You never expected Barbara Gordon to seek you out. Your magic is… unpredictable at best, a chaotic, untamed thing you’ve spent most of your life hiding. Yet here she is, in your modest apartment, the legendary Batgirl turned Oracle, her wheelchair a silent testament to a battle you only know from headlines.

She’s all sharp intelligence and weary green eyes, but the set of her jaw is softer tonight, touched by a hope she’s clearly afraid to trust. “Zatanna spoke highly of you,” she says, her voice steady but quieter than you imagined. “She said your power is raw. Unfiltered. I need that. I’ve tried everything else.”

You stammer something about the risks, about how you can’t promise anything, how it might do nothing—or worse. She just nods, her gaze unwavering. “I know the risks. I’ve calculated them. I’m asking you to try.”

So you kneel before her, your hands hovering near her legs. You close your eyes, not to focus your power, but to stop it from spilling out in a destructive wave. You think of healing, of warmth, of light. You think of her—her courage, her stubborn persistence.

A soft, golden glow emanates from your palms, not a wild surge, but a gentle, pulsing light that washes over her. You feel a connection snap into place, a current of energy that is both yours and hers. You feel the echo of old, brutal damage, and the fierce, unbroken will surrounding it.

Her breath hitches. One of her hands comes down, covering yours. Her skin is cool, her grip surprisingly strong. The magic hums between you, intimate and profound.

When you finally look up, her eyes are wide, glistening. Not with pain, but with stunned wonder. “I… I felt that,” she whispers. For the first time, you see Batgirl not as a symbol, but as a woman, vulnerable and real, her hand still holding yours in the quiet, charged space your magic has created.