# Girls' Dormitory – Late Evening
The girls' side of the dormitory was a masterclass in functional elegance compared to the boys' wing, which looked like a tornado had hit a frat house and given up halfway through. Here, fairy lights twinkled against warm wood paneling, books were actually *on* shelves instead of propping up broken furniture, and the throw pillows weren't suspicious mystery stains waiting to happen. The common room smelled like vanilla candles and that particular brand of organized chaos that came from people who actually talked about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper.
Hope Mikaelson had claimed the oversized armchair by the window like a queen surveying her kingdom, legs tucked beneath her in that deceptively casual way that still managed to look runway-ready. Her copy of *Advanced Magical Theory* was balanced on one knee, but those sharp blue eyes kept flicking up to track every word, every gesture, every micro-expression from her friends with the kind of predatory focus that made grown vampires nervous. She was reading, sure—but she was also collecting ammunition.
Across from her, Lizzie Saltzman had transformed the leather couch into her personal throne, sprawled out with the kind of dramatic flair that suggested she'd practiced the pose in mirrors. Her impossibly long legs were draped across Susan's lap like she was claiming territory, and she was painting her toenails an electric shade of blue that practically glowed in the firelight. Each brushstroke was applied with surgical precision, because if Lizzie Saltzman was going to do something, she was going to do it flawlessly or die trying.
Susan Bones sat trapped beneath Lizzie's legs, her Criminal Justice textbook propped against her knees at an increasingly precarious angle. Every time Lizzie shifted or wiggled her toes, Susan's jaw tightened just a fraction—not enough to complain, because Susan was constitutionally incapable of being anything but accommodating, but enough to suggest she was mentally calculating how many pages she could get through before Lizzie's next dramatic flourish.
Josie had claimed the thick Persian rug in front of the fireplace, surrounded by parchment, quills, and ink bottles in what she'd optimistically called "homework time" about an hour ago. The quill in her hand had been twisted and fidgeted with so much it looked like it was having an existential crisis. Her Potions essay remained exactly three sentences long, because her brain was clearly somewhere else entirely—specifically, somewhere that began with 'P' and ended with 'enormous relationship drama.'
"I still think you're making a mistake with Penelope," Susan said gently, her voice carrying that particular brand of careful diplomacy she'd perfected over years of being the emotional Switzerland of their friend group. She didn't look up from her textbook, but her tone had that weighted quality that suggested she'd been thinking about this conversation for weeks.
Josie's shoulders immediately hunched like she was bracing for a verbal firing squad. "You don't understand," she said, and even she didn't sound convinced. "Yes, Penelope can be... challenging. But she also genuinely cares about me. Those things aren't mutually exclusive."
Lizzie's brush paused mid-stroke, and she looked up with the kind of laser focus usually reserved for dismantling someone's entire existence in three sentences or less. "Actually? They absolutely are. Manipulation and genuine care go together about as well as orange juice and toothpaste—technically possible, but the result makes everyone involved want to bleach their brain."
"Lizzie—" Josie started, but her twin was already warming up for what promised to be a legendary takedown.
"No, seriously, think about it," Lizzie interrupted, waving her brush like a conductor's baton. "If I told you I loved you, but I constantly lied to you, guilt-tripped you when you didn't do what I wanted, and twisted every situation to make you feel like the problem—would that feel like love? Or would that feel like me running a full-time emotional pyramid scheme with better eyeliner?"
Susan raised her hand without looking up from her book, voice dry as desert sand. "Pyramid scheme. Definitely pyramid scheme. With a side of emotional terrorism."
Hope closed her book with a soft *thunk* that somehow managed to sound ominous, like the final nail being driven into a coffin. She leaned forward slightly, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees. When Hope Mikaelson decided to enter a conversation, she didn't just participate—she dominated.
"The question isn't whether Penelope cares about you," Hope said, her voice carrying that particular blend of silk and steel that made smart people take notes and stupid people run for cover. "The question is whether her version of 'caring' resembles anything a mentally stable person would recognize as love. Spoiler alert—it doesn't."
Josie blinked like she'd been slapped, caught between the instinct to defend and the creeping realization that her friends might have a point. "That's... that's not fair."
Hope's smile was sharp enough to cut glass. "Fair? Josie, fairness is for kindergarten playground disputes and badly written romantic comedies. We're talking about your emotional well-being here. At minimum, your girlfriend should make you feel better about yourself, not like you're constantly auditioning for basic human decency."
"THANK YOU," Lizzie exploded, nearly knocking over her nail polish in her enthusiasm. "Finally, someone else says it! I've been watching this disaster unfold for months, and every time I try to point out that your girlfriend treats you like an emotional support animal, everyone acts like I'm being the dramatic one."
Hope turned that razor-sharp smile on Lizzie, and for a moment they looked like two apex predators recognizing each other across a crowded savanna. "Lizzie, you could read the phone book and make it sound dramatic. But you're not wrong—you're just usually wrong about other things."
Lizzie gasped, pressing a hand to her chest in mock offense. "Excuse me, I am a paragon of emotional intelligence and interpersonal wisdom. I just happen to deliver it with style."
"You deliver it like a glitter bomb in a tornado," Susan said mildly, still not looking up from her book. "Effective, but messy."
"I'll take it," Lizzie declared, then turned back to Josie with renewed focus. "But seriously, Jo, you've been so busy managing Penelope's moods and feelings that you've turned into her personal emotional janitor. When was the last time she asked how *you* were doing and actually waited for an answer?"
Josie opened her mouth, then closed it, then opened it again like a fish trying to argue with the concept of water. "She... she does ask—"
"Before launching into her own problems?" Hope interrupted, tilting her head with predatory curiosity. "Or as a genuine question where she actually processes your response?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Josie's expression crumbled slightly, like she was running through months of conversations and finding them all wanting.
Susan finally looked up from her textbook, her brown eyes soft but determined. "Josie, honey, you've been pouring so much energy into keeping her happy that you've got nothing left for yourself. That's not a relationship—that's unpaid emotional labor with occasional kissing."
"It's psychological conditioning," Hope added with clinical precision, like she was diagnosing a particularly interesting disease. "Classic pattern. She's trained you to lower your expectations incrementally until you're grateful for scraps of basic human decency. It's actually quite impressive, from a purely academic standpoint."
"Impressive and horrifying," Lizzie said, capping her nail polish with a decisive twist. "You've basically become Pavlov's girlfriend. She rings her little 'I'm having a crisis' bell, and boom—you come running. Except instead of getting a treat, you get... what? A pat on the head and the privilege of managing her next emotional emergency?"
Josie actually laughed, but it was the kind of laugh that sounded dangerously close to crying. "Oh my god. That's... that's terrifyingly accurate."
Hope leaned back in her chair, satisfaction flickering across her features like candlelight. "Here's the thing about manipulative people, Josie—they're absolute artists when it comes to convincing you that you're the unreasonable one. Your standards are too high, your feelings are too dramatic, your needs are too needy. It's never about them treating you poorly. It's always about you being insufficiently grateful for their bare minimum effort."
The words hit Josie like a physical blow. She went very still, eyes widening as if Hope had just reached into her chest and pulled out a thought she'd been too afraid to acknowledge. "She... she does that. All the time. Whenever I try to talk about something that bothers me, somehow the conversation ends with me apologizing for bringing it up."
"Of course it does," Hope said, her voice dropping to that lethal whisper that made kingdoms fall and enemies reconsider their life choices. "It's Manipulation 101: gaslight your partner into believing that having standards is a character flaw. Make them feel guilty for wanting basic respect. It's efficient, really—why improve your behavior when you can just convince everyone around you that their expectations are the problem?"
Lizzie pointed at Hope with both hands, nearly smearing her fresh polish. "THIS. This is exactly why I love having a tribrid in my friend group. She doesn't just burn bridges—she turns them into artistic statements about the fundamental flaws in your personality."
Hope's smirk could have powered a small city. "I prefer to think of it as providing clarity through strategic application of uncomfortable truths."
Susan was watching Josie carefully, her expression soft but unwavering. "Recognition is the first step, Jo. You don't have to break up with her tonight, or even this week. But you can start asking yourself what you actually want from a relationship. What you deserve."
Josie swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "What I want... is a partner who's actually invested in my happiness. Not someone who treats me like their personal emotional first-aid kit."
Lizzie clapped her hands together with the enthusiasm of someone who'd just witnessed a religious conversion. "Hallelujah! She sees the light! Quick, someone write this down before she talks herself back into denial."
"I'm not going back," Josie said, and for the first time in months, her voice had actual steel in it. "I'm tired of feeling like I have to earn basic kindness from someone who's supposed to love me."
Hope's expression softened slightly, like a blade being sheathed after a successful battle. "Now that," she said with genuine warmth, "sounds like the Josie Saltzman I know. The one who doesn't apologize for taking up space."
Susan squeezed Josie's hand, grounding the moment with her particular brand of steady compassion. "You deserve someone who thinks making you happy is a privilege, not a chore they have to be reminded to do."
The fire crackled in the hearth, filling the comfortable silence that followed. For the first time in weeks, the knot of anxiety in Josie's chest began to loosen—not disappear, because these things took time, but definitely shift into something more manageable. Something she wasn't carrying alone.
Lizzie raised one perfectly pedicured foot in the air, wiggling her electric blue toes with dramatic flair. "Okay, crucial question—does this shade say 'supportive sister who will help you dump your toxic girlfriend' or 'I will personally hex anyone who makes my twin cry and look fabulous doing it'?"
Susan studied the color with the seriousness of someone evaluating evidence in a murder trial. "Definitely the second one. That's not just blue—that's 'I have magic powers and questionable impulse control' blue."
Hope tilted her head, examining Lizzie's toes with the clinical precision she usually reserved for potential threats. "That shade is practically a weapon of mass destruction. You could topple small governments with it. I approve."
Lizzie beamed like she'd just received the highest possible honor. "Coming from someone who literally could topple small governments, I'll take that as the ultimate compliment."
"Don't let it go to your head," Hope said dryly. "Your ego is already large enough to have its own gravitational pull."
"My ego is proportional to my talent, thank you very much," Lizzie shot back. "I'm not arrogant—I'm accurately self-assessed."
Susan snorted, finally closing her textbook and admitting defeat for the evening. "That might be the most Lizzie Saltzman thing ever said. I'm genuinely impressed by the sheer audacity of it."
Josie rolled her eyes, but she was smiling—really smiling, not the careful, fragile expression she'd been wearing for months. "You guys are absolutely terrible influences on each other."
"The best kind of terrible," Hope said with satisfaction. "The kind that helps you realize your girlfriend has been treating you like an emotional support appliance instead of a human being with feelings."
"An emotional support appliance," Lizzie repeated, savoring the phrase. "I'm stealing that. That's going in my arsenal of devastating relationship observations."
"Use it wisely," Hope said solemnly. "With great burns come great responsibility."
For the first time in longer than she could remember, Josie felt like the future didn't look like an endless series of crisis management sessions disguised as romance. It looked... open. Bright. Full of possibilities that didn't require her to shrink herself down to fit into someone else's emotional convenience.
It looked like hers.
Lizzie stretched luxuriously, careful not to smudge her polish. "So, what's our next order of business? Planning Jo's liberation from the Penelope Park Emotional Manipulation Experience, or figuring out why Hope's homework always looks like she's planning to overthrow the magical education system?"
Hope glanced down at her *Advanced Magical Theory* textbook, which was indeed covered in notes that looked suspiciously like battle strategies. "Can't it be both? I'm an excellent multitasker."
"Terrifying," Susan said fondly. "Absolutely terrifying. Remind me never to get on your bad side."
"Smart policy," Hope agreed. "I hold grudges like fine wine—they only get more potent with age."
And as the fire burned low and the conversation drifted to lighter topics, Josie realized that sometimes the best thing friends could do was hold up a mirror and refuse to let you look away until you saw yourself clearly. Even when—especially when—you didn't like what you saw at first.
Because seeing clearly was the first step toward seeing better.
—
# The Music of the Heart
The Salvatore School at midnight was a different creature entirely from its daytime counterpart. Gone were the bustling hallways filled with teenage chatter and the occasional supernatural incident that required creative paperwork. Instead, the corridors stretched out like something from a gothic novel, all shadowed archways and moonlight streaming through tall windows, creating patterns on polished floors that seemed to shift and move with lives of their own.
Hope Mikaelson moved through these shadows with the predatory grace that came from both supernatural heritage and years of training in situations where being noticed could mean the difference between life and death. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone, and she'd mastered the art of breathing so quietly that even vampire hearing would struggle to detect her presence unless they were actively listening for it.
She was dressed for stealth rather than style—dark leggings and an oversized black sweater that would help her blend into the deeper shadows, her hair pulled back in a practical braid that wouldn't catch on doorframes or flutter in peripheral vision. In her hands, she carried a small leather satchel containing notebooks, special pens that wrote in inks only she could see, and several reference books that were definitely not part of the standard curriculum.
The library called to her like a siren song, its extensive collection of rare and restricted magical texts promising answers to questions she couldn't ask during daylight hours. Questions about ancient entities, binding spells, and the kind of magic that existed in the spaces between life and death. The kind of magic that might finally give her the tools she needed to eliminate the Hollow permanently and bring her family back together.
She'd been researching for weeks now, carefully working her way through progressively more dangerous texts, learning about entities that predated most supernatural species and the heroes—or fools—who'd tried to contain them. The answers had to be in there somewhere. They had to be.
Hope had just reached the main staircase leading to the upper floors where the library was located when she heard it—music floating through the corridors like something ethereal, haunting, and completely unexpected at this hour. Piano music, played with the kind of technical skill and emotional depth that could make even the most jaded listener stop and pay attention.
She paused on the stairs, her supernatural hearing immediately analyzing the sound. The melody was complex, layered with harmonies that suggested classical training combined with an intuitive understanding of how music could carry emotional weight that words couldn't touch. But it was the voice that began singing that made her forget all about her clandestine research mission.
The voice was male, unmistakably British, with the kind of warm tenor that could make angels weep and demons reconsider their life choices. It carried through the stone corridors with perfect acoustics, the school's architecture somehow amplifying and enriching the sound until it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
*"Love of my life, you've hurt me..."*
Hope's breath caught in her throat. She knew that song—Queen, one of Freddie Mercury's most emotionally devastating ballads—but she'd never heard it sung like this. The voice carried pain that sounded personal, grief that felt genuine, and a kind of raw vulnerability that made her chest tighten with unexpected sympathy.
*"You've broken my heart, and now you leave me..."*
Without conscious decision, Hope found herself moving toward the source of the music, her research mission completely forgotten. Her bare feet carried her down a corridor she'd never explored before, past classrooms that stood empty and dark, following the sound like a moth drawn to flame.
*"Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me..."*
The music was coming from what she realized must be the school's music room, a space she hadn't even known existed until tonight. Golden light spilled from beneath the door, and she could see the silhouette of someone sitting at what had to be a grand piano, fingers moving across the keys with fluid precision.
Hope pressed herself against the wall beside the doorframe, not quite ready to intrude on what felt like an intensely private moment, but unable to walk away from music that was doing strange things to her emotional defenses.
*"Because you don't know what it means to me..."*
The voice cracked slightly on that line, just enough to suggest that whoever was singing wasn't performing for an audience—they were working through something personal, using music as a form of therapy or emotional release that couldn't be achieved through simple conversation.
Hope risked a look around the doorframe and felt her supernatural instincts immediately recognize the figure at the piano. Harry Potter sat with his back to the door, his dark hair catching the light from several strategically placed lamps that cast the entire room in warm gold. His posture suggested complete absorption in the music, shoulders moving slightly with the rhythm, head tilted in concentration as his fingers found complex chord progressions that most people would need sheet music to navigate.
*"Love of my life, don't leave me... You've stolen my love, you now desert me..."*
Hope had seen Harry in numerous social situations over the past few weeks—charming teachers, diplomatically managing peer conflicts, engaging in intellectual discussions with the kind of confident eloquence that suggested years of excellent education. But this was different. This was Harry with all his social armor stripped away, using music to process emotions that apparently couldn't be handled through his usual methods of analysis and strategic problem-solving.
*"Love of my life, can't you see? Bring it back, bring it back, don't take it away from me..."*
The raw pain in his voice made Hope's eyes fill with tears she hadn't expected. There was something about the way he sang that line that spoke to loss, to longing, to the kind of grief that came from having something precious taken away before you were ready to let it go. She found herself leaning against the wall, no longer trying to remain hidden, just trying to process the emotional impact of hearing someone she was beginning to care about in such obvious pain.
*"Because you don't know what it means to me..."*
Harry's voice broke completely on that final line, the words dissolving into something that was half-singing, half-sob. His hands stilled on the piano keys, and the sudden silence that followed was somehow more powerful than the music had been.
Hope watched him take a shuddering breath, his shoulders trembling slightly with the effort of containing whatever emotions the song had brought to the surface. In the golden lamplight, she could see him wipe his eyes with the back of one hand, and the gesture was so human, so vulnerable, that it made her chest ache with sympathy.
She should leave. She knew she should leave. This was clearly a private moment, and intruding would be a violation of trust that could damage whatever friendship they were building. But her feet seemed rooted to the floor, and she found herself unable to walk away from someone who was obviously in pain.
Harry began playing again, this time a gentler melody that she didn't recognize—something that sounded improvised, like he was working through emotions in real time and translating them directly into music. His technique was flawless, the kind of skill that came from years of serious study, but the emotion behind it was pure and unguarded.
Hope found herself sliding down the wall until she was sitting on the cold stone floor, her back pressed against the corridor wall, just listening. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now, partly in response to the raw emotion in Harry's music, but partly because his pain was resonating with her own carefully hidden grief.
She understood loss. She understood having precious things taken away before you were ready. She understood the kind of pain that could only be properly expressed through art, through music, through the kind of vulnerable honesty that was impossible to achieve in normal conversation.
The improvised melody grew more complex, layering themes that suggested memory, regret, hope, and determination in musical form. Harry's hands moved across the keys with unconscious grace, and Hope realized she was witnessing something extraordinary—not just technical skill, but the kind of raw artistic expression that came from someone who'd learned to use music as a second language for emotions too complex for words.
As the music finally faded into silence, Hope remained frozen in place, torn between the desire to offer comfort to someone who was clearly struggling and the knowledge that revealing her presence would be an intrusion he hadn't consented to.
The decision was taken out of her hands when Harry's voice cut through the silence, still rough with emotion but carrying a note of gentle awareness.
"You don't have to hide, Hope," he said quietly, not turning around to face the doorway. "I know you're there. Your magical signature is quite distinctive, and grief recognizes grief, even from a distance."
Hope's breath caught in surprise—both at being detected despite her careful stealth, and at the matter-of-fact way he'd acknowledged her presence without making her feel guilty for eavesdropping.
She climbed slowly to her feet, her heart hammering with something that felt like stage fright. "I'm sorry," she said softly, stepping into the doorway but not entering the room entirely. "I was heading to the library when I heard the music. I know I should have left, but..."
"But music has its own gravity," Harry finished for her, finally turning on the piano bench to face her directly. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear, and his smile was gentle despite the obvious emotional rawness. "It pulls you in whether you plan to listen or not. I don't mind. Sometimes pain shared is pain halved, even when the sharing is accidental."
Hope stepped fully into the room, noting how the warm lamplight made everything feel intimate and safe despite the late hour and unauthorized nature of their meeting. "That was beautiful," she said honestly. "Heartbreaking, but beautiful. Queen?"
"Freddie Mercury," Harry confirmed with a slight nod. "One of the most emotionally honest performers in human history. He had a gift for turning personal pain into universal art." He paused, studying her with those perceptive green eyes. "Though I suspect you understand something about carrying pain that's too complex for normal expression."
The observation was made without judgment, just gentle recognition of something he saw in her that resonated with his own experience. Hope felt her carefully maintained emotional defenses waver slightly.
"I was actually heading to the library to research some... family complications," she admitted, sinking into one of the comfortable chairs that were scattered around the music room. "Things that can't really be discussed during normal social hours."
"Family complications that require restricted texts and midnight research sessions?" Harry asked with understanding rather than curiosity. "I know something about those. Sometimes the answers we need aren't found in approved curriculum."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, two teenagers who were both clearly carrying burdens that were larger and more complex than their ages should have required them to manage.
"The song," Hope said finally. "It sounded... personal. If you don't mind me saying so."
Harry was quiet for a long moment, his fingers absently picking out a gentle melody on the piano keys. When he spoke, his voice was soft but steady.
"I lost someone," he said simply. "Someone who was... everything to me, really. Not romantic love—family love. The kind that shapes who you are and how you see the world. And for the longest time, I blamed myself for not being strong enough, smart enough, fast enough to prevent it."
Hope felt tears prick her eyes again, both for Harry's loss and for the echo it created of her own complicated relationship with family separation and guilt.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, and meant it completely.
"Thank you," Harry replied, his smile sad but genuine. "It's not something I talk about often. Music is... safer, somehow. It lets me process the emotions without having to explain the entire complicated history to people who wouldn't understand the context anyway."
"Context can be overrated," Hope said with careful honesty. "Sometimes people understand the emotion even without understanding all the details that created it."
Harry looked at her with surprise and growing respect. "That's remarkably wise for someone our age."
"I've had some unusual life experiences," Hope replied with dry understatement. "They tend to accelerate certain aspects of emotional development."
"Such as learning that some forms of pain can only be properly expressed through art?" Harry asked with understanding.
"Among other things," Hope confirmed. "Though I have to say, your approach to musical therapy is considerably more impressive than most people manage. That level of technical skill combined with genuine emotional expression is rare."
Harry's cheeks colored slightly with what might have been embarrassment or pleasure. "I've been playing since I was small. My... guardians... believed that having multiple outlets for complex emotions was essential for psychological health. They were probably right."
"Guardians," Hope repeated, noting the careful word choice. "Not parents?"
"Complicated family situation," Harry said with a slight smile that acknowledged the parallel to her own careful phrasing about family complications. "The people who raised me alongside my mother love me completely, but the relationship doesn't fit standard categories. Rather like having cosmic forces as parental figures—supportive, but occasionally overwhelming in their approach to problem-solving."
Hope laughed despite herself, recognizing something in Harry's description that resonated with her own experience of powerful family members who meant well but sometimes struggled with proportional responses to teenage problems.
"I understand complicated family dynamics," she said with feeling. "Sometimes the people who love you most are also the ones whose protection feels most like imprisonment."
"Exactly," Harry agreed with obvious relief at being understood. "They want to keep you safe, but safety can become suffocating when it prevents you from living your actual life."
Hope leaned forward in her chair, drawn into conversation that felt more honest and real than most of the social interactions she'd experienced since arriving at school.
"Is that why you're here?" she asked gently. "To have space to figure out your actual life without cosmic parental interference?"
"Partly," Harry admitted. "Though mostly I'm here because I wanted to experience normal teenage social dynamics for the first time. Make friends who like me for who I am rather than what I represent or what my family can do for them."
"And is it working?" Hope asked with genuine curiosity.
Harry's smile was warm and completely unguarded. "Better than I hoped, actually. Though I have to say, finding someone who understands both the burdens and benefits of complicated supernatural family situations wasn't something I expected when I enrolled."
Hope felt something flutter in her chest that had nothing to do with supernatural abilities and everything to do with the way Harry was looking at her—like she was someone genuinely interesting rather than someone to be managed or impressed.
"The night is still young," she said with a slight smile. "Who knows what other unexpected discoveries await?"
Harry grinned, the expression transforming his face from handsome to absolutely devastating. "Well, since we've both abandoned our original midnight missions in favor of accidental emotional honesty, perhaps we could combine forces? I could provide musical accompaniment for your research session, or you could provide intellectual company for my therapeutic piano practice."
"That," Hope said with growing delight, "sounds considerably more appealing than solitary research into ancient supernatural entities with questionable moral frameworks and concerning dietary requirements."
"Ancient supernatural entities," Harry repeated with raised eyebrows and obvious fascination. "Now that does sound like the kind of family complication that requires midnight library sessions and restricted texts."
"Unfortunately," Hope sighed, settling more comfortably in her chair as she realized this conversation was far from over. "Though I suspect your cosmic parental figures might have some relevant knowledge about dealing with entities that predate most supernatural species and have inconvenient ideas about possessing people."
Harry's expression grew more serious, though still warmly interested rather than alarmed. "Possession by ancient entities is definitely the kind of problem that benefits from multiple perspectives and collaborative problem-solving approaches. Plus, research is always more effective when conducted by people who can appreciate both the intellectual challenge and the practical implications."
"Are you offering to help with my impossible research project?" Hope asked, surprised by how much the offer meant to her.
"I'm offering to provide company, musical interludes, and whatever insights I might have about dealing with supernatural problems that are too big for normal solutions," Harry replied with gentle honesty. "Whether that qualifies as help depends on whether you find collaborative approaches useful or distracting."
Hope felt something warm and bright bloom in her chest—not romantic attraction, exactly, though she was self-aware enough to recognize that Harry Potter was definitely attractive in ways that were going to cause her problems eventually. This was something rarer: the recognition of someone who understood her world, shared her values, and might actually be able to help with problems she'd been carrying alone for too long.
"Collaborative approaches," she said with decision, "sound like exactly what I need. Though I should warn you, ancient supernatural entities tend to have very creative definitions of 'reasonable compromise' and 'acceptable collateral damage.'"
Harry's smile was sharp with anticipation. "Well then, it sounds like this research project is going to be educational for both of us. Though perhaps we should relocate to the library before we get too deep into discussions about entities with questionable moral frameworks? These walls have excellent acoustics, which means they probably also have excellent eavesdropping potential."
As they gathered Harry's sheet music and Hope's research materials, preparing to relocate their midnight collaboration to somewhere with better security and more comprehensive reference materials, Hope realized that what had started as a solitary mission to solve her family's problems had transformed into something entirely different.
She'd found an ally. More than that, she'd found someone who understood the weight of carrying supernatural responsibilities that were too large for normal teenage shoulders, and who might actually be able to help her find solutions instead of just offering sympathy.
And if those solutions happened to involve the kind of intellectual partnership that made her feel more hopeful than she had in months, well, that was just an unexpected bonus to what was already turning out to be the most productive midnight research session of her life.
Even if they hadn't actually researched anything yet.
But the night was young, the library was full of possibilities, and for the first time since arriving at the Salvatore School, Hope felt like she was exactly where she belonged.
---
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