Harry Potter stared blankly at the small velvet box resting on the table before him. The engagement ring inside, once a symbol of hope and a future he dared to dream of, now felt like a cruel reminder of everything he had lost. His hand trembled slightly as he reached for the box, but he hesitated, unable to open it, unable to face what it represented.
Beside the box, a half-finished bottle of tequila sat untouched, its contents barely diminished despite his desperate attempts. He had downed shot after shot, hoping the alcohol would numb the pain, blur the edges of his despair. But his magical physiology betrayed him. The liquor burned on the way down but did nothing to dull the ache that had taken root deep in his chest.
Time had lost all meaning. Harry couldn't remember how long he'd been sitting here—hours, days, it was all a blur. The sun could have risen and set a dozen times, and he wouldn't have noticed. All that existed was the crushing weight of his grief, pressing down on him, making it hard to breathe, to think, to be human.
It felt as if something inside him had shattered, leaving sharp, jagged pieces that tore at him from within. The pain was acute and relentless. He had always known that life could be cruel—he had experienced more than his share of suffering—but this was different. This was a kind of agony he had never imagined, a deep, gnawing emptiness that nothing seemed to fill.
The ring taunted him, a symbol of a future that would never be, of love that had slipped through his fingers like sand. He had been so sure, so certain that he could build a life with her, that they could find happiness together despite everything. But now, that certainty was gone, replaced by a hollow despair that seemed to swallow him whole.
He replayed that dreadful morning in his mind, like a broken record that wouldn't stop. Every word, every look, every nuance of that final conversation haunted him, echoing in the emptiness of his thoughts. It was a memory he couldn't escape, no matter how much he wished to. The moment Natasha walked away from him, leaving him standing there with the engagement ring still in his pocket, had been seared into his soul.
Harry had spent countless hours since then trying to dissect what had gone wrong. He tried to analyze every aspect of their relationship, scrutinizing his behaviour, his words, his actions, searching for the flaw that had driven her away. But no matter how hard he searched; he couldn't find it. He had loved Natasha with everything he had, and had been honest and open with her in a way he had never been with anyone else. He had supported her, cared for her, cherished her, and yet, somehow, it hadn't been enough.
He questioned himself relentlessly. Had he been too overbearing, too protective? Had he not been enough? Had he missed some silent plea for help or failed to understand some unspoken need? But no matter how much he tried to critique himself, he couldn't find any fault. There were no angry words exchanged, no unkind gestures, nothing that could explain why she had left. He had treated her with nothing but respect and love and had done everything he could to make her feel safe, valued, and adored.
He tried to rationalize her actions, to find some explanation that would make sense of the pain she had inflicted on him. He tried to see it from her perspective, to justify her decision. Perhaps she had felt trapped, perhaps she had been afraid of the future, of the commitment he was asking of her. Perhaps she had been dealing with something he didn't know about, something she hadn't shared with him. But no matter how many scenarios he played out in his mind, nothing seemed to fit.
The truth was, he couldn't understand it. He couldn't understand how someone who had once looked at him with such warmth, such affection, could suddenly turn away. He couldn't understand how she could walk away from the life they had built together, from the dreams they had shared. He couldn't understand how she could break his heart so completely and yet seem so resolute in her decision.
It wasn't as if he had been blind to her struggles. He knew Natasha had demons; knew she carried the weight of a past she seldom spoke about. But he had thought they could face those demons together, that his love could be enough to help her heal. He had believed in them, in their future, in the possibility of happiness. But now, all those beliefs felt like fragile illusions, shattered by the harsh reality of her departure.
And so, he sat there, lost in the endless loop of his thoughts, trying to piece together a puzzle that had no solution. No matter how hard he tried to justify her actions, he couldn't. The more he thought about it, the less sense it made, and the deeper the ache in his chest grew. He hadn't made any mistakes. He knew that. But knowing it didn't make the pain any less real.
Initially, Harry had plunged headfirst into denial, refusing to accept that she was truly gone. The morning after she left, he had woken up to a cold, empty bed and an eerie silence that filled their home. Reality hit him like a physical blow when he saw that all of her belongings had vanished. Her clothes, her weapons, even the small trinkets she had picked up from their travels together—everything was gone as if she had never been there at all. The sight of those barren spaces, once filled with her presence, shattered his heart into a million jagged pieces.
Panic set in, and Harry immediately reached for his phone, his fingers trembling as he dialled her number. He called her again and again, each time hoping, praying that she would pick up, that he would hear her voice on the other end. But every call went unanswered, ringing endlessly before dropping to voicemail. The sound of her recorded message, so familiar and yet so distant, only deepened the ache in his chest.
Desperation drove him to do more. He tried to Apparate to her location, thinking he could reason with her, that he could somehow make her understand that they could work through this together. But Natasha was always one step ahead. Every time he appeared, ready to plead his case, she was there waiting for him, resolute and unyielding. She would sedate him before he could even speak, the world around him blurring as the drug took effect. The last thing he would see before darkness claimed him was her face, impassive and determined as if she was forcing herself to do what she thought was right.
When he would awaken, he would find himself back at their home, alone once more, with nothing but a note left behind. "You have to let me go," the note would say, the words as cold and final as the tone in which she had spoken them. Each time he read those words, a fresh wave of denial surged through him. How could he let her go? How could she ask that of him when every fibre of his being screamed to hold on, to fight for what they had?
He tried his best to reason with her, to make her see that they could find a way to be happy, that they didn't have to let go. He sent her messages, pleading with her to talk to him, to come back, to give them another chance. But his words went unanswered, his efforts met with silence. The more he tried, the more resolute she seemed to become, until finally, he had to face the bitter truth: she wasn't coming back.
Still, even as that truth loomed over him, a part of him refused to accept it. He couldn't believe that she had made this decision willingly, that she had truly chosen to leave him. There had to be some mistake, some reason that he hadn't yet uncovered. And so, he clung to that hope, that thin, fragile hope that somehow, some way, he could bring her back. But with each failed attempt, that hope grew fainter, leaving him to grapple with a reality he couldn't yet bring himself to face.
Then came the anger, a fierce, all-consuming rage that boiled over and left Harry teetering on the edge of control. It started as a slow burn, a simmering fury that grew with each passing day, fed by the unbearable pain of her absence. He couldn't understand how she could leave him so easily, how she could discard everything they had shared as if it meant nothing. The more he thought about it, the more his anger festered until it became too much to contain.
One night, it all came crashing down. Harry's grief morphed into a blinding fury, and he unleashed it on the only thing left that reminded him of her—their home. With a single, reckless burst of magic, the house erupted into flames. The walls that had once sheltered their love now buckled and collapsed, consumed by the fire of his wrath. Furniture shattered, windows exploded outward, and the air crackled with the intensity of his power, unchecked and wild.
The destruction was absolute, and when it was over, Harry stood amidst the smouldering ruins, breathing heavily, his chest heaving with the aftermath of his rage. The home they had built together was gone, reduced to ashes and debris, just like the life they had once imagined. There was no satisfaction in the destruction, no sense of release—only an empty, hollow feeling that left him more broken than before.
He left the wreckage behind without a second thought, unable to bear the sight of what he had done, unable to face the memories that clung to the charred remains. New Mexico was waiting, as Fury had requested, and it offered a convenient escape. He Apparated to the SHIELD field office in Los Angeles from where he took a bus with the other SHIELD operatives that were going there, leaving everything behind, hoping the barren landscape would somehow reflect and numb the emptiness inside him.
When he arrived at New Mexico, the desolate expanse stretched out before him, a vast, unyielding wasteland that mirrored the void in his heart. The dry, cracked earth seemed to stretch endlessly, with nothing but dust and distant mountains in sight. The air was still, oppressive as if the world itself had given up on hope. The barren land was a perfect reflection of his internal state—desolate, lifeless, and devoid of anything that once brought him joy.
Unbeknownst to Harry, Yao had come to the site of his destruction shortly after he left. The sorcerers quietly restored the house to its original state, mending the shattered pieces with her magic. She also erased the memories of those who had witnessed the unnatural blaze, ensuring that no trace of Harry's outburst remained. But Harry didn't know this, and even if he had, it wouldn't have mattered. He had already left that life behind, focusing only on the barren landscape before him and the cold, gnawing emptiness within.
As the anger began to dull, replaced by a hollow ache that gnawed at his insides, Harry found himself slipping into the next phase of his grief: bargaining. The fury that had driven him to destroy their home faded, leaving behind a desperate need to fix things, to undo the damage that had been done. He couldn't accept that it was over—not yet, not without trying everything he could to make her understand.
He started reaching out to Natasha, clinging to the hope that if he just said the right words, found the right way to express himself, she would come back to him. He sent her messages at all hours, pouring his heart out in texts, emails, and voice mails, each one more desperate than the last. He told her he didn't care about his dreams, his plans, anything—none of it mattered if she wasn't by his side. He promised they could start over, that they could find a way to make it work, that he would do anything, be anything if only she would give them another chance.
But there was no response. The silence was deafening, each unanswered message a crushing blow to his fragile hope. He tried to reach her in every way he could think of. He wrote letters, pouring his soul into the ink, hoping that the words on the page might somehow convey the depth of his feelings better than his voice ever could. He sent postcards from New Mexico, small tokens of his love, hoping that each one might bring a smile to her face, or at least a flicker of recognition.
But Natasha remained silent, a ghost who had vanished from his life without a trace. No matter how many messages he sent, how many ways he tried to reach her, there was nothing but a cold, unyielding void where her presence used to be. She had cut him off completely, leaving him to drown in his own despair.
The lack of response was maddening. It left him questioning everything, wondering if she even read his messages, if she cared at all, if she was even listening. He couldn't understand how she could just walk away, how she could leave him to suffer alone in this endless torment. He was grasping at straws, trying to find some way to bridge the chasm between them, but every attempt only widened the gulf, leaving him more isolated and lost than before.
Harry's bargaining became more frantic, more desperate with each passing day. He was willing to give up anything, sacrifice everything, just to hear her voice again, to see her face, to feel her warmth. But no matter how much he pleaded, no matter how many promises he made, there was nothing. The silence stretched on, suffocating him, until he was forced to confront the harsh truth: Natasha was gone, and no amount of bargaining could bring her back.
The anger and desperate attempts to bargain had drained him, leaving behind an unbearable weight of emptiness and sorrow. The silence from Natasha, the finality of her decision, had crushed what little hope he had left, and now he was adrift, lost in a sea of despair with no lifeline in sight.
Each day bled into the next, a monotonous cycle of numbness and pain. He no longer cared about his surroundings, about the mission that had brought him to New Mexico, or even about his own well-being. All that mattered was the gnawing ache in his chest, the hollow void where his heart used to be. He felt abandoned, and discarded like he was nothing as if the love they had shared meant nothing at all.
The thought haunted him, and gnawed at his already fragile sense of self-worth. What had he done wrong? Why wasn't he enough? These questions echoed in his mind, relentless and unanswerable, eroding any sense of confidence or purpose he had left. He had given everything to Natasha, had loved her with every fibre of his being, and yet she had still walked away.
Harry couldn't shake the feeling of worthlessness that clung to him like a second skin. He felt like a failure, not just as a partner but as a person. His magic, his power—none of it mattered if he couldn't even keep the woman he loved. The world had lost its colour, its meaning, and he was left with nothing but the crushing weight of his own thoughts.
He isolated himself further, withdrawing from anyone who might try to reach out to him. He didn't want to talk, didn't want to pretend that things were okay when they so clearly weren't. The idea of facing people, of putting on a mask of normalcy, was exhausting. He was tired—so tired—of everything, of feeling, of existing.
Sleep became both an escape and a torment. On some nights, he would lie awake for hours, staring at the ceiling, his mind racing with thoughts of Natasha, of what could have been, of the life they were supposed to share. On others, he would fall into a fitful sleep, plagued by dreams that offered no solace—dreams where she was there, only to vanish the moment he reached out to her, leaving him more broken than before.
Food lost its appeal; the taste of it was dull and lifeless. He ate only when his body forced him to, going through the motions with no real care for his own health. It was as if his entire world had narrowed to a single, inescapable point of pain, and nothing else mattered anymore.
Harry was drowning in his depression, suffocating under the weight of his own thoughts and emotions. He felt like he was slowly fading away, becoming less and less of the person he used to be, and he didn't know how to stop it. Or if he even wanted to.
Harry's gaze drifted to the half-empty bottle of tequila sitting on the table. The clear liquid sloshed listlessly as if mocking his inability to find solace in its depths. He knew it was pointless to keep drinking it; tequila, like everything else here, couldn't numb the searing pain that gnawed at his insides.
With a slow, measured breath, Harry let the bottle become the focus of his attention. He honed in on the clear liquid within, feeling the raw power of his magic stir in response to his emotions. There was no comfort to be found at the bottom of that bottle, but perhaps, just perhaps, there was something else—something that could momentarily distract him from the agony of his thoughts.
His fingers twitched, and he felt the familiar, comforting warmth of magic course through him. He willed it forward, pushed it out from the depths of his soul, and focused it on the tequila. The liquid responded almost immediately, swirling and bubbling as if agitated by the force of his will. He concentrated harder, commanding the alcohol to obey his unspoken desires. Slowly, the tequila began to rise from the neck of the bottle, defying gravity as it formed a slender, wavering column of liquid in mid-air.
Harry watched, detached yet intensely focused, as the liquid hovered above the bottle, suspended by his magic. His heart pounded in time with the undulating flow, and for a moment, the pain in his chest lessened, replaced by the familiar thrill of control. It wasn't enough—he needed more.
He tightened his mental grip, and the tequila split into countless droplets, each one perfectly round, glistening like tiny, amber-tinted pearls. With a flick of his wrist, the droplets shot across the room, spinning around him in a mesmerizing dance. The liquid twisted and twirled in the air, a chaotic ballet that mirrored the turmoil raging inside him. But Harry wasn't done.
His magic surged, and the droplets merged into a single, larger mass. He pushed harder, willing the liquid to take shape, and soon it formed a swirling sphere, pulsating with energy. He moved his hand, and the sphere followed, gliding through the air as if it were a living entity responding to his every thought. The power thrummed through him, a heady rush that drowned out the pain, if only for a moment.
But it wasn't enough. Harry's magic demanded more—more release, more destruction. He extended his influence beyond the liquid, reaching out to the elements around him. Harry's eyes drifted from the swirling tequila droplets to the furniture around the room. His magic, still humming with energy, latched onto the furniture as if it sensed his growing frustration. He didn't need to think—his anger, his grief, all of it bled into his magic, pushing it to act. He raised his hand, and the sofa trembled, the fabric rippling as if caught in a strong wind. With a twist of his wrist, the legs of the sofa snapped, splintering into pieces. The sofa collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing through the room like a final, damning verdict.
But Harry wasn't done. The table was next, its wooden surface groaning under the pressure of his magic. He squeezed his hand into a fist, and the table shattered, splinters of wood flying in every direction. The chairs followed, rising into the air before slamming into the walls with enough force to break them apart. The room was in chaos, the destruction, a mirror of the storm raging inside him.
Harry's magic pulsed, feeding off his anger and grief, and he began to transfigure the broken remnants of the furniture. The shattered wood of the table twisted and morphed, transforming into jagged, spiked shapes that hovered menacingly in the air. The pieces of the chairs coiled together, forming grotesque, serpentine figures that slithered along the floor, their wooden bodies creaking and groaning.
He didn't stop there. His magic reached out to the natural elements, pulling them into his destructive dance. The air around him crackled with electricity as he summoned wind, a fierce gust swirling through the room, whipping the curtains into a frenzy and sending loose papers flying.
The earth beneath the floorboards rumbled in response to his call, the ground cracking and shifting as he forced it to move. Chunks of dirt and rock broke through the floor, rising to join the maelstrom of destruction. The room shook with the force of his magic, the very foundations of the house trembling under the strain.
Fire ignited next, flames leaping from the broken furniture and spreading across the room, licking at the walls and ceiling. The fire roared, its heat searing the air, but Harry controlled it with thought, directing it to burn only where he willed. The flames danced in tandem with the wind, feeding off the chaos that Harry had unleashed.
Water, drawn from the air itself, coalesced into a swirling vortex above him, droplets of condensation pulled from every corner of the room. The water twisted and turned, joining the wind in its dance, before crashing down to extinguish the flames in a burst of steam. The room filled with mist, the air thick with moisture, as the elements clashed and collided under Harry's control.
Everything in the room was under his command—the fire, the wind, the earth, the water—all bending to his will, all reflecting the pain, the anger, the helplessness he felt inside. The sheer power of his magic shook the very structure of the house, threatening to tear it apart.
Yet, even as he unleashed this torrent of destruction, there was no satisfaction. The devastation he wrought didn't bring him peace; it didn't fill the void that Natasha had left behind. The elements, the furniture, the very air around him—all of it was at his mercy, but it couldn't change the one thing he truly wanted: for her to be here, for the pain to stop.
The storm inside him raged on, unabated, his magic reflecting the chaos of his soul. And as the room around him fell apart, Harry felt more broken, more lost, than ever before.
Harry's concentration shattered at the sound of a knock on the door, followed by the soft click of the lock turning. The door creaked open, and in that moment of distraction, the magic he had been wielding with such intensity spiralled out of control.
The tequila, suspended in mid-air, suddenly lost its shape and cascaded down, splashing onto Harry's head and drenching his hair with the sharp, stinging liquid. The flames he had been controlling flared wildly, singeing the edges of his clothes before fizzling out in the dampness of the room. The shards of wood and twisted metal that had been floating menacingly through the air now clattered to the floor with a deafening crash, scattering across the room in a chaotic mess.
Harry barely had time to register what was happening before the entire room seemed to implode around him, the remnants of his magic dissipating into the air like smoke after a fire. He sat there, soaked and dishevelled, amidst the wreckage he had created, his chest heaving with the effort of holding back the surge of emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.
Clint Barton stepped into the room, his gaze sweeping over the scene of destruction. The house Harry had been renting near the crater site was unrecognizable—a jumble of broken furniture, scorched walls, and scattered debris. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and burnt wood, mixed with the sharp scent of spilt tequila. Clint's heart sank as he took in the sight of Harry, standing in the middle of it all, looking lost and utterly defeated.
Clint's expression softened with a deep sigh, a mix of pity and concern in his eyes. He knew that Harry was struggling, but seeing the full extent of his pain laid out so starkly in front of him was almost too much to bear. Without a word, Clint crossed the room, carefully avoiding the scattered debris, and made his way to the phone sitting on the desk, untouched amidst the chaos.
He pressed a button, and the answering machine came to life with a series of beeps, followed by the familiar sound of Pepper's voice.
"Hey Harry, I hope you're doing okay. I was surprised to hear you left for New Mexico so suddenly. Phil mentioned you're there to help him out, and I'm guessing it's something magic-related, so I won't pry too much. Just make sure you come back soon—we really need you at Stark Industries. Oh, and Tony says not to have too much fun without him. Take care, Harry. Bye."
The message ended with a soft click, and the room fell back into silence. Harry glanced at Clint but didn't say a word, the weight of everything unsaid hanging heavy in the air.
Clint huffed, running a hand through his hair as he looked at the mess surrounding them. "You need to stop doing this to yourself, Harry. How many drinks have you had? You can't keep spiraling like this. It's not going to help anything," he said, his voice firm but laced with concern.
Harry didn't lift his gaze from the floor. "It doesn't matter how much I drink," he muttered. "Alcohol doesn't affect me. It's just like drinking something bitter. My physiology doesn't even register it. No matter what I do, I can't escape this."
Clint took a step closer, his brow furrowing as he listened to the pain in Harry's voice. He could see the weight of the world bearing down on him, crushing him from the inside out. "Why did she leave me, Barton?" Harry's voice cracked, filled with a desperate need for answers. "What did I do wrong? Is that all I'm worth—being abandoned?"
Clint's heart ached at the sight of his friend so broken, so lost. He knew there was little he could say to ease that pain, but he had to try. "Harry," Clint began gently, "you've got to get out of this headspace. I don't know why Natasha did what she did. But I do know that she loves you. Even now, she still loves you. This isn't about you, mate. It's about her—her demons, her fears. She thinks she's protecting you by pushing you away, but she's wrong. You don't deserve what she did, not by a long shot. But you have to let her work through this on her own. She needs this time to sort herself out."
Harry clenched his fists, his anger bubbling just beneath the surface. "I don't bloody care what was going on in her head right now," he snapped, his voice rising in frustration. "All she had to do was ask. Just one conversation, and this all could've been avoided."
His voice broke on the last word, and he whispered, "Just one…"
Clint moved closer, resting a hand on Harry's shoulder, grounding him in the present. "Look, Harry, I'm no expert on heartbreak or relationships. Hell, emotions aren't exactly my strong suit. But I do know this—you focusing on this, letting it consume you, it's not healthy. We've got a job to do here, and right now, that's what you need to focus on. Let your mind take a break from all this... from her."
Harry looked up at Clint, the anger in his eyes giving way to a deep, weary sadness. Clint squeezed his shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile. "Once we're done here, we'll go find Natasha together, and we'll sort this mess out. But for now, let's just get through this, alright?"
Harry managed to give a weak smile, the first one in days. It wasn't much, but it was something—a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. "Alright," he murmured.
Clint gave him a nod, and together they turned toward the door to head out. As they reached the door, Clint paused, turning to face Harry with a serious expression. "Before we go, there's something you need to do, Harry," he said firmly.
Harry looked at Clint, confused. "What do you mean?"
Clint gestured to the chaos that surrounded them—the broken furniture, the scorched walls, the remnants of Harry's emotional outburst. "This," Clint said, his voice steady but gentle. "You need to sort yourself out, and it starts here. You've got to fix the damage you've done, Harry. Not just to this place, but to yourself. If you're going to move forward, you've got to take the first step."
Harry hesitated, his gaze sweeping over the destruction he had caused. The anger, the grief, the helplessness—it was all reflected in the shattered remains of the house. But Clint was right. He couldn't keep running from the pain. He needed to face it, to confront the mess he had made, and start rebuilding, piece by piece.
Taking a deep breath, Harry closed his eyes and reached deep within himself, summoning his magic. It responded to his call, a familiar warmth spreading through his veins. He willed it to flow outward, to mend the broken pieces around him, to restore what had been destroyed.
Slowly, the room began to change. The shards of wood and metal lifted off the floor, swirling in the air before reassembling themselves into their original forms. The scorched walls smoothed out, the blackened marks fading away as if they had never been there. The furniture righted itself, cracks and splinters disappearing as the magic wove through the room, undoing the damage.
As the house repaired itself, Harry felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. It was as if, by fixing the physical space around him, he was beginning to mend the broken parts of himself as well. The pain was still there, lingering in the background, but it no longer consumed him.
When the last piece of furniture clicked into place, Harry opened his eyes. The house looked just as it had before—whole, undamaged, as if nothing had ever happened. He took a deep breath, feeling a sense of closure, of finality.
Clint watched the transformation with a quiet sense of approval. He could see the change in Harry, the slight shift in his demeanour. It wasn't much, but it was a start—a step toward healing.
"Good job," Clint said softly, clapping Harry on the back. "Now let's get out of here."
Harry nodded, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Together, they turned and walked out of the house, leaving behind the remnants of Harry's pain and anger. As they stepped into the bright New Mexico sunlight, Harry felt something inside him loosen, as if a weight had been lifted.
The house stood behind them, whole and unscathed, a symbol of the first steps Harry was taking toward a new chapter in his life. The road ahead was still uncertain, still filled with challenges, but for the first time since that day, Harry felt a glimmer of hope—a belief that, maybe, he could find his way through the darkness.
Author's Note:
Hey everyone, this is the last chapter for Arc 3. Thank you everyone for the support and thank you for your kind words and all the reviews that you have left.
Chapter 33 was the hardest chapter that I have written in this story yet. I was so scared, that I couldn't start the chapter for a very long time. For a few days, I would just stare at the screen with my Word document out, trying to figure out how I wanted to write this chapter. I knew the objective of the chapter. I knew that I had to express his grief and pain. But putting something like that into words. Especially as a follow-up to 32-Sacrifice was very difficult. Sacrifice was emotionally draining but easy to write as I knew in my head that it would be a homage to Arc 1 when they were dating. Adding Natasha's selfish and painful emotions was easier. But this, I just didn't know how to convey the rawness of Harry's emotion. Also, Arc 4 had always been Harry's power-up arc for me. When I initially planned the story, I wanted Harry's magic to become public knowledge only at the Battle of New York. However, that felt too far away as the number of chapters per arc started to grow and keeping Harry's magic a secret would have significantly hampered this arc, as you will see down the line.
I hope I did Harry's emotions justice in this chapter. Also, buckle up for this arc because it is very angsty.
I have a P. A.T.R.E.O.N with the name Bivz643, if you guys are interested in reading ahead. For now, you can read ahead to chapter 60 of this fanfiction. In that chapter, we clean up after the battle of New York. There is only one tier for $5 with the benefit being access to the library and that I will be posting 2 chapters per week there. I understand that not everyone can become a Patron and support me monthly. However, if you'd still like to read ahead, you can do so by getting the PDF version of the 4th arc of "A Wizard in the MCU" for $3 each at P. A.T.R.E.O.N. shop
Anyway, see you all next week. Happy reading.