, and then the helm was lowering onto his head, and suddenly he could see through those amber eyes—see *more* than he ever had before. Every ward in Kamar-Taj lit up in his vision like a three-dimensional map. He could sense the magic flowing through the building's foundations, could feel the dimensional barriers that protected this place, could perceive threats that hadn't even manifested yet.
The chestplate opened like a flower, segmented pieces separating to allow him entry. Harry stepped forward, and the armor embraced him.
Pauldrons settling on his shoulders—heavy but perfectly balanced. Gauntlets encasing his hands—the clawed fingers flexing as he moved. The crimson tabards flowing around his legs. Boots that made each step feel grounded, connected to the earth in a way he'd never experienced.
And then, at the center of the chestplate, in that empty circular space—
The Deathly Hallows symbol appeared.
Not drawn. Not engraved. Just *there*, manifesting as if it had always been part of the armor, waiting for him specifically. The triangle, the circle, the line—glowing with the same power that lived in Harry's soul, now external, visible, *claimed*.
The armor sealed around him with a sound like reality clicking into place.
Harry gasped.
He could feel everything. Every student sleeping in Kamar-Taj. Every ward, every protection, every ancient spell that kept this place safe. He could sense Wong in the library, still awake, probably drinking tea. Could sense Master Mordo in his quarters, meditating. Could sense Kaecilius in the training rooms, practicing forms that felt slightly wrong in ways Harry couldn't quite articulate.
And he could sense the Ancient One.
She stood in her sanctum, the Eye of Agamotto open around her neck, watching futures. And she was smiling.
*She knew,* Harry realized. *She knew this would happen. Knew the armor would accept me. That's why Wong showed it to me. That's why she's been pushing me toward this since I arrived.*
He should feel manipulated. Should feel angry.
Instead, he felt... grateful.
Because she'd given him a choice. Had presented the path but made him walk it himself.
Harry looked down at his armored hands, watched the clawed gauntlets flex. The armor felt like a second skin—not restricting his movement but enhancing it. He felt powerful in a way that was different from the Hallows' gift. Not raw power, but focused purpose. Protected. Prepared.
Ready.
*Thank you,* he thought, unsure if he was thanking the armor, the Ancient One, or the universe that had led him here.
*You are welcome, Master of Death,* the armor replied. *Now—shall we see what you can do?*
Harry smiled inside the helmet.
And then he opened a portal—not with his hands, not with conscious effort, but just by *thinking* it—and stepped through into the training courtyard.
Time to see what he'd become.
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