# Room 314 – Salvatore School Dormitory
The ancient door to Room 314 whispered shut behind Harry Potter with the kind of practiced silence that came from years of dodging death, destiny, and disappointed professors who had very strong opinions about students being out after curfew. The Salvatore School's dormitories weren't Hogwarts—no moving staircases that changed their minds halfway through your journey, no portrait gossips who spread rumors faster than supernatural tabloids—but they had their own particular charm. Stone walls that had witnessed centuries of supernatural drama dating back to the founding families, enchanted windows that automatically dimmed after midnight to keep nosy neighbors from spotting late-night emergencies, and roommates who occasionally sprouted fangs during stressful exam periods or transformed into something with too many teeth when they forgot to eat lunch.
The building itself hummed with protective magic layered thick as castle walls, courtesy of generations of witches, vampires, and other supernatural beings who'd decided that maybe, just maybe, their children deserved somewhere safe to learn how not to accidentally level city blocks during teenage mood swings.
Harry's current roommate, thankfully, was fully human and sound asleep.
Neville Longbottom sprawled across his bed like he'd been dropped from a considerable height by a particularly careless giant, one arm dangling off the mattress, sandy hair sticking up in defiant cowlicks that would make his grandmother weep with despair. His Advanced Herbology textbook—*Dangerous Plants and How Not to Die Horribly While Studying Them*—lay open on his chest, rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Poor bastard was probably dreaming about vampire roses that actually bit back and werewolf wolfsbane that howled when you pruned it wrong—the kind of normal supernatural problems that didn't threaten to unravel the fabric of existence like a cheap sweater.
Harry envied him with every fiber of his being. Normal nightmares about carnivorous daisies. Normal supernatural coursework that only required protective gloves and common sense. Normal everything that didn't involve cosmic entities with abandonment issues.
Unfortunately, Harry Potter's life had a standing restraining order against anything resembling "normal," and the universe seemed to take personal offense whenever he tried to have a quiet evening.
He settled into his desk chair—a surprisingly comfortable piece of furniture that probably cost more than most people's cars, courtesy of the Salvatore School's obscenely wealthy benefactors who believed that if you were going to house supernatural teenagers, you might as well do it in style. The room itself was a study in understated luxury: hardwood floors that didn't creak during midnight escapes, built-in wardrobes that were definitely bigger on the inside than the outside, and desks equipped with everything from standard laptops to specialized supernatural communication devices.
Speaking of which.
Harry pulled out what looked like a sleek smartphone but decidedly wasn't. No carrier logo promising terrible service at premium prices, no app store designed to drain your bank account one purchase at a time, no social media notifications engineered by marketing psychologists to destroy teenage attention spans. Just one contact in the address book, glowing with ethereal golden light that pulsed like a tiny captive star: **L. Morningstar**.
The little winged icon next to the name beat like a heartbeat, as if it knew exactly how monumentally this conversation was about to complicate everyone's lives, possibly in ways that would require insurance claims and therapy.
Harry stared at the device, thumb hovering over the call button like it was the trigger on a nuclear weapon. Once he pressed it, this whole mess graduated from "teenage supernatural drama with manageable property damage" to "cosmic family intervention with a high probability of explosions, death threats, and someone getting dramatically flung through a wall while delivering a monologue about their feelings."
Which, to be perfectly fair, was basically every Tuesday at the Salvatore School. Wednesday was usually werewolf drama, Thursday was vampire politics, and Friday was reserved for whatever apocalyptic crisis the weekend had in store.
He pressed the button.
The screen erupted in golden light—not the tinny electronic ring of mortal technology, but something that pulsed with celestial power and barely restrained ego, like a symphony orchestra made of pure confidence. The light was warm, compelling, and somehow managed to sound expensive. Then, smooth as aged whiskey and approximately twice as dangerous to one's long-term health:
"Harry." Lucifer Morningstar's voice carried warmth, silk, and the kind of supreme confidence that came from knowing you were the most devastatingly attractive being in several dimensions and having the cosmic power to back up that assessment. "How absolutely delightful to hear from you, darling boy. Though I must say, midnight calls from teenage sons typically herald either genuine emergency involving the potential end of the world, or spectacularly poor decision-making involving alcohol, questionable romantic choices, or both. And given your rather impressive track record for both categories—well, this could go either way, really."
Harry leaned back in his chair, lips quirking into the kind of smirk that had once made Severus Snape reach for his blood pressure medication. It was the same expression that had faced down Dark Lords, corrupt politicians, and teachers who assigned homework over holidays—pure British disdain wrapped in deceptively polite packaging. "Oh, cosmic emergency, definitely. Universe potentially getting shredded like a bad term paper, reality hanging by a thread thinner than Malfoy's excuses for being a git, the usual Wednesday night special. But thanks for that ringing endorsement of my judgment, Dad. Really feeling the parental confidence flowing through the cosmic phone lines here."
There was a pause—the kind where Harry could practically hear Lucifer's grin sharpening into something both fond and dangerously amused, like a blade being lovingly honed.
"Sarcasm at this hour of the night?" Lucifer purred, and his voice carried that particular note of delighted pride that suggested he was genuinely pleased with his son's attitude problem. "My dear boy, you do know how to make a father's heart sing operatic arias of pure joy. Very well, you have my complete and utterly fabulous attention. Do tell me which particular cosmic horror is currently threatening to ruin everyone's perfectly adequate existence this time."
Harry crossed his arms, settling in for what was bound to be either the most productive or most catastrophic conversation of his week. Possibly both, knowing his luck. "It's Hope. Hope Mikaelson. She's been juggling a problem that makes Voldemort look like an irritated house-elf with anger management issues and a bad attitude about laundry."
"Ah," Lucifer said, and Harry could hear the shift in his tone—amusement crystallizing into the kind of sharp, focused attention that had once commanded legions of angels and still made lesser demons break out in nervous sweats. "The Tribrid. Yes, I'm quite familiar with her particular... complications. Impressively powerful young lady. Absolutely terrible at following basic safety protocols. Has a concerning tendency to sacrifice herself for others. Reminds me of someone I know, actually."
"Wonder who that could possibly be," Harry deadpanned, examining his fingernails with elaborate disinterest.
"Can't imagine," Lucifer replied smoothly, though his voice carried enough amusement to power a small city. "But do continue, my dramatically inclined offspring. What's our dear Hope gotten herself entangled with this time? Please tell me it's not another love triangle. I find those tediously predictable."
Harry's expression darkened like storm clouds gathering over London. "The Hollow. And before you ask, yes, that Hollow. The primordial parasite that treats reality like a midnight snack and has developed a disturbing hobby of possessing people with inconveniently powerful bloodlines and family drama."
The silence on the other end stretched just long enough for Harry to wonder if the call had dropped, or if Lucifer had suddenly found something more interesting to focus on—which, given his attention span, was always a possibility. Then the Devil sighed, a sound that carried weariness, annoyance, and the particular frustration of someone who'd been genuinely hoping never to hear that name again.
"Oh, bloody hell and several other significantly less pleasant dimensions," Lucifer said, his voice carrying the tone of someone discussing a particularly persistent ex-lover who kept showing up at parties uninvited and drinking all the good wine. "The Hollow. Of course it is. Because naturally, it can't be a nice, simple demon possession that can be sorted with some holy water and creative use of Latin. No, it has to be the cosmic entity that makes my father's more dramatic punishments look like strongly worded letters of disappointment."
Harry raised an eyebrow in the kind of expression that had once made Rita Skeeter reconsider her career choices. "So you're familiar with our little interdimensional pest problem."
"My dear boy," Lucifer said, exasperation bleeding through the fondness like expensive cologne through cheap fabric, "I'm the bloody Devil. If something exists that can unmake creation, develop daddy issues, cause family drama on a universal scale, or threaten the natural order in ways that would make my rebellion look like a minor disagreement over dinner plans, I keep extensive files. Color-coded files. With cross-references and threat assessments. It's an occupational hazard, really. One simply cannot maintain a proper rebellion without staying meticulously informed about which cosmic horrors are currently threatening the status quo."
Harry grinned, the expression sharp enough to cut glass. "Right. Well, that saves me the dramatic exposition scene, complete with ominous music and unnecessary flashbacks."
"Oh, you gave me one anyway," Lucifer pointed out with obvious amusement. "But I must say, yours had significantly better delivery than most. Proper dramatic timing, excellent word choice, just the right amount of British disdain. I'm rather proud, actually. It's like watching a masterclass in sophisticated mockery."
"Learned from the best," Harry shot back without missing a beat. "Though I did have to study under some truly gifted practitioners. Snape was practically a doctorate program in creative insults."
"That man was an artist," Lucifer agreed solemnly. "A deeply unpleasant, psychologically damaged artist, but an artist nonetheless. But enough about our mutual appreciation for cutting wit. What's the current 'solution' to Hope's little parasite problem? And please tell me it's better than 'throw her in a cage and hope for the best.'"
Harry's jaw tightened in the way it always did when he encountered institutional stupidity masquerading as wisdom. "The current 'solution'—and I use that term in the loosest possible sense, like calling a paper airplane a spacecraft—is basically supernatural exile camp with a side order of family separation therapy. Hope's been kept apart from her family because apparently, Klaus and the gang all together in one room might accidentally provide enough combined emotional resonance to reassemble the world's hungriest parasite."
"Ah yes, the separation strategy," Lucifer said with the tone of someone reviewing a particularly uninspired military strategy written by committee. "Lovely in theory, like so many things designed by people who've never actually dealt with cosmic threats. Absolutely catastrophic in practice. Someone always gets emotional—usually at the worst possible moment—the magical barriers crack like cheap paint, and then everyone remembers why we don't typically let primordial entities possess people who can level city blocks when they're having a particularly bad day."
Harry leaned forward, jaw setting with the kind of determination that had once walked him into the Forbidden Forest to face Voldemort armed with nothing but stubborn courage and a poorly thought-out plan. "Exactly. And she deserves so much better than that. Better than self-sacrifice and magical restraining orders pulled from the supernatural equivalent of dodgy internet forums run by people who think 'binding spells' are relationship advice and 'protection circles' are something you draw with sidewalk chalk."
Lucifer's delighted laughter rippled through the phone like expensive champagne bubbles. "Oh, Harry. That tongue of yours is absolutely wicked. Sharp enough to fillet a politician at fifty paces. I do so love it when you channel your inner Prince of Darkness. It's like watching a beautiful, terrible flower bloom."
"Must be genetic," Harry said dryly, though his eyes sparkled with mischief that would have made the Weasley twins weep with pride. "Mum's side, obviously. She always did have a way with words when people were being particularly stupid."
"Darling boy, that razor-sharp wit is pure nurture, courtesy of yours truly," Lucifer said smugly, preening audibly through the phone. "Your mother was absolutely lovely, brilliant in every way that mattered, but her idea of cutting sarcasm was telling someone their tea was 'interesting' or their garden was 'certainly unique.' No, that delicious venom coursing through your verbal veins is entirely my influence. Years of careful cultivation."
Harry snorted, a sound of pure disbelief. "Right, because you're such a shining example of healthy communication skills and emotional maturity. I'm sure your approach to conflict resolution involves nothing but measured discussion and careful consideration of all viewpoints."
"I prefer to think of my style as 'charmingly direct with a touch of theatrical flair,'" Lucifer corrected with wounded dignity. "But enough about my many excellent and underappreciated qualities. You called because you want solutions, not my usual therapeutic session of magnificent self-aggrandizement and philosophical reflection. And as it happens, I do have a few tricks up my impeccably tailored sleeves for dealing with primordial pest problems."
Harry straightened in his chair like a hunting hound catching a scent. "Go on. And please tell me it doesn't involve more family separation therapy or turning Hope into a supernatural hermit."
"Well, you see," Lucifer began, settling into his explanation with the satisfaction of someone about to solve a particularly elegant puzzle, "creatures like the Hollow don't properly 'exist' in our conventional sense of the word. They straddle realities like uncomfortable furniture, slip between dimensions like smoke through a keyhole, and treat the normal rules of existence like particularly amusing suggestions from a bureaucrat they don't respect. Which makes traditional binding or banishment rather like trying to cage fog with a butterfly net made of good intentions and wishful thinking."
"But you've got a cosmic butterfly net," Harry said, leaning back with the kind of confidence that came from knowing his father was about to pull a solution out of thin air like a magician with delusions of grandeur.
"Oh, much better than that," Lucifer purred, voice rich with anticipation. "Reality restructuring. Dimensional quarantine protocols. Temporal nudges. Existential reclassification with a side of metaphysical restructuring. I could fundamentally alter the framework of local reality to simply... exclude the Hollow. Make it so the wretched thing never had a proper foothold to begin with, like editing a particularly unpleasant character out of a story."
Harry gave him a look that could have frozen hellfire and made the Thames run backwards. "Right. Just casually rewrite the laws of physics and reality. Because that sort of thing never goes catastrophically wrong in ways that require cleanup crews and memory modification."
"Everything has side effects, darling," Lucifer said with the breezy confidence of someone who'd never met a problem he couldn't solve with sufficient application of cosmic power and creative thinking. "The trick is choosing ones that won't ruin the décor or upset the local magical ecosystem. A few localized adjustments to supernatural law, perhaps some minor temporal smoothing to prevent paradoxes, maybe a touch of dimensional rebalancing—nothing that would upset the neighbors or require extensive paperwork. Much tidier than letting a primordial entity devour reality like an all-you-can-eat buffet, don't you think?"
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of the headache that always accompanied conversations about casually restructuring fundamental forces of existence. "So cosmic pest control. Less extermination, more... aggressive eviction notice with metaphysical enforcement."
"Precisely!" Lucifer sounded absolutely delighted, like a child who'd just been told Christmas was coming early. "Though I prefer to think of it as aggressive property management with metaphysical implications and a touch of artistic flair. Really, it's quite elegant when you consider the alternatives."
"And to pull off this aggressive property management with artistic flair," Harry said slowly, already dreading the answer, "you'd need..."
"Everyone," Lucifer said with the kind of relish usually reserved for five-star restaurants and perfectly orchestrated revenge plots. "Hope, obviously—can't save someone without their participation. Klaus—absolutely cannot wait to meet him, I hear he has fascinating anger issues and artistic pretensions. Elijah, the diplomatic one with excellent taste in suits and an admirable commitment to family loyalty. Rebekah, because no proper family intervention is complete without at least one person threatening to murder everyone else in the room. Hayley, the protective mother figure who'll want to stake me on principle before I've even finished introducing myself. Possibly that Saltzman fellow if I'm feeling generous and require someone to explain the educational implications. And naturally, me at the center of it all, basking in everyone's suspicion while offering the only sensible solution to their impossible problem."
Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair with the resignation of someone watching a train wreck in slow motion. "You mean a family meeting. A Mikaelson family meeting. With Klaus Mikaelson. And you. In the same room. While discussing the fate of his daughter and the potential restructuring of local reality."
"Oh yes," Lucifer said, practically vibrating with anticipation through the phone line. "There will be magnificent shouting that could probably be heard in the next county. Death threats delivered with centuries of practice and genuine artistic merit. Someone will definitely try to kill me—probably Klaus, though Rebekah might make a sporting attempt just to keep things interesting. Hayley will want to stake first and ask questions later, which is perfectly understandable from a parenting perspective. It's going to be absolutely delicious family drama of the highest caliber."
"You call that delicious. I call it a recipe for the Salvatore School needing major renovations after you and Klaus destroy half the building in a supernatural pissing contest," Harry muttered, already mentally calculating evacuation routes and structural damage assessments.
"Darling boy," Lucifer replied, his voice rich with anticipation and barely contained glee, "catastrophe is simply drama with higher stakes and significantly better special effects. And I do so love good drama, especially when it involves overprotective supernatural parents, family dynamics that could power a soap opera, and the opportunity to save their daughter while looking devastatingly heroic and morally superior in the process."
Harry shook his head, but he was fighting a grin that threatened to break free despite his best efforts. "You're going to absolutely love Klaus, aren't you? He's basically you with more artistic pretensions, a hobby of painting his feelings while murdering his enemies, and a thousand-year grudge against anyone who threatens his family."
"Oh, we're going to get along spectacularly," Lucifer said with obvious delight, like someone anticipating the world's most entertaining chess match. "By which I mean I'll provoke him with surgical precision until poor Elijah has to step in and play mediator, Rebekah threatens us both with creative violence, and Hayley seriously considers setting the entire room on fire just to make us stop talking. It'll be like Christmas morning, New Year's Eve, and my birthday all rolled into one glorious celebration of dysfunction."
"Your idea of celebration is deeply concerning and probably requires therapy," Harry said dryly.
"I prefer 'festive' with a touch of 'dramatically appropriate,'" Lucifer corrected with wounded dignity. "But listen, Harry—and this is genuinely important—you've already accomplished the hardest part of this entire endeavor. You saw a friend drowning under the weight of an impossible situation, refused to let her bear that burden alone, and asked for help before the crisis reached truly apocalyptic proportions. That level of emotional maturity and practical thinking is spectacularly un-Potter-like, actually. I'm genuinely impressed and more than a little proud."
Harry felt something warm and unfamiliar settle in his chest, even as he rolled his eyes at the backhanded compliment. "Oi. I'm famous for asking for help when I need it."
"You're famous for charging headfirst into mortal danger while hoping help arrives before you get yourself killed in some dramatically heroic fashion that would make epic poets weep," Lucifer corrected with fond exasperation. "This—calling for backup, thinking strategically, considering all the angles before acting—this is actual emotional growth. Your mother will be ridiculously proud when she hears about this. As would James, if he weren't too busy in the afterlife being amazed that his son managed to avoid a dramatically heroic near-death experience for once."
The warmth spread through Harry's chest, sharp and sudden and almost overwhelming. He swallowed hard, blinking quickly to clear his vision. "Yeah, well," he said softly, voice carrying more emotion than he'd intended. "Mum always says the best way to help people is to make sure you have the right tools for the job. No point charging in if you're just going to make things worse."
"Lily Evans," Lucifer murmured, and his voice carried a gentleness that few beings in creation had ever been privileged to hear. "Brilliant woman. Absolutely terrible judge of romantic partners before she met James, but brilliant when it came to everything else that mattered. You have her heart, you know. That fierce, protective love that would move mountains and restructure reality if necessary. And James' sense of mischief and unwavering moral compass. And thankfully, my complete inability to accept 'impossible' as a valid excuse for not trying."
Harry grinned, and this time the expression carried steel beneath the humor—the kind of look that had once stared down the most powerful dark wizard in recent history and declared him fundamentally inadequate. "Careful, Dad. Keep praising me like that and I might start thinking I can out-sass the actual Devil himself."
Lucifer's laughter was rich, dark, and absolutely delighted. "Oh, Harry. My magnificent, arrogant, impossible boy. Do try. It'll be absolutely adorable watching you attempt to match wits with someone who literally invented the concept of witty comebacks and has had millennia to perfect the art. I genuinely look forward to the educational experience."
The golden light began to fade from the screen like sunset through expensive curtains. Harry sat back in his chair, feeling the knots of tension in his shoulders finally start to loosen for the first time in days. Across the room, Neville continued to snore on in blissful ignorance of the cosmic intervention his roommate had just arranged.
"One more thing," Harry said quickly, before the connection could fade entirely.
"Yes, my dear boy?"
"When you meet Klaus... maybe try not to lead with the psychological analysis or daddy issues commentary. The man's got a bit of a complex about his parenting skills, and we need him functional enough to actually help solve this mess."
Lucifer paused, and Harry could practically hear him considering this request with the seriousness it deserved. "My dear boy, are you suggesting that I should show restraint? Diplomatic discretion? Me? The being who once told my father exactly what I thought of his management style in front of the entire heavenly host?"
"I'm suggesting that Hope needs her father emotionally stable enough to participate in cosmic reality restructuring, not reduced to a homicidal rage-painting session in the school's art studio," Harry said dryly.
"Fine," Lucifer sighed with the martyred air of someone making a tremendous personal sacrifice. "I'll save the psychological analysis and family therapy observations for dessert. But I make absolutely no promises about avoiding the obvious jokes about his parenting style or the irony of a thousand-year-old vampire having teenage relationship drama."
"That's probably the best I'm going to get from you," Harry muttered, though his tone was fond.
"Indeed it is. Now, get some sleep, darling boy. Tomorrow, we begin the delicate and potentially explosive process of convincing a family of immortal supernatural beings with trust issues to put their faith in the Devil himself regarding their daughter's life and the fundamental restructuring of local reality. It's going to require all of our charm, wit, and diplomatic skills."
"Your charm and diplomatic skills," Harry corrected. "I'm just the guy who made the phone call and will probably end up explaining why this is actually a good idea."
"Darling boy," Lucifer said warmly, his voice carrying genuine affection and pride, "you're the one who saw past the impossible to find the solution. You're the one who refused to accept that a friend had to suffer alone. That makes you the most important person in this entire equation. Don't ever forget that."
The screen went dark, leaving Harry staring at his reflection in the black surface. He set the device aside carefully and looked out the window at the Salvatore School's moonlit grounds, where ancient trees cast long shadows and the protective wards hummed with quiet power.
Somewhere in this building, Hope Mikaelson was probably lying awake in her own room, staring at the ceiling and carrying the weight of a problem too enormous for any teenager to bear alone. The kind of burden that ground down souls and made people forget what it felt like to hope for anything better than mere survival.
Well, not anymore.
Harry Potter settled back in his chair, allowing himself one moment of pure, vicious satisfaction. Because tomorrow, the Devil himself was coming to dinner, armed with cosmic solutions and a complete lack of respect for the word "impossible." The Hollow was about to learn what happened when you threatened someone under the combined protection of the Boy Who Lived and the Morning Star.
And frankly, Harry thought with a grin that would have made his father proud, it was going to be absolutely spectacular.
—
# The Eternal City - Rome, Italy
### 2:47 AM
The narrow cobblestone alley behind the Pantheon stretched into shadows that seemed older than the empire that built them, slick with recent rain and the kind of Mediterranean dampness that clung to ancient stone like memories. Klaus Mikaelson moved through these shadows with the predatory grace of someone who'd been perfecting the art of supernatural stalking since before Rome was anything more than a collection of hills and ambitious shepherds with delusions of grandeur.
At a thousand years old, Klaus had learned to dress for his hunts with the kind of casual elegance that suggested he might be heading to an exclusive dinner party rather than tracking down a centuries-old friend who'd decided betrayal was an acceptable career change. His charcoal suit was perfectly tailored, his dark hair styled with just enough deliberate dishevelment to look effortlessly attractive, and his expression carried the kind of cold anticipation that made smart people cross the street and stupid people wonder why they suddenly felt like prey.
The vampire he was hunting—Marcus Aurelius, because apparently some people never got over their identity issues from the glory days of imperial Rome—had been a friend once. They'd shared wine in Renaissance taverns, traded stories during the Enlightenment, even collaborated on a few particularly artistic revenge plots during the more colorful periods of European history. But friendship, Klaus had learned through bitter experience, was often just betrayal with better timing and more sophisticated excuses.
Marcus had been feeding information to Klaus's enemies for months. Small things at first—his travel patterns, his business interests, the locations of his safe houses. Nothing that seemed immediately threatening, just the kind of casual intelligence that old friends might reasonably share during late-night conversations about the good old days when plague was a legitimate military strategy.
But intelligence had a way of compounding like interest on bad debt, and now Klaus found himself in the delightful position of having to murder someone who'd seen him cry during the Black Death and knew exactly which century he'd developed his unfortunate habit of dramatic monologuing during violent confrontations.
Klaus paused at the mouth of the alley, every supernatural sense alert and focused. Marcus would be close—the scent trail was fresh, carrying notes of expensive cologne, old blood, and the particular kind of nervous sweat that came from knowing Klaus Mikaelson was hunting you through the streets of Rome with nothing but time, patience, and a thousand years of accumulated grievances.
His phone rang.
Klaus stared at the device with the kind of expression usually reserved for particularly disappointing artwork or wine that had been stored improperly, letting it ring twice before checking the caller ID with idle curiosity. Unknown international number, which could mean anything from business associates with poor timing to enemies who'd gotten hold of his personal contact information and thought anonymous threats were an acceptable form of psychological warfare.
He answered on the fourth ring, his voice carrying just enough cultivated menace to discourage casual conversation while leaving room for genuinely important business.
"Klaus Mikaelson," he said, his accent crisp with barely controlled irritation at being interrupted during what promised to be a wonderfully therapeutic evening of violence and closure. "I trust this is either genuinely urgent or entertainingly brief, because I'm currently engaged in matters that require my complete attention and have very little patience for social calls or unsolicited sales pitches."
"Hello, Klaus." The voice that came through the phone was smooth as aged whiskey, warm as expensive honey, and carrying an undertone of cosmic amusement that made Klaus's blood freeze in his veins with recognition so sudden and complete it was like being struck by lightning. "How absolutely delightful to hear your voice again. Though I must say, you sound positively murderous this evening. I do hope I'm not interrupting anything too theatrically violent."
Klaus went completely still, every supernatural instinct screaming recognition of a presence that had haunted his nightmares and featured in his most interesting dreams for centuries. The phone trembled in his grip, and for a moment he forgot entirely about Marcus, betrayal, and artistic revenge plots.
"Lucifer," he breathed, his voice carrying a complex mixture of shock, wariness, and something that might have been anticipation. "Lucifer bloody Morningstar. I haven't heard from you since... Christ, when was it? That business in Vienna during the Congress? The affair with the demon prince and the Austrian diplomat's wife who turned out to be running a supernatural black market in cursed jewelry?"
"1814," Lucifer confirmed with obvious pleasure at being remembered so precisely. "Though technically it was the demon prince's wife and the Austrian diplomat, and the cursed jewelry was actually enchanted performance art designed to expose political corruption through interpretive dance. But yes, that would be our last proper conversation. You were being magnificently dramatic about something involving your family, as I recall. Very passionate, quite artistic. I was impressed."
Klaus felt a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth despite his confusion at this cosmic contact after two centuries of silence. "And you were being insufferably superior about the whole thing while offering solutions that involved restructuring half of continental Europe and possibly starting a war with Hell itself. Some things never change, apparently."
"My solutions are always proportional to the scope of the problem," Lucifer replied with wounded dignity. "It's not my fault that supernatural crises tend to require cosmic intervention and creative applications of metaphysical law. But enough reminiscing about our charming history of morally questionable collaboration—I'm calling because I have a proposition that might interest you."
Klaus raised an eyebrow, momentarily forgetting that his caller couldn't see the expression. Years of experience with Lucifer Morningstar had taught him that propositions from the Devil typically involved either magnificent opportunities or spectacular disasters, and sometimes both simultaneously.
"A proposition," he said carefully, his natural wariness warring with genuine curiosity. "And this proposition couldn't wait until daylight hours or normal business scheduling because...?"
"Because it concerns your daughter," Lucifer said, his voice dropping into that particular tone of gentle seriousness that Klaus remembered from their few moments of genuine emotional honesty during their centuries-old acquaintance. "Hope. And a problem she's been carrying alone for far too long while everyone around her focuses on containment strategies that are systematically failing and separation protocols that are slowly destroying your family from the inside out."
The words hit Klaus like a physical blow, driving all thoughts of Marcus and revenge plots completely out of his head. His hand tightened on the phone with enough force to crack the casing, and his voice, when he managed to find it again, was rough with sudden parental fury and desperate concern.
"Hope." The name came out as both prayer and threat, carrying seven years of accumulated guilt, love, and protective rage. "What do you know about my daughter's situation? How do you even know about—no, scratch that. You're the Devil. Of course you know about impossible supernatural problems that governments classify above top secret. The real question is why you're calling me about it instead of just... handling it yourself."
"Because handling it myself would be rude and presumptuous," Lucifer replied with the kind of careful respect that Klaus recognized as genuine rather than diplomatic. "She's your daughter, Klaus. Your family, your choice, your authority. I may have solutions, but I'm not going to swoop in like some cosmic savior complex and restructure your daughter's life without permission. That would be both morally questionable and strategically inadvisable when dealing with protective supernatural parents who have significant resources and very creative approaches to revenge."
Klaus felt something warm and unexpected settle in his chest—recognition of genuine respect for his parental authority from someone who could probably snap his fingers and solve Hope's problems without breaking stride. It was the kind of consideration that had been notably absent from most of the "experts" who'd been handling Hope's situation with all the delicacy and insight of drunken medieval surgeons.
"Alright," he said, leaning against the ancient stone wall with the kind of casual grace that suggested he'd momentarily forgotten about being in the middle of a supernatural hunt. "You have my attention, Lucifer. Complete, undivided, fascinated attention. What exactly do you know about Hope's situation that the current collection of magical specialists and supernatural bureaucrats apparently don't?"
"I know that separation strategies don't work long-term with entities like the Hollow," Lucifer said with the kind of clinical precision that suggested extensive personal experience with cosmic-level threats. "I know that your daughter has been researching solutions on her own because the adults in her life are too focused on managing symptoms to address root causes. And I know that she's made friends with my son, who called me tonight because he's worried about her and has correctly identified that this problem requires intervention from beings with cosmic-level perspective and resources."
Klaus went completely still, processing this information with supernatural speed while his mind raced through implications, complications, and the sudden recognition that this conversation had just shifted from unexpected to world-changing.
"Your son," he said slowly, his voice carrying the kind of careful precision he used when negotiating with entities who could unmake reality if they took offense at careless phrasing. "Your son is concerned about my daughter. And he has access to you. And you're offering to help because..."
"Because no child should have to carry that kind of burden alone," Lucifer said with simple honesty that carried more weight than elaborate justifications. "Because family separation as a containment strategy is ultimately cruel to everyone involved and ineffective at solving the underlying problem. And because I have the resources to actually fix this situation permanently instead of just managing it indefinitely while everyone involved slowly goes insane from stress and isolation."
Klaus felt his throat tighten with emotions he'd been suppressing for seven years—grief, guilt, desperate hope, and the kind of overwhelming parental love that would move mountains and reshape reality if necessary to protect his daughter.
"Fix it," he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're telling me you can actually fix the Hollow problem. Permanently. Not just contain it or manage it or separate us for the rest of our unnatural lives, but actually solve it."
"Reality restructuring," Lucifer confirmed with growing enthusiasm, clearly warming to his favorite topic. "Dimensional quarantine protocols. Existential reclassification with metaphysical enforcement. I can fundamentally alter the framework of local reality to simply exclude the Hollow from having access to your daughter or your family. Make it so the entity never had proper purchase in this dimensional space to begin with."
"That sounds..." Klaus paused, his mind struggling to process the possibility of a genuine solution after years of impossible choices and inadequate measures. "That sounds too good to be true. What's the catch? Because in my experience, cosmic solutions usually come with cosmic prices, and I need to know what we're risking before I agree to anything."
"The catch is that it requires everyone," Lucifer said with obvious relish, his voice carrying the kind of anticipation that suggested he was genuinely looking forward to whatever chaos was about to ensue. "You, Elijah, Rebekah, Hope, Hayley—the entire family structure needs to be present and participating for the ritual framework to function properly. Which means a Mikaelson family meeting. With me. While I restructure local reality around your daughter's protection."
Klaus stared at his phone, torn between hysterical laughter and the urge to throw the device against the ancient Roman stones with sufficient force to reduce it to component atoms.
"A Mikaelson family meeting," he said slowly, savoring each word like expensive wine that had turned to vinegar. "With the Devil. While you casually restructure reality. In the same room. With all of us. Including Rebekah, who will absolutely try to murder you on principle, and Elijah, who will want to negotiate terms for approximately six hours before agreeing to anything, and Hayley, who will probably stake first and ask questions later because that's her approach to protecting Hope from cosmic entities with unclear motivations."
"It's going to be absolutely magnificent," Lucifer agreed with obvious delight. "Spectacular family drama, death threats delivered with centuries of practice, someone will definitely try to kill me—probably multiple someones—and in the middle of all that chaos, I'll save your daughter and reunite your family permanently. Really, it's going to be like Christmas, New Year's Eve, and the Fourth of July all rolled into one glorious celebration of dysfunction and cosmic intervention."
Klaus found himself laughing despite the situation, the sound carrying genuine amusement mixed with the kind of hysteria that came from realizing your impossible problem might actually have a solution, even if that solution involved cosmic family therapy with the actual Devil.
"You realize," he said when he could speak again, "that this gathering has approximately a ninety percent chance of ending with someone dead, something on fire, and the local authorities asking very awkward questions about mysterious explosions and structural damage to whatever building we're meeting in."
"Only ninety percent?" Lucifer asked with mock disappointment. "Klaus, my dear fellow, you're underestimating both our family's capacity for chaos and my own talent for dramatically appropriate problem-solving. I'd put the odds of spectacular destruction at closer to ninety-nine percent, with the remaining one percent reserved for the possibility that everyone will be too shocked by my devastating good looks and superior problem-solving abilities to remember to threaten me with immediate violence."
"Your confidence in your own charm is truly inspiring," Klaus said dryly, though his tone carried genuine affection for Lucifer's magnificently overinflated ego. "But assuming we survive the family meeting without destroying half of whatever city we're unfortunate enough to inflict ourselves upon, you're genuinely confident you can solve this? Permanently?"
"Klaus," Lucifer said, and his voice carried absolute certainty backed by cosmic authority, "I am the Morningstar. The Lightbringer. The being who stood before the Throne of Creation and said 'no' when it mattered most. Restructuring reality to protect one extraordinarily powerful teenage girl from a parasitic cosmic entity is well within my capabilities. The only question is whether you trust me enough to let me help."
Klaus was quiet for a long moment, staring up at the Roman stars while his mind processed the possibility of having his family back together, of Hope being safe, of an end to seven years of separation and guilt and impossible choices.
"I trust you," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of absolute decision. "Not because of your cosmic credentials or your impressive collection of titles, but because you called to ask permission instead of just handling it yourself. Anyone who respects my authority as Hope's father enough to seek consent for helping her has earned my trust, regardless of their reputation for dramatic solutions and questionable moral frameworks."
"Klaus," Lucifer said warmly, his voice carrying genuine pleasure and what might have been respect, "that might be the most mature response you've ever given to one of my propositions. I'm genuinely impressed and slightly concerned about your psychological wellbeing. Are you feeling quite alright?"
"Parenthood changes you," Klaus replied with simple honesty. "Makes you think strategically about the long-term consequences instead of just reacting to immediate threats. Though I reserve the right to threaten you with creative violence if this goes badly."
"I would expect nothing less," Lucifer said with obvious delight. "Death threats are practically a love language among beings of our caliber. Now, I'm going to need you to gather the family and meet us at the Salvatore School in Virginia. And before you ask, yes, your daughter is perfectly safe there, and yes, she's been making friends with my son, who is remarkably well-adjusted despite being raised by cosmic entities with strong opinions about proper education and creative problem-solving."
"Your son," Klaus said thoughtfully. "What's he like? Because if Hope is developing feelings for the Devil's offspring, I need to know whether I should be planning a shovel talk or just accepting that my daughter has inherited the Mikaelson talent for complicated romantic choices."
Lucifer's laughter was rich and genuinely delighted. "Oh, Klaus. Harry is brilliant, powerful, morally centered, and has an unfortunately well-developed sense of personal responsibility that he absolutely did not inherit from me. He's also completely immune to intimidation, has a devastating sense of humor, and would probably out-sass you in a verbal sparring match while helping you dispose of the bodies afterward. If Hope does develop feelings for him, you couldn't ask for better judgment on her part."
"That... actually sounds perfect for her," Klaus admitted with growing warmth. "Though I reserve the right to threaten him with creative violence anyway. It's traditional."
"I'll make sure he's prepared for the experience," Lucifer promised with obvious amusement. "Though I should warn you that his response to parental intimidation tends to involve superior British wit and the kind of verbal precision that turns threats into educational experiences about effective communication."
Klaus grinned, feeling more hopeful than he had in years. "I like him already. When do we leave for Virginia?"
"Immediately," Lucifer said with characteristic decisiveness. "The sooner we handle this, the sooner your family can be properly together again. And Klaus? Thank you. For trusting me with something this important. I know our history has been... complicated... but I want you to know that I take family protection very seriously, even when—especially when—it's not my own family at stake."
"Thank you," Klaus said quietly, his voice carrying genuine gratitude and the kind of emotional weight that spoke to seven years of impossible choices and desperate hope. "For offering to help. For asking permission. For giving me back the possibility of having my daughter home."
As the call ended, Klaus stared at his phone for a moment, processing the conversation that had just changed everything he thought he knew about Hope's situation and their family's future. Somewhere in the shadows of the Roman alley, Marcus was probably wondering why his centuries-old friend had suddenly stopped hunting him with single-minded determination.
Let him wonder. Klaus Mikaelson had more important things to do than settling old scores with traitors.
He had a daughter to save and a family to reunite.
Even if it meant trusting the Devil himself to do it.
Especially then.
Because some things were worth the risk of cosmic intervention and spectacular family drama.
And Hope—his brave, brilliant, impossibly powerful daughter who'd been carrying burdens no teenager should have to bear—was worth everything.
Even a Mikaelson family meeting with the Morningstar himself.
This was going to be either the best decision he'd ever made, or the most spectacular disaster in a thousand years of spectacular disasters.
Knowing his luck, it would probably be both.
But for Hope? For the chance to have his family back together?
He'd risk it all.
---
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