Ophelia McArthur sat at her piano, her fingers drifting over the keys as she tried to wrestle her thoughts into music. The melody floated aimlessly, a half-formed expression of something she wasn't yet ready to put into words. Composing music had always been her way of documenting life—each crush, heartbreak, or moment of humor meticulously transcribed into notes. But this piece? This was Violet's song. It was too big, too raw. How could she condense all that grief, guilt, and love into a single piece? She wasn't sure she ever could.
The sunlight streaming through the greenhouse windows felt too warm, too serene for the weight she carried. Her mind wandered to the night before, to the sound of the dagger being pulled from Elijah Mikaelson's chest. By her estimation, it would take him some time to recover fully—starved and weakened as he was, no blood to quicken the process. Morning had come and gone; she'd already left him coffee, a smoothie, and fresh clothes. It was something to do while she ignored the gnawing pit in her stomach, the one that whispered how out of her depth she truly was.
The morning conference call with Matilda and the Circle had been a welcome distraction. The situation in Philadelphia—young Lucy's uncontrolled outburst—had been resolved. Maggie would bring the girl back to the Circle's headquarters for the rest of the summer. Lucy could practice control, delve into theory, and carve out a purpose for herself away from the chaos of high school. For now, that was enough.
A faint noise snapped Ophelia out of her thoughts. Her head jerked up, ginger hair falling into her face. She brushed it aside, her green eyes locking onto Elijah as he stepped into the space. He looks bigger, she thought, startled by the impression. Bigger than he had in the coffin, taller than he seemed in her memory of that bar. Yet he also looked hungry, his restraint palpable in the tense set of his shoulders.
She hesitated, then begrudgingly reached into his thoughts. What she found made her tense: the struggle, the need he was barely containing. He was resisting the urge to tear into her neck. Her pulse quickened, but her resolve held firm. Reaching for a knife, she drew it across her palm. The sting made her wince, her lips pressing together to stifle a reaction as warm blood pooled in her hand. The glass she poured it into filled slowly, the crimson liquid pooling at the bottom, only an inch or so deep. Grabbing a nearby rag, she wrapped her palm tightly and murmured a spell under her breath.
"Liga infirmorum fractorum."
The wound on her palm began to close, the familiar pull of magic stitching her skin together. She wiped away the last traces of blood and turned, glass in hand, to face Elijah. He hadn't moved, his body still as a statue. Was he watching her, she wondered, or simply wrestling with the hunger she had glimpsed in his mind?
"My mother used to say, 'First, we eat. Then we do anything else,'" she said, holding the glass out to him. Her voice was steady, deliberately light, as though the tension in the room didn't exist.
Elijah's eyes flicked to hers, and then to the glass. Slowly, reluctantly, he took it from her. His movements were deliberate, controlled. The veins around his eyes betrayed his bloodlust, but he drank carefully, elegance tempering the ferocity of his need. Ophelia watched him for a moment, fascinated despite herself. Was there truly a way to drink blood with elegance? Somehow, he managed.
She looked away, embarrassed to be caught staring. How did it feel, she wondered, to go so long without sustenance? To be starved, your veins rubbed raw, but unable to die? Worse, she imagined, when that suffering was inflicted by your own brother.
"I'll leave you to get situated," she said quickly, her voice tight. She turned on her heel and left the greenhouse, leaving him to dress and reacquaint himself with being awake.
Crossing the garden, she let out a shaky breath. The kitchen felt like a haven as she stepped inside, the mundane task of making iced coffee grounding her. She clutched the cold glass, trying to steady her thoughts. This wasn't where she was supposed to be. This wasn't what she was supposed to be doing. But here she was, caught between obligation and grief. She swirled the ice in her coffee absently. The truth gnawed at her: she was stuck. Stuck in the rage phase of her grief, and she couldn't find her way out.
Elijah Mikaelson watched her retreating figure with quiet contemplation. The blood she had provided coursed through his veins, revitalizing his senses and steadying his once-faltering strength. He stood still for a moment, taking in his surroundings, the greenhouse's blend of old-world charm and natural serenity grounding him as he adjusted to being awake once more.
His gaze eventually landed on the garment bag hanging neatly on a hook nearby. Crossing the room, he unzipped it, revealing a carefully chosen navy suit—a garment that aligned seamlessly with the rest of his refined wardrobe. Running his fingers over the fabric, he noted the impeccable tailoring and attention to detail, a small gesture that did not go unnoticed.
Elijah shed the dusty, bloodstained suit he had been daggered in, his movements methodical as he exchanged the remnants of his past imprisonment for the clean elegance of the new attire. Buttoning the crisp shirt and fastening the cuffs, he allowed the transformation to symbolize a shift—not just in appearance but in resolve.
The soft light streaming through the glass ceiling of the greenhouse illuminated the suit's deep blue hue, casting subtle reflections that mirrored the vibrancy returning to him. His mind wandered briefly, not to his family or their ceaseless games, but to the red-haired witch who had brought him back. Her actions, her unflinching calm—it intrigued him, though he could not quite discern her motives.
Once dressed, he straightened his tie with practiced ease, his eyes scanning the library-greenhouse hybrid. Bookshelves wrapped around the room, intertwining with ivy and golden sunlight, while the faint scent of fresh earth and parchment hung in the air. It was not what he expected, but it suited her—an elegant sanctuary amidst chaos.
Elijah turned, his movements deliberate, as the sound of her footsteps drew closer. His dark eyes fixed on her as she entered the greenhouse once again, this time carrying a glass of iced coffee in one hand and what smelled distinctly like a latte in the other. Her demeanour was calm, almost practiced, though her presence was anything but ordinary.
"I'm Ophelia McArthur," she said, her voice steady as she extended both drinks toward him.
Elijah's gaze lingered on her for a moment. The mid morning sunlight filtered through the glass walls, catching the copper strands of her ginger hair and illuminating the startling blue of her eyes. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin, and though she had put shoes on this time, her relaxed stance suggested she still felt at home in the greenhouse.
She held the drinks out a little further, tilting her head slightly, her expression unreadable.
" I wasn't sure what you'd prefer. Coffee, or…" she trailed off, motioning to the latte.
Elijah reached out, his fingers brushing briefly against hers as he took the latte. "
Thank you," he said, his voice measured, though his curiosity about her deepened with every passing second. He studied her as she sipped her iced coffee, her posture poised yet casual, as if she were as much at ease in his presence as she was in her own.
Elijah studied her carefully, his expression composed but his sharp gaze betraying his inner calculations.
"You've gone to great lengths to ensure my… comfort," he said after a moment, his tone laced with the faintest edge of suspicion. "But I can't help but wonder, Miss McArthur, why?"
Ophelia's lips quirked upward, her humor subtle but present. "
Well," she began, setting her iced coffee down on the table, "I'm not sure how my grandmother would feel about me keeping an Original vampire in a coffin in her greenhouse, but she'd curse me twice over if she knew I'd been less than the perfect host."
He raised a brow, intrigued by her mix of wit and deflection.
"You're a Mayfair witch," he said, more a statement than a question. His gaze drifted momentarily across the familiar surroundings of the greenhouse. Recognition flickered in his expression as he recalled the last time he had been here—in the late 19th century, attending the wedding of Matthieu Mayfair and Elise Henri. It seemed lifetimes ago, yet the house had not lost its aura of mystique.
"My grandmother was a Mayfair witch," Ophelia corrected, meeting his gaze evenly. "My mother too. But me? No, I'm the leader of the Saorsa coven." Her words were firm, but her tone softened as she studied him. "You're the one they call honorable, aren't you? Quite the reputation. Must be hard to live up to."
Elijah's mind turned at the mention of her coven. The Saorsa coven was ancient, predating even his own mortal life, originating in what would later become Scotland. He had heard of its lineage, its traditions of primogeniture, and its reputation for unwavering neutrality. But she seemed far too young to lead such an enduring legacy.
If her comment struck a nerve, he didn't let it show. His response was steady, though layered with quiet self-reflection. "Yes, that's what they call me," he admitted, a shallow breath escaping as he straightened slightly. His voice dipped, contemplative. "And yet, here I am, following my brother to New Orleans to engage in a war. Tell me… does that sound honorable to you?"
Ophelia leaned back against the velvet sofa, her fingers brushing the soft fabric as she regarded him. The faint scent of smoke lingered in the greenhouse, a subtle reminder of the home's layered history. She tilted her head slightly, her blue eyes thoughtful.
"Wars often start with everyone believing they have the best of intentions," she offered gently, her tone devoid of judgment.
Elijah's gaze lingered on her, his expression calm but his mind clearly turning. She was frustratingly enigmatic, revealing just enough to pique his interest but never enough to lay her cards bare.
Ophelia broke the silence first, her voice light yet deliberate. "Would you believe me if I told you I brought you here for your own protection?"
Elijah's brows knitted slightly, skepticism evident but tinged with curiosity.
"I'd ask what you think I need protection from."
She leaned forward, her forearms resting on her knees, her blue eyes locked with his.
"A thought," she said softly. "An idea. A bad first impression."
She let the words settle before elaborating. "If I'd left you with Marcel, you would have been handed over to a witch named Davina. She's the girl Marcel uses to control the witches here. You would have met her and eventually—after a series of poor choices, let's call them. You would have died."
Her words landed with weight, their blunt delivery catching him off guard. Elijah searched her face for any sign of deceit, but she remained calm, her conviction unshakable. She reclaimed her glass of iced coffee, her demeanor composed, as though she hadn't just suggested that she had intervened to alter his fate.
Elijah exhaled slowly, his posture poised but his thoughts clearly racing. "You speak with such certainty," he said finally, his voice low. "How can you possibly know what would have transpired?"
"My sister," Ophelia explained, "She possesses the same gifts as Matthieu."
Elijah's expression shifted, recognition flashing across his face. "She's clairvoyant," he said, remembering Matthieu's remarkable gift. Matthieu had used it not only to protect his family but also to amass a significant fortune in his time.
"Yes," Ophelia confirmed, though her tone was dismissive, as if the subject itself carried unnecessary weight. "It's complicated and irrelevant now."
Elijah studied her for a moment longer, noting the subtle exhaustion in her voice, though it did nothing to diminish her resolve. "I had thought," she continued, "that your brother might notice you were missing, or that Marcel would care. But neither seems to be the case. Your sister, however…" She hesitated briefly, as if weighing her words. "She's here, and though I haven't spoken to her much, she seems quite determined to get you back."
A flicker of something unreadable passed through Elijah's eyes—pride, perhaps, or weariness. He inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her words. "Rebekah always was the most tenacious of us."
Ophelia's expression shifted, the faint trace of amusement replaced by something more serious. She leaned forward slightly, her fingers lacing together as she rested her elbows on her knees. "I think perhaps it's time you know the truth," she began, her tone calm but deliberate. "Lay the cards on the table, as it were."
Elijah straightened at her words, his eyes narrowing slightly in focus. "The truth?" he echoed, his voice low but edged with curiosity.
"Sophie Deveraux," Ophelia said, the name falling from her lips like a dropped stone, "is a liar. She didn't lure you here to stop the vampires or to restore balance to the Quarter. She brought you here for one reason—to get Davina Claire away from Marcel."
Elijah's brow furrowed. "And Davina Claire is… a witch, I presume?" His voice was measured, as though piecing together a puzzle in real time.
"She's more than that," Ophelia replied, her tone taking on a sharper edge. "Davina Claire is the last Harvest girl."
His expression shifted, his intrigue deepening. "Harvest girl?" he asked, the term unfamiliar but clearly significant from the weight she gave it.
Ophelia sighed lightly, gathering her thoughts. "Let me explain," she said. Her gaze dropped for a moment before lifting again, steady and intent. "My mother left New Orleans when she was a teenager. She left the French Quarter Coven and ancestral magic behind. She married my father, and together they had me and my two sisters. My father led the Saorsa Coven… until about five years ago, when he was killed." Her voice faltered slightly at the mention of her father, but she quickly brushed past it.
"It wasn't safe for her to remain at home, so she and my youngest sister, Emma—she was only ten at the time—moved back here." Ophelia gestured to the house around them. "After some… gentle persuasion, my mother rejoined the French Quarter Coven. The witches were desperate, facing a vampire problem under Marcel and a curse on the werewolves in the bayou."
"A curse?" Elijah interjected, his interest piqued.
Ophelia nodded. "Yes. Marcel cursed them. They're wolves when they should be human, and human only when the moon is full," she explained. "It's cruel, really. But that wasn't the only issue. With the witches, their magic was fading. You see, witches in New Orleans practice ancestral magic. The connection between the living and the dead is critical to their power. But that connection was growing weaker and weaker."
She leaned back slightly, her hands gesturing as she continued. "So, the French Quarter witches decided to perform the Harvest."
"And what does this Harvest entail?" Elijah asked, his voice calm but carrying the weight of his growing unease.
"A sacrifice," Ophelia answered bluntly. "It's a private ritual, sacred between the witches and their ancestors. Perhaps why you've never heard of it before, but there are similar rites in other covens—culling, renewals—whether it involves a bull, a goat, or, in this case, teenage girls."
Elijah's brow furrowed further, the faintest flicker of discomfort crossing his otherwise composed features. "Davina is a teenager," he said.
"She's sixteen," Ophelia confirmed, her tone steady but tinged with sorrow. "The Harvest is meant to keep the flow of ancestral power alive. Every few generations, four young girls are chosen from the French Quarter Coven. An elder performs the ritual and…" She paused, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "…slits their throats."
Elijah's face flickered with distaste, though he masked it quickly, his composure unyielding. "And the justification for this barbaric tradition?" he asked evenly.
Ophelia nodded, folding her hands together as she explained further. "First comes the Harvest, then the Reaping. At the Reaping, the girls are meant to wake up in perfect health. Their deaths are supposed to strengthen the connection to the ancestors, ensuring the power of the coven continues to flow. It's a cycle, one that demands faith… and sacrifice."
Her voice dropped, heavy with the weight of what followed. "But this time… this time, the ritual was interrupted. The first three girls died, their magic transferring to the next, as it's designed to. And then there was Davina—the fourth girl. She survived."
Elijah's expression tightened, his voice low as he spoke. "Interrupted how?"
"Sophie Deveraux told her vampire boyfriend, Marcel, about the Harvest," Ophelia said bitterly. "Whether she thought he'd help or simply wanted him to know, I don't know. Marcel took what she told him to Father Kieran, the leader of the human faction. With half-truths and no understanding of magic, they stopped the ritual."
Elijah's brows furrowed as she continued.
"The first three girls had already been sacrificed. Their power had transferred, as intended, to Davina. But before the fourth sacrifice could be completed, Marcel attacked. He slaughtered many of the elders, the ones performing the ritual. And Davina? He 'saved' her, took her away, and left the witches with nothing. No completion of the ritual. No restoration. Just a broken covenant, three dead girls, and one survivor hell bent on revenge"
Elijah exhaled slowly, the weight of Ophelia's words settling over him like a heavy shroud. "And Marcel now holds the power of the Harvest," he murmured.
Ophelia gave a small, deliberate nod. "Don't mistake me," she began, her voice firm and unwavering. "I think the Harvest is barbaric. My ancestors—my Saorsa ancestors—are wise and kind. They require only one thing of me as their leader: to maintain the balance of the ancestral plane they reside in. They are dead, and they do not believe in making demands of the living."
She paused, allowing her words to sink in before continuing, her tone heavier. "But Davina Claire will die. Whether it's by the ritual or by the sheer weight of all the magic she's carrying inside her, she will die. If the ritual isn't completed properly—if that energy isn't released the way it was intended—her death will be proceed by consequences of catastrophic proportions."
Elijah's brow furrowed, his sharp mind processing her every word. "What kind of consequences?" he asked carefully, his voice low but steady.
Ophelia met his gaze, her eyes unwavering. "Biblical," she said simply.
He tilted his head slightly, skepticism flickering across his features. "Biblical?" he repeated, his tone caught somewhere between disbelief and curiosity.
"Yes," she said, her voice dropping into something almost reverent, as though speaking the truth aloud made it heavier. "Swarms, blood in the Mississippi. . After that, unending storms, tearing through the Quarter, And then…" She hesitated for the briefest moment before continuing, her words sharp and unrelenting. "…comes the fire..
Elijah's jaw tightened, his expression a mixture of unease and determination. "And you're certain of this?" he asked, his voice calm but probing.
"My sister Matilda has seen it, It what is foretold by the ancestors, its what all the cards says"
Elijah's gaze lingered on her, his dark eyes sharp, measuring the layers of truth in her words. "And you?" he asked finally, his voice quiet but piercing. "What is your role in all of this?"
Ophelia didn't flinch under his scrutiny, though a shadow of something fleeting crossed her face. "My youngest sister, Emma…" she said, her voice softening just slightly, "…she's the second Harvest girl."
The weight of her statement settling in the air between them. He could sense the underlying anger, the sharp edge of protection that tinged her words. He understood now the depth of her devotion—it mirrored his own when it came to his siblings. It wasn't just duty; it was instinct, as natural as breathing.
"And Davina?" Elijah pressed gently, sensing the shift in Ophelia's demeanor, the subtle undercurrent of emotion threading through her carefully controlled tone.
"I don't really appreciate Davina using the Harvest girls' magic to kill innocent witches," Ophelia replied, her voice steady but laced with quiet frustration.
She paused, her expression hardening. "Sophie's niece, Monique, was another Harvest girl. Jane-Anne Deveraux was her mother. You saw what Marcel did to her, didn't you? Public execution in the square, meant to make a statement. And why? Because Jane-Anne wanted her daughter back, wanted to finish the ritual so her child wouldn't have died for nothing."
Elijah's jaw tightened as he recalled the brutality of Jane-Anne's death, his thoughts turning to the broken system that allowed such horrors to flourish.
"And where was Davina?" Ophelia continued, her tone sharpened by indignation. "Pointing him in Jane-Anne's direction. I get it—she doesn't believe in the Harvest, and she wants revenge. But the elders are almost all dead now. How long is she going to keep killing witches? She's sixteen, Elijah, and she's racking up quite the body count."
The harsh truth of her statement hung in the air like a bitter echo. Elijah could see the resolve etched into her features, the frustration of someone who had seen too much death and knew the cost of letting anger fester unchecked. He exhaled slowly, his mind turning over the implications of her words. The cycle of violence wasn't just a threat to the witches—it threatened the delicate balance of the entire Quarter.
"Davina's pain is understandable," he said finally, his tone low, contemplative. "But pain unchecked becomes a weapon. And weapons, when wielded carelessly, destroy everything in their path."
Ophelia nodded slightly, though the weariness in her expression didn't soften. "She's powerful, but power without guidance is dangerous. And Marcel? He's using her, feeding into her anger because it serves him. But eventually, even Marcel won't be able to control her."
The shrill buzz of her phone cut through the charged air, pulling her attention to the screen. The late afternoon light outside had softened into the muted tones of evening, casting long shadows across the greenhouse. She frowned as she read the message before setting the phone down on the table.
"Your brother is harassing Davina at St. Anne's Church," she said flatly, looking up at Elijah.
Elijah's posture stiffened slightly, his expression shifting to one of mild exasperation. "Niklaus," he murmured, the name heavy with familiarity and frustration.
Ophelia's lips pressed into a thin line. "He wants Davina's power for himself. Obviously. " Her voice was steady, but an undercurrent of urgency threaded through her words.
Elijah's gaze lingered on her for a moment, a subtle resolve tightening his features. He adjusted his cufflinks with a practiced elegance, his composure unwavering despite the storm brewing just outside their haven.
"I believe it's time I see my family," he said, his tone calm but carrying an undeniable weight of finality.
Ophelia gave a small nod, her expression unreadable as she stepped back, giving him space to move toward the door. "Good luck," she said simply, though her eyes betrayed the unspoken tension that hung between them.
Elijah paused, glancing back at her briefly. "Luck, Miss McArthur," he said with a faint smile, "is a resource I've never relied upon." With that, he stepped into the fading light, the weight of the impending confrontation settling heavily on his shoulders as he left the sanctuary of the greenhouse.
Ophelia woke with a start, her head pounding as remnants of the dream clung to her mind, vivid and unshakable. She and Klaus had finished a bottle of wine after returning from the Grill, and she hadn't eaten—perhaps that was part of why her thoughts felt so muddled. But it wasn't just the wine. The memory of Elijah, alive and somewhere in the world, was heavier than anything else.
She pressed a hand to her chest, her breathing uneven as she tried to steady herself. For years, she'd buried him in her memories, forced herself to move on. Now, the reality of his existence had returned, and the weight of it was unbearable.
Throwing off the covers, Ophelia swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. She spotted her suitcase from the night before, still near the corner of the room, and rifled through it until she found her old Columbia sweatshirt. She pulled it on, the faded fabric familiar and comforting, and crossed to the window.
Opening it wide, she let the cool morning air rush in, filling the space and her lungs. For a moment, she stood there, grounding herself in the quiet sounds of the waking world outside.
She made her way to the bathroom, showering and scrubbing away the lingering haze of sleep. Her routine felt grounding, and she took her time. Once she was finished, she applied her makeup lightly and changed into her favourite brown flared cords—the ones she hadn't had in decades but now fit her like a second skin. She paired them with a navy sweater, added a belt, and slipped on her boots.
Pulling her ginger hair into a loose tie, she glanced at herself in the mirror. She looked… better. Less like the fractured version of herself she felt inside.
Satisfied, she headed downstairs, her boots making soft noises against the hardwood floor.
"Hello, luv," Klaus greeted, leaning casually against the counter with a smirk. He was already dressed, looking bright and brilliant as always.
"Hello," Ophelia replied, her eyes flicking to the kitchen, where Stefan stood by the counter. He gave her a quick nod but said nothing, preoccupied with whatever brooding thoughts were occupying his mind.
Klaus held out a cup of coffee to her, his smirk softening into something almost genuine. She accepted it gratefully, wrapping her hands around the warm ceramic.
"Thanks," she said, her voice low but steady as she took a sip.
The coffee's warmth seeped into her, grounding her amidst the underlying tension in the room. She glanced between Klaus and Stefan, the unspoken heaviness lingering like a storm cloud. Something was brewing, and Ophelia wasn't entirely sure she wanted to be part of it. Still, she knew better than to linger too long on her own thoughts in Klaus's presence. He was far too perceptive for her liking.
"So," she said, breaking the silence as she glanced at Klaus over the rim of her cup. "What's he doing here?"
Klaus's smirk widened, his blue eyes glinting with amusement. "Elena has agreed to give me her blood in exchange for saving Damon and Jeremy last night," he said smoothly.
Ophelia raised a brow, her lips curving into a faint smirk of her own. "I wasn't aware you saved Jeremy," she quipped, her tone light but edged with sarcasm. "I thought that was me."
Klaus chuckled, his laugh low and almost genuine. "Details, darling," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
He leaned casually against the counter, his sharp gaze meeting hers. "I'm sure Elena doesn't want to be near me," he continued smoothly, "and I need to run an errand. Fetch her blood for me, will you?"
Ophelia's smirk faded, replaced by a glare as she set her coffee cup down. "Would you like a punch to the face while I'm at it?" she said, her voice low and pointed as she fixed him with an icy stare.
Klaus's smirk didn't falter; if anything, it grew wider. "Do try to restrain yourself," he said, his tone laced with mock innocence.
Ophelia finished her coffee with a deliberate sip, setting the cup down on the counter. She glanced over at Stefan, her lips curling into a teasing smile.
"Come on then, lover boy," she said, her tone light and mocking as she headed for the door."
Stefan blinked, caught off guard by her comment, before his expression settled into a mixture of mild annoyance and resignation. Without a word, he followed her, his footsteps echoing hers as they left the room.
Klaus leaned back, watching them go with an amused smirk. "Do try not to get yourselves killed," he called after them, his voice dripping with mock concern.
Ophelia spun around mid-step, walking backward as she shot him a pointed look. "Wouldn't that be assuming? All this effort wasted," she quipped, her tone sharp but playful.
Klaus chuckled, waving them off with a lazy gesture. "I'd be heartbroken, truly," he called back, his smirk never wavering.
Ophelia turned back around, falling into step beside Stefan as they made their way toward Elena Gilbert's house. The quiet hum of the town surrounded them, the occasional bird call cutting through the still morning air.
"So, how's Jeremy?" Ophelia asked, breaking the silence. Her tone was light, but there was a trace of genuine curiosity beneath it.
Stefan glanced at her briefly, his expression guarded. "Better," he replied. "Elena stayed with him most of the night. She said he woke up a couple of times but seemed okay."
Ophelia nodded, her gaze shifting to the road ahead. "That's good. He's lucky."
Stefan's brow furrowed as he looked at her. "Lucky? You pulled a bullet out of his chest and healed him. I'd say 'miraculously fortunate' might be more accurate."
Ophelia let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "It's just magic," she said, as if that explained everything. "A little blood, a little chant. No big deal."
Stefan stopped walking for a moment, forcing her to pause and face him. His expression was serious, his tone steady but tinged with genuine curiosity. "Why did you do it?
Ophelia raised an eyebrow, her posture relaxing slightly as she looked at him. "I have a sister who's 14," she said, her voice softer now. "A while ago, I watched her get killed. It wasn't fun."
The weight of her words lingered in the air, raw and unpolished, carrying a depth of pain that needed no further explanation.
Stefan's expression shifted, the tension in his shoulders easing as he nodded slowly. "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, his voice quiet and sincere."
"She's fine now," Ophelia said, her voice more casual but with a faint edge of lingering emotion. "In school, doing the whole normal teenager thing. But you know, it's not fun watching someone you love die. Even when they come back."
Stefan sighed, his gaze dropping briefly before meeting hers again. "Yeah. I get that."
Ophelia tilted her head slightly, studying him. "How's your brother?" she asked, her tone shifting to something lighter but still curious.
Stefan exhaled a long breath, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Back to his old self," he said, his voice resigned.
"That doesn't sound good," Ophelia replied, raising an eyebrow.
They arrived at the Gilbert house, and Stefan knocked lightly on the door. It wasn't long before Elena opened it, her expression softening at the sight of Stefan. But as Ophelia stepped inside behind him, her sharp eyes scanned the room.
"Oh, it's the whole gang," Ophelia said with a faint smirk, taking in the sight before her.
In the living room stood the history teacher—Alaric Saltzman—watching her with a wary gaze, his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him was the guardian, Jenna, looking equally unsure of her. Bonnie and Caroline stood near Elena, both eyeing her cautiously. And then, standing off to the side, was Damon Salvatore, his expression a mix of anger and suspicion, his piercing blue eyes locked onto her like a predator sizing up its prey
Stefan shot Damon a warning look, his voice calm but firm. "She's here to help."
"Help?" Damon repeated, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Right. Because Klaus' little entourage is known for their generosity."
Ophelia raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his attitude. "Charming," she said dryly. "You must be Damon."
Damon's smirk widened, though it didn't reach his eyes. "And you must be the little witch who thinks she's clever."
"No," Ophelia shot back. "I'm the big witch who's getting impatient."
"Enough," Elena said, her voice steady as she looked between the two. "Ophelia helped Jeremy."
Alaric stepped forward, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied her. "So Why are you here? What does Klaus want?"
Ophelia sighed, glancing at Stefan before answering. "Klaus wants Elena's blood. He sent me to collect it."
The room erupted into chaos—Bonnie and Caroline both started speaking at once, Jenna looked horrified, and Damon's smirk vanished, replaced with cold fury.
"Over my dead body," Damon growled.
Ophelia tilted her head, her smirk returning as she regarded him coolly. "I'm sure we could arrange that," she said, her voice smooth but dangerous. "But I don't think Elena would appreciate it."
"Enough," Stefan said firmly, stepping between them. "This isn't up for debate. Klaus already made the deal. Elena agreed."
"I agreed to save Jeremy and Damon," Elena said quietly, her voice steady despite the tension in the room.
Ophelia took the weekend bag that Stefan was holding. "So," she said, her tone calm but resolute. "Are we doing this?"
Elena nodded, her resolve unwavering.
"Maybe a little privacy," Ophelia suggested, gesturing toward the living room full of onlookers.
"Nope," Damon interjected flatly, his arms crossed and his piercing gaze locked on Ophelia.
Ophelia raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a faint smirk. "Not respecting boundaries? That's so surprising," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Ignoring him, she led Elena to the dining table, setting down the bag and pulling out the blood collection equipment. The others hovered near the edges of the room, their eyes following every movement.
"Roll up your sleeve," Ophelia instructed, her tone matter-of-fact.
Elena hesitated for a moment before sitting down and rolling up her sleeve. "Have you done this before?" she asked, glancing at the needle and vials with a trace of apprehension.
"No," Ophelia admitted, her hands moving with practiced efficiency as she prepared the equipment. "But my father was a doctor."
Elena blinked, surprised by the admission. "Mine too," she said softly, her voice carrying a faint note of nostalgia.
Ophelia paused, glancing at Elena with a flicker of curiosity. "Is that where you're heading?"
Elena looked down at her hands, her expression shifting. "I… don't know anymore," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Ophelia watched her for a moment, the vulnerability in Elena's voice striking a chord. She nodded, her voice softening slightly. "Well, one thing at a time," she said, adjusting the needle. "Ready?
Elena nodded, her jaw tightening as she looked away. Ophelia inserted the needle with careful precision, the silence in the room broken only by the faint hum of tension.
She filled one vial and then proceeded to attach the equipment for two blood bags, working with steady hands. "Maybe some orange juice," she said to Stefan as she worked.
Then, as she gently removed the needle from Elena's arm, she murmured softly, "Figere Cura" A faint warmth touched Elena's arm where the needle had been, a small healing spell to ease the sting.
Elena blinked, glancing down at her arm. "What was that?"
"Just a little something to keep you from feeling faint," Ophelia said with a casual shrug.
As she secured the blood bags and began tidying up, Ophelia glanced at Elena again. "Got any plans for the summer?"
Before Elena could respond, Damon's sharp voice cut through the air. "Why are you talking to her as if you're not working with the guy who killed her?"
Ophelia didn't even flinch, her hands moving calmly over the equipment as she replied, "First, I don't work for him. We're friends. Second, I'm making conversation. Third…" She finally turned to face him, her smirk widening as her tone took on a mocking edge. "Maybe you don't want to be so judgmental, Damon. I mean, raise your hand if you've been personally victimised by Damon Salvatore."
Bonnie's mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile, and Caroline shitften. Even Alaric raised a brow, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief
Ophelia turned back to the blood collection without missing a beat, her smirk lingering
Damon's patience snapped. In a blur, he used his vampire speed to cross the room, pinning Ophelia against the wall with one hand around her throat.
The room erupted into chaos, Stefan shouting his name, Elena gasping, and Bonnie taking a step forward as if to intervene.
But Ophelia didn't struggle. Her blue eyes locked onto Damon's with cold defiance. Slowly, deliberately, she touched the hand that gripped her throat.
Everything shifted.
The room dissolved into a surreal stillness, the living room of the Gilbert house frozen in time. The people remained where they were—Stefan mid-step, Bonnie's mouth open in protest, Elena's wide-eyed horror caught like a snapshot. A soft, too-bright light blanketed everything, and the air felt unnaturally still.
Damon released her throat, his expression snapping from anger to confusion. "What is this?" he demanded, his voice echoing strangely in the silent void.
"Your mind," Ophelia said smoothly, stepping away from him and adjusting her sweater as though nothing had happened. "Let's take a little stroll, shall we?"
She moved around him, her posture calm and confident, while Damon glanced around, his jaw tightening as unease replaced fury.
Images began to form in the air around them, shimmering like reflections on water before solidifying into vivid scenes. They weren't just visions—they carried the weight of memory, thick with sounds, smells, and emotions.
"Oh, that's tragic," Ophelia remarked, tilting her head as she walked through the first image—a young Damon arguing with his father. The air buzzed with tension, the older man's voice laced with disdain and cutting remarks. Damon's younger self stood there, shoulders rigid with defiance but eyes brimming with suppressed pain.
Damon turned to face her, his face hardening. "Get out of my head."
Ophelia ignored him, her pace unhurried as she moved to the next memory. Blood. Screams. Katherine. The anguish in Damon's face as he realised the woman he loved had betrayed him, used him, and then vanished.
She glanced over her shoulder at him, her smirk faint but cutting. "I mean, I get it now," she said, her voice tinged with dry sympathy. "All that pain—it must be exhausting carrying it around like that."
"Stop," Damon growled, his fists clenching as he stalked toward her.
"Oh, but we're just getting started." Ophelia raised a hand, and another image flashed to life—a younger Stefan, wide-eyed and horrified, standing over the bodies of their first victims. Damon, blood dripping from his mouth, turned away in disgust and guilt even as bitterness and anger simmered beneath the surface.
The air grew heavier, the emotions thick and stifling. Damon's breath hitched, his fury faltering for a moment. "You don't know anything about me," he hissed.
Ophelia turned to face him fully, her blue eyes sharp and unyielding. "I know enough," she said, her voice quiet but firm. "You're not angry at me, Damon. You're angry at yourself. At the world. At everyone who didn't love you the way you thought they should."
Another image shimmered into being—Damon, trapped in a cage with another vampire, blood and sweat dripping as he fought to survive. Then Caroline, pale and terrified as Damon fed on her. Finally, him kissing Elena in a haze of desperation and lust, his body wracked with pain from a werewolf bite.
Damon's hands clenched into fists as his breathing quickened. "Stop this!" he shouted, his voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to vulnerability.
Before he could respond further, the world around them shattered like glass, and they were back in the Gilbert living room.
Stefan had pulled Damon back with a forceful yank, his expression thunderous. "Damon, stop!" he barked, his voice sharp and commanding.
Ophelia stood over Damon's crumpled body, his lifeless form sprawled on the floor where she had snapped his neck upon exiting the vision. The sharp, clean motion had silenced his protests and anger, leaving the room in stunned silence.
Sinking back into her chair, Ophelia smoothed her hair with deliberate calm, her blue eyes flicking toward Damon's crumpled body with a detached curiosity. Her lips curled into a faint smirk as she exhaled slowly, her composure entirely unshaken.
"So many secrets," she murmured, almost to herself, her tone a mix of disdain and exasperation. Her voice carried a strange softness, as though she were commenting on a tedious but inevitable truth.
Damon's unconscious state gave her the perfect opportunity, though she masked her intentions with precision. Leaning forward, she checked the blood bag once more, her hands moving methodically as she appeared focused on the task at hand.
Her magic, however, told a different story. It slipped into Damon's mind like a shadow, quiet and unnoticed. Memories began to surface: the flash of surgical lights, the cold bite of restraints, the cruel indifference of the Augustine Society.
Ophelia hummed softly, a small, almost imperceptible tune, as though the process of collecting Elena's blood required intense concentration. In truth, she was navigating the labyrinth of Damon's mind, carefully sifting through the fractured memories and emotions.
"Everything okay?" Stefan asked, his tone laced with suspicion as he watched her closely.
"Perfectly fine," Ophelia replied without missing a beat. She glanced up briefly, offering him a reassuring smile. "Just making sure everything's running smoothly."
Bonnie narrowed her eyes from across the room, her arms crossed tightly. "Why is it taking so long?"
Ophelia smirked, tilting her head slightly. "Patience, Bonnie. Blood collection is delicate work."
Bonnie's glare hardened, but she didn't respond.
Meanwhile, in Damon's mind, Ophelia caught glimpses of a younger him—defiant, broken, and angry. The Augustine cage loomed like a spector, the stench of blood and fear vivid enough to make her chest tighten. How quaint, she thought dryly. A monster who's been treated like prey.
She finished sealing the second blood bag, straightened, and placed it neatly on the table. "And done," she said brightly, her voice cutting through the tension. "Elena, you're free to go. Just remember—orange juice, rest, and no heavy lifting for the next 24 hours."
Elena offered her a polite nod, clearly relieved to be finished.
Ophelia turned her attention to Damon, whose body remained still on the floor. Her smirk widened slightly. "He'll wake up soon enough. Though, given his mood lately, I'm sure that's not something anyone here is looking forward to."
Stefan crouched down beside his brother, his expression conflicted as he checked Damon's pulse. "Why did you knock him out?"
Ophelia leaned back in her chair, raising an eyebrow. "Would you rather I let him throttle me?" she asked. "It seemed more efficient to handle things my way."
Bonnie's frown deepened, her voice sharp and accusing. "You're hiding something."
Ophelia's smile didn't falter; if anything, it widened slightly, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Many, many things, Bonnie," she said smoothly. "Same as you."
The room fell into a tense silence, Bonnie's glare hardening as she processed Ophelia's words.
Stefan's jaw tightened, but he didn't respond.
Damon groaned softly, his body stirring as he began to regain consciousness. Ophelia stood, brushing off her hands. "Looks like Sleeping Beauty's about to rejoin us," she said breezily. "I'll leave you all to handle that."
She grabbed her bag and headed for the door.
Ophelia strolled into the the empty house her steps light but her words cutting. "So, Damon Salvatore—is he always like that? Because I've got to tell you, he's kind of an asshat. Cannot control his temper," she said, her tone dry and laced with amusement.
Her words faltered mid-sentence as she entered fully, and her eyes landed on the unexpected sight before her.
Klaus stood near the counter, leaning casually against it with his usual air of smug confidence. But it wasn't Klaus who caught her attention.
It was Elijah.
Ophelia stilled, her body locking into place as though the air had been sucked out of the room. Her heart seemed to skip a beat, and for a moment, all she could do was stare.
Elijah Mikaelson. Alive. Standing there as if he hadn't been buried under centuries of grief and memories. He looked… unchanged. The strong jawline, the dark, sharp eyes, the quiet elegance that radiated from him even in the simplest of stances.
Her throat tightened, but she forced her gaze away, locking onto Klaus instead.
"Here's your blood," she said, her voice steady despite the turmoil raging beneath the surface. She placed the blood bags on the counter and stepped back, folding her arms tightly across her chest.
Klaus's smirk widened, his blue eyes flicking between her and Elijah with a glint of amusement. "Ophelia," he drawled, clearly savouring the moment, "allow me to introduce you to my brother."
Ophelia's breath hitched, and her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Slowly, as though the air had thickened around her, she turned her gaze toward Elijah.
It was like seeing a ghost.
Elijah inclined his head slightly, his expression calm and polite. He held out his hand, and she shook it, the brief contact sending a jolt through her. "A pleasure," he said, his voice as rich and steady as she remembered, though there was no flicker of recognition in his tone.
It took every ounce of self-control for Ophelia to keep her expression neutral. Her lips quirked into a faint smirk, the practiced armor of sarcasm slipping into place. "We'll see about that," she replied evenly, her tone light but masking the tempest inside her.
Klaus chuckled, clearly oblivious to the storm beneath the surface. "Ah, don't mind her, brother. Ophelia's sharp tongue is one of her more endearing traits."
"Sorry," Ophelia said, her gaze flicking to Klaus. "I just didn't realize your errand involved other people."
Klaus's smirk grew, his blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "Well, we do have a list."
A list?" Ophelia raised an eyebrow, leaning on the island "Do we?"
"Yes," Klaus said, "First item on our agenda: killing my father."
Ophelia blinked, her smirk fading into a deadpan stare. "Oh. Great," she said. Mikael wasn't exactly her favorite person—the few interactions she'd had with him were nothing short of nasty.
Klaus grinned at her reaction. "Oh, don't be so glum, love. Think of it as a family reunion. With stakes."
"Right," Ophelia said. "Well, I assume you don't need my help, given that he's desiccating in a crypt"
"No," Klaus admitted with a tilt of his head. "But a locator spell would be most welcome."
Ophelia sighed, brushing her hair back from her face. "Right. I'll add it to my ever-growing list of things to do."
"Things," Klaus repeated. "Do tell."
Ophelia rolled her eyes. "Damon Salvatore annoyed me. But turns out Whitmore College has a secret society of vampire scientists, something called Augustine."
Klaus tilted his head slightly, his curiosity piqued. "Vampire scientists?" he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Well, now that sounds positively charming," he said, the sarcasm rolling off in waves.
"Right," Ophelia replied flatly, her tone matching his.
"Ah," Klaus said, straightening, a mischievous glint in his eyes. "So while I deal with our dear old father, you'll be playing detective at Whitmore."
Ophelia shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Something like that. Unless, of course, you'd rather I stayed here and held your hand through the whole Mikael ordeal?"
Klaus chuckled, lifting his glass. "As tempting as that sounds, I think you're better suited to the society of vampire scientists. Do let me know if they need a subject to experiment on—I'd be happy to send Damon their way."
Ophelia smirked, shaking her head. "Well, I'm sure they'd be glad to have him back," she quipped, pausing to glance over her shoulder. "Especially considering he's been busy killing all their relatives."
Klaus laughed, a low, rich sound that followed her as she pulled her phone from her pocket and slid it across the counter to him. He caught it effortlessly, his smirk deepening as he tapped in his number before handing it back to her.
"Don't hesitate to call, love," he said with mock sweetness.
"Don't hold your breath," Ophelia replied, smirking as she turned and left the room
Upstairs, she threw herself onto the bed, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. Pulling her laptop from her bag, she powered it on, the glow of the screen illuminating her face as she settled in For now, there was work to do.
Elijah's sharp eyes flicked between Klaus and the doorway where the witch had exited. The familiarity of her presence nagged at him, yet the explanation offered was hardly satisfying.
"Who is she?" Elijah asked, his tone calm but carrying an edge of insistence. There was something about the way Klaus had interacted with her—something layered and unspoken.
Klaus's smirk was almost lazy as he poured himself another drink. "An old friend," he said, the glint in his eye betraying a deeper story.
Elijah raised an eyebrow. "Old friend? She can't be more than twenty-five."
"Twenty-two, if I'm not mistaken," Klaus replied with a faint smirk. "She has… quite a history."
He's expression tightened, his mind churning through what little he had observed. "And this 'old friend,'" he asked, his voice low and deliberate, "is someone you trust?"
"Trust is relative," Klaus said,. "Let's just say she's proven to be… indispensable."
The answer did little to ease Elijah's unease. His sharp gaze flicked toward the blood bags on the counter. "So," he began, his voice measured, "you cured Damon Salvatore in exchange for the doppelgänger's blood?"
Klaus swirled the liquid in his glass. "Indeed," he replied smoothly. "The doppelgänger's blood is the key to creating hybrids. Securing it was a necessity."
Elijah frowned, his gaze lingering on the crimson-filled bags. "And here I assumed that once you were able to transform, I'd be cleaning up bodies from here to the state line."
Klaus chuckled. "I have other priorities, brother."
"Priorities like killing our father, I presume?"
Klaus's smirk faltered for a fraction of a second before returning sharper, more calculated. "Precisely," he said, He set his glass down with a deliberate clink. "He has a stake—one I intend to drive through his heart."
Elijah's expression didn't shift, but the weight of his silence pressed heavily between them. "You've always been singular in your pursuits, Niklaus," he said quietly, "But our father is not a foe to be underestimated."
"And I," Klaus said, his smirk, "am not a fool to be crossed."
"I need you to go with Ophelia on her little quest." Klaus said.
Elijah's brow arched slightly, a flicker of intrigue crossing his otherwise impassive face. "You need me to accompany her?" he asked, "Why is that, Niklaus?"
Klaus swirled the last of his drink before setting the glass down with a decisive clink. "She's angry," he said simply, his expression momentarily serious. "And I don't want her getting caught up in something she's not prepared for."
Elijah tilted his head, studying Klaus. "You doubt her capabilities?"
A sharp laugh escaped Klaus as he shook his head. "No, brother," he said, his voice carrying an edge of something almost akin to pride. "I know exactly how capable she is. That's what worries me."
Elijah folded his arms, his gaze flicking toward the doorway Ophelia had disappeared through moments ago. "And yet, you seem unusually concerned for someone you claim is simply… useful."
Klaus's smirk returned, sharp and knowing. "Let's just say I've seen what happens when she's left unchecked. It's not always… convenient."
Elijah regarded his brother for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. "Very well," he said, "I'll ensure your 'old friend' doesn't stir up more trouble than she's prepared to handle."
"Excellent," Klaus replied, his smirk widening. "She may bristle at the idea of an escort, but she's far too clever to refuse outright. Good luck, brother. You'll need it.
Ophelia descended the stairs, her laptop balanced in one hand and a metal bowl perched carefully on top. She entered the kitchen, setting both items down on the counter with deliberate precision. Glancing toward Klaus, then Elijah, she took a steadying breath.
"You ready?" she asked Klaus, opening her laptop and flipping it toward herself. She began typing with swift efficiency.
"Right," she murmured, pulling a knife from her bag and glancing at Elijah. "Actually, I suppose your blood would be better, given…" Her voice trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.
They both knew what she wasn't saying.
Elijah's expression didn't waver as he stepped forward, his movements measured. "Where would you like me?"
Ophelia met his gaze briefly before looking away, the weight of his presence almost tangible. "Just in the bowl," she said, sliding the knife toward him. "Please."
She avoided watching as he cut into his palm, focusing instead on arranging the herbs she'd prepared earlier. The sound of blood dripping into the bowl filled the silence, followed by the faint clatter of the knife being set down.
With a practiced motion, Ophelia reached for the bowl, adding the herbs and swirling the mixture with her fingers. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the sharp, earthy scent of the plants. She closed her eyes, centring herself.
"Revela quod latet. Ostende quod quaeritur. Duce me ad eum,"she chanted, her voice steady. She pictured Mikael in her mind—his looming presence, the unmistakable threat he carried. Her free hand rested on the laptop, the digital map glowing faintly as the spell wove itself through the technology.
Elijah's gaze never left her, his curiosity tempered with a quiet respect. Klaus, meanwhile, leaned casually against the counter, his smirk firmly in place, though his eyes gleamed with interest.
Ophelia's voice grew firmer as she repeated the spell.
"Revela quod latet. Ostende quod quaeritur. Duce me ad eum."
The map flickered, resisting for a moment. Technology in this era was not as seamless as what she'd grown used to in her future. But slowly, the screen began to shift, the map zooming across the United States until it settled on Charlotte, North Carolina. A cemetery. A crypt.
Ophelia exhaled and turned the laptop toward Klaus, pointing with her clean hand. "There," she said simply.
As she pulled her bloodied hand from the bowl, Elijah stepped forward, pulling a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and offering it to her. Surprised, Ophelia hesitated before accepting it, wiping her hands carefully.
"Purgato," she murmured, and the fabric returned to its immaculate state.
She handed it back to him with a faint smile, which Elijah returned, his expression softening for just a moment.
"Well," Klaus drawled, clapping his hands together, "a productive little endeavour, wouldn't you say?"
Ophelia ignored him, her attention shifting back to her laptop as she closed it. "Good Luck."