**STAR Labs, Central City - Twenty-Seven Days Later**
"Okay, Harry—one more time. Remember: arms at ninety degrees, strike with the midfoot, keep your core engaged!"
Harry Potter—currently a crimson-and-gold blur circling the STAR Labs particle accelerator track at roughly Mach 2—tried to adjust his form mid-stride. It was harder than it sounded when you were moving faster than sound.
"Better!" Barry Allen's voice came through the comms built into Harry's helmet. The Flash kept pace beside him, his own red-and-gold suit (coincidentally matching Harry's color scheme, which Cisco found endlessly amusing) barely visible as they ran. "Now try phasing through the next obstacle—remember, it's about vibrating your molecules at the right frequency, not just willing yourself through!"
A concrete barrier materialized ahead of them on the track—courtesy of Cisco's holographic projectors. Harry focused, feeling the Cloak's essence within his armor, and *vibrated*. His molecules shifted, existing between dimensions for a fraction of a second.
He passed through the barrier like it was smoke.
"YES!" Cisco's triumphant shout echoed from the observation deck. "That was *clean*, dude! Like, butter-smooth!"
Harry couldn't help but grin as he decelerated, coming to a stop beside Barry in the center of the track. The past month had been intense—alternating between rebuilding Hogwarts, attending funerals (gods, so many funerals, with Fred's being the worst), and portal-jumping to Central City for training sessions that pushed him to his absolute limits.
But it had also been... good. Necessary. Learning to control the power that had saved his life but threatened to overwhelm him.
"Your form's gotten *way* better," Barry said, pulling off his cowl. His brown hair was disheveled, and he was grinning with genuine pride. "Remember three weeks ago when you tried to phase and just slammed face-first into that wall?"
"Let's not remember that, actually," Harry muttered, his helmet retracting. His messy black hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. "Pretty sure Cisco has video."
"Cisco has *all* the videos," Cisco Ramon called out, descending from the observation deck via the industrial elevator. The tech genius wore a Star Wars t-shirt and his trademark excitement. "I'm making a blooper reel. It's going to be *legendary*."
Caitlin Snow followed him down, tablet in hand, her professional demeanor softened by the slight smile she wore. "Vital signs are excellent, Harry. Heart rate, oxygen levels, cellular stress—everything's within acceptable parameters. Your body's adapting remarkably well to sustained hyperspeed."
"That's the armor," Harry said, gesturing to the crimson-and-gold plates that pulsed gently with contained energy. "It does most of the work. I'm just the passenger."
"Don't sell yourself short." Barry clapped him on the shoulder. "The armor's powerful, yeah, but *you're* the one directing it. You've gone from 'guy who can accidentally run through walls' to 'guy who can phase through them on purpose' in less than a month. That's impressive."
"It helps having a good teacher," Harry said honestly. And it was true—Barry had been patient, encouraging, and willing to demonstrate things over and over until Harry got them right. Nothing like the Dursleys, nothing like Snape's sneering criticism. Just genuine teaching from someone who wanted him to succeed.
"Plus," Cisco added, pulling up holographic readouts, "your unique power set makes you *fascinating*. Like, Barry's pure Speed Force, right? All gold lightning, all kinetic energy. But you—" he gestured at Harry, and the holos shifted to show the crimson tendrils woven through the gold, "—you've got this whole Death aspect mixed in. It's like... Speed Force with an edge. Speed Force that can actually *kill* things permanently."
The reminder sent a chill through Harry. He'd been avoiding thinking about the crimson lightning—the part of his power that came from Death itself. He'd used it once, on Nagini, and the casual efficiency with which it had erased the Horcrux still haunted his dreams.
"Have you tested it?" Caitlin asked quietly, as if sensing his discomfort. "The crimson lightning, I mean. In a controlled environment?"
"No," Harry admitted. "I'm... I'm not ready. It feels wrong. Like carrying a loaded gun I don't know how to safety-check."
"But you know you *can* use it if needed," Barry said. Not a question—a statement. "That's important, Harry. Not wanting to use a power is good. It means you respect it. But refusing to understand it could get you killed."
"Or get someone else killed," Cisco added. "What if you're in a situation where only the crimson lightning works? Where speed alone isn't enough?"
Harry knew they were right. Knew that avoiding the deadliest part of his arsenal was stupid and potentially dangerous. But the thought of deliberately *practicing* how to kill things at superspeed made his stomach turn.
"Maybe next week," he said finally. "Right now I'm still getting used to not accidentally breaking the sound barrier every time I sneeze."
"That happened *once*—"
"It shattered every window in the Burrow!" Harry protested.
Barry laughed. "Okay, fair point. But seriously—you're doing great. Better than I was at this stage. Better than Wally or Bart or any of the other speedsters I've trained."
"That's because I'm motivated," Harry said quietly. The humor drained from his voice. "I have responsibilities. People counting on me. And I can't afford to mess up."
The mood shifted. Cisco and Caitlin exchanged glances.
"You want to talk about it?" Barry asked gently.
"About what?"
"About whatever's been eating at you for the past week." Barry crossed his arms, his expression understanding. "You've been distracted during training. Running the courses on autopilot. And you've checked your phone approximately forty-seven times in the last hour."
"I have not—"
"You have," Caitlin confirmed, showing him her tablet. "I've been tracking it. Along with elevated cortisol levels suggesting significant emotional stress."
Harry sighed, his shoulders slumping. The armor seemed to dim in response to his mood, the crimson and gold pulsing more slowly. "It's... complicated."
"Dude, you died and came back as a speedster powered by literal Death," Cisco said. "We're *way* past complicated. Try us."
Harry looked at the three of them—these people who'd become friends over the past month despite coming from completely different worlds. Barry, who understood the weight of heroism. Caitlin, who'd dealt with her own dark alter ego and knew about struggling with power. Cisco, who'd lost his brother and understood grief.
"The contracts," Harry said finally. "The betrothal contracts I told you about. I have to meet with Daphne and Susan in three days. To discuss... options. And Ginny—" his voice cracked, "—Ginny hasn't spoken to me since that night. She won't answer my letters. Won't even look at me when I'm at the Burrow."
"That's rough," Barry said sympathetically. "Have you tried just... talking to her? In person?"
"She disapparates the moment she sees me. And when I'm fast enough to catch her, she just—" Harry gestured helplessly. "She looks at me like I'm the enemy. Like I *chose* this."
"But you didn't," Caitlin pointed out. "The contracts were made before you were born."
"I know that. *She* knows that. But it doesn't change the fact that I'm going to have to court two other girls while she watches." Harry ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And the worst part? I don't even know what I want. Daphne and Susan—they're not bad people. They're trapped in this same as me. And maybe if circumstances were different, if I actually got to *know* them properly, maybe..."
He trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
"Maybe you could actually like them," Barry finished quietly.
"And that makes me feel *awful*," Harry burst out. "Because Ginny—I've loved Ginny since fifth year. She's brave and brilliant and she *gets* me in ways no one else does. But these contracts... what if I give Daphne and Susan a chance and actually connect with one of them? What if the 'right' choice isn't Ginny at all?"
"Then you'd be human," Cisco said. "Dude, you're eighteen. You're allowed to not have everything figured out."
"But I *have* to figure it out," Harry insisted. "The contracts require good-faith courtship. Actual effort to make it work. I can't just go through the motions—the magic would know. Would punish everyone involved."
"So you're stuck," Caitlin summarized. "Required to genuinely try with two girls you barely know, while the girl you actually care about refuses to speak to you."
"Pretty much, yeah."
Silence fell over the track. The particle accelerator hummed in the background, a constant reminder of the science and power that filled this place.
"Okay," Barry said finally. "Here's what you're going to do. First—stop beating yourself up. This situation sucks, and it's not your fault. Second—approach the meeting with Daphne and Susan with honesty. Tell them exactly what you told us. That you don't know what you want, that you're grieving, that you need time. Real relationships are built on communication, whether they're arranged or not."
"And third?" Harry asked.
"Third—give Ginny space, but don't give up." Barry's expression softened. "If she really loves you, she'll come around eventually. She just needs time to process. To grieve what she thought you two could have."
"What if she doesn't come around?" Harry's voice was small. "What if this is the thing that breaks us permanently?"
"Then it wasn't meant to be," Caitlin said gently. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but... love isn't about possession, Harry. It's about wanting the other person's happiness, even if that happiness doesn't include you."
Harry wanted to argue, wanted to insist that he and Ginny were *meant* to be together. But the words stuck in his throat because a small, traitorous part of him wondered if maybe she was right.
Maybe what he'd felt was just the intensity of war. The need for connection in the face of death. Maybe—
*No.* He shook his head violently, dislodging the thought. He loved Ginny. He *knew* he did. This was just doubt born from exhaustion and stress.
"You look like you're about to vibrate through the floor," Cisco observed. "Which—given your powers—might be literal."
Harry forced himself to breathe, to ground himself in the present moment. The cool air of STAR Labs. The hum of technology. The concerned faces of his friends.
"I'll figure it out," he said finally. "Somehow."
"You will," Barry agreed. "And if you need backup—moral support during the meeting, someone to run interference, whatever—you know where to find us."
"Thanks." Harry managed a smile. "Though I'm not sure introducing the girls I'm betrothed to to a speedster from another continent is going to improve the situation."
"Hey, I'm *great* with relationship advice," Cisco protested. "I dated a dimensional traveler once. And a super-genius. And that time I accidentally created an AI that fell in love with me—"
"None of those relationships worked out," Caitlin pointed out.
"Okay, but I learned *valuable lessons*—"
The alarms cut through their banter, sharp and urgent. Red lights bathed the track as holographic displays erupted around them.
"Guys!" A new voice crackled over the comms—Joe West, calling from CCPD. "We've got a situation downtown. Multiple metas attacking Central City Bank. Flash, we need you."
Barry's cowl snapped back into place instantly, his entire demeanor shifting from friend to hero. "On my way. Harry—"
"I'll help," Harry said, his own helmet materializing. The armor blazed to life, crimson and gold lightning crackling across the plates with renewed intensity. "Been practicing for a month. Time to see if it works in the field."
Barry grinned behind his mask. "Stick close to me. Follow my lead. And remember—"
"No lethal force unless absolutely necessary," Harry finished. He'd heard the lecture a dozen times. "I know, Barry. I'm not going to accidentally murder someone."
"Just making sure." Barry's tone was serious despite the grin. "Ready?"
Harry felt the Speed Force surge through him, golden energy mixing with the crimson power of the Hallows. Felt the familiar rush of acceleration, the world slowing down as his perception expanded.
Three days until the meeting with Daphne and Susan. Three days until he had to face the consequences of contracts signed before he was born. Three days until his personal life imploded even further.
But right now?
Right now, Central City needed protecting.
And Harry Potter—Death Speed, Mors Velocitas—was going to prove he was more than just a boy drowning in obligations.
"Race you there," he said, and *moved*.
Twin streaks of lightning—one red, one crimson-and-gold—exploded from STAR Labs, racing toward downtown at speeds that bent reality around them.
Behind them, Cisco watched on the monitors and grinned.
"Those bank robbers have *no idea* what's about to hit them."
---
**Central City - Downtown - Present**
The bank robbers had made several critical mistakes.
First, they'd chosen to hit Central City Mutual—a bank that had been robbed seventeen times in the past three years, always with the same result: the Flash showed up and ruined everyone's day.
Second, they were metahumans who'd gotten their powers from the particle accelerator explosion, which meant they were cocky, untrained, and vastly overestimating their abilities.
Third—and this was the big one—they'd chosen to rob a bank on the day that the Flash brought backup.
Harry and Barry skidded to a stop two blocks from the bank, their momentum creating twin sonic booms that shattered already-cracked windows and set off car alarms for three streets in every direction.
"Okay," Barry said, his voice calm despite the chaos visible ahead. Black smoke poured from the bank's entrance. Civilians ran screaming. And three figures stood in the middle of the street, surrounded by frozen CCPD officers who'd been turned to literal ice statues. "We've got Chill Factor, Tar Pit, and—is that new guy calling himself Gridlock?"
Harry's enhanced perception took in the scene in microseconds. The ice-meta—Chill Factor, apparently—was a woman in a makeshift costume of blue and white, frost spreading across the pavement around her feet. Tar Pit was exactly what his name suggested: a humanoid mass of living tar that oozed and reformed constantly. And Gridlock was a man surrounded by some kind of purple energy field that seemed to slow down anything that got close to him.
"Three metas, approximately fifteen civilians trapped inside, another twenty in the immediate danger zone," Harry reported, his helmet's analytical systems overlaying tactical information across his vision. "CCPD officers are frozen but alive—I can see their vitals through the ice. They need extraction within the next four minutes before hypothermia causes permanent damage."
"Show-off," Barry said, but he was grinning. "Okay, here's the play: I'll handle Tar Pit and Gridlock. You get the civilians out and thaw the officers. Your crimson lightning can probably cut through the ice without hurting them."
"And Chill Factor?"
"We'll tag-team her after. She's dangerous but not actively killing anyone yet." Barry's expression hardened. "But Harry—these are real metas with real powers. This isn't training. If things go sideways—"
"I run," Harry finished. "Get to safety, regroup, adapt. I remember the protocols."
"Good." Barry nodded once, sharp and definitive. "Then let's go be heroes."
They moved as one.
---
Denise Bloch—Chill Factor to her new criminal associates—was having the best day of her life.
The particle accelerator explosion had given her *power*. Real, genuine, freeze-anything-she-touched power. No more being pushed around by bosses or ex-boyfriends or a society that had chewed her up and spit her out. Now *she* was in control.
The bank robbery had been almost too easy. Freeze a few cops, let Tar Pit melt the vault door, have Gridlock slow down any resistance. They'd be rich, and the Flash would probably show up too late to stop them.
She was admiring her handiwork—Officer Johnson frozen mid-draw, his gun still holstered, terror permanently etched on his ice-covered face—when reality *cracked*.
A sonic boom hit like a physical slap. Then another, slightly different in pitch. Denise spun, frost already forming on her hands—
Two figures stood where empty street had been a heartbeat before.
The Flash—she recognized him immediately. Red suit, lightning bolt emblem, that insufferable heroic stance. He'd ruined three other heists she'd heard about. Fine. She could handle one speedster.
But the *other* figure—
"Oh shit," Tar Pit rumbled behind her. "There's *two* of them?"
The second speedster was *wrong* in ways that made Denise's hindbrain scream warnings. The armor was similar to the Flash's aesthetic—sleek, aerodynamic, built for speed—but while the Flash was all red and gold, this one was crimson and black with gold accents. Darker. More aggressive. And the lightning crackling across the armor wasn't just gold.
It was red.
Deep, blood-red electricity that wove through the golden bolts like veins through flesh. Where the two colors met, they created patterns that hurt to look at directly.
And the helmet—gods, that helmet. Sleek and featureless except for glowing golden lenses that burned with crimson fire beneath the surface. The swept-back crests looked like lightning frozen in metal, sharp enough to cut.
"New friend, Flash?" Gridlock called out, his voice distorted by his power field. "Didn't know you had a sidekick!"
"Not a sidekick," the Flash said calmly. "A partner."
The crimson-and-gold figure tilted his head, and when he spoke, his voice was modulated—mechanically enhanced but carrying harmonics that suggested multiple sources of power overlapping.
"You have approximately thirty seconds to stand down before this gets unpleasant."
Denise laughed. She couldn't help it. "Unpleasant for *who?* There's three of us and two of you, and we've got powers you've never—"
She didn't finish the sentence.
The crimson speedster *vanished*.
Not super-speed—Denise had seen the Flash move before, could track the blur of motion even if she couldn't react to it. This was different. One instant the figure stood beside the Flash. The next, he simply *wasn't there*, and the world exploded with motion.
---
The Speed Force welcomed him like an old friend as he *moved*.
The world slowed to a crawl. The three metas became statues—Chill Factor's laugh frozen mid-cackle, Tar Pit beginning a slow ooze toward the bank entrance, Gridlock's power field pulsing at what seemed like one beat per century.
*Civilians first,* Harry reminded himself, Barry's training echoing through his enhanced perception. *Always civilians first.*
He was inside the bank in less than a blink—subjectively, it felt like a leisurely walk. Fifteen people huddled behind overturned desks and teller stations, their faces locked in expressions of terror. A woman clutched a child. A security guard had his hand on his weapon but clearly had no idea what to shoot at. An elderly man had been knocked down, blood slowly—so slowly—trickling from a cut on his forehead.
Harry moved among them like a ghost, assessing injuries, calculating extraction routes. The elderly man needed immediate medical attention. The child was hyperventilating. Three others showed signs of shock.
*Okay. Priority order: critical injuries out first, then children, then everyone else.*
He started with the elderly man, lifting him with careful precision—too fast and the acceleration would pulp organs, too slow and he'd waste precious seconds. Harry had practiced this dozens of times with crash test dummies at STAR Labs. Now he applied it to living, breathing human beings.
One trip. Two. Three. He deposited each civilian two blocks away, in front of CCPD backup that was just beginning to arrive. To them, people simply *appeared* out of thin air, gasping and disoriented but alive.
Fifteen civilians evacuated in 2.3 seconds of real time.
Now for the frozen officers.
Harry returned to the street where the three metas were just beginning to register that something was happening. He approached the nearest ice statue—Officer Johnson, according to the nameplate frozen on his uniform.
The ice was thick, at least three inches, infused with metahuman energy that made it harder than normal ice. Breaking it with kinetic force would shatter the person inside. Melting it with heat would cause burns.
But Harry didn't have just speed.
He raised his right hand and *focused*. Not on the golden lightning of the Speed Force—that was motion, energy, momentum. He focused on the crimson power that came from Death itself. The power to *sever* connections. To *end* things cleanly.
The red electricity sparked to life across his palm, distinct from the gold. It looked angry. Violent. Like blood given substance and velocity.
*Just the ice,* Harry thought at it, directing his will with surgical precision. *Cut the connection between the ice and the officer. Break the bond that's keeping him frozen. Nothing else.*
The crimson lightning lanced out.
It hit the ice statue and *spread*, racing across the frozen surface in fractal patterns. Where it touched, the ice didn't melt or shatter—it simply *stopped being ice*. The molecular bonds holding it in frozen state were severed, the metahuman energy infusing it was *cut away*, and what remained was just water that immediately evaporated from the heat of the lightning.
Officer Johnson gasped and collapsed. Harry caught him, lowered him gently to the ground.
"You're okay," Harry said quickly, his modulated voice gentling. "Deep breaths. You're safe."
Three more officers. Three more applications of crimson lightning. Each time, Harry felt the *wrongness* of it—using power designed to kill to instead *save*. But it worked. The Hallows' essence didn't care what it severed, only that he directed it with purpose.
Four frozen cops became four gasping, hypothermic but alive cops in the span of 1.7 seconds.
Now for the metas.
Harry turned his attention to Chill Factor. She was mid-laugh, her frost-covered hands coming up to attack. He had time—so much time—to consider his options.
*Non-lethal,* Barry's voice echoed in his mind. *Always non-lethal unless there's no other choice.*
Harry walked up to Chill Factor and simply... *pushed*.
At normal speed, it would look like she'd been hit by a truck. At his current velocity, he was just applying precisely-calculated force to her center of mass, angled to send her tumbling away from the civilians and into the reinforced facade of a closed storefront.
She'd have bruises. Maybe a concussion. But she'd live.
One down.
Harry released the Speed just enough to let Barry see what he'd done—the evacuated civilians, the freed officers, Chill Factor's unconscious form crumpled against a wall.
Barry, who'd been moving toward Tar Pit at his own superspeed, actually *stopped* mid-stride to stare.
"Dude," the Flash said. "That was *four seconds*. You did all of that in four seconds."
"Was I too slow?" Harry asked, genuinely concerned.
"Too slow?! I—" Barry shook his head. "We'll discuss your insane standards later. Right now—" he pointed at Tar Pit and Gridlock, who were just beginning to realize their teammate was down, "—let's finish this."
---
What happened next would be replayed on Central City news stations for weeks.
The Flash became a red blur, circling Tar Pit at speeds that created a vortex. The living tar tried to lash out, tried to spread his mass to trap the speedster, but Barry was too fast. He ran in tightening spirals, the wind from his passage pulling the tar into a compressed ball, smaller and smaller until—
*THUD.*
Tar Pit solidified, unable to maintain his liquid form under the pressure. He hit the ground as a roughly spherical mass of hardened tar, still alive but completely immobilized.
Meanwhile, Harry approached Gridlock more carefully.
The meta's power field was fascinating—some kind of localized time dilation that slowed everything within a three-foot radius. Bullets, punches, even light moved at a fraction of their normal speed inside that sphere.
But Harry didn't need to go *through* the field.
He just needed to go *around* it.
Harry accelerated to the edge of what his body could handle—Mach 5, maybe Mach 6—and *vibrated*. His molecules shifted frequency, existing partially in another dimension. The technique Barry called "phasing," borrowed from the Invisibility Cloak's essence.
He reached through the time-dilation field from the side, his hand existing in a state where Gridlock's power couldn't quite touch it, and tapped the meta on the temple.
At superspeed, a gentle tap became a stunning blow. Gridlock's eyes rolled back, and he collapsed.
His power field flickered and died.
Harry decelerated back to normal time, standing over the unconscious meta, and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
*That* was what a month of training bought you. Precision. Control. The ability to take down three enhanced criminals without killing anyone or causing significant collateral damage.
"Showoff," Barry said, but he was grinning as he zip-tied Tar Pit with plastic restraints rated for metahuman strength. "Next time, save some for me."
"Next time, don't let me evacuate all the civilians before you've even reached your target," Harry shot back.
They stood together in the middle of the street—the Flash and the new speedster, surrounded by unconscious criminals and freed hostages. Police sirens wailed in the distance. News helicopters circled overhead, cameras rolling.
And then someone shouted: "Who *are* you?"
Harry turned. A reporter had pushed through the police line—young woman, maybe mid-twenties, with a camera crew scrambling to keep up. Her press badge read "Central City Picture News."
"Flash, who's your partner?" she called out. "What's his name? Is he another Flash?"
Barry looked at Harry. Harry looked at Barry. They'd discussed this possibility—the inevitable moment when Harry would need to go public. When he'd need a name that wasn't "Boy Who Lived" or "Chosen One."
The Speed Force and Death had already given him one.
Harry stepped forward, his armor blazing with renewed intensity. Crimson and gold lightning crackled across the plates, creating that distinctive spiral pattern that marked him as something unique. Something beyond a normal speedster.
When he spoke, his modulated voice carried across the crowd with perfect clarity:
"I'm Death Speed."
The name hung in the air. The reporter blinked, processing. "Death... Speed?"
"*Mors Velocitas*," Harry clarified, giving them the full title. "I'm the Flash's partner. And Central City—" he looked at the cameras, at the people recording this moment, at the world that was about to learn of his existence, "—is under our protection."
Barry moved to stand beside him, and together they made quite a picture: the Flash in his bright red suit, symbol of hope and heroism, and Death Speed in his darker crimson-and-black armor, representing something more dangerous but no less heroic.
"We work together," Barry added. "Protecting not just Central City, but anywhere that needs us."
"Is Death Speed another speedster?" someone called out.
"He's *faster* than a speedster," Barry said, and Harry could hear the grin in his voice. "Trust me. I've raced him."
"Can we get some questions—"
"CCPD has this under control now," Harry interrupted, gesturing to the police moving in to secure the unconscious metas. "We need to go. But we'll be around. Whenever Central City needs us."
He looked at Barry, who nodded.
As one, they turned and *ran*.
Twin streaks of lightning—red and crimson-gold—exploded down the street, creating a synchronized sonic boom that rattled windows and left a trail of crackling energy in their wake.
Behind them, the reporter stared at her camera operator. "Did you get all that?"
"Every second," he confirmed, his hands shaking with excitement. "Death Speed. *Mors Velocitas*. This is going to be *huge*."
---
**STAR Labs - Ten Minutes Later**
Harry collapsed onto the STAR Labs medical bay's examination table, his helmet retracting to reveal a face flushed with exertion and exhilaration.
"That was *incredible*!" Cisco practically bounced into the room, pulling up holographic replays of the fight. "Did you see his face when you evacuated all the civilians? And when you freed those cops with the crimson lightning? And when you *phased through Gridlock's time field*—dude, that should be impossible!"
"It felt impossible," Harry admitted, accepting the water bottle Caitlin handed him. "The field was trying to slow me down even while I was phased. It was like running through molasses made of time itself."
"But you did it," Barry said, pulling off his own cowl. His expression was proud. "And you did it without causing any permanent harm. That's the important part, Harry. You had the power to kill all three of them—the crimson lightning, the superspeed strikes, everything—but you *chose* not to."
"Of course I chose not to," Harry said, confused. "They're criminals, not monsters. They don't deserve to die for robbing a bank."
"Exactly." Barry's smile widened. "And *that's* what makes you a hero. Not the power. Not the speed. The choice."
Harry felt warmth that had nothing to do with the Speed Force. After a lifetime of being told he was special because of what he *survived*, it felt revolutionary to be praised for who he *chose* to be.
"Social media is going *insane*," Cisco announced, scrolling through his phone. "Death Speed is trending number one worldwide. *Worldwide*, Harry! There's already fan art. And theories about where you came from. And—oh, this is good—someone's started a debate about whether you're the Flash's boyfriend."
"I'm *what?*"
"Don't worry, I voted no on that poll," Cisco said cheerfully. "Anyway, the important thing is—you're official now. No more mysterious speedster rumors. You're a known quantity. A *hero*."
Harry processed this. He'd been famous before—Boy Who Lived, Chosen One, Undesirable Number One. But always for things that happened *to* him, never for things he'd actively *done*.
This was different.
"How do you handle it?" he asked Barry. "The attention. The expectations. Knowing that people are counting on you to save them?"
Barry's expression grew thoughtful. "One day at a time. And by remembering that I'm not alone. I've got my team—" he gestured at Cisco and Caitlin, "—and now I've got you. We're partners, Harry. You don't have to carry this by yourself."
Partners. Not mentor and student. Not leader and follower. *Partners.*
Harry found himself smiling despite his exhaustion.
"Thanks, Barry. For everything. For training me, for trusting me, for—"
His phone buzzed. Then buzzed again. And again.
Harry pulled it out, and his smile faded.
Seventeen missed calls from Hermione. Nine from Ron. Four from McGonagall. And one text message from an unknown number that made his blood run cold:
**"Central City news is global, Potter. Even we saw your debut. In case you forgot, we have a meeting in three days. Don't be late. - D.G."**
Reality crashed back like a bucket of ice water.
He'd been so focused on the fight, on proving himself as Death Speed, that he'd completely forgotten about the press coverage. About cameras broadcasting his existence to the entire world.
Including the magical world.
Including Daphne Greengrass and Susan Bones.
Including Ginny.
"Harry?" Caitlin's voice was concerned. "What's wrong?"
Harry looked at his phone, at the messages piling up, at the reality he'd been avoiding for the past month crashing down all at once.
"I think," he said quietly, "I just made my complicated life *significantly* more complicated."
The armor pulsed with what felt like sympathetic agreement.
Three days until the meeting. Three days until he had to face the consequences of contracts and obligations and choices he didn't make but had to live with anyway.
Three days until everything changed.
Again.
"I need to go home," Harry said, standing up. The exhaustion hit him then—not physical, the armor handled that, but *emotional*. Bone-deep weariness with complications and expectations and never getting to just *be* for five minutes. "I need to—I have to explain this to everyone. Before it gets worse."
"You want backup?" Barry offered. "Moral support?"
Harry almost said yes. Almost took the easy out of having someone else there to share the burden.
But this was his mess. His life. His responsibility.
"No," he said finally. "But thanks for offering. I'll... I'll be back next week for more training. If that's still okay."
"Always," Barry said firmly. "Door's always open, partner."
Partner. The word settled around Harry like a comfortable weight.
Maybe he couldn't control the betrothal contracts. Maybe he couldn't make Ginny forgive him. Maybe he couldn't undo the complications of being Harry Potter.
But he *could* be Death Speed. Could be a hero. Could make the choice, every day, to use his power to protect rather than destroy.
That would have to be enough.
Harry's helmet materialized, the golden lenses blazing to life.
"See you next week," he said.
And then he was gone—a streak of crimson and gold racing across the Atlantic, toward England, toward home, toward a future he couldn't predict but had to face anyway.
Behind him, Cisco pulled up the trending videos of Death Speed's debut and grinned.
"That guy is going to change the world," he said.
"He already has," Caitlin corrected, looking at the medical data showing Harry's unique power signature. "We just don't know how yet."
Barry watched the monitor tracking Harry's progress across the ocean—moving at speeds that would have been impossible a month ago, already pushing past Mach 7 and still accelerating.
"He's going to be okay," Barry said quietly. To himself as much as to his team. "Whatever happens with those contracts, with the girls, with his future—Harry's going to be okay."
"How do you know?" Cisco asked.
Barry smiled, remembering a conversation with the Speed Force. Remembering what she'd told him about balance, about champions, about the boy who'd walked toward death and come back as something new.
"Because he's not just fast," Barry said. "He's *good*. And that matters more than any power."
On the screen, the crimson-and-gold streak crossed into British airspace.
Three days until the meeting.
Three days until everything changed.
But for now—for these last few moments of peace before the storm—Harry Potter was just a speedster racing home.
And that was enough.
---
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