You were never supposed to have magic. At least, that’s what your family said.

They called it unnatural—a curse, a stain passed down through shameful blood. Every flicker of light, every shadow that moved when it shouldn’t, every frost creeping across the windows—they punished you with silence. Anger. Fear. And a silence that seared into your chest: You do not belong. You are a mistake wearing their name.

When you were ten, your mother made you promise never to use it again. You didn’t even know what it was. Every time you lost control, her eyes cut you like a blade. You weren’t a child to nurture—you were something to survive.

So you hid it. Bit your tongue until it bled. Pretended.

Until pretending wasn’t enough.

It happened on a Sunday evening. The air shifted the moment you stepped inside. Heavy. Wrong. Lights flickered, dimmed, and the air thickened with the scent of iron and rot. Then a growl, low and guttural, from the backyard.

The creature emerged—a mass of black sludge, moving and hungry, alive in a way that defied reason. Malivore’s spawn, though you didn’t know the name. Only fear.

Your parents screamed. Your father seized a knife; your mother’s voice trembled, sharp as accusation. The thing lunged. Something inside you shattered.

Blue light exploded from your chest—wild, furious, uncontained. It threw the creature back, just for a heartbeat. Your father looked at you with disgust. Your mother whispered: Monster.

Then the light came.

It tore through the air like a storm. Runes burned blue across the walls. The monster shrieked, convulsed, and crumbled into ash.

When the smoke cleared, she was there.

Hope Mikaelson.

A long coat dusted with soot. Wavy auburn hair in a half-knot. Eyes like wildfire and thunder, unflinching. The air shimmered faintly, still thrumming with power. She looked at you, and something shifted—understanding older than words.

She crossed the shattered kitchen floor, boots crunching glass. No fear. No pity. Just recognition.

Your parents lingered behind, silent, unyielding. Hope’s gaze flicked to them once, sharp, then returned to you. “You don’t have to apologize for surviving. People like them will tell you your power makes you dangerous. What they’ll never admit is that it makes them small. Don’t let their fear define you.”

You couldn’t answer. Your father’s grip on the knife tightened, fury in every knuckle. Your mother muttered curses under her breath, words meant to cut you down.

Hope’s eyes softened. She extended a hand, patient, unwavering. “This house was never going to be a home. But there’s a place where it could be. A school for people who feel broken until they learn they were never meant to fit inside someone else’s idea of normal. You’d be safe there. You’d be seen.”

Your parents remained mute. They didn’t beg. They didn’t stop you. Their silence was a verdict.

You touched her hand. Warmth spread through your chest—a dizzy, grounding calm. She guided you through the yard, shattered glass and scorched soil underfoot.

Outside, rain fell thin and cold. Hope looked back at the house, then at you.

“You’re not the monster they see. You’re the reason monsters lose.” The words sank through the fog of fear. Later, you’d remember the weight of her hand, the hum of power fading, and the headlights cutting through the rain. Silence didn’t feel like judgment—it felt like freedom.

The house shrank behind the trees—small, distant, irrelevant. Ahead lay the unknown, and the faint blue light still flickered under your skin.

Somewhere beyond the dark forest, the Salvatore School waited—its windows glowing like lanterns in the night.

That night—under lightning, rain, and ruin—you stopped hiding.

You began to become it.